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ckret2 · 6 months ago

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Chapter 55 of human Bill Cipher finally having a little fun for the first time in over a month of captivity in the Mystery Shack:

Bill does his level best to teach Mabel everything he knows about everything as fast as possible (while Ford eavesdrops). In the process, he finally reveals something about his home dimension!

But not everything about his dimension.

"Did you have rainbows in Flatworld?" Mabel had started drawing her shapesona again at the bottom of a fresh piece of paper. The heart was holding out one hand with several strips of glue shooting in a beam out from the palm; Mabel started shaking glitter onto the glue strips to make them rainbow.

"Not natural ones."

"Awww!"

"We could make them with flashlights and prisms, though."

"That's something." Still, it wasn't as cool as a real rainbow. She started carefully drawing Bill floating above her shapesona. (She probably should have drawn him before she put down glitter. She had to push up her sleeve and lift her wrist to avoid smearing the glue.) "When's the first time you saw a real rainbow?"

Bill didn't answer.

Mabel glanced at him. He had a hard look in his eyes. "Bill?"

####

For the first time in his life, the triangle was up—up but not north—in space, in the third dimension, looking down but not south at the plane where he'd spent his entire existence. It shuddered and rippled and cracked, contracting, as the entire universe crunched together around him.

Great walls of pale blue flame half a googol light years wide erupted into third dimensional space, where stars were caught and crushed between the quickly collapsing cosmic tectonic plates. He hadn't known his flat universe had stars of its own.

His home world shattered and crumbled, shrapnel and rubble spraying out, stone instantly pulverized into dust. Distant oceans rode the waves of the convulsing universe, flinging billions of gallons of water into space in a fine thin spray, glittering in the sunlight.

As the triangle watched, a great flickering rainbow ring formed in front of the ejected ocean, like the hollow eye of a hostile god staring at him in judgment.

He stared back.

And he felt himself fill with more and more and more power.

####

"Bill?"

"Sorry, I was trying to remember!" Bill sat back, laced his hands behind his head, and shrugged, "It's not coming to me. But I'm sure it was after I took charge of Dimension Zero. From time to time planets with weather systems would fall in through a wormhole, I must've seen a rainbow on one of them!"

"Oh." The answer disappointed her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on why. She puzzled over it as she drew a fireball shape around Bill's hands in glue and shook on pale blue glitter.

Bill nodded at the page, "So what are we up to?"

"Fighting evil! With rainbow lasers and... whatever that magic fire thing you do is!"

"Hey, superheroes! Sounds fun. Who are we killing?"

"Superheroes don't kill people!"

"Fine. Who are we sending to the hospital with third degree burns?"

"I don't know, I haven't made up a villain yet." She almost asked Bill what kind of monsters existed in his world; but the question died in her throat. That might be too depressing a question. She added a heart-shaped glue outline around her shapesona and shook on a glitter rainbow, and set the picture aside to dry. She grabbed a fresh paper and tried to imagine what a two-dimensional butterfly would look like. Would it just have flat little stick wings since that was more aerodynamic? That sounded boring. She started drawing a two-dimensional squid instead.

Bill studied Mabel's latest finished work—the glitter-outlined heart, the glitter rainbow laser, the glitter fire, and the plain him. After a moment, he casually mentioned, "I used to wear body glitter."

She blinked at him. "What?"

"Earlier you asked me about glitter in my dimension," Bill said. "Body paint was makeup to us. I wore it when I went dancing."

"WHAT!"

"And I'd cut open glow sticks to paint my arms and legs!"

"What color glitter did you wear?!"

"Usually gold."

"What?! Bill!" Mabel laughed. "You're already yellow!"

"But I didn't glitter. That's important!"

"You're boring."

"Shut up! I was gorgeous and I knew it! Why mess with perfection?!" He gestured down at himself, perfection, as though he'd momentarily forgotten what body he was in. "Listen, club fashion gets repetitive. If you've seen one equilateral in cutesy primary color gradients, you've see 'em all. There's beauty in simplicity—not a lot of shapes can pull off a solid color with a little light highlighting and still look flashy!" He'd sat up straighter, chest puffed out proudly, as he talked about how pretty he thought he'd been. "Buuut sure, sometimes I highlighted my points for fun. And to keep from stabbing people—it's hard for other people to judge distances with strobe lights on."

"What colors."

"Usually red, blue, or purple. You know—nice contrasts with gold."

Mabel grabbed another paper and started drawing Bill dancing. He leaned closer, elbows on the table, watching with more interest now. Mabel asked, "You had clubs with strobe lights?"

"Of course we did, we aren't barbarians." Bill picked up yellow and black markers out of Mabel's supplies, leaned over to her drawing in progress, and started adding a decorative border around the nearest edge of the paper in dots and dashes.

"What kind of music did you listen to?"

"It was... It's closest to the music in— You've never been to that dimension. Well, it kind of sounds like... I'll never hit those notes with human vocal cords." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Hold on. Let me get Questiony's piano."

####

It turned out that Flatworld club music sounded kind of like a broken tornado siren.

"It doesn't sound very good on a human piano," Bill said, giving the electric piano balanced on his knees a disapproving look. "The intervals between notes are tuned wrong, it's about four octaves short, and it's missing that tympanic membrane shredding tremolo when the treble jumps."

Mabel regarded the piano with some dismay. "Do you know how to play anything else?"

Bill sighed.

He played "Don't Start Un-Believing" for her. He even did that cool thing where you drag a finger up half the keyboard at once.

####

By now, Bill seemed a lot happier to answer Mabel's questions about his world; but she quickly worked out which ones he'd actually give a direct answer. He was the most free with science-y questions, hit or miss on the fun cultural questions, and instantly evasive when asked about his own life or uncomfortable political issues.

When she asked if shapes and their houses just kinda floated unattached to anything because they didn't have a home planet, Bill said they did have a home planet—hundreds of miles below, marking south by its gravitational pull—and they lived in the sky in between their planet and its rings. When she asked what kind of clothing they wore, Bill said they usually didn't wear anything, unless it was for practical purposes (gloves for gardening; goggles for chemistry; elbow-, knee-, and corner-pads for spelunking), and when she asked about his top hat he said slyly, "You mean my telescope?" and gleefully refused to explain further.

But when she asked if it was true that equilateral triangles were the lowest rung you could stand on before getting knocked off the social ladder altogether, Bill said that was a pretty rude question to ask a triangle. And then he said his world didn't have ladders.

When he casually let slip that he'd been able to see the third dimension when nobody else could, she asked how that was possible. He'd paused, looked up from his seventh completely incomprehensible drawing of an animal (she'd asked him whether Flatworlders had pets), and, with an eager gleam in his eye, he asked, "How much time do you have?"

####

Ford heard Bill's voice the moment he opened the door—"All right, star girl, pop quiz, let's see how much of that you kept in your noggin."

"Oh, I'm so ready!"

Baffled, Ford leaned in the living room doorway. The room was absolutely plastered in crayon-covered papers—illustrations, lists, mathematical and scientific diagrams—stars, cells, planets, vehicles. At the moment Bill was pointing at six papers taped together with a diagram on them that Ford thought was a Punnett square that had been expanded into a four-dimensional tessaract. "A polygon's sides are determined by...?"

"Genetic inheritance!" Mabel announced, the proud student who knew all the answers. "You have however many sides your parents have genes for!"

"And the idea that polygons increase by one side each generation...?"

"Is propaganda! Because if everybody hides their kids without enough sides, and they only talk about the kids that did go up a side, it makes everyone think that's what always happens and their family is the only one that's failing!"

"Perfect! And the highest natural amount of sides a shape can have?"

"Twelve! Decadoggins!"

"Close enough, dodecagons! But this isn't Greek class, I'll give you full points. So, any shapes with more sides than that got them through—?"

"Random mutation!"

"Correctamundo! Meaning the only way to get shapes with hundreds of sides is..."

"Crazy bonkers inbreeding! Because the same rich families just keep marrying each other!"

"With consequences including—?"

"Um..." Mabel puffed out her cheeks as she thought. "Skeletons getting all crackly, having a hard time making babies, and high—uh—infant morality!"

"Mortality."

"Lots of dead babies."

"Yes! And remember: when a mutation makes a body produce so much more of something than it needs that it starts harming the body, that's called...?"

"Cancer!"

"Meaning circles are...?"

"Tumors!"

"And what do we do with tumors?"

"EXECUTE THEM!"

"YES!" Bill ripped the Punnett tesseract off the wall. Behind it was a piece of paper that read, in blood red crayon, ANTI-MONARCHIST ANARCISM. "You're ready to man the guillotines! A+, star girl! Give yourself another sticker!"

"Yes!" Mabel peeled a sparkly purple star off a sticker sheet and stuck it on her cheek. Her face had over twenty star stickers.

Ford leaned against the living room doorframe, watching the scene inside with wonder. He was more than a little iffy about the political lesson—he, personally, was incredibly opposed to the idea that it was morally imperative to execute anybody with extra body parts, nobility or not—but the presentation of it was certainly captivating. It had been a long time since Ford had seen Bill like this. (It had been a long time since Ford would have trusted any lesson out of Bill's mouth.)

"Now let's get back to biangles." Bill picked up a fake crystal ball that he'd drawn various lines and shapes on with a marker.

"Awww, again?!"

"Hey. Listen," he said firmly. "I believe in you. You'll get it this time, I know it."

Ford looked around the room, taking in the scene more fully. The floor was scattered with drawings of aliens. A few of them were various polygons—regular and irregular, with the irregularities further broken down by whether they otherwise showed radial or lateral symmetry—each with thin limbs and an eye on a corner. Most were fantastical alien animals, a few that Ford had seen or been warned about on other worlds. Some had been scribbled out and redrawn when Bill's limited artistic capabilities didn't live up to his unknown standards; a few were in Mabel's art style, meaning Bill must have described them to her while she drew.

Twenty pieces of paper had been taped together on the wall behind the TV, with a drawing of a planet surrounded by a circular ring of small blobs—a planetary ring?—and a moon further out. The empty atmosphere between the planet and the ring was filled with squares and rectangles, which were grouped together in red blobby circles that were each labeled by letter: "Country △," "Country B," "Country C," "Country D (communists)," etc. A badly-drawn sea serpent slithered along the outside of the ring with the words "Here There Be Monsters" written over it.

A tall column of taped together papers was covered in examples of alien writing systems—some of them Ford recognized from his travels through other dimensions. From the ones he understood, it looked like the words were demonstrations of Mabel's name in dozens of alien writing systems. Sometimes Bill spelled her name Maybell or Mabelle.

And there were so many papers scattered around the room with little graphs and symbols and arrows Ford couldn't make sense of. And in the center of it all, Bill, alive, energetic, his full attention enthusiastically focused on his student.

Bill had to be up to something; but Ford couldn't imagine what, based on the bizarre assemblage of information in front of him. What nefarious purpose could be behind showing Mabel how to spell her name in alien languages? Unless his goal was to so enchant her with tales of other worlds that he could persuade her to help him open a new portal...? No, even for Bill that felt like a stretch.

He looked at the wall again. Surely, that wasn't Bill's homeworld. Ford had spent years of his life trying to find the world Bill was from; surely Bill hadn't just drawn it in the middle of Ford's living room. Had he?

"Okay, let's start with spherical geometry from the top," Bill said, polishing the crystal ball on his leggings to rub off the marker lines. "Don't tell anyone I can do this." He held up the ball, tapped it twice on the bottom, and it hovered in place when he let it go, freeing up both his hands to hold a ruler and marker. (How long had he been able to do that? Had he even noticed Ford was standing right outside?) He drew a line across the surface of the ball, "Pretend it's a planet. If you draw a line on a sphere, it's obviously curved, right?"

"Right," Mabel said.

"But now pretend you're on the planet. The surface of the world is a flat plane to you. From your perspective, you can walk in a straight line from point A to point B."

"But it's actually a curve. From space."

"Now you're catching on. That's what makes spherical geometry a little weird: when you're on the sphere you treat everything around you like it's 2D even though when you're off the sphere you can see it's 3D." Why in the world was Bill teaching Mabel about spherical geometry?

Bill drew two more lines to connect to the first. "So! You can draw a triangle on a sphere, no problem, right?"

"Right."

"And something you can only do in spherical geometry... is... pretend this is the North Pole and the South Pole..." Bill carefully rotated the ball under his marker as he drew a straight line from one "pole" to the other, and then drew a second straight line from pole to pole next to it. "Ta-da! If a tri-angle has three angles, a bi-angle has two angles. You've got yourself a two-sided polygon. Right?"

Mabel hesitated. "Right."

"You with me so far, Shooting Star?"

"So far," she said, with a tone that suggested she expected that to change very soon.

"But if you try to transfer that shape from spherical geometry to Euclidean geometry—" Bill turned to an expanse of still partially-uncovered white papers taped to the wall like a makeshift whiteboard, drew two points, and drew two straight lines, red and blue, between the points, "—it just doesn't work. You can't see a biangle in a flat world."

And now Mabel was squinting suspiciously at him.

Bill said, "I lost you."

"But where does it go!"

Bill shrugged. "You lost it when you lost the third dimension."

"But you said when you're on the sphere it's two dimensional!"

"From your perspective it's two dimensional, but there's still a third dimension enabling the sphere to exist."

"Then from my perspective when I'm on the planet shouldn't a biangle look like that?" Mabel pointed at the two straight lines on the piece of paper. "Since everything looks all 2D to me? But it doesn't! It's like flying from the North Pole to the South Pole through America and then flying back through China! China and America don't just squish together into the same place just because you're going in a straight line on a sphere!"

"I'd kill to hear you give a geography lesson to a Flat Earther convention."

Mabel gave him her best angry scowl.

"It was a compliment! I think you'd inspire some hilarious arguments, that's all!" Bill put two dots on the paper and offered Mabel the marker. "Look, try it for yourself! Draw a biangle."

Mabel took the marker and, after a moment of thought, drew two curved lines between the points, making a football shape.

"Those aren't straight lines, kid."

"Argh!" Mabel pulled the paper off the wallpaper, bent it into a curve, and shakily drew a straight line between the two points; but no matter how else she twisted or bent the paper, she couldn't find a path that would let her draw a second straight line between the points without overlapping the first line she'd drawn. She crumpled the paper, tossed it on the floor, and whispered, "It's witchcraft, Bill."

He burst out laughing. "I could name a few horror writers that felt the same way about non-Euclidean geometry."

"But whyyy does the biangle disappear when it goes from a sphere to normal flat paper."

"Because..." Bill groped for an explanation he hadn't already tried. He crossed an arm across his chest and tapped a knuckle just under the bow tied in his hoodie's draw strings the way some humans might tap a hand to their chin, his eyes narrowed in thought. How many times had Ford seen him make that exact same face in his true triangular form, whenever Ford was struggling to understand a lesson on portal physics and Bill was struggling to find a way to translate it into concepts Ford had encountered in his human education? "Let's try this another way."

The scene made Ford ache.

Look past the paper and the crayons, and the graph- and figure- and writing-covered walls looked so much like the advanced physics lessons and blueprints that Bill had coated Ford's starry blue dreamscape in during his sleep. Look past the flesh and bone, and Bill moved and gestured and spoke the way he had when he was teaching Ford how to build a bridge between worlds.

It was the first time since Bill's death that Ford had seen 100% of his personality shining—unhindered by grief, secrets, or a disdainful human audience. It was the first time in decades that Ford had seen Bill at his best.

In that moment, for a split second, Ford forgot how to hate Bill. He couldn't see Bill the traitor, Bill the invader, Bill the homicidal party animal. The only person in that room with Mabel was Bill Cipher the Teacher, Mentor, and Muse that Ford used to know so long ago. Like an ancient god who'd chosen to spend a day roleplaying as a giddy professor—Bill was holding back a tsunami's worth of vast, ancient, unintelligible alien knowledge so that he could drip out revelations at a faucet's pace, slow enough for his student to catch each drop in her hands.

Over thirty years ago, there had been moments when this Bill peeked out behind the above-it-all façade—and that had been the Bill that Ford was happiest to see, the Bill that Ford had thought of as a friend rather than a mere teacher... but each time, it hadn't been long before Bill seemly caught himself and turned off the faucet for the night.

Because he couldn't let Ford learn too much, or he would have seen through Bill's ruse.

Hatred tiredly crept back in.

"I've got it!" Mabel triumphantly flung her hands in the air. "It's like orange slices!"

"Orange slices?" Bill repeated.

"Be right back!" Mabel zoomed to the kitchen, shouting, "Hi Grunkle Ford!" as she passed.

Ford watched her go, then looked back at Bill; Bill had glanced at him for the first time. But all he did was frown and mutter, "I don't remember inviting you to audit this course."

Before Ford could decide whether to retort, Mabel charged back into the living room with an orange and a sharp knife. "Okay! If you draw a triangle on the orange," Mabel said, doing so with a marker, before cutting into it with the knife, "and then you—you cut it out all the way to the center..."

"Be careful with that," Ford said. Mabel was holding the orange in one palm and stabbing into it from the opposite side.

Bill said, "Lay off, Six Fingers. I'm keeping my eye on her, she's not gonna hurt herself."

"I'm being careful!" Mabel was struggling to get an even wedge cut all the way to the center of the orange; she eventually gave up and dug into the orange with her fingertips to tug out a messy mangled handful of fruit, attached to a roughly equilateral patch of orange peel about two inches to each side. She shook orange juice off her fingers. "Pretend I cut that out better."

"I dunno what you're talking about," Bill said. "It looks flawless."

She pointed at each corner of the peel triangle. "Okay so, these are the three corners of the spherical triangle, right?"

"Right."

"And if you want to make a regular flat triangle, you can... try to cut a straight line between the corners, like..." She squeezed the rest of the orange between her knees, held the edges of the triangular peel with her fingertips, and sawed off the orange pulp underneath, trying to cut a flat level plane as near to the triangle's corners as she could. Ford almost warned Mabel about the knife again, but glanced at Bill's face and his expression of unworried, keen curiosity, and kept quiet. Bill reached out and caught the sawed-off chunk of orange pulp before it hit the ground.

Mabel held out the peel slice. "There! Right? Spherical triangle on top and flat triangle on the bottom!"

Bill considered that, one hand on his hip. He popped the orange chunk in his mouth. "All right. So far so good."

"But if you make a biangle..." Mabel drew two lines between the top and bottom of the remaining orange, and cut a wedge free. "There isn't anything extra to cut off to let you make a flat shape. There's just a straight line between the two points!"

"Ha! Okay, all right, that works! Brilliant! What do you need me for? You just taught yourself the whole lesson!" Bill ruffled her hair so enthusiastically that he knocked her headband askew.

She shoved him away, laughing, and straightened out her headband. "Bill!"

"What did I say! Didn't I tell you you'd get it?" Bill was beaming at her, impressed, delighted, proud. "Congratulations, you've just mastered college-level geometry."

"Wh—What? Are you serious? This is college stuff?" She shook her head. "No way, you're lying."

Bill pointed at Ford without looking at him. "Tell her."

He felt a little like a dog being commanded to bark; but he said, "He's right. I didn't start studying spherical geometry until my second semester in college." He was sure he could have studied it sooner, if his high school had offered it; and he doubted Mabel had absorbed an entire semester's worth of spherical geometry; but he didn't see any reason to point any of that out when Mabel's face lit up in excitement.

Bill said, "There you have it! Way to go, star girl! Two big stickers."

"YES!" Mabel peeled off two jumbo-sized star stickers with smiley faces and stuck them onto her earrings. "So does that make a biangle a girl or a boy?"

And Ford was immediately lost again.

"No," Bill said.

Mabel sighed loudly and tried again. "Does that make a biangle a line or a polygon?"

"Still no, but for a different reason. Externally, they look like lines to anyone who isn't psychic. Internally, their anatomy usually functions like a polygon's. But socially, you've gotta ask. Some of 'em consider themselves lines, some polygons, some claim biangularity is neither linear nor polygonal. Personally, I say they're whatever they say they are. Because," he said grandly, "I'm just that open-minded and accepting."

Ford stifled a derisive snort. But Bill's self-aggrandizing aside, Ford's mind was reeling trying to keep up—spherical geometry, the (gendered?) socialization of shapes, Flatworlder anatomy—what did psychics have to do with anything? Ford's fingers itched for a pen. He wished he had his journal with him.

Bill grabbed several papers off the floor and the floating crystal ball and climbed on top of the wooden TV cabinet. He left the ball hovering behind him seven feet up in the air, tossed aside several papers he'd already used both sides of to let them flutter back to the floor, and taped the rest to the wall with their blank backsides turned out. "Now back to remote viewing." He drew a grid in blue lines on the papers, said, "Toss me that triangle wedge," used a marker to draw an eye on the triangular orange peel, tapped it twice like he had the crystal ball, and stuck it against the grid, where it sat unmoving.

And the entire time, Ford watched with his arms crossed tightly.

Almost a month ago, Bill had given Ford his manipulative trap of a birthday gift, a miniature grimoire, five pieces of paper, margins filled, two rows of text per line, packed with as diverse an array of magical spells and occult knowledge as Bill could fit. It wasn't a gift, it was a boast and a taunt: look at everything I know that you don't; look at what I could teach you if you let me live.

It was something Bill could have given him all along—effortlessly, with no cost to himself—but didn't, until Bill wanted something from him.

On his birthday, Ford had wondered, furiously: when this was what Bill could have been—gift-giver, wish-granter, teacher, guide, friend—why did he choose not to be?! It was an internal scream of rage, the howl of a wounded victim at the condemned criminal as he was marched to the gallows: you monster, you monster, you monster, when it would have been so easy for you to be something better, why instead are you a liar, manipulator, torturer, murderer, life-ruiner, world-ender? Answer for yourself: why are you this instead of someone better? How dare you?

It had made Ford want him dead even more.

This was the exact opposite of the grimoire.

The question in Ford's head wasn't a scream of rage anymore. It was grief. It was a plea. It was one last desperate attempt to understand:

Instead of being who he was, why couldn't Bill have been this person? This charismatic, energetic, ecstatic muse who ruled like a king over a classroom he'd constructed himself, eager to share a trillion years of collected wisdom with a fragile mortal mind, lighting up with joy whenever she grasped something that was trivially simple to him? This guide to the vast wonders beyond Earth, competent and encouraging and funny, delighting in the weirdness of the wide wide universe? The Bill that Ford had once liked so much—the Bill that he'd called his friend?

"Okay," Bill said, all sunshine and excitement, "Back to how to view the third dimension from the second dimension—"

Mabel said, "Can you view the fourth dimension from the third?"

Bill hesitated a split second, but said, "Sure! You can view any dimension from any dimension! You've just gotta bend your eye the right way to see higher ones!"

"What does the fourth dimension look like?"

"Well—hm. Imagine the way that the third dimension looks different from the second, and that's the way the fourth dimension looks different from the third."

Mabel stared at Bill.

"Eddie wrote an entire book about a square meeting a sphere because that was the closest he could get to telling other humans what seeing the fourth dimension is like! If I could still visit dreams, I could just show you, but..."

"Isn't the fourth dimension time? Blendo showed us the time stream! Is that what it looks like?"

"Nnn—close! You're close. The fourth dimension isn't time, but time is in the fourth dimension."

"How's that different."

Bill pointed at the floor. "If the carpet's the second dimension and the lamp's shining on it, the third dimension isn't light, but light is in the third dimension."

"Ohhh." Mabel gasped. "That's why you called some weird thing flying around in a higher dimension an eclipse! Because eclipses were in a higher dimension in Flatworld!"

Bill's face lit up in surprised delight. "All right, skip three lessons ahead, why don't you! In a week's time you'll be teaching people how my dimension works." He turned back to his papers and started drawing a branching river. "So! That time stream you saw isn't time itself! It's a visual metaphor being generated so humans can see time too—sort of a hologram projecting from the fourth dimension into the third—have I explained that the universe is a hologram yet—"

Why weren't you this person, Ford wondered. Why did you choose not to be this person? When it was so easy for you to be this? When this made you happy, too?

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why are you only like this now, when you're about to die?

####

(Hope y'all enjoyed Infodump: The Chapter. This is one of those chapters with something hidden in it that'll unravel the whole fic if you happen to find it, so have fun searching for that. Let me know what you thought of this week's chapter! And get excited—we've got Big Things coming up... soon.)

#bill cipher #human bill cipher #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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diamonddaze01 · 1 month ago

Note

69. "You know my name?" + chan omg im begging u or ill beat u to it and write it (lol stares at all my wips 💀)

call me by my name

Pairing: lc x f!reader | wc: 971 words prompt: "You know my name?" au: university au! | warnings: none a/n: HANEULLLLL thank u for the ask this was so cute and fun to write i hope you love it <33333

The lecture hall buzzed with the usual pre-class noise—pens tapping against desks, chairs creaking as students settled in, snippets of conversation floating from every direction. The air carried a faint hum of fluorescent lights, blending into the background chaos. You sat at your usual spot in the front row, pen poised and ready, eyes skimming the lecture notes you’d pulled up on your laptop.

Behind you, it was less preparation and more pandemonium.

“Seungkwan, what the fuck! Stop throwing shit at me!”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Soonyoung. His voice carried, loud and incredulous as always.

“That’s not throwing—it’s called handing,” Seungkwan shot back, his words dripping with mock seriousness. “Get some spatial awareness, idiot.”

The sound of a paper airplane slicing through the air followed, landing somewhere near your seat. You glanced down briefly at the crumpled attempt at aerodynamics before looking back at your notes.

“Is that supposed to be a plane or modern art?” another voice chimed in—Chan this time, laughter in his tone.

Turning your head slightly, you caught sight of the trio in their usual seats toward the back. Soonyoung had crossed his arms, glaring at the offending paper in Chan’s hand. Seungkwan was smirking triumphantly, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.

“Give it here,” Chan said, snatching the airplane and inspecting it with exaggerated care. “Yeah, no. This isn’t a plane. This is, like… a bird that forgot how to fly.”

The paper flew again—this time courtesy of Chan—and barely made it past the second row before nose-diving onto the floor. The resulting laughter spread like wildfire across the room, even prompting a raised eyebrow from Professor Lee, who was just arriving.

“If the three of you could channel even half this energy into engineering,” the professor said, setting down his coffee with a thud, “you might actually pass this class.”

A round of chuckles rippled through the room as Chan held up his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll consider it!”

You shook your head, letting the familiar chaos wash over you. It had been like this all semester—Chan, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung acting as the unofficial class entertainment. Their antics had a way of filling the space, loud enough to distract but not enough to pull you from your work.

Professor Lee called the class to order, his voice steady as he launched into announcements. You settled in, fingers flying over your keyboard as you took notes.

Until he dropped the bomb.

“Alright, folks, listen up,” Professor Lee announced, raising his voice over the chatter. “Big news today—it’s time to kick off your group projects.”

Groans and murmurs spread through the room like wildfire. People immediately started swiveling in their seats, calling out to friends to lock in their groups before anyone got left behind.

You stayed put, as you always did. You’d learned from experience—being the quiet one meant waiting out the storm. Once the dust settled, you’d deal with whatever scraps of a team were left.

“The project is worth thirty percent of your grade,” Professor Lee continued, adjusting his glasses. “So choose wisely.”

“Thirty percent?” someone whispered behind you.

“Yeah, that’s fucked,” another voice muttered.

You ignored them, jotting down the project details from the board. If no one picked you, you’d just work alone—it wasn’t ideal, but you’d survive. Your eyes flicked back to your laptop, but before you could even finish writing down the assignment details, a shadow fell over your desk. You blinked up, startled, only to see Chan grinning down at you, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket.

“Uh, hi?” you said cautiously.

“Wanna be in a group with me and my friends?” He jerked his thumb toward Seungkwan and Soonyoung, who were mid-wrestle over a pencil in the back corner of the room.

Your pen froze mid-word. “You… know my name?”

Chan tilted his head like you’d just asked him if the sky was blue. “Uh, yeah? Considering you’re the one who ruins the curve every time… yes, I know your name.”

Oh.

“But also,” he continued, “you clearly know what you’re doing, and we’d be stupid not to team up with you.”

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting for a moment. “Okay.”

His grin widened, and he gestured for you to follow him.

By the time you reached Seungkwan and Soonyoung, they’d paused their argument and were now watching you with matching mischievous smirks.

“So,” Seungkwan said, leaning closer to Chan, “you actually got her to join us, huh?”

“Guess today’s my lucky day,” Chan muttered, side-eyeing him.

Soonyoung jabbed Seungkwan in the ribs, grinning like an idiot. “Told you he wouldn’t chicken out.”

“Shut up,” Chan hissed, his ears already pink.

But Seungkwan wasn’t done. “You didn’t have to use the whole ‘you ruin the curve’ thing. You could’ve just said, ‘Hey, I think you’re super smart and pretty, and I totally have a crush on you.’”

Chan’s eyes widened as if someone had just slapped him with a textbook. “What the fuck—”

“Or,” Soonyoung added, tapping his chin theatrically, “you could’ve been, like, ‘I sit two rows behind you every day because your hair smells like strawberries.’”

“I do not—”

Seungkwan gasped, fake-shocked. “Oh my God, you’ve smelled her hair?”

Chan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I hate both of you.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, covering your mouth as the trio dissolved into chaos.

“Don’t listen to them,” Chan said quickly, turning back to you with an apologetic look. “They’re dumbasses, but I promise we’ll actually get work done. Eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “As long as no one brings paper airplanes to the final presentation.”

“See?” Soonyoung crowed. “She’s funny too. You’re screwed, Chan.”

Chan didn’t answer, but the flush creeping up his neck said more than enough.

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charmercharm3r · 1 year ago

Text

Make Love, Not Porn

Heat Signature

HHJ

Masterlist, Story Masterlist

18+ content — minors, do not interact

wc: 5.9k

Synopsis: You crave a life of normalcy, he craves you. And he'd do anything to keep you, even if you're for the world to see

warnings: smut, explicit sexual content, barista!hyunjin x camgirl!reader, masturbation (m, f), teasing, cum eating, (slight) orgasm denial, (also -ish) voyeurism, (not a warning but) open conversations about sex, he’s a little shit but also just a fanboy

Past Broadcasts : Play Time!

Live : Heat Signature

Next Scheduled Broadcast : Puppeteer

☆ﾟ

He waited for you.

He waited and waited and waited, for days until he’d finally given up hope that you were going to show face again.

Hyunjin wasn’t even sure you were from the area. For all he knew, you lived a few hours plane ride away. There was no way for him to know.

He’d thought about you every day since, watched every stream and used most of his tips and paycheck to tip you so that you’d remember who he was. It worked, whenever the dinging noise from other patrons tipping died down, there was a moment where he’d rapid fire click the button and you’d know, it was him.

The day after seeing you in person, Hyunjin barely had the mind to put your image down onto paper to immortalize. His minor hobby in doodling came in handy when there was downtime during his shift at the coffee shop. There was an unlimited supply of blank coffee cup sleeves and markers, enough room for his artistic freedom to run wild with images of you and your pretty hands, heavenly voice that he’s been encapsulated with ever since.

Hyunjin kept his doodles in his apron pocket with him at all times. If anyone were to ever see them he swears he’d burst into flames out of embarrassment. How is he stumbling beneath his own feet over someone he’s met once?

But it doesn’t feel like you’ve only met once, he feels like he’s known you for a lifetime. The way you spoke during your cams, you were speaking to him. You had to be. You had to have seen him.

The voice in his head had Hyunjin summing up your absence to the fact that you were simply too busy for coffee. Yeah, that was what he chose to believe, definitely not the fact that he was acting literally insane and scared you into never setting foot in their store ever again.

The universe was listening to him, today of all days. Another early morning and he hadn’t even noticed you walk in at first, after two weeks he’d given up on hoping you’d come back. Imagine his surprise when he’s put on the register and sees you walk up to the counter.

“Ice– iced chai and three blonde shots, right?”

You were taken aback, you’d hadn’t been here in a while, two weeks to be exact. What was this cute, strange barista doing memorizing your order? And why is he looking at you like he’s picturing you naked?

“Yeah,” you replied slowly, narrowing your gaze at his pretty features.

He really was weird, his hands were shaking as he input your order, as he took your card and handed it back. When he was done ringing you up, he didn’t hand you the receipt but rather stared at you again. “Are you okay…” you glanced at his name tag, “Hyunjin?”

Oh, his cock twitched.

Be fucking normal. She’s just a person, for fucks sake. Stop being a weirdo. God, you’re embarrassing.

“Y— yeah! It’s just…” Hyunjin’s heart sped up. This was his opportunity to ask you out, compliment you… But instead he asks, “can I have a name for the order?”

That wasn’t what you were expecting. For a second your heart stopped thinking that he had recognized you… Again, impossible, you had been too careful to let anything slip.

“You know my order but not my name?” A dry laugh and awkward but relaxed shrug, you tell him your name and the barista lets out a little inaudible stutter, a small smile spreading across your lips at his endearing reaction,

His head raised to meet your gaze again, “it’ll be out in a minute, pretty.”

Ballsy. Fucking ballsy. You have the most massive pair ever. Wait, she smiled… She smiled?? She’s still smiling? Oh, she’s walking away… I think that worked?

Why were you smiling? And why was your tummy fluttering? A cute barista complimenting you? That was nothing in comparison to the millions of adoring words you receive through your social media and live streams. So why was he any different? Stop smiling, you look stupid.

It really only took a minute, true to Hyunjin’s words. You didn’t expect him to be the one holding your drink at the pick up counter, the way your name rolling off his tongue making your adrenaline rush.

What you didn’t see was him forcing his closest coworker to stand on register so he could be the one to make your drink. The finishing touch was the real kicker. Though it was a cold drink, Hyunjin fished out one of the doodled cup sleeves, the best one he’d drawn, and shyly wrote on the side of it before slipping it on and calling your name. He tried to hide his excitement and nervousness by trilling his voice a little more sing-song to get your attention.

You walked a little too fast towards the black haired barista, catching yourself and slowing as you came closer. He had a smirk that made your knees wobble just a tad bit before he held the drink out for you. Both your eyes met as you grazed his fingertips to pass over the cup, a shot of warmth shooting up your arm with a tingle as he lingered.

“Thank you, Hyunjin.”

“My pleasure, Y/N.”

Just the way he said your name made you want to fold in half. Maybe let him fold you in half. Definitely let him fold you in half.

You hadn’t taken a sip of the drink until you got home, too giddy the entire walk to do anything but clutch it in your hands. But when you did sip on it, you verbally let out a, “mmm!” to no one but yourself.

Hours had gone by of you doing your regular chores and such that you do on your off days. Dirty clothes in the laundry, groceries were put away, now would be a good time to prepare dinner. You had just tossed the now empty to go cup in the trash when the smeared ink on the cardboard cup sleeve caught your eye. You had to dig it out of the trash, but it didn’t seem much out of order other than the wet marks from the earlier drink’s condensation.

There was a drawing, smudged but definitely still there. A small drawing of a girl’s side profile with fingers pressed to her lips like she was holding a cigarette, except she wasn’t. She’s simply touching her lips, depicted in a way that made her look so delicate despite the harsh black ink that carved her into the cardboard. She was pretty. It was probably his girlfriend, more than likely he didn’t think about what sleeve he grabbed and rushed to cup your drink with the one he’d drawn her on. Why did that make your stomach sink a little?

Still, it was a nice drawing. As you slipped it off the cup, you saw the words that made your stomach entirely fall out of your ass.

Sweetheart.

Hyunjin waited again for you to return. When you didn’t the next day he was sure he scared you off. There was a reason you remained anonymous, to avoid situations exactly like this one. He just couldn’t help himself. If you freaked out, he’d act clueless and make an excuse to say it was only a cute nickname. He hoped you wouldn’t take it like that, however the fact that it took you another week and a half to come back to the coffee shop told him that was probably what you thought.

You avoided his gaze when you came into the shop for the third time. There was no line for once, but then again, it was way past the morning when you’d come the first few visits.

Hyunjin’s breath hitched when you came straight up to the counter and met his eyes timidly, darting around as if you were scared to truly look at him.

“The usual?” He asked, hoping the sincerity in his voice would ease your clear distress.

“N— no… No drink…” Your words trailed off and Hyunjin felt himself starting to panic.

“I’m not a stalker, I swear. I just really… admire your work? For lack of a better phrase.” The genuineness could be felt in the air between you, and it made you want to trust him. But still, there’s always lingering doubt.

You lowered your voice and held out the doodled cup sleeve, “maybe you should keep the drawings of your girlfriend somewhere you won’t give to someone else you’ve seen naked.”

“What?” Hyunjin stared at you, blinking soullessly.

He had expected you to yell at him, scream, make a scene and call him all kinds of names. This was not on his bingo card.

“Your… your girlfriend?” You raised up the drawing and he laughed. A full belly laugh that made his shoulders shake and luscious black hair fall into his handsome, handsome face. “I’m very confused right now.”

“Oh, you’re so pretty.”

“I don’t know you well enough for you to be making fun of me.”

“I’m off in thirty minutes. Wanna get coffee?” It was your turn to stare blankly at him. He smiled again shyly, “barista joke, forget it. But seriously, can we… maybe talk?”

“You just wanna talk?”

“Yeah.”

“…Alright.”

“I’ll call your name when your drink’s ready.”

“I didn’t order—“

“On the house,” Hyunjin leaned both hands into the counter, tipped his head slightly down, and smirked. Like a fucking player. That stupid smile, you don’t even know the guy and still want to simultaneously kiss him and slap that grin off his face. A frown and a nod, you sit at an empty table in the corner.

Less than five minutes later, Hyunjin is walking over to you with the drink in hand and he takes the open seat across from you.

“Aren’t you still working?”

“You’re the only one here.” You glance around the room, the shop is completely empty.

“A filthy blonde chai, plus one more shot.” The drink is slid over to you by large, polished hands. “I’m not sure what they call a triple espresso chai… Most people usually stop at two. But, I don’t think you’re like most people.”

“Only a barista would use that line.”

“Honestly, I’m shitting bricks just sitting in front of you and I’m so glad I can barely hear myself over the music in this place because I wanted to melt into the floor as soon as I said it.”

The way he spoke was cute, like he couldn’t get himself to stop talking. “Are you fangirling right now?”

Hyunjin’s ears tinted a bright red and felt his cheeks flush with warmth. “Yeah, a little.”

“Over a pornstar?”

“To be fair you’re not a pornstar, you're a camgirl.”

“I don’t think that makes it any better.”

“For me or you?”

“…Both, I guess.”

He bit his plush bottom lip before letting slip from between his teeth, simply looking at you. “If it makes you feel better, you’re the only one I follow.”

It took you a minute to sit with that information, the entire ordeal was strange and you weren’t entirely sure what compelled you to come back to the shop in the first place. Within your silence, nothing actually processed in your head, there were no thoughts. Your career required you to be strategic as one wrong move could bring everything crashing down. As you sat in front of Hyunjin, the awkwardly suave, raven haired barista that makes a mean triple blonde chai, you realized how much you liked not having to think.

“You’re the only one I watch, actually,” he continues to ramble in the lingering silence. “There really isn’t anything else– or, anyone else that I want to watch. That sounds… really gross now that I’m saying it out loud… I’m sorry, I’m– you make me really nervous. I don’t even know why, I don’t even know you. I mean, I do know you, but I only just met you. A– and I only knew who you were because of your voice. The way you speak– I love the sound of it. I could listen to you talk all day.”

You only stared at him with an unreadable expression, keeping your heart-fluttered cards close to your chest. “That does make me feel a little better,” you admitted softly. “But you’re not a stalker?”

Hyunjin leaned onto his elbows on the table. Even sitting and slouching, he had to look down at you. “Sweetheart, you walked into my shop, remember? I’ve been working here longer than you’ve been streaming. You came to me.”

Not. A. Single. Thought.

How quickly he could go from a stuttering mess to acting like a cocky jackass gave you whiplash, you literally couldn’t predict what would come out of his mouth next. All that made your brain totally empty, words couldn’t form in your mouth to respond back.

Hyunjin reached across the table for where your hands played with the cup sleeve. His touch made warmth flood through your skin, up your arms and into your cheeks. He took the cardboard and held it next to your reddening face. “You really couldn’t tell?”

“I can tell that you should probably inform your girlfriend of the massive crush you have on a camgirl.”

He huffed and leaned back in his chair, tossing the cup sleeve between the two of you. “It’s not my girlfriend. It’s you.”

“What?! I don’t look like that!” You grabbed the drawing to examine closer, still not seeing the comparison.

“You look exactly like that! Maybe the marker I used was too thick, but it’s definitely you.”

“No, I mean this girl is… It’s not me.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Your head shot up to look at him. Was he really agreeing with you right now? “You’re waaay prettier than this. I had only seen you one time when I drew it, didn’t get to really look at your features. Was kinda starstruck, ya know?”

“...The more you talk, I can’t tell what you want from me.”

“Why do I have to want something from you to get to know you?”

What was his deal? Was he dense? Was there a sign on your back that said, “fuck with me?” This was a joke and no one was laughing but him. There was no reason for him to want to even talk with you, there had to be another reason. It didn’t make any sense.

“Everyone wants something. What do you want?”

Hyunjin leaned further forward and stared straight into your eyes, “to know you.”

How badly did you want to look away, but Hyunjin made it so hard. He kept the eye contact so steady, blindly reaching for your hand across the table and simply holding your fingertips with his, hardly even touching and the combination was still so deadly. His thumb rubbed lightly over your knuckles and you couldn’t help but lean in closer to him as well, furrow in his brow from the seriousness turn the conversation has taken only deepening.

He couldn’t read you as much as he tried. There was your poker face you’d mastered after the last person you’d cared about enough to take back to your showroom. Hyunjin didn’t know that, or even needed to know that, but you were weirdly comfortable around him. As uncanny as everything leading up to this was, your mouth moved on its own.

“Why do you deserve to?”

“Someone hurt you… badly, didn’t they? So much that you’re questioning why I want to know you as a person and not just a body.”

“Why do you keep talking like you know my life story? You don’t know me!”

“That’s kinda the whole point. I want to! You keep saying I don’t know you, so let me!” His voice raised slightly as yours did, mimicking your frustration.

And honestly, you couldn’t blame him. You were being annoying about this on purpose, you needed to push his buttons to see if he was going to be true to his word. If he wasn’t he’ll bow out quick after realizing you’re not worth all the effort. If he is… you hope for your heart he isn’t. But you want it so badly at the same time, you crave it. You’ve dreamed and fantasized of someone wanting you and only you, doing everything in their power to keep you, cherish you, make you feel so loved that they’d die if they couldn’t tell you that you meant more than the world to them. The kind of love that most people in your line of work gave up on a long time ago.

That’s the goal, isn’t it? To be loved? That’s what’s supposed to be the end game. If everyone is after it, why isn’t it easier to find?

“I have a livestream in two hours…” your voice quivered. Why were you telling him this?

“You do…” his was steady. Why is he still holding your hand?

“I want to trust you.” You wanted to hide under a rock. Why do you like him holding your hand?

“You’re doing the best you can.” He seems so honest. Why are you still scared?

“You get one chance. If you’re serious, maybe I’ll keep you around.” His smile is so sweet. What is happening?

“That’s all I need.”

Fuck, he’s here. Why is he in your apartment? Why did you bring him back here? Stupid, stupid, stupid. You were already regretting it when you led him through the threshold and removed your shoes. He complimented your place, said it smelled nice. That’s a good sign, but this was out of your comfort zone.

Way, way, waaay out of your comfort zone.

Is this self-destructive? It is, yet you’re doing it anyway. You already broke rule number 4: don’t give everything all at once. You bulldozed through it, actually, dust and cement and rubble in the wake of your metaphorical path to lead him into your home and towards your showroom.

You led him towards the bed that was to the side of your streaming desk so you could see him past the monitors. Hyunjin was hesitant and sat as close to the edge as possible. As you say next to him, you could smell the coffee that seemed to seep from his pores, bitter but still sweet, energizing but would let it lull you to sleep. His gaze didn’t stray around the room, he didn’t even bother looking at your set up, focused on the way your shoulders relaxed and looked to be slightly less timid.

Hyunjin didn’t know where to put his hands, keeping them in his lap as you reached up to tuck his hair behind his ear. “Why am I here, Y/N?”

“You’re going to help me.” His eyes grew wide in shock, mouth parting slightly. “Not like that, get your mind out of the gutter.” The force of which he closed his mouth made his teeth audibly knock together.

Hyunjin wanted to melt under the sudden intensity of your gaze, still playing with the tips of his hair at the nape of his neck while staring at him like a lion to a gazelle. “You get to look, but not touch… me.”

His eyebrows shot up, “what?”

“You heard me,” you leaned in closer, so close he could feel your warm breath on his cheek. Hyunjin was frozen solid and you haven’t even done anything yet, but he was ready to do anything you asked him to. Into his ear, you whispered, “look, no touching.”

It was just a peck. A simple peck of your lips to his cheek, that was all and it made Hyunjin’s entire body shake out of excitement. He got hard instantly and tried to adjust his pants so you couldn’t see the very obvious tent. Not for his efforts, you saw anyway and giggled. Oh, your laugh was so pretty, so innocent sounding despite the very unholy acts you were about to participate in. The same unholy acts he was about to participate in, too.

“Is this okay?” You asked, lips still close to his cheek. Hyunjin nodded rapidly, wanting to turn so you’d kiss him for real. “I need you to tell me, with your words, baby.”

“Y— yes, more.” There was a shudder in his voice, a very obviously excited one at that.

You placed another gentle kiss to his cheek, “more what?”

Hyunjin leaned in so you were cheek to cheek, “more kisses, please.”

“What’s got you so worked up? Haven’t done anything,” you cooed back, threading your fingers through his hair and his entire body shivered. “You like when I call you baby?”

He nodded again and leaned into your hand, the only downside of that was it pulled his face from yours. Hyunjin debated on cupping your cheek, but you’d said no touching and he wanted to be good for you. Even though his first instinct was to reach out, he stayed put, letting that energy flow into gripping the sheets below him.

You didn’t pull his hair, didn’t do anything but keep your hand tangled in it but the feeling made him shut his eyes. You were really here, holding him like this, talking to him the way he’d always imagined. The fact that you even considered giving him the time of day made him wonder if this was real life anymore.

“I thought you would. You’re my favorite, too.”

Hyunjin couldn’t stop himself, you were saying all the right words. He pulled away for a split second to look at

you in awe, then crash his lips against yours in a fevered kiss, searing hot and so, so needy. He whined into your mouth, completely lost in the sensation while you were taken slightly by surprise. Not in a bad way, you were just happy he’d been able to restrain himself for this long in the first place.

You kissed him back, just for a second before tearing him away by the back of the hair. Caught off guard, he softly whimpered at the harshness, then tried to follow your lips again but was unable. “No touching. If you can’t follow directions—“

“I can, I can! I promise.”

Huffing, you tossed him back to lay his head into the pillows. A devious smile played along his lips as his heart rate slowed again, “you liked it, though. I felt you kiss me back.”

You raised an eyebrow, moving to kneel onto the mattress beside him. “Hm, I can’t recall.”

It stung his heart a little, but he knew it was just an act. It was your way of riling him up.

You didn’t touch him now, there was still a few centimeters of space between your bodies and he could still feel your lips on his. His chest leveling out, erection in his pants painfully throbbing in his jeans, looking up at you with the best puppy dog eyes he could conjure, Hyunjin could die happy if you pat his back like after a sports match and sent him home.

But you didn’t. You didn’t move, you just looked at him. It made him slightly nervous only because he couldn’t be sure what you were thinking.

Hyunjin sat up on his elbows, “what are you gonna do to me?” Not an ounce of fear in his voice, pure curiosity and anticipation.

“I’m not gonna do anything.” His eyes followed you as you stood to walk towards your computers. It wasn’t until now did he see you sit in the chair he’d been watching you in since the start of your career. Seeing it in person made his chest feel warm, like knowing this bit of information was as if he’d truly been with you this entire time from the start.

You didn’t look at him as you typed at your computer for a moment, clicking the mouse a few times, and suddenly Hyunjin’s phone went off. He fished it out of his pocket to find a notification from that godforsaken website, “live soon, hardcandysweetheart: heat signature.”

“Am I gonna be on—“

“No, I wouldn’t throw you to the wolves like that.”

“…What does heat signature mean?”

“Our little secret,” you made your way back to the bed, taking your spot next to Hyunjin once more. This time, though, your hand was placed next to his thigh, a little too close for comfort. Softly did your fingers play with the hem, Hyunjin darted his eyes down then back up to your face, feeling his chest heating up again. “No one knows that I’m not alone. No one knows I have you here with me, watching me, drooling over me. You’re the only one that gets to see everything. Straight into to the warmest parts of me.”

All the blood he had left in his head rushed straight to his cock, making Hyunjin even harder, if that was possible. “Please, touch me,” he found himself begging.

The laugh you let out was menacing, it made him cower back slightly. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. But no. I want you to touch yourself for me.”

“What?” Hyunjin asked louder, a little more embarrassed now that you’d furrowed your brows at him and tilted your head. His chest deflated at your clear annoyance.

“It’s a very intimate thing,” you started, softening your eyes as his pride crumbled little by little. “Sometimes, I think it’s more intimate than sex itself, showing your partner how you like to be pleasured. It’s the key to a person’s body and mind. If you know what place to touch, how to touch them, they’re yours. If you make them cum, you own them.”

Well when you explain it like that, Hyunjin can’t help but feel sorry for snapping. It makes sense to him, “knowledge is power.”

“Knowledge is power. Sex is more than physical. It’s emotional, mental— it’s everything before the clothes come off and everything after you both cum. If you feel seen, then your partner is doing something right.”

A few silent seconds, you could tell he understood by the way he was looking at you; ready to comply with any request. Hyunjin loved the way you talk so freely about sex, like it was just another conversation because it is. It’s nothing to be ashamed about and it’s not taboo. Your nonchalant, yet very caring attitude about the topic of sex made him feel more comfortable than any ex partner ever had when he was actually naked in front of them.

“Can I take my pants off now?”

You rolled your eyes, “keep your underwear on.”

Hyunjin thought he was fast before, this was a new record. Clothes were off in the blink of an eye— at least, his were. You eyed him up and down as he stripped and stood at the foot of the bed for your next instruction. “On your back.” He clambered onto the bed, not even caring that you were still fully dressed and he was in nothing but his boxers.

“Close your eyes.” He did. But only after he took a long, adoring stare into yours. “Did kissing me get you this hard, baby?” Hyunjin nodded, clawing at the sheets to keep himself contained.

You chuckled softly, “that makes me happy. This should be easy for you, then.” The bed shifted beside him and suddenly heat was swallowing him whole. Your breath tickled his neck, feeling you sitting closer to his head as you continued to talk to him. “When I first saw you, I didn’t think anything of it.”

What a boner killer. Not his boner, though.

“Then when you smiled at me, I thought it was just to get you some extra tips. Clearly, it worked. This is a pretty big tip. You have such a pretty smile.” Hyunjin’s hips kicked up just slightly. He couldn’t see it, but you were smirking at how easy he was to work up.

“Such a pretty smile, but such a dirty mind. I wanna know,” your lips pressed against the shell of his ear. “Tell me, baby. What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

“You,” he answered immediately, fighting the urge to palm at his twitching dick.

Gently as not to startle him, you unclenched his hands from the sheets and moved them towards where he needed it most, keeping your hands to yourself as soon as he got the idea.

“Me? That’s sweet,” you were sincere, flattered. “What about me?”

Hyunjin rubbed the heel of his palm hard into his cock through the thin fabric. There was already a darkening wet patch, your mouth watered at how much he was leaking. You couldn’t lie to yourself, he was big. Not so much girth, but just the right width with a little extra length and it made your pussy clench at the prospect of what could be.

“Mmph— your hands. So pretty, want them around my throat.” Just the light graze of your fingernails raking across his neck made Hyunjin buck up into his own hands. “An— and your thighs. Looks so soft, I wanna bite into them.”

“And mark me up? Wanna leave pretty bruises for everyone to see?”

“Fuck, yes!” He pressed harder, resisting from sticking his hand down his pants. Obviously, you couldn’t have that, you were in a time crunch.

“Underwear off.”

“Thank god,” he rushed to shove them down, not even past his knees before he grabbed his cock and began to tightly fist himself.

There was a messy coating of precum over the tip, glistening in the soft warm pink and yellow mood lighting. He really did have a pretty cock, assumptions right in that he was perfectly proportioned with girth and length, looking oh-so-suckable.

“Fuck, keep talking. Please.”

“What is it about me that really gets you off? Hm? You like how amateur and naïve I act? Or is it that you can imagine any girl’s face when I touch myself?”

“No, no,” he whined, tightening his first around the upper half of his dick, short but hard ruts into the fleshy ring.

“No? Then what is it, baby?”

“Your voice— god, fucking hell. The way you speak, the way you talk like you’re only talking to me. Like you only want me, that there’s no one else that you need and I’m the only one who can make you feel so fucking good— fuck!”

He was leaking more and more to puddle onto his abdomen. You reached over to dip the tip of your finger into it, swirling around in the mess before bringing the coated digit back up to his mouth. “Open.” He did, and closed as soon as he felt your finger press onto his tongue. Hyunjin moaned at the taste of himself, not at all put off but rather throbbing even harder.

“What would you do to me if I gave you the chance?” You asked quietly, genuinely curious as he swirled his tongue around your cleanly-licked finger.

The question erupted a louder groan from deep within his chest, hardly muffled by the weight on his tongue. You stole it away so he could talk, secretly putting it into your mouth as his eyes were still closed to get a little glimpse more of what he tastes like.

“Make you be a little pillow princess at first. Wouldn’t let you lift a finger and kiss you everywhere. Hard.” You liked that idea, pressing your legs together. “Wanna taste your pussy so bad. I’d eat you out until you’d be begging for me to stop and fuck you. No, I wouldn’t. I’ll feast on you for as long as I fucking want— only if you use your safe word would I stop.” He murmured that last part a little softer. How sweet.

Hyunjin sped up his movements, gathering the leaking fluids to use as lubricant and letting the wet sounds fill the room.

“Would you make me cum?” It was an innocent question.

“Would I?” But he took offense to it. “I’d make you cum all night long if you wanted. With my mouth— in my mouth. On my cock, make you hump my thigh like you do with those stupid fucking toys. God, I hate them and I love them, they always make you cum so hard. I can do that, too. I can make you cum so hard you’ll never wanna come back down. Fucking shit, want you to ride my thigh so badly. Want you to wanna fuck me all day, everyday, want you to think of me the way I think of you.”

His stomach was tensing, reaching down with the other hand to fondle his balls. You watched every one of his movements, memorized the places he reacted to the most. It seemed the tip was clearly the most sensitive, but he liked just the quick swipes over it, probably too sensitive for his own good. But then his grip would tighten just under it, fucking the ring of his fingers like it was a pocket pussy. He tugged at his balls, rolling them in his palm and arching into the bed. You wondered how long until he was ready to blow.

“I want that.” Your admittance made him peek open his eyes slightly. You didn’t scold him for disobeying, instead keeping the eye contact and moving off the bed.

Hyunjin watched as you stripped your top off facing him, then your bottoms to reveal a cute light purple set. Nothing too fancy, but so suited to you it made his mouth drool over the way the strappy underwear hugged your love handles.

“But I have a job to do. So you’re gonna keep quiet for me, okay?” He sat up, slowing down his motions but not stopping.

Hyunjin was in awe. Mindless, jaw dropping awe in how easily you stripped in front of him. He never thought the act of you taking off a shirt in front of him would have him almost cumming instantly. Of course he’s seen you naked, but this was domestic. This was nothing any of your viewers has ever seen. Was he being a creep? Maybe, but you liked the way he was looking at you. He hasn’t been shy about wanting you, but how he couldn’t take his eyes off you now, it made the twisting in your belly churn tighter and brighter.

Thankfully your computer was already on, you didn’t have to look away from Hyunjin and his pretty cock. Just one click and you’re live.

But you waited. You waited for him to get closer to the edge. He needed a little push.

Taking your hand away from the mouse, you instead brought your knees up and rested your feet onto the chair to expose your core. With two fingers, you ran them over the gusset of your soaked panties, a visibly dark patch clear for Hyunjin to see.

His eyes rolled back and sped up the jerking movements, the loud slick noises echoing in the small room. Just the sound of him made you gush, so close to skipping your livestream just to fuck him into tomorrow.

No. Self control. Just this once.

You rubbed yourself a little harder over the fabric, waiting for the right moment. When his mouth dropped and let out a small whimper, you quickly closed your legs and turned back to the computer.

“Quiet now, baby. Relax and enjoy, but don’t make a sound.”

“Fuck— wait, I’m gonna cum—“

You quickly adjusted the camera and clicked, start live.

“Have I kept you waiting long?”

☆ﾟ

tags: @sensitiveandhungry @babebatter @changbinluvr @epiphanynaffit @fawnpeaks @linovely @dumplinbokkieracha @finnydraws @naturules @djeniryuu @hamburgers101 @skzhomiehopper @yesv01 @hyunjinsamdl @dazzlingligth @alexis-reads-fics @0002linoskitten @chillichillicrabcrab23 @zerefdragn33l @straycrescent @binnies-donuts @soldierstangirl-blog @bakedlilgoonie @levanterlily @shelbyyy44 @yeetmehome @in2heartz @astroodledream @the-sweetest-rose @goblinracha @lilbugs-things @viviennenstan @staurdvst @alex--awesome--22 @imzenning @jeyelleohe @iadorethemskz @skyvastbunny @mamabymychem @katsukis1wife @woozarts @noellllslut

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kryptonitejelly · 8 months ago

Text

Grease & Tequila - a Flyboy One-shot

Top Gun: Maverick - Jake Seresin x Reader - part of the Flyboy!Universe

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader

Genre: romance; fluff; angst; best friends to lovers

Warnings: general hangman being hangman; sexual tension; general cursing; will contain mentions of a break up / previous relationship; general use of pet names; fem!reader; pining; general naval / flying inaccuracies; alcohol; being drunk.

Length: One-shot

Summary: Set 5 months pre the Flyboy!era. The one where Jake gets the call that you and Dan have broken up and he has to be on the next plane to New York, now.

Flyboy | Mini-Series Masterlist

(not fully updated as of today, but if you follow / search the tag “flyboy universe” / “flyboy” / “flyboy fic” / “flyboy!jake” on my tumblr you’ll find recent asks / headcannons / blurbs!)

A/N: It’s been a while, and this isn’t all that exciting, but I think it definitely (I hope) sets the scene for Flyboy and helps everything click into place.

DISCLAIMER: all work posted here is purely fanfiction; it does not in any way purport to be an accurate representation of real life or the general workings of any institution.

“Lieutenant,” Admiral Craig’s voice booms out as Jake opens the door to his office. The Admiral waits for Jake to shut the door completely before he starts up again, “I got your last minute absence request.”

“That is correct, Sir,” Jake nods, as he comes to a stand in front of the Admiral’s desk. He stands with his feet hip width apart, hands behind his back, eyes meeting the older man’s.

“Everything okay?” The Admiral asks, his gaze steady on Jake’s. It was rare for a last minute absence request to come across his desk, which meant that when they did - it was usually pressing.

“Just something I need to attend to, Sir.” Jake responds, his mask not slipping, but the Admiral hears the weight behind his words. There is a silence pause between the two men, before the Admiral picks up his pen, signing the bottom of the two sheets of paper before him with a flourish. He was never one to refuse these requests as long as he deemed them legitimate, but he made it a point of looking the requestor in the eye to make his own assessment of the situation before approving them. He didn’t need to know the why, unless it was volunteered by the requestor him/herself, but he needed to know that it wasn’t being abused and Jake Seresin, for all his ego and cockiness, was a dedicated solider. He wouldn’t ask, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Approved,” the Admiral says simply before passing one of the sheets to Jake. Jake’s mask doesn’t crack, but the Admiral sees a twitch of relief as Jake remembers how to breathe, “Godspeed.”

“Thank you Sir.”

Jake shifts irritably in his seat as he waits for boarding to be complete. He had reached out to Grandma Doris’ personal assistant once he had gotten off the phone with you, even before he had submitted his flight request, his text to her was just one sentence, twelve words long - I need to be on the next flight to New York, please. He usually would not have bothered her, but this - this was a pressing situation, he just had to get on that plane. She had, the blessing that she was, gotten hold of two flight options for him, the next flight to New York, and the next next as a backup, both in first class no less, with a simple request to let her know when he needed a flight ticket back from New York.

“May I offer you a hot towel, Mr Seresin?” The stewardess stops beside his seat. Jake shakes his head, offering her a polite half smile.

“No thank you.”

“How about some nuts, or maybe a drink?” She tries again.

“How long more do you think it’ll be till take-off?” Jake’s question is abrupt and she is quiet for a second, slightly taken a back. He isn’t rude, but is, obviously antsy.

“I think another twenty minutes Mr Seresin,” she says as she follows his gaze out of the window.

“Thanks,” is all she gets from Jake as he continues to stare out of the window beside him as if willing take-off to come faster.

“Anything else?” The cashier of the fried chicken shop just around the corner from your apartment building asks Jake as he rings up the total on the till.

“That’s all, thanks.” Jake says as he slides his card out of his wallet before tapping it against the screen of the payment machine which is proffered to him.

“Here’s your receipt, please wait on the right.” Jake slides his wallet back into the pocket of his jeans before stepping towards the right. The tequila which he had picked up on his way out of the airport is in his backpack, the shape of the bottle pressed against his back, a reminder that he was just that much closer to what he came to New York for.

The ride up the elevators to your apartment is excruciatingly slow, and Jake taps his foot against the ground the whole way up. He hadn’t had to buzz you to let him up, managing instead to catch a couple on their way out and slip into the building - something which he made a mental note of in the back of his mind - perhaps it was time to convince you to move to somewhere with a doorman or concierge for increased safety.

The bottle of tequila is now in one of his hands, and the bag of greasy fried chicken and fries in his other - his remedy for your broken heart. Alcohol, fast food, and well, him. His eyes are fixed on the flashing red numbers as if willing the elevator to go faster. It stops with a ding, and Jake all but runs out.

He hears you before he sees you, hears faint noises and shuffling, the unlocking of a separate bolt and a lock before you pull open the door an inch to peer out past the safety chain. His eyes meet yours, and sees your eyes, glassy and red rimmed, no doubt from crying meet yours. The doors shuts fully for a second or two as you undo the safety chain before it is pulled open fully.

Jake takes you in the second the open door reveals you - the red tip of your noise, hair on top of your head in a loose, messy up do, body clad in an oversized t shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants and he feels a funny tug in his chest.

“I thought you might need this,” he says as he holds up the items in his hands. You hold his gaze for a second more, and then it happens, the glossiness in your eyes turn into tears which spill over onto your cheeks as you take a step forward, throwing your arms around Jake’s body, burying your face in his chest. Jake hears, but also feels the sobs that wrack your body against his front and he is quite sure that in that moment, the tug in his chest feels like a earth shattering crack.

“I got you,” he says gruffly, bringing both his hands down around you, while still holding onto both items. His words only intensify the sobs coming from you and all Jake can do is draw you closer.

“I’ve never liked him,” Jake snorts as he watches you down yet another shot of tequila. You are both sitting around the coffee table in the floor of your living room, greasy chicken and fries demolished, the open bottle of tequila three quarters gone - with more damage having been exacted on the bottle by you than by Jake. Jake isn’t drunk, but he definitely isn’t sober, which means that neither are you.

“He’s an asshole,” you half shout, your words slurring from the alcohol as you let your self sag backwards, leaning against the sofa before you let yourself droop sideways, your head coming to rest on Jake’s shoulder. Jake shifts, moving his arm around you. It allows you to scoot further into his side, your face turning slightly to rest against the side of his chest. You breathe in his scent, the faint smell of soap, laundry detergent and airplane along with his own natural musk, which wraps around you like home, and you feel Jake’s fingers running themselves soothingly along your arm..

“Say the word, I’ll beat him to a pulp,” Jake says, dropping the side of his cheek against the top of your head, his finger squeezing the top of your arm gently. His tone is light, joking almost - but yet not really. Nevertheless, the thought of Dan facing off against Jake makes you chuckle lowly. Dan was no slob himself, he maintained a decent level of fitness - occasional runs, regular visits to the gym, but he might as well have been one compared to Jake. Dan worked out for aesthetics, but next to Jake, who had worked out for functionality all his life, football, the Navy, Dan paled greatly in comparison.

“He’ll never stand a chance,” you say, amused as you close your eyes. Your head has started to get impossibly heavy, your tongue feels thick from the copious amounts of alcohol running through your system, and you let your head rest heavier on Jake’s chest.

“That’s the idea,” is what Jake says and it makes you giggle this time as you sink yourself further into Jake’s hold, seeking out a comforting, physical closeness. Jake can feel yourself pressing into him.

“C’mere,” he mutters, as the arm he has around you tightens. You feel movement, and Jake is reaching across your body, managing to slip an arm under your legs to pull you onto his lap.

“Jake,” your protest is weak because you don’t put up an ounce of a fight, opting instead to shift along with him so that you are comfortably nested on his lap, your ear against his shoulder, tip of your nose just about brushing the side of his neck, “I’m not a child.”

“Mmm,” Jake simply hums in agreement with your words, both his arms coming to form a loose, protective cocoon around you.

You both sit in a comfortable silence, a haze of alcohol enveloping you both. Truth to be told, the break up, the serial cheating - it all hadn’t come as a surprise to you. You had suspected on many occasions, but it had been easier to ignore and live in denial than to face the truth after 3 years of being with the same person. It had broken you for many reasons, and it still hurt like hell to lose a constant presence with which you had spent the past 3 years with, but you weren’t all that sure it had broken your heart, not when your relationship had been fizzling out for a while and you’ve suspected for months.

“He wasn’t good enough for you, you know,” Jake says as he turns his head slightly, managing to plant a half kiss on the side of your temple.

“You say that with every break up,” you laugh dismissively, “that’s what best friends are supposed to say.”

Your words make Jake frown and he moves himself to move you, making you sit up sideways on his lap so that he can look you in the eye. Your are slightly elevated from being seated on his thigh, and you find yourself staring down, holding his gaze. You slide the palms of your hands past his shoulders to steady yourself.

“They were all not good enough for you,” is what he says, unwavering as he holds your gaze. From your sideways position, you can feel one of Jake’s hands sliding around your back, and coming to rest on your waist, and the other coming to rest loosely across your lap.

“Or maybe I wasn’t good enough for them,” you say with a rueful quirk of your lips, letting yourself drown in alcohol induced post break-up self pity. Your words only make Jake’s brows furrow together, a flash of irritating passing through his eyes. It makes him move the arm hanging across your lap up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing the space just below your eye. You let yourself luxuriate in the warm against your cheek, leaning into his hold. You see Jake’s gaze dart from your eyes to your lips, but the fuzziness of your mind doesn’t let you overthink at just how intimate the moment between you both is.

“You are too good for all of them,” is what he says. You see a flash of something in Jake’s eyes, and perhaps if you were sober, it would have been something you could more accurately place, but you can’t.

“I want to go to bed,” you say, your exhaustion suddenly hitting you and you let your eyes close, weight of your head still balancing on Jake’s hand.

“Ok,” is all he says as his thumb continues to move gently across your skin.

“Come with me?” You say, your ask clear, you didn’t want to be alone - it was simple, nothing more, no innuendo and you knew that Jake would understand.

“Ok,” he repeats as he finally drops his arm from your cheek.

Jake has a hand behind his head, eyes fixed up on the ceiling of your bedroom. You had fallen asleep the moment your head hit the pillow, no doubt attributable to all the tequila you had ingested, but also a sure sign at just how exhausted you were. He had taken a quick shower, ridding himself of whatever traces of airplane he had left on him, before tugging on the pair of shirt and shorts he had brought along with him and, true to his word - gotten into bed with you. There was no way in hell was he allowing you to wake up alone.

He lets the soft hum of your snores wash over him, and Jake tilts his head down to watch the rise and fall of your body from where it is curled up beside him in a fetal position under the covers. You look at peace, finally - but he can see the sunken skin beneath your eyes, a tell tale sign that not all was well.

“Baby,” he sighs, murmuring to himself, the term of endearment slipping too naturally from his lips, as you shift, your body finding its way a few inches closer to him. He doesn’t hesitate, removing the arm from behind his head to caress the side of your cheek. Your snores stop, turning instead to an sleep exhale of content, and in that moment, it strengthens Jake’s resolve. He feels the gears shift in his brain and chest, feelings that he had kept at bay in the recesses of his mind and heart for months, years, coming to shore. He had spent the past 3 years watching you fumble your way around with Dan, and even more before that with different men that you had dated, but it was enough - fuck that. He was sick of watching them hurt you, breaking your heart when you deserved so, much, more. Jake wasn’t going to let that happen again. The next person you dated was going to be your last, the person you dated, was going to be him.

“Text me when you land,” you twist your fingers around, interlocking them with each other as you and Jake stand on the sidewalk outside your apartment, waiting for his car to pull up.

“I will,” he says while watching you twist your fingers together. You weren’t ready for him to leave, and neither was he - ready for himself to leave, but the days since his arrival on Thursday night had blown past, and Sunday had come too soon, “text me whenever you need,” he says as he extends an arm, pulling you sideways into him. His action makes you stumble slightly, and you reach out with a hand, to grab him around his waist.

“I will,” your response is a parrot of his. It had been a great past few days, once you had gotten over the hangover that hit you both, but you harder, on Friday morning. Jake had forced you out of the house for two whole days of everything and nothing - strolls around the city all while forcing you to thread your arm through his, making sure you filled your stomach with an assortment of food, watching bad television together in your apartment. He had filled your space with laughter, familiarity, and physical touch when you needed it most and you weren’t ready for him to leave.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, leaning sideways towards you to brush his lips against the top of your head. Jake lets his lips linger for a second or two, and you let your eyes close - letting yourself be vulnerable, enjoying the moment.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” you voice is soft, small almost, the truth of your words both a happy feeling for Jake, but also a stab to his heart.

“I wish I didn’t have to either,” he says gruffly, removing his lips from the top of your head to pull you into a bone crushing full frontal hug. He could see a car approaching from the end of the road, his time with you dwindling now to just mere seconds, “I’ll see you soon,” he says, a statement, not a question as you cling onto him in similar fashion.

“Soon,” you echo, a promise between you both.

“So how long are you leaving your girlfriend for?” The driver asks his question conversationally as he pulls away form the sidewalk. Jake’s gaze lingers on you as he raises a hand to wave goodbye. He sees you offer a lopsided smile and a similar wave of your hand.

“I don’t know,” he admits to the driver without much thought, not bothering to correct him. Jake keeps his gaze trained on you until he is no longer able to.

“Hopefully you’ll see her again soon,” is what the driver continues with conversationally, “she looks crushed that you’re leaving.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” is all Jake can say as he settle back into the seat of the cab, his mind far away, his heart still with you.

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vagabond-umlaut · 2 years ago

Text

paper planes

brother to fushiguro tsumiki. (unofficially adopted) son to gojo satoru and you. nephew to a host of sorcerer uncles and aunts. (unwilling) assistant to the white-haired idiot. and, finally, ringbearer at your and gojo's still-undetermined wedding.

one teeny-tiny boy with one too many identity is what fushiguro megumi is - until he isn't. with lots and lots of sniffles and sniggers...

▸ gojo satoru x fem! reader; established relationship; post hidden inventory arc; manga spoilers; proposals; adoptions; alternate universe happy for everyone except toji lovers (sorry ＞︿＜)

▸ two fics in a week, wow. guess this is what is called a brainrot, huh? read this post by @/mintmatcha on tumblr and started writing this lol. but the plot of this story is miles, tons, eons away from that post, i swear. also, this fic is set in the same universe as blue hawaii but you need not read that first to read this. treat this as a stand-alone if you wanna! 😊 anyways, gif, divider and characters ain't mine. please don't plagiarize, translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

"yeah, yeah, i've got it all planned."

a discreet eye roll is all megumi gives as he goes through the menu card in his hands. a little distance away, he can spy tsumiki and you seated at a table, you tying his sister's long hair into braids while the latter laughs, probably at a joke you cracked.

a tiny smile rests on the little boy's face at the sight - which vanishes when he feels a large hand tousle his hair. you had spent hours and hours righting his hair into a proper shape; why must this idiot always mess everything up?

megumi looks up to find his guardian looking down at him with a shit-eating grin; though he can clearly see the nerves it's covering.

idiot.

phone wedged in between his ear and shoulder, gojo mutters a "one sec, suguru," and crouches down to the boy's eye level. the latter gives back an unimpressed stare.

"decided what you wanna have, 'gumi? remember mom and sis there asked you to choose for them today."

megumi feels an urge to say you two aren't his real parents - but stamps it down instantly. the both of you have been as good as real parents can be to their kids - or maybe even better. the boy has read books, watched movies and listened to his classmates talk about their families; the tiny urchin-head knows.

with a huff, he points at the double chicken fillet burger box - it's tsumiki's favourite and you too don't seem to dislike it. with a nod, gojo rises and placing his orders, returns to the call, beaming expression again directed at megumi.

"yeah, yeah, don't worry, man," he speaks into the phone, then drops his volume to a mere whisper, "'my little kiddo here is a born actor. he remembers the entire plan, step by step - don't you, buddy?"

megumi gives an imperceptible nod, itching back to get back to the table. he already would have - needless to say, the little munchkin prefers your company to gojo's, way way more - but their orders have not been delivered yet and the boy promised to be-

a little tap on the shoulder draws him from his musings and he cranes his neck up to find gojo frowning. "no, megumi didn't want to discuss the plan with me before leaving. no, he doesn't like you better- hey," the man looks at him, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose revealing his indignant gaze, "you wanna discuss with uncle suguru one last time?"

an indifferent shrug is all the reply he gives.

while uncle suguru isn't the best uncle he has, he isn't the worst either. the others are- oh, wait. the others include uncle kento and uncle yu. they are literal angels compared to him. so... maybe... he is the worst... never mind. it's too late to back out anyways.

grumbling, gojo hands him the phone. "hello uncle," megumi greets just like you and tsumiki have taught him to. the man behind mutters something along the lines of ''traitor" or something; the boy pays him no mind.

"hey champ," the voice floats over the line, pleasant, kind and the way people talk to babbling babies. megumi's bored face turns irritated. "let's discuss the semantics one last time before boarding your flight, okay?"

"yeah, okay," megumi says, and casting a sideways glance at his bundle-of-nerves guardian, continues, "we're going to reykjavik," he looks at gojo, silently asking if he pronounced it correctly. the man sends him a thumbs-up with an encouraging grin.

the kid continues, "the plane will land at noon day after tomorrow, which is mom's birthday. first, we will go to the hotel. then, after resting, in the evening, we will head out in a car to watch the northern lights. and then-"

"-when it's the right moment, your dad will pop the question to your mom and you'll click the camera. got it, mr. future ringbearer?" finishing the rest of the sentence for him, the man at the other end asks, sounds of pans clacking and food sizzling in the background. nana-chan and mimi-chan must have woken up.

megumi nods. "yeah, got it, mr. future best man."

a chuckle comes in response to his comment. "you're a lot like your mom, y'know?"

"yeah," he mumbles, waving back to you and tsumiki, a little smile on his otherwise-impassive-but-always-adorable face, "i know."

"good," the man says, then pauses when a loud crash booms through the air and through the phone, a set of two wailing voices following it not soon after. megumi can quite literally picture the wincing frown his uncle is wearing as he says the next words in a hurry, "okay, 'gumi. talk to you later. bye, and best of luck! satoru's counting on his little assistant."

"yeah, thanks," he responds but is too late - the call is already cut by then.

giving the phone back to gojo, who's tapping his sneakers-clad feet on the floor, he looks back ahead, wondering when the hell heck their token number will be displayed and when they will get their food.

to the kid's great relief, it doesn't take a lot of time.

before long, the four of you are seated around the table, gojo stealing a sip from your drink and you stealing fries from him, all the while tsumiki giggles loudly at your antics. megumi smiles, before he hides it behind the burger which he takes a bite from.

the four of you really look like a family, don't you?

"hey, guys, can i have your attention for a sec, please?" your sudden question startles him from his mind. the boy turns to find you with your usual grin, albeit a smidgen of anxiety can be found in the way your fingers drum on the table.

megumi shares a look with tsumiki and gojo. they look as confused as he feels. "do i have your attention, people?" you ask again, manner growing a tad solemn unlike your usual, though the affection is still evident in your tone.

gojo and tsumiki nod immediately. you turn to him, gently smiling, "can i have your attention too, 'gumi? please?"

the boy nods his head instantly. "yeah, yeah. sure," he replies, scooting his chair closer to yours. you send him a relieved smile. "good, 'cause what i'm going to say next is very important. so, listen to me carefully, 'kay?"

all three of them are eager to nod in affirmation and anticipation.

scouring through your backpack, you retrieve a couple of pretty important-looking papers, and placing them back on the table, clasp your hands atop them. the kid spots gojo shoot you a worried look to which you respond with a reassuring smile.

the man's frown fades a little.

gaze now darting from one kid to another, you begin, "you two know, right, we love you very much?"

"yeah!" tsumiki exclaims, but is quick to fall silent when megumi shoots her a glare. you proceed, lips pressing into a thin line, "but we cannot adopt you two, in spite of how much all us want it to happen. we tried to, many, many times. but those higher-ups just won't let us do that."

a second passes - one wherein his young brain registers your words - before, lower lip wobbling, the boy casts his gaze down upon his light-up sneakers.

is this where you'll say he'll be sent to those zen'ins? away from his sister? away from you and gojo? away from all his uncles, aunts, nana-chan and mimi-chan?

megumi feels a hand card through his locks gently. looking up, he finds you with a soft smile. "but the thing is 'toru and i didn't let them defeat our purpose. we thought, you two can choose to be my clan's wards. not 'toru's, because of fucking - sorry, please forget i said that word - i meant, idiotic clan politics. so, what do you think?"

megumi turns to his sister, a pensive look plastered on her face the way it is on his. gojo adds, a tender smile in place of his usual stupid grin, "no pressure, kids. the both of us won't love you two any less and will be equally fine in case you choose not to."

"you guys can take how much ever time you need to think. there's no hurry," megumi hears you say, your warm hand rubbing circles on his back, as he turns back to his half-eaten burger.

a long moment passes.

passengers enter the cafeteria, they leave the cafeteria. the four of you remain seated, quietly munching on your food.

the boy finally removes his gaze from his now-empty tray and sends an inquiring, confused, hopeful look to his sister. tsumiki smiles back with a tiny nod. the little kid feels his heart burst with joy.

"we want to," the two of them answer in unison, and within a fraction of a second, megumi finds himself swept up in a warm hug alongside his sister, by you. "thank you for giving me, for giving us a chance," he hears you mutter quietly in a tear-choked voice. the boy simply pats your back the way you do to him. he soon feels another set of arms wrap around the three of you.

megumi thinks he has never felt happier or safer than in this moment.

a while passes with the four of you in this manner, enwrapped in an embrace, before you all finally pull away from each other.

the boy returns to his seat, rubbing his eyes. a minute passes in composing all of yourselves before you state, munching on another fry, "so, step one, including tsumiki and megumi into my legal family is done and successful. thank you, my loves."

tsumiki beams back at you; megumi returns a tiny smile. you grin at them - which, the kid watches, turns slyer as you switch your focus to your boyfriend.

the little boy stares at you, then stifles a snicker - he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what's gonna happen next. his gut instincts are rarely wrong, after all.

"but, 'toru..." you drawl, grin giving way to a smirk as gojo smiles back - perplexed but loving all the same. "for the step two, making you my legal family too, guess i need to wait to say 'yes' until the northern lights viewing two days later... don't i?"

a beat passes, then another, and another.

a loud gasp sounds from tsumiki. megumi turns to his dad - who's gaping wide-eyed at his mom now, the man's face whiter than his ugly hair - and smirks. just like the imp the goggles-wearing idiot always calls him at home, despite you repeatedly telling him not to.

gojo looks back at him, shock written on, engraved into his features.

"though i didn't really help you propose, i'm still the ringbearer, right?"

▸ masterlist

#gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk drabbles #jjk fics #jjk imagines #gojo drabbles #gojo fics #gojo imagines #jjk fluff #gojo fluff #gojo satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #kit posts 📝

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decaf-mother · 2 years ago

Text

"Paper Planes"

MDNI

Nikolai x GN!Reader

Medic|Y/N

Warnings: Fluff, Slight Angst?

You were sat outside with the flowers, it had been a long day and you had lost a lot of patients.

You knew you did your best but guilt still seeped its way into your heart, the plaguing thought of 'What if I could have done more?' eating away at your brain.

You remembered something Nikolai had taught you to do, it didn't fix things but it did help somewhat.

You went and retrieved some paper and a pen before returning to your spot on the flower filled hill, you wrote down all your negative thoughts onto the piece of paper.

Carefully you folded it into a little paper plane and casted it out into the breeze, watching it flutter away before taking a drastic nose dive. Your thoughts carried mostly along with it.

"Darn... I can never get them to fly quite far enough."

You uttered to yourself slightly disappointed as you had hoped it would travel further away, you were snapped out of your thought process at the sound of heavy boots behind you.

"душа моя."

Your head whipped around to look up at him, the term of endearment bringing a small smile to your face.

"Hey, Nik."

"I knew I'd find you out here after today."

You solemnly nodded as he took a seat beside you, he had brought some extra papers. A tired smile on his face as well.

It wasn't long before he had you laughing again, both of you folding and tossing the paper planes out into the world, setting it all free for the universe to claim instead.

He tried to show you a few pointers on how to make the paper planes go farther. Naturally you couldn't resist teasing him.

"Mmm... Perhaps you're better at this then you are at flying helicopters."

"Hey- if you recall I kept everyone from getting blown up."

"Gaz fell out."

"Yeah- but he lived!"

душа моя - My Soul

{Hope you like it @sofasoap }

{More Content}

#cod mw2 x reader #cod x reader #nikolai cod x reader #nikolai x reader #nikolai x you #cod x you #nikolai cod #cod nikolai #cod fluff #call of duty x reader #call of duty fluff #call of duty x you #underrated character #underrated cod character #vee's cod works

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fcble · 10 months ago

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GREAT THINGS, PART I

"Call to me and I will answer you, and will tell you great and hidden things that you have not known." — Jeremiah, 33:3.

In which Haksu becomes an idol in an unorthodox way. FEATURING: Kang Haksu, Lee Taein, Fable ensemble SETTING: November 2017 WORD COUNT: 10.3k WARNINGS / NOTES: Stalking, blackmail, extremely heavy-handed religious themes. Welcome to the piece that kicked my ass for over a year 🎉🎉. As in I started it a year ago and then wrote 9k words in the past two weeks. I have versions of this piece in three different perspectives. This is technically a rewrite of something I wrote earlier but now a few times longer 🎉🎉.

You’re going to do great things. You know this because it’s all anyone’s ever told you. You hear it from your father and your mother and your father’s father—until he dies—and your father’s mother—until she dies too—and your mother’s father and your mother’s mother.

You wonder when the great things will start. Time flips by, like the thin pages of the Bible that has resided on your bedside table since you were five. You’re a kid, a teenager, a young adult. You enter and exit middle school and high school. You begin to attend a mediocre university in Seoul, because it’s the only one in the city that accepted you. You brush that off, because you’re going to be great.

You think if you’re really, truly, going to be great, you might have to do it yourself.

The man’s name is Lee Taein. You meet him for the first time in a dream. You memorize the lines and planes of his face, because something about him is familiar. You conclude he must be rich or famous or both.

In the dream, he doesn’t tell you his name. You find it yourself, on the Internet, holding the image of his face in your head as you comb through the other dream fragments: a stage, a song, a single voice. You’ve never thought about being a singer. You wonder why.

You know how to sing. You’ve spent over a decade in choirs. You could be a singer.

That, you decide, is greater than whatever you’re doing now, which isn’t much of anything, and certainly nothing someone great would be doing.

You do your research. A lot of research. You spend your nights in bed, the darkness of your bedroom illuminated only by your laptop screen. In the mornings, you spend twice as long covering up the shadows under your eyes.

It’s a worthwhile exchange. You learn Lee Taein is forty-nine years old. Last year, he parted ways with SM Entertainment to found his own entertainment company. You dig deeper.

He married his current wife four years ago. Her name is Jung Eunyoung. She’s forty-three, and yet has risen no higher than a secretary for a minor law firm. You learn all this from her very public Instagram profile.

His biggest vice is gambling—some of it barely legal, most of it not. You find a news article from 1999 detailing an illegal gambling ring bust. His name is mentioned once.

His new company is called Zenith Entertainment. You’re briefly disappointed to see that the last time they held auditions was February.

There are partially censored Tweets and forum threads speculating the identities of the company’s trainees. You look at the grainy pictures and read the names: Jaeseop, Kiyoung, Eunsu.

You keep meticulous notes: index cards and the Notes app and a notebook you bought solely to organize your thoughts. Your grades slip. You haven’t attended class in three weeks.

You spend your days at a coffee shop across the street from Zenith Entertainment. You sit in a corner with a view of the building. You order the two cheapest items on the menu: a cookie and a small black coffee. You open your laptop and your notebook and pretend to work, covering the pages of your notebook with another sheet of paper whenever someone walks by.

Mostly, you watch.

You keep track of the people entering and exiting the building. Many of them work in the copywriting agency, based on their business casual outfits. You’ve stepped into the building once, only to be overwhelmed by the bright lights and the quiet hum of computers and the feeling of wrongness at being in a professional setting.

Taein dresses almost the same. If you didn’t know what he looked like, you’d miss him. The difference is in his stride and his posture: back straight, head forward, quick and even steps. You like him even more for that. He arrives in the late morning and leaves after the sun sets. You note the times: 9:43 AM, 10:02 AM, 9:56 AM, 7:19 PM, 7:48 PM, 8:10 PM.

You learn the intricacies of his schedule. There are days when he never arrives at all. You watch and wait as the hours tick by. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock, ten, eleven. No Lee Taein in sight. You wonder what he does when he doesn't work.

There are times when he'll step outside in the middle of the day, the movement catching your eye. You watch him stand on the sidewalk across the street and smoke a cigarette while he speaks on the phone. Twenty minutes later, he'll head back inside.

Sometimes you watch him leave accompanied by a younger man, somewhere around your age, who walks nearly, but not quite, behind him. You assume that must be his personal assistant or secretary or something along those lines.

Some of the people who visit the building must be trainees. You identify them from their age—young—and their dress—casual—and the times they arrive—all throughout the day. Occasionally, they stop by the coffee shop first, becoming more and more familiar to you.

There’s the tall foreigner who pronounces Americano with a distinctly Western accent. He arrives early in the morning, ordering his coffee shortly after you. He crosses the street in casual clothes and leaves in the late afternoon with the copywriter crowd, having changed into a more formal suit jacket and dress pants. You miss his departure for days until you realize he’s dressed differently.

There are the two high schoolers: one in a lurid yellow school uniform and another in a more sensible navy blue one. Sometimes their friend arrives earlier than them and sits a few tables down from you. He doesn’t wear a uniform. He sits for a half hour or so with his earbuds in while his iced coffee melts in front of him, until the high schoolers arrive. They talk loudly and boisterously, as if no one is listening.

You listen. You learn their names—Eunsu, Byeonghwi, Mingeun—and their orders—cold brew with an extra shot of espresso, iced caffè mocha, iced caffè latte. You hear them complain about teachers and Taein and trainee life.

You wonder if they could be your way in.

At night, when your roommate asks where you spend all your time, you tell him you got a job. He asks where. You fidget and your palms sweat and your heartbeat quickens. You stare past him and lie.

That weekend, you travel a few kilometers farther than usual and confess your sins.

Absolved, you think you’re ready for what comes next.

You have to talk to Taein. You can’t be great if all you do is wait and watch.

You peruse your notes, all of that information collected from your research and your observations, and then you devise your plan. You ask for His guidance and affirmation every day until you receive it. It comes in the form of one of your professors agreeing to overlook the sudden string of zeros in your homework assignments and tests. You were a decent enough student until a little over a month ago. If your previous work can be so easily overworked and dismissed, then maybe it’s time for your true calling. You’ve waited for this moment your entire life.

Less than a week later, you walk into the building like you belong there, not too early, not too late. You wear a winter jacket, which you shed as soon as you step inside, over a stiffly starched collared shirt and your best Sunday pants. You step into the elevator, alone, and decide to start at the top. You press the button for the fifth floor. It refuses to light up. You press it again and again to no avail. You stand in the still elevator and try the fourth floor.

Your ascent begins. You planned it all out: it's just after nine in the morning, after all the copywriters start their work and much too early for the students to be around. You're a last-minute callback from the audition, though that was months ago. It explains why Taein won't recognize you. You spoke to someone over the phone, someone named—what was her name? You can't remember. She said you should visit, so you're here—and oh, the appointment isn't in his calendar? She must have forgotten. You'll smile winningly and apologetically and Taein will be so charmed he'll agree to take you on on the spot.

You haven’t thought farther than that.

You step out of the elevator and into a dimly lit hall. The very air seems stale. There seems to be no one else around, so you proceed slowly down the hall. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a sickly yellow shade. You’re presented with two doors. The one on the left has a small glass window. You angle yourself away from it, on the off chance that someone sees you and knows you don’t belong. The one on the right is windowless, a blank slate of dark brown wood.

You debate internally for a few moments. The longer you stay there, the longer you risk meeting someone other than Taein. You try the plain door. The knob turns easily in your hand.

“Jaeseop?” A voice asks from inside. You aren’t Jaeseop, but you’ve seen that name before.

You steel yourself, silently ask for His guidance, and turn the knob all the way.

“If you’re asking about managing the social media accounts again, the answer is no,” the voice continues. It belongs to a middle-aged man, in a plain dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a ballpoint pen in the breast pocket. He looks away from his computer screen, and you find yourself face-to-face with Lee Taein.

“You must be lost. The copywriting agency is on the first two floors,” Taein says.

“I’m supposed to be here,” you say. You bow, politely, to him, then add on, “My name is Kang Haksu. I received a call a few days ago—”

Taein cuts you off, which is maybe for the better, because now that you were about to say it, your story is paper-thin and a bit silly. “You didn’t receive anything. There were no calls. You’re no one.”

Nothing is going to plan, so you do your best to improvise. “I know you’re developing an idol group. I need to be part of it.”

Taein stares at you like he can’t believe those words came out of your mouth. You believe them. You need this. Who will you be if you don’t do this?

“This is not a charity.” His voice is bone dry. “We can’t get everything we want in life. It’s better to learn that lesson early. Tell whoever sold you your information on my business and I that I don’t take charity cases.”

“I’m not a sasaeng.” His words sting. It’s a veiled accusation, but an accusation nonetheless.

“I never said you were. People like you are a dime a dozen, thinking you can waltz into the entertainment industry with no experience and no connections and immediately become a superstar. It takes much more hard work, skill, and luck than someone like you can imagine. Try your luck somewhere else.”

His words strip you to the core. Were you too naive, thinking you’d be different? You shrink back from the ferocity of it all, cowed more than you’d like to admit. You don’t take his words to heart. You can’t go anywhere else. You’re supposed to be here, under Taein’s direction.

You don’t know how or when, but you’ll be back. You’ll find another way. You don’t have anything to say to his words, the humiliation still burning across your face, so you turn tail and flee.

You escape out into the cold, winter morning, no closer to your destiny than you were an hour ago. If anything, you’re objectively farther away. Taein knows you now, knows your name and your face and your deepest desire. You don’t let that stop you. You vow to yourself to never let him get the best of you like that again. You’ll be seeing him a lot in the future, you know, because you’ll be in his group.

By the time you enter the cafè across the street again, you’re bouncing back. You’ve always been resilient. You’re shielded, after all, by the grace of God. The cashier starts to ring up your usual black coffee and cookie order, but you wave it away and spend a little more on a latte instead. As you sip your drink and stare broodingly at the building across the street, your second plan begins to form. If it’s a sasaeng Taein wants, then it’s a sasaeng he’ll get.

On your way home, you stop at a convenience store and buy a new notebook. You sit on your dorm room bed and think about the days you spent watching the building, the days when Taein was nowhere to be found. He’s a bit of a workaholic, but clearly not enough to spend seven days a week at his workplaces. You, on the other hand, are unemployed enough to spend seven days a week looking into what he does. You copy the dates and times out of your old notebook and try to find a pattern.

He arrives late on Mondays, but you chalk that up to a normal dislike of Mondays. The rest of the weekdays are sporadic. There was a week where Taein missed three days of work in a row. You wonder if it's something else, if it's easily explainable. Maybe he caught a cold. It is winter, after all. You dismiss the thought. He's up to something. You know he is.

The day he misses the most often is Tuesday, from the few weeks you've watched him. In fact, he's never been at work on a Tuesday. You wonder why you never noticed that before.

It's Thursday, which means you have a few days to continue your research. You do a quick search for how much a private investigator costs, and are shocked by the results. It's fine. You can be a private investigator yourself. How hard can it be?

You plug Taein's name into one of those less-than-reputable websites that promise addresses and phone numbers. You're prompted to create an account and pay a small fee. You click through it all without hesitating. A few thousand won now means very little in the great, grand scheme of your idol destiny.

Multiple people with the same name as Taein pop up. You aren't worried, because your Taein is a public figure. That, and you know his age and his wife’s name.

Eventually, one of them fits the bill perfectly. You take a quick break to straighten your posture and ease the stiffness from your spine. You've been sitting here, engrossed in your new plan, for the better part of an hour.

Your best guess so far is an address in Hongje-dong. You've been lucky in your observation so far. That must mean you're on the right track. You're getting closer and closer with each passing day. Tomorrow you'll close the distance between you and your destiny.

In the morning, you wake up extra early to get to Hongje-dong before Taein leaves. You doubt he takes the subway anywhere, so you rent a bike and make your way to his address. You only lose your balance twice in your first block. It’s early enough in the morning that there’s no one around to see you.

You arrive at the address much faster than you expected. The sun is only barely beginning to creep over the horizon. Then you pause, because Taein lives in a condominium. Every house on the block looks the same. The only differences are the cars parked out front of each one and the numbers on the houses. You stick out here, a young man on a bicycle with nowhere to go. You take one last look at Taein’s home and the car outside—a white Mazda—then wheel yourself around and pedal out.

You repeat the license plate to yourself in your head until you arrive at a convenience store. It’s the only place around that’s open. You buy a bag of chips and take a seat outside, keeping an eye out for Taein. You add the plate number to your notes and try to figure out exactly what kind of car he drives. You have time to spare. You expect him to head to the Zenith Entertainment building today, and he tends to arrive around nine or ten. After you consider traffic, it shouldn’t take him more than half an hour.

You’re almost certain he drives a 2015 Mazda 3. You head back inside and buy a coffee. Then you take a few moments to think through your plan. Like if Taein drives, then where in the city does he park? Naver Map told you this convenience store was along the quickest route to Sinmunno 2-ga. What if he has a faster route?

You’re still worrying when Taein’s car speeds by, much faster than the speed limit allows. You jump up from your seat, nearly spilling your coffee. You can’t hold it and ride your bike at the same time, so you hurry to dispose of it and pack up your notes again. You pray Taein is heading to Zenith Entertainment. It’s a little early, but maybe there’s a good reason for that. You set off in the same direction as him, though he’s disappeared from sight.

You make your way to Zenith Entertainment anyway, and by chance, see a white Mazda disappearing into a parking garage down the road from the company building. It’s too far for the garage to be connected to the building, so you lock your bike across the street and wait for him to leave. You lock and unlock the bike lock three times, fiddling with the combination. You strap the helmet to your backpack and lean against the seat and pretend to look at your phone, all the while eyeing the entrance.

Taein never leaves. You look both ways, then cross the street into the depths of the garage. It’s risky, because Taein could see you and recognize you, but you can’t take the chance that he’s gone somewhere else or is doing something else. Your imagination runs wild, thinking of all the illicit activities he might participate in. There are a number of other cars in the lot. The copywriters, you assume.

Then, in a small walkway that must lead to another entrance, you see him, standing with another man. You duck behind a car, and creep closer to the two of them. Taein must be smoking, because the smell of cigarette smoke permeates your hiding spot.

“You wanted to do more than catch up,” Taein is saying when you can finally hear them.

“I didn’t.” The other man sounds amused.

“We could have met anywhere else. You insisted on this attempt at discretion.”

“It’s about your case,” the other man says. “They want to open it again.”

“I thought you took care of that, Cheolhwan.” Taein sounds guarded. “How much do they want?”

You don’t know what this is about, but you silently take your phone and start to record.

“Twice what you gave me. This is above my pay grade.”

They’re quiet after that. You peek carefully through the cars to see if they’ve left. They’re still standing there, the ember at the end of Taein’s cigarette the brightest light. You duck down again without getting a better look at Cheolhwan. You wonder if he’s a loan shark or something. Breaking off and starting a company can’t be cheap.

“Alright. The police never liked me much anyway,” Taein says suddenly. You poke your head back up to watch him drop his cigarette butt to the ground and grind it under his shoe.

Cheolhwan snorts. “I can’t imagine why. Planning on begging Jinguk again?”

“I don’t beg. Jinguk-ssi and I are proper business partners.”

That gets a laugh out of Cheolhwan, the short, rough, sound echoing around the garage.

You stop your video recording, unsure of whatever that was. You doubt it'll be of use in your quest to be an idol, but you decide to hold onto it for now. You hear footsteps begin to recede in the distance, and you wait in your hiding place until they disappear completely.

All in all, you feel vindicated. There's something suspicious going on with Taein. You're certain you can get to the bottom of it. It's something to do with money. You can find out who Cheolhwan is. Their relationship is uncertain to you. They spoke casually to each other, but there was a degree of aloofness to the entire conversation that you don't know what to make of. Whatever it is, it was more than a simple meeting between friends.

When you’re certain they’re gone, you stand up, stretching out the crick in your neck. You assume Taein will spend the rest of the day at work, and that’s not somewhere you can watch him too closely. You return to your usual haunt across the street instead and make an attempt to catch up on your forgotten coursework.

It’s a good attempt, but you lose all steam when the high school trainees arrive. You stare daggers at their backs, because they’re in the exact position you want to be in. You watch them order their drinks and slowly sip them, idling the afternoon by. You don't understand why they don't take their positions more seriously. There are so many other people—yourself included—who are dying to be where they are.

But you aren’t them, so you have to settle for envy.

Eventually, they leave, and you watch through the window as they enter the Zenith Entertainment building, still laughing and talking companionably. You aren't jealous. You could build your own close group of friends. You just haven't. But if you really wanted to, you could.

The sun begins to set, and you know you've outstayed your welcome. You haven't bought anything since your single coffee hours ago. The waitstaff give you sidelong looks every now and then, but they don't ask you to leave, so you pretend you don't see them.

You finally see Taein make his long-awaited exit a little earlier than usual. He's walking fast. This time, you’re prepared. As his Mazda 3 emerges from the parking garage, you’re right behind him on your bike. You think he should be heading home, but that's not set in stone, so you decide to follow him. Your intuition pays off when you see him turn not back to Hongje-dong, but somewhere else. At a traffic light, you pause to try and figure out where you are. You've only lived in Seoul for a year and a half, the length of your short-lived university career. The city blocks are still unfamiliar to you. The light turns green, and Taein speeds off. You rush to catch up with him.

You wonder where he could be going, driving so quickly he nearly bowls over a pedestrian. Leave it to him to be so careless. Your opinion of him is souring faster and faster.

He comes to a stop outside of a small, decrepit bar you’ve never heard of before, still driving too quickly as he pulls into the parking lot. You stop, across the street again, trying to figure out where you are. It doesn’t like the type of scene that caters to university students or tired corporate employees. Your mind goes to the worst places. It could be a front for all the worst types of activities—drugs and gambling and prostitution. You record the name in flickering neon lights anyway.

You’re about to leave and try to return during the day when you spot Taein leaving. He’s in the company of a young woman, and so you almost don’t recognize him. She’s wearing a long coat, but the front is open, giving you glimpses of an outfit that isn’t close to being warm enough for the weather. She clings to Taein’s arm like a lifeline, stumbling over the cracks in the sidewalk in her heels. They look like a couple. Your stomach turns. He has a wife.

With shaking hands, you raise your phone and snap another few pictures. You don’t want to see him anymore, so you don’t bother to try and follow them. You almost regret your decision to weasel your way into his life. Instead, you get back onto your bike and head home.

Saturday arrives. You don't spend your weekends at Zenith Entertainment, because you have better things to do. Or had. This morning, you wake up early again to bike back to Taein's home. You spent some time last night wondering just how far you’ll go to reach your destiny. Between that shady conversation you overheard yesterday and the young woman he met up with, you’re almost afraid of what you’ll see him do next. Sometimes you have to do difficult things before you can do great things.

More than that you’re curious about what Taein does on the weekends. Before this, your impression of him was that of a career-driven man with few feelings or even an existence outside of his job. You don’t understand why you have to work for this man, but it isn’t your place to question it.

You cycle around the blocks a few times, and it slowly comes to light in your head.

Taein is clearly the breadwinner between him and his lawfully wedded wife, so you doubt he spends his weekends shopping or cooking or cleaning. You also doubt he’s devout. As hard as you try, you can't even begin to picture him in church. You're almost certain he doesn't have kids. If he does, it's a very closely guarded secret, because it wasn't mentioned once in anything you read about him online. You wonder if maybe he had kids with his previous wife and lost custody of them. Knowing what you know about him now, you don’t find that hard to believe.

The white Mazda 3 sits outside of his condo. A light is on inside the house. You aren’t looking forward to spending a day waiting for Taein to do something. You wonder if you should have forked over the money—your parents’ money—for a private investigator. Then it would be someone else keeping watch on Taein’s house, someone more suited for the job than one young man shivering on a bike.

You think it's weird for you to sit right outside his house, so you take to patrolling the two possible entrances to the street instead. You pedal slowly, heading up and down the street. At the moment, there's nothing you fear more than having him leave without you noticing. You pause to scrutinize the map on your phone to ensure there are no other exits or back roads or possible ways out of his home other than the main street.

Then, eventually, you see his car roll by. You rush after it. He's driving slower than normal. That's when you notice it isn't him in the driver's seat, but his wife. She's the only one in the car. It makes sense, then, that the car is following the posted speed limits. You wonder what Taein is possibly doing alone at home now.

You ride back to his house, just in time to see him step outside and lock the door behind him. You stare, shocked, and have just enough sense to hide behind the condo across the street. His wife left less than five minutes ago. Where are they going, separate and alone?

Taein heads off on foot. You wait until you see him leave. The bike is a bit cumbersome. How could you have predicted that his wife would take the car somewhere and he’d leave on foot? You walk alongside your bike and try to pretend you aren't following him. You ride halfway around the block in boredom before you have to turn around so you don't lose him. You wish he could walk faster.

You check your phone. What's within walking distance of his condominium? The convenience store you sat outside of. A station? He could get anywhere from there.

The streets are too empty for you to follow closer. If he were to turn around, he'd spot you immediately. It stresses you out. You aren't a professional. You really should have hired a private investigator.

To your dismay, he turns into the subway station. You abandon your rental bike right outside, tapping through the app to return it as you continue to follow Taein. There are a few more people here, which makes it easier for you to follow him, and easier for him to lose you.

He's waiting for Line 3 towards Ogeum, the only line that runs through this station. You check the overlapping lines on the map, standing behind him so he doesn't see you. There are too many options for possible transfers: Jongno 3-ga, Euljiro 3-ga, Chumgmuro, Yaksu, Oksu, and on and on and on. You hope he doesn't travel too far. You hope he doesn't get off somewhere and order a taxi. You fill the time by once again trying to imagine what he does for fun on the weekends. For some reason, you can't picture him doing anything. He's the type of person to spend the weekend at the office. You chart the path to Zenith Entertainment from your current location. It’s two stops on the line and then a short walk. It wouldn't surprise you if he stopped there. You don't particularly want to go to Zenith Entertainment again. You're supposed to find something about him that will leave him no choice but to accept you. The woman he met yesterday was a good start. You wonder if he's heading out to see her again.

As you're lost in your thoughts, the train arrives. You make sure you're in the same car as Taein, though it increases the chances of him noticing you. You'll have to play it off as a coincidence. You rehearse the lines in your head. You'll pretend you don't recognize him. As if you could forget what he looks like. He might not recognize you, you realize. You met him once, for a few minutes. The train picks up speed.

You pass through the first few stops with no incidents. So Taein isn’t going to work. Your interest is piqued.

You're on the train with him for almost forty-five minutes. You watch station after station pass by, the smooth tone of the recorded announcer reciting stop after stop. Taein makes no move to exit at a single one. He stares down at his phone, which lets you stare at him. He doesn't do anything interesting. All he does is scroll through his phone, tap his screen a few times, then stare. He looks like your average salaryman.

He finally gets off in Yangjae. You’re in Gangnam now. You let him leave first. When the doors are about to close, you follow after him. He isn't heading out, but through the station. You follow him to a transfer to the Shinbundang Line. You only know this because you’re spending so much time staring at the map on your phone, it’s starting to become engrained on the backs of your eyelids.

He rides the new subway line for one stop. You both exit at Gangnam Station. You follow him up back into the daylight. It's much more crowded here, locals and tourists alike.

Taein walks faster. That probably has something to do with the crowds. You hurry after him, thankful you're no longer burdened with your bike.

He heads down a series of twists and turns, alleyways and backroads forming a route Naver Map would never recommend to you. You’re glad it’s the middle of the day. You’d hate to do this at night.

In front of you, Taein heads into a storefront you wouldn’t be caught dead in. This one doesn’t have a name on top of it. You take a picture anyway, then cross-reference your location with the map. There’s still no name. You debate whether or not you should follow him in. From the outside, it’s not the type of place you belong. But Taein could be doing any matter of incriminating activities in there, and that’s what you need to see.

You let your internal debate rage for a few seconds more. Then you cross the street and push the door open.

The room is dimly lit. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and when they do, you realize a few of the patrons are looking at you. You’re the youngest person in the room. You slide up to the bar and order a drink. God knows you need it.

You take a small sip and grimace immediately. It's obvious people don't come here to drink. You cast a casual glance around the room, looking for Taein. It isn't too crowded. He should be easy to spot---and vice versa, he could easily spot you. You don't see him. Most of the patrons are more engaged with the TV screens in the corner of the room and across the top of the bar. You expect to see sports or the news or something along those lines. You look up to see horses.

It clicks in your head. Horse racing. These people are day drinking and gambling. You belong anywhere else in the world but here. And where is Taein, in this entire mess?

You flag the bartender down.

"Did you see a man come in?" you ask. "Middle-aged, around my height, with an oversized watch? His name’s Lee Taein." You do a bit of your own gambling, placing a bet on Taein being a regular here.

The bartender regards you curiously. "You’re looking for Taein-ssi?”

"He’s my boss," you say. "He told me to meet him here. I was promoted recently. He wanted to celebrate."

The words fall easily from your tongue. It's more of a lie than the truth, but it could be the truth soon enough.

"Congratulations. He invited you here and didn't tell you the password?" The bartender shakes his head. He points into an ever darker recess of the room. "Down the hall. To the left of the bathroom. 8179."

You thank him and leave your drink alone. The left of the bathroom is a door with a keypad above the handle. You type in the passcode, and the lock clicks.

Taein is on the other side of the door. Your destiny is on the other side of the door. You take a deep breath and crack the door open.

You don't know what you expected. It certainly wasn't the opposite of what you experienced upstairs. For a secret room, it's well-lit and almost cozy. There aren’t many people in the room, just a few small groups of four or five people sitting around green, square tables, playing cards. Now, you spot Taein immediately, sitting behind a decently-sized pile of poker chips, the largest pile on his table. One of the people he's playing with the young woman you saw him with last night. She seems your age, maybe a few years older or younger.

You close the door silently behind you. Your skin crawls. You want to get out of here as soon as possible.

There's another bar down here, against the back of the wall. The drinks on the tables look significantly better than they do upstairs. You think about getting another one, just to make it look like you belong here and you fit in.

No one seems to notice your entrance, too engaged in their games. Your luck holds as you slide around to take a few pictures of Taein, holding your phone just in front of you, at waist level. Your fingers shake, but blurry photos are better than no photos. No one else has their phones out, not even resting on the poker tables. It feels illegal for you to do this. In fact, everything about this feels illegal. You make sure to get Taein's full face in the images, and from multiple angles. Then you slip your phone back into your pocket.

That's when you're interrupted.

"You're new here." A hand lands on your shoulder. A few people—not Taein—look up at that, before just as quickly returning to their games. You turn slowly around to see a man twice your size, a bouncer inside the club.

"I was looking for the bathroom," you say, aiming for young, fresh-faced innocence.

"How old are you, kid?"

"Nineteen," you lie. You’re twenty-one. You hate how easily that one comes out. You could have told the truth.

"Good try," the man says, keeping his firm grip on your shoulder as he guides you back to the exit. You take a glance back at Taein. Throughout the entire ordeal, he hasn't looked up once, much too concerned with the cards in his hands. Although it doesn’t look like it, you hope he loses.

You aren't in the mood to wait in the real bar until Taein emerges, so you leave.

"Leaving already?" the bartender upstairs asks.

You ignore him. It doesn't matter. You're never coming here again.

You head home to see how blurry your pictures are. You think you might already have enough material to force him to give you a position. He's made it scarily easy for you. You didn't even need a private investigator.

You spend the rest of the week following him around anyway. You've grown used to it: the bike rental and Taein's neighborhood and Zenith Entertainment and a variety of bars and hotels across the entire city you know you’ll never step foot in again, and once, another day spent in Gangnam at a shiny skyscraper. Taein arrived at seven in the morning, earlier than he does at Zenith Entertainment, and didn't emerge until nearly eight at night. That was weird, but you had no way of getting into the building, short of breaking in. You had considered pizza delivery, kid of an employee, new employee, and a few other disguises before giving up. After the bouncer encounter, you’re staying clear of security. And that building made its security obvious, what with all the men in navy blue uniforms and earpieces, standing outside every entrance. What were the chances of Taein doing anything illegal or immoral there? Low, you figured, judging by the number of luxury cars dropping passengers off outside.

In your spare time, you try to find anything about Cheolhwan. With only a first name and a tenuous connection to Lee Taein, it’s difficult. You find two Cheolhwans in Taein’s Korea University graduation class. That was decades ago. You doubt either of those are the same man.

Regardless, you go through with your new plan. Armed with your newly obtained material, you’re ready for your second attempt. You know Taein's schedule now. That means when he arrives at Zenith Entertainment for the day, on a bright, sunny, perfect Wednesday morning, you're standing outside his office.

"You again," Taein says, calm and impassive. "This type of perseverance is seen as obsessive behavior. The answer is no again."

You haven’t even asked your question. You watch him unlock the door to his office.

"Please leave."

You stop him from closing the door with your foot. "I have something you might want to see."

"I don't think so," Taein says. He seems to be in a bad mood. He must have had a bad night last night.

"If you don't want to see it, I think your wife, Jung Eunyoung-ssi, might have an interest in it instead," you say.

That gets his attention. "I don’t see what you’re getting at. I don’t mix business with pleasure."

"Please don't play dumb, Taein-ssi," you say, adapting to each of his evasive attempts. You didn't plan this out. You remember how poorly that went last time. Taein is unpredictable to you. You don't know him nearly well enough to begin to predict any of his responses. "I know you're seeing another woman."

Taein stares at you. "I suppose you should come inside." He sounds extremely reluctant. At the same time, you know this isn't a conversation the two of you should be having in a corridor. You tamp down the sudden flare of excitement in your chest.

His office looks the same as you remember it. You take a seat in the plastic folding chair with the uneven legs.

"Are you a private investigator? A detective? You’ll find everything in order."

He’s defensive already. You’ve barely said anything. The investigator comment is a bit flattering. You like it.

“Everything except your marriage,” you note.

Taein shrugs. "Divorce is messy. I don't have time for that right now."

You think it's terrible that he divorced his first wife, and seems to be considering divorcing his second wife. You shove the thought aside and bring out your phone, placing it on the table between the two of you.

“What’s her name?” you ask. “You seem to spend a lot of time with her.”

It's definitely not the strongest statement, but your proof is what's more important. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words.

"Did Eunyoung hire you?" Taein asks suddenly, ignoring your comment. He's looking at you, instead of the pictures of himself.

"No," you say. "No one hired me."

The two of you look through the album together: Taein and the young woman, arm in arm over and over and over again, in bars and restaurants and hotel lobbies and out on the street in broad daylight.

Then, Taein swipes one photo too far and you’re both presented with a photo of Taein in profile, staring intently at the two playing cards he’s holding. He picks up your phone. "How did you get this?"

He isn’t denying it any longer. You figure it's hard to deny something when the hard, concrete proof is right in front of you.

"I was there," you say.

Taein thinks about it for a second, then nods. "I didn't recognize you then. You were the one Soogeun-ssi removed."

You don't like his choice of words, but you nod anyway. You didn't think he'd noticed you. You thought you were so clever, getting away with everything. You don’t have anything else to say. Your photos speak for you.

"Who paid you?" he asks again, deathly calm. This is uncharted territory. “How much more would I have to pay you?”

“No one paid me anything. I don’t want your money. All I want is to be an idol.”

He shakes his head. “There are easier ways to do that.”

“This is the way I’m doing it. This is the way I want to do it.” This is the way you have to do it.

Taein’s expression is inscrutable. You’ve played your hand. It’s up to him to respond. You wait with bated breath, until he finally says, “I’ll give you a trial period. If you can keep up with everyone else for a month, we can reconsider your position then. If you can’t, then we part ways amicably. No one, least of all Eunyoung, needs to know what you’ve done.”

“I don’t get anything,” you say.

“You get a chance,” Taein snaps. “It’s more than you deserve. Time will tell if this bet pays off.”

You don’t appreciate being compared to a game of roulette. “I might talk to Eunyoung-ssi any time in the future.”

“You might. It won’t make a difference.” He’s oddly calm. It unnerves you.

“Why not?” You have to ask.

“Cheating isn’t illegal. Nor is playing cards in a private setting. Stalking, on the other hand, is.” You can’t do great things from a jail cell, so that keeps you from continuing to argue.

Taein continues to speak. “For the time being, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to ruin my marriage. The negative press would be disastrous at this time, and divorce proceedings are lengthy. As long as you want to work for me, our fates are tied.”

That’s a sentiment you can support. You nod slowly. Something like a smile takes its place on Taein's face. “You can come by on Monday. The other trainees know it's too late for me to accept anyone new. Tell them you've been confirmed to debut.”

On your first day, you take the elevator up to the third floor. It opens to a floor much different from the fourth. The left side is the same: a door with a glass window, expanding all the way down as far as you can see. The right side leads into an open office, with cubicles arranged in small groups of fours and fives. There are even a few people sitting amongst the desks. That isn't your place, so you ignore them and push open the door to the left.

There's one person in the room, a teenage boy sitting down on the floor and stretching. He looks up at you when you enter with sharp, calculating eyes. You recognize him for your days in the cafè—Mingeun. He doesn’t seem to recognize you. He rises to his feet, moving with a grace unfit for his age, like he’s so perfectly comfortable in his body despite being in his awkward teenage years. You were nothing like him when you were his age a few years ago.

“I’m Haksu,” you say. “I’m new here.” You smile at him, something you think is befitting of an idol, but he doesn’t return it. If anything, his neutral expression grows frosty.

“Mingeun,” he says stiffly. “Taein-nim promised there wouldn’t be any more new people. Where are you from? JYP? YG?”

He sounds whiny and childish. You’re unimpressed.

“Gunsan,” you try, though you know that’s not what he means.

Mingeun scowls. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

You’re about to respond, to tell him you’re not from anywhere in the way he means, when the door flies open. You recognize both of the two new arrivals—one is the tall foreigner you’ve seen in the cafè, and the other is the young man you’ve seen following Taein—his assistant, presumably.

“Mingeun!” Taein’s assistant scolds. “Stop harassing the new guy.”

“I wasn’t harassing him,” Mingeun shoots back. “We’re going to be good friends. Right, Haksu-ssi?”

The look he gives you clearly says to play along. You don’t know if you’re going to be good friends, but you nod along anyway. Their conversation continues like you aren’t even there.

“We were just getting to what company he trained at,” Mingeun says. “Then we were going to talk about why Taein-nim thought he should join us.”

Taein’s assistant winces. “You won’t like either of those answers.”

“Another SM reject? I can handle it. I’m over it.”

Taein’s assistant ignores Mingeun and turns to you instead. He holds his hand out, Western-style, and says, “I’m Jaeseop. I’m so sorry about Mingeun. We''—he gestures to himself and the cafè foreigner—”were supposed to be the first ones to meet you. Sam—Taein-nim—held us up. Oh, and that’s Andrew.”

Your first impression of him is that he’s frazzled and all over the place. You imagine being Taein’s assistant is a difficult job. Behind him, Mingeun folds his arms, clearly upset about being excluded from the conversation.

You grasp his hand. “Haksu.”

“I know,” Jaeseop says, suddenly looking like he’d rather be anywhere but in front of you. “Taein-nim told me about you.”

You wonder how much Taein told him. You don’t think he’d tell his assistant everything. It’s supposed to be a secret between the two of you.

“How many—” You hesitate in the middle of your sentence. Of you? Of us? How long until you're one of them? “—other trainees are there?”

“Seven,” Jaeseop says. “With you, there's eight.”

“If you're expecting monthly evaluations and competing against fifty other trainees, we're past that,” Mingeun cuts in.

“We’re the debut team. We’re all that's left,” Andrew adds.

The three of them seem so in-sync with one another, like parts of a perfect, well-oiled machine. You're the loose cog, the piece of scrap metal carelessly tossed inside, with all the potential of breaking the machine into pieces. And how does Taein's assistant fit into all of this? He seems close to Andrew and Mingeun, closer than an assistant to the CEO should be.

“When will I meet everyone else?” you ask, just to change the subject.

Jaeseop, with all the mental fortitude of an overworked assistant, takes a deep breath and begins to rattle off a list of names and short descriptions and times, most of which fly right over your head. “Intak will be here around lunchtime, after his classes end. Byeonghwi and Eunsu come by after school in the mid-afternoon. Kiyoung-hyung keeps saying he'll quit his job, but he hasn't, so he won't be here until the evening.”

Andrew picks up on your obvious cluelessness, and simplifies it down to, “Intak will be here soon. He'll be extremely bad at small talk. Don't mention it to him.”

You don't know where that came from, but you nod along anyway. These are going to be your group members. You need to get along with them.

“Don't talk about League either,” Mingeun adds suddenly. You didn't realize he was still part of the conversation. “Unless you're also an SKT fan upset about their loss. He's really into that. You don't seem like a gamer.”

“I play a bit,” you say diplomatically, because you do. You were a teenage boy at one point, and there was no way for you to survive those years without playing League of Legends at least once.

“We all have sensitive topics, “ Jaeseop says as way of explanation. “Things we don't want to talk about and therefore try to avoid unless there's no other way around it. Mingeun, yours are?”

With a sigh, Mingeun dutifully says, “SM Entertainment. All you need to know is that I used to be a trainee there. And my mom. You don't need to know anything about her.”

Jaeseop keeps saying “we.” If you hadn’t seen him so many times with Taein, you’d take him for another trainee. You want to ask what his role really is, but you know you can't, because it'll betray you. It's harder than you expected to act like you know nothing about them. You'll have to be careful to not slip up.

He turns his full attention to you, and asks, “Got anything?”

This is the last thing you expected from your first day as an idol. Your first item comes quickly. “How I joined Zenith Entertainment.”

You know you'll have to tell them eventually, but for now, you want to get along with everyone. Mingeun looks like he wants to ask you anyway, consequences be damned.

Andrew dismisses him before he can speak. “Byeonghwi asked for the same.”

“He asked us not to ask him why,” Jaeseop corrects. “He got in through the audition.”

Mingeun attacks like a shark smelling blood in the water. “Why’d you do it?”

You could tell them that, you suppose, but something holds you back. You want to be certain you can achieve your destiny before you start shouting it to the world. “I don't want to discuss that either,” you say instead. It's the only way out of it you can see, so you take it.

“Can we talk, hyung?” Mingeun asks, turning to Jaeseop. “Privately?”

You know you'd be the subject of their conversation. You can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing. You like the attention, but in this context, it seems bad. You want to get along with Mingeun, but it's clear he has little intention of getting along with you.

“No.” Jaeseop's response is firm, and you like him a little more for that. “You can tell me in front of Haksu-ssi.”

Mingeun falls silent, clearly unwilling to say whatever he wanted to say a few minutes ago.

“Great. Anything else?”

You do have a few other ideas in mind, but you've already chosen two major ones and you're afraid to rock the boat, so you shake your head.

On the wall behind him, you notice, for the first time, a schedule created out of a bunch of individual pieces of paper taped together. You skim over it. It’s overwhelming. There are classes on three out of the seven days, scheduled back to back to back: dance lessons and vocal lessons and rap lessons and media training and a short section on how to walk and more dance lessons. It's overwhelming. You're thankful to see that Sundays are, blessedly, left empty.

Jaeseop follows your gaze. “It’s a lot to take in at first,” he says sympathetically. “You’ll get used to it.”

You will, because you have no other choice. Your options are to adjust, or to give up and forfeit your spot and your destiny. The latter isn’t even in the realm of possibility. You’ll adjust and you’ll succeed, because you have to.

Then it's noon, and Intak arrives. You remind yourself: no comments on his social skills and nothing about League of Legends. He shows up with nothing but a laptop bag slung over one shoulder and a can of Red Bull. He looks over you with a disinterested gaze, asks, “Another one?”, chugs his Red Bull, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he and Andrew disappear out of the practice room to wherever else they go.

Mingeun leaves shortly after the two of them. You know he's going to the cafè to wait for the two high schoolers, but you don't say that out loud. You watch him leave, and then you're left alone with Jaeseop, the two of you sitting on the floor.

“If I ask about how or why you became a trainee, can you give me an answer?” Jaeseop asks.

“No,” you answer, because you can't.

“Do you have any relation to the Danyoung Group?” is his next question.

“No,” you say again, unsure what a chaebol who built and now owns three-quarters of the buildings in Seoul has to do with you. “I’m from Gunsan.”

He stares at you like he doesn't believe you. You meet his gaze until he looks away.

He sighs. “I’ll take you on a tour. You haven’t seen everything yet, have you?”

The question appears much more rhetorical than literal, so you follow him out of the room.

“The floor used to be all office space,” Jaeseop says, walking backwards as if he’s a professional tour guide. “This half hasn’t been converted yet.” He gestures to the messy sprawl of cubicles. To your surprise, that’s where Andrew and Intak are, two chairs in the same cubicle, though it looks like Intak is the only one working.

Jaeseop avoids them and makes a beeline for the other side of the space. It’s emptier than you had thought at first glance. He introduces you to a middle-aged man, sitting at a desk, surrounded with a tidy assortment of trinkets and knick-knacks and framed photographs. It’s the polar opposite of Taein’s office.

“This is Sanghyun-nim,” he says. “He’s Taein-nim’s right-hand man. He does all the unpleasant tasks Taein-nim doesn’t want to do.”

That doesn’t seem conducive to your image of Taein. You’ve seen him do a few unpleasant tasks. You suppose those weren’t necessary for his job.

“The menial ones,” Sanghyun corrects. “You’re the new recruit. Kang Haksu-ssi.”

“That’s me,” you say, surprised by the way he recognizes you. You wonder how much Taein told everyone else, what kind of story he fed them. You doubt it was the truth. You hope you can trust him. If you can’t, it’s a little too late for that.

He seems like he could have an entire conversation with you, but Jaeseop whisks you away. “Hyekyung,” he says, of a young woman around your age, with a phone tucked on her shoulder, taking notes with her other hand. She waves in your general direction.

“Social media and marketing,” Jaeseop explains. “I wouldn’t get on her bad side. She’s really the one in charge of this entire area.”

He stops in his tracks and points across the room. You tiptoe to see what he’s trying to point out to you. A woman who looks like she should be a floor below them with the copywriters sits alone at a desk, a wide berth between her and anyone else.

“Gyeongwon,” Jaeseop says, voice dropped to a whisper. “She doesn’t work here, but she works with Taein-nim. I wouldn’t upset her either.”

He moves on, taking quick strides across the floor to the side opposite the elevator. “The stairwell is here. Goes from the first floor up to the rooftop.”

You think he’s going to take you up the stairs—to the rooftop, maybe—but he stops. “The fourth floor is only Taein-nim’s office for now. I assume you’ve been there. The fifth floor is empty. The elevator doesn’t go up there. If you do ever go up to the rooftop, the door is always stuck.”

You try to follow along, completely overwhelmed with the amount of new names and faces and information you’re expected to now know.

Jaeseop checks the time on his phone. “Mingeun should be back by now.”

You don't have much praise for Jaeseop's tour. This time, when you open the practice room door, Mingeun is pacing. The conversation stops abruptly as you enter. Eunsu and Byeonghwi, you remember, though you can’t remember who’s who.

Jaeseop comes to your accidental rescue. “Eunsu.” He points out the boy in the mustard-yellow uniform. “And Byeonghwi.”

Byeonghwi gives you a smile and a wave, and you’re immediately struck by how he seems genuinely happy to meet you, as if he was destined to be an idol, forever pretending and playing along with people slipping in and out of his life. Like you, you have to remind yourself. It’s a sharp contrast from the way everyone else has behaved around you. High school students are supposed to be annoying and immature, not better than you at your own fate. You try not to let it get to you.

Not long after their arrival, Intak and Andrew make their re-entrance. Andrew is in a different outfit, the type of corporate wear you’ve seen him leave in. You see your opportunity, so you take it.

“You changed,” you observe.

“Work,” he says. “I teach English at a hagwon.”

You wonder if he’s qualified to do that, and then if the parents of the students he teaches know that their teacher is focused on being an idol and not on teaching. You should have guessed. What else could he do?

You watch him leave. Almost as soon as the door shuts softly behind him, Intak pulls Intak to the side and speaks softly. You strain your ears to overhear, though you're drawn into Eunsu and Mingeun and Byeonghwi’s inane conversation.

"I can't work with him," Intak is saying.

"I know," comes Jaeseop's reply. "You have to try."

"I am trying," Intak hisses. "He's the one who doesn't want to try. He thinks he can do it all by himself. He refuses to show me anything he's working on. He’s impossible."

"I know," Jaeseop says again. He says something else, but you don’t hear it, because Byeonghwi is asking you how and why you joined the company, and you have to tell him that’s not something you’re ready to talk about yet.

You watch the sun start to set out of the windows overlooking the street. They're open, but they face the wrong way and let no air in. You want to go home. Jaeseop steps out to pick up dinner. No one makes a move to leave, so you don't either.

When the sun is fully down, you meet Kiyoung. He arrives looking a bit too much like a copywriter as well. You would have mistaken him for one, had the reception to his entrance not been perfectly warm and friendly.

You learn a few more facts in rapid-fire fashion. He's the oldest of the team. He works for an environmental non-profit organization, and is refusing to quit until he finishes his current project. Before he was a Zenith Entertainment trainee, he was a trainee at another small company that went under before he could debut. He met Jaeseop when they were both in middle school and their schools double-booked the same trip location.

You exchange a few more pleasantries, and then the mood of the room shifts more towards homework than anything else, because everyone—with the exceptions of Kiyoung and Intak—are still in school. It surprises you to learn that Jaeseop is a student.

“This is my last semester,” he explains when you ask. “I don’t go to class much anymore. I’ll graduate just fine.”

You’re beginning to feel like the odd one out, so you continue your hopeless quest to catch up on all your work. You probably aren’t going to graduate. You probably aren’t even going to finish this semester.

Andrew returns later in the night, and that, for some reason, signals the end of the day. Eunsu is pressed to the glass, announcing his imminent arrival before he even steps foot in the building. Andrew’s single action upon returning to the third floor is to pick up Byeonghwi, who seems only too enthusiastic to leave. After that, it’s a free-for-all bordering on a bloodbath. You wait, because you’re new, and it’d be rude of you to be one of the first to leave.

Then it’s you and Jaeseop and Mingeun, nearly a mirror image of the morning.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Jaeseop says to you, and then in almost the same breath, “Make sure you go home, Mingeun.”

Mingeun scowls.

You nod, though you’re almost dead on your feet. You think being a private investigator might be a little easier. You aren’t sure how, but you’ll survive it. You have to. It’s the only way you can do great things.

#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ writing. ]#╰ to be written in ink is to be immortal — [ haksu. ]#ficnetfairy #fictional idol community #idolverse #idol oc #kpop oc #fake kpop group #kpop fanfic

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