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#taeyong fanfiction
lebrookestore · 2 years
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for the record | l.ty
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Pairing: Lee Taeyong x reader
Themes: strangers to lovers, rockstar! au, band! au, celebrity! au, journalist! reader, rockstar! taeyong, angst, fluff, slowburn, romance, very light comedy, PG-15; (moodboard)
Warnings: profanity, heavy ANGST, taeyong is a bit entitled at first, problematic paparazzi, kissing, food, alcohol consumption, drug use, a small mention of marijuana and use of it, smoking, lying, inaccurate depictions of the music and well as journalism industry, sexual innuendos, allusions to sex but nothing sexually explicit, suggestive
Word count: 51.4k
Summary: When you're presented with the opportunity to accompany the world’s hottest rock band, Cherry Bomb, on their latest tour for an article, you know it could be your chance at furthering your career and possibly acquiring a spot at the New York Times, every journalists dream. You strive to figure out the truth about all the rumours that seemed to hover around them, but you don’t anticipate are the extent of the lies involved, nor do you account for the charming front man.
Playlist: here 
Notes from brooke: she’s finally here! and yes, on seeing that word count you can best believe that i am not just touching grass, but rolling around in it. this was supposed to be 25k but i sort of....got.....carried away....yEP!! it took four, almost five long months to write but i firmly can that it is one of the best things i have written and am very proud of it!! i worked harder on this fic than i have for any of my fics, so feedback would be greatly appreciated!! <3
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You knew you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping. It was, in no way, professional.
“What do you mean he’s dropping out?” Johnny’s voice was just loud enough to reach your ears from where you stood outside his office, saving you from the embarrassment of having to press your ear against the door. The editor had the habit of being pretty loud when he was distressed or pissed off, and that little fact was currently working to your advantage well. You stood there, holding your notes and listening carefully to the one side of the conversation you were unintentionally privy to.
“Are you kidding me? It’s the biggest piece he’d ever get to work on,” Johnny hissed and you could almost imagine him getting up from his seat and pacing around the room. You had been working at The Link newspaper for around nine months now and had managed to pick up the smallest details about your co-workers, a habit of yours had often helped you many a time. 
The fact that Johnny had called this a big piece didn’t sound like much- after all, this was Los Angeles. There was a story waiting for you at every turn and corner if you looked hard enough for it, with so many aspiring actors and young D-List starlets running around the place, falling head first into any trouble they could find as long as it got them their fifteen minutes of fame.
LA hadn’t been the place you had initially wanted to end up in, far from it actually, but it was a start, one that you had taken on valiantly. After all, everyone had to start somewhere, and your brilliant plan was to somehow make it out of the sandy beaches of California and to the concrete jungles of New York by any means possible.
There was silence for a little bit, and you found yourself biting down on your lower lip, wishing you had access to the other end. A little shuffling, and then a frustrated-sounded slew of cursing.
“Damnit Taeil, that album went platinum in almost every country. That article would have gotten Jungwoo a spot in the New York Times if he wanted! He’s a fucking fool for dropping out.”
And now your mind was racing because the NYT had been your dream ever since your senior year of high school. Journalism was everything you loved and breathed, the fact making itself known when you worked on a newsletter for your school that year and realized how much you truly enjoyed the work of it. Managing to get a job at The Link barely a few months after you graduated from University was a feat in itself, but you had always loved dreaming big.
It seemed like Johnny was now done with the call because nothing more was being said. Remembering what you were there for in the first place, you readjusted your notes and knocked on the door politely. 
You were one of the younger journalists at the paper, which also meant that you had mostly been assigned the less….appealing articles to work on. Things that no one ever read, the little pieces that were just there on the paper for decoration almost, but you still gave them your all.
You also knew that you were capable of much more.
“Come in.” 
The usual jovial lilt that Johnny’s voice held was gone, now replaced with resignment over something he had clearly tried his best to avoid happening. You had a pretty good idea of what was going on by this point but didn’t want to jump to conclusions. A good journalist always did their research first.
Pushing the door open, you walked up to his desk where he sat, and placed your notes down, glancing up to meet his eyes. 
Johnny Suh, editor-in-chief of The Link, was your boss. Graduating from a prestigious college and landing the job almost immediately after came with its perks, one of them being working directly under someone so high ranking. You supposed the flipside of being so lucky were the shitty topics you had been given to write about.
One thing you wanted to make very clear during this meeting was that you were just as good as your older colleagues. The editor was a no-nonsense type of guy, as easy-going as he was firm, so you knew you didn’t have to put on any frills or fancies to catch his attention.
“The notes from my last article,” You informed him gesturing towards the file you had put down on his desk. After he nodded, you narrowed your eyes at him. “What was that about?”
“What was what about?” 
“Your call with Mr Moon,” You prompted, taking a seat on the usually empty chairs opposite him to relieve your feet from standing on those stilettos that you wore to work. He raised a disapproving eyebrow.
“I don’t appreciate my calls being listened in on.”
“A good journalist has ears everywhere,” You countered smoothly, knowing just want to say to gain the advantage. Johnny sighed, somewhat impressed at how quickly you had managed to justify your actions even though they weren’t something he approved of. Although new, you had never been one to back down from a challenge, no matter what the task given to you was and he respected it.
Which was why he decided to tell you what the call was about, however risky that was. Stretching his arms out in front of him, he rested them on the mahogany desk in front of him and put your notes to the side, finally looking at you and the determined look on your face.
“Jungwoo dropped the most important article we could ever lay our hands on,” He stated bitterly, visibly annoyed by this fact. “Do you know of Cherry Bomb?”
A stupid question. Practically everyone knew who Cherry Bomb was even if they didn’t want to. The band had taken the world by storm from their very first album and held it by the neck throughout, even four years later, claiming their spot as the hottest band of the decade. You weren’t a die-hard fan by any means, but you indulged in listening to their music on occasion because they were admittedly fantastic.
The mention of an album from earlier made a little more sense now. You nodded, eager to know where this was going.
“They’re going on tour soon,” He continued, “Jungwoo’s task was to accompany them and write an article on it. It might not sound like much, but with the pull that they have, anything written about them is considered excellent. It could have made his career as a journalist, but the idiot decided to drop out.”
The information he just dropped was pure gold to you. You could agree on one thing- Jungwoo was a complete imbecile for letting something like this slip through his fingers, but you also loved him for it.
“Give it to me,” You offered immediately, sitting up straight in the uncomfortable chair. It was the opportunity of a lifetime in your eyes and there was no way in hell you weren’t going to jump.
“Come again?”
“Give the piece to me,” You repeated, crossing your arms over each other and leaning back. “The Cherry Bomb one, I can do it.”
He frowned, “I don’t think you’re ready for that.”
You grimaced, disguising it poorly as you shook your head, determined. “Yes I am, I’m young enough to fit right in on a tour, and since I’m so new, unassuming enough to get all the details.”
Your points were valid because people loved someone unknown and small enough to be manipulated, a front you could put up to truly extract the information you needed. He shut his eyes for a moment, thinking it over before shaking his head once again.
“Y/n, I think you’re extremely talented, but-”
“But what?” You didn’t let him finish, refusing to leave the office without landing the article. “With all due respect, sir, cut the crap. The things I’ve been working on are stupid and unimportant, the last article you assigned to me was about lines outside of stores.”
You almost wished that wasn’t true, but it was. Because of it, you had been subjected to waking up early and walking about the city, interviewing random people who decided to spend their morning hours waiting outside a store for some sort of product- whether that be a new release of shoes, tickets for some sort concert, or even the new Cherry Bomb album.
You also knew you were pushing it because, for the most part, you were very respectful and careful about how you spoke with your colleagues, especially your boss, but you wanted to make sure he knew you meant business. Jungwoo’s trash would be your treasure.
He studied the expression your wore on your face and it told him that you weren’t going to back down in the slightest. Pressing his tongue to the side of his cheek, he contemplated your proposition. It would certainly make things easier, he wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of telling Taeil to pick someone else. One less thing to worry about.
“There's just….one thing.”
You waited patiently, knowing from experience that people tended to give out more information if you stayed quiet. It was human tendency to want to fill a silence and you knew just how to take advantage of that.
“There seems to be a lot of dirt around the frontman of the band,” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Lee Taeyong.”
“What type of dirt?”
“The type of dirt that the public love. Messy rumours and stories that everyone wants to know the truth behind. This piece isn’t so much about the tour and the band as it is about him.”
So that’s why this was so important. “An exposé?”
“Not exactly,” He clarified, “He’s been in quite a few scandals and they’ve been covered several times, but this piece is just to see if he’s improved and to get the truth behind it all. The good thing about it is that it doesn’t have to be anything too groundbreaking. It could be an article praising them for all I know and it would still do fantastic.”
The smile on your face widened even more. He was giving you information and that meant that you practically had this in the bag. This piece was yours, you just had to tip him over the edge to get a formal ‘yes’ from him. “I’ll write the best article you’ve ever seen.”
He adjusted his position in his seat, “You’ll be gone for months and will have to travel with them throughout the entire tour. Are you okay with that?”
“More than okay,” You assured him quickly. If anything, the prospect of being able to travel around the world only made you want this more. From what you had gathered, this was your chance at boosting your career and making a name for yourself in the journalism industry, inching closer and closer to your goal.
“Fine,” Johnny relented, “I honestly don’t have the time to think about this any further, so I’m trusting you won’t let me down. It’s gonna be a big step up from lines.”
You scoffed, crossing your legs over each other and drumming your fingers on the side of the spinning chair you sat in. This wasn’t what you had come to his office for at all, but you were, by no means, complaining. On the contrary, you were ecstatic, because you knew that this was exactly what you needed.
“Once I’m done, you won’t even think about making me write about lines ever again.”
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From the very moment Taeyong walked through the door, he could tell that Irene was beyond pissed.
It wasn’t a new sight to him, he had been subjected to an angry manager many, many times before, almost too many to count. Since he was so used to it, he didn’t pay her too much attention as he plopped down on the couch in the studio, lazily resting his arm on the armrest and propping his legs up on the table in front of it.
“He lives,” Yuta muttered under his breath, the slightest smile on his face. Taeyong let his eyes scan the room, noting that each one of the members of his band- and his best friends- were present. He had known most of them since they were wide-eyed teenagers in high school with big dreams. Now, even four years later, there was not another group of people he would rather be stuck with. 
Yuta was the drummer and a damn good one at that, the type of person who could make a beat out of almost anything he was presented with.  He felt the most comfortable when he was sitting behind his drums, drumsticks in hand.
“Were we having a party I wasn’t told about?” 
The don’t-care-ish tone of his voice very visibly didn’t sit well with Irene, whose glare only grew in intensity. She slapped a tabloid of sorts on the wall beside her, lips pinched in a mixture of exasperation and anger.
“This is not a party, Taeyong. With your track record, you should never be allowed into one.” Her words were clipped and swift, but she had always been one to literally and figuratively rip the bandaid off. Unaffected, he pouted.
“Aw, what did I do now?” The moment he said that she held that very tabloid up for the entire band to squint at, and he could just about make out the headline of it.
“You,” she said the pronoun with such distaste that Taeyong had half a mind to act offended, but he knew better than that. If anything, he probably deserved the treatment she was dishing out to him right now. “Went and got caught by the paps a few nights ago, drunk as fuck with another girl hanging off your arm like candy.”
His eyes focused on the poorly taken picture that was plastered all over the front of the tabloid. As terrible as the photograph was, one thing that fame had taught him was that if you had fans, you could be recognized from just about anything, and it was definitely him on there.
He didn’t even remember the girl's name. Pity.
“You called us all here for this?” Doyoung cut through the silence, a disgruntled look on his face. Doyoung was on keys (synthesizer to be exact), but was somewhat of a prodigy, being able to master almost any instrument he put his mind to and could probably be his own band if he wanted to. He was also what you’d refer to as the responsible one of the group, the one with the least drama and frankly and no interest in it at all.
The other two in the band were Mark and Jeno, two guitarists that were excellent in their own right. Jeno was the youngest, and the only one that hadn’t known the rest since their high school days. They met the boy at the building of their label, and he blended in so well with the rest of the band that having him be a part of it had been a no-brainer decision to make.
“I was just having some fun,” Taeyong protested, “All the other guys do it as well.”
“Yes Taeyong, but they aren’t the front of the group, neither are they the media's favourite portrayal of a fuckboy, even if you live up to that title better than you should.” She snipped agitatedly, slapping the tabloid against the wall, prompting him to sigh. 
That was what he was. Lee Taeyong, frontman, and the bassist. He was also one of the main vocalists, though the entire band did the singing as a team.
When he started out at the tender age of nineteen, he never expected to be thrust into the limelight as he had been. Managing to land the record deal when they were nothing more than wide-eyed kids with a dream was a miracle in itself, but what seemed like an overnight success was overwhelming.
He had taken on the role of something of a leader within the band, but it had come with its own set of rules. Being the face of the group meant that he received more attention than the others, something he had never been pleased about due to situations like this, but he had gotten used to it.
So what if he was known as the fuckboy?
He was the fuckboy that had several shiny awards under his name, and he was fine with owning it.
Enter Irene, their manager who had been with the group since day one. Now, she pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration, carefully so that her pointed nude-coloured acrylic nails wouldn’t dig into her perfect skin.
“Tour is coming up,” She warned sternly, “For once could you put on your big boy pants and behave? You have to be on your best behaviour.”
“Irene,” He drawled, “When am I not an angel?”
“Your halo looks a lot like devil horns from here,” She grumbled, shutting her eyes and mentally counting to ten. Despite all her complaining about their wild lifestyle, he knew she loved being with them too much to quit working for them. Taeyong grinned unabashedly, sinking further into the plush cushioning of the sofa to get comfortable.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Look, I mean it when I say I need you guys to be good on tour,” She explained. “It’s all of your chance of clearing your name to an extent. A journalist is accompanying us this time and one article that doesn’t talk about any of you being drunk or running out of a bar with yet another woman would be lovely for your image. We work our asses off to keep you out of shit so the least you could do is take advantage of this.”
She was speaking to the entire group, but Taeyong knew it was a message specifically for him. He was no stranger to the speech and was frankly pretty bored of it at this point. He always loved the spotlight, he had been made to be on stage and in the studio, but if there was one thing he despised about it all was how unfair the media could be. 
Cherry Bomb was only four- almost five years old, but its popularity came with its drawbacks, one they had to get used to early on. Their lives weren’t normal in the slightest, but after experiencing it daily, it turned into the new normal.
“A journalist?” Jeno asked sceptically, eyebrows knitted in confusion. “I thought we kept the press off our asses during tour.”
The world tour, one to promote their latest album, Cherry On Top, and the most highly anticipated one of theirs yet. This was an important year for them, with the tour and the hope for Grammy nominations, everything had to go perfectly.
“Typically- yes- but Renjun and I both agree that this could be good for the band since it’s more of an observational piece.” She mentioned their publicist, who was miraculously somehow even more hot-headed than she was. Another person Taeyong was used to upsetting on the daily because it was their publicist's job to keep his fan image intact, and he always managed to disrupt that.
Irene glanced at him, a wary look on her face. “So please Taeyong, this is important, especially after what….has transpired.”
She didn’t have to elaborate at all because he knew exactly what she was talking about, all of them did. It brought a bitter taste to his tongue, but he swallowed it, forcing himself to give her his usual lazy smile. 
“Of course, I’ll be good,” He promised, making a show of putting his hand over his heart as if he was swearing on it, dragging his index finger over the area in a crossing motion even though he knew well enough that it didn’t hold much weight, “I’ll let someone else have a chance to lash out. Give Doyoung a turn to be freaky.”
In response, the ever-serious Doyoung threw one of the pillows at him. Taeyong yelped, managing to catch it right in time before it fell to the floor, digging his fingers into the foam pillow to grip it better. The manager shook her head, tired of their childish antics. 
Even with the nonchalant attitude he possessed and his quick wit, he wasn’t stupid, not in the slightest. The latest thing he had been accused of was not something to laugh about, but he had become pretty good at ignoring the paparazzi that he knew he’d manage to get out of it easily enough- he had to.
For the band.
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It started to hit you that this was really happening when you found yourself standing alone in one of the tour buses.
There were four of them in total, one for the band, the manager, the publicist and you and three for the staff. You had arrived early to get a feel for everything and settle in so that you weren’t completely lost. All the buses were parked as of now, waiting for their occupants to arrive. 
In the few weeks that you had to prepare, you had done intensive research. You knew each of their names and their roles in the band, you had listened to some of their music to familiarise yourself with it, making sure that you weren’t going to be tagging along like some sort of wide-eyed kid.
You were a professional, and you were going to make sure you seemed like one.
“Who the hell are you?”
You whipped your head around to see a man standing there with a perplexed look on his face. He was staring at you like you were some sort of criminal who had broken into the vehicle, and so to dispute this possible theory, you cleared your throat to introduce yourself.
“I’m doing a piece for The Link? The journalist?” You prompted in hopes that it would jog his memory as you walked over and held your hand out. “Y/n L/n.”
Recognition flashed through his eyes as he took your hand and shook it firmly, nodding. “Right, Huang Renjun, I’m Cherry Bombs publicist. Sorry about that, but catching a crazed fan who managed to sneak in the last tour is enough to get someone paranoid.”
Jesus Christ. You shook your head, a little surprised at that tidbit of new information. You weren’t a part of the majority who did listen to the band religiously, so you didn’t know much about the fan culture at all, but from the looks of it, it seemed to be pretty crazed.
“Don’t worry about it,” You assured him, giving him a warm smile so that he’d feel more at ease around you. In the back of your mind, you made a mental note to try and keep him out of your way as much as possible, because a publicist's job, along with the managers, is to make sure that their client looks good at any given moment.
For this reason alone, it was quite unfortunate that you had been assigned to share a living space with them over the next five months. Your job was to get the most authentic version of the truth that you possibly could, while theirs was to project the perfect image. The contradiction was going to be tough to work around, but you would somehow have to make it work.
You were only accompanying them for the North American leg of the tour, which meant that after those five months they would be leaving for another three months to finish the rest of the shows.
“Well, you’re pretty early,” He observed, scanning the inside of the bus. “The guys have just arrived with Irene, so if you want to meet them you can go do that now.”
You thanked him politely and left the bus, giving him time to settle in by himself. Since it was the first time you would be meeting them, there was no reason to take your phone with you to record any sort of interview (something you’d have to do during the course of the tour). For now, all you needed to do was get acquainted with the people you would be dealing with. 
Walking out to the front, you saw a group of people conversing. The woman was instructing the rest of them- presumably staff- where they had to go. Off to her side was an even smaller group of just four people, but you knew who they were the moment you set your eyes on them.
Cherry Bomb. 
Sucking in a deep breath, you psyched yourself up for what was to come. When the larger group dispersed, you decided that it would be a good time to finally meet your topic.
The heels of your boots clicked on the gravelled floor as you made your way over, rehearsing what you were going to say in your head. Confidence was another thing that was crucial in your line of work since most of the time, journalists had to put themselves in the thick of their work. Experience what they were writing upfront just like you were supposed to. 
Other than your love for writing, it was your love for travel that pulled you into journalism. Growing up in a middle-class family meant that you had lived a fairly comfortable life with a roof over your head and a warm plate of food on the table, but it didn’t include the extravagant holidays abroad that you had seen all your friends go on. You were stuck at home every summer while they experienced a part of the world that they had never been to before. You knew that some articles would require you to travel, which meant that you could do what you truly loved.
Like now. This tour was possibly the best thing that could have ever happened to you because it was five whole months of travelling. Granted, you wouldn’t be able to fully enjoy every single destination, but it was better than nothing at all. 
The woman turned around and spotted you, asking a question before you even had the chance to speak. “Are you the journalist?”
“Pleased to meet you, I am,” You continued as smoothly as you could, even though she had completely thrown you off by being so abrupt. Clearly, she was much more prepared than the publicist. Looking away from her, you eyed the boys that stood beside her before realizing something.
One was missing.
“Right well, this is Doyoung, Yuta, Jeno, Mark, and I would introduce you to Taeyong, but he’s late.” The unamused tone of voice that she used told you that it wasn’t the first time the mentioned man had been late, but you brushed past it, smiling courteously at the other members that were present at that moment.
You introduced yourself once again, noting each one of them. Of course, you knew who they were already, you had made sure to memorize who was who so you’d have an easier time working.
For world-famous rockstars, they weren’t really all that intimidating. One of them- Jeno you remembered- returned your smile cheerfully, his eyes turning into little crescents of joy. It was honestly kind of cute and the others greeted you in the same way, welcoming. The politeness of your simper almost turned into something genuine, but that would have been far too much for a first encounter.
Doyoung’s expression, however polite, was doused in scrutiny towards you, but you couldn’t blame him. It was warranted.
Stay professional, you repeated silently to yourself. As lovely as they might be, this is a job, you’re not here to make friends. They knew you were supposed to be there, they were used to the attention.
Still, maybe making friends with them would be a good idea. If there was a level of trust between all of you, you’d effectively be able to get much more out of them-
“Must you always start without me?”
Your thoughts scattered almost immediately at the sound of the new voice like someone had thrown them out into the wind before you could even protest against it. The smooth, low tone of it went straight to your stomach and no one had ever been able to do that before.
You looked to your side to see who it belonged to, lips parting when you noticed the new face.
Dark messy hair that had a hint of red in it and intense eyes, crimson lips that had no doubt had thousands of teenage girls around the globe wishing they could press a kiss on them, he stood there in all his glory. He donned a jacket over a simple tee shirt and jeans, but there was just something about the way he carried himself that made it seem like more, one of those rare, enigmatic specimens of humankind.
Lee Taeyong.
And god, he was exceptionally beautiful. The music videos you had watched didn’t do him justice.
You didn’t even need the woman to tell you who he was, because you knew him very well, or at the very least, you knew most of the surface-level stuff. While you had done your digging into all the members, it was him who you had focused the most upon due to the tip Johnny had given you. He was the actual reason you were here.
“We wouldn’t if you showed up on time,” She scowled. He seemed completely unfazed at this. “Cut me some slack Irene, I left on time. There was traffic, including a swarm of fans outside my house.” He grimaced at that last bit, like the fresh memory of it was too much for him.
You had to take back your previous statement of them not being intimidating because Taeyong definitely was. His dark brown irises slowly swept over the group, deliberately even, and came to rest on you. A cocky smile rested on those lips of his and intrigue entered his eyes as he studied you. 
Most of your intel was public knowledge. His name, the fact that he was twenty-three and had been in the spotlight since he was just nineteen, which was by normal standards, barely a freshman in college. Of course, nothing about him was normal at all, but it was the comparison you had chosen to remember the fact.
And then there were the more interesting things. All the scandals he had managed to get pulled into, the way his name seemed to ghost every major celebrity slip up. From being caught on the regular with a new supposedly unsuspecting girl wrapped around his little finger to being caught drunk in Vegas, it was all too amusing to read.
Then you found something that put all of those measly scandals to shame. This? This was the real deal.
Superstar Lee Taeyong Sleeping His Way to the Top?
From the moment you spotted the article, you knew you had to know more. It wasn’t something that could be easily brushed to the side like the other rumours, it was a serious accusation that could potentially involve a nasty court case if it rippled out of control. Fortunately, there wasn’t much evidence for now.
It seemed like the writer of it knew this very well because they had remained anonymous. Worse, it had gotten a lot of attention from major media outlets and all of them started pointing out how quickly the band had managed to gain popularity and hit the charts. It seemed to fall into place perfectly.
But you knew how the media worked, you knew that anyone and everyone would pounce on the chance to sell a story, and this wasn’t any different. You knew that the real thing- the truth-  was often much simpler to explain. Most of the time, it was a far cry from what was being thrown around by tabloids and newspapers.
And you were going to figure out exactly that.
“And you are?” He inquired after a minute or so, the weight of his gaze had you rooted to the spot, cheeks warming. Even though this was the third time that day you would be introducing yourself, something about it felt a little different. Part of you was dying to find out if he was like they said, the other part wanted to know the person beneath that.
“Y/n,” You said slowly, “I’m a journalist doing a piece about the band and the tour.”
That infuriatingly attractive smirk on his face never faltered as he nodded. “Lovely to meet you, I hope we’re interesting enough.”
He hadn’t even bothered to tell you who he was like he somehow knew you had come prepared. You pressed your lips together, caught off guard with how self-assured he was, but also very intrigued. 
“I’m sure you are.”
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Somehow, Taeyong was everything you had expected and nothing like it at all.
The first night consisted of travelling, shouts on the bus you were staying on and music being played. You made small talk with the band, mostly Jeno, and sometimes with Renjun, but mostly watched from the sidelines. You joined them for dinner and laughed under your breath at the bickering between Doyoung and Taeyong and the sarcastic comment Yuta made about them in the passing.
You were surprisingly comfortable around all of them and your polite smile turned into a genuine one throughout the evening. Part of you was glad about that, the entire ordeal would be much easier to deal with if you weren’t constantly guarded. 
It was the day of the first show of the Cherry On Top tour, the Chicago one, which was where you had woken up that day on the bus. You had never seen a more efficient set of staff as they quickly worked to set up the stage for the show that evening, from special effects to lighting, they worked hard to create a show the fans would remember and love.
Currently, you sat in the empty stadium, smack dab in the middle with an excellent view of the stage where the band was rehearsing. Even though it was just a simple rehearsal where they only ran through their songs and made adjustments when needed, it was still fascinating to watch their process. 
The stage was huge, and even though there were dancers to fill up the space, the five men managed to dominate the entire thing, their presence striking and eye-catching. 
It was also becoming increasingly obvious why Taeyong was the frontman of the group. He stood in the middle, guitar in hand as he sang into the mic, managing to grasp the entirety of your attention. The others were jaw-dropping as well, but there was something about him that was so entrancing that you couldn’t look away.
You told yourself that it was because you had to pay attention to him, nothing more, but he was a hard person not to pay attention to.
Soon, they called for a break, leaving their instruments on stage to come back to later. You didn’t move, however, staying nestled comfortably in your seat as you intently watched all of this take place. After all, the major part of your job was to observe, the smaller, much more important bit would only come with time but you weren’t too worried about it considering you had months to figure that out.
It kind of felt like you were on vacation and part of you wanted to get up and offer help, feeling very out of place as you saw everyone else running about, but you had to stop yourself from doing so. It wasn’t your place, and you’d have something to write by the third week of the tour for sure.
“Enjoying the show?”
You startled slightly, looking up to see Taeyong standing to the side of your seat, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. Once you had acknowledged his presence, he settled down in the seat next to you, legs slightly spread as he stretched his arms in front of him.
“The best show I’ve been to,” You said with a small grin, truthful. “And the only one.”
Surprise took over those pretty features of his. “You’ve never been to a concert?” He spoke like you had committed some sort of cardinal sin, blasphemy even.
“Nope,” You popped the p, shaking your head. The truth was that you would have killed to have gone to one as a kid, but just like travelling really hadn’t ever been in the cards for you, neither had a concert. You had had several artists you loved, but concert tickets were expensive, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ask your parents if you could get any.
“The first time I went to one was when I was fourteen.” His eyes were trained on the stage, the nostalgic look in them catching your attention. You sat up a little straighter, ready to drink in the information he was about to give you. “It was the moment I knew I wanted to do that for the rest of my life.”
“Something tells me you never go back on your word.” You acknowledged. Almost ten years later, he was doing exactly what he had promised himself he would and you admired the hell out of it.
“I don’t,” He hummed in confirmation, before finally looking back at you. “So, what do you think? About our performance, I mean.”
You thought about it for a moment before you answered him. “I think I’ll wait until the actual performance till I form an opinion, so it’s the most accurate, but so far I think you guys are amazing.”
Taeyong raised an eyebrow as if to say he didn’t believe that, “You don’t already have an opinion?”
“Was I supposed to?” You countered back, holding his gaze. You had interviewed plenty of people before, but never had you challenged them back- it wasn’t your job. What you were set to do was to gather information and string that information into something to be read, so you couldn’t quite explain why you had become so bold all of a sudden.
A slow, languid smile spread on his mouth as he studied your face like he held a secret that no one else knew and it amused him. 
“People like you always have opinions.”
“People like me?”
“Journalists,” He said simply, and you would have been offended if you didn’t know he was right. The celebrity world thrived on opinions, they were the fuel to the ever-burning fire, fanning it day in and day out so it would never die.
And you knew for a fact that he had been subjected to the majority of all those opinions, some less civil than others. It should have been enough for him to be completely reclusive towards you, yet, he was somehow so calm around you and had even made the effort to come up there and talk to you.
He was really something, you concluded, something you wanted to figure out.
“I prefer to have sight of the entire picture instead of drawing assumptions from thin air.” You chose your words carefully. “That work for you?”
The look in his eyes softened a little into something more genuine and he nodded, agreeing with you. “You’re going to base your opinion off of a performance that you view backstage?”
“I got a frontstage view from here, and the best part is that it’s without all the screaming fans.”
“I love it when we walk on stage and the entire stadium is screaming,” He admitted with a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s invigorating, sometimes we can’t even hear the music in our earpieces because of it.” You could tell that the band had a very strong bond just from the way he spoke about them- it was almost a little envy-inducing if you were being honest.
He let out a soft sigh, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the plastic handrest of the seat. “But there’s something magical about empty stadiums too, the silence is…deafening almost, but in the best way possible. All this silence is somehow filled by the evening, and I didn’t realize how much that meant until I experienced it first hand.”
He still hadn’t looked away, and the air between the two of you shifted ever so slightly like you had gone from strangers to acquaintances. 
Maybe more. It wasn’t rocket science for anyone to notice the interest you held in him- professional or not- neither was it hard to pick up on his effort to come to talk to you.
“I can never choose if I like the emptiness or the full one more,” He confessed quietly to you, and it was only then you realized how close he was. For some reason, even though that little bit of information wasn’t anything groundbreaking, it felt important. He felt more real than any other person you had ever interviewed had, and that sounded cold in a way, but that was just how it was.
(Then again, your most fantastic piece until this point had been about people standing in lines-er - not something you were entirely proud of.)
“Maybe you don’t have to choose,” You muttered, your voice somehow sounding louder than it actually was. “Maybe you can have it all.”
It was only then that he looked away, scoffing slightly under his breath. The spell was broken, snapping you out of the slight trance he had managed to put you under, and you pressed your lips together, watching as his demeanour changed in the blink of an eye.
“In our world? No one can have it all.”
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The opening act had just finished and the crowd was riled up, excited for the main event coming up. Kim Hyoyeon, a rising pop-rock star, was said to be amazing on stage and she definitely lived up to it, giving the fans exactly what they wanted and just enough to prepare them for what was to come.
Backstage was the epitome of chaos, you couldn’t keep track of anything that was happening at any given point in time. You didn’t know how Irene managed to stay so calm the entire time, but you chalked it up to her being used to the commotion. The look on her face was serene as she dished out instructions without even breaking a sweat.
Of course, it was a different story when the boys actually emerged from their greenrooms with make-up artists flocking them to touch up their make-up. They looked fantastic, feeding into their signature rocker look with the leather jackets and ripped jeans that drove the crowd wild.
Each outfit was different but tied together well regardless, making them look like the perfect team. 
And for some reason, you lingered on Taeyong, who donned a red leather jacket that matched his hair over a black vest that was loosely buttoned over leather pants. To top it off, several pretty earrings hung from his ear piercings, the icing on the cake. He was the type of guy who stood out and was gorgeous in every situation, but with the way, his hair was styled and make-up was done, that attribute of his was elevated.
In short, Lee Taeyong was hot as hell, and you were willing to bet on the fact that he knew it.
“You’re on in five,” Irene warned them and like clockwork, they all made their way towards a part of the stage that had been previously lowered down with all their instruments arranged on it. Yuta took his place behind the drums, Doyoung behind the keyboard and Mark, Jeno and Taeyong picked up their respective guitars. Then they gathered together and put their hands together, saying something before yelling out the name of their band. A pre-show ritual, you presumed.
Just as they did, Taeyong glanced back and somehow spotted you throughout the chaos. The side of his mouth curled up into a wry smirk as he adjusted his guitar in his hands and mouthed.
‘Enjoy the show.’
Hyoyeon returned backstage and it was then when the part of the stage that they were standing on began to slowly rise. You could hear the screams of the fans get louder with every passing second as the band emerged for them to see. To you, however, they dulled out due to the fact that you were still caught up in the fact that he chose to look at you.
Oh lord. What on earth were you thinking? You had known this man for a grand total of three days give or take, and even saying you knew him was a stretch.
But you did. You knew far too much.
The music began, loud and intense, you could feel it in your stomach even backstage. You could just about hear their voices and how well they blended with each other, having much more energy and stage presence than they did in the afternoon. After all, this was the real deal, the real show.
The first show of the tour was today, and the tour itself would last from May to the beginning of September. It was the kickstart, the show they had to start with an absolute bang to set the tone for the rest of it. Even though you couldn’t see them out there, you were kind of glad you decided to wait before forming a proper opinion to present to Taeyong. You could tell that they were one hell of a band just from listening to them play.
You didn’t get to see them during the twenty-second breaks they got to change outfits, but you could see the commotion that followed with the staff running around with the clothes and water bottles with straws in them. The scene jerked you to reality and reminded you that you were supposed to be noting things down to write about.
All you had been doing was enjoying and basking in the feeling the concert was giving you, but you weren’t getting paid to write about your feelings, were you?
Definitely not. 
It was over just as quickly as it began and you were envious of those sitting outside that were able to watch the show and take it in its entirety. Now, you had to put together what you remembered from the rehearsal with what you could hear from where you were with your imagination. It wasn’t like you had a terrible imagination or anything of the sort, quite the opposite. What you were a little afraid of was that if you ever did get the opportunity to see the show, it wouldn’t live up to what you had concocted in your mind.
That was ridiculous because what you were here to do was to tell the truth, not to hope for something else. And besides, you were sure that it would be positively out of this world.
They walked backstage as the show ended, grins painting their faces with pride at what they had just done. A smile of your own made its way onto your face as you watched them saunter out. Yuta raised a closed fist in the air with a triumphant look and the rest follow suit after him.
Backstage erupted in cheers for the successful first show and you were quickly pulled in to celebrate with them, even though you had nothing to do with it. For once, even Irene allowed herself to smile at Taeyong, which was a rare sight on the observation of the constant glares she sent his way and the expression of pleasant surprise on his face.
But then she said something to him and the happy look in his eyes dulled out ever so slightly, no one else would have caught it. He swallowed and then turned to look at you from across the room as she continued to speak. He dropped his eyes and nodded and she smiled again, patting his shoulder and walking away.
You didn’t know why, but suddenly you had the strong urge to try and reinstall the look he had before she said whatever she did that managed to take it away. The feeling was quick and rushed but strong and without even thinking you began walking over to do just that.
“My opinion remains,” You said after clearing your throat. For a split second, the usual self-assured look that he possessed wasn’t there, but just as quickly as it had disappeared, it was back. He raised an expectant eyebrow, prompting you to continue. 
“The best show I’ve ever been to,” You repeated your words from earlier. “Even if I didn’t get to properly watch it.” 
He was amused, you could tell from the way he was looking at you. Something about it had a flame alight in the pit of your stomach and you were mystified by it because it had never happened before, for you weren’t the type of girl who was easily flustered or affected by simply a look given in your direction by a pretty boy. 
You were usually good at deciphering what you felt, but this time you were at a loss, grasping at any semblance of an idea for what it could be that your mind presented to you.
Taeyong leaned over a little, “You will one day.”
And with that he strolled off, disappearing once again behind the doors of his green room. Once he was out of sight, you let out a breath that you didn’t even know you had been holding in and grabbed one of the water bottles from the table, unscrewing it and taking a large gulp.
Thinking was turning out to be dangerous, but for some reason, you didn’t want to stop.
~
“This isn’t water.”
Taeyong held out the plastic bottle he had taken from the mini fridge on the tour bus in front of his face, before throwing a confused look at his bandmates. It was only them who were awake then, still high off the adrenaline rush the show had given them, while everyone else was sleeping in the upstairs section of the bus.
“It’s not,” Mark confirmed without even looking up from his laptop. “It’s vodka.”
He wasn’t surprised, and shrugged, taking another swig of the drink and settling down on the couch. Smuggling alcohol onto the bus wasn’t a first, they had been doing so since before they were even legally allowed to drink, and although he was sure their manager knew about it, over time she found it easier to just let it slide. The number of things one could get away with when they were famous was astounding, some things better than others. 
“I’m surprised you’re here with us and not at some bar,” Doyoung cut into the conversation, squinting at his friend. Taeyong frowned lightly at that statement and how it made him sound, even though he knew band mates didn’t think of him like that.
“I do that when we have a few days in the city, not if we’re travelling straight away.”
Doyoung must have noticed the slight clench in Taeyong’s jaw because he continued. “There’s nothing wrong with it, I just thought you were following Irene’s orders. Best behaviour and shit for Y/n.”
Taeyong sighed and took another large sip of the vodka. This conversation was reminding him far too much of the brief one he had had with his manager right after his show, something he really didn’t want to think about.
“It’s started perfectly Taeyong, don’t ruin it.”
Irene’s cold gaze was trained on him, making sure every word had sunken in because she was right, unfortunately. The first show had been a roaring success, good enough to drown out the rumour that had clung onto his skin more than anything ever had. 
“You might not think it, because she wasn’t the reporter we were expecting to be tagging along, but she is watching. Don’t be fooled.” She warned, before patting his shoulder twice to make up for her harsh words. Encouragement on the smallest scale.
The moment she said that Taeyong looked at you. He didn’t know how he could feel you already watching him from where you were, but it only solidified what she had said about you, as much as he didn’t want to believe it. You were different from the press he had to deal with on the daily, you were genuine- or at least, that’s how he perceived you. 
He hoped he was right because not even a moment you walked up to him and said something that had a smile threatening to break out on his face.  He liked the fact you seemed different and he wanted it to be true, to be pleasantly surprised for once.
Scandals- he didn’t give two shits about them. Stressing over them was a waste of time, for the most part, created by a reporter that needed a little boost to their name because they were bad at actually finding credible information. They were rumours that were taken way out of proportion and everyone in the business was a goddamn hypocrite.
So he went out for a drink? Big fucking deal, everyone did that. He would never understand how he got backlash for letting loose once in a while when millions of people around the globe did the exact same thing, sometimes more so than he did. The media loved exaggerating and more often than not, taking things out of proportion when there was no need to.
Most of the time he ignored them and went on with his life, getting obsessed and tied down to people’s flaky opinions was a waste of time he didn’t have. Every week there would be a new picture of him in some magazine somewhere in the world with a new incriminating thing to add to his name, even if he truly hadn’t done anything.
It was a never-ending cycle.
But this time….this time pretending to be oblivious wouldn’t work. One little article had blown way out of proportion to the point where he expected a question about it from every reporter that managed to step in his way. It was maddening at this point, he didn’t want to be judged for the way he spent his nights, he wanted to be judged for his music. 
The worst part about it was the weight it held and the fact that it could drag the band down with him. 
Which was why he wanted you to be different. Your eyes didn’t have that hungry, vindictive look he was so used to, you looked more authentic than all the fraudulent people he had to grin and bear with on the daily.
Unfortunately, reality had no place for that type of useless, hollow hope, so he had no choice but to be on his best behaviour to make sure that you wrote only good things. Even if it was all fake, he had to get on your good side for the sake of the other four people that would be dragged down with him if he didn’t.
“Yeah,” Taeyong mumbled as the alcohol kissed his throat with a burning sensation he so often turned to for comfort. “Gotta keep up appearances.”
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Nakomoto Yuta was charming with his long, unruly hair and Cheshire cat grin. One mere glance at him would have you know that he was a force to be reckoned with, a force that many would die to have with them in their beds and he couldn’t deny the fact that he had his fair share of nightly fun. 
He was a realist and a cynic, two qualities you generally enjoyed in a person, especially a subject. It made it easier to get the truth out of them.
So to your immense surprise, you were extremely bored.
Now, it wasn’t to say that he wasn’t an interesting person- he absolutely was. You knew an interview with him would also cash in the big bucks, but you were greedy and ambitious. You had your eyes on a different prize, the biggest fish in the pond.
Taeyong, of course.
To you, he was much more interesting. As real as Yuta was, Taeyong was guarded, he knew exactly how much to give the public and what to say. Over the past few shows you had spoken with him pretty often, striking up an odd friendship of sorts, but every interaction left more to be wanted from it. He challenged you back and left you thinking about what you had given and what you had taken.
The truce between the two of you had begun the day of the first show when both of you sat in that empty stadium and he told you his motivations for becoming what he was today. It benefited you nicely because you didn’t have to scour around and beg for details.
It didn’t mean that you didn’t have to work for it, though, because you definitely did. The talk between you two was mundane at most, everyday things. The type of coffee he liked, on which he would turn around and ask you the same question. More than anything, it was a trade-off, bartering on both ends.
Even so, you found yourself more interested in those little snippets of facts than the little interview you were holding with Yuta right now, and you couldn’t, for the life of you, figure out why.
“Y/n? Are you even listening to me?”
You quickly looked at Yuta, whose eyes were filled with dancing mirth at your unattentiveness. He didn’t seem offended though, and you winced. “Sorry, I kind of got lost in my thoughts there.”
“Anyone could have seen that, you’re boring the pretty lady Nakamoto.”
Speak of the devil, Taeyong himself stood there, leaning against one of the walls of the bus as he looked at you. You had no idea how you didn’t notice him come him, simply because he was the type of person you couldn’t not notice. Rolling your eyes, you adjusted yourself on the sofa and turned back to Yuta.
“You’ve been with me for two hours or so now,” You said, gathering your things. “I think we can stop for today, thank you for your time, Yuta.”
The literal translation to your words: This is just a formality.
He didn’t have to know that though and smiled, nodding. “Yeah, no problem. You’re nice to talk to, unlike some other reporters I’ve had to deal with. One stalked me for three weeks.” He groaned at the memory and ran a hand through his hair, lips pinched in displeasure. You cringed at how bad that made the people in your line of work sound.
“We’re not all like that,” You started timidly, not knowing where the sudden urge to defend them- or perhaps yourself. Taeyong scoffed from where he stood, intruding a little on the discussion and smiled. 
“No Y/n, it’s the other way around,” He corrected you swiftly. “They’re not all like you.”
It was a compliment, one that had heat curling around your neck and up to your face. It made you feel like he was fond of you, at least a little bit, and you liked that thought. You got to your feet to retreat to the little part of the tour bus that you called your own upstairs, knowing that you were going to have to go over the recording you has taken of your interview with Yuta and pick out the few things you would be using for your article.
“When will you be interviewing me?” He asked, indulging in his curiosity as you made your way to the stairs, piling your tape recorder on top of your notebook, which sat atop your laptop. Somehow, you managed to balance a pen on top of that as well, along with your phone. 
Taking note of the tower in your hands that was probably going to fall any minute now, he reached out and took your journal and recording out from on top of it, held it for you like it was the most natural thing to do and ushered you to start moving. A little surprised, you mumbled a small thanks as you began ascending the steps.
“Soon,” You said finally after thinking over it for a bit, finally making it up to the top floor, walking over to your bit of it, which was right at the end.
“....Soon?”
You repeated the word, confirming. “Soon.”
“Why not now?”
God, he loved asking questions, didn’t he? Specifically questions you did not have any answers to at any given moment, and you shrugged. 
“You’re a famous person. Aren’t you like, busy?”
A mischievous smile made a show on his gorgeous face as he put your things down on your bed and leaned against the frame, hands tucked into his pockets. “For you? Never.” 
You stiffened at his words, staring at him in bewilderment because that sounded like he was flirting with you. It really did, but even the sheer thought of that was absurd. He couldn’t have been flirting with you, right?
Oh, who were you kidding? If the papers had anything to say about it (and you best believe that they had a lot), it would be that Taeyong flirted with anything had possessed a pulse. The moment you remembered this, you proceeded to mentally chastise yourself for trusting those sources. It wasn’t fair to him.
“I was going to go over my notes and recording from Yuta’s but….I don’t want to,” You confessed sheepishly.
“Aha, so he did bore you.”
“Of course not, I’m just lazy right now.” 
He didn’t believe you for a second, but let it slide anyway, watching as you arranged all your things neatly one on top of another again and pushed it to the side. “Okay, then let me interview you.”
To this, you raised a questioning eyebrow, not quite knowing where he was going with this. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve always been curious about how it is to be on the other side, and since you don’t want to do what you have to, you can use this as a reason to procrastinate and blame me.” He bargained, taking a seat on the leisure seat opposite your bed and leaning into it. “Surely you can sit through answering a few questions when you make us go through it all the time.”
You silently laughed at his reasoning, finding it a tad eccentric. “It’s my job to ask the questions, Taeyong, and it’s yours to answer them, not the other way around.”
His lips twitched at your attempt to push him away considering he could tell you were almost completely on board with the idea. “It’s my job to make music and perform, not tell the world the last celebrity I fucked.”
You nearly choked on your tongue at how crude he was with his wording, coughing abruptly and covering your mouth with your palm. How he spoke about it so freely, you would never understand, and your fingers brushed against the warm skin of your cheeks, telling you that you were not used to it.
Taeyong cocked his head to the side in mock innocence at the reaction he managed to elicit from you. You were absolutely adorable and so damn inexperienced when it came to the world he lived in because of how different yours was.
“What? Isn’t that what everyone wants to know?” He drawled, and you rolled your eyes in an attempt to shrug off the effect he had on you.
The answer you settled for was cautious, one that you could play off easily without thinking of your heated cheeks at how blunt he was. “You think very highly of yourself.”
“Why are you a journalist?”
He dropped the previous topic, going straight to asking you a question you hadn’t expected, though now that you thought about it, it was an obvious one. Blinking slowly, you bit the inside of your cheek, “Because I love writing, obviously, and I want to work at the New York Times one day.”
“Is that it?” Disbelief coated every syllable.
“Must there be more?”
“You know damn well there is,” He chuckled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. You sat down directly opposite him. “No one becomes something because of one flimsy reason, I can tell you that much. I didn’t form a band and get a record deal just because I love music. Of course, I love music, but I also love performing and hearing all those fans scream because of it. I love sharing that music with the world and I won’t give you any of that ‘I’m not in it for the fame’ bullshit. I love every second of it.”
He’s blunt, you noted mentally, storing the information in the back of your mind for later. Although he was the one asking you the questions this time around, he was also giving you little pieces of him. Somehow, it made the process more gratifying.
There was silence for a few seconds after that, leaving you with bated breath. Every time someone asked you the reason you had taken up journalism, you gave them the textbook answer, one that they expected. It was true, of course, there wasn’t a single thing you’d rather do than this, because you did love it.
And then there's the less known answer. One that you didn’t indulge in all that often because it seemed like an afterthought on your tongue. The fact that he could see right through you and figure out that there was something else to do with your career choice scared you a little.
“Travel,” You confessed softly, “I wanted to…see the world, even if it meant a work trip.”
He was the first person you had ever told about this secret desire of yours because every other time you pondered telling it to someone, it sounded rather silly. Even now, as you pronounced it on your tongue, the fire over the wish burned dimly at best, in fear of being pushed down and discredited for it.
He didn’t make fun of you, though, only furrowing his eyebrows. “Wow. I kind of feel bad for you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’ve been to what-? Five different places now? And all you’ve seen in the inside of a stadium and greenrooms. That’s a pretty shitty way to see the world if you ask me.”
“I’ll take what I get.” You shrugged, once again adjusting the setup of your materials beside you until you were satisfied. “You do it all the time.”
“That’s not the same,” he argued ardently, but then dropped the topic altogether, not wanting to come across as overbearing in any way. “Thanks for the insightful information Y/n, I think I’d be an excellent journalist.” There was a particular sparkle in his eyes when he said that, like all the precious jewels in the world had taken sanctuary in them.
You watched him retreat downstairs, leaving you to your own devices and thoughts, ones that were much too loud for your liking.
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There were many things that had angered his hot-headed manager in the past, and many of those times led to him being the unfortunate and unwarranted receiver of her fury. Over time, he had gotten used to it and took it in good sport, but he would never forget the very first time it happened. 
It had been after one of their first talk-show interviews when their journey together as a band had just kicked off, having gathered a substantial following and fanbase for being so new to the music scene. They were being escorted out of the building and into their cars after a successful interview.
They still hadn’t gotten used to the feeling of being swarmed by fans and paparazzi and were left in a mixture of shock and awe as they exited the building, immediately hit with the screams of fans begging for even a glance in their direction. Several reporters aggregated around them, pushing past the boundaries that their bodyguards had tried to set for their safety to thrust a microphone in their faces and yell out their questions. 
Renjun went over what they had to do when presented with situations like these every time they went out to promote their music when they were industry babies. Taeyong stayed close to the rest of his band mates, walking right behind Yuta with Jeno sandwiched between him and Doyoung who stood towards the back. They had always been fiercely protective of the youngest.
He was acutely aware of the bodyguard that walked by his side, his hands outstretched around the group to shield them from the unruly audience. Just as their publicist told them, he flashed the reporters a polite smile so as to not suddenly be on the top ten rudest celebrities list, and then looked down at his feet, avoiding all eye contact with the cameras.
Rule number one about being famous; you could never be too careful.
But he was only nineteen, artless and spontaneous in everything he did. A reporter yelled out his name so loud that he looked up out of instinct, meeting the culprit's eyes quickly.
And then a camera- or was it one of those dratted microphones?- knocked into the side of his face by his right eye so hard that he visibly winced at the sharp sting of pain that followed. His eyes screwed shut as he flinched away, almost stumbling right into Mark, who yelped softly in surprise. 
He heard Irene yelling infuriated at whoever had done that and the bodyguard moved so that he was covering Taeyong even more. Opening just one eye, he got into the backseat of the car and groaned softly, bringing his fingers up to the place that hurt to somehow assess the situation.
“Dude, you okay? Holy shit-” Mark's voice cut off midway.
Taeyong opened both of his eyes and stared in annoyance and bewilderment at the red stain that coated the tips of his fingers. Irene slipped inside, muttering profanities at the wildness of the paparazzi when she noticed him staring at his hand, and then at the cut on his face.
“Oh for fucks sake!” She all but growled, startling Jeno who was situated beside her. “I didn’t expect you to start bleeding from that.”
He glanced up at his manager, who wore a not-so-flattering glower on her face, taking her phone out and furiously jamming in a few numbers until the contact she desired popped up. Doyoung handed Taeyong a tissue to wipe his hands, his eyebrows furrowing in silent concern, but he shook his head, assuring his friend he was fine.
“You should have been more careful,” Irene snapped, holding the phone to her ear. “I hope that heals soon.”
“It’s not that bad, it doesn’t even hurt anymore,” He remembered reasoning with her. “I think it was just the shock that got to me.”
“It doesn’t matter if it hurts or not, Taeyong, you guys have an editorial shoot next week,” Her words made him freeze. “You have to look perfect.”
That was when it hit him- what her distress was truly about. She hadn’t stopped to ask if he was alright or if he was hurt badly, those things didn’t matter to her as their manager. What she cared about was if he would look good enough for a photoshoot coming up because that was where her priorities lay.
“I suppose the make-up artists can cover it up for now,” She muttered indignantly, before launching into an animated conversation with whoever she had called. Taeyong swallowed the lump in his throat and slumped in his seat every so slightly, admittedly hurt over the realisation that dawned upon him that day.
But it was an important lesson for him to learn, one he carried forward with him as the band got bigger and more famous than anyone thought was possible. When the swarms of cameramen got even larger and the photoshoots increased in number, he made sure to follow Renjun’s instructions to the T. 
Everything about celebrities was taken at face value. This was the cold, hard truth that he had to learn to live with because of how literal it was, because of how cosmetic and fake most things were. 
They used makeup on the cut for a few months to cover it up, until it healed incompletely into a small, almost unnoticeable scar, serving as a reminder every time he forgot about how his new world worked.
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You were slowly getting accustomed to the after-show routine that happened every time. Cherry Bomb would retreat backstage, accompanied by the dying yelling of fans experiencing post-concert depression. They would be handed water bottles and would walk around for a bit, hugging staff and accepting congratulations, before finally deciding to retreat to the bus. You had mostly memorized the sequence of events after seeing it happen so many times.
Which is exactly why you were so bewildered right now when none of that happened. 
This time, all five of them seemed to be in a rush, wild looks in their eyes. They stopped for a moment to exchange pleasantries with Irene- a mere formality at this point- as quickly as humanly possible, their unequivocal hurry making a show with the bounce in their steps. Once she was done with them, they scrambled back to their green rooms.
Taeyong must have seen the look of pure confusion on your face because he stopped to admire it, a smile tugging at his cheshire lips at the way your eyebrows cinched and your own lips puffed out slightly in bafflement. He could tell that you knew something was up and that you definitely wanted in on the supposed secret that seemed to alter their usual routine.
Now, he knew very well that Irene would probably kill him for what he was thinking about doing. Then she would resurrect him from the dead, Jesus style, and proceed to murder him once again, repeating the process until she was satisfied. He was supposed to put the best version of himself forward for you to dissect. 
So if he knew this so well, why was he walking over to you anyway? When you noticed that he was coming towards you, you stood a little straighter, eyes widening slightly. “We don’t start travelling till tomorrow,” He said first, giving you context for what was going to follow. “So we’re going to a party.”
He could see the flicker of interest in your eyes. “A party?”
Taeyong nodded, “We’ll take about ten minutes to change and then leave in the car out back. Wanna come?”
Your first thought was your outfit. A sweater that was on the thinner side tucked into a skirt, formal enough without looking overbearing. Most of the clothes you packed for the tour were of the same nature, and for good reason, because it was exactly what you would wear to work, and that was what this was.
The funny thing was that you actually had to remind yourself that you were here for work and not pleasure. Especially when he was asking you if you wanted to come along.
“I don’t have anything party worthy to wear.”
He dragged his gaze over your physique and you never wished you were wearing something else more than you had at that moment. Something a little more impressive maybe.
“You look great.”
Scratch that, this was now your favourite outfit. 
He said it with such conviction that you were left with no other choice but to believe him. Sucking in a breath through your teeth, you tried to count to ten as you thought about how to say no. Ten, nine, eight…
“Okay,” You breathed out, miserable failing at your attempt to have any semblance of self-control. He grinned at you before walking away and reiterating where you should meet him in a few minutes, joining the rest of his bandmates. 
Gathering your wits, you excused yourself to go find the car he spoke about, admittedly nervous about the entire ordeal. The last time you had gone to a party was during your junior year of college. Your senior year had you completely occupied with exams and being editor of the school paper, leaving you with barely any time to go out, much less for a party. 
And here you were, agreeing to go to one without even thinking about it properly. There was so much wrong with this plan that you decided even analyzing your decision-making was not worth it.
Just when you were starting to think Taeyong had pulled a prank on you, they walked out, dressed in clothes that were more casual than the ones they wore on stage, but most of their makeup and hair styling was still intact. When they were closer, Doyoung stopped in his tracks and narrowed his eyes at you.
“What are you doing here?” He questioned- well, more like demanded an answer out of you. The others, except Taeyong, all looked a little puzzled at your presence and thats when you realized that he hadn’t told anyone he invited you along.
“She’s coming with,” He said, eliciting a look of outright indignation from the younger boy. 
“Are you fucking stupid? She’s a journalist, she’ll-”
“She won’t be recording or interviewing anyone tonight, right Y/n?” He said, voice impossibly sweet as he looked at you expectantly, one eyebrow quirked high as if urging you to say yes. You supposed that was your side of the deal if you were coming along. As a journalist, you should have lied and said yes with the full intention of taking in every detail.
So when you nodded and the word ‘yes’ left your lips, you were surprised to find that you genuinely meant it. Satisfied, he opened the door and cocked his head to the side, gesturing for all of you to get in. The others still looked pretty dubious of your presence, especially Doyoung, but they quickly brushed it aside and obliged.
You ended up sitting in between Taeyong and Yuta in the car, with Doyoung driving and Mark in the passenger seat. Turns out, Jeno had been kept back because of something new popping up in his schedule alone (something about a photoshoot for one of the brands he was an ambassador of, that Irene insisted she brief him about at that very moment in time) and would be joining all of you later.
Mark slipped a lighter out of his pocket and lit a blunt, glancing up at you through the rearview mirror and holding it up. “Wanna hit?”
“Is that…?” You trailed off, a little put off at how casual he was about it. He nodded. 
“Weed.”
“Jesus Christ Mark, why don’t you go tell her all our sins,” Doyoung groaned, tightening his grip around the steering wheel. Mark laughed his airy, broken record-sounding laugh, and shrugged complacently, unaffected by the possible repercussions of his actions.
“It’s not like the entire world already knows,” He deadpanned. You remembered the few articles about them being caught smoking on several occasions. “The place we’re going to is going to be full of this shit, I’m only giving her a taste. Speaking of which, do you want a cig or not?”
As you were with parties, you tended to steer away from the drug-using crowd during your school and college days, leaving you wary of the offer, so you shook your head.
“I’m good.”
“I’m not, give me one,” Yuta said right after you, and Mark did as he asked, handing a blunt over to the older man, leaning over to light it. You felt wildly out of place, nervously playing with your fingers in your lap and contemplating whether you should have agreed, after all, feeling the heels of your shoes dig into the car mat beneath your feet.
As if he could sense your doubts, Taeyong shifted slightly in his seat and dipped his head down until his mouth was near your temple. “Relax,” He said softly, the warmth of his arm around the back of your seat feeling as if it was being projected onto you, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Then he resumed his previous posture. “But yeah, you’re going to have to wipe the mildly terrified look from your face, princess, Mingyu’s party isn’t exactly a formal event with champagne flutes.”
The nickname was used in a manner of teasing, you knew. He was teasing you for being so tightly wound up and surprised at every little thing, but that didn’t stop an odd, fluttery feeling from taking place in the pit of your torso.
Your eyes widened in surprise at that statement of his- not the bit about the party not being a formal event, but the fact he mentioned Kim Mingyu, an actor who had built his reputation over being the ‘good boy’ actor of Hollywood. That was until he found himself in a dating scandal and was exposed for not being as innocent as everyone initially perceived. When he decided to embrace that part of him he received a lot of backlash, but a hell of a lot of respect for it as well, boosting his career through the roof.
As they said, all publicity is good publicity.
“You guys know Mingyu?” It seemed odd for rock stars to know an actor, at least in your eyes, and then you felt a little idiotic. Of course, they knew him. Mark nodded from the front, taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing out the smoke.
“Yeah, for a while too. His parties are great to wind down at after a show.”
You had a feeling that his idea of winding down was very different to yours. “Interesting.”
It was clear to you from that moment that this party was going to be full of Hollywood’s finest and most sought-after. In short, a journalist's heaven, with so many stories in one place right within your grasp. So many stories and loose ends other press had tried hunting for ages and you had been given entrance on a red carpet.
You were a fool for not trying to pounce on the idea, all to keep the trust of a man you had been friends with for only a month or so. In a way it was laughable. Trying to keep enough of his trust in you intact just so you could tear through the walls he had built around himself for people just like you. 
He was wrong. You were just like the rest, and for the first time since you set foot on this tour, guilt crept into you. 
The car stopped, signalling that you had reached your destination. Swallowing the new and unwelcome sensation of guilt, you reminded yourself that there wasn��t a good or bad side to this, there never was, no matter how much the media tried to insist the same. It was ironic.
Getting out of the car, you bit the inside of your cheek, shaking those thoughts off and focusing on the house in front of you, or rather, the mansion, because your jaw slackened at the sight of it. The large iron gates walled off the piece of land from the public, enclosing the frothing fountains and tiled pathway that lead to the front of a house that looked a little old-fashioned, but in a tasteful manner. You could tell by the lights flashing in the windows that the party was already in full swing with no signs of stopping anytime soon.
The inside only cemented that fact and from the moment you set foot inside the house, it felt like you were lost. The same scent that had accompanied the blunt Mark and Yuta had used wafted through the air, lost in the haze of alcohol and other drugs.
You had no business being surprised, Hollywood was tainted with all sorts of different sins. Some of those very sins had become so commonplace that no one had the right to judge or ridicule them. You spotted a few familiar faces that you had seen on TV, or perhaps in the news as the band members dispersed slowly to get drinks and talk to their friends.
And then you were alone.
Taeyong stayed fairly close by though, knowing that this was a new scene for you. He admired the way you didn’t look scared, but more so curious as to how it all worked, eyes alert and scanning over everything. He could practically see the gears turning in your head as you made sense of it all. 
Yuta was on one of the couches, talking to a few ladies, Doyoung sat by the bar and Mark had disappeared completely, no doubt now occupying one of the many rooms of the mansion with a woman. You didn’t know exactly when Jeno showed up, but you spotted him once with a drink in hand, humming along to the music.
You really had no idea how this worked, you thought in bewilderment as you tried your best to pay attention to whatever the person talking to you was saying. You brought your cup to your lips and sipped on the beer that swirled inside it as you nodded whenever you thought was appropriate enough to look like you were seriously invested. The man was no doubt a celebrity, he had the same careless arrogance you had seen everyone carry around.
Politely excusing yourself, you downed the rest of the beer, having chosen the most basic drink out of the wide selection that Mingyu had to offer to play it safe. 
You managed to find an empty balcony on one of the floors, walking out to escape the heaviness of the interior, letting out a tired sigh; a sigh that carried all your worries with its exhale. The sky was dotted with an effervescence of stars that glittered against the dark canvas they lay on for the world to muse at, humble in their existence and still so captivating.
Once again, you started doubting yourself- because what sort of journalist wasn’t up for inserting themselves in the situations that concerned their work? George Plimpton, Earnie Pyle, Hunter Thompson- all excellent journalists that always took part. Granted, the things they did were a little more extreme than attending a party, but surely you should have been eagerly following in their footsteps instead of standing still and contemplating every step you took.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
You turned around on your heel to meet Taeyong’s eyes. He stood there, leaning against the door frame with a drink in his hand, looking straight at you. 
“Did you really?” You quirked an eyebrow, causing him to grin sheepishly as he walked over, joining you next to the balcony railing, resting his elbows on it as he leaned against it. You hadn’t invited him to join you, but he had brazenly done so anyway, and you admired that quality about him. 
“Nah, I was hoping I would though. I just know people say lines like those in movies.”
You let yourself laugh, instantly feeling more at ease now that you weren’t surrounded by strangers, but just with someone you knew to an extent. It was a talent of his, you decided, to so easily be able to draw people in.
“Good guessing skills,” You quipped, sighing. He looked to his side at you, a half smile playing on his lips in a lopsided manner.
“Well then, I’m guessing this isn’t your scene?”
“God, no,” You blurted out gracelessly, “I mean, it’s interesting to watch and indulge in for a few minutes but I get bored of it very easily. Reminds me of college.”
He hummed. “How is it? College, I mean. I’ve never been.” He stared at you curiously, and you recollected that Cherry Bomb had been formed right when he had graduated high school. Stardom and normal college life were not things that were ever meant to intersect.
“A little more relaxed than high school, but that gets to some people and they let go completely, and by your junior year you’re finally allowed to legally drink,” was the explanation you settled on. “Not that it stops the freshmen anyway.”
He pressed the mouth of his bottle to his lips, taking another sip as he drank in your words. “Sounds boring.”
“Not for everyone, I just happened to spend half my time in my university’s newsroom, so my experience wasn’t exactly the most exciting.” You shrugged, suddenly a little embarrassed over the fact. Here you stood beside someone who had one of the most exciting lives ever and you paled in comparison. Why was he even talking to you?
You looked so pretty right then, a rueful smile gracing your face like you regretted not participating more, strands of your hair falling in front of your face and out of your loose ponytail, and he couldn’t help but wonder if you were aware of just how bewitching you were. He couldn’t help but be just a little envious of the glass that previously held your drink, and how it had the opportunity of having your lips on it, rather than him being able to kiss you.
The startling realization that he wanted to kiss you was enough to pull him right back out of his trance, but there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with thinking about it, was there?
“You just haven’t been in any exciting situations,” He countered and it was then you noticed how the light from the moon flickered through the wisps of his hair, illuminating the edges like a halo. A crimson halo that is, two things that contradicted each other in an almost comical manner. Halos were supposed to be golden and pure.
You had a feeling that Taeyong was anything but. 
And you had no idea why you liked the prospect of that as much as you did. “I suppose you know exactly how to get into those types of situations.”
He smirked, an expression so dizzying to look at that you momentarily entertained the idea of looking around for a seat before your knees inevitable buckled, and gripped the railing rigidly. He took a step closer to you until the space between the two of you had reduced to far too little for your dwindling sanity. 
“Why? Are you interested?”
Suddenly it felt like the air had hiked up in temperature like it was warmer than before and it prickled at your skin. You blamed your sweater, but you could feel it on your bare legs too, and on the exposed skin of your neck. That very heat crawled upwards onto your cheeks, but you refused to acknowledge it, keeping your eyes locked on his. 
He was close, closer than your sanity would have liked. You took the opportunity to study him for a moment, from the rise of his cheekbones to the little, almost unnoticeable scar next to his right eye- you momentarily wonder how he got it. Somehow, he was still gorgeous.
“Maybe I am.”
He moved just a little closer, beguiled by how quickly you responded. It was evident that you loved challenges and he dropped his voice a little even though there was no one else around. “Good.” Tempting, an affirmation that he had wanted to show all those exciting places and situations to you and by god, you were so tempted.
He didn’t know why he was so taken with you, and you did not know how to get your body feeling normal again and not like it was in a sauna. That smirk, the way he looked at you and the way you stared back without backing down even for a second, it was new to the both of you. 
Oh, you were so fucked.
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It was around four in the morning when your head finally met your cold pillow and your fingers curled into the thin blanket you used to cover yourself. The party had not ended yet, but the group of you decided to leave so you would get at least a few hours of sleep before Irene came along and yelled at everyone for their irresponsibility.
The moment you returned, you had changed out of your outfit into something lighter. A tank top and shorts, kicking off your shoes and hoping it would be enough to erase the effect a certain man had on you.
One would think that after having such a long day you’d fall asleep immediately, and frankly, you did too. You thought that the sweet, sweet cycle of REM sleep would take over your mind and you would be knocked out within minutes of lying down on the bed.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Your mind was still awake, racing faster than it usually did, only one thing- or rather, one person- on it. The reason? It was stressing you out.
The fact that you were so blatantly attracted to Taeyong was a problem. For one, it was highly unprofessional and just plain wrong to be into someone you were writing an article about. That alone should have had your insides twist with worry at what was to come. 
It was bad enough that the world thought most female reporters went about sleeping with their subjects anyway and you were mortified over possibly turning into one of those women, rumour or not. This was a job, a job you were supposed to do well and never look back at again, one that would kickstart your career for the better.
So why on earth did you feel so unapologetic about it? 
You had fallen for people before, but you wouldn’t say that you had fallen in love. The guys you had been with before had been benevolent and nonabrasive at best, the ones who tended to play it safe to avoid misadventures. The tenderness that was growing in your chest for Taeyong was so foreign that you almost didn’t recognize it.
It was the result of him, the way he was. The way he challenged you without ever putting you down, that proud look in his eye that he earned over the years, but it was one that never drifted into being that of an asshole. Not many people were able to pull that sort of confidence off, but he did it with such ease that it was irritatingly attractive. 
You guessed that it was because of this very confidence that he possessed, that alluring quality of his you couldn’t quite put your finger on, he was portrayed the way he was for the public to jeer at. It was human nature to hate those who flourished despite the odds and he was the textbook definition of graceful success. Naturally, they had to disrupt that grace why tainting it with whatever they could.
But it was how he stayed with you for the rest of the evening- or early morning if you were getting technical- at the party, helping you relax into the unfamiliar atmosphere. It was how he didn’t seem to care about the party, although you knew from your research that he was quite the opposite, it was nice of him to pretend like that wasn’t true. It was how he whispered a sweet goodnight to you before you silently climbed to the upper level of the bus and your bed, with that boyish smile you were coming to like just a little too much.
That was why.
“Fuck,” You whispered to yourself, and it sounded a lot louder than it was in the silence of the bus. It was bad because it went a little past just plain attraction. If it was just that, it would have been ten times easier to deal with. You could be attracted to someone without feeling a single thing for them.
But the way his voice went all the way to your stomach and ignited that incessant fluttery feeling you tried so hard to ignore. It went a little past just plain ol’ attraction, but even a little bit was dangerous. The sensation was so unfamiliar in a cold strange way that you didn’t know what you were doing with yourself and for some unknown reason, you couldn’t find even a small remnant of remorse for it.
Just once, you told yourself hopelessly. You would let yourself think about him just once.
“No, no, no, absolutely not Y/n,” You muttered in a half-hearted scolding directed to yourself, but as soon as you said it, you were thinking about the way he held his guitar, and the possibility of that red hair of his being soft at the touch. The pout that rested on his lips when he argued with you or anyone, for the matter, was just so damn charming.
And the smile that teased your lips at that very moment, one that you had to cover by putting your hand over it as if anyone could see you in the darkness of the night. The way you tried so hard to fight the giddy seed that had been planted in your mind, the little schoolgirl giggles that threatened to leave you if you didn’t try hard enough to conceal them. You groaned silently to yourself so as to not wake any of the people sleeping around you, turning to your side and attempting to bury your face in the thin pillow that was no longer cool enough.
Taeyong was layered. Like an onion.
You couldn’t believe that the first description you could think of was lines straight out of Shrek.
Insanity- that’s what this was. You were getting ahead of yourself, in a few months, none of this would matter. You’d write the article, it would get published and you’d get some recognition for it. Your life would go back to the normally boring version of itself and you’d forget about it all once the opportunities started (hopefully) piling in.
There was no reason for this to get personal. You closed your eyes and stilled, holding the pillow you had brought along for yourself between your legs and forcing your brain to stop working overtime. 
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The first time Taeyong performed professionally was when he was nineteen, bordering twenty. Before they got their record deal, the band practised in garages and their rooms, and it was before Jeno joined. Then they were there, young and inexperienced when it came to the world they had just begun to dip their toes into.
He remembered feeling nervous, tapping his foot on the flooring repeatedly as he sat on the plush couches inside the studio, waiting for instructions. He could never forget how those nerves disappeared the moment he took his place behind the microphone and began singing with the rest of the band like they were never there in the first place.
Irene Bae stood on the other side of the glass, listening in. She was one of the younger managers, being twenty-four at the time, and although she hadn’t had much experience, she knew that Cherry Bomb was the group she wanted to manage and help get to the top. She saw their potential from the get-go and was smart enough to acknowledge that if she was the one in charge, she would reap the benefits as well.
Monroe was the first studio album that they released, and no one could have ever anticipated the success it brought to the table. In typical fashion for young rockstars, most of the songs revolved around drugs or sex but weren’t generic. Euphemisms and imagery floated through the lyrics that they worked hard on, no one could deny the raw talent they possessed.
The lead single of the album, Dark Clouds, debuted at 40 on the Billboard Charts, which was relatively high for a new artist, and it only kept climbing up the charts until it peaked at number two and stayed there for almost five weeks. The tracklist was full of hit after hit, and when you made such an incredible entrance into the scene, you had to expect both sides that came with fame: the good and the downright ugly.
The first time Taeyong ever had to deal with it was a few weeks after the album had been released and he had gone out to McDonald’s because he had been craving a burger. He didn’t think much of it at the time, but going out as a rising rockstar without any security was a stupid move on his part. Within minutes, he had a swarm of fans around him and he hadn’t the slightest clue of what to do, especially when the press showed up to ask him questions about the album.
That piece hadn’t been about anything scandalous, just about the first sighting of him without the rest of his mates. He realized that it didn’t have to be about anything great to be read because Cherry Bomb had become such a hot topic. It just had to be about one of them.
It was the first time he appeared in the papers without the rest of the band- just him. The moment Lee Taeyong became the ‘it boy’ that everyone loved to trail after, searching for something to pin him down with for the public to whisper about. 
It was then he knew that his life had changed forever.
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Lee Jeno wasn’t as intimidating as Yuta was, you would classify him as the sweetheart of the group. Off the stage, those sharp eyes turned into softer crescents of joy, and that raspy singing voice melted into jokes that suited the freshly turned twenty-one-year-old. By the end, you had forgotten the last few questions you were supposed to ask him, ending up with your hand pressed to your stomach as you tried not to laugh.
You were slowly making your way through each member of the band, procrastinating taking Taeyong’s interview. You didn’t know why you felt like it, but it was a ticking time bomb, and as much as you wanted to know about him, you didn’t want to at all.
God, you were a terrible journalist. 
Finishing up, you gathered your things and began your journey back up the stairs to put together the most important bits of Jeno’s interview. You had finally managed to do Yuta’s a while after the night at the party, getting to work after a month of observing. Realistically speaking, you probably should have started a while ago, but it was fine.
“What happened to the original guy?”
Just as you were about to emerge from the stairs, you heard Renjun’s voice resound through the top floor. Instinctively, you stopped climbing and stayed in place as you took note of the slightly hushed tone of voice like he was hiding something. 
Then the irony of the situation settled in. This whole eavesdropping thing was quickly developing into a bad habit of yours and you should not have been so ardently encouraging it.
“Yes- no there’s not a problem with her- but I thought you were going to send the person who wrote the article about-”
And then he dropped his voice even softer. Secrets always piqued your interest.
“- the article about Taeyong.”
Your eyes widened and now you knew you had to know more because he was talking about articles and a ‘her’ that you were willing to bet was you. Invested, you crouched down a little and put your stuff down on one of the steps, praying no one would walk up right then and catch you in such an awkward position.
“I’m not upset Mr Suh, just surprised. We had an agreement when I gave you that story, one that ensured you would send over the same person who wrote it anonymously.”
Johnny? Why on earth was Renjun speaking to Johnny? Your insides twisted as a small realization dawned upon you and you were no longer thinking about working on your article. You were thinking about taking a little detour in your research to uncover a suspicion that was quickly growing.
“I’ve taken a risk Johnny,” Renjun continued a little coldly this time as if he was warning your boss not to disappoint. “I expect you to make sure it benefits me as well.”
You decided that this was the point where you would finally make your entrance, it sounded like the call was going to end now anyways. Picking your things back up, you retreated a few steps, ignored the little voice in your head that laughed at how stupid the scene must have looked, and walked back up, purposely being a little loud with your footsteps.
Renjun looked a little spooked when you walked upstairs, but no one would have noticed it if they hadn’t heard the conversation that preceded it. Your signature polite smile made a show as you gave it to him and sat down on your bed. Seeing that you would probably be there for a while, he excused himself.
And then you began. Pieces started falling into place, little things you hadn’t paid enough attention to. You pulled up the research you had done, that one article talking about Taeyong's promiscuity and how it lead to his stardom. Superstar Lee Taeyong sleeping his way to the top.
You couldn’t believe you never paid attention to the fact that it was written anonymously. Moreover, you couldn’t believe that you hadn’t noticed the two little letters at the bottom of the clipping. TL.
The Link. The entire thing had originated under your very nose and you had overlooked that piece of information. Now, each word of the article was something to think about, especially the little bit mentioning an anonymous source.
You couldn’t believe it. The very rumour that had dragged the band down started from the inside.
Loose lips sink ships.
And Renjun had been running his mouth all too gladly. He was their publicist for goodness sake, it made no sense. At the same time, it made perfect sense, a little drama went a long way in the celebrity world.
That pesky guilt from before about what you were doing tightened around you like a lasso, because how were you any different? You were lying in a sense as well, parading around and saying you were here for one thing while doing something else. You were a fraud who had listened in and judged another of your type.
He said something about not expecting it to be you who would come along for the tour, so you racked your brain to figure out why. Johnny knew this and agreed to your demands anyway, so why-
“Jungwoo,” You whispered in realisation. “That fucker.”
Jungwoo was the anonymous writer, you were sure of it. He dropped out last minute, leaving Johnny with no choice but to take what he got. You asked no questions he wasn’t willing to answer because all you had seen was an opportunity to further yourself. 
You weren’t naive, you knew that it could still very well be true. Renjun could have told the truth about the band's reason for what seemed like instant stardom to expose them without losing face or his job. Just because it looked like a betrayal done from the inside didn’t mean that it wasn’t warranted.
Your reluctance to get more out of Taeyong burned away, replaced with pure journalistic instinct. You were going to find out what was real and what wasn’t without thinking about your potential feelings. You were a professional, after all, and you were going to prove that the truth was just as good of a story, no matter what that truth turned out to be.
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“Did you spend a night in prison?”
Taeyong turned to you, caught off guard at your sudden question. He was sitting in the empty stadium during the break, this time with a guitar in his arms as he mindlessly strummed it to pass the time. One look at him and anyone would know he lived and breathed music in the purest sense, something that was extremely admirable.
You had settled into the seat next to him, a mirror image of your first day together- minus the guitar in his hand and the on-tour lunch that was being handed out that you held. He quirked an eyebrow.
“Been googling me?”
“I have to,” You said immediately, so smoothly that one would have thought it was a rehearsed line, leaning back and getting comfortable in the seat. “Now, is it true?”
“Is this my interview?” He avoided the question once again, mildly amused by how forward you were being. “Where’s your little kit?”
“Perhaps- and my what?”
This was terrible. He had been trying to get you to like him like Irene had requested- well, perhaps not just because Irene had asked him to do so. He was starting to realize that there was a chance that he wanted you to like him as well, and the result of possibly getting an article that would silence all the fake news was just an added benefit.
“You know, journal, recorder, whatever.”
“I’m taking a different approach, now answer my question.”
Oh, the reason he didn’t want to was because of how humiliating the story was but you were staring at him determinedly and he knew he wasn’t going to get out of this one. Sighing, he dropped his head and carefully put the guitar in another seat. For the first time in a long time, he felt an embarrassed blush kiss his cheeks.
“I was barely twenty-one, it’s old news.”
“I’d say you were asking for it,” You said, mouth upturning in amusement at the pink that stained his cheeks. It was cute. “I mean, deciding to go spray painting in the middle of the night on the wall of private property? That’s just dumb.”
He groaned when you oh-so-kindly recounted his misdeed, it had covered the papers for days, which was odd because it wasn’t anything too scandalous- other than it being illegal, of course. It only stopped circulating when Kim Jennie was found making out with Lisa Manoban at a party.
While she had a boyfriend.
Yeah, that was a much juicer story.
“Look,” He attempted to justify his younger self's decision-making skills. “There was this after party that followed this fashion show we had been ford to attend as a part of our schedule, and it was the most boring shit ever. Caviar and champagne. The place was full of opera singers, so you can imagine how we stood out.”
He ducked his head, grimacing at the memory of his teenage self ditching a prestigious event to commit a petty crime for the thrill of it. Immaturity was something he was still trying to grow out of, but that was the price of having to essentially grow up in the public eye.
You didn’t have to imagine, because there were pictures of them at the party before the incident, all wearing dress shirts and trousers. All of them looked much younger, going through a platinum blonde phase for their hair and it was painstakingly obvious that they didn’t fit in with the aristocratic guests at all. You wholeheartedly pitied them when you had seen that image, pulled between sympathising for them and laughing. 
Taeyong didn’t understand why he felt the need to explain himself to you, nor did he understand why he felt embarrassed by it, running a hand through his locks. For some unknown reason, your opinion mattered to him, which even sounded ridiculous. Everyone had an opinion about him, and he had never given a flying fuck about them.
Until now, of course.
“I was bored out of my mind. I needed something fun to do, and Yuta was down. We were cellmates too.” He added that bit as a quip to earn something close to amusement from you. When you let out a short laugh, he was pleased that he succeeded. “Then Irene bailed us out.”
Wait, what the hell was he doing? This entire thing was completely out of character for him, he was the one others tried to impress, not the other way around. Never the other way around.
“You’ve been to Milan,” You said to him, childish wonder creeping into the tone of your voice. “All the pictures I’ve seen of the place are so gorgeous. I would die to spend even a day there.”
“Would you be up for a little vandalizing?” He asked hopefully, leaning forward with a shit-eating grin on his face. You threw him a pointed look, shaking your head. 
“I said I wanted a day in Milan, Taeyong, not jail.” You deadpanned, pushing down the urge to giggle. Giggle. For goodness sake, it was pathetic, you felt like a giddy schoolgirl with barely any control over her emotions.
You had decided to go forward with grilling Taeyong for your article, determined to get to the bottom of your little side quest. Taking a bite out of the less than appetizing catered lunch, you shifted in your seat so that you were facing him a little better, moving on to the next question.
“Did you fake date Kang Seulgi?”
“You’re very chatty today, aren’t you?” He muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “I feel like I’m on trial.”
“It’s my job to grill answers out of you,” You winked playfully, earning a petulant look from his end as if he was offended at that statement of yours. Your mind wandered a little and before you could hold it by the reins and keep it back, it wandered a little too far, the sides of your lips curling upwards in a small smile.
“And here I thought you were actually interested in me,” He teased, and now it was you who felt flushed, but not out of embarrassment. 
Then you went back to thinking sensibly with your head. “What do you expect me to do? Ask you to teach me how to play the guitar?” You offered him a sardonic smile as you gave up on the baked potato and cold mac-n-cheese that sat sadly on your paper plate, keeping it in another empty seat. 
“I could if you wanted me to,” he mused, deciding to throw you off a little for fun.
You blinked in bewilderment at the offer. “What? No, I was just-” You scrambled to get out of the situation you had somehow managed to fall in (literally and figuratively), shaking your head adamantly at him. “I couldn’t-”
And then you noticed the way he had his fist over his mouth, eyes alight with pure amusement and when a small snicker left those pretty crimson lips of his, you narrowed your eyes at him.
“You’re laughing at me.” You said flatly, a sulky pout taking shape on your lips, “You’re making fun of me.”
“I couldn’t help it, you looked so distressed. It was…..it was cute.”
Oh. Oh hell no. You were practically yelling at yourself so you wouldn’t get carried away, no doubt several girls had heard the very same compliment from him. As if sensing your mental conflict, Taeyong simpered and continued speaking.
“And yes, her management begged us for the deal because her album hadn’t done as well as it had to. At all. In fact, it flopped hard. The publicity stunt had her sales skyrocket back to normal, but you can never trust anyone when it comes to arrangements like these. One snitch and the entire thing can fall apart.” 
What.
Oh right. Seulgi. You nodded, his words ringing loud and clear in the chambers of your mind. The tone of his voice was casual, but there was an undertone of bitterness, so slight that you would have missed it if you hadn’t been paying attention. 
You couldn’t imagine how he would feel when he learned of what Renjun did to him, to the entirety of the band. Even worse, you couldn’t imagine how he would react when he found out what you were working on because you had a feeling he had given you more than he had ever given anyone else.
“Ah,” You said quietly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “There’s an untold story behind every exploited one.”
Taeyong would never understand how you had managed to sum it all up in just a few words. It was like you had somehow managed to see right through him, and that scared him just a little. His years in the spotlight had taught him how to be guarded, and how to know just how much to give and take from the public.
What was scarier, was the fact that you were a part of the media. It was never a good idea to let them have any leverage over you.
“Yeah,” He whispered, gripping the neck of the guitar as gently as possible. “Most of the time they ignore it. Unfortunately.”
Celebrities like him were expected to bask in everything that was sent their way, even the scandals that did not benefit them in the slightest. The public was of the opinion that because he had fame, he deserved everything that came with it.
You were looking at him like you knew he had received the short end of the stick many times before, a look that had his throat closing in on itself, but he didn’t look away. He hadn’t even once thought about looking away. 
“I’m sorry,” You said softly, apologetically. Part of you felt guilty that you were one of those very people that exploited him, but you had to push that out of your mind to halt that train of thought before it consumed you. He forced himself to break the little spell that had been cast over the two of you, snapping out of your pseudo-staring competition and pulling the guitar back into his lap, strumming it mindlessly. You let your gaze fall from his face to the instrument.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Teach me how to play the guitar- at least a few chords. I heard somewhere that you could do a lot of songs with just four of them.”
He raised an eyebrow, mirth dancing in his eyes. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
You pulled a knee to your chest, “I like keeping people on their toes.” Your answer seemed to please him because he chuckled and then picked the guitar up once again, using one hand to signal you to sit straight in the seat, before placing it on your lap. It was a little awkward for you, someone who had never really held a guitar before, so you sat there and timidly held the top of it, waiting for his instructions.
“Those four chords you’re talking about? They’re C, G, F major and A minor.” He gently picked your other hand up and placed it on the fretboard, glancing up at your face to see if you were okay with the contact. There was something magical about his touch, which lingered on your fingertips, and you nodded softly, eyes locked with his. 
Electric ever so slightly, the air between the two of you had a buzzing you couldn’t quite pinpoint. Slowly, he looked away and back at your hand, positioning each finger on the respective string it was supposed to be on. Once he was done, he leaned back a bit and placed his thumb on the first string.
“Push down on them,” He murmured, and as you did, he dragged his own fingers across them, over the hollow part of the guitar, producing music.
It wasn’t perfect, you still didn’t know how to hold the strings down hard enough, your fingers hurt a little from even that first attempt and in reality, you should have been the one strumming, but it faded into the background when your heart stuttered a little with how he was looking at you.
Oh no.
Was this what a crush felt like? Apprehensive glances and short breaths, anticipation spilling over, it was absolutely unbearable for you.
“I might need a little practice,” you said cautiously, loosening your grip on the strings and finally registering the strain on your fingertips, cursing under your breath and bringing them up to your face to inspect them. A soft red hue gleamed through your skin, stinging ever so slightly at the parts that had been indented by the strings.
“Yeah,” He replied, just as soft. “It hurts at the start but after a while you barely notice it. I think you’ll have to use a pick” Both of you were skirting around the obvious tension, choosing to ignore it when there was no good reason to. 
“Show me the next one,” You managed to blurt out, trying desperately to break this pattern of getting so easily winded around him. Every moment you spent with him had you repeatedly reminding yourself of what you were actually here for, what you were meant to do because never, never in your entire life, had you ever met someone as magnetic as Lee Taeyong.
And so he did, the next thirty minutes passing by in a blur or strumming and pressing down strings on the fret until your fingers hurt and the scene of him and you sitting there burned into your memory even as you fell asleep that night.
And then, you were in New York.
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CHERRY BOMB SOLD OUT IN NEW YORK CITY! 
The Grammy-winning rock group has been steadily growing since their first show and is now the one that claims ownership of the audience of fifty-eight thousand fans that showed up at their show last night, truly the Cherry On Top! As usual, the five men were excellent on stage, their showmanship making it clear why all those seats had filled up so quickly. No doubt some fans didn’t manage to get one, which only cements how successful the group is.
We have been saying this for years and it only holds true; we cannot wait to see where Cherry Bomb takes us!
- The New York Times.
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Taeyong would admit that sometimes, he did let things go a little too far.
Now, the New York show had been the biggest one yet, with the entire stadium filled up and not a seat left empty and more than a week to spend in the city, he let himself loose for the night after the show. The success of the show and the adrenaline pumping through their veins led them to spend all that excess energy at yet another party.
When alcohol was bought into the mix, perhaps he got a little too drunk. He wouldn’t know how exactly to classify it because he had been wasted before, and this wasn’t it. He could still stand and think semi-clearly, good enough to make his own decisions. Well enough to know that the girl on his arm had definitely been flirting with him.
Conscious enough to know what she wanted when she asked him if he wanted to get out of there. Alert enough to remember exactly what happened the night before in that strange woman's bed, and by no means was this the first time something like it had happened.
Yuta had indulged as well, he could tell by the scattering of darker marks on the younger neck. He knew the both of them had somehow been caught by a lurking reporter that managed to get to the site of the party and caught a few pics of them walking away. Maybe he would see himself in the next issue of the paper, accompanied by a nice side of his manager yelling at him for getting caught. 
It was a cycle, an exhausting one, but he kept at it anyways. 
He would worry about that later. At this point in time, when he walked out of the shower right then in the morning and took a Tylenol for the mild hangover that he had, before making his way up the stairs and to the top floor of the bus.
There you sat, legs crossed over each other with one of your pillows resting on top of them to act as a makeshift table for your laptop, which you were intently staring at, looking very immersed in whatever you were reading. He took a moment to admire how focused you were, eyebrows furrowed and lips set in the slightest pout as the bright blue light of your screen shone on your face. 
Suddenly, it made sense why his hook-up last night felt a little more meaningless than it usually did anyway.
“Hey,” His voice cut through your reverie, making you startle a little as you looked up. There you saw a casually dressed Taeyong with hair that was slightly damp leaning against the frame of the wall. “Are you doing anything important right now?”
You shook your head a little too quickly for your liking, “Not really, just going over a little research, why?” You tried your best to sound as nonchalant and uninterested as possible, more to convince yourself than him. The pleased look that appeared on his face almost broke your resolve.
“Good,” He tipped his head towards the side, and you followed his line of sight to your suitcase. “Get ready and meet me outside in ten.”
You blinked rapidly, successfully confused with his instructions. “I’m sorry?”
“Get dressed and meet me outside the bus in ten minutes, I’m taking you out.”
You never had been very good with abrupt plans, and Taeyong threw you off your normal course enough as it is. Sceptical, and rightfully so, you asked, “Out where?”
“Trust me a little, will you?” He bargained, pushing himself off the wall he was leaning on, “No questions, this isn’t one of your interviews.”
Without letting you respond, he walked back downstairs, leaving you there to stare at his retreating figure in mystification. That sentiment turned into exasperation at yourself for being so easily swayed, picking yourself up from the bed and going to do just as he asked of you because goddamnit, you were admittedly curious.
Pulling on something casual enough to look like you hadn’t tried hard enough but cute enough to perhaps receive a compliment, you grabbed your stuff and walked out of the tour bus, spotting Taeyong waiting for you as he scrolled through his phone. His other hand held a cigarette between his fingers, one he promptly put out when he noticed you arriving. Your mother would have given you a sharp talking to for agreeing to blindly follow a man, which was why you refused to completely let him have control.
You jogged over to catch up with him, coming to a standstill and asking, “Where are we going?”
“You never give up, do you?” He switched his phone off and slipped it into the pockets of his jeans, feigning annoyance at your persistence, although you could tell it was fake. “Are you sure you want to know? It’ll ruin the magic.”
“Magic?” “You know, the magic of surprises?”
You had to press your lips together in an attempt not to smile at how cute that sounded coming from him. The magic of surprises? What was he, a five-year-old? Now you wanted to see how he would act when in Disney World. From what you gathered, he’d probably buy all ninety-eight variations of the mickey mouse ear headbands. That image alone was too much for you, and you pushed it to the back of your mind.
“I like having all my facts straight before I jump into anything,” You stated plainly, giving him an expectant look. He sighed, as if growing weary of your prompt responses, and then-
No way.
Was Taeyong blushing? Your eyes could have very well been tricking you, but you swore you saw a light dusting of pink on his cheeks, perhaps out of embarrassment of what he was about to tell you.
“You said you wanted to travel…..” He trailed off, averting his eyes from you. You weren’t used to this side of him, away from the ever-present (or so you thought) confident smirk that played on his lips and the lazy amusement in his eyes. Here, you saw a boy that was a little bashful about his intentions. “And I thought I could show you around a few places in New York.”
You didn’t know how to respond to that one, staring at him in a mixture of question and bafflement over why he would want to do that. As if sensing your perplexion, he continued.
“I mean, I felt bad that you were being dragged along with us to all these places but was forced to stick around only us and we have a week in the city so I just figured you would like to see the place.” He was rambling a little bit, explaining his reasoning for what he was going and you couldn’t even lie to yourself, because you melted a little at how thoughtful it was.
“That sounds great,” You cut him off with a grateful smile, tucking your hands behind your back and bouncing a little on your heels. Relieved by your positive reaction, he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in.
“Alright, follow me.”
He pulled a cap low over his head so that it cast a shadow over his face and obscured his features to an extent. He was still recognizable, but one would have to double-take to make it out.
Oh right, he was famous. The reality of that started to weigh a little more now that it was in your face and you were forced to acknowledge it since most of the time it was easy to get carried away with everything that happened on tour. You felt a little ridiculous for momentarily forgetting an integral part of who he was.
But you followed him anyway, out onto the unfamiliar streets of New York where cars whirred by in a blur of red and blue, the bright lights flashing even in the daytime. Cacophony drifted through the air like a song, but it could have very well been out of tune considering you didn’t know much about music. You wondered if Taeyong could hear it as well and if it made more sense to him.
It stunned you a little, just how much you wanted to know about his thoughts.
“There isn’t nearly enough time to show you everything I want to in one day, so I’m going to take you to two places I like best if that’s okay with you?” The smile on his face was small, bashful even, but it was enough to have your thoughts scatter and for you to bite your lip as you nodded slowly. 
His eyes lit up and you were seriously amused by how enthralled he seemed to be about the entire situation like he truly did want to show you around. He wasn’t doing this to be perceived as a nice guy, he remembered the little, insignificant fact about yourself that you told him weeks later and was now acting upon it. 
If only the tabloids could see this side of him and talk about it instead, the gentler, sweeter side that you were discovering bit by bit, instead of the rogue party animal that they usually plastered all over their front pages.
“It’s perfect,” You said, voice coming out a little breathless. He grinned and called for a cab, gentlemanly holding out the door for you to get in first, following suit. “Do I get any more information about this surprise?”
He shot you a disapproving look, “It wouldn’t be much of a surprise then, would it?”
“I appreciate the sentiment of giving me a surprise but I’m inquisitive!” The small, indignant pout on your lips almost elicited a laugh from his end, but he stood his ground and shook his head.
“No can do, sweetheart, you’re just going to have to trust me.”
And how could you not relent when he called you that so naturally, his voice lilting a little in a teasing manner? It didn’t mean anything, but you liked it anyways, a lot more than you cared to admit.
The first place he took you was the Museum of Modern Art, which puzzled you a tad because of how ordinary it seemed and how risky it was with all the tourists and locals that frequented the place. At any moment, someone could notice him and that would only lead to further complications that you did not want to think about.
After getting tickets to enter the place, you found yourself thrust into a world of colour and portraits, pieces of art that were probably worth more than your entire college tuition. Some looked oddly normal like they didn’t belong in a museum of all places, but they were placed near what you could only describe as masterpieces. A striking contrast, to say the least.
“Every time we’re in NYC, I come here,” Taeyong explained as the two of you walked around the place, hands casually tucked into his pockets as those expressive eyes of his wandered the artistry that spanned before them. 
You could tell something important was coming. “Why?” He let out a soft sigh, not sparing you a glance just yet, still focused on a specific piece in front of you, but you were only looking at him, patiently waiting. He had never had someone wait as you did, it had always ever been question after question, rushed and insincere, impersonal in a way that had him feeling comforted.
Or maybe that was just because he was used to that. It was no secret he liked the attention, it was just who he was, but having your attention on him was a completely different story, a completely different type of liking attention. 
“For perspective.”
You didn’t quite understand what he meant by that and hummed in question. “Perspective?” “I express my feelings and my state of mind with music, but not everyone does that. Poetry, paintings, sculptures, whatever the hell that is,” He pointed to something that looked like a paper mache of a leg from the knee down in crocs. “There are different ways to feel and explain things, even when it seems impossible to do so. Coming here always….helps when I’m having a musical block.”
And pay attention you did, because you knew there was something he was holding back, so you used your old tactic of staying silent to draw out more from a person.
“Cherry Bomb turns five soon,” He said, voice nearing a whisper at this point. “And I’m grateful- so fucking grateful that we’ve managed to stay on top for so long- but I can’t help but think about there being a time where we lose it all. When we’re not the best and can’t climb back up there, what then?”
Your heart broke a little when you heard how vulnerable he sounded at that. How real he was and how passionate he was about his band. 
Taeyong was such a colourful person- something like a saturated sunrise- the type of person to always stand out from among the crowd, set apart from them. The true masterpiece that roamed the halls of the MoMA.
“I don’t dwell on it for long, it’s like a phase I go through from time to time,” He laughed bitterly. “Mostly when I’m having a musical block, as I mentioned before, but when I come here and remind myself that there are different approaches to things I……I get over it, I guess.”
There was a certain element of weariness laced into his words, barely noticeable in the grand scheme of things, but it was as clear as day to you. He was tired of indulging in that cycle of doubting himself over and over again, finally getting over it, only to return to it a few months later.
“You’re forgetting something.” You weren’t sure why you were so adamant about taking that ugly thought of his away from him. He finally looked back at you, raising an eyebrow.
“I am?”
Nodding solemnly, you gave him a half smile, standing a little straighter as your fingers curled into a fist at your sides. “Some pieces and artists are timeless. I think Cherry Bomb is one of them.”
You were so perfect, somehow knowing exactly what to say when he needed it most. He came to the MoMA for perspective and this time it wasn’t where he got that change of outlook from. This time, it was from you, even if you didn’t know how much that had comforted him- how much you had comforted him.
What a mesmerising lie this was. 
A gentle beam pulled at the sides of his lips as he let what you said to hang in the air for a moment or two, disgesting it. He wondered if he would ever have to come back here again after meeting you because you sounded so much more appealing to him, and when he glanced back at the art piece, he snapped out of his self-induced reverie and asked.
“Are you hungry?”
~
Taeyong took you to a little café in Brooklyn, claiming it as the second spot he had set out to introduce you to in the morning. It was a rustic place, but pleasingly so, with little fairy lights hanging from over the display counter and soft jazz music playing in the background, the smell of pastries and bread wafting through the air, leaving you to inhale big gulps of air to savour it.
There weren’t many savoury options on the small menu they had, so you settled on a brownie and a normal coffee, playing it safe. Taeyong ordered a latte and a cheesecake without even looking at the options they had, and it reminded you that he too had roots in some places, even if his life seemed to be all over the place.
“I have a big sweet tooth,” He admitted when your food arrived, finally taking his cap off and revealing his head of messy hair, some of which stuck out endearingly in different directions. He ran his fingers through it to smoothen it out right as you fought the urge to do it yourself, curling your fingers around the handle of your cup of coffee instead to keep them occupied.
“I can tell,” You spoke, taking a sip of the bitter liquid that so soothingly kissed your throat. “So, why this place?”
He dug his fork into his cheesecake, cutting it and scooping the smaller piece up. “Because the owners didn’t know who I was.” Then he frowned, “Wait, I could have worded that better. I sound like some self-absorbed idiot, but yeah, they didn’t know who I was and I liked that I didn’t have to disguise myself here. And their apple pie is really good.”
He added that last bit like it was the most important thing to mention out of everything, eating the morsel on his fork. Digging into your cake, your eyes widened when the taste finally registered.
“Holy shit,” You mumbled, “This is amazing.” Swallowing, you licked your lips to make sure there were no crumbs stuck to them. “Now, back to those disguises you mentioned.”
Taeyong pursed his lips to keep his smile at bay at your endearing curiosity, “I don’t exactly have the luxury of being able to go out and not get swarmed.”
“Come on, you have to give me something to work with here. You can’t just mention disguises and not elaborate,” You prodded further, your natural curiosity taking over, but not for business purposes, you genuinely wanted to know more about him. And then, you promptly took another bite because god dammit, that brownie really was fantastic.
“I mean, hats are the norm,” He motioned to the bucket hat that he kept on his side of the table, part of which was handing off the edge, but he made no move to pull it back in. “But once I had to wear a curly wig and one of those fake moustaches. Not something I’d ever want anyone to see but it worked since no one did.”
The image that popped up in your mind was much too comical for you to even think about trying to hold back the chuckle that escaped you at that moment, and he shot you a playful glare, warning you under his breath. “Don’t.”
“How can I not?” You asked, trying your best not to snicker, “I have to see this for myself.”
“Over my dead body.”
Your pleas fell on deaf ears as you tried to coax him to show you a picture if he had one, to no avail. Being out of the tour bus, away from everyone and just the two of you was refreshing, you could tell he was a little more relaxed in the café. It suddenly occurred to you that even among his band mates he had to keep a sort of mask on, after all, he was the leader and the person who had formed the group in the first place. Most of the time, the responsibility fell onto his shoulders.
Something deep inside you appreciated the fact that he felt comfortable enough to let go in front of you.
And thats when a twinge of remorse pinched you, the sting so faint but definitely there. It had been making itself at home within your body and it was entirely unwelcome. Taking a sip of coffee to drown it out, gripped the handle of the mug tighter than you usually would as if compensating for what your conscious was trying to tell you. 
When he cracked a joke and you laughed along, indulging in a conversation with him that seemed to flow so easily, and when he insisted on paying even when you argued that you could very well do so for yourself, it told you something else.
It told you that this entire day felt like a date.
And it shouldn’t have, you told yourself repeatedly while you walked back out, falling into step with him on the footpaths. The sun was dipping below the high point that it hit during the afternoons, hiding behind the wispy clouds that seemed to caress the preeminent tips of the skyscrapers.
You had to remind yourself that he was known for being the guy that walked out of places with a girl hanging off his shoulder, the one that everyone somehow found themselves infatuated with, and the fact that you could understand why they were irking you. You were never supposed to let yourself get swept away in his current so easily, but you hadn’t anticipated it being so strong.
Walking with you felt natural like he could close his eyes for just a minute and pretend that he wasn’t Lee Taeyong, Cherry Bomb’s leader that tended to find trouble. He was just Taeyong and he didn’t know why he found that so appealing.
It’s funny how even the smallest thing can derail an entire experience, no?
Taeyong stopped walking, setting his jaw once he noticed it. He was about to raise his hand to his head to check if he was wearing his bucket hat, but thats when he realized it was in the palm of his hand- he had forgotten to put it back on.
“Taeyong?” You furrowed your eyebrows when you realized he wasn’t moving anymore, a faraway look in his eyes. “Are you oka-” You trailed off when you followed his line of sight, not really knowing what you were looking at until you saw the smallest flash.
Oh.
He reached out and slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that shielded your face from the camera- or cameras, who knew- and lowered his head until his lips were just barely brushing against your earlobe. The contact had you suck in a breath, registering the warmth of his fingers through the thin fabric of your tee-shirt, just barely there. 
“You wanted excitement, hm?” Your eyes widened and he slipped his hand down to yours, intertwining your fingers and giving you one of those cocksure looks of his. The way your hand fit in perfectly with his, interlocked as they had always meant to be like that made you want to keep it like that forever.
“How does running from the paparazzi sound?”
And then, before you could even think about responding to that suggestion of his, he pulled you along, breaking into a sprint that you had no choice but to join him in. Like clockwork, the cameras and reporters that were trailing you silently came out of hiding to follow suit, knowing that even a few words from the man you were with were going to be extremely valuable.
The thing about spur-of-the-moment decisions was that they always felt exhilarating, a feeling that would forever be arduous to put into words because there didn’t seem to be any that were good enough for the description. The monotone yet stunning city around you faded away as you focused on the equally, if not more, stunning man in front of you.
He turned around to glance back at you as the both of you took off, and it was then you caught the grin he wore on his face, the sparkling in his eyes that told you that he too felt the same rush you did. It wasn’t the first time he had ever experienced it, but now that you were there, it felt different, like it was familiar in a foreign sense. Your smaller hand grasped his with such trust that you knew he would somehow manage to extract the two of you out of the situation, cold against his warmer one.
You didn’t think you had ever seen something as enchanting as Taeyongs smile, even though you could barely focus on it right then. From the way, the edges of his mouth dug into the crevice of his face and little dimples popped up on his cheeks to the crinkling of the skin around his eyes in joy. 
Spotting a cab on the side of the street, he slowed down and prompted you to do so as well, stopping near it and deftly opening the door to the backseat to help you inside. You did so wordlessly, but your breathing had turned a little shallow from the small sprint and you couldn’t relax just yet, watching anxiously through the glass of the car to see the press closen in.
“Drive,” He instructed the man in the front, who was evidently surprised at the sudden occupying of his cab. Stammering, he twisted the keys in the ignition.
“Where to, sir?”
“JUST DRIVE!” Taeyong raised his voice to express his urgency. “Please, as fast as you can and away from here.”
The entire thing was bizarre, and then when the car started moving in the opposite direction to the paparazzi following you, you finally leaned back in the rough faux leather seats. You allowed yourself to glance to your side at the man by your side, who always seemed to finally be relaxing, and when his eyes met yours, there was a beat of silence.
And then you began laughing.
The sound came out a lot louder than you thought it would, but you couldn’t stop, hand pressed to your stomach in an attempt to control yourself. The rush of adrenaline had resulted in everything seeming so funny to you, because who would have ever expected you of all people to be running away from the paparazzi with a world-famous rockstar by your side? Even the concept was outlandish.
When Taeyong laughed along with you, you stopped trying to hold your amusement back. You let yourself lean into him in a mixture of bafflement and hilarity, moving your hand to cover your mouth to stifle the giggles that left it. 
“That was insane!” You exclaimed breathily, looking up at him. “My god.”
He had been worried for a minute there when he got into the cab, worried that you would have thought he was too much trouble, and it would have been warranted too, but the way you were looking at him right then like you would give anything to experience that again, assured him that wasn’t the case. Right then, it was the first time he noticed just how infectious your laughter was, and he was proud to be at least partly the cause of it.
“Exciting enough?” He asked hopefully, and you nodded enthusiastically, drunk off the feeling
“I know you probably deal with that a lot,” You said between breaths, “But that was a once-of-a-lifetime experience for me.”
The contrast of your two lives hammered against each other but you had somehow managed to find a sliver of common ground. While he loved attention, he had gotten annoyed over never being able to do normal things alone over the years, but for the first time in what seemed like forever, it didn’t feel like that.
“Hey, aren’t you one of those guys from that band? My daughter loves you.”
The driver’s New York drawl cut through the little bubble that encased the two of you, and Taeyong smiled and winked. “Tell her she has good taste.”
“Think I can get an autograph for her?” The driver picked a small piece of paper from the cupholder beside him, one that looked like a parking ticket and turned it over, handing it to Taeyong when the singer nodded. “Gimme a sec to find a pen, she better not give me that attitude of hers ever again after this!”
He signed the ticket- with such fluidity that it left you to watch in awe at how natural it was- and gave it back, telling the driver the destination as well, which was the stadium at which the buses were parked. 
When you were back, Irene stood there with her trademark glare plastered across her face. Doyoung looked a little baffled, but only shot Taeyong a look that you couldn’t decipher. The latter ignored both, walking with you into the bus. There were so many people and he still somehow managed to make you feel like the only person in the world, and you found yourself hoping that running from the paparazzi with him wouldn’t just be a one-time thing.
“Thank you,” You said sincerely, “For today, I mean.”
“Don’t mention it,” He waved it off, but you shook your head, reaching out and grabbing his hand once again. The act caught him off guard, but he didn’t once pull away or even attempt to do so. 
“I want to mention it Taeyong, it might not seem like much to you but….you gave me a part of my dream. You deserve to be thanked for that.” You had so many dreams, some being much too big for your own good, but today felt like you were finally inching closer to one of them instead of only being in the process of doing so. 
He squeezed your hand. “And you should never have to thank me for that.”
Right then, it was when the anvil of guilt settled deep in the pit of your stomach because it was then you knew that you couldn’t write that exposé, even if Johnny had said it wasn’t one. When you were good at what you did, you learned to read in between the lines, and this article was exactly that- one that was supposed to be written to fuck over Cherry Bomb.
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LEE TAEYONG SNUGGLING UP IN NEW YORK CITY!
We’ve seen him stumble out of bars and parties with a girl, but never during the day! Folks, this might be the first time we’ve ever seen the twenty-three-year-old heartthrob looking relatively sober with the opposite sex! 
They were first spotted at a café, though due to the angle at which the pictures were taken you cannot see the woman’s face, it was definitely Lee sitting opposite her as the two chatted amicably, before leaving to walk with each other until they realized they were being followed and made a run for it.
He seemed protective of the girl, going so far as to make sure no one caught her face, which begs the question: who is she? Who is the possible woman who has managed to incite such a reaction in Lee Taeyong? More importantly, is there a possibility of romance on the horizon for the rockstar? All these questions that we are just dying to find out!
- Rolling Stone.
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There was a certain fragility in being presented with something you were supposed to be good at, only to come out of the act fruitless.
With your fingertips pressed to the keys of your laptop, you seemed to forget every piece of knowledge you possessed on the art of writing, your mind going blank as you stared at the empty document that seemed to mock you. Words expertly evaded you and every sentence that you tried putting out sounded wrong.
Now, how were you to write an article that was supposed to deliver the truth while sounding sure of itself when you didn’t hold those sentiments just yet? It was a near impossible feat, and you sighed frustratedly, pressing down onto the keys and producing an incoherent string of letters that meant nothing, which was oddly fitting to your state of mind right then.
When you were younger and in college, you had prided yourself on being one of the best writers on the college paper, with a talent to compile research and information interestingly. It was what helped you through your first months working at The Link when the only topics you got were uninteresting ones.
You have always been a driven person, determined to reach your goals by any means possible. The first great article you had written was for the college paper in your freshman year and had been a ruthless piece about the best player on the soccer team using steroids. The team hated you after that since it had cost them their winning streak, but the editor of the paper at the time absolutely adored you for it.
That experience was the one from which you learned that the journalism industry lived off stepping on others’ toes, whether your intentions were right or wrong. You tried your best to ignore the selfish side of journalism, but it made you a hypocrite because you had always been the type of person to strive for what she wanted no matter the consequences it had for others.
It was at times like these when you truly hated writing. You hated what it could potentially turn people into.
“Y/n?”
You looked up to see Huang Renjun standing there, holding what looked like a magazine with a concerned look on his face. Ever since the day you had overheard his conversation with your boss, you had done your best to steer clear of the man to avoid complicating things for yourself.
“Yes?” You had no choice but to entertain him now, unfortunately, since the best of the band was at rehearsals and you were alone on the bus- save for Renjun, of course. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” He shook his head from side to side at first, before changing the direction and bobbing it up and down. “Yes, actually, I need to talk to you for a minute.”
Most people would have asked for that minute, but Renjun simply demanded it. You supposed that being a publicist had instilled that sense of entitlement in him, or maybe it was just a quality that he was required to have, to be able to grasp the attention of those he spoke to and lay down the rules he expected to be followed.
You momentarily wondered if that was how he managed to not be caught for what he had done yet, recollecting the wording he had used with Johnny. Smiling, you nodded and closed your laptop just enough to silently give him the respect he desired while talking to you, but open enough so that the light from the screen didn’t go out. 
“Of course, go ahead.” The repeated warning of having to remain professional rang in your head and it was at that exact moment when you registered that you barely told yourself to do so around the band, and never around Taeyong.
“Well, this article was released today and I think you’re the woman in the pictures attached,” He said nervously, handing it over. You narrowed your eyes and scanned the words, before acknowledging the slightly blurry pictures of you and Taeyong, one with his arm around your waist and the other with your hands joined together. Your face wasn’t visible in either, thankfully.
“Oh,” You said a little awkwardly. “Yes that is me, he wanted to show me this café he liked and we weren’t as careful as we should have been. I’m sorry if this causes any trouble.” Your apology was genuine, and Renjun couldn’t help but sigh.
“You…..know why you’re here, right?”
It was the way he said it that put you off, cautious and calculating like he was testing you. Funnily enough, you were set out to fail, and you were a-okay with it.
“To write an article,” You said plainly and the expression on his face switched like he had put on a mask, forcing a smile that was painfully polite, before thanking you and leaving. You had confirmed his fear, that you had no clue what was going on.
Unbeknownst to you, Taeyong was being talked to by Irene, and the conversation had started out similarly enough, before taking an entirely different direction.
“Is that you with Y/n on here?”
Taeyong nodded, though it was a little noncommittal.
“And you were so careless that you were caught by the very people you’re not supposed to?” She was tapping her foot on the ground backstage impatiently now, one hand resting on her hip and the other holding the magazine. Between rehearsals, she had dragged him off stage to confront him about what had happened.
“Yep, sorry about that, by the way. I just wanted to hang out with her for a bit.” He didn’t need Irene to tell him he had fucked up, he knew that well enough for himself. He just thought that it had been worth it considering the reaction it had pulled out of you.
His manager stayed silent, and he mentally prepared himself for yet another one of her exasperated scoldings that she kept specially for him. While he did that, he glanced longingly out at the stage where the rest of his mates practised their parts, simpering a tad at how it sounded a little empty without him. That was one thing he always loved about the band, the fact that without one of them, it didn’t sound like Cherry Bomb. They were a team to the very end.
“Thats….actually genius.”
Pure confusion took over as he frowned. It sounded like a compliment, but he couldn’t be too sure since it felt like he should have been in trouble for being reckless again. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, it’s genius. Winning the journalist over? Amazing!” She clapped gleefully, all signs of apparent agitation missing from her face, before sobering up once again. “I know I’m hard on you Taeyong, but I have noticed the effort you’ve made this time around.”
(He decided to not tell her about the time he took you to a party where Mark and Yuta smoked a joint in front of you.)
Had he made an effort? He didn’t know considering it wasn’t like he had been making a conscious effort to do so by any means. What he did know was that he didn’t like the implications that came with what Irene was saying, the implication that he was putting up a front to get a good ‘review’, in a sense, out of you.
Taeyong was not doing that. He genuinely wanted to show you the two places he treasured the most in New York and liked talking to you. He liked the way you smiled first with your eyes and then with your mouth, always in that order. If it was with your mouth first, it was a fake smile.
“Right,” He said haltingly. “Thank you? I feel bad about causing a commotion though, I know you hate dating scandals.”
That was right, Irene hated when Taeyong was pulled into dating scandals because of how often it happened. People loved speculating about who he could possibly be with and it had always been wrong. He had never done relationships, he was in a committed one with his guitar and music.
“I do, but I’ll let it slide this time, especially since I don’t think it will turn into one.” The grin she wore was larger than life itself, “Winning her over is the smartest thing you could possibly do, and don’t worry too much about the repercussions. You did that café a favour if anything. Their business is going to boom.”
He was happy about that, of course, he was, but all he could hope for was that it wouldn’t lose its charm. He also knew that he had to keep everyone happy, something that was so impossible for one person to do, but it was a burden he had to carry anyway. He nodded. “She seemed happy, so I’d say I won her over.”
“Good,” Irene smiled proudly, and the expression didn’t give him that gratifying feeling it once did.
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Insomnia was turning out to be a good friend of yours.
You had read somewhere that the human brain was set in a way that when a question was proposed to it, it always wanted to find an answer, like a computer that had been programmed to do so. Some people used that to their advantage while studying, and it was a very effective method from what you had seen.
Right now though, you weren’t too pleased considering it was why you were lying awake in your tiny little bed. Your mind was racing and begging for answers you didn’t have to satiate it, and you were left being restless, trying to ignore the itch that wouldn’t go away no matter how much you tried to calm it down.
Goddamnit.
You sat up, a disgruntled expression on your face as you did so, trying to ignore the prickle of goosebumps that had appeared on your arms and the dryness in your throat, but when the cold nipped at your skin harshly, you decided it was time to solve both those problems. Throwing your legs over the side of the small bed, you got to your feet and then immediately crouched as you approached your suitcase, slowly unzipping it and producing a sweater.
Once you had put it on, you stood up and softly padded down the stairs to the small kitchen on the bus to grab yourself some water.
At first, you went straight to the kitchen, finding the cupboard that held the glasses with little trouble, poured yourself a glass of water and sipped it with every intention of going straight back to bed and forcing yourself to succumb to sleep. You liked to sleep, sleep was good and kept you from being irritable during the day.
But when you stood at the doorframe of the kitchen, it was then you noticed the dim lights and the silhouette sitting on the floor; a silhouette that had been haunting your thoughts for a better part of the two months you had spent on this tour trying to ignore it. You sucked in a breath, before finally succumbing to all the questions your mind was throwing at you.
Stupid brain.
You had to know the truth for it had been eating at you for so long now, and you were going to get it right now.
“Taeyong?” At your soft voice, the man looked up, squinting slightly to make out your figure in the darkness. In one hand he held a glass of some alcoholic drink and in the other something that looked like a cigarette- or maybe it was a pencil. You couldn’t be too sure.
“Y/n,” He said your name slowly, deliberatively even. “Hey.”
He sat on the floor, legs bent at the knees with his arms resting on them casually, the sight strangely domestic. The slight shiver that raked down your spine at his voice always managed to take you by surprise, no matter how many times it happened.
“What are you doing up?” You started with the simplest question you could come up with, taking his greeting as an invitation to join him. Despite your glass being almost empty, you carried it with you anyway as you settled down beside him. He shrugged, taking a sip of the golden liquid that swirled in the glass he held before placing it down.
“Got inspired for some lyrics, what’s your excuse?” He waved to the small journal in front of him with his other hand, his tone light-hearted. It was a pencil.
‘You’ was the honest answer your brain presented you to that question. “Couldn’t sleep,” was the pathetic excuse you ended up going with. Suddenly, the lower section of the tour bus seemed a little too empty, and you peered through the darkness, noticing that it was because no one else was there. “Where is everyone?”
“Out,” He said, waving his hand about aimlessly. “Getting high or something, I don’t know.”
“You’re not with them,” you observed, saying it like a statement even though it was more of a prompt for him to elaborate on. He raised his glass with a wry smile, tilting his head towards it. 
“I wanted to work on a song, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to miss out on the fun,” he leaned back a little against the couch and sighed. You were at a loss for words at what to say because there was no easy way to approach and tackle the subject that you most wanted to in a tactful manner. “I guess I just wanted to be alone for a bit.”
“Oh,” you felt a little idiotic right then. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Don’t,” he cut you off immediately. “Stay. My inspiration lasted about ten minutes before it fizzled out.”
“What usually inspires you?” You prodded, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your cheek against them so you could watch him, interlocking your warm fingers in front as you looped your arms around your legs. As a journalist that wrote for a newspaper, you were always being handed things to write about, so there wasn’t much room for inspiration per se, just skill and good research.
However, that wasn’t to say that you hadn’t entertained the idea of writing what you wanted, your own ideas and things plucked out of your imagination on occasion, but the problem with fiction was that as free as it sounded, it was never truly as free as one thought. That, and the fact that non-fiction was what was expected of you.
He thought about your question for a moment. “Inspiration is very unpredictable because you can get it from everywhere if you look hard enough for it. For example, take Jackson’s new song.”
“Jackson? Jackson Wang?” You asked incredulously, and he nodded.
“Yep, his new song Blow? He showed me some of the writing process and most people think it’s this sultry euphemism for a woman he’s sleeping with when in reality, it’s just about his damn cigarette.” He chuckled fondly at the recollection, remembering how dumbfounded he was when he found out himself, amused at the way your lips parted and eyes widened in bewilderment. Pressing his middle and index finger together, he brought it up to his mouth and then pulled it away by just moving his wrist, mimicking taking a drag.
“You’re kidding,” You weren’t sure if you were saying it out of mystification over the news that the song was supposed to be taken more literally than you had thought, or that Taeyong knew Jackson Wang.  You reckoned that half of his charm came from the fact that one could continually forget he was famous while in his presence. 
Taeyong smirked slightly, unable to stop himself from doing so at your expression. “Not at all. It’s just really easy to disguise a song as one out of love.” And with that, he turned his attention to the low ceiling of the bus, as if trying to peer out at the stars that were hidden from his view. You let yourself get carried away in the act of trying to read his mind and what he was thinking for a minute, before shaking yourself out of it after failing spectacularly.
“So what inspires you?” You repeated your previous words, “Not others, you.”
Another sigh escaped those crimson lips of his, clicking his tongue in a mixture of frustration and exasperation. “That’s a hard question, reporter, go easy on me, won’t you?” He was teasing you, light-hearted teasing that went straight to your head.
Evidently, your head wasn’t working well because you decided that it was the perfect moment to spring the million-dollar, definitely not an easy question on him. “Is it true?”
He raised an eyebrow at your abrupt blurting out of the painfully vague question. You wondered how you dared to call yourself a professional journalist when this was how you presented yourself at times. 
“Is what true?”
“Did you sleep your way to the top?”
Pin. Drop. Silence.
From the very moment the words left your lips, you knew you fucked up. They had sounded so unbelievably wrong even as you were pronouncing them so impetuously on your tongue, a tongue that you now bit down on hard in regret. You briefly entertained the concept of time travel, solely so you could go back and slap a hand over your past self from two minutes ago before she could ask the one that had been relentlessly plaguing her.
“The thing about inspiration,” He started slowly, cautiously even, “Is that people don’t realize it’s dependent on motivation, and those two things were very different. His eyes were trained on you now, unwavering, and you noticed how intense they were even in the dark, somehow seeming to be void of any colour while having little golden freckles of light like the drink in his glass dancing around in them at the same time. “Some are lucky to have both of those things present at the same time, others- not so much.”
You had no idea where this was going, but you knew that it was in your best interest to keep your mouth shut and listen, especially with how serious he was. 
“Motivation is what keeps me going every day,” He said haltingly, ignoring the cool draft of air that danced around his feet, “And inspiration rolls around when I’m most motivated. It’s how we write our music. Every song on all the albums we’ve done has come out of our studio and ourselves.” His jaw spasmed with the offence. “So no, I didn’t sleep my way to the top, Y/n, our music got us there fair and square.”
All the things you could have been and you chose to be a first-class jerk, but the firmness in his voice was all the proof you needed. The article was a lie, Jungwoo was a liar and Renjun was a cheating rat. Culpability settled deep in your gut, this time without the intention of ever leaving.
“I believe you.”
The sheer conviction in your voice surprised him, and so did the way you were looking at him, with that same determined look you always wore, but this time it was directed at him. You truly did believe every word that had come out of his mouth and he couldn’t have been more grateful because he hadn’t heard those three words in so long. 
I believe you- not from his manager, his team, or even his bandmates. They thought it, of course, they did, he was sure of that, but they never said it aloud to assure him of it. All they did was remind him of what he had to do to fix the messes he always managed to stumble into, willingly or not. When you said it, it was like the weight he had been carrying around for so long slipped off his shoulders and let him stand up straight for the first time in a long time.
“You do?” You hadn’t expected the undertone of vulnerability that came along with how he said that, the earnest hope that so subtly accompanied it. 
You nodded, locking eyes with him without the intention of ever looking away. You believed him so much that it was killing you a little because you had seen the hurt that flickered in his otherwise calm expression, the poker face he had perfected after all these years of wearing it. You didn’t have to repeat it because you somehow knew that it had settled in and made the impression you had wanted it to already.
Taeyong looked away first, but not entirely. His eyes fell to your lips, causing you to suck in a sharp breath, your mind running at a mile a minute the moment he did. The air between your bodies turned to electric static and nothing more, a magnetic pull that beckoned you closer to him as if you weren’t already right by his side. 
It was that vulnerability and your pure acceptance that tipped him over completely and he willingly let go.
His lips met yours delicately, ghosting over yours as your eyes fluttered shut in anticipation, heart hammering through the confines of your chest, begging for freedom and solace in his hands, for it was fairly obvious that he had managed to snatch it away before you even noticed it wasn’t yours to claim anymore. As if sensing the fearful hesitance in the way he just barely brushed his mouth against yours, you let all of your inhibitions go and let your mind go blank as you pressed your lips back against his.
Somewhere through the seconds of your lip-lock, his hand cupped your jaw, calloused fingers holding you gently as his thumb brushed against your cheekbone, lulling you further into him. You could taste the whiskey on his lips, coaxing the guilt out of your system and replacing its heaviness with a warmth you couldn’t quite put your finger on, focusing on the way he kissed you. You basked in the way he moved his lips by yours as if he was memorizing every little thing about them, like a sunflower standing proud in the presence of the sun's rays.
When he pulled back slightly you found yourself chasing his lips, reaching out and tugging on the material of his shirt as you eagerly met him halfway once again and it was when you finally understood how addictions came to be. He lit a fire under the expanse of your skin, a fire you never wanted to put out for as long as you lived, to let it burn until it consumed your very being.
You weren’t sure when the both of you broke away from each other’s mouths, still buzzing from the pure intoxication he had provided you with. You were much closer than before, so much so that his hot breath mingled with yours as his forehead pressed against yours, and you stayed like that for a few minutes until his hand slipped gently into your hair.
“Thank you,” He breathed out quietly, staying like that. A fluttery jab hit you right in your chest at that, and you reached up until your hand was on his, deciding that everything else could afford to take a backseat if you were allowed to be in his arms like this, even for just a few more minutes. Somehow, you managed to find your voice despite being sure you had lost it the moment this bewitching man kissed you to echo.
“I believe you.”
And then perhaps you finally let yourself fall, but not aimlessly like you had in the past. Unprecedented, you let yourself finally entertain the idea of falling in love.
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“Hello, this is Kim Jungwoo speaking.”
In truth, you weren’t too fond of confrontation. You were about to cut the call the moment the second ring buzzed through your device, but your tenacity prevailed, coaxing you to hold on until he picked up. You gripped your phone a little tighter, trying to ignore the sudden dampness of your palms.
“Jungwoo,” You started, putting on a professional tone for the sake of the call. “This is Y/n L/n from The Link, I apologize for the sudden nature of this call, but do you have a few minutes?”
To some, loose ends provided an area for speculation, where they could freely put out their thoughts into the world all while protecting themselves by mentioning it was all ‘alleged’. You had never been one to endorse speculation, especially when you had pretty darn good evidence pointing towards what was the truth. Jungwoo was the loose end you were going to tie up.
“Y/n! Oh hey, yeah sure, is something wrong?” You could hear the mild recognition in his voice- he just barely remembered who you were, you were sure, but that was to be expected. He was senior to you and had been working at The Link for much longer as well, so the most he would have known about your existence was the fact that you spent a whole three months running around and getting people their coffee.
Yes, you almost said, more distressed over the situation than you cared to admit. Although he couldn’t see it, you shook your head as you spoke, “Not at all! I just have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Knock yourself out.” You heard some shuffling from his head and you exhaled, mentally applauding yourself for making it this far. Now that you had taken the first step, the rest of it shouldn’t be too hard, and you sat up straight as if you were interviewing him, gathering all your thoughts.
“Give me a minute,” You pulled the phone away from your ear before he could respond, making sure that the call was being recorded, before putting it back. Usually, you would have put the call on speaker so it would be easier to take notes, but this was a special case. You couldn’t afford the consequences of anyone listening in. “Alright, it’s my understanding that you were assigned a piece of Cherry Bomb a few months ago?”
“I was.”
“And you pulled out last minute,” You continued, tapping your nails on the small table in front of you rhythmically.
“That is true, yes, but what is this about?” He was very obviously confused, unaware of the direction that you were about to take the conversation.
“Well, you see, I was put in your place to accompany the band on tour, but a few interesting things came up and I thought that it would be best if I asked you about it since it seems like you would know the most.” Your explanation was logical, you had taken a lot of time planning exactly how this was going to go in your head, keeping your tone calm and composed as you glanced down at the ticking hands on your watch. The afternoon was dipping into the evening.
He hummed unassumingly, “Alright, go ahead.”
“Why did you refuse to write the article?”
“Family emergency.” His answer was painfully generic, you had to pinch your lips to stop yourself from outright snorting at it. 
“But it’s such a valuable piece to have under your belt, Johnny mentioned that it could get you a spot at the NYT.”  It was probably not a very wise decision to so blatantly and harshly press on for what could technically be classified as personal information from someone senior to you, but it was what you had to do. 
He bristled a little, tsking over the phone. “Are you insinuating that a job offer is more important than family, Miss L/n?”
“I’m insinuating that you’re lying to me,” You replied, uncompromising to his attempt at gaining the upper hand. Now, this was a pretty big claim to put out there, but you knew you were right, and you were getting tired of people thinking you were so gullible and underestimating you.
“You wrote the piece on Taeyong.” You made no effort in beating around the bush, nor did you pose it as a question for his leisure, instead stating it as it was. A lesson that you were quickly learning was that you weren’t going to get anything unless you fought for it and you were going to fight for this just as you fought for your spot on the tour. 
Funnily enough, you weren’t exactly fighting for yourself this time.
“I’m sorry?”
“The anonymous piece about Lee Taeyong,” you clarified, not an ounce of hesitance in your voice. “I heard your source speak to the editor a few weeks ago and everything fell into place, especially when he came around to ask me if I knew why I was there.” The silence that followed your words was extremely gratifying because it told you that you had made the right assumption. 
“What do you want, Y/n?” He asked, and if you didn’t know any better, you would say that it hinged along the lines of a threat with how low his voice was. You pressed your lips together, swallowing the annoyance that had sprung forth with how he was speaking to you. You fisted the fingers of your other hand, feeling your nails dig into the cold skin of your palm.
“I want the real reason you dropped the piece, Jungwoo,” You used his first name, in the same manner, he used yours, forcing yourself to calm down, leaning back in the small chair you sat in and letting out a controlled sigh. One thing you couldn’t afford to do was lose control.
He guffawed, “And pray tell, what do you think that is?”
Frustration drummed through your veins at his obvious dismissal, the scrutiny in the way he spoke to you. “You’re scared of getting caught because you know it’s a fabrication.”
“Is it?” He was playing it coy now, and your temper made a surprising show as it bubbled up to the base of your throat, threatening to spill out. You weren’t one to so quickly let an intense emotion wash over you like this, so it caught you off guard as well, leaving you to swallow it down along with the lump in your throat.
“You know damn well it is,” You hissed into the mic of your phone, gripping the edge of the table to keep yourself grounded. “He didn’t do anything of the sort and you’re scared of getting caught because of what you did because it would easily tie back to you. It’s why you wrote the piece anonymously.”
“Oh cut the act Y/n, I didn’t do it because I have anything against the man, I did it because I was offered the prettiest paycheque you could ever lay your eyes on for it. And Taeyong is a celebrity, several celebrities have done what I accused him of.”
“It’s wrong,” You said, utterly flabbergasted over how unbothered Jungwoo was over the entire thing. “Just because others have doesn’t mean he has, I know he hasn’t.”
All at once, it made sense why you were so earnest in your rage towards the man, you were angry because it was hurting Taeyong more than he let you. You saw a glimpse of it that night when he kissed you and the way he relaxed in your touch when you told him you trusted him. You discovered what a lovely being he was, even if it consisted of poorly hidden rendezvous that had you being discovered almost every time, but he never seemed too concerned. 
Nothing warranted him having to deal with the consequences of Jungwoo’s actions. You had learned that over the past few weeks that you had permitted yourself to get tied up in the whirlwind of chaos that consisted of his world. You learned that you liked it a little too much.
You thought of the way he looked at you when you told him you believed him. The smile that curled his lips when he saw you.
He didn’t deserve that at all. 
It hit you then, just how deceptive it was for you to claim that he didn’t deserve all this and that you cared for him when you were one of the main contributors. Were you not the person who had to write an article about him? Weren’t you the person who had jumped at the opportunity to write it just so it could benefit you? And from the looks of things, you were meant to write a piece to feed into the created narrative.
You would tell him. You had to tell him because it was the right thing to do.
Just not yet.
“Please, he’s a grown-ass man who is filthy rich, you don’t have to go around defending him.” The sneer in his voice did not go unnoticed by you, causing you to grind your teeth together in an attempt to not lash out at the pompous man. How dare he have the audacity to pretend he was better than you for spewing his lies and boasting about the money he got for it.
There was no point in arguing with Jungwoo; that much was clear from your short exchange with him, and you cleared your throat so you sounded composed. “Thank you for your time, Mr Kim.”
“Good luck with your article, Y/n, have fun playing hero if you must.”
You cut the call, biting down so hard on your tongue that it hurt to stop yourself from possibly lashing out against the man. Bringing your phone down, you stared at the screen in candid incredulity at how a person could be so selfish so as to endanger someone else's career- hell, this was Taeyong’s entire life on the line!- to further theirs, especially when it wasn’t warranted in the slightest.
You narrowed your eyes and pressed the icon for the recording app, your frown slipping into a sly smile as you saw the recorded log that sat atop all the others with the day's date.
Gotcha.
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The first day of July brought in the middle of the summer, the clouds turning luminous as they passed by the sun, letting its beams flicker through and warm up the world below. Taking in a deep breath, you smiled when you made your way downstairs to greet the band that morning- and one of them in particular, because your trusty research had told you that the summer wasn’t the only thing that the first of July graced with its presence.
It was Taeyong’s twenty-fourth birthday and the day of yet another one of their shows, but this time everyone seemed to be more relaxed, smiles on their faces due to the occasion. You had never thought about how one would go about celebrating their birthday on the road, but since you were directly involved this time, you pushed your tribulations with Jungwoo to the back of your mind as you slipped into the kitchen and gripped the handle of the fridge, pulling it open to see the brown box that sat on the third shelf.
The day before, you had helped the rest of the band inconspicuously get a cake in his favourite flavour- green tea- and had it decorated with white and pink frosting, his favourite colour. It had taken you two hours to find a bakery that sold the specific flavour in San Fransisco, and by the end of it, you found yourself very lost in the new city. Thankfully, you had the boon of Google Maps to assist you in your journey back and had managed to hide it in the kitchen with the man of the day being none the wiser.
His liking of green tea cake was only the first of his many odd quirks that you had come to learn and subconsciously smile at the thought of, things that one couldn’t find through a simple google search. He bought lego sets in his free time and built them, apparently displaying all his creations on a shelf at his house, his comfort movie was Howl’s Moving Castle, and he had a hobby of buying and building a collection of unique shoes that he somehow managed to pull off and had a penchant for sweet snacks.
Taeyong was loveable in every sense, so naturally, it was so easy to fall in love with him.
“Doyoung, not the hair!”
His voice rang out, laced in mock annoyance and you rolled your eyes, shutting the fridge and walking out into the main lounge area, only to see the usually stoic man practically on top of Taeyong. Although he was generally calmer than the others, you had quickly picked up on the dynamic between him and Taeyong, which resembled something like Tom and Jerry, the two always looking for reasons to bicker.
“You’re old now,” He said, messing up his hair, much to the birthday boy’s despair, “How does it feel?”
“I don’t know, about as boring as you are.”
“Fuck off- oh, hey Y/n.” Doyoung finally stopped troubling Taeyong to greet you, also catching the attention of the latter, who glanced up to see you standing there with an amused grin on your face. It was always entertaining to watch the band interact with each other, it reminded you that under all the glamour and popularity they possessed, they were just a bunch of guys having fun.
“Hey,” You giggled at the sight, folding your arms as you leaned against the metal frame that separated the lounge from the kitchen area and biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from snorting at the way Taeyong’s hair adorably stuck up in different directions due to his friend's ministrations. “Looks like you’re having fun.”
“They’ve been doing this since the moment I woke up,” He all but whined, staring at you keenly with those captivating eyes of his softer than usual, as if urging you to help get him out of that situation. It was then you noticed him as a whole, from the sweatpants that hung low on his hips to his lack of shirt.
Bloody hell, did he have to look like this in the morning?
Even at nine in the morning, he looked stunning and as if this was a good enough reason to be annoyed, you let your eyes wander for a minute, lingering on the tattoos that decorated the expanse of his pale skin. Then you looked back up, pushing down the warmth that was creeping up onto your face, and smiled.
“Happy birthday.”
Taeyong ran a hand through his hair to try and fix it, his own simper making a show. “Thank you, baby.”
Oh, did we talk about the nicknames? It should have been illegal for a man this ravishing to be able to pull off saying terms of endearance and manage to have your heart skip a beat while he did. Doyoung pretended to gag and walked away, shooting you a look that you couldn’t read before leaving the bus. You paid it no mind as you made your way towards Taeyong, reaching up so that your arms looped up around his neck, and pulled him down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss.
His hands quickly found purchase on your hips as he chuckled lightly, the sound going straight to your stomach. You had grown very accustomed to kissing him and loved every second of it, even if sometimes those kisses were embarrassingly long. He was positively irresistible, that much you were certain of, and every interaction you shared with him never failed to pull you in.
So perhaps you were a little in over your head when it came to Taeyong, but by god, was it worth it.
“Oh, I like this birthday gift,” He quipped, kissing the side of your mouth and then tugging you closer so your body was flush against his, arms securely around your waist. You felt flushed but didn’t let it stop you from burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his cologne deeply as if you were trying to memorize it.
“How much?”
“Kiss me again and you’ll find out.” An offer you took up all too easily, especially with the taunting smirk that clung to his lips and the mischievous look in those hooded eyes of his, a look that always managed to elicit a delicious shiver from you. This time, the kiss was slower but just as dizzying and you couldn’t help but sigh, embracing the hotness that invaded your cheeks.
You were so preoccupied with him that you didn’t notice the door of the bus crack open a little and the pair of eyes that watched the two of you. You broke away from the heated kiss, unable to stop the idiotic smile from blooming on your face as you pushed him away playfully. 
“I think I’m an excellent gift giver.” You winked, straightening out your outfit, “Now shoo, you have rehearsal.”
“Trying to get rid of me on my birthday? You wound me, Y/n.” He dramatically placed his hand over his heart, putting on a sorrowful expression that had you rolling your eyes in a combination of exasperation and amusement. 
You shook your head and some of your hair out of your face in the process, proceeding to complain even though it held no real displeasure, “I have to work, even if it’s your birthday, and you’re very distracting.”
“That’s a you problem,” He mumbled cheekily, not looking away from you even once, a gesture that woke those butterflies that seemed to have moved into the pit of your stomach once again. When you shot him a warning look that wasn’t threatening in the slightest, he fought a smile and raised his hands to the sides of his head in defence. “But fine, if you must.” 
You waved him off, letting out a sound of protest when he stole a kiss from you which left you with the objection stuck in your throat, but you acquiesced. By the time they would be done, you would have at least managed to finish up some of your work along with setting up the cake that you had spent so long scavenging for, and Mark was going to leave rehearsals a little earlier so he could help you.
“Have fun birthday boy,” You mumbled fondly, touching your lips as if silently questioning where all your reminders of professionalism went. “And put on a damn shirt!”
~
Irene's heels clicked on the pavement as she walked away from the tour bus after she made sure the door was closed, with her head held high as it always was, refusing to show even a hint of what she had just seen on it. After years of practice, she had gotten very good at controlling her expressions when needed.
She supposed that in some way this was her fault. After all, she was the one who told Taeyong to get on your good side for the sake of the article because of dire the situation was. She hadn’t exactly given him a manual to tell him how to go about it, had she? Winning you over would mean winning a battle.
So when Doyoung came up to her and told her that Taeyong was kissing you, all she could think was ‘Well that’s certainly one way to do it.’
As Cherry Bomb’s manager, it was her job to weigh the pros and cons of every situation and decision made regarding the band's career. She had been doing it for the past five years and had always managed to make sure they stayed on top of all the happenings, but hadn’t anticipated you to make such an….impact, to say the least. She was the one the agreed to have a journalist on board to make a good impact on would do wonders to extinguish the rumours that had been circulating.
The little affair between you and Taeyong wasn’t what she had expected to happen at all, so it fell under the category of being a complication, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was a bad thing. As long as they played it right, it would work out perfectly in their favour, and so she listed it as a pro.
For now.
She glanced down at the watch on her wrist, sighing when she realized that the rehearsals were starting a few minutes late due to the sound check taking extra time than usual. Usually, she would have hounded everyone to pick up their pace, but it was Taeyong’s birthday, and she did not want to intrude on your tryst back there with him. It was probably better if she didn’t, might make for an even nicer article.
Irene wasn’t one of the older managers, but she was a respected one because she knew how to get things done and she did it well. A lot of people asked her how it felt to manage the biggest band in the world, and how she was so good at what she did and her answer always consisted of the same smile and pretty thanks.
The real reason was too humiliating to actually talk about because it involved her past- the time before she was a manager because unfortunately, that did exist, even if she ignored it for the most part. 
It was why she was so hard on the boys. She knew from personal experience that the smallest of slip-ups could lead to everything they had worked for crashing and burning.
When she was seventeen, she had been scouted to be a singer and she had been very good too, but before she could even come out as an artist, her label dropped her due to lies that another singer she had been briefly involved with had spread about her. At merely eighteen, it frustrated her to no end that the dream that she had worked for over a year had slipped out of her fingers just like that.
It didn’t just frustrate her- it stagnated her for three years until she decided that if she couldn’t be out on stage, she was going to be behind it and make sure no one else ever had to deal with that. The very moment she had laid eyes on the band when they first formed, she saw the drive that she once possessed in them and insisted on managing them after she trained to be a manager. 
She was almost twenty-nine now, her chance at stardom had long faded with her youth, but she had settled for living vicariously through her boys. She loved them too much to let a rumour destroy them, especially when it was the very thing that destroyed her.
Seeing Taeyong being so affectionate with you was new, he had always been the wild card of the group, even if he was the oldest and the leader. He was never one to settle, so he must have really been pulling out all the stops to protect the group. Maybe she had underestimated him, but it was done in good spirit.
Under her care, she would make sure that they were untouchable if it was the last thing she did.
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Even though every stadium they performed at was different, backstage always functioned with the same sort of organized unruliness no matter what. Over time, you had grown to appreciate how it worked, watching with the same wonder-stricken curiosity you always held with it came to it. 
You were home- kind of. This particular concert was in LA, which was where you lived and worked and where the band resided as well, but funnily enough, it wasn’t their last show. They still had around one month of the tour left, before they left for the rest of the world tour.
“I think you’re in the wrong place, miss.”
An enthralled smile automatically tugged at your lips and you had to suppress the urge to groan and roll your eyes at how easily Taeyong managed to lift your spirits. Turning around, you faced him in all his pre-show glory as he stood there with that cocky look on his outlandishly handsome face, and raised an eyebrow in question.
“What do you mean?” And at that, he produced a slip of paper, holding it out in front of you like you were a cat and it was a piece of yarn. Frowning as you tried to figure out what it was, you grabbed his wrist and plucked it out from between his fingers. “What’s this?”
“A ticket,” He replied plainly, looking far too prideful for his own good. “I promised you that you would watch a show of ours one day, didn’t I? Today is that day, so you should get to your seat because I picked you a really nice one during rehearsals today. Empty stadiums are great for figuring these things out.”
Oh.
You stared at the ticket, strong emotion flickering in your chest when you realized he had remembered what you had told him almost three months ago at this point. The small paper crumbled a little at how tight you were holding it between your index finger and thumb. “Thank you,” You whispered, incredibly touched. “But really, you didn’t have to.”
He brushed it off immediately. “I don’t go back on my word, remember? Now get out there, and make sure to scream for me.”
Taeyong kept chipping in and fulfilling small dreams of yours little by little, and you wondered if your new dream included staying with him because it was sure starting to look like that. You nodded, slipping the ticket into your pocket and pressing your lips to his for a quick kiss and silent thanks, before bidding him farewell.
Now, you may have been used to the disorder backstage, but nothing could have ever prepared you for the pure pandemonium outside. The roar of anticipating fans echoed through the entire stadium, not leaving room for even a smidge of silence, and you pushed through to get to your seat and once you had arrived, you had to admit that it was a good one. It was five rows away from the stage, close enough to watch everything upfront without having to look at the huge screens, but far away enough to not have to crane your neck.
When the lights dimmed, part of you joined their excitement as your breath hitched in your throat, anticipation drumming through your veins as your eyes trained on the stage. You had missed the opening act (an LA-based singer called Joshua Hong, under the same label as the band but a smaller artist in terms of a following- apparently, he had gotten famous from his cover of ‘Sunday Morning’ going viral, and the rest was history. You had briefly met him when he had returned backstage after his set) but it had left everyone even more excited for the main act.
Suddenly the resounding beat of a bass drum echoed through the stadium, accompanied by a countdown and a spotlight shone on the middle of the stage as it rose, revealing the band bit by bit. The audience waited in bated breath as they came up, a static silence coating the place for a few seconds.
And when Taeyong sang the first lyric, standing there holding his bass guitar in the front, the entire amphitheatre erupted in screams.
The energy in there was absolutely indescribable, infectious in the best possible way. The entire band joined in with the drumming, their instruments forming a melody so perfect sounding in the grittiest way possible. You could barely hear them singing because of how loud their fans were, their combined voices overtaking the artists they were there to see in the first place.
Chaos. Beautiful, unmatched chaos.
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out from your lips, left unnoticed as it was buried under all the cacophony and thousands of fans singing along to a song that they knew so well. After having done so much research and listening to their music in the process, you distinctly recalled the tune just enough to be able to hum along and participate in the smallest way.
The overwhelming glare of the lights illuminated them perfectly and you lost yourself in the music though you didn’t know much about it at all. From the pounding of Yuta’s precise drumming that acted as the backbone for it all to Doyoung’s flawless playing on the keys. The way Mark and Jeno’s respective parts on the guitars blended so well like they were one was a true testament to the artists they were.
But you were much too preoccupied with the frontman, who stood there, commanding every ounce of your attention with just his presence. He didn’t even have to look at what he was playing, automatically doing what he had to as if it had been written into his blood, tilting his head as he sang into the mic in front of him. 
They belonged on that stage and were destined to stay on it for the rest of their lives, undoubtedly timeless.
Pride swelled in your chest as you watched the boys you had grown to love and closer to over the past three months as they harmonized while never losing their individual sounds for even a moment, one a little more than the others. One you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your life watching.
You froze amidst mouthing along to the words that you had picked up on, inhaling sharply as the thought crossed your mind before you could stop it, so unexpected that it rendered you speechless.
Were you in love with Lee Taeyong?
The answer came to you so swiftly that it nearly knocked you off of your feet, grabbing you and opening your eyes to how you felt about the man. When he happened to look right where you were sitting because he had personally picked out your seat, and sang a particularly romantic line that was cloaked in heavy bass and crisp drumming, you knew.
When the song ended, they started another almost immediately after, this time changing it up so that it was catered to the audience’s interaction, which they gave all too eagerly, their energy at an all-time high as the night was still young. The smiles never faded from each member’s faces as they performed, unequivocally feeding off the enthusiasm that they were being presented with.
You finally understood the buzz around concerts, the absolute adrenaline rush that they gave a person from simply standing amongst the crowd because you were finally a part of it. Your experience was a little different, mixed in with the realization of another emotion, but you loved every second of it nevertheless. By the time they had finished the third song, you knew that this was going to be their best concert yet.
They stopped playing, and Taeyong pulled the mic in front of him out of its stand and walked to the front of the stage, revelling in the growing screams that accompanied his every move. Delighted goosebumps arose on his skin as he drank it all in, the feeling that he got at the start of every concert no matter how many of them he played. His signature smile that drove their fans crazy made a show as he lifted the mic to his lips.
“Hello Los Angeles, welcome to THE CHERRY ON TOP STADIUM TOUR!!!”
~
After talking with the audience for a bit, they continued with a few songs, even including a mashup of two of them that drove everyone wild. Their stage presence was insane, from the way they interacted with each other and everyone else in the stadium, and at one point even brought out another popular artist that was in LA at the time to join them in one of their songs.
They played Dark Clouds as a throwback to their beginnings, and then Blue, a heavier, more emotional song that was close to their hearts as well as the hearts of their fans, who somehow managed to scream along even to those delicate lyrics. 
At one point, someone threw their bra on stage during one of the talking bits, leading to the very comical scene of Taeyong picking it up and hanging it on the end of his bass. Watching it happen was surreal, funny as hell, but so odd that you laughed hard along with everyone else. The sense of community that they created was admirable and you were grateful to be a part of it, even for just a few hours.
Truly, there weren’t enough words to describe the magnificence of the concert, the way the lighting ebbed and flowed according to the songs they performed and how the dancers that came out during specific performances put their best foot forward with everything they did. It was remarkably easy to see why Cherry Bomb was the best and why they would say the best.
The last song was an encore, a song that even you knew the lyrics to, bringing the enthusiasm that had dwindled ever so slightly from the start back to the area. When the last notes were played and the last lines were sung, and they thanked the crowd that night, you were surprised at the sudden emergence of tears in your eyes, emotional over the way it had ended so quickly.
It was the perfect ending to an impeccable show, one that would forever be engraved in your mind.
When the lights turned back on as they retreated backstage, it felt as if you were in the wrong place, like what you had just witnessed wasn’t reality in the slightly, but rather a beautiful dream you wished hadn’t ended. You stood there, staring blankly at the now deserted stage as the crowds dispersed, sobering up from the high they had gotten from the experience, hand stuffed in your pocket as you gripped the ticket tightly, unable to let go just yet.
You didn’t know how or when you managed to move again, snapping out of the spell the show had put you under, making your way to the front and to the door that led backstage, showing the guard that was stationed there the pass you had been issued at the start of the tour. Once you had walked inside, you possessed new respect for the work they did there, because there was no way the concert would have been as excellent as it was without those behind the scenes.
In the midst of it all, you saw Taeyong walking away from his mates, sipping on some water. He had lost the red leather jacket that he wore for every show, left in only a black vest that had a few buttons undone as they were, hair a little matted from the humidity. His eyes, however, were alight with a certain type of zeal that was the by-product of the adrenaline rush that no doubt coursed through his veins. 
He was stunning. 
He spotted you, pulling the bottle away from his mouth as he shot you a crooked little smile, and if you knew any better, you would have said that it held a hint of nervousness in it. Taking this as your cue, you began walking over, but before you knew it your walk turned into a sprint as you practically threw yourself in his arms, wrapping your arms tightly around him as you let him anchor you back down to earth. 
“...So?” He asked, hand on the small of your back and other at the back of your head, securing your position. It scared you a tad, just how perfect it felt like there was nowhere else you would rather be.
“I loved it,” You whispered, fingers clinging to the thick material of his vest, the cool surface of the pins on them pressed against your skin. “God Taeyong that was….I can’t even begin to tell you how-”
He chuckled faintly, the enchanting sound getting lost in your hair as he tucked some of it behind your ear. “I hope it’s still the best show you’ve ever been to.”
“It always will be.” It was surprising how sure of that you were as you stepped out of his embrace, mildly embarrassed over how naturally you had run into his arms like it was something you had meant to do all this time. To rid your mind of that thought, you blurted out, “We should probably join the others and get to the cars so we can leave.”
You weren’t getting cold feet by any means, you were simply adjusting to the concept of loving him. Now that it had crossed your mind, it seemed like a permanent notion that wanted to stay and you weren’t used to the delight that accompanied it.
“We’re not going with them.” He stated mischievously. 
“We’re not?” Your blatant confusion wasn’t lost on him, but if the look on his face told you anything, you would say that it was best to just follow along with what he had in mind. After all, you had been doing that for a bit now and it had always worked out in your favour.
Taeyong shook his head, his hand finding yours as he guided you out from backstage with the rest of the band, but then didn’t go in the car that the rest piled into, waving them off instead. With every passing moment, your curiosity grew and peaked when another car pulled up right where you were standing with him
“Most of the time when we’re in LA, we stay in this house that we have that’s close to our record label’s building.” He started to explain as he opened the car door for you, “But I actually have an apartment in the city, so I thought we could go back there tonight instead of back to the bus.”
He said this nonchalantly, but the meaning behind it was that he wanted to let you into his life a little more because it was becoming increasingly obvious that what he felt for you wasn’t temporary like it had been for other girls he had been with. Instead, it festered, amplifying with every minute he spent with you and surprisingly enough, he wasn’t against that possibility.
“Oh,” You whispered, voice oddly soft as if you had somehow picked up on this and were moved. The phantom of a smile danced on your lips as you nodded, slipping into the passenger seat as the driver got out of his, tipping his head to Taeyong and walking away. He took the driver's seat, started the car and looked at you through the rearview mirror.
Taeyong had always known he was a selfish person, and while some might have seen that as a flaw within themselves, he had never done that. He liked knowing what he wanted and getting it, but there was something about you that amplified that part of him because, with you, he wanted it all, even the things that weren’t possible due to who he was. Things he couldn’t have because of what he had played this relationship off as to the others.
Falling for someone was hard when the entire world could watch.
But being the selfish soul he was, he wanted it all. Perhaps it was a foolish notion to create and keep wishes that were much too out of his reach, yet the thought of discarding them never once occurred to him.
Much like Taeyong himself, his place was nothing like you expected but fit perfectly with who he was. It was massive, more appropriately called a penthouse, with huge windows and an interior that was on the expensive side, and when he switched the lights on you could see how it was minimally decorated, nothing too fancy since as he had told you before, he didn’t stay here very often, but with a pleasant ambience. 
“I may have fibbed a little,” He admitted, a sheepish look slipping onto his features. Walking into the place, he placed the keys on the table with a soft clattering sound that seemed much louder than it was in the emptiness of the apartment.
“The apartment isn’t exactly what I wanted to show you.”
You raised a questioning eyebrow at this, “What is it then?”
He was just full of surprises, wasn’t he? If there was one thing he had taught you, it was how to appreciate the ‘magic of surprises’, as he had so eloquently put it all those weeks ago when it took you out in New York. Somehow, he always managed to spring one on your unsuspecting self whenever he pleased and you couldn’t find it in yourself to dislike it.
Taeyong gestured at you to follow him as he walked even further into the apartment, through a small corridor and into a bedroom, where he opened one of the closets to reveal a singular object sitting inside.
A guitar case.
He carefully picked it out, holding the rough fabric of the case as he unzipped it and let the top half fall open to reveal the neck of a guitar, which he gently gripped as he pulled it out. 
It was a deep Walnut brown, lined with a lighter shade of the same colour that accentuated the edges and curves of the instrument. You walked forward to where he was standing slowly, studying the surface of the guitar once you were close enough to do so. He dropped the now empty case and it crumpled to the floor, already forgotten.
As he held the guitar up horizontally for you to gaze upon, you took note of the various little markings on the bottom that you couldn’t deduce to be accidental or on purpose, but it gave it character. You gently ran your fingers over them, briefly smiling at the small signature of an old artist that was planted off to the side of the guitar. It was a reminder, one that told you that he was once a wide-eyed fan in the crowd.
“I got this when I was twelve,” He said ardently, reminiscing the clear fond memories that came along with it. “It was my birthday and until then I had been using my dad’s old Gibson to learn how to play. When they presented me with this I was ecstatic because it was the very first guitar that I could call my own.”
A chuckle escaped his lips as he thought about it, running his fingers over the now loose strings- the result of being unused over the years. He toyed with the tuning heads aimlessly, a wistful expression twisted into the existing look on his face. “I named her Izabella- the same name that Jimi Hendrix named his most famous guitar because I wanted to be just as good as him someday.”
The image of a tween Taeyong filters through your mind, a short little kid sitting on the floor next to this huge present, a sparkle of excitement entering his eyes when he realised what his present was. You imagined his smaller figure holding it for the first time and naming it, vowing to be the best guitarist there was.
“I used her in all my school competitions, played at every event I could until I got into bass, and although it’s technically a different instrument, I practised on Izabella anyway.” He placed the instrument down with care, leaning it against the wall. “When I got my bass, I still played on her from time to time, but then I formed the band and slowly stopped paying attention to my first guitar, but I carried it with me when we moved to LA. “I guess that you could call it my first love.”
You stared at him intently as he looked at you properly with a boyish smile. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I tend to get caught up with music. Fuck, I even consider an instrument my first proper love.”
“It’s admirable,” You stated earnestly. He scoffed.
“And a little weird, no?” He took a step closer to you, tilting his head ever so slightly. “I care for you Y/n, but being with me…..it won’t be easy. The fans, the fact that I put my music before everything, the paparazzi waiting for every single mistake you commit- it’s not normal, but if you’re okay with it-” 
He paused as if carefully thinking over the words that appeared to be so easy to put out when they left his lips.
“-I would love to keep you by my side.”
There it was again, that vulnerability that simultaneously warmed your heart whilst weighing it down with another bout of relentless guilt.
“Taeyong….” Your whisper trailed off into the silence of the apartment, hanging over your heads as you tried to pull yourself together, your affection for the man that stood in front of you finally blossoming into the beautiful rose that it had set out to be when it was merely budding. You thought about how fitting it was because of how much like a rose Taeyong was himself, delicate and beautiful but guarded with the thorns around it, untouchable.
You had to tell him.
Not soon, not later, now. You had to tell him right then as the wind beat gratingly against the windows, never once entering his space, leaving everything inside perfectly still. 
“The piece I’m writing isn’t about the tour or the band.” You announced abruptly, swallowing the lump in your throat so that you could lay out the truth before him with utmost verity. His eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment as you spoke, knitting together endearingly. 
“It’s about you.”
Faint amusement shone in his eyes. “They tend to be like that, yep.”
“No you don’t understand,” You shook your head, ignoring the anxious bristle of goosebumps that rose on your skin. “I didn’t realise it before, but this article was meant to be against you from the very start, I was meant to write a false exposé on you that rode off the one accusing you of sleeping your way to the top because the reporter who was initially supposed to come was the one that wrote it.” 
Your voice wobbled a little, your nerves seeping into it before you could stop them from doing so. “I caught the person who leaked that information- the false information- to my editor a month or so ago and confronted the writer, who confessed. I didn’t know what this was but I promise I’m only going to write the truth.”
Flushed cheeks and heavy breathing, you stared at him almost desperately, waiting for something- any sort of reaction from him. You hadn’t realized how much you were scared of this moment until you plunged yourself into the deep end, confronting it head-on without thinking too much. The silence felt a beat too long.
His eyes softened at your integrity, the promise that you conveyed with your words for him. It only seemed fair to give you the same trust that you instilled in him.
“I believe you.” 
Trust was a finicky concept, one that could make or break a person completely. His trust in you lifted the weight of carrying around the burden of the true nature of the article off your shoulders, and you exhaled in relief. “Then….I would love to be by your side, Taeyong.” 
“Yeah?” His voice came out in a whisper, so close now that his breath tickled your lips. A challenge spoken with that smirk-clad mouth of his, one that only succeeded in bringing heat to your face with every teasing syllable. He believed you and that was all that mattered.
You didn’t make any motion to move away, instead, instinctively moved closer until your lips met his, a silent thank you and confirmation of what you wanted– him. He pulled you closer until your body was flush against his, not a breath of space between you as his fingers brushed against the exposed skin of your waist, slipping under your shirt to secure you in place as if someone could pull you away at any moment. You could feel the rhythm of his heart against yours and every point your body connected with his, hyper-aware of every little thing he did and the electrifying way he did it.
Your guilt was long forgotten, fading into the background as you fell into the sheets of his bed, entangling with him with every kiss and promise whispered against your skin. Your fingertips traced every tattoo you had previously only had the liberty to admire and the curve of his lips, fingers intertwined as you found refuge from the world and your troubles in the comforting embrace of his arms. You laid beside him, body curled into his side, so close that the hair that fell across his forehead brushed against your own, noses pressed together and lips just barely touching.
Taeyong couldn’t help but look at you- really look at you- as you slept, the way your eyelashes kissed your cheeks and cast shadows over your face, hiding your beautiful eyes from the world at that very moment in time, and sighed contentedly. You seemed to perfect there, under the linens of his bed that had always seemed a little too lonely for just him. 
Maybe it was never supposed to be just for him to inhabit.
Carefully slipping out of the bed, he padded across the floor to a window, reaching for the packet of cigarettes that sat on the small table close by, opening it and pulling one out. Then, he picked up the lighter from the old ashtray on the table, lighting the cigarette and holding it up to his lips, ones that had just kissed you more times than he could count, as he stared out into the blinding, starstruck city of Los Angeles.
Taking a slow drag, he breathed the smoke into his lungs, letting the drug get to his head and relax his mind until all he could focus on were the bright lights that blurred through the tempered glass, blinding the city that had been his house for the past five years, but never a home.
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You were walking on clouds.
There was a bounce in your steps as you walked into the concert grounds in the late afternoon, a simper dancing lightly on your lips as you glimpsed up at the vibrantly coloured sky of Phoenix, oranges and blues swirling together splendidly. The sun was lively, playing hide and seek amidst the clouds and occasionally revealing itself- the very clouds you felt as if you were skipping over.
It had been a while since you had felt this elated. The last time you could remember experiencing an emotion remotely similar to this was when you got elected the editor of your University’s newspaper, and that was almost two years ago, perhaps a little more.
Cotton-candy clouds beneath your feet, light as a feather without a worry in the world.
You had awoken later than usual that day, finding yourself alone on the tour bus since they had to start rehearsals for the show in the evening. After managing to throw together some breakfast, you worked on your article; a new and improved article that you were starting from scratch; before finally deciding to join them. 
You walked, the stadium this time not being too far from where the buses were parked, coffee in hand and spirits climbing higher with every step you took. 
To say that you were in a good mood would have been an understatement. You finally knew what to do with your article and it was going remarkably well for someone who had neglected it for so long. Of course, your delightful frame of mind might have had something to do with a certain someone as well.
As for the piece, it was an exposé alright, but not the one everyone would be expecting. It would wake the entire world up to what had actually happened, carefully crafted so that the rumours that had spread would be considered void once it was published.
The sheer thought of your work having such an impact brought another smile to your mouth and you indulged, a sense of pride rushing through you. Your dreams had always been much too big for your own good, but now that you had your sights firmly set on them, you allowed yourself to entertain them.
You decided to surprise Taeyong, slowing your pace as you pushed the door backstage, practically tiptoeing at this point. Something you had come to cherish was the way his eyes always lit up without fail when he saw you, even though it had been almost two months since your little relationship of sorts began. Growing up, you had always believed that excitement like that for someone was fleeting, it faded within a week or so, and you thought this because of how implausible the concept was to you.
Now that you were someone holding those very sentiments, you were glad that you had been wrong.
In retrospect, it was childish to want to surprise him when he knew he would see you every day, but with only a few shows left before they left for the rest of their world tour, you wanted to make the most of every moment you had with him. Then, you would have to wait for four months.
Judging from the currently empty stage, they were on a break from practising for the evening, making your plan all the easier to execute. Once you located the green rooms with little help, you made your way over and grabbed the knob, twisting it clockwise slowly so that the click would be barely audible and pushed slightly.
And right then was the third time you eavesdropped on a conversation, this time both parties were present, which stripped you from the trouble of having to imagine what the other was saying. You stopped pushing, leaving only a sliver of space between the door frame and the edge of the door itself as you heard Irene speak.
“I’m a little concerned about whatever you have going on with Y/n.” 
Her voice was matter-of-fact, stating this plainly- harshly, even. You subconsciously straightened yourself up at the sound of your name, freezing your motions of opening the door to effectively listen in without being caught. The irony of it all was not lost on you, because here you were once again, doing something you probably weren’t supposed to.
“I thought you’d be overjoyed,” Taeyong replied flatly, disinterest in the conversation as clear as day. An exasperated sigh from her end followed, but before she could say anything, he continued, “Wasn’t all this your idea in the first place?”
Her idea? What?
The silence that followed was oddly suffocating, your brows knitted together in confusion, feeling like you had missed a substantial part of the exchange. Your grip on the doorknob tightened as if having control over that would make up for your lack of information right then.
“I told you to be on your best behaviour and get on her good side so we’d get an ass-kissing of an article out of it. This is a little extreme.”
“It’s none of your business.” His words held a warning, but they were so defensive; reeking of transgression that you had come to recognise so easily after carrying out your own guilt for so long. 
She clicked her tongue, taking it in her stride and refusing to back down. “It is my goddamn business, Taeyong, everything about your life is my business. You know this.”
Your face suddenly felt tight, lips parting in stupefaction and an anxious lump making itself known in your throat that made it imperceptibly harder to breathe. For the first time in all your instances of listening in, you wanted to walk away lest you heard something- and yet, you didn’t know what you wanted to hide from.  
But your feet were firmly planted to the ground, rooted in place as was your hand on the doorknob, blinking rapidly as you tried to process what was happening. 
Intuition was meant to save you, so why was it mocking you?
“I have it under control, so just- just stay out of it, okay?” The agitation in his voice felt misplaced, a projection of what he couldn’t hold in. 
“Will it fix everything?”
“Irene-”
“Goddamnit Taeyong, will we get an article that fixes everything?”  The chill in the air bit into your skin, your own desperation almost matching the very same that was held in her voice, one that felt personal
“We will.”
Nothing could have ever prepared you for the sharp sting that tore through your chest at that moment, mercilessly destroying every shred of hope that you possessed. Scraps of the entire picture fell into place like a line of dominoes falling over, practically knocking you off your feet as all the air in your lungs escaped you
Her idea?
A good article?
Get on her good side?
You ripped your hand off the doorknob, recoiling so quickly that one would have assumed that the metal piece was made of fire, eyes widening in devastation as your heart sunk six feet under the ground. You staggered backwards, your feet carrying you as far away from the green room as they could before you could even comprehend the action, unaware of the happenings that took place as the world around you crumbled.
And along with it, your trust in Taeyong shattered just like your heart had, revealing him for what he truly was.
A dirty liar.
Escaping backstage, you stumbled out into the grounds, gasping for oxygen as if would help make sense of all that you had just heard and pull out whatever unsullied truth that could possibly lie between the muddled words. When you found nothing, the burn in your ribcage worsened in its intensity until you had to lean against the walls of the building for some- any- semblance of stability.
If you had been on cloud nine just a few minutes ago, you were now facing the torrential downpour.
You glanced up and peered at the Phoenix sky that had lost all its charm, never having looked as cold as it did right then. 
~
Taeyong clicked his tongue, walking out of the green room and straightening out the sour expression that twisted his features, finding a certain comfort in the constant buzz backstage. To say that he despised when Irene brought up the topic of you and the article was an understatement, and she had started doing it more often, much to his despair. 
He had started saying whatever the manager wanted to get her off his back, mindlessly nodding and agreeing with her questions and decisions to avoid any sort of unnecessary conflict. He knew she had noticed his complacent attitude, but it was all worth it if it meant he could spend the time he would usually use up arguing with Irene with you instead.
A small frown slipped onto his face at the realisation of you not being there, which was odd. You always tagged along on show days, so seeing you missing was odd.
A sliver of worry sequestered its way inside of him, but he shut it down just as quickly. There was always the possibility of you growing tired of having to sit through the same routine almost every week. Maybe you’d just show up for the show instead of the entire thing.
Having successfully convinced himself, he picked up his bass and walked back out to finish the sound check. He relaxed, any concern fading away the moment he found himself back on stage and singing into the mic with some of the people he loved the most in the world, even if it was just in an empty stadium.
It reappeared with a cruel vengeance when he saw that you hadn’t shown up for the show.
~
You couldn’t find it in yourself to plaster on a smile and walk back inside, surrendering to the pangs of hurt that seemed to come in waves, a viscous riptide that you had been caught in with no rescue team on the way. It pulled you further in until your feet could no longer reach the floor of the ocean and you were left to drown.
So you walk back to the bus, away from the growing discordance of fans arriving and back to the place you thought would alleviate the heaviness you felt. The journey back offered ruthless clarity, blaring in your face the moment you found yourself standing inside the bus when you realized that it all felt so uncharacteristically foreign.
Gone was the homely feeling that had grown over you every time you were inside of it, instead replaced with the same bleak frigidness that the sky had presented you with.
The very sentiment in your heart.
And so you walked back out, wishing you had a jacket to shield you from the constant chill in the air tonight, one that nipped harshly at your exposed skin, yet you couldn’t bear to go back inside to get one. You stood outside the bus, watching as the sun dipped below the skyline and the sky darkened even further until it was all one sorrowful colour- an unyielding dark blue.
The moon came into view, insulting you with the serene beauty it possessed no matter what the circumstances. On most nights, you would appreciate the way it was a constant, travelling back into the sky almost every night even though it knew the sun would eventually outshine it, breathing daylight onto the surface of the earth and rendering it forgotten. People regarded the moon as a thing of romance, the very notion made you scoff. The white light that it derived from the sun was nothing short of austere, desolate in its illumination. You shut your eyes, tipping your head upwards to bask in it, despising the way that you would never look at it the same way ever again because of this day, this evening and this night. 
You stood out there for god knows how long, only realizing that hours had passed when you registered the dull ache on the soles of your feet and the clicking of cars opening and footsteps closening in.
Glancing to the source of the sound, your eyes searched for Taeyong out of habit and hardened when you finally spotted him walking over. It wasn’t as if you had forgotten that you would have to face him- you hadn’t at all- but it had been nice to pretend to not know for at least a little while.
He saw you standing there, looking at him with an expression that he couldn’t read no matter how much he tried to. Noticing that you were a little away from the buses, he muttered a mindless excuse to Yuta as he departed from the group to join you instead, questions rising to his mind with every step closer.
The way your heartbeat picked up the moment he was close enough for you to look at through your periphery was bitterly ironic, you had to bite down on your tongue to avoid letting out the humourless laugh that bubbled to your anxiously bitten lips. You hated the fragment of hope that naively slithered into you, how you were so aware of how foolish it was to even possess so little of it.
“Hey,” He muttered, faltering a little when you didn’t do so much as to look at him, opting to stare at your shoes instead of at him and the sound of his voice- the voice that always went straight to your stomach and scattered your thoughts without fail. When it happened once again, you panicked as he continued. 
“You weren’t at the show today.”
And suddenly it made perfect sense why you still retained that hope for him. 
“I wasn’t,” You confirmed his statement, hoping your voice hadn’t come out as choked up as it felt. 
“Why?” The benignity in his question felt much too raw for you, your tongue stiffening into silence and laying heavily in your mouth. You heard the soft click of the tour bus door as it shut, leaving you alone with him under the twinkling stars and mercenary moon. 
You didn’t know how to answer, letting out a shaky breath to brace yourself for whatever left your mouth in the next few minutes and to deal with the cold in your pathetic little way. “Does it matter?”
If he had thought something was wrong before, he definitely knew it now. There was a sense of detachment in the way you said it- not nonchalant per se, but more so like you were doing your best not to be concerned. He could see it in the slight quiver of your lower lip, the way you seemingly couldn’t bare to even steal a glance at him.
“Of course it matters, you matter Y/n.” 
This. This was why you still hoped so futilely that everything you had heard was just a big misunderstanding, that you weren’t simply a means to an end. You had loved the way he made you feel; important and loved; how he spoke to you so affectionately and made you feel like you were the only woman he had ever wanted. 
But hope and denial are two sides of the same coin, a double-edged sword of the sort, and the thing about double-edged swords is that it’s going to hurt no matter what way you twist it.
“If I matter so much, why did you lie to me?”
His breath caught in his throat and stayed there, forming a lump in his throat that seemed to restrict his breathing and ability to speak. “What?” He whispered out, strained.
You glimpsed at him subsequently, wondering just how long you had been living in blissful ignorance, how utterly gullible you had been when it came to Taeyong. How many times had you told him you believed him and trusted him without a doubt, handing over your fragile little heart to him to do as he pleased with it?
“I heard you talk to Irene,” You admitted hoarsely, your hand curling into a fist to keep yourself together the only way you could think of. “This entire thing- you and I; whatever the fuck we were- it’s a lie, isn’t it?” You abhorred the way your words came out brokenly as you looked into his eyes, attempting to peer inside his very soul to extract the answer from him, waiting for the resplendent rose of love that had bloomed in the cavity of your chest to make itself known.
The thing about roses was that although they protected themselves with their thorns, they never cared about those they hurt in the process.
“Y/n I-”
The rose wilted instead, the septic truth crudely cutting through your futile hope and forcing you to open your eyes to the reality of the world around you, never accounting for the state of pure agony it left you in. The regret that shone through those expressive eyes of his hurt you to your very core, confirming your worst suspicion. 
“You’re a fucking liar.”
You could barely comprehend the words that left your lips, lips that had been kissed by the traitor that stood in front of you right then. “I trusted you Taeyong, and all you did was lie to me.”
“I didn’t want to,” He said weakly, not bothering to even attempt to deny the accusation you had thrown at him, his voice failing him every time he thought of doing so. He thought of every moment you had shared your own vulnerability with him when you so lovingly put out the truth for him about what you were doing and how he had so shamelessly continued to love you while betraying you at the same time. “You were never meant to hear that.”
It was almost satirical, so much so that you had to scoff humourlessly at that, hating the sudden ache that was present behind your eyes and the dampness that followed. “So you just planned to keep lying to me? Wow.” You laughed bitterly and looked back at the sky, willing your tears to disappear. You couldn’t bear the idea of crying in front of the man that hurt you so badly, he didn’t deserve another second of weakness from you. “Real nice.”
“No that wasn’t-” Frustration bled into his voice, guilt slamming into his chest so violently that it drowned out every other emotion inside of him, consuming him whole until all he could do was defeatedly stare at the mess he had made of everything; you and him.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
Oh, how the mighty had fallen. 
The world was cruel to drop such an unexpected heartbreak onto you when you had never been looking for love in the first place. You had been here to do a job that would push you ahead in the world of journalism. Unadulterated fury filled your veins because you were angry and so deeply hurt. 
“What did you mean, then?”
He couldn’t say a single thing, now the one who shied away from meeting your tormented features. He hated the fact that it was him that had rendered you like this when it had never been his intention- truly it hadn’t- he would never hurt you on purpose. He had tried to keep it under wraps to avoid hurting you, had grown disdainful of talking about it with Irene for this very reason. 
It was all his fault, intentional or not.
His silence killed you, clawing at your skin as if attempting to reach the broken pieces of your heart as tears cascaded down the flushed skin of your face despite your attempts to blink them away. You should have known that it was too perfect to be true, you should have known that something would go wrong sooner or later.
You just didn’t expect it to be sooner.
“You may have not slept your way to the top, but you sure as hell slept with me to fix your reputation.” Your voice cut through, shakier than you would have liked. You would never forget the sincerity in his voice when he told you it wasn’t true, but then again, wasn’t it the very thing he had done to save himself?  
His selfish tendencies had once again caught up with him, ripping the rug from right beneath his feet before he even realised it was happening.
You had run yourself dry, left with nothing but the shards of your heart lying around you, mocking you for every opening up to someone you had known was unattainable. Picking up the pieces of whatever dignity you had left to call your own, you spoke quietly into the wind, just loud enough for him to hear.
“You want a good article? I’ll give you your damn article.”
If there had meant to be any malice in your voice, your weariness had squeezed it all out, leaving you with nothing but a sorrowful muttering of the words and somehow that hurt more than any yelling ever could. He flinched, shutting his eyes and going over every single thing he regretted about what he had done, wishing he could go back in time to undo it all and withdraw the grief he had bestowed upon you.
A few days ago, you had thought you would be the one to disrupt his world but stopped just in time for his sake and he had taken advantage of it all.
You had finally fallen in love and realized why you never let yourself do so before.
The air was far too cold for you to cope with anymore, a stark contrast to the hot tears that make their way down your face, blistering your skin. You brushed past his stoic figure and forced yourself back into the claustrophobic tour bus, ignoring the concerned looks thrown in your direction and for once in your life wishing that you could be well and truly invisible. The only comfort you received was the warmth of your makeshift bed as your pillow stained with the rest of your unspoken sorrow.
Like the unused, weak strings of his old guitar, the trust and love you had for Taeyong snapped, and the recoil had been the harshest thing you ever had to deal with.
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People liked broken things.
Things, humans- it was all the same to them. Once the public had noticed his scar, they turned it into something to love, romanticising it and saying that it gave him character. He supposed that in a way, they were right, but he could never forget what it truly meant for him. 
The stage lights were too bright, beating down on his face. They had been getting brighter with every show until he could barely even make out the crowd that so eagerly cheered for him and his boys. He adjusted the mic in front of him and donned a practised grin that was almost entirely believable as they got ready to perform their next song. A sad song. 
Sadness and misery were as excellent muses as they were callous, any emotion could be if it was powerful enough to drown out everything else. Fans assumed that because of this very fact, producing any sort of art form using these emotions as your basis was easy and natural.
It wasn’t. It was the hardest thing in the world to put your hurt out there for the world to gawk at and judge like they had the right to do so. 
And so he began to sing, but there was a certain weightage to his cadence that dragged the song down, making it truly poignant and inciting tears from the onlookers. Every syllable that left his coral lips was difficult to pronounce, but somehow, he managed to choke them out just in time and miraculously in tune with the music that had long faded into the background.
He did this again and again, over and over until he felt ashamed to do so but had to because of what was expected of him. Every time he looked in the mirror and put on that notorious smile of his, it seemed to glare back at him, taunting and jeering at him for everything he had done.   
But he wore anyway, day in and day out for the cameras, lips pressed together so tight that no one even noticed when it continually faltered. Every show, he put his miserly heartbreak out on display, mingled with the guilt that had harboured roots in his fragmented soul, pushing themselves into the cracks and splitting it into even smaller pieces. 
It didn’t matter. You weren’t around to see it.
You were something of a ghost, keeping to your upper level of the tour bus and avoiding the lower one with every fibre of your shattered being. The faraway look in your eyes seemed to be a new permanent aspect of your personality, along with your perpetual absence from every show and every aspect of the tour. 
Instead, you sat alone with your laptop as your only companion, teeth ground together and eyebrows pulled taut as you stared at the blinding white document that lay before you. You would type out a few words and then proceed to press your index finger to the backspace button and erase it all, letter by stingy letter like they had never been put out into the world in the first place. And then you would be left with a blank canvas once again within those metal walls.
You would emerge from your sanctuary occasionally to perhaps grab some food or take a walk to clear your head, and then you would see him from across the room and forget why you were there. His eyes would meet yours and you would simply hold the gaze for a few seconds, empty and then full of everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.
Then you would look away and life would drag you along like the moment had never existed. For the days that you were forced to be around everyone, you would smile and silently envy the way the band could do it so naturally without even having a second thought about if it looked fake.
Your smile was fake and Taeyong knew it from a single glance. He knew it from the way your eyes stayed dull as the sides of your mouth curved upwards painfully like it killed you to do so.
He knew he had lost you the moment he saw that hollow smile. 
He couldn’t bear to speak to you and reap the results of what he had sown, and you couldn’t bear to listen, a spiteful sort of yin and yang situation that was slowly eating away at the both of you. It left him with no choice but to watch as you made yourself scarce, a phantom of his every misgiving that haunted him even when he shut his eyes. You were still there.
Two broken hearts brushing past each other every single day without truly ever making contact, going on with their days with so much to say and nothing at all. 
It was a good thing people liked broken things.
But this? This was what showbiz was. It was messy and brutal and most of all, ugly. Under all the makeup touch-ups and glamorous lifestyle and glittering lights, at the end of the day you had to shed all of it off and see it for what it really was:
A godforsaken trap.
And so the last few shows dragged on, the last few days slipped by and suddenly they were walking backstage after their final show. Staff hollered jovially, drinks were being passed around in celebration, but he couldn’t get himself to relax, not when you were standing only a few feet away from him with that forlorn look in your eyes and a pitiful smile plastered on your face.  Not when you were so close, not when all he could do was reach out and barely touch you before you disappeared again, slipping away from his grasp once again. 
What a cruel time for him to realize he loved you. 
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Your two suitcases knocked into the back of your legs as you fished out your keys from the carry-on bag that was slung around your shoulders, slotting them into the lock of your apartment door. You twisted the metal things once, twice, until the door gave way and swung open, giving you a view of the place that you had so proudly once called your home. 
The familiar homely scent had somewhat faded in the time you had been gone, now mingled with a musty, forgotten type of smell that quickly found settled deep into your skin, leaving you to straighten up your hunched posture and sigh heavily. Turning around, you gripped the handles of your bags, pulled them inside behind you and shut the door as quietly as you could to not wake up anybody. Your flight back to Los Angeles had been an early morning one, and so there you were at five in the morning, standing in your doorway like an idiot.
The last time you had been in LA had been barely a month ago, but this wasn’t where you had slept. 
It had been in between the delicate sheets of Taeyong’s bed and arms that held you like you had been everything to him. You almost scoffed at the memory of your naivety, and at how easily you had been swayed by the star-studded lifestyle you had plunged yourself into.
Or perhaps it was just how easily you had fallen in love with someone so utterly elusive.
He was now probably halfway across the world in a private jet while you were right back where you had started. You had watched them leave, before turning around and walking away, away from the lights and tabloids and shy smiles in poorly lit-up tour buses that would forever remain a secret from the rest of the world.
And him.
You dropped your keys on the table as you dragged your suitcases with you, collapsing down on your worn-out couch and sinking into the cushions as the exhaustion of the entire ordeal hit you all at once. Your eyes fluttered shut as you took a minute to gather all your thoughts and pull yourself together.
His face flickered through your mind, causing your throat to close up in on itself as you snapped your eyes open, sucking in an arduous breath through your teeth. 
“Y/n.”
You recalled how he called out your name just before they left for their jet, how he sounded almost desperate to get whatever he was about to say off his chest. Even with how tired you were, you recalled every second of the interaction perfectly, down to the way you turned to face him when he said your name so perfectly.
He stopped in his tracks as the others walked a little away from him, nearly wincing at the way your eyes wouldn’t meet his and the hesitancy you displayed. It was too late for you and him, it was too little too late to fix what he had done.
“I lied about us to them,” He never once looked away from you even if you couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t bear to look away if this was going to be the last time he ever saw you.
“But nothing about us was ever a lie.”
His words haunted you with every step further you took from them, on the plane as you tried to forget it and as you picked up your luggage and called a cab. As you climbed the tiresome stairs of your apartment complex and even now as you sat there, you were pathetically thinking about it even though you had tried everything you could to forget.
But Lee Taeyong wasn’t the type of person you could forget easily, not when you could still imagine how it felt when he touched you and the weight of his gaze. The earnest remorse that laced his voice.
You punched in the code to your suitcase lock, unzipped it and pulled your laptop out. The cool metal rested upon your jean-clad legs, the blue light causing you to frown as you opened up your document and began to write, but not out of any sort of inspiration. You wrote out of the anger that had settled deep within your soul and motivated you. 
Anger at his audacity to think that it would be alright to make you fall in love with him just to avoid the possibility of his notoriety falling apart. You typed out everything you possibly could about what he had done and how it was all true, every single accusation you could throw at his face and how he truly did sleep his way to the top because for fucks sake, he certainly did it with you, didn’t he?
Then you stopped amidst your hateful frenzy, realising that there was no way you could do that to him. If you did, you were no better than that bastard Jungwoo. You stared at what you had written, reading it twice, three times and swallowing the telltale lump that had formed in your throat. Selecting it all, you glimpsed at the blue highlight and deleted it with a single click because you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
But you were so, so unbelievably angry.
Unconsolable rage consumed every fibre of your being, leaving you with clenched fists and gritted teeth until you accepted what it really was: grief. A broken sob escaped your chapped lips, the wretched sound breaking the silence that had been weighing you down for the past half hour you sat there in your apartment.
You were grieving a love that you still felt so strongly but was never yours to claim in the first place. 
And you cried for the first time since the day you confronted him, at last comprehending that your anger was simply the sheer heartbreak you felt in its rawest form, the very proof that you had loved. You broke down in the dead of the night, feeling so implausibly alone in the midst of everything that had happened these past few months. 
Before you had even known it, everything you had ever wanted had slipped right through your grasp, leaving you to grieve its loss all by yourself. You weren’t sure when Taeyong had become your every dream rolled into one magnificent wish, but it burned brighter than any wish you had ever had, which was perhaps why it hurt so bad.
How had the ultimate opportunity turned into something that shattered your very soul? Life had a merciless sense of humour because even though you had made the spiteful promise of writing an article that would destroy him, you couldn’t go through with it, because when you loved someone, you could never intentionally hurt them.
You exhaled shakily, staring at the empty document through the heavy thumping of your ruptured heart in your ears and the blur of your tears, blinking them out of your eyes. Then, in the dead silence of the early morning, as the sleeping world stirred to life and began with their monotonous days, you began to write.
And what was it that you wrote?
~
“What the hell is this?”
You calmly held Johnny’s gaze, a mixture of frantic and fury burning in his eyes as he glared at you. The velveteen cushioning of the seat under you was all too familiar, as were the wooden floors beneath the heels of your shoes, the first time you had stepped into The Link’s building in a long time. 
“The article you assigned me,” You responded plainly, spurring any sort of emotion that threatened to make a show on your face. He shut his eyes and visibly sucked in a laboured breath, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk.
“You’ve made some…..serious claims here,” He started to reason with you, and you could already see where this little colloquy was going to go. Gripping your phone, you took a careful note of the restraint that was displayed in his voice, but refused to back down from your own goal. “Ones that don’t fall under our initial arrangement.”
There were definitely some liberties you had taken with your article, but none of them were things of fallacy. You were well aware that it was the reason the editor was so skittish, although he tried to hide it to the best of his abilities from the way he pulled at his tie to loosen it around his collar ever so slightly and cleared his throat. It was a thing of amusement, to watch him try and figure out how to convey what he wanted to you without giving away what he had done.
You had been through too much to be thwarted by someone who was also in the wrong in the entire situation. You were done being a pawn in their little game.
“There wasn’t any arrangement, you said I had to write an article and I did just that.”
“Y/n.” He said your name defeatedly, “where did you get this information from? It’s so out of the blue.”
And with that, you pressed play on the recording of the call you had with Jungwoo a few months ago, watching carefully as Johnny’s expression shifted from weariness to shock as it played out. When your voice came through, telling Jungwoo you had overheard Renjun speak to the editor, all colour drained from his face.
Pausing the recording, you leaned forward in your seat, a corporate smile playing upon your lips in triumph.
“That’s how I know my claims are true because I have confirmation from one of the people involved in the audio proof. The only dirt around Taeyong’s name is the dirt you planted there.” You said this firmly, trying to ignore the way his name felt heavy on your tongue. 
Johnny clenched his jaw. “Look-”
“Publish my article,” You interrupted, more tranquil than you thought you would be when it came to this. There wasn’t a bone in your body that was scared when you put your terms out for him. “Or I will publish it myself and put Junwoo’s and your name on it. If you post it, I will let your less-than-ethical arrangement slide with only Renjun having to face the consequences.”
He clicked his tongue, knowing that he had no choice but to go through with your requests and although he didn’t particularly like it, he couldn’t help but admire the way you went about it. You had gone over and beyond with your journalistic work, cracking the truth behind it all and making sure the odds were in your favour. 
You had proven yourself to be a kick-ass journalist, no doubt one of the best of your generation. A grin made a show on his features, respecting you a lot more now that he knew what you were capable of.
“Consider it done.”
You returned his smile with a genuine one of your own this time around and warned faintly, “No major edits.”
He shut his laptop and nodded. “Not one.” Satisfied with his answer and the knowledge of him being far too smart to double-cross you when you had such damning leverage, you stood to your feet and turned to leave his office when he called out.
“And Y/n? Excellent job.”
As you stepped out into the busy corridors of The Link’s building, you felt a sense of warm pride wash over you at what you had managed to accomplish. You let yourself breathe in the cool air-conditioned air that held the slightest tone of coffee in it and held your phone up, knowing that you had one last thing to do, but it was the most important of them all.
You selected the audio recording until the option to share it popped up, clicking on it and swiftly forwarding the call to a certain manager. Then, you slipped the device into the pockets of your coat and walked away, leaving every cumbersome worry that you could behind.
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THE TRUE ‘CHERRY ON TOP’.
These past few months, I have had the opportunity to accompany the band Cherry Bomb on the American leg of their ongoing world tour, as I’m sure most of you have been keeping up with. 
From the very start, I was thrust into a world far too glamorous for me to ever keep up with, from the shows to the red carpet events and parties. I had never been the type of journalist that involved myself with the happenings of their research, but this was my exception. It was nearly impossibly to not get caught up with it all, especially when everyone around me was so inviting.
People talk about some celebrities being genuine and the nicest people they could ever meet and Cherry Bomb fit this description to the T. All of them are so wonderfully unique and lovely to converse with, dare I say, befriend, that it was only a matter of time before I was comfortable around them. Never once did they ever make me feel like an outsider even though I was very much exactly that.
These men live and breathe their music and are the most passionate people I will ever meet. 
I even had the pleasure of viewing one of their concerts and when I saw them up there on that stage, I could understand why they are so successful. Seeing Nakamoto Yuta give it his all behind those drums of his, Lee Mark and Lee Jeno complimenting each other with their parts, Kim Doyoung and his genius playing the keyboard, and finally, Lee Taeyong standing up there with his bass guitar and leading it all- it was a truly magical experience.
Initially, when I first started my research and drafting of this piece, I had convinced myself that I would be writing a little bit on every member, but now that the experience is over, I have decided to take a different route, one that tied into all that I have mentioned above.
It is a known fact that there is a rumour going around about the reason why the band is so popular, one that states that their success is due to the frontman, Lee Taeyong, sleeping his way to the top.
I am writing this article to very firmly counter that statement with the truth because the rumour is crude and very false.
Their crushing success is to only be credited to themselves because they have worked tirelessly for it. I have received a first-hand look at the amount of effort they put into everything they do, and they are the most hard-working people I know. It is not because of Taeyong’s sleeping habits in the slightest.
After some more research, it had come to my attention that these rumours had started because of a single, unassuming catalyst: their very own publicist, Huang Renjun.
The aforementioned publicist was the one to plant the seed of all the rumours, that catalyst if you will, quietly hiding under anonymity to avoid being caught out for his actions. The article that was written about the entire (fake) ordeal was written by a journalist working for the very paper I write for, as I have to admit with much regret. 
I am not aware of his motives as to why he decided to go so far as to lie about the very artists he was supposed to protect, but when I say that this is the truth, it is. My aim with this piece is to tell the truth, and the only lie presented within these words is the telling of the one that the publicist told.
The ‘Cherry On Top’ tour is no doubt one of the best they have ever played, each show exceeding the last, and a true testimony to the great musicians they are. Every one of them has given their all and sacrificed a lot to be out there doing what they love, even if it feels like they have been handed their success, they most certainly have not been.
And Lee Taeyong certainly did not sleep his way to the top.
- Y/n L/n, The Link.
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Afterparties had been a thing of enjoyment at one point in Taeyong’s life and although that time had not been too long ago at all, it certainly felt like it. He recollected how easy it used to be for him to indulge in such meaningless practices and when he used to think that getting blackout drunk was good fun.
It had been two months.
The concert in Paris was an astounding success and he had only been just a little tipsy while performing. Alcohol and cigarettes had turned into something of a coping mechanism for him, but now as he stood amidst other celebrities he didn’t know and different socialites that somehow managed to get into the party in a bar in The Marais, he felt much too sober. The glass in his hand felt heavy as he gripped it, the edges lightly digging into his skin. 
He had never realized how jarring his lifestyle was until this moment, detesting the way it was so superficial. The glitz, the lights, the girls- all the appeal that they once possessed had long faded into the background, leaving him to grit his teeth and pretend to be enjoying himself as he walked several red carpets that he very frankly, did not give a fuck about. For the first time, he felt like a fraud, undeserving of the spotlight that had been bestowed upon him so long ago, attention that he would have to take to his grave.
The change in his demeanour had been picked up by his bandmates, but they didn’t say anything. He suspected that they had an inkling of what had happened that night between you and him, but had decided to give him space.
Space had led to him making several mistakes if the empty glass bottles and occasional stranger in his hotel bed said anything. 
But there was only so much one person could handle.
He turned around, pushing through the turbulent crowd until he found himself standing outside the bar, calling one of their cars to take him back to the hotel early, back to the solitude of his temporary room. He knew that his absence would be noted, perhaps even given to the press as a tip-off, but he could care less about it. 
Taeyong couldn’t stand the thought of staying there and plastering on his poker face for even a second longer. He had ignored everyone anyway, including the lineup of ruffled girls who had evidently been very upset over not managing to catch his fancy for the night. He knew there would be whispers about his reluctance, the faltering happy expression that he had tried so hard to keep plastered on his lips.
But how could he even pretend to be happy when in every single person, he could see you?
He slipped into the car, leaning back in the seat as he instructed the driver of his destination, glancing out of the windows to view the smoky nightlife of Paris at such a late hour. Everything was much darker than one would imagine, giving the city of love a much more desolate feeling, lonely even. The streetlights flickered uncertainly, casting their yellow light onto the pavements. Taeyong nearly wanted to get out of the car and walk down those pathways, to be able to pretend that there weren’t going to be people trailing him with their flashy cameras for just a few minutes of seclusion that the night provided so mercifully.
He didn’t though, instead waiting until the driver parked the car and politely told him that they had reached. He dragged himself back up to his room until he was met with the room he shared with no one and a minibar that was conveniently right next to his bed. 
Love was the type of emotion that was tempestuous and violent, but it never acted alone. For most, it was with adoration and fulfilment, but for him, it was tainted with the guilt he so desperately tried to escape with every emptied glass bottle that sat in the trash. It was at times like these when you would pop into his mind without fail and he was once again reminded of the fact that you weren’t by his side.
And he had no one to blame for that but himself.
But god, he missed you.
He missed your smile and the way you’d try to control your excitement, the look in your eyes when you were passionate about something that contrasted the shyness that would enter your voice, and the way your hands would oh so gently cup his face. He missed the infectious tinkling of your laughter and the dedication you possessed when it came to your job and just you.
He hated what he had become and most of all hated the thought of being someone you couldn’t love or want. The prospect of you never needing him again even though he knew he needed you more than anything.
The brandy in his glass burned his throat as he allowed it to numb every splinter of penitence that swirled in the pits of his stomach, eyes closed as he tried to forget you.
An impossible feat.
A sharp, almost frantic knock on the door of his room snapped him out of his reverie. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he could only frown when he registered the time. 5:00 am. Who could it have been at such an early hour?
He contemplated pretending to be asleep so that the person would hopefully move on, but when another rap on the door came not even a minute later, he relented and walked over to open it. Once he swung it open, he was met with Irene standing there, phone in hand as her ever-vigilant eyes fell upon his slightly dishevelled figure and grew disapproving for a split second. He had forgotten that she tended to be an early riser no matter how late her evenings got.
To his surprise, beginning to speak before he could even attempt to comprehend what was happening. “You actually did it.”
“I- what?”
“The rumours- they’ve dissipated. They hold no merit anymore because you got that article, you son of a bitch.” Her eyes gleamed with pride as she spoke, thrusting her phone in his face resolutely. “It got released yesterday, and I would have seen it sooner but Renjun isn’t around anymore.” She said the publicist's name with a substantial amount of scorn, shaking her hand about in his face so that he would take the phone from her.
Her mention of the article had his heart in his mouth as dumbfoundedness bled into his fatigued features. “Wait, what do you mean Renjun isn’t here?”
“He’s fired,” She said flatly. “Because he’s a rat.”
“I still don’t follow.” He was too tired for her cryptic messages and in no mood to even think about entertaining them. She sighed.
“Renjun was the one who started the rumours, and I would have never known if Y/n had not sent me proof of it and written that article. I would have seen her message sooner but you know how it is with my inbox, always full.” The moment your name left her mouth, Taeyong couldn’t truly focus on the rest of what she was saying, nodding along mindlessly where he thought was the right point. More than anything, he wanted to ask Irene about you, what you had said and maybe, just maybe, if you had asked about him.
“Somehow she found out that it was Renjun who decided to spew bullshit about you,” she gritted out, “but it’s all dealt with, and his entire career in the industry is over. You should read the article by the way, after all, you’re responsible for it. I sent you a link to it.”
She plucked her phone out of his hands and walked away, leaving him to hurriedly fumble with his own. He shut the door and clicked on the link Irene sent him, more so to have even a little part of you for a few minutes than you truly find out what had taken place, eyes scanning over every word you had written until he reached the very end.
And it was then that carefully curated expression of his finally crumbled, and for the first time in a long time, Taeyong let himself cry.
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NOVEMBER; ALBUM OF THE YEAR GRAMMY NOMINATIONS:
— Solo; Kim Jennie — Maniac; Haechan — Pop!; Nayeon — Ruby; Lee Jihoon — Cherry On Top; Cherry Bomb
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To: [email protected] Subject: NYT interview proposition.
Greetings Miss L/n,
Your recent article about Cherry Bomb has been making waves in the journalism world, and we at the NYT have taken notice. 
This email is written in the hopes that you would consider sitting for an interview for our newspaper. After reviewing your past work, we have concluded that we would love to have a journalist like you on board. Your writing style is concise and conveys what it needs to, a quality we appreciate.
It is evident that you strive to put your best foot forward and are not afraid to take risks, something that is considered very rare. For these reasons, we would love to offer you this opportunity. Salary and such will be discussed in person, which is how we would like to hold this interview.
We look forward to receiving a positive response.
Tiffany Young.
Head of HR- New York Times.
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It was human tendency to gravitate toward the very things that destroyed them. You supposed that very inclination was the reason you were there on your couch once again, the stem of a half-full wine glass resting between your index and middle finger, the cool mouth of it pressed to your tinted lips. The redness from the drink had stained them, your eyes trained on the television screen in front of you. 
There wasn’t a point for you to be viewing the Grammys, but something had pushed you to do so and so there you were as the entire arena where the award show was held was shown. The cool February air jabbed unsolicitedly at the skin of your arms even with your heater on, and you let the sweet fermented drink kiss your throat soothingly to combat the chill. 
You knew that they were going to be there. 
You could hardly believe that it had been five months since you had seen them and so perhaps this was you satiating the small part of you that missed them. 
As you watched the opening performance, you realized that you hadn’t the slightest interest in anything else but the singular award that they had been nominated for. So if that was the case, why were you subjecting yourself to sit through the entire ordeal? You leaned over to pick the television remote up to switch it off and release yourself from this mundane sort of self-affliction.
The camera panned over the five men you were there for a brief moment and instantly you stopped, settling back into your seat. Of course, they would show them within the first few minutes of the show, they had the entire world at their heels.
The entire world waiting in anticipation for the results of the nominations just like you. 
The first hour of the show past painfully slowly and yet, you didn’t move, waiting patiently for it to happen. It felt odd, the fact that it was taking place right there in LA and you had to watch through a screen anyway. The fact that they were so close to you, back home and within your reach, felt a little unreal to you.
Kim Mingyu himself walked across the stage, grinning at the road of clapping that followed his every step. You allowed a small simper to make a show at his appearance, recalling the night of the party you had attended with the boys and how it had ended with you and Taeyong out on one of the numerous balconies of his mansion.
“Thank you, thank you!” He waved his hand politely to calm the audience. “I am beyond honoured to be here presenting this award tonight! Now, I’m aware all of you are here for me,” he paused as a light pattering of laughter made its way around the hall, “but I do have a job to do, so without further ado, here are your nominees for this year's Album of the Year!”
He listed out the five nominees, the camera focusing on each of them as he said their names for a few seconds. When it came to Cherry Bomb, you mentally chastised yourself for how quickly your eyes sought out a politely smiling Taeyong sitting with the rest of his mates. This wasn’t their first time attending, they had won the award twice before, the first time for being the best new artist when they had just started, and the second was for this very award.
Needless to say, there was a lot of pressure on them.
You could see glimpses of their nerves shine through their smiles and the way they held their drinks. Then, it went to Nayeon, who had already won one Grammy that evening and had it standing proud on her table, evidently calm because of its presence.
Mingyu smiled right when the cameras returned to him, showing off his perfect, pearly white teeth. He lifted the golden envelope in his hands, “And your winner for the Album of the Year for this year's Grammys is….”
Everyone held their breath, including the nominees themselves. Little shots of them popped up side by side on your television, showing you the way Yuta visibly stiffened in anticipation and how Taeyongs fingers curled around the flute of his glass, eyes trained on the stage and at the announcer, his friend.
Mingyu flipped the top of the envelope open and pulled out the card that held the winner in one swift motion, holding it a little away from him before his eyes lit up. He then bent down a little so that his mouth was once again in line with the microphone, letting the audience stew in their anxiety for just a second longer.
“CHERRY BOMB!”
Cheers erupted as the screen enlargened on them as their smiles grew wide and genuine, a sharp exhale leaving your wine-stained lips. Something like a weight had been lifted off your tired shoulders and you sat up straight, your lips curling up in a relieved and glad smile for them. For the strangers you had grown so close to in so little time.
As for Taeyong, he had barely registered it when he heard the name of the band he had formed when he was just a teenager. He had to stop himself from flinching at the thunderous clapping, eyes blown wide when he finally realized that they had done it. They had won.
Doyoung leaned over to hug Jeno, and then Taeyong as they got to their feet, bashfully smiling in elation at achieving their ultimate goal of the previous year. He took a cautionary sip of the bubbly champagne that sat inside the flute he held and placed it down, straightening out his suit as he led the walk to and up the small stage.
Mingyu handed him the golden gramophone statue, whispering congratulations away from the mic for only them to hear and exchanging hugs, before walking off stage. He turned to face the audience with his best friends right at his side and thousands- millions even- of people clapping for them. 
“Wow this…” he trailed off, glancing down at the award in his hands with a nervous simper playing on his face. “Firstly we’d like to thank the recording academy and god- the list is far too long, but wow, thank you to our incredible fans and our manager Irene Bae who always knows what to do. Qian Kun our producer, Alexandra, James and the rest of our amazing team.” He spouted every name he could remember, doing his best to sound grateful because he truly was.
There was just one thing.
“And thank you to one person out there who knows who she is,” He gripped the award better, Adam’s apple bobbing slightly in his throat as his tone quieter, staring right into the camera. “I think about you every day.” 
You.
The need to breathe deeply arose all of a sudden, leaving you to suck in a large gulp of air while you wondered if the wine had finally gone to your head. And you knew as he held the award up once again with a gratified expression on his face and shook it slightly, and as he handed it to his members, that he was talking about you.
And he had won, all of them had. Through every hardship and roadblock, they managed to get to the other side in triumph.
The pride that swelled in your chest for him along with the warm pressure behind your eyes told you all you needed to know. As the first cup of wine turned into your third, you were drowning in the realization that you still loved him vicariously with every broken piece of your heart that still belonged to him.
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History liked repeating itself.
Once again you stood in your living room with suitcases- suitcase, singular this time around. It was a small one with just enough items to last you an entire week in New York City. There was plenty of time before you had to leave for your flight, one that you had booked well in advance and had given yourself enough time in the city to not throw yourself straight into the interview.
You could have gone three days later and you would have been fine on time, and yet there you were, standing by your couch while clutching the handle of your bag. Your flight was at seven the next morning and it was ten post meridian right now, so to say you were early was an understatement. In truth, you had no idea why you were so cautious about everything you were doing, and neither did you understand why you felt like you had to leave right at this very moment.
But not to the airport. The airport was the last place you were thinking of then. If you left for the airport, you would have been leaving behind unfinished business in your wake.
There was so much to consider if you left, if you did get the job that you had been dreaming of for so long. Bank work, resigning from The Link, ending your apartment lease- and the most important of them all, if you could live with leaving without seeing him again. 
“I lied about us to them.”
Regret was a funny thing, it nipped and poked at your insides until you had no choice but to acknowledge its infuriating presence. It made you think things you did not want to, forcing them to the front of your idle mind until you gave up trying to fight.
“But nothing about us was ever a lie.”
His last words to you echoed through the chambers of your mind, eliciting a sigh. You still hadn’t the slightest idea what he had meant by that, or the possible implications it retained. It gave rise to questions that would stay in the forefront of your thoughts without any answers.
And before you knew it, you let go of the suitcase handle and grabbed your keys, slipping out of your apartment and calling a cab. Within minutes you were sitting inside said cab, telling the driver Taeyong’s address before you could talk yourself out of it. It was so impulsive, so completely unlike you that you were a tad concerned, but you wanted answers. The memory of where he lived in the city was burned into your memory, the information finally proving to be useful.
For all you knew, you could have made the right decision that day to walk away and this would all be for nought. 
But it could have also been your biggest mistake.
The elevator ride up to his penthouse was when your intrusive thoughts returned with full force. You had miraculously managed to keep them at bay in the cab, but now as you waited in that metallic little box, you couldn’t help but try and dissect why you were here. You could have perhaps slept for a little before your flight, or checked if you had everything you needed for the nth time.
Instead, you were there, walking out into the hallway of the building he stayed at that was almost haunted with the ghosts of your past selves rushing through it the morning after that night, hand in hand with soft giggles and secretive smiles being passed around. A self-inflicted déjà vu, or perhaps not, because history truly did love to repeat itself, cyclical in nature as it went through the motions of a story it already knew so well.
Now all that stood between him and you was a measly wooden door. 
What if he wasn’t at home? What if he wasn’t staying there for the night and instead with the boys? What if he wasn’t even in Los Angeles, but rather somewhere else and you had wasted all this time?
You knocked. Then you took a step back and waited.
When you heard the slightest padding of footsteps and the rattle of the door, you knew that there was no turning back. When the door opened, the warmth of his apartment hit you all at once, leaving you to unclench your anxious fists and stare at the person that stood at the doorframe. 
“Y/n?”
You couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through your body when he said your name ever so softly, his eyes wide but softened at the sight of you as if he could hardly believe you were real. Locking eyes with him, you once again felt the effects of having his gaze upon you, the intenseness of it trained on just you. You didn’t think you would ever understand how he managed to have such an effect on you.
“Can I come in?” Your question came out timidly as you averted your gaze, knowing that if you kept it locked with his you would never be able to finish what you had started. You didn’t see him nod, but felt him move aside and push the door further open for you. When you were inside, he shut the door and turned to you, unsure of what to say.
Nothing had changed inside his place, nor had much about him other than appearances. His hair was darker now, the hint of red you had grown used to missing and replaced with a solid brown that matched the swirl in his eyes. 
“You’re here,” Taeyong mumbled almost inaudibly. “Why are you here?”
He hadn’t thought he would ever see you in person ever again, least of all standing in front of him in his house- what had been a home for a few minutes that night- in all your stifled glory. 
You looked to the side and out the expansive windows that stretched out from the ceiling to the floors, out at the twinkling city. The last time you had been here, the curtains in the living room had been drawn closed, giving you privacy from the rest of the world's prying eyes.
“I don’t know.” But you did know, what you needed from him was so painfully obvious that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say it. “This was a mistake.” 
He studied you, from the ever so slight tremble of your lower lip to your unfocused eyes that wouldn’t look at him. “No, it wasn’t.” 
The way he could read you so easily was ridiculous to you, causing you to scoff under your breath as a frustrated smile made its way onto your face. 
“I don’t understand you.” And you truly couldn’t because people like him were so evasive and fleeting, always just a little too far out of your reach. He paused, eyes flitting all over your expression as if trying to assess what you meant by that, what you wanted- no, needed- from him. “You say you want me in your life and then proceed to lie about us to everyone else already in it. But you tell me nothing about us was a lie.” You sucked in a shaky breath, going over everything that had happened between the two of you.
“Y/n-”
But now that you had started letting it all out, there was no stopping you.
“And I don’t know what to believe, because I placed all my trust in you and you just- you broke it like it meant nothing.” His heart broke when your voice did, putting himself in your shoes. How confused and hurt you must have been, to think you were nothing but an easy way out of a tricky situation. 
“No,” he whispered, contrite, “it meant everything to me.”
You stayed silent, letting the silence blanket the both of you. The faint ticking of the second hand on a clock somewhere in the room made up for it.
“Have you made me a liar, Taeyong?”
The earnestness that laced your voice along with the way you finally, finally looked at him had him instinctively reach out to touch you and hold you and wipe away the pain that he had inflicted on you, but he stopped himself just in time, letting his arm fall limply to his side in vanquish. 
“God, no,” He almost exclaimed, shouted even, wanting to do anything he could think of to prove himself to you, to get through to you. “I told you the truth that night, I never lied to you about wanting you Y/n, I never fucking lied about that.”
You remembered that night all too well and shut your eyes once again to counter the telltale warmth of your eyes. 
“Even when it all started? When you first kissed me?”
“Even then.” The way he stated it with so much fervour made your thinking come to a halt.
“Then tell me the truth,” you said ultimately, “the full truth.” 
That one request was all he needed to divulge everything that had happened, the way the rumours about him were getting to a bad point, how worried Irene was about it and her warning to them. How everyone assumed that everything he was doing with you was for their benefit and nothing else, and how he stupidly- utterly senselessly- went along with it to make things easier. The way that he completely forgot about him having to win you over for a purpose because he genuinely wanted you for just you, and how he regretted every sore decision he made.
And you listened as every question of yours got its answer and locked itself away from your memory, the sincerity in his voice finding you and holding your hands, squeezing them until you could let them go. Half of you wanted to hate him more than anything, to scream and cry and make him hurt the way he hurt you.
But the thing was, you already knew he was hurting. And the other half of you wanted it to stop because loving someone meant shielding them from any sort of hurt.
And you loved him more than you had ever loved anyone or anything. 
“Telling them I was with you for a good article was a lie. It was still a lie even if I didn’t mean it.” There was Lee Taeyong, seemingly on top of the world with everyone at his feet, confessing to you what no one else knew. For your eyes only.
“And I’m so sorry for it.”
When you opened your eyes, he was looking at you, his round eyes filled with so much sorrow, so much desperate hope that you would believe him as you did so trustingly all those months ago. All that vulnerability out in the open again for you to peer at and judge, but did you even have the right?
“You really hurt me, you know,” You mumbled slowly, cautionary,  wanting him to hear it from you at least once. You needed to say it to him, to get it off your chest.
A single tear trickled down your face, and the moment it did, Taeyong stepped closer, cradling your face between his hands as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I know,” he breathed out, dragging his thumb gently against your cheek and wiping the tear away. “I hate myself for doing that to you, I regret it more than anything. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your fingers found the cloth of the shirt he wore, clutching onto it and leaning into his touch, finding solace in the gentle touch of his hands against your face as he whispered apologies to you, chipping away bit by bit at your resolve. 
When the curtains falls, the lights dimmed and stage effects ceased to exist, beneath the glitz and the seemingly perfect lives of celebrities, there were humans. Humans who made mistakes and fucked up sometimes, humans who were judged for those very mistakes even though thousands of people all over the world did the very same things. Now, as Taeyong stood there and held you like he couldn’t bear to ever let you go, and barred his soul for you with every ‘I’m sorry’ that fell from his lips in utmost sincerity, he was the most human you had ever seen him.
And who were you to judge someone just like you? So painfully human and flawed, willing to make up for it?
“You hurt me and I love you anyway. Does that make me an idiot?” You had already forgiven him, speaking against the ghost of his lips, one hand coming up to clutch at his wrist to ground yourself at the moment. 
“Fuck, no,” he tilted your head upwards so you were looking right into his eyes as he spoke, leaving you to believe every word he said. “You’re not the idiot, you never were. I was the idiot, baby, I fucked it all up.” That brown of his tickled your forehead and every sense of yours was oblivious to everything but the man in front of you. 
“You did,” you nodded faintly, letting out the softest exhale as you blinked the tears out of your eyes, but never dropped them from his. “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me.”
Almost immediately, his lips found yours, kissing you with such reckless abandon that you almost lost your balance and would have fallen if you hadn’t been holding into his hand. One of his arms fell to your torso and looped around it, pulling you closer until it was impossible to do so anymore, securing you in place. Your eyelids fluttered shut and you let every single one of your fears and thoughts melt away like it usually did when you were around him because you knew that this, right there, was exactly where you were supposed to be.
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if I have to.” And he meant it with every fibre of his being, willing to do anything and everything for you. 
“I believe you.”
It didn’t matter how many people made up fake news about him or never believed anything he said because you did.
“Then will you stay in my life? By my side again?” He asked you this softly, not wanting to push you into anything. “And- fuck, I can’t promise it’ll be easy, because there will be people prying into your life when they find out about us if there’s going to be an us, and unwanted attention–”
“More running from paparazzi?” You offered with the slightest twitch of your lips.
“Definitely more of that.” He chuckled, tenderly pushing some of your hair out of your face so none of it obscured his view of you, “But there’s no one else I’d rather run from them with.” His eyes searched yours for any semblance of an answer and you dipped your head a little in confirmation.
“I’d run with you for the rest of my life too, Taeyong, and I forgive you,” you choked out with a teary laugh, your previous emotions crashing down on you all at once, melting into a concoction that was completely overridden by your feelings for him. You would face the Huang Renjun’s and Kim Jungwoo’s of the world head-on, hand in hand with the man you loved, inevitably coming out triumphant.
Because you believed him. You really, truly believed him.
“Yeah?” He asked, in disbelief almost, engulfing you entirely in his embrace when you nodded again, whispering the very same word just loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to be mistaken for an echo. He pressed kisses into your hair and you knew that you had made the best decision you could have by coming here, letting yourself relax in his hold. 
“For the record, I love you too,” And you didn’t think you had ever heard something so beautiful as him saying those three fated words back to you. After a beat, he continued in teasing, “Isn’t that what you journalists say? For the record?”
You laughed, wiping any stray tears, now of happiness, that had escaped your eyes in the process. “No, you idiot, it’s ‘on the record’ for things that they want to be counted, and ‘off the record’ for things that they don’t want in the report.” His attempt at using journalist lingo was endearing to you, as was the fond grin that rested upon his lips as you corrected him. 
“On the record then,” Taeyong said matter-of-factly, “I love you, Y/n L/n.”
You leaned upwards, pressing your lips to his lightly, before pulling back with wide eyes. “Oh god, I have to go!”
“What?!”
“I have a flight in the morning- to New York,” You had momentarily forgotten about that minor fact, attempting to detach yourself from him, a futile gesture he promptly refuted by holding you even tighter.
“New York? Why?” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you preemptively smiled in pride. 
“An interview for the New York Times.” You patted his arm around you. “I’m flying in early tomorrow morning, my interview is on Monday.”
He frowned, “That’s a week from now. Cancel the flight and stay with me for a bit before you leave me pining after you.”
You knew very well that you had been overthinking it when it came to booking your flight so early and felt flushed at his words. “But-”
“Stay. Please.”
And with that he had you.
“Okay,” you nodded without giving it much thought, knowing where you had to be most at that very point in time. “I’ll leave later.”
Of course, there would be tribulations, you expected no shortage of them, but you knew that as long as you had him by your side to push through the fog and uncertainty, you would be okay. You were up for all of it, from the sleepless nights tainted with the burning taste of whiskey to the mesmerising laughter-filled ones that would no doubt haunt the halls of his apartment. And perhaps now the streets of New York when you would soon step into them.
“I love you.”
Looking up at him now with a soft smile that formed as you said the words, you knew that he had once again given you another dream by giving himself. You brought your hands up to his face and cupped it, memorizing every detail of your most brilliant dream yet so you would never forget it in this lifetime, or any life after this one. As you stood there, fitting so perfectly in his arms, he felt at home at long last, finding joy in the fact that it was because of you and how it would always stay a home with you there.
“On the record.”
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fin.
1K notes · View notes
softsan · 6 months
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🖇Dare The Devil, Make Him Smile. TEASER.
MASTERLIST | MAFIA PROFILES
WORD COUNT: Approximately 35k (might end up longer tho)
GENRE: Mafia AU, Angst, Kingpin!Taeyong, Queenpin!Y/N, Fem!Reader, Childhood Friends, Betrayal, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, 
DESCRIPTION: You were the only surviving heir of the old-time Mafia kingpin that had ruled the four territories. You were long thought to be dead, living the normal life you had always wanted...Until you run into a Taeyong, a formidable ghost from your past. You are then thrown back into the Mafia underbelly, reuniting with enemies you had hoped had forgotten you. Will you run away? Will you stand beside Taeyong, kingpin of the North, and be his queen? Or will you take your rightful revenge?
WARNINGS: Possessive Themes, Explicit Sexual Content, Murder, Kidnapping, Strangulation, Torture, Weapons, Graphic Violence, Heavy Angst, Explicit Language, Alcohol Consumption, Mentions of Drugs, Betrayal, Morally Grey Characters, 
TAGS: Please send me an ASK if you’d like to be added to the taglist.
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“Y/N!” Taeyong immediately froze, catching sight of you. His breath was labored, his arms shaking, “What are you doing here?” He scanned the surroundings, his face still contoured in alarm. 
“Uh, I saw the roses” You tried to keep your voice neutral, “And I followed the hedges. Before I knew it, I’d gotten lost.”
Taeyong let out a long, worn breath, “I thought someone had taken you,” He shut his eyes, trying to calm himself down. 
“I’m sorry,” You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt.
“Never go off on your own,” Taeyong reopened his eyelids, the intensity of your stare almost making you squirm, “Promise me.” 
“I promise,” You said as you were told, dazed by how close Taeyong had gotten. 
“Good,” He allowed himself to gently brush your cheek with the back of his hand, “Let’s go back then.”
Yebin may be still in the gardens. You reacted. She might need more time to get away from here. 
“No!” You said a little too loudly, “Let’s stay out here,” You pulled onto Taeyong’s tie, to prevent him from turning back around.
Taeyong gave you a confused look, his mouth parting to say something. You immediately, yanked on his tie just as you had done earlier, and planted your lips on his. Taeyong was momentarily stunned. Your delicate fingers grasped onto his cheeks, bringing him in close.
You were a little worried, that Taeyong would pull back and question your intentions but your concerns when quelled when he kissed you back.
You felt Taeyong’s chest swell, his arms wrapping themselves around your waist. His kisses were heated, and domineering, he took the lead, his tongue swiping your lips apart and entering inside your mouth. You reflexively let out a moan. You had never been kissed as such. A kiss that ignited your insides and made your knees buckle.
Taeyong halted. You blinked, taken aback by how suddenly he’d stopped. Taeyong eyes darkened, the sound you just made. He wanted to hear it again.
“Taeyong?”
His lips crashed back onto yours, encapsulating your mouth. He kissed you feverishly, his hands running down the length of your back. He pushed, closer making the two of you stumble backward, into the wall.
You could feel the feathery touch of his hands move past your hips. You made a soft noise, which incited him to lift both of your legs off the ground. Your legs instinctively curled around him, grasping him tight.
His lips broke from yours, “Y/N,” His voice husky, his tone dripping in desire.
His lips trailed down your chin, then your neck. Your hands found his hair, tugging on his locks when he found a particularly sensitive spot on your neck.
“Taeyong,” You whined, 
His chest swelled. He wanted to hear your pretty voice say his name again.
He returned to the spot—his tongue darted, licking across its surface. Taeyong latched onto your skin, the twinge of pleasure and a little bit of pain made you tighten your legs around him even more.
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MONI’S NOTE: I'm so excited to finally release this and give it an ending it deserves🤗 I hope you enjoy the changes I've made too. It's been a long time coming, and I thank everyone for their patience!
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © vyutas 2023   
122 notes · View notes
jaetaimjadore · 2 years
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doublure d’argent | l.ty
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Pairing: Lee Taeyong x reader
Genre: strangers to co-workers to lovers, fashion designer!reader, magazine columnist!Taeyong, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, PG-15
Warnings: profanity, slow burn, ANGST, mc is the classic bitch-turned-agreeable kinda character, Taeyong is kinda shallow at first, allusions to sex (nothing explicit), mc has hair long enough to tie up, sexual innuendos, kissing, toxic behaviour from aHEM certain individuals, inaccurate depictions of the fashion industry, food and alcohol consumption, Taeyong shirtless at times 
Word count: 48.3k
Synopsis: You’re the renowned founder and fashion designer of Argent, the luxury fashion label known best for its one too many silver linings across the world’s hottest runways. With New York Fashion Week around the corner and your latest collections fresh on the racks, you’re certain to have buyers grovelling at your star-studded heels. But when fake news spreads like a wildfire and your top model pulls out at the last minute, you’re left with no choice but to hire a wide-eyed stranger with an unusual penchant for toast.
a/n: so this was supposed to be 17k...aNYWAYS, four long months and it finally dropped *claps everywhere* !! this fic is laced with all forms of angst so please excuse the sheer amount of it! A huge thank you to @intotheneozone​ for beta-reading it in its initial stages (even though she barely knew me at the time, god bless)!!! Also just as a heads up CFDA stands for Council of Fashion Designers of America. I really hope you enjoy the fic, and I worked super duper hard on it so feedback would be greatly appreciated :))
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I. …boyfriend?
Some people say you’re the embodiment of magic, able to mastermind a rough image into the finest cashmere sweater, turn a quick sketch into flowing spools of chiffon. Some say you’re the world’s next Coco Chanel, with high-end collections wooing the fancy of every rehearsed critic sitting at the foot of the catwalk; the cat that never fails to catch their tongues and stun them speechless. And some people may just call you a stubborn bitch – actually, most do; uncompromising to all forces of the universe so long as your expensive little stilettos are able to carry all that heavy rage.
It’s a real wonder how you’ve only managed to break two pairs so far…or perhaps a third now, as you sit in the back seat of your car, Louboutins jabbing furious holes into the mat beneath them as your jaw spasms in anger.
“What do you mean, the seams came undone? If they came undone, fix them!” you snap frustratedly at your executive assistant, thumb and forefinger digging at your temples as he delivers the horrifying news over the phone.
“Y/n, listen-”
“No, Ten, you listen to me. That coat is Argent’s signature for the fall collection. I want those seams fixed and spotless by six o’clock sharp, and if the tailor can’t do that, fire him and find someone who can.”
Ten sighs over the line, your stern voice stunning him to a silence.
“Don’t waste my time again,” you leave him no room to answer, cutting the call.
What a joke. Can’t even fix a simple seam slip.
You eye the Rolex watch on your wrist, deflating into the leather seat. You sink in so deep that the stillness of the car’s engine becomes all too noticeable among the raucous honking outside. Your nose scrunches at the pungent odour of diesel that floats around the air, head turning towards the tinted window that tucks you safely away from the bustling streets of New York Times Square, a place where time remains static, but the world never ceases.
“Charlie, how much longer now?” you speak impatiently to your driver, eyes narrowing at the heavy traffic ahead, cursing all the motionless cars that widen the distance between you and your destination. You’re going to be late for your Harper’s Bazaar photoshoot, and you’re not an ounce bit pleased about it.
He respectfully meets your eyes through the rear-view mirror. “Not long now, miss. Fifteen minutes if the traffic pulls through.”
His words have you pinching the bridge of your nose, teeth grinding together as you attempt to breathe in slowly, hoping the gesture dampens the temper bubbling at your throat. “Do try and hurry up,” you strain out.
“Yes, Miss.”
If there was one thing everyone ought to know about you, it’s that whatever you say is whatever goes. It’s a simple rule, a power you’ve come to possess as director and head designer of your world-class fashion label, Argent.
Things haven’t always been this smooth, however. What the world doesn’t realise is that the person they see – the person you show them – is merely the glistening tip of a cold, submerged iceberg.
It was years ago when you’d left your expensive home, when you’d escaped the vile clutches of what most people would call family. Yours was the textbook definition of everything your friends ever wanted but everything you could never stand. Your family wasn’t a family at all, but a lost cause. Comprised of a runaway father, and a controlling cougar of a mother, whose cheap excuses did nothing but blind her conscience from the blatant fact that she couldn’t do the one job all mothers are supposed to do right.
Paris. You’d taken a one-way ticket into its pulsing heart. It had welcomed you warmly, was there for you when you’d stepped off that plane with two suitcases and a pocket full of cash. While your parents chose neglect, Paris chose you; helped you find your footing among the scrappy sequins and calloused muslin.
From there, you’d clawed your way up the viperous ladders of the fashion industry, one fine sketch at a time, until New York beckoned you with its ritzy finger. 
Recognition was never an easy feat, and critics never ceased with their petty down-talk. But none of it ever compared to your mother. You’d taken the harsh blows and dealt with all the world’s criticisms that told you to give up and that you’d never make it. Hard work eventually bred success and before you knew it, you had indeed, made it. You had built Argent from the ground up, gained fame and fortune through its name and earned your rightful place in the industry. Now, you’re prowess personified. A bat of your eye has your employees cowering in fear, every trend-setting design has your competitors green with envy, and every hand-stitched item has expensive bidders falling to their knees in front of you.
So yes, people may call you a bitch.
But you’re the bitch that keeps the fashion world turning.
“We’ve arrived, Miss Y/l/n.” The car comes to a halt outside a lavish stone building with HB spelt in bold, black letters. You eye the structure from above the frame of your sunglasses with a smile, always impressed by the certain statement exuding through its walls. But your smile only lasts so long – and you’re sure to have aged five full years – as your gaze travels to the horde of blinding cameras that begin to flash from meters always.
You sigh at the sight, muttering an offhand, “Wish me luck, Charlie,” before stepping out onto the sidewalk with the help of a security guard, hand rising to shield yourself from the bright flashing and frantic yelling of your name coming from every which direction.
Being a celebrity fashion designer has always meant fame and fortune come at both name and face value. The paparazzi doesn’t faze you however – by now, you’ve all but harboured their constant buzzing into your daily routine – but they are a royal pain in the ass, tailing your every move to fulfil their quota of shots.
Oh, the perils of being famous.
With one hand wrapped around your Céline handbag and the other tucked fashionably into the pocket of your Burberry trench, you strut right ahead, the security guard tailing behind as you mentally rehearse the drill you’re all too accustomed to by now: straight posture, head down, ignore the questions, smile for every sixth camera, and don’t. Stop. No matter. What.
You follow the drill until the air once more smells clean and your heels echo loudly against the polished lobby tiles, the yelling and flashes another memory held off by the glass doors. You send the security guard a thankful nod before ripping off your sunglasses and scanning the reception area. The pathway from there to the dressing room falls nothing short of memory as you head straight for the elevators to the twelfth floor.
When the doors ding open, you’re greeted with the busy scene of HB staff setting up the photoshoot area; stylists pushing racks of designer clothing in and out of doors, while photographers position their cameras and softboxes around a white paper backdrop.
Now, this is more like it.
You smile as you see Seulgi, the head photographer, approaching from across the room with a large, expensive camera strapped around her neck. “Miss Y/l/n, happy new year! It’s a pleasure to have you back! How are you?” She greets you with two formal pecks.
“Happy new year. I’ve been well, thank you for inviting me again. And please, call me Y/n.”
She nods politely, leading you past all the chatter and commotion, picking up a bright red suit along the way with a sparkly silver strip along one of the blazer’s lapels.
They did their research, you think inwardly.
Silver lines are your signature emblem; every article of haute cotour produced by Argent has at least one visible strip of silver on a given part.
You’d first thought of the idea after hearing your French mentor speak the words ‘chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent’; the French counterpart for the common saying every cloud has a silver lining. 
Ever since then, you’d adopted the saying in every aspect of your life, went as far as naming your brand after the phrase – argent being the French word for silver – and added your own little twist to it. Now, every cloth has a silver lining. And though you still can’t pinpoint exactly why you were originally so smitten by the phrase, one thing you’re sure of is the comfort that blooms when you speak it aloud; a comfort that can’t be brought by anything or anyone else. A comfort that radiates a certain hope when all feels lost.
As your eyes travel down the sparkly silver line along the red suit, that feeling washes over you like a warm shower on a cold winter’s day.
“The makeup team is ready when you are.” Seulgi stops in front of a black door at the far end of the room, handing the suit over as you enter.
You hook it on clothing rack inside, taking a moment to absorb the soft cream walls and the vinyl flooring beneath you.
“Gosh, it’s been a while,” you murmur aloud.
This is the first photoshoot you’ve had in four months, having been buried neck-deep in preparations for New York Fashion Week. If you had it your way, you’d be the only designer on your team. But as the universe would have it, running a world-class fashion label requires hundreds upon hundreds of workers – other designers, fabric researchers, tailors, seamstresses, retail marketers; the whole damn lot. As the head of Argent, it has been your number one priority in these formative months to ensure that every item of clothing – every little stitch and work of embroidery – is perfectly pristine for the runway.
New York Fashion Week is no walk in the park, so imaginably, this is always the busiest time of year for you. But luckily enough, Argent only hires the best of the best in all fields, so majority of the preparations have gone rather smoothly, with your fall and winter collections fast approaching the green light. Now, with less than five weeks remaining until D-day, you’ve finally been able to pick one of the many magazine invites that had been collecting dust in your mailbox.
After changing and having the hair and make-up team work their magic on you, you’re soon posing in front of the white backdrop under Seulgi’s direction.
“Shoulders back a little…tilt your head just a bit…okay, that’s great!” She bends slightly, clicking a few shots the new angle while striking up small talk. “So, how’s work been treating you lately?”
“Stressfully so,” you sigh with a breathy chuckle.
“Hmm, I can tell.”
You give her a questioning look. You don’t really care much for the stress; it comes with the job. But when people outside your company walls can tell you’re stressed, that’s where it becomes a real issue.
“You look tense.” Seulgi lowers the camera to look straight at you. “Try and loosen up a little. Think of something nice.” She snaps another picture. “Like your boyfriend.”
You freeze.
Boyfriend?
What boyfriend?
“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” you ask, posture slagging with your incredulous expression.
Needless to say, you don’t have a boyfriend. Hell, you can barely fit in time for yourself, let alone a man who wants to eat up the precious minutes of your day. Your career is far more important to you – it’s the sum of your life’s efforts – and a boyfriend would only be an obstacle in your way. Not to mention your public image would be in shambles if the tabloids ever heard of a romantic connection.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” You clarify rather rudely, still confused as to how Seulgi came to that conclusion.
It’s then that her expression drops. “Oh no.”
“What?” you spit out dubiously, eyes narrowing as she motions to another staff member, who hands her a magazine. “What is it?”
You find yourself suspiciously beckoned by the gaudy paper in her hands, cautiously stepping closer and snatching it from her fingers to read over glossy front page with horrified eyes.
EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS: THE CATWALK’S HOTTEST NEW ITEM! Y/N Y/L/N SPOTTED COSYING UP TO TOP MODEL JUNG JAEHYUN OVER PASTA AND PINOT. IS THIS THE COUPLE WE’VE ALL SECRETLY BEEN WAITING FOR? Read more on page 26
As if on instinct, you feel the harsh grind of teeth behind your red lips, jaw locking as your eyebrows furrow, scanning over the words one, two, three times over.
What the fuck is this?
You turn to Seulgi who visibly shrinks in fear at your piercing gaze. “What is this?”
“It’s all over the tabloids,” she replies nervously.
The room is silent, save for the crisp crumpling of the page in your tightening fist. You inhale deeply, try to maintain your rapidly exhausting composure in front of the dozens of people around you. “It’s fake news,” you grit out, eyeing each and every one of them with an expression that screams and don’t you dare believe otherwise.
You turn back to Seulgi. “I need to leave.”
She nods anxiously, absentmindedly fiddling with her camera. “I understand. Thank you for your time.”
You reply with a firm nod, rushing to change back into your previous clothes and hastily making your way to the elevator. The floors seem to go by slower than ever as you impatiently call your driver to pull up outside the building, head running a mile a minute with your disordered thoughts. You don’t have half the mind to care about the cameras as you charge through them seconds later, slamming the car door shut as soon as you sit inside. The traffic outside has died down since earlier; something you couldn’t be more thankful for as you urge Charlie to speed off while hurriedly dialling Ten’s number.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Ten, arrange an urgent board meeting for this evening. Make sure Jaehyun and his agent are there too.”
“But you have a model inspection durin-”
“NOW!”
─── ⪧ ⪦ ───
“What the hell is this?”
The conference room pulses with the anger coursing through your veins as you glare at the dozen frightened heads seated in front of you, tossing the five magazines in your hands across the long, polished table.
If becoming a fashion designer was your first tribulation, this comes close second.
A scandal.
Seulgi wasn’t wrong when she said the rumour had made it all over the tabloids. Us Weekly, Hello, People, Grazia; you’re plastered on the front cover of every celebrity gossip magazine.
Having witnessed your fair share of celebrity guises gone wrong, you’ve long determined that your reputation precedes you before anything else does. As such, up until this point you’ve managed to keep a clean slate with the public eye, always cautious not to be seen with anyone in a romantic light or speculated to have engaged in risky behaviours. And if for whatever reason you were, your public relations team has always been prompt in striking deals with the press before the release of any absurd articles. 
So, where the fuck were public relations this time?
“Did you know about this?” You turn your hard gaze to Jaehyun, who sits at the other end of the table with his agent, arms crossed over his chest as he shakes his head in confusion.
Jung Jaehyun is the highest ranking male model of SM Agency – one of the most elite modelling agencies in the world. He’s also the representative model of Argent, the face of your advertisements and the finale walker at all runway events. After you, he’s Argent’s attention-grabber, and if your judgement sits correct, that’s precisely the reason the scandal is blowing up so vastly.
A relationship between a designer and her top model is one of the biggest taboos in the industry. It isn’t something unheard of, but it does cast a shameful light of ineptitude on even the most talented of people – though you have to admit you would also be disgusted at yourself if the rumours were true.
Which they aren’t.
You had simply met up with Jaehyun the day before to discuss some outfit alterations over dinner. And though you are friendly with each other, that dinner was strictly business. No romantic feelings whatsoever.
“May I suggest suing?” your public relations advisor, Doyoung, suggests from beside you, inspecting the magazines laid out in front of him with slitted eyes.
You pause at his words, the idea sounding a little too tempting. Even more so considering you’re more than capable of making it happen.
“And how do you propose we do that?” Irene, Jaehyun’s agent, speaks up from across the room. “The writer remains anonymous, and we don’t know the original publisher. On another note, the rumours would only appear true if we started suing every gossip magazine out there.” She looks between the two of you, eyes pointed and snake-like. “Both of your reputations are on the line here. We can’t risk making matters worse by feeding theatrics. Especially not right before NYFS,” she turns to you.
By this point you’re just about ready to pick up the leather chair in front of you and launch it at the windows, but instead, you take a seat on it to dampen the urge, shaking your head in disbelief. What the hell were you supposed to do in a situation like this? Speaking against the press would falsely push the rumours to the affirmative, and remaining silent would do the exact same…or perhaps even worse.
Doyoung huffs frustratedly beside you, tossing down the magazines with a loud smack and eyeing Irene seriously. “What else would you suggest then?”
You look up expectantly, feeling the ripples of anxiety in your chest descend into tidal waves, waiting to crash over you as you wish for Irene to announce an oh-holy solution to this mess. You’ve seen the consequences that come with such rumours, watched other designers undergo merciless removal from fashion shows and even their place in the CFDA. But you’ve worked far too hard, stayed up endless nights in your office and on calls – planning, altering, reviewing, discussing the fate of your fall-winter collections. If you’re removed from New York Fashion Week, you can kiss your precious reputation goodbye along with all of Argent’s high-paying bidders. Now all you can hope is the defamation dies down as quickly as it had come.
“I think I should pull out from the show.”
The tidal wave crashes over you, drenching every fibre in your body with the abrupt snap of your neck towards Jaehyun. 
“Excuse me?” you sputter out, the shock of his words cascading through you as he clasps his fingers on the table.
“The rumours started when we were seen together. It’s more likely than not they’ll die down if I distance myself from Argent…at least until after the show.” He looks to his agent. “Irene?”
“He’s right.” Her nod of approval brings down with it a heavy air that expands throughout the suffocating silence of the room. You feel it grabbing at your throat as you turn towards Ten and Doyoung, who to your dismay, both nod back warily.
“But he’s my top model.” Your tightly collected knot slips with the loud slam of your hands against the table, voice raising in a shroud of panic. “He’s the final walker of the show, he’s supposed to end-”
“Well, there won’t be any show if this escalates any further,” Irene interrupts, the loud echo of her voice strumming at the nerves growing deep inside you. “It’ll only be temporary. We’ll have to release a public statement in the coming weeks, and until then not a word should get out to the press.”
You back down, sighing heavily, head shoving into the cold heels of your palms, searching for any form of comfort as it dawns on you that for the first time in your years at the top of the fashion chain, you’re feeling absolutely helpless.
“Is there no other way?” You want to rebuke yourself for the way you look around the room with a new state of vulnerability swirling through your eyes. These are the people you’re supposed to be bossing around, not searching hopelessly for a solution to save your backside. But somewhere in your mind, you know that throwing a temper-tantrum would only push you towards wrong side of the spectrum. You’re the victim here; you’re the one in need of help. But when nobody answers your desperate plea, all you’re left to do is stand from your seat, gulping down the worry with a deep breath.
Losing your top model is better than losing a year’s worth of effort. It isn’t something you suppose, but rather something you’re forced to accept as you look toward Jaehyun with a final sigh. “Jung Jaehyun, you are temporarily dismissed.”
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II. The Grand Toast
Lee Taeyong is a simple man.
He has all but three passions in life; money, writing and toast. And though he’ll never admit it, these three passions are also his three greatest weaknesses, stemming all the way back from his humble beginnings.
Taeyong had lived most of his life in uncertainty, grew up in a little rustic household along the outskirts of New York. Money was always the biggest scarcity; the biggest if that plagued his juvenile mind in times of solitude. He still remembers living pay cheque to pay cheque, watching his mother wake at the crack of dawn to work four tireless jobs; wondering whether or not she’d go to bed with a full stomach that night.
Taeyong remembers seeing the colour drain from his father’s eyes day by day. His old man was a struggling journalist, who spent his tireful days sitting at his old wooden desk surrounded by more piles of crumpled paper than profitable works.
“Don’t ever be a writer, son. You’ll waste your life away.” Taeyong’s father had often spoke these words to him. They were well-meaning in nature, this much Taeyong knew. But nothing could have stopped him from falling in love with the wonderful world of writing and pop culture.
As a child, Taeyong was never granted the luxury of scuffing classroom floors with the spiffy sneakers all his friends wore. He never had the chance to dine at fancy restaurants or drive the hottest wheels, rather learning to enjoy such indulgences through the tall stack of out-seasoned comics and magazines that laid in corner of his room.
Typewrite somehow possessed a certain magic that material possessions never could.
Each night, with delicate hands, Taeyong would dive into each page – every one of them; not a single page went overlooked. And while his body rested in the corner of his room on his twin-sized bed, his mind would drift wild through the boundless limits of his imagination. If he was lucky, his mother would be home early. She’d lull Taeyong from his daydreams with a soft kiss to his temple, and hand him a cool plate with warm slice of buttered toast. This was the most affordable gesture of love he had ever known.
But to this day, his father’s words still linger in the back of his mind every now again.
You’ll waste your life away.
Taeyong tips back the glass flute that now rests between his warm fingers, hissing contentedly at the sweet tingle of pinot that lingers on his tastebuds. He finds a certain comfort in the velvet chair beneath him in this moment, feeling blithe amidst the pleasant murmur of other patrons and the smooth jazz that dampens the tinkling cutlery around the restaurant.
Sorry dad, he thinks to himself, a wry smile forming at his lips.
He had found his calling in journalism years ago, mastering his skills to the point of being offered a columnist job at Luxe, one of New York’s most infamous magazine editorial firms. Since then, he’d expanded his horizons, pitching in on articles in all imaginable sections of a magazine, including – but not limited to – news headlines, home and leisure segments, entertainment issues and even gossip columns.
And with his gracious salary, money no longer became an incessant worry, but a prize for Taeyong; a prize he’d stop at nothing for, so long as it kept filling in his bank account.
“Everyone, I’d like to make a toast.” Taeyong turns a relaxed gaze to his boss, Heechul, who stands in the dim lighting of the restaurant, clinking a dessert fork to the wine glass in his hands and eagerly glancing around the large table that seats the Luxe editorial team. Grinning widely, he raises his glass in Taeyong’s direction. “A toast to the one and only, Mr Lee Taeyong.”
The table erupts in a loud fit of cheers and whistles at the mention of the name, bursting through the once soft ambience of the restaurant. Taeyong smiles, bowing his head bashfully at the pats and nudges he receives from his colleagues.
This isn’t the kind of toast his mother would make him, but it’s a toast, nonetheless.
“This man,” Heechul gestures to him, “is the anonymous genius behind the recent exposé of Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun. His article has broken Luxe’s weekly advertisement and subscription records by three, and I repeat, three full times our average sales.” He sets his glass down, shaking his head dramatically. “Give him a round of applause, everyone.”
Taeyong covers his ears, laughing along as the hollers grow almost deafening among the resonating claps that bounce around through the shiny glassware. The article is the first he’s ever published about fashion figures, and he can’t be prouder of himself than to have broken records with it.
The notion embraces him with the one thing he’s always been dreaming of: certainty. Certainty of his job and abilities, certainty of his money, certainty of his life.
“Why don’t you say a few words, eh?” Heechul sits down as the cheering quietens.
Taeyong nods respectfully, reluctantly pushing out his chair to stand up. “Well, uh,” He clears his throat. “I guess I’ll start by saying a huge thank you to every single person here for their endless support and encouragement on this segment. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass…a lot of the time,” he snorts with a small laugh, earning a few chuckles around the table, “but yes, once again, I couldn’t have done it without our amazing editorial team, so thank you all very much.” Taeyong presses his hands together in thanks, bowing and sitting back down in his seat.
The spotlight sure feels warm now that it shines brightly on his perky cheeks.
As he goes to reach for the wine bottle across the table, Heechul grabs it before him, pouring the dark red liquor into his own glass. “Who knew Y/n would stoop so low as to date her cover model?”
Taeyong doesn’t reply. He doesn’t feel the need to. By now the whole world knows of the fact; other magazines have been prickling with envy for being seconds too late from publishing the news.
Instead, Taeyong nods with a smile, allowing his boss to now fill his flute. Heechul holds his own glass up, which Taeyong gratefully clinks, once again welcoming the burn of pinot as he lifts the heavy glass to his lips.
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Ten stands outside one of Argent’s largest alteration rooms, anxiously peeking through the small crack of the door, watching the way you arrange an extravagant taffeta bow on a model wearing a grey runway dress.
He realises those dead-set features of yours haven’t changed a single bit in the years he’s known you; you’ve always worked with a certain passion in your eyes, a magician’s touch in those fingertips. And though you’ve always been quite the intimidating figure, even the world’s harshest critic would be a fool not to admire the dedication and loyalty you put into every one of your creations.
That is, if you had your main model to promote them all.
He feels himself gulping at the notion, eyeing the piece of paper resting all too serenely on the clipboard clutched in his hands. You had given him the task of finding a model to replace Jaehyun for NYFW, but it was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. Every competent name Ten had racked his brains for sits with a bright red line of ink running straight through it. Now he’s trying to come up with a way to break the news to you.
Without losing his job.
“Quit dallying, Ten, I know you’re outside.”
He quietly gasps at your impassive voice behind the door, gingerly nudging it open just enough to slip through. You can almost feel the tension radiating off your assistant as he steps inside, and it doesn’t take genius to know that something is wrong…well, more wrong than the events of the last week.
“Turn around,” you instruct the model in front of you, taking the fabric clamp resting between your teeth and clipping a pleat together. You glance up at Ten with a sigh. “What’s the issue.” He hasn’t uttered a word, but it’s a given for you to assume the worst by this point.
Jaehyun’s departure a week ago had the opposite effect than intended, only fuelling rumours further; bullshit claims such as ‘it’s all an act to hide the relationship’ and whatnot.
“All the listed models declined.” Ten stands meters away, a hesitant cloud of air floating about his being as he continues, “We don’t have a replacement for Jaehyun, Y/n.”
You feel the energy leaching from you before he even finishes his sentence, stepping back a few feet and dropping into your chair, hands dragging over your face with a groan.
Are you surprised? No, not particularly; at this point, it’s almost as if the universe is making a fortune from your tumbling misery.
Every cloud has a silver lining, every cloud has a silver lining, every cloud has a silver lining.
The phrase does little to alleviate the tension settling in your brows. You wave the model out of the room with a stressed flick of the wrist, waiting until the click of the door resounds before directing hopeless eyes to Ten. 
“No one?” 
He shakes his head with pursed lips. 
“Not even after offering them double salary?”
“No,” he shakes his head again. “They’re all under contract with other labels. No one’s ready to join Argent…especially not after the sca-” You raise a hand before he speaks the word that had all but tipped your perfect world upside-down in the span of a week. And, as you sit here, wrapped in the suffocating turmoil of this word, you feel yourself slipping into a pit of desperation.
You can’t do without a main model. You need a main model for the show.
“Honestly, Ten,” you chuckle dryly, thoroughly amused by your ever-growing list of shortcomings, “We might as well just pluck someone right off the streets at this point.”
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III. Goodbye, World
“What the hell am I doing here?” Taeyong mutters to himself quietly, eyes anxiously flickering around the modern looking room he currently sits in. It’s at least four times the size of his office at Luxe; an immaculate interior space with high-rise ceilings and polished surfaces that reflect his wary expression in every which direction. 
If someone were to ask him why he’s currently sitting in this architectural masterpiece, staring ahead at the silver letters that spell Argent, he wouldn’t be able to come up with a logical answer. One thing he could tell them though, is that he’s scared for his ass.
His eyes flicker to the half-eaten slice of bread pinched between his buttery fingers.
Darn toast.
***
The rich aroma of ground coffee beans and burnt caramel wafts through the chilly city air, warming its way through Taeyong’s lungs as he breathes in the sweet atmosphere around him. He stands in the café’s queue outside, body naturally leaning towards the warmth that radiates from the steaming swirls of creamer beyond the counter, eager to grab his own cup to soothe the frost prickling at his fingertips.
“Excuse me, sir?”
A voice sounds from behind him, fingers lightly tapping at his shoulder as he turns to face a clean-cut man with honey-toned skin and feline features. Taeyong raises his eyebrows. 
“Yes?”
The man clears his throat, tugging his scarf looser. “I apologise if this seems abrupt, but I’m looking to scout a male model,” he extends a hand with a formal smile.
“Uhhh, okay.” Taeyong furrows his eyebrows, offering his own cautious hand out of courtesy, though still unsure why this stranger has decided to approach him during his precious lunch break. “But why are you telling me thi-”
“You satisfy our physical standards.” The man’s tone of voice seems almost rushed and frantic, but somehow maintains a baseline elegance to it as he pushes on. “My name is Ten Lee, my company is desperate, and you seem to look the part,” he sighs heavily, pretentious aura deflating with his hunching back. He stares at Taeyong, a pitifully desperate expression glazing over his features, hands pressing together in front of his face. “Please. It’ll just be for the next month or so…I promise this isn’t a scam.”
Taeyong can only frown in confusion, not a damn clue how to respond to this desperate stranger’s plea. It’s not everyday he gets approached by a strange man to model for a company, but everything about the offer seems to be floating in mid-air; no binding conditions, no mention of a contract, nothing.
And besides, what is this Ten guy even expecting of Taeyong? For him to just drop everything and-
“We’ll pay you double your current salary, I can guarantee it!”
Taeyong perks up at the words, tilting his head to the side in curiosity.
Being paid double his current salary sounds like a dream. He stands there, biting the inside of his cheek in thought, hypnotised like a snake to its charmer at the notion of all that extra cash. He thinks back to his job at Luxe; he’d have to take leave were he to accept the offer.
Taeyong sets aside the better part of his conscience that warns him of all the red flags, waffling over his inexperience in fashion magazine culture. He’s only ever written one article on the topic after all, and given that his job stands on the very basis of experience, he supposes the offer may also be a learning opportunity for his writing in the future.
In a way he’d still technically be doing his job.
“And this…isn’t a scam?” He folds his arms, reluctantly stepping out of queue with a raised eyebrow.
“Absolutely not!” Ten swipes his hands in front of his face to emphasise his point.
“Okay, keep talking,” Taeyong nods, a suspicious lilt in his voice. It’s almost as if his words electrocute Ten with the wide smile that breaks across his face and the extravagant gestures of his revived limbs. 
“Okay, so I’ll give you the address right now and we can-”
“Wait, now?” Taeyong interrupts. “Like, right now?”
Ten simply blinks. “Yes.”
Taeyong sighs to himself, looking longingly towards the café. The same smell of coffee and caramel tugs invitingly at the growing hunger in his stomach as he turns back to Ten. 
“You do realise you’re interrupting my lunch right now.”
Ten’s smile only widens. “No problem, uh…” he trails off, silently giving the blonde man an opening.
“Taeyong,” Taeyong chimes in.
“No problem, Mr Taeyong! we can get you anything you wish to eat at the company.”
Taeyong finds himself interested once again, a tilt to his head as a small grin twitching at his lips. 
“Even toast?”
“Even toast.”
***
So here he now sits, beloved toast in hand, the silver logo in front of him glinting like the devil as he ruminates what a damn fool he was for following Ten straight to the building of Argent Fashion Labels…the very company whose head designer falls victim to this year’s biggest celebrity scandal.
The scandal that Taeyong is equally responsible as he is liable for.
He’s all but convinced now, that Argent had somehow come to know about his writer’s identity. There was no plausible explanation other than someone from Luxe must have ratted his ass out in exchange for a handsome reward. After all, the people Taeyong worked with were exactly like him: money-minded and even more so, money-blinded.
He’s sure of it, that Ten’s previous offer must have been a planned façade to lure him in for interrogation and God knows what else.
Shit, I’m done for.
Taeyong regrets it; not writing the article – he somehow can’t bring himself to regret that one thing among this imminent doom. But he regrets not having thought about the consequences before and after the article’s publishing. Not to mention his inferior position against a world-class fashion company. Taeyong regrets not having realised how he might’ve ended up shooting himself in the foot while chasing the loot at the end of the rainbow. Now all he can see are the rain clouds growing darker and darker along the way, counting down the seconds until he’s homeless on the streets.
It’s only a matter of time, now.
The thought only draws Taeyong’s attention to the massive silver clock that ticks loudly on the left wall. He frustratedly tosses his toast back onto the plate on the coffee table in front of him, foot tapping anxiously against the shiny marble tiles.
Bloody hell, why is everything in this place silver?
He jumps in surprise as the door behind him opens, sending a cool wave of air fanning over the back of his neck. Immediately standing up, he turns around to be met with none other than you, Y/n Y/l/n, striding in his direction; an utterly unreadable expression on your face as Ten follows punctually behind. Everything about you excludes a certain power, from the way your heels click loudly against the tiles beneath you, to your blouse that flows with every intimidating step taken forward. You’re breathtaking. Literally; Taeyong almost forgets to breathe, gulping as you sit at the desk in front of him, Ten standing beside you. It doesn’t take him long to know his place in the room.
“Mr Lee Taeyong.”
 “Yes, ma’am,” he promptly replies.
This is it, goodbye, world
“I understand you’ve agreed to model under Argent for the next month.” You clasp your hands on the table, eyeing the man who sits in front of you. You’re almost compelled to scrunch your nose at the faint scent of butter that lingers around your office, noticing a small plate on the coffee table with a half-eaten piece of toast sitting in it.
It takes Taeyong a few seconds too long to process what you say, and he’s not sure whether it’s because of the nerves that bounce around inside his chest, or because he’s distracted by the way your voice wraps around your words so exquisitely.
He finally nods.
But as you look at him, you can’t help but feel that something isn’t right. He’s quite attractive if you’d say so yourself; wide eyes, pale skin, slim physique; he could very probably measure up to Jaehyun in visual regard. But despite this, everything else about the man has you questioning his competency for the job. Taeyong’s very appearance has you wondering exactly how experienced he is. For starters, all of his clothes are out-seasoned – not a single designer item in sight – and his dirty blonde hair appears as if he’d simply ran a hand through it and called it a day.
“May I ask which modelling agency you’ve come from?”
Taeyong furrows his eyebrows at the seemingly candid tone in your voice, wondering if it’s all just an act to catch him in his own trap. Your own eyebrows knit together upon seeing his puzzled state, growing suspicious as you clear your throat for him to answer. He looks up in a panic, the words spilling from his mouth before he’s able to control them.
“I-I didn’t come from a modelling agency.”
“Is that so?” You turn to look at Ten with narrowed eyes, tongue poking your cheek menacingly as you tilt your head in question. Said man only looks at you innocently.
You glance back at Taeyong. “I’m sorry, could you give us a moment?”
He nods as you drag Ten out of the office, making sure to close the doors on your way (without slamming them, as hard as the task fares). 
“Why do I have a clueless imbecile sitting in my office?” you hiss, voice stone-cold and harsh, accompanied by the tapping of your impatient foot as your arms cross over your chest.
“We were desperate, and he fits the standards,” Ten snaps back, jutting his head forcefully in the direction of the door. “What more do you want?”
You scoff, pointing a rigid finger toward him. 
“You said you’d hire an experienced model-”
“You said we should pick someone off the streets!”
“Oh my god, Ten!” You stand stupefied out of your skin, grip over your dwindling sanity loosening as your fists instead begin to clutch at the air in frustration. “I didn’t mean it literally!” you screech out as quietly as possible so Taeyong doesn’t hear from inside. You suck in sharp breath through your nose and release it with an exasperated sob, head hanging heavy with the exhaustion that piles on top of all your existing woes.
“I have half the mind to fire you right now.” You lean back against the cold wall, the words slip out quietly against your better judgement, though you know you don’t mean them, and you know Ten knows it too.
“We don’t have anyone else right now, Y/n,” he voices out defeatedly. “We’re lucky this guy even agreed on such short notice.”
You close your eyes, cursing the writer of that godforsaken article a thousand times more before sighing and speaking up, “Have you done a background check?”
“He’s all clear.”
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“So that’s it, you’re just going to leave Luxe?” Heechul sits down in his chair, disbelief warping a tensed display over his conventionally relaxed features.
“Only until after New York Fashion Week,” Taeyong mutters half-heartedly, eyes sauntering around Heechul’s office for perhaps the thousandth time, distracted by the way the room suddenly seems inappreciable compared to your office at Argent.
Every corner of his desk is covered either with cover plans, or untidy notebooks filled with gaudy page markers that stick out in every which direction. The tall shelves behind hold an array of old, weathered books, untouched and probably collecting dust along their thick spines. The office is not a mess in its entirety per say, just highly unorganised; a factor that diminishes the modern touch the room had once possessed years ago. 
Your office, by contrast, was a lot cleaner and shinier and spacious than this.
“Taeyong, you’re our best writer. You can’t expect me to just let you go like this for a month,” Heechul sighs.
“Heechul,” Taeyong moves to the edge of his seat in hopes to convince his boss. “I’m just going for the journalist experience. Nothing more, nothing less.”
It’s partly the truth, he thinks to himself. Heechul didn’t need to know about the money side of the job; it’s not his business to. Besides, what’s a little white lie worth in the grand scheme of things?
Heechul eyes Taeyong sceptically. “And they don't know about the article?”
“Not as far as I know,” Taeyong smirks, leaning back in his seat once again, watching as Heechul’s conflicted expression morphs into one of defeat.
“Okay.”
Taeyong nods enthusiastically, thrusting himself out of his seat with a widening grin
“But on one condition.”
Heechul’s words stop him in his tracks, earning a questioning look from him.
Conditions are never good news.
He watches as a sly smile stretches on Heechul’s face. “You go undercover into Argent building and write a debunking article by the end of the month.”
Undercover?
Taeyong narrows his eyes at the man, almost swearing he sees a sinister glint swirling somewhere around the black of his pupils. Writing is Taeyong’s forte; the condition just seems all too convenient given he’s single-handedly resigning from his job for a month. He wonders if he’s reading too much into the situation, something which Heechul seems to take notice of. “Oh, come on, I bet there’s a lot of scum behind those silver doors. We already got a glimpse of it...” he trails of suggestively.
He’s got a point, Taeyong ponders. It’ll be easy money.
“Will I get paid for it?” he asks.
“Sure will,” Heechul links his hands across his scattered papers, the same devious expression on his face. Something about him in this moment feels unnerving to Taeyong, but he just can’t tell what, so instead he decides to cut his losses and bite the bullet.
“Consider it done.”
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IV. Depraved Little Devil
“You’re late.”
“It’s six thirty-eight in the morning!” Taeyong chokes out in disbelief. He was all but expecting to be greeted with a lovely ‘good morning, thank you for your time’, but this is what he gets?
“Yes,” you finally tear your gaze away from the papers, straightening in your seat with a dazzlingly professional smile to mask the annoyance in your voice. “And that makes you eight minutes off mark.”
Taeyong scoffs internally. Debunk point number one: mistreatment of employees.
He slumps down into the black couch opposite you, eyeing the way you sit there, hair in a tight bun, twirling a pen between your fingers as if you’ve just attended three back-to-back meetings and opened a new fashion line in the process.
“I didn’t even have breakfast,” he mumbles aloud, an obnoxious yawn leaving his lips. Frustrated fingers scoop through his dishevelled hair, tugging lightly at the roots while he regrettably hopes this isn’t the life he’s obliged himself to for the next month.
“That’s not my problem, Mr Lee.” You pick up the schedule Ten had made from the corner of your desk, eyeing over the long list of jobs with a deep sigh.
The whole scouting process was usually fairly simple. You’ve rarely needed to worry about training your models as most have been hired from prestigious agencies with plenty of experience. But given Taeyong’s complete lack thereof, you’ve taken it upon yourself to be his mentor – at least for the first week or so. And though it’s a huge inconvenience to say the least, it’s something you’ve long decided must be done if Argent is to keep its name in the fashion industry.
“Well,” you stand, schedule clutched tightly. “We’ve a long day ahead of us, so please follow me.” You walk to your office door, holding it open for the man who doesn’t even have the decency to budge from his seat. “Promptly, Mr Lee,” you articulate the words loudly, piquing with irritation and forcing your eyes shut to prevent burning holes in the back of his head. There are only so many hours in a day, and it’s last thing you need for him to be uncooperative given the constraints.
“Please, it’s Taeyong.”
There's a certain lilt in his voice that compels you to open your eyes, somehow warning you of your ‘do-or-die’ predicament. He turns around, still sitting all too comfortably on the sofa, meeting your eyes with his own raised eyebrows.
“And Miss Y/l/n, are you really going to make me work on an empty stomach?”
─── ⪧ ⪦ ───
“Yeah, this one will need a lot of work.”
You turn to your Models Manager, Johnny, who stands beside you shaking his head at the scene before him.
“You think so?” you mumble anxiously, following Johnny’s gaze to Taeyong who humours himself with one of the stylists across the studio, happily munching away at the buttery piece of toast he’d coaxed earlier.
“Oh, honey, I know so,” Johnny clicks his tongue, crossing his arms while examining the man in front of him.
“Yeah, me too I guess,” you sigh in vanquish, the gravity of the situation weighing down heavily on your shoulders. Taeyong is proving to be more of an intricate piece of work by the minute, and it’s going to take an unconventional amount of effort to make a worthy prototype of him.
“Height is going to be an issue too.” Johnny taps at his chin, eyes slitted as he turns to you. “Jaehyun’s a real asshole for leaving you on the edge like this.”
You sigh, eyes fixating on a silver spool of satin resting in the far corner of the room. 
“He had reason to.”
“Well, that’s a load of crap,” Johnny snorts. “He can’t just leave and expect everything to be normal again. That’s not how showbiz works, Y/n, I mean see for yourself, the rumours have only grown since then.”
I know, goddamnit!
You want to scream the words out loud, let them grab at Johnny’s throat and shut him up. But of course, they remain at the back of your own throat, stuck alongside the anxious lump that manifested a week ago. The words are there, but only for you and your racing mind to hear each time you swallow them down.
“But,” Johnny drawls out, nudging your side before suddenly retracting in fear as you send an icy gaze to him. It seems not just him, but even your other employees have been getting a little too comfortable around you in the past week. Suffice to say, you’re not the least bit impressed by the informality.
“Out of turn,” you voice sternly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Johnny nods immediately.
“Continue.” You turn back to Taeyong who now sifts through a rack of clothing with another stylist, grimacing at the thought of his greasy fingers staining the fabric. Just as you’re preparing to march straight ahead and grab Taeyong by the ears, Johnny speaks up.
“I was saying,” He stops you in your tracks. “Every cloud has a silver lining. Right?”
And just like clockwork, the words don’t allow you to take another step forward, clearing away the hot steam pelting up inside you with a fresh, cool air. You feel your fingers uncurl from their place in your palms – not having realised they were fisted so tight in the first place – and sigh once more, nodding to Johnny.
“You’re right.” The phrase sits bitter on your tongue. It’s not something you’re accustomed to voicing aloud, but it seems just about everyone except you is right these days – either that, or you’re just always a couple steps behind, and it’s something you’re not all that thrilled about.
“This guy’s a tough one, but don’t you worry.” Johnny sends you a sympathetic smile. “We’ll make a star out of him yet.” He side-steps past you with three loud claps echoing around the high white ceilings of the room, walking toward Taeyong. “Alright mister, hands off the racks, we’re not at that stage yet.”
You watch the comical way Taeyong jumps at Johnny’s sudden intrusion, almost amused by the way he blinks up like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed with cheeks slightly puffed out with the last few chews of bread. He tilts his head past Johnny’s figure, sending you a questioning look.
“We’re affiliated with SM Agency, but our models are all trained here at Argent as we have specific requirements.” You step forward, gesturing to the tall man beside you. “This is Johnny. He’ll be your personal manager, trainer and agent for the coming weeks.”
“My personal manager?” Taeyong raises his eyebrows in surprise, not remotely used to the prospect of having his own personal manager. A columnist assistant is the best he’s ever gotten with his job at Luxe – and that too on the luckiest of days.
“You betcha,” Johnny clicks his tongue with a bright smile.
Neat and gaudy; these are the first two words that come to mind as Taeyong scans Johnny from head to toe. The man is neat in the way his neck-length hair is pushed back with just enough gel to keep it looking fluffy but still elegant. His outfit is what makes him look so gaudy; a fitted white suit with a red silk shirt. Both items of clothing are far too bright, blinding even, as Taeyong blinks away to save his poor eyes.
“Shall we?” You turn to Johnny who nods.
“Let’s.”
“Let’s what?” Taeyong shifts his eyes between you and Johnny and back again, watching as you hail the two stylists from earlier.
“We’re going to take some measurements,” the words barely leave Johnny’s freakishly heart-shaped lips as the stylists step forward.
Taeyong’s personal bubble is all but reduced to a vanquished nothingness as the ladies pull the measuring tapes from their necks and slide them around either one of his wrists. The strips of silver glint and sparkle under the scintillate lighting from above, catching Taeyong’s startled gaze as the stylists make quick work of wrapping them around every inch of his arms. Stunned as he may be, he can’t help the small laughs that leave his lips at the tickle of the plastic on his skin. A ghost of the sensation lingers as the frantic scene stands still every few seconds, filled with scratches of lead on small notepads that record the numbers, before continuing until the tingles vibrate all the way to the top of his arms – wrists to forearms to elbows to biceps. The ladies then abruptly step back, much to Taeyong’s confusion.
“Sir, we need to measure the torso,” one of them speaks, a sort of pinkness washing over her cheeks.
“Okay,” he nonchalantly raises his arms out to his sides, shivering slightly at the cool air that wafts into his shirt. But the stylists don’t step forward, planted still in their spots, causing Taeyong eyebrows to knit tighter together.
“Take your shirt off, Taeyong, we don’t have all day,” Johnny’s voice echoes from a couple metres away.
“Huh?” Taeyong’s eyes blow wide in shock.
“Damn, he really doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Johnny mutters through his smile, and you have to purse your lips to repress your own smile before it denounces your self-possession.
Taeyong almost humbles himself at Johnny’s gesture to get on with it. He feels a confliction gripping at his wrists as his fingers toy with the hem of his shirt. He’s not typically the self-conscious type, but he doesn’t know how else to describe the feeling that creeps up his spine as all the eyes fixed on him in this moment become a little too apparent.
Paycheque, whispers the depraved little devil in Taeyong’s mind, and it’s almost appalling to him how quickly his fingers proceed to tug off the flimsy fabric. He leaves himself to his own devices, exposed on an ephemeral whim that forces him to stomach a small pit of regret in its wake. However, time and task leave no room for awkward silences as the measuring tape passes around the tender of Taeyong’s waist. He stiffens at the cold sensation, trying his best not to retract with every tickle, thanking the third entity that once again revives the bustling conversation around him. He allows the stylists to have their way, opting to distract himself along the clean lines and edges of the studio.
You, on another hand, stand meters away observing Taeyong with equal amounts of confusion and curiosity lacing through your features, realising that Ten’s judgement had indeed hit the bullseye days ago when he’d first brought Taeyong to Argent. Taeyong’s proportions are almost idyllic for a man who apparently survives off butter and bread; just enough muscle in his arms and stomach to show off beneath a lace top, just the perfect amount of slender appeal to fashion a suit and tie. It puzzles you to no end. Most rookies have to be given strict diet and exercise plans to meet Argent’s requirements.
Perhaps this is the silver lining Johnny was talking about earlier; not having to issue health monitoring for the next few weeks.
“His body makes up for expertise, I guess,” Johnny mutters in surprise.
You wonder if he’d read your mind, but your arrogance doesn’t allow the silence to drag on too long, replying with a complacent, “Like you said, height is an issue.”
He shrugs. “Nothing a good old pair of insoles can’t fix.”
“He’s on the skinnier side.”
“And yet you’re still staring.”
Johnny’s words catch you off-guard, and it’s when your eyes stop at Taeyong’s elbow that you realise the statement lingers blatantly true in the air; you are, indeed, staring at him. But it’s too late to deny the fact, so you rather turn to Johnny, concealing any shock with a stubbornly unamused expression. 
“It’s my job to stare.”
“It’s your job to stare at clothes,” Johnny counters with a quirked eyebrow, “which he’s not wearing any of.”
“He’s wearing pants-”
“You’re staring at his pants?” Johnny raises an eyebrow, an insolent smirk finding his face.
Your lips part slightly before you’re able to help it, an unsolicited warmness filling your cheeks as your eyebrows furrow in a mix of anger and embarrassment. 
“No,” you avert your gaze to the whiteness of the walls, “I’m not.”
You have every right to fire Johnny for implying something so absurd, but the notion that only he can help transform the shirtless nobody in front of you into a piece of art, stops you. It’s your duty to make sure Taeyong is well-trained for NYWF, and you’re going to make a star of him even if it’s the last thing you do.
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There’s only a handful of things Taeyong gravely lacks in, and fashion – and anything remotely related to the word – is one of them. It has always been an otherworldly concept to him, a foreign language he couldn’t even begin to make sense of, let alone articulate for himself. 
Four days into the new job have shown him the sleek work ethic of Argent and its employees. Everything about the place has been far beyond his means; all much too different to the usual job he’d grown passionately accustomed to over the years. He’s seen enough vibrant mood boards and fabric spools to last him through his next lifetime, peeked through and scattered a few too many fingerprints on the many polished windows of miscellaneous rooms.
Today, the job brings Taeyong to his first fashion shoot.
He blinks at the fool of a man that stares back at him in the full-length mirror, wearing a velvet turquoise suit with silvered cuffs, a grey vest of some unnamed exotic fabric inside of the suit, and a pair of yellow-tinted…ski goggles?
The entire look is offbeat; eccentric in colour and much too flashy with the strips of silver running down each leg of the pants. It’s a drastic change from the plain black jeans and shirt Taeyong had picked from his closet that same morning. He eyes himself, vision slightly obscured by the yellow filter of the goggles. It makes everything appear a couple decades older as if it were part of a picture snapped in the 80’s. 
When his eyes flick to your reflection in the mirror, he pauses. Even you look a few decades back-dated with your pencil skirt and tucked-in sweater. In Taeyong’s eyes, you could almost pass for a timeless fashion icon; famed and fawned over in an era far behind you. All you needed now were a pair of satin gloves, sunglasses and a round-brimmed hat. He’s surprised to see that your expression appears moderately impressed as you eye his outfit – a stark contrast from the louring grimace he’d expected to find. In the time he’s known you, he can’t recall having seen you smile even once.
Not that you’re smiling right now, just not frowning.
“Okay, not bad,” you nod, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. You’d originally designed the suit with Jaehyun in mind; as unconventional as it is, Jaehyun was the only model that was certain to wear it well. But of course, you haven’t had the chance to see him wear it given the circumstances, so there’s a certain comfort in know Taeyong is able to fashion it nicely in his stead.
“How do people even pay money for this?” The words roll off Taeyong’s tongue with a genuine incredulity that doesn’t quite sit well with your temperament. Any hint of appreciation on your face is torn away by the scowl that settles in place, annoyed as ever at his remark.
“Clearly, you’re lacking knowledge to throw about thoughtless questions like that,” you announce, walking forward and turning him around to face you. Your fingers automatically pinch at the lapels, folding them the right way and flattening the fabric around Taeyong’s neck and shoulders. Nothing bugs you more than an unfixed collar.
“Well, I won’t deny it,” he replies nonchalantly.
There’s something about him that is so infuriating, and you’re not sure whether it’s the assured way he speaks that irks a certain displeasure in you, or the fact that he’s your last resort for the biggest show of the year. It’s still unfathomable how you’re going to survive the next month with him, and that too in the name of saving not only your company but also your backside.
However, as hard as the task stands, today is about finding Taeyong’s flattering angles, not his trying faults.
When you both make your way into the shooting room, you push your frustrations aside, deciding wasting energy is futile in any case; blissful ignorance would the best way to go from here on out.
You watch with intent as the photographers guide Taeyong to a stool in front of the grey backdrop set up in the middle of the back wall. All it takes is a few instructions from them before softboxes begin their blinding light shows, flashing with every click of the cameras. Amidst it all, you stand surprised at how well Taeyong poses for the camera; chin up, eyes sharp and lips parted. You eye the way he repositions himself on the stool, can’t help but take note of a certain poise that exudes in his movements as he shifts a foot to the ground; a suave flow that over the years you’ve ascertained only ever came naturally to a person, or never at all.
“Did you practice your expressions?” you ask, referring to the list of facial expressions Johnny had given Taeyong to rehearse a couple days prior. However, your question is left suspended in the air as Taeyong turns to you. His eyes meet your own with the same intensity he’d shown to the camera, lips curling up into a devious smirk that pulls you back from the indifference you’d sworn on yourself minutes prior.
“Why? Are they good?” The words pull one corners of his lips slightly higher.
You’re not given the chance to reply with a “surprisingly so,” as a loud ringing from behind interrupts you. You turn to the refreshments table and pick up the phone, eyebrows furrowing at the caller ID.
Kim Heechul
The name sits familiar in your mind somewhere, though you’re not able to place an exact finger on where you’ve seen it before.
“Who is it?” Taeyong calls.
“Kim…Heechul?” The words leave your mouth in a question.
You watch the way Taeyong’s eyes widen and abruptly drop, as if to hide the obvious tension that fills him from head to toe. His once-soft features harden in a split second, shoes echoing loudly against the tiles as he steps off the stool, almost knocking it over while hastily making his way to you. He snatches the phone from your grasp, sending nothing but a hesitant glance your way, leaving you to stare in bewilderment at the double doors that swing with the phantom of his hard shove through them.
“Y/n?”
You turn to the photographers who stand with equally puzzled faces. 
“Give him a minute, he’ll be back.”
And when he does walk in minutes later, the tension seems to hang even heavier from his limbs as he stiffly places the phone back on the refreshments table, lips pursed, hands fidgeting and ears tinted slightly red.
Stringent as you may be, you feel a genuine worry somewhere inside you at his suddenly bothered state, feeling an intrinsic need to ask him:
“Is everything okay?”
When he turns around, you decide he must either be a really good actor, or a master at hiding his emotions, as all ounce of malaise seems to have evaporated from his face, replaced with his signature smile that voices the words:
“More than okay.”
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Taeyong leans back in his chair, groaning into the heel of his palms. His laptop glares back at him in the darkness of his home office, a full page of words typed skilfully on the white document taunting him in the brimming silence of what most people would call a mind blank.
“Shit, what was it?” His eyes squeeze shut, fingers pressing into his temple in attempt to recall the idea his memory had lost while trying to note down his previous points.
It has been a week since the day Ten had snatched Taeyong from his lunch break and thrust him into the curious world of Argent Fashion Labels. Everything in between then and now has been a hectic whirlwind of ridiculous outfits, blinding cameras and boundless strips of spangly silver; each passing day bringing with it a multitude of new experiences, and each new experience bringing tasks and trials galore…oh, and some fabulous points for his debunking article.
As it turns out, modelling for a world-class fashion label is a lot harder than Taeyong had originally anticipated. He can’t recall a time his solace has ebbed and flowed as much as it has in the past week.
Unsurprisingly, his problems all seem to stem from a single entity within Argent’s walls.
You.
You, with your ridiculously hefty standards. You, with your unbearable personality. You, with those sharp eyes; the same pair Taeyong would call beautiful, were it not for the scrutiny they hold every time they meet his own from across the room.
That certainly isn’t to say there haven’t been some decent experiences. For starters, he’s had the chance to wear clothes worth more than his entire wardrobe, and as ridiculous as they look, they are invaluable in every sense of the word. He’s also been able to acquire some basic knowledge of the fashion industry in general, which could prove to help him in his future writing endeavours. He is grateful for these things, of course, but the only thing that really keeps him around is the dough that awaits at the end of the month.
Money always takes precedence, and if his next article becomes a hit…
***
The doors swing heavily behind, sending a surge of cool air fanning Taeyong’s back as his feet carry him a safe distance away from the shooting room.
Man, that was close.
He thumbs at the answer button on his phone, pressing his ear to the speaker as the ringer dies down. “Hello?”
“Ahh, Taeyong, how are things going so far at Argent?”
The voice over the line only draws a sigh from Taeyong as he murmurs back an apathetic, “Heechul, now’s not a good time.”
The man chuckles. “No problem. I Just wanted to make sure you haven’t forgotten our deal.”
“Yeah, the article, I know,” he hurriedly answers, cautiously eyeing his surroundings for potential listeners.
“The debunking article,” Heechul emphasises.
Taeyong doesn’t reply, rather biting at the inside of his cheek, anticipation finding his tensed features as he distractedly scans every corner of the ceiling for security cameras.
“You’re getting paid for this, remember. Don’t make me regret sending you to Argent.”
***
The article must be an immaculate work of art, this much Taeyong is certain of.
He sits in pensive silence for minutes on end, willing for the fog to clear his mind. But it doesn’t take long to realise the futility in trying to overcome writer’s block at half twelve in the morning, so with a heavy-lidded gaze, he shuts his laptop, rolling his neck and shoulders with a small wince. If there’s one thing all these years in journalism have taught Taeyong, it’s that writing and back pain are an uncompromising package deal.
He eyes the magazine that rests beside his laptop, reaching over to scan over the glossed paper with a deep grimace.
HANDSOME IN CHEEK, ANONYMOUS IN THE STREET Meet the new mystery stunner of Argent Fashion Labe-
Taeyong closes his eyes with a snort, saving himself the effort of further reading. He can’t help but shake a bang at those ridiculous words, even more so, at the picture of himself seated on the same stool from days ago, wearing the same turquoise suit with the same grey turtleneck, and those godforsaken yellow goggles.
Absolutely ridiculous.
The Vogue issue resting idly in his hands is one of the many that were released earlier in the week. Taeyong has garnered an unprecedented amount of attention since then; despite merely being an unnamed face on the cover of a magazine the number of young women noticing him on the street has been growing by day.
A sly smile tugs at the corner of his lips, a finger tapping rhythmically at his chin.
“Perhaps I could get used to this.”
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Crazy.
She must be crazy.
“I’m walking the final runway at New York Fashion Week?” The words sputter haphazardly from Taeyong’s mouth, finger jabbing painfully into his sternum as he stares dumbfoundedly at your seated figure across the room. “What about Jaehyun? Doesn’t he usually do it?”
Taeyong watches the way you tentatively sip at the steaming cup of green tea in your hands. Your appearance is no different than usual, prim and proper in your black work dress, hair tied high in a tight, formal bun, and eyes still filled with that same stunning contempt.
What he doesn’t see, however, is the panic that lies hidden behind the deep creases of your demeanour; the way your pulse quickens in apprehension of having to fully explain your situation to him. You can only attempt to gather the scattered traces of solace from deep within you, sighing in defeat. 
“Look, I’m sure you’re aware of the article that was released just over a week ago.”
Taeyong makes a genuine display of himself, nodding in faux conviction as your voice grazes his hears.
If only she knew.
“Well, to put it lightly, whoever wrote it was gravely misinformed.” You avert your gaze to your office windows, a deep sigh pushing past your lips.
“Wait you’re…” Taeyong’s eyebrows knitting together in confusion, a small sinking feeling whirling in the depths of his chest, “you’re not dating Jaehyun?”
“No,” you reply.
Taeyong watches the way a sorrowful smile pulls your lips up, your eyes trained somewhere along the bustling city streets outside. “Jaehyun is taking a break from Argent, and…” Your words weigh heavily in your own mind, though you can no longer bring yourself to show any more anger for them. You’ve long decided that it is what it is, and the situation can’t be helped; that the punches are either to be copped in the gut or rolled with, and that the latter option fared best in the grand scheme of things.
Your eyes find themselves to Taeyong’s.
“…you’re really our only hope for the show, Taeyong.”
Taeyong sits opposite you in a state of confused conflict, wrapped up in a harsh turmoil as he realises his horrible mistake.
You and Jung Jaehyun are not a couple.
He hadn’t thought about the very possible fact when he’d written the article. It hadn’t even once crossed his mind when he’d sent it in for publishing. But at the same time, it wasn’t right for you to have withheld the information that his only business at Argent was to be Jaehyun’s makeshift replacement...
“Please.”
Now, there’s something new swirling in your eyes, something Taeyong has never seen or heard before in your voice. He’s not sure how to respond, brows furrowing from not hearing the usual malice along your words, guilt sinking through his skin as they hang unadulterated in the air. It’s his fault you’re sitting here pleading him to help you out, his own carelessness that has now labelled him ‘Argent’s new handsome model’, his own greed that has every magazine plastered with his face on the front cover.
But regardless of the fact, Taeyong has gotten himself into this mess and there’s no way he can back out of it now.
Three small nods come from the man in front of you, and you’re not sure you’ve ever felt such a relief ripple through your being before this very moment.
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V. Teach Me How to Walk
“Have a good night, Joy, I’ll call you back for a final fitting. A week or so, tops,” you bid your model goodbye with a smile, turning to hang a green houndstooth two-piece on the clothing rack beside a box of assorted fabrics.
“Thank you, Y/n, have a good night yourself,” she smiles before stepping out, the click of the door the only static company left in the large alteration room. You flop down into the swivel chair behind the sewing table, eyes crossing to the loose strand of hair that tickles across your cheeks. You blow at it once, twice, three times, eventually thumbing it away to save it from landing in your eye again.
“All in a day’s work,” the words whisper past your chapped lips in a deep sigh as you toy with a loose strip of silver satin, wrist rising to face view.
9:18 PM
You’ve gone overtime by an hour and eighteen minutes, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you relish in the first solitary silence of the day, absentmindedly weaving the satin through your fingers, gaze trained on the clothing racks. Your eyes flick from hanger to hanger, inspecting the numerous outfits that brush up against each other – some with their silver linings peeking out, other with them concealed between laces and fine cottons.
It’s now that you realise your smile is still bright and prevalent on your face, feeling a little light and airy in your seat. 
There’s only two weeks to go until the show and things are finally beginning to look up. As it turns out, recruiting Taeyong might have been your best decision yet – a silver lining to the cloud, if you will. Since his Vogue debut the week before the scandal rumours have narrowed down tenfold, and the paparazzi, shallow as they ever be, now distractedly hover over ‘Argent’s new mystery model’. As per some genius advice from Doyoung, you’d purposely kept things discreet by only revealing Taeyong’s face to the public eye; no name, no personality, just a few head and body shots. It’ll save the audience a heart attack on show day, Doyoung had said. Discretion had also proven to be an excellent marketing strategy as bidding offers once again pile high and heavy. To top it all off, your clothing lines are on their final inspection rounds, and today has been a highly productive day for you, all much to your delight.
You hum contentedly, pushing up from your seat to grab your coat and handbag. You take the satin that still rests limp and gorgeous in your hand, tying it loosely around a handle of your bag and walking to the door. You turn back to the room with a final grin. On a normal day, you’d have frowned at the scattered fabrics on the tables, but right now, the mess seems brilliant to you, painting the room vibrantly with potential of becoming something remarkable given a few clean stitches.
With a hand reaching out to flick the lights off, you step out, only to immediately pause at the sound of muffled music from the other end of the dimmed hallway.
Strange, you wonder, everyone should have gone home by now.
The music grows less and less obscure with every step you take forward, eventually bringing you outside a room you like the call ‘The Walkway’. With a hand pressing gently against the door, you peer inside, surprised to find Taeyong’s blonde mop of hair strutting up and down the long platform with exaggerated effort. It’s only your duty to note he’s not doing the finest job at it, but the determined pout on his concentrated features strikes down all your criticisms like a bowling ball. Somewhere in their stead blooms an unforeseen fondness for his efforts, shining bright as the narrow beam of light glowing upon on your smile through the crack of the door.
You watch as Taeyong groans in frustration, a small giggle leaving your lips only to be immediately covered by the slap of your hands, eyes wide in shock at yourself.
What is this? Why were you giggling like twelve-year-old at a grown-ass man struggling to walk?
The answer to your question lies in another unsuppressed laugh from your own lips, flowing freely with the music that surrounds Taeyong tripping over himself on the other side. You realise you’re giggling because it’s actually funny – endearing even, though you’re not able to conjure the thought as your feet push forward on their own accord, carefully leading you inside until the light of the room bathes you with its glow.
“Hey,” you voice out, trying to catch Taeyong’s attention amidst the music. Though, it’s apparently a futile effort given his lack of reaction.
“Taeyong.”
Still no response.
With a huff, you grab the speaker remote secured to the wall, silence resounding in a tumultuous wave as you the hit pause button. Taeyong whips his head around, frustration ever-evident in his face, only to melt away in the second he catches you standing to the side.
“Oh, don’t let me interrupt you, I was just on my way to grab some popcorn,” you jab a thumb behind your shoulder, amusement strung high in your eyebrows and in the curl of your lips.
Taeyong rolls his eyes, traces of sweat glistening on his neck as he takes a swing of the bottle resting on a chair at the edge of the platform. 
“And she smiles, folks.”
You set your things down and take a seat, grin somehow widening though without the slightest effort of restraint. 
“Mm, and you should consider yourself lucky to see it,”
“Mmmm, I do,” Taeyong hums back, imitating you with a fascination strewn to his brows. He’d like to think that among other things, your reins had loosened a little since the day you clarified the scandal to him. Formal talk has all but reduced to trivial bantering and back-and-forths between the two of you, which, according to Taeyong’s books, is progress at the very least. It was almost as if each passing day was peeling away the layers of stubborn temperament that made you, and beneath each unearthed layer was a beautiful set of lips that seemed to tug close and closer to your eyes every time, emerging a little brighter in the mornings and lasting vibrantly well into the evenings. It was contagious, your smile; something Taeyong was only just realising with the witty lilt and small mischief that often quirked around its soft creases.
“What are you doing here so late?” you ask, though the answer is plastered blatantly in every corner of the room and in the sweat that lines Taeyong’s forehead. He huffs as he sits in the seat beside you, expression falling at the drop of a hat. His last few days had consisted of making efforts to channel his guilt into honing his modelling skills, and much to his surprise, things had been fairly simple once he’d set his mind to them. But there’s just one thing he still can’t seem to get.
“The walk,” Taeyong combs a hand through his hair frustratedly, “I just can’t get it down.”
“I’d honestly be surprised if you did,” you hum, the soft haze to your voice catching Taeyong miles off guard, plainly evident in his dumbstruck features. It draws a chuckle from you, watching his otherwise round eyes expand further before softening at the genuine melody that comes from your throat. “You’ve only had, like – what – two weeks? It can take the average model months to perfect.”
“This must be your first non-attack on my ego,” he mutters, ruffling another hand through his hair.
You really can’t seem to figure out how your mouth manoeuvres itself into yet another upturned stretch, but it seems you’re not in any rush to as your voice too leaves you at its own grant.
“Would you like a hand?”
Taeyong raises his eyebrows, very clearly surprised at your offer. 
“In walking? Aren’t you a fashion designer?”
“No,” you simply state, earning a quizzical look from him as you stand and walk to the large platform in the middle, turning around to with a sly expression painting your features, “I’m a jack of all trades. Fashion design is just my royal flush.”
“So you’ve modelled before?”
“I’ve had my fair share of walking time.” 
And it isn’t a lie. It was almost a piety for all the best fashion designers to take modelling classes as part of their early training to understand the scope of their clients.
Your nonchalant shrug renders Taeyong thoroughly impressed as he follows your path to the empty catwalk, nodding in approval. “For once I feel like listening to you,” he crosses his arms with a small tilt to his head, “Funny.”
“Very,” you deadpan.
“Fine, then. Teach me how to walk.”
It still sounds absolutely ridiculous to Taeyong; having to have someone to teach him how to walk of all things. He’s never had to think about the way he walks before. It was just another absent-minded task in the daily turnover of his life; writing didn’t require walking as a trained qualification, the only walking he needed to do was from his own office to the bathroom and back.
He makes his way to the back end of the platform. You follow his path, a warm tightness igniting in your chest at the therapeutic click of your heels with every step as you count along the rows of chairs neatly lined on either side. They’re black; unfilled by bustling guests, soundless amid the white walls that edge them. You turn back around to the empty room, nostalgia blanketing the forefront of your mind. You suppose to the third person, it would simply look like any other empty catwalk, the plainest of scenes with a pretentious prospect. But to you, the ceilings echo high with years of vibrant memories, from Argent’s first fashion show within these very walls, to the numerous others you’d hosted in between. You can almost hear the clacking of cameras, see their flashes clear in the crisp silence as it warmly embraces you. That is, of course, until Taeyong cuts through it all.
“Any time now would be great, thanks,” he mithers, tapping on your shoulder.
Suffice to say, the idiot is lucky you’re having a good day.
You ignore him with an exaggerated roll of the eyes, instead standing tall and dignified, announcing, “Cat walking is simple. Half of it is in the mindset, and the other half is in the posture. Here.” You reach out to his arm and drag him closer a little too quickly for your mind to keep up, leaving you no choice but to ignore the split-second warmth of his skin under your palm before your hands retract back again. “Don’t overthink anything too much. Just keep your shoulders back, but still relaxed.” You follow the direction of your own words, shoulders rolling to a neutral position. “Head straight.” You raise your head up. “Gaze focused.” You point a finger forward, focusing your eyes on the clock hanging on the far wall. “Don’t sway your hips, and most importantly, try to make it look natural.” You turn to Taeyong. “Watch me.”
And he does exactly that as you walk forward, every mentioned benchmark maintained flawlessly in the poise of your ankles as they carry you through his gaze. Your arms flow naturally with the fabric of your blouse, a new sort of purpose in the smooth strides of your legs as you turn around with ease, daring to look Taeyong in the eye while approaching back.
“Now you try.”
He nods firmly, the same concentrated expression sewn through his pursed lips and sharp eyes, striding forward with intent.
Your bottom lip immediately finds a home between your teeth as you struggle to hold in your laugh at Taeyong’s stiff steps, accidentally snorting out loud as a hand flies to your mouth in attempt to cover it up. If he was an awkward mess before, he’s all but the complete opposite of that now; way too rigid for anyone’s good, chest pushed animatedly forward, and a little (a lot) too much swing in his arms.
“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Taeyong snaps frustratedly, turning around, looking just about ready to stomp a heavy foot down and throw a temper tantrum right there on the glossy platform.
“I…” you trail off, trying to find the right words so as to not hurt the precious little pride he apparently thrives from, “…appreciate the effort.” It comes out with a nod and little snicker at the end, pursed lips doing their best to sequester the giggle at the back of your throat. All jokes aside, you really do appreciate his initiative of staying back late just to practice his walk, finding a newfound respect for his willingness to improve. It had been a massive shift from the dynamic of the past week and you’re not going to let it slip if it’s the last thing you do.
“But seriously, what has Johnny been teaching you this whole time?” you ask, genuinely curious how all those extra hours of practice with Johnny hadn’t seemed to avail Taeyong’s technique in the way you’d expected it to.
“The best angle to take a selfie?” he offers, walking back with a pitiful sulk on his face.
“You don’t say,” you grumble under your breath.
“I mean, he’s been doing a pretty good job at that, at least.” Taeyong chimes in, shrugging with an impressed pout.
“Well, soon he might not have a job at all,” you muse, eyes narrowing in scrutiny of the thought, before shaking your head briefly at turning back to Taeyong. “Anyway, from what I gather, it looks like you’re trying too hard.”
He snorts, “Look who’s talking–”
“Would you just listen for a second?” you snap, dwindling patience echoing with your voice in the ensuing silence, Taeyong staring half-surprised at the outburst.
“Yes ma’am,” he concedes, a playful raise to his eyebrows.
“Thank you,” you sigh deeply. “Remember how I said half of the walk is in the mind?”
Taeyong nods.
“Well, your mind is on overdrive. You need to relax.”
“Okay, and how do you propose I do that? Do you have some kind of–”
“Just...” you interrupt him, stepping forward, hands finding their way to the tense planes of his shoulders “...relax.”
Your touch must have come with something of a magic as Taeyong feels the tension in his muscles evaporate with the ticklish sensation of your fingertips. The snarky comment he’d prepared moments before dies on the tip of his tongue as he eyes you from the shortened distance between your bodies, your hands emanating something warm and wonderful that pricks the hairs up on his arms. He’s quiet, swears he hears your breaths fall slightly laboured as your hands smooth over the angle of his shoulders down to his arms. It’s not something you’re unaccustomed to, having assisted a plethora of other models with this exact motion of your hands. But with Taeyong, it feels like a foolish act of impulse, something that was perhaps best not to have done in the first instance. You can’t seem to evade the gulp that gathers in your throat as your fingers delicately brush over the hard muscle that lies under the soft fabric of his shirt, and it dawns on you that beyond the lanky body and the wide shimmer of his pupils, this man is much sturdier than you could have ever foreseen. Warm too; his skin tingling pleasantly under the cool air conditioning that frosts at your own fingertips.
You glance up at him, and oh, the fool you are for getting caught up in his gaze and the little scar that you notice sits right beside it, something you’ve only just taken note of from seeing him up so close.
“Why so quiet?”
Your question quietly lingers between the two of you for Taeyong to answer, but it’s almost as if you are asking yourself the same thing, searching for an immediate explanation to the sudden cascade of…whatever this is.  Why are you being so quiet? Why is your pulse growing higher by the second, and why – just why – can’t you take your eyes off this man all of a sudden?
“I’m relaxed,” Taeyong murmurs, gaze suddenly preoccupied with tracing the curvature of your lips, every little crease beneath the layer of long-faded lipstick, a little dry but still somehow enchanting.
You simply blink up at him, wondering if his words parallel the answer you’re also searching for. You’re not bothered by the wisp of hair that falls into his half-lidded eyes, and you can’t even bring yourself to be surprised about your apathy. Not when you’re distracted by the way his eyelashes shift each strand ever so slightly with every blink. Perhaps even an unfixed collar would look perfect on him in this moment-
No.
Your hands drop from his arms as you take a quick step back, quiet breaths the only tell-tale sign of your faltering front as you avert your eyes elsewhere.
“Okay then,” you clear your throat, attempting with much effort to set aside whatever twisted emotion that whirls in the pit of your stomach, gesturing haphazardly to the platform ahead. “Try walking now.”
“Yeah,” Taeyong shakes the bangs out of his face, much to your concealed disappointment.  “Yeah, okay.”
You feel a certain shift in the cool air that brushes your skin as he strides ahead, all warmth clinging tightly onto him as single minutes bleed into dozens, ebbing and flowing to and fro as you watch Taeyong’s figure from your place. You keep a safe distance from him, but the trance from earlier seems to weave itself in a taut string between the two of you, growing all the more prominent as the night progresses in a stretched-out silence filled only by the echo of his shoes and your small purls of praise. His walk turns out to be a lot better, still imperfect in many ways, but better, nonetheless; shoulders liberated from the rigidity of before, a more natural essence to the placement of his feet. And it leaves you mussed and tangled in your thoughts, unable to shake the new light under which he walks.
What had happened earlier, and just when did the silence become so deafening through all the blatant banter?
Neither you, nor Taeyong have an answer. Not now, and not among the quiet rustling of coats when you eventually decide to call it a night.  He steals a glance your way, catches sight of your wary expression, and turns back to the floor, a minuscule, little heat radiating on the smooth of face as if your hands now cup his cheeks as they previously did his arms.
What would that truly feel like? He wonders, holding the door open for you as the lights die down in a hushed flicker. You brush past him with a small thanks, the door clicking shut as he too steps out into the hallways. The windows in the corridors don’t glow with the natural light of the day, simply reflecting yours and Taeyong’s blurry figures as you walk side-by-side toward the elevator. You press the button and wait patiently, relieved that the spike of your heels stops the idiot inside you from rocking back and forth on her feet.
“Can I ask you something?”
You almost jump as Taeyong utters the words beside you, the elevator doors welcoming you into its small, shiny box as you nod.
“Why silver?”
He eyes the silver fabric tied loosely around your handbag, glancing up when you don’t speak, only to be met with a small tilt of your head and a confused frown that has his own lips pursing if only to keep his smile at bay. 
“I mean, why not gold? What’s the reason everything in Argent is silver.”
“Chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent.” The phrase slips past your lips without much thought, something natural and warm to accompany the flutter in your chest from the elevator’s descent.
“Italian?” Taeyong asks, charmed by the faraway look in your eyes and the wistful smile that stretches just underneath them.
“French.” You glance at him, a rush of goosebumps decorating your arms under the thick layer of your coat as one side of his mouth quirks into an endearing grin. “It means every cloud has a silver lining.” Your smile widens fondly, the memory of your mentor in Paris replaying clear as day in the canvas of your mind. “I named Argent after the phrase; it literally means ‘silver’ in French,” you chuckle with a small shake of your head. It all sounds a little too ridiculous now that you stand here in hindsight, so surreal that you almost feel like bursting out in a fit of uncontrolled laughter at your impulsive, juvenile decision all those years ago.
But to Taeyong, it only makes you a little more human to know you’d named the biggest fashion brand in the world after a cliché little phrase.
You walk out moments later into the nocturnal buzz of overfed zebra-crossings, moving billboards in the distance, and all else that comprises the faithful oath of New York City. There’s a chill in the air and perhaps that’s why Taeyong finds himself stepping a little closer beside you, studying your features bit by bit as the wind whips your hair from atop your head. The smell of New York gasoline tingles at his nose, but it seems to fade with the relaxed grin that adorns your lips.
Taeyong suddenly stops in his tracks, and you turn back, watching as he digs a hand into his satchel, pulling it out in a loose fist which he brings up to you. His fingers uncurl, revealing a small circular box sitting in his palm. 
“Here.”
“Lip balm?” you question, eyebrows furrowing as you glance up at his insisting gaze.
“You need it more than I do.” His smile seems genuine, not a sarcastic lilt to his voice, no intention to offend as he places the lip balm in your hand and closes your fingers around the cool plastic. Absentmindedly licking your lips, you feel a dryness on the skin – a likely result from nervous chewing and the dry chill of the season. Realising the truth in his words, you turn back to Taeyong, noticing a rosy hue beginning to bloom around his pale cheeks, his blonde hair once again fanning through his eyelashes to the waves of the cool wind.
For a set of very simple and obvious reasons, you wouldn’t normally accept lip balm from anyone other than…well, yourself. So, the soft “thank you,” that glides forth from the back of your throat takes you by surprise as you slip the small box into your handbag.
You bid Taeyong goodnight, and he acknowledges you with a two-fingered salute and a small smile. His eyes sparkle with something indiscernible, and as you make the slow, dazed walk to your car, you realise you’re in no rush to understand anything except the sureness of his smile, and the tingle in your chest that had somehow become a default response to it that evening.
Taeyong doesn’t move from his place on the concrete, hands warmed snugly by his pockets, watching your silhouette fade into the night with a strange sort of affection fledging somewhere inside him.
As he readies himself for the journey to his own car, something catches his eye on the sidewalk from metres away, glinting under the streetlights. He squints ahead at the object, walking forward and picking up a small piece of cloth before the wind carries it elsewhere. It sits cool in his palm, silver and shimmery and peculiarly delicate, its corners flapping incessantly with the wind and its middle warming up soothingly beneath the secure curl of his fingers.
He lifts his head, catching the last flail of your coat in the breeze as your silhouette turns the corner at the end of the street, and smiles, tucking the silver fabric into his coat pocket before turning around and strolling to his car.
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The darkness of your ceiling greets you with its usual stolid silence as you sink deeper into the plush embrace of your duvet, reaching to pull it up over your shoulders. Your hair tickles the skin of your cheeks, now liberated from its tight up-do and splayed freely along the whiteness of your pillow. Sleep had long brushed its feathery touch along your eyelids, but they still somehow blink vacantly into your dark bedroom.
Never before had you been an insomniac. You should have been asleep by now – you would have been asleep by now, were it not for the bright smile behind your eyes that jerks you awake every time they flutter shut.
A deep crease forms between your brows as you turn frustratedly onto your side, huffing out a sigh of contemplation and confusion, trying to figure out why the thorn in your side now presents himself as a dream just waiting to happen. You know it’s not right for Taeyong to be running through your mind like this. The sole fact that he’s your model-in-training should have made it very, very wrong in the first instance. You should be ashamed, mortified even.
So, where the hell is the remorse?
It’s nowhere to be found. You’ve tried searching for it, hoping to find the slightest little remnant of guilt deep within you, but it seems you’ve emerged with something else instead. Something that came in the form of flushed cheeks and warm hands, awkward silences and, most surprisingly, a smile.
Contempt? Petty frustration? It’s all gone just like that, and goodness, is it jarring to suddenly feel emotion in such a peculiar way.
Perhaps calling Taeyong into your office days ago and practically begging on your knees for him to stay wasn’t your brightest move – hell, it had all but knocked your pride down a few pegs and you weren’t liking it at all. But at the same time, it seemed to have pulled a few improvements on Taeyong’s end…but then there’s this new side of him that has you fluttery and warm, mulling over the mental snapshot of his smile and the way his hair flows with the wind and-
“Ughhh,” you groan out loud, pulling your pillow over your head in attempt to halt your spiralling thoughts. “Go. To. Sleep.” You accentuate your muffled voice with three hard thumps of your fist on the mattress, before jerking up to the sound of a notification on your phone.
You wonder who in their right mind would be texting you at such a late hour as you reach to your nightstand and pick the device up. You squint down at the blue light that illuminates your face in the dark, eyes scanning over the slightly hazy typewrite on the screen that says:
Taeyong [12:47am]: Goodnight :)
You simply sit there, half-wrapped in your duvet with eyes wide, blinking over the nine letters and emoticon that sit so brazenly under Taeyong’s name. It’s outlandish from all the previous exchanges you’ve had – your last message being from a week ago, reprimanding him for being late to the job yet again. He hadn’t replied to that text, and it had once bothered you to all ends that he hadn’t. But right now you can’t find it in you to care as you stare down at this text, very much typed out by him, wishing you a ‘goodnight’ (never mind the fact that it really should have been two words instead of one).
You bring a hand to your cheek, massaging circles into the bone hoping to relive the ache of another smile that forms on your lips.
God, what is wrong me?
You feel your worries lifted by the darkness around you as you think back to everything from hours earlier. Taeyong’s flawed walk and the pout on his lips, the warmth of his skin and the firm muscle hidden beneath it. The bangs in his eyes and flicker of lashes in the wind, the little box he’d rolled into your palm and the odd comfort of his fingers as he did. It makes you become all too aware of the small, rounded silhouette sitting amongst the shadows on your nightstand. You’d accepted it less than two hours ago, and that too without a single fuss, but you still hadn’t taken the liberty of using it yet.
You find yourself tracing a finger along your still very dry lips, grimacing at the thought of what they must have looked like to Taeyong earlier, and decide that there really isn’t any other time like the present to reach over grab it. You unscrew the lid of the box and bring it to your nose, the fragrance of artificial strawberries wafting through your senses as you swirl a finger through it and dab at your lips. You catch the faintest taste of strawberry sweetness as you purse them, and it suddenly dawns on you that Taeyong must have used this exact lip balm numerous times before…on his own set of lips…
“What the fuck, Y/n,” you whisper aloud, halting all absurdities from taking over your thoughts, placing the box back on your nightstand and flopping back onto your pillow, sheets pulled all the way up to your chin.
Nothing good ever came from being awake at such an hour – not even on the pages of your design book – so, with a final sigh, you close your eyes once more.
Perhaps it was Taeyong’s message, perhaps it’s his lip balm, or it might even be his annoying little smile that still paints itself on the back of your eyelids. Whatever it may be, it lulls you easily into the sleep your eyes so crave, brushes you softly and leaves you with another smile to last through the night.
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VI. The Loved and The Lost
The morning welcomes you with a slap to the face – or to the ears, rather – as the shrill ring of your phone jolts you from whatever petty dream you must have been having.
You groan into your pillow. This was far from the way you’d planned to start your first weekend off in months, but, alas, the world seems to care less and less of your plans with each passing day, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise.
Rolling onto your side, you reach for your phone to see Ten’s name, thumbing at the answer button. 
“Ten,” you mumble with a groggy voice, fingers rubbing the light into your eyes, “you know it’s my day off work-”
“I’m sorry Y/n, but you need to check the news.” His voice is frantic on the other side of the line, almost as if he’s jogging as he speaks, but it doesn’t fully register as you stretch your limbs under the safety of your covers, yawning out a lazy, “Why?”
“Just do it! Now!”
The urgency in his raised voice has you sitting up abruptly, ear pressing in harshly to your phone screen as you scramble out of bed balancing it on your shoulder, almost tripping over the sheets as your ankles catch on them while rushing to the living room.
“Okay, okay, but what’s wrong? Is everything alri-” Your words die in your throat as you switch your television on, the news channel opening straight away to…
Jaehyun?
He’s at what looks like a press conference, sporting a relaxed smile while answering questions from reporters in the audience. Your eyebrows furrow at the headline on the bottom of the screen.
SM AGENCY SUPERMODEL JUNG JAEHYUN TO SIGN CONTRACT WITH QI FASHION LABELS
“What…” you whisper out confusedly to Ten on the other side, a frown settling deep on your features.
“Listen!” Ten urges, and you turn up the volume of the television, a horrible feeling settling in your chest as you lean forward and watch anxiously.
“Jaehyun, is it true that you are no longer contracted under Argent Fashion Labels?”
The voice speaks from the audience, accompanied by the occasional clicks and flashes of cameras that capture Jaehyun as he leans toward the microphone in front of him.
“Excluding all technicalities, yes, it’s true.”
Your jaw loosens in a shocked mix of confusion and anger, your chest rising and falling heavily as you try to figure out what the fuck was happening all of a sudden.
“And what does Y/n have to say about this?”
Nothing. You had absolutely nothing to say about anything that was happening at this moment, no say whatsoever. You weren’t given the chance to step into the picture at all, rather watching in shock from behind your television screen.
“Well, it’s always tough to let a loved one go.”
The grin that stretches widely across Jaehyun’s face pulls a nauseating ache into your chest, as if your stomach were being folded in on itself. What the hell was Jaehyun trying to imply?
“So, you don’t deny the dating rumours?” The question echoes from another reporter, followed by a silence that lasts a second too long.
“No.”
You glare at the flatness of the screen in front of you, fists curling into your palms as the rest of the conversation drowns out behind a red curtain that seems to draw itself around you.
“Y/n?” Ten’s voice asks worriedly through the speaker.
You stand, jaw locking as you switch the tv off, voice as stone-cold and emotionless as the deepening scowl on your face. “Contact public relations immediately and schedule an appraisal meeting for this afternoon. I’ll handle the rest.”
─── ⪧ ⪦ ───
The roots of your hair yank painfully at your scalp, tugged up in a bun so high and tight it’s almost the only thing that seems to hold your flaring temper together. 
Almost.
“Miss Y/l/n, what are you doin-”
“Give me a fucking break,” you seethe through clenched teeth, charging like a storm past a receptionist that calls out from the desk, sitting right beneath the audacious letters SMA.
It’s ironic really, to be voicing these very words on the day that was actually supposed to be your break. You’d initially hoped to spend it well – perhaps wake up at noon and lose yourself in one of your neglected paperbacks, or take a dip in a rose-infused bath with a soothing glass of wine-spice, or both. But it was all a story of lost hope now, buried beneath the heavy breathing and pounding of your chest as you skip the steps two-at-a-time all the way up to the sixth floor of this godforsaken building. You didn’t want to take the elevator, didn’t care if you snapped a heel and had to limp the rest of the way up. Etiquette is now a notion of the past as you stride past each pretentious pair of eyes, uncaring of their whispers as a single phrase repeats itself incessantly in your mind:
Jung Jaehyun is fucking dead.
It’s frustrating how the route to his office is ingrained so deeply into your memory as if it were the route to your own, all rhyme and reason relinquished as you launch yourself through its doors, blowing your blazing fuse the second it slams shut behind you.
“What is wrong with you?” you roar out into the white walls of his office, bristling with fury to see Jaehyun still dressed in the same outfit as press conference; the suit that isn’t one of your own designs, but one of QI Fashion Labels’ instead.
“Oh, you saw it.” It isn’t a question that apathetically slides from Jaehyun’s tongue, just an insolent flatness to his voice that tugs your eyebrows taut, so infuriating it has you slamming a hard hand on his desk.
“The whole damn world saw it, Jaehyun. What the hell happened to our agreement?”
“Qi offered me a better one. So, I took it.” He doesn’t spare you a glance, eyes focused on an editorial magazine he obnoxiously flicks between his thumbs. “I’m a top model, Y/n, but that means jack shit if I can’t do my job.”
“Nobody took your job away from you, Jaehyun, you brought this upon yourself!” You point a finger at him, maddened with his insinuation. “You were the one who pulled out of the show last minute. You were the one who left me to deal with all of this just to save your own backside-”
“I did it for you too!” He stands, leveling himself with you. 
“Did you?” Your voice lowers to a threatening murmur before erupting in the next moment. “THEN WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AT THAT CONFERENCE?"
“IT WAS A PUBLICITY STUNT, Y/N, WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO SAY?” he yells over you, “‘I’m sorry? Will you forgive me?’ Is that what you want?”
You simply stand there, jaw falling unhinged, stunted to an unforeseen silence from the disdain that tumbles through his words. You feel a surge of blood rushing to your face in a twisted combination of anger and humiliation, trying to maintain the little composure that dwindles within you.
This feels so different.
Nobody has ever looked at you the way Jaehyun does now, with so much contempt and derision. You were supposed to be at the top. You were always the one to satisfy, to gain respect from. But now, it seems you’re the single mockery of everything around you, frailed and muted with your entire world bared as it crashes head-first into the ground.
“How dare you,” you spit. “You had no right.”
“This is showbiz, Y/n,” Jaehyun deadpans. “People come and people go, and the world still keeps turning.”
“Well, what about my world, Jaehyun?” You step forward, glaring right into his eyes. “What. About. Mine?”
“Oh, stop with the fucking act. You’re the worldwide fashion designer and founder of Argent, you’re Y/n Y/l/n! The world revolves around you!” He violently throws his hands up. “Okay, I walked out. But the second I did, you snatched some new guy right off the streets. What does it matter then? You’ve got everything you need-”
“He’s here for a month, Jaehyun. A month! And you were supposed to be back right after that.”
You pause. So does he. No words meet the air, just heavy breaths filled with clamorous intention. You try to gather your thoughts, every cogent piece of dialogue, anything that will change Jaehyun’s mind. But it all seems to slip from your grasp the second your mouth opens without your mind to wisely follow.
“I gave you everything.”
“Sure. You did.” Jaehyun nods, but you’re only left to kick yourself in the face as a sinister look sweeps across his features as naturally as the oxygen spills from your lungs. “But you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. I was the first and only person willing to take you up on your offer all those years ago, when you had nothing except your sketchbook going for you. You only gave me everything because I gave it all to you first, Y/n.” Jaehyun leans in with a threatening tilt to his head, smirk only growing more scornful with the sharp breath that leaves him. “I made you.”
His words sting you somewhere deep inside, all your futile shields arming in an instant to protect yourself.
“You did not make me.” You feel dizzy with the harsh grind of teeth behind your chapped lips, breath growing deeper in attempt to control the tears threatening to terrorize your eyes. “I worked my ass off to get where I am now, and if I didn’t have you, you best believe, Jung Jaehyun, I would’ve had someone better.”
Jaehyun leans back, pride clearly stabbed and bleeding from the heart, though he does a much better job at hiding it than you with the twitch of his lips into yet another spiteful smirk. 
“You know why people don’t like you?”
Enlighten me. You want so badly for these words to tear through your throat. But they don’t, held back by your last wavering nerve.
“Because you’re a bitch. A stubborn, cold-hearted bitch.”
And that’s it. You back down with nothing more to say and nothing more to lose, eyes shifting around the floor, your shields defeated and conquered with that one word.
Bitch. 
It wasn’t anything new – perhaps occupying third place on the long list of bywords copped under your name over the years. But never before had it burned as much as it does now.
Your fingers tighten into their customary fists; not out of anger, but rather in search of a warmth somewhere in the gulf your palms. You gulp, lips pursed and dry with the caution of tears, not once looking Jaehyun in the eyes as you turn around and walk to the door. With shaky breaths and shaky fingers, you pull the door handle only to pause and turn back once more, daring yourself to meet Jaehyun’s eyes despite all your efforts not to.
His face still holds the same comely features as the day you’d first found him kicking rocks outside of Vogue building. It all flashes clear in your mind; him as a fresh-faced rookie with a freshly rejected application balled in his fist. You’d just made your move to the Big Apple back then and that boy had once been a Godsend. He was polite and charming. Heck, you’d even started out with a small crush on him, awed like anything that he was willing to throw all caution to the wind alongside you. Jaehyun had signed your self-made contract and had his shot at showbiz. He had been a huge contributor to Argent’s growth in the industry; that much stood true among his harsh words of the present and you couldn’t discredit him for his work in that regard. As Argent grew, luck had smiled upon him in the form of an SMA recruitment officer knocking at his door at the wee hours of one fine morning, whisking both him and his name fresh into the celebrity scene to gain the recognition that he had rightfully deserved.
That he had once deserved.
Not anymore.
“Go to hell, you bastard.”
He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t need to, the tightening of his jaw confirming everything words couldn’t begin to explain. And there’s nothing more heart-shattering than the realisation that hits you in this moment:
You’ve lost Jaehyun. You’ve lost a partner. And worst of all, you’ve lost a friend.
You step out of Jaehyun’s office, slamming the door shut, tears burning furiously in your eyes as the distance between you and him grows wider and wider with every hasty step. 
You try to pick apart all the layers in your mind, try to separate all your rights from all of Jaehyun’s wrongs. But in the grand scheme of things, you realise there really isn’t much to separate at all. You’d both started out together, two parallels of the same temperament, chasing a fame and fortune that was destined to become yours someday. And here you both are now, a world-class bitch and a two-faced asshole, both sitting high and mighty in your thrones. The only visible difference now, is your preserved integrity and his tilted crown.
It was always so easy to be wronged in the cruellest way imaginable, especially when all started to seem perfect. Wasn’t it just yesterday you were floating in the clouds, and shimmering with a rose-tinted glow? 
But here you are today, refusing to shed violent tears and buried beneath the rubble of misplaced trust.
It must have been so easy for him to push you down. And it had all happened in the unsuspecting blink of an eye.
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“-with a high of sixty-three, and an eighty percent chance of widespread thunderstorms all throughout New Yor-”
You groan out loud, thumbing the television off and tossing the remote to the side.
“No Karen, I don’t want to know about widespread thunderstorms,” you grumble, slumping into the leather of your sofa with a sulky pout. Since when had cable television soured up so much?
From what you can remember, it had always been something to look forward to in your younger years, an escape from reality. But now all that’s decent to watch is the news, and that has been completely off-limits as per the PR meeting that had happened a day ago (and you’d broken that rule, obviously).
The news about Jaehyun’s departure has understandably been a secret to no one, having been circulated in every magazine during the very hour of your last brawl with him. It had all taken its toll on you, even you conceded to that very sure fact. But what you absolutely did not concede, was the three days’ worth of exile the board had forced upon you thereafter. Three full days! It was absurd in all sense of the word. You still find it ridiculous that they, your employees, had taken the liberty to order you, their boss, to take a break a fortnight before the biggest fashion show of the year. 
You wouldn’t have listened to them, of course, not when with all the end-phase preparations and a multitude more fittings to cram in the short time left. But as it turns out, it isn’t exactly an easy task to escape being held at gunpoint by your own stellar employees.
A fashion designer always had a project to work on; always something to start, finish, improve or fix, no matter the quality of their predicament. You’d call yourself a refractory to the system as of recent, currently sunken halfway into your couch with more than your fill of malaise-induced boredom to accompany you, contemplating whether a Netflix subscription would be a sensible investment for the next few days. 
You look to the mannequin stand in the corner of the room, frowning. On it is Argent’s final runway item for New York Fashion Week; an item you’d taken the liberty to smuggle home in hopes of finishing. But you haven’t gathered the tenacity to do so, the workaholic itch in your fingers seeming to have tired itself out with the sole fact that the outfit was originally Jaehyun’s to wear.
Your thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of your phone on the coffee table, lethargy weighing heavily on your limbs as you reach forward to pick it up.
Ten [3:18pm]: Wendy, Joy and Winter’s final fittings have been reviewed and completed
Ten [3:18pm]: how are you going?
You sigh in relief, happy to have not received any bad news from Ten yet. Receiving regular updates was the compromise for your agreement in being cooped up inside your apartment, but the very act of picking up your phone always feels like a gamble, given all the unpredicted mishaps of the last month.
Y/n [3:19pm]: that’s great, keep up the good work!
Y/n [3:19pm]: going as fine as I can without anything to do
Y/n [3:20pm]: oh, could you also make sure the white boot-coat set is finished and reviewed?
Ten [3:20pm]: already been done
The smile that pricks at your lips feels almost unnatural after days of consistent frowning. Though it’s not a typical trait of yours, you’ve always favoured the idea of realising the worth of your possessions – or rather, persons – before their eventual disappearance from your life. So, it comes as a quiet sort of surprise as you realise that Ten Lee is worth so much more to you than you could ever have expressed.
Now that you really think about it, he’s probably the person you’d entrusted the most personal information with through the entirety of your career, and if it wasn’t for your stiff-necked pride, you’d even call yourself lucky to be able to call him your executive assistant. In all honesty, you’re not quite sure what you would have done – where you would have been, how you would have survived – if you didn’t have Ten to help you through it all. Prompt in his actions, justified in his reasoning, astute in the mind; Ten really is the best of the best.
Another vibration of your phone draws you back to the screen, though it’s not the name you expect to find.
Taeyong [3:25pm]: hey, you busy?
You scoff at the message, muttering a blasé, “Am I busy. Of course, I’m not busy, what a stupid thing to-”
Taeyong [3:25pm]: that was a joke in case you didn’t get it
Taeyong [3:25pm]: I know you’re bored out of your mind right now
Your indifferent gaze drops to a scowl. You try to convince yourself it’s root cause is the infuriating man on the other side of your phone, but you know deep down it’s just your petty temperament; annoyed that you weren’t able to catch onto his little joke…if one could even call it that.
Y/n [2:25pm] yeah whatever, how’s your walk going mr happy feet
Taeyong [3:26pm]: happy feet 🤨
Taeyong [3:26pm]: is that my compliment for the day?
You can’t help but snicker at his reply, glad that you don’t have to suppress the atypical expression on your face while in the safety of your apartment walls. Perhaps there was some advantage to being stuck at home, after all.
Y/n [3:26pm]: take it or leave it, it’s up to you🤷‍♀️
That’s another thing you’ve learnt to use in the last day: emojis. It was stupid, really, something so out of the ordinary for you. The whole point of using a small picture in a texting app never really made sense to you; it’s called a text for a reason. But that was until Taeyong had dared you the day before to text only in emojis. It hadn’t been the easiest task, but you’d survived, and as a bonus, taken a liking to some of the mini yellow figures – just enough to use them around Taeyong at the very most.
Taeyong [3:26pm]: hmm I’ll take it
Taeyong [3:26pm]: only because it’s as rare as this 😊
There was that infuriating tingle in your chest, nestling inside you in some tucked away in a corner and seeming to only emerge at the thought of Taeyong. It’s something unexplainable and uncontrollable, never before felt in the way you’ve been feeling it lately.
Was he thinking about your smile? If so, how long had been thinking about it? Since when? And why?
You glance to your arm, noticing goosebumps arise on the smooth skin as the question comes to mind. Your thumbs hover over the screen, unsure how to respond to both Taeyong and the giddy, ticklish feeling inside you.
Taeyong [3:27pm]: anyway Charlie’s on his way for you
Taeyong [3:27pm]: I’ll see you soon
You hum in confusion, eyebrows knitting at his text, wondering if you’ve been granted an early exemption from your impending two days of exile.
Taeyong [3:27pm]: oh also don’t wear anything too expensive
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VII. Tell Me
You had started from somewhere familiar, grounded by the undying rumble of city-goers and loud tumble of traffic in every which direction. You had started with the all the colours of the rainbow reflecting in your eyes from moving billboards, weathered yellow taxis and sun-lit windows; with your head angled high, glimpsing up towards the concrete jungle that made up your every dream and every struggle and everything else in between.
At least a couple dozen minutes later you sit in the same backseat, looking out of the same window, but the only vehicle that seems to be on the road is the one that Charlie drives you in. Gone now are those ever-known gaudy hues of the city, now replaced with the flaring expanse of green rolling hills, natural in height and pure in tone, and a divine sky peeking out to capture it all in its blooming embrace. Your ears ring with the nigh echo of road-rage-infested honks, almost as if searching for the sound somewhere in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio. There isn’t an ounce of man-made construct to behold, no shine of metals under the clouds, nor a single slab of greyed concrete to dampen the vibrant blades of grass that seem to grow an inch or two taller with every quarter mile. Pleasant would be the word to describe it all; perhaps even beautiful, were it not for the very sure fact that this was definitely not the way to work as you’d originally thought it to be.
As the car rolls to a stop, you peek out once more to the same emerald scape, still no building or vehicle or even person in sight to bale your suspicion. 
“Charlie, what is this? Where are we?” You sit forward, resolute in searching for, at the very least, a barn house hidden somewhere amongst the grass and sparsely scattered trees.
“Mr Lee asked for you to be dropped here, miss. I can’t say anything more.”
“Oh, so you take orders from him now. I guess I just don’t get a say in anything anymore,” you mutter childishly, slumping back into the leather seat and fishing out your sunglasses from your purse. “Can you at least tell me where I can find Taeyong in all of this-” you glance out “-grass?”
“He told me,” Charlie raises his fingers in air-quotations, “‘she’ll find me once she gets out.’ I don’t have any further information, miss.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” you huff, opening the door handle and stepping a foot out before pausing and turning back to your driver. “Please don’t bypass me next time.”
“Yes, miss.”
You narrow your eyes at his jolly smile, fully stepping out and closing the door and grimacing at the scratchy grind of your boots in the dry dirt of the road. You take a step toward the field, but the revving of the car behind you doesn’t allow you to breathe in the fresh air as you turn around wide-eyed to see it leaving faded tracks in its wake.
“Hey!” you screech, arms flailing like a maniac. “Charlie, come back!”
It’s futile in any case as you watch the black Jaguar speed off into the distance, your last speck of familiarly becoming one with your memory of the city as you stand there, handbag falling from your shoulder to your elbow, body deflating with literal abandonment.
Note to self: must fire Charlie.
You look around at the place anxiously, spotting a single car parked metres ahead, before turning to the countryside and standing on the balls of your toes. You scan through the maze of tall, gangly grass and tiny yellow flowers, hoping to find a certain blonde-haired hooligan traipsing somewhere between it, praying that the car belongs to him and not some other hooligan waiting to kidnap you and God knows what else. But you don’t see Taeyong anywhere, instead deciding to try your luck by stepping into tall grass, squinting as the gradually waning sun glints warmly through the top of your sunglasses, catching your lashes as they continue to flicker across the field.
It’s almost ironic for a scene earthed so deeply within nature to feel so unnatural, as if you were the most fabricated facet to roam this quiet part of the world. Walking through a field, being carried further with a cool breeze stirring through your locks and a land of serenity to call your own; it was such a simple act. It feels effortless to just exist in such a place, for your lungs to expand to their fullest capacity and welcome the refreshing change of milieu. For your arms to sway with no particular intention except that of a freedom which you had no idea you’d craved so deeply at all.
It’s a rare sight to see your own shadow rippling beside you, cast by the gentle fall of the sun beyond the field in absence of all the city’s tall buildings and metropolitan smog. It felt almost otherworldly to feel the tingling sensation of grass pricking at your fingertips, welcoming you in sweet greeting with every soft crunch beneath your feet.
“Wasn’t it supposed to rain?” you wonder aloud, head tilting up and catching sight of white tufts of clouds scattered infrequently through the sky, no foresight of said stormy weather in the seemingly perfect view. It doesn’t seem to matter either way as you sigh in genuine content, embracing the soft tickle of stray hairs against your cheeks, the warmth gleam of the sun, and strokes of grass at the exposed skin of your ankles.
“Figured you needed the fresh air.”
You abruptly turn around to a faint voice that comes from behind you, puzzled to see a dark-haired man sitting metres away, his pale skin obscured by the grass. The wind carries his hair in the same way it does yours, soft looking antennas waving you ‘hello’ from atop his head. Squinting forward, your gaze scans through the tall green lines and yellow petals, finding a familiar pair of eyes staring right back at your own.
“Taeyong?”
You step towards him with the warm shine of the sun on your back, wondering how you had missed him in your previous surveillance of the area. The grass brushes past your calves with such ease, as if parting to create a pathway just for you to walk along. Taeyong pats the clear stump of earth beside him, lips tugging into an uneven little smile as you sit down on the long of your coat, placing your bag in your lap.
“Hey,” he offers.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
You furrow your eyebrows at your own question, surprised at your own unseemly dialogue for the current setting.
Gosh, I really do need this break.
Taeyong only chuckles quietly, more than accustomed to this little habit of yours. 
“Don’t worry, I’m done for the day.”
Your lips part, ready to question how on earth he could be ‘done for the day’ – since no one at Argent was ever done before sundown at the very least. But you stop yourself just as the words graze your tongue, rather opting to fall distracted with the hair that you only just realise now matches the tone of Taeyong’s eyebrows.
“What did you do to your hair?”
He looks up to the curtain of hair on his forehead, realisation striking his features as if he’d forgotten about the change of look altogether. “Oh yeah,” he scoops it back with a casual hand, the smooth complexion of his face glowing under the hue of the falling sun. “I dyed it yesterday; Johnny suggested a more natural colour.”
“It must be the best thing he’s done this month,” you mutter with a small snort, freezing on the spot as Taeyong turns to you in surprise, the meaning of your words settling down on you with the flushed heat that gathers at your neck. “I-I mean-”
“You like it?” he asks, voice falling soft and almost anxious as if hoping for your approval. Though it was all in your job to evaluate his appearance, you just can’t push aside the feeling that this – the goosebumps painting your arms in erratic waves, the hopeful eagerness sparkling in his eyes – was different to all the other times. 
He tilts his head with a small smile, and it somehow does wonders to muddle up your thoughts as you nod wordlessly in response to his question, unable to trust your own voice. Your eyes focus on the soft shadows of swaying grass that dance across his cheeks, overcome with a certain urge to reach out and catch one with the tip of your thumb.
Your gaze doesn’t go unnoticed by Taeyong as he turns back to the sun, his smile never once faltering as he watches it fall lower and lower in the sky with each passing second. His eyes flicker to his periphery every now and again, happy to see that his intention for bringing you to this place is running its course. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether it would work,  whether you would be able find the same contentment in this field as he always has. But as he watches it all once again – the grass, a little taller than the last time he’d visited, the sun and it’s softening hues – he supposes it must be impossible not to fall for the magical charms of such a green expanse.
***
Taeyong’s school shirt beats wildly with the wind against his stomach, the white fabric riddled with so many unkempt creases, he was sure to earn an earful from his dad once he returned home.
The school day couldn’t have gone by any faster, and while all of his friends were attending their extra-curriculars – Yuta at soccer training, Mark at basketball practice and Kun at his piano lessons – Taeyong finds himself all alone, riding his bike in solitude down an isolated country road with nothing but the rhythmic huffing and puffing of his chest to accompany his fast-peddling feet. His backpack hangs heavy with the weight of the many comic books stacked inside, its straps sliding down his shoulders before being shrugged back into place every dozen seconds or so.
Come on, come oooon, almost there! He ushers to himself. The thought manifests with an electric buzz of excitement, his wrist lifting from the handles to shield his face from the sun as it glints its orange rays in his periphery. Taeyong smiles, allowing himself to turn towards it and bask in its warmth, the greenery just below it swaying peacefully in the same way as the tousled hair against his forehead. 
He cranes his neck in search for the familiar patch of flattened grass, for the little raw pathway he’d paved from his frequent visits to the field. It wasn’t too far now, just a couple dozen metres and he’d be right-
“Aahhh.”
The front tyre of Taeyong’s bike catches a loose rock on the ground, sending him toppling to the ground as he loses his balance, landing on his side with the loud crash of his bike beside him.
He groans, sitting up, lungs expanding and deflating heavily, a juvenile shock leeching into his features as he takes a few moments to process the fall. He feels a sudden sting on side of his face, expression twisting into a pained frown as he reaches up and dabs at a wet spot at his temple, flinching with a quiet sob at the shooting pain.
“Ow,” Taeyong whimpers, tears pooling at his eyes, though he refuses to let them stain his cheeks. He holds onto his grazed arm, gathering all his strength to pick himself off the ground and dust off his shirt. He feels his heart shatter as he looks down to his bike, taking in its now-dented frame and punctured tyre. Reaching for a tissue from his backpack, he holds it to the wound, hissing at the sting while looking either side of the desolate road.
There isn’t a single car, nor a house in sight. The emptiness of the place wasn’t really something he had paid much attention to until this moment, an inkling of regret seeping into his conscience from not having listened to his parents’ warnings not to go riding outside by himself. Sighing in defeat, Taeyong shoves the blood-stained tissue into his pocket, picking up his bike, slinging on his backpack once again, and opting to continue his journey; he’d gotten this far, so he saw no reason to turn back now, not unless he wanted to fast-track his inevitable scolding…which he certainly doesn’t.
Relief washes over Taeyong as he no sooner finds the notched pathway among the thick mane of grass. He sets down his bike at the edge of the field and strolls along the beaten trail, tall sedges stroking either side of his legs and leading him toward the same little patch of stubbly grass he’d made routine of greeting day by day. He drops his backpack to the ground, planting himself criss-cross applesauce right beside it and eagerly hauling out his comic books with a small grunt. Balancing his fancied print on a single knee, he once again dabs the bloody tissue on his wound, trying his best to ignore its persistent sting.
A yellow flower sits flattened on the page, a withered replica of those that dance around his head, marking the page he’d left off the night before. He pulls it out and delicately sets it down in the grass, allowing the wind to carry its petals somewhere far, far away along with all his seven-year-old worries as he bows his head and loses himself between the pages in his fingers.
Just for a while.
While Yuta kicks a black-and-white ball across a field, Taeyong douses himself in the zestful war of good versus evil, heated air painting his forehead with tiny beads of water that trickle down to cool his neck. While Kun perfects his trills and tenutos on ivory keys, Taeyong revels in the crescendo of action and dooming plot twists. And while Mark practices his three-pointers on the court – though it’d take him years to actually shoot a clean hoop – Taeyong embraces the final defeat of the vengeful villain, triumphing alongside the hero just as the sun brandishes its last smile for the day.
 And at the end of it all, he plucks another flower from a tall stem somewhere nearby and presses it neatly between the last read pages of his nth comic, before returning home with a heart ever so heavy and saddened, bidding the field yet another inevitable goodbye.
***
A placebo. That’s what the field had been back then. And as Taeyong looks at you now, notices the relaxed lilt to your otherwise stiff posture and the small flicker of a smile on your now not-so-chapped lips, he realises that the placebo still holds strong and true.
And it indeed does, as you allow the knots in your face to relax for the first time in what feels like years. All of this was a rarity at best, with most of your evenings spent under the bright lights of your office, faced with vivacious reds and purples and silvers, all wrapped in the constant buzz of central air conditioning. And while you still haven’t a definite answer to why Taeyong had brought you to this field in the first place, you feel privileged enough that he did.  Privileged to be able to bathe in the seeping warmth of the sun and breathe the soothing rustle of grass against the wind. It serves to elicit a sort of epiphany in your mind; that amidst it all, the world of fashion and fame feels so absolutely worthless.
‘Natural beauty’ is a term you’ve always chosen to steer clear from in your very fabricated life. You’ve heard it used in various contexts, thrown around in offhand and meaningless ways that never really seemed natural or beautiful at all. But the phrase seems to take on an entirely new meaning here, somehow more tangible and definite than you have ever known. This – where you are now – is a beauty coined by nature itself. No fabrications, no impressionable colours, nothing to be stitched or sewn or cut or styled just to breach the bracket of perfection. Even the clouds that seemed to have accumulated up above only play their just part of looking beautiful, and for the first time in a long, long time, you understand exactly what you need.
This.
This is what you need.
Your smile drops to a frown in an instant, eyes flickering down to your lap as your mind spirals back to your last conversation with Jaehyun from days ago.
But this is exactly what I can’t have.
Your next words fall from your lips before you’re able to help yourself, voice quiet but still so loud in the silence.
“Taeyong, do you think I’m a bitch?”
Guilt tugs itself taught in your chest at the thought, and you suddenly feel like a fraud for so much as sitting here and allowing yourself to enjoy every small wonder of this field. None of it was ever yours to enjoy in the first place. You belong in the tumbling noise of the city, amid the streets of towering skyscrapers, wrapped in eternal sheets of expensive fabrics, under the blaring flashes of fame.
Taeyong turns to you with a questioning look, eyebrows riddling with confusion upon seeing the frown on the same pair of lips that were smiling so contentedly the last minute he’d seen them. It isn’t the same frown he’s grown so used to over the preceding weeks, but one that now bares a genuine sadness to it. 
He can only sigh, fingertips tingling with an unsolicited urge to reach out and tilt your chin his way as he mulls over his own thoughts. He can’t tell exactly which place your question had come from, but he’s sure he wouldn’t be too far off if he took a wild guess.
“You want my honest opinion?” Taeyong breathes out, and you can’t help but curl your knees to your chest at the thought of what’s to come.
You don’t want his honest opinion. You really don’t.
But perhaps it’s something you need.
So, you allow yourself to nod, giving him the okay to speak freely. He nods back, blinking a few times before sucking in a deep breath.
“Yeah, I think you are a bitch.”
Your head hangs low under the heavy weight of reality as it sinks deeper than you’d ever allowed it to before, and with a sorrowful nod, you allow yourself to crumble a little on the inside with Taeyong’s words. You’re not sure what you were really expecting from him with your question; you knew better than to bank on a free shower of compliments, but you certainly weren’t expecting his answer to bite and burn as much as it does now. But you suppose that in the end, he only recites the very insult you’ve been brushing off for years. But it’s only now that it truly feels justified, as if you can no longer brush it away without slipping further into its unforgiving throes, forced to accept it as it is with no sure-fire excuse to walk away.
“But I also think underneath it all – underneath the whole façade – that you’re a very likeable person.” 
Taeyong hasn’t even a clue what he’s saying, the words simply leaving his mouth as naturally as his own breath mingles with the wind.
You turn to him, a bout of hesitancy in the slow blink of your eyes as you search his gaze for even just the smallest shard of deceit. You don’t find any, though it doesn’t stop your attempts to convince yourself he’d only said the latter out of pity.
“I don’t know,” you release a shallow sigh, bitter with the new sensation of complete and utter defeat. “Everyone else begs to differ.”
Taeyong eyes you sceptically. 
“Everyone else, as in Jaehyun?”
“Especially him.”
“He’s an asshole, Y/n.” He shakes his head, almost annoyed at you for still allowing that cheap excuse of a man to mess with your head, even after he’d taken the liberty of opening Argent’s doors and showing his own way out.
You chuckle resentfully. 
“That asshole is one of my only friends…was…my only friend.”
“Well, last time I remember, friends don’t abandon you and clype you out on national tv.”
You pause upon hearing Taeyong’s words, realising the blatant truth in them. No friend would do such a thing if they truly were a friend, and the fact that Jaehyun had done exactly what a good friend shouldn’t have…
It couldn’t have felt any more scary than it does now. 
And it leaves you wondering if any of it – if any of the friendship you thought you and Jaehyun had harboured through the years – had been real in any essence. Perhaps it had been real, even just for a short while. Perhaps it had been lost in translation somewhere along the dividing paths of your careers. But it certainly doesn’t feel that way in hindsight, and friendship or not, it certainly doesn’t exist anymore.
Taeyong doesn’t avert his eyes from you, doesn’t care that the sun had finally kissed the green horizon up ahead, rather focusing on the turmoil brewing so evidently through your features.
“Tell me,” he voices out softly, not a second thought to the sureness of his words.
“What?” you ask.
“Whatever’s on your mind.” He resists the urge to reach forward and take your hand in his own, looking deeply into your eyes and finding a need somewhere deep down. A need to know the full story of you, to understand you. “Tell me whatever you want. About yourself, about Argent; everything. I’ll listen.”
You find yourself staring up at Taeyong in bewilderment, your hair batting against your cheeks, though never a bother, as you try to formulate a response to his offer, realising that this is the first time someone has asked you to share your thoughts freely. This is the first time someone truly seemed to care about something other than your fame or your fortune or every other profitable prospect in between.
This is the first time someone is willing to listen.
So, maybe it’s the soft prickle of grass at your ankles, or your vulnerability that’s now borne far beyond redemption; perhaps it’s the faint scent of flowers all around, or maybe even be the brown-haired man sitting right in the middle of them. Whatever it is – whether a combination of everything, or nothing all – it causes you to smile, yielding away your defences and bursting all your dams free for a short while.
Taeyong feels his heart swell as you begin to speak out every little thought that comes to mind. And just as he’d said, he listens. Not only to your words, but to every subtle inflection of your voice, to the rise and fall of new emotion that even you didn’t think you could express.
You’d planned to loosen the restraints just slightly, but wind up releasing the reins altogether, indulging in Taeyong’s attentive nods and hums as you paint him a vivid picture of the past he never could have imagined you to have lived.
He discovers a lot; of your father’s departure when you were merely eight years old, and the childhood you’d spent under ceaseless scrutiny thereafter. He finds out how everything from the friends you had to the clothes you wore, had been controlled under your mother’s dreadful custody. How you’d fled home at the young age of seventeen and found yourself in the city of love with not an ounce of love to give. Even less to keep.
“It was always just me, myself and I. And I hated it.” You blink ahead at the orange and pink hues among the gathered clouds, the sun now. “I guess I just wanted to break free from that trap, and I did it through fashion. And it did work. It worked wonders,” you sigh, pausing to gather your thoughts before continuing with a smile. “Opening Argent had been a fantasy come true. I’ve achieved…so much; things that were once merely a figment of my wildest dreams. I have a cupboard full of awards. Invites from Tokyo, London, Italy, Shanghai, you name it.” You find your words falling short on your tongue, replaced with a dry chuckle and a small shake of your head. “But isn’t it just so funny how years of control can spiral out in the span of a day? How everything can suddenly turn in on itself as if none of it really mattered?”
Your eyes are wistful and faraway, as is the prevailing smile on your lips, and while Taeyong wishes so badly to reciprocate the expression, he just can’t bring himself to do so. His spirits plummet ten feet underground as everything seems to click in his mind, now envisioning you in a new kind of light; something a little softer, subdued, not nearly as blinding as the spotlight you lived under.
“I don’t know, maybe I’m just being dramatic. This is showbiz after all,” you deadpan, recalling Jaehyun’s words with a sigh.
All the fame and wealth that you now have. All the esteem and praise and acclamation. You once seemed to have everything he could have only ever dreamt of; everything anyone could have ever dreamt of. A world-class fashion label and a famous title should have been enough. Designer clothing and expensive buyers, the spotlights and privilege of being ‘the world’s best and most renowned’; all of it should have been enough. But after listening to everything you had to say, Taeyong realises it never would be. That material possessions are worth nothing without the emotional sentiment that was supposed to come with them; that it’s all meaningless without someone to share and celebrate and enjoy them with. He wonders what exactly your motive had been when choosing to walk into this hectic world alone, unwilling to believe that you’d come with the intention of ending up where you are now.
Taeyong pictures a different version of you, someone written in the pages of your past, years younger than you are now. He sees a young girl with fiery passions and enough quirks to back every one of those passions with. She wasn’t perfect in the least, had many flaws to take in her stride, but she shone brighter than all the silvers in the world. She sought her dream through perseverance, never once allowing a frown to so much as grace the smile that had once sat so naturally on her face. She had so much to gain from life.
So how could she be sitting right here with a handful of losses and a shattered heart?
Taeyong wonders what exactly you had done to end up in this position but can’t seem to find an answer. You hadn’t done anything wrong. It strikes him that perhaps it was because of people like him, that people like you could never truly live the lives you’d originally planned for yourselves; perhaps it wouldn’t have been all that bad had he been more careful with his sources.
His pensive silence feels a little too tense and prolonged, causing you to grow conscious of every little confession you’d shared moments prior. You want to know what Taeyong is thinking, whether his respect for you falls any fickler in his mind now that your heart lies bared on your sleeve.
“Well, I’ve opened my gaping scars,” you announce quietly, watching him from the corner of your eye, “don’t think you’ll get away without opening yours.”
“I don’t know if I can compete with you, really,” he answers solemnly, realising the value of his own fulfilling childhood despite the downfalls.
“Well, what about that one?”
Taeyong flinches back in surprise, his thoughts interrupted by the finger you point right next to his eye.
“Sorry,” you mutter, retracting your hand back in embarrassment.
He accepts your apology with a small wave and shake of his head, amused by your sudden awkwardness as his own hand lifts to trace the scar beside his eye that you’d pointed at.
“This?” he asks, and you watch a small nostalgic smile grace his lips, nodding in response. Taeyong’s scar is something you’ve been curious about since your evening together in the Walkway Hall, and sitting so close to him once again has only served to remind you of its unique intricacy – almost as if it were there for a specific reason, carved into his skin in a sort of poetic way that only seemed fitting enough for him.
“I got this when I was really young, actually. Seven, I think?” He pouts in thought, and you don’t think he could have looked more endearing in this moment. “I was riding my bike and wasn’t looking where I was going and-”
“And you fell.”
“Yeah,” he laughs, hand lifting to sheepishly rub at the nape of his neck. “It was somewhere around this field, actually. Somewhere along the road.” He turns back briefly, pointing an aimless finger along the path of the road.
“Oh, you’ve been here before?” you ask, eyes lighting up with genuine curiosity as you sit straight, eager to know more about him.
“More times than I can count.” Taeyong’s his smile grows wider in fond recollection, and you feel another bout of goosebumps rise on your skin as if you too can somehow feel the strength of the memory that so clearly flashes through his mind. “Comic books were my religion,” he chuckles, “and this field was my second home. I used to come here almost every day and just read until sundown.”
How nice it must have been, you wonder to yourself, eyes sparkling with mental image of a seven-year-old boy sitting in solitude among the grass with a book in his hands. You almost wish you could have met him all those years ago, talked with him until the sun no longer smiled down upon you.
“In fact, it was when the sun was setting that…” his voice fades away as he turns his head to you, a soft pang flaring in his chest as he watches your eyes glint with little remaining arch of the sun, your skin aglow with a hue of warm orange. You turn to him with a bright smile, and it’s only now that he realises the erratic beating of his heart beneath his ribcage, taking a deep breath before continuing. “I was…distracted by the sunset. That’s how I fell that day.”
“I can understand why,” you mumble, turning back to the field and allowing yourself to breathe in the final golden glow before it settles below the grass. “It’s stunning.”
“Always has been,” Taeyong croons, gaze still trained on your soft eyes, trailing down to the natural curvature of your lips, wondering if they’d feel as soft as they now look.
He finds himself overcome with emotion, wanting to inch closer to you, to embrace you in his arms and slide the cool tips of his fingers between the warm gaps of yours. He wants so badly to be able to rest his chin on your shoulder, nuzzle his nose into your neck and listen to the perfect melody of your voice for hours, to read and make sense of all your thoughts like his very own fascinating comic from all those years ago. 
God, he wants to kiss you. 
Right here, among the soft whispering of the wind, Taeyong wants to hold you tight and stroke your cheek and let you know everything will be alright.
He sighs, wondering if you feel the same way, if you’ve ever felt an inkling of what he’s feeling in this moment, watching as you tilt your head up to the sky.
“Looks like it’s going to rain,” you sigh, blinking up and following the clouds as they glide swiftly into one another among the turquoise of the sky. They’re a lot larger now, darker too in combination of the lacking sun and a natural greyness. “We should go.”
“Wait,” Taeyong catches your wrist momentarily, preventing you from standing as he reaches another hand into his pocket.
He pulls out a familiar-looking strip of silver fabric, pinching it by the ends and holding it up to the sky. You eye him, confused, eyebrows furrowing at his bizarre gesture before squinting up at the fabric. You tilt your head watching it curiously as it stands out brightly among the dull clouds, trying to make sense of its significance up in the sky. But a faint rumble of thunder has your eyes widening in realisation, the meaning of his actions striking you as brashly as the following clap of thunder.
Chaque nuage a une doublure d'argent. Every cloud has a silver lining.
You turn to Taeyong with a look of shimmering wonder, beaming along with the warm sensation that flowers in your chest as he regards you with all the world’s sincerity in his eyes.
“Don’t ever forget it,” he murmurs softly, compelling you never to leave his eyes, hoping his words hug you as warmly as his body aches to do so in this moment, unknowing that you feel his overwhelming comfort with every heavy breath that leaves you. He uncurls your palm and places the fabric on your hand, smiling at your curious gaze. “It’s yours. You dropped it last week, so I kept it safe for you.”
You nod, suddenly jolting in place as the sky suddenly resounds with another roar of thunder, the wind angrily whisking through the grass and picking up your hair in its path.
“Okay, but we really should get going before it starts to pour.” Taeyong scrambles to his feet, offering you his hand which you gratefully take. Your mind spins astir as he doesn’t let go of your palm, leading you to the car you’d seen parked on the roadside earlier and opening the passenger door with a nod of his head for you to sit inside.
“Oh no, it’s okay, I’ll just wait for Charlie to come and take me home.” You step back with a polite shake of your head, digging around your bag for your phone to contact said man.
Taeyong clicks his tongue, hips leaning back into the cool metal of his car, an amused grin tugging at one side of his mouth as he watches your triumphant expression upon finding your phone.
“Charlie’s not coming,” he declares, hands crossing over his chest.
“What do you mean, he’s not coming?” you eye him suspiciously.
“I mean,” Taeyong leans forward, “that he’s not coming.”
“So, what? Do you plan on taking me home? In your own car?” you ask, puzzled by the cocky raise of his eyebrows.
“Ten only arranged a ride for you to get here, so yes, I do plan on taking you home. In my own car. You got a problem with that, miss fashion fabulous?” Taeyong tilts is head to the side and you huff in response, the nickname causing your eyes to once again find their customary place at the back of your skull.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Well,” he pushes himself off the car, taking a step forward, “I’m your only way home right now, so either you get in my car, or…” he pauses and looks up, your gaze following his to find a growing realm of angry, ashen clouds rumbling with the profession of their next intentions, bouts of white electricity flashing between their overlapping shadows.
And with that, you don’t utter another word, helping yourself inside the passenger seat of Taeyong’s car and snatching the door from his grip to slam it shut. You have no intention of being left alone in the middle of nowhere to be soaked in the rain, that’s for sure.
Taeyong only chuckles to himself with a fond shake of his head, jogging around and finding his place in the driver’s seat just as the first drizzles of rain adorn themselves delicately through his hair.
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Y/n [8:06pm]: thank you for today
Y/n [8:06pm]: the field was nice
Y/n [8:06pm]: the sunset too
Taeyong [8:07pm]: what’s your take on Ferris wheels?
Y/n [8:07pm]: ???
Y/n [8:07pm]: that’s not random at all
Taeyong [8:07pm]: for educational purposes :D
Y/n [8:07pm]: I don’t know
Y/n [8:07pm]: I’ve never been on a Ferris wheel before
Taeyong [8:07pm]: 😱😱😱
Taeyong [8:07pm]: the disrespect
Y/n [8:08pm]: I was trying to thank you for today but I guess I’ll take it back or something 🙄
Taeyong [8:08pm]: you’re welcome
Y/n [8:08pm]: too late, Sonic
Taeyong [8:08pm]: you underestimate my speed
Y/n [8:08pm]: is that so?
Taeyong [8:08pm]: tomorrow 7pm, be ready
Taeyong [8:08pm]: weren’t expecting that now were you 😏
Y/n [8:08pm]: you’re not slick :/
Y/n [8:09pm]: but why? What’s happening tomorrow?
Taeyong [8:09pm]: curious, are we?
Y/n [8:09pm]: I think I made that abundantly clear
Taeyong [8:09pm]: well…
Y/n [8:09pm]: well…?
Taeyong [8:09pm]: I guess you’ll have to wait and see~~
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VIII. A *Bit* of Fun
You had tried with all your might, must have spent a good hour the previous night mulling and fussing over where exactly Taeyong was to take you this time. After having taken you to the field, you had decided that this man was as whimsical and unpredictable as they ever came. In the end, you were left clueless, tossing and turning through your muss of bedsheets with a little too much to lick your lips over (and use Taeyong’s lip balm to soothe the dryness thereafter). You had not a clue as to where you were expecting to end up the next day. All the of New York’s most prized attractions graced your mind, but none of those locations seemed to be remotely feasible for two of the industry’s most well-known faces to be seen together in.
So, it certainly came as a huge surprise when you’d found yourself standing in front of a dart-throwing stall in the middle of a fairground, with what feels like half the world’s population ambling around you in every which direction.
“Of all places,” you murmur, more to yourself than anything else, voice muffled by the mask that Taeyong had previously handed you in the car – your public incognito, as per his exact words. You adjust the scratchy material on your face, still absorbing the exorbitant glow of tube lights all around you and the indistinct conversation buzzing through the night air with the occasional rumble of roller coaster tracks in the distance.
“You do realise we have a fashion show to attend in eight days,” you turn to Taeyong, unable to gauge his expression save for the crinkle beside his eyes, absentmindedly following as he strides closer to the stall, “the biggest one of the season, may I add.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you have anything better to do locked indoors?” he deadpans, his scar glowing with the golden light as he glances up to the pricing board before turning to you.
“I could have for all you know,” you bite back, resisting the urge to cross your arms like a child, unwilling to admit your petty defeat in this argument.
“I don’t think a pity party for one counts, love. We’ll take ten, please.” Taeyong doesn’t spare you a glance, rather handing a five-dollar bill to the stall vendor in exchange for a handful of darts. You stare at him in disbelief, the nickname burning holes in your mind with the flush that burns your cheeks, and you couldn’t be more thankful for the mask to hide it away from the world.
“Taeyong, I swear if we get caught-”
“We won’t,” he interrupts, tapping a deliberate finger at his mask. “Besides, I think you deserve to have a little fun before the show,” he plucks a dart from the pile in his hand and holds it out to you with a tilt of his head, “Don’t you?”
You don’t reply, eyeing the pointed object with scepticism drawn between your brows. In plain honesty, you’ve never touched a dart in your life. The only sharps you’ve ever had to handle have come in the form of sewing needles, fabric clamps or garment pins; never darts.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to throw a dart?” Taeyong’s eyes widen with incredulity.
“Of course I know how to throw a dart,” you scoff, eyes mimicking his own while snatching the dart from his hand, refusing to back down in the face of yet another one-up from him. Of all the things you’ve accomplished thus far in life, this surely couldn’t be such a hard feat to strive for.
Taeyong grabs you by the shoulders, turning you to the rows of balloons beyond the counter. 
“If you pop more than eight balloons, you get a prize.”
You nod resolutely, eyes narrowing in on a red balloon in the middle of the board while lifting the dart in front of your eyes. Angling your wrist meticulously, you draw a mental beeline from the dart to the balloon, pulling your wrist back and launching it forward. Your keen expression falls as fast as the dart as you watch it plunge into the ground, turning grouchily to one very amused Taeyong who snickers all too blatantly at your expense.
“That was a practice run,” you shoot him a your most convincing scowl (which probably isn’t very convincing at all under the mask), holding a palm out for another dart which he gives you all too happily. You take a deep breath, lungs filling with the heady aroma of sweet and salty popcorn from the stall just across, lifting your hand once again and this time angling your wrist a little lower than before. Why exactly you feel the need to show your strongest mettle in such a measly little game is beyond you, but if there’s one thing you’d commend yourself on, it’s your determination, and you’re not lacking an ounce of it in this moment.
You throw the dart, huffing as it ricochets off board and lands once again on the ground with a flat thud. Taeyong’s laughter follows even louder this time, incredibly melodious yet so very extremely infuriating at the same time.
“Alright then, if you’re so good, why don’t you go ahead and try?”
“My pleasure,” he chuckles, crinkles still decorating the side of his eyes as he takes a dart, lifts his wrist and throws it forward, all while maintaining eye contact with you as if it were the easiest thing to do in the world.
You’re left to watch the way his cheeks rise under the mask as the damn balloon bursts, your own jaw pulled down in confused shock.
“How-”
“It’s called practice.”
You can’t see Taeyong’s face, but you’re positive if you reached forward and pulled down his mask, that smug grin would be stretched wide across it – in fact, there’s no need to pull it down when you’re practically able to imagine it there yourself.
“I can help you if you want…” he trails off, a suggestive lilt to his voice that rubs your stubborn temperament the wrong way, prompting an adamant shake of your head and as you once again hold out your hand. “Another one please.”
The next six turns are spent with a gradually diminishing morale accompanied by defensive utterances to excuse your clear ineptitude for the game. In the end, you manage to score three balloons, one of which had burst purely by some inexplicable coincidence. Taeyong on the other hand enjoys himself all too thoroughly, delighting so much in your concentrated stares and irked huffs, that when you turn to him wide-eyed with a hand emptied of darts, he can’t help but present you with another bundle of ten.
No wonder she made it this far, he thinks to himself, admiring the drive that came in the form of your cinched eyebrows and stolid posture, unwavering as you still somehow continue to miss your newly appointed blue target.
“You know, you always go on about how I’m so stiff, but have you ever realised how stiff you are?” he muses aloud, testing the waters while stepping slightly closer to you.
“I’m stiff because I have to be stiff, it’s my job,” you mutter back inattentively with one eye winking shut in focus, far too absorbed in reacquiring your target.
“We’re at a fair, Y/n.”
You gasp, unsure whether it’s from the fact that Taeyong had just spoken your name in public, or from the coolness of his fingers wrapping around the dorsal of your hand. You’re unable to control the goosebumps that flourish over your skin as his other hand cups your shoulder, your breath hitching as he lowers his head beside your own, so close that you can feel his stray hairs tickling your temple with every puff of the cool breeze.
“You don’t have to be stiff here.”
He’s so close that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you, his hand sliding down to the exposed skin of your wrist, pressing softly into the bone.
“Loosen up.”
You can only pray that your mask doesn’t make your shaky breaths more noticeable as you gulp down the sudden urge to turn your head toward Taeyong, far too afraid of diving head-first into something far beyond your boundaries.
You suddenly blink as a loud pop resounds from ahead, eyes shifting to find the dart no longer secured between your thumb and forefinger, the balloon now nothing but a limp scatter of blue latex shards on the ground.
“See? Simple, right?” Perhaps it was the loud burst that makes Taeyong’s voice sound softer than before, or perhaps he really had lowered his voice. You can’t tell either way over your growing pulse under his still grip on your wrist. When he lets go and stands straight, your eyes fall shut for a second, a silent breath of relief leaving your lips and warming your cheeks.
You don’t allow your mind the liberty to drown in your growing whirlpool of thoughts, questions and emotions, hands rather working by themselves to grasp another dart and flippantly fling it forward with no particular drive. To your surprise, it strikes a yellow balloon square in the middle with the loud, refreshing pop.
You snap your neck to Taeyong, eyes growing wide with a newfound excitement as he claps loudly, a wide smile taking over his features.
“I didn’t even try!” you shriek out in joy, arms moving in animatedly haphazard gestures, and Taeyong swears this is the first time he’s heard a real giggle from you. You throw another dart, still paying no attention whatsoever to the angle of your wrist or the position of your feet, yelping loudly as another balloon pops. “Hah! Did you see that? Two in a row!”
Taeyong laughs at the little bounce in the balls of your feet as you continue with the rest of the darts, eyes dancing affectionately over the image that is you.
Truly you.
It feels so surreal to him, having the privilege of witnessing the unfolding of such guiltless excitement, finally unearthed from deep within the person he’d once sworn was far too stuck-up to feel any emotions at all. He finds it so peculiar and endearing all at once that such a small achievement could bring the light to your eyes like nothing else in the world; that it really doesn’t take much to make you happy, and all you really need is a little freedom from the image the world makes you out to be.
You wind up with a grand total of eight clean balloon strikes, a little too gratified when picking out the largest purple teddy bear – that isn’t really as large as it sounds. Far too high in the clouds, you waste no time in dragging Taeyong to almost every stall in the fairground as if you were the one who left him hanging by a thread the night before.
And if there’s one thing that Taeyong realises while watching you fish for rubber ducks in a makeshift pond, it’s that you look extremely pretty when you work, but you look even prettier when you’re having fun. He also realises that you’re among the lucky ones when it comes to rigged carnival games….and that you’d wholeheartedly fight the world just to get your hands on the last scoop of green tea ice cream (thankfully there was no bloodshed since the child standing in front of you decided to change her mind to rainbow fairy floss in the end).
Being able to walk around in public without a bodyguard to tag closely behind, or the constant buzz of paparazzi and their blinding cameras; it felt absolutely divine. Like a breath of fresh air that everyone deserves to experience at least once in their lives. But as the universe would have it, peacefully indulging in an ice cream is a code red situation that not even the shrewdest of celebrities could ploy their way around. So as per Taeyong’s admittedly genius idea, you find yourself standing in the queue of the Ferris wheel with napkins painted in sticky swirls of green and brown (he opted for chocolate; a very predictable choice, you think), distracted by the squeals of children sliding down the Helter Skelter on the far right.
“So, this is why you asked me about my take on Ferris wheels yesterday,” you hum, head tipped back to welcome the bright shimmer of the multicoloured carriage lights bringing life to the navy-tipped sky.
“A speedy observation indeed,” Taeyong teases, nodding for you to enter a newly emptied carriage before climbing in himself and thanking the operator who secures it shut.
You sigh contentedly as the carriage rises and stops for the next few passengers, allowing yourself to embrace the butterflies that flit beneath your ribcage with an exhilarated sort of nervousness. You pull the mask off your face, relieved to be concealed in a dark enough space from the rest of the world, left alone for a while with the soft strokes of evening air cupping your cheeks and a nice scoop of your favourite ice cream to melt on your tongue.
You’re unable to control the small smile that tugs at your lips as you catch Taeyong’s gaze from across you. The stupid grin slapped across his face causes yours to widen, followed by a small giggle, which Taeyong tops with his own frivolous laughter, and soon enough you’re both surrounded by the echoes of your own fit of hysterics, no rhyme or reason to the wide smiles and slitted eyes.
“Why are you laughing?” you ask between giggles.
“I don’t know, why are you laughing?” Taeyong titters back.
“I don’t know,” you shake your head, hunching over to compose yourself with a hand pressed to your chest, taking a deep breath and turning to the view from your newly heightened angle. You have never really understood why people would willingly come to such places. Why would one allow themselves to be enticed by futile prizes at the cost of an absurd amount of money and by-chance luck?
But as you look down now, you see a multitude of familial relationships gone right, illuminated by the golden glow of scattered lighting around the fairground. You see couples with entwined fingers, swaying together in queues and proudly pecking each other’s cheeks at game stalls. You see children, starstruck and ever-dazed by the very prospect of thrill rides, tugging at their parents’ sleeves and bestowed with peerless amounts of benign love. Everything seems to make a lot more sense as you realise all of this is done for the experience between people; friends, families, partners and lovers. For the emotion and the connections and all the combined energy to present itself in the form of love and laughter.
“So…” You almost miss Taeyong’s voice as it somehow blends in fluidly with the white noise beyond your little sky cubby. “This was…fun. You had fun, right?”
“Hmm,” you hum playfully, eyes trained upwards in ingenuine thought.
“Oh, don’t even lie to yourself,” Taeyong scoffs.
You smile, taking a pensive bite of your cone. “I guess I had a bit of fun.”
“Uh huh,” he murmurs, eyes fixated on the tote bag beside you overflowing with prized plushies and miscellaneous stuffed animals you’d both ruthlessly won.
“Okay, maybe I had quite a bit of fun,” you chuckle, taking another bite of your ice cream.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he smiles, eyes peering unwaveringly into your own, and it’s only now that you grow conscious to the sensation of his knees softly brushing your own, his head resting back against the glass, and a dazed expression that finds a muse somewhere deep within your being.
You mirror Taeyong with a contended sigh, relishing in the tickle of his knees while finishing off the remainder of your ice cream. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, the lights beyond casting a shifting pageant of shadows over his velvety features, silvering the soft ends of his windswept hair. In this moment, you think Taeyong looks like a piece of art, some rare specimen that you’d only expect to find in a gallery; something you’d approach and have no choice but to fall hypnotised by, placated and inspired to the fine point of no return.
You realise it’s starting to become increasingly hard to evade the blithe air that engulfs you whenever in Taeyong’s presence. It would simply be an act of pettiness to deny something so apparent to both you and him. You can’t recall the last time you’d had even an ounce of the fun you’ve had collecting horrifyingly lurid plushies this very evening, or the last time your cheeks had ached from smiling so naturally in the span of a few hours.
You tilt your head in thought, eyes shifting once more to Taeyong’s hair, lips twitching up at the bright outline of it.
You’ve brought your silver linings to the world through Argent, always made sure that every stitch was perfect to a fault, that the sky was clear of clouds wherever you dared set foot.
In the one time when your world had taken a dark turn – the one moment you needed a silver lining to guide you through the rough – Taeyong had stepped in and shed a warm light to the other side. Perhaps he was that silver lining you needed all along, and all it had taken was you walking right under those dark clouds to realise it.
“Come to my place after this.” Your words slip under command of a momentary whim, your mind suddenly alight with a new kind of motivation.
“Come to your what?” Taeyong chokes out, surprised by your unexpected statement.
“My apartment,” you nod resolutely, moving to secure your mask back on your face as the carriage approaches the ground once again.
“For what?” he asks, securing his own mask too, the genuine perplexity in both his voice and expression rather amusing to you now as you simply smile back.
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
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IX. Give Yourself a Break
When you said you’d take Taeyong to your apartment, the last thing he’d expected was to be standing in the middle of your living room among a flurry of smooth jazz, wearing the very outfit he was to show off to the world in eight days. But to his pleasant surprise, the ensemble consists of the most comfortable set of fabrics he’d ever worn – and probably the most abundant too, he realises, as beads of sweat bloom at the roots of his hair.
On the very inside, Taeyong wears a thin dark blue turtleneck woven from the finest organic cotton money could buy. On top of it is a crisp, white oversized dress shirt held together by a matching navy tie. And on top of that is a navy jacket complete with a matching set of pants; greens, oranges and ceruleans seeping into the navy cloth, hand-painted so strategically that the third person would assume it to have been tie-dyed. Argent’s logo decorates every free space in a black paint that shimmers hypnotizingly under the scintillate lighting above. To top it all off, is the signature strip of silver running down the right sleeve of the jacket and the left leg of the pants.
“You’d think your shoulders would be smaller than Jaehyun’s,” you mutter, examining the two-and-a-half extra centimetres on the measuring tape held across Taeyong’s shoulders, before hanging it back around your neck, “I guess not.” You take the initiative to slip the jacket from his shoulders, clearly in your working element as you walk back to your dining table and remeasure the material, “thank goodness I started with a few extra centimetres of fabric.”
Taeyong doesn’t know whether to be offended or flattered by your offhand comments, but he quite frankly can’t bring himself to care, far too distracted by the sheer magnificence of your penthouse despite having spent the last hour inside of it. He’s still awed by the modern lighting that hangs high from ceilings, stunned by the roof-length windows that present a panorama of New York City at its prime hour, the fresh downpour beyond the glass bathing his ears in its soothing rumbles.
He takes a sip of the wine you’d poured for him, its sour tingle and sweet taste a perfect complement to the comforting ambience, eyes relaxed and travelling to the empty cardboard take-out boxes scattered across the dining table.
That was yet another unexpected turn of the evening; being wined by the world’s greatest fashion designer who apparently also likes to dine at the local Chinese take-away from across the street.
He then allows his eyes to fall on you, the most awestriking object in this room.
He watches you – every part of you – and doesn’t let himself look away, committing you into his memory like never before. He’s seen you work at Argent; steadfast in your movements, perfect posture, never a crease in your brow. But now, it feels as if a barrier has been torn down between that version of you and the person that sits before him now; your hands moving with a certain delicacy as you fold the material, not a single care in the world for the slight hunch in your back, and a very unfettered crease in your brow as you blow away stray hairs from your bun.
Yes, Taeyong had once wondered why you had chosen the life you currently live, but it’s no longer a question in his mind now; a statement rather, for which all evidence is presented in the very subject of his gaze.
“Great! I think we’re just about finished.”
Taeyong shifts his eyes as you walk back brightly, handing him the jacket for a final trial, which he slips on easily.
“Good?”
“Perfect,” he smiles back, relishing in the relieved expression that washes over you as you dust your hands in accomplishment. “But wasn’t this supposed to be your break period?” Taeyong pointedly raises an eyebrow.
“Listen, I’ve been breaking,” you lift your fingers in quotation marks, “for the last two days, and that’s more than enough time for me to slowly go insane.” You accentuate your point with a long, hard swing of your wine, gulping it down to its last drop and finishing with a hiss. “See? Who drinks wine like that? A madwoman, that’s who.” You cross your arms over your chest, your stubborn pout melting into a smile with the swarm of butterflies the erupt in your chest as you watch Taeyong hunch over in boisterous laughter, hypnotised by the dazzle of his smile along with the shimmer of the suit.
“You’re insane,” he snickers, sighing as his laughter dies down.
And you’re beautiful, you think back, not a single question to pose against the decided fact, though you try your best to conceal the epiphany with your nonchalant words. “Yeah, and the whole world knows it. Now go change before you crease the fabric.”
Taeyong snorts out loud, sauntering down the hallway with a small shake of his head and a hand ruffling through his hair – which you had previously tried your best to style to somewhat match the outfit (though it’s not your forte to put it lightly). Taeyong pushes his way into the bathroom, still not yet acquainted to its colossal size and the absolute shine of the marbled floor tiles. The view of city had seemed to follow him there, still twinkling in all its nocturnal glory through the tall glass window behind the jacuzzi tub upon which his clothes hang.
It’s all but a sight for sore eyes, but Taeyong doesn’t allow himself to admire it for a second longer, abruptly turning to the mirror, fingers clutching the edge of the counter as he properly examines himself, awestricken at the man that stares back at him. Never before had he thought an outfit could suit him so well, and you are the only person he can accredit for that. He softly smiles to himself, appreciating the sheer talent of a being that you are, so committed to anything and everything you set your mind you – even a game as small as darts would light the match within you ablaze with passion.
But his smile falls in an instant as his eyes drop to the dual sinks – one surrounded with various lotions, perfumes and a make-up accessories, while the other is completely empty; surrounded by nothing but unused space, all covered in a thin layer of dust. The contrast is simply far too existent to ignore, and it frustrates Taeyong to all uncontrollable ends, his frown deepening sorely as his eyes close with a shake of his head.
No wonder she’s so lonely, he thinks. Working all day on designer clothes, cooped up from twilight until dusk in her office, feared to the bone by her employees and framed for all the wrong reasons. And all of that, only to come home to this: a dual sink that only can’t serve its true purpose. A bottle of wine that only she can pop open and pour into a glass. And yet she somehow still keeps going. Even on her break.
Taeyong meets his own eyes in the mirror, jaw clenching with a certain overcoming power, not wasting a single moment before lurching himself toward the door. His eyebrows furrow as he steps out into the hallway, bathed in a newfound darkness that now blankets the entirety of the apartment. He steps forward, wondering if you’ve already gone to bed, though the jazz music that still floats gently by his ears testifies against the notion.
Taeyong turns into the living room, stopped in his tracks by the silhouette standing before the glass that separates her from the world beyond.
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You stand at the edge of the glass, fingertip pressed to the top of the highest building, eyes alit with the glimmer of the infamous Big Apple showered in a dazzling patter of rain. The view had caught your eye moments before, compelling you to close the lights and awe before it.
It has truly been a while since you had admired it to its full extent, inhaled the breathtaking kaleidoscope of skyscrapers at their glorious heights and the sparkling lights of the streets. The last time you had properly smiled at this view was years ago, with your elbow slipping dazedly from the window ledge of your tiny studio apartment, if one could even call it that. You’d sat by that window, having just shaken hands with a crestfallen model outside of Vogue building, and an assistant who went by the curious name of a number. You’d watched this view every day from a distance that was much further away than now, when it all seemed like a mere prospect, as did your character.
Purchasing the penthouse you stand in now had brought you all too close to the city, you’ve realised. This view had somehow become a routine part of your daily life, lost somewhere between the absentminded glances and fatigued muscles after a long workday, brushed aside along the way and forgotten as easily as every bright flash of a camera on the street.
You’re happy to find the same previous contentment in this view from up so close. Perhaps it isn’t even remotely the same. But it is still contentment, nonetheless.
“Aren’t you tired?”
The glass fogs slightly as you release a breathy chuckle in response to the low murmur behind you.
“Do you usually go to bed this early?”
“No, Y/n,” there’s a quiet pause, filled only with a soothing piano and quiet footsteps approaching forward, “I mean…aren’t you exhausted with your life?”
Head turning to the side, you see Taeyong’s silhouette standing in your periphery, silent and expectant of your answer. You gulp involuntarily, all too heedful of the single affirmation that should have fallen from your mouth, though you don’t allow yourself to speak it.
“Excuse me?” you reply, voice hesitant and breathy. The music evaporates in an instant, leaving the air void with a jarring silence, still among the heavy sigh that leaves Taeyong. You stiffen as you feel his presence behind you, electricity shooting through your body as his warm fingers brush your own from behind. You attempt to turn around, but the squeeze of his hand around your palm stops you, thawing your frosted skin and holding you in place as if to say, “it’s okay, be still.”
Your breath leaves you in trembling exhales, chest rising and falling heavily with a boundless rush of goosebumps, butterflies thrashing violently in your chest as your heart rate rises.
“Locking yourself in your office morning to night. Always being the perfect one in the crowd. Building all these walls around yourself, confining your entire personality inside them. It must be so exhausting.” Taeyong’s voice just above a whisper, your eyes training on the brightest window you can find among the galaxy of them twinkling in the city, if only to drown his voice out with the soft murmur of the rain.
“I’ve worked too hard to be tired now,” you reply, voice just as silent as his.
“You need to give yourself a break.”
“I’m already on a break.”
“And yet, here I am wearing one of your hand stitched coats.”
You don’t respond to him. You’re not sure how to respond, when all that that leaves Taeyong’s lips is an irrefutable fact, causing you to gulp once more as you realise that he’s right.
And you’re very wrong.
“Here you are,” he breathes, “still worrying about that godforsaken fashion show.”
You lips part, all but ready to deny Taeyong’s words, though you don’t have the chance to as his voice falls to a whisper.
“With this godforsaken bun.”
You feel the tightness at your scalp loosen suddenly, chest rising shakily as your hair cascades down the flushed skin of your cheeks. You’re left light-headed and faint with the sharp exhale that leaves you as you turn around to face Taeyong only to stumble back, startled by the sheer proximity between you and him. His fingers only tighten around your own, your other hand pressing behind you into the cool glass, sending a throttling shiver through you that feels all but electrifying as you meet Taeyong’s eyes.
They sparkle so beautifully in the dark; a mesmerising mirror reflecting the bright lights behind your shoulders, so alluring you would foolishly relinquish every part of yourself if only to stare into them for an eternity longer. Allow yourself to drown in them, along with the heady scent of pinot that heavily fans your cheeks.
“What are you…” you whisper, lost of your words while looking down to your hands as Taeyong’s fingers push through their gaps, his palm pressing firmly, warmly, against yours. “What are you doing, Taeyong?” You look back up, nose brushing softly against his.
“You look gorgeous like this,” he ignores you. “With your hair down.” His other hand lifts to your hair, knuckles softly stroking along your locks. “You look beautiful when you’re playing darts…and tossing bean bags…and eating ice cream. When you’re not constantly worrying.” You feel the warmth of his forehead against yours, his hair tickling your cheeks as they find comfort in the slide of his palm against your blooming skin.
“I-”
“Just stop,” he breathes, the phantom of his lips finding yours in a sweet tickle, “stop worrying.”
You want to process the moment, you want to understand why it’s becoming increasingly hard to stay level in the time and space of this moment. But your inhibitions fall away as you close your eyes, a whispered profession of “okay” falling short with the press of Taeyong’s lips to yours.
He exhales and you blossom under his soft touch, finally relinquishing every fibre of your being to the man you’d never thought would accept it. Taeyong’s lips are gentle, a perfect match for yours, reassuring and tantalising all at once. His hand slides to the curve of your back and yours to his cheek, his fingers burning through the fabric of your blouse and yours cool and refreshing on his skin, tracing the scar by his eye as he pulls you closer. Impossibly closer. So close that you feel it all once more; the sturdy plain of muscle in his arms, his chest, his shoulders. The protection of his embrace and the inebriating balm of his cologne, the blazing slip of his hand under your shirt; you allow yourself to feel it all at once.
All sensation of worry is lost in Taeyong’s lips, fading with every whispered profession that follows you to the pathway of your bedroom. He shows you how wonderful it can be to forget the world for a while, to lose yourself in the softness of his hair and in every newly discovered tattoo etched into smooth of his skin. He calls you beautiful more times than you’d ever heard before, admires every part of you with in all five senses until you both find yourself wrapped under the warm, white covers of your duvet, foreheads pressed together and eyes once again falling shy of each other’s gaze.
“It looks like a rose,” you murmur into the silence, the cotton of Taeyong’s shirt comforting against your skin, rain still beating soothingly against the windows as your fingers once more trace along Taeyong’s scar.
“Yeah?” he hums, eyes hooded and soft on your own, a corner of those pretty lips turning up in a small smile, “I never thought of it that way.”
Am I in love with him?
You furrow your eyebrows as the thought graces your mind unexpectedly, so sudden – almost as if it were natural – that your smile falls in an instant with the all-consuming, fluttery pang in your chest. Your cheeks feel warm and florid against pillow as you watch Taeyong frown in question toward you.
“You okay?” he asks worriedly, hand brushing the hair from your cheek, replaced with soft pad of his thumb that only strokes a fresh layer of heat into your skin.
“Yeah,” you shake your head, eyes blinking rapidly in a mix of nerves and giddiness, “yeah just…thirsty, I guess.”
“Well now that you mention it, so am I,” Taeyong muses, lifting the covers from himself and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
“It’s okay, I can get it-”
“I’m already halfway there, babe.” He looks back to you with a smirk, before turning and leaving you to watch him sauntering out the door, cheeks so hot you swear you might be coming down with a fever or something.
“Babe?” you whisper to yourself, an idiotic smile tugging your cheeks so uncontrollably high, you’re forced to pull the covers all the way up to your nose to suppress the small giggle that leaves you. “My god.” You lift your hands to cover your face, the giddy smile refusing to escape you at any cost, praying that Taeyong somehow gets lost along the way if only to buy you more time to calm yourself before he returns.
Embarrassingly enough, he had somehow found himself in the utility room before finding your kitchen, squinting as his hands finally reach for the very inconveniently located light switch. He’s beginning to realise that everything in your penthouse is either four times larger or four times more expensive than the average apartment. Unsurprisingly, your kitchen checks full-clear in both departments, and it leaves him scratching his head as to which drawer to begin scavenging for two pathetic little glasses.
Luck finds him with the sixth handle he pulls back. He plucks out two shiny, clear glasses and fills them at the sink, noticing two of the very same glasses sitting prettily in the dish rack beside it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters, closing the tap and lifting the filled glasses. He perks up at the sound of a notification bell in the distance.
It must be important if they’re texting so late at night, he thinks to himself, setting down the glasses and walking to the living room where the sound had come from. He finds his phone on the sofa, the small device emitting its blue light into the darkness of the room as he picks it up, squinting down at the message.
Kim Heechul
6 Text Messages
Taeyong feels his heart sink upon seeing the man’s name, chest pulled taught with a foreboding tension as he reluctantly unlocks the phone. His pupils shrink further and further with every letter that meets them, Adam’s apple catching in his neck.
Heechul [12:02am]: I see you’ve earned yourself a fanbase
Heechul [12:02am]: Though I don’t recall fame ever being part of our deal
“Fuck,” Taeyong breathes out, collapsing onto the couch with a hand scooping back his unkempt locks, his mind beginning to cloud with a suffocating bout of anxiety.
Heechul [12:02am]: One week, Taeyong, that’s all you’ve got before the show
Heechul [12:03am]: I expect that article to be on my desk ready for publishing the day after
Heechul [12:03am]: The money is only yours if the job is done right
Heechul [12:03am]: Do not forget your place
Taeyong sighs heavily, another whispered curse leaving him as his eyes fall shut with the prickling throb taking over his chest. It seems he truly had forgotten his place.
He hasn’t laid a finger on the article in the last fortnight, his laptop all but a forgotten clunk of metal in the corner of his room after he’d plunged himself neck-deep in all the preparations and practice for Argent’s segment at New York Fashion Week. A page and a half of quarter-truths and impulsive spleens is all the article had made itself to be thus far; nowhere close to the usual quota of words, and even further away from the reality of all mentioned points.
“I thought you were getting water.”
Taeyong hurriedly clicks his phone off, turning to see you standing in the hallway, cruel guilt dousing through his entire being as he tries not to lose himself in the stunning image of you wearing his white button-up shirt.
“What are you doing here? The kitchen is that way,” you ask, an endearingly confused expression twisting through your features as you point a finger over your shoulder.
“I, uhhh,” he blinks, mind falling blank as he scans the room for an excuse, “the city,” he points to the windows, “I got distracted.”
It pains him to see the way your eyes momentarily fall shut with a light chuckle, how your feet patter lightly across the floor toward him along with the rain, the way your hand softens the frustrated tousle of his hair.
“That wine sure got to your head, didn’t it?” you giggle softly, sighing at the velvety tickle of his hair.
How can it be so soft, you wonder, cloud nine far surpassed, and for the time being you’re all but willing to let your head rest up high amongst the bliss of here and now, unbeknownst of the monsters that gnaw at Taeyong’s every thought.
She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve this at all.
“Maybe you got to my head.” Taeyong lifts his head to gaze up at you, your hand slipping naturally to his cheek in slow, soothing circles as you lean down closer to him, his nose tickling your own.
“Oh, and what if I said you got to mine?”
Taeyong doesn’t answer you, instead allowing himself to drown in the halo of city stars glowing around the shimmering wisps of your messed hair. He feels the plunge of his heart growing faster, deeper, as your soft lips press forward onto his own, the familiar strawberry balm finding his tastebuds in a torturously aching dulce. 
And your smile. Your beautiful smile. 
It lifts perfectly against his mouth, lost in the feeling of him without a single worry to snatch it away, and it’s in this moment that Taeyong decides he cannot let that smile fall. He can’t bring himself to do such a thing to you. Not yet.
He wraps his arms around you, as strong and true as they can possibly be in a moment as false as this. Pushing the spiralling disquietude away from his mind, Taeyong pulls you closer to himself instead, relishing in your scent and the soft tickle of your hair on his temples. He allows his mind to fade away with every impartment of candour gifted from the tips of your fingers to his own, a final thought bleeding through the white of his conscience as it slowly slips from his grasp.
Not yet.
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X. Who Am I Really Kidding?
Your three days of incarceration couldn’t have flown past you any quicker. Well, perhaps incarceration isn’t the word that immediately springs to mind now – perhaps a personal rejuvenation scheme would best describe it – as you once again immerse yourself in the lively chorus of frantic questions and invigorating scraping of hangers on and off clothing racks. It was well-deserved too, considering you haven’t felt more alive than you do in this very moment; empowered by the fresh click of your own heels against Argent’s floors, and the adrenaline flowing freely through every vessel in your body.
Preparations for the show are at an all-time high, fast, and furious and seemingly never-ending as the hours roll swiftly into gainful days. Your stresses now stem solely from Ten’s ghastly reports of seam slips and ill-fitting clothes on models (yes, sizes magically change at the last minute, and, no, you still haven’t cracked that case yet.). But it’s something you secretly couldn’t be more thankful for, having decided to cut ties with all your other worries from the past month.
And Jaehyun?
Ugh, fuck him and his two-faced ass.
Your only goal now is to keep everything on track for the next six days. There simply isn’t any time to waste. A smooth finale is the best finale, after all. And the best finale is the result of practice session after tireless practice session, ensuring not a single flaw in things as subtle as the very flow of a model’s outfit.
“Come on people, this is the sixth test run today and I haven’t felt a single ounce of pizzazz from any of you!” Johnny yells over the techno-EDM track playing overhead, gesturing animatedly beside the models who sashay along The Walkway. “Give me some more passion, some zest, some zeal, c’mon you gotta give me something!” He claps his hands rhythmically, eyes ferociously scanning the models as they pose and turn at the foot of the catwalk. 
Johnny’s work ethic has been all but ablaze as of late. If there’s one thing you’ve learnt about him through the years, it’s that the man is always up for fun and games until the last fortnight before any show. He somehow always manages to get the job done well and right by one hand or another, and it’s part of the reason why you keep him around despite the trillions of times you’ve been compelled to fire him on the spot.
“I think it’s going okay, actually,” you muse as Johnny approaches you at the very front of the catwalk with an irked huff.
“Yeah, sweet joke,” he scoffs sarcastically, eyes still trained on the models strutting froward. “In what universe does Y/n Y/l/n ever settle for okay?”
“Hmm.” Your eyebrows furrow together as you ponder over his question, unable to formulate a definitive answer yourself. “I have no idea.” 
“Well on the plus si-” Johnny interrupts himself with a sharp sigh, shaking his head at the model who turns the bend, before directing his attention to you. “On the plus side, Argent received a few extra bidders while you were gone. A certain Mr Butter Fingers to thank for that; got a little more famous over the last week.”
“Is that so?” You nod to yourself, the hint of a grin seeping onto your features, though you’re unsure whether it’s from the pleasure of regaining success, or the ravishing man behind Johnny’s stingy pet name. 
But who are you really kidding, anyway?
“Speaking of the devil,” Johnny mutters, arms folding over his chest, his gaze morphing swiftly into one of pride as Taeyong turns the corner from behind the back wall. 
You look up all too eagerly, eyes readily falling on the man who wears Argent’s most prized set of the season. Tracing a slow, invisible path from the heel of his boots all the way to the very fine tips of his hair, you allow yourself to indulge in the very being of Taeyong; in the stoic expression that you know would melt into that gorgeous smile as soon as he steps back inside; in the long, lithe strides of his legs, and in the airy sway of his arms beside them. 
“Not entirely perfect yet, but I told you we’d make a star out of him,” Johnny smiles proudly beside you and, for what seems like the first time in your life, you’re wholly unable to argue back with the man.
Taeyong’s overall improvement on the catwalk is remarkable to describe in simple terms, complete with a certain poise so subtle you could only ever associate it with him. A month ago, you would have laughed in the face of they who told you Taeyong would make it this far with the minimal experience he had. But now, watching it all come together from afar, there’s not a doubt in your mind that Lee Taeyong has indeed become a star. 
In this moment, you can’t imagine any other person in such a position; you don’t want to. The outfit is simply too perfect like this, draped over and around every part Taeyong; so exquisite as if it were a poem made specifically in the shape of him, accentuating his glow with every step he takes forward.
His eyes fall on you, faltering not once in his movements while you fall besottedly into his gaze for the hundredth time like the lovesick little girl you’ve somehow allowed yourself to become since your…intimate engagements from a couple nights ago. 
Taeyong pauses at the foot of the platform, feet planted with a split-second of assured glamour, his lips quirking almost imperceptibly as he sends a playful wink your way before turning back around. You have no choice but to bow your head, bashful and unable to contain the shy smile that embellishes the pinkening blooms on your cheeks.
Johnny watches the whole ordeal dumbfoundedly, eyes flickering between the receding man and the demure subject of a woman standing right beside him. “What is going o-” He pauses as a hand catches his shoulder from behind. He turns to see Ten standing there, his emblematic black clipboard cradled in the crook of his arm, spectacles cast low over his nose. Ten shakes his head subtly, a small beam gracing his features as Johnny raises his brows and turns back around, catching the hint not to continue with his question. 
Ten regards you in his periphery, a fond expression twinkling in warmth of his gaze at your tucked chin and down-set gaze. His smile begins to replicate your own as it grows wider with every passing second. 
Despite all your tussles, he has always regarded you as his own family. You were like a sister to him, and your happiness was a great source of his own; always a refreshing sight to behold and never failing to foster with it an oddly comforting sentiment. The whole world smiled when you smiled, and Ten couldn’t be more thankful that Taeyong was the idiot to bring that smile back to you when you needed it the most.
─── ⪧ ⪦ ───
You step inside your office before Taeyong, both your shoes echoing alongside the soft click of the door as you head straight for the papers strewn in haphazard piles on your desk.
Being ‘messy’ has never quite sat right with you in any case, but in your every defence, keeping a tidy workspace in the formative days of any fashion show – let alone New York Fashion Week – is always a feat close to impossible. There are far too many things to preoccupy yourself with: the guest and rsvp lists, the show schedule, making sure Argent receives a suitable time slot (preferably around dusk hours for peak outdoor lighting and publicity).
You pick up a cream-coloured card that you assume Ten must have placed on your desk while you were gone, realising that it’s the revised schedule for the entirety of New York Fashion Week.
FRI | 02 | 06 … 7PM: Tom Ford 8PM: Argent 9PM: Michael Kors …
You grin at the line-up, satisfied with both Argent’s time slot as well as the two other world-class labels flanking it. Both male designers are well-known acquaintances of yours, and the very fact of being sandwiched between them at the world’s biggest fashion event is gratifying beyond all means. It serves to remind you just how far you’ve come; that you’ve really made your living worthwhile despite every defected sideshow.
“So…” Taeyong’s voice echoes through the room, and you think there couldn’t have been a better melody to accompany the moment.
“So,” you echo back, a dazed smile growing on your features as you turn to him, hips leaning back against your desk.
“How was I this time?” Taeyong looks at you with a sort of anticipation swirling about his eyes and hope saturating his every spoken word. You watch as his thumbs fidget with the ringer of his phone, his teeth sunken anxiously into his bottom lip while awaiting your answer. You’ve never seen him quite so nervous until now, and it only serves to ignite a ticklish flutter in your chest and a warm smile on your face. Of course, it may just be the fact that he’s featuring in NYFW in less than a week, but the very thought of your opinion being so valued by him brings so much unsolicited joy to you.
“You did well,” you answer, the flutter increasing tenfold with the bright smile that adorns Taeyong’s face in response, his eyes shimmering like diamonds as he brings a hand to his heart dramatically.
“I thought this day would never come,” he sighs heavily, earning a small laugh from you.
“I’m glad you can finally walk now,” you snort, “can’t have my frontline model tripping up on stage.”
“What was that?” Taeyong brings a hand to his ear, taking a step closer to you. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over my raging ego right now.”
You shake your head at the cocky smirk that overcomes his freakishly handsome features, though immediately freezing as he steps even closer and plants both palms on your desk either side of you, his eyes finding your own as he leans forward with a quirk to his eyebrow.
“Your fault, baby, not mine.”
You’ve decided that Taeyong is beyond irresistible at this point, and it bothers you to no end how affected you are, a tell-tale red growing warm on your cheeks as you rebuke yourself for being so unabashedly pliant in his presence. 
And, bloody hell, all these nicknames.
A refutation is far from palpable in the hazy fog of your mind, so you resort to the next best response, leaning forward without a single forethought, unable to hold back the outrageously long kiss you press to his lips. Taeyong hums in satisfaction, a hand finding your waist all too swiftly that you’d be compelled to roll your eyes if they were open. This is exactly the reaction he had wanted out of you, and here you are, more than willing to give him exactly that. 
Oh, how the tables have turned.
A split-second awareness of the steady clock ticking behind you is all it takes for you to pull away from Taeyong, though not quite far enough to evade the tickle of his perfectly styled hair. 
“How unprofessional of you, Miss Y/l/n,” he gasps quietly, faux shock rippling through his face, only to be tugged away with that infuriating smirk and those lazy, hooded eyes.
“Remind me why you followed me here again,” you murmur, eyes glued to the creases of his lips – though not for much longer.
“Oh, so I guess you need another demonstration.” Taeyong doesn’t allow you a second to process his words, his other hand sliding to your jaw and pulling your mouth to his once again in a searing kiss. “This is why,” he mumbles against your lips, and you can’t help but blaze under the soft sensation of him, every inch of you melting naturally as ice under a heated summer sky…that is, until reality dawns on you once again, and you take it upon yourself to stomp a hard heel to Taeyong’s foot.
He pulls away placidly, head tilting in amusement. “You really think that hurt?” He raises an eyebrow, watching your own furrow on your forehead as you look down to his shoes, face falling in realisation. Goddamn you and your perfectly robust shoe designs.
“That’s cute,” Taeyong mumbles ardently, resisting the urge to kiss away the small pout on your face.
“Thank you, now get back to work,” you huff out in embarrassment, unsure how to handle the heat radiating from your surely pinkening cheeks as Taeyong chuckles and takes a step away to walk toward the door. Despite your words, you merely find yourself wishing he’d stay by your side for a little longer, close enough to hold your hands and kindle their warmth even further, unafraid to burn under the very whisper of his presence. But he only turns to blow a kiss your away, exchanging it with a smile of yours to etch in the back of his mind as he exits your office. 
You’re left airy and still in the echo of the room, resisting the urge to sway this way and that with every warm wave of joy coating your mind.
“Right, the documents,” you shake your head, eyes flickering before scurrying to your chair. “Focus, Y/n,” you tap your cheek twice, collecting the strewn-out papers into a neat pile before fingering through each one, signing your name wherever required and eyeing through the RSVP list, just to make sure Ten hadn’t approved of any unwanted guests – namely anyone whose credentials align with Qi Fashion Labels.
You jump in surprise at the loud ringing of a phone at the far end of your desk, humming in a second of confusion at the unfamiliar ringtone – though you’re only left to assume the device belongs to Taeyong given his track record of forgetting his belongings in his every wake. With a roll of your eyes, you decide upon ignoring it, allowing the caller to exhaust all futile hope for an answer, continuing to your papers. The ringing ceases after a while, but silence only lasts so long, as it’s shrill cries once again echo through the glass of the room, rattling through your final nerves. With a groan, you reach out to the phone, eyes scanning over the caller ID to find a familiar name once again displayed on the screen.
Kim Heechul
“A friend, perhaps?” you wonder aloud, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek as you internally tussle with the thought of whether or not to answer the call. 
What if it’s something serious, you reason with yourself, considering that the average caller would merely ring and hang up unless there was an urgent matter at hand. If a few weeks ago was any indication, this Heechul person seemed to have some kind of pull with Taeyong. And though you’re never one to trespass on the private matters of others, you think it would only be right to put the caller’s mind to ease by letting him know that Taeyong would be sure to ring him back sometime later. So, without another second to spare, your thumb finds the green button and the phone finds itself at the cusp of your ear.
“Hel-”
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The Walkway’s tube lights flickering to a silent darkness has grown onto Taeyong as something of a delicate sound; as if in the next second, he could expect fireflies to appear with the beckoning tinkle of the bulbs. It’s almost embarrassing to admit that time and again, Taeyong has actually spent that extra second waiting for small glowing specs to appear, but every time, he has left only with his own shadow to greet him a final farewell for the evening.
The same routine emulates today. Taeyong steps out of the room, but this time his silhouette stands a mere sidepiece of the night, his eyes rather much too eagerly finding the screen of his phone, hoping to finally see your name in his notifications.
No Older Notifications
He frowns in confusion, unlocking his phone to find the blue bubble he’d sent that morning still unaccompanied by a reply from you. His frown only deepens, as he turns his head in the direction of your office at the far end of the hallway, a streak of worry convening in the growing creases of his brows at blackness emulating through the glass. 
It was a strange and rare occurrence for you to have left work at such an early hour of the evening; so much so, that if you did, one could only conclude that something was gravely wrong.
Taeyong thinks back to the nature of the last two days; all the times you were in the same room but never so much as spared him a glance, the numerous photoshoots you weren’t present for despite having scheduled them in yourself, not to mention your complete absence in all the mock-runways.  It really wouldn’t be an understatement to say that things have been rather odd on your end – tense, now that Taeyong really thinks about it. You always seemed to be in all the places he wasn’t and he’s unable to formulate a logical reason why.
It then occurs to Taeyong that neither you, nor him had taken the time to label the relationship you’ve harboured in the past week; there simply was none in the first place. But all of it – the secret handholding, the trivial gestures and texts – he’s positive it’s all come from some romantic facet within you.
Taeyong’s mind sifts through a million thoughts a minute. He can’t help wondering if he’d made you uncomfortable in any way, or if you were just stressed and felt the need to withdraw for a while or maybe you just-
“Done for the day?”
There was that voice that, among the tumble and wave of the last month, had remained solitary and constant. A voice that remained dutiful and obliging, belonging to an equally hospitable man who now steps out of his office with his black clipboard and silver spectacles.
“Yeah, I finished early,” Taeyong replies with a small smile, though Ten only raises an eyebrow as Taeyong’s eyes stray once more to your office behind his shoulder.
“So did Y/n,” Ten states, the metallic scrape of his keys resounding harshly as he twists one in the lock. “She left perhaps an hour or so ago.”
“Oh, do you know if she’s unwell or…”
“She didn’t mention anything specific, but I’d assume so, considering she’s not usually one to leave without some life-altering reason,” Ten chuckles, shrugging on his trench coat and slinging a satchel over his shoulder. 
“She’s probably just tired from all the work that’s been going on lately. Burnout isn’t exactly unheard of during this time of year.” Taeyong only nods, earning a pat on the back from Ten. “Well, I’m also heading off early to review the venue with our performance artist. Good work today, Taeyong. Take some rest yourself. You’ll need it.”
“Thank you, have a good evening,” Taeyong answers, exchanging a small bow with Ten and watching as his perfectly styled hair enters the elevator on the other side of the hall. A small vibration casts Taeyong’s eyes once again to the palm of his hand, his phone briefly aglow with the name he’d longed to see for hours now.
Y/n [5:48pm]: Come out to the field
Y/n [5:48pm]: I’ll be waiting
Taeyong exclaims in surprise, a small grin forming at his lips as his worries thaw slightly at the thought of you inviting him to his own favourite place; the thought of you waiting there in the grass for him as if it were something of fate taken straight from a poet’s diary.
Perhaps nothing was really wrong at all.
Perhaps all you needed was a clean breath of air.
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XI. Once, Betrayed. Twice, A Damned Fool
It was one thing to watch the sky fade from blue to orange through the mirrored windows of a skyscraper, but it was something else entirely to view it from this position in the field. The sky was not simply blue when you’d set yourself down once again among the bed of itchy grass and ticklish flowers. There’s no one way to describe the colour you had seen, but it somehow felt…deep.
Deeper in colour, deeper in meaning, deeper in intent and in sorrow.
That deepness only grew as evening began its mingling commute with daylight, silently reaching forth its palm and convening a colour far intangibly ardent than orange, all of it accented quite perfectly by the large ball of fire in its routine fall.
You can’t recall another time when the sun had ever felt so blistering among the bittered February air. And, it was rather amusing to you, really, that of all possible days, today is when the clouds had chosen not to shade you.  There hadn’t been even a speck of white or grey to dampen the sizzle on your face.
Or in your heart.
You tug your coat tighter around yourself, head tilting as you watch the head of a yellow flower being tugged this way and that by harsh gale. It too doesn’t simply feel yellow – well, not in this moment, at least. Its bud looks wilted, slightly browned as if to preserve what little charming dignity it had once possessed. Such a naïve thing it was. Handing itself over to the forces of nature, blossoming, thriving, living in artless denial, and never once stopping to think it would one day end up bowing down in regret for ever committing such a profitless sin.
There really is more than meets the eye in all conceivable forms of life, you’ve come to realise. But only those cunning enough to blind their abetter are able see right through each facade.
The harsh crunching of grass behind you almost beckons you to turn, but you stop yourself if only to prevent your hair from covering your eyes.
Taeyong simply smiles to himself, your free locks a perfect accessory to the panorama in front of him. He sits down beside you and you dare to glimpse at him in your periphery.
“Hey,” he speaks so delicately. So quietly and softly as if to blend in with the wind and its every hidden sentiment.
“Hi,” you reply, eyes still trained on the yellow flower, and it’s when you refuse to smile or even look at Taeyong that he begins to frown, the worry of earlier finding its place within him.
“Y/n, is something wrong-”
“Did I ever tell you,” you interrupt him, pausing to take a shaky breath as the wind bites at the burning skin of your neck, “about when I was nineteen?” 
Confusion settles at Taeyong’s brows, though curiosity swirls through his eyes as they peer at you. The last time you were here with him, you’d given something of general overview of your life as a child and progressions as a designer, but never specifically anything about when you were nineteen. Taeyong shakes his head.
“I lived in a box apartment – at tiny little thing at the edge of the city, just trying to make ends meet. Ten and Jaehyun were the only people I had at the time. Nobody else.” If your voice holds a single mite of sentiment, it’s all but imperceptible to Taeyong, as is any emotion in your distant eyes which still refuse to meet his own.
“Nothing was working out for us in that year; all we really had was a handsome rookie, a jobless assistant and my notebook of drawings. Every company we approached had shunned us in less than a day. We were left broke, desperate, hopeless. I, for one, was ready to give up everything.” The memory plays in your mind as a series of blurred motions, your jaw clenching and chin raising slightly to keep a composed front. “But they both kept me going. They told me to never give up, no matter what. That-”
“Every cloud has a silver lining.”
It’s almost funny to hear those words falling from Taeyong’s mouth so naturally, but you nod, nonetheless.
“I had no choice but to keep moving forward; I couldn’t let them down so horribly. So, every night, by routine, I would sit by my window in my little box, and look out to Manhattan City, just hoping – praying – I’d make it there some day. Somehow.” You pause for a moment, taking another deep breath and gulping down the growing tightness in your throat.
“Look where I am now. It seems like I truly have made it…especially considering my own models are writing fake news behind my back.”
***
“Hel-”
“We just keep hitting those milestones, my friend. Luxe just received a retail offer we can’t deny! The biggest department store in the country wants to show your work off to the world!” 
The voice that echoes from the speaker sounds awfully cheerful; an inflection belonging to a middle-aged man, though that’s all you’re able to gather as you mind draws question marks at his peculiar words. You’re quick to remind yourself that Taeyong must have, in fact, had a job prior to the one you’d given him, and assume that this Heechul guy must be one of his colleagues or associates of some kind.
You open your mouth to speak, but the man beats you to it.
“Taeyong, I’m gonna need you to make sure this article is as snappy as your Y/l/n-Jung scandal – no, even better than that.”
Your face contorts in bewilderment, eyebrows cinching tightly together and jaw falling ajar as a wave of anxious goosebumps shroud the skin of your arms. “What,” you whisper, just quiet enough for it pass as a breath of air as a tight pain begins to flare up like a wildfire in your chest.
Y/l/n-Jung scandal?
Taeyong’s…Y/l/n-Jung scandal?
“Boy, is Argent going to be in for a treat. And right before New York Fashion Week, too!”
Your heart plummets with a trembling exhale as the man guffaws heartily, your eyes growing wide and haphazard, flickering to every shiny surface of your office as if to search for some form of an honest, untainted truth.
“Remember, I want it finished by-”
You cut the call and the phone slips through your fingers, clattering loudly – threateningly – against the documents on your desk. 
*** 
“It was you, wasn’t it?” You finally turn to face Taeyong, almost turning back straight away. “You wrote that article last month.”
The brown-haired man shifts sharply beside you in the grass, the sound akin to the harsh tearing of a paper while the sun burns its last blister into sky. You do nothing but view it through the blurring, wet sheen of your eyes, waiting and watching as it falls down and down and down, until all that testifies its existence are the furious scabs of pinks and oranges twisting among the deep azure.
“Y/n, I-” he starts, though his mouth falls dry of any placating words, unable to formulate a single coherent thought from underneath the growing thickness of his breath as you refuse to let a single emotion permeate through those clouded eyes.
“It makes me wonder just how foolish I’ve been all along,” you turn back to the field and force a hard, focused gaze back to the flower, unable to keep a seconds’ longer gaze on Taeyong without an impetuous tear slipping from your eye. “All that time, and all that energy…” And all that vulnerability. And all that trust. And all that love. “…wasted on a shameless man like you.”
It wasn’t supposed to rain today, but your cheeks begin to ache and burn with the salty streaks of water. You can’t seem to care for them being so openly on display. Taeyong has taken everything from you. What more are a few tears?
Taeyong follows the trail of water down your cheek. All he can do is turn away as that harrowing guilt sequestered deep within himself over the last few weeks, finally emerges at the surface, violent and strong and more forceful than ever. It peels at every nerve inside, eats away at all the confusion and the worry and every other emotion in between. It leaves nothing. Nothing but a dark, empty, shameful feeling in its wake. 
This is the first time he has seen you this way. And it’s all his fault.
“How dare you defame me. How dare you take Jaehyun away from me, and how dare you have the nerve to show your face in my building and take advantage of my company. How dare you, Lee Taeyong.” Your words fall lifeless and heavy between the growing bile in your throat and endless glisten of water against your skin.
Two days of processing couldn’t possibly have prepared you for this moment. 
You’d spent the first day mulling over what you’d heard from the call; there must surely have been some error on your part to hear such a shockingly absurd thing from Heechul. The second day was spent in worry; it was simply unfathomable that Taeyong – the very toast addict you’d hired all those weeks ago – could possibly have written such a false scandal. But it wasn’t until this very morning you’d found yourself as the fool who hadn’t bothered to check his employment history.
 Journalist at Luxe Magazine LTD
And since then, you had only been hoping for a miracle. That Taeyong would show up to this field with his comforting presence, hold your hand in earnest, look you in the eye and fully deny your accusation because it’s simply too hasty and completely absurd. 
But you realise now that it simply isn’t. That miracles are not an asset to be acquired so easily. Taeyong doesn’t hold your hand, and he doesn’t look you in the eye, and worst of all, he doesn’t make even the weakest, most deficient attempt to deny any one of your words.
So, you decide against speaking any more, allowing your hair to cling to the tear streaks along your neck and cheeks as you rise above the grass into a shifting halo of wind. 
“Y/n-”
“Your money will be transacted after the show.” 
You turn and the grass waves you farewell, clinging to your ankles in its ticklish murmur until you step out to the road where Charlie stands, his gloved hand clutching the open car door as you hide yourself inside. Regret eats away at you more and more ravenously as you silently view the brown head among the grass, watching with every choked gulp as it bows down into the green horizon.
You didn’t say everything you wanted to say. 
You didn’t even say half of it. 
Taeyong’s business at Argent was merely the tip of the iceberg. You should have yelled and screamed like your chest was aching you to. You should have told Taeyong exactly what he did, and exactly how he’d hurt you, regardless of anything else. How much pain you’re in to know that while you would have trusted him with every fibre in your being, he had slashed a gaping scar right where it would bleed the most, as if it were child’s play to him.
How you had loved him and how he had thrown it all away. 
Betrayal is a fickle thing; a notion always just as deceiving as the betrayer themselves – or perhaps even more. Because in its very essence, betrayal is always supposed to feel like the worst wrong of a lifetime; the worst possible pain one can experience for years to come.
A week ago, Jaehyun was your betrayer, and that betrayal had felt so excruciating, you couldn’t have imagined anything worse than it.  
Today, Taeyong stands in that betrayer’s place. Today, Jaehyun’s betrayal feels like nothing. Because today…
Today you had experienced the worst wrong of your lifetime.
The small stain on your coat grows larger by the second as your eyes blink in the shifting scenery, body welcoming the transition of rough road to smooth in the low buzz of 90’s classics scratching on the radio. 
And you finally make your leave back to where you had started. 
Toward loud tumble of city traffic and all the same vivid colours of moving billboards and weathered yellow taxies. Back to the place where you angle your head high and glimpse once more at the concrete jungle that once made up your every dream, every struggle and everything else in between.
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XII. Omniscient Point of View
One fractured soul stands outside Argent building the next morning.
She arrives during the dark of the day, before the city rouses and catches its first glimpse of dawn, before the first light beyond the glass door has been lit. She tilts her head back and allows the wind to beat down against her skin, gaze trying to find the very tip of the building, but alas, the colossal structure seems to fade into the morning sable beyond the ninth storey or so.
This fractured soul plays her role in unlocking the polished doors – for, it must have been weeks since she’d last done so – and switching on the first light of the day to the empty silence of the lobby, her heels click once again for her own ears and nobody else’s. There isn’t a single hair to stray from her tight, unrelenting bun, its roots burning her scalp as if to deserve such a punishment for her lunacy.
She sits at her desk and buries her mind with yet another hoard of preparatory paperwork, an eye flickering to the clothing racks of assorted hues and silver every once in a while, as the first sun finds itself a halo on her cheeks. She watches it rise upon skyscrapers from the sweet haven of those four office walls, her stone-cold nature once again making its home in her heart, numbing her face and every other foolishly torn down wall.
Ten knocks at her door around midmorning for a clothing assessment. He knows of the day before’s happenings; she’d told him as soon as her bare feet met the cold tiles of her apartment floor. But he offers no words of solace, for he himself is at a loss, with a few too many unanswered questions roaming the inches of his mind.  Ten doesn’t prod, rather watches her as she works. 
Her hands hold the same magic, her voice is loud and clear as ever before, but she has seemed to have lost her spark – the very element that had set her aside from all others, the very reason he’d pushed her to never give up all those years ago. Today, she works a dull day in a robotic cadence, her eyes are blurred with the world’s darkest clouds, refusing to let the thunder clap, refusing to let any semblance of water fall. 
Weakness is not her strength, Ten has long understood, and her strength might just as well be her biggest weakness. Feelings weren’t a feasible option if the next four days were to be a successful feat, and that is all she can remind herself of. 
Perhaps a couple hours later, another soul finds himself standing outside Argent building the same morning, ashamed and afraid to step foot inside at all, for, crossing the glass threshold would only aggravate within him the blaring flame of all-consuming guilt and regret and shame. 
He hadn’t expected to be standing here at all after the happenings of the day before, yet here he is, carrying his frame with an hours’ worth of stew-infested sleep. For, when Ten had called him this morning with a voice full of vacancy telling him to find his way back to Argent, this shameful soul knew it would only be another cruel and selfish act for him to walk away with only four days remaining before the show. Ousting was no feasible option.
He steps inside and readies himself for every constrained stare, every secretive whisper, all the tuts and silent taunts to mar the silvered walls. But he receives none; nothing except warm smiles and welcome eyes, amiable manner, and polite conversation. 
She hadn’t told a single other person.
He catches but a glimpse of her in the corner of his eye, but doesn’t find the courage to do anything else. He regards her in the same way as Ten and finds her all too the same; rigid, lifeless, focused and unemotive in all senses. And it’s just like that – among the cheer of small accomplishments and Johnny’s at-last nods of approval – this shameful soul finds himself in a bout of repent, a slippery groove even the most agile-minded may never leave as soon as the hole was dug.
The distance between him and her is growing wider and wider with each minute; he can feel it. He feels it in her touch as she forces herself, one day, to adjust the cuff of his suit after another classical seam-slip; in the way her fingertips feel so foreign as they meet the skin of his wrist in detached brushes. He sees it in her averted gaze while fixing his collar once again. He feels it in her very absence of all other rooms he stands within.
But in the end of it all, he knows much too well that this – all of this; everything – is his own doing. He departs with this very notion at the cusp of sun fall, while she remains within the building, watching the growing darkness through her window, later turning off the final few lights and stepping out into the late hours of night.
Early morning, afternoon, evening, late night, the cycle continues as so for both of these souls; repeating, and repeating, and repeating, as if they knew no better than to let it continue in such a way. 
They return to their dwellings each night only to find themselves stuck in the dark. With breaths heavy and eyes tired, their fluffed pillows encase their heads as they search for some way – any way – to find a single merciful speck of clarity among the blinding black. Left with themselves and a mere thought of the other, their minds prickle and prod with each one of their mistakes and each one of their utter regrets.
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XIII. Nothing. Nothing At All.
“Y/n!”
Straight posture.
“Miss Y/l/n, look over here!”
Head down.
“Did Jaehyun really leave Argent for Qi Fashion Labels?”
Ignore the questions.
“Just one picture for us!”
Smile for every sixth camera.
“Tell us the name of your new model.”
And don’t. Stop. No matter. What.
Suits and ties – crisp and clean in nature – lavish gowns, cross-dressing trailblazers, scarves and sequins and diamonds and lipsticks of every size, make, shape and colour; here, was one of eight splendid evenings that confounded all the worlds’ fashion partisans to their very cores. Every new trend, whether vogue or wholly obsolete, every essence of haute cotoure and high-style, it was all birthed under and could be traced back to the single most grand title: New York Fashion Week. A beautifully elaborate and gaudy scene to breathe in among the ever-putrefying air of this city; to bear the hollers of shutterbugs alongside the rageful honking of cabs behind one’s shoulder.
Your feet fall heavy beneath the cool satin of your floor-length dress. One in front of the next, they step forward like clockwork along the red carpet that daubs the concrete pavement of the New Yorker Hotel, the very destination of tonight’s mystique. Your head rests level upon your shoulders, a kind of reserved smile adorning the gloss of your mouth. Violent flashes of camera lenses burn your skin aglow as you walk the familiar pathway between paparazzi who spill over the barricades on either side; blustering, clawing, and pushing each other in brutal competition, their hefty hunks of metal held ablaze if only to catch a mere glance of the spectacle that you are…or the spectacle that you appear to be in this very moment.
The epitome of talent, the very pinnacle of grace and beauty; compliments are thrown your way, left, right and centre, suspended around your frame that exudes its confident and assured glow to everyone except you. 
Three steps, pose. Two steps, wave. One step, smile.
Oh, little do they know how deceiving such a smile could be. A time of such high regard merely jars you with the harsh anxieties and fretful sentiments of ‘what if?’.
Nervous. You feel terrifyingly nervous, and never had you felt such a thing since at least four full seasons ago, and it’s embittering to realise how shallowed your vigour has become over something as everchanging and facile as the media – even worse that you’d once sworn never to let such a thing happen.
Ten waits for you at the end of the red pathway, his hair sleeked, his body suited to a fault for the occasion, and his very being the only form of consolation among the anxious glamour enrapturing the venue. He smiles warmly as you approach him, cameras finally bygone in exchange for his assuring hand that guides you inside the hotel.
“Some crowd tonight,” he mutters, patting down the lapels of his blazer.
“Thank God.” A hefty breath escapes your lungs, relieved to find yourself under the roof of fresh lobby air that you now share with many other high-end designers – some well-known and some on the rise to their pedestals.
“We should probably make some rounds before heading inside to the catwalk. You know, chat it up with some other designers. Maybe Tom since he’s right before Argent.” Ten suggests, strolling mindlessly with you around the moderate bustle of celebrities, nodding politely to those who smile your way. “It might just make you feel better to have some company within your element. 
“Who said I’m not already feeling better?” is your sharp riposte, followed by a momentary glance to Ten’s dubious glare.
“Really?” He raises an eyebrow, holding a grand set of double doors open for you both to enter.
“Yes.” You raise your chin high, eyes sparkling in the shadowed lighting of the room and shimmering torches decorating the walls. “I am absolutely fine, and as my assistant, it’s in your very best interest to keep it that way. End of discussion.”
You glance around at the seating; half-filled with chattering patrons of neutral-toned clothing. Some hold small notebooks clasped between their hands that rest firmly on their crossed legs.
Critics.
“Okay, then,” Ten replies nonchalantly, tugging you toward a circle of A-list celebutantes surrounding a man in a sleek, black suit who holds a glass of bubbling champagne, “I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I just-hello, Mr Ford! It is an utmost pleasure to meet you again.” Ten reaches a respectful hand out to the man, sparking a welcoming dialogue which you’re left to watch with a fake smile plastered to your face. “Now, I just need to head backstage for show prep; same old routine, you know how it goes. You wouldn’t mind entertaining this gorgeous handful for a minute, would you?” 
You’re unsure whether an irked scowl or grateful thanks would be a suitable response to Ten pulling you forward, instead opting for a few clueless blinks and a slack jaw as he no sooner disappears behind a large black curtain at the far end of the large room.
Conversation nonetheless ensues smoothly with Tom, starting off with a congratulations and praise for each other’s work. It really turns out to be no surprise why this man is so successful and admired. Everything from his gesturing, his conduct and his fashion intellect falls nothing short of laudable. A few other designers join and leave the loop, and like Ten said, you do indeed find yourself significantly more relaxed to be in their like-minded company. 
As the lights later dim for the Tom Ford segment, you bid farewell to the designers, deciding to break away backstage through the same black curtain, behind which the atmosphere takes a drastic turn. It’s nothing all that unexpected, really; simply the normal pandemonium of various models with perfected figures and faces – and a shoe too less, or some form of missing accessory – scurrying around with backstage assistants in tow. You walk down a hallway, dodging as much chaos as possible before finding a door pasted with Argent’s logo and pushing inside. 
The chaos remains perhaps even to a higher degree as you watch the bustle of your models, subordinate designers, and make-up artists racing around the room. The clothing racks are almost empty, and it’s something that makes your heart swell with pride as the gravity of the moment begins to fully sink in.
“Oh, good, you’re here. I need a final assessment on some of these outfits, now hurry!” Johnny – quite the image with his hair a fluttered mess and his suit slightly rumpled – rushes over to you, grabbing your shoulders and leading you to a row of your models wearing their finalised ensemble of silvers, silks and cervelts. You remain surprisingly calm through it all, assisting wherever you’re needed and doing your best to settle nerves.
A loud knock no sooner echoes amidst the noise and a woman in a black uniform, donning an intercom headset and black clipboard appears at the dressing room doors. 
“Argent Fashion Labels? Ten minutes until your segment. Please navigate all runway walkers backstage for the catwalk.”
The commotion grows louder as you send her a nod from across the room, a new kind of buzz arousing excited jitters and whooping as the models begin to file toward her. You stand on your toes, neck craned upward, watching all the extravagant outfits – your extravagant outfits – exit the door one by one.  A small smile begins to form at your lips, only to be immediately torn away as a head turns back to meet your eyes from among the crowd. 
And just like that, it’s as if all the cheering and clapping around you is suddenly zipped away from the world, the rapid thrumming of your heart now the only sound ringing loud and clear in your eardrums. There’s something indiscernible in the look that passes through his features, a split-second of…something, though you’re unable to tell exactly what. It always seemed to have been that way, you’ve slowly come to realise.
You gulp thickly, daring to hold his gaze for a second longer before averting your eyes elsewhere. And still, you can’t help but look back once again, but this time, Taeyong is gone with the crowd, somewhere along the bend with the lasting image of your desolate face engraved into his mind.
“Come on.” 
You turn as a hand cups your shoulder from behind, met with Ten’s reassuring nod as he guides you out of the room and behind the wall of the catwalk.
“This is it,” you voice out quietly, eyes flickering to the first model, Karina, who stands just behind the runway entrance breathing in and out with closed eyes. She turns her head to you, smiling nervously, and you only smile back. But this time your smile finds you widely – hopingly, encouragingly. You whisper out a quiet, ‘you got this’, and in return her smile too, grows.
And then she’s off.
Freely and fleetingly, her feet land on the platform with self-assured glamour, the outfit from your sketchbook never having suited another person more than it does her in this very moment. She walks in time with the techno music; hips level, arms loose, expression poised, she stops, poses, turns, and finds her way back to the very head of the stage. As does the next model, and the next, and the next.
You watch it all tucked away behind the wall; every single one of your creations of the last year springing to a mirthful, beautiful life with every blink of the eye, click of a heel, drop of a beat. Some models walk with skilfully pocketed hands, some carry a bag on their shoulder, and some on their elbows. Every model has at least one form of nuance to them, but every single one of them wears a line of silver. One by one, they breeze out and in, past the devotees and the critics, through the feverish nerves and the anxious excitement. One by one, they make it through, there and back until only a final one remains to do them all their justice. 
Taeyong doesn’t meet your eyes as he stands at the edge. He knows he wouldn’t be able to step out onto that shiny platform if he so much as took another selfish glimpse. 
And he couldn’t do that to you.
It happens too fast; all too suddenly, much too overwhelmingly. So much so that it feels wrong that every one of your painstaking efforts – every sleepless night, every endured loss – amount so simply to the thirty seconds Taeyong spends on stage.
That was supposed to be Jaehyun. 
Jaehyun should have been wearing that outfit, with his hair styled in the same gelled coif, walking on that long platform with camera shutters lighting up on his smooth complexion. Jaehyun should have been the one to halt at the foot and clench his jaw if only to maintain what little of his composure he had left. Jaehyun should have been the one to walk back and finally look you in the eye with all the world’s anguish and remorse, hoping to see an ounce of emotion in those eyes of yours, only to find nothing.
Nothing at all.
And when you later walk out onto that long, star-studded stage for your lasting impression, you suddenly find yourself confused and unwilling to concede all at once. You link arms with the models on either side of you and take your well-deserved bow for the audience, knowing full well that this is where another season meets its close. 
You take in the standing ovation with a vacantly present smile, but you don’t breathe in any of it like you once remember doing. You look at the cameras and the reluctant simpering of critics, but you don’t truly see them in the way that you once you did. You walk off that stage and wish a congratulations to every person you couldn’t have done this all without. But every praise, every compliment; it all falls from an empty place within you.
In Ten’s suggestion of “keeping face,” you find yourself standing at the cusp of midnight at the venue of the after party. You’re in an entirely different place with a flute of sparkling champagne poured by none other than Alex Wang himself resting in the tips of your fingers. Only, the flute remains unkissed, no lipstick stain to fashion on the shiny glassware. 
In somewhat of a stupor, you watch the world as it revolves around you in a kaleidoscope of slow and fast motions, standing amidst the glitzed lights, lost in the place you’d once always called paradise. The place you were supposed to know like the back of your hand. Multitudes of bodies blur and manifest before your eyes, shifting like phantoms in disguise. Doused in glitter and endless waves of net, every celebrity stands anew in their dresses and suits - not nearly as casually unwearable as the pieces from the catwalk, but still extravagant nonetheless - all perfectly suited for a night of folly amid the pounding music and blaring lasers. 
Still as a robot, you smile at your conversationalists as if it were programmed into your muscles. You smile until it stops hurting, until you feel numb and until you just can’t take it anymore. 
And when you leave and you later lay yourself down on the soft mattress of your bed, ridden of any blinding lights or fabricated clothing; as you blink once again at the empty ceiling of your apartment, you can’t help but feel completely, and utterly alone. 
You’d sworn it would feel exhilarating. You’d sworn to make it exhilarating for yourself. But the truth finally surrenders in the form of all the uncontrolled tears that roll agonisingly down your cheeks, staining your neck and expanding the chill on your pillow.
This was not how anything was supposed to happen. Nothing was supposed to turn out this way.
But you were aching and there was nothing you could do about it except finally, finally, allow yourself to cry. To let every pent-up emotion out of your tired system. And nothing could have felt more natural than doing so while being stuck amid the motions of such a false and fabricated world. 
─── ⪧ ⪦ ───
Taeyong looks down to the little scruff of paper with a ten-digit number scrawled in haste and the words ‘call me’ sitting right beside them. He doesn’t know how or when the paper had found itself in the sweaty creases of his palm, but he has no intention of investigating further, ripping it up once, twice, three times, and watching it fall to the ground with the shiny confetti that flutters around his throbbing head. 
A glass bottle – perhaps his fourth of the late hour – sits loosely in his other hand, ready to drop and shatter as its contents sit bitterly in his mouth, burning his throat with each heavy gulp. Crowds of models brush suggestively at his sides, some subtle and others not as much, but their efforts fall futile as the dark-haired man of interest simply blinks out to some faraway place at the after-party venue. As if searching for the one he truly wished to find among the crowd. 
When he’s convinced that you’re not there hidden somewhere among the shadows, Taeyong simply turns around, back turned to the blinding disco lights, and exits the party. His business there and everywhere else in the damned industry was done; he’d walked the runway, finished his job, and there simply was nothing more left for him to do now.
He leaves with weighted limbs and a fogged mind, no knowledge of how he later ends up seated in the chair of his home office. He still wears the same suit he’d shown off to the world mere hours ago, but his make-up is now smudged, hair a dishevelled muss, breaths heavily intoxicated and eyes shallowed and heavy as he opens his laptop, glaring at the document that had sent everything crashing to the ground.
Taeyong doesn’t think twice – doesn’t care for the wall clock that reads an atrocious hour of the AM – as his fingers firmly clutch his phone, dialling a number he should have dialled much too long ago.
It takes no less than three rings for a groggy voice to emerge from the speaker, but he cuts it off immediately with a breathy whisper of:
“I can’t do it.” 
The words are as quiet as the dark room around him, as still as the cool air. 
“Heechul, I can’t submit the article.”
“What are you talking about, boy?” Heechul scoffs quietly – threateningly – though there seems to be some form of panic to his voice. “Do you even realise what this means for you? What this means for your money-”
“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FUCKING MONEY ANYMORE!” Taeyong roars into the speaker, every ounce of composure lost with the furious rise and fall of his chest, tears of anger beginning to blur his vision. “This is her career we’re putting on the line! Her entire life. Everything she’s worked for. And for what? Another godforsaken article to tear it all down?”
It’s almost as if Taeyong speaks to himself through the phone; finally voicing the truth as it so blatantly exists. 
“I don’t care-” His voice drops to a broken sob, “-about the money anymore. I just-I can’t do it.”
A heavy pause welcomes the hot trickle of water to his cheeks, a pathway glistening with the blue light in front of him.
“You really are your father’s son,” comes Heechul’s cold voice in the dark. “Always getting too caught up in your subjects. Too personal. Weak and cowardly.”
“What the hell are you saying?” Taeyong seethes, teeth and jaw clenching furiously.
“How do you think he ended up with your mother of all people?”
The venom in Heechul’s voice is clear and his words all too obviously spiteful. For what reason, Taeyong doesn’t know, nor does he have any desire to as his thumb cuts the call without another lasting word. 
His eyes, wet with dark streaks of flecked eyeliner, flicker back to his laptop; to the words he’d forced onto the white page that had breached and bled onto his dignity. His hands find his mouse, and he clicks down, dragging the cursor through the words, line by line, every letter drowning in a blue highlight only to disappear with a single press of the backspace button.
A blank document was where it all started, and a black document is where it all ends.
His eyes fall shut with this final thought, only opening to the bright halo of mid-afternoon sun the next day, head resting sideways on a stiff elbow. He hauls his body up, downs a pill for his headache and accepts the pelting water from the nozzle of his shower, all accompanied by the numbing nothingness of his mind. A coat, a scarf, a beanie, and a tinkling pair of keys are all that accompany Taeyong as he later steps outside his apartment, down the streets and among the noise of the city. He buries his face in the warm fabric around his neck and pulls his hat atop the tips of his ears, glancing out to the pedestrians and vehicles along the roads, the billboards and the buskers and everything else that he hadn’t before taken the time of day to notice and appreciate. It wasn’t often that he’d found himself walking on his own two feet among this tall wilderness of glass and concrete; it wasn’t particularly his of choice of scene. But now, with the icy wind flowing through his lashes, Taeyong feels a sort of silent beauty amid the stereotypical chaos. It’s something subdued, almost impalpable, present in the artwork hidden in the coolness of alleyways, the sky’s reflection upon the buildings, and in the simple workings of the city itself.  
Somewhere along his solitary way, he passes a newsagency flanked at its front with rows and rows of glossed booklets. Some display you, Y/n Y/l/n, Head of Argent Fashion Labels, bowing at the show from the previous night. 
Many others display him, but no longer just his face.
MEET LEE TAEYONG, THE FASHION FRAUD OF THE DECADE Argent Fashion Labels’ new model exposed as the anonymous writer behind the Y/l/n-Jung scandal
Taeyong picks up the magazine and inspects every inch of the paper, spotting Kim Heechul in a tiny font just beneath the bold typewrite. He doesn’t turn a single page, just eyes the man on the front cover with a longing so painful and deep, wishing that man hadn’t been so blind and foolish. If only not merely for his own sake, but for everything he had put you through since the day you’d first locked eyes.
Taeyong places the magazine back down, not bothering to pay for a copy, and decides to return home. As he once again seats himself at his desk, he feels a sort of enlightenment, as if he were now free of some form of a suffocation that he hadn’t realised had been there all along. 
He opens his laptop to be met with the same blank document from the night before, fingers brushing lightly over the keys.
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XIV. Okay? 
It’s almost laughable how often the past repeats itself. Recycling old scenarios, emotions, and situations all for meticulous use in the present.
Ten finds himself the subject of such a phenomenon once again; standing outside your large office doors and peeking through the tiny crack, watching you in your current preoccupations of planning out Argent’s spring-summer line for the next season. A sudden wave of déjà vu reminds him that those dead-set features of yours really haven’t changed in the long time he’s known you. Still so passionate, and still so mystical. But there was now something different about you.
The weather had slowly begun to bleed into the supple hands of spring and with it, you too seemed to have thawed on the outside; now less austere in manner and more permissive to those around you. A month had come and gone since the success that was New York Fashion Week, and the tabloids – though ever-present in Argent’s business – were once again beginning to mute themselves for the time being. Now that the heavy preparations were over and the competition was down, you’d found a well-recommended model by the name of Lee Jeno, and he’d taken over the top model position with much fulfilling ease. He was almost too perfect for the job, things seemed to have settled back into a comforting routine, and much to everyone’s surprise, you often smiled.
But Ten could see past it, knowing all too well it was all just another façade of yours; that while each of your smiles came from a well-intended place, they did not resonate with you at all. He knew that from within, you only grew more fervently frigid and harsh with yourself, if only to never again commit the mistakes that you had in the early months of the year. Ten knows that all along you’ve been hurt by someone you’d invested far too much trust in. That along the way, you’d lost a certain part of yourself to a man that had made you feel alive in a way you’d never felt before.
He looks down nervously now to the clipboard held to his chest, jumping as your voice comes from behind the door.
“What is it, Ten?”
Sighing, he pushes forward into your office, gnawing at the inside of his cheek while eyeing you nervously. He can see just how much of an affect Taeyong has had on you, even now. How you’d picked up on those little habits of his and adopted them as your own, from the slight humour in your witty remarks, to the quirk that now seems to find your eyebrow. You weren’t even aware of it, but it seemed that Taeyong was now an unshakeable force in your life.
“What?” You narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, please don’t tell me there’s another delay in the fabric delivery. I spent three hours on the phone with them yesterday just to make sure that-”
“Y/n,” Ten interrupts you, taking a deep breath and stepping closer to you.
“What?” You snap, impatient and confused by his sudden anxiousness.
“This,” he unclips a magazine from his clipboard and places it on your desk, sliding it in front of you, “just got published today.”
You pick up the book with an apathetic expression and scan over the front cover, only for your brows to crease while reading over the bold text.
JOURNALIST LEE TAEYONG FINALLY EMERGES FROM THE DARK-
“No,” you hold the magazine out to Ten and look away, refusing to read any further. “I don’t want to see it.”
“Y/n-” 
“No, Ten.”
“Just read it, for God’s sake!” he yells, slamming the magazine down on your desk and opening it to a double page.
Your eyes widen at you look up at Ten, blinking in shock of his furrowed expression and angry tone. It was rare for him to raise his voice with you unless the matter was urgent, so you find yourself in a bout of hesitation.
“Why?” Comes your voice in the tense silence. “Why should I read this?”
“You just have to trust me when I say you’ll want to,” Ten replies, now soft again.
You take in a deep breath through your nose, unsure what to expect from the article given the sincerity in Ten’s voice, and hesitantly look down to the spread pages.
~
There is no short or easy way for me to say this, but it must be said.
I do not write this letter for the appeasement of anyone, nor for any sympathy, and I do not expect or wish for anybody to take my side. My side is unjustifiable. I write this letter in hopes of delivering the truth, and the truth only, regarding my recent involvement with Y/n Y/l/n and Argent Fashion Labels. 
My name is Lee Taeyong. Most of you now know me as the anonymous writer of the Y/l/n-Jung scandal, or the fraudulent model who entered Argent Fashion Labels as a gossip spy. Perhaps even both. These claims are not wrong, and I am here to address them in their utmost verity.  
The truth is, I am no model. I am a journalist who, in the past, worked under the editorial division of Luxe Magazines LTD in Manhattan city. In my job, I was well-approved, highly acclaimed and lucrative to the firm. These were unfortunately the materialistic qualities under which I thrived. In the event of being offered a celebrity scandal headline, I jumped without rational thought, and wrote a false and misleading article about a non-existent love affair between Y/n Y/l/n and Jung Jaehyun.
I must clarify that they were not, in any way, intimately involved with each other. I did not check the hard facts, and for this I am deeply sorry to them both. I must further clarify that Jung Jaehyun is innocent, and I take full responsibility for his departure from Argent Fashion Labels, as well as the losses suffered by both parties as a result of this.
Regarding my temporary employment under Argent; there are no words that can justify my actions. It has taken me a great deal of disillusionment and self-reflection to understand the gravity of my intentions when entering the position. It is not Argent’s fault in scouting me, but mine for accepting the offer and intruding on my rights and responsibilities. 
I will be transparent in saying I was to write another article; this time to ‘debunk’ Argent as a whole company. Initially, I thought it would be an easy task. And while I must concede that there were external forces at play, I was in no case, justified to continue with knowledge of the consequences. 
But in wake of all this, I cannot bring myself to regret the time I had spent at Argent. I had thrust myself into a new environment; it was a dizzying and expeditious experience at first. I was ready to quit the job as soon as I started. 
But dare I say, I’m glad I didn’t quit, because it was these experiences, the people, the friendly faces all working toward a common goal and the connections I had made through them. All of it changed who I am and what I stand for. Everything at Argent was a massive challenge. I would have expected no less from a world-class fashion label. But it changed me.
In the end, I had chosen not to publish the second article, because I no longer cared for all my previous qualities. It didn’t matter to me how well-approved or highly acclaimed or lucrative of a person I was. 
But I was too late in realising this. Consequently, I have wronged many people; in doing so, relinquished the trust they had in me, and for this, I will forever repent. I was a coward who chose to sacrifice not only his own honour, but the honour of Y/n Y/l/n.
I am at fault, and she is not. She is innocent in all regards.
I am so, so sorry for all the trouble I put her through. I am very deeply sorry for all the effort and the time, all the hours and all the energy she had spent in me. 
To the tabloids, the paparazzi and all celebrity gossip agencies out there: Y/n Y/l/n is not the person you think she is. She isn’t the fashion industry’s monster. She isn’t a hot-headed, unappeasable snob. And she is certainly not a bitch. 
Once again, I am not looking for approval or sympathy from the public eye. But please, if there is anybody to target for the matters discussed, it is only me.
With each of these words, I need nobody to believe me except one person.
I am sorry.
~
Your lips part as your eyes read over the last three words over and over again, gulping through the emerging mixture of emotions that gather in your mind.
“He didn’t accept the transaction,” Ten murmurs softly, now seated on one of the sofas.
You can’t seem to do anything else but blink, breaths growing shallow. “He…he…” you try to formulate words, though they don’t come out, “why didn’t he-”
“I think you know why,” Ten whispers, a solemn look in his eyes.
Why?
Was it because Taeyong had taken pity on you? Or was it because he decided to take the moral high road? Was it because he wanted to save his own face? Or was he truly, deeply sorry? 
“I-” You stand up abruptly, “I need to go see him, Ten.” 
You really hope he is truly, deeply sorry, and you have no choice but to find out.
Ten stands up with you, surprise evident on his features. “Wait, what-now?”
“Yes, now!” You look around frantically, before pausing. “Wait but…where would he be?”
“Are you really asking me that right now?” Ten raises his eyebrow.
“Ten, this is serious, tell me!”
“Well, I don’t know!” He throws his hands up in the air, starting to panic along with you. “Like, his house, or-or the field maybe, or-”
You gasp quietly.
“What?” Ten asks, oblivious.
“Ten,” you call to him softly, grabbing your purse and walking to the couches.
“What-oh.” He asks again, only for you to lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek.
“Thank you,” you give him a small smile, “for everything.”
He blinks. “O-okay.”
With a single nod, you turn on your heel and scurry toward your door.
“Wait, woman, your coat!” Ten yells, jogging to your coat hanger and tossing your trench to you.
“Thank you!” you yell back, leaving Ten standing in your office among the silent echo of the doors that swing shut behind you, stunned with his hand still holding the cheek that you’d somehow kissed. 
“Uhhh, okay,” he speaks to himself, though it sounds more like a question than a statement. “Okay,” Ten chuckles once again, reaching back for his clipboard before clearing his throat with a curt nod.
“Okay,” he says once more, before exiting your office with a growing smile.
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XV. Une Doublure D'argent
The world truly is a lonely, lonely place. You ought to have learnt exactly that, if nothing else in amongst the tumultuous waves that make you up. Now, it is not the barren, desolate land that you compare to the city, but the solitary nature of your surroundings that reminds you of it. In the end, you realise that everything stands for itself. Each blade of grass is merely its own blade of grass. Each skyscraper is, in itself, its own skyscraper.
The notion finds you as you once again make the journey from the city to the countryside, this time in your own car, with the wheel sliding under each palm of your hands. From where such an epiphany had suddenly manifested, you have absolutely no idea. You simply allow your mind to drift in whichever direction, feeling the enormous space all around you as the road cuts into broad, green plains beneath the cloudy sky.
It seems all the radios know how to play these days are renditions of the same smooth jazz, but you let the speakers echo as they please, too busy with looking around and trying to remember the exact place you’d sat in among this maze of greenery. 
Now that you really think about it, what you’re doing right now is absolutely ridiculous; something your past self never would have envisioned you doing in the future, because why would he be here of all places?
“A mess,” you mutter to yourself, “I’m just a big, fat me-”
Your foot slams down on the breaks as a dark head of hair emerges from the thick bed of grass on your left, yet another solitary figure hidden among the scene before you. Parking the car, you merely sit behind your window and watch him for a minute, noting the familiar way his locks shift in the breeze, some straying from the rest. And contrary to what you’d anticipated, such a view is oddly settling to take in. When the head disappears among the field again, you sigh, retrieving your bag and exiting the car to find a bicycle laying down outside the entrance of the same beaten down dirt path. You once again walk through it, welcomed ever so delicately by the pasture flanking its sides. 
You reach into your bag, pulling out the magazine spread and approach the man lying down on his coat.
“What is this?” You make no haste in voicing your words, holding the article over Taeyong’s face and forcing yourself to ignore the flutter of goosebumps that arise on your skin as his eyes flutter open...
And then flutter back shut again.
“Excuse me?” You tilt your head, scoffing in disbelief. This was anything but the reaction you had been expecting. 
“Hello?” 
Still no response. 
“Taeyon-” 
“I thought you were smart, Y/n.”
His words catch you off-guard, eyebrows scrunching. 
“Do you hear yourself right now?”
He simply hums in apathy, bringing a forearm to cover his still closed eyes to which you scowl in frustration, suddenly compelled to jab your boot into his side.
“Ow! What do you-”
“Taeyong, what is this?” you repeat yourself, shaking the magazine in your hand. “Tell me clearly what this is.”
He sighs, sitting up with a quiet rustle and combing a hand through his hair.
“Well, did you read the headline, or…”
You simply scoff once again, an irked smile finding your face as you turn around to leave.
“Wait.”
Taeyong catches your wrist from his spot on the ground, stopping you before you can take another step away from him, and you curse under your breath for the shiver that trickles through your body. His grip is so tight and unrelenting that you have no choice but to evade all thought of trying to shake it off. Reluctantly, you turn back to him, trying to level your breathing as his eyes meet your own.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” he speaks softly, the wind carrying his voice with its echo as he peers up at you. “I couldn’t just leave without telling the truth…even if it had to be after a month.”
You take in his words with a growing frown, and just like that, everything you had planned to tell him – every single rehearsed sentence from your monologue of emotions – fades from the tip of your tongue, forgotten in the dry of your throat as you gulp, and without another thought, step forward and lower yourself down to the ground beside him. Minutes are spent thereafter in the silence of the outside, looking out to the grey sky with empty eyes. But within your mind roam a tangled, blundering string of ineffable thoughts, none of which you can seem to comprehend yourself.
“What are you doing here, Y/n?” Taeyong asks defeatedly.
“I’m giving you two minutes to explain everything that happened – and I mean, everything,” you blurt out, refusing to look at him until everything had been laid out properly in the open. You need all the answers before you can make any drastic considerations.
Taeyong sighs and you catch a small nod from him in your periphery. He begins with the first scandal, repeating everything he had written in the article that rests in your hand; how he’d genuinely believed it to be true, and failed to check the truth behind the dating rumours. Next came his modelling proposal, how, back in January, he’d accepted Ten’s offer at his frequented coffee shop and later found out it was a job for Argent. Then he explained Heechul’s offer of going undercover.
“Heechul,” you interrupt Taeyong, now all too familiar with the name. “He’s your boss?”
“Not anymore,” Taeyong sighs.
“You left your job?”
“More like I was fired, but I guess you could put it that way.”
“So, Heechul is the one who asked you to write another article? To debunk Argent?” you continue, “and you agreed?”
“Yes,” Taeyong replies, a hesitancy in his voice, unsure of what to expect from your reaction.
“Okay,” you nod, spurning any emotion from seeping into your features, “continue.”
And he does. And his words exceed far longer than the two-minute time slot you’d initially granted him, but you don’t move from your spot, nor do you attempt to stop Taeyong as the whole truth finally spills from his lips with the blooming emergence of dusk. 
You gather that he’d written the majority of the debunking article in the first week or so of employment at Argent.
“…but when you told me the truth about the dating scandal, I was ready to drop everything and leave,” he pauses. “But then again, I couldn’t just do that to you. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I left, you’d have no model and I’d feel guilty. If I stayed, I’d still feel guilty, but I figured that the least I could do in that situation was help you…as ironic as it sounds.”
You sigh in deep vanquish, unsure what to make of his words or how to feel about his overall intentions.
“I actually forgot about the article after that day because I genuinely took on the role,” Taeyong adds with a small voice, and it only serves to muddle your thoughts up even more. On one hand, he’d defamed you, driven Jaehyun to leave Argent and join another fashion label, and then proceeded to romance you all while writing another article behind your back. But on the other hand, instead of leaving, Taeyong had stayed with you for an entire month, kept up with his modelling duties, walked the runway at New York Fashion Week, and maybe – just maybe – given you a sense of enjoyment while doing so.
“I deleted the article on the night of the show and called Heechul to tell him I couldn’t submit it. Then he fired me and released an exposé article the next day.” 
“And you didn’t accept the money either,” you murmur from beside Taeyong and he shakes his head. “And then you released this article a month later,” you hold up the magazine, “just out of the blue.” 
And he nods.
And you nod back.
And then, looking out once again toward the silence of the field, your brows furrow with a lingering thought.
“Why did you do it in public?” you ask quietly, a spark of anger beginning to brew inside you. “Why did you have to release an article in the first place? Why couldn’t you have just come to me yourself?”
“I already told you, I had to tell the truth-”
“But why didn’t you come to me?” 
Trying your hardest to stabilise your breathing, you turn to Taeyong, immediately shivering with another unsolicited prickle of goosebumps at the mere sight of him. You’re adamant on knowing the reasoning behind his drastic actions, unwilling to believe that everything that you had built with him – everything he’d done with you – was simply just an act.
Taeyong has to pause at your question, expression tensing as he inhales deeply, searching for the answer which is surprisingly hard to pinpoint.
“I couldn’t-” he sighs sharply, “I couldn’t bear to face you after everything I did. I was ashamed.” 
“And you weren’t ashamed that night?” you dare to ask, facing forward again with a shaky breath.
Taeyong knows exactly which night you’re referring to. He’d gone through a month of deep rumination, but nothing – absolutely nothing – could have prepared him for the striking pain in his chest when he finally turns to your downcast figure staring toward the sky with a doleful look in your beautiful, but incredibly sorrowful features. The only other time he’d seen you in such a genuine sadness was the very first time he’d taken you out to this place; when you’d voiced every one of your worries and he’d listened to them all. When he’d let you believe that you had his trust. 
“I don’t think I’ve ever been more ashamed in my life,” he whispers, turning to face his lap, completely heartbroken to have brought this all upon you. 
“I just needed you to say something back then; anything…” you begin, voice breaking without any idea of where your mind is leading it, “…but you just disappeared without a word.”
You turn back to him, your own heart breaking at the genuine remorse present in every inch of his expression. In the drained depths of his eyes, and the shadowed bags just beneath them. In every crack on the pink of his lips and the very wilt of its frown.
“I’m sorry, Y/n,” he whispers, his helpless gaze focused right on your own, “I’m so, so sorry.”
You’re forced to close your eyes with a pained, shaky breath.
It truly is a lonely, lonely world. You haven’t always had someone to lean on in every moment of needful solitude, but you had just so happened to find Taeyong months ago, in one of your biggest moments of need yet.
It doesn’t seem to matter under which context he’d come; all that matters now is the fact that he’d been there for you. And it dawns on you just how much your life had been riding on this man after you’d met him. No matter your feelings toward the notion, because for once, you didn’t have control, and it didn’t matter whether you liked it or not. Your input had not a single ounce of weightage in the grand picture when you were around Taeyong.
In his presence, things had felt as natural as this field, and as effortless as merely existing here in the tall grass. You’d found yourself caring less and less for inhibitions, letting go, turning away from all the nasty what-ifs that make up everything the world hates about you. Slipping up here and there…it had started to feel okay. And it was all because of him.
He was your anchor in a time of great need.
The fact still remains that his initial motives were flawed and his silent departure equally as painful. And it still hurts that you’ve had to find him yourself even now, hidden in this field without any direction or prospect for his future.
But all of that pain dulls in comparison to the pain you feel while looking into his eyes right now.
This has all been painful for you. But it must have also been so painful for him. 
You’ve searched within the confines of your thawing heart and found something of a crackling hope amid the fire of betrayal, thinking that maybe Taeyong deserves the benefit of the doubt. That maybe somewhere along the way, his original motives had lost their significance. That it couldn’t have been easy for him to write that letter about himself. That he wouldn’t have put himself through the trouble of public scrutiny were he not a changed person.
Maybe you’re a fool for thinking that way, maybe you’re just selfish. But you can’t face the other way now, and there’s only one apparent reason why. 
“It’s not okay,” finally comes your reply, voice as airy and soft as the wind. “And I thought I needed more from you, because you really, really hurt me, Taeyong. And I wish so much that I could hate you for it but,” you pause, lifting a hand to cup his face, “but all I needed was an apology, because that’s all anyone ever needs from the person they love.” 
You really thought you needed more from him. 
But you love him. 
You love Lee Taeyong.
And all you really needed was a sincere apology.
You feel Taeyong’s cold hand find your own face, warming against your skin. He brings your forehead to gently meet his own, soft whispers of “I’m sorry” melting repeatedly against your cheeks, soothed by the feathered stroke of his thumb. “I love you too, Y/n, I’m so sorry,” 
You pull back just enough to find his eyes once again.
“I forgive you.”
And Taeyong pulls you back to him, your body now encased in the haven of his arms like never before as his face finds a home in the warmth of your neck, refusing to let you go when he hears the soft sniffles on his shoulder.
“Don’t cry,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “Please don’t cry, Y/n.” 
“You don’t think I’m a bitch,” you mumble into his coat.
“Of course you’re not.” Taeyong unwinds his arms from you, gently wiping your tears while looking you in the eye. “God, fuck no.” His words pull a small chuckle from you and Taeyong doesn’t think anything has ever sounded as sweet as your smile, nothing has ever felt as nice as your fingers in his own, or as comforting as the mere thought that you were here with him once again. That you loved him despite all his flaws and mistakes.
“I have something for you,” you untuck yourself from his arms and reach back into your handbag, lifting your hand back out in a fist and bringing it in front of Taeyong. He eyes you with something of a knowing smile and slowly uncurls your fingers, revealing the round box of strawberry lip balm he’d given you months ago.
“But it’s yours,” he mumbles as you slide the box into his hand.
“You need it more than I do,” you grin coyly, and Taeyong can only shake his head in adoration while unscrewing the lid to find it half empty since the last time he’d used it, applying the balm to his lips as you once again reach back into your bag.
He looks up as a loud rumble resounds throughout the sky, the grey clouds having grown darker with the evening, shifting and whispering among each other with a newfound purpose ready to be fulfilled.
You raise your hands up to the sky from beside him, and Taeyong turns to you curiously, his gaze following your arm to the silver strip of fabric pinched between your fingers, shimmering with infinite hope in front of the looming clouds. You turn to Taeyong, a soft smile forming at your lips as you regard him with all the world’s sincerity in your eyes; the one thing so certain in his greatest moment of uncertainty. 
A silver lining to his darkest clouds.
“Don’t forget it.”
Reaching out to him, you hold Taeyong’s hand tightly with the fabric clasped warmly between both of your palms. And as you bring his hand to your mouth and plant a gentle kiss to his skin, Taeyong finds a certain comfort in the softness of your lips; how they’re no longer chapped as they once were, and how they beam up at him so beautifully.
“Don’t ever forget it.” 
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finis
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© jaetaimjadore, 2022, all rights reserved
721 notes · View notes
kjmsupremacist · 2 years
Text
double exposure (yuta/taeyong)
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During promotions for his first Japanese mini album, k-idol Taeyong meets one of his favorite artists, j-rock star Yuta. Though it starts casual, Taeyong begins to realize he may be in over his head, and struggles to reconcile his affection for Yuta with all the things that keep them apart.
Chapter 3 |   prev   next   mlist
Characters: Taeyong, Yuta
Genre: k-soloist taeyong, jrockstar yuta; romance, smut, angst
Warnings: dom/sub dynamics, smut, slight overstimulation, alcohol mentions, homophobia mentions
Rating: Explicit
Length: 4.5k
taglist: @meowniee @flowerboykun​
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The last couple of weeks have passed in a blur. Things have been pretty busy, so Taeyong’s only been able to meet up with Yuta a couple of times. It’s been back to back to back shows and interviews and magazine shoots, so Taeyong barely has time to sleep, let alone do anything else.
Still, they’ve been texting, and the little time they have been able to spend together has been, well, fruitful, Taeyong supposes. They’re still learning their exact roles around each other, but they’re comfortable now. They’re learning their dance, filling the steps with jokes and kisses. And their moments together are sweet, however brief. 
But Taeyong’s activities are winding down now; soon, he’ll be flying back to Korea for a brief hiatus. He requested to have a couple of free days at the end of his trip, originally planning to spend the time vacationing and exploring the city. His plans have changed a little now, but he’s grateful for the free days all the same. 
Yuta swings by his place a couple days before he’s set to depart. Their managers thought it would be wise to let them have one last public appearance together so people didn’t start wondering what was up with them, start making up stories about their relationship. Yuta takes him to the Meiji Shrine, and they stroll around together as Yuta gives Taeyong a short history lesson about the emperor and empress to whom the shrine is dedicated. They turn some heads, but Yuta’s security detail follows closely, so they’re not disturbed. Still, when Taeyong grows tired of the scrutiny, Yuta suggests they call it a day.
“Come back to mine?” Taeyong asks. “I can cook for us. I have groceries that still need using before I leave.”
Yuta’s eyes flash mischievously as he grins. “Sure,” he replies. “I’d love that.”
Taeyong had sort of planned for this, so his place is neat and tidy when they arrive. Still, he’s faintly embarrassed—there’s something about a living space that’s so intimate and so revealing, even one as temporary as Taeyong’s little rental. Yuta pokes around his kitchen, bold but still polite, admiring his decorations, giggling over the pictures on his cabinet.
“This is Ruby, right?” Yuta asks, pointing at one. “I was so sorry to hear about her passing.”
Taeyong’s vaguely surprised that he knew, and a little touched. “Yes,” he says softly as he brings down pots and pans. “That’s her.”
“And these—your famous idol friends,” Yuta says. “Wait, I can name them. Johnny. Doyoung. Who’s the third?”
Taeyong smiles. “Kun. Not an idol, a composer and producer.” He opens his cupboard. “You like spicy food, right?”
“Yes,” Yuta says. His voice sounds closer now; when Taeyong turns, he finds him only a few paces away, leaning back against his countertop. “Does Kun compose for you?”
“Sometimes,” Taeyong says. “I try to help with production though.” He shrugs, setting a pot of water to boil and opening his fridge to find the nice beef he’d been saving. “He composed my last title track, actually.”
“Ah.” Yuta nods approvingly. “Good composer.” He watches Taeyong for a moment. “Can I help?”
Taeyong shakes his head. “No, it’s alright.” He looks up at Yuta through his eyelashes. “Just talk to me.”
Yuta grins. “Sure.” He crosses his arms. “Today, the shrine, it was on your list of places you wanted to go, right?”
“Mm-hm,” Taeyong says as he heats up a pan.
“Did you get everything on your list?”
“Oh, god no.” Taeyong makes a sad face at him. “Too busy!”
“Oh, dear,” Yuta says sympathetically. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to come back and visit some other time. I’d be happy to reprise my role as tour guide, if you’ll have me.”
Taeyong giggles. “I’d love that, yeah.” He flashes a brief look up at Yuta. “You make an excellent tour guide.”
“Mm, another satisfied customer,” Yuta says, laughing. He scoots close, sneaking a little kiss. Taeyong squeaks in surprise.
“Careful, there’s hot oil,” he reprimands him, though Yuta’s already returned to his place against the counter.
Yuta reveals a fancy bottle of wine as Taeyong’s setting the table, and they drink and eat and laugh as the sun begins to set. Yuta helps him do the dishes, even though Taeyong protests. His hands are nimble and practiced; Taeyong finds himself watching those fingers out of the corner of his eye.
“You’ll stay the night?” Taeyong asks quietly as he pops a pod of dish soap into his dishwasher and turns it on.
“Unless you’d rather be alone,” Yuta says.
“Don’t be silly.” Taeyong nods for him to follow, padding out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room.
Yuta takes his time taking in Taeyong’s room as Taeyong scrounges around for lube and a condom. “It’s so cute,” he says, looking over some of his figurines. “You’re a nerd,” he adds fondly.
“Thanks,” Taeyong says drily, settling criss-cross-applesauce on top of his mattress. “Now come here.”
Yuta turns slowly, smile dark and wicked. “Of course, honey,” he says softly. He saunters over to Taeyong, planting a knee on the bed next to Taeyong’s right hip. Taeyong reaches out to him, holding tight to a pinch of his shirt. “Hi,” Yuta says.
“Hi,” Taeyong says back.
“Thank you for dinner,” Yuta says, and Taeyong makes a sort of nonplussed noise in response. Yuta lets out a soft exhale of laughter, bringing a hand up to brush Taeyong’s bangs off his forehead. “You’re leaving day after tomorrow, right?” 
“Mm-hm,” Taeyong says, pouting a little.
“Guess I’ll just have to treat you extra special tonight then, huh?” Yuta says. He combs through Taeyong’s hair, nails just barely scratching on his scalp, the motion rhythmic and soothing. 
Taeyong leans into his touch, almost subconsciously. “Guess you will,” he mumbles. He blinks up at Yuta, makes his eyes big and round, hoping it’ll spur Yuta into action.
It works. Yuta’s hand turns to a fist in Taeyong’s hair. Taeyong makes little hurt noises just for show as Yuta crowds him, bending over him, dipping his head low to mouth along his neck and jaw. “You’re really something else,” he murmurs into his skin. “Y’know that?” He doesn’t even pause to see if Taeyong will respond; he pushes away so Taeyong can move. “Lie back, honey. Gonna take such good care of you.” Taeyong whimpers softly as he complies, scooting up to his pillows, shoving the blankets aside to make room. Yuta is next to him as soon as he’s settled, running his hands up and down his arms, sneaking them under his shirt so he can feel his bare skin there.
“Want it,” Taeyong says, though he’s honestly not even sure what exactly he’s asking for. “Want you.”
Yuta smiles. “I’m right here, honey. Arms up for me?” He pulls at Taeyong’s shirt, working it up and off his body with nimble fingers. “So pretty.”
He tosses Taeyong’s shirt aside and bends over him, attaching his mouth to his chest. Taeyong’s body arches up on its own, chasing Yuta’s lips instinctually. “Yuta,” he breathes.
Yuta looks up at him, speaking into his skin. “Let’s take it slow tonight,” he says. “We have all the time in the world. Wanna see all of you. Wanna kiss you everywhere. How’s that sound?”
“Yeah,” Taeyong agrees, nodding. 
“God, you’re so—” Yuta interrupts himself to nip at the tender skin stretched thin over Taeyong’s ribcage. Taeyong yelps softly, surprised, and Yuta laughs. “I don’t know what it is,” Yuta continues, voice low and conspiratorial. “Something about you just makes me lose control, it’s like you’re begging me to undo you.”
“It’s ‘cuz I am,” Taeyong replies, and Yuta shakes his head.
“Make me wanna do such awful things,” he says. His hands are on Taeyong’s pants now; he looks up for affirmation and Taeyong just blinks at him to go ahead. He yanks them down, underwear coming with them, and tugs them around Taeyong’s ankles. Taeyong struggles free, and Yuta spreads his legs with both hands. “What would people think if they found out?”
“About you?” Taeyong asks. “I doubt it would change much. Your image is pretty… raunchy already, isn’t it?”
“Mm, that’s true,” Yuta says. “You, on the other hand… They’d be so scandalized.”
“You’d be surprised,” Taeyong giggles. “From what I’ve seen, I think plenty of them have a pretty good idea of what I’m really like, even if they don’t know it.”
Yuta hums in amusement, reaching up for the lube Taeyong discarded on the bed. “Let’s pray they never find out for certain, hm? For the sake of your manager’s mental health?”
Taeyong snorts unattractively as Yuta presses the first lube-slick finger up against his entrance. But Yuta doesn’t say a thing, just kisses his kneecap and runs the thumb of his other hand down the length of Taeyong’s cock. 
“But you can show me, can’t you?” he asks, soft and dangerous. “You can show me what you’re really like.”
Taeyong shivers without meaning to. “Yuta,” he breathes. Maybe he’s begging. “I already have.”
“Well, you know me.” Yuta leans forward just a little, mouth hovering over the head of Taeyong’s cock. “Insatiable.” He presses his tongue to the slit, then draws it back into his mouth, teasing. “But that’s okay, isn’t it?” He does it again; this time, though, he swipes his tongue from side to side before pausing to speak. “You’re the same, aren’t you?”
Taeyong nods, blinking down at him, wide-eyed with anticipation. 
Yuta raises a hand, so fast Taeyong doesn’t see it until after he’s registered the pain. Yuta taps his cock again—Taeyong can’t really call it slapping, it hardly does more than sting—tilting his head. “Your words, honey.”
“Yes,” Taeyong says quickly. “Yes, I’m the same as you.”
Yuta grins. “That’s right.” He finally pushes that finger into Taeyong, watching with sadistic pleasure when Taeyong convulses at the unexpected intrusion. “Nothing is ever enough.” He curls over Taeyong’s body, presses a searing kiss to his inner thigh. “Except maybe me.” He bites over the spot, and Taeyong yelps in surprise. “You okay?” he asks, face gentling for a second as he searches Taeyong’s eyes.
“I’m okay,” Taeyong reassures him. He means it.
Yuta nods, though he backs off anyway, more interested in fingering Taeyong than being mean, Taeyong thinks. He works his finger in and out, slow and careful. He seems intent on taking his time tonight; he keeps the same pace even as Taeyong relaxes around him.
Slow torture, Taeyong concludes. That’s what treating me extra special means. He doesn’t mind. It just means more time with Yuta. He settles again, watching Yuta through half-lidded eyes, letting himself admire him the way he can’t when they’re in public—the line of his brows; the sharp, intelligent gleam in his eyes; the wicked curve of his lips when he smiles. Taeyong thinks he could stare at him forever.
“What?” Yuta asks softly.
“You’re beautiful,” Taeyong blurts before he can stop himself.
And there’s the smile Taeyong adores, the one that makes something in him shake with desire. “Yeah?” Yuta asks.
“Yeah,” Taeyong says breathlessly, faint embarrassment dissipating instantly. He doesn’t mind, if he can keep Yuta smiling. “Wish I could see all of you, without all your clothes in the way.”
“Oh, you’re right,” Yuta says, pulling his finger out slowly and then yanking his shirt off with his clean hand. “Not fair, is it, honey?”
Taeyong pouts, shaking his head, though the pout quickly turns to a delighted smile when Yuta stands and shucks off his pants, taking his underwear (and socks, Taeyong realizes) with them. Yuta crawls back up the bed to him, arranging himself once again between Taeyong’s thighs, looking up again to catch Taeyong’s eye and give him a smirk.
“Better?” he asks as he goes to add some more lube to his fingers.
Taeyong hums appreciatively. “Much better,” he agrees.
Yuta sinks two fingers into him this time, but it’s hardly a stretch since he spent so long on the first. He leans forward, planting kisses along the seam of Taeyong’s belly, then higher, shifting the hand that isn’t inside Taeyong up on the bed to help him stay balanced. “You’re beautiful, too,” he murmurs. “I remember the first time I saw a video of you, I thought, ‘no way does he look like that. No way is that real.’ Imagine my surprise when I discovered that you’re even better in person? I’m still not sure,” he continues, slotting kisses between Taeyong’s ribs as he continues to pump his fingers in and out at the same slow, measured pace, “if you really are real. Were you born like the rest of us, or sculpted and sent as a reminder of what we should be?”
“You give me too much credit,” Taeyong whispers. “You know we all get surgery.”
Yuta is smiling; Taeyong can feel it against his skin. “But you have to start somewhere. You can’t make something out of nothing.”
Taeyong huffs softly. “I’ll let you believe it,” he says.
“How kind of you,” Yuta replies, and Taeyong giggles.
Yuta curls his fingers against Taeyong’s prostate, and his giggles quickly morph into hiccuped moans. His hands find Yuta’s hair instinctively; he has to flex his fingers out straight so he doesn’t tighten them into fists against Yuta’s scalp. Yuta raises his head, turning so he can kiss the inside of one of Taeyong’s wrists.
“Yuta,” Taeyong gasps when he does it again. He’s just brushing over the spot, really, but Taeyong can feel it in his toes. 
“Here, right?” Yuta asks, rubbing a slow circle into the spot, watching Taeyong’s face. Taeyong can only whimper. “Good,” Yuta says, and then doesn’t let up, petting over his prostate again and again with no reprieve.
“Yuta,” Taeyong moans, nearly chokes. His hips are twitching, just small, abortive movements, like Taeyong’s body can’t quite decide if it wants to chase the sensation or sprint in the opposite direction. It leaves Taeyong feeling like he’s on the edge of a knife, teetering between a painful sort of pleasure and a devastating fall. 
Yuta rests his forehead against Taeyong’s stomach, right in between the two points of his ribcage, and brings his other hand up to Taeyong’s chest, circling one of his dusky pink nipples. It’s nearly too much for Taeyong; he thinks somewhere in the back of his foggy brain that he’s very glad Yuta doesn’t have a third arm to torture his cock with, or he’d be in real trouble. As it is, he can barely breathe for the pleasure that’s taken him over. 
After a minute or so of this, Yuta pulls his fingers out—not all the way, just to slide a third one in beside the first two. Luckily for Taeyong’s fraying sanity, he doesn’t go back to his prostate, but instead focuses on stretching Taeyong again, moving carefully and with purpose now, instead of just with the intent to make Taeyong melt into a puddle of lust. 
Yuta sits back again, withdrawing from Taeyong’s chest, and instead refocuses his attention on his thighs. He runs his fingers along the length of Taeyong’s legs, scattering kisses across his skin as he fingers him open. It’s patternless; it seems to Taeyong that Yuta sees a spot that looks unkissed and immediately finds it with his lips. It’s almost like he’s claiming Taeyong, one kiss at a time.
Taeyong whines a little when he feels Yuta squeeze his pinky in beside the rest, but there’s hardly any pain. Yuta seems to know this; he only laughs softly. “Such a crybaby,” he teases. “Does it really hurt?”
Under the scrutiny of his gaze, Taeyong finds it impossible to lie. He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Just—feel so full, but it’s not enough. Want you, want your cock.”
“Keep your patience for a few more minutes,” Yuta says. “I’ll give you what you want, you know I will.”
Taeyong isn’t worried about his patience—if it’s for Yuta, he could wait all day, he thinks. He’s worried more about his body getting the better of him. Yuta’s been taking his time, drawing this out, and it’s put Taeyong just on the edge. He’s well past embarrassment at this point—he knows Yuta delights in making him come as much as he possibly can—but Taeyong doesn’t have the best stamina, and he doesn’t want to get too tired too soon. 
He doesn’t voice any of this, though. Part of him is curious to see what will happen if he lets Yuta have his way (the other part of him is just lazy). He shudders through a few more minutes of fingering and then finally Yuta pulls out, planting a kiss on the peak of Taeyong’s hip bone.
“There,” he says. “Now you’re ready.”
“Then hurry,” Taeyong says.
“Why hurry?” Yuta teases as he grabs the condom, tearing the package open with his teeth. “I thought we were gonna take it slow.”
“Please,” is all Taeyong can manage, skin buzzing with the need for Yuta to fuck him. 
“All this attitude, when I’ve been treating you so nicely,” Yuta says, but his tone is light and mirthful; he doesn’t stop what he’s doing to actually reprimand Taeyong. He spreads lube over his cock and lines up with Taeyong’s entrance.
“Not attitude, it—oh, fuck,” Taeyong whimpers, the rest of the sentence immediately escaping him as Yuta pushes in. His eyes roll back; he arches off the bed as Yuta bottoms out, head of his cock flush against Taeyong’s prostate, and Taeyong realizes too late that he’s coming. “Fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers through gritted teeth as he feels the first drops of his release hit his stomach, sticky and warm.
Yuta hurries to curl over him, resting his weight on his elbows, lips finding Taeyong’s neck, one hand finding his cheek while the other reaches down to stroke him through the aftershocks. “Oh, honey,” Yuta murmurs, voice dripping syrupy sweet, “did you just come?”
Taeyong gasps in breaths as his heart rate slows again, nodding. “Couldn’t help it,” he says. “Everything f-feels so good. I—I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize.” Yuta’s voice is rich with indulgence, dark and warm. “It was hot. You’re always so pretty when you come.”
Taeyong can’t help but preen—and who can blame him? It seems it’s simply another thing he can’t help, courtesy again of Yuta.
Yuta pushes himself up, raising the hand that was on Taeyong’s cock to his lips so he can clean himself up. He meets Taeyong’s eyes as he does it, and it makes Taeyong shiver. There’s something so filthy and so fucking hot about it—Yuta, sharp eyes staring straight into Taeyong’s, licking Taeyong’s release off his fingers. 
Yuta also starts moving his hips—just small, gentle circles at first, to make sure Taeyong’s body is ready for what’s to come. Taeyong finds it difficult to keep his thoughts coherent, not when the head of Yuta’s perfect cock is still lighting up his prostate with no reprieve, not when Yuta is looking at him like that—like he wants to devour him. There’s a greedy, possessive edge to his gaze that has heat curling in Taeyong’s belly. 
Hand now clean, Yuta lowers himself back down so he’s hovering over Taeyong, hair falling into his eyes as he shifts his weight onto his hands, rocking his hips back and then forwards again, almost like he’s testing the waters, like he wants to see what Taeyong will do.
Taeyong gives him a pitiful little moan, hoping it’ll make Yuta show a little mercy, but Yuta just laughs. “Stay with me, honey,” he says. “I’m not done with you yet. Won’t be for a while.”
“Yuta,” Taeyong whines, grabbing for one of his biceps. Yuta only hums, rocking into him again, this time a little rougher. He doesn’t pause this time, setting up a slow and fluid kind of rhythm. It’s nice and gentle and just enough friction that Taeyong feels himself start to unravel immediately. Yuta dips his head to lick kisses into Taeyong’s mouth, and all Taeyong can do is kiss back weakly as he struggles to keep a hold of what may very well be his last scrap of lucidity.
Taeyong knows he’s like this—gets fucked out and dumb really easily, too happy to let himself get lost in the pleasure to care—but with Yuta it’s amplified somehow. It’s like Yuta knows exactly how to get into his head, fast and silent, and breaks him down from there; easy, skillful, sweet. 
Yuta’s tipped forward now, has a hand in Taeyong’s hair. He doesn’t pull, though; instead, he massages Taeyong’s scalp with the pads of his fingers. It lulls Taeyong, drags him down deeper, until all he can feel is Yuta—Yuta’s cock, his lips, his hands. He feels Yuta’s tongue against his teeth and tightens his grip on Yuta’s arm. He’s not sure where the impulse comes from—maybe it’s just that he wants to feel like Yuta is as much his as he knows he’s Yuta’s. Even if they never meet again after Taeyong goes home, the memories will linger, will tint everything (and everyone) that Taeyong does just a few shades less colorful, less vibrant. There’s something about Yuta and the way he treats Taeyong that makes him feel like everything else has something missing. 
Taeyong hopes they’ll meet again. He hopes Yuta can come visit him, and he can show him around Seoul the way Yuta’s done for him, and he hopes to god Yuta will fuck him again—at home or at the studio or in a hotel room somewhere, Taeyong doesn’t care. Taeyong just knows he wants it—even now, with Yuta fucking him so nice and deep, he finds himself thinking about when he’ll get it again.
Yuta pulls back, breaking their kiss, and a string of spit follows him, connecting their lips. Yuta notices it too and grins, waving his hand across it so it snaps. “So messy,” he murmurs. “You look so good, honey. You look happy, are you happy?”
“Yes. Feels good,” Taeyong whispers, slurring as he struggles to focus his eyes. “Keep going, don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Yuta soothes. His hand leaves Taeyong’s hair; instead he trails it down his neck and chest before settling it on his waist. He bends over Taeyong’s chest and takes one of his nipples between his teeth—delicately; not to bite, just to roll against his tongue. Taeyong knows his chest will be raw and chafing in the morning, but he doesn’t care. He’s going home, anyway; there will be no cameras he needs to look nice for, no tight shirts waiting for him, no one to notice his discomfort. Besides, he likes the idea that he’ll carry a bit of Yuta back with him, a sort of reminder of the time they spent together, however brief.
Taeyong arches up into Yuta’s mouth, and Yuta takes the opportunity to snake an arm between his body and the bed, wrapping it around his waist and holding him close. The vulnerability of the position makes Taeyong’s head spin, and the new angle certainly isn’t helping. He knows he’s already hard again, and leaking—he can feel the sticky wetness of precome cooling against his stomach.
Yuta really isn’t much bigger than him. They’re the same height and, sure, Yuta’s more muscular, but not significantly. Still, Taeyong feels small, being held like this. He feels precious; cared for. Yuta releases his nipple from his teeth and presses his tongue flat to it instead, flicking back and forth, and Taeyong convulses, moaning weakly.
Yuta pulls back, giving him a short break. “Perfect, honey,” he says against Taeyong’s skin, voice smooth and even despite the way he’s fucking Taeyong—still so deep, thrusts strong and fluid. “You’re perfect for this.”
“Oh,” Taeyong whimpers, trembling.
“I like seeing what I do to you,” Yuta continues, pausing every couple of words to kiss Taeyong’s chest, his sternum. “But do you know what you do to me, baby? I’m already so close, and it’s just you, your body, your tight little hole, how sweet you sound when I fuck you.” Taeyong moans softly, clinging tighter as Yuta readjusts his grip on his waist. “Yeah, just like that, honey. Sound so good for me, so fucking filthy. Perfect.”
“Close,” Taeyong manages, his voice coming out raw.
“You are, too?” Yuta asks. “Good. Wanna make you feel good.”
“You always do,” Taeyong says, gasping when Yuta makes a noise close to a growl and scrapes his teeth across one of his pecs. 
“Touch yourself, honey,” he says. “I don’t have a hand to spare, and I wanna hold you close like this.” Taeyong reaches a shaking hand down to his cock, toes curling on the first stroke. “Good, that’s good,” Yuta continues. “Match my pace, just like this, okay?”
He speeds up only a little, and Taeyong follows without thinking, jerking himself off to the same rhythm of Yuta’s thrusts. Yuta licks over his other nipple, pads of his fingers pressing into the soft skin of his waist, holding him so tight Taeyong’s sure he’ll bruise. Good, he thinks. He wants Yuta’s touch to linger, even after he’s gone. 
Surprisingly, maybe, Yuta comes first, stuttering over moans as his hips twitch against Taeyong, still holding him tight even though his arms shake. His teeth find Taeyong’s collarbone, and the pain that blooms there, bright and hot, sends Taeyong over the edge. He clenches down around Yuta, shocking a sort of wounded noise out of him as he spills ribbons of white across his stomach for the second time tonight. 
Yuta lowers him back onto the bed, extracting his arm from underneath him, panting softly, then leans in for a kiss. It’s lazy and gentle, and Taeyong closes his eyes, using his clean hand to cup Yuta’s jaw. 
“I meant it,” Yuta says when they break apart. “You’re perfect.”
ϟ ϟ ϟ
The next morning, Yuta’s up before Taeyong even stirs. He wakes to the gentle sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen, and pads down the hall blearily to find Yuta making a feast of soft, souffle-style pancakes, as well as a generous serving of bacon.
“Thank you,” Taeyong says softly as he grabs mugs for coffee.
“Of course,” Yuta says warmly. “It’s our last day together. I want you to remember me fondly.”
“Like I wouldn’t already,” Taeyong mutters, and Yuta laughs.
After breakfast is eaten and the dishes are soaking in the sink, Yuta receives a text from his manager telling him to get his ass in gear so she can drive him back to the company building.
“Sorry, honey,” he says, kissing Taeyong again and again as he struggles into a leather jacket. “I wish I could stay. Have a good flight tomorrow, okay?”
“I will,” Taeyong says, as if he has any control over that.
“And keep my number,” Yuta adds. “I’d be more than happy to see you again.”
“Okay,” Taeyong agrees breathlessly. “Maybe next time you can come visit me.”
Yuta flashes him that dangerous smile of his, so handsome and so blinding as he turns to open the door. “I’d love that.”
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doderyscoffee · 2 years
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pairing: lee taeyong x fem!reader (oc) genre&au(s): fluff, horror(?), crush, store owner!au warning(s): death, grief, mourning, mentions of a ghost (not descriptive) length: 0.3k words
[2:13 pm]— best friend!Taeyong’s fingers barely caressed the guitar strings, filling the empty store with noise. The notes were out of tune and I couldn’t remember when the instrument was last tuned. Nobody knew how to play the damn thing, so Grandpa had taken it out of the living room and told me to take it to the store and put it on display, where it had yet to catch the eye of any of his customers.
“How old is this?” Taeyong asked, taking it off its stand with the utmost care.
“Beats me,” I said, digging through a box of books.
After Grandma had passed, Grandpa had shoved all her belongings in cardboard boxes and brought them to the store. Now, I supposed I should stock the shelves with his signature sweaters, but I couldn’t bring myself to put a pretty price tag on everything he left behind.
“No one has played it in years.”
Taeyong sat on the window sill with bold, red letters spelling out “Sale” over his head. “May I?”
I shrugged. “Go for it.”
He cleared his throat and strummed a few notes, wincing when they didn’t sound like they should’ve. “What should I play?”
“Anything.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “This is for you, Y/N.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Leave it to Lee Taeyong to find a way to brighten the mood.
“She’s far away from me,” he began to sing. “I don’t know what I’m do—”
There was a crash from somewhere near the back of the store and Taeyong paused. He met my eyes and nodded. We cautiously crept towards the noise and my jaw dropped when I saw him.
“Grandpa?”
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charmingyong · 2 years
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Dangerous Silence pt.2 - Teaser
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Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2
Full Title: Dangerous Silence of Your Lipstick – Part 2
Genre: Taeyong x mafia queen!reader, action, violence, revenge
Warnings: dark theme, psycho, swearing, kidnapping, knife and firearm usage, gore, deaths, stalking, sip of alcohol, smoking, mention of gambling, suggestive, drugs, unrequited love
Word count: 20k, teaser: 0.4k
Plot: You had cut ties with your actress life and were now a cold-blooded mafia leader, one that Taeyong never dreamt of you becoming, for only one motive.
Release Date: August 2022 (TBD)
Tagging: @cosmiclatte28​
Gif: mine
- ❀ -
“It’s about time I hear from you. I was starting to think you got bored of me,” you spoke curtly through your phone.
You heard Lord laughed darkly. “Darling, I can never get bored of you. Just know that even though I’m not making a move, my men are always keeping an eye on you wherever you are... which is why I called you.”
You knew you were being followed by his men, a proof of it lied in the number of bullets used every time you spotted them, but you couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t making a move for you. Was Taeyong’s death for nothing? “What is it?”
He hummed and said, “I’ve been busy trying to find an answer, but haven’t had much luck. Clearly, you would know better so that’s why I’m going to ask you-”
Having enough of him beating around the bush, you clenched your teeth. “Just get straight to the point.”
“Where is he?”
You blinked in confusion. “What?”
“Where is he?” he repeated calmly.
You always tried to stay composed and in control, but that moment had you completely puzzled and you didn’t bother hiding that in your tone. “Who?”
He huffed out a quick breath. “The obvious.”
If he were in front of you, you would have broken his nose. You weren’t going to kill him easily just yet. “Care to elaborate? Clearly, we’re not on the same page.”
There was a moment of silence from his side before he clicked his tongue and said, “I got my answer.” Without another breath from you, he cut the call.
You stared at the blank screen of your phone in utter shock. “What the fuck is he on?” you mumbled under your breath. “Who the hell is he looking for?”
And it struck you.
The only he Lord could be mentioning about.
The new recruit.
Yuta.
-
Lord laughed darkly at the situation, greatly amused by your oblivion. After calming down a little, he spoke to his men filed in front of him in his office. “Y/N doesn’t know.” He recalled the day after the warehouse incident, searching for the only dead body he craved to see but was disappointed when it wasn’t there.
To himself, he whispered, “Where the fuck are you, Taeyong?”
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lazuli-writes · 9 months
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Sing
summary: Taeyong sings to his son.
pairing: Sire Lee Taeyong & Spawn Lee Donghyuck | Haechan
genre: angst (character death) / vampire au
estimated word count: 700 words
a/n: Based around the song Requiem On Water by Imperial Mammoth. Remember folks, copying other people’s works is plagiarism and that’s illegal. Don’t be that kind of person. Anyways, hope you all enjoy it :)
©little-lazuli. Do not copy, repost, or translate without permission
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“Please… please stay with me Haechan-ah.”
Dry tears and sobs escaped Taeyong as he struggled to contemplate the scene set before him. He couldn’t understand how it got this far. With the vampire holding his spawn, his only child in the numerous eons of his existence, holding Haechan close to his chest as the dark magic poisoned him from within.
He assumed that his spawn, his child, his Haechan, the light of his life, would be a force to be eternally reckoned with. But as this unearthly poison consumed the younger immortal, he had realized that was no longer the case.
“Taeyongie… Papa…. I-it…. It hurts.“
A thick cough erupted from Haechan’s lips, cutting off his broken whimpers and pleas viciously as Taeyong was left trembling. Struggling to entertain the thought of this being the end of the road for his Haechan.
The weak croaking in his dying voice and the wheezes made Taeyong’s frozen heart break. It was so… unnatural to see Haechan in such a state. His Haechan was a spitfire soul. His Haechan was an endless flame of love and energy. His Haechan was the sun, shining brightly and sharing his never ending light with the world. But from this pit of melancholy that consumed Taeyong, a new emotion trickled into his conscience.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry my son. Papa is so sorry he can’t fix this.”
His words came out in a near whisper as the pain forced him voice to diminish into a shattered mess.
Taeyong felt enraged. He could have prevented this. This shouldn’t have happened. All of this could have been avoided had he been faster. Better. Stronger.
“I-I know Yongie.”
Haechan’s strained voice was almost non-existent, to cruelly scratchy and gargling with viscous, rotten poison and blood. He hated it, Taeyong couldn’t stand the pain in his Haechannie’s voice.
Haechan’s weak grip held his hand softly. Taeyong could almost feel the faintest warmth of Haechan’s touch fade, becoming weaker, colder, emptier by the second. With his head in Taeyong’s lap and the elder’s eyes staring into the younger’s, Taeyong knew there was no possible way he could save Haechan in time.
Taeyong hated the mere thought of death having their way with his son.
It was a cruel twist of fate on both ends. With Haechan suffering for Taeyong’s past, and now Taeyong realizing that after nearly five millennia, he’d return to being something he absolutely hated. Alone.
Not wanting to ruin Haechan’s last minutes mewling over a situation Taeyong knew he couldn’t win, he just gripped his son tighter to his chest. Rubbing soft circles on his cheek, trying to mentally end his Channie’s suffering already.
Sighing and closing his eyes, he felt the pain of Haechan’s dying soul strangle his heartstrings. Ripping them out, root and stem, and crushing them one by one. Taeyong hated feeling like this. Helpless.
Haechan was an immortal being. An angel amongst the filth of mankind. Yet here he was, taking his last breaths because Taeyong himself was nothing like his Haechan. A kind soul. A sweet soul. A human soul. And his past actions have finally caught up to him, and has set to take his son from him.
“Can you… sing a song? Sing a song for me papa.”
Haechan’s words caught him off guard. Pulling Taeyong out of his thoughts that were now embossed with sorrow.
“What?”
“I always loved your voice… I-“ Another coughing fit, nearly strangling what little breath his son had “want it…. be the last thing I hear. Please papa.”
Every word from his mouth ate away at Taeyong’s sanity. But pulling himself together one last time, he began.
“The eyes that look up lifeless, from our twins below”
A weak but wholehearted smile appeared on Haechan’s face, as Taeyong’s angelic voice struggled to hold firm, and delivered its beautiful essence.
“Though your arms and legs are under,
Love will be the echo in your ears,”
Taeyong struggled to keep the sobs at bay as he caressed the breathing face of his son for the last time.
“when all is lost and plundered”
And as Taeyong sang despite his chains of sorrow, Haechan’s eyes slowly closed for the very last time. The disgusting black poison pooling out from every crevice on the younger’s beautiful, sun kissed skin.
“My love will be there still.”
And with the last whisper of their song, Taeyong could only roar in wrathful misery as he held his dead son in his arms.
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neowinestainedress · 5 months
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𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄, 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄?
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𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: any nct member!ghostface x detective!fem!reader 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: “horror”, thriller, yandere-ish, smut, halloween special, scream!au 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: in these past months your only goal is to find the killer that is terrorizing the town of Woodsboro, but when you get close to him and feel like you finally have the upper hand, Ghostface turns the game around again.  Or, Ghostface wants to play with you but not like he does with his victims, and you let him. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: dark content, talks of [m*rders, sl!tting throats, v!olent stuff in general], dr*g/anaesthetic use [to make mc fall asleep but unrelated to any sexu*l act (she’s awake and willing)], mentions of [dubcon] phone s*x + masturbation, implied stalking, use of restrainers, cl!t rubbing, rough t!t/n!pple play, protected s*x turns unprotected, kn!fe play, ‘fear’ play, clothes cutting, fake sympathy, pet names used in a mocking way, degradation, rough s*x, hair pulling, spit (1), p*ssy slapping, dacryphilia, possessiveness, 1 brief talk of carving, polaroids pictures, all consensual but i’ll still put a dubcon warning just to be safe (tbh it’s more like hate sex bc the mc would rip his head off but also fuck him), reader is kinda fucked up herself. | inclusivity notes: reader has hair long enough that can be pulled (no mention of texture, type and color), no mention of body type but reader is manhandled a few times and has b**bs and *ss big enough that can be cupped, no mention of skin color, no use of y/n 𝐖𝐂: 10.662k 𝐀/𝐍: this year i had vague ideas for halloween but not even a defined good one, i had some suggestions i liked but were far too complicated, and i had no energy to write them in time. but a ghostface/scream au was an idea i had in mind for some time, the original was a ghostface cosplay, but then i went with this one, and I’m happy with how it turned out. i had 2 members in mind (johnny/haechan) for the og plot, then someone suggested jeno and jisung (as a duo) but if i unmasked him the plot wouldn’t have made sense anymore, so he’s whoever you want him to be! the other ghostface is mentioned but doesn’t appear physically in the story, you can pick who you want for him too. i never wrote blankly for the male mc so let me know if it was good. please, if you like it, leave feedback through reblogs or asks! and also let me know who you imagined behind the mask 👀 enjoy and happy halloween
𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐄.
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Your mother always told you to mind your business or else your curiosity was going to be the death of you one day.
It’s clear you never treasured her words, and your curiosity led you to be a private detective with only a few thrills in your life since now, nothing too exciting ever happened in your small town, until one day you received a phone call from the district of Woodsboro. A string of murders was terrorizing the town after years and all the evidence led to another psycho who thought it was funnier to kill people while putting on a Ghostface mask. 
Months have passed since that call and you have nothing concrete. It’s like he’s only messing up with you and, in the meantime, innocent people keep dying. But you have your theories, the ones you only keep to yourself, stored away in the privacy of your diary, hidden under the pillow of your bed. Your colleagues seem decent people, but with time, you’ve learned to trust nobody. 
And your secret theories led you right where you are now. In the open country, away from the small town, where a small barn grabbed your attention the first time you moved to Woodsboro. 
The barn seems empty but eerie vibes surround it. The strong smell of the grass stings your nose as your black boots walk on the muddy ground, the rain of this morning still lingering in the air and in the countryside. 
When you reach the perimeter, you squeeze your eyes to see inside, but the few tiny windows don’t allow you a big view. The more you walk around it to make sure it’s empty, the more the hold on your concealed carry with the gun inside tightens.  
It’s late October and the cold penetrates your brown leather jacket, but the temperature is not the thing that makes you shiver. 
You should’ve never followed your instinct and come here alone. You should’ve spoken to somebody else in the department, told them your theory and have some backup in this crazy plan of yours. But when your impulses take over, your smartness slips away, and you find yourself in the worst situations ever. 
Like right now. You stand in front of the wooden door and find the courage to push it open. You should feel thrilled, you found him. You found the psycho that has been haunting the town for months now, messing up with you with clues and mocks that pushed you farther away from the right path. Yet, you beat him, for once it looks like you have the upper hand now that you’re walking around the empty barn away from the town. But something doesn’t feel right, your guts are telling you something but you don’t listen, you can’t walk away now that you’re so close.
There’s not much to inspect, a few pieces of furniture, a disheveled mattress in the middle of the room, and a few chairs in a corner. It almost looks like an abandoned farm if only it wasn’t for the unnerving vibes that carries with it and for two walls that call your attention. On the right, there’s a map of Woodsboro, pins linked by a red thread, connecting all the places where Ghostface hit in these past months. Your hand quickly reaches the back of your pocket to pull out your phone and snap a picture, hoping there will also be places he didn’t go, and this time you can be faster at stopping him. 
What’s on the other side is worse. 
“What the fuck…” you mumble under your breath as you step closer to the wall. Polaroid pictures hanging from it, Ghostface and the victims, you guess, moments before they were brutally killed. You’re not surprised, one of the gifts he would leave on the scene of the crime being Polaroids, but they didn’t make much sense. “He’s a fucking psycho,” you scoff as you take another picture. 
“Surpriiise!!” 
Your phone falls on the floor with a loud thud and your heart jumps in your throat when his voice breaks the deafening silence in the room, but your reflections are swift enough to make you reach for your gun and turn around, shooting. 
“Boo, fail,” Ghostface laughs, hitting your wrist hard enough to make the gun fall on the floor next to your phone. “You’re really not as smart as I thought you were, don’t you know intruding on someone else’s property is illegal?” he points out, pushing your body against the wall, the sharp blade of his knife grazing the skin of your neck. 
You try to keep calm, deep slow breaths as you try to don’t look scared for your life. You might die today, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. 
“Don’t look so frightened, my dear. I’m quite happy to have you all to myself,” he chuckles, his hand lifts to caress your face and you struggle to avoid it, but the click of his tongue makes you stop. “I wouldn’t act too careless, it’s sharp.” 
You stop moving. You are smart, and you can get yourself out of this situation. “Do you want to play a game, Ghostface?” You ask, ignoring his taunts, the irony in your voice is clear, just like it’s blatant in the slow bat of your eyelashes, but your words only make him laugh. 
“Oh, that’s not how it works, detective. That’s my line. You didn’t study the script?” 
You scoff, trying to take time to free yourself. “We’re switching roles. Do you want to play a game? It’s called you turn yourself in and I put you in jail.” 
He snickers, and his head tilts to have a better look at your face. He’s had many people in this position before and never saw so little fear in their eyes. “Now you want to act like you don’t love the chase?” 
“Fuck you, I don’t love it,” you spit out, narrowing your eyes, desperately trying to get a glimpse of anything under the mask. Another failed attempt. 
He laughs darkly, so deep it hits you to the core and makes you shiver — in fear or excitement, you’ll let this decide to your better judgment. “I know you do,” he coos as his thumb covered with the black glove caresses your lips. “Enjoy the little clues I leave you around? You were interested in the pictures, I knew you loved them, that’s why you get the prettiest ones. I tell you so much, but you don’t understand me,” his voice is calm, scarily calm, and full of sarcasm filled with a sweetness that feels like a slap across your face. “I was a bit mad it took you so long to find me.”
Rage shoots up inside of you, but you instantly push it down, you can’t lose your composure. “So, what are you going to do, kill me?” Your voice drops of a tone, and your eyes turn into a teasing gaze, making him chuckle. 
“Talking about death so nonchalantly with me, mmh… are you brave or dumb? Because if you ask so nicely, I just might let the knife sink in.” 
You laugh lightheartedly, putting up the best performance of your life before your eyes flutter seducingly at him. “No, please don’t kill me Mr. Ghostface, I wanna be in the sequel,” you coo, lips in a pout and innocence in your eyes, until you hit him with a swift, strong kick between his legs, the distraction of your performance giving you time to slip to the side, causing just a bit of your skin to cut and bleed. 
“Bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he kneels to the ground. You reach for your gun, but barely have time to grab it before he pushes you on the floor again. “We were having so much fun, you just have to ruin everything.” 
You’re waiting for the worst when he traps you on the floor with his body on yours, but his arms don’t lift to stab you in your chest or stomach, the last thing you see before passing out is his hand lifting in the air and the sting of a needle pushing past your skin. 
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The white light of the room feels like staring directly at the sun when your eyes blink repeatedly as you try to come back to earth and push away the hammering of your headache. You groan hoarsely, trying to adjust to the light, but the biggest discomfort comes from your shoulders, pushed behind your back and around the chair you’re now sitting on. 
“Sorry, I had to tie you up, but you’re a bit feisty today. Didn’t want you to get hurt,” Ghostface replies to your silent questions — not so silent, considering how loud you’re groaning and struggling on the chair, trying to break free. He’s standing in front of you, but a chair is right behind him so you guess he was sitting there before you woke up. 
“You can’t even take one down without a fight? Need to kill me without breaking a sweat?” You taunt, eyes dark and a deep frown on your forehead. 
But your teasing seems to leave him unfazed as he walks toward you with a glass in hand. “Drink.” 
You scoff, staring at him. You hate that you can’t see him, not even because you want to find out who’s hiding under there, but also because you feel like you can’t confront him well enough. “You think I’m so stupid to accept a drink from a psycho?”
His head rolls back followed by an annoyed sigh as he stops right in front of you. His black boots bumping against yours. “You know that’s not how I move, no fun in killing with these shortcuts. Drink. I would never want you to pass out here,” he coos while his free hand pushes your hair out of your face. You can’t see behind the mask, but you know he has a shit-eating grin on his face. He moves the glass to your lips, but you turn to the side, he doesn’t give you a choice when he strongly grips your chin, pushing your lips open, and forces the water down your throat. “Oops, it spilled all over, you’re so messy, detective,” he snickers when water drips on your chin and shirt. As if he didn’t do it on purpose. 
“Asshole,” you mutter, eyes closing into fissures while you look at him. His head tilts, “Oh, brave. I could slit your throat right now, add you to the collection.” 
You chuckle darkly, shaking your head. “You won’t,” you say firmly. “You’ve never had someone quite as fun as me.” 
A low laughter escapes from the mask. “So, you are at least a bit smart?” His hand places on your thigh and you try to move away, but the chair screeches on the floor, and his hold only tightens. 
“Don’t play games now. Don’t fake it,” he groans, hand moving up on your blue jeans. “You enjoyed our last conversation,” he whispers, the mask close to your face, so close you can almost see his eyes behind the blackness of the two holes. “Had shivers run down your back when the phone rang in the middle of the night, haven’t you? You sat up straight in your big bed, all alone, and felt fear take over. Never answer unknown numbers. That’s what they say, that’s what you say, running around town, warning everyone about me,” he laughs deeply. “And then look at you, picking up that phone call, eager to hear my voice on the other side.” 
“You’re a psycho,” you spit out, struggling against the restrainers. But once again it is an act; he is a psycho, but you are starting to fear you aren’t much different. 
He chuckles darkly. “Oh, I am, never denied that. But don’t act better than me. You stood right in front of that window, stripping for me, touching yourself for me, moaning for me. How fucked up that is?” He snickers. “You have fucked up fantasies, my pretty detective, but I’m not one to judge. I’d gladly help.” 
You laugh quietly, trying to look confident but it comes out shaky from your throat, “If you want to help, take the mask off and show me who you are.” 
“Wow, wow, darling. Not so soon, I’m not one to burn stages in a relationship. What next? Want to meet my mom?” 
You inhale sharply, and spit on him, “God, you’re insane.” Your eyes snap open when he pulls out of his back the sharp knife, your breath is stuck in your throat and fear runs all over your body. And once again you regret how impulsive you are. You did well all these past years of training and then on the first real-life experiences at pushing this side of you in the cage, but it looks like it’s coming out like a beast that’s been trapped too long.  
“Don’t be so scared,” he huffs, the fake sympathy in his voice should make you mad but it triggers something else inside of you, and you hate to admit that he might be right, you’re enjoying this more than you should, you’re enjoying this entire chase more than you should. It’s like a game, but it’s not when real people are dying. “I would never hurt you,” his voice is raspy, slightly muffled by the ghost mask he’s wearing, and the knife sits on your sternum. “I hope you didn’t like this shirt too much, detective.” 
You don’t have time to react, the steel cuts your shirt neatly, the sound bouncing in the small room and the sharp tip brushing your skin. You shiver, gulping hard and closing your eyes, already feeling the sensation of it cutting through you, but it doesn’t happen. 
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head disappointingly. “You truly don’t trust me. I’m offended, and I don’t like when people offend me. Just like I don’t like when they hang up the phone while we’re playing. If people were respectful, I wouldn’t have to kill them, you know?” You stare at him with a furrow on your face, you’d like to take the mask off and see his eyes, not really to find out who’s hiding underneath that mask, but to see if his gaze is as insane as you imagine it to be. 
“Let me go,” you say, the skin of your wrist bruised from the pressure you’re applying against the ropes.
“Don’t struggle too much, it turns me on,” he warns, kneeling at your level. He smiles softly and thinks it’s a pity you can’t see it, you’re just so pretty, with your beautiful face filled with different emotions and your eyes looking at him with a gaze that wants to be threatening but it’s all the opposite, almost making you look like a lost puppy.  
“Why?” 
“Why? It’s funny to see the victim beg for their life, it makes you feel powerful, you could show mercy, but you don’t,” the smug smile on his hidden face can be heard in his voice and you shiver at how cold he sounds, the shrug of his shoulder is just the cherry on top to his unhinged behaviour. 
“So, you’re just going to keep me here?” 
“No, I want to play with you. Do you want to play a game, detective?” 
Your gaze falls on your thighs where his hand is placed again, the black gloves preventing it from leaving traces behind, as it slowly moves closer to your heat. 
You snicker, pretending to play it cool, but your breath twitches at the contact. “’Cause if I said no you would stop?” 
“Hey, I’m a killer, not a rapist,” he defends, shrugging. Yet, you still don’t reply, and he doesn’t like that. “So? I’m not so patient when I ask people if they want to play with me, so don’t test me.” 
You swallow hard, swiftly looking around to see if you can pull a move on him. Damnit, it’s your chance to get him and throw him in jail but instead, you’re seriously thinking about his proposal. You fool yourself that you’re only doing this because maybe he could slip, maybe he could say something in the heat of the moment that could give you a clue, or he could leave his traces on you somehow, maybe his mask could fall, but you know you’re feeling something else. Attraction. 
“I said,” he mutters, his face comes closer to yours, making you pull back, and the knife pushes flat in the hollow of your chest, “do you want to play a game, detective?” 
“Yes, yes, I do,” you mutter, starting to breathe again when he pulls the knife away. 
“Good, I love playing with you.” His fingers move to unbutton your jeans and then pull the zip down, you look at him attentively. “Lift your hips for me, love?”
You glare at him at the pet name but he only chuckles deeply. “What? If I’m rough with you, you get mad, if I’m sweet with you, you get mad. I can never win, can I?” 
You huff, deciding it’s better to not reply and just do as he says. Your pants are quickly at your ankles and suddenly you feel even more trapped than before now that you can’t even move your legs, but his touch on your naked skin takes you away from that thought. 
“Pretty panties just for me?” He coos, tilting his head to the side as he stares at your burgundy panties with the lace trim. “Were you hoping to find me here so we could finish what we started on the phone?” 
“Shut up, this is not for you,” you retort, your forehead creasing with a furrow. 
“And who is it for?” He asks, cupping your pussy, watching your body shiver. “Oh, no, please don’t tell me there’s a boyfriend I’m not aware of. I’d hate to kill him.” 
You bite your lips and keep the contact with the mask, but words struggle to come out when his index finger starts rubbing on your clit, moving from the slit —where you can feel you’re starting to get wet— to your sensitive nub. “It’s not for you,” you repeat, trying to don’t show how much his touch is affecting you. 
“Well, you want me to work so hard too, I’ll have to find out on my own if someone is playing with what’s mine,” he replays nonchalantly. “I know where to find you, maybe I’ll come visit again.” 
“You talk so much for someone who wants to play so badly,” you retort, a teasing grin curling your lips. 
“Sorry, I didn’t know my princess was so eager,” he replies, saccharine voice filled with mockery, before a harsh slap lands on your pussy making you jolt and whimper. “Want my fingers?”
The glare you give him would be enough to kill him; isn’t this pathetic enough? How much more does he want you to humiliate yourself? 
He rolls his head back and then the knife is against your neck again. “Do we have to do this every time I ask you a question? Do you want my fingers, detective?” 
“Yes,” you whisper. Your body relaxes momentarily before tensing up with excitement again, but it quickly shifts to disappointment. “What are you doing?” You ask when his covered fingers press against you again. 
“Oh, you’ll get the gloves too, I’m not dumb, you know? Don’t leave fingerprints on dead bodies, won’t even leave them on yours,” his voice is smug, all the confidence of someone who didn’t make a wrong move and somehow was always ahead of you and the police department. 
You hate him. You hate he’s so much better than you at this. And you hate him even more now that he has you fighting whimpers and moans. 
“Are you seriously going to pretend you don’t like this while your hips are bucking up?” He taunts, clicking his tongue in a mock. “Think moaning is more pathetic than humping my fingers like a bitch in heat?” 
Your mouth opens to retort but you can’t deny the evidence; your hips are rolling against his hand, chasing for more, your panties are darkening as your wetness leaks through the fabric and your chest is heaving in erratic motions.  
“Look at me,” he sings, hand moving up to graze your neck, thumb pressing on your carotid, making your head snap up. “You listen so swiftly when you fear for your life. It’s funny, you know, because I truly would never hurt you.” 
You chuckle, shaking your head, trying to pull away from his hold when his hand moves up to caress your jaw. The gentleness of his touch is even scarier than when he has his knife pointed against you. “Is this what turns you on? The fear in their eyes?” 
His head tilts to the side, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Partially. But not in your case, what turns me on with you it’s the chase, and the fact I always win.” 
You scoff bitterly, struggling in his hold but his hand quickly grips your chin and pulls you closer. “Didn’t you see the movies? The villain always dies.” 
“If the heroine is not busy getting fucked by him,” he mocks, squeezing your face harder and moving his fingers faster on your clit. Your head rolls back and so do your eyes while a chocked moan leaves your lips. “See, I doubt you will shoot me in the head if you keep moaning like this.” 
You groan angrily, you’re madder at you than you are at him. You want him and it’s so wrong that you do, but there’s not even a siren ringing in your head, telling you to make this stop. 
“No, shh, shh, angel, it’s fine, this will be our little secret,” he whispers to your ear, the mask rubbing against your face, and when your eyes turn to look at him, you can see small dots of blood on the white varnish. “We could play another game: one secret for you, and one secret for me. If you behave, maybe I’ll reveal myself to you, if you promise to keep it to yourself.” 
Your teeth sink into your lips harder when he delivers another harsh slap on your clit before resuming his quick movements. “Just — just tell me if I know you,” you mumble. You know he will never reveal himself, but maybe you can get something more, anything to complete the missing pieces of the puzzle. 
He chuckles darkly, staring at a spot behind you as he pretends to think. “Mhh, we’ve met.”
You frown and your heart jumps in your throat for a moment at the thought you’ve seen him. “Only met?” 
“We talked,” he adds, finally letting go of your face, making you breathe normally again. 
Your eyes widen while your brain hurts as you try to quickly connect the dots, and find out who’s hiding underneath the mask, you just have to put a face on a voice — even if distorted, but you can’t. And suddenly realization slumps on you.
“Will it — will it break my heart?” 
He snickers under his breath as he looks into your sad eyes, you’re looking at him like a dog when it’s being scolded, but in this case, you’re also silently praying he’s not someone close to you. He has no idea why that would make you feel better, if you care more about Ghostface or whoever is hiding under the mask, but it doesn’t matter, and he mocks you again, mimicking you in a high-pitched voice. “Will it hurt if I was someone close to you? A colleague? A friend? A lover?” 
Your breath gets faster. Will it? Would you turn him in or defend him? And you can’t stand you’re even questioning it, of course you’ll turn him in, that’s your job, but most importantly, your duty. But will you? You could be doing it now, and you’re not. 
“See? It’s not as funny if you know me,” he laughs at your face, your thoughts so loud he could get a headache. “It’s not as exciting, you love the thrill of this too, more than you like to admit.” 
“Fuck,” you curse when his other hand cups your covered breast, it’s a harsh tug and the leather feels weird on your skin, yet, it makes you clasp your thighs and forget what was tormenting your morals, again. 
“They’re so perfect, I can’t believe you always keep them hidden under those ugly clothes,” he pouts, giving it another hard squeeze. “Sorry.”
“For what — what the fuck?” You scream when he cuts your bra with the knife, first the middle and then the straps, the matching burgundy bra falling in pieces on the bottom of the chair. 
“It was getting in the way, and I don’t like things that get in my way. I cut them off,” in his voice lingers a hysterical laugh that makes you shiver, and in times like this, you’re glad you can’t see his face.  
You gulp and automatically close your legs. 
“Not you,” he reassures you, forcing your thighs open again with a smack, “you entertain me. And you suck at your job, so it’s clear you also don’t get in the way.” 
“I’m good at my job and I will get you and put you behind bars —” 
“Uh, uh,” he clicks his tongue, knife under your jaw before you can even finish the sentence, silencing you in an instant. “We were having so much fun, don’t ruin it, babe.”
You swallow and look down following the path he’s tracing with the knife, goosebumps bloom on your skin and you hold your breath when it gets closer to your neck, only releasing it when the blade sits in the hollow of your chest. 
“It’s so funny how you shake like a leaf, I’m a professional,” he says, sounding almost offended. And you furrow, is he talking about the knife or his fingers? “Both, love.” 
Another groan leaves your lips before he moves the crotch to the side and the cold air of the room hits your burning core. You’ve never been so ashamed your entire life, you shouldn’t be an open book to him, you shouldn’t be so malleable in his hands, it’s pathetic and humiliating. 
“You’re so fucking wet. I’m quite pissed I can’t run to the police department and let them know how much I turn you on. I can already see the disappointment on their faces,” he taunts, the slick sound of his gloves against your dripping pussy burns your body in shame and excitement.  
“Don’t you dare,” you spit out, but you don’t sound so menacing since your voice breaks, and a pathetically high-pitched moan rolls from your tongue right after.  
“I said I’m not going to, I keep my promises,” he kneels to the ground, one hand keeping you spread more and the other is still busy taking care of you. “Maybe if you promise you won’t shoot or put me in handcuffs right away when you’ll find out who I am, I can eat you out. I bet you let out the prettiest moans when you have someone between your legs.” 
Your head rolls back, and you hiss. “You wish,” you retort through gritted teeth, but a part of you dies to know what that would be like. “I will never give you the satisfaction.” 
He laughs mockingly. “Maybe I should blindfold you and do it now, will you recognize me by that?” At those words your body tenses up, head standing straight again as you look down at him with terror in your eyes. “What?” He asks in a giggle, surprised by your reaction. “You’re fucking with me right now, I still have blood on me. Would that be the most problematic thing? Having fucked with me before? Without this mask?” 
“You’re just messing with me,” you mutter but your brain is trying to think, the list of the people you’ve been with is not that long, he can’t be so stupid to out himself like that, right? 
“Maybe… I love it when I can see you think,” he whispers. “Usually, you have your hands in your hair, pulling at it even if you just washed it or spent hours styling it, and then you nervously bite your right thumb, somehow there’s always a hangnail to pull until it bleeds, oh, and you also nervously walk back and forth, two steps forward, two steps back. It’s cute, really. You have no fucking clue how to stop this, but you look so into it, chasing after me… well, so you think because, let’s be honest, you’re only chasing after your tail.” 
You can’t believe he knows all of this, how close to you is he? And a few names start popping into your mind, but for each face that you see, your only answer is it can’t be. 
“Why are you surprised? I told you, I love watching you,” he says, voice scarily soft even through the distortion of the mask. “You’re very pretty, detective. When you work hard to catch me, and even more when you screw it all up to moan for me.” 
“Ugh,” you groan through gritted teeth, wrist rubbing against the rope keeping you in place and hips bucking up, anger and pleasure mixing like a drug in your brain. You hate to admit it, but you’re close and you doubt you can push back your climax any longer.  
“It’s alright, love, I told you, I won’t judge you,” he hums. He studies your face for a moment, admiring how your teeth trap your lips in the vain attempt to don’t truly show how much you’re enjoying this, but your eyes are filled with lust, lightly glassy, and your cum is painting his gloves white. “Now, will you come for me?” 
He doesn’t have to tell you twice, your body shutters as the orgasm washes over you, the quick movements of his fingers on your sensitive clit making your nails dig into the palm of your hands while your moans slip out of you freely. Your morality disappears, getting dragged away with the orgasm that consumes you before leaving. 
You forget where you are for a moment, or to be more precise, with who you are with, as you let your head roll back, close your eyes and take deep breaths, waiting for the high to pass. 
The thing doesn’t bother Ghostface, though, he sees enough fear in people’s eyes, he likes it better when you stop pretending and relax around him. That’s the thrilling thing about you, you are the most entertaining game he has ever played. With all the others he knows how it will end, their lifeless bodies laying in a pool of their own blood and the sirens of the police going off in the background as he blends in with the crowd, but with you? It’s unknown. Like a Russian roulette. 
He’d love to shred all your clothes off, but he knows you’d have to spill your guts (not literally) if you walk out of there completely naked, and he’s sure the version you would tell the police would add another crime to his name. So, he takes your shoes off and then pulls your pants down. 
Your laugh makes him raise his face and stare at you. “What’s so funny, dollface?” 
You shrug, wetting your lips. “You scare me more when you act all sweet, you know?” 
He scoffs, standing up again, and caressing your face. “You want me to hurt you so badly. I could carve a heart right here,” he presses the tip of the blade next to your heart, tracing the shape of a heart, causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. “It would look so pretty on you, and you will always carry me with you. Isn’t it nice? Couple goals.” 
You raise a brow at him, he doesn’t even realize it, but he’s giving away so much of his personality, even if you don’t find it out now, you’re pretty positive all of this is leading you somewhere. You shake your head quickly, trying not to show how hard you’re thinking about your plan. “I only want one thing from you, and you know what it is.” 
He chuckles, leaning next to your ear. “My dick.” 
“Oh, fuck off,” you curse, accidentally kicking him now that your legs are free to move. You suck your breath in, fearing your move, even if involuntary, might piss him off.  
He hisses but doesn’t do anything else. “Don’t get all bratty here, doll. You said you wanted to play a game, and we’re going to play it until the end.” 
When he cuts your panties and balls them in his fist, saying “keeping them as a souvenir,” with a grin that can be heard in his voice, you only reply with an “asshole.” 
Once again, he doesn’t pay your insults any mind, and you wonder why he’s so nice to you. Should you fear it? Will you be his last victim, getting the worst death of them all because he needs to put on a show? “Now I will untie you, if you play any trick on me… you know how it ends.” 
You nod quickly, watching him disappear from your view as he stands behind you. You inhale when the knife places against your neck again and roll your eyes back. “You don’t have to do this every time, you know?” 
“It turns you on,” he retorts firmly. “And I need to make sure you don’t do any funny business.” 
Your eyes roll back again but you try to relax anyway and keep still when your wrists are finally free. Your shoulders are in a more comfortable position again as you subtly roll them to ease up. “Get up,” he orders, and you follow, moving carefully because the blade is still close to your body and you don’t want to end up dead on the floor. “Good, now lay on the mattress.” 
Your face twists in disgust when you’re reminded of the mattress on the floor, but he pushes you forward. 
“We didn’t kill anybody there.” 
You stop, turning around swiftly, and his reflections are rapid enough that he doesn’t push the knife into your chest. “We?” 
“Oh… it didn’t click yet…” He laughs darkly at your expression, the whole world falling on your shoulders as you wonder how could you be so stupid to not realize it. “Sorry, love. But hey, aren’t you happy I helped you out?” 
You glare at him but then bring your hand to your hair and your thumb to your lips. Of course, there are two of them, that’s the only way they could always be so headed of you. 
“Not the right moment to think about that,” he warns, voice dropping lower, making you stop your nervous ticks. “Get on the bed.” 
You turn around again, suddenly aware that he’s completely covered and you’re bare. That thought makes you seek the cover of the mattress more, and swiftly you’re laying where he wants you. But it also turns you on, being so exposed to him while he’s giving you not even a peak of who’s under the mask and the clothes send chills down your body and more cum drips out you.
“Promise you’ll be good? We can play cat and mouse later if you want to,” he asks, the blade running flat on your boobs, making him chuckle darkly when your nipples harden at the contact and your hips buck up. “You promise, detective?” He repeats with urge when you don’t reply, too busy watching the knife move on your body as he pins you down. 
“Promise,” you reply, looking into the blackness of the eyes of the mask. 
He chuckles under the mask, and you watch him unbuckle his pants. You could easily grab the weapon that’s on your stomach and stab him, you could even un-mask him, but you lay still, almost mesmerized. And the conscience inside of you likes to remind you how fucked up you and your morals are, but you brush it off, shaking your head quickly. 
“Turn around,” he orders, but you hesitate. That’s too much vulnerability. It’s clear he doesn’t like your hesitation when he groans, grabbing the knife and pushing it aside. “God, I have to do everything with you,” he sighs as he forcefully flips you on your stomach before his legs trap you again. This time you can’t do anything even if you want to, but once again, you don’t want to. 
“Fuck,” he moans, hands cupping your full ass and squeezing hard, the firm hold eliciting a moan from you. “Look at you, so fucking pretty. Keep your head down, don’t try to even get a peak,” he warns, and your immediate reaction is to turn around to understand what’s going on, but you know better, so you press your face into the pillow and only when you hear the loud sound of a spit and a glob of saliva drip between your folds you understand what happened. “Not that it was needed, you’re dripping. But you know, I like to get messy at times.” 
You turn your face around, resting your head on the pillow, and bite your lips. The smugness and insanity of his voice causing more cum to ooze out of your pussy.  
“I want to feel you so bad,” he hums, spreading your cunt, making you feel so exposed, “but will you run to the police? Will you tell them ‘oh no, I had to fuck Mr. Ghostface to have a bit of his DNA and save the town from this psycho’?” he mocks with a high-pitched voice, it doesn’t sound like you at all, more like a hopeless, brain-dead, blonde girl that dies within the first minutes of any horror movie. 
You snicker. “You underestimate me, I could say I got those traces from somewhere else.” 
“But will you? Also, I’m pretty sure they will find traces of you too. How humiliating would that be? Come on, honey, I won’t blackmail you, but you will screw yourself over? That’s not very smart of you.” 
He’s right, you hate that he’s right. You will have to out yourself in the process of trying to turn him in. “I — I won’t.” 
Deep down he knows you won’t, there’s no way they won’t trace it back at you too, and he also knows you won’t try to play the victim when you’re not, but he needs to be conscious, one wrong step and you could turn the game around. As much as he likes to mock you, he knows you’re smart and have been close to discovering them a few times, it was a matter of luck, and they were extremely lucky. 
“Better safe than in jail,” he chuckles darkly, you don’t even try to peer around, and only listen to the plastic of the condom rip. 
You whimper when you feel the tip against your slit, and you hide your face in the pillow as if that could change the reality of what you’re willingly doing. You’re too excited to be so ashamed of your actions, but, even if some may argue your morality is nowhere to be found, it still feels like a big balloon hovering over you. 
You shiver when you feel the mask rest on your shoulder, “Nah, ah, angel, no being ashamed now. I told you I don’t like rude people, so don’t be rude and ask me nicely to fuck you.” 
The urge to slap him is stronger than anything else, but once again your greed makes him win. “Please… please fuck me.”
“Not what I want to hear, you know what I want. We practiced the other night, haven’t we?” He reminds you, a hand creeping around your neck, holding tight enough to make buzzes of fear run through your bones. 
You close your eyes, inhaling as deeply as you can while trying to find the courage to humiliate yourself one last time, but then the words slip out, “Please, fuck me, Ghostface,” and the air gets knocked out of your lungs when he pushes into you. It’s a strong, deep thrust that fills you to the brim and knocks you over. Your head falls against the pillow again while his loud groan fills your ears, “Fuck, it sounds so good from your lips.” 
“Oh, fuck,” you curse through gritted teeth when he starts moving right away, barely giving you time to adjust to the feeling, thick dick grazing your insides and strong hands wrapping around your waist tightly. 
“Is it too much for you, detective? My sweet little angel can’t take it?” 
A groan slips past your lips, you try to stand up on your elbows, but he pushes you down. His body presses against your back and you feel trapped again. “Don’t move. I will fuck you so deep into this mattress that I will feel your scent for days after this. I want your face smashed against the pillow, I want it to be wet with your ruined makeup and tears, got it? ” 
You nod quickly, shoulders dropping as you slump against the mattress. His breathing next to your ear makes you shiver, and you wonder if that’s the last thing the non-so-lucky people have met him heard before dying. But you push it away, for the sake of your sanity, you have to fool yourself that you’re not so attracted to a bloody murderer, that your morals are still intact, and that you are a good person. 
It’s pathetic how all the anger you feel disappears with each calculated thrust, pleasure getting to your brain so quickly you stop holding back. Soft whimpers and moans roll out of your tongue and unconsciously your ass grinds back into him.  
“Fuck, that’s what I want to hear,” he hums, standing up while his hands wrap around your waist. He never wanted to burn those gloves so badly, feeling the urge to feel your burning skin and mark you with his bare hands, but he can’t risk it. That doesn’t mean he can’t leave marks in other ways. One hand leaves your hips and cups your boob, eliciting a broken moan from you. “Have I told you they’re so pretty?” 
“Mhh,” you mumble, eyes closing as he pinches down on your nipple. You wish you could say it hurt you but instead, it makes you clench hard around him, cum leaking out more with each pinch on your delicate, sensitive buds. 
“Shit, you really are into pain,” he comments, there’s mockery in his voice —like always— but there’s also a genuine surprise. “Who would’ve thought, my innocent detective is way more fucked in the head than I thought.” 
“I — I’m not,” you retort, groaning and forcing your eyes open, but the deep chuckle that rumbles in his chest makes you quiver, and your attitude drops in a moment. 
“Honey,” he slurs, voice dipped in honey, “you’re letting Ghostface fuck you dumb, you are fucked in the head.” 
You shake your head quickly, but he’s had enough of your lies. The rough tug at your hair makes you let out a choked gasp as your head is lifted from the pillow. “I know you better than anyone else, angel,” he groans, mask pressed against your hot face. “I know your dirty, little secrets. I know what runs into that dirty, little mind of yours. You can’t lie to me,” he almost purrs, a low chuckle making shame fire up inside of you, “and I can feel you, princess. Squeezing me, barely allowing me to pull out to fuck back into you. Fuck — I should feel you right now, no stupid rubber between us.” 
Another broken moan slips from your lips when he roughly lets go of the hold on you, your fingers clench hard around the thin sheet under you, and your hips jerk up even more. It’s like you want to feel him more, to have him imprint himself deep into you, so far under your skin that you won’t be able to wash him off, and you don’t even know why you feel like this. Why it made you feel like this a week prior too, all the hesitation and fear as you picked up the phone and heard his breathy, distorted voice, flying out of the window the moment he started ordering you around. But was it truly an order when your only hesitation came from the fear of judgement, and you could only feel your body tingle with excitement? Sitting in front of the window, having no idea where he was hiding, putting on a show for the killer you swore you hated and making yourself come the hardest you’ve ever done. 
“It makes you feel special, doesn’t it? The way you’re the only exception. The only one I would never hurt.” His voice is lower, hitting you to the core, making your toes curl and your breath falter in your chest. “You’re like a daisy in a garden of bloody, red roses.” 
“Please,” you breathe out, choking on your tongue, eyes fluttering open shyly. 
“Want me to stop?” He coos, head cocking to the side as he lands a sharp slap on your asscheek that makes you hiccup on a whimper and then another to your boob that drags a louder cry out of you. “Don’t want to hear how special you are?” 
But that’s not what you meant. Your pleads were about something else, something you struggle to confess. 
A deep laugh resonates in his chest as he looks down at your already wrecked face. You’re so precious, he can’t believe you sometimes think he could hurt you. His prettiest game, his wildest fantasy. The thrill he feels in his bones every time he’s close to you, so, so near to being discovered and yet always safe. It’s exciting, getting to his brain so much he can hardly hide how much it turns him on. But you’ve never been this close before. He dreamed about fucking you, having you pressed under him, begging, moaning and crying as his dick hit deep into your sweet pussy, pounding into you over and over again until you were nothing but mush in his hands. He wanted to strip you down completely and leave nothing of the women he sees and admires every single day. He dreamed of having all this power over you, watching you get weak on your knees and let him do anything he wanted, watching your body convulse in pleasure and your brain empty. And here you are now; wet, fucked-out eyes looking up at him while your pretty, plump mouth opens and closes as your shut-down brain tries hard to find the words. 
“Speak up, princess. I don’t like to wait.” 
“Please, wa-want to feel you,” you slur in a whisper, eyes blinking lazily as you try to hold onto what’s left of your sanity. 
He chuckles, his thrusts coming to a stop that makes you whine in disappointment. “You want me to fuck you raw, detective?” 
You hum, nodding slowly, not for the lack of enthusiasm but for the amount of shame that’s looming over you like a tornado. But Ghostface doesn’t like your silences, he doesn’t like it when you hesitate, that’s not what turns him on about you. It’s your impulses, the way you jump into things headfirst without thinking, for some it may be dumb, but to him, it’s just that sprinkle of insane bravery that makes life exciting. Your head is yanked up again with a rough pull of your hair, but his hold quickly moves to your neck. “I thought we were over the phase where I have to drag the words out of your mouth, detective. I’ll ask nicely one last time, do you want me to fuck you raw?” 
You swallow your pride and reply meekly, “Ye-yes.” 
He chuckles, pulling out of you almost completely before sinking in again with no warning, knocking the air out of your lungs, air that’s already struggling to fill them as his hold on your neck doesn’t loosen up. “See? It wasn’t that hard, was it? Even your stupid brain could put two words together.” 
You gasp for air when he finally lets go and your face sinks on the pillow again. 
“I’d love to, but I won’t risk it. Maybe next time, maybe if I’ll ever feel like telling you who I am,” he replies, and you groan in disappointment. Not only he doesn’t give you what you want but he also mocks you, reminding you why you’re here and how your mission flushed down the toilet as you let him play you like a violin. 
“Then — fuck — please, fuck me harder,” at this point you want him to fuck you so hard your brain will just unplug and your superego can stop nagging at the back of your mind. You don’t want a single thought in your brain, just pleasure and lust. 
“That I can give it to you,” he hums happily, and in a second, he complies. His hips start snapping against you at a fast speed, his tip hitting you deep repeatedly as he keeps you arched back with one hand around your waist and the other one wrapped around the makeshift ponytail he made with your hair. 
You can already feel the orgasm build up at the tip of your stomach, but it only worsens when Ghostface roughly pulls you flat against him. Your head falls behind on his shoulder, eyes rolled far in your skull as your lips hang open to let out desperate moans and suck in as much air as possible. 
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he moans, his thumb rubs against your neck and jaw while his right hand squeezes and pulls your boobs hard before pinching the nipples. “Listen to those pretty sounds you make,” he snickers, “and you still want to pretend you’re innocent and pure? You’re fucked up just like me, baby, that’s why I like you so much,” he slurs. 
You blink, once again adjusting to the light is uncomfortable but you make out just in time the fact he’s holding a Polaroid camera. “Smile for the camera, babe,” his voice rings in your ears but doesn’t reach your brain and before you know it, you’re coming just like that. The look on your face is not a smile but an expression of blissed pleasure, the exact moment as the climax explodes inside of you, making you clench around his dick and shake in his arms, your arm twisting back, letting your hand claps on his bicep and sink your nail in the thick fabric of the black cloak.  
Ghostface would like to say he’s disappointed and scold you for misbehaving, but he can only stare at you with amused disbelief written all over his face. But you only see the constant expression of the mask and once again, you fear for a second he’s mad at you. Truth be told, he could even kill you right now, you wouldn’t mind much or even notice, too lost in the pleasure that’s still looming on your body. 
“Fuck,” he mutters, hips slowing down until they stop completely, “you just gifted me the most precious pic in my collection,” he whispers. You feel like the edge of mockery is still persistent but at the same time something genuine lingers in it, it doesn’t make it less creepy, but the ‘fuck me harder method’ worked because you don’t question his, and yours, fucked morality and just smile dumbly. 
And that smile, united with the slow bat of your wet eyelashes, is what he needs to lose it. 
“Oh, fuck it, I’ll clean you up once we’re done and if you’ll try to turn me in, I’ll find out, so you better keep your promise, alright?” 
You don’t get what he’s talking about right away, too fucked out as you lay on the mattress waiting for his next move, but when he pulls out of you and swiftly pulls the condom out, you get it. You bite your lips in anticipation and swing your hips in invitation. 
The sight would be enough to make him come right there, and he damns himself because out of all people, you can’t be his biggest weakness. It got to be some fucking joke of destiny. “Will you go to the police?” 
“No,” you mumble.  
“Good girl, because these little games are just for us, me and you, you can’t use what we do here to help you with your case.” When he sinks inside of you again, he feels like he could lose it all for the way your wet, warm walls wrap around him. “Fuck, fuck,” he curses, voice even more distorted now that he murmurs through gritted teeth, “you feel so fucking good.” 
His thrusts now are almost primal, desperately pounding you against the mattress, keeping you pinned down with a hand on the back of your head —not that you need that, you wouldn’t be able to hold your neck up even if you wanted to— and holding for dear life on your hips with the other. You’ll probably have some bruises by the end of the night, if not colored prints on your skin, surely light discomfort at the touch will follow you for a few days. And you almost want to beg him for more, to mark you in some other ways, to leave something just for you to see and carry with you. Sick and perverted thoughts cross your mind, and you push them away swiftly. 
You bite down on your lips when his hand leaves your side to torture your nipples again, he can barely push his hand between your body and the mattress, but he has just enough space to play with your sensitive nipples, making them even harder and causing you to clench even more around him. He loves how sensitive you are there and how each rub, pinch, and slap has you easily squirming and moaning under him.
“Look at you, going all dumb on my cock,” he groans, mockingly giving one harsh slap to your tits before his fingers trace your cheek. Your skin is so hot he can almost feel it through the fabric separating you, but what he’s most fascinated about are your tears, black mascara running down your beautiful face, dying on the pillow and your tortured parted lips. “Are you still thinking about being better than me or — fuck — have you finally embraced your dark side?” 
Not a word comes out of your mouth when you whimper back, and not even a thought crosses your mind. 
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he grins smugly. “You know,” he breathes out, head thrown back as it gets harder and harder to contain the orgasm, but he doesn’t want it to end so soon, “you should fire yourself and be my toy, just my toy, every time I need you, everywhere I need you. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? It’d make you feel even more special.” 
You mumble a weak reply, it’s a whispered ‘no,’ but your body doesn’t deny how much the thought turns you on. Too many responsibilities in your life and your job, too much to carry daily, but right now? Nothing. Guilt will eat you alive tomorrow but not now. Something feels exciting about being on the run with him, being the one that runs, instead of the one that chases. But it won’t happen, you believe in your job, and you want this slasher to end.  
“Cause only I can get you like this, ugh,” he grunts, hips slamming faster but more sloppily against your ass, the vulgar sounds filling up the room. “No man before and no man after will make you come this hard. Nobody, love. No matter how much you’ll want to, they all will disappoint you and you will look for me in every single one of them,” he groans, each word punctuated by a harsh slam of his hips, “well, the lucky ones that will get a taste before I’ll get them and kill them.” 
You don’t reply, just lay there, looking like a mess as you try to fight another orgasm because coming again would be humiliating. 
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” You can hear the grin on his face and his voice has the edge of insanity of the usual. “Let’s be honest, you’ve got a list of shitty partners, you would’ve been grateful if I got rid of some of them.” 
“Fuck, just — just fuck me,” you beg, your hand reaching behind to touch him somehow, but he doesn’t like it. 
He grips your hand and pins it behind your back bending your arm, you hiss in discomfort, but he doesn’t let go. “Oh, no, angel. You don’t make the rules in this game, I do. If I want to sink into your brain and get so deep into you that I’ll make sure you will never come out the same, I will. I’m the darkest side of yourself, the fucked up filth you’re too afraid to face,” he groans. “And I know you’re close again. Your tight cunt is squeezing me, and you made a mess on the mattress,” he snickers. “Imagine if they find this place, this mattress, your DNA on it,” he stops, leaning next to your ear, voice dropping lower, “or better, imagine if they find us now. What do you say, detective? Would they be disappointed? Would they just jack off at the view? You look so hot right now, I wouldn’t blame them if they’d get off to you, to us together. Kill them surely, blame them not. We’re so hot, detective.” 
You squirm under him, feeling like the room is spinning fast and you can’t ground on anything. You have a darker thought in mind, something you can’t confess to him or else he won’t stop mocking you. You want to get caught, but not by your colleagues, by his partner. What would he do if he saw you and his partner in crimes like this? Would he understand this, or would he snap? Maybe even feeling betrayed. Does he even know you and him have been playing this game of attraction for a while now?  
Your silence doesn’t make Ghostface suspect anything. You simply look totally fucked out, brain empty as you plead in soft whimpers and moans. 
“You sound so fucking good,” he praises. “Why don’t we play another little game, uh?” 
Your eyes open in surprise and you hum with no strength, “what?” 
“Beg me to save your life,” he says, grabbing the knife again and placing it close to your neck. “Come on, do it for me, I won’t ever hear you say it because I will never want to kill you. Please, detective,” he coos, hips slowing down because your pussy is fogging his brain and he’s not sure his always-perfect aim and reflexes will work right now. 
You take a deep breath and then speak. “Please, Ghostface, please, spare my life.” 
His head rolls back, and a deep, groggy moan comes out of his lips. “Fuck, yes, keep going,” he orders, hips picking up the rhythm again as he skillfully flips the blade to the lesser sharp side just to be safe. 
And you obey. You beg, choked-up words slipping from your lips that soon turn into please, fuck me harder, and then please, wanna come. You feel boneless, your body is too hot, and you feel you might pass out, you need a release and then hope something bigger than you will make you get back on your legs and walk out of there as if nothing happened, as if you never followed your guts and found his —their— safe haven. 
“Come for me, love,” he orders, throwing the knife to the side before his hand sneaks under your body to roughly slap your clit a few times, enjoying the louder moans he drags out of you by doing so and watching with pleasure as your body squirms and shakes. “And don’t forget to smile for the camera.” 
This time your eyes lock with the polaroid that he points toward your face as his chin rests on your shoulder. But it only lasts for the time of the picture, your body collapses again when he lets go of your hair and you let the pleasure pervade you from head to toe. It’s breathtaking and mind-blowing, and next time you’ll fuck someone else you’ll hate that he’s right. You will feel him everywhere, you will feel his dick deep inside of you every time your fingers will desperately try to take its place, and every time you’ll let someone in your bed, but you don’t hate that thought as you should. 
“Fuck,” he groans, giving you a few more pumps to make sure you rode your high before slipping out and then roughly flipping you over. “Close your eyes,” he orders, and you follow with no hesitation —honestly, you were struggling to keep them open in the first place. 
Your heaving chest, your parted lips still letting out cries, your wet cheeks, and your trembling closed thighs are the last drop he needs to let go. Deep moans reach your ears while his hot cum drops on your face, most on your skin but some in your mouth, and they get even louder when you shyly swallow it and lick your lips for more. 
“Fuck, fuck, you’re —” he gasps but doesn’t finish, holding onto nothing as he empties himself all over your face. “Fuck.”
He feels dizzy, the orgasm still shaking him up, but then he looks at you and has to bite back a moan. The white strings of cum are covering your blissed face, your eyelashes are clumped together by the tears, and your lips are plump and darker, he knows he doesn’t want to forget what you look like right now. “Smile one last time, baby.” 
And you do, the corners of your mouth lift and then you hear the click of the polaroid. You think for a second you should’ve told him to don’t take them, he could easily blackmail you, or straight-up get you fired, but once again, you don’t truly care, and you don’t deny how much the idea of those photos turned you on.
You should get up, grab your pants, jacket, shoes and leave. But you feel heavy and tired, you’re still shaking, and your breath didn’t go back to normal, yet. 
“Don’t worry, detective,” Ghostface whispers, something passes on your face to clean you from the mess, but you don’t know what, and only then you open them ajar, just to see he’s still wearing his mask. “I’ll take care of you.” 
The Ghostface mask is the last thing you see. 
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When you wake up, you’re in your bed, wearing your nightwear, completely cleaned up, but your bones and muscles are still sore, and a terrible headache is throbbing in the left side of your brain. You turn around, rubbing your eyelids with your palms before you can fully focus on the pillow and see three things on it. The Ghostface mask, a polaroid of you two from before, his face next to yours as he pulled your hair, and a note. 
“It was a pleasure playing with you, my pretty detective. Can’t wait to see what our next game will be like♡ ” 
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general taglist: @froggyforyoongi , @wingsss45 ; @tddyhyck ; @technologyculturedneo
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daydreamingyuta · 7 months
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Dates with NCT
summary: fluff, nct ot20, cute little dates that the members of nct would take you on.
Taeyong: Strawberry Picking Date
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Taeyong would take you strawberry picking at a local strawberry field! He came up with the idea during the winter time, so you both had to wait until May for it to be strawberry picking season. The wait almost made it more fun though, because you both were ten times more excited.  “These are the biggest strawberries I’ve ever seen!” Taeyong says, his boba eyes wide in amazement.  You nod your head in agreement, admiring the most juiciest and perfect looking strawberries. “We need to make a strawberry shortcake when we get home.” “And strawberry milk!!” He says, as he picks some more and puts them into his wicker basket.  As much as you loved the strawberries, you found yourself watching Taeyong during the majority of the date. He’s just such a cutie whenever he tries new things. You always adored how he seemed to experience things like a child would, in pure amazement and wonder. You catch him off guard a little, when you crouch down next to him and plant a kiss on his cheek. He makes a cute face at you in response and you both go back to picking out the best strawberries.
Taeil: Cooking at Home Date
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Taeil would want to mix things up from your usual dates, and cook for you! Taeil is a really good cook, so you were very excited for what he was going to make you. He chooses to make you pizza from scratch which he has never done before.  “Just sit back and relax honey, I'll make everything.” Taeil says after you ask him if he needs any help. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, he’s already made the dough, so you're watching him try and toss it up in the air. The first few times was a total fail, but it puts on a good show for you, at least.  Once he’s done, the kitchen is such a mess. You never knew cooking could be this messy. When you actually do try the pizza though, it’s genuinely one of the best pizzas you’ve ever had. Taeil sits back, with a proud look on his face, once he sees that you love it. “You didn’t even follow the directions, I don’t know how this turned out so good.” You tell him in amazement.  “I’m glad you like it, baby.” He says, as he stands up and gives you a sweet kiss. 
Johnny: Concert Date
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Johnny knows that you’ve been wanting to see your favorite artist for the longest time, but their shows always end up getting completely sold out. So, when he saw that they were going to be on tour, he made sure to get you tickets. He didn’t tell you about his plans, just in case he couldn’t end up getting them, but luckily he got them and planned to surprise you. “Johnnyy, I’m so sad I couldn’t get tickets. They went on sale when I was in a meeting.” You say, hiding your face into Johnny’s chest.  He pats your back to console you, but when you look up at him, you see a smile on his face. “Why are you smiling? It’s not funny.” You pout.  He crouches down so that you’re face to face. “It’s funny because I’m the most amazing boyfriend in the world, and I got my sweet baby tickets to go see her favorite artist.” To say that you freaked out would be an understatement. You’ve been waiting to go see them for so long and that the fact that you finally were, didn’t seem like real life.  ⸻ If you had to describe the concert, you would say it was a dream come true. Not only did Johnny get you amazing seats, but he surprised you again by learning some of their songs so that he could sing along with you.  Although Johnny did enjoy the concert, his attention was mainly on you the whole date. He watched you, like a proud boyfriend. Seeing you so happy filled his heart with so much joy. During the slower songs, he made sure to put his arm around you and give you sweet kisses on your temple, as you both swayed to the music. 
Yuta: Nail Salon Date
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Yuta would take you out to go get both of your nails done! Ever since he went with Johnny to go get his nails painted, he’s loved to get them done. So what better way to spend time with you, than going to get them done together! He would get his usual black gel nails, and he would help you choose which ones you want to get.  “Ohh, this one would look really pretty on you!” Yuta says, pointing at a set you had saved on your pinterest board. “I’ve always liked those a lot, but is it doing too much?” “No! Absolutely not, if you don’t get them, I will.” Yuta assures you, earning a big smile from you.  You both enjoy every second that you're at the nail salon together. Getting your nails done always made you feel more ‘put together’ which you loved. Plus every time you got a new set, Yuta always held your hand to analyze every detail of them, which you always thought was so cute. 
Kun: Movie Theater Date
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When Kun told you that he was going to take you out today to go see a movie, he didn’t tell you what movie you two were going to go see. You even tried to guess what movie he was taking you to see, but all of your guesses were wrong, which left you confused but excited. You two walked into the movie theater and you turned to Kun to see what seats he had bought.  “Sit anywhere you like.” Kun says, with the cutest smile on his face. “We can’t, we have to sit where you bought the ticket.”  “I didn’t buy a ticket. I rented out the whole room.”  You turn to take a look around and he was right, the theater was completely empty which would have been impossible for the weekend. You pick out your seat, which takes a few tries, but you eventually get your perfect seat. You try to question Kun some more about what movie is about to play, but you don’t get an answer until it starts.  When you finally do figure it out, you couldn’t be more surprised. He had gotten the theater to play your favorite movie from childhood.  “Kun!! I can’t believe we’re watching this right now.” You say, grabbing his hand. “You always talk about how you wish you could see it in the theater like you did when you were a kid, so of course, I had to.”
Doyoung: Cooking Together Date
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Doyoung had cooked for you numerous times, both before and after you started dating. You loved when he cooked for you so much, so when he suggested a date where you both cooked something together, you couldn’t have been more excited. When you walked into his apartment, you saw that he had lit some candles and was playing soft music in the background. The ambiance made you even more ecstatic. “What are we making today?” You say, as Doyoung takes your coat off and hangs it up. “White wine butter bucatini.” Your mouth waters as he says this. He’s made this dish for you once before and it was amazing.  Doyoung starts by boiling the pasta, while you mince the garlic. Every once in a while Doyoung made sure to come over to you and give his girl a sweet kiss. As you start to combine all the ingredients, his whole apartment is filled with the aroma. The slight pop of Doyoung opening the wine makes you jump, because of the serene environment.  Once the pasta is done, you two enjoy what you created together, getting lost in conversation. Before you know it, all the pasta is gone.  “We need to make this again!”  “Yes, and there’s a million other recipes I want to teach you how to make.”  “I would love that, Doyoung.” 
Ten: Painting Date
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A few weeks ago while you two were getting ice cream, Ten saw a couple painting together at the park. He thought that it was such a cute idea, so he went out and got all the supplies the next day.  At first you were unsure about painting, because you were worried about it not turning out good, but Ten assured you that it was going to look amazing to him because you were the one making it.  He took you to the park that had the prettiest view of a pond. He brought a picnic blanket, some snacks, and all the painting supplies. You two set everything up, and you had to take a picture afterwards because it looked so cute. “I have an idea.” Ten says. “I was thinking we could both paint something for each other!” You loved that idea so you both got started painting right away. You both decided not to let each other see the painting until you were done, so that you could see each others reactions at the finished product.  “I can’t believe I forgot how much fun this is! It kind of makes me feel like a kid again.” You say, as you do the finishing touches. You end up finishing first and you see that the sun is starting to set. You look over at Ten and he’s glowing under the pink sky. He’s too lost in his own painting to notice you taking pictures of him, and the sky.  “Done!” Ten announces to you. “We should reveal our paintings to each other at the same time.” You both hold your paintings as Ten counts down from five. You turn you paintings around at the same time, and to say that you loved Ten’s painting would be an understatement. He had painted the teddy bear that he won for you from the claw machines on your first date together. “Ten! This is the cutest painting ever, I love it so much.” You say, as he hands it to you. You had also chosen something a bit sentimental to paint for your boyfriend. You had painted a close up shot of his hands playing the piano. When you two first started dating, he had been kinda shy about his piano playing, so when he finally did play something for you, it signified a new level of trust in your relationship. You knew he loved it by the way he kept smiling at it.  “I’m definitely hanging this up. I love it so much, baby.” 
Jaehyun: Yacht Date
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When Jaehyun told you he was going to take you out on a yacht tonight you thought that he was joking, but of course, he wasn’t. “Wait, what do I even wear on a yacht?” You ask, searching for an outfit in your closet.  “ Wear that little black dress, you know how much I love it.”  You knew it was going to be a good date if he told you to wear his favorite dress of yours. You felt your excitement grow as you got ready. You know that he’s a sucker for a red lip too, so you made sure to put some on.  You had been on boats before, but nothing like this one. It had multiple decks with a kitchen, bedroom, reading room, and a giant hot tub.  “This is the boat?” You asked Jaehyun, surprised.  “Yacht.” He replied, as he held your hand to help you onto the yacht.  The captain came to greet you both to tell you how long the ride will be and to enjoy your evening together. There were other people on the boat, which you assumed to be other passengers, but were actually the rest of the staff.  “Did you rent the whole thing just for the two of us?” “Of course I did, baby.” He says, as he gives you a wink.  You had very few weaknesses in life, but Jaehyun treating you like a princess was one of them. You melted at his sweet gesture, and took a moment to process that your boyfriend would do all this for you.  The first thing you did was have dinner on the lower deck. There was a piano and violin player that set the tone for a romantic evening. The whole night Jaehyun was looking at you like you’re the most gorgeous person on earth, which of course, to him that’s exactly what you are.  After dessert, Jaehyun took you to the upper deck where you heard music playing. “Jae! It’s our song.”  “Is it?” He says, with a knowing smile because he planned this whole thing out.  Outside on the upper deck had the best view of the water, that looked so pretty under the setting sun. As you’re looking out at the waves, you feel Jaehyun's arms wrap around you from behind. He places sweet kisses on your cheek and down to your neck. “Will you dance with me, baby?” He whispers in your ear. You nod your head in agreement, as you take his hand. You two sway to the song, the same song that you danced to together hundreds of times throughout your relationship.  “I hope we’re still dancing to this song when we grow old together.” Jaehyun says, as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 
Winwin: Fancy Dinner Date
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You loved being treated by your boyfriend every once in a while, so every time Winwin took you out on a fancy dinner date, you were always so excited. This time, it’s a new restaurant that neither of you have been to, but looks amazing.  You both get dressed up in your best outfits. Whenever Winwin gets dressed up, you can never stop yourself from looking at how handsome he is. This always makes him a bit shy, but you knew he loved it when you couldn’t take your eye off him.  Once you got to the restaurant, there was a small line in the lobby, but Winwin made a reservation,so you two were seated right away. As you two look over the menu, Winwin grabs your hand to hold. He always does this at every restaurant, and your heart melts at the gesture every time. He rubs his thumb up and down on the back of your hand, while he concentrates on the menu. He looks up at you with an innocent smile once he decides on what to eat, like he doesn’t know the effect even the smallest touch from him has on you.  The food comes soon after you both order it and you are not disappointed. Everything tastes just as amazing as it looks. You are in the middle of eating when you notice Winwin is looking at you.  “What?” You ask him. “I love you y/n. I always feel like the luckiest guy in the world whenever I’m with you.”
Jungwoo: Flower Picking Date
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Wanting to go to a flower field one day was something you mentioned in passing to Jungwoo. Ever since then, he had made it his mission to find the prettiest flower field so that he can take you. The flower fields nearest to you were pretty, but the one a little farther away was gorgeous. So, Jungwoo thought to make a day out of going and have it be a date! Jungwoo decided that it would be a nice surprise date, so he didn’t tell you where you were going. You really had no clue as to what he was up to, because he had never indicated that he wanted to take you to a flower field.  When you finally got there, it took your brain a minute to register that Jungwoo had really taken you here. “Jungwoo, this is even prettier than the pictures I’ve seen!” You say, giving him a hug before he’s even gotten the chance to park the car yet.  The flower field was filled with all different types of wildflowers. It went on farther than you could see and you just had to take a moment to really soak in the beauty of it all.  Jungwoo walks you down a little bit where there's a pathway that goes down the middle of the field. At first, you walk hand in hand together down the path. Then, you start to pick out the flowers you really like to make a little bouquet for. It’s hard to pick because they’re all so beautiful, but you end up picking out some yellow, pink, and purple wildflowers.  Jungwoo seems to be busy picking out some flowers too, but when you look closer, he’s only picking out one flower. When he seems to find the perfect one, he plucks it out of the ground but then hides it behind his back so you don’t see.  He walks up to you with that pretty smile of his. “I got something for you.” He says, as he shows you a cute little orange wildflower. He twirls it in between his fingers before he pushes back your hair and lets it sit behind your ear. “So pretty.” He makes a gesture like he also wants a flower behind his ear, so you pick out your prettiest one and do the same for him. 
Mark: Watching the Sunset Date
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You couldn’t count the amount of times you and Mark had dates where you watched the sunset together. It was one of his favorite times of day and he loved spending that time with his girl.  Mark had access to the roof from his apartment, which was the perfect place to watch the sun go down. Even before the sun sets, the clouds in the blue sky are always so pretty to look at. “I just love how every sunset is different, but each and every one is so unbelievably beautiful.” Mark says, as you both are laying down on a blanket, shoulder to shoulder.  You look over at him with a smile on your face. You loved his love for the sky so much. You loved that he could find such beauty in the everyday things that most people take for granted.  The sun sets gradually over time, turning the whole sky pink. You start to take some pictures of it, a habit that you had gotten from Mark. You feel Mark press a sweet kiss on your cheek and when you look over at him, he gives you another kiss.  “I love you, y/n.” He whispers to you. “I love you too, Mark.” You whisper back to him.
Xiaojun: Ice Cream Date 
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Late night ice cream runs with Xioajun were your favorite. It’s always very spontaneous, you and Xiaojun usually have a night together at his apartment, when one of you gets a craving for the sweet dessert. There’s a Ben and Jerry’s not too far away, so you always end up going there.  Xiaojun always orders for the both of you, after you’ve told him what you want. You stand behind him, as you watch the worker scoop out the ice cream and into a cup. You always go back to his car to eat because you love the cozy atmosphere of the night sky and the soft music playing from the car radio.  You two switch back and forth between each other's ice creams, ‘arguing’ about which one is better. Usually yours ends up being the better one which leads to Xiaojun saying that he’ll let you pick his flavor next time, even though he never does.  “Next time I really will let you pick mine, yours is always better.” You roll your eyes at him because you know it’s not the truth. “Don’t roll your eyes, I’m serious!” He tries to convince you.  “I’ll believe when I see it, baby.”  “Fine, we are going on another ice cream date tomorrow.”  (He did not get the flavor you suggested the next day.)
Hendery: Home Movie Night Date 
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When Hendery told you that he had planned for a movie date at his apartment with you, you thought it was going to be like every other movie date you’ve had together. Which is why you were shocked when you got to his place and he had completely decorated his living room! He put out blankets, snacks, and lit some candles making everything look so cozy and perfect for a movie night.  “Do you like it?” He asks, with a proud smile on his face.  “Of course I do baby, this is so sweet!” You say as you wrap your arms around his waist and look up at him. “You’re so cute, Hendery.”  He gives you a kiss before he walks over to five pieces of folded up paper that you hadn’t noticed was sitting on the coffee table.  “What’s that for?” You ask him.  “I wrote down five movies that we’ve both been wanting to watch and then you’re going to choose one at random and we’ll watch it!” He says, clearly very excited by his plan. “Just pick the one that’s calling to you.” You take a moment to consider your options before you settle on the third piece of paper as the ‘right’ one. You unfold the paper and immediately you’re so much more excited. “Kiki’s Delivery Service! I love that movie, I can’t believe you even put it in here.” Hendry gives you a big smile. “You always talk about it so I wanted to watch it with you.” He walks over to the blankets and picks one up. “Where do you want to sit?” You decide to sit down on the floor with your back against the sofa. Hendery sits next to you and covers you both with the blanket. He starts the movie as you both snack on all the food he bought.  About halfway through the movie, you stop eating and get more comfortable on the couch together. Hendery lays on his back while you lay on top of him with your head resting on his chest. You both know it’s a dangerous position to be in because it’s so cozy and it always ends up with you both falling asleep.  Surprisingly though, neither of you did fall asleep until the end of the movie. Hendery seemed to be really enjoying Kiki’s Delivery Service a lot which made your heart swell because of your love for the movie. 
Renjun: Grocery Store Date 
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With Renjun, everything was a date, as long as you two were hanging out together. One of his favorite dates to go on with you was to the grocery store. Most of the time neither of you really needed anything, but just wanted to go roam the aisles, picking up whatever looks good so that you could try it when you got back to his place.  He always took you to the same grocery store. A local one, that hasn’t changed since you both were children, causing you to get hit with a wave of nostalgia every time you come.  As much as you enjoyed doing this with Renjun, you have always wondered why he gets so excited for your grocery store dates. You two are walking down aisle four, when you decide to ask him about it. You slightly bump your shoulder against his to make him look at you. “Why do you like taking me here so much?”  He takes a moment to consider your question. “It just makes me happy. Doing the everyday things with you. Knowing that, even when we’re old, we’ll still be making trips like this to the grocery store together.” He explains, as he links his fingers into yours.  “Renjun, that’s so sweet. And you’d be such a cute grandpa.” You say, giving his hand a squeeze. He nods in agreement, causing you to laugh. He lets go of your hand when he sees a brand new flavor of chips he hasn’t tried yet. “We have to get these.” He says, giving you puppy dog eyes as if you would dare tell him no. 
Jeno: Picnic Date
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Jeno got the idea to plan out a picnic date a week ago. You were laying in between his legs on the couch, when he caught a glimpse of your phone out of the corner of his eye. You were scrolling through Pinterest when you stopped on a picture of a couple having a picnic.  Jeno thought that a picnic sounded like such a cute idea, so he started to plan everything out right then and there. He even made himself a pinterest account so that he could get more ideas.  He decided that the park would be the perfect place. He bought a blanket, a cute little basket to put all the food in, and some flowers for you. He wanted it to be a little bit of a surprise, so he told you about it the day of when you two went to go get food for the picnic.  Once you got to the park, Jeno already had the perfect spot in mind. It was only a short walk until you got to said spot. It was right under a big tree so it had the perfect amount of shade. You two set up the blanket and got out all of the food.   “The weather is literally perfect for a picnic.” You say as you pop a green grape into your mouth.  You feel Jeno plant a kiss on your cheek. “You’re perfect.” You scrunch your nose at him for being cheesy which causes him to give you more kisses.  While you two were distracting one another, you almost didn’t notice a little kid sneaking up to your picnic. She was stealing a strawberry when you noticed her. You made eye contact with her and she ran off with the fruit.  You and Jeno burst out laughing. You would have let her have more if she didn’t run away. “No more distracting me angel, I’ve got to protect our food.”  “You were the one all over me!” You say, giving him a soft punch on his arm. 
Haechan: Selfcare Night Date
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All week long, Haechan has been asking you about your self-care routine. So far, you’ve told him about your favorite sheet masks, tea, and the recipe for your favorite cookies. You had just assumed that he was going to have his own self-care day, and willfully answered all his questions.  You were surprised when he told you that you two were going to have a selfcare night date. As soon as you came over you, noticed the sheet masks on display, all the ingredients out to make cookies, and some candles that were lit. The amount of thought and effort he put into this date, melted your heart. As instructed, you came wearing your pajamas. Haechan, of course, did the same.  “What do you want to do first?” Haechan asks you. “I usually start off my selfcare nights with skincare.”  “Perfect, I’ve bought all the types of sheet masks you told me you liked so which one should we do?”  “Hmm, this one.” You say pointing to your favorite.  You two go into his bathroom and Haechan helps you put your hair up into a bun. He has to re-do it at least three times, but he’s so gentle with your hair and it feels so nice. Once he also puts his hair up, you both put on the mask. “I think we should make some tea now.” Haechan was already one step ahead of you, he had already put the kettle to boil right before you got to his place. So once you were both in the kitchen, it wasn’t long until it was ready to be poured over your tea bags.  “What should we do now?” Haechan asks you as you finish pouring his drink. “We relax.” You respond. You and Haechan both head over to his room where you decide that the most comfiest spot would be in his bed. You two stay there for a while, on your phones and drinking your tea, until you decided that it was probably time to take off the masks.  “Do you feel refreshed?” Haechan asks you, giving you a little kiss.  “Absolutely and now, we need to make those cookies.” You say, kissing him back.
Jaemin: Game Night Date
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Game night dates with Jaemin were a regular thing between you two. You loved these nights with him even though he always messed with you. Jaemin would either cheat to win every single game, or he would let you win. You didn’t know which was worse, but your reactions were the only reason why he continued to play like this. He just can’t get enough of you when you’re semi-frustrated.  “Jaemin, there is physically no way you're not cheating right now. How have you won four games in a row?” You say, throwing down the uno cards. Jaemin looks at you with his hand on his heart, appalled that you would even suggest something like that during game night. “Is this really what you think of me, angel?” “Don’t call me sweet names to make me forget what you’re doing.” “Sweetheart.” He says, as he fake pouts.  “I’m not playing with you anymore.” You say, knowing that this is exactly what he wants you to do. He smiles at you as he comes to sit next to you. He stares at you, until you're both smiling goofily at each other. “You’re so annoying.” “You love when I’m annoying.” He says, as he apologizes by giving you a million little kisses.
Yangyang: Cooking Class Date
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When Yangyang first mentioned that he wanted to go to a couples cooking class with you, you were hesitant at first. He kept on insisting though, so that’s exactly what you found yourself doing today.  The class was teaching you how to make pasta from scratch, which you were honestly really excited to learn how to do. The instructor was the cutest old lady, who seemed to have the strongest passion for cooking.  “...and then mix the flour into the eggs gently.” She says, as she walks along the room watching everyone's progress. She immediately stopped Yangyang because he wasn’t doing it softly enough, and showed him how to do it. “This is so much fun.” He whispers to you, and you can see it in his face that he means it.  You two don't make any mistakes until you get to the sauce making portion. Yangyang forgot to add oil to the pan, so the sauce started to burn.  “What do we do?” He says, in a bit of a panic.  “I don’t know, it’s burning.”  The instructor comes over and sees the predicament. She took the pan away and gave you guys a new one, along with some more ingredients to restart on your sauce. This time, you both make sure to do everything correctly. When the pasta was all done, all the couples in the class fed each other a bite. You and Yangyang both laughed as you did this, but it was actually really cute. You weren’t sure where he heard about this couple's cooking class but you were glad he did. You give him a quick kiss on the cheek, which he wasn't expecting and you saw a faint hint of blush appear.
Chenle: Bookstore Date
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Chenle knew your love for reading, so he thought that it would be fun to take you out on a bookstore date. You couldn’t hold in your excitement when he told you this. Going to the bookstore just held such a special place in your heart, and you can’t help but feel a little giddy every time you get the chance to go. You both bring your favorite tote bags so that you can carry all the books you buy. Like always, you immediately get overwhelmed by all the books so you decide to take it section by section. You and Chenle walk down the book aisles hand in hand, taking your time and just enjoying being with each other.  When you settled on all the books you wanted to get, and even helped Chenle pick out some books, you both went to go sit at the cafe inside the bookstore. You both orders some coffee and pastries, which were amazing.  You were reading the first chapter of one of your new books when you noticed Chenle staring at you. “What?” you say, smiling at him.  “You’re so pretty.” He says, and then takes another sip of his coffee.  You bring your book up to your face to hide your smile. Chenle always knew how to make you feel special, and you loved that so much about him.
Jisung: Aquarium Date
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You had mentioned to Jisung that you hadn’t been to the aquarium since you were a kid, which prompted him to immediately take you out on a date to the aquarium. You didn’t think that you were going to be as impressed with the aquarium as you were when you were a kid, but you were so wrong. The whole place was amazing and so breathtaking. You caught a glimpse of Jisung and his proud smile because it was a rare sight to see you in awe. Everything was just so pretty.  You and Jisung walked hand and hand through the aquarium, making sure to take pictures of everything so you had the memory of this date forever.  “Aw! Look Jisung, that fish looks just like you.”  He just stares at it and then at you. “That one looks just like me?” You nod your head yes while trying to get him next to the fish to take a picture of the both of them. “I look nothing like it, it’s ugly.” “It’s cutee I don’t know why you’re calling it ugly. That’s very rude.” He rolls his eyes at you and starts to walk ahead of you but stops and holds his hand out for you to take. You gladly take it and give him a quick kiss to apologize for calling him an ugly fish, even though you thought it was adorable. 
613 notes · View notes
onyourhyuck · 10 months
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SHALALA. | L.TY
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— Prologue: “Lay low lay low lay low, baby, keep it low-key.”
— Summary: Where you have to design an outfit for Lee Taeyong a famous fashion model but it leads to you both stripping off your clothes.
— Genre: Smut minors dni. SHALALA is such a bop. Model!taeyong. dom!taeyong. praising praising praising. sneaky link trope. Pussy eating. Overstimulation. Many orgasms. Almost caught (?) Makeout. Female fingering receiving.
— Notes: I love Shalala album so much.
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You’re a designer who’s now working with the most viral and talented fashion model Lee Taeyong.
It is truly an honour you stand in front of the most handsome man in the entire world you’ve laid your eyes upon. You feel almost self conscious about your eyes laying on him. It’s like you thought, you wonder if you even deserve to have such a good moment to watch him. To look at him.
But Taeyong was a friendly guy. He welcomed you. He heard good things about your work and he feels like it fits into the concept he puts out there. The most neo person to live. He bleeds neon green to you. He’s perfect for your work.
You smile. “It’s honestly my greatest accomplishment to have you model for my clothes.” Taeyong smiles back hearing you say this. Every designer tells him this; ‘it’s an honour. I am so glad you allowed me to design this for you.’ But your words seem to have a different meaning and tone to what he usually would hear from other brands.
You spoke with the most raw truth about your work. When Taeyong looks at the clothes you make, they tell a story, they tell a story about every single thought and aspect you make in your head while creating these beautiful things for people to wear.
Taeyong couldn’t wait to see what you will create for him. He can’t wait to see the story you will make for him to see and read. To tell the world and wear it on his sleeves.
“I look forward working with you, Y/n.”
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You’re sat down designing on the paper. The hardest part of being a fashion designer it’s that you have to sketch the idea. You have to brainstorm every part of your muscles to figure something unique, something worth making and trying out. You don’t want Taeyong to wear the most banally shaped and boring designs — because it’s not his concept firstly. Secondly you wish to catch the attention of the public and have people want to scream to wear what Taeyong will wear on that fashion walk.
You want people to look at a certain clothing and think: ‘Wait What! That looks like it’s made by Y/n.’ And you want to get the point across that you want to make your work the most outlandish and outstanding piece of clothing like it is an artwork that must be hung up in a museum somewhere.
This was your goal and you knew the moment you needed a model to do the right job it would have to be no one else but Lee Taeyong.
He has your vibe. He has style and the body you need. And most importantly he has the face and personality that fits right into your branding.
You sketch on the paper many designs various sizes and shapes; a shirt in a shape of a triangle? Pair of trousers with rectangle stitching ends? You did anything you found to be fitting. You let your mind run wild.
“Y/n what colour do you want the first stage outfit to be?” Your co-worker Johnny who worked for you for many of your fashion shows and such. He was another designer too, and without him you’d be a lost cause you thought.
You trail busy looking at the pieces of papers checking out the outfits you have sketched. He was behind you holding many blocks of colours and he saw you were too far looking at the papers than at him. “Hmm…I have a vision… but I can’t seem to see it clearly.” Johnny hears you say that with a sigh.
His eyebrows rise up on his face. “How come? What’s your vision.”
You hum putting the papers down on the desk as your chair turns around. You’re now facing Johnny. “I want the audience to go wild when they see someone like Taeyong; I mean he’s handsome. He has a face that anyone would want. I want his clothes to equal that.” Someone with Taeyong’s face would want to be shown off.
Johnny can understand that your points coming cross may be from your stress and overthinking though you have a point, when he looks at Taeyong he imagines something weird. He wants a weird outfit.
“I think we should make something weird. Something out of the norm-you’d-usually go in the direction of.”
You squint your eyes as you hear this. The sudden wave of realisation puts you into a trapping reality like you were dreaming out of nowhere so you’re now going to be through a lane of ideas trafficking at your fingertips. You turn around quickly, “You’re a genius Johnny…” Johnny had no idea what you were now drawing. But it seems like he made you tick in a different direction now. As per usual his guidance always makes you bring out the best ideas out of yourself.
In a few minutes you’ve drawn the perfect picture of what your vision actually was. Johnny was brought in closer to the desk next to you leaning down with one arm stretching out to hold the table. He looks proud. He looks satisfied and it’s a lot better than what he expected from you. You smirk looking at the design of what you will be making Taeyong wear; on his first stage fashion walk. You can’t wait but you can already imagine that he will look so good, that he will have no choice but to take people’s breathes away and leave them unable to look away from him. As if he was a siren possessing anyone in his reach.
“It’s perfect.” Johnny told you satisfied.
You grin. “He’s going to be the centre of everyone’s attention now.” You we’re sure of it. You were confident and you could already tell in the future it will be like that.
“What are you going to name it?” Johnny now said asking you and you raise an eyebrow humming.
Your eyes sparkle when you click your fingers in the air as if you finally found the perfect title to name this outfit design you have created.
Something weird for something weird to wear.
“I am going to name it,”
“Shalala.”
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Taeyong would be in the fitting rooms awaiting for your arrival. It was early morning and he was surprised to have been called in so early. You had a great chance to be making many finalists decisions for the cat walk designs but it seems like you had made something so special that you told him to come to your studio this early in the morning. He was excited he won’t lie. Taeyong loves your work and he meant it when he told you he loved every single piece you have created from the beginning of your uprising career. There was never a moment where he disliked any piece of your work and he can proudly say this that he will not be left ashamed. He’s bewildered with anticipation.
He has no idea of what you will be showing him today; no idea what you have called it. No idea what it could be. He just knows you made something and he’s about to find out what.
He’s alone in your studio waiting until you come inside with a welcoming smile. The moment you strut forward to give him a greeting hug from you, in which he gladly accepts, the whiff of your sweet fruity perfume attacks his nostrils in the most pleasant way possible. You smell so good he couldn’t resist from wanting to smell more of it but he restrains himself. Surprised by your beautiful smile too, you pull away from him first.
Letting the hug go you beam happily. “It’s so good to see you again Taeyong. Did you get here safe?” You ask mentioning a polite voice. Taeyong was starstruck watching you. He wasn’t expecting you to be this happy to see him. But he was glad you were happy because your smile truly did something in his stomach. Something special.
“Yes I got here safe.” Taeyong smiles gently as he nods. “My managers are getting us coffee. I told them to get an americano for us both. I hope that’s okay?” He wasn’t sure what to give you because he wasn’t sure what you’d like or not so he got the same drink as what he would get hoping you wouldn’t mind.
You were surprised he was buying you coffee anyways; it’s your first time getting offered a cup of coffee from a model.
You smile at him, though your heart skipped a beat by his compassionate gesture. “Ah yes Americano is perfect thank you. You didn’t have to.”
‘Thank god. It would’ve been so awkward if she didn’t drink coffee…’ Taeyong trails to his own thoughts.
You now decide to trail to the fitting areas where the outfit you have created. You spent so many all-nighters making the design of the outfit you created with Johnny; secondly you would like to say it’s the most Neo-thing for someone like Taeyong to wear and at this point you know it’s good. Because Taeyong quite literally would bleed Neon Green if he had to. You know that his favourite colour is green so you cooperated that into the outfit.
The only thing you need to do now is to reveal it to him. Your heart’s chasing miles from what you wanted it to be. You were nervous and panicked. You were confident in the outfit but you care so much about Taeyong’s opinion too. He’s the one who will make it go viral. He’s the key and you’re nothing without his good impression on the outfit.
Taeyong’s eyes widen as he was met with your hands revealing the outfit. It was a simple puffer jacket with puffer pants. It gave this most comfortable down to earth look but at the same time it looks so stylish there wasn’t a single bland thing about it even though it was just a puffer jacket and a pair of pants puffer out in the same material. He feels like this was the most beautiful piece of thing he’s seen made perfectly adjusted to his needs; he won’t be cold wearing this that’s for sure. He will be able to walk around and do all the poses models do on the cat walk. The material is soft and fun. It wasn’t boring which is what he finds amazing about this whole thing. You managed to turn something so simple — into something so unique and weird. Which is what he loves so much.
He knew you wouldn’t disappoint him.
“I am now introducing you to: Shalala.”
The jacket was a bright green; vibrant as heck it could blind everyone’s eyes from countries away. Your designs on the jacket was black squares similar to checkers making it compliment the bright distracting green. The black squares made the jacket somehow more tame. Which is what Taeyong found to be the most important part. Balance.
Your work has the perfect balance that many brands should learn from you. Taeyong sticks by these words. Famous Brands should learn from you.
The pants were wide and flown out. Taeyong saw the way the pants were following the black and green patterns now like it was an illusion. He was impressed, mind blown in a way.
He looks back at you with his mouth wide open. “I love this Y/n. Truthfully it’s nothing else I’ve ever seen before but I love that about your work.” He states with genuine emotions.
You smile. He likes it and that’s what matters to you the most. “I’m glad you like it. Honestly I tried to think about your style in general… you have a unique style and I like that.” You softly add. “I wanted you to wear something you’d want to wear.”
“No one else has done that for me.” Taeyong reveals as his eyes were glued on your face now as if they were unable to let go off you in the sight. You turn around with your eyes widen as you saw how intensely he’s been watching you. Somehow your heart starts to beat even more.
‘Why am I feeling so nervous suddenly?…’
Taeyong comes forward watching you as his hands slowly lift themselves to feel the hem of your shirt attaching on your body so nicely. His fingers wrap themselves around your perfectly shaped waist and his gaze lows down to your kissable lips. Somehow he always knew you were attractive but seeing you more and more. Working with you was a pleasure he enjoyed the most. You’re the first designer to make him feel this way. You catch his breath to become hitch.
You knew you shouldn’t be this close to Taeyong. You know how much this can become a scandal if anyone saw you how close he’s closing into your body the gap between you both shrinks and now you could feel his chest pressing on your body with the same amount of intensity your heart was pumping out of your chest. Your eye could pop out their sockets. It definitely feels like it.
You whisper. “Taeyong…we can’t be doing this.” He knew you were right but, the moment feels too good to stop and he can’t help but want more. More of you. More than anything else he’d ever want before. “Shh…” he tells you slowly.
His deep voice was so powerful yet so low and deep you couldn’t help but think perhaps you’re addicted to hearing his deep voice speaking like this to you. And now you don’t want him to stop when he was looking at you with so much emotion.
“Lay low lay low lay low, baby, keep it low-key…”
Your lips crash into his passionately moving in each others shapes. The kiss leaves you feeling more and more detached from reality than before and you never thought getting kissed by the famous Lee Taeyong would make your skin crawl with so many compliments towards him. He was not only so handsome and talented — but he can kiss so good. You never expected to have been able to see this for yourself. To have yourself experiencing such pleasure given to you by Taeyong. The man drags you on top of a desk. The outfit you created was put on the side out of your minds.
What was important now to him was you getting pinned by his tongue in your mouth dominating yours with so much ease it was like an easy game for him. You weren’t sure if this was reality. Or if this was virtuality.
Hearing your moans escaping out when Taeyong pulls apart from your ruby red lips that he could kiss on and on without a singular boredom irking him. Now your neck was begging to be kissed, held, loved and marked by him so much he couldn’t help but launch down to your soft skin. Biting on it carefully leaving beautiful marks behold like you were rewarded.
You shift on the table with your thighs trembling. The way your neck was your most sensitive part; Taeyong was in awe at the effects it gave you.
It made your tremble already and he hasn’t even gotten to the part where he fucks you.
Your eyes were dilated so much. Taeyong could stare at your pupils for hours on end. The way your Iris pupils reflect the light so beautifully proved that you’re light itself.
“Oh god… Taeyong…” you groan when your shirt was pulled off by the model stripping you clean. You couldn’t help but join in pulling his expensive branded clothes. Though you were careful not to rip it. You both succeeded in getting yourselves naked in their arms as Taeyong’s mouth lap on your breasts. Hands condoling your chest with a light squeeze there and then.
The tongue playing by your nipples finding your head hanging back as your shoulders clench up tensing together. Your stomach pressing inwards at your pelvis because of how good it feels to have his warm saliva paint your breasts with it. Like he was a painter and you were his one true canvas masterpiece.
“You like that, Y/n?” Taeyong murmurs against your beautiful breasts he finds them to be the most attractive part of you but he would lie if you weren’t completely attractive head to toe. Because you are. You’re someone who has it all.
And he wants all of you. He strives to be better for you all along.
You nod softly in his response unable to find your words to answer him back but nonetheless he didn’t mind. He prepares you by stretching your wet folds with his two fingertips. You gasp when you feel him watching you, no, he was staring at you as your clenching round his two fingers tightly. Each meaningful movement as stretching you so far you could feel your tongue coming out with your moans. He loves watching you become a mess, from such simple touches, he loves the effect you give out.
You muffle your moans with your palm as Taeyong stops pulling away he leans down to give a soft kitten lick on your clit that makes your hand slide off your face. It was nearly impossible to be quiet when you were getting devoured head on by Taeyong. His hands stretching out your thighs. You feel them greatly and sharply pushing you down and down which only makes your pleasure stronger than your muscles could take.
You couldn’t even tell where you were anymore because you were so lost in the moment feeling your high coming closer that both you and Taeyong couldn’t hear the front door knocking. The voices behind the door belong to the managers, indicating they came back with the coffee they had been waiting to get for the two of you — Taeyong doesn’t stop eating you out as if he was starved unable to get any self control back.
So now you’re on the desk with your thighs spread wide over getting yourself eaten out by your model. And you try not to make any loud sounds that can get you two caught. Somehow his gaze was watching you as the managers call out your name on the other side of the door, while they keep knocking.
“Miss Y/n? May we come in?” The manager asked finding the silence quite hard to ignore.
You juggle your own moans and your voice trying to separate them. You deeply breathe out and your voice is very muffled and strained by your lacking sinful thoughts of how good Taeyong’s mouth on your wet soaking pussy is. “N-no! Me and Taeyong are doing something— v-very important right now…!”
The managers stood there quiet reacting to your response. Maybe they should leave you two alone to discuss your work process?
The snapping motion of your stomach finally lets go and your pussy juice spews down from your aching wet hole into Taeyong’s mouth who didn’t waste a single drop. He darkly muffled. “That’s it… such a good girl…” he whispers keenly against your folds and you shudder at how hot he absolutely sounds. It’s so difficult to not be moaning out his name; heck you’d chant it not moan it loudly. You’d be chanting it as if it was a holy hymn meant to be sang to the world how good he ate you out.
You whimper. “G-gosh I can’t do this anymore Tae…” You say as your fingers fiddle in his hair and he murmurs softly kissing your overstimulated pussy humming. “Just a little bit more hm?”
You can’t say no when he’s so persuasive with the way his voice has his power over you. Taeyong knew you cannot reject him when he’s having so much fun controlling you right now.
“Miss Y/n but the coffee is getting cold? Will you and Taeyong be okay with that?” The managers come back asking as if they were worried more about the coffee meanwhile Taeyong was busy trying to destroy you from inside and out.
He’s loving this fucked out version of you so much, it’s impossible not to fall in love with you.
You wanted to tell the managers to already go away and do something with their life than to disrupt your time together, but then again, deep inside the idea of getting caught makes this even more thrill seeking to you in your opinion.
You muffle your groans out. “T-that’s fine— leave the coffee outside the door…!”
Taeyong smirks as he finally sees you getting closer to your second orgasm and this time you didn’t bother to hold back you simply let it run over you taking your first hand pushing it down to his head grinding his face on it. He loves it when you start to fidget with yourself and force yourself on his face — you love face fucking him when your orgasm was reaching its peak washing you both down with your juices spilling down your thighs and on the desk now. Your moans was incredibly strong that Taeyong had to reach up putting his hand on your mouth covered by your own lubricant from your orgasm, so your moans don’t come out.
Your eyes roll back slightly as you feel your orgasm washing away and soon Taeyong let’s your mouth become free from his mouth as he deeply kisses you. You feel your stomach panting in and out.
He whispers leaning down. “I like the name by the way.”
You raise your eyes up at him dazed and confused. “What name?”
He smirks. “Shalala.” Taeyong’s eyes never leave yours because he finds them to be the prettiest little orbs of life he ever dreamed to see. “I like it, Y/n.” You couldn’t help but smile in response, overwhelmed with pride and joy to know he likes it.
“I am glad…”
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@onyourhyuck please refer from translating and copyrighting my work thank youu! Reblog this fic and follow me for more updates it helps a girl out. <3
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ruwriteshours · 9 months
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PROVE MY LOVEִ ࣪𖤐 (L.D.H)
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↳ pairing: lee donghyuck (haechan) + fem! reader
↳ genre: slight angst, fluff, smut
↳ summary: Being used to second choice, what difference does it make when Haechan were to confess. You would be second choice to him too anyways... right?
↳ warning: sexual content (minors dni)
The moon beamed across your features, the light illuminating your face as your eyes sparkled underneath the night sky. Humming contently at the cold breeze as you basked yourself in your padded jacket, your legs bouncing slightly from the coolness.
In Haechan's eyes, you were more beautiful than ever, his heart kept fluttering too much that he had to compose himself.
This was it.
This will finally be the moment that he gets to build the courage to confess his undying love for you. Months after months of late night hang-outs, the not-so-subtle glances and the longing looks. This couldn't have been more right.
Unbeknownst to the lovesick boy, Cupid was no where near his sight that day.
"I love you." He breathed out, your name escaped his lips shortly after.
You paused.
Haechan bit his lip in anticipation, the fear crept through his face at the thought of rejection.
His heart shattered when he saw you stood up from the wooden bench beside him, the fear was slowly becoming a reality when you uttered,
"I'm sorry, Haechan but I don't feel the same way." And with that, you walked off.
After the humiliating rejection, you would have assumed that Haechan would do anything to avoid your presence from now on.
However, the persistent boy was full of suprises.
In fact, he was more determined than ever. He was becoming more bold with his actions every passing day. Day after day, he would wait for you outside the practice room, send you small bouquet of flowers and refuses to leave your sight, clinging onto you. Not to mention, that his touches and teases would increasing grow more suggestive, leaving you with crimson-coloured cheeks as you shoved him away to shield your nervous state.
Overtime, it became hard for you to convince your friends that you and Haechan are merely friends. They all saw right through you. You were in denial. The thought of someone ever being willing to devote to you was... frightening. You didn't want to believe it and you needed Haechan to stop what he was doing before you get your hopes up too soon... again.
"This needs to stop, Haechan." You faced him, your legs were seated across as you watched him falter at your words.
"Stop what." He asked stubbornly.
You sigh exaggeratedly, "You know what I'm talking about." You gestured your hands between the both of you, "This, whatever you're doing. You have to stop!"
"Nah, I'm good." He shrugged off before resuming his attention back on the TV.
"This isn't a joke, Haechan. I'm serious." You stated firmly.
"So am I." He retorted.
You could see his fist tightened as his eyes refused to meet yours. Deep down, he was just in denial as much as you. You needed him to understand he was better off. Mustering up the courage, you finally decide to tell him the truth.
"I've never been honest with the guys I've dated." You spoke up.
You didn't miss the way his ears perked up at the topic. You were always very private with your love life and you were never one to share it openly, even when someone were to ask. So the fact you were even willing to share this part of your life with him, only fed to his delusional thoughts that he could have this chance with you.
Just this once.
He hummed in acknowledgement, urging you to continue as he picked up the remote control to turn the screen off. Facing his direction towards you as he eyed you intently.
You gulped at his intense gaze, "The guys I have dated," You paused, nervousness laced in your voice.
Haechan seemed to notice as he gently held you hand and drew circles on your palm, humming once again for you to carry on. Despite being eager with your response, he was attentive and patient with you. He knew that it must be hard so he decided not to push it. You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the action.
He was making it hard for you.
"All of them, fall out of love. One day, we were perfect for each other and there was even a time I genuinely thought we would last, but then," You sigh shakily, "The next, they told me that they found their true love and left."
Haechan tried to process that information. His heart clenched in sorrow and anger. He was deeply upset that you had to go through so much pain in your past relationships but he was also frustated that the guys you have dated had no idea how wonderful and beautiful you were. He would give away everything to take their place and it sickened him at the thought that they had thrown away the most precious girl in his eyes.
They don't deserve you as much as him and he was going to do whatever it takes to prove to you. To prove his love to you. He needs to show you how much you deserve it.
He was about to utter your name when you beat him to it.
"Haechan, I'm not saying that you'll be like this but I'm not gonna risk to find out." You let out, finally having those months of dreadfulness being lift off.
You loved Haechan just as dearly, if not more. But you couldn't risk damaging your already-broken heart once more. It was too much. You didn't want to have the same occurence happening over and over again. Afterall, you couldn't be Haechan's true love... right?
"I hope you don't take this rejection to heart, you'll find someone better." You comforted, patting his shoulders.
His head hung low and he was dead silent. A million thought ran through his mind and you could sense it. You feared that one of them was agreeing to your words. That you're unworthful of his love and that he shouldn't have wasted his time on you.
Those agonising thoughts haunted you and you sincerely hoped that you had made the right decision to tell him. It was better than to let him think you were his. He was bound to be with anyone else but you.
His prolonged silence only confirmed your theory and you try to not let it get to you.
Little did you know, in Haechan's case, you were dead wrong.
Now, you think it's time to depart. You have already said what was needed to and there wasn't anything left for you to give. With a heavy heart, you picked up your steps and began making your way towards the door to his apartment.
However, just a couple steps further, you were pulled towards his figure and engulfed in a tight embrace. Your heart yearned for this feeling, your heartbeat accelerating as you tried to ignore the surging feeling of reciprocating the hug.
His arms were wrapped around your waist as his head was nuzzled at the crook of your neck. This warm feeling made your head fuzzy. Never had you felt such emotions from a simple hug.
Much to your dismay, he pulled away but still kept a grip on your waist as if he was afraid that you would disappear from his life if he didn't do so.
"I am so in love with you." He stated, staring into my eyes with such fondness, "And I would rather die than to have anyone else that is not you. I don't want someone better. I don't care if someon better ends up coming into my life. I want you and only you." He wholeheartedly confessed.
"Haechan..." You trailed off,
He picked up the uncertainty laced in your tone, "I know it may be a lot to take in but I've been in love with you for the longest time. I'm crazy about you. Even if you don't want to be with me, please don't push me away." He pleaded.
Your heart couldn't handle such an emotional turmoil that your only instict was to grab his face and smash your lips against his. He steered back slightly from shock but quickly recovered as he began wrapping his arms around you tightly. Tip-toeing your feet to reduce the strain on his neck, the both of you deepened the kiss further. The kiss was full of affection and tender, feeling no need to rush into this act of intimacy. You could feel the genuinity from the way he took his time exploring your mouth.
He was hesitant, experimenting his tongue as it glided against yours softly. His hands moved lower and began circling softly around your hip-bone. Your hands began to wonder from his neck to his hair, tugging it slightly. He groaned at the pressure and began harshly biting your lips to part them, only to shove his tongue further down. You moaned at immense pleasure. Bending down slightly to pick you up by your legs as it immediately wrapped around his waist, both of you refusing to leave each other's lips as he led his way to his bedroom.
The kiss got progressively rough as he pushed you up against the door to his room, successfully slamming the door shut. You whimpered at the slight agression, a little turned on by his dominant side that you have never seen before.
His hands gripped onto your thighs to support your weight as he pushed his pelvis near your area. Both of you moaning at the insatiable feeling. A look of hunger took over Haechan as he began eyeing your clothes, ripping off every one of your clothes until your left bare. The feeling felt foreign and you couldn't help but felt a wave of insecurity flashed through you, ducking your head from his eyes as you gulped nervously.
Haechan wouldn't have none of it, though.
Gripping your jaw, he smashed his lips against yours. "Look at me." He demanded as he began trailing his kisses down your neck.
You couldn't help but obey his command, those piercing eyes made it difficult for you to not listen. He began throwing you onto his bed, the impact made you bounce slightly. He quickly hovered over your body, his lips attached to yours once again as his hand played with your breast, You moaned loudly against his mouth. Gripping onto his shoulder tightly as you began arching your back against him, wanting to feel more of him. Your hands found its way to his shirt and you began yanking it, hoping he would get the message. Thankfully, he got the hint and began removing his clothes one by one.
It has now dawned on you of what was happening and you couldn't help but feel the nervousness creep back in. Haechan seem to notice it as he paused, grabbing both sides of your face to make look at him.
"Do you want this?" He asked gently, his actions coming onto a halt.
His other hand is caressing your thighs while he awaits for your answer, being patient with the way you took your time. You couldn't detect any annoyance or anger laced in his voice. This time, you could feel your nerves dissipating at his question and you nodded, turning your head to the the side to kiss his warm hands.
"Yes." You answered honestly.
That was more than enough for him as he continued with his ministrations.
His hand made its way to your private area, sliding the panties down to make contact with your clit. You let out a pornographic moan when he collected all your juices and rubbed it together. You covered your mouth, embarassed that you had let out an erotic sound but Haechan held your wrist, stopping you.
"Let me hear you, babe." If it was even possible, your insides grew more wetter by the sudden nickname and you couldn't help but moan even louder.
"H-Haechan, a-ah!"
He continued to make motions with his fingers on your clit, slowly adding in another finger in hopes to find your sweet spot. When you whined and began grinding against his hand, he knew he had successfully found it and began removing his hands completely, preventing you from reaching your orgasm.
Before you could complain, he slowly laid you back down onto the bed, moving to the side of his desk to open up the drawer. He took out a condom and began ripping the wrapper with his teeth. He looked up to meet your eyes, silently giving you the chance to back out but you could only moan out his name, encouraging him further.
As he began lining up the condom, he stared into your eyes as he slowly inserted his dick inside your tight hole. Both of you moaned loudly at the feeling. He gave you a few seconds to gather yourself before you began arching your back, silently begging him to move. His thrust began slow and steady, not wanting to hurt you but as you began to tug on his hair and suck on his neck, he couldn't help but pick up the pace.
"A-Ah! Haechan. Feels so good!" You mewled.
"God! You're so- fucking tight!" He groaned.
You started to move your lips against him, your legs wrapped around his waist to push him even further inside. The pace got rougher and the both of you could feel an orgasm coming soon.
"H-Haechan, i'm about to c-cum!" You yelled out in pleasure.
"M-Me too, babe!"
His thrust began more sloppy as he pulled you into another kiss, both of your saliva mixing with one another. A drool dripped down your chin as you began sucking on his tongue, the kiss was more messier and needier now that both of your orgasm are nearing.
Both of you let out a moan when you had reached your climax.
Laying down on your side, both you and Haechan laid there in silence. Letting those event lingered in your minds, the more you think of it, the more you began to feel more giddy.
"That was..." Haechan broke the silence, trailing off.
"Amazing." You finished off, turning your head to the side to face him.
His eyes had already been staring into yours and he slowly inched his way closer to give you a long, passionate kiss. You returned it with just as much intensity.
He broke the kiss, "Look, I don't want to force you or anything but I really want to be with you." He caressed your cheek lovingly, "Fuck those guys you've dated, they don't know how beautiful and precious you are."
You blushed at his words, looking away.
He gripped your chin, "I'm serious. I'll do anything to prove my love to you."
You began cupping his neck, kissing the side of his face lightly as you snuggled your face up to his neck. Haechan wrapped his arms around you and kissed your forehead, both of you drifting to sleep under each other's presence.
Little did he know, he had proven his love for you already and it was about damn time you open your heart up to someone.
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©ruwriteshours
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lebrookestore · 2 years
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“like a rockstar, livin' too fast, like a rockstar„
[for the record] lee taeyong x reader
: ̗̀➛ moodboard/aesthetic
[teaser] [read here]
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slightlymore · 1 year
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if I lose my mind 2
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dream sorter haechan x dreamer fem reader
genre: fantasy/tim burton-esque, romance, smut, angst!!, fluffy moments
warnings: +18, explicit sexual content, jaemin is an accidental voyeur,  swearing, wounds 
other characters: mark, taeyong, jaemin, taeil
words: 11k
read part 1 here
"I want your fingers inside my mouth," you tasted the words on your tongue.
The place was dark, and you couldn’t clearly see the face of the person you were addressing. Only half of his face was on display - his perfect nose and a pair of plump lips. 
What you said was meant to be a mere flirty joke, but the man's Adam apple moved up and down in nervousness as his breath got shaky. The collarbones were on display in his black silk shirt as if inviting you bite down. He took a step towards you before you could do anything, caging you with his arms and you gasped gently. The sink dug into the softness of your ass and your torso leaned back, shy of his sudden closeness.
He stared you down for a moment although you couldn’t exactly see his eyes. You tried to exchange the look, but your gaze fell on his open lips instead. And when he let the water run behind you, little drops hit your bare back making you shiver.
He was as close as to caressing your face with his breath, yet so far away from kissing you.
And then you gasped again, feeling some of the water drops on your exposed bosom as he lifted one wet hand to your face. His two fingers were nudging at your open lips, and you opened your mouth wider. The man slid them inside of it and you hummed.
"Like this?" he murmured, looking at your doe eyes.
You held his wrist with both hands, sucking on his fingers diligently, nodding twice.
"Fuck," he whispered, the feeling of your warm tongue on the underside of them making him get even closer. His thigh pushed between your legs, and you grabbed his luscious shirt with your hands, right when
“Y/N, wake u- ouch!”
You gasped, mouth pasty and brain fried only to see Taeyong’s scrunched face under your palm, whining on your right. 
“Sorry, sorry, oh my god, are you okay?”
You took the hand away and your boyfriend massaged his nose with a light chuckle. “I am okay. Good slap. Who were you fighting in your dream?”
The bedroom was dark, and you could barely make sense of his features but his eyes were shining. 
“Oh,” you inhaled and exhaled slowly trying to focus. You were having this dream-
Taeyong didn’t talk for a moment then he gently wiggled his thigh, and you realized only in that moment that it was tightly hugged by your legs. 
“Oh,” you gulped again, unclasping your thighs. Taeyong didn’t move his leg away. 
“I wasn’t minding it,” his deep sleepy voice caressed your ears. “What were you dreaming about?” 
You grunted, rolling on your back and hitting the pillow with the head. Your face was on fire and your panties were too damp for your liking. Then you tried to remember what the hell were you dreaming about, to make you start humping Taeyong like that in the middle of the night. Flashes of someone’s jaw and lips danced in your sleepy mind for a moment, then the feeling of fingers on your tongue. 
“I just hope the dream was with me at this point,” Taeyong pulled you back by the waist and you chuckled a bit. Honestly you had no idea. But that must have been Taeyong. 
“Of course, it was with you. Who else can I have dreams about?”
 __________
Haechan thought he’d be able to stop thinking about you, but the habit of waiting every day to meet you, looking at your curious eyes and inviting you to choose a dreaming door, wasn’t something that could disappear all of a sudden. Although he couldn’t dream, the moments he spent with you were the closest thing to a dream he has ever experienced. While moving around like an automaton doing his tasks, his mind wouldn’t stop imagining your face, your eyes, your body. His fingertips could almost feel your skin. Your scent would randomly engulf him, making him stop in his tracks and turn around as if he could suddenly see you appear from behind a corner with your little cunning smile. 
But you weren’t there, just random people passing by.
He’d close his eyes to compose himself, head thrown back and deep breaths, then he’d start walking again. 
 __________
  Jaemin looked at Haechan stopping in his tracks and looking around like a hound. Their eyes met for a split second and Jaemin’s breath stopped, but Haechan’s dark pupils went over his figure as if looking for someone else. His shoulders looked droopy as he walked away and Jaemin exhaled anxiously, wondering what to do.
It was completely normal for people to have sexual dreams. That was part of the core training - not weird to see wet dreams, don’t piss your pants. Shame wasn’t something Jaemin’s people ever experienced but somehow, he could understand why the Dreamers were ashamed of their sexual thoughts during waking hours, bringing upon themselves convoluted wet dreams instead. 
So Jaemin didn’t think much of your dreams. Some were confusing, some were nightmares, and some were sad. He was ready to see all sorts of things. But his breath stopped, and his spine shivered the moment he saw a familiar man in your dreams as well. 
“Listen, this is a top-secret situation, and we need to be discreet. No one must know your Dreamer has been Lee Haechan’s. Got it?” 
Jaemin was standing in front of Taeil’s desk and nodded once, taking up his first task after graduating just a few days ago. 
“No one talks about their Dreamers in detail so if anyone asks just be vague about it,” Taeil continued. “And if you see something weird going on, you must tell me.”
“Weird like, what, sir?” 
Taeil sighed. “I don’t know. You’ll probably understand if something is weird.”
Jaemin and Haechan didn’t know each other well, but he saw him in a few of his classes. Haechan was a genius so he graduated much earlier than everyone else so Jaemin didn’t have time to become friends. But he was sure he was the man you kept dreaming about. The thing is, you should have forgotten him on the spot the moment you changed Dream Sorters. The security classes were fresh in his mind but unless Jaemin missed info because he was asleep, no one ever mentioned such a situation to him before. Was it normal for you to dream about Lee Haechan or was that something weird enough to communicate? 
 __________
 The class that morning was more boring than usual, you realized. The sun was shining brightly and warming your body slowly, making you feel like some sort of rotisserie chicken. The notes you were trying to take were gibberish. In the corners of the pages, there were some doodles. The one you were working on was some sort of flower. 
The professor’s monotonous voice just added to the heaviness of your eyes, and you decided to just close them for a second. Just a moment, resting them for a bit. 
You did just that, and with a heavy sigh, you opened them again. 
But there was no professor or students’ backs. No classroom and no notes. 
You were standing in the middle of a dimly lit room. It was minimal but cosy, with a comfortable bed on one side, a soft rug under your nude feet, and a desk against a big window, from which you could see a breathtaking view. 
A deep shiver ran across your body from head to toe. Where the hell were you? Were you dreaming? Or having a psychotic moment? Your mouth felt dry, and you felt panic descending into your bloodstream. 
A single sound in the silent room made you jump in place, and you covered your mouth with both palms. It was a person, resting their head on their arms on the desk. For a second you thought that was you and you were having an out-of-body experience, but then you noticed the wide shoulders, the veiny hands, and finally the expression of a young man, lifting his head to lock eyes with you. 
He smiled as if he could see you and you felt pulled to smile back although you felt scared out of your mind one second prior. 
“Pretty face today,” you heard yourself say. Then you furrowed your eyebrows and touched your lips as if not believing you actually said that to a stranger. 
“Can look prettier with you sitting on it,” the young man replied lazily as if he was used to this kind of banter. 
You felt your breath stop but your feet started to walk towards him as if they weren’t yours. He pushed his chair back to give you space and you placed his hands on his shoulders, slowly straddling his spread thighs. His eyes were deep but bright under his soft hair. You lifted one hand to feel it. It was pink, soft, and a bit damaged. He closed his eyes under your touch and his palms tightened their hold on your waist. They were warming your skin through the silk nightgown you were wearing. 
“Be careful about what you desire,” you whispered. The words kept coming out of you as if you were under a spell and someone was moving you like a puppet. 
He opened his eyes and stared at you, drinking in your features. “I’ve never regretted anything before.”
Then his expression darkened all of a sudden. You tilted your head to the side as if not understanding. “No,” he added, as an explanation. “Maybe I do regret something. Just one thing. Letting you go,” the young man murmured. 
You had no idea what that meant but your body felt painful as if that phrase opened a wound you didn’t know you had.
You palmed his face, gently cupping his cheeks, sliding your fingers right under his jaw. 
“I am here though.”
The young man’s lips stretched into a bitter smile. “Are you really?”
He exhaled deeply and let his head fall, burying his face into your chest, wrapping your body with his arms as tightly as he could. You did the same with his head, resting your lips on the crown of it, lulled by the scent of his shampoo. 
“I’ll believe it even if just for a moment,” his voice buzzed against your skin. “Nothing wrong with talking to themselves and being delusional in your room, right, Haechan?” he added with a little smile in his voice, as if talking to himself.
You opened your mouth to say he wasn’t crazy because you were there when a sudden loud knock on the door made your heart fall to your guts. 
You lifted your head from your arms with a gasp and focused your eyesight. The professor was still talking just as monotonously as before. None of your classmates noticed you falling asleep, so you exhaled and relaxed in your chair. The water on your desk looked delicious and you had a big gulp from the bottle. Then your eyes fell on the doodles you were doing before. You sighed and played with your pen, a weird sensation still lingering under your skin. Under the flowers you’ve drawn, you wrote a name.
Haechan. 
 __________
  Haechan rolled his eyes at the knock on his door. He lifted his head from his arms and stretched them above his head.
Wasting the afternoons fantasizing about you has been a problem for him lately.
This time it felt so real that he had the sensation you’d actually been on his lap just seconds ago.
He rested his hands on his thighs and they felt warm.
Haechan whined feeling like going crazy, but a second more violent knock disturbed him again and destroyed the last remnants of your presence. 
“Who’s there?” he asked, getting up and walking towards the door. 
Mark opened it before Haechan could grab the handle. His eyes were wide like a deer’s and Haechan was about to ask what was going on before he could see the figure of another person behind his shoulders. 
“This is Jaemin. Y/N’s new Dream Sorter. He needs to talk to you.” 
 __________
  That evening you walked home instead of taking any transportation. The cool air should have been able to oxygenate your brain and you desperately needed that. The dream you had during class and the name you basically engraved in your notebook by outlining it for the remaining 20 minutes of class until it tore the page were heavy on your conscience. 
Taeyong’s texts were also unread on your phone but you couldn’t see him that day. 
Was it normal to have dreams about other men even if you had no idea who the men were? You felt horrible. Not because you felt guilty, but because of the lack of guilt. 
You’ve been feeling weird lately, moody, and irritable.
You’d forget so many things, you’d misplace objects. It got to a point in which you’d nod and smile at everything Taeyong was telling you, although you had no memory of anything he was talking about. 
You couldn’t talk to him about it. You couldn’t even mention it to Doyoung because he’d definitely snitch.
And it has been so embarrassing and actually humiliating to sit down and go through all of your stuff one night, looking for signs of you dating your boyfriend. You couldn’t remember your anniversary date. You had no photos together. You couldn’t recall any date you’ve been on. And you felt even more humiliated when you grabbed your phone to google early signs of memory loss. 
But the worst thing of them all was your lack of feelings. 
Was this the reason your brain was feeding you wet dreams with other men? To tell you to break up with him? 
You stopped walking and passed one hand on your face with a groan. 
Then you looked around and fumbled towards the closest bench you could see. The little notebook you started to use as a dream journal was pretty much empty, safe for the two dreams you had that week. You opened it and felt the pages, looking into your handwriting as if they were a code waiting to be broken. It wasn’t obvious to you before, but now you could tell. The energy of those dreams was the same. You couldn’t remember the man’s - Haechan? - face, but his touch, scent, and tone of voice were so recognizable that you felt stupid for not realizing the two dreams were connected.
Who was this man? Were you slowly descending into madness? 
 __________
 Jaemin grunted when Haechang grabbed his collar and pushed him into the wall. “You smell like her.” 
Haechan’s voice was low and cutting. Jaemin tried to smile but it came difficult while being strangled. 
“Easy, easy. He’s her Dream Sorter and they’re in the same room every night. It’s normal,” Mark placed his hands on Haechan’s extended arm. Haechan didn’t look like wanting to drop it but Jaemin’s pleading voice made Haechan sigh and let go, patting his chest a few times to adjust the shirt. 
Jaemin inhaled sharply as he got freed from Haechan’s clasp and dramatically slid a bit on the wall to rest his hands on the knees. 
Haechan’s nostrils flared and then relaxed as if suddenly losing strength. “So it has been you all of this time,” he mumbled. 
“He didn’t do anything to her,” Mark explained. “He’s here to help.” 
Haechan felt dizzy. All of those times he felt your scent it was just Jaemin accidentally walking past him. He felt stupid for believing he kept having some sort of magical connection with you after you parted ways, but at the same time he was glad he actually smelled your scent and he wasn’t slowly losing his mind instead. 
“Wow, that was something,” Jaemin massaged his neck and looked for a chair to sit down on. 
Haechan crossed his arms on his chest. “You’ll survive.” If looks could kill Jaemin would have been incinerated already. 
Mark rolled his eyes. “Haechan.”
The latter sighed and finally sat on the bed, shifting his weight forward to adjust himself and spreading his legs comfortably. 
“Well?” he looked at Mark and then Jaemin. “I’m all ears.”
Jaemin gave Mark a look and Haechan understood they’d discussed the matter between themselves beforehand. 
“I am her Dream Sorter now and I can see her dreams,” Jaemin started. 
Haechan wasn’t impressed. Of course, he could see your dreams. The jealousy was eating his guts alive, but Haechan chose to not think about the Dream Sorter you might have gotten for his own sanity. Yet, there he was in his bedroom, flaunting it and pissing Haechan off. 
“And she’s dreaming about you,” Jaemin finished. 
Haechan forgot how to breathe. 
 __________
 Taeyong was already sitting when you arrived at the little cafè you asked him to meet you at. 
It wasn’t a date but the fairy lights above his head and the way he was waiting for you made your heart hurt. 
“Hey,” you barely said, grabbing your own chair to sit down. 
Taeyong lifted his head to look at you, but you didn’t dare to look him in the eyes. 
“Hey,” he replied after a few moments. 
He probably knew. Your dry “we need to talk” text after ignoring his messages was enough indication of what was going on. 
When you finally let your gaze fall on his face your breath stopped. He was legit breathtaking. And so sad that you decided to look at his hands instead. 
You were probably completely insane to want to break up with a man like Taeyong. 
“You know I’ll sound completely crazy, but,” you started, “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and-” you interrupted yourself, “-I don’t know when we started dating.” 
You felt stupid saying that.
Taeyong’s face didn’t communicate anything. His deep dark eyes were drinking into your features instead as if he knew it was the last time seeing you. 
He opened his lips after gulping once and told you about a random date. It didn’t mean anything to you. 
“I don’t remember it,” your voice broke. “I don’t remember anything, Taeyong. I woke up one day and you were my boyfriend.” 
The man sighed but he didn’t look surprised. That was even more creepy. 
“There’s something going on with me that I need to resolve. So, I am not breaking up with you because you did something wrong or anything. It’s me.”
“I can give you some space. There’s no need to-”
“I like somebody else,” you sputtered on the spot then gasped softly. Taeyong stopped his phrase but he didn’t look shocked at this either. The most surprised one of the two was you. Why did you feel like dreaming? And why were dreams feeling more like reality?
“No. I meant I feel like- I don’t know,” you babbled, one hand to support your head. You didn’t like anybody else. Right? Then why did you feel like you did? Taeyong let you talk then leaned forward for a moment to gently put a strand of hair you messed up back in place. 
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I tried.” 
You straightened your back at his words. He licked his lower lip once and you waited. 
“Sometimes we try a lot with people it’s not meant to be. And we’re not meant to be. That’s why you feel that way. I get it now.” 
His hand was placed right in front of you, and you wavered at first, but you knew he’d understand, so you just placed yours on top of it. His lips stretched in a tight smile. 
“You know how in movies and books people are always meant to be? “
You nodded. 
“I’ve always felt like I was surrounded by these couples and I forced myself into them like a third no one is really fond of.” 
Taeyong’s tone was light and airy. Yet you could see the heaviness on his shoulders. 
“And no, don’t say I’ll meet my own person in the future,” he smiled wider when you opened your mouth in an attempt to comfort him. “I’m alright.” 
“I am sorry Taeyong.” 
He shook his head. “No. I am sorry, and I owe you my apologies.”
“For what?” 
“Haechan,” he simply said. “He’s the man you like, right?”
 __________
  “Well, that’s completely insane.” 
Mark and Jaemin exchanged a worried look before going back to stare at the way Haechan kept pacing around the room, one hand on the hip, the other on his stressed forehead. 
“No. That makes absolutely zero sense. It has never been seen before.” the young man suddenly stopped as he did a few times already while going through the stages of grief. So far it was only Denial and Mark sighed, wondering how much they’ll have to keep being there. 
“And you?” Haechan indicated Jaemin with one accusatory finger. “You’ve been a fucking sick voyeur all of this time?”
Mark rolled his eyes. Great, he was at Anger already. Maybe it was going to be quicker than expected. 
Jaemin huffed incredulously. “I tell you that your fantasies become her dreams and that’s what you're most worried about? Me seeing them?” 
Haechan put the extended hand on his hip, staring Jaemin down like some pissed-off mother. “That’s a serious and normal concern. I’ve been-” he started but quickly interrupted himself as a dark shadow passed his eyes.
He cleared his throat looking at the floor for a moment.
Mark has never seen Haechan shy before.
“I’ve been thinking many things lately. The fact you’ve been in my mind all of this time through Y/N is making me feel violated.” 
“What have you been fantasizing about?” Mark’s corner of the lip lifted.
“That’s not important.” 
“Well, it looks important to you if you’re acting like that.”
“Listen,” Jaemin interrupted the two. “The most important thing is trying to understand how and why this is happening. Y/N should have completely forgotten you after she changed Dream Sorters. She doesn’t remember you but she can sense a connection. That is weird. And the way your fantasies become her dreams has never happened before.” 
Mark and Haechan closed their mouths at Jaemin’s grave tone. 
“With each dream, she grows closer to you. You also said your own name in the last dream and now she knows that too. She’s probably going to go insane and you said that’s why you separated in the first place. Now, all of that is useless. And I am also in the middle now. I should have reported this but I didn’t and if someone finds out they might take me out too.”
Haechan let his tongue bump into his cheek for a second. He didn’t like where this was going. 
“You need to put a stop to this,” Jaemin’s eyes were dark and cold. 
“How?” 
Haechan knew the answer even before Jaemin could reply. 
“No ties. You need to stop thinking about her.” 
 __________
 You didn’t understand Taeyong at first. Haechan sounded like something very important that has been escaping your mind. You felt like that about everything lately, as if you were in some sort of nightmare. 
“I don’t understand,” you replied with a tiny voice. 
Taeyong’s eyebrows furrowed but he remained silent. 
“I thought-” 
“You thought what?” you asked when he hesitated. His pupils were wide and dark, looking at you, but he couldn’t see you for real. 
His eyes suddenly twinkled and his jaw relaxed. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” 
You blinked at him, more confused than before. 
“No. You have to tell me now.”
Taeyong’s lips went as far as stretch in a secret smile he thought you couldn’t see. You suddenly felt cold. 
“We can break up. Don’t worry about it.” 
You looked at him as he suddenly stood up and wore his jacket. “See you in class.” 
 __________
 The only thing Haechan had for himself was the freedom to use his head the way he wanted to.
If you weren’t there, he could make you up in his mind.
If he couldn’t kiss your lips he could imagine their softness.
If he couldn’t hold you he could pretend his hands were on your body.
And now he learned he couldn’t even do that.
He skipped Bargaining and was already in the Depression stage. 
His room was getting lighter with sunrise, a sign it was almost night in your world, and it somehow made Haechan’s headache worse. So, he just closed his eyes, pillow on his face, to try and drown any sensation.
He might as well just die at that point, he snickered without humour. 
Jaemin told him to try it out for just one night, just to test the theory. 
But Haechan was so not good at following any orders. 
Some time passed and Haechan was still there, unable to fall asleep, unable to relax, unable to stop thinking about you. 
He huffed loudly, throwing the pillow towards the window where it stopped against the wall. 
“I am trying, okay?” he looked up at the ceiling as if Jaemin was there looking down at him. The sensation of being watched made his skin shiver, but it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. The realization made Haechan shiver again. Was that a common kink? 
He scoffed, turning to one side. Then to the other. 
The bed creaked under his hard movements and his mind went to the sound of the bed he fucked you on that night- no.
No no. Haechan stop. You can’t. No. 
He whined a little and opened his eyes. 
He couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t allowed to. Was this how you felt all of that time? It was hell. 
I mean, couldn’t he even rub one out either? You had nothing to do with his cock, per se. The important thing was to not think about you while doing that.
Shouldn’t be hard. Right?
 __________
 Your apartment was dark just like your brain after talking to Taeyong. The walk felt wobbly and you’ve never felt more grateful to touch the pillow with your head. Maybe after a good night's sleep, everything would make more sense. You sighed and tried to relax. Then you huffed on one side. 
Taeyong’s words kept rolling in your head meaninglessly.
Haechan Haechan Haechan. The man you liked.
What did that mean? Was Haechan the man you’ve been dreaming? You were pretty sure you’ve heard or read it somewhere before.
In class? Maybe.
In your notes? Probably.
Think.
Notes? Your school notes?
You gasped and sat up, remembering the dream you had and the word you wrote down in your notes, circling it. You looked around, trying to find your bag in the darkness but the outline of the room felt suddenly off. The sun was timidly starting to shine from behind your back and you realized the floor was cold against your knees.
In front of you, there was a bed and a man sleeping on it. 
Haechan’s hair was curled and spread on the pillow, just a single strand still on his forehead. It got knocked away as he pushed his head back into the bed, even more, eyes closed as if almost in pain. You could make sense of the silhouette of his plump lips, open in a silent whimper, against the dark purple of the window, and of his Adam’s apple in his extended throat. It moved as he swallowed, and you felt bewitched until you noticed the movement of his fingers instead. They were sliding down his nude stomach and the movements of his lean abs flinching under the touch were so enticing that you couldn’t look away. But then the silence got disrupted by a short groan and your eyes darted back to his face scrunched as if in pain or pleasure. Perhaps both, because from the way he was teasing himself on top of his sweats you could tell he was on edge. 
“Fuck,” he whispered but you could hear him very well as his hips bucked upwards against his palm. The pants were low on his hips and the view made you tighten your thighs together. You wanted to walk over, touch him the way he was touching himself, but you couldn’t move for some reason, and the frustration just made you even damper. You just had to watch at the way two veins snaked under his band, and you imagined how they would feel under your tongue. Would his skin be hot? Yes, you decided, as if you already knew, and it would be silky, getting even silkier as you'd go down even more, following the veins with your tongue until meeting the tip of his cock. You wondered what Haechan's voice would sound like. Husky? Deep? Or whiny and breathy? You didn't have to think too much about that, because a grunt filled your years and you realized you missed the moment he took off his clothes. His long fingers were finally on his hard cock, lazily pumping it, reaching for his balls with the other hand, pressing his thumb on the leaking tip. You felt your throat dry as you tried to gulp. Not once in your life you've assisted to such erotic view, Haechan pleasuring himself making you so dazy you had to rest your head on something, but there was nothing around. And when he started to whimper, fist moving up and down faster, his other hand pushing back his hair on the forehead, you couldn't bear it anymore. The heat between your legs got too much and you exhaled shakily, wanting to cum so badly. Haechan looked so fine you wanted to just sink on his cock, feeling those hands on your hips, asking you where you wanted him to cum. You'd say you want him to fill you all up inside and he'd do just that, feeling you clench around him until
until 
you looked around your room with a sharp breath. The sun wasn't out yet but your alarm was due to ring anytime now. Winter was coming, you realized. Then you realized the mess you made during the night and the way your legs were squeezed together, shaking uncontrollably. “Shit.”
You inhaled deeply, ignoring the fact it sounded like a whine and you relaxed your legs on the mattress. “Shit shit shit.”
You've never been woken up by an orgasm before. It was still lingering under your skin and on the tips of your fingers.
You ignored the way you were pulsating and grabbed your phone with shaky hands, turning off the alarm before it could ring. 
"I had another wet dream" you typed into your notes, on the page dedicated to your dreams. You realized you were writing them everywhere.
Then you stared at the ceiling as if trying to remember anything else. A man, pleasuring himself on a bed. You couldn't move or touch him. He was dreamy and you were pretty sure by now that his name was Haechan. 
 __________
  Haechan was rolling peas on his plate when a hard slap on his shoulder made him cough. 
“Are you fucking insane?” he asked when he found his voice. “What’s wrong with you?”
But Mark’s spirited expression didn’t care about Haechan’s tone. “You need to come with me.” 
“Whatever is going on there’s no need to beat me over it.” 
“Get up right now. I found something.” 
Haechan sighed, not in the mood to hang out with anyone. 
“It’s about Y/N,” the other lowered his voice. 
Haechan closed his mouth. “I made sure to not think about her.”
Mark grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up to his feet. 
“I talked to Jaemin again. I know, I shouldn’t get involved but this whole thing made me want to research further. No one knows, so you understand this is confidential, right?” 
“As if I would tell this to anyone. Don’t be stupid.”
Mark was talking quietly and fast while walking just as fast towards what Haechan guessed was his apartment. 
“Slow the fuck down. What exactly is going on? Is she okay? Is she hurt?” 
Mark stopped in his place. “You said it was weird that she was friends with Taeyong, the dude killed over his Dreamer.” 
Haechan blinked emptily for a moment before the realization made his whole body turn into mush. He had no time to fully think about that man and, honestly, he really hated his guts. 
Mark held onto his shoulders. “Yeah. She was his Dreamer. And she couldn’t remember that. Why? We don’t know yet. But he of course could remember her and he sabotaged you two when he discovered she was in love with you. Now they’re dating. I interrogated Jaemin against all rules oh my god what if they discover-”
Haechan felt his head full of cotton and Mark was talking way too quickly. “Wait, wait. I don’t understand shit. And so, what? She was right. It was not worth it. Dating in her dreams? Absurd. If she’s happy with him then so be it. They’re in the same world. I was ready to go to hell after being killed but she didn’t want me anymore-”
“She got convinced she did it for your sake. Taeyong didn’t tell her there is a way for you two to be together so he could have her for himself.” Haechan couldn’t process it fast enough. Mark patted his cheek with a little smile. 
“I found the way. I’m going to help you get back with her.”
 __________
  Haechan was sitting down on Mark’s couch. Every time he was there something was going on and he started to grow sick of that place. 
“So, a summary of what we know so far.” 
“You don’t have to tell-” Haechan started but Mark interrupted. Haechan rolled his eyes.
“You were Y/N’s Dream Sorter and that was your first job,” he taped a picture of you and Haechan on the wall. 
“What are you, and investigator?” Haechan cackled but leaned forward to rest his elbows on the knees. He really wanted that photo of you for himself. 
“And you both fell in love with each other,” Mark continued, uniting the two pictures with a red thread. 
Haechan felt his ears go red so he absentmindedly rubbed one earlobe. He didn’t confirm nor deny. 
“Now, this dude,” Mark taped a photo of Taeyong near you. Where was he getting those pics from? “Past Dream Sorter. He fell in love with her but we don’t know if-” 
“She didn’t like him back,” Haechan interrupted. 
Mark cleared his throat. “Well, we don’t know y-” 
“She didn’t.” 
“Alright alright,” Mark united Taeyong’s pic with yours with a different coloured thread. “This is nice, isn’t it?” 
Haechan rolled his eyes with a scoff. “Is this a game for you? Are you having fun?” 
“I am, sorry. Now, Jaemin. New Dream Sorter.” 
Haechan was starting to get bored. 
“Pressing question, when did you become her Dream Sorter?” Mark asked. 
The other man thought about it for a moment. “Right after graduation. Like a year ago.” 
“So, it means that’s when Taeyong stopped to be her Dream Sorter. Although in his file it is written it all happened way back in the past. This is why we never thought about him.” 
Haechan watched Mark place little year cards to the connections with furrowed eyebrows. 
“It will come out as a shock but I’m not following you right now,” Haechan commented, scratching one eyebrow. 
“Taeyong must have gotten killed right before you became Y/N’s Dream Sorter for it all to work out,” Mark tapped his face with the index finger. 
Haechan’s eyes tightened. “Then he’s supposed to be a titty-sucking newborn if he got killed last year.” 
Mark hit the wall with one palm. “But he’s a grown-up motherfucker.” 
The other’s eyes widened. 
“He wasn’t killed to be reborn. He escaped this place.”
 ­__________
  Jaemin stirred the ice in his coffee for the fifth time in two minutes. 
“Can you stop doing that? It’s fucking annoying,” Haechan snapped. 
The other scoffed. “You’re in no position to give any orders, Hornatron 2000.” 
Mark sat up extending his palms. “Okay, let’s calm down. I said I have a plan.” 
Haechan groaned, rubbing his face with one palm. “No, you don’t.” 
“We just need to discover how Taeyong escaped and make you do the same. This is a brilliant idea.” 
Jaemin stirred the ice in his coffee again shaking his head like the most shocked grandma. 
“You guys are completely crazy. I said we need to tell Taeil about this and end it here. He won’t kill you over horny thoughts, which by the way, you didn’t bother to try and not have.” 
Haechan’s head snapped upwards. 
“I didn’t think about her last night, don’t fuck with me.” 
“Really now? Rubbing one out? Well, you had spectators. And two of them, unfortunately, one of which not your dear girlfriend.” 
Mark made a face as if glad he wasn’t involved. 
Haechan was mortified. “I wasn’t even sleeping.” 
Jaemin lifted his unoccupied hand in the air and shrugged. “Told you it’s a big deal. Let’s tell Taeil.” 
Mark shook his head. “We don’t tell shit to anyone. We’ll make Haechan escape.” 
“You don’t even know how that works. Worst case scenario, Haechan dies and he’s born a fucking baby. Is this girl even worth it? Come on now.” 
Haechan got up. “Listen listen. This connection thing has to be tested first.” 
“Think about her now, then,” Mark lifted one eyebrow. 
“She’s not sleeping. It’s day there.” 
“Try it,” Jaemin added.
Haechan huffed but closed his eyes against his will. Mark and Jaemin waited in silence as if you could appear like a ghost any time soon. 
“I can’t when you’re here!” Haechan’s voice disrupted the silence and the other two men jumped in place. “Have you guys ever heard of something like this? Materializing Dreamers only by thinking of them? Crazy stuff. We’re all going crazy now.” 
The two young men assisted to Haechan’s short monologue, but their gazes weren’t on him anymore. Haechan furrowed his eyebrows. 
“At least pay attention to me?” he continued. “What’s so interesting behind me that-” he turned around to meet your wide eyes. His hair physically got pushed back by the sheer power of your shriek. 
“What the fuck?!” 
You were soaking wet in a bathtub, your arms tightly crossed on your chest and the bubbles of the bath slowly descending down your head. 
Haechan started at you with an open mouth then turned around briefly to check if the others were seeing you too. From their dead expressions they definitely could and from your furious eyes, Haechan understood you could see them too. 
“This has never happened before,” he tried to explain. 
“What kind of fucking dream is this?” you asked. “I was taking a bath.” 
“I can see it,” Haechan commented. Then realization washed over him. “You look away!” he directed his words to the two, still shocked, guys behind him. 
They cleared their throats and looked away. 
Haechan opened his closet and frantically looked for his robe. “Wear this. We need to talk,” he handed you the item. 
You looked at his hand and then at his face, not letting go of your confused expression. 
But you listened to him and grabbed the robe. Haechan turned around to give you privacy and he exhaled. Mark and Jaemin were frantically discussing between themselves.
Haechan felt like drowning in a dream that he couldn’t escape. You came and went in waves, leaving him disoriented. He could wait for you at the bottom. He could also stay away if you wanted him to. He could wait for years. He could do everything. 
And you were there. 
“Can you just-” he heard your voice, and he turned around again. You were extending your hand for him to help you outside of the tub. 
Your skin was soft and still a bit damp and he thought he was going to lose his mind on the spot. 
You were there. 
“Okay what the hell is going on?” you asked when you were on your feet. Your hand slipped from Haechan’s and he realized he has never been that nervous in his life. 
Mark took a step forward to save Haechan from his frenzy. “Hi, I am Mark, and this is Jaemin and you might want to sit down for what we’ll tell you.” 
You furrowed your eyebrows and they could see the way you were trying to understand if you were having the most lucid dream of your life or if you were actually there. 
They had no idea either. 
“And you are Haechan,” you added, looking at him. Haechan nodded, a bit take back.
“Okay, so you know it because he said it himself before, right?” Jaemin asked. 
“Yes,” you hesitated. 
Jaemin hit his palm with one fist. “Told you guys. Every time you think of her she gets dreams of you and she remembers them.” 
“Wait what?” You looked around trying to get more information. Mark grabbed your arms and pulled you towards Haechan’s bed, making you sit down. 
“If this is a dream, does it mean I am sleeping in the tub? Because that’s very dangerous,” you added. Mark looked concerned for a second. 
“We’ll get to that, I think.” 
“Are you really going to do all of this?” Haechan rubbed his eyebrow as if his friends were embarrassing him in front of his crush. Which was basically the truth. 
Mark wasn’t listening and took out his pictures and coloured string, starting to put everything up on Haechan’s wardrobe. 
Jaemin sat down on the chair near him and took a defeated sip from his coffee. 
Haechan didn’t have any choice but to sit near you. 
“Haechan.” 
The man turned around. It didn’t sound like a question but your tone wasn’t sure. 
“Y/N.” 
You closed your mouth. Your eyes looked wide, taking in the view and processing. Haechan could almost hear your brain cells trying to piece everything together. The moment your gazes increasingly intertwined, your dream began. 
“Is this a dream?” you asked. 
“I think so.” 
“I finally meet you.” 
Haechan’s warm eyes closed for a moment and his fingers twitched. “Yeah, finally,” he exhaled. 
“You’d think I am crazy, but I know you somehow. Like some sort of deja-vu. You’re familiar but unfamiliar at the same time. And it’s true I saw you before in dreams,” you added. 
“I don’t think you’re crazy at all.” 
“Do you know me?” 
“Yes,” he simply said. 
“How? Are we both dreaming?” 
Haechan smiled at the actual deja-vu moment. “Yes.”
You frowned a little but didn’t question him. “Alright.” 
The man blinked as if surprised. “You don’t want to know what this place is and what’s going on and-” 
You shook your head. He looked at your eyes then lips, then every other feature on your face. His pupils were expanded and his breath was shaky. 
“I have so many questions but-,” you stopped to think, “something’s going on. I don’t understand but maybe that’s for the better.” 
“Are you afraid to know the truth?” 
You felt your mouth tighten in a smile. “Yeah.” 
Haechan’s body felt warm as he suddenly pulled you towards it, his arms tight around your waist. You exhaled sharply and felt tears prickle your eyes. You felt the material of his white button-down while sliding your hands around his neck. 
As if you’ve been carrying a very heavy weight for years and suddenly it was gone, you felt so light that the tears didn’t want to stop sliding down your cheeks. One of his palms supported the back of your head and the touch of his fingers in your hair made you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck even more. 
“It’s okay,” he whispered, feeling your shaky breaths while caressing your back. 
“I missed you,” you heard yourself say. “Where have you been? I feel like I’ve been looking for you for so long.” 
“I know. Everything will be clear soon. I promise.” 
“I feel like I’ve been slowly losing my mind but I don’t really care.” 
You smiled and Haechan chuckled. “You think I’m crazy right?” you asked. 
“Okay, sorry guys, here I am,” Mark clapped his hands and you had to let go of Haechan. 
You looked at the intricate mental map Mark prepared, and you jolted seeing Taeyong’s face on there too. That was officially the weirdest dream you’ve ever had in your whole life. 
“I’ll make it quick,” Mark started, “this is you.” 
You opened your mouth to ask how he got your picture but he kept talking. 
“This is Haechan. And he was your Dream Sorter. This is Taeyong and he used to be your Dream Sorter before Haechan.” 
“What?” you interrupted. 
“And this is Jaemin, your Dream Sorter now.” 
Jaemin lifted one little hand. 
“Dream Sorters are people who, as the name says, sort you into dreams. You and all the people from your world. This fellow,” he indicated Taeyong, “fell in love with you. That’s not good. So, he should have technically gotten killed. After dying we become people like you, or at least that’s what they tell us. If he got killed, he should be a baby right now. But he’s a grown man and he’s friends with you. Meaning, he didn’t get killed, but he escaped somehow. Which tells us that it is possible to go there, and survive, and remember it.” 
Mark finished and put his hands together staring at you. Jaemin’s eyes were on you as well and you could see Haechan’s attentive gaze in your peripheral vision. 
You felt dizzy. 
“Okay. Wait. Why are you telling me all this?” 
Mark blinked back as if not expecting that question. “So, you know. Because we plan to send Haechan over to your world too. For you.” 
Your head snapped towards him. “Why would you do something like that?” 
Haechan’s mouth was open. “You don’t want me to?” 
You shook your head. “Wait this is too much information to take in.” 
You got up and tied the robe around you more tightly. 
“Am I dreaming right now?” 
“Technically yes, but this has never happened before,” Jaemin explained. “Usually when you sleep, yes, you come here but it’s controlled under my supervision. Now you just appeared in Haechan’s room because he just thought of you. This is very dangerous, and he can’t just stop thinking about you so we have to do something about it.” 
That information made your whole body heat up. 
Haechan looked up at you with wide luscious eyes as if he felt guilty. 
“I can try to stop if,” he interrupted himself to gulp, “if you want me to stop. I’ll figure it out.”
“What happens when I think of you?” you asked no one in particular. 
Haechan’s eyebrow furrowed but Mark looked enthusiastic. “Let’s test it. You need to wake up though.” 
“How?” 
The young men fell into silence for a moment.
“I have an idea,” Jaemin mumbled. 
 __________
  The corridors of the place looked like a very high-end hotel. You were following Jaemin with Haechan right after him holding your hand, then Mark behind you, in the utmost silence. Your feet were nude, but the floor wasn’t cold. 
“Where are we going again?” you tried. 
“Shh,” all three boys replied in unison. 
“Geez,” you whispered. 
Haechan’s fingers intertwined with yours were making you feel timid, but you tried to act cool about it.
Who was he? Your lover? Your boyfriend? Someone you loved in the past and you forgot about it?
But looking at his back it felt so familiar. If your mind forgot something, your body surely didn’t, because your fingertips would be able to model Haechan’s back curve in clay in that same instant, and you knew for sure the spots where he had hidden beauty marks.
You felt hot and dizzy.
You’ve never felt like that with Taeyong. It never felt right with him.
Lost in your thoughts, you didnt’ realize the two men in front of you stopped and you hit Haechan’s back with your nose. Mark hit the back of your head. 
“Ouch,” you whispered in unison with him. 
“It’s here,” Jaemin looked at you all. 
You had no idea what to expect when he said here, but a green and purple room wasn’t it. 
A sense of deja-vu filled you, and you walked behind what was a hotel counter. In front of you was the door of an elevator and on the sides of the room were six golden doors, three on each side. 
You eyed the pamphlets on the counter and the old-fashioned pastel pink telephone. For some reason, you pulled at a drawer and saw two pairs of white gloves. 
“I have one of these!” you exclaimed, searching for Haechan’s eyes, a weird heat entering your body and making your legs feel like jelly.
He nodded as if he knew. “I gave it to you,” he explained. 
“What is this place?” you walked around feeling like you’ve been there before.
“Here is where you come every night and I sort you in dreams,” Jaemin replied, leaning on the counter. 
“Why do I not remember you?” you asked. 
“Because we have no connection. That’s how it is supposed to be,” he replied, the last phrase sounding like a critique as he eyed his colleague.
Haechan scratched the back of his head. 
The pieces were all starting to go together in that weird puzzle. You felt frightened but mostly you were just afraid that you’d wake up and realize that none of that was real. You were afraid that the second your life finally felt right you’d wake up in a nightmare called reality. 
“What now?” you wondered. 
“You need to go through one of the rooms, dream something, and then you’ll wake up. At that point, please try to think of Haechan as much as possible to see if he can-” Mark started then interrupted himself as if he also realized how insane that sounded, “-appear in your reality.” 
“What if nothing happens?” 
“Just go by your day and go to sleep normally. You’ll be here next time too. We’ll wait,” Haechan murmured. He was close to you, and you shivered.
You didn’t want to go. What if you couldn’t see him anymore?
“Can you come with me in the dream?” you asked timidly. 
“That’s dangerous,” Jaemin replied for Haechan. 
“I can do it,” the latter said. 
“Everything in the dream might attack you. You’re not her Dream Sorter anymore,” the other added. 
Haechan ignored him and held your hand again pulling you towards a random room. 
“Haechan if it’s dangerous-” you started but he didn’t let you finish.
He opened the door, and the light engulfed you. 
 You opened your eyes in front of a huge window - your parents’ house. Your nude feet were now on the tiles of the balcony on the second floor and the sun was setting behind the horizon. 
“Haechan?” you tried to call, but the silence was heavy, not even a single car making noise down the street. 
“I’m coming up,” a voice announced, and you looked down and screamed, seeing Haechan hanging from the balcony rails. 
“What the hell happened to you?” you asked, one hand on top of your mouth before you could lean down to give him a hand. 
“I can manage,” he replied with a chuckle, and you watched him jump over the rail, and onto the balcony. 
Haechan sighed heavily, not looking at you and walking towards the bench instead. You didn’t remember your parents having, a bench on their balcony but you were glad it was there.
It was a warm sunset, and your balcony was lit with orange hues. The thud of him sitting down made you jolt a bit then you sighed too. 
“Let me see,” you ordered, placing yourself in front of him, grabbing his chin, and lifting his face up. 
Haechan’s eyes were shining as he looked at you from under his fringe. 
You gulped, pupils moving to look at his busted lip first then the bloody eyebrow. “How did you get this?” 
Haechan chuckled again. “Unfriendly situations. This dream will be destroyed, I’m afraid.”
You felt sorry for him but then all of a sudden, he smirked and moved his head down to catch your fingertip with his mouth, placing a quick soft kiss on it. 
“Eye!” you slid your arm away and he chuckled once. His lip cut opened more, and he winced soon after, letting his tongue go over it. 
"Shit," he mumbled. 
“You look terrible,” you walked away and entered the house to grab the medication. When you passed the bathroom mirror you didn’t want to look at the way your eyes were blown out. Or think about the way your fist was guarding the skin you felt his lips on. 
When you exited on the balcony again, Haechan was resting with his head on the wall and with closed eyes. You moved slowly, looking at the way the setting sun danced on his skin until you noticed him smiling.
“You sure love staring at me,” he said in a low voice. 
“I wasn’t-” 
“You’re talking with a Dream Sorter. We have eyes on the back.” 
“No, you don’t,” you placed the stuff on the bench near him.
Haechan opened his eyes right when you leaned down to press the piece of wet cotton on his eyebrow making you inhale more sharply than normal. He smiled a bit but only for a split second because soon after he opened his mouth to inhale too, feeling the disinfectant on his wounds. 
“Fuck."
“Just a moment,” you mumbled, going from his brow to the lip, lightly pouting and blowing on his wounds to give him a bit of relief. 
Haechan stared at your mouth, and you shivered feeling his hands creep around your thighs and pull you towards him a bit. 
“Hey,” you warned him. 
“Need to anchor me. The pain is unbearable,” he whispered amused, and the movement shifted his fringe on the forehead again. You lifted one hand and passed it through it, pushing it back to not let it touch the brow. Haechan gulped and closed his eyes for a brief moment at the gesture. 
“Y/N, I think I am going to kiss you now.” 
His low tone made you gulp.
“You can’t. Your lip is wounded.” 
“Then you kiss me.” 
You looked down at his mouth then quickly away, fumbling with the plasters in your hand. 
“Stop joking.” 
Haechan pouted with a loud “hm.”
“But I’m hurt. I just want a little cute healing peck.” 
His fingers around your bare thighs got tighter though and the way his eyes shone in the dusk didn’t seem cute to you. 
Rolling your eyes to the side you suddenly leaned down and kissed his temple for a moment. 
Haechan exhaled, thrilled, and slid his hands upwards on your body, over your ass until reaching the curve of your back. 
“On the cheek too,” he ordered. 
You scoffed but the tingles on your lips were screaming for more, so you felt his soft skin again. He chuckled at the peck and chuckled again as you kissed his forehead too. When you reached his nose, he lost patience and pulled you down on himself, mouths hungrily on each other. Your knees bent for you to straddle his lap and his hands felt cold as he cupped your face and went around your jaw and behind your neck. 
“Haechan,” you breathed out, breaking the kiss. “Your lip.” 
He smirked. “What about it?” 
You blinked fast and lifted one finger to touch the corner of his mouth where the skin was pristine. 
“It’s- not there anymore,” you mumbled. Then you looked at his brow where the wound was slowly closing in front of your eyes. 
“You!” 
He chuckled delightedly. 
“You can do this? You let me medicate you on purpose!” 
He shook his head and hid his face in your bosom. “It’s not me healing it. It’s your kisses.” 
"You're a brat!" 
"And you love it."
"I do not."
"Your heart is beating so fast right now."
"It's because I'm mad!"
He lifted his face from your breasts and looked up mischievously. 
"And I can feel your pulse on my thigh. You're throbbing."
His words made you widen your eyes and you tried to pull away from him but in vain. 
His crystalline laughter filled your ears as his arms didn't let you budge a centimetre. 
"Can I get you off?" he whispered, and you realized too late that you whined back. 
"Is that a yes?" 
You closed your eyes and gulped. You shook your head. Then you nodded. 
Haechan clicked his tongue. 
"Words."
"Yes," you breathed out, fingers slowly grabbing his shirt tighter and tighter as if preparing for something. 
"Why are you so tense?" he soothed your spine, making you bounce on his leg a few times as if it could help you relax. 
"Alright, I can make you soften up," he announced and just like that your core slid forwards on his jeans once and you let out a single silent oh. 
Haechan imitated you amused. "Oh?", his hands cupping your ass and guiding your movement. 
"Feels good?" 
You whined once again, your breathing increasing in pace at each roll of your hips on his leg. 
"Yeah," you replied softly. 
"Show me how good it feels," he ordered, gripping your body, sliding one cool hand under your shirt until cupping your breast. 
You bit your lower lip, frustrated, and propped yourself up a bit, rolling your hips on his thigh every second quicker than the previous. 
Haechan's amusement was palpitant and you wanted to make it turn his expression into a mess as well. Leaning down, you attached your lips to his neck, kissing it slowly and reaching his ear where your soft moans could vibrate into his body. You felt his cock twitch near your thigh and your palm descended to it after carefully palming his torso. 
It was so sinful that it made you dizzy. There was something so desperate in the way you'd chase your high on him, not even taking your clothes off, as if not having the force to do that. And him too, letting his head back on the wall, looking at you with hooded eyes and breathing out faster under your hand touching him. 
As if reading your mind, you opened your eyes to Haechan's whispering. 
"I like the way you look like that. So naughty. On your balcony for everyone to see what a needy girl you are. For Jaemin to see too."
"Shut up-," you resorted, your hand quick to cup his balls, making him choke. His hips bucked up into nothing and the slap on your ass was so loud that it probably resonated in all the neighbourhood. 
You whined loudly and rested your forehead on his shoulder as his palm gripped the softness of your skin. 
"You liked that?" he asked, and you exchanged a messy look, lips brushing against each other, drinking in his breath. 
"Yeah," you repeated mindlessly. "I'm close, so close-," 
"Hm, cum all over my thigh."
Like a spell, as if he actually had magical powers, you whined loudly and seized up, limbs trembling as if electricity danced through them. Haechan held you tight against his body, hands rubbing your back and sides, hushed praises against your neck. 
"We're not-," you tried to speak as you came down your thigh. "We're not talking about this."
"I will not shut up about this," his smile vibrated on your lips. 
You swallowed and helplessly tried to get off his leg without success. 
"I think-," you licked your lower lip, "It’s time for me to wake up.” 
Haechan hummed and grabbed your chin, making you kiss him deeply. 
“Think about me,” he murmured and before realizing you gasped, grabbing at your slippery bathtub, trying to understand what the hell just happened. 
 __________
  It took you a while to get dry and just sit on your bed, thinking back at your dream. It felt so real that you couldn’t have made up all of that yourself. Haechan said to think of him, and you were thinking but nothing really was happening.
You groaned and fell down on the bed. 
It was already late in the night and the other option was to fall asleep and supposedly meet them in the weird hotel Lobby to discuss. But the nap you took in the tub got rid of all the tiredness. 
“Haechan,” you started to call out then you felt stupid and stopped. 
How was it possible that when you were sleeping everything felt so real yet when you were awake it felt like you were just losing your mind? 
What did they mean with think of Haechan? You’ve been thinking of him so many times, yet nothing happened before.  
You huffed and let yourself fall back on the bed. The dark ceiling would get illuminated by the car lights outside, passing by. 
You lifted one hand up in the air.
“Haechan,” you murmured, imagining his fingers gently sliding between yours, from your palm up to meet your fingertips. 
You inhaled and exhaled deeply, almost feeling his touch. 
But he never appeared, and your hand remained empty. 
 __________
  “Listen, my shift is over,” Jaemin lifted one eyebrow towards Mark who was standing legs wide open and hands on his hips, like some sort of airport dad, in front of the golden door you and Haechan disappeared through. 
“Is the dream over? Have you seen it?” Mark asked. 
Jaemin shivered. “Not yet. Will see it later. Not excited to do it. But she’s awake.” 
Mark crossed his arms on his chest. “Where’s Haechan then? He should be back here by now.” 
“Maybe he did it,” Jaemin straightened his back, surprised.
The silence engulfed them both for a moment.
Mark giggled once.
Then chuckled.
Then laughed. A hyena laugh to resonate in the whole Lobby.
“He did it. That son of a bitch.”
 ­__­­­­­­­­___________
 Haechan opened his eyes to nothing, and panic washed over him.
Was he dead? 
But he could feel his ass sitting on something and when he tentatively felt around, he could make sense of a shoe. Then he leaned forwards and he hit his forehead on something hard. He yelped and tried to put a hand on it to cool the pain when his elbow hit some kind of box, and something fell on his face. 
The closet door opened in an instant with a bang and Haechan could see you, baseball bat in your hands, through the lace of the thongs that fell on his eyes. 
“No fucking way,” you murmured. “What the fuck are you doing in my closet?” 
Haechan quickly put away the underwear and tried to get up, but his head hit the top shelf this time. “Shit,” he mumbled. 
You could just stand there, mouth open and eyes wide, trying to understand if you were still dreaming or not. 
When Haechan managed to crawl, one sneaker in half of his foot, and got up in front of you, you exhaled. 
“Hey,” he said then winced, touching his forehead where a little bump was starting to grow. “Too many injuries in the past few hours.” 
“Can you cure it?” you asked. 
Haechan blinked back. “Well, not this time, no.” 
You both stood there for a moment as if in a daze, then as soon as you let the baseball bat fall to the ground Haechan’s arms wrapped around your body. 
The tears collected in your eyes on their own and your breath went missing. 
“I can’t believe you’re here,” you whispered in the crook of his neck. His scent felt so real and his body so firm.
Haechan was real and he was there. 
“I know,” he replied, probably as shocked. 
“Are you okay?” you pulled away quickly to grab his face with both of your hands and analyse his features. Haechan let you fondle his cheeks and rub on his skin. 
“Besides getting a lip cut, an eyebrow cut, hitting my head twice? Yes. I think I’m good.” 
“How? How is this-” you stuttered. 
“I think-” Haechan started, “like that damned glove,” he inhaled, “you just didn’t let me go.” 
 __________­
 The morning felt warmer. You did not know if it was because of the ray of sun shining through the windows or because of Haechan’s - very real and very present - arms around your body. 
"Fuck, I slept so much. What did I miss?" you mumbled. 
Haechan rubbed his sleepy hands on your back. "This dick."
"Thank God. I thought I missed something big."
He clicked his tongue. “I will tackle you.” 
You smiled, nuzzling your face into Haechan’s chest even more. “I can’t believe you’re here. What if I’m dreaming?” 
Haechan’s warm palms on your back made you exhale pleasantly. “Would that be so bad?” 
You looked up at him, resting your chin on his chest. “No. If this is a dream, the only request I have is to never wake up.” 
1K notes · View notes
jaetaimjadore · 2 years
Text
painting by your words | l.ty [teaser]
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Pairing: Lee Taeyong x reader
Genre: strangers to lovers, artist!reader, aspiring poet but actually conglomerate heir!Taeyong, fluff, angst, university au, PG-15, more tba
Warnings: angst, profanity, kissing, food, alcohol consumption, sexual references (nothing explicit), family drama, more tba
Teaser word count: 1.3k (let's all pray the real thing stays under 30k though ^-^)
Moodboard: [view here]
A/n: hELP i know this teaser is completely unexpected, but i just! had! to!!! another taeyong fic but wbk i just can't help myself, heh. honestly not too sure when this is going to be finished, but please do dm or send an ask if you would like to be added to the taglist &lt;;33
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Curiosity finds you much too eagerly as you step inside to a captivating little space of trickling water fountains, sculpted bushes with even more tiny white blooms, and a grand assortment of vibrant trees and shrubs that flourish with every blink of your eyes. Amidst it all you find a stone bench – something you suppose would otherwise have served useful to a bride and groom during a photoshoot. You plant yourself on it with a sigh, placing the bouquet beside you, chin tilting upward to view the reception from your faraway place.
It’s a shame, really. The wedding itself was one of the most elaborate and stunning events you had ever attended. It was nice to see so many happy people in one place and a bride and groom who were so truly and obviously in love with each other. If it weren’t for the stampede of irked women tailing your every step, you would have been up there right now, probably acquainting yourself with the buffet while your parents tried to introduce you to some random person you had never known, but who somehow knew you. It usually wasn’t the most enjoyable way to spend your time, but you didn’t mind meeting a few new faces if it meant you could quietly admire the evening as it happened.
Of course, you weren’t able to do that, which is why you find yourself admiring it from your tucked-away place in this garden…though you still really can’t seem to understand the significance of a few flowers bound by a pretty string.
Did people really believe in that stuff?
Your thoughts are interrupted by the glimmer of light near the archway, and as you look ahead, you’re met with golden beams flickering to life one by one along the pathway, stopping by your feet before blooming among the greenery all around you.
Your gaze ripples through the garden once more, now completely awestruck by its sudden and overwhelming glow as you follow each bulb as if they were connected by some invisible string only you could see.
And then a figure emerges from behind the arch, stepping underneath it.
It’s a man, whose head curiously looks around before freezing in place, a surprised expression taking over his features as he sees you sitting on the bench staring back at him with the same look of bewilderment. You notice the way his eyes dart to the large bouquet beside you, his expression then relaxing and hands casually slipping into his pant pockets as he steps forward, once again busying his focus with the surrounding lights.
From what you can tell, he has dark brown hair that could almost pass for black, and like most other men back up on the terrace, he wears a black fitted suit on top of white cocktail shirt, a boutonniere of tiny blue and white flowers pinned to the left lapel of his blazer.
And, oh.
He’s also exceedingly handsome.
Your eyes follow the man’s brazen pathway forward, eventually halting to your right where he sits down on the bench, the bouquet and a beat of silence now the only things resting between the two of you.
“Congratulations,” he speaks, and it’s a completely unexpected sound to what you had started to think would fall from his mouth. You turn to him, thoroughly confused why he’s even speaking to you at all, and upon seeing his dashing side profile, you think you would have blushed if wasn’t for that same greeting that’s directed at you for the…
And that make’s twenty-one.
Right, the twenty-first time this night.
“What? You mean this?” you mutter, lifting the bouquet and inspecting it for a second, its plastic covering crumpling obnoxiously in your palm. “Pfff.” You toss it to the ground without another thought, watching disinterestedly as it lands by one of your unstrapped heels, before turning back to the stranger who now has a scandalised look twisted through his otherwise striking features.
“I don’t believe in the whole bouquet catching thing,” you reply smoothly, feeling refreshingly satisfied with your little act of rebellion and the comical reaction it had pulled from the man.
He only raises a brow in response to your words, an amused quirk finding his mouth with a small tilt of the head. “Why stand in the crowd in the first place then?”
“Who are you again?” This time it’s your turn to raise a brow and shoot forth a question, half in hope of evading his question, and half out of a genuine curiosity to know more about this enigmatic specimen of a stranger.
“I believe in it.” He simply ignores you, rather speaking his words with a sort of whimsical look to his features, as if they were the most natural piece of speech that could be spoken.
You’re not exactly sure how to respond save for a few empty blinks in his direction, finding it rather droll that despite all the questions roaming the corners of your mind – Who is this guy? What is he doing here planted beside me? Why the heck is he professing his superstitions to a complete stranger? – you still reckon something about him all too intriguing to simply stand up and walk away.
Surely, he wasn’t plain crazy to have just come and sat beside you out of the blue in this isolated garden two storeys below the actual wedding reception…
…was he?
“Why?” you ask quietly, pushing aside all your absurd thoughts before they get the better of you, and turning back to eye the wilting petals on the ground. “They're just…a bunch of flowers.”
“Yeah, well,” the man leans over to pick up the bouquet, straightening out the plastic and rearranging a few stems before plucking out a single red rose from the vibrant array, twirling it gently between his fingers. “I like to think that each flower has some sort of meaning to it. You know, like, perhaps each one represents the number of weeks until you meet your life partner. Or maybe each thorn stands for the number of exes you’ll have before you get married, or…”
He pauses, voice fading into a dwindling nothingness, his head double-taking to find a thoroughly weirded out expression plastered across your face as you look down to the rose in his hand, counting thirteen whole thorns on its stem alone.
Thirteen exes?
He’s definitely crazy, Y/n. Now’s your chance to run, prods your inner, most rational voice. But as unhinged as the man’s theories fare, you still can’t seem to evade the certain fascination that creeps up on you after listening to his peculiar little spiel; how he truly seemed to be in his element while spewing out what you'd otherwise label as cryptic nonsense.
After all, it isn’t every day that you meet someone with such an unorthodox way of thinking, and you slowly come to realise that, for the first time this night, somebody has finally managed to have caught your attention.
Immediately clamping his mouth shut, the man opts out of speaking any further, rather ducking his chin to his chest and grimacing at himself awkwardly. You find the guy strangely relatable all of a sudden – perhaps even endearing – not taking your eyes off him and watching intently as he once again turns back to you, offering forth an equally as awkward hand.
“I’m Taeyong…and that was my sad attempt at small talk.”
You simply smile at him, the defeated tone of his words pulling a small chuckle from you as you reach forward and accept his hand in your own.
“Y/n,” you reply, gently shaking it, “and that was probably the most interesting conversation I’ve had all night.”
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© jaetaimjadore, 2022, all rights reserved
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kjmsupremacist · 2 years
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double exposure (yuta/taeyong)
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During promotions for his first Japanese mini album, k-idol Taeyong meets one of his favorite artists, j-rock star Yuta. Though it starts casual, Taeyong begins to realize he may be in over his head, and struggles to reconcile his affection for Yuta with all the things that keep them apart.
Chapter 5 |   prev   next   mlist
Characters: Taeyong, Yuta
Genre: k-soloist taeyong, jrockstar yuta; romance, smut, angst
Warnings: dom/sub dynamics, smut, drunk sex, mild angst, homophobia mentions
Rating: Explicit
Length: 4.1k
taglist: @meowniee @flowerboykun​
I’m like pretty sure someone else asked to be added to this taglist but I cannot find that info anywhere now so if that was you or if you want to be on the taglist pls just reply to this post or send me an ask!! OTL
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Taeyong finds himself facing yet another new experience. He’s woken up next to Yuta before, sure, but that was at Yuta’s place, in Japan, or in Taeyong’s little rental, not here in Taeyong’s home. He watches the rise and fall of Yuta’s chest, the gentle relaxation on his face. It seems surreal, almost—how could someone like Yuta want to spend his free time traveling to see someone like Taeyong? How could he want to stay? Want to sleep beside him and have meals with him?
But here they are. Yuta is in his bed, and Taeyong realizes with a nearly sick jolt that he wants to keep him here for a very long time.
That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? They don’t belong to each other. They could never; they could never belong to anybody. They belong to their fans, and the love they receive from the public comes with a price. And Taeyong knew that before he signed his contract, but he didn’t think at the time that he would need to worry about it. He had been young, broke, desperate for a chance to prove himself. So what if he sold his soul to the spotlight? 
But now… Taeyong traces his gaze over Yuta’s eyelashes, the line of his jaw. Maybe he wants his soul back. Maybe he wants it back so he can give it to Yuta instead.
Yuta blinks his eyes open, focusing on Taeyong, almost like the thought had summoned him. But if he can read minds, he doesn’t say anything. He smiles. “Hey, honey,” he whispers.
“Hi,” Taeyong whispers back. “How’d you sleep?”
“Really good.” Yuta covers his mouth to stifle a yawn, stretching. “Wore me out last night.”
This draws a giggle out of Taeyong, unbidden. “Me, too,” he says.
Yuta stretches out an arm and wraps it around Taeyong’s waist, tugging him close. “C’mere, baby,” he says, murmured against Taeyong’s collarbone. His breath tickles Taeyong’s skin; Taeyong giggles, combing his fingers through Yuta’s hair. “What are your schedules today? Are you free?”
“I’m free,” Taeyong says. “I’m free ’til next Monday. Why, what do you wanna do?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Yuta rolls on top of Taeyong, swinging a leg over his body and pinning him to the bed. “Was hoping for a quick tour of the city. Maybe you could show me a couple of your favorite spots. We could get a meal, then come back for some wine or something. Tomorrow if your friends are free, I’d love to meet them.”
Taeyong giggles again. “Tomorrow? Not today?”
“Want you to myself today,” Yuta says. “Not ready to share your attention yet, I just got it back.”
“You always had my attention,” Taeyong says softly. “Even if you were far away.”
“I meant undivided,” Yuta corrects, but he smiles down at Taeyong, eyes soft and warm.
“You have it,” Taeyong says.
“Good.” Yuta ducks down for a swift kiss, then rolls off Taeyong, pushing the covers aside and pushing himself to the edge of the bed. “Breakfast?”
“Yeah.” Taeyong wrenches himself from the comfort of his bed. “I was thinking we could go to a cafe? It’s not far from here, it’s one of my favorites.”
Yuta nods approvingly. “Sounds good to me,” he agrees. “Aren’t we gonna get followed, though?”
Taeyong gives him an almost sheepish look. “Ah, we might. Some of my fans are… overly enthusiastic.”
Yuta laughs. “That’s a kind way of putting it,” he comments mildly.
“I’ll tell my manager what we’re up to,” Taeyong says. “We can probably bring a staff member, but—” He glances at the clock. Half past nine. “It’s too early for lunch, and most people are already at work or at school. So it should be okay.”
“That’s right, I forgot it was a weekday,” Yuta says. “Vacation brain, you know.”
Taeyong rolls his eyes at him as he pads into his bathroom. “You’ve been on vacation for like one day,” he says, reaching for his toothbrush. Yuta’s laughter floats in from the bedroom, bright and clear. 
Half an hour later, they meet a staff member in the lobby of the building. They’re both wearing masks and hats, but they know better than to think that will stop them from being recognized. Still, Taeyong’s not too worried. 
His faith in the universe is not misplaced. Though a phone or three goes up as they walk down the street, and he notices a couple of girls tailing them, no one approaches; no one crowds. They get to the cafe without a hitch and find a table in a secluded corner. It’s mostly empty—it is ten a.m. on a workday, after all—so he and Yuta are free to peel off their makeshift disguises and enjoy their food in peace. 
“Anything in particular you want to see?” Taeyong asks while Yuta sips at his coffee. 
Yuta shakes his head. “I’m not particular. Touristy things I can always do in my own time, when you’re busy, so I’d rather do things I wouldn’t think to do by myself today.”
Taeyong nods. “I have a couple of favorite parks in the city, and then we can swing by this amazing street food place and pick up some takeout for an early dinner?”
Yuta smiles at him over his coffee cup, and Taeyong’s stomach flips like a fish out of water. “Sounds perfect,” Yuta says. 
And so they do just that. The day remains pretty peaceful. Fans keep their distance, and there aren’t a lot of other people out to begin with. Around three, they head to the restaurant to pick up their food so they can head back before things get too crazy. 
“Hey,” Yuta says while they wait for their order to be completed. “We’re trending.”
A very strange and unsettling emotion bursts forth in Taeyong’s chest. “We’re what?”
“On Twitter, look.” Yuta sounds vaguely amused. He turns his phone around and though most of it is in Japanese, one word catches his eye. 
#YUTAE.
“I guess people were taking pictures,” Taeyong says, looking at Yuta uncertainly. 
Yuta just shrugs. “Seems like it. Mostly it’s people happy to see we’ve met up again.” He tilts his head. “Some, though… I mean, you know how it is. But—anyway, we can look at it when we get back to yours.”
Fear settles like a small shard of ice in Taeyong’s stomach. Yuta doesn’t seem too scared, though, just bemused. He accepts their food from the cashier and nods for them to leave. Taeyong follows happily, eager to be out of the view of the public. 
He opens Twitter once they’re back inside and starts scrolling. “People are calling it a date,” he says nervously. 
But Yuta laughs. “They’re joking,” he says. “Didn’t they call it a date when Johnny treated you to dinner last month? Or what about the time you and Doyoung went shopping together?” Taeyong nods, realizing he might be overreacting. “The few people that aren’t joking will get laughed off their soapboxes, and things will settle. Why shouldn’t I come to visit my friend? Besides, who knows. Maybe we’re working on a collab.”
“Maybe we should,” Taeyong suggests. “Just as a cover.”
Yuta eyes him as he sets the food down on his table. “Oh, that’s the only reason you want to work together?”
“No!” Taeyong exclaims, but then he realizes Yuta is hiding a grin. “It’s a great excuse, though. All I really have to do is tell my management we were trending and they’ll already be dialing a composer.”
“Mm, and he has connections,” Yuta hums, grinning. “Alright, why don’t you eat? You can call your management in the morning.”
“I should call them tonight,” Taeyong says firmly. “If they don’t call me first.”
Yuta hands Taeyong a pair of chopsticks, eyebrows slightly furrowed now. “Do they monitor you that closely?”
Taeyong shrugs. “They just like to be on top of things. Whether it’s an opportunity like this, or a scandal, or whatever,” he explains. “I’m grateful for it. My image is everything.”
Yuta nods. “I guess it’s different for me,” he says. “My fans prefer me rough around the edges because it makes me real.”
Taeyong blinks. “That must be nice,” he says. “My fans want me perfect or they don’t want me at all.
“I doubt that’s entirely true,” Yuta says, “but I understand.”
Taeyong sighs. “Anyway, I would like to collaborate with you,” he says, “regardless of all of this. I’ve never done a rock concept, and I really want to try it. So it would be perfect if we could do a single together!”
“Of course we can,” Yuta says. “I’d love to work with you.”
Taeyong nods, feeling a faint blush rise to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he manages.
“Don’t be so worried, though,” Yuta continues, dishing some meat out for Taeyong, laying the pieces on top of his rice with a sort of absentminded kind of care. “Unless someone literally catches us fucking, no one’s gonna seriously believe the rumors. At least not enough for it to damage our careers. They could probably even catch us kissing, and no one would believe it. I mean, we do stuff like that as fanservice all the time.”
Taeyong gives him a confused look. “Do we?”
Yuta looks up, also confused. “I mean, solo artists like you and me not so much, because we don’t really have people to do it with, but, like, people in groups do. I dunno, the fans like it.”
“Uh, we do not do that,” Taeyong informs him. “We get a little handsy here, but we never kiss unless it’s by accident, like part of a game, or some kind of punishment for a game.”
“Oh.” Yuta laughs to himself. “I guess things are a little different.”
“Japanese idols do that?”
“I thought you were a fan!”
“I’m your fan; I don’t know everything about j-idol culture!”
“I’ve kissed members of my band on camera before,” Yuta points out. “Some of my dancers, too. Most of my dancers. Actually, I’m pretty sure the only dancer I’ve never kissed is the one I consider to be my son. You never saw any of that?”
Now that Taeyong thinks about it, maybe he has seen things. But he supposes he thought it was an exaggeration. “I guess I have,” he admits. “That’s common?”
Yuta shrugs. “Yeah? I mean, you know my reputation. It’s almost expected of me, that kind of behavior.” His expression turns a bit devious. “My fans are perverts, like me.”
Taeyong groans his protest, shaking his head. “Alright, well, you and I are not kissing where cameras can see us. Your fans might like it, but my fans would have a conniption.”
Yuta salutes crookedly. “You have my word.”
Taeyong sets his chopsticks down, standing. “Well, personally I’m ready for a drink,” he says as he makes his way to his fridge. “Soju? Beer? Wine?”
“Soju,” Yuta says. “Any flavor is fine.”
Taeyong nods, pulling out two bottles of plain soju and grabbing two shot glasses, bringing them back to the table. He cracks open a bottle as he takes his seat, pouring them each a shot and sliding a glass to Yuta, who picks it up.
“Cheers,” Taeyong says, clinking his glass against Yuta’s and then draining it. It’s good soju, smooth and clean and fresh, and Taeyong knows already that tonight is going to get a little messy. But judging from the way Yuta is watching him, Taeyong doesn’t think either of them will mind.
Taeyong can’t say exactly how, but they abandon their food at some point and he ends up in Yuta’s lap, hands running through Yuta’s long hair. He can’t say he’s surprised, either.
“I can’t blame them for wondering,” he says, “our fans.”
“Why’s that?” Yuta asks. His eyelids are drooping; he’s smiling at Taeyong in a lazy, almost self-satisfied way. His hands are on Taeyong’s waist. His hands are so warm.
“I mean, what was I supposed to do when I saw you?” Taeyong says. “Not want you?”
Yuta chuckles. “You fell right into my trap, honey,” he murmurs sweetly, leaning up so he can steal a kiss. “It’s not your fault. Of course you wanted me.” Another kiss. “Of course I wanted you.”
Heat floods Taeyong’s body; he kisses Yuta again, hands slipping from his hair to his cheeks. He holds Yuta close, though he has a feeling Yuta wouldn’t pull away even if he could. Instead, he feels Yuta’s teeth on his bottom lip. He whines softly, relaxing into Yuta’s touch. One of Yuta’s hands comes up to his jaw, thumb on his chin, coaxing Taeyong’s mouth open wider so he can push his tongue in.
Taeyong’s heart pounds in his chest, a loud thrum of desire. He’s sure Yuta can hear it, can feel it where his fingers rest so close to Taeyong’s pulse point. The hand on his waist has found its way under his shirt, the pads of Yuta’s fingers now pressed into the divots of Taeyong’s spine. Yuta kisses him like he owns him, mouth open and hot, dark and dirty. And isn’t it true? Taeyong, caught in the trap of Yuta’s beauty, laid out like a prize at his feet. Who else should own him?
Yuta pulls back, reaches towards the table. Taeyong follows him without thinking, confused, but Yuta presses his lips together, laughing.
“Yuta,” Taeyong whines.
“Take another shot with me,” Yuta coaxes. “Do you want another shot?”
Taeyong assesses for a moment, and then nods. He can have at least a couple more before he should stop, and he’s always liked feeling a little helpless. Yuta pours them shots, and goes to hand a glass to Taeyong, but Taeyong just opens his mouth, giving Yuta a plaintive look.
Yuta smiles. “Don’t choke, honey,” he says, raising the glass up.
Taeyong shoots him a sharp look. “I only ever choke on purpose,” he says cheekily, and then lets Yuta pour the shot into his mouth.
Yuta takes his shot and then sets the glasses safely back on the table before kissing Taeyong again. He’s gentler this time, though it’s no less filthy. Taeyong finds himself shrinking smaller and smaller in Yuta’s lap, letting Yuta move him into place. Yuta presses on Taeyong’s low back to make him arch forwards, then rolls his hips up to meet Taeyong’s. Taeyong moans softly as Yuta presses kisses along his jaw, nipping gently at his neck. 
“Probably shouldn’t mark you up, should I?” Yuta asks, breath warm against Taeyong’s skin.
“Want it,” Taeyong protests, but then he shakes his head. “But no,” he says regretfully.
“Someday,” Yuta promises, kisses soft, no teeth. “I’ll cover you in bruises.”
Taeyong moans in response, whimpering when Yuta rolls his hips up again. “Yu-ta,” he breathes. “Please.”
“Please what, honey?” Yuta asks.
Taeyong lets his eyes become pleading, wide and round and pitiful. “Won’t you fuck me?”
A dark haze clouds Yuta's eyes; he blinks back up at him slowly. “Of course I will,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s go to your room, it’s more comfortable.”
“But the food—” Taeyong protests as Yuta helps him to his feet.
“We can deal with it later,” Yuta says. “I’ll deal with it later. C’mon.”
Taeyong stumbles, grabbing Yuta’s arm for support. His body must have settled when he was sitting, but now he’s dizzy—not in a nauseous way, just in a clumsy, drunk kind of way. He giggles apologetically as Yuta wraps an arm around his waist.
“You okay, baby?” Yuta asks, coaxing him forward.
“Yeah,” Taeyong says, leaning into Yuta. “Just a little drunk, I think.”
“More than a little,” Yuta comments mildly as Taeyong sways. “Here,” he says after a moment. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He reaches down, motioning for Taeyong to wrap his arms around his shoulders, and hooks his forearms under Taeyong’s thighs, hands spread wide for support. “Up, c’mon.” He lifts Taeyong in the air with ease. 
Taeyong crosses his ankles behind Yuta’s waist, tucking his nose into the crook of Yuta’s neck. He mumbles a thank-you, kissing his jaw as Yuta walks them down the hall to Taeyong’s bedroom. Taeyong is giggling by the time Yuta releases him on the bed; he clings even when Yuta tries to pull away.
“Let me go, honey,” Yuta says, smiling. “I need to get the lube.”
Taeyong acquiesces, settling into the comfort of his mattress while he waits for Yuta to come back. To his credit, Yuta is quick, back by his side in a matter of seconds with a kiss as an apology. He puts a hand on Taeyong’s waistband. “Hips up, please.”
Taeyong lets Yuta strip him, blissfully not helping, remaining soft and pliant. Yuta seems happy to manhandle him, rewarding him with kisses every time he manages to get rid of an article of clothing. 
Yuta lays him out, kissing down his body, and reaches back for the lube. He takes his time spreading it across his fingers, so it’s warm by the time he touches Taeyong. He pushes a finger inside, thumbing at the slit of Taeyong’s cock with his other hand to keep him distracted. Taeyong hums out soft whimpers, trying to ground himself so he can relax.
The second finger goes the same way, and then the third. Yuta takes his time with it, making sure Taeyong is nice and loose around him before he moves on.
“Stop complaining,” Yuta says when Taeyong starts letting out soft little impatient noises. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow if you don’t let me prep you right. As it is, I’m worried about you.”
“I can take it,” Taeyong insists, even though he knows Yuta’s right.
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Yuta replies steadily, continuing his slow and measured rhythm.
He adds his pinky, and works all four fingers in and out of Taeyong. The minutes stretch on and the wanting in Taeyong’s stomach grows and grows until he’s pretty sure he’s near tears, gasping softly, helplessly, until he’s sure he can’t stand it anymore.
But then Yuta pulls away with a kiss to his stomach, and reaches down to slick up his cock. Taeyong lets out a shuddering breath, relieved. 
“Wider,” Yuta says, nudging at Taeyong’s inner thighs. “Good. Relax, honey.”
It’s all the warning he gets before Yuta is lining himself and pushing in, slow and careful. It hardly burns, so Taeyong doesn’t have to worry about much. He reaches down lazily and strokes himself, giving a happy sigh as Yuta bottoms out.
“Good?” Yuta asks.
“Mm,” Taeyong affirms. “Full.”
“Good.” Yuta pets down his side, leaning over him. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi,” Taeyong whispers, watching him come close, fighting to keep his eyes focused. Yuta comes too close and they end up crossing; they both laugh.
Yuta rocks his hips, just the tiniest of movements, waiting for Taeyong to relax around him. Taeyong watches him, blinking repeatedly to keep his vision from blurring. Yuta has a hand in his hair, carding through it. “Pretty,” he says softly. “Always look so good when you’re stuffed full with my cock, isn’t that right?” Taeyong nods, a happy noise bubbling up from his throat.
As soon as Taeyong’s adjusted, the instant he lets a plea for more escape, Yuta grinds into him deep and dirty, and Taeyong can’t say anything at all. Yuta’s murmuring praise in his ear, so good, sound so sweet, my perfect boy. Taeyong lets his eyes roll back in his head, lost in the pleasure of it. 
“Still with me, honey?” Yuta asks and Taeyong does his best to nod.
“Mm-hm,” he says, loud as he can. “Mm-hm, still here.”
Yuta kisses him, licking into his mouth as he fucks him. Taeyong lets his eyes flutter shut, lets his hands flutter up and down Yuta’s back. How is it that even now, even here where Taeyong couldn't possibly have him closer, he still wants more? What else could Yuta give him?
Something real, maybe, something more than just fucking and a basic mutual attraction. A sliver of sadness works its way under Taeyong’s skin. He’s too drunk now to process the ramifications of that thought, too drunk really to even feel the sting of it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s thought it, that he’s taken a step too far, and now he’s in danger. Unbidden, a soft noise of want slips out.
Yuta misreads it. “More?” he asks, tone dripping with condescension. “You still want more?”
Taeyong considers that he should be a little more wary, but he can only nod. Of course he wants more, he’ll always want more when it’s Yuta. Maybe that’s just how this will always be.
He feels the warmth of Yuta’s palm on his cheek, and then fingers against his lips. He opens his mouth almost instinctively, letting Yuta press his fingers in against his tongue as he continues to rock his hips. Taeyong gags wetly, just for show, when Yuta pushes his fingers in deeper. He can taste the metallic tang of his rings; it fills his nose and mixes with the smell of alcohol, makes his head even foggier. 
He drools around Yuta’s fingers, his cock dripping out beads of precome. Yuta pants above him, sweat glistening in his hair and on his face. Taeyong’s close; he knows Yuta is too. And still, all he can think as he feels the heat inside him crest is I want more.
He comes with a soft cry, spilling wet and messy over his knuckles, coughing out moans around Yuta’s fingers. He feels like he’s sinking, exhaustion and the dizzy fatigue of being drunk a little too long making his eyelids heavy. Yuta stills inside him, and Taeyong registers the warmth of his release as he slips into unconsciousness.
He comes to only a moment later; Yuta has pulled out and is working on gingerly lifting him from the bed.
“I can walk,” he says, smiling when Yuta startles.
They wash up; Yuta leaves Taeyong in the shower to pack up their food so they can have leftovers in the morning. Taeyong takes his time, letting the water sober him up a little. It doesn’t bring clarity, though.
Isn’t their arrangement odd? Normally, when Taeyong hooks up with another celebrity, it’s a one- maybe two-time thing. Sometimes, if they cross paths again down the road, they’ll hook up again. But never has it been this intimate—or this serious. Yuta flew out to Korea to see Taeyong. Sure, he says he always wanted to vacation here, but Taeyong knows he wouldn’t have come if they had never met. 
Taeyong thinks about bringing it up to Yuta, but he can’t imagine that conversation. Somehow, he knows Yuta would shut it down immediately. Yuta doesn’t seem like the kind of person to get attached. For him, it’s just about sex. He wanted to see Taeyong again so they could do exactly what they’ve been doing, and that’s all. 
Then why does it feel so domestic? Taeyong gets out of the shower and wraps himself in his towel, poking his head out the door before he suffocates on the steam. He sees Yuta, dressed in nothing but his underwear, putting fresh pillowcases onto his pillows and making the bed. When Yuta notices him, he smiles. Taeyong manages a weak smile back and turns away. 
And all of this is ignoring the biggest issue of all—even if Yuta wanted something more with Taeyong, they wouldn’t be able to. Taeyong has a dating ban, and besides, they would be hunted like wild animals by the press, by their fans, by everyone if people found out. It would set the entire East Asian music industry on fire, and neither of them would survive it. It would be far too risky.
Taeyong finishes drying off and tugs on a pair of underwear, going on a hunt for his phone. He texts his manager, I’ll call you in the morning, but Yuta and I were thinking that we should collab. Thought it would be a good cover, and then sets his phone down and turns to his bed, clicking off the light. 
“C’mere, honey,” Yuta stage-whispers. In the dark, Taeyong can hardly make out the outline of his figure, stretched out under the blankets, arms open and waiting. 
This is all it’s going to be. This is all it can be. Yuta and Taeyong, staging public appearances and collaborations and flaunting their friendship to the fans, hinting that it might be something more but only in a fanservice way, and then coming home and having this—only this, just dinner and sex and a kiss goodnight. And nothing more. And it’ll sell, and the fans will get what they want, and their companies will get what they want, and Yuta will get what he wants.
And Taeyong will have to live with it.
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jiyeonnnn · 1 year
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ANTITHETICAL, lty, jjh <33
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pairing | l. ty & j. jh x m!r
synopsis | you have always loved wearing skirts secretly, but what happens if your antithetical step brothers see you wearing one?
cw | cross dressing, pet names (baby, angel, sweets, slut, etc.,) rough smut, multiple rounds, pseudo incest, degradation, praise, taeyong kisses you a lot, jaehyun is a btch, ass slapping, spit roasting, double penetration, unprotected intercourse, 3.2k words 💀
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you have always gotten along with your step brothers ever since they took you in from that orphanage you call hellhole. at first, you thought that they would adopt you so that they could have an assistant or a slave that will do all the things for them seeing how intimidating these two brothers, taeyong and jaehyun, look, but you thought wrong.
six years have passed since they adopted you, you experienced nothing but a good relationship with them. you felt loved and taken care of throughout your whole life— the parental love that you've been longing for, along with the support and love from your dear brothers, there's nothing more you could ever wish for.
jaehyun and taeyong are glad to have you as well. you have been there during their ups and downs— lifting them up from their sorrows and problems with a lovely personality, not to mention your amazing cooking skills that leave them nothing but amazed by the way you cook your food. they feel so lucky… feel so lucky to the point that they feel more than what a good big brother must feel towards his step sibling.
it was a fairly normal night inside the household; jaehyun and taeyong playing video games on the sofa while your parents are preparing themselves for a week-long vacation abroad for christmas, while you, on the other hand, are trying some things that your best friend, ningning, have sent you— skirts and lingeries. as crazy as it seems, you have found yourself fond of this kind of stuff, probably because of your group of friends as well, but that's for another story— and you don't want anyone else in your family to know about this.
"oh wow— this looks so good on me~" you mumbled as you complimented yourself, and you're not wrong, the mini skirt looks very good on you. you twirled around the mirror, giggling happily as you have found something again to put in your collection of skirts. however, due to your busyness, you didn't notice the sets of eyes fixated on your body as you twirled and turned around in that skirt— it is only that you noticed your step brothers inside your room the moment you heard your door get closed and the click of your lock.
"my, my, my, dongsaeng~ i didn't know you're interested in this kind of stuff~" jaehyun approached you with a wild smirk on his face. you don't know whether you should feel scared or aroused by his actions and expressions that you absentmindedly stepped back nonstop until you're cornered against the wall.
"aish, jaehyun-ah~ don't scare our cute brother like that~ look at him enjoying himself with that beautiful skirt of his~ isn't he pretty?" taeyong intervened as he gently took your hand and pulled you close to him. he kissed your forehead which made you feel all flustered, and it didn't help that jaehyun went behind you and started kissing your nape.
"you're right, taeyong-ah~ our step brother looks so pretty with his skirt~ i wonder, what can we do with him now that mom and dad's finally away?" jaehyun spoke with a deep voice that sent shivers down your spine. the man behind you then gropes your ass, causing you to whimper softly against taeyong's neck.
"so cute and vulnerable~ we'll have some fun playing with him, jaehyun-ah~" you could feel the tension building up inside your room as taeyong carried you by your legs. he sat down on the edge of your bed before straddling you on his lap, jaehyun following after. you looked deeply into taeyong's eyes lovingly— god how beautiful those orbs are— as you felt your lips connect with his.
the feeling was sensational— all the butterflies inside your stomach started to go wild the moment your eldest step brother started kissing you. the kiss was soft and vanilla, you could feel taeyong's gentleness with the way his lips and tongue danced with your mouth, and it made you moan softly.
you pulled away for a moment to take a breather— "h-hyung— this is wrong—" you tried to protest only for you to be cut off by jaehyun, who is already topless. "it shouldn't feel that good then, little boy~" jaehyun stated before taking you away from taeyong's lap.
jaehyun then laid you down on the bed and pinned your wrists down before kissing you. unlike taeyong, jaehyun's kiss was wild and reckless. his dominance is all over you as he didn't even let you adjust to his tongue exploring your mouth. jaehyun was aggressive— the way his lips dance with yours is something impeccable that it left you breathless in a matter of seconds.
you felt so helpless, yet so good under him— it really is a dream come true— it is also one of your secrets that you have a crush on both of them, but you were too afraid to confess, and now that they're holding you like this, there's no way that you'll let this slide.
jaehyun pulled away before taking your oversized t-shirt off. taeyong, on the other hand, stripped his shirt off as he sat down next to your laying body. "do we have your consent, baby boy?" taeyong asked softly.
"y-yes, hyungs~ y-you have my consent~" you answered which made the smirk on their faces grow wider. like a doll, jaehyun once again took you off from that position and sat you up. both of them adjusted themselves as they took their sweatpants and underwear off, and god were they big.
taeyong chuckled at your flushed reaction, "like what you see, pretty boy?" he teased while tapping his cock on his palm.
"is that still being asked? he likes it for sure~ right, little slut?" you were taken aback by the derogatory remark of jaehyun, but you were still turned on nonetheless, resulting in you nodding eagerly.
both of them chuckled at your adorable response before putting you on all fours. "just tell us your colors, all right, baby? we'll make things fit for you~" taeyong reassured you before going in front of you. jaehyun, meanwhile, went behind you where he started using his fingers to prepare you.
jaehyun's immediate actions caused you to release uncontrollable moans as you felt your prostate being hit repeatedly. seeing your reactions, taeyong, who is in front of you, pulled you closer in for a kiss to ease your discomfort, which he was successful in doing.
as your tongue twirls around taeyong's, jaehyun has already added a third finger inside you, making you whimper again and again inside the kiss. you departed your lips from taeyong's the moment you felt jaehyun take his fingers out of you.
"that should be enough for a slutty whore like you~" you heard him say. if anything, you expect yourself to feel a little degraded by the way jaehyun calls you by those names but you're feeling quite the opposite of what you had expected: arousal.
"you ready, baby boy~?" taeyong asked as he cupped your face. you responded with a small nod which made him smile a bit.
you looked deeply into taeyong's eyes, who was fisting his dick in front of you, stroking your hair as you gasp from the slow and painful intrusion of jaehyun's cock inside your hole.
"deep breaths, baby, ok? you're taking your jaehyun-hyung so good~" taeyong cooed as he caressed your face in hopes of helping you adjust to jaehyun's length, but to your misfortune, man behind you didn't give you enough time to adjust as spanked your ass while thrusting his whole length all at once, making you elicit a very loud moan.
"aren't you going to suck that cock in front of you, useless bitch?" jaehyun asked, pointing out taeyong's leaking cock on your face as he slapped your ass again. you could only whimper at this point, your mouth trembling due to the pleasure, before slowly taking your step hyung's length inside your mouth with your tongue skillfully swirling around his girthy cock, especially the tip.
taeyong moaned deeply in euphoria, his eyes deeply fixated on your figure taking his dick very well right now — highly turned on by how hot you look right now. the ecstatic feeling made him grip your hair as he began to thrust his hips softly, allowing you to look up at him with tears brimming your eyes.
as you start to bob your head, your clutch on the sheets tightens due to the relentless thrusts that jaehyun has been doing behind you, hitting your prostate consistently at every thrust, causing you moan and whimper messily around taeyong's dick— the feeling was just too good that you couldn't keep your mouth from spewing the lewdest noise you had ever made in your life.
taeyong couldn't help but groan while throwing his head back, the sensation, and vibrations sent by your moans all throughout his body just felt so good to him that it's impossible for him to put his moans to moderation.
"so good— fuck— you're doing so fucking good, pup~" taeyong praised as he continue to release breathy moans. the way his words ran through your ears aroused you even more, causing you to clench your hole tightly around jaehyun's cock.
you desperately wanted to hear those praises again — the addictive praises from taeyong that never failed to make you whimper more and more — so you decided to do your best to pleasure them more. you bobbed your head faster while clamping jaehyun's cock in between your walls greedily — so greedy that you don't care if you're starting to look like a desperate mess gagging and moaning on the cocks inside you.
"goddamn little slut—," jaehyun moaned and struck your prostate yet again, paddling you once more while he lost himself in how comfortable you felt with him and how graciously your hole embraced his cock.
taeyong strokes the hair sticking on your face as he goes on to slowly thrust his cock again inside your mouth, looking at you lovingly as he does so. "shhhh, don't listen to jaehyun-hyung, ok, angel? you're not a slut~" he reassured.
at this point, you couldn't care less what the both of them are saying— everything just feels so overwhelmingly good— you just want to do everything to make them feel the best as you chase your own high as well.
"look at your slutty hole tightening around me— fuck!— gonna cum for me like that?" jaehyun moaned. his fingernails started to dig deep into the skin of your hips as he roughly abused your prostate over and over. he then jerked the tip of your cock as he felt his own climax approaching soon, making you on taeyong's length.
"shit— baby— i'm gonna bust—!" taeyong moaned out loud, releasing his warm cum deep down the velvety walls of your throat. you moaned and panted around his length as you took him out of your mouth, heaving as you tried to collect yourself, however, the thrusts of jaehyun became too much for you to take in, driving you even closer to your climax.
riding out your high, your cum spurted everywhere, while jaehyun cummed inside you, before pulling out and releasing the rest of his load on your back.
"such a great boy you've been for us, pretty prince~" taeyong praised as he pushed 2 fingers inside your mouth, which you sucked on greedily. he giggled at you before pulling you into a loving kiss, allowing you to play with both of your spit and his cum inside your mouth before you swallowed it.
as you pull away, jaehyun immediately manhandles and faces you in front of him, "i hope you're not forgetting about me, little whore," jaehyun said as he kissed you roughly again. although surprised, it didn't take long for you to adjust to his roughness as you kissed him back with the same hunger.
the two of you kissed messily that you didn't notice taeyong behind you positioning himself to penetrate you as well. it is just then that you sensed his presence when you felt his tip start to enter you.
feeling the warmness and tightness of your hole, taeyong couldn't help but moan deeply in pleasure from how welcoming your hole felt the moment he entered you. "t-taking me so good, love~" taeyong praised again. his intrusion made you whimper against jaehyun's lip that led you to break the kiss.
"you can't even kiss me properly. you're just that dumb and pathetic, aren't you, bitch?" jaehyun degraded, smirking widely as he watched taeyong drive you to lay on your stomach.
"'m sorry, hyungie~" you apologized as you looked at him innocently deep in the eyes, but jaehyun wasn't buying it, instead, he slapped your face quite harshly. "instead of saying anything, why don't you just use your mouth into something more useful, huh?"
right immediately, you started taking his length at your own pace, but it was too slow for someone as impatient as jaehyun. in result, he decided to grip your hair and push you down deeper on his cock, causing you to gag on his humongous length as tears brimmed up your eyes.
"oh yeah~ just like that, bitch~" jaehyun groaned. you began bobbing your head at the pace jaehyun had set: fast and aggressive while swirling your tongue around his cock. his harsh grip on your head didn't easen— he held onto it for his dear life, thrusting occasionally as he enjoyed himself inside your warm mouth.
"fuck— fuck— that's it, y/n~" jaehyun moaned continuously just like that, repeating curses and your name again and again as he found pleasure in abusing your mouth.
meanwhile, taeyong continues to thrust into you at a very steady, and moderate pace, his hands holding your hips as he  continues to spew out continuous praises.
"y-you're doing so good for us—fuck! it feels so good!" taeyong moaned as he bucked his hips a little harder, resulting in you moaning and struggling with taking jaehyun's length as he hit your prostate repeatedly.
seeing your response to his actions, taeyong couldn't help it but smirk devilishly at you as he went on to repeat his actions again and again. this has caused you to tear up as you choke and struggle on jaehyun's dick.
jaehyun gripped your hair harshly as he spat on your face. "the only thing you're asked to do is to pleasure me with your pathetic mouth, and you still can't do that right? what a useless little whore you are,"
"now, now, jaehyun-ah~ don't say things like that~ our little y/n has done so good for us~" taeyong stated as he abuse your prostate again, allowing you to moan and choke around jaehyun's cock— to which he responded with a harsh thrust into your throat continuously.
you may have been overly sensitive and seeing stars because you were being fucked by both of your step brothers, or perhaps it was because one of them was gentle and praised you the entire time while the other was brutal and insulted you. regardless, you were enjoying every minute of it.
because of taeyong's thrusts and the sensation, you choked on jaehyun's length, trying to make him feel wonderful while hearing him whimper. "i-i'm getting close!" taeyong whimpered once again. he started quickening his pace up, which made you moan and send vibrations up on your other step brother's, jaehyun's, cock— which sent him into an overdrive.
as you felt your own orgasm incoming, you clenched tightly around taeyong— moaning continuously around jaehyun's length as you looked up to him. "fucking slut~" jaehyun groaned as he let go of himself snd started facefucking you before releasing profusely deep inside your mouth.
you rode your high not long after, releasing your seeds all over the sheets again.
"you're so good, angel~ so, so good for us~" taeyong whimpered once more as he brushed his cock on your prostate again before releasing deep inside you.
thinking everything was done, your head fell weak on jaehyun's lap as you heaved yourself out. your two step brothers shared a look— smirking evilly at their devilish thoughts.
taeyong laid on his back with his hands behind his head, letting himself relax for a while before you laid on top of him, nuzzling his neck. you felt a warm breath hit your ears as taeyong whispered to you, "can you go for one more round, sweets? will you ride me like the best boy you are?" he asked, in which you didn't turn down and immediately went into action.
unreluctantly, you slid yourself down again on his cock, and the shock of pleasure hit both of your body again. "t-there— what an obedient kitten~" taeyong praised as you were successful in taking his whole cock again.
soft, shaky whines left your mouth as you felt sensitive from the previous rounds but that didn't stop you from bouncing softly on his cock. it was just then that you gasped as you felt jaehyun pushed you on top of taeyong, both of your chests pressing against each other.
jaehyun positioned himself behind you before whispering, "you'll take me in as well, right? i know you will~ that's how big of a slut you are~" he said cockily before going inside your hole.
now that there are 2 cocks inside you right now, you are moaning quite loudly at the sensational stretch that you're feeling at this moment. you gasped for air while gripping the sheets as you adjusted to their length— which they let you do.
jaehyun pushed himself slowly in hopes of not hurting you. he groaned at the tight feeling of your ass as he fought for his space deep inside you— it felt too much yet so great for the three of you. taeyong smiled softly as he peppered you with kisses and praises.
"f-fucking— bitch! t-taking his step brothers' cocks like this, huh?—" the rough pace of jaehyun began again as he made you scream their names out in pleasure. 
although your two step brothers behaved very differently from one another, perhaps this was also the cause of how amazing everything felt.
"ssshhh, don't cry, angel~ you're taking us both so good and so well~" taeyong said as he wiped the tears streaming down your cheeks as he pecked your lips. the words of your eldest step brother made you feel at ease from the roughness that they're making you feel.
"who would've thought that our little "angel" would turn out to be a filthy slut~?" jaehyun degraded you nonstop as his handprint on your ass cheeks became visible due to how harsh he's been spanking you since.
"'m not a slut!" you tried to speak up only for you to be cut off by taeyong who pulled you in for another kiss. your lips were sure to be swollen at this point, but who cares? it's not like your parents will see it anytime soon anyway. jaehyun could only chuckle as you as he fucked your ass unforgivingly, making you have a hard time on kissing taeyong— causing you to bite either his lip or his tongue.
that forced you to break the kiss as you, again, moaned out their names out loud. all of you were too drowned in pleasure that it didn't take long for the three of you to ride out your final, yet hardest orgasms.
you shuddered at the overwhelming feeling that you were put on the brink of passing out. the three of you panted so hard— while jaehyun fell on your back, sandwiching you in between them while breathing heavily as you composed yourselves.
it was indeed a wild night, and this is just the beginning— but you sure were not complaining.
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