#perhaps its just easier to be mad at yourself for 'needing too much' than it is to accept that you've been wongfully neglected

[caffeinatedopossum]

Things that may be true but are deceptively phrased:

1. "I'm a burden" Everyone has needs and maybe like me, you're needs are above average. But you're still worthy of having those needs met

[lavendertales]

this isn't anything sexual I just really need some comfort

so like reader has extreme father issues and joel knows it, and Joel gets mad at her for something so they have flashbacks to their dad making them cry and she starts hyperventilating. Joel notices and starts comforting her whispering sweet things to her and hugging her and stuff?

im extremely unhinged and i need the comfort rn

here you go, love, I hope this is as comforting as you wish for it to be❤️

fine line—Joel Miller x f!reader

word count: 863

warnings: some hurt, but mostly comfort. side note, this is nothing sexual so please don't take it as such.

Usually you didn’t take lightly to strangers and befriending them was rather a chore than out of pleasantry. But somehow, you managed to get along just fine with the Miller brothers and their little protégé, Ellie.

Because you looked up to the two brothers, that made it easier for you to open up to them and create a more unique bond with them. Plenty speculated that you were dating either one of the two, but that was not the case. You were simply friends, close acquaintances, and you decided to let people talk whatever they wanted to talk.

You were particularly close with Joel. Perhaps because his whole aura reminded you of a protector. It was what he did best: he cared for family and he protected them fiercely. And it was the same with you; he liked to keep you close, and often it seemed that your presence was good for him, too.

Besides, Joel knew more about your troubled past with your father than anyone else. He knew what a difficult relationship you had with him—or its lack thereof. And because of that, Joel knew to be tender with you and careful with his choice of words. At first it was controlled, something he had to go over in his head before speaking it aloud, but after a while it became natural.

But Joel was merely human. He made mistakes too. And today, he’d made a mistake with you.

“I told you to stay here!” he’d shouted. “You could’ve gotten hurt! Something could’ve fuckin’ happened!”

“Joel—“

“Why couldn’t you just do it? You had to go out of your way to get killed?!”

Your eyes became watery as you stared at him, speechless. You knew he had a temper, but he never unleashed it upon you before, and it was bringing back painful memories that still spiked your blood pressure.

It wasn’t entirely unjustified though; Joel and the patrol group went on their daily route and while you usually patrolled with them, this time Joel asked you to stay behind. You were still recovering from a wound and, while it wasn’t grave, it still had you on bed rest for a few days. You barely began to retake your usual activities and going on patrol could’ve been too exhausting.

You still went. You still went after the group, thinking you’d just stay in the back, on your horse, and keep a lookout for potential intruders. When they’d been ambushed by raiders, Joel had to jump to your rescue as well and keep you safe. It had been instinct, but he was pissed that you didn’t listen. He kept quiet till you returned to Jackson, but once the two of you were alone, he let you know just how frustrated he’d been with your choice.

However, seeing your teary face and your body hyperventilating and trying to steady yourself, he regretted snapping at you the way he did.

“I’m sorry, darlin’, I didn’t—“

“You were right, okay?” you said through tears. “You were right and I was wrong, I was stupid. I appreciate you—pointing it out.”

You rushed away from him, desperate to be alone in order to recollect your feelings. You had a strong aversion towards being yelled at. Your father used to do it all the time and all it did was make you somewhat unable to handle conflict. You loathed it, always have since you were a child. And to hear Joel react the same way your father did when he was disappointed… it was too much to handle.

Not a minute since you retreated it into your house, you heard a knock on the door. You knew it was Joel. It couldn’t have been anyone else.

“Go away, Joel,” you said.

“Please let me in, darlin’. I’m so sorry about the things I said. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m really sorry.”

You couldn’t really stay mad at him—unlike at your father. Joel was far more understanding and kinder than your old man, and way more willing to learn from his mistakes and grow from them.

Perhaps that’s why you looked up to him so much.

You opened the door, your eyes and nose still red, even though you stopped crying some time ago. The moment Joel saw you, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in tighter. You caved in to his touch, reciprocating the hug.

“I’m so sorry,” Joel repeated, one hand over your head as he held you glued to him. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way.”

“I understand why you did it. I did put myself at risk… and you. And the rest of the patrol group.”

“You’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

“Thank you for saving me though.”

Joel pulled away just to smile at you, his calloused hand grazing your cheek. “I got your back.”

“I know. Thank you.”

You remained locked in that embrace on the porch for a while. You appreciated Joel’s willingness to grow and change more than you could ever tell him.

But more so, you appreciated him being there for you in ways even your own blood relatives could.

[tacticalhimbo]

PALE STATIC EXCHANGE... 2! Posting this a bit early, but I'm very excited to have been able to dip my toes into @palestaticexchange this time around! It's very cool to see how alive the Disco Elysium fandom is.

That said, this piece is for @glitch-critter , who asked for "stuff relating to HDB's experience/psyche, especially with regards to electrochemistry/addiction".

WORDS: 2.3K

I really liked the prompts provided, and I thought it would be cool to kind of explore how relapse and recovery can manifest in forms different than the baseline addiction. As such, it would seem Harry has found himself over-correcting himself in regard to his work...

I hope you do enjoy it <3

Also, let me know if you’d like a more permanent copy of this, too! I’m always happy to provide a PDF version of the writings I do :3

Coastal winds were much tamer as they rolled through the densely packed buildings of Central Jamrock, only just able to sustain themselves as they lapped around the perimeter of Precinct 41. Harry wouldn't be here, if not for Kim. It was he who'd defended him to Vicquemare. He who'd attested to the idea that Harry could get better, with a little guidance and a lot of patience. He who'd truly believed in him, despite everything they faced. Creeping along his senses was the smell of blood shed by belief and held together by vengeance. Remnants of a decades' long war, and its lasting effects on the human psyche—both those that were in tact, and those that were already fragmented—as the world evolved around them. The stillness of the air was dry, just as was the mouth of the disco detective who'd found himself falling into familiar habit. Eat, sleep, work, party—

[LOGIC] No, not anymore. You've given that up now.

[VOLITION] You are a changed man. Or so you would like to have others believe.

Harry is a changed man, or so he would like others to believe. He would like to believe it.

Yet the familiar dryness that consumed Harry did not feel changed. Nor did the aching that settled into his musculature, drawing the thickened fibers back like that of a bowstring, arming them—arming him—to snap at a moment's notice. His stomach felt a familiar sickness. One that had consumed him during the infancy stages of the Martinaise investigation. A horrific hangover, but this one was different. It was dry. He was dry. And that irritated him. Thick brows knitted as his psyche wandered to the idea, briefly leaning into the comforting embrace of familiarity of outrage. It was easier, after all, to be mad at the circumstance than to navigate it. But… It didn't feel right. No, he wasn't angry about it. Perhaps a part of him was. But Harry? Him? He was uncertain. Afraid. Every time he wet his lips in consideration, he knew he would not be able to stop himself. Not when—

[ELECTROCHEMISTRY] It's a miracle you even lasted this long. It's like something has snapped in you—a nerve ending. You've lost yourself, Harry. Truly, lost yourself. And god knows how long it will take you to come back this time.

The subtle emphasis makes his skin crawl as his head shakes, hands pausing to linger under the chilled water pouring forth into the sink basin. He sighed, looking to the dingy mirror before him.

Through the speckles of old debris and matted dust, and past the droplets of dew that form with the arterial spray of the sink's faucet (a sign that the mechanism, much like the rest of the restroom, is in need of repair; it has been for as long as one can remember), the visage that greets Harry is… healthier. It invokes a sense of pride not too dissimilar to when he'd first whispered his name—the one he had chosen, not the one he was given—and truly seen himself for the first time. Like the waves, it swelled briefly before crashing down. Fell upon the invariable signs of his past habits. Like looking through the bottom of a liquor-filled glass, it was hazy; a deluge of desperation and need encapsulated by bloatedness and swollenness. Sat neatly among the discolored planes. Pallid skin darkened and reddened as the blood vessels beneath the skin remained agape, prepared for consumption.

[ENCYCLOPEDIA] Telangiectasia. Small blood vessels sat near the skin's surface. It is natural for them to sit so high, but normally they remain unseen until there is an increase in blood flow.

[INLAND EMPIRE] Recall how one's features become rosy when hearts begin to flutter, or how the sun's warmth seems to sit upon the apples of one's cheeks like a comforting blanket.

[DRAMA] There is an art to this.

[LOGIC] There is not. This is a different sort of happenstance. The events that have led to your flushed appearance are not a simple point of life, nor something to be proud of.

But it is, a simple point of life. Accentuation of Harry's simple existence. It is not something he can change, especially as that nausea begins to grow in his gut. His mouth feels full of cotton; his body so writhe with tension that he begins to tremble and grow dizzy. His nose feels like a small balloon in the middle of his face. His tongue feels swollen and snail-like, floundering about amidst tainted teeth as trembling hands cusp beneath the faucet and draw splashes of water toward his lips.

[ELECTROCHEMISTRY] Drink, but it will not replace what you need. No, this is nothing, brother. The best cure for a disease like this is indulgence. Morphine, cigarettes, rum… You need them again. You will not survive without them. This? This is—

[COMPOSURE] Embarrassing.

[AUTHORITY] Weak. How do you expect anybody to take you seriously? Nobody would listen to someone so pathetic.

The taunts were met with the sound of the door slamming; a minute signal in the grand scheme of things. It went unnoticed by those in the wing's hallway. To them, it was business as usual. If not Harry, then Satellite-Officer Vicquemare. If not Vicquemare, then Captain Pryce.

[RHETORIC] The police aren't there to mess up; the police are there to preserve the mess.

[ENCYCLOPEDIA] Says the professor of Ecole Normale de Revachol. Someone has been reading in his spare time.

[LOGIC] Or simply observing with a clear mind.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] This is a dangerous line of thinking to be falling down. Your past airing of grievances with the RCM has earned you several stern talkings to. In his office, Captain Pryce grimaces at the clutched papers in his aging hands.

[RHETORIC] It was addiction that saved you. Easier to blame the abstract than to examine the system.

A shiver. Harry wasn't the only one struggling. He knew that, even before his days of total sobriety. This sort of culture was normalized; expected of its officers. Many of his habits he fell into through the hands of his coworkers, even if they were not his introduction to the idea. Of course, things were different now. After his outburst, and the disaster in Martinaise, the RCM began cracking down on the use of substances among its officers. Many, like Harry, suddenly found themselves thrust into the true responsibility of duty. Conscious and aware to the severity of their workloads. Many quit. Many more fell into old habits and were systemically demoted until the work no longer supported their needs. And those, like Harry, leaned into the work. Buried themselves in mountains of paperwork chasing that adrenaline-fueled high by doing something—anything—to feel alive.

Yet they never did. Harry never did.

Time blurred past and he was, effectively, the same old corpse he always was. A puppet of the RCM's agenda. The failed Dick Mullen. The swaying body strung from the rafters, dancing along to the fluttering shimmer of the disco ball.

Then, there is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. An inordinate amount of time passes, not even measurable by the distant, rhythmic technological beeps.

[PERCEPTION] Hospital monitors? No. Alarms. An alarm.

[LOGIC] It must be morning. We should get up.

[VOLITION] We shouldn't. We can't. It's much too difficult.

The soft rustling of sheets.

[PAIN THRESHOLD] Easy…

Muscles ache and the silence is inevitably broken by a low groan. Sunlight filters in through dusted curtains, particles coming to fill the air as a heavy hand finds itself upon the alarm clock beside him. Equally heavy feet find the floor, though remain unable to hold the body above them. In a quick sequence, Harry finds himself on the floor, slumped and slouched in an all too familiar position. The aches stop, albeit briefly. Like a fly to the ointment, his conscience sticks to it. Chases it as the limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering awakens itself once more. He is on his feet again, cotton cloth sliding across the floor as his body wills itself to the bathroom.

A mirror hangs above a bent, not broken, sink. Languid hands find themselves upon the faucet, though are gentler in the way they manipulate it. Hot water sprays from the stem and steam covers the mirror. Harry cannot see himself, just the outline of a man.

[CONCEPTUALIZATION] There is an irony in seeing the image. It was not always like this.

[VOLITION] Those days are long gone, now.

Cloth falls from the man's frame, though it remains obscured by the apparatus before him. He slowly reaches his hand toward the surface of the mirror…

[INLAND EMPIRE] You're certain you wish to do this? You may not like what you see there.

[HARRY] I don't care.

A deft motion. The condensation on the reflective surface gives under the palm that wipes it, leaving in its path a clear view to the tired visage that stares back. To the naked, pallid flesh that rolls from a slumped frame. Hair highlights various pathways, traveling down between taped and tucked mounds and rolling along the rumbling stomach, and continuing through the fog and beyond the sink's barrier. It traverses the adhesive edges of Harry's binding (he's still thankful he has learned this alternative; not only does it keep his natural form, but it allows him to wear his shirts open with pride) and over his shoulders. Down thick arms to the bruised knuckles that hold the porcelain lip of the sink. It flutters out, then reappears upon his rounded jaw, mutton chops growing thickened around his lips. He's due for a shave, but a part of him enjoys this rugged look. It's… different. He's different.

He's happy.

[COMPOSURE] You're exhausted.

[SAVOIR FAIRE] You've dropped the toothbrush. Again. Your hands feel foreign to your own body.

His eyes follow dirt-stained grout lines down to the floor, only to find that sad little toothbrush dried beside the trash bin. He's exhausted. Creaking and groaning, Harry bends to discard the brush; opts to simply swish some mouthwash and try not to think of the burning sensation that draws his nose to scrunch and his eyes to water. He does it twice. Perhaps to mask the fact he has not properly brushed and will have to save that act for after his shift. Perhaps because he feels he deserves the ache; it invigorates him. Begins to bring him back to life and pull him from the vice grip weariness holds on him.

But it isn't enough.

Not as he washes himself in the shower, nearly tripping over the tub's lip as he climbs out afterward. Nor as he finds himself slumped against the wardrobe door, idly flipping through his clothing options and looking for his RCM jacket.

[PERCEPTION] It… should be here. Why isn't it here? Don't tell me we've lost it again.

[LOGIC] Nonsense. We brought it home. It is here, just not put away.

It's not enough as he waits for the toast to pop from its apparatus, where the sudden click and ding nearly makes him crawl out of his skin. Coffee spills on his shirt, bringing him back to the wardrobe once more, digging around for a new shirt and tie. Back to the kitchen. New coffee in his cup. Butter and jam on cooling bread. Crumbs dust his facial hair, only unsettled from their rest when he reaches to scratch a persistent itch. It is then when the realization clicks.

He's exhausted. He is unmoving. Those early morning aches have not been shaken, and have in fact only worsened with his moving through the morning routine. His mind has been quieter; nearly absent. He can barely recall what he's done and what he hasn't, with the only clues being the visible changes in his appearance that signify—at the very least—that he's done the basics and cleaned himself. But that's just it. If he can't even recall this, how in the world could he find himself responsible for the safety of others. How could he find himself amidst the greater world around him, with dozens of eyes on him—some pleading, some scrutinizing?

He'd done it before, under worse circumstances… but he wasn't that kind of animal anymore. He didn't want to be that kind of animal anymore.

Which is why, with a swaying physique and a hoarseness in his voice, he found himself on the phone with whichever unfortunate soul would find themselves on the other end of the line. Unfortunate, not for taking in his call-in, but for having to present it to Vicquemare and Pryce.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Early morning ire. Slender knuckles knock on the door to ask permission to enter; it is granted. From his throne, Pryce sneers at the individual before him. His brow twitches, his posture stiffens.

[CAPTAIN PRYCE] What the hell do you mean he called out?

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] A pregnant pause. The avoidance of eye contact.

[UNKNOWN] He just did… Said something about feeling under the weather.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] The response was faint. Nearly whispered as the other end of the reigning duo entered with a stack of papers.

[JEAN VICQUEMARE] Who called out?

[CAPTAIN PRYCE] Your star pupil.

[ESPIRIT DE CORPS] Jean's posture slackens and he sneers. It's evident the sarcastic jab was more than enough to clue him in. Yet there is a subtleness in his eyes that almost suggests concern. He sets the papers on Pryce's desk then walks out without another word.

Shoulders slump and a ragged sigh escapes as Harry undoes his tie and discards it, absentmindedly tossing it to the coffee table. His shirt follows as he sinks into the comfortable contour of the couch. Tired eyes slip shut, coaxing the surrounding musculature to relax and begin a rippling effect. He melts, and for once he can feel the day passing.

And for once, he does not care. He deserves this rest, and nothing can convince him otherwise.

[living-morganism-101]

Deliciously Beautiful

When I was a little girl, I would pray to God that I would wake up the next morning with long hair and banana cream skin and light colored eyes. From a young age, I learned to denounced my darkness, my hot comb burned scalp, my crooked teeth and my desire to be wanted.

I have a crippling need to be constantly validated. Perhaps that is why I was so desperate for someone, anyone, to give me love. I thought that's what I was supposed to want. And for a time, I did. I just didn't want it from boys 4 times my age. But when you're nothing more than dirt underneath someone's shoe, you can't be too choosy. I had a lot of nerve to be ugly with high standards. But when I was little girl, I felt like a god. Some days, I still do. Only now, deep down, it lingers; the hatred for myself I pretend I don't carry.

If my father got one thing right about me, its that I was an attention whore. I wanted boys my age to touch me the way grown men did. I wanted boys my age to kiss me the way grown men did. I wanted boys to like me the way grown men did. But more than anything, I simply wanted to fit in.

This is your warning not to give up your power. Do not let others be the one make or break you. We are fragile and we hope and we are small and we are stupid and we are mortal and we are lied to and through all of that, we love. God, do we love. That is why we are so paper thin. When you give up too much of yourself, you find it easier to live in another human's skin. You search for missing parts of yourself in them, you rip them open and you slip inside them and the blood will make it messy, but fuck. There is an unexplainable peace in being whole, even if it means sucking someone else dry. It's shameful, it's delusional, it's madness, it's sinfully sweet. It's everything you want except for what you need.

Some 20-ish years later, I lay in a messy bed and ponder my existence, like any idiot would. I reached for my phone for the what felt like the millionth time. It was time for hourly ritual; flicking through every social media app my thumb can reach and showing myself lives I only knew a fraction of, but still wished were mine. Social media, I learned, is just an endless digital buffet of useless junk designed to make my brain feel more and more like a sack of wet sand.

I see your perfect little blog, with your perfect, slender fingers and even more perfectly coated crimson nails. Your perfect smile on your perfect lips. I wonder if you could give me the perfect kiss, if I asked kindly. 100 different scenarios run through my peanut sized brain on how I can have what you do. But I honestly didn't care too much about living your life more than I cared about wanting to eat it.

I wanted to savor you and digest you and scrape you off my plate. I wanted my fist full with your perfect hair. I wanted your flesh between my rotten teeth. I hoped that in consuming more perfect women, that I too would become "perfect". I, too, dreamed of becoming deliciously beautiful. Deliciously beautiful. What is it like to be so small and ever so consumable?

How funny is it that we can love a certain type of life, but hate who lives it? That should be me, you think. I thought I would be satisfied with just a taste, but I need more. I need the full meal, the whole body, bones and all. It's animalistic and it's feral. It's obsessive and I am struggling to contain it.

Contain it.

Honestly, I implore you to name an act more intimate, more symbolic, than eating all you desire? Perhaps in a past life I was a cannibal. How close am I to reliving that lifestyle in this lifetime?

[electricbluebutterflies]

Prompt: “ it's nothing. hurts like hell but -- i've dealt with worse. “

Post-s2-grayspace Kabby. We're playing a little loose with medical plausibility but I did twist my ankle as a tiny human (roughly 20 years ago) so I'm just going with that memory and hoping it's close enough. PG-ish and also on ao3.

If nothing else on this planet manages to kill him, she just might.

This is not a new emotion or desire for Abby – if anything, its frequency has lessened. But other details have changed too, the dramatic personality shift she’s trying to make her peace with and worries was somehow her fault, and-

Most of said personality shift makes her life easier. The fact that Marcus is now impulsive and a bit passive-aggressively suicidal undoes all that goodwill real fast when it flares.

She is not trying to take up his former mantle of paranoia, but it seems that every time he leaves the safety of their compound for more than about two hours, regardless of whether he’s alone or with others, something goes wrong and it becomes her problem. Injuries happen, she gets it, there’s a whole new world everyone is trying to get used to, but most people don’t…

She of all people understands the unwillingness to accept new physical limitations, but it’s like he’s not even trying, like he can ignore that damage and be okay, and then that doesn’t work and she gets stuck dealing with the damage. Just like always.

This time, he thinks he can hide it – he’s learning, perhaps, that these little adventures are becoming the only times she lets herself get mad at him. This time, he comes back moving just slightly wrong, just wrong enough that only someone who pays too much attention to his habits would notice a change, and-

“With me,” she says, and she will at least give him the mercy of not going at him with an audience, as much as that would probably be the most interesting part of five different people’s days. “Now.”

Perfect compliance – this too is becoming normal, this new and frightful willingness to actually listen to her that was absolutely not present six months ago and they’d all be a lot less fucked if it had been and this is no time for what-ifs and-

“I can’t imagine I missed anything that vital in less than half a day,” he says once they’re behind a closed door, not quite making eye contact and clearly trying to distract her. She forgets sometimes that he knows her habits just as well, and hers haven’t dramatically changed recently so that’s even easier, and-

“You are at least aware where you are right now,” she mutters, almost a question. “Turn your head for five minutes and someone tries to cause the apocalypse by accident, again.”

“I know you have more important things to do than-“

“Sit down and shut up for long enough for me to-“

“It’s nothing,” he says in that avoidant voice that used to mean something entirely different between them. “Hurts like hell, but… I’ve dealt with worse.”

Goddamn right he has, Abby thinks and won’t say. At least there’s nothing visibly wrong, at least-

“Make this easier for yourself and tell me what happened before I start removing your clothes until I find it.”

Apparently that’s the necessary level of directness today. Marcus leans down and undoes one of his boots, and… yep, ankle just slightly swollen, sizeable bruise, that’d explain the movement issues, that’d also explain-

“And what exactly did you do?”

“Ground looked level. It wasn’t.”

She kneels down and gets her fingers on the injury, feeling the damage. At least he didn’t manage to break anything, probably just a twist, still unpleasant but not-

“I’m going to wrap that,” she murmurs. “You need to rest it for a few days. I don’t care if-“

“I’m fine. I can’t-“

Abby leans up and glares at him with every bit of fury she can put into her facial expression. “Do you see yourself right now? Do you see these colors that human skin isn’t supposed to-“

“Fine,” he repeats.

“You are supposed to be my other half here. And that means it ruins my life if you go out and hurt yourself any further because of stupid masculine bravado or your barely concealed death wish or-“

“I don’t rest well. You of all people know that.”

Yes, she thinks, the number of times she had to physically tackle him despite being in more pain herself because their combined recovery situation was designed more for supervision than actual enforced healing sure was a time, she’s amazed that even worked, and-

“But I’m the only person left you’ll listen to,” she counters. “And I’m not saying bedrest – I’d like to, but I know you. I’m saying for the next three days your world consists of your normal indoor haunts and ideally not a lot of movement between them, understand?”

It’s not the compromise she wants to make, but she knows how far she can push. And if he spends most of his waking hours on the couch in their shared office, that means she can supervise him and make sure…

Oh, nevermind. Trying to save that man from himself is always a losing battle. She’s known that since she was fifteen. Decades later, she still tries anyways.

“Stay where you can see me,” he correctly interprets. “Understood.”

She moves away for long enough to find an adequate bandage and wraps it around his ankle as tight as she can, just enough structure to control further damage. He’s lucky he didn’t manage to do worse to himself, but it’s probably only a matter of time before-

She’s never actually considered the possibility of her life without him. She doesn’t like that thought.

“There. Is that…”

“I’ll deal.”

It’s not the answer she necessarily wants, but it’ll do. This is no time to actually voice her worry, and-

“I need you,” she repeats anyways.

“Understood.”

[thisiswhatiwant-dontbsad]

This is my last call for help

It's hard to talk when you want to kill yourself. I dont think I can fight much longer, I just need to be heard.

I love you, i love the world. I believe there is so much happiness and good. I know that there is. I never have doubted the goodness that can come from every moment. I am not mad at you. I am not mad at the world. I lived a good, happy, content life as anyone could. It is nothings fault but my head. It is a mess, everyday. I am tired of smiling for everyone. I am tired of pretending for everyone. I am tired of opening up and being dismissed. I want to be saved. I want the pain to go away. But I've realised now, that moments of happiness, as good as they can be, are not forever, as nothing lasts forever. I want everyone to know that everyday I've thought of this. I have obsessed over this since the age of 10. I try to tell people, but i suppose the fact that I remained here after so long, people stopped seeing the urgency in my fantasies nd urges. I dont want to be swept away and become nothing. I want to be remembered by my gummy smile, even if i was only happy in those moments.i want to be remembered by the love i have for everything and everyone. and i am sad now, writing this, because as much as i'd love to give the broken world and broken people my love and compassion, i have ran out of my own broken pieces to give out. I am nothing now, i am empty. it has gotten to the point where i feel a pattern of grief, with each time worsening. Its not that i want to die, its that im tired of living

You can never tell with me. I am happy or sad, crazy or a shell. that is what is hard. i regret every moment im happy when i cry, and i'd regret every moment i cry when i'm happy. but now, lately, at the rare moments i truly forget my pain, i only end up reminding myself of it - although instead of regretting it, i yearned for it back. Perhaps i believe i deserve it. Perhaps i feel it only makes sense if i could be one thing and not the other, and it seems to be easier to be sad than to be happy. either way, im tired. The world and all people are wonderful, but my mind is broken, and that will never change.

the people in my life come and go, as i make them. or i sit back and watch helplessly. i dont want people to hurt, but i am tired of people hurting me. these past, i reached out, much like ihave in thhe past. I told people how i felt, i told people what i wanted to do, i even said i belong in a psych ward, but no one helped. no one spent the time with me, to talk to me. Im not valued as a human life. even when i hold a scalpel to my wrist, no one takes the time. I think that maybe if i were to go away one day, perhaps today, maybe people would realise that i was really serious. that i was hurting. I feel as though ive needed to prove that im in pain my whole life. no one ever believes me, and when they do, they dismiss me, they explain to me my own feelings which is never even correct. even to those who may know my true life, which there is none, only some close to it - only those i will trust with my vulnerability. and only those are the ones who turn me away. I sit alone in the dark and i cry with a scalpel to my wrists begging for someone to BEG for me. but no one does. i am not a life worth the time, the energy.

If you read all this, thank you. Please if you can, try, because i want to try too, but I'm all alone now, and have no one to try for.

[sandwhitches]

ೃ༄ 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄? 𝐟𝐭. 𝐈𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐤𝐢

𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗰: how they pop the question! (hcs + drabbles)

𝗰𝗼𝗻����𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀: atsumu miya, osamu miya, suna rintaro, kita shinsuke, aran ojiro

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: (16+) fem! reader, established relationship, mentions of marriage (obvi lol)

𝗮/𝗻: i needed something mushy and disgusting to tide me over. blame the ceo of adderall for how fucking long some of the drabbles turned out i was locked in. also opening requests yay!!! (as always sorry for any typos sending telepathic hugs if any of this is slop)

-> read part II here!!! <-

𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚

» the type to like really want something overly romantic and picturesque

» i’m talking proposal on the beach (you already know this man is asking you in public, sorry)

» he’s been meticulously planning this for the past couple of months, the ringbox is practically burning a hole in his pocket

» when he tells osamu his plan, his brother is surprisingly more than happy to agree to hide somewhere and film it for him (because atsumu will die without the memory to look back on, that’s just how he is)

» calls osamu the night before in a panic, “what if she says no?!” and osamu is like “….be so fr.”

» you’re wondering why exactly your boyfriend is so antsy on the hour-long drive to the beach, raising a brow at how he keeps readjusting his sweaty grip on the wheel or gulping unnecessarily loudly

» accidentally butchers the approach (he’s just so nervous that it seems suspicious)

» proposes on two knees like shane dawson IM JUST KIDDING EVERYONE!!! THAT WAS A JOKE YOU GUYS EVERYBODY LAUGH PLEASE IT WAS A JOKE!!!!!!

Something about Atsumu was off today. What started as a rather awkward car ride bled into a beach day with a subtotal of about three productive conversations. Perhaps you were just making things up, but, you couldn’t exactly stop yourself from reading too much into his antsy tone and darting eyes. What’s going on? The question has plagued you since the moment he’d opened the car door for you that morning. 

As night fell, the expected continuation of stuffy silence ensued; there’s a difference between savoring the romance of shared silence and whatever this is. You couldn’t exactly put your finger on why things weren’t normal, but deep in the pit that has been forming in your stomach all day, you knew that they weren’t. 

What a shame, tonight is beautiful, after all. The moon is full, casting a milky glow of its face across the rippling waves, illuminating the gritty sand you walk upon. You consider commenting on the way the air was perfectly crisp, not as sticky and humid as it was earlier in the afternoon, but a perfect marriage of chilly winds and hot air.

Just as you prime yourself to speak, Atsumu beats you to it, halting his gait completely, much to your confusion. 

A few moments pass that individually feel as if they could have last an eternity, silence only broken by the crashing of waves and distant cawing of seagulls.

“Ya know I love ya, right?” Atsumu says the worst thing he could possibly say in this moment, it leaves you sputtering, wondering what exactly this sudden declaration could imply.

Is he just saying it to say it? Is he mad? Is he breaking up with you?

A nauseous jolt of fear churns in your stomach and sends the painful tingle of unrefined fear crawling up your spine. With haste, you turn away, hoping that as long as you don’t meet his eyes, he won’t say what you’re dreading. Tonight is so beautiful, does he really have to spoil it? The beach is empty already, tall grass ripples in a dance with salty seawind, and you try your hardest to watch the bobbing of cattails to ignore what stands in front of you. Your struggle to soothe your racing mind suddenly becomes a lot easier as confusion kicks in at the sight of a familiar face that’s quick to duck behind a fence. 

“Is that…Osamu?” You squint, straining your eyes to try and make out the identity of the crouched silhouette in the distance with such little clarity provided by dim beacons of moonlight. Atsumu chokes out a strained noise of frustration, his brain temporarily losing all sense of direction in his surprise, and as a result he jumps the gun on what he was waiting at least a few more paces to do. 

You’re still caught up in discerning whether that figure in the distance was your boyfriend’s brother, it had to be. The question was, what on earth is he doing here?

Turning back around, the question is raring to fall for your lips, but is quickly drowned out by a short gasp of alarm to see that Atsumu is no longer standing. Down on one knee, he’s already staring at you like you’re the only way he can continue to live, an entire meal in his lifelong starvation. He’s been yearning for this, craving it for longer than he’s let you in on. In spite of his desperation, a dry laugh of self-deprecation tumbles under his breath.

Your hand flies to cup your mouth, and the only thing on your mind is the little box he’s fishing from his back pocket and cracking open before you. “I already knew I’d be asking ya this the first time I met ya,” the smile he dons is less smug than its usual appearance, it’s humble, a quiet declaration of love. 

How could you be so stupid to think he’d do anything but this? It’s all led up to this, hasn’t it? Secret love notes shared in high school classrooms, hasty kisses exchanged anywhere you couldn’t be seen. You think of unpacking your first apartment, how it took too long because he kept making you laugh or how he managed to forget his coffee order once but remembered yours, late nights spent touching instead of sleeping and going to his volleyball games where everyone looked at him, but he only ever had the ability to look at you. That’s what this was all along, wasn’t it? The beginning of the rest of your lives had already started a long time ago, before you could realize. 

“The best part of my day is wakin’ up and fallin’ asleep next to ya,” he swallows a dull lump in his throat, unable to control his own watery eyes at the sight of fat tears racing down your cheeks and nestling under your chin, “so would ya let me have that for the rest of my life?”

Maybe this wasn’t exactly how he wanted it to go, but there was never a scenario in which he’d do this and regret any part of it. Atsumu hadn’t realized it until the moment came, but it felt as if his entire life had led to this moment, that he was basking in his zenith as you stared down at him and teetered the edge between girlfriend and wife. 

And as it grows heavy on his tongue, Atsumu is certain nothing he ever says after this point will be as relieving as this, “Will ya marry me?”

𝐨𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚

» This is Osamu Miya there is going to be food involved in the whole production please and thank you

» Has the wise idea to ask the owner of the bakery next door to bake the engagement ring into a cake

» The problem? He's now convinced himself that you are going to choke to death right in front of him

» Thinks the perfect opportunity is when you visit him at the shop when you're done with work, only because that's his favorite time of the day

» Lowkey nervous but is not about to go to Atsumu for advice, he is going to make it ten times worse

Nights like these weren’t uncommon since you moved in with Osamu, but they're still as wonderful as the first. He never thought you were one to enjoy this type of busywork, which is why he hardly asked you to help until you voiced how much you loved helping him close up his shop. 

His employees are long gone for the night, you finish mopping up the dining area with a satisfied hum as Osamu counts up the till in the back. After draining the mop bucket, you knock softly upon the door, opening it at the sound of his hummed response. 

“Well? Are we billionaires?” You snicker as you catch the tail end of him locking the safe, “Almost there.” He snorts, standing up with a certain stiffness that wasn’t there earlier, you chose to pin it on a tiring day finally catching up to him. 

Osamu stretches his back with a drawn-out sigh, then tilts his head down at you, “Dessert?” 

Tonight, just like every other night, your boyfriend made sure that you ate before helping him clean up, happy to share another meal with you in the empty shop. It wasn’t uncommon to celebrate the end of the day with the pint of ice cream stowed in the freezer for this specific reason, but you were certain that the both of you had dug out the lasts of it a couple of days ago. 

“You got another pint of ice cream?” You question, eyeing the walk-in freezer tucked in the corner of the brightly lit kitchen. Osamu shakes his head with a sniff, “Nah, dropped by next door during my lunch break.” He supplies, reaching down to open the mini fridge under his desk. The business next door was a bakery, and it happened to be one of your favorite spots when you had the time to drop by, which meant that…

“You got cake?” You straighten up with excitement as he pulls out a clear to-go box containing a hefty slice of rich chocolate cake. Osamu smirks, following you back to the front to share it at the counter while he listens to your happy chatterings of how you’d been craving this all day.

Leaning on the counter across from you, he’s close enough to see his own reflection in the glint of your eyes, had he looked this nervous the whole time? Truth be told, Osamu has also had his mind on something all day too, but it was much more complex than the slice of cake he’d turned around to get a pair of forks for. Well, technically, the problem lays within the cake.

 This was no spur of the moment idea, but it felt too soon. What is he going to say? Would you even think this is romantic enough? It’s a stupid idea, isn’t it? And it’s too late to fix it, because there’s nothing he could do about the ring that sits latent between two layers of chocolate sponge. 

He hands you a fork, jaw clenched unusually tight as he grits his teeth to bite back to the urge to begin panting with worry. Osamu is unable to hold his own fork properly, clammy hands making a weak attempt at gripping the cold metal while he hovers it over the cake, waiting for you to dig into it without a clue of what’s to come.

Partially nervous, but overcome with excitement, he gnaws on the side of his mouth when you bring a large, ringless piece of cake to your mouth. 

You chew thoughtfully, blissfully unaware of the way Osamu can practically feel his heart jumping up his throat; there’s nothing too noticeable about the shift in his stoic demeanor, but it does raise a few red flags in your mind to see that he has yet to take a bite. 

A look of confusion pulls at your eyebrows and Osamu thinks he might be done for as you eye him curiously, bringing your fork down to dig out another bite. Your fork hits something solid, bringing your attention down to the dessert in front of you. You let out a quick noise of surprise at the clinking noise of metal against metal.

“What the-...” you frown, initially in disgust (which nearly makes Osamu keel over and die), but your jaw quickly goes slack as you lift your fork up, a ring dangling off of one of the tines. 

Osamu lets out a breath of relief, glad you didn’t choke to death (which was one of the worst case scenarios he had formulated in his head during the day), then smirks weakly, “Sorry it’s kinda covered in cake.” Why would that be the first thing he says? Is he an idiot?! He feels his cheeks begin to run hot before finding that the shock in your expression has since melted into something else. 

“Is this-” you suck in a strained breath when your lover steps from around the corner, taking the ring from your fork. He’s happy that most of the cake had fallen off at this point. “Y’know, I’ve played this over so many times in my head and I still haven’t figured out what to say at this part.” Osamu huffs, partly to himself as he gets down on one knee. 

At this point, you’ve stood up once more, clutching a hand to your mouth in surprise. Part of you truly believed you might be dreaming, nothing so perfect could ever happen in real life, could it? 

A hopeful look lights up in Osamu’s eyes, the inevitable feeling of a shaky smile tugs at his lips. There’s nothing he’s wanted more in his entire life than to ask you this question, and no matter how it happens, he needs you to know that much. 

“I thought I could tell ya how much I love ya, but, I really can’t put that into words,” he’s surprised at the faltering in his voice, his throat caught with a sudden onslaught of emotions, “But I do love ya and I want to spend the rest of my life with ya…more than I’ll ever be able to say,”

You’re already nodding, unable to bring yourself to speak, before he can even ask the question. It makes a lighthearted laugh fall under his breath, unadulterated by anything but love, “Would ya let me marry ya?”

𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐨

» Has been wanting to do this for well over a year but keeps chickening out, who woulda thunk it?

» After drunkenly complaining to the twins about it, Osamu suggests he proposes in a more nostalgic setting (less daunting than his previous attempts in fancy restaurants and sunny flower gardens)

» Nostalgic? Suna can't help but think about your first date, which initially seems like a good idea, but now that he's thinking about it...

» If this canoe tips over he's going to die. He's not even going to try to come back up for air. That's it for him.

Suna is beginning to really wonder how lame a person could be before it’s cause for concern. This is attempt number four at proposing to you, and he still has not mustered up the courage to do it. Three dates beforehand, each time a ring box burning a hole in his pocket, each time the two of you walk away unengaged. This time was different, it had to be. 

This spot was very familiar, the location of your first date. No, it was not a romantic Italian restaurant nor was it an impressive botanical garden. Your first date, as you both recall, was a terrible attempt at a boat picnic, ending in a capsized canoe and everything precious overboard. Now, it could be a gamble, but Suna was more than willing to right his near-decade-old wrong. 

The two of you had paddled out to the middle of the same lake, giggling nervously at every unexpected rock the boat made, an internalized panic attack happening in Suna’s brain each time he thought about the ring in his back pocket at the bottom of the lake. This is a terrible idea, why did he let Atsumu convince him otherwise?

It was sunset, the bright orange glow of the sun gradually sinking beneath the horizon cast a golden hue across Suna’s face, lighting the sage green of his watchful eyes. You’re gripping onto either side of the canoe, trying to catch your breath, “I’m not in shape for this,” you groan playfully. 

Suna snorts at this, rolling his eyes, “Stop acting like I didn’t do all of the paddling over here.” 

You let out an indignant scoff, nudging him with your oar, “That’s your duty as my boyfriend.” 

He chuckles in amusement, but he’s once again reminded of why he suggested you two spend your Saturday like this, for him to stop being your boyfriend. “Is it now?” he hums, sobering up a bit from the laughter. 

“Mhm.” You nod, crossing your arms with a feigned scowl that makes his heart flutter. 

“Would it be my duty if I were your husband?” God, what is he saying? He’s totally going off script. Suna hates how easy it is to let you throw him off kilter, but, he doesn’t miss the sudden break in your expression. “I suppose it would be, yeah.” You sniff, fighting hard to preserve the joking nature of your conversation despite the weird twist of hope that made your head spin. Rintaro was only joking, you know that, but the way he was looking at you begged to say otherwise. 

He clears his throat, “I’d really like that.” 

You place your palms, suddenly softened with sweat, onto the tops of your knees, the corners of your mouth twitching in thought, “You’d like paddling me out to the middle of a lake?”

Rintaro breaks the charged silence with a deep laugh, some foreign mixture of nerves and mind numbing love bubbled up in his chest, and he knows for certain that this is always going to be why he loves you. 

“I wouldn’t mind it that much,” he supplies, reaching back to pull out a little box from behind him, “But, you know, I’d have to marry you first, so…”

“Rin!” You yelp, trying your very hardest to stay balanced as he shifts carefully to one knee on the floor of the boat; it’s no use, if you really were in danger of tipping over, you were too preoccupied with the sight before you to really do anything. 

“And I’d love to do a lot more for you than paddling a boat, y’know? I’d love to do anything for you,” the top lid of the box pops open, revealing a gorgeously cut diamond that reflects the light bouncing off the water from a fading afternoon sun. “I really want to spend my life making you happy.” 

Suna sucks in a deep breath, then smiles at your look of shock slowly fading into a quivering smile and teary eyes, “Would you let me do that for you? Will you marry me?”

𝐤𝐢𝐭𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐞

» Who says something has to be extravagant to be romantic? Not him

» Kita's a very go with the flow kinda guy, he says what comes to mind and hopes you'll feel comfortable enough to do the same with him

» So why on earth would he want to surprise attack you with a proposal? Seems unsensible to him

» Kita "I'll let you pick out the ring" Shinsuke, everybody

Kita always made sure to keep a schedule with you around; before the two of you lived together, he found himself working in the rice paddies later into the early evening, but when he has you to come home to, he can’t be home soon enough. 

The smell of dinner meets him as he walks through the door, slipping off his work shoes with a sigh of relief to finally be in your presence once more. The sound of you clattering around with pans and dishes in the kitchen is enough to make him want to fall to your feet in gratitude. What did he ever do to deserve you in his life? Monumental good deeds from countless past lives must have added up in order for him to have the pleasure of just knowing you. 

“How was your day?” you muse sweetly as he walks into the kitchen, placing a chaste kiss onto the crown of your head like always, “Just fine.” He replies, leaning up slightly against the counter to watch you mix up something in a pot that smells absolutely delicious. As you tap the wooden spoon against the lip of the pot, he’s brought back to reality once more. 

All day he’s been wondering how he should approach this. He knew he certainly wanted it to happen tonight, and after a short phone call with Aran on the car ride home, he decided there was no other way for him to ask you than the way he’d initially decided. 

Nothing too plain, Aran advised, but nothing too extravagant either. 

Kita couldn’t understand this advisory if he tried, and he did try. So, he thought to himself, why not just do what feels right? That’s what he’s been doing this whole time, hasn’t he? 

He clears his throat, earning your attention from the meal you were making him. 

“Do you want to get married?” Shinsuke asks plainly, almost so plain that you nearly let out a generic hum of agreement, before reevaluating the words just spoken. 

“What?” you choke, snapping your head to fully face him, baffled by the perfectly calm expression he held. 

“Well, I figured,” he shrugs, “You and I have been together for a while and I don’t think I want that to ever stop, do you feel that way, too?” 

To say this isn’t exactly what you would expect from Shinsuke is a lie, he’s always been this way. Other people may find this seemingly nonchalant nature of his insincere, but you know without a doubt that it is perhaps the closest to sincere a person can really get. No sugarcoating, pure honesty, and you know every word he says is impossibly planned out with the same thoroughness he uses to approach everything in life. 

“I’d love that,” you finally speak up with a nod, feeling a deep blush begin to blossom in your cheeks with inherent delight, something you’ve always had when looking at Shinsuke.

His eyes light up, a content grin making its rare appearance, “You mean it?” You nod and another, more tender kiss is placed upon your pretty forehead, his hand cradling the back of your neck, “I’m happy to hear that.” 

Ever since you’ve fallen in love with Kita, since you’ve started living with him and sharing every spare moment by his side, you’ve come to realize that life doesn’t need to be anything more than simple. Life in itself when you are in love is more than enough. And as you continue your night as if nothing really changed, you realize that this is exactly the case.

The ring Shinsuke lets you pick out the next day has no effect on his preexisting unconditional love for you, he already knew that he wanted to be with you for the rest of his life. The vows you exchange, and the home you make, and the nameplate outside that reads Kita are all just byproducts of something much better, the fact that he’s devoted his life to you. 

𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨

» Aran is just effortlessly romantic sometimes, it's perplexing

» Maybe it has something to do with how genuinely sweet he's always been to you, but you swear you don't even see this one coming

» Even if things aren't going according to plan, he's surprisingly more sure of himself than he's ever been of anything

» Of course he manages to make getting poured down on movie scene level romantic sighinggg

Just his luck, he thought. The moment you two head out towards the restaurant (in which he had a very large task to fulfill) an onslaught of unpredicted rain began to pour. Hollering in horrified excitement, the two of you make a run for it, regretting the wise idea to take the scenic route through the downtown park a few blocks away from your apartment. 

Seizing your wrist, he takes you to what he considers his saving grace, a perfectly located gazebo to hide from the rain. You’re both panting from the sprint, soaked to the bone from the heavy showers that are now accompanied by crashing thunder. In no time, however, your rasping breaths dissolve into laughter at how dumb of a situation you two landed yourselves in, like always. 

“My makeup is running,” you whine, looking at your reflection on the screen of your phone. Aran shakes his head lightheartedly, bringing a hand up to move wet strands of hair from your face, “Your makeup is absolutely fine,” he counters fondly.

How could he manage to make a terrible situation like this so romantic? You’ll never understand him for the life of you. 

“I, um,” Aran seems to be deep in thought all of the sudden, before interrupting himself quickly, “we better head back as soon as it stops raining, I don’t want you to catch a cold.” You don’t miss the hint of disappointment in his voice, it makes your heart begin to sink. Was he angry? No, he didn’t seem angry at all. 

“Good idea.” You nod, holding your hands behind your back, “This totally sucks, huh?” 

Aran agrees with a dry chuckle, something different starting to wash over his face; he wanted this to happen tonight, maybe it still can, just not how he wanted it.

Who is he kidding? The only thing that ever mattered about tonight was slipping a ring on your finger, he couldn’t care any less about a romantic walk through the park or a fancy dinner. He had something even better than what you expected for the night in his back pocket, weighing it down as a constant reminder. 

“Actually, I had something else in mind for tonight,” he starts, a bit unsure of where this will lead, “Oh?” You muse curiously, tilting your head at him ever so slightly. “Yeah,” he swallows thickly, then lets a long breath escape him. 

“In fact, I don’t care if we miss dinner, because,” he musters enough strength to smirk at you, fumbling around in his back pocket before pulling out a small velvet box, “this is what tonight was supposed to be about.” You gasp as he effortlessly drops to one knee, offering up the ring with a beam of satisfaction, “The only thing I’m really worried about is making sure I get to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

He’s right. Nothing else matters but this. The heavy downpour, the angry honks of cars on wet streets, distant carryings of music from somewhere in the distance, none of it mattered, nor will it ever. The only thing that you could find a care for is the warmth spreading through your body as Aran gazes up at you with such a tender display of love. 

“Will you be my wife?”

[thighridingsamu]

atsumu gaslights you saying shit like "it's okay, it times like this where it's good we have the same face" "it's not cheating if you pretend I'm him, I don't mind because I'm the one with you right now"

miya astumu x fem!reader

content warning: cheating, use of doll and baby girl, dacryphilia, dub-con (?), brief dry humping, atsumu mentions osamu, osamu catches you, please lmk if anything else needs to be tagged!

word count: ~680

a/n: i was about to work on a quiz when i saw this come in... i love osamu but holy shit. not really proofread sorryyyyyy

"see, doll, we look the same. bet your pretty pussy can't even tell the difference. pretend i'm 'samu and everything will be okay."

atsumu coos down at your tear-streaked face as you give a whine of disagreement and protest, pressing his chest closer to yours despite your hands pushing him away. atsumu can't help but think you're doing it just for show, no way that's all the force you can muster. but then another thought crawls its way into his sick mind and he grins thinking maybe that is all the strength you have right now, too cock drunk to really fight back.

meanwhile your head is spinning, morals absolutely thrown out the window as your cunt clenches around atsumu. it's wrong, fucking your boyfriend's twin brother in your shared apartment. you don't know if it's better or worse that it was completely unexpected.

as much as atsumu asked you to pretend he was your beloved boyfriend, you couldn't. the blond hair was one of the more obvious reasons why, of course, but...

atsumu is a professional athlete. he has rippling muscles and thick limbs. his skin is taught and hard compared to osamu's body that gives in under a press of your finger. atsumu was strong and it made you feel so small underneath him. when he first pinned you back against the wall, you wondered when was the last time osamu made you feel like that.

atsumu is needy as fuck. before he started moaning and groaning and grunting, he was whining and whimpering. "baby, please," he said, hips humping against your thigh and face hiding in your neck. "'samu don't gotta know. wanna fuck you, let me fuck you." so eager to sink into you, promising it'll be just as good for you as he knows it will be for him. was so determined to have you he tried to convince you that it wasn't cheating. they're 'twins, basically the same person.' while perhaps that wasn't enough to convince you, somehow the way atsumu kissed up your neck was. the tongue he sticks out for team photoshoots, the same one that you spent time with his brother making fun of, was godly. the way he nipped at your skin between every other whiny please made you dizzy and led to you being laid down in your bed by someone that wasn't your boyfriend.

atsumu is long whereas osamu is thick. you whimpered when you realized there was still more to go, babbling up at 'tsumie' to slow down. atsumu may have told you that he would feel exactly like osamu, but he knew that wasn't true. he never truly knew if his cock was a better shape than osamu's, or osamu's better than his own, but the look on your face made it so goddamn worth it. "don't worry baby girl, you've taken 'samu. it's exactly the same." but to make it easier atsumu rubbed your cute clit to help you relax and take more of him.

what the two of you don't realize as atsumu fucks you closer and closer to completely succumbing to him, is the front door opening. neither of you hear osamu calling out your name.

osamu's ears perk at the sound of you moaning. he's thinking you're touching yourself to the thought of him, cock stirring at the idea of being able to give you what you want.

but then he hears a grunt and he sees red for a split second. weirdly that warmth in the pit of his stomach spreads.

see... osamu should be mad. he should rush over and throw atsumu across the room. he should be kicking his brother out, and maybe even you, too.

but what osamu does is palm his hardening cock through his dark jeans. he moans lowly as your legs shake around atsumu's waist, chills running through his body at your high pitched whine and atsumu's needy groans. he leans against the door frame and smirks when your head falls to the side, the two of you making eye contact.

tagging: @natsuonii, @jean-prettyboy-kirschtein, @newfriendjen. want to be added to my taglist? fill out this form!

[astaroth1357]

Demonic Pregnancy (But It Makes the MC… Problematic)

Okay, so hear me out. I know the prevailing idea is that a human getting pregnant with a supernatural kid would sap their strength and what not… But what if the opposite happened? So basically, getting pregnant by the brothers would make the MC physically stronger, but more susceptible to their sin… Oh this is going to be fun. 😈

Trigger Warning: Pregnancy

Lucifer

First noticed something was up when the MC came into his office to bring him coffee and casually ripped the door of its hinges… with one hand… by the handle…

He didn’t even have time to be mad about it because he was already frantically texting Diavolo and Barbs that there was something very wrong with the human. They’re not supposed to do that.

Meanwhile MC is in the background marveling at the newly freed door in their hand… They hadn’t even thought about it! Is this what having power is like?? Are they actually dangerous now??? Better not let it go to their head…

*it is totally going to go to their head*

Lucifer learns two things pretty quickly, (1) The human is pregnant with his child and (2) They’ve just been given access to a whole lot of power and they’re mind is set on one thing: Domination.

The next nine months for him are spent practically having to leash the MC or else they’ll go out to pick fights with anything that moves to prove their “superiority”… His brothers and even Diavolo included!

It wouldn’t be so bad if their body wasn’t still very human and very breakable… and also they’re PREGNANT, so please STOP!!

This baby, honestly, could not come fast enough… Good thing demons don’t develop grey hairs… Poor guy…

Mammon

Noticed something was up when they were chatting out at RAD and they dodged a stray ball from Beel. 

They dodged a ball. From Beel. And he throws at, like, Mach 7 speed… And it didn’t even look hard!

… But being the dumbass that he is, he just thought they had gotten a lot better at their magic. It was Lucifer who saw something wasn’t right when the MC was actually holding their own against Mammon and Beel in a race.

Was thrilled by the news at first but then quickly learned that he must have infected them with Greed somehow…

They wouldn’t stop begging for new stuff! Sometimes for him or the baby, but mostly just whatever struck their fancy the second that they saw it.

He’d try to tell them no but then they’d look all sad or whine about hard it was to be pregnant and how they couldn’t do things like tie their shoes or stand for long periods of time or…

(Never mind the fact that they could bench-press Beel if they wanted to, no no, that didn’t matter.)

His nine months were pretty much spent pandering to Lucifer and Levi for more loans to keep his MC happy… and praying they’d snap out of it after the baby finally came because he CANNOT keep paying for their crap…! 😥

Leviathan

MC and Levi playing games in his room and one of their online matches got particularly heated… The MC may or may not be prone to gamer rage, but that night they got so frustrated that they snapped his controller in half like a toothpick…

They were too busy trying to frantically apologize to take notice of their sheer strength, but HE did. And he was thrilled!!

Like, sure, it sucks that he’d have to buy a new controller but that was So. Cool. Their strength was like something out of a shonen!! He was honestly fanboying too hard to question, “Wait a minute, how did they even get that strong??” The MC later went to Lucifer themselves to get it all got sorted out (really Levi was no help whatsoever) and man was he shocked by the news…

Though he was even more shocked by the sudden spike of jealousy that they seemed to exhibit afterward… Like, extreme “You better not leave my sight” level jealousy… 😣

One the one hand, he’s kind of into it because being alone with the MC is all he’s ever wanted!… but on the other hand, dude really wants some space… 

He tolerates the next nine months for three reasons: (1) He does honestly love the MC, (2) Watching them break (other people’s) stuff and fight demons with their bare hands will never stop being cool, and (3) He’s somewhat afraid of what they’d do if he tried to leave so…  😥

Let’s hope the effects are temporary…

Satan

Found out something was wrong when he and the MC went to the park. He saw an old acquaintance of his and left to go say hi but came back to find that the MC had uprooted an entire park bench to squash a nosy lesser demon…

Nothing, absolutely NOTHING, he’d ever read about humans told him that they were capable of that!

Figuring this has some kind of magic origin, he doesn’t bring them to Lucifer but to their resident human sorcerer instead, Solomon…

…and THAT bright idea ended up getting the MC magic tag-along throughout their pregnancy since Solomon wanted to make "a few” observations, the lying bastard… 🙄

Even more unfortunate though, is that the introduction of Wrath into their system also gave the MC an utterly monstrous temper which didn’t help their newfound strength at all…

Poor Satan gets saddled with caring for what amounts to a hair-triggered glass cannon… (though really it’s less protecting them from the world and the world from them 😣).

Needless to say, he’s lost quite a few bookcases over the next several months…

Asmodeus

It was another night with Asmo, so another night out clubbing. He and MC were together for most of the time, but they had left him briefly to get another round of drinks… and somehow got dragging into a straight up brawl in the process.

And they WON…

Asmo brought them right to Lucifer after that. Like, he loves you sweetie, but there were like ten lesser demons there and no way a little human like yourself could pull that off without something being up.

Oh he was overjoyed by the news, but the real test was yet to come… Who would give out first? The Avatar of Lust or a very, very, astronomically horny MC…?

In truth, no one in the House ever wants to talk about what happened for those next nine months ever again… The things they saw… The things they heard… Filthy, filthy things….. 😖

And more broken beds than anyone could care to count…

Let’s just say that they’re all happy the MC was already pregnant, otherwise they’d be dealing with a LOT more demon babies running around… What a hellscape that would be…

Beelzebub

The MC was helping him move some of his weights between rooms. They were only supposed to carry the lighter ones (which really weren’t that light) but they were carrying them so easily that the two got suspicious… They tried to lift one of his heaviest barbells and, to their amazement, they picked it up even easier than he could!

They both just kind of stared at each other for a few seconds before calmly agreeing to go find Lucifer. This probably wasn’t normal…

What pregnancy even was had to be explained to Beel since he doesn’t really understand humans and he only needed one thing confirmed…

So, they’re eating for two now?

And boy did they act like it! The MC’s appetite practically tripled as the months went on and he did his best to keep up for them. He even missed a meal or two for the first time in his life because he was so preoccupied making sure his MC had enough to eat… 😣

Their tastes also got weirder as time went on… At one point they asked for Solomon’s cooking which nearly had him “Nope-ing” out of the relationship right there. He stuck through it to make them happy, but he couldn’t watch them eat it… Even he has his limits, MC… 😟🤢

Wants the baby to come out already if for no other reason than he can finally go back to being the biggest eater of the House again. Having to work around two is a nightmare for everyone…

Belphegor

Would you believe he straight up didn’t know for weeks?

Like, they told him they were pregnant a while ago but all the pregnancy seemed to do was make them really sleepy…

Combine their naps with how often he’s dead to the world and it just never got brought up. 🤷‍♀️

That was until the day it was his turn to vacuum the common room and the MC was resting on the couch…

“MC, can you move? I need to get under there.”

“Hm? Oh, sure. Let me help.”

They then proceeded to get up and lift the couch with one hand like they were Beel or something!

He was, perhaps, slightly miffed that they didn’t think it was necessary to mention they had gotten a butt ton stronger for like a month, but you know…

Belphie has probably the easiest time managing his MC anyway because ALL they want to do is sleep. At most he just has to take on the responsibility to remind them to eat and move around a little.

Lucky bastard always gets off easy… 😖

[mellowyandere]

One Hell of a Logical Ruse Part 1

Reader: F

Characters: Aizawa Shouta (Eraserhead) 

Summary: Shouta loves a good game of cat and mouse, unfortunately for you the game’s a little rigged. This is somewhat of an experiment to try and write a smut scene from the male POV. Disclaimer I am not a man so uh yeah lmao. 

Based off the pre-established fic You’re Ours to Protect. 

Length: 4.5K

Warnings: non-con, yandere themes, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, praise kink

Aizawa Shouta was a rational man. He did his best to adhere to logic, and to never waste time with unnecessary action. And yet despite this, he absolutely loved watching you try to escape. You were pretty clever, even without him “accidentally” forgetting to lock the second story window that just so happened to be above some forgivingly soft shrubbery. 

You probably would have figured some way out on your own, but something feral inside him didn’t want to wait around for you to act. Normally it was his ever-loud husband Hizashi that fell flat when it came to the notion of patience, but today he would relent to his own selfish desires. 

Toshinori would have been utterly distressed had he been aware of the sleepy pros scheme. The number one was a man of swift action, seemingly never thinking twice before charging fist first into danger. He would not be happy Shouta was playing with you like this, but Toshinori and Hizashi wouldn’t be made aware of his little game with you. After all they had no idea he set this up, so they might genuinely try to punish you. He’d keep it quiet once he caught you and pretend it’s your little secret. Maybe you’d even be a little grateful if you believed he was saving your skin.

He rationalized his behavior by telling himself you seemed so bored, truly this was the perfect way to stimulate your mind and body. So when he heard the telltale sound of a body landing in bushes on the back side of the house he simply started a timer for 20 minutes to give you a bit of a head start. 

Was it cruel to get your hopes up like this? Perhaps, but he’d make sure to fuck you senseless to alleviate the disappointment. After all, if you were a good girl you’d have settled into your life with them already. But you really did enjoy testing them, which brought out the side of him that wanted to put you in your place. 

Giving himself a once over he made sure he had everything he would need for your inevitable return home. Well, now that you were basically quirkiness, all he needed was his capture weapon just in case you put up a struggle. He hadn’t decided yet if he was going to fuck you when he caught you, or if he was going to haul your cute ass home first. 

Thinking about plowing into you with adrenaline still pumping through his veins from the hunt had some blood rushing below his belt. Well he could always just do both.

The shrill ringing of his phones alarm brought him back from his wandering thoughts. With a sadistic grin stretching wide across his face he headed for the front door.

-----

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks trapped inside that house with three insane men. Sure they might not beat you or starve you, but the constant belittling, undermining and infantilizing was about to drive you to insanity yourself. You almost jumped for joy when you noticed an unlocked window on the second floor in Hizashi’s and Shouta’s room. The blond man had a bad habit of using too much cologne, and his dark-haired counterpart was always having to air out the room when the radio star went overboard. 

Eraserhead was normally very diligent about ensuring the window was sealed tight, but last night Toshinori had come home in a flurry of smoke and blood, sending his blond junior into hysterics. It was nothing serious, unfortunately, but Shouta had been the one to calm Hizashi and tend to the number ones injuries. Amidst all the ruckus he had left the window unlocked. 

You knew Shouta would soon realize his mistake and lock the window down tight, leaving you with a small time frame to enact your grand escape. It wasn't ideal, but the best you had been able to do was wait for both blonds to leave, trapping you in the house with Shouta. Normally he let you be during the day, opting to nap and grade what appeared to be homework. Hopefully today would seem like just another day, and he wouldn’t think to check on you until dinner approached. 

You found yourself perched on the window sill, ready to take flight. All you had were the clothes on your back, not wanting to make any suspicious noises that would tip you off. On the count of three you braced yourself and pushed off from the ledge, landing on the bushes below with a thud. 

Fuck, that was a bit louder than you had anticipated. Ignoring your growing anxiety, you made quick work of escaping the clutches of the now flattened bush and took off into the woods on the back half of the house. 

Your heart was hammering like mad in your chest as you sprinted as fast as you could. It was hardly fair that it was your first time outside in three weeks and you couldn’t even slow down to take it all in. Thankfully it was spring, meaning you wouldn’t have to worry about the cold. All you needed to do was find someone to get this stupid quirk canceling collar off and then you could safely recede into the background, making sure the three pros never found you again. 

Easier said than done when one of those pros was All Might, and the other two were just as formidable, but you’d be damned if you didn’t try. You did your best to not leave a trail behind, but knew once Shouta figured out you were gone he’d have no trouble tracing your tracks. It was the unfortunately shitty reality you were dealing with. 

Were you really going to be able to escape? Even now as you ran as fast as you could it felt like a fruitless endeavor. There were too many variables that had to line up perfectly in order for you to pull this off, and as you ran directionless through the woods no viable solutions were coming to you. Hell, even now your lungs were burning from exertion, legs begging you to stop. 

But if there was one thing that you were it was stubborn. Stubborn to a fault sometimes, and so you pushed onwards. After what felt like an eternity of non-stop running you slowed to a walk. The forest seemed never ending, taunting you with its sprawling army of trees and shrubbery. You decided to be more mindful of the tracks you were leaving, veering off course in a way that would hopefully go undetected. 

Now no longer running you simply kept your steps quiet and ears alert in case Shouta had already discovered your absence. He was good at his work, but even he had limitations. 

-----

Shouta had to give credit where credit was due, you were better at this than he thought you’d be. If you were his student he’d be proud, but you were his prey so he was a bit annoyed. At first your tracks had been sloppy, easy to follow and incredibly straight forward. At some point though you had changed your approach, footsteps almost vanishing as you adopted a new tactic. 

He found himself crouching low, inspecting leaves to see which you had accidentally broken. There were no more snapped limbs as you carefully maneuvered through the woods. If he wasn’t a pro at hunting people down you probably would have been able to evade him, but this was his livelihood. 

Ever so carefully he followed your almost invisible trail. He had you beat in endurance so you’d have to settle somewhere eventually, and without food and water you were at a distinct disadvantage. Everything was lining up in his favor as he intended, even if you were making this a little harder than expected. 

The anticipation of catching a glimpse of you, of watching you realize he was there and taking off, made his heart beat faster. The longer you evaded him, the more time he had to come up with a fun punishment for you. 

-----

The sun had been directly overhead at the beginning of your escape, and was now kissing the horizon. Oranges and reds were thrown about the woods as the creatures of the night began to wake from their slumber. You listened to see if you could hear the chirping of frogs to find a water source but no luck. 

There was no doubt in your mind that Shouta was 110% aware of your absence by now and was probably hot on your trail. You were zigzagging a bit, trying your best to not disturb the forest floor while making it harder to track you. Dammit this was the fucking worst, it had to have been at least 6 hours in these woods, and without any food or water you were famished. 

And yet despite wandering about for 6 fucking hours you had yet to see anything besides the woods. Maybe you should just give up, sit down and accept defeat and whatever punishment you had awaiting you. You couldn’t help but shiver a bit at the fear of what that would entail. 

As dusk quickly turned dark you debated on whether or not you were going to rest for the night. Visibility would be lower, giving you a slight edge, but Eraserhead was a night owl meaning you were entering his domain of peak performance. There was also no guessing if he was the only one looking for you. All Might could move faster than you could even comprehend and Present Mic was fine-tuned when it came to noise location. 

Sighing in annoyance as your wayward thoughts shot holes through your confidence you decided to find somewhere to try and lay down for a bit. If all three were out hunting you down they could take turns and overlap the time so you never got to rest. As busy as they should be with hero work they always seemed to find too much time to hover around you. 

Spotting some dense shrubbery, you crossed your fingers that any creepy crawlies would keep to themselves and carefully began to conceal yourself. Perhaps one of them would pass by and you could gain some intel. If you were lucky they’d write this area off after not finding you and search elsewhere. 

Settling as comfortably as one could in a bush you closed your eyes and did your best to focus on the sounds around you. The melodic chirping of crickets was the most overwhelming of all the sounds. Skittering of small forest animals echoing around as well. Your mind began to desensitize to those sounds, the lack of adrenaline that pushed you along at the start of all this causing it to dip into unconsciousness. 

That was until you heard the distinct snap of a branch. Eyes flying open you were on high alert as you kept still. You tried to hear if there would be any follow up sounds, knowing something of a decent size had to have broken the branch. If it had been a deer they would have simply kept moving, which made you all the more anxious. 

“No more tracks kitten, I know you’re here somewhere. This little game dragged on a lot longer than I had anticipated so it seems there won’t be any way to hide this from Zashi and Toshinori.” 

You wanted to scream. Even though you had tried your best it simply wasn’t enough against Eraserhead. 

“If you come out kitten I’ll give you one last shot to run. Those bushes over there look like a mighty fine hiding spot for someone of your size.” His voice was pointed directly towards you.

FUCK. You couldn’t tell if he was bluffing or not at this point but he knew you were here, might as well come out with some dignity before he dragged you out kicking and screaming. 

The bush rustled loudly as you forced your way out. You were tired, famished and most of all so frustrated you wanted to cry. You didn’t even need to look at him to know he had a condescending smirk plastered to his face. 

“There’s my pretty kitty, did you have fun outside?”

Shouta knew just what to say to strike a nerve, but you held your tongue. “One last shot to run. You said so yourself. Ditch the capture weapon and catch me like a man, I mean unless you don’t think you can. I’m already quirkiness which is your gimmick on a regular day, so really you're just beating on someone while they're already down.” You looked up now, glaring at him as his smile grew in amusement. 

“I’m going to have to be a lot more physical without it you know, I’ll have no choice but you manhandle you.”

“I’d rather take my chances.” You knew even without his capture weapon you didn’t stand much of a chance of escape. Your only goal now was to try and see how much he was willing to handicap himself. 

“Gonna give me a head start or are you going to just run as soon as I do?”

At this Shouta had to keep himself from snarking back at you. He had already given you a head start, but if he told you this was all set up you’d probably lose the will to fight on. “Five minutes. I’ll give you five minutes to run as far as you can and then I’ll come after you,” he said while pulling out his phone. 

“What about Toshinori and Hizashi?” 

“At the house. I told them I’d handle this, Toshinori will be coming to get us though once I tell him game over. We’re pretty deep in the woods and I don’t feel like walking back for six hours.”

You nodded at his words. So it was just the two of you then. Your combat skills were nothing to write home about, but maybe if you fought dirty you could gain the upper hand. 

“Alright, tell me when.”

“Oh, I already started it. You have 4 minutes and 17 seconds.”

Fucking asshole. You took off sprinting, running as fast as you could, only opting to slow to a jog once you thought you were out of earshot. You wanted him to believe you’d be trying your damndest to put distance between the two of you. But you knew you’d never outrun him. Instead you were going to continue jogging for a bit, counting down the seconds in your head so you didn’t lose track your timer. 

Once your remaining time was up you were going to lay low and try to ambush him. He wouldn’t be paying as close attention to your trail since he knew he could easily catch up. 

After the remaining 4 minutes had passed you found a decent sized tree to hide behind and worked on slowing down your breathing. It felt like your heart was going to chisel its way straight through your bones, your limbs trembling with anxiety. It wasn’t often you were hunted back when you were an anti-hero. Not many people knew who you were which made it incredibly easy to be looked over. 

Scooping up handfuls of dirt you waited. You heard him before you saw him. He wasn’t bothering to take it slow, seemingly eager to get it over with. He ran right past you, noticing you a second too late as dirt and debris were chucked straight into his face. 

He yelled out in surprise, hands reaching out to grab you but you jumped out of reach. True to his word his capture weapon was nowhere in sight. Screaming in anger you lunged at him, nails attempting to claw his face but his own larger hands were working on wiping off your dirt assault, effectively blocking you.  

He stumbled back a bit, unprepared for your hostility, before steadying himself and turning the tables back on you. In one swift motion his fist collided with your gut, forcing the air from your lungs. Your arms came down to protect where he had hit as you wheezed pathetically. Seconds later his larger frame came crashing into you, easily knocking you to the ground. 

You cried out in pain, head hitting the ground a bit too hard as stars danced behind your eyes.

“Not very smart of you Y/N, I mean it beats trying to outrun me, but really? Dirt? It’s like you want me to punish you or something.”

“GET OFF ME!” 

Placing a hand on the back of your head he pushed you down while his other arm pulled the lower half of your body flush against him. You could feel his erection pressing up against your ass.

You were a snarling sobbing mess at this point. All your emotions crashing down at once as you thrashed below Shouta.

“Easy now easy, calm down kitten. You did really good, better than I thought you were going to. If you calm down I might be willing to reduce your punishment, but you have to stop throwing a fit first.”

Despite his words Shouta was enjoying almost every second of your thrashing. The only thing he didn’t enjoy was knowing how disappointed you were right now. Anyone would be after coming so far. Now was his chance to make it up to you before giving Toshinori the go ahead. 

As your struggles subsided the only movement from your body was from your gentle sobs. Shouta for his part was slowly grinding his hard cock against your ass as he softly shushed you. 

“I know you’re disappointed kitten but I’ll make you feel better. If you’re a good girl for me I’ll be willing to look past that little dirt tactic. You’re such a smart girl though, you really did catch me by surprise.”

Leaning down he began to whisper into your ear, removing the hand from your head and bringing it down to your clothed pussy. 

“You always were resourceful, it’s one of the things I fell in love with about you. If only you were a hero, but then again if you were I wouldn’t have had the fun of hunting you down.”

You felt your stomach drop at his words. All three of them enjoyed reminiscing about how they first saw you and all their subsequent actions that lead to your imprisonment. The effort they had put into bringing you “home”. It was beyond disturbing. 

“Please Shouta, not here. Can we, can we just go home first?”

“Maybe if I had found you 4 hours ago, but right now you’re treading on very thin ice. Be a good girl for me and I’ll make sure Hizashi and Toshinori don’t punish you too harshly when we get back.”

His large hand was pawing at your clothed sex, black hair draping over your own face as his body curled around you. He slowly rutted against you, excited huffs of air ghosting across the side of your face. You could practically feel his heart vibrating against your back he was so worked up. 

He gently rubbed his stubble against the side of your face, composure slipping a bit. While Shouta absolutely loved how feisty you could be, nothing compared to when you submitted to him. He craved the feeling of your tired body giving in to his ministrations, but he needed more. 

His hand quickly slipped between your pants and underwear, index finger eagerly aiming for your folds. He couldn’t care less that you were sweaty and dirty from the hunt. Right now all he could think about was the softness of your exposed flesh, and much to his delight, the slight wetness to your outer lips. 

“Seems like someone likes being caught more than they let on hmm kitten?”

He couldn't help but taunt you a bit, loving the way you sniffled and whimpered beneath him. You knew when to behave yourself, when to be good for him. Arousal was flooding his veins. The way it felt to rub himself against your perfect ass, even through layers of clothes, had his mind blanking out. 

Your core was warm, even without him dipping a finger inside. Gently he began to delve deeper, gathering up your arousal to spread around. Your pants were starting to bother him a bit, retracting his hands he made quick work of not only your bottoms, but his as well. You remained still for him, opting to sulk like a child as he prepared to ravish you. 

You were too cute like this, and with the lower half of your body on full display he couldn't help but groan in delight. Bringing a hand down he slapped your ass hard, mesmerized by the way your flesh gave way. You yelped in surprise, body rutting forward. His cock twitched as he palmed your sore flesh, cooing softly in apology. You glared back at him, pretty little face set in a pout.

As much as he wanted to slap your ass until you cried for him to stop he restrained himself. Although this was a punishment, he had set you up. He would go easy on you, not forgetting his promise to himself to help you forget the frustration you were feeling right now. 

Whenever you got angry you opted to stop talking, instead waiting for a moment of weakness to strike or quietly accept your fate. Judging by your defeated expression he could safely assume the latter 

Folding himself over you he brought his hand back down to your pussy, thumb working slow circles on your clit while he middle finger delved deeper. Your entrance was a bit tight, but with gentle persistence he worked his way inside. 

Your velvety inner walls clamped down on him. He couldn’t help but rut his aching cock against your bare ass as his mind drifted to the feeling of you clamping down on his arousal instead. Your whines of protest only further spurring on his overwhelming need to be inside you. 

Adding a second finger he began to pump into you with a bit more urgency. Your slick was quickly coating his hand as he hit all the spots he knew would work you up to your orgasm. Groaning in delight he brought his lips to your exposed neck, sucking and nipping at your soft flesh. 

He loved when he could tell you were getting close. Your warm walls would clamp down on him, breathy mewls and moans escaping your soft lips. You were rocking back into him, uncaring of the fact that you were grinding against him as you chased your release. In these moments you abandoned your resolve to fight against him, and he happily took advantage of that. After all, if your body knew what you wanted, surely your mind would catch up one day.

Your moans were more audible now, hands grasping at the forest floor. Your back was arched into him, desperate to use him. So close, you were so close he knew it, and right before you could finish he pulled his hand away. He laughed as you huffed in frustration. 

“Shouta pl-please.” Fuck, he loved it when you begged. It didn’t happen often with how stubborn you were but when it did he knew he had to comply. 

Instead of verbally responding he opted to do what he wanted to all night long. Lining up the tip of his cock to your entrance he groaned at the heat radiating off you. Pumping his hand along his length a couple times to lube himself up with your excess fluid he pushed the tip in. You stilled beneath him, and in one swift movement he fully sheathed himself. 

His mind went blank as you cried out in pleasure, wet walls convulsing around him as your orgasm tore through you. He held still, opting to gently pet you while cooing softly down at you. Before he met you, even with Hizashi, he had never been very vocal during sex. But now he couldn’t stop himself from babbling a bit, praising you for being such a good girl. 

As your body stilled in his arms he continued to plant kisses along your delicate neck. Your soft sniffles made his heart clench a bit, how was it possible for you to be so damn cute? 

“Alright kitten now it’s my turn. No pulling anything stupid, I won’t take long.”

This whole hunt had been one giant tease, working him up in a way he normally wouldn’t allow himself. Pulling out he groaned at the feeling of his cock sliding against you. Moving his hands he grabbed your waist, eyes transfixed on where you were joined. Your back was arched as you braced yourself on your elbows, presenting yourself to him. 

His mind clouded over, blood opting to drag his attention elsewhere. He began to push back in, desperate to feel you surrounding him. Setting a tempo he pulled about halfway out before slamming back in, loving the way your body moved as you bounced off him. 

His hands dug into your supple flesh, possibly leaving bruises. He could feel the oncoming of his own orgasm, the muscles in his lower abdomen pulsating. He was panting, heart racing in his rib cage as his eyes rolled back into his head. He didn’t have the patience to edge himself today, he needed this, needed you.

He loved hearing the way your breath was forced from your lungs when he fully sheathed himself inside you. He knew he was overstimulating you a bit, but the part of him that needed to find his own release didn’t pay that fact much mind. All he could think about was the way it felt to be one with you, lost inside your soft warmth.  

After only a couple more minutes of relentlessly pounding into you he couldn’t hold it back any longer. A wave like sensation rushed through his body as his hips stuttered. He folded over you, wrapping his arms around you as he felt his hot cum rush through his cock and fill your body. The emotions rushing through him as he released into you, the woman he loved, were indescribable.

It didn’t take long for his muscles to relax, euphoria swept away by the need to take a nap washing over him. You had long since stopped crying, remaining motionless beneath him. He wondered what was going through your mind as he held you flush against him.

“Sho-Shouta.” So meek, so quiet. His heart fluttered a bit. “Can we go home now... I want to take a shower.”

Chuckling softly he pulled himself out, groaning a bit at the feeling of overstimulation as your warm walls dragged against him. Leaning away he smiled as his cum leaked out your pussy. 

“Yes kitten we can go home. I’ll make sure to clean you up.”

You groaned in protest, hating when they insisted on washing you. He knew you liked your privacy but Hizashi and Toshinori were still going to want to punish you. He’d keep close by to keep them from being too harsh. 

Pulling up his pants he fished his phone out of his pocket, rolling his eyes at the sheer quantity of missed calls from the two aforementioned. Poor little kitten, it didn’t look like you’d be getting off easy. 

[wincore]

runway (m) | jung yoonoh

pairing: model!jaehyun x fashion designer!reader

words: 18.7k

summary: there are some things that come with dedicating your life to fashion: a taste for finer fabrics, a splash of love for art, and an appreciation of the human body. none of these are supposed to include the hottest model you have ever laid eyes on, or the fact that you completely, utterly hate his guts. 

genre: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, light smut, comedy-ish

warnings: sexual content, mentions of anxiety

a/n: woohooooooo she’s finally here!!!! i cant believe this!! everything aside, i do not have first hand experience working in the fashion industry so please do take this with a grain of salt. i’m also going to pass out. good night <3

A list of things you appreciate: colours, satin, comfort.

A list of things you do not appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

The hum of the car engine has little effect on you; you travel like this almost every day. Tall buildings, scorching pavement, the blare of traffic—it’s Seoul, after all. You sigh, more of a short expression of annoyance, scrolling down with your thumb and back up again. Since when did he get permission to post pictures from pre-fittings? And one of your works, no less. 

His feed is so messy. You click your tongue. For a model, that is. 

You open the story again and consider messaging him. It’s your cherry red coat, or rather the collar of it, golden thread sewn in swirls of patterns, and a sheer floral shirt extending all the way up to cover Jaehyun’s neck. You frown. It’s meant for showcase, not teasers. Even if the picture extends just from the curve of his shoulder to his parted lips, you can’t stand the sight of it on him. It’s not bias, you try to tell yourself. This is business. You tap your fingertips rapidly against the back of your phone. This is obviously business. 

Seoul Fashion Week is the height of your anxiety, which means you have little regard for anything else decorated around you. With a new frenzy arising in every minute of your day—you don’t have time to think, a sense of madness in the way you keep busy. Your Elixir collection is more than what you had hoped for it to be, a twinge of satisfaction sitting at the pit of your stomach. It nicely puts together everything rich and extravagant, humanity’s first love—everything you despise really, so Jaehyun wasn’t a bad choice for a model. 

You backspace on your text. Is this rude? Should you care if you’re being rude? How unprofessional, you imagine his voice saying. It wouldn’t be the first unprofessional thing you’d done.

The final text reads ‘Glad you’re enjoying my designs, but they were not meant to be publicly displayed before the official show, as common sense predicts.’ 

No, of course you’re not trying to be snarky. It’s perfectly formal. All that time writing professional complaint letters to companies for ripping off your designs paid off, you suppose.

You exit the Uber, thanking the driver quickly before you rush into the building, checking the time on your watch. It’s sunny, and hotter than you anticipated. You can only hope it’s cooler tomorrow so the heat doesn’t suffocate your models.

The company building is another madness in its own. Joohyun greets you with a quick smile, a bunch of fabrics being handed to her before she can make any conversation with you, and the rest of the workers bow in greeting before getting back to their own individual windstorms. You step over a few boxes on the grounds, beelining to your workspace so you can settle down your bag.

You’re team leader, you tell yourself, a short breath tumbling out of your mouth. Even so, you don’t do very well under several pairs of eyes on you at once. Some part of you is still the timid fashion designer, packing your entire identity into a small sketchbook.

The sunlight is blaring out of control in the place—it’s meant to be spacious and sunlit, of course, but the heat makes you adjust your collar before you can move forward. The bustle of the style and design team along with the production team in the same place is akin to a nightmare, and you trace your steps quickly.

“Guys,” you begin, fidgeting with the leather strap of your watch as you continue, “Firstly, good job.”

There’s a bunch of short cheers and clapping to interrupt before you can continue. 

“As for tomorrow…stylists, I need you to touch up the collars in all the Western-style coats. The detailing needs to be kept clean and sharp. I want the audience to be able to see it.”

You pause, your tone still neutral. “And let’s not start again on the lacing. We had that discussion yesterday.” 

There’s some nods and sounds of affirmation. 

“Production team…I don’t think I can say much to you without Doyoung getting on my case.”

There’s collective laughter and you crack a smile. With a few more rapid words, you dismiss yourself, walking over to your colleagues to help them out. You’re team leader, the one with the final say in all the designs, but you can’t possibly imagine completing it without Joohyun or the others. 

“Good pep talk there, (name),” Joohyun says, walking over to you as her hands sharp and steady as they go through the clothes rack. 

“They think I’m an asshole,” you say, breathing out. You know your words are too direct. Drunk co-workers on a Friday night are not the best place to discover facts about yourself. Sometimes even you think you sound bossy. You check the key parts for each item, knowing you’ll be doing this once again before the show.

“We wouldn’t be going anywhere without direction,” Joohyun responds, laughing as if you’d said something silly. “We’re all glad you’re here, (name).”

Words like these are so easing for a mess like you, not that you’d admit it. Joohyun has always been a sort of mother figure to you after you entered this company, followed by Doyoung. A good few years senior to you, she started out as a model before she moved on to designing. 

It’s her last year working in this place. But of course, it’s a given when she’s starting her own label (mom clothes and children’s apparel, she’d called her clothing line, rolling her eyes) and one of the most well-known names in South Korean fashion not having her own label is sacrilege (according to your colleagues anyway). She’d said to contact her when you start your own family, and maybe she’ll send a congratulations package for both you and your baby. You’d laughed. Out of all the insults you could ever receive, that was perhaps the loveliest one.

Ridiculousness aside, you’ll miss the comfort of her presence. You were still in school when your designs led you to a showcase in New York Fashion Week, your sponsor more than generous. You stepped into it too soon, too eager. It was breath-taking and awful all at once—and the first time you saw a world outside of your own. It was overwhelming. There are few people in this new world as kind as Joohyun.

The sound of your notification snaps you out of your thoughts. You swear you kept it on vibrate, a little irked at having to search for your phone when your hands are full. The notification itself brings on a stronger wave of vexation.

_jeongjaehyun:

My manager told me it was good publicity

But I could take it down for you

The ‘for you’ adds an unnecessary effect, you think as you hold back a scowl. And what does ‘could’ mean? A miscommunication with the sales team isn’t even on the list of things you need to worry about. Honestly, you don’t have time to fight him, quickly typing out a ‘whatever. it’s okay’ before looking back up.

You jump, the look on Joohyun’s face a little suspicious for what might come out of her mouth.

“It’s not a crime to text people.” She shrugs, shuffling through the rack one more time to take the clothes for transportation. 

You’re quick to jump to your defence. “I have nothing to do with him.”

Joohyun looks at you, amused. “He’s not a bad person, you know? How long are you going to keep hating him for one thing he did?”

“It’s not one thing,” you groan, averting your gaze to the clothes so as to help her. “I just- he’s so- so- oh come on. You know how I feel about him.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have any reason to. Everyone’s different from what they appear to be. Especially in this line of work.” Joohyun balances the clothes you give her across her forearms.

“So he’s fake. I hate that even more.” You sigh, pulling out the blue silk overcoat, the colour matching Joohyun’s work dress.

“You mean unreal? Models tend to be that way—don’t be so harsh on him, honey.”

You simply shake your head, words entering one ear and out the other. Joohyun presses her lips into a line but lets it go soon enough. She knows you’re capable enough to separate professional from personal and that should be enough. You’re not keeping a tab on something as warming as spite. 

You can’t believe you’d ever been within five feet of him without turning your nose. You can’t believe you’d smiled at his jokes once, even if it was just that one night. He was the godsent Prince Charming, just perhaps not yours. Paris surely had a distressing effect on you that year. 

You don’t make the same mistake twice.

You walk back to your desk to take a seat and scavenge through your belongings, most of the people already outside. Fashion Week, which once upon a time was a faraway dream, now is part of life—exciting and exhausting. It’s almost always over in a flash, your love for it whisked in peaks of bittersweet. (“You work your ass off for six months and it’s, what, fifteen minutes long?” your mother had asked after you’d brought her to one of the shows.)

This line of work is a nightmare without mental preparation. You have a degree, you have experience and yet it doesn’t feel enough, confidence easier to drain in a person than blood. And you’re not very fond of pale cheeks.

It came to asking yourself if you really have it in you for a few months—a test of sorts everyone puts themselves through at least once in their lives. At that time, your favourite professor, a bald man nearing his retirement years with the wrinkliest face you’d ever seen, had asked you just one question. 

Do you love it? 

Of course you fucking do. 

You couldn’t say that to his face, sure, but you know he saw it in you—either the effort you put out every day of the semester or the way your hands moved across fabric like a machine, your designs made with the persistence of nature. Your final year project landed you an internship at one of the largest clothing brands in Seoul and your internship landed you a job at the same. Your job, well, lead you to Jaehyun, among many other things. 

You scowl at the image of his face that appears when you close your eyes, massaging your forehead—it’s hard to not see it everywhere already, from Cosmopolitan to Vogue.

While you were biting your nails in New York, Jaehyun had flown out to Paris with Saint Laurent, one of the younger male models to show his face for the first time. He’d taken the whole place by storm, you had heard from a friend. To say half the world had fallen in love—either with his dimples or his confident walk—would be an understatement. A privilege, to be gold-plated in a mercenary world.

You’d briefly made eye contact at the airport the first time you saw him, a year later, when you were arriving in Incheon and he was leaving it. It was London, that time. For him, Milan. As much as you couldn’t believe living a fashion student’s dream, Jaehyun’s face was truly, unironically much more unrealistic. Your classmates’ gabs and gossip in sewing class had suddenly made sense. You taught yourself to not be swayed by faces, even if they look like they’re stitched together by Aphrodite and Apollo with their bare hands—friendly advice from seniors at the orientation night ‘party’. 

You’d met him formally in Paris, after you’d graduated from fashion school. He was certainly the most beautiful face in the room—and you weren’t the only one aware of it. The entire night you’d been starting conversations you couldn’t relate to, till he came along with his charming dimples and a faux connect. You were naive, and a little tipsy. The attraction was obvious, and it had been you by the bathroom pulling him in for a drunk kiss till he’d snapped out of the daze—as if it were some joke you’d been playing. He’d apologized before leaving, like it wasn’t a big deal, with silken lips parted in a gesture of remorse and a short, firm bow. It didn’t settle very well alongside the merlot in your gut.

You. You’re a big deal. 

You were alone in a room full of painted faces and he sat atop the throne they worshipped. Why had you expected any more from him—in the understanding nods or the few kind words that escaped his lips? You felt stupid. He made you feel like smiling for the first time that night and you hated him for it—you’re sure he doesn’t care either way. Or maybe he does, with the wonderfully irked responses he graces you with. 

Jaehyun made something out of himself in these nine years, just as you have. Runway supermodel to the face of South Korean men in fashion to an entrepreneur, he might as well have a documentary on him—and he would if he didn’t evade paparazzi and reporters like his life depended on it. Enigmatic, the articles wrote. You scoffed. Conceited, more like. After the initial years, he decided to settle in New York, frequently flying to Seoul and other fashion capitals for business and contractual events. Some of those occasionally include your shows.

Having Jaehyun gets more attention but it’s not like you’re a new, doe-eyed kid. Your works have been featured for popstars and foreign celebrities, and you’ve been invited to several interviews with big magazines. You’ve gone global (albeit under the brand’s name) and you’ve been to places you’d only seen pictures of in the very same magazines you looked up to. They can describe your work as unique all they want—and you don’t mean to sound fucking pretentious—but your job is nothing more than an expression of the self. It’s a part of you; you first started sewing patches onto things simply because your closet lacked colour. And eventually, you found yourself searching for more—colours, fabrics, dreams. You’re devoted to your job because you love it, you want to do it. You’re allowed to be a little arrogant about it. 

If only trying desperately to be arrogant did something about your insecurities.

You hope your works redefine themes, your need to stand out contrasting with your fear of it. Eye-catching is always your forte; this time it’s fairy tales and royalty in a mix of East meets West. 

D-1. Same feeling, new season.

The press is here, you take note. Photographers. Models. Students. Vloggers. It’s a burst of colours down there.

You hate running late, rushing down the stairs to the plaza through the crowds of people. Some recognize you, as they make their way to you but you end up walking a little faster to minimize your presence.  You curse yourself for wearing the jacket. It goes nicely with the rest of your outfit and March isn’t supposed to be this hot. You wipe the sweat from your hairline, hoping the makeup is waterproof like it said.

You consider stopping at the café for a fix of coffee but stop when you notice Joohyun holding a bunch of cups by the venue. She doesn’t look too happy about the sun, or the burdening errand of fetching coffee. You adjust her little red beret at her request, smiling at her annoyance but trying your best to keep it hidden. You don’t want to get cussed out by Joohyun. 

“Someone tell Doyoung to get his coffee,” Joohyun complains. “I’ve been waiting for half an hour.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” you say, sipping your coffee. The taste fills your senses with a pleasant dose of energy and you hum out a satisfied note. “Why are there so many students out here? Influencers? Did we sponsor this many kids?” 

Joohyun shakes her head.  “Jaehyun just got here.”

You suppress an eye-roll. “Wonder why he still comes back for Seoul when he’s booked full for New York.”

“It’s his hometown.” Joohyun shrugs. “I’d come back too. Even if I’m paid more out there.”

You finish your coffee and duck into the fitting room, much to Joohyun’s displeasure as she’s left alone again. Doyoung’s in for an earful, you chuckle thinking about it.

It would look like a hell of a mess to anyone not accustomed to this. Everyone is a flurry by themselves alone but if you mix them with the eclectic crowd you find at a Seoul Fashion Week backstage, it’s more of a disaster. A colorful one, at the very least. 

New York was worse. You were too young, in a world that was too big. It’s a miracle you even received an opportunity from so big a name. But, you suppose, it hardly matters now.

You no longer live in a world where Seoul is far from Paris. Fashion and art are things unmarked by place of origin.

It’s easy to spot Jaehyun in a corner, two people adjusting his coat for better fitting at the waist. His makeup’s done, you notice as you get closer. Good, you think. If any makeup were to get on the fabric, you’d go feral (although you do have full confidence in the makeup artists here and their choice of product).

“Jaehyun,” you greet. Your co-workers give each other a look before excusing themselves. You raise an eyebrow, too late to stop them. They didn’t finish the looping of the belt properly, you take notice. You wrinkle your nose. Sloppy. 

“(name).” He responds with an equal lack of amusement. 

You pull the belt at his waist, Jaehyun stiffening at the contact.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“My job? What do you think, genius?”

Jaehyun presses his lips together and lets you complete the altercations. The chiffon shirt allows you to see the hazed definition of his core, a rather flustering thing to be exposed to for anyone with eyes. When you look up in a moment’s mistake, you’re reminded of why his face is everywhere. Flawless, almost. You hate it. Averting your eyes, you fix the collar so the pattern stands out more. You can feel his eyes over your outstretched hand all the way to your face, subtle as ever. If Jaehyun thinks you’re bothered by it, he’s an idiot for believing so. 

You take a step back to analyse the coat. The golden threads are flawlessly detailed, spiraling in patterns of different flowers and vines around the collar, gradually getting larger as they twine at the base of the neck. They meet the polished rhinestone buttons a little lower. You almost smile. You’d sewn each thread and each button in yourself the first time. It hardly looks the same now.

Bright red is an eyesore if you look at it longer than five minutes, you realize. The frown that’s been itching to show up finally does. Suddenly, you’re glad Jaehyun is modelling this piece. You shake your head and look back at his face, from his deep-set brown eyes to his full, tinted lips before pausing. The little Swarovski pearls line strands of his hair in a starry display, perfect in every angle of it. It’s easy to appreciate the human beauty when you see his face, and even if you claim your vehement dislike for him, you’re not a liar nor an idiot. 

How infuriating it is, to let things be. Bad blood can only dry to an ugly, unusable brown.

You narrow your eyes at the thinning layer of glitter on his peach-blushed cheeks. He doesn’t exactly need much more of it but the unevenness bothers you.

“Your makeup needs retouching,” you say, frowning. “Did you touch your face? I thought you were a more...professional model than this, Jaehyun.”

“You walked in,” he replies, casually. “I was distracted.”

You feel your cheeks colour. “That’s- that’s not a reason.”

He smiles politely. “I suppose I’ll leave you then. You must have other work to do.”

You hold back a biting remark. His playfulness doesn’t sit well with you; he’s polite just enough to annoy you and straightforward just enough to make you want to throw something at him. He could’ve directly told you to fuck off maybe—but oh no, it’s Jung Yoonoh, seamless and radiant, with only the sweetest collection of words on his tongue. You think of the first time you met, something warm in the corner of your heart. You’d mistaken it, of course. 

He didn’t care for you, or any of the people trailing after him and his silver flute, or the rest of the shallow carcass of a world so undeniably obsessed with him. It didn’t hit you till he’d left you hanging, mangled memories of something close to hurt. You’re glad you didn’t kiss him. You wouldn’t be able to get over the embarrassment, the blow to your pride had it escalated any further.

And of course, the one thing he did to make you absolutely certain of his distaste—was simply choose another designer’s work over yours when given a choice. It seems silly, unprofessional even, but the lack of response to your Fall/Winter ready-to-wear collection had been embarrassingly low, someone else’s designs sold out at an equally awful rate. You—your insecurities—wanted to blame your own failings—maybe it was the lining of the coats, or the colours maybe— the fabric? Perhaps, you hadn’t focused on comfort all too well. But it was clear, a word from Jung Yoonoh could change the minds of a fashion-forward youth as easily as his face and physique scored contracts with the biggest brands and labels. And it was clear he didn’t like you very much.

You walk over to the other models, eyes scanning down to the T. You glance over one of Joohyun’s designs, a modern men’s hanbok. The blood red paired with yellow is certainly easing on the eyes, though the shades vary from top to bottom, like a sunset. The dark grey chunky shoes fitted under dark tights complete the entire future oriental look you suppose she was going for. She’s only showcasing two of her designs this year and they’re just before the centrepiece. You shake your head, clutching the fabric of your jacket sleeve. You hate seeing other designs before a showcase, even if they’re a friend’s. 

You turn your head to make eye contact with Jaehyun across the room. It takes a few seconds but you snap your head in another direction to break the spell. 

How strange. You haven’t had nearly enough coffee to feel jittery under his gaze.

You’re forced to take a breather away from this jungle of liveliness. 

The amount of people outside the venue gives you yet another headache. Excited college students and fashion vloggers stand outside expectantly, and you give a short bow and polite ‘hello’ to anyone who approaches. You desperately want to be left alone. Even if it’s for a few seconds.

You walk quickly, your feet soundless against the floor. Your mask performs considerably (and surprisingly) well in hiding you. You consider visiting the Design Market to enjoy a seat alone and charge your phone before it’s show time.

Open spaces. You need open spaces. Suddenly, the DDP seems to be suffocating you despite its tremendous size.

“Hey!” You’re greeted with a sudden force to your right side, an arm wrapping around you. You look up to see Johnny, a wide grin on his face and you let yourself mirror it, shaking your head.

“Big day,” he says. “Want me to take some pictures? I’ve got some time between shows—lovely outfit, as usual.”

It’s strange how Johnny’s the photographer and not the model—you’ve heard he receives a lot of requests to get on the other side of the camera though he always refuses. He doesn’t visit Seoul as often, but he has much to do in uplifting the mood with his strangely effective sense of humour. The coffee-coloured shirt he’s wearing goes well with the plaid grey coat, reminiscent of Fendi’s Spring collection, and sometimes you wonder whether a job as a fashion photographer ever had much to do with his style. Johnny has always been effortlessly impressive. 

You politely decline, your mind still focused on the smooth running of things. Nothing’s ever on time when it comes to Fashion Weeks—yes, it’s called fashionably late but it just makes you annoyed. You consider ducking back to your venue, adding some final final touches and any more last-minute altercations. Years have passed and you’re still not used to it, fingers itching to do something about everything. You’re grateful the company gives you your creative space but it only makes you wonder just how far the limits are. 

Johnny accompanies you to the charging station till he’s distracted by some of the children in the latest Fendi kidswear and you make a mental note to never bring your kids to Fashion Week, if you ever choose to have them.

You breathe in and out for a few moments, feeling lightheaded before the sense of reality touches on you. People walk in and out of the stores lining the pathways, a soft buzz of conversation in the air as your eyes follow their movement. You wonder if you’ll have your own stores opened in plazas like this—here, in Seoul, and on brightly lit streets of the world outside. After all, colourful dreams are the hardest to get rid of. You sit quietly till you get a text from Doyoung asking you to get your ass over there quickly with several exclamation marks. You smile to yourself. Joohyun might have had a sour effect on him.

You arrive back at the venue, trying to tear your eyes away from anything that might want to make you fix it. You avoid Jaehyun’s eyes even more so, like you’ll jinx something right before it’s showtime. 

The buzzing reaches a peak before everything is drowned out.

The show finally starts. And it’s over. Twenty-two minutes, this time.

That’s the way it goes. You hold your breath till you’re sure it’s safe to let go, blind to everything that goes on in between. Sometimes it’s underwhelming, sometimes you can’t give a fuck when you love doing this anyway.

You breathe a sigh of joy when everyone gathers backstage, Johnny making all the models pose together for one giant group photo. It’s like a ritual for him, always finding time for a backstage picture with the models goofing off.

Jaehyun looks at you instead of the camera, a nervous shiver running through you. His gaze is not something of inconsequence, eyes piercing into you with words hanging in the air that you don’t care enough about. You think he sends you a smile, cockier than you’d like. Despite your efforts, you have to look away.

Now, what should your dear Fall collection look like? You exit by yourself, relief humming through your veins when you think of getting back to your apartment, papers to be sketched on in your hands, soft fabric to be sewn on your table. Maybe they’ll display your works in the front rows of the stores, maybe you’ll even have displays outside of Seoul. You’re not a student anymore and your job has taken you enough places. 

Even so, Paris and Milan sneak into your dreams often. You used to dream of them so much that it was hard to consider them reality—finding yourself in those streets, in between all those beautiful picture-book monuments.

You prefer Seoul, you decide after conscious thinking. You don’t have to worry about the world outside. 

Afterparties are not your thing. 

You somehow still find yourself in them, hoping to catch a drunk video of Doyoung for blackmail or make eye contact with an attractive stranger only to stop at exchanging numbers because you never find the time. 

It’s a social event. You’re supposed to be doing social things. It’s exhausting.

The last person you expect to bump into is Jaehyun, drinks in hand as he looks down at you with a greeting of surprise on his tongue. He’s wearing a simple dark Oxford button-down, two buttons at his chest undone, and tucked neatly into his pants. His hair looks untouched since afternoon, parted in messy waves, minus the pearls. The music changes to something with slower beats as you stare at each other for a few moments.

“What are you doing here?” You raise an eyebrow. There are other afterparties he could be attending. Big ones.

Jaehyun tilts his head, cracking his neck before smiling. “Charming, as always. I’m here because I want to be here, obviously. So does everyone, I’m sure.” 

“Fucking narcissist,” you mutter to yourself. You think Jaehyun might have heard you because you get a dirty look thrown your way, masked with the signature apathy across his relaxed lips.

“That’s a little rich from you,” he mumbles.

The muscle by his mouth twitches but he doesn’t say anything more. This is probably the most emotion he shows, you think. Wouldn’t his lovestruck magazines relish seeing him riled up like this? They’d still find a way to fall in love with him.

You could have, too.

No way. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous. 

You’re aware he’s booked for at least three other shows this week. It’s a miracle he agreed to yours, considering your mutual distaste for each other. You suppose it had more to do with his agency than himself but it wasn’t like you were the keener one. Jung Yoonoh is the face professionals look for and your company loves the publicity, although you keep telling yourself your designs would still shine without him. 

Jaehyun excuses himself before you can get on with any unpleasant conversation you might have. At least you have something in common—that is, trying to avoid each other as much as possible.

A few minutes (and uncomfortably snaking through swarms of bodies) later, you find Doyoung, unfortunately sober and intending to remain so, people congratulating him with claps on the back for securing the position of PR Head. You think it was supposed to be a secret, but someone higher in the ladder must have spilled early. Joohyun never attends these, and honestly, good for her. 

Afterparties are not your thing.

You shouldn’t have taken those shots but you’re on the dance floor now anyway—what more could happen? It’s easier when you’re not paranoid about all the eyes on you, dancing against a stranger with a lion tattooed against his neck. Maybe you’ll go home with him, maybe you’ll leave at the first signs of attraction. Romance isn’t quite on your to-do list, but an occasional intoxication with the skin works just fine. You could live like this for a few moments.

Your back runs into someone else’s rather forcefully and you turn around, apology bubbled up to your tongue already, mixing with the alcohol.

“Oh look.” You roll your eyes. “It’s the prince of high fashion. What can I get you today, sire?”

Jaehyun drives his tongue over his lips, quite definitely over your antics. Soft breaths leave his mouth in a rhythm irrelevant to this box of laughter and blaring music called a party. You love how he never knows how to respond—what new words will he choose to keep false dignity? If you think about it, he’s the embodiment of why you always thought everything was so out of your reach—big names, exclusive parties, not for kids like you. They were never for fashion students too honest to know their own worth.

“Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear.

You scoff, a pang of annoyance sizzling through you. “Jealous? Of who? You?”

You sneer at the last part, Jaehyun’s frown deepening. Some days you just like to think you’ve won. A few moments pass between you two, the sound of pop music filling in the gaps. 

Jaehyun presses closer to you, your chests almost touching as your breath hitches in your throat.

“Do you know what makes success?” he says, head dipping lower to look you in the eye. The smell of alcohol disturbs you for a second before your heartbeat gets loud enough to drown it. You try to not focus on how his mouth is so near yours—and perhaps if you were drunk enough, you might commit a mistake against the very core of your being, something you’d been dangerously close to once.

You stay quiet, the pulsing in your ears too loud in the shallow distance between the two of you. You swear it’s always the two of you pressed up like this once you’re drunk enough, the dislike growing stronger and stronger with every breath exchanged. You’ve intertwined each other into a strange garden of contempt, easy to forget when you're facing him. Jung Yoonoh has the prettiest face in the industry, and the only one you can’t bear seeing. 

“It’s confidence,” he answers, as slow and steady as ever. “And there’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance I intend to keep. I’m not so sure about you.”

The rest of the night passes without conflict and you retire early, Jaehyun’s breath still hot against your face. Only when you collapse on your bed do you get an urge to shout, yell, anything that doesn’t make you call him up and scream at him. You have your precious dignity too, something he seems to look past. The effect he had on your breathing, the crawling over your skin—God, you hate him. You’re too stubborn to not continue doing it.

“What’s this?” you ask, your eyes darting in between the director of design and Lee Taeyong.

To say you were surprised to see him would be an understatement. You note the simple dark rimmed glasses in contrast with his light dyed hair, the mellow blue of his cashmere sweater sporting his own label’s logo—Lee Taeyong is a household name. You feel yourself shrink the tiniest bit.

This industry’s all about names, you think miserably. You meet people and you remember the ones who can get you ahead. It’s tiring.

Taeyong started his career even earlier than you did, and before he had changed his major to fashion. He’s a little older than you, though he doesn’t look it and he had begun with working exclusively on jackets. Several rejected designs later, he had popped up as one of the designers to look out for in Seoul Fashion Week. Now he has his own global label slowly turning brand, several worldwide stores and everything dreamers in the same place as you look up to. You think you’re fine here, you tell yourself despite that.

The director smiles at you, her hand gesturing rapidly at you to come forward.

“You’re going to be so happy,” she says, signalling Taeyong to continue.

“Uh, hi,” he greets.

A little awkward for a world-class designer, you think.

“I’m Lee Taeyong. You might have heard of me—”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, ignoring the disapproving look of the director.

“Oh, that’s good!” He smiles. “I’ve seen your work—I’ve been following your work for a few years now…and, well, I’d love for you to work under my label—in a collaboration of sorts. You’ll have full creative freedom, of course! I’m just there more or less for supervision, really…”

You think you feel your heart stop for a few moments, Taeyong’s sudden stream of information fading out. The pinnacle of your career, you believe, had been Paris Fashion Week four years ago and you’d been dreaming of it ever since. This is a business contract, you’re sure, and you don’t know if you have a real choice but maybe you could take that step forward you’ve always wanted to.

“Isn’t that great, (name)?” The director interjects. “You get to work under the Lee Taeyong label. And…surprise! You’ll have your work presented at New York Fashion Week in September. They’ll hit the stores a week later.”

You freeze. 

“New York?” you manage to squeak.

“Yep!” Her voice a notch away from annoying. She’s not the first person you’ve met who sounds so goddamn manufactured. “Pack your bags, darling. You’re flying next weekend.”

You must be looking like a deer caught in the headlights because Taeyong opens his mouth to say something, alarmed. You speak before he does.

“Okay,” you say, more to yourself than them. It should be a good thing. It’s supposed to be a good thing. Even so, you feel the anxiety in your ribcage threatening to overgrow into thorns. 

“I’ll- I’ll do it,” you clarify. Looking from your manager’s bright yet stern face to the hopeful smile on Taeyong, you don’t think you have much of a choice.

New York, huh. How long has it been? You shudder at the memories, your focus a little off for the rest of the day.

Joohyun visits you a day before you leave. She places the box of chocolates on the coffee table, that Doyoung apparently sent for you. 

“You know, I’m really happy you’re getting this chance,” Joohyun says, crouching down beside where you’re splayed, trying to count the travel essentials and everything else on your messy checklist.

“He gets promoted and now he can’t even come visit me, huh?” you say, shifting to grab the box and tear off the clear wrap.

Joohyun laughs. “He’s certainly enjoying his duties. I can’t wait to boss him around again after I leave.”

Your shoulders hunch, a sigh leaving your lips. “Great. You’re leaving. Doyoung’s too busy to annoy. And now I’m a part of this godforsaken project for almost six months.”

Joohyun softens a bit, running her hand through your hair. “I heard you accepted it. All by yourself. You’ll do just fine, don’t worry.”

You feel yourself turn pink, a feeling of warmth you’ve been missing for a week. It’s cozy in your apartment, always the right temperature with a tinge of happy memories. You wish you could find comfort in people as easily as others do. Everything happened so fast, you can barely remember the conversation you had with Lee Taeyong. A few moments pass, Joohyun and you picking out chocolates before you can rummage through your suitcase again.

“I hate New York, Joohyun. Just what else can you throw into the mix to make me hate it even more?”

She freezes for a fraction of a moment, pressing her lips together before clearing her throat. “Oh. Uh. I probably shouldn’t tell you what I was about to tell you then.”

You turn your head to her, eyes narrowing. “What?”

She shrugs, eyes not meeting yours. “You know. New York. Fashion capital of the world. Lots of things to love.”

“What are you not telling me, Joohyun?”

She sighs, defeated. “A certain someone might be on the same flight as you. I was about to give you his number in case you needed help.”

You pause to think, curling your lips. “It’s Jaehyun, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

You groan, dropping your head back and yelping when it hits the coffee table. Joohyun moves to rub your head and ease the pain as you let out a stream of complaints.

“You really thought I’d call him for help?” you yell. “Him? Of all people?”

“I think you’d rather have a known face there. Besides, he’s a good kid,” she reasons, looking you in the eye. “And stop yelling.”

You quieten a bit at her glare, gulping. She adds the number to your contacts, saving it with a professional ‘Jung Yoonoh’ before she helps you clean up, advising you on how to manage your finances abroad. You know she’s trying to ease you, but how could she—after dropping this awful news on you like it shouldn’t matter at all? She doesn’t even know what happened—almost happened in Paris, or the fact that your honeyed feelings had turned bitter so easily. She’s worked with him before, you know this, when he was a much younger model and she trusts him more than you ever could. 

But maybe, just maybe she can’t see what you see—after all, she’s also part of the elite, crème de la crème of this industry, more so in this country. It’s frightening, and so vague what goes on up there, at the top of the chain; and whatever you have—it might never be enough. 

You’re you. Sometimes, that isn’t enough.

You jump at the water rushing from the shower, too cold for skin and scramble to twist the knob the other way. This time, the water’s too hot and you yelp, shutting it off altogether.

You press your hand against the shower glass, breathing heavy. You’re trying—you’ve been desperately trying ever since you landed a week ago. Change is not something you can take lightly. You miss the dim lights of your apartment in Seoul that Joohyun always warned would get you some brand new prescription glasses. You miss walking down the streets to your favourite convenience store at three in the morning to get honey butter chips. You miss picking fights with Doyoung over which detail to scrutinise during your project discussions. This project seems to have torn apart several things that belonged to you.

You can’t seem to get your head into it either—even spacing out during the meeting you had with Lee Taeyong among several other things. You can’t remember a single design detail he’d specified or what the theme was even supposed to be—a bunch of bright foggy lights replacing whatever fuzz was growing in your head. A twenty-something-year-old shouldn’t be letting homesickness affect them like this. 

You finish the rest of your shower with a heavy heart and a clouded head. 

Taeyong booking a luxury suite for you was a bit…much. Not that you’re complaining, but it gives more fuel to the profound sense of emptiness you keep drawing. There’s no intimacy to this place, no love. It’s a little hard to create things without love, and comfort.

Still, you grit your teeth and get dressed into something more comfortable for the night. If not today, then tomorrow. Something will have to give, even if it costs you—whatever the hell your parents keep telling you when you’re going through problems. What if you don’t want to be cost things? Compromise isn’t as delicate as it sounds. You try to comfort yourself, rocking yourself on the much too large couch, hugging a pillow close and trying to think of things that don’t immediately make you want to throw up.

The memories of your first visit are a little less than pleasant. You think you cried after the entire ordeal because you thought you did a bad job of talking, socializing, the most ordinary things. There are some people who are good at wearing masks—good at making copper look like gold, good at shining under dim lights, and good at using words that don’t have much meaning to their existence other than being pretty. 

You were not one of them. 

The intense need for everything to be perfect was still there, even when you couldn’t possibly have achieved it. You wanted to make things and show them to the world—what was so wrong with that? Why did being there make you feel like you could never even touch your dreams? You were so out of place, feeling completely out of touch with yourself. There were people from the top there, established and famous. It felt out of your grasp. You felt fake.

The city lights twinkle with life but there’s no sound, the windows shut tight. The ambience of the room is kept to a caramel minimum—the best you can do to honour your sweet little home back in Seoul.

The hatred for everything pretentious was born with your first step into this place, into the game that the big boys play. It showed in your designs, your choice of fabric, your distaste for certain people. You wanted reality—you wanted a taste of life in your everyday clothes. You wanted that flavour you feel on your tongue in a room full of strangers or the one on a quiet night by yourself at your apartment rooftop. You didn’t want dignified fur coat ensembles, you wanted the naive chaos you feel every day and you wanted to make it look good. It’s driving you insane just how much you feel like you’re losing now.

You take out your phone after what seems a few minutes of contemplation. 

Jung Yoonoh. Your finger hovers over the call button. What would he say if his night is interrupted by your voice?

You’d met at the airport after landing, though you were only two seats away in the plane. You’d made no error in acknowledging his presence, browsing through the inflight magazine half-heartedly. Truth be told, sometimes you couldn’t really seem to get over him. Sometimes the thought of him made you so pissed, you had no idea what to think of it. 

“Welcome to New York,” he had said shortly after you’d exited, a giant crowd of people greeting out-goers, holding up placards with names of people, in numbers you’re unaccustomed to. Or, used to be accustomed to.

You hadn’t talked since—and really, you weren’t expecting to.

You press your home button, any lingering thoughts of him vanishing at the force with which you tell yourself it’s not worth it. How is Jung Yoonoh better than anyone else you know here? He might have been living in New York for quite a few years now, and he’s probably the only one you’d feel comfortable enough to swear at—that doesn’t mean you’d actually ask for help. That doesn’t mean he’d actually help. Joohyun must have had her hopes far too high to have convinced you for even a moment.

The couch feels colder all of a sudden, and you turn down the air conditioner. This place will never adjust to you, and your stubborn little self won’t either.

You think of Jaehyun from the afterparty, loose shirt and knowing eyes, and you wonder if he feels just the same frustrated agony, if not more. You think of his parted lips and breathing words close enough to be provocative, discomfort growing at the base of your stomach. Who does he think he is? He might have the airs and dignity of someone way up in the hierarchy of society but you know what people can be like. You know envy, you know malice, and you know lies. He has to fit in there somewhere—and perhaps you would have hated him less if he did.

Even if you’d scoffed at the idea of jealousy, that might very well be the closest to what you feel, what you keep hidden in the darkest corners of your locked chest. When you first met at that star-spangled dinner, you’d felt what it’s like to watch a fireworks show or a big musical opening; but the fireworks are being blocked by skyscrapers and you’re only the helping staff at the theatre, watching from a balcony at the very back. Jaehyun was impressive with barely any words. It annoyed you so much and somehow, the only solution you arrived at was the tremendous need to understand him, pick him apart and see what made him.

No. That’s wrong. You were annoyed because you still wanted to kiss him after he’d pushed you away, his dislike steaming clear. It strikes you as gently as lightning that the only reason someone would have to hate Jaehyun is being attracted so violently to him. God, you hate making a fool out of yourself.

You pass the night in quiet contemplation, promising yourself a better tomorrow. After all, no one else is going to do it. 

You walk with your chin up as if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. You picked out your black Harrington jacket to look at least a little more professional, but you might have miscalculated the size and the material in the equation because you look completely and utterly ridiculous in it. No one would look at you and think you even work in fashion, much less be competent in that line. 

(To be fair, you wear the same beige sweater and black corduroy pants to work and if your coworkers choose to judge you, you wouldn’t blame them.) 

It’s only been a month and somehow, it translates to forever to you. You think you’re adjusting better now, and you pat yourself on the back for it. It’s not raining today at the mercy of the skies, a tidal wave of sunlight splashing through the buildings every time you take a turn. The city doesn’t scare you all that much anymore. It’s a good day, for once.  

You lean your head against the car window, eyes trailing up and down the reflective blue of each skyscraper. You can barely see any clouds, and the sky’s endlessly the same, comforting blue. Just like back home, you think for a moment. Your eyes move back to the sidewalk, people passing by—mothers with their babies in strollers, kids clutching the strap of their school bags as they run, men and women in all levels of professional clothing. No one stops in this city. Except the fucking traffic apparently.

You sigh, glancing at your watch. Only moments ago, you were moving and yet again, you’ve stopped. The cycle keeps repeating and you’re trying to keep patience focusing on things around you that you can appreciate. 

Maybe you jinxed it when you said it was a good day.

You reach Taeyong’s studio just in time (not that you’d get yelled at or anything, he’s too nice of a guy). Your eyes fixate on the numbers that light up on the elevator one by one till it finally reaches the first floor.

You walk right into someone’s chest, an apology tumbling out of your lips as you bow out of habit. 

“(name)?”

You look up to find Jaehyun in the elevator of Taeyong’s building, a casual white shirt clinging to his frame that’s tucked into his jeans to look somewhat formal. A pink overshirt hangs at his forearm and from the windswept styling of hair and his perfected dark locks, you’ll assume he’s here for a shoot—even without it, he looks like something from a teen magazine, someone people would see and instantly daydream of. Best known for high fashion, Jung Yoonoh is still a spectacle in casualwear. 

“I can’t believe I have to see your face here too,” you mutter, getting into the elevator. You’ve had your share of moments with him.

“Good to see you too,” he says, bemused. 

You make a sound of acknowledgment, taking out your phone to turn the damn notifications off so you don’t feel it vibrate in your pocket every few minutes. You feel eyes on you for a moment and snap your head to the side.

Jaehyun has his eyes focused on the door, quiet breathing fresh against his lips and you hesitate before concluding you might have been mistaken in your perception. 

“You’re here for a shoot?” you ask, curious about his relationship with Taeyong. 

“What else can I be here for?” He says nonchalantly. 

“Sarcastic. Very nice.”  

“It’s a little weird, you trying to make conversation with me. You’re usually raving about me too much to actually talk to me.” He smiles, the dimples provoking and eyes the familiar beguiling brown. 

“I’m not trying to make conversation,” you hiss, crossing your arms. “I’m sorry, I forgot you’re only a person in front of cameras.”

Jaehyun takes a sharp breath before turning to you, a not-so-happy look on his face despite the calmness over his features. You’ve seen it enough times.

“How long are you going to keep up the pretentious this and pretentious that before you face it, really?” He looks at you with tight lips, poisonous implications in his question. “Why you love to get up in my case all the time?”

The words take time to settle in. You shake your head when you realize, a sardonic laugh leaving your lips. Of course he’d think that.

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You’re so full of yourself. You think I’m interested in you? Don’t let what happened years ago get to your head.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, what did you mean then? Pray tell.”

“First of all, stop cutting me off,” he says, taking a step towards you. A certain feeling of uneasiness runs through you when you detect annoyance in his quiet statement.

“Secondly,” he says, taking a another step forward just as your back hits the wall of the elevator, “Stop treating me like I’m the bane of your existence. I have nothing to do with you.”

He’s right, of course, but the words sting where they hit. Asshole, you think. He has no business telling you what to do and what not to do. But in this moment, you can’t fish for the correct words—you don’t have the strength to when you’re so close to each other like this, the scent of his cologne syrupy and sickening. His tall stature is intimidating, with his straight shoulders and proud jawline.

The elevator dings at the seventh floor, Jaehyun stepping away from you without a glance or care, striding out just as smoothly as on a runway.

You take a moment to breathe, unsaid words burning holes into your tongue. You wish you could’ve said something better, anything that didn’t make you feel so pathetic. Maybe you should’ve told him to stick his words up his ass, sounding vulgar being the least of your worries. You wait patiently to reach the last floor, each ding souring your mood little by little. 

You are so glad you didn’t call him that night. To think he’d ever help you knowing it’s mutual, the whole hating each other’s guts. You just can’t believe the audacity of him—to accuse you of, what, romantic feelings? In an industry where you can’t tell apart gold from copper? Where all the people warming up to you are fair weather friends and competitors? He must have let all that attention get to his head. Runway faces aren’t as easy to fall in love with as he thinks.

“(name)! Come quick!”

Taeyong’s voice urges as soon as you enter and you settle your bag down, rushing to him. His smile drops when he sees your seething figure place your bag on the desk with a loud thud. You turn to him, without a hint of sweetened formality and ask him the day’s schedule.

Taeyong gulps before responding, undoubtedly afraid of your lips, a twitch away from a scowl, but he explains nicely nonetheless.

“Can you do a rerun of these designs for me?” he says, arranging the papers on the desk. That’s how he says these need improvement. No wonder the interns love him.

Taeyong’s in his usual attire, still too chic for you but strangely comfortable to look at. You nod, immediately scrutinising them, your (almost pointless) years of training trying to give you hints as to where you went wrong. You’re not really expecting to find big flaws or anything—just details you can enhance. You’ve learned enough about Taeyong in a month and it’s that his sense of style encompasses comfort, even in the most abstract of concepts. You respect him for that. It doesn’t change the fact that you think it’s a little overdone maybe.

Taeyong laughs, breaking you out of your daze. You raise an eyebrow.

“Is- Is something wrong?” You look at him, perplexed.

“It’s just that- It’s just you remind me a lot of the fashion students.” He smiles at you.

Your shoulders droop. Amateur. New. Unprofessional.

“Oh.”

Taeyong rephrases himself quickly, waving his hands about. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing! It just means you still…love doing it.”

It sticks with you longer than you’d expect, as you work throughout the day. You think Taeyong is too nice to criticize you properly but he eventually gets the point across—stick to the theme, written in Taeyong’s dainty handwriting and pinned to the softboard. 

Secrets. 

What an atrocious concept. Firstly, it makes no sense apart from sounding like a fucking lingerie collection. Secondly, when you went over Taeyong’s designs with the layers and patches, you supposed he wanted to focus on the inside of things because everything he’d drawn was inside out. Thirdly, when you heard him explain it, you were a little taken aback to hear it was going to be all about you, us. The designers, the models, the photographers, the magazine editors—there are millions and millions of people working to make sketches come to life, for a few items of clothing in someone’s closet. It feels nice to hear that from him. You promise you’re going to perfect it. 

And perfection is your dear old friend. 

It’s what you always strive for, but end up with something else that’s a little less beautiful. You take slow breaths, removing and adding details (after all, art is in the details). But perfection can easily grow tiresome. It makes you increasingly frustrated and you don’t think you have the heart to tell Taeyong everything in his studio stresses you out.

“So, you’re working with Jaehyun?” you ask, trying to look less antsy.

Taeyong blanks out for a moment before responding. “Yes. Why? Is he- Is he making you uncomfortable?”

Uncomfortable wouldn’t even begin to explain what he makes you feel. 

“No,” you deny. “Just curious.”

Taeyong smiles. “We usually work on summer shoots together. It’s like tradition.”

“That’s…nice,” you say, trying to reciprocate his smile.

“Oh, but we’re having terrible weather so the shoots keep going longer than planned. That’s why I’m having to compromise planning time with you. Sorry about that.”

You try to keep your posture despite the mild annoyance brewing at the back of your head. Great. Now you have to see Jaehyun’s unbelievably annoying face every time you walk in. Maybe if you plead enough, you’d get permission to leave early and not want to throw some insults at him. 

You decide to walk, despite Taeyong insisting his driver help you get home. He doesn’t act like it but he’s a busy man, with side projects and interviews coming up so often you lose count. It’s no wonder he had to, and you hate using this word, hire someone for the label’s next venture. You think articles like Lee Taeyong loses touch and hires designers instead of doing his job would make him upset but he seems to genuinely not let it bother him. It’s about ideas to him. His label, almost large enough to be a brand, is for ideas; what a pretty thing to base your business around. While you thought you were a big shot back in South Korea, you’re almost nothing more than Lee Taeyong’s co-designer—assistant here.

You feel drops of what you felt years ago trickling down your throat. Overshadowed. Powerless. Imposter. Something about New York makes you want to pull all your hair out. You wish you hadn’t been here in the first place, maybe then this would seem more of a fun trip than memories weighing you down. But then if you hadn’t been here, you might not have even started.

You hug yourself at the sudden downpour, clouds kind enough for it to be nothing more than showers but you’re soaked anyway. Kind, but still a little cruel. Running under the eaves of a store, you curse yourself for not bringing an umbrella the only day you needed it. You stand there for a while, just breathing.

Real life is never like movies, is it? Cameras lie. Pretty faces lie. Sometimes you end up stuck in New York rains without an umbrella or a friend to call or a lover to protect you. You end up getting an Uber, taking awfully long to arrive due to the traffic the rain had ensued and try your best to ignore the disgruntled driver mumbling about you wetting his seats.

You still don’t know how the goddamn shower works. 

You manage to complete without either scorching your skin off or freezing it to Greenland and back—a feat much more successful than whatever you had going on for today. You slip into the absurdly soft mattress, pillows and covers swallowing you into a state of sleep.

You start the day almost pouring coffee onto Jaehyun’s spotless white shirt. And you might have were it not for immense self-restraint, and the fact that Taeyong’s eyes were trained on the two of you.

“So…are you two…a thing or something?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“No,” Jaehyun responds calmly while you sputter it out.

Taeyong apologizes, a laugh following. “You seem to have worked together before. Jaehyun, you never told me that.”

“I…I thought you knew,” he answers, leaning back against the tabletop.

“Ah, well,” Taeyong shrugs. “Thanks for helping me out with this, (name). Maybe- maybe we can draw some inspiration for the collection from outdoors.”

“Of course,” you say as you smile wide, trying hard not to break the coffee mug in your hand.

If you’re being honest, you had a gut feeling you’d be asked to help with Taeyong’s (apparently) infamous summer shoot. He walks into his studio every morning with hair in a disarray, talking to more people than he might enjoy and the entirety of New York weather against him. There’s only so much time a man can have and under pressure, he’s going to have to choose. It’s easy to feel sorry for someone like him.

This should be the stylist’s job. Jaehyun stands with his chin up as you adjust the fitting, smoothing out creases and making sure the cerulean shirt is pinned right, satin feeling cool and nice under your fingers. Sleeveless is back in trend this summer, and so are low-cuts.

“Careful there,” he says when you hand brushes a little lower, just below the full-grain leather belt.

You hope your face isn’t steaming from the rush of heat but you manage to limit your emotions to a sound of discomfort, remembering the horrendous accusation he’d thrown at you. “I don’t care about your dick, twit.”

Jaehyun laughs, bending a little to whisper. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“You look like you’re having a wonderful time making me uncomfortable.”

“You’re just so easy to work up.”

His dimples are getting on your nerves. You reach up to button his collar, perhaps a little too harsh because he chokes, an uncharacteristic sound leaving his mouth as he winces. You suppress a smile, glad you managed to do something about the look on his face.

The sunlight over this park feels like Christmas come early, with the way Taeyong is flitting from model to model and stylist to stylist with the intensity of a five year old after an ice-cream truck. 

“Is he- Is he usually like this?” you ask, eyes on the makeup artist getting directions from Taeyong.

“I just assumed all of you are this way,” Jaehyun, responds looking at the same sight.

You roll your eyes. “We’re not all crazy.”

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe a little bit,” you correct yourself, watching Taeyong almost trip over someone’s bag in order to greet the magazine’s style director. 

Jaehyun chuckles, eyes meeting yours for a moment before the two of you go about your own business.

You like magazine shoots for the most part. You never find a glass of water anywhere, but some intern or the other will definitely be there to fetch you Starbucks. There’s at least three people fussing over each model and at least two exasperated photographers trying very hard to snap clean shots. The stylist and designer look as though they might explode any minute, although the relief on their faces after it’s all over is something worth looking at. The skies are so bright and blue, you think, for a cosmopolis. The trees and shrubs lining the park are in a state of tranquility compared to the chaos it encircles.  

Magazines might not be as important in an age of social media advertisement, almost part of nostalgia now—but maybe some of you are not yet willing to deny kids the thrill of reading a magazine under their blankets in the middle of the night. It often gave hope to little boys playing dress up and little girls sewing their own clothes. 

You’d forgotten just how exhausting shooting with magazines is. The models must be having it worse but their masks don’t come off easy. If you had ever underestimated their job difficulty, it comes back to throttle you at full speed every time you’re at a shoot.

 Looking good in front of a camera is pretty damn hard. 

They don’t even get to keep the clothes, unless some asshole of a designer decides to pay them in apparel instead of actual money. Most models leave New York in debt. Men are paid even less than women. You’re surprised Jaehyun is as celebrated as he is—or the fact that he was clever enough of a businessman in launching his own high fashion-themed restaurant. You’ve heard he barely visits it, like a careless afterthought. But you’re not one to get carried away by sketchy articles on the internet. All you’ve needed are more reasons to hate him.

You sip the iced coffee, its effect pretty much worn out during humid afternoons. It’s time for a break, but no one’s willing to break momentum. You find yourself feeling a little awkward, as nothing more than a guest with creative advice, and so you sit under the comforting cool of the giant green umbrella at one of the tables. You could sink into your chair were it not so damn uncomfortable.

Jaehyun takes a seat right beside you to your surprise, offering you a box of diced mango before you fervently decline. You still think he’s an asshole. It doesn’t make any sense—why accuse you of unsaid affections and then flirt with you like he never said it? It’s not like you’re even friends, how ridiculous. There are quite a few jerks you’ve met in your life, but Jung Yoonoh really takes the cake.

“What?” you snap when his gaze gets on your nerves.

“I didn’t say anything.” He raises his hands defensively, eyes still on yours. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoy the air conditioned suite Taeyong booked me more than this, yes.” You sigh, leaning back. “I don’t really have anything to do.” 

“I’m assuming he booked you the luxury suite on the fifteenth floor,” he says, chuckling.

You furrow your eyebrows. It’s not impossible that Jaehyun knows Taeyong’s favorite suite to book for guests.

“The view’s pretty nice from there, right? Oh, and you must be enjoying the silence.”

“I actually like the outside sounds,” you defend. “It’s calming.” 

“Not when you’re on the third floor,” he says, shoving a piece of mango into his mouth with a fork. “All you hear is middle aged men screaming.”

You rest your elbow on the table, placing your chin against your palm. The shade is separated from sunlight by a thin line against his chest, pale blue satin glimmering where the sun meets it. Jaehyun’s eyes shine a darker hue of honey under the shade, moving to the box in his hands occasionally before trailing back to the background noise again. Taeyong really does love pretty fits, but this might just be one of the most gorgeous pieces you’ve seen this summer (and you’ve already been through all the ready-to-wear lookbooks you possibly could). A thought passes you in a breeze, that maybe it's the model making it seem that way.

“You’re talkative today,” you note quietly, the sun harsher on your cheeks than before.

Jaehyun shrugs, hurrying to finish all the pieces. He suddenly pulls a face, one you don’t see very often in high fashion websites and Instagram pages. It’s almost cute. 

“Sour.” 

You find yourself laughing, a gentle influx of peace filling the inside your chest. You quickly recover, looking back up to see Jaehyun simply staring at you, breathing. He looks caught off-guard, no camera to warn him. You straighten, your cheeks flushing with heat.

“Is- Is something wrong?”

He immediately shakes his head, more to himself than you. There’s a pause before the two of you are happily distracted. The style director appears to be gesturing at him from the other side and Jaehyun responds with a curt wave.

“You’re doing two different concepts today?”

“Three, actually.”

You raise your eyebrows. Well, they’re definitely taking advantage of the good weather. They could just photoshop it, in your opinion, but authenticity is everything when it comes to magazines nowadays. 

“Well, don’t let me hold you back,” you say, your tone dismissive. “Go get changed into whatever pretty shirt Taeyong has up next in his collection.”

“The next shoot doesn’t have a shirt,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

You almost choke on your coffee, blaming the heat for your weak state of mind. You’re just having one of those strange days—just that, nothing else.

You finish the rest of the coffee, cup resting in your hand till you find the energy to get up and find a trash can.  

Jaehyun was right. This time the shoot’s a little too wet and a little too much skin for you to enjoy. The only thing added to Jaehyun above the waist are a dainty red scarf knotted over his neck and a small, flat hoop earring on his left ear. The velvet fingerless gloves, although you’re not very fond of them, complete a rather rugged yet soft look. You didn’t expect Taeyong to come up with something like that. 

Jaehyun’s well-developed physique, while you’ve seen it in other shoots and online articles, is completely different when you’re a few feet away from it. The dark blue cargo pants, silken, are a signature style of Taeyong but the details don’t distract you easily enough. Funny, this is the first time you’re feeling somewhat flustered in a place full of half-naked models. 

You suddenly think of reds and oranges, lilac shrubs and a hint of Burberry men’s perfume. In a way, it reminds you of the strums of the guitar your roommate used to play while you stayed up late, coming up with concepts. Cherishing, soothing—and special, just enough. The corner of your lips twitch and you take out your pocket sketchbook. It’s never too late to add a design to the collection, right? After all, you have secrets too. Maybe Taeyong was right about the outdoors for inspiration. 

Something sets into motion, subtle but sharp.

The next time you walk into Taeyong’s studio, you feel the sun on your face better. Everything seems to be fitting into place, as you smooth through designs at a pace your student self would be jealous of. When Taeyong praises your work, you feel a rush of pride smearing the inside of your chest and you finally feel like everything’s not falling apart. It feels good. It feels like you’re someone.

The days go by in what seems like barely seconds—you know what they say about New York minutes. The mustard cloth draped over your desk to the cottage blue of your curtains, the colours around you change as quickly as the wind. Sometimes they’re abstract—and other times, well, they have more to do with a stranger’s eyes, or the swirls within a coffee cup. It’s the way in which transition occurs around you, that you often forget it moves something within you too. 

You’ve put together some samples with Taeyong, most of them by yourself; the process of making is ever comforting, fabric even more so. You’ve sent the revised designs for production, feeling giddy about whatever is to come like it’s something new. (It shouldn’t be.) 

You fucking hate how different this is. Seoul is nothing compared to New York. The anxiety is nearly ten times worse, the streets are far more attractive when it comes to inspiration and the figure of Jung Yoonoh is no longer as easy to ignore. 

Even after the summer shoot’s over, Jaehyun often comes by to hang out at the studio, dressed in what you would call the simplest fucking thing you’d ever seen and still managing to look just as gorgeous. He blends in well with university students, often wearing the ugliest baseball cap you’ve ever seen, and the look of his face feels much, much worse than ever before. It’s at ease, smug even, but never failing to smile at you when you’re trying to focus. You don’t care how good of friends Taeyong and Jaehyun are—you want to tell him to leave. 

But you just can’t bring yourself to. It’s not that you don’t trust yourself, you certainly do, but whatever New York has done to you, includes making you feel a different way about him. Sometimes you find yourself pressing your legs together harshly, stiffening at any proximity with him and a pool of warmth at the base of your stomach you’d rather not feel.

It’s embarrassing to even think about it—the fact that he makes you feel that way, so hot and bothered like it’s your first time. You blame your lack of going out these few months because after all, anyone could fall in love with runway faces. It doesn’t have to mean it’s him you want. You carry on doing what you’ve been doing for the most part of your career, your best to avoid him. There are more pressing matters, and your head might just implode if you keep on worrying about things (a man, of all) you need not. 

Time passes even faster when all your thoughts revolve around the same thing.

One month. D-30. Whatever the hell you call time before the end of the world.

Your palms sweat a whole lot easier here. It’s a little weird, considering you don’t find much difference in humidity between Seoul and New York. Your heart often catches up in your throat too. Not a great feeling, your heart choking the breath out of you, but you’re used to it. You cope and you learn, that’s what it means to be human.

You pull your hand down before it reaches your teeth. The day ended in a meeting with Taeyong’s production team—everything’s running smoothly so you need not worry, he said. 

Why are those the words that make you worry the most? 

You check the time on your phone. 23:05 and a whole month to go. You better get some sleep for all the meetings you have scheduled tomorrow. You close your eyes and for a while, everything falls quiet.

You dream of New York Fashion Week. People come here to feel included. Everyone wants to be a part of something they don’t understand.

The models walk down the runway in increasingly uncomfortable outfits. You didn’t design any of them. Where are the ones you worked on? You can’t move from your seat, or turn your head from the runway, anything at all. Something’s wrong, everything’s wrong. You don’t belong here. Thunder strikes outside the venue and you wake up with a gasp caught in your throat, and the clock on the bedside table flashing 2:14.

You’ve had enough. You swear you’ve had enough.

You get up out of bed, pacing the giant bedroom, the empty spaces making you feel more and more miserable. The city twinkles with innumerous stars beyond your window, curtains half drawn so they can comfort you whenever you need—but these lights don’t shine for you, or anyone else. They shine for themselves. That’s what it means to be in New York again. 

What time is it in Seoul? Could you call your mother? Joohyun? Everyone must be busy right now—you don’t know what to do. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt so helpless. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding New York for this long and now it’s come crashing down on you. 

This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake.

You look down at your phone, the light hurting your eyes despite being set to the lowest brightness. You think a little, and then some more. There’s no one else you can call. Even if he’s busy charming all the other employees whenever you see him, even if half the world is in love with him, there’s no one else you can call. This time you don’t stop yourself.

You tap the call button beside the Jung Yoonoh saved neatly. Tapping your foot against the floor nervously, your mind goes blank for a few seconds or so. He answers when you’re just about to hang up, breath hitching in your throat at the sound of his voice.

“Hello? Hello? If this is a reporter—”

“It’s me, Jaehyun.”

The line goes quiet for a moment and your voice overlaps his before he can begin.

“I- I didn’t mean to call so late. Sorry…uh.”

You scrunch up your face at your own voice. This is not getting you anywhere.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice lower.

You fall silent, unable to answer without breaking down into tears. You did not call Jung Yoonoh for that. 

“Yeah,” you choke out. “Fine. Completely fine. I just…”

You trail off, trying to get yourself to breathe.

“I’ll send you an address. Be there in an hour.”

You blink back tears, confusion adding to the burning pile of worries inside your head. 

“What?”

“Address. I’ll text you. Be there. One hour.”

“I’m not stupid, Jaehyun,” you snap, strength refilling your voice. “Why?”

“I’m not answering questions, just be there.”

With that, the line goes flat and an embarrassing amount of ‘hello’s get you to realize that he hung up. A notification pops up a minute later and you’re too groggy to decipher it, logging it to Maps instead so you can follow. It’s fifteen minutes away, you realize with a sigh of relief, so you can at least present yourself within the given constraint. 

You can’t grasp what you feel in the moment, the night air and warm streets beckoning you to leave the clamped apartment soaked in fear. You think this is unlike Jaehyun, what he’s doing, but you’re too shaken to care. You need some respite, even if it comes from somewhere you can’t picture.

“You…wanted to meet me at a Korean barbecue restaurant?”

Jaehyun’s ears turn red, as they often do when he doesn’t know how to respond to you.

“I-It’s not that I…Never mind,” he tries to explain, fidgeting with the cloth over his shoulder. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”  

We? You think, eyes scanning his face in confusion. If you want? Where’s the uncaring Jaehyun you’ve known, foreign eyes and impassive lips? He hardly looks the part he’s meant to play—a billboard face with a confident jawline and nothing more behind it. Outside of work—you don’t even know what else to call this—Jaehyun looks hardly intimidating, or abrasive. He seems different, gentle almost, although the dark circles under his eyes might have something to do with it. Maybe he’s too tired to say anything more and that’s it.

But he still came all the way here.

“Aren’t you a little…overdressed?” 

There comes the remark you were hoping to not hear. You just wanted to look nice; you’d hardly call this overboard. The loose, mustard-colored chiffon shirt cinches at the waist, paired with your nicest (only not faded) pair of light blue jeans and shoes that haven’t seen the light of day since you arrived here. You barely ever design clothes for yourself anymore but you thought you looked good in this.

“No,” you defend quickly, feeling your face grow warm. “You’re underdressed.”

You say that, but he clearly looks good in anything he wears. Could you expect any less of  a supermodel? He doesn’t seem to have dressed in as much a hurry as you had. Clad in a plain black T-shirt that’s half tucked into skinny jeans, he’s added his hideous baseball cap and a pair of navy blue shades which looks just as ridiculous as it sounds. You really think he shouldn’t be leaving his house without the help of a stylist. 

“I…I just mean you don’t wear anything other than the same sweater and pants combination to work, so… please excuse my surprise.”

Jaehyun's eyes flicker over your figure before masking it with an awkward cough. You reach out and pull the shades over his head, the look bothering you more than anything else. He doesn’t respond to it, at least not in a way that’s obvious, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do—you fixing his hair and unquestionably awful sense of style.

“There’s a soju place a few blocks ahead. Or if you’re not into that, there’s a noodle shop just at the edge of K-town,” Jaehyun rambles on, not meeting your eye. “If you’re looking for something inexpensive—"

“You came all the way here to give me directions?” You raise an eyebrow. You might even be enjoying this, although your inner voice bites back at you, denying it.

Jaehyun shakes his head, the red in his ears pulsing back up. “No. I…I needed some fresh air.”

“You…have someplace to be then?”

Jaehyun might not realize it, but the answers he gives always have room for teasing. Aloof. Vague. Yet somehow sweet.

“And you’ll go alone? At this hour? No, I’ll accompany you,” he says out loud, trying to play off the sudden vocal inflection. You sigh. Boys will be boys, as they say. Even if they’re twenty-six.

You let him keep you company. Though the first few minutes are painfully quiet, neither of you knowing quite what to say without starting a disagreement, you continue your walk through a city that never sleeps. It’s awkward even, being side by side without you seething at his charming, (undoubtedly) fake smile. He feels real, for once, and you don’t know how to react. There seem to be some gold-tinted cracks appearing in your reality, slowly but surely, and you’re not very good at patching anything other than fabric.

“You know, it’s actually a little relieving to see Korean letters here,” you say, sighing. You never thought you’d be so corny, but it really does feel good being here. 

Or is it him? 

“Thanks,” you add quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear. No, maybe you do. You can’t tell at this point.

“I…I know what it’s like,” he says, so softly that it almost gets carried away by the wind. He clears his throat, an ‘ah’ escaping his lips as he stops abruptly.

“We…We missed the turn,” he declares, a little sheepish as he scratches the back of his head.

You look at him in disbelief. “Jaehyun, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, I was born here actually,” he says, tilting his face to look at you, blunt sarcasm evident on it. “How many times have you lost your way to the convenience store in Seoul?”

“Literally zero times.”

Jaehyun puffs a cheek before going back to normal and turning a hundred and eighty degrees down the street.

“Hey, wait up!” you huff at his increased pace, half jogging to keep up.

You reach the acclaimed noodle shop, your breath barely within your lungs and swearing at Jaehyun who looks like he wasn’t bothered one bit. He reaches his hand out to help you and you swat it away, chest still heaving with your hands on your knees.

“Dickhead,” you hiss.

“I don’t think I deserved that,” he responds with a widening smile. 

“Asshole,” you say, standing up straight to glare at him.

“What would Seoul say hearing their beloved designer swear like this?” Jaehyun looks almost amused, as if you hadn’t shared an awkward time together, like two teenagers who were forced to walk home together from the bus stop.

“They can go to hell,” you retort. “As can you.”

Jaehyun laughs, a strange sound to hear and you blink a few times, unsure of what to do. You wonder if it’s the night playing tricks or if Jaehyun really is an actual person, not the basket of preprocessed insults you were used to. The cracks are widening—you’re not sure if they’re meant to be patched.

Perhaps you were a little eager to enter someplace warm, but you feel immense relief in this little shop, despite the smell of chili paste and noodle soup wafting through the air. It’s a little empty; in fact, you two seem to be the only people there apart from some students at the other corner, but you sit there in your own bubble, talking with Jaehyun of all people about which singer is better. He laughs occasionally, still managing to catch you off-guard with how honest it sounds and you wonder for a moment, how nice this feels. For the first time in a month, your heartbeat seems to have settled at a normal rate.

“What?” you enounce, a little offended. “What’s so wrong about my love life?”

“You just- You just don’t seem that type,” he explains, his ears as red as the bowl.

“I don’t have time for commitments, Jaehyun,” you sigh. “It’s what happens when you’re good at your job.”

Jaehyun nods, something akin to agreement in his response. 

“So, your, uh, what is it? Training camp? What’s that about?” you ask, in between blowing your food.

“You could really Google things once in a while, you know?” he replies, bringing his chopsticks close to his mouth.

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not one of your creepy stalkers, Mr. Jung.”

“Nothing to do with that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s for kids interested in fashion, modeling, photography—stuff.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I just sponsor them. You know how difficult it is to get noticed in…this industry,” he explains, like it’s not a big deal. Nothing ever seems to be a big deal to him.

You nod, unable to help the smile. Maybe it isn’t a big deal, but you’re sure now that you were mistaken. Just a little bit. 

“I was lucky,” you mumble. “I can’t believe they saw those ugly embroidered patches and decided to sponsor me, oh my god. That sweater was hideous.”

Jaehyun laughs loudly. “They saw me cleaning outside my school and decided to pick me up and ship me straight to Paris.”

“Nothing’s worse than the first day.” You take another mouthful, the taste savoury and filling. 

“You know, I’m pretty sure they photoshopped my ears out in the first magazine shoot I had.”

You laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Your first year was rough, huh?”

He hums, his eyes flickering from your nose to your lips. It makes you a little self-conscious, blood rushing to your cheeks at an unexpected pace. Who knew Jaehyun could have such an effect on you? 

Your eyes flutter over his face once again.

He’s handsome. But it’s the sort of handsomeness that tells you, you don’t know much beyond it. You look back at your bowl, sobering up and completing the rest of the noodles.

It’s still midnight blue in the faraway sky as you walk down the streets. Most of the people you see out and about are those drunk off their faces from club hopping or a particularly enthusiastic group of tourists. The watermelon soju, while better with budae-jjigae and arguably the best soju flavor, somehow had little effect on you with the bitter aftertaste still settling in. The crowds in other places would make for great people-watching but you walk in a lonely street that calls for proximity. Beside you, Jaehyun sneezes, the sound of it making you jump on the quiet sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ, Jaehyun,” you huff, wincing at the sound, “you sounded like a fucking tractor.”

Jaehyun laughs, looking down at the pavement. When he looks back at you, the circles underneath his eyes seem to have darkened and you wonder if yours are the same. Yours can’t possibly be as important as his, though, and you wonder if it’s appropriate to laugh at how dorky he looks.

You find yourself not wanting to walk back into the safety of your suite. Jaehyun has a look of calm across his features, drawing over the landscape around you. New York lights don’t faze him, they only reflect in his eyes. 

The way his soft breaths fan out against his lips remind you that he is human, after all—he has a soul and body, thoughts and its beautiful intricacies. When he turns back to you, you feel those criminal feelings all over again, except this time it’s even louder. It feels so wrong, and yet you can’t help but think of the liberation that could come with his lips on yours. 

You could swear out loud, all the colorful words ready at the tip of your tongue.

“Your collar’s…”

Jaehyun’s voice trails off, his hand moving to fix your flipped collar, and when the heat of his skin brushes your neck, you try to not think of where else his hands could be, his lips could be. 

In fact, there’s a moment within where it’s perfectly reasonable for him to kiss you, the taste almost on your tongue. But Jaehyun moves away, an indecipherable look across his face.

“I should get going,” he says, “I have a- I have a shoot early tomorrow—today.”

You nod, cheeks coloring at your own unsaid thoughts. Just what have you done to yourself? Why is your skin searing, why does your stomach feel upside down and why were you so ready to give in to him? To Jaehyun? You’ve never felt want like this before, this need to press skin against skin in a manner so illicit. 

You part with a short goodbye, the sudden loneliness in your path making you want to backtrack, ask if you can go somewhere else again—maybe there’s a club nearby so you can see him through a round of shots as you usually do. Maybe the bitter feelings will return then. 

When you think of the words you exchanged over the course of so unusual a night—your former unforgiving words contradict you. You hate the realization but being so obscure in front of a camera doesn’t have to mean he’s pretentious. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe someday you’ll even admit it.

You feel a flash of heat in your face. You are not running to Jung Yoonoh—what an embarrassing thought. If the very core of your being isn’t repulsed by it, there’s something wrong with you. 

There’s something definitely wrong with you, love.

You breathe sharply, trying to organize your thoughts. As if the paparazzi wouldn’t have a treat out of this meeting you had with him if they got to know. You’d better limit it to the only one.

You bite your nails out of force of habit. It’s not going to help. You know. But there’s hardly anything else to cool your nerves.

Front row tickets to New York Fashion Week—the most mortifying dream out of all the ones you’ve ever had. The way Taeyong fidgets, you want to believe he’s in the same boat as you—it makes you thankful even. 

Even outside of New York, Lee Taeyong is known for booking out exclusively intimate spaces. There are some props for the pre-show photography, including inked sketches on giant vertical banners stuck to the walls and tables with a messy collection of coffee cans, pencils and a sewing machine. Diverse types of fabric roll off the table in long strips, gently lining the floor till they end midway to another table. It’s a mess—a mess you made look good.

You’d left that and the backstage behind now. All eyes are on the sparsely lit runway, your aspirations coating the air in a thick veil. Are you ready? You won’t know till the first model steps out and till you can elicit a response from the audience.

Jaehyun’s at another venue—career before friendship, or, heaven forbid, attraction. You’d seen the fitting, cape skirt doing daringly well with his long legs clad in black pants, and a classy vest over a ruffled white shirt. You hate seeing other designs before a show, but god, were you glad you’d visited Givenchy to meet Johnny. 

But you’re relieved even, that Jaehyun isn’t here. You don’t have the strength to face him anyway, all your energy directed into this chasm of whatever you’d call six months of effort. You want to call yourself accomplished. You want to be proud of yourself.

So this time, you remember all twenty-six minutes of it.

God, they look so beautiful up there, when they’re being looked at, seen for what they are—you’ll never get over it. There’s still hardly much to remember, except this time you’re happy to do it all over again. Effort only exists if it’s acknowledged.

It settles in quite a while later, the weight of all you’d done. You could almost cry, but that’s better left to pillows and the unrelenting skies above a midnight-coated rooftop. This is your moment. For once, you’re anything but afraid. 

Afterparties are still not your thing. 

However, you had your nicest outfit picked out and Lee Taeyong’s fancy, themed afterparties are something notorious among your colleagues. You’ve heard designers tend to go all out, wearing the best things they’ve designed even if it makes them a little embarrassed to be wearing their own work.

You feel a sigh leave your lips as you finally find a place to sit, your earlier conversations leaving you drained of social energy. You don’t feel alien—it’s strange—and their compliments feel almost warm. The music playing over the speakers is something, you��re sure, from a 60’s American movie, and while it has its own strange allure, the champagne gives you a larger dose of relief. 

In fact, if you’re not mistaken, it’s quite like the ballroom in Paris, although significantly smaller. Burgundy wallpaper and lit up crystals hanging in hexagonal shapes across the ceiling—it’d look lovely on a dress too.

Taeyong’s speech, of course, gives you a spike of anxiety with the sudden announcement of his label’s future, a brand now. He smiles on the small podium, everyone admiring his radiance when suddenly he gestures at you, the glass in your hand feeling hotter and hotter.

“…I couldn’t do this without the only designer I felt was up to this—the first designer to work under my brand, as of now…” 

You try not to blush under all the pairs of eyes that turn to you. 

“(name), thank you.” 

Success feels good. Gratitude feels even better.

Everything feels natural, as if a dream gone right. You’re no longer afraid of the world you stepped into, or the accumulation of feelings that molded you into the person you are now. The confidence you so chased after as if it were morphine, you’re going to be keeping an eye on it before it can run away again.

There’s still one little problem to your night of triumph, though. 

Jaehyun hasn’t taken his eyes off you ever since you entered, a conversation yet pending. You already know he looks good in the plainest of T-shirts, so it might be a no-brainer that he looks absolutely stunning in a suit. The crystals lining the lapels of his coat glimmer amidst the crowd he’s gathered. It’s hard to come in contact, however. He’s magnetic, almost formidable in the way he attracts attention, and you know it’s something that comes with being a man of few words. 

“You’re not enjoying the party?” you ask, taking in Jaehyun’s figure on the veranda overlooking the garden. He sits on one of the mahogany chairs, swirling the glass of champagne with a look of indifference coating his eyes and lips.

“I am,” he says, turning to face you. “Needed a short break.”

“I suppose being the most attractive man in the room needs a break,” you say, taking a seat beside him.

A wry laugh leaves his lips, as he lays his eyes on you. “You don’t seem bothered by it though?”

“I believe that pretty is as pretty does,” you say, your lips twitching.

Jaehyun smiles, furrowing his eyebrows yet still. “You think multimillionaire companies are built on things like inner beauty?”

He’s right. What’s inside is beautiful—it’s too idealistic a phrase. You sigh, adjusting your sleeve. It’s a difficult life, walking the runway no one dares to step on. 

I think you’d make that cut too, you want to tell him.

“You know the best thing I got told today?” you ask, diverting the stream of conversation. You think he’s a friend. Even if it could be the champagne talking. Even if you want something more than the innocence of friendship. 

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow. “Did Cristóbal Balenciaga’s ghost show up to compliment you?”

“No,” you emphasize, laughing at his pronunciation. “It was this girl. A student. Said she wrote an essay about me.”

Jaehyun hums, dimples marking his cheeks. “I didn’t know a student could get you so giddy.”

You laugh, looking down at your hands before resting your gaze on him again. He leans forward in his seat, strands of hair falling over his face from the rest and a contemplating look over his features. He looks much, much different from when you first saw him, and even handsomer, if that were possible. He’s grown up from the awkward boy you saw in the press release pictures of the Saint Laurent Fall Collection—he looks sharp and valiant on front covers, his shoulders broad and his eyes darling. Jaehyun is still unironically the most breathtaking man you’ve ever met. He might even be one of the sweetest, inside out. 

You look to his lips, full as ever. Perhaps you have something to confess. Secrets aren’t meant to be kept so long.

“Jaehyun,” you call, bringing his attention before faltering. It’s not like you’re the only one fawning over his smile. You get up instead, excusing yourself. “I’ll see you inside I suppose.”

“You know I like you, right?”

You turn around. “What?”

Jaehyun gets up, brushing his suit and fixing the lapels. The gentle night haze and the contrasting calls of the brightly lit party inside brush over an effect you’ve never felt before. “I…I like you. It’s pretty straightforward, I think.”

You deny it, or rather, some repressed little emotion inside you denies it vehemently. “Jaehyun, really. I admit I was a complete asshole to you and- and...it was…kind of you to accompany me that night but—”

“Stop. Don’t- Don’t call that kind. You’re not seeing the full picture.”

You stand there, unsure of what to do as you feel your chest grow warmer. Jaehyun turns his head upwards, letting out an audible breath. You can see conflict on his face, the struggle of someone still mulling over the perfect words.

“I don’t hate you. I never really hated you even if I wanted to.”

You suppose it wouldn’t be the right time to say that you might have indulged in that.

“I did,” you confess. “I hated you for a very, very long time, Jaehyun.”

“I know,” he whispers, looking straight at you. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging—”

“Jaehyun, I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice rising, “You told me you felt suffocated in bow ties and laughed when I asked if you wanted to run away with me. I just ended up thinking you were a goddamn liar.”  

“Fine,” he says quietly in his baritone timbre, sounds of the chatter from inside numbing away. “Then let me be honest.”

“When I met you, I thought there was someone like me doing just the same—so…suddenly in the midst of everything. Even if you were a complete asshole to me. You were still real.”

He phrases it delicately, lilting, as if that hasn’t been your whole purpose here.  He’s only a breath away from you, but you don’t want to push him away this time. There’s a moment’s pause.

“Between work and myself, which is more important? For once, I thought I could answer that question.”

Your breaths are soft and shallow as they fall, trying to understand his words.

“And then you just fucking stopped. You stopped flying out and I’d barely see you outside of Seoul like you- like you gave up or something. I didn’t understand—what happened to you?”

Jaehyun looks at you with a hardened expression, ears turning red as if he hadn’t expected this outburst of truth. He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. It’s not like him to open his mouth and let out words that are raw and honest; it makes you feel the weight even more. You were still kids that night. You’re not anymore.

“Jaehyun,” you whisper before reaching your hand out and placing it against his cheek.

It’s so hard to not take in the details. The prominence of the muscle by his mouth when he speaks, the fine lines by his nose which appear sporadically or the look of complete reverence in his eyes when he’s staring at you like this—everything those runway shots can’t possibly capture. Your eyes trail to his lips, your own drawn to it with a desire you don’t know how to comprehend—and don’t quite wish to, either.

You want to believe he made the first move but you give in so easy, it’s alarming. Your lips move against his in a rhythm new and frantic, his hands gripping you with full strength at the waist and you part your lips to allow a deeper kiss. Your hands are free to roam his perfectly styled hair, tousling it in a fashion that makes him groan, only to push you harder against the wall. 

“I should’ve- I should’ve let you kiss me that night,” he mumbles against your lips. “Maybe I…I wouldn’t have made you hate me.”

“Maybe you should shut up and kiss me right now,” you respond, your tongue pressing against his, effectively doing the job.

It’s not difficult to see stars when his hips press against yours, his hand resting on one thigh to pull it up slightly. You feel the impact of it head-on, almost moaning out loud when his fingers press harder against the back of your thigh.

“Tell me- Tell me you want this,” he breathes out when he breaks the kiss.

You respond with reconnecting your lips, your tongue sliding against his in fervent affirmations. You’ve already forfeited your modesty, there’s no reason to stop.

You leave early, getting into the car you’d booked for the night. It would be far more embarrassing were it not for the separation between the front and backseats, when Jaehyun’s hands are up your clothes and his lips rough against your neck. The lip colour has smudged by the side of Jaehyun’s lips, a short giggle escaping you when you notice. It’s not enough to halt the kissing, or feeling each other up —something that feels long overdue. You try to keep your sounds to a minimum but Jaehyun seems to not care about things as worthless as shame, at least for the moment.

“Well, you’re about as graceful as a sea lion when you’re off the runway,” you hiss when Jaehyun’s teeth prick your skin.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he responds in a low tone, the rest of his retort pushed away by his lips against your mouth.

You don’t have time to take in the details of Jaehyun’s apartment because he’s already carrying you to the bed, your legs around his waist and continuing to kiss you as if making up for something. All those years, you could have been doing this. Maybe you do have some regrets.

The material of his dress shirt feels expensive but clothes are not what you need right now. His phone rings once but he drags a finger over it to reject the call, his mouth still pressing against your collarbone. The only sounds you hear are rugged breathing and you fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you pull it over his shoulders. The city lights below you reach through the drawn curtains, all the unrelenting complicacies left behind in those faraway streets.

Jaehyun makes a sound of annoyance at the phone ringing yet again. He breaks apart from you, receiving the call while his fingers massage his temple.

“Hyung, I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later—”

“I was just wondering where you disappeared and you don’t even grace me with a hello?” Johnny’s voice rings clear in the all too silent bedroom.

“Hyung—”

“Wait a minute.” There’s a pause within which Jaehyun seems to tense up. “Are you fucking? Like did you leave the party to get la—”

“Hyung. I’m hanging up.” 

The coral pink spread over his ears is almost as pretty as the look of pure annoyance over his face.

“That—”

“Didn’t happen,” you complete, giggling. If someone were to tell you’d be seeing Jaehyun like this a few months ago, you wouldn’t know whether to be embarrassed or exhilarated.

You place your hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

Sex is barely ever beautiful—even if it’s Jung Yoonoh over you, planting kisses from your mouth to jaw, neck to chest and whispering sweet, delicious words against each part. He certainly knows how to use that tongue of his, better than you’d expect from a boy so pristine.

It doesn’t matter if it’s not beautiful, when it’s just like a slow dance—in shared solace and love out of time. You bite your lips to stop smiling too often for it to feel as serious and indifferent as all the other times. Sometimes you feel Jaehyun grinning into the crook of your neck, the giddiness of love taking over the movement of your hips against his. The perfect anatomy of his, paired with his candied words makes you think that maybe you do fit together.

Jaehyun pushes into you at a steady pace, your fingers digging into his back and over his shoulder blades only to draw out sounds more pleasing to your ears. You let someone else take charge for once, his praising whispers of ‘that’s my baby’ or ‘you just look so good’ far too teasing but he follows through, your body barely able to respond apart from shaking and shuddering till you reach your high. 

The sound of skin against skin dies down well into the night and you get cleaned, still blissed out from making the summit of all your senses. It’s warm inside, despite turning the air conditioner on.

“Jaehyun,” you call, lowering yourself to press a quick kiss to his lips. 

“Hm?” He gives you a drowsy smile, arm under his head and hair sticking to his forehead funny.

“Did you really not hate me? Not even once?” You rest your cheek against your palm as you lie beside him.

Even under the dim lights, it’s not hard to spot the blush on him when he positively glows. Jaehyun reminds you of warm auburn and the touch of cool satin—it’s easy to make things, find inspiration in love.

“Oh my god, you were lying!” you accuse, sitting up straight. “There’s no way you didn’t hate me. I called your modeling as good as a coconut’s!”

“As you so love to remind me,” he mumbles.

There’s a brief moment before the two of you crack up, his deep laughter perfectly mismatched with yours. There’s hardly many sounds on the eighteenth floor, but maybe you’ve always been yearning for this privacy—this proximity in shared laughter and warm touches. 

“No, I didn’t,” Jaehyun answers your question after it’s quiet once again. “I thought...I think you’re…”

Jaehyun trails off, his eyes flickering over your face before fixing on your lips as his own tug into a smile. He gulps. “I think we’d be in trouble if the paparazzi saw us throwing choice words at each other, don’t you think? You were barely out of school then.”

“Me?” You laugh. “You were thinking about me?”

“And a little bit about me.” 

You fall asleep against Jaehyun’s chest with the certainty of kinder tomorrows, a thing he teaches you through whispers against the pillow and fingers playing with your hair. There’s something private in the way he holds your face, something delicate and homely running from his long fingers to his flushed knuckles and the rest of his hand as it presses against your cheek. It’s warm here, and safe, and maybe home is where the heart is, after all.

“Really? You’re not even a little bit sad I’m leaving?” you ask, placing your hand over your heart. “Who’s going to help you when you’re getting bullied in the workplace now?”

Doyoung huffs in annoyance, placing the box down beside the moving truck. “You’re the only one who bullies me in the workplace.”

You adjust the ugly baseball cap on your head, the one Jaehyun had pulled over your head in an attempt to stop you from complaining about his messy apartment. You hadn’t realized you’d worn it all the way to Seoul till the articles about your questionable choice of accessories had surfaced.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,” Doyoung says, making a face as he picks your phone up from the box near him. “I can’t even believe this. All those years of flirting and—”

You snatch it from him, glaring at him for the choice of words. He raises his hands defensively, rolling his eyes at your sudden movement.

“Are you sure you don’t want me flying to Seoul?”

“Unless you’re planning to work in a truck rental.”

You hear Jaehyun laugh on the other side of the line. Is it normal to have blood rush straight from your chest to your ears at the sound of laughter? You hope that doesn’t change.

You’d visited him a day before your flight. It hasn’t been all that long but Jaehyun certainly makes it out to be, just so he can use his cheesy one-liners. You try not to smile thinking about how he had flung his hair band out, immediately tousling his hair back into a pretty mess and struggling to keep a straight face when you’d visited out of the blue. Jaehyun wakes up at one in the afternoon when his schedule is empty and it had appalled you enough to help him out with basic chores before you left. (It didn’t end well. He kept putting his chin on your shoulder and sneaking his arms around you while you did the dishes.)

“(name)? (name), are you daydreaming again?” 

You sigh. “You can’t wait three more days, Jae? It’s, what, one in the morning there!”

“Do you want me saying something cheesy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don’t think I can sleep without waking up to your face.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, unable to grace him with a response. The dreamy languor in his voice is more than recognizable and if you’re not mistaken, he’s going to be saying something highly inappropriate.

“Do you know what dream I had last night?” he asks, the smile almost evident with how suggestive it sounds.

“Jaehyun, no,” you warn before lowering your voice. “I swear if it’s another dirty dream—”

“Come home and I’ll tell you all about it. With demonstrations.”

This time you can’t help the laughter, trying to mask it with a cough only to fail. You push the back of your hand against your cheek in order to soothe the involuntary blush. Your perfume smells just like him, and you realize suddenly why he’d gifted it to you.

“That definitely makes me want to leave faster,” you quip.

“I certainly hope so.”

It’s different now, especially if you remember your feelings just last February. Change feels easy for the first time in your life. You check off your list of items, counting the boxes as they’re lifted onto the truck. It took a good amount of thinking, and a bunch of fights before you could decide. New York isn’t so bad. Not when you have reason to be there. You’d like to call it love.

A list of things you do appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

[let-them-read-fics]

Dancing In The Dark

Pairing: Lisa x Fem!5thMember!Reader

Word Count: ~ 6,641 😌

Warnings / Misc. -- Angst, Language, Suggestive Themes, Fluff

Disclaimer: This writing is a work of fiction, and no disrespect is meant for those mentioned herein.

A/N: BOP BOP BOP 💃 Here's a Lisa fic for you guys!!! This isn't the request I got for her, but recent events inspired me to write this one and I really hope you enjoy it. More content will be coming in the near future :) Thank you all for the continued support, and as always... ♡ Happy Reading ♡

Follow-Up Part: Worth It

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Tense isn't quite good enough of a word to describe how you've spent the past week and a half. For some reason unbeknownst to you, Lisa's been hostile and standoffish whenever you've tried to communicate, always giving you short answers and snide remarks instead of being mature and confronting you about whatever issue she has. So, of course, it's only natural for the bitterness to have rubbed off on you as well. 

What's worse is that you're not even sure why you're fighting. Anytime you rack your brain for a reason to explain the anger, you come up with nothing. 

"Are we still on for practice later?" You ask, picking up a piece of bacon from the breakfast tray that sets on the counter. 

"I'll be there." She says simply, not even bothering to look up from the bowl of cereal she decided to grab. You clench your jaw and give a curt nod, determined to give her the same energy she's giving you. 

Jisoo notices the air of aversion that's quickly taking over the room, so she speaks up in an attempt to lighten the mood. "I can't wait to meet more Blinks at our fansign later this week. Aren't you guys excited?" The mere thought of meeting your supporters makes the unnie unbelievably happy, and all the hard work seems worthwhile. 

Despite herself, Lisa lightly grins and mutters a phrase of agreement around her mouthful of food. 

"At least they know how to make conversation." You respond pettily, glancing across the counter at Lisa as you take a bite of your bacon.

"I know how, Y/N. I just lack the desire to do so," she shrugs, seemingly unaffected by the cold words that slip past her plump lips. 

You click your tongue, now used to her behavior. Had this been one of her first times saying something like that, you probably would've been sadder than you currently are.

"Awww," you coo. "You come up with that one on the spot? You'll have to do better than that if you wanna hurt me." You lean against the marble countertop to whisper that last part, throwing a goodbye to Jisoo as you set off to your room to get ready for the day. 

Later That Day -- 7:49 PM

The bright red numbers displayed above the elevator doors tick on, changing with each floor you put behind you. A heavy sigh bounces off the walls and you rub the back of your neck for comfort. 

Why does Lisa have to be such a good dancer? The only reason you arranged this practice with her in the first place is to ensure that you know all the proper choreo for your upcoming Inkigayo performance. Your fans matter more to you than any disagreement you could be in, and you're determined to put on the best show possible for them. Lisa just so happens to be a critical factor in that process, unfortunately.

"Level 6," an automated voice announces before the sleek doors open, revealing a nearly uninhabited floor of practice rooms. They branch off on both sides of the long hallway that stretches out before you, and you get started on your journey down it. The only occupied studio sets at the end, emitting a soft glow through its translucent door as one of your song's choruses thumps through the speakers. 

You don't bother to knock before walking in, far past keeping up with the niceties any longer. Lisa's eyes dart from the wall of mirrors that borders the front of the room to glance at you, momentarily stilling her movements. 

"Don't let me stop you," you say, moving your hand in a "shoo-ing" motion at her until she picks back up with the song. You turn around to shut the door and take off your jacket, missing the way her eyes slowly rake over your body. 

You join her in the middle of the room, making sure to stay far enough away so that neither of you accidently hit or bump into each other as you run through the songs. The next hour or so is spent doing just that, repeating the ones you have issues with until you're performing the moves expertly. Every approving nod and shout from Lisa works to boost your confidence, and you actually find it a bit easier to enjoy yourself in her presence again. The two of you trade jokes, and sometimes it seems as if the hostility is fading away.

"You did well with all the other songs, so let's practice the one where we have the male backup dancers. I'll fill in for them." 

Your breath catches in your throat at the thought of Lisa dancing so sensually with you, but you quickly dismiss it and get into position. 

"From the top?" You ask over your shoulder, feeling her eyes on you as she approaches. 

"Of course." She says it like it's common sense.

The song starts up, and she sets her phone down on a nearby chair that she dragged closer earlier. She watches as you perform your solo moves, offering tweaks and scattered praises all the while. About midway through, the song shifts and she rolls her sleeves up in preparation. 

You take a deep breath as she settles behind you, reaching an arm around your front to rest her fingertips on your jaw. When the next hit of the sensual bass vibrates across the practice room, she coaxes your head to the side, moving hers forward just enough to brush her lips against your neck. 

You're aware of every twitch of her muscles, every breath she takes -- her body is flush up against yours, radiating that heat that you've missed so much. Her heart beats quickly like yours, and you can feel the way it pounds against your back.

Perhaps this is the moment you should step away; some distance is sure to clear the fog that settles over your brain, clouding your judgment more than ever. But she's holding you like she used to, and you can't muster up the energy to put an end to something that feels so good. 

"Arms up," she coaches, lifting your hands above your head before trailing her fingers back down your arms, lower and lower until they skim over the warm skin of your abdomen. In one fell swoop, she tangles her thumb into one of the belt loops of your jeans and uses her other hand to assist you with the next move: a spin. Her hold is steady, and your hair cascades over your shoulders as you lean your head back, twirling effortlessly. Given that your eyes are closed, you fail to notice the way she traps her bottom lip in between her teeth, doing all she can to keep dancing and not kiss you. You feel her palm press to the small of your back as her arms tighten around your waist, allowing you to dip towards the ground without falling.

"Good, just like that." The praise is like music to your ears as she raises you back up, and she audibly swallows when she sees how mussed your clothes have become from dancing. 

Turning your attention back to the front, you meet her gaze in the mirror; it's calculated and intimidating, but she looks aroused. You watch as her eyes scan over your body, lingering in the places that she's spent hours worshiping before. A smug smile tugs at your lips; despite being mad, her attraction to you is undeniable. With that in mind, you decide to tease her; in time with the music, you push your hips back. 

"I think I still need help with this next part." You purr, lulling your head back to rest against her shoulder as you slowly drag your hands over your body. Lisa lets out a low moan when you arch your back, grinding your ass further into her while you innocently toy with the buttons of your shirt. Having her in such a state is great enough, but knowing that you're the reason she's so turned on is something else entirely.

"Y/N…" she warns, biting the inside of her cheek to suppress anymore noises that run the risk of selling her out. 

"Lisa…" you tease back, playfully matching her tone as you watch her face scrunch up in response to the way you wind your body along to the music. 

She turns you around, her grip on your hips tightening as she works hard to restrain herself. Your chest rises and falls with slightly hurried breaths, partially from the dancing you've been doing and partially from the effect she has on you. Keeping her hands from roaming is proving harder than she imagined it'd be, and her mind goes into overdrive to find a way to make sure things don't slip too far out of her control. 

Her plans are stalled when you grab the material of her shirt in your fists, lightly yanking her forward by the collar of it until her lips ghost dangerously close to yours. You fake her out, only allowing them to brush against each other for a moment before you tilt your head and drop your mouth down to her neck. 

As you begin to leave a light hickey on her pulse point, she somehow manages to come to her senses and knows what she has to do. It was a hard fought battle, though, and part of her still wants to relent and let you have your way with her. 

She puts her hands on your shoulders and shoves you backwards, being careful not to push too hard. The look in her eye is predatory, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't thrill you. 

With every advancing step she takes, slow and deliciously torturous in its nature, you take one backwards, only stopping when the cold surface of the mirror presses against your skin. 

"You wanna know why I've been short with you?" Her darkening eyes scan down to your lips before coming back up to look into yours as she waits for your answer. 

Why would she bring that up right now? The question sours your mood, effectively ruining the moment -- that's exactly what Lisa wanted (she's still bothered by whatever's been plaguing her lately, and as much as she wants you, she can't get over it yet).

"Yeah, because it's really unfair. I haven't done anything wrong." The anger and hurt you've been feeling for the past week returns now, bubbling up in your chest when the memories of some of her more harsh words replay in your mind. Your voice conveys the growing irritation you feel, but Lisa’s expression remains unreadable. The effects of your desire are beginning to border on frustration now, dancing on the line as they threaten to cross over it.

"I didn't particularly appreciate finding you at the studio with Jung-hoon when you were supposed to be with us."

A singular exhale leaves you, short and unbelieving as you roll your eyes.

"That's what this is about?" You scoff. "You know I was held back to record my part for the newest track; and besides, I wasn't even that late to dinner. The girls weren't mad, so why are you?" Your arms come up to cross over your chest defensively, and you narrow your eyes at her.

"You should know." She says it like it's the most obvious thing known to man.

"Well clearly I don't, Lisa, so why don't you enlighten me?"

"You're so oblivious," she bites back, rolling her eyes like you just had, "He's practically in love with you."

"What?"

"You heard me. He doesn't even try to hide it. Why else do you think he made sure to schedule you for the last slot of the day? He wanted to get you alone." Her tone is laced with bitterness, and a grimace crosses her face. Even the thought of him puts her off.

"So what if he did? I'd rather be talking to him than getting this shitty treatment from you." 

"Is that so?" She challenges, pursing her lips with a tut as she tilts her head up. 

"It sure is. You'd never know it, considering you seem to hate him so much, but he's actually pretty nice. He even bought me a tea when I complained about my throat being sore that night."

"He sounds like a winner," she says sarcastically, voice void of sincerity as it drips with contempt instead, "Why don't you go spend some time with him, then, if I'm just so horrible to be around?" 

You shake your head as a humorless laugh slips past your lips. She's unbelievable. Before you can think of a good response, she continues her train of thought. "Maybe he'll bribe his way into your pants like he's been trying to for the past month. Tell me, Y/N, would he have to buy you dinner first? Or would another tea suffice?" 

The second those words leave Lisa's lips, her chest tightens; she draws a breath in, keeping it held tightly in her lungs as guilt begins to course through her. She feels the aftershocks of her statement in the painful silence of the room, and she finds it nearly impossible to look you in the eye for more than a few seconds at a time. 

Her words slowly sink in, rendering you momentarily speechless as you simply blink a few times. Your eyebrows sit higher up now, aiding your slack jaw in conveying the surprise you feel. You have to fight the urge to shove her; had you reverted back to being the less mature version of yourself from your teenage years, you would've done so in a heartbeat. But you're older now, and you realize your words and actions have consequences; clearly she hasn't learned that quite yet.

"Lisa, I'm gonna make this as simple as I can for you: if you ever say something like that to me again, we're going to have some real problems… You're such an asshole."

"I shouldn't have--"

"No, you shouldn't have. But you did. And I don't know what the hell has gotten into you lately, but it needs to stop."

"I'm sorry."

Her apology feels meaningless right now, and it falls on deaf ears. You don't allow yourself to believe she means it -- maybe she does, maybe she doesn't; regardless, she might try to sweet talk her way into forgiveness if you stay here right now, and you can't let that happen. "I don't think it's smart for me to be here -- not after that. I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me when you get back to the dorm later, either." The conversation sounds more formal than you're used to with Lisa, but it's fitting given everything that's happened. Her eyes remain trained on the floor as she nods sheepishly; she's ashamed of herself.

When you stride over to retrieve your coat from its resting spot, the sound of your shoes hitting the hardwood echo around the rehearsal room, serving as the only noise to cut through the tense silence. It's like a hot knife through butter, and Lisa feels her heart break a little more with each passing second. Your footfalls are a bit heavier than normal now, and you pop your knuckles out of habit to soothe yourself. 

She stops herself from reaching out to you as you brush past her on your way to the door. Had things gone her way, none of this would've happened at all: she even planned to apologize and attempt to make things official with you tonight -- but life always seems to deny us of what we want most. 

The handle's smooth surface rests in your palm as you linger in the doorway, keeping your back turned to her. You're not sure what you're even waiting for in the first place. When Lisa remains silent, unable to think of a fitting way to rectify the situation, you nod to yourself and slip out of the room. 

The dancer releases a breath now that she's alone, and she runs her hands over her face. Her dislike for Jung-hoon was never meant to override her love for you, and it sure as hell wasn't meant to get in between the two of you. In some ways, Lisa's still that young girl she used to be when you first met as trainees: she still gets jealous and annoyed when she doesn't get what she wants, and although the years have made her far more mature than what she once was, old habits truly do die hard. She blames herself for hurting you, but she doesn't blame herself for disliking him. On one hand, you're completely innocent in the situation and undeserving of what she put you through -- she should have trusted you; but on the other, she can't help but be angry at him for trying to steal you away. You're hers, if only in her dreams, and he has no right to flirt with you like that. 

So, with hundreds of thoughts swirling around in her mind, Lisa decides to do what she does best; for the next couple hours, she remains at the studio, releasing the pent up tension and frustration she's been holding in for so long.

~~~~

Back At The Blackpink Dorm

"Can today get any worse?" You groan loudly, tugging at your hair out of frustration. The worn pages of your song book flutter slightly as you push it off of your lap, sending it onto the bed with a soft thump. A couple minutes later you hear movement in the hallway, and you decide to investigate. Carefully, you feel your way through the dark and eventually reach your bedroom door, which you subsequently open. 

"Help me look for some candles, please." Jisoo requests from the hallway, just a little ways away from you. A small flashlight is clutched in her hand, and its surprisingly bright beam does well in illuminating the shelves of the closet as she searches through it. You retrieve a spare light from her before making your way down the hall to search the bathroom. 

"We probably won't have power until tomorrow night; maybe even later. The storm caused a blackout and parts of the grid are down right now. At least that's what management told me." She informs, raising her voice slightly so you can hear her well. She doesn't have to try too hard, though, considering a blanket of silence has fallen over the dorm; with no power, no appliances offer any background noise to drown out the jarring quietness.

Steady sheets of rain pound against the window of the bathroom, momentarily stealing your attention away from the task at hand. As inconvenient as storms of this caliber can be, it's hard not to be in awe of the power of mother nature; occasionally, bolts of lightning streak across the sky in various places, offering a peek at the angry clouds that loom overhead. It's almost like peering into another world: the vivid colors of the lightning contrast with the darkness of the sky, making it appear as a raging sea as the clouds trek across it in waves. 

"I'm already cold." The distant sound of Jennie's voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you release a sigh as you draw open more cabinets. She and Rosé are now seemingly out in the hallway, talking with Jisoo about the storm and how you're all going to deal with it. For a moment you wonder why Lisa hasn't joined them; perhaps she's asleep and didn't even notice the power go out. 

Unbeknownst to you, the maknae hasn't done much of anything besides overthinking. Ever since she came home earlier, she's abided by your wishes: she kept quiet during dinner, and retreated to her room without so much as a word to you. It hasn't been easy by any means, and her heart has been aching to apologize to you -- she wants to make things right, but upsetting you further isn't a risk she's willing to take. So now, she lays in bed, staring up at the ceiling as she listens to your other members talk out in the hall. 

"I found these," you approach them, holding up a few medium sized candles that Rosé bought for when you guys need a spa day. 

"Ah, not the good ones!" She whines, disappointed that the luxury items have to be wasted for such a lame purpose. 

"We could always just sit in the dark," you remind her with a chuckle, quirking a small smile at how she's acting. She seems to forget that you guys are rich and completely capable of getting plenty more of them. 

"No, I'll order more," she sighs, adding, "...just don't use all of them." 

"Aye aye, captain," you salute, grinning wider when she lets out a soft laugh. 

"Let's go set the stuff up in the living room," Jisoo says, slipping in between the two of you on her way. When you raise an eyebrow at the other girls, Jennie speaks up, "We might as well just hang out there. We can stay warmer that way and not die of boredom." 

You cock your head to the side and nod after considering the offer, quickly deciding that you have nothing better to do anyway. "What about Lisa?" You ask, the waver in your voice going unnoticed by either of them. From inside her room, Lisa holds her breath, tensing up as she waits to hear their answer. 

"I think she's sleeping, so we don't have to wake her up right now. She'll realize it's out eventually." 

You seem to accept her answer, and Lisa relaxes into the cushions of her bed as she hears three sets of footsteps getting further and further away. There's no way she can face you yet -- she's still working on a good enough apology. Besides, pretending that everything's okay was hard enough at dinner -- the girls were growing suspicious, so it's only a matter of time before they ask about it. None of you like to see each other sad, but there really seems to be a soft spot in all of their hearts for you: they always try to keep you happy and protected in order to repay you for taking such good care of them. You may not be the oldest unnie, but you're dedicated to your members, and their loyalty isn't something to be taken lightly. That undisputed fact works to make Lisa even more nervous; she knows she's been bad to you, and the girls aren't afraid to give her a piece of their minds. Their combined disappointment is only rivaled by her own, and she knows she'll have to work hard to get things back to where they used to be with you. 

~~~~~

As you wash your hands in the bathroom sink, you take in the sight of your reflection staring back at you. Bags rest underneath your eyes from what little sleep you've gotten so far, not quite dark enough to make you cringe but visible enough to show that things aren't going your way. You and the girls spent what was left of the evening chatting and playing board games to keep yourselves entertained, but eventually sleep became unavoidable and you retired to the large pillow fort that the 4 of you had constructed earlier. Without any power going to the dorm's heater, you've been forced to rely on extra blankets and each other's body heat to stay warm. 

A glance at your watch lets you know that it's a little after 3AM now, and you can only hope to fall back asleep soon. Your mind is exhausted from all the thinking you've been doing -- the toll it's taking on you coming through as a physical pain, pulsing steadily to remind you of everything that's happened -- but somehow sleep doesn't seem to be attainable. Despite being so drained, your body and mind would rather stay at odds than just compromise and let you rest. It's like something is telling you to stay awake -- like some quiet voice with ulterior motives is calling on you to look beyond yourself and fight sleep. Whatever the reason may be, you're annoyed with it. 

Frigid water meets your face, stealing the warmth away from your cheeks as it slides its way downward. You lean against the sink, sighing softly as your chilly fingers press into your temples and rub small circles into the skin there. The storm continues to rage on outside, drawing parallels to the war being waged in your heart. You're torn. Part of you is so overcome with the love you hold for Lisa that you just want to forget she even said anything at all -- you almost care more about having things go back to the way they once were than the fact that she's been breaking your heart more and more everyday. But another part of you is tired of her shit -- she shouldn't be able to get away with saying that to you, and you're strong enough to stay away from her until she steps up and makes things right. It's hard, no doubt, to keep your distance when she's the one person you want to be with most in this world, but you respect yourself enough to set a standard for what type of treatment you're willing to accept. 

As if on cue, a loud burst of thunder roars out, quite literally shaking the house with how strong it is. You jump, feeling your blood run cold at the unexpected scare. A yelp from the living room can be heard, and you have to bite your lip to contain the snicker that threatens to escape; you love Jennie to death and hate to see her frightened, but sometimes it's funny. Comfort comes to the brunette in the form of soothing words groggily whispered by the other girls as they hold her close. 

For what seems to be the millionth time tonight, Lisa crosses your mind; should you check on her? Despite what Jennie had suggested earlier, the maknae failed to leave her room at all. You wonder if she's cold; surely she is, considering she didn't have many blankets in her room to bury herself under. Worrying is apparently your strong suit, because the thought of her staying curled up in bed to grant your wishes, alone and shivering, saddens you beyond belief and convinces you to see how she's doing. 

After drying your face and hands, you sneak back to the living room and grab the fluffiest blanket you can find. Your feet dodge the creaky spots in the floorboards, having already memorized them after years of tiptoeing to the kitchen in the early hours of the morning for snacks. Before long, you stand in front of her door and attempt to prepare yourself.

Lisa's eyes fly closed as she hears the door to her room being opened. The weathered metal hinges groan slightly with effort; over the years, it's been thrown open in times of excitement and subjected to it's fair share of slamming during arguments. 

She does her best to play the part, but her act almost falters when she feels your soft hand brush her hair out of her face. The pad of your thumb strokes her cheek slowly, and she can practically feel all the emotion your gaze holds. Her eyes remain closed as you reach out to feel her arms, making sure they aren't frozen solid from being exposed to the chilly air. The fact that you still care enough to make sure she's comfortable makes her feel even more guilty, and her eyelashes have to work twice as hard to keep her tears from escaping. They dampen as the salty liquid builds up, serving as a dam that could break at any moment, but thankfully you don't notice. You splay the cover over her and tuck it slightly, leaving her plenty of room for movement -- you remember her telling you in passing that she doesn't like being tucked in completely because it makes her feel restricted. 

Her breath hitches as your hands fiddle with the collar of her shirt, fixing the ruffled material so that it covers her better. The bed dips as you sit down next to her, letting your eyes trail over her body. 

"How can you sleep right now?" You whisper out, thinking she's lightyears away in dreamland. A stray tear rolls down your cheek, but you're quick to wipe it away. 

"You're so stupid Lisa," you breathe out, releasing your lip from between your teeth. "I can't believe you think I'd want to be with Jung-hoon and not you."

"But hey," you say with a bitter laugh, the sound almost inaudible in its softness, "I guess I'm the oblivious one, right?" 

After spending a few more moments torturing yourself, you slowly stand up and return the blankets to the state they had been in before you sat down. Unable to resist the urge any longer, you lean down to press a kiss to her forehead. You have no idea where the two of you will stand with one another when she wakes up, and you want to have this memory before you're forced to be at odds again. 

As you push your tired body up, prepared to turn around and leave, you're instead met with her deep brown eyes peering up at you.

You freeze, feeling your muscles tense up as the tears in her eyes become more visible. Her features look even more beautiful now, somehow, in the pale moonlight that streams into the room. It's lustrous, seeming to sparkle as it casts down on her perfectly, kissing every inch of exposed skin that it can. She looks like a dream, and for a second you wonder if you're just imagining this. Her skin appears even softer than usual in the gentle glow of the room, but she looks as striking as ever with her defined collarbone and sharp jawline standing out. You feel her hand brush against your wrist, and you're reminded of all the times she would draw you in close and kiss you until you were breathless. 

"How much of that did you hear?" You swallow, a slight nervousness taking over now as you run a hand through your hair. 

"Enough," she utters simply, indulging herself in a few more seconds of the intimate staring contest you were in before breaking eye contact to sit up in bed. She leans back against the headboard and pulls her feet in some to give you plenty of room to sit. Selfishly, she wishes you'd sit right next to her again; she can't say she's surprised when you put a little space between the two of you though, opting to sit further down on the mattress. 

Neither of you say anything for a little while, too busy trying to locate the right words and how to phrase them. The situation is delicate, and neither of you want to mess it up; Lisa's more afraid to speak than you are, but she eventually finds her voice.

"I know sorry doesn't cut it, nor does it solve anything. But I really am sorry. I didn't mean for it to come out how it did, and I haven't been treating you right for awhile now."

"You can say that again," you quip, nodding singularly. 

She sighs, a bit discouraged by your demeanor but still just as determined. 

"Seeing you with him just scared me, Y/N. I know I have no right to be jealous, but that's exactly what I was. When I saw the way he was looking at you and sitting so close… it just hurt. A lot. I like you more than I want to admit, and you're completely capable of pulling anyone you want. Especially a 2 like Jung-hoon." 

You almost smile at that last part: even when apologizing, she can't help but clown on him. 

"That was a fucked up thing to say, back at the studio. It made me feel cheap, Lisa, and I never thought you would be someone who'd make me feel like that. I don't care if it was in the heat of the moment or not -- it was uncalled for." It feels good to finally voice your feelings to her, and you don't waste time by skirting around them or softening the blow.

"You're right, and I wish you could understand how much I regret it. I wanted to run after you so bad… you have no idea. I regretted it the second it came out of my mouth." She hangs her head now, feeling the shame rise in her at the thought of her past actions.

"You can dislike Jung-hoon as much as you want, but you're right about one thing: you have no right to be jealous. I refuse to be your reason for hating someone, especially when your logic is as flawed as it is." 

She can sense that you have more to say, and she's more than willing to listen; so, she waits for you to continue. 

"First of all, you and I aren't dating, Lisa. And even knowing that, you still didn't trust me, evidently. I don't owe you anymore of an explanation than the other girls, but I'll give it since you seem to want it so bad: we really did just work on the song. He was nice to me and treated me well, but he never overstepped or made me uncomfortable. Regardless of whether he likes me or not, he was kind; the same can't be said for you." Your voice is taut with the pain you've been through because of her, and the brutal honesty behind your words hangs heavy in the air. 

"I deserve that one. But can you please try to see it from my point of view? When you're in love with someone, it's easy to get jealous," your heart pounds harder at her use of that four letter word, but you don't let it show, "...especially when the other person isn't even yours to begin with. At least that's how it works for me. I feel like I have to work extra hard to keep your focus on me, because I'm afraid anyone can come by and take you away. You have no obligation to even be with me."

"I may not have an obligation to, Lisa, but that doesn't mean I don't want to be with you. Do you know how excited I was to finally get home and see you and the girls that night? I was dying to pull you into the kitchen and sneak a kiss when I was grabbing my plate. But you'd never know that, because you cared more about your insecurities than believing me."

"Wow." Your confession surprises her, and the simple utterance is all she can manage at the moment.

"Yeah." You say, solidifying your words. 

"I really am an idiot, aren't I?"

"To put it kindly, yes."

She pauses for a beat or two to really process your words. "Can we get past this?" She asks gently, playing with the frilly edge of the blanket you brought in earlier that's now worked its way down into her lap.

"I think so," you say honestly, releasing a steadying breath, "but you have to work for it." 

"I will, everyday. I want us to be okay again." 

"I do too, Lis. I really do." Her gaze softens at the nickname, and she can tell you're being truthful. 

"Can I ask you something?" 

"You just did." 

"I-" She starts, only to be cut off by the small giggle you let out.

"Shoot, Manoban."

"Does this mean I can ask you to be my girlfriend?" She notices the way your face falls as you begin to stutter out a response, so she quickly clarifies, "Eventually?" 

"Eventually," you affirm, thankful that she understood that you're not quite ready yet. You crack a small smile as you say, "So long as you don't give me a reason to say no in the meantime." 

The two of you share a much needed laugh, happy to finally begin clearing the air between you. 

Not long after, Lisa says, "One more thing, Y/N." 

You lift your head to look at her and respond, but her lips meet yours before you get the chance to say a word. The surprised noise you make is muffled, but it soon gives way to something crossed between a sigh and moan as her hand travels up your thigh. It rests there, the heat of her palm seeping through the material of your pants as she waits to see how you react, still pressing innocent kisses to your lips. She wants to continue, but you deserve to control the situation. 

Wordlessly, you tilt her head to the side to deepen the kiss, languidly moving your tongue against hers. It's a dance you've spent hours practicing before, and your bodies fall back into the familiar rhythm they've been craving for the past week and a half. When you take her hand and lead it under your shirt, allowing her to touch wherever she pleases, she lets out a guttural noise of approval that has you pressing your thighs together in search of friction. Already, Y/N? You think to yourself; she's barely touched you and you're already so responsive.

Lisa smiles at the shuddered breath she feels you release, and she tugs at your bottom lip to tease you further. 

"If you keep this up, that 'eventually' will come sooner rather than later," you say shakily, swallowing as you press your lips together. They taste like her, and you're convinced you're addicted. 

She lets out a throaty chuckle at that, the action garnering a smile from you. Your cheeks are flushed, and she secretly loves the effect she has on you.

"You're beautiful," she declares, the smile on her lips coming through in the phrase. She strokes your cheek with the back of her hand, and you let out a little "pshh" sound at her sweet comment. Taking compliments has never been something you're very good at.

Determined to show you that she's genuine, she takes your hand and places it against her chest, right over her heart. It beats wildly, untamed and unpredictable as her emotions course through her. "It always gets like this when I'm around you. I can't control it; you just drive me crazy." 

"You're really trying to kill me, huh? Soft Lisa is far hotter than petty Lisa, just so you know." You say, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her hands tighten around your waist as she pulls you into her lap, slowly grinning at your confession. 

"Noted. Now come here, baby." 

You close what little distance is left between you, not having to be told twice. Her lips move in time with yours as she flips you over, laying you on your back beside her. In your preoccupied state, you don't even realize that she's tucked your legs under the blankets and brought the material up to cover the two of you. 

"I'm gonna take care of you, okay? I'm done being an ass." 

"It's about time," you joke, rolling your eyes. "Better get to work if you want to lose your status as a dickhead by the end of this century." 

"Hey! Century? That's a little long, don't you think?"

"Tread lightly, Lisa," you warn, half teasing and half threatening. She catches a hint of the menacing look you send her way, and quickly gets her act together. 

"Yes ma'am." She nods, attempting to contain the smile that tugs at her lips by pressing them against yours again. 

[gcdhoods]

PROMPT 007

MOURN ME — for @cathartidie

tw: death, grief, metaphorical gore & self-harm

“how horribly rude of you,” long fingers flick open lighters, holding flame to candle, “to not visit me. making me come all the way to you. what was the point of the both of us being tied to death if you were going to sever your string?”

the night is starless, moonless. if you look closely at the rolling hills, you will see the slightest glow of light; candles outlining a grave and a figure bent over it, cleaning tombstones and dusting sites, curled up at the bed of dirt before it when they finish. the spring breeze is just enough to rustle skirts, wave candle flames. just enough to feel like a touch.

if you close your eyes, can you remember the sound of their voice? pull the thread of sound and twist it into delusion, daydream. i’m glad i met you. i won’t leave you. i’ll stay with you. i promise, promise, you are not too much for me to hold. i want to. i want you.

twist it into your personal noose: i lo —

but is that not the problem? he had never said any of those things; your heart making up the script and waiting for his voice in your head to say the lines. eyes closed, cheek to the dirt as you curl into yourself, curl into graves of all that could have been.

you knew he would not come back.

you had wished him a peaceful death, once. you know he is happy. you know he is with a love he has been aching for for too long, know better than to try and bring him back. your hands itch. you do not go to funerals as a rule: swarms will always see you as a cure for a death they are mourning, and the smallest shred of hope will incite a madness. you would know this best. you missed his wake. you have nothing of his; told him you were trying to curb your selfishness and this is the final test. you grieve alone, bird burying itself in the dirt. you smoked through two packs on the day of his funeral. you miss him. you wanted this for him because you know he wanted this in the end.

to die for love, to return to it. you are no different. this understanding does not make mourning any easier.

you miss him. you love him. you grieve him. all of these are synonyms, things you are afraid to say out loud. how dare he be a thing death could not reach and let himself fall into its hold? how dare you be a thing haunted by death and not be haunted by him?

perhaps you are both not very good at your jobs. you will forgive him but you will never forgive yourself.

“please come back for me.” haunted house with all its doors, windows open. selfishly, you wanted to be enough for a resurrection. if not in his method, then by way of mine. “there’s still so much… “

a tear, a quiet sniff. you refused to believe it, but you knew the truth: all things will leave you. him, too. you just wanted to believe your vulture would be untouchable enough for you to be selfish for a little while longer.

hope will gut you like that. there’s that viscera spilling out of your body from a scar shaped like his memory, streaming down your cheeks. every foolish dream, every once-upon-a-maybe, every flutter of a butterfly-wing in your stomach at a touch, a glimpse — you want to take the knife to yourself to dig it out of this fucking body, know it is something you no longer need, something that infests you. it will be life that haunts you, not death; what could have been what should have been what you needed what you wanted what you felt get it out get it out get it out get it out —

but that’s all you have left of him. a hope so beautiful, the beginning of something sweet before death severed the story short, leaving you without an ending. this is all you have left of him, so you keep it in you even as it tears you from the inside out.

“i hope you’re at peace now. i still hate you for leaving.” whispered not to the grave, but to the night sky he once gave you. “if you aren’t going to come back, then please wait for me. i hope it won’t be too long. try not to forget me.”

this is a scene we have seen before: little bird curled next to the dead, waiting for sunrise to come. aching to be the corpse and not the one meant to survive this, too. when morning comes, you will need someone to carry you from the gravebeds you’ve made a home for the night, and it will not be in the arms of the one you need most.

[delimeful]

my virtues uncounted (6)

warnings: panic attack, fear, arguing

there will probably be an epilogue after this, but we're nearing the end of this story! :)

-

Virgil floated into consciousness with surprisingly little pain, considering the last thing he remembered was bleeding out from a stab wound.

He wasn’t entirely sure how the others’ returned after discorporating-- they weren’t much in the habit of randomly sharing vulnerabilities-- but for him, it was always rushed, his reformation slapdash at best. It was probably part of being Anxiety: he couldn’t stand the idea of being ‘out of it’ for long, not when anything could be happening to Thomas with his influence muted.

So, he would come back to himself with whatever injury that killed him barely knitted back together, and grit his teeth and bear it for the next few weeks while it slowly healed. One of his recurring nightmares was the Light Sides finding out about it, using it to keep him out of commission to ‘help’ Thomas. It seemed… less likely, after meeting them.

Meeting them. Right. He’d done that.

A low thrum of panic in his gut chased the lingering sleepiness from him, and he pushed himself into a sitting position as quickly as he dared, figuring that he might as well test the boundaries of his lack of stab wound pain before he snuck over to check that the core parts of Thomas had all made it through okay. Or before he encountered Remus again.

The first thing he registered was that there wasn’t any pain, none at all.

The second thing was that everything was proportionally huge around him.

The third thing was that these absolutely were not the Dark Side commons.

His heart rate spiked immediately as he whipped his head around, staring at what could only be the Light Side common area. He’d only caught a glimpse of it before, with the whole ‘bleeding out’ thing, and it looked impossibly different from where he stood on the living room table. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the way Thomas was so much closer here than in the Subconscious, like the difference between shallow water and the depths.

He shook himself. Now wasn’t the time to get caught up in how much easier core Sides had it. There were bigger things to worry about, literally. He hadn’t discorporated, he was in the Conscious part of the mind, and he was tiny-- through no doing of his own.

Oh. They wanted revenge.

Virgil kicked away the assortment of tiny blankets around him and got to his feet, blood rushing in his ears. He’d been an asshole to them while they were stuck in the Subconscious, so they were returning the favor. Why else would they have healed him and turned him pocket-sized? It was the only explanation that made sense.

The commons were just shy of completely disorienting while empty, so he certainly wasn’t going to stick around for something as overwhelming as a Side to appear. He hurried to the edge of the table, eyeing the drop with no little trepidation. Was he lighter like this, or would he land heavily on the carpet below and break half his bones?

He shouldn’t risk it. No point in doing half the work for his captors.

If he could get a running start to the other end of the table, he might be able to make the jump to the couch, though. From there… maybe pushing a pillow to the ground. Could he even move a pillow at this size?

Another shudder worked its way through him, something small and terrified in the back of his mind shrieking at the way everything around him had changed. Had this been how the others had felt? He shook his head, stepping back from the edge and turning to face the other end of the table. He couldn’t freak out yet. Not until he was safe.

There was a distant phone alarm, the generic sort that Thomas had come to resent after using it for his morning alarm for months on end. Virgil felt a chill of foreboding pass over him, and a heartbeat later, he heard the telltale woosh of one of the core Sides rising up next to the table.

Their shadow fell over Virgil, impossibly large, and he bolted.

There was a voice, but he couldn’t pick out the words past the blood rushing in his ears, his own breathing, and the panicked rush of thoughts that came with picking flight. He focused on the jump ahead instead, the length of table ahead of him growing shorter and shorter until he was nearly to the edge, muscles tensed to leap.

The light around him being blocked out was the only warning he got before his view of the world was suddenly cut off. Half a second later, his momentum was halted by a collision with something soft, warm, and alive. He recoiled as sharply as he could, but there were already what could only be fingers curling around him, his stomach dropping as he was lifted clear off the table’s surface, his center of gravity shifting against his will.

If he hadn’t been panicking before, he certainly was now, his breaths coming shallow and shaky, barely bringing in any air as black spots started to dot his vision.

He was in someone’s hand. They could do anything to him, and he wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop it, would probably deserve it, but it would hurt and couldn’t they have just let him discorporate--

The low, calm voice that had been rumbling in the background paused for a moment, and then they were moving again, his nausea growing as everything moved too fast around him, like a car someone else was driving but a hundred times worse.

And then, abruptly, there was solid ground under his feet again. The hand opened around him.

Virgil dropped to his hands and knees immediately, pressing his forehead against the table to both quell his dizziness and find something to ground himself. He was hyperaware of the warmth emanating from the hand that still bracketed him on one side, like a shield or a threat.

The Side was still talking, though Virgil still couldn’t quite parse the words. Despite his incoherence, the hand didn’t even twitch, no underlying threat to whatever it was they were saying to him. His breathing settled a bit despite himself. The implied promise that they weren’t going to outright attack him shouldn’t have been so reassuring, but it was.

His head slightly clearer, he slowly pushed himself back up to sit back on his heels, looking up to see who had found him.

It was undoubtedly Logan, though he’d never seen those glasses and tie at such a warped scale before. He could have figured it out earlier, if he’d just been listening; neither Roman nor Patton tended to be so carefully enunciated with their words.

Logan’s words, right. He was counting, which confused Virgil for a moment-- was this an experiment? Something to see how long the local idiot spent caught up in a panic attack when he was supposed to be a survival instinct-- until he caught on to the way Logan’s chest rose and fell along with the numbers. A breathing exercise.

He was kind of surprised, in that pleasant ‘pessimist-proven-wrong’ sort of way, but it figured that the Sides up here would offer even their captive literal time to breathe. He let himself follow along with the pattern for a few more moments before clearing his throat roughly and forcing himself to speak.

“Hey.”

Logan paused, looking down at him. “Hello.”

There was a short, slightly awkward pause, in which Logan seemed to flounder while Virgil refused to apologize for being kidnapped and reduced to doll size, even if he’d just had a completely image-ruining breakdown over it.

“Are you alright?” Logan finally settled on, his gaze piercing as it swept over him as though searching for injuries. “I apologize for not warning you, but I needed to stop you from recklessly endangering yourself. I didn’t intend for my actions to trigger a panic attack.”

“Yeah, who would freak out over some little old thing like being picked up by a giant hand,” Virgil snapped back sharply, his sarcasm coming out a little less biting than usual after such a draining attack. “It’s not like I’m the embodiment of Anxiety or anything.”

“You are Anxiety, though.” Logan shifted, the motion jarring his hand slightly, and Virgil barely managed to contain his flinch. “And as such, I’m surprised that you would entertain the idea of unnecessarily trying to fling yourself off of a considerable height at your size.”

Virgil squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “Unnecessarily?”

“Clearly? I cannot imagine why your first solution would be to attempt something so risky, though it’s possible I’m missing some vital context,” Logan replied, his face scrunching up slightly in confusion. “Perhaps the others--,” he lifted a hand.

“Wait!” A surge of panic forced Virgil to his feet, but it was too late. The summons registered, and Creativity and Morality wasted virtually no time in rising up, both of them instantly looking to him instead of Logan.

“Anxiety!” they both cried, and they didn’t sound mad, but that didn’t really mean anything, did it?

They crowded forward, and Virgil couldn’t keep himself rigid this time, his whole body jerking back and bumping into Logan’s hand.The mixed signals-- hide versus get away-- left him frozen, cowering under that pitiful defense.

“Anxiety?” Patton tried, and the concern in his voice was enough to convince him to look up and meet the other Side’s gaze. “Are you okay, kiddo?”

“I’m stuck in a room with three giants, what do you think?” he spat automatically, his shoulders hunching up like they could protect him.

Patton’s mouth twisted in a sympathetic sort of way, and he moved to sit, scrunching his body down slightly so that he was more-or-less level with the table. “It’s all kind of overwhelming, huh?”

With a simple glance from the moral Side, Roman followed suit and Logan settled back on his heels, having already been kneeling. Virgil stared between the three of them, his skin prickling with nerves.

Behind him, Logan’s hand moved. Virgil immediately crouched, ducking his head down and lifting his arms in an ineffective attempt to ward off whatever was happening. There was a beat of silence, and when he glanced up, he found that Logan had simply retracted his hand, apparently convinced that Virgil wasn’t planning on a repeat of his escape attempt. Or that the three huge Sides surrounding Anxiety was enough of a cage in itself.

“We’re not going to hurt you, Jack and the Beanstalker,” Roman lied, doing an impressive job of sounding confused and harmless. “You’re not in the Subconscious anymore.”

A bitter laugh bubbled up in Virgil, one that he didn’t bother to stifle. “Yeah, right. I’m not an idiot, Princey. Remus got you all twisted up over what he did and I was an asshole and now you’re paying the favor forward, I get it. You don’t have to lie about it.”

The three of them exchanged complicated glances, ones that admittedly looked more upset and horrified than conspiring, but Virgil refused to buy the act.

“We’re not lying to you!” Roman insisted, making Virgil scoff. Patton’s face started to take on that kicked-puppy cast, and Virgil averted his gaze, feeling hot anger bubble up in him at Patton’s involvement. How was any of this right and moral?

“I live with Deceit, you’re not going to fool me. Just get whatever you’re going to do to me over with,” he forced out, grimacing when his voice wobbled slightly at the end.

“Anxiety.” Logan leaned forwards, meeting his gaze with utmost seriousness. “Perhaps it will help if you understand our motives for your current state. Can you tell me how much you remember from our escape?”

“Remus found us and turned me into a pincushion,” Virgil deadpanned, a hand moving to settle over his gut. He knew now that he probably hadn’t discorporated, but he could still barely believe that there was no pain there. Core Sides could just do that? “And then you three decided to turn me pincushion-sized, I guess. How is that not revenge?”

“It was to save your life!” Roman cried dramatically, looking very put-out. “And to keep you from going back to the Subconscious and my brother, y’know, the guy who was tormenting us for fun!”

“To save my-- we can’t die!” Virgil snarled, pushing his complex feelings about Remus down in favor of twisting the fabric of his hoodie in his hands. “You trapped me up here, no room, no powers, no height, and you expected me to be grateful?!”

“We weren’t trying to trap you,” Patton interjected, looking between him and Roman worriedly. “And we aren’t going to hurt you, I promise.”

Roman, who had drawn himself up in outraged offense, visibly deflated. “Patton’s right. You know he wouldn’t lie to you about something like this.”

Virgil hesitated despite himself.

“The problem of your current stature is one that we know how to fix,” Logan took the opportunity to add, fiddling with his tie. “Once you summon your room to this level of the mind, you will be able to find security and power within it, and we won’t bother you while you recover your lost energy.”

“Woah, woah,” Virgil held his hands up to stall further explanation, feeling thrown off. “Who said anything about putting my room up here?”

Roman raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “What, you want to be that size around a vengeful Remus?”

“I wouldn’t be this size if you hadn’t meddled!” Virgil snapped, scowling fiercely

“We weren’t going to just let you die,” Patton burst out, looking downright distraught. “You saved us. You didn’t want to rise up and you knew it would make your friends upset, but you did it anyhow. It wouldn’t be right, to just… not try to save you back!”

Virgil gaped for a moment, his next prepared retort completely upended. “No, I… that’s my job. Of course I did that. You don’t owe me for it.”

“Anxiety, Roman prevented your discorporation because he wanted to help you. Not to repay a perceived debt,” Logan informed him, his words stiff but genuine.

Roman shot Logan a look, heaving a dramatic sigh before turning back to Virgil. “All of us wanted to help, Gloomy B. Jones. Who wouldn’t choose to revive a party member who nearly perished heroically on a quest?”

In what universe was Roman calling him a hero? Inside his hoodie pocket, Virgil pinched himself, his confusion rising when everything refused to turn out to be a dream. Even a terrible plot twist like that would be more understandable to him than whatever was happening right now.

For that matter, they couldn’t really be implying what he thought they were implying.

“You really want me to pull my room up here. And be a… a core Side.”

Looking from face to face, he found no trace of anger or mockery, only earnestness. A genuine offer. He shook his head, his heart somehow racing even harder.

“What about when I have to do the other part of my job? The part you guys all hate me for?” he reminded them harshly. “I bet you won’t be so keen on my presence then.” He could easily imagine how well that would go over. Could a Side be cast out from both parts of the mind?

Patton shuffled forward a bit, his hands flapping like he wanted to reach out reassuringly but knew that Virgil would absolutely lose his shit if he even tried. “It’s like you said, kiddo. You want to keep Thomas safe, and we want that, too!”

“You’ve more than proven yourself willing to compromise when it counts,” Logan said, and then added wryly, “Statistically, the three of us already spend a fair amount of our time arguing before we come to a decision anyways.”

“Seriously?” Virgil asked, and Logan gestured to the necktie emphatically.

“That’s right! You may be as contrary as your jittery little heart desires, and you’ll still be in excellent company,” Roman piped up, gesturing to himself magnanimously. After a moment, he let the posturing fade into something more serious. “Anxiety, we don’t have to agree on everything for you to deserve better. Won’t you at least give us a chance?”

Virgil scrubbed his hands through his hair roughly, turning away despite his misgivings. Apart from that first incident with Logan, they hadn’t grabbed him, hadn’t even touched him despite knowing that he couldn’t do anything to stop them. At some point between that first disastrous meeting and now, they’d stopped treating him like an enemy.

He’d have to go back down there and explain at some point, but he couldn’t deny that the idea of not being repressed was one that seemed almost too good to be true. Deceit wouldn’t be happy, but maybe this would be the proof they all needed, that separating the Sides and hiding some of them from Thomas wasn’t working as well as they pretended it did.

It could be an opportunity. It could be… good.

“Alright,” he said, turning back to where they’d all been waiting, “I’ll pull my room up. I’ll-- I’ll try. That’s the best you’re going to get.”

And as the others cheered or smiled victoriously, he felt like maybe it was worth a shot after all.

[kaisa-ryo]

Attention deficit (pt. 1)

jujutsu kaisen

Characters: Itadori Yuji, Satoru Gojo, Megumi Fushiguro, Inumaki Toge, Sukuna Ryōmen, Nanami Kento, Suguru Geto

Warning: English isn't my native language!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*

Itadori Yuji

Itadori in this situation acts, oddly enough, completely primitive. The less attention he sees from you, the more he tries to get him back. In other circumstances, this might even seem exaggerated, but here and now this is the most critical moment. What does he do? Yes, everything in a row: drops the book, turns its pages, rummages in the bag, humming softly to himself, and so on ... And all this continues until it comes to stroking the hips and lightly squeezing one palm, while the other rewrites the abstract ...

- I miss the old y/n. - he gives out with sadness in his eyes.

At this moment, the game of interest begins: you feel how simultaneously there is a feeling of spontaneous and purposeful manipulation, how you are gently and imperceptibly pushed towards the long-awaited goal.

In such a situation, one could easily succumb, but you, resisting this, answer:

- Yuji, I'm very busy right now.

It would seem that a strong guy fights curses, trains with the strongest shamans, but with ordinary words it is so easy to break.

It's hard for you to realize that right now he is depressed because of you. It's unusual to see a sad Yuji almost always smiling and making others do the same. Especially you.

And so you compromise, intertwining your fingers, frowning slightly and pretending to listen to something inside yourself ... After that, Yuji remains in this position for a long time, as if afraid to frighten you off, because now such closeness between you is too valuable to miss out.

Satoru Gojo

It turns out that sometimes even acting like a fool doesn't help you pay attention to Gojo. First, the way you constantly focus on the same thing, so that the words in your speech get confused, takes on a comic character, and he comes to the idea that, for no reason, for no reason, you decided that work is more important to you than himself. Then you stop paying attention to him altogether. You no longer look at him from under your brows, do not frown at the idiotic jokes with which he is trying to distract you, as it was yesterday. Satoru notices that you are much smaller. He is puzzled and even confused. Finally, it occurs to him that you just have nothing to do, and comes up with the craziest idea to entertain you.

- What are you doing? - a voice of a man sounded nearby, who had been watching you with interest for some time.

There was no answer. However, it is not surprising.

- Okay, okay, you don't have to answer... - He looked away.

This was his usual technique. After asking several meaningless questions, he suddenly fell silent, as if giving you the opportunity to think over the answer properly, and he himself imperceptibly removed, leaving you in complete confusion. But this time, due to the circumstances, the technique had to be slightly changed.

In the next moment, he was already pressing you to him and, taking advantage of this, with his other hand began to explore the curves of your body. The reaction was as if you were doused with boiling water or doused with cold water.

- What are you doing? - You asked in a trembling voice.

- Checking to see if you got fat after we lost sex. - still clinging to you, he answered. You were taken aback and began to push him away from you.

- I have not grown fat, let me go! You barked, feeling his arms tighten. - Let go! Fool! Let go!

Hands rested on your back, and he began to rock you slowly, stretching the moment when you finally stop resisting.

- It's okay, y/n. You just need to calm down. - he whispered, not hearing your words.

There is a mess in my head, the goal of your resistance has fled somewhere, and you start desperately hugging the man while he grins at the fact that he managed to do what he wanted.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi is not one of those who will behave like a child, attracting attention to herself when you do not even know the reason for her loss. He will speak to you as soon as he notices it.

- Do you want to talk about it?

You rub your eyes with fatigue, but you shouldn't ignore Fushiguro's question, because it concerns the two of you. No matter how serious his intentions are, he will always be there to remind you that you can talk to him about what worries you.

- I... will hardly give any good advice, but I will try to make it easier for you after the conversation. Megumi continues after a minute of your silence.

Even such a seemingly small detail as being able to talk to someone else significantly reduces stress and other not-so-good emotions. And the guy knows it.

- You can always count on my help. - already with a drop of confidence he says, and it's like the touch of a soft, pleasant hand on your shoulder. Of course, he does this primarily because he is worried, but this is only a secret cover for the fact that he is upset that you turned away from him, without noticing the real reason.

"Fushiguro, if I do this, I don't know... I... will feel like this..." The words elude you. It’s hard to even think about what you’ll say next.

The guy spreads his arms to give you room to hug and apologize, but you just put your head on his shoulder. You don't want to talk about anything else. The chest against which your head is pressed turns into a pillow. And then a quiet voice is heard:

- I'm not mad at you. You can stay here as long as you like.

But here you won't need anything as long as Fushiguro is around.

Inumaki Toge

Not surprisingly, the first thought that comes to him is "it's all because of the damned speech."

Does he talk to you too little? Maybe he is too quiet and invisible for you? Perhaps you are afraid that someday he will take control of you? From such questions echoing in my head, my jaws come together and a lump appears in my throat. But the worst thing is that Toge begins to doubt his right to meet with you, because he cannot even talk to you with dignity, as a person to a person. Even your sweet persistence, which sometimes breaks through the boundaries of ordinary attempts to turn the conversation back on track, does not help. As a result, when it comes to your attention deficit, he begins to think that all this time you did not notice him, as if he was one of those whom you forgot on the first day.

- Okaka? - the young man has been trying to attract your attention with his eyes for a long time, but it seems that even words cannot help.

- Sorry, Toge. I'm not in the mood today...

The guy was actually a perfectionist and would rather have your smile shine every day. I wish he could turn back time right now, scroll to the moment when something went wrong and fix it at any cost.

Inumaki tucked a lock of your hair behind his ear to see your face behind it. He knew you had flawless skin and plump, sensual lips. He would admire your face for hours.

The next second, the blond rested his head on your lap, looking into your eyes. You liked such cute things from him. They weren't vulgar or inappropriate. They were what she needed.

You smile faintly and stroke the hair on the back of his head, touching his cheek with your fingertips.

Sukuna Ryōmen

This is the case when Sukuna uses passive aggression. Slightly wrong, some small sign of ignorance - his speech turns into direct pressure on your relationship with him. He can really hurt you a lot if you don't appreciate his efforts to make you even a little happier. Most often they are small and insignificant, the kind that anyone would do, but for the King of Curses, this is really something grandiose. And since he has many ways to destroy your relationship, if you think he made a mistake, remember how it hurts him.

- Will you ignore me again? - Sukun asked with imperious anger, the last pieces of despair were dying in his soul. - And where is your mercy? If I have become disgusting to you, why do you continue to need me?

There was nothing to answer. It was not pride that tormented him at all, but an ever-deeper regret that with your equanimity you just caused another outbreak of rage in him. Most of all, the thought that you, perhaps, does not even notice it, and your eyes clouded with pain glide over something that is very dear to him, terrified him.

The dead silence continued, and my chest ached more and more. Then there was a soft groan:

- Y/n, I love you.

Tears ran down your cheeks, but did not brush them away with my hand. You knew it wasn't going to help. Bitter emotions generated by the word "love" are not able to be burned out on the face, like the sun on clay. You can't stop feeling. And all the same, looking at you was as painful as seeing your motionless glazed gaze.

He hugged you from the back as soon as he felt that you were repenting. Like the time you forgave him for calling you your own. He had strong hands - you can be sure. He was very gentle. You felt less pain. Maybe in the future it will be difficult for him to remember this, but now he tightly squeezed you in his arms and was so affectionate that you wanted him to never let you go.

Nanami Kento

He begins to suspect that something is wrong very early. First, morning kisses disappeared somewhere before leaving for work, then sincere conversations at the table, and then completely short meetings with glances. Moreover, the last remnants of intimacy are gone. Nanami began to think that something had happened to you. He always tried to protect you from any problems. And so you found yourself right in front of him, so closed and detached, he could not so easily take away the comfort and peace that he had been creating for so long and skillfully. And first of all, of course, he will lend you a helping hand to make it easier for you as quickly as possible.

A perplexed look will appear from under dark eyelashes after a man touches your forehead with his palm. It seems that the whole thing is not about health.

- You don't have a fever. He began.

- I know, thanks.

But Kento was clearly hinting at something.

- So what's up? - then you know what Nanami means. But she said nothing.

- Y/n, I do not want to impose anything on you, I just need to know what is happening to you so that our relationship with you does not suddenly go downhill.

The man took your hand and brought it to his lips. Nanami felt that if he said something now, he would commit tactlessness. And so he was silent, waiting for your answer.

- Sorry... - Tears began to burn my eyes. - I am very, very ashamed. I... it's just hard for me now, but it will pass by itself. I'm sure.

You pressed as tightly as possible to the man, hugged him and buried your face in the chest. He put his hand on your head encouragingly. I already didn't care about the problem as a whole. Now for you there was only what you felt - his soft stroking, the smell of a strong male body, warmth and care, and there was nothing but that.

Suguru Geto

He will take it calmly, without intention. But she won't ignore it. Often he will offer tea or something else, just to get at least one word out of you, in an attempt to bring you into conversation. He will not touch you without asking, because he knows about the value of personal space. And yet, for a while, it can fiddle with spontaneous statements in order to simply take away the soul and break a long silence.

- I see your day is going well... - Geto smiles with restraint. - Lots of news for me?

Guessing that he is once again trying to create a dialogue between you was almost nothing. But you are, of course, silent.

- I see. - Suguru sits down next to you, as close to your side as possible, not giving a damn if you don't like it.

- Maybe I offended you in some way? - he continues. - Or are you just not too open in your thoughts?

- Nothing. It's okay. - you throw.

- But it seems to me that no. - he takes your hand in his, as if trying to make you smile. “I think you have something to tell me, don’t you? He raises his eyebrows, expecting your reaction. Instead of answering, you grimace with a shrug. Suguru repeats the question:

- So what happened? Why don't you want to share your thoughts with me?

- What would you like? You ask. - Would you be happy to know that there is a perfect girl with great manners, beautiful and intelligent, whom you deserve?

To be honest, Suguru did not expect such an answer. You can see that he is a little dumbfounded, but quickly comes to his senses. And then he starts laughing - so sweet and sincere that you start to feel embarrassed and blush with shame.

- And I was already expecting something more terrible. He laughs. - Okay, be it your way. I'm not a particularly sentimental person. I do not know what to say.

- Tell me you feel terribly in love. - grabbing his wrist, you say.

The brunette makes a startled face again. But you do not retreat - you hold him for a few more seconds, forcing him to surrender. - Only from the bottom of my heart ...

- Y/n, I feel terribly in love with you and will never fall in love again next time. So? He asked, grinning.

Wiping away the tears of happiness, you hugged him without words, while he, hugging you with one hand, exhaled with relief.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*

[nightswithkookmin]

From Jimin: To the hyungs Jungkook is just my little brother...

I have no idea what that says. But if this is what he said, then definitely it leaves room for interpretation because it's an incomplete statement. You don't need to know the nuances of the language to understand that that statement is a sentence fragment that expresses an incomplete thought on the surface of it.

The omission of a second clause implies the opposite of what was said in the first. It's as simple as that.

The question anyone would ask upon hearing that is, so... he's more? Or, so he's not your little brother?

Makes sense...

But I've seen other translations such as, to the hyungs JK is like my little brother and in other instance, Jk is our little brother etc.

Makes you wonder if these interpretations took the context of the conversation into consideration or even why Jimin would make such a statement in the first place in their attempts to provide nuance.

"SUGA: Jungkook is good at everything

J-hope: Jungkook always surprises us. he changed his style recently!

Jimin: The hyungs all think he's like my actual little brother.

V: Jungkook is good at keeping his focus

JK: Everything about Jungkook is pretty!"

It's Jungkook from the members' lens.

When you interpret Jimin's bit within this context then it's more likely he is trying to highlight his dynamic with Jungkook more than anything, mainly to the effect that Jungkook is perhaps obedient, likeable, sweet, puppy etc.

Comparing Jungkook to his actual little brother is a compliment and perhaps has a much deeper meaning than mere friendships in my opinion. It shows just how close, more than co workers they are, how more than friends they are, how really close they are.

I don't know why shippers shy away from comparisons to family bond when in fact the bond of family is the greatest bond one could ever have.

BTS do have a habit of liking their bond to that of family- and they love to show that bond off.

It's interesting seeing Jikook through the lens of the members when most times the bond of those two are invalidated, watered down and downplayed.

Everyone would have us believe Jikook are sworn enemies from rival states. So however you wanna interpret what he said, there's value in taking things at face value. You don't need to do too too much with it to try to get its meaning across because then that would be analysis and analysis are always subjective and subject to our own confirmation biases.

To the hyungs, he's like my little brother, he is just my little brother, he's like our little brother- all have the same sentiment if taken from the perspective of that whatever JM said was intended as a compliment to Jungkook.

Perhaps Jungkook treats JM just like a younger brother would a Hyung- given the culture of respect between hyung/dongsaengs, given the way hyungs are expected to take care of their dongsaengs, given the emphasis BTS places on their bond, honorifics culture...

Perhaps he means, Jungkook treats me in such a way you'd think he were my actual younger brother- a theme which to me is in line with that whole Jimin treats me better than my own brother does or the numerous times he's compared him to his own brother or something along those lines.

They love eachother very much. Whether that is platonic or romantic is up for debate but I don't think after this anyone can invalidate their bond or gaslight is into thinking those two aren't close at all.

If the members see them as this close then it really puts an end to this whole Jungkook is uncomfortable with Jimin nonsense.

The busan bros, the busans, the sun and moon duo, the exceptionally close pair, the hyungs all think Jungkook is like my actual little brother etc

They all have a similar vibe to me.

I guess what I'm saying is, I don't care much about the nuances of the language in this context or in any context to be honest as the intention behind the text is pretty obvious💀

To me he is either providing the hyungs' perspective to affirm his dynamic with Jungkook or to affirm all that he's been saying of his dynamic with JK which is that JK is like a little brother to him just as he repeated in Festa.

To highlight and affirm their bond or to compliment Jungkook like the other's were in this instance.

This is the diagram some Karny drew to explain the nuances of the text.

And here I thought I was extra chilee.

I'm not mad at this. Love when a moment brings out the delulu in yall's eyes😭🤣🤣

I don't know why we are hung on Jimin's words out of all the statements that were made trying to dissect and over analyse it.

On one hand I feel some people are over sensationalizing while others are just plain invalidating Jikook's bonds- especially over something Jimin of all people would say.

He slick slick. I'll give him that. And he loves him some double entendres. But he's also usually the one to use dictum that makes it easier for his words and meaning to be translated- if they get translated. So it's fascinating to see the confusion his words are creating out in these streets. It really ain't that deep if you ask me chilee.

Alas, we are all adults and we all have different perspectives on these things. I'd say, find a source you trust based on their track record and stick with it. Do your own analysis or seek out others' perspectives on it. This is mine and how I take it- regardless of what any Karmy says😊

My delusions are mine and mine alone. No disrespect to Karmy. In fact, yall great people doing great holding it down for the gays🤭

Also disclaimer, I'm not a translator and any translation used here isn't mine.

In conclusion,

Hyuna screws her dongsaeng and Rain fucks his Noona. Dead that whole Jikook womb mates shit before I lay my paws on ya.

Please pls Jikook is louder than this🙄

Jeonlous counts. Keep your wokeness yo yourself please. You must be in the wrong industry if you think you have to live by a code of ethic in these ship streets.

There is no ethical nor moderate consumption of ships under shipping. There is nothing like ethical or moderate shipping for the holier than thou shippers in the back.

We all ghetto ma'am. You might as well go all out😴

My favorite line from their song though is when Hyuna sings, "I'm finna tell my father about us and pledge eternity to you. You have to be careful always though, there are lots of pretty girls out there. We have to tell the world, I can't share you with another girl."

Eventually they told the world🤭

Their careers suffered but they did it anyway.

Please no nondelusional, fake woke, moderate shipper person should tell it to me when I talk about Jungkook's frustration to come out with their relationship and come act like it's illogical hence implausible for him to want to come out etc😒

I like my delulu perspective better😌

Peace.

GOLDY