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AU where Todoroki starts posting his conspiracy theories online and it ends up opening a public debate on whether All Might, Eraserhead or All for One is Izuku Midoriya's, a.k.a Hero Deku, real father. Somehow, after numerous "Dad Wars", the Dadmight, Dadzawa and Dad for One factions manage to get all three men, Izuku, as well as lawyer Inko Midoriya on the show You Are Not the Father. After much tension, emotions, and tears, to the point that the three men themselves have started believing that they might actually be the father, it is revealed that NONE OF THEM IS THE FATHER. That revelation starts a riot in the "Dads for Deku" community with more and more wild theories appearing as to WHO EXACTLY IS HERO DEKU'S REAL FATHER ?

Cue Hisashi Midoriya coming back from America for his long awaited vacation and 100% unaware of the shitshow that is awaiting him.

Vikings fic: The Best of Everything   ||   modern!Ivar x reader

A modern!Ivar AU

Ivar x f!reader

CW: swearing, lots of bad language and shit talking, threats and verbal abuse, standover tactics, intimidation. Mentions of gentrification. 

Synopsis: Your dad’s bar is a local landmark, your pride and joy, your livelihood. But Lothbrok Developments also has it in their sights. You’ve managed to resist their dirty standover tactics for months now, but when their infamous CEO Ivar Lothbrok gets involved do you even stand a chance? A fiercely independent and practiced businesswoman, you’re stubborn as hell with a reckless tendency to speak your mind, so you like to think you can handle anything the blue-eyed businessman throws at you.

But, in reality, you know it’s never that easy to resist temptation.

Thank you to @leilabeaux​ for the inspiration and cheerleading, and help storyboarding. You’re an absolute treasure, sis. 

Tag team: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @serasvictoria​ @quantumlocked310​ @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom​ @teishalicious​ @heavenly1927​ @oldglitterstory​ @pomegranates-and-blood​  @ivarsgard​ @lordsexmachine​ @quietborderline​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @aprilivar​  @carlandonorri-s​ @theanxietyqueen17​ @illyrianhighfaerie​ @crazybunnyladysworld​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​ @onyxskeleton29​ @katfett​ @grimeundglow​ @beware-thecrow​  @zuxiezendler​ @southernbe​ @love-all-things-writing​ @a5hl3y5ibley​ @alicedopey​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @ecarroll1978​ @ritual-unions-gotme​ @mrsalwayswrite​ @peaceisadirtyword​ @revolution-starter​ @peachyboneless​ @pokeasleepingsmaug​ @istorkyou​ @youbelongeverywhere @that-virgo-witch​ 

Please message me or ask if you would like to be tagged or if you’d like to be taken off  

——————

Chapter One

There’s a whiteboard above one end of the bar, covered in writing. Most of them are motivational quotes, scrawled in all different kinds of handwriting. Some are funny, some are poignant, but there’s one that stands out to you: 

The happiest of people don’t have the best of everything, they just make the best of everything they have. 

It’s kind of your life motto. Well, that and something about glasses being neither half-empty or half-full; they’re always refillable. And yeah, it’s cliched, it’s corny, but it’s kind of true. 

This bar isn’t much, but it’s yours. It started out as your dad’s. You lived in the flat above the bar until you turned fifteen and went away to school, and all your childhood memories revolve around this place.

Keep reading

BRACE YOURESELVES BITCHACHOS -

CAUSE HERE COME ANOTHER BOOK REVIEW THAT NOBODY ASKED FOR - BUT IM DISHING OUT ANYWAYS 😘

Book Rec #2:

Deeper than the Dead by Tami Hoag

Rating: 9.7/10

Age recommended: ages 18+

WARNING: Book contains coarse language, mentions of sexual assault/violence, suicide, graphic descriptions of blood and violence, depictions of physical & mental abuse & sexual content (a.k.a smut)

Summary: Set in the ever exciting state of California 1985, 4 children and their young 5th grade teacher, Anne Navarre, discover the body of a woman in a shallow grave - with her eyes and mouth glued shut 👁👄👁.

All evidence pointing to a coldblooded serial killer living amongst the citizens - the once picturesque town of Oak Knoll is thrown into a frenzy of deception and paranoia. Where the stench of death and fear slowly chokes the residents of the small community.

Now in comes top FBI investigator Vince Leon (I pictured him to look like Jonn Hamm lol). Instituting the new (for its time) and controversial technique of “profiling”, Leon finds himself thrust into the private and much darker worlds of the locals - proving that things aren’t always as they seem. And that danger is often a lot closer to home than one would think.

My thoughts:

K first off, I loved it. A LOT-a-bit of death and gore☠️🔪 (not in a weird way), a generous amount of mystery and mind-games, a solid helping of your standard thrills, a dash of romance (and sex 😏🥵if you’re into that sort of thing lol), and A delicate dusting of single-tear-worthy moments (at least I cried) lol 🥲

Hoag had me thinking the entire time. Almost goading me to play detective. 🕵️‍♀️I felt like I had it all figured out and kept convincing myself that I did but always second guessed my conclusions after every single chapter. 🤔Which is what you want from a mystery/crime/thriller novel right?!

EASY READ (Mostly bc it’s addicting but also because it’s one of those smaller more compacts books) I burned through this motherf*cker like it was nobody’s business 🏃🏻‍♀️💨 and I loved every second of it! It truly was hard to put down! I mean obviously you’ll have those occasional throw away scenes, but Hoag almost makes you feel like if you skip one part you may be skipping the most imperative clue to cracking who the killer is. 🥸

This bitch is dramatic as f*ck 🤯 (I’m talking about the book fyi). If I had to describe the story in one word I’d either use avalanche or total clusterf*ck, there’s really no other way to describe it 🤷‍♀️🤦‍♀️!

I really can’t say anything bad about it (I ain’t no English professor or literary disciple), like am I a fan of EVERYTHING about the book? Almost, but not quite. Had a bit of trouble keeping up trying to envision life in the 80s, kept picturing late 60’s America lol. And obviously I don’t want to spoil anything but some outcomes I wanted just didn’t happen, but hey c’est la vie 👩‍🎨.

Overall, loved it and am so so sooooooo glad I bought it!! I only really bought it because it was part of a 2 for 12$ deal and it looked the least clichéd - and lo and behold, it’s now my FAVORITE book!

Cheers Tami Hoag, you got the next blockbuster on your hands🥂✨⭐️🤩

A Master and his Pet. | Taehyung Drabble Series

Summary of series: Short drabbles based on Master!Taehyung and the love of his life. The highs, lows and hardships of a BDSM relationship as well as dealing with your first true love

Summary of drabble: After leaving Taehyung, the reader comes running back. 

Genre - Master!Taehyung, drabble series

Warnings: Dom/Sub themes (Real ones, not just a top and a bottom). Master as a pet name. Pet as a pet name. Heartbreak, angst, spit (Briefly mentioned). Spanking (briefly mentioned). Exs to lovers. A lot of crying and a lot of emotions. Oral, teasing, reader wears a collar and a leash.

Word count: 1.5k

A/n: This is a very quick introduction to a couple I absolutely adore and have had in my mind for a very long time <3 This is one of the biggest events in there relationship

Keep reading

apple cider

“and i don’t even like you that much. wait, i do, fuck. call me at midnight. let’s give this thing a try!” apple cider - beabadoobee

🍎 — summary: you and megumi have known each other since jr. high. eventually, things get out of hand and you end up falling out. you meet again in tokyo jujutsu high only to remember old issues and realize new feelings.

🪼 — pairing: fushiguro megumi x gn! reader

🌷 — genre: friends to enemies to lovers, smau

🐰 — status: coming to an end

🐸 — warnings: sfw, crack humor, sexual jokes, dying jokes, jealousy, slight angst

🌈 — notes: this smau idea has been in the notes app for over two yrs. i hope y’all enjoy! updates are slow!

taglist is closed!

y/n’s pookies + megumi’s friends

one: middle school beef

two: my favorite pastry

three: enemies to lovers?

four: PANDA WHY

five: scare the hoes (respectfully)

six: idgaf

seven: we should jump him

eight: okayyy loverboy!

nine: count your days

ten: we should talk

eleven: apple bakery

twelve: old times

thirteen: gone but not forgotten

fourteen: this is sick

fifteen: he smells

sixteen: you were right

seventeen: hey u up?

eighteen: what are we?

nineteen: thru the grapevine

twenty: is this a date?

twenty one: please don’t go

twenty two: call me at midnight

twenty three: a little kiss

twenty four: blobfish

twenty five: yuji hate

twenty six: megumi rizz

twenty seven: shit my pants

epilogue

bonus

Do you ever think that if Kerry hadn’t been there, we might’ve got some on screen talk of feeling feelings in season eight?

Yeah.

Okay so, I just finished reading the 26 chapters of Tarte Tatin by veryinnovative, and I am CRUSHED ????

I love this sm I was absolutely sobbing and my heart was clenching and and and WHY on heart do I force myself to go and read this kind of masterpiece ?

But like, pls, go read it. It's heart AND bone crushing but it's worth it

https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryinnovative/pseuds/veryinnovative

Louder for the ones in the back! I hate that this person was bullied and decieved and made to look like something they aren't. Again the internet is a wild place and individuals need to be able to decipher from reality and fantasy and not jumping to conclusions or accusations. The internet is a wild place, and people who think they are heroes, will take advantage of: I can say and do what I want to others.

For everyone on here, if you don't like something don't click, if you don't like a certain request you don't have to take it, infact you can deny it! Communication is key! Tell the person that certain type of writing is not your forte and you don't write certain things. If they get it they are gone, if they bother you and get creepy, block and report them. Not bait them on, especially if they ask you what the problem was and willing to fix what they did, because you think you are cracking a case!

There is nothing wrong with having a safe zone for minors but stop expecting to be catered to. Take responsibility and know what you get into.

Getting serious

About minors, platonic tickling etc.

Uffff guys I know my blog is like 90% fun times and fluff, I avoid answering hateful asks, dislike to reblog negative posts that won’t have me go yaaay and fangirling and all, but I really need to get this rant off my chest and I know it will cost me a bunch of followers that do not agree, but that’s fine! This is just my opinion!:) 

So I say in advance, please block or unfollow my blog if my opinion offends you. If you only follow my blog for TK fics, they will be on Ao3 so you can find them there. No hard feelings, I’m not here to argue or for discussion, after this I will continue posting tk trash fics and other fun content I promise. If you would like to talk to me about this matter, please just in chat or comment to this post^^ I won’t answer too many asks about it.

About minors

This is no personal attack to anyone who does this, but something I think is a bit off to me is how adults (and minors themselves actually) continue to call out for minors to be protected by us, by the community. 

I am an adult (age-wise haha, 4ever acting like a teen), but like everyone I have been a minor on the internet, and my personal opinion is that sure we can do everything we want to be considerate and help, save or ‘protect’ the minors in the community, but in the end it’s the minors who protect themselves? Not just rely on adults to make this a safe internet environment for you. 

If people refer to themselves as a ‘child’ then please act like a child and stay away from a tickle community like this on Tumblr where it’s swarming with all kinds of people with kinks, rude people, creeps, etc. There are also nice people but still u.u A child also doesn’t go out to a club and dance:c.  

I was a less innocent ‘child’ (talking about age of 14 ~ 18 here), I did go to the club at 15-16 haha oops, and yes my interest in tickling has brought me to many places on the internet from TMF to chatboxes with strangers and tickle RP’s with people who might have been dirty perverts. Did I mind? No it was my own choice, and as soon as someone got weird or creepy, as soon as I got a d*ckpic in my face, as soon as I felt I was talking with someone that wasn’t right, I quit. Block, the end.

Tumblr is a public website where people post anything and whatever they like. There is no option like on certain social media to ‘request to follow a blog’ or whatever, whether you like it or not, people can follow your blog, that’s how public this website is:(.

Still there is plenty that can be done to keep it a safe internet space for yourself as much as possible. Don’t like something/someone? Block and unfollow. Unpleasant private message? Block, delete. Not everyone will read or mind your ‘do not interact’, there are plenty of rude/creepy people who will still message you. I’m actually not sure if it’s possible to turn off chat, but at least anon can be turned off. 

But theres especially nothing these creeps can do if you simply block them. If they approach you again, block them again and report. Even I have blocked plenty of blogs I either don’t want to contact me, or simply because I don’t want those people to see my posts.

And if even with the ability to block, unfollow, filtering triggering tags and everything, you still feel unsafe because anyone can still approach you or because unpleasant posts appear on your dash, then I’m afraid this just isn’t the website for you. 

About platonic TK & the P-word

I won’t lie about it, a while ago I had a very salty anon in my inbox accusing me of being P. (!!!) Not that I posted the ask, it was very unfriendly and if something I do upsets you, either block me or confront me personally, not on anon so I should post the ask on my blog. I rather not:c. 

FYI My times of answering public hateful asks are over hahah :”D. I’ve got better things to post*w* My chatbox is open, or you can send a non-anon ask so I can answer you privately.

But anyway: excuse me? I think after seeing some discourse I might have an inkling of who this person is so for their own protection I blocked them so they won’t see my ‘to-their-eyes-harmful-content’ on their dash again.

Again: EXCUSE ME? I’m really afraid that people on the internet are nowadays too sensitive and jumping to conclusions, and also can’t know the meaning of the P-word. 

Definition = Sexual feelings directed towards children.

So to all who might have been curious: NO I DON’T HAVE THOSE WTF. And to those jumping to conclusions in no way am I defending people who are P, it’s bad and gross, I’m only saying I am not one of those. The reason for the accusation was my BNHA Special Training headcanon post, I guess because for some it’s hard to see the difference between platonic and sexual tickles where adults and minors are both involved. 

If fics, posts, gifs, videos (cough, a lot of anime and cartoons, cough, sample gif under here) where adults tickle minors disgust you and make you feel uncomfortable, sure fine! Ignore them, block the people who post them! Quickly scroll past them if they still appear on your dash. 

But don’t go into automatic P-accusation mode because that is not okay. Your personal preference, triggers and opinions do not necessarily say anything about the other person, so don’t be mistaken. 

About writing & fandom

Last but not least, I’ve had a similar rant probably years ago because my opinion is still the same: Yes, some of my fics are noncon (interrogation style fics). Yes some of my fics are dubcon (the lee protesting). Some of my pairings I wrote are also dubious (villain x hero etc.). 

But people should learn to see the difference between FICTION & REALITY! If you can’t do it and this cancel culture really is your thing, good luck canceling all authors who wrote horror books and stories with lots of gore and torture, who wrote stories about relationships between adults & minors, incest, and all the taboos, and on top of that not just these authors, but also the fandoms enjoying these things. (cough, game of thrones).

Yes, I enjoy anime and manga like Junjou Romantica, Sekaiichi Hatsukoi, Super Lovers, the holy trinity of dubious consent, relationships between older and younger guys, and more, and there might be more things I like to put in fics that just don’t feel as comfortable for you.

If you don’t like these, if they disgust you, trigger you, of course please avoid them! But don’t call me a P or r@pist or whatever for enjoying these ;w; And don’t go publicly shaming the authors of these manga and the entire studio and production teams of the anime for being p*do and psychos, who knows if they are but you can’t judge from their fictional work! 

I know it’s no use and this is just the way the internet is nowadays, people will still do this, but I wanted to let you know this is my opinion on these matters and that there are no hard feelings for me if you don’t like my content, but please then just stop seeing them, and block me. 

It’s basically like people who would walk on the streets and point at someone: you make me uncomfortable so get out of my sight. Sorry but I’m afraid they won’t T-T. It’s you who will need to turn away and (hopefully not) run away fast. Sure you can yell at everyone for not making the environment safe for you and I know it sucks that there are creeps out there! 

But it’s sadly how the world is, and especially the internet is where people can do whatever they want, and it’s you who should choose to turn away, block, if not extreme enough more drastic steps like moving to another website or turning off your phone/computer. I know some people who deactivated their FB, Insta and Twitter because they don’t like seeing certain things, that is their choice and they have no hard feelings towards the people who make the websites dislikable even though it sucks pretty bad they had to remove their accounts. 

So, with that said, I’m going back to watching Demon Slayer / Kimetsu no Yaiba yaaaay I love it so much! And no I would not like to personally slash demon throats, I just really enjoy this series alriiight:). Jkjk haha. It’s made me bawl like a baby already several times. 

This is the best g/t angst you'll find on this app. The other chapters are so angsty too. I wish there was more stuff like this 😭 amazing stuff!!

Tiny best friend 4/?

First part:

Previous part:

!Warning!

Angst, mental health issues, being scared, panicking, non-consensual touch (not sexual), curse words

------------------------------

Lucas was panicking. On his knees, he moved a little closer to Jake, who was equally emotionally unstable and scared.

"Jake please don't go, i'm begging you" the boy was very afraid that what he was seeing was hallucinations or that Jake would run away. He didn't want to let either be true. He couldn't lose him again. He would never allow it.

"Jake please don't be afraid" he said in a trembling voice through tears "I would never.." he didn't trust himself not to hurt him but he couldn't live without him for even a day longer.

Meanwhile, Jake was fighting with himself. On the one hand, he was terrified, he didn't want to be here, he was afraid that Lucas would hurt him, and on the other, he saw his only friend in total disarray, he missed him for weeks and didn't want to leave him anymore. He didn't know what he was doing, but he let his heart carry him instead of choosing his mind. He took a hesitant step forward.

"I'm not going anywhere, big man" Jake said in a shaky voice but through a soft smile. Lucas approached him on all fours. Jake was doing his best not to panic and run away. Finally, after so many weeks, he had a chance to meet up with a friend and he didn't want to ruin it. Especially since he also had to help Lucas calm down.

"Jake, I missed you so much" the boy sobbed, placing his hands behind the borrower. Jake immediately tensed up. He couldn't handle being right next to a giant in the middle of a breakdown (so VERY unstable giant) blocking his escape route. Looking up at the shadow Lucas was casting over him, he remembered the words the boy had said the first (and last) time they talked about borrowers, before Lucas found out who Jake was. Jake felt really tiny, he was afraid, but he tried to trust his friend. When he looked at his face, which was filled with tears, he knew that Lucas needed him now. He knew he couldn't leave him like this and that he had to deal with the fear that was eating him up.

"It's okay, it was just a nightmare" he said in a shaky voice, trying to sound comforting. Lucas stared down at him, eyes red, sobbing softly.

"Jake, I'm really really sorry. I never meant to.. I would never hurt you! Why.. Why didn't you come back..." he cried again much louder until it was hard for him to breathe. It hurt Jake right to the heart. He hurt Lucas, not the other way around. He never wanted to do that. After all, they were brothers until recently. Lucas was the only one who cared about him and Jake left him anyway. Guess fear was stronger than love.

"I'm sorry, I.. I was just.. I was afraid. I didn't want to leave you like that but after what you said and how you acted I couldn't.. I'm sorry..." Jake was shaking with fear and shame. Tears began to form in his eyes.

"We're friends! How could you think I'd hurt you?!" Lucas squeaked, squeezing his fingers closer to Jake. Jake immediately reeled in fear. Lucas woke up from his anger.

"Jake.. I.. I'm so sorry.. I promise I'll never hurt you but I can't ever lose you again. Please understand this" he mumbled as he straightened his fingers and placed one against Jake's back and massaged it. The boy immediately panicked even more.

"Don't touch me, please" he begged in horror, trying to pull away from the giant fingers, but he had no ways to escape. He didn't understand what was happening. Lucas always kept his distance and asked if the touch was okay, but now even when he was begged not to do it, he didn't take his fingers away. Jake was afraid. He was fucking scared because Lucas had changed. He turned into someone... unstable. Unstable at best. Dangerous at worst.

"It's just me, Jake. Don't run away" Lucas said, calming down but wrapping his fingers around Jake. Jake panicked. He definitely didn't want that, and he wasn't prepared for it.

"L-Lucas!" he shouted "I'm scared! Please don't touch me!" Lucas's hand immidently stopped moving towards him and moved back a bit. "I'm not ready for touch, please give me some time, you're so.. huge and I..." Jake continued to panic.

"I don't want you to be afraid. I won't hurt you" Lucas was saying "But, I can never lose you again. Please relax and we'll do it slow."

"Slow? It? What are you talking about?!" Jake panicked as he looked at Lucas' face, which turned strangely sad and dark. Fucking dark like villans.

"We're going home, Jake." Lucas grinned scary. Jake had never seen that look on his face before. Lucas looked like a... killer. Like a psychopath. Like a monster getting his prey. Hell no. Jake panicked and struggled. What was he thinking to even get close to Lucas?! This was obviously a bad idea! Jake had no goddamn chance against the human, but the he gave him space and time.

"I don't want you to be scared. I want it to be as normal as possible. Please calm down and let's go home" Lucas said, smiling softly. Jake didn't feel better about it though. He knew something bad was about to happend and he didn't want to get to know what it was.

"Please, l-let me go Lucas" the borrower begged, but looking at the human's face, he knew there was nothing he could do. In the time they haven't seen each other, Lucas has lost his mind and has become erratic and dangerous. He was afraid that Lucas would hurt him. The first time they met like that it was different, Lucas acted strangely and was stunned by what he saw but he wasn't...aggressive. Now he wasn't aggressive either, but there was something terribly dangerous about him that could hurt Jake. It felt like aggression, but it wasn't quite. It was something different but just as powerful.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I won't hurt you?! Just trust me already! Why are you acting like this?!" Lucas began to scream, exploding into madness. "You left me alone with no explanation and never came back and now you're acting completely different! I don't recognize you! Give me back normal Jake! Give me back my brother!" he shouted, grabbing Jake with both hands and lifting him up. Jake burst into tears and began to struggle. Lucas' screams were way too loud for his tiny ears, and he was terrified. Suddenly his friend grabbed him up and squeezed him in his hands, shouting at him. Jake's heart was beating very fast and it was almost painfull. Tears flowed like a river. There was no Lucas in front of him, just some beast. The same one he woke up the first time he asked Lucas what he thought about borrowers and then he told how he killed one. This beast had just gone mad and woke up, now posing a threat to him. Lucas' huge hands pressed with hellish force against Jake's body as he cried and struggled to get out. He felt this might be his end. He felt something snap inside him.

"Please Lucas! I will do anything! We'll go back home! Please!" Jake screamed as his vision darkened and his breathing became ragged. Lucas killed him. Lucas would have killed him if when Jake stopped screaming, Lucas hadn't stopped shouting and squishing his body.

"Home.. we'll go home" mumbled Lucas looking at Jake, waking up from his madness. As soon as he realized what he had done, he stopped squishing Jake and panicked.

"Fuck! No, no, no! I didn't mean to, please Jake wake up! I didn't mean to! Jake! Jake!" Jake could barely hear Lucas' screams anymore, his eyes were too heavy and something in his chest was in the wrong place. He didn't know what was going on anymore. He lost consciousness. The last thing he heard was repeated over and over:

Home.

------------------------

Sorry, for not posting for so long, hope you guys enjoyed it!!❤️

Joe catching you singing in the shower and you're all embarrassed but hes like babe I'm in love with you even more now 🤧

you don’t even notice that he’s there until he starts singing along with you. you jump so high that you have to grab the shelf, screaming. “shit, joe! don’t do that!”

he giggled. “you sound good, babe.”

“that’s so embarrassing. get out and don’t look at me for six hours.”

he threw his head back in a loud laugh and you could hear his belt buckle jangling, so when he pulls the curtain back to step in with you, your hands are already covering your face.

he pouted, cooing softly and grabbing your wrists, pulling your hands from your face. “hey. you know that i’m in love with you?”

“yeah,” you said quietly, his smile making your own grow.

“then you should know that listening to you sing like a crazy person makes me love you even more,” he chuckled, grabbing your face and pulling you in for a sweet kiss.

Voices of the Dark Masterlist

VOTD Masterlist

My ‘Din’s Haunted’ comic series.

Note: I did not come up with the concept of the Dark Saber being haunted. The original concept for ‘Din’s Haunted’ is from the lovely @kyberpistol and @keldabekush.  Either way I fell in love with their concept and made my own story from it as well!

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

hey there LGBTQ kids who are also Christian/Jewish! If you feel like you’re disobeying God, questioning your faith, or feel wrong and dirty for loving who you love, there’s this fantastic site I found today called hoperemains that accurately and thoroughly combs through scripture and its (many) mistranslations, validates your orientation, and basically let’s you know that you’re not pissing off God. It’s insanely thorough and after reading through every page on the entire site it’s super helpful. Go check it out!

nobody touch me i’m ugly crying rn wtf

damn the delivery boy.

Pairing: Jeon Jeongguk / Reader.

Genre: Expecting Parents AU / Fluff and Non-explicit smut.

Summary: Jeon Jeongguk is a computer science major working as a pizza delivery boy, and you are an uninspired published author who has just started an art degree. When you realise that the delivery boy is your old high school crush, he keeps coming back, but with more to offer than just puff pastry and vegetarian supreme. Though little did he know that he would end up giving you something much more that flips both of your worlds completely upside down in the form of two blue lines and nine months.

Count: 9,656 words.

month one.

Two lines.

The second is a little faint, but it is there, undeniably there, growing stronger by the second as your heart sinks deeper into the pit of your stomach and suddenly you are keeling over the sink, throwing up a combination of panic and regret. You wipe your mouth, sit back on the closed lid of the toilet, shut your eyes and take a deep breath, holding it until your lungs burn and your lashes fly back apart to look at the test still shaking between your fingertips.

There, right before your eyes, two fucking blue lines protruding like two middle fingers, poking up at you and saying – Congratulations sucker, you are pregnant!

Twenty-three years old and pregnant.

You throw up again.

This has got to be the biggest mistake of your life.

Keep reading

OK SO

First off this is my blog of stuff the makes me wet or horny. Ive been using it to figure out my own kinks. Im 24 female, bi 🫰 loving both sides. You can call me B, or Ela, pet names can be hit or cringe with me idfkw.

Feel free to reblog anything u see here, sometimes i like reading the dirty reblogs 🫣

I switch but lean sub, im polyamorous, i have playmates but dont ask about them i dont fuck and tell 👅 I live somewhere near a coast dont ask for my location i wont tell you, also dont ask for my other socials i keep this hoe life here and occasionally if i click with someone i will offer to meet them. Dont be pushy.

Finally, i get alot of dms and have a job and life 😂 sometimes it is hard to keep up with them either im tired or not in the mood or have others im trying to follow or fuck i just forget. I have squirrel brain it happens. Do not get red flaggy or u get the blocky. Dont ask me for pics if you arent ready to share yours.

Thats all for now have fun and remember if my butt makes u hard or wet u owe me a naughty pic. You can also send me fantasies, asks, or dick/tit pics 🫦😘🫰💦 i enjoy it all. Kthxbai

When i tell you that im ENTRANCED ENTHRALLED FASCINATED BY THIS STORY ohhh i cant stop thinkkng about this eudhdjdjsjdjdf

Its so so so SO beautifully written, deserves a novel of ita when I TELL YOU oh made my days better

I love hows its more than smut (tho i skipped thar bit) REALLLLLL

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・11.1k

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・idol!hyunjin x afab!stylist!reader (inspired by this)

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia, pussydrunk!hyunjin. minors and ageless blogs that interact with this post will be blocked.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭'𝐝.)・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・dimple by bts・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh ♡ @like-a-diamondinthesky ♡ @fire-08 ♡ @starsandrqindrops ♡ @txtxlz ♡ @laylasbunbunny ♡ @strayghibli ♡ @nuronhe ♡

𝐚/𝐧・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?” 

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause. 

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path. 

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.” 

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there. 

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.” 

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour. 

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, love.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

 “Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?” 

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall. 

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze. 

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter. 

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds. 

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session. 

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete. 

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person. 

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe. 

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels. 

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you. 

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand. 

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system. 

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod. 

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of saliva suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?” 

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I was a goner the moment I watched a fashion show for the first time. I was enthralled by the way the models’ attire helped them harness and channel their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so enthralled by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane. 

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

Page 8. Probably gonna go back to 600dpi in future because pixels.

Sorry for the long gap. Joblessness takes a higher priority than doing this atm. Plus, y'know, Skyrim happened.

Gotta say, I'm actually pretty happy with this one. Hope you guys are too.

Page 12, HALFWAY TO A FULL ISSUE HELL YEAH!