#[ texting; lost between another text and candy crush. ]

[joyfulanya]

anya: can i just tell you how talented you are? i didn't have the time til recently but i finished 'europhia' and you're incredible

[scoutofmymind]

re a trois-lasan possible fic: all three of them are bisexuals but reader has only been with women before 🫣

As the World Caves In — {Hasan x Luigi x Reader}

Tags: bisexual!everybody, roommate reader, hurt/comfort, m/m/f, threesome, sexual orientation invalidation!!!, come eating, handjob, boys kissing, fluffy, sortofvirgin!Reader, everyone is a streamer, pet names, TURKISH pet names, there’s too much going on to tag everything

Wc: 8,240

🎪⭐️AND NOW FOR THE MAIN EVENT⭐️🎪

Uhh yall ever seen that stream where Hasan’s dad sets off the fire alarms and he goes “ahhh c’mon Baba” ?? Bc if you haven’t here it is. I think it’s so cute idc so I made his dad bring him back candy from home 🇹🇷 (bc he’s a sour bitch)

This is a LOOOONG one. I also added texts and a tweet (NOT X ) because idk why not. This has only been edited and proofread once.. do not blame me for mistakes teehee. Enjoy angels 🪽💋

"You've only been with women," Hasan muses through a mouthful of Turkish sour candy his Baba brought back from a visit back home, sprawled across the couch like he owns it (because he does), one leg dangling off the arm. "How do you even know you like guys?"

You catch yourself shifting between staring at him in disbelief and looking to Luigi for backup, but the latter hasn't even glanced up from his phone, though there's a telling tension in his shoulders that suggests he's listening.

"Lu," you appeal, gesturing at Hasan with barely contained exasperation, "are you hearing this bullshit?"

Luigi hums softly, "mm?" glancing up momentarily from his phone where he's engrossed in Trotti's latest article, Designing for Mars' Harsh Environment; and the way his brow furrows suggesting he's been lost in the technical aspects of atmospheric pressure design and radiation shielding.

"Hasan is implying that I'm not actually bisexual." You watch as Hasan's shoulders lift in that theatrical shrug of his, lips pursed in feigned innocence, expression saying 'who, me?' but the slight tension in his jaw betrays him. "As if he's somehow appointed himself the grand arbiter of everyone's sexuality. Like he's got a PhD in Who Gets To Be Bi, or some shit."

Hasan sucks his teeth, and it's the same dismissive sound he makes when dealing with trolls in his chat.

"Well, I've sucked dick and eaten pussy," he says, tilting his head at you with that same combative energy he usually reserves for debate lords on twitter. His voice has that edge to it, the one that says he thinks he's won something. "Can you say you've done that?"

The silence stretches between you, thick with irritation and something darker, his "Right" landing like a challenge, smug and entirely too self-satisfied.

Something twists in your chest — an achingly familiar sensation, echoing that first moment of realization about your sexuality.

It's that same cocktail of emotions; fear threading through your ribcage, confusion clouding your thoughts, but this time the shame hits harder.

It's different when it comes from someone who should know better, someone you considered safe.

You let the silence stretch, not trusting your voice to remain steady while part of you wants to list every crush, every lingering glance, every moment of clarity that brought you here — another part, the part still nursing that old wound, refuses to justify your identity to someone who should know better.

This is different — this is Hasan, and somehow that makes it worse.

"That's enough." Luigi’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and final. He doesn't even look up from his phone this time, just delivers the words with the kind of casual authority that suggests he's already bored with Hasan's take.

But his dismissal, however effective at silencing Hasan, skims right over the damage already done.

He misses the way your jaw is still clenched, how your fingers haven't loosened their grip on your arms, the slight tremor in your breathing.

The wound is already open — Hasan's words finding that tender spot where doubt used to live — and Luigi's quick defense, while appreciated, doesn't quite reach the deeper hurt settling in your chest.

"I'm going for a drive.” you say, voice steadier than you feel. Your keys are already in your hand — you don't remember reaching for them on the hook by the door, but there they are, cool metal looped around your pointer finger.

The house you all share suddenly feels too small, too close.

Usually, the lived-in chaos of three people's lives tangled together is comforting — Luigi's engineering journals scattered across the coffee table, Hasan's streaming room, your plants in every window.

Right now, though, it's suffocating.

"Hey, wait-“ Hasan starts, but you're already closing the front door behind you, pretending not to hear the way Luigi mutters "nice fucking job." as you leave.

The driver's seat of your car feels like refuge, and you start the engine before either of them can think to follow you out, though you catch a glimpse of movement behind the living room curtain as you pull away.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket almost immediately.

Then again. And again.

It's not even about Hasan's ignorance.

Not really.

It's about how quickly you were thrown back to being fifteen again, questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself and how easily someone you trust can make you feel like you're still trying to prove something.

You're not angry exactly, but you're not ready to face Hasan's awkward apology or Luigi's well-meaning but slightly detached attempt to mediate.

Your phone hasn't stopped its intermittent buzzing.

At a red light, you glance down to see multiple notifications from Hasan.

You switch the phone to silent and toss it onto the passenger seat.

The light turns green, and you take the coastal route automatically, muscle memory guiding you toward the overlook where you used to come and think before you all moved in together.

The overlook is empty when you pull in, just your car and the endless stretch of ocean ahead. You cut the engine but leave the keys in the ignition, letting the residual heat from the vents fight against the evening chill.

Below, waves crash against the rocks in a rhythm that's more felt than heard through the glass.

Your phone screen lights up again on the passenger seat — a separate message from Luigi this time.

The thing is, you know Hasan.

Know how he gets when he thinks he's right about something, how that energy sometimes bypasses his better judgment. Know he'll probably spend the next week trying to make it up to you with coffee just how you like it and random acts of thoughtfulness.

And you'll forgive him, because that's what you do in this weird little unit you've built together.

But right now, watching the last of the sun sink into the Pacific, you let yourself sit with the hurt.

Let yourself remember every dismissive comment, every raised eyebrow, every "but how do you know?" that came before this moment.

Let yourself feel fifteen, sixteen, seventeen again, just for a minute, before you have to go back to being an adult who understands that sometimes the people we love can be thoughtless without meaning to break something.

The dashboard clock blinks 7:43 when another text comes through. This time it's a photo from Luigi — Hasan sitting at the kitchen table looking miserable, clearly mid-rant about how he's "such a fucking asshole." And there’s something both comforting and irritating about seeing him process his guilt in real time.

Like, yes, you deserved better than his casual invalidation, but also, this isn't actually about making him feel better about feeling bad.

You switch the engine back on, more for the heat than anything else.

A few more cars have pulled into the overlook —couples and others seeking solitude, all keeping their respectful distance; It reminds you of the first time you came here, after telling your best friend you thought you might like girls, too.

How she'd said "cool" and kept painting her nails like you hadn't just shifted your entire world on its axis.

Your phone lights up again.

Despite everything, you feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

Trust Hasan to stress-cook his way through an apology, knowing full well the way to your heart will always be carbs.

You rest your forehead against the steering wheel, letting out a long breath that fogs the lower windshield.

The irony isn't lost on you — how Hasan, of all people, managed to trigger this particular flavor of insecurity. Hasan, who once went on a two-hour stream rant about bisexual erasure in media. Hasan, who literally has a pride flag hanging in his streaming room.

Your phone buzzes one more time. Luigi again.

The laugh that escapes you is small, but genuine.

The door barely clicks shut behind you before Hasan's there, all frantic energy and guilt-ridden affection. His hands find your face immediately, thumbs gentle against your cheekbones even as words tumble out of him. "I'm so fucking sorry," he breathes against your forehead between kisses, "I'm an absolute dickhead, I know, I'm the worst-“

You stay still in his hold, not pulling away but not melting into it either.

Over Hasan's shoulder, you catch Luigi watching from his spot on the couch, his expression careful, assessing whether to intervene.

Hasan's still murmuring apologies into your hair, and something in your chest aches at how genuinely distressed he is, but another part of you wants to hold onto the hurt just a little longer.

"I made pasta," he says softly, almost pleading. "And I swear to god I'll never say stupid shit like that again-“ He stops when you open your eyes to meet his, really seeing the hurt that still lingers there. "Fuck," he whispers, thumbs still moving gently across your soft skin. "I’m sorry.”

You suck in a slow breath and nod at him, side stepping toward the kitchen to grab a bowl from the cabinet, filling it with pasta that looks promising while behind you, Luigi and Hasan both stare at each other, coming to realize this likely won’t be fixed in a few hours time, or even a day.

And they were right.

You retreat into solitude, not exactly avoiding them but not seeking them out, either.

The ocean becomes your hiding spot — paddling out alone into the early morning swells, finding peace in the rhythm of waves rather than Hasan's encouraging calls or Luigi's excited whoops. When hunger draws you into town, you choose quiet corners in familiar cafes, picking at your food while mindlessly scrolling through social media, the empty chair across from you a silent companion.

It's not running away, you tell yourself.

It's just... processing.

You finally acknowledge the inevitable — you can't keep playing specter in your own home forever.

Still, when you push through the front door, exhaustion pulls you straight to your room like gravity, the soft click of your bedroom door feeling like surrender as you sink into the bed that's become both refuge and prison these past forty-eight hours.

The immediate gentle rap against wood is inevitable, like thunder after lightning.

Luigi's voice filters through, soft and hesitant, accompanied by the dull thud that tells you he's resting his head against your door. "Hey," he says, the word carrying the weight of two days' worth of unspoken conversations. "Can I come in?"

You remain curled in your defensive position, watching shadows shift under the door.

Part of you wants to maintain the silence, but Luigi's always been the easier one to face.

Your exhale feels heavy in your chest as you answer, "Yeah."

When the door opens, Luigi navigates your room like he's crossing a minefield, each step measured and deliberate until he settles beside you on the bed where his arm finds its way around you with practiced ease, and the familiar weight of him against your back is like a raft in the endless sea, pulling you back from the depths you've been drifting in.

The silence stretches between you, comfortable yet charged with everything unsaid.

His fingers brush your hair back with a tenderness that makes your throat tight, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. "You been taking care of yourself in here?" he asks softly, and you can hear him taking in the hurricane aftermath of your room — clothes scattered like debris, yesterdays coffee still on your nightstand, the general entropy of someone who stopped caring about order two days ago.

"Depends, is taking care of myself a spectrum that needs validating, too?" The words come out dripping with acid, but Luigi doesn't flinch. He's weathered your storms before, knows the difference between lightning meant to strike and lightning meant to illuminate.

"I think yes, actually.” he murmurs, continuing to card gentle fingers through your hair.

Each stroke pulls away another layer of your shield, exposing you inch by inch until you're left with nowhere to hide. Still, you keep your gaze fixed on the wall, as if the cream-colored paint holds answers to questions you haven't even formed yet.

It's easier than meeting his eyes, than seeing the understanding there that you're not sure you deserve.

"Fuck off," you whimper, retreating into your sweater paws like a wounded animal seeking shelter, waiting to die. "Just leave me alone." The words lack their usual bite, suddenly sounding more like a plea than a command.

Luigi's arm tightens around you in response, a silent refusal of your request. You can feel his resolve settling in like a physical weight — he won't budge until he's at least patched the surface wounds, even if the deeper cuts still need time to heal. "I'm just fucking with you," he whispers, and normally this would be fine — you've always been able to take his jabs, throw them back harder, even.

But something fundamental has shifted, like a fault line finally giving way, and Luigi recognizes the tremors. Now isn't the time to prod at fresh bruises, not when the initial impact is still reverberating.

"What he said wasn't right." Luigi burrows his face into your back, his words vibrating against your spine through the worn fabric of your comfort sweater, which just so happened to be one you’d stolen from Hasan’s closet ages ago and never gave back. "He was incredibly wrong for it. And I promise, he realizes that." The sincerity in his voice only feeds the bitterness coursing through you.

You wrench away enough to fix him with a glacial stare, lips curling into something cruel. "Oh, did he say that while he was bending you over the kitchen counter again?" The words come out like shards of glass, designed to cut. "Claiming he's so fucking bisexual when the only pussy he's gotten in like two years is yours."

It's a low blow and you know it — weaponizing their romance, their secret-to-everyone-else-but-you intimacy, turning it into ammunition.

But right now, you want it to hurt.

Luigi sucks in a sharp breath like your words branded him, but you catch the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "There she is." The fondness in his voice only makes your chest ache more.

You curl tighter into yourself, letting him pull you back against his chest, his arm around your middle feeling like the only thing holding your pieces together. "His bullshit god complex is fine when he's talking to a billion eighteen to twenty-somethings thirsting after him on the stream, but-“ your voice drops to something vulnerable, something raw, "there's no room for it at home."

You feel Luigi's chest vibrate with a low hum of agreement, his chin dipping in a slow nod against your shoulder. In that moment, you both understand that some boundaries, once crossed, require more than just an apology to rebuild.

"And he cancelled his fucking stream because he has to 'sort some shit out'?" Your laugh is all broken glass and razor wire. "Are you fucking serious?"

Luigi shifts behind you, and you can feel the moment he realizes you haven't seen what he has — Hasan pacing holes in the living room floor, running hands through his hair until it’s mussed into wild curls, the self-loathing written in every line of his body.

"You know, he only said that becau-"

But the dam has broken now, two days of silence exploding into sharp-edged storm of words. "One and a half million people losing their shit over his armpits, and he has to come at me for never fucking a dude?" Your voice cracks with the absurdity of it all, the hypocrisy burning in your throat.

The irony isn't lost on you — Hasan, who built his platform challenging toxic masculinity, somehow becoming the very voice he fights against in your own home.

"Well, baby, I think it's-"

"What does that have to do with him, anyway? Other than the fact that he was trying to prove he was more bisexual than me." The words taste bitter as they leave your mouth, and you hear their childish edge even as you speak them, but the floodgates have already broken.

"He's not even fucking out, either. And if I wanted to hit below the belt like he hit me, I would tell him that much." Your breath catches, sharp and painful as you teeter on the edge of something unforgivable. "That at least my audience knows-"

"It's because he wants to fuck you."

Your tirade dies in your throat, jaw clicking shut as your brain frantically attempts to process what you've just heard and the anger that's been fueling you suddenly stutters, like an engine running out of gas.

"He what?"

Luigi's sigh is gentle against your neck, his hand moving in soothing strokes along your thigh. "Did you actually not hear me, or-" There's a hint of knowing amusement in his voice, like he's watched you slam headfirst into a wall you didn't even know was there.

"No - I -" The words catch as you wrench yourself upright, staring down at Luigi who's sprawled on his back now, watching you with that impossibly gentle expression that somehow makes this whole thing worse. "I fucking heard you."

"Oh. Ok." His response is casual, almost lazy, but his eyes never leave your face as you both fester in the silence. It's a peculiar moment — you, processing this seismic shift in understanding, and Luigi, looking like he's finally set down a burden he's been carrying for ages.

The dynamic between the three of you had always walked a blurry line — something your viewers had picked up on long before you'd bothered to examine it.

Your Twitch chat would explode whenever Hasan wandered shirtless through your frame, or when Luigi's casual touches lingered just a breath too long when he offers to feed you a bite of his croissants.

Their viewers weren't any better, clipping every loaded glance, every playful flirtation, crafting theories about the true nature of your household's relationships on its own SubReddit.

You'd never felt the need to define it, to box it into labels. The kisses shared with Hasan had come easy — pressed against kitchen counters after too many drinks, or sprawled on Hawaiian beaches with tabs of acid dissolving on your tongues. With Luigi, it was even more natural, affection flowing between you like an old married couple at times.

But you'd always attributed it to the comfortable freedom of chosen family, to the way certain substances and settings made loving your friends feel as natural as breathing.

Now, though, you're forced to wonder if you've been willfully blind to something your audiences saw clearly years ago.

"So all those times..." you trail off, mind racing through months of interactions with new context — the lingering touches, the heated arguments that felt more like foreplay, the way his eyes would track you across rooms. "When chat would spam those emotes during our streams..”

Luigi's laugh is soft, knowing. "You mean when your chat goes feral every time Hasan walks by and flexes? Or when his chat loses it whenever you wear his merch to sleep?" He props himself up on an elbow, gesturing to the sweater on your body in that very moment, watching your face process. "They've been seeing it for months.“

You think about the clips that circulate — moments caught on stream that seemed innocent at the time but now feel charged with meaning.

The way Hasan's hand would find your waist during group photos, how he'd get particularly aggressive in defending you from chat's criticism, those late-night streams where his gaze would linger just a bit too long.

"But you and him-“ you start, then stop, uncertain how to frame the question.

"Me and him what?" Luigi prompts gently, though his expression suggests he knows exactly what you're struggling to articulate. "Are together? Kinda. Not really. But that doesn't negate-“ He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Look, we've never been conventional, the three of us. You know that."

You sink back down beside him, mind spinning. "So when he came at me about being fake-bisexual-“

"He was projecting. Hard." Luigi's fingers find your hair again, resuming their soothing rhythm. "You know how he gets when he's fighting feelings he's not ready to deal with. Don’t forget, he spent a whole week two years ago ranting about parasocial relationships on stream right before he realized he actually had his own fucked up obsession with me before we met.”

"So this whole identity crisis meltdown was actually about-“

"About wanting you? Yeah. And feeling guilty about wanting you, because of me, because of his public image, because of a million other things his anxiety-riddled brain came up with."

You let out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling. "Jesus Christ, we're all fucking idiots."

"Speak for yourself," Luigi's tone is playful, but there's an undercurrent of something more serious. "Some of us have been very aware of what's going on. Just waiting for the other two to catch up."

The thought of Luigi watching this whole dance play out, understanding both sides while you and Hasan circled each other like cat and mouse makes you groan. "How long?"

"That stream where you both got into it. The one that ended up all over LSF.” His fingers continue their gentle path through your hair. "The way he looks at you when you’re fired up, passionate — I knew. And I knew you were just as drawn to him, even if you were both too fucking stubborn to see it."

As if beckoned, there's another tap at the door — lighter than Luigi's had been, less confident, but heavy all the same. "Hey," Hasan begins, his forehead pressed against the door just as Luigi's had been moments before, "can I come in?"

You look at Luigi, and then at the door, hoping that maybe he'd make the decision for you, but it seems he's in no mood to rescue you any further. His dark eyes meet yours with quiet understanding — this is your move to make, your decision to call. The weight of it settles in your chest, alongside the echo of Hasan's voice, uncharacteristically small through the wood.

“Come in.” You decide eventually, your voice light, unsure, terrified of ruining anything further than it may have already been.

The sight of him when he opens your door is warm, his body as large as usual, but he looks much smaller somehow, his features soft with solemn, his cheeks stained red from the last two days of worrying — it’s breathtaking in a way, seeing him in a new light, bound to you with new purpose.

Luigi stays propped on his elbow, his fingertips grazing gently over your forearm as he waits for his world to heal, or to cave in.

"Please forgive me." Hasan scrubs his hands over his face, glasses abandoned somewhere in his room, leaving him looking strangely naked and boyish without them. "Or tell me you'll never look at me again. Just-“ he sucks in a shuddering breath, "Let me live or put me out of my misery."

You can't help but note his theatrics, the way he wears his heart on his sleeve like a Shakespearean tragedy.

But there's nothing artificial about it — this is purely Hasan, who's always felt everything at maximum volume; you’ve seen it countless times in the way he rants about politics until his voice goes hoarse, how his eyes follow Luigi across rooms, and how he throws his whole body into laughing at your jokes.

Despite how deeply his words had cut you two nights ago, despite the ache that still sits heavy in your chest, you know his pain is just as real. He's been wrestling with his own demons these past few days — torn between his undefined limbo with Luigi, his growing feelings for you, and the fear of destroying the delicate ecosystem the three of you have created.

"Come here." Your voice comes out barely above a whisper, softer than you've ever spoken to him, but your arms reach out with more certainty than your words. He stares at the offered embrace like it might be a mirage, like you might snatch it away the moment he moves and the hesitation in his usually confident movements makes your heart clench.

Finally, he breaks, crossing the space between you in those long strides of his. The bed dips under his weight as he slides in, fitting himself into the space between you and Luigi like he's afraid of taking up too much room — so different from his usual sprawling presence.

Then he's folding himself around you, his broad frame covering yours completely, face buried in the crook of your neck as he holds you like he's memorizing the feeling, like you might dissolve into smoke if he loosens his grip.

The quiet settles around you like a blanket, broken only by the soft sounds of breathing and the distant hum of city life through your window.

Hasan's weight should feel suffocating, but instead it grounds you, pulls you back from the edge of the last few days where everything felt like it was spinning out of control.

You feel Luigi's hand slide up your arm again, a tender point of contact that bridges the gap between all three of you, and then his fingers trail higher until they tangle in the short hairs at the nape of Hasan's neck, and you feel the larger man shudder against you at the touch.

It's intimate in a way that makes your chest tight — not with jealousy as it might have been before, but with something else, something expanding and undefined.

"I'm sorry," Hasan mumbles again into your skin, his lips brushing against your collarbone with each word. "I didn't mean to- I wasn't trying to-" He struggles to find the words, and you feel his frustration in how his fingers curl tighter into your (his) sweatshirt.

You wait, patient now in a way you couldn't be during the argument, letting him find his way through the tangle of his thoughts.

"I know," you murmur, because you do. You understand now what you couldn't see through the red haze of hurt before — how his fear of disrupting the careful balance between the three of you had made him lash out, pushing you away before you could reject him first.

How he'd been watching you and Luigi dance around each other for over a year now, the same way you'd been watching them, and Luigi and been watching the two of you, everyone too afraid to acknowledge the growing tension, the deliberate touches, the prolonged glances across the dinner table.

Luigi's hand leaves Hasan's neck to cup your cheek, turning your face toward him. His eyes are dark and serious in the dim light of your bedroom, searching your face for something, and whatever he finds there makes his expression soften, the corner of his mouth lifting in that quiet way of his that always makes your heart swell.

"You could have just told me." The words come out softer than intended as you look at Luigi, one hand absently trailing along Hasan's spine where he's still draped over you. "Both of you."

There's a weighted pause, and Luigi meets your gaze with that gentle steadiness of his, though you catch the slight tension in his jaw. "Well," he says finally, "I just did."

His voice carries a note of something — not quite defense, not quite apology. His fingers trace abstract patterns against your shoulder, and you know he's thinking of all the times he'd tried to bridge this gap before.

It was never his place to unravel Hasan's heart for him, though Luigi had always been the bravest of you three when it came to matters of love — quick to affirm his feelings for you both, ready to acknowledge the way his affection spilled over boundaries you'd all pretended to maintain.

Even now, watching him watch Hasan, you can see that same careful love in his eyes, patient and unwavering.

Often, Luigi would wonder if you truly didn't see it or if you were choosing to look away — if maybe that was easier than acknowledging the way Hasan's eyes would linger on you both over morning coffee, the way conversations would stretch into loaded silences, the way touch had become its own language between the three of you.

A year of each of you being just out of reach.

"Tell you what?" Hasan lifts his head from your neck, and this close you can see every detail of his face — the constellation of freckles across his nose, the slight crease between his brows, the vulnerability raw in his eyes.

He looks at you first, then Luigi, and you feel the moment his heart rate spikes, the thundering pulse where his chest meets yours. It's strange, you think, how someone so large can suddenly seem so fragile, caught between fight and flight.

You look between them — Luigi's knowing half-smile, Hasan's deer-in-headlights stare — and something warm unfurls in your chest. Your arms tighten around Hasan instinctively, leg hooking over his thigh as if to keep him from bolting. "You handle crushes like a middle schooler," you murmur, and the words should be teasing but they come out tender instead, wrapped in all the affection you've been carefully compartmentalizing.

Hasan's breath catches audibly, and you feel the tremor that runs through him, see the way his pupils dilate as he processes your words while Luigi huffs out a soft laugh, reaching over to brush his knuckles against the dimple in your cheek, the gesture achingly familiar.

You throw caution to the wind, tired of the performance, tired of pretending. With one arm still wrapped around Hasan, you reach for Luigi, fingers curling into his shirt to draw him closer. His eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning just before your lips meet his.

It's nothing like your previous kisses — those hazy moments colored by tequila shots or mushrooms on a beach in Hawaii, always with plausible deniability come morning.

This is deliberate, clear-headed, a statement as much as it is a kiss.

You feel Hasan's breath hitch against your neck, feel the way his fingers tighten in your sweatshirt.

But he doesn't pull away — if anything, he presses closer, like he's afraid to miss a moment of this as Luigi makes a soft sound against your mouth, something reverent and wanting.

When you finally break apart, Luigi's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. His thumb traces your lower lip, and you feel Hasan shudder against you at the gesture.

"Fuck," Hasan breathes, and the raw want in his voice makes you shiver. His eyes are fixed on where Luigi's thumb still rests against your lip, tracking the small movement like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. There's color high on his cheeks, spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his tshirt.

Luigi turns his attention to Hasan then, and you watch the silent communication pass between them — years of friendship and something-more-but-not-quite spiraling into this moment. "Your turn," Luigi murmurs, and the gentle command in his voice makes something warm pool in your stomach.

Hasan hesitates for just a moment, his eyes darting between you both as if seeking permission one final time, and you answer by sliding your hand up his neck, into his hair, guiding him down until his lips meet yours.

Where Luigi was sure and steady, Hasan kisses like he's drowning, like he's been holding himself back for so long that now he can't help but pour everything into it. His weight shifts fully onto you, pressing you deeper into the mattress, and you feel Luigi's hand slip between your bodies, resting over Hasan's thundering heart.

When you break apart, Hasan's eyes are glassy, his lips parted. Luigi makes a soft sound, something between appreciation and want, before he's leaning in to capture Hasan's mouth with his own.

You watch them kiss above you, mesmerized by the way they fit together, by how right it feels to be caught between them like this.

"Mm," you hum, fingers finding the hem of Hasan's shirt. You lift it slowly, deliberately, giving him time to object if he wants to. "I get to prove my bi-ness to the king himself." The words come out soft, teasing but tender.

Your hands smooth up his sides as the fabric rises, and you feel the shiver that runs through him, see the vulnerable look in his eyes that says he can't quite believe this is real as his expression shifts from dazed to stunned, the full meaning hitting him, his eyes darting between you and Luigi as the pieces click into place. "But you haven't-"

"I know," you murmur, nuzzling against his cheek, feeling the slight rasp of stubble against your skin. “No need to remind me again.”

Your right hand finds Luigi's shirt, drawing him in for another kiss — brief but full of promise, and when you pull back, you meet Hasan's wide-eyed gaze with a soft smile. "Who better, though?"

Who better than these two men who've become so integral to your life, who make you feel safe and wanted and understood?

Hasan makes a choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "No pressure or anything," he manages, but there's a tremor in his voice that betrays how affected he is by the idea.

Luigi's hand slides up Hasan's back, steadying in its nature. "We'll take care of you.” he says, and though his words are directed at you, you feel Hasan relax under his touch.

"Please," you whisper, and you're not sure what exactly you're asking for — their hands, their mouths, their patience as you learn their bodies. Maybe all of it. Your fingers return to the hem of Hasan's shirt, this time with more purpose. "Off. Both of you.”

Luigi's smile turns knowing, and he sits back just enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion and Hasan follows suit, though with less grace.

The contrast between them; Luigi's lean elegance and Hasan's broad strength, it makes your core rattle and your teeth chatter.

They're different from what you're used to — where women were soft floral notes and gentle exploration, Hasan and Luigi are warm spice and intent. Their hands are familiar, but transformed now by purpose and care.

You find yourself cataloging the contrasts.

The slight roughness of palms, the broader spans of fingers, the way they move with a reverence that's both tender and hungry. It's new territory, but you're finding that different doesn't mean daunting.

Luigi notices your contemplation. "Still with us?" he murmurs against your shoulder, and you nod, tilting your head to catch his eye.

It truly feels like time slows and speeds all at the same time and eventually, there’s nothing left between the three of you besides skin and eager breaths — there’s a mouth pressing kisses to your side, right across your ribs, and another pair of lips trailing down past your hip bones, right between your thighs that are nudged apart with an eager chin.

When you open your eyes to look down, you're met with a sight that would make renaissance masters weep — Luigi's elegant hands mapping the curves of your body, his green eyes dark with desire as they hold your gaze.

Hasan worships your inner thighs with desperate, reverent kisses, his usual boundless energy transformed into something achingly tender, and they work in perfect harmony — Luigi steadying one trembling thigh while Hasan lavishes attention on the other, both of them treating you with a gentleness that they always have, but different now.

"You ok?" The question drifts up through the fog of anticipation, and though their voices are usually so distinct, right now you couldn't say which of them asked. You manage a nod, fingers finding Hasan's wrists and holding on like a lifeline as your brows draw together with barely contained want; you can feel the heat in your cheeks, the desire making your blood sing.

"Mhmm," you whimper, the sound more desperate than you intended. "I - fuck. I'm ok." The words come out breathless, broken.

They interpret your response as permission, their worship transforming instantly into raw hunger.

Luigi's mouth traces a passionate path across your body — lavishing attention on your nipples before trailing heated kisses from chest to neck and back again. Meanwhile, Hasan's strong hands encircle your thighs, spreading them wider as he tastes you. His tongue works in deliberate patterns, the wet heat traveling slow from your entrance to your clit.

Each touch is a careful study of your reactions — the way you arch when teeth graze skin, how your breath catches at the perfect pressure. They decode you like a language, discovering which caresses make you shiver and which make you melt. Every mark they leave feels intentional, every kiss calculated, as if they're composing and using your body's responses as their score.

And you love all of it.

Luigi's fingers trail through Hasan's hair as he works between your thighs, the tender gesture drawing a deep hum against your sensitive flesh. "You sound so pretty like this," Luigi murmurs against your ear, his voice honey-warm and intimate. “Still ok?” Your only response is yet another desperate and trembling nod as Hasan slowly presses a single finger inside you, his touch careful but insistent.

His lips worship the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and when he looks up to meet Luigi's gaze, there's something primal in their shared glance that makes your pulse quicken. "Fuck, Lu," Hasan breathes, his voice rough with desire.

Your body betrays your limited experience — every flutter and tension around his finger confirms what you'd thought was just a myth about first times. The way you instinctively clench around him has Hasan moving with exquisite care, his concern for your comfort evident as he presses sweet kisses to the rest of you, as if to apologize.

He lavishes gentle attention on your most sensitive spot, his tongue eventually moving in careful circles while he watches his finger ease in and out of you; the sight of your body gripping him so tightly, combined with the velvet heat of you, draws a low sound from his throat, “Tell me if it’s too much, baby.”

The stretch when he adds a second finger makes your breath catch — his thick digits creating a fullness that your own explorations never prepared you for. Instead of voicing the keen building in your throat, you anchor yourself by gripping Luigi's arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath your trembling fingers.

Luigi presses close, his temple hot against yours, each ragged exhale searing itself into your memory. "That's it, sweet girl," he breathes, his voice dark velvet against your ear. "Tell me how good it feels." The raw need in his tone makes your entire body flush with heat, caught between his whispered encouragement and Hasan's relentless attention below.

Your breath comes in sharp gasps as Hasan's rhythm intensifies. His gaze remains transfixed, drinking in every reaction while Luigi cradles you, murmuring devotions as if you're something precious and divine. "I- fuck — so fucking-“ The words fracture as pleasure builds, your thighs trembling wider as your fingers reach to tangle desperately in Hasan's dark curls. "Please, I'm about to-"

He withdraws his touch with careful reluctance, making a show of bringing his glistening fingers first to his own mouth, then to Luigi's waiting lips.

The sight of them sharing the taste of you sends electricity down your spine, almost enough to tick you right over the edge.

“Not yet.”

Clearly, this is merely the prelude.

"Please," tumbles from your lips once more, the uncertainty crystallizing into clarity. "Fuck me."

They move in perfect synchronization, a wordless understanding passing between them.

Luigi takes position while Hasan settles beside you, his hands mapping gentle paths across your skin, lips trailing warm kisses from your cheek to the hollow of your throat.

The stark difference in their sizes suddenly illuminates their choice — Luigi's perfect proportions versus Hasan's overwhelming abundance.

Luigi teases you with exquisite patience, drawing his length along the slick of your entrance to your clit until you're trembling, your fingers instinctively seeking out Hasan's curls, pulling him closer as your breath catches with each careful stroke.

Hasan's hand slides between your thighs with purposeful tenderness, guiding you to open wider, his touch is steady and sure as he helps position you for Luigi, who's transformed into a vision of desire — cheeks flushed pink, breath coming in soft pants as he aligns himself, and when he finally presses forward, it's with such care that your heart nearly rips in two.

He treats you like something precious, something that could shatter with too much force; in this moment, their strategic decision becomes even clearer — they've chosen the gentlest possible introduction to this new pleasure.

Despite Hasan's innate gentleness, he knows his limits — the decision to let Luigi guide you through this first experience speaks volumes of his devotion to you, and in turn, his devotion to Luigi.

The recognition of his own intensity, and his choice to put your comfort first.

Both boys release deep, resonant sounds of approval as Luigi settles fully inside you, his eyes searching your features intently, reading every micro-expression as pleasure begins to eclipse the initial discomfort. "You doing alright, askim?" Hasan's whisper is tender against your ear, and your eager nod is accompanied by your hand finding his cock, hard and desperate beside you.

The evidence of his arousal coating your fingers only emphasizes how much restraint he's showing for your sake, but Luigi’s response to you is electric — both from being buried inside you and watching you come undone.

His grip on your hips tightens as his thrusts grow more confident, more purposeful, and your plea for more sends a visible shiver through him, though your strokes along Hasan's length are uneven, the combination of your touch and the scene unfolding before him draws deep, guttural sounds from his throat.

The initial discomfort melts away entirely, replaced by waves of pleasure that have you making sounds you've never heard from yourself before — soft whimpers evolving into breathless gasps and high, needy cries as Luigi finds his rhythm.

"We should have had you like this ages ago," Luigi breathes, dipping down to capture your lips before turning to kiss Hasan, who's come completely undone beside you, his usual composure dissolving into heavy breaths and desperate sounds. "Taking it so good.” Luigi praises, his voice thick with adoration.

A sharp breath hisses between your teeth as an absurd thought flickers through your mind — what those dedicated internet sleuths would make of this scene, those who parse every glance and gesture between you three.

How different from their careful analyses is this reality.

Then again, you know there’s plenty who have imagined this exact scenario.

Luigi's breathing grows increasingly erratic, and you instinctively pull him deeper, wanting to feel every tremor, every twitch of muscle; Hasan reads the signs as clearly as you do, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth as he whispers, "Gonna make Lu come, hm?."

Your brows knit together as you watch where your bodies join, mesmerized by the sight of yourself taking his cock like your body was built for it.

Hasan's voice is rough with need when he asks, "Where do you want him?”

Your wordless answer comes in the form of clinging arms and a pleading look at Hasan, who considers only briefly before giving a subtle nod. "Oh," Luigi breathes, understanding washing over his features. "That’s my baby."

The sensation is foreign but instantly addictive — the flood of warmth deep inside your body, Luigi's movements becoming languid and tender as he works through his release. His kisses turn messy and desperate against your lips, punctuated by breathless praise. "Y’did so good," he pants between kisses, "so perfect.”

Their transition is seamless again — Luigi settling beside you while Hasan returns to taste the evidence of what came before, his tongue moving with dedicated purpose, savoring the mingled essence of you both. "Ready to go again?" Luigi murmurs against your skin, teeth grazing your chin with playful intent, his satisfied smile suggesting he already knows the answer.

“Mhmm,” you find yourself mirroring his expression, every wall you’d ever built long gone now, washed away downstream, never to return.

Hasan feels different from Luigi, the stretch making your thighs tremble as a low whine ripples from your core, your hands grabbing for anyone, anything to hold onto as you curse, “Jesus fucking-“ your lungs filling with ragged breaths, the fullness you feel this time different from his fingers, or even from Luigi. “Goddamn.”

“You’re ok,” Luigi whispers, reaching to smooth your hair out of your face again, his thumb grazing your cheekbone with a tenderness he’d only reserved for the two of you. “Just takes a minute.” He assures, and Hasan barely has a quarter of himself inside you then, only taking it inch by inch every few moments that pass, watching as your expression shifts. “Doing so good, sweet girl.”

Eventually, Hasan begins to move his hips, his rhythm achingly slow but surprisingly controlled, his eyes cast over you like you’ve always meant everything, and finally, he gets his fill — again, the ache that settled and washed away with Luigi does the same after a few minutes getting adjusted to the size of Hasan, your hips in his hands as his pace becomes a bit more substantial, his eyes still scanning over you like you’re sacred.

“So fucking-“ Hasan hisses softly, his jaw slack as he watches his cock disappear inside of you, only to reappear again, the slick heat you’re imparting onto him glistening between you. “Fuck, baby.”

There’s more worship done to your body than you’d ever experienced before, kisses to your chest, your neck, hands holding you tenderly wherever they possibly can and eventually, Hasan holds back nothing, his hips rutting into you with a newfound purpose.

The purpose?

To completely wreck you.

And that’s exactly what he does, your eyes becoming unfocused, your body harnessing a mind of its very own, the same squeals from earlier eventually becoming silent, dying in the back of your throat before they can see daylight.

Everything blurs into soft kisses and sweet murmurs before Hasan's control finally breaks. His hips snap against yours with years of pent-up longing — all that time spent holding back, terrified of losing what matters most.

When the next dose of warmth floods you, it's the final push that sends you tumbling over that precipice you've been hovering near for what feels like forever, shattering into a symphony of sounds you never knew you could make — soft whimpers dissolving into desperate cries, every nerve ending sings an alien song you hardly understand.

Their instant kisses trace delicate paths across your flushed skin while lingering aftershocks ripple through your body like electric currents, each tender touch and whispered affection wrapping you in waves of pure adoration as you bask in feeling more cherished, more completely loved than you've ever known possible.

Luigi nuzzles against your ear with feather-light tenderness, his lips brushing your earlobe as he whispers words that feel like sacred devotion, each syllable a prayer offered at your altar — holy, yet tinged with sweet desperation as he trails kisses along your jaw, "We love you so much, would never let anything hurt you."

And Hasan presses close on your other side, his face nestled against yours as if trying to memorize every detail — your scent, the softness of your skin, the gentle rhythm of your breathing — etching this perfect moment into his soul like capturing light, his whispered words mirroring Luigi's devotion, "Never want to know a life that doesn't have you in it like this."

Your mind drifts hazily through the layers of his meaning — whether he's speaking of his long-standing connection with Luigi, this moment you're sharing, or perhaps your chosen path in an industry that puts you on display for the world to dissect.

Which pieces of your intertwined lives is he holding closest?

Scattered across the internet are countless interpretations of your dynamic — elaborate theories spun from fleeting glances, artwork born from imagined moments, stories woven from fragments of on-stream interactions, and you’d always dismissed it as background noise, just the natural consequence of putting yourself in front of an audience, the predictable result of human nature seeking patterns and meaning.

But there's an unsettling truth that rises to your chest — somehow these strangers on the internet had pieced together what you couldn't see in yourself, had mapped the contours of your heart before you'd even begun to explore them.

And that is more than enough to cause anyone to spiral.

(I’m sorry I’m afraid you crash out after this)

[bee-the-loser-recs]

✩✮✩ My Yeonjun One-shot Fic Recs ✩✮✩

★ 11.58pm By @agustdiv1ne 4.9k, Yeonjun x reader x Taehyun, frat boys TXT, friends to ???, threesome, poly situation, stoners, recreational marijuana, smut, car sex, slight fluff

★ Candy hearts By @agustdiv1ne 10.5k, childhood friends to lovers, idiots in love, fluff, angst, friendiversaries, long term pining, watching the person you love date someone else

★ 12:43 a.m. By @agustdiv1ne 2.9k, college party, past hook-ups, slight angst, plot, love confessions, fluff, friends to lovers, smut

★ "Pictures I posted on my IG story just for my crush to see" By @lost-leopard-beanie SMAU, college au?, fluff, humour, cute trend, Yeonjun is pining after reader

★ Texts with bf!Yeonjun By @blue-jisungs SMAU, established relationship, texts between reader & Yeonjun, fluff, humour, mentions of Boynextdoor

★ Long distance bf Jjunie + the pictures he sends you By @moamidzyism SMAU, established relationship, long distance relationship, fluff, slight suggestiveness, cute pictures

★ With you, even a fall is beautiful By @restlessmaknae 3.4k, slice of life au, dance studio, first meetings, meet cute, fluff, dancing

★ Too young By @loveliestfelix 3.4k, ex-friends to potential lovers, angst, fluff, mentions of divorce and cheating, reader has a child & shitty ex-husband, TXT friends

★ First for everything By @choiwonder 0.6k, new established relationship, implied spending the night together, teasing, fluff, clingy, in love

★ Don't move, honey By @wonustars 5k, college au, popular/social Yeonjun, shy/asocial reader, smut, slight fluff, mutual feelings, opposites attracts, slight jealousy, angsty

★ Thoughts on food truck chef!Yeonjun x office worker!reader By @blackhairedjjun Drabble, meet cute, mentions of overworking, sweet relationship build up, subtle flirting

★ Cliche By @heart2beom Best friends to lovers, fluff, crack, a little angst, jealousy, mutual pining, emotionally dumb Yeonjun

★ Bad impression By @txt-trash 9.4k, college au, playboy!Yeonjun, catching feelings, smut, slight fluff, jealousy, initially disliking one another, college parties, cold reader, whipped

★ Former lover's dance By @txt-trash 10.5k, college au, both Yeonjun & reader are dancers/choreographers, ex fwb to lovers, smut, slight fluff

★ 5% tint By @dearlyjun 1.2k, sugar daddy!Yeonjun, college student reader, smut, slight fluff, being proud of a test result, car sex

★ Quiet By @aerasx 1k, established relationship, birthday gifts and plans, smut, Yeonjun's birthday, slight fluff

★ Playing hard to get with Yeonjun at the hybe picnic By @kimbappykidding Idol Yeonjun and reader, fluff, angst, mentions of Joshua from Svt, hybe picnic setting, mutual interest, jealousy, getting together

★ Just for tonight? By @koqabear 3.8k, college au, college parties, pwp, strangers to lovers, bad boy Yeonjun, smut, slight angst, marijuana use, shitty Park Jongseong

★ Nights like these By @koqabear 7.7k, Yeonjun x reader x Taehyun, roommates au, fluff, drinking, discussions of past hook-ups, smut, love confessions kind of

★ Attention By @koqabear 5.8k, rockstar au, Yeonjun x reader x beomgyu, established relationship between Yeonjun and reader, smut, pwp

★ Princess treatment By @ghstzzn 3.8k, Yeonjun x reader x Taehyun, college au??, friends w/benefits, clubbing, slight drinking, smut, kind of fluff, poly in a sense

★ Pretty eyes By @banggyu0308 4.7k, Taehyun x reader x Yeonjun, non-specified au, art student reader, established relationship between Yeonjun & reader, smut, slight fluff

★ Our little darling By @sophvilla Yeonjun x reader x Soobin, unspecified au, bf Yeonjun, best friend Soobin, smut, threesome

★ Busy signal & Fit check By @biteyoubiteme 4.7k and 3k, Yeonjun x reader x Kai, established relationship, polyamorous, smut, slight fluff, suggestive photos, trying on outfits, gifts from a partner

[midnights-with-him]

cruel summer (j.fisher x reader) pt1

song: cruel summer, t.s, lover

(can u tell i love taylor swift??)

summary: fate decides its a cruel fucking summer when jeremiah asks you out and then kisses belly conklin in your pool

warnings: ANNNGGGSSSTTT swearing

a/n: okay honestly im team jeremiah and ive been dreaming of like yn dating him and then the pool scene from s1 but its CHEATING

(no happy ending in this part, but im thinking of doing another part or maybe two more, and MAYYYBBEE eventually happy ending?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

killing me slow, out the window, i'm always waiting for you to be waiting below - t.s

it was a hot summer day in july when jeremiah fisher asked you out last year.

you had been pining over him for about two years, and it was impeccably timed, he led you out to the pool and you two jumped in, and then, after four laps and a race to the five-feet-deep mark (who's counting?) he asked you out.

school days had consisted of your father's nagging, schoolwork, christmas with a mailed package from someone, tests, facetimes with the same someone, broken pencils, fake friends, texts during unbearable math lessons, and then flowers blooming and school turning into summer.

and it was a cruel fucking summer.

your father was somewhat of a legend lawyer in town, and you were the legendary princess, gifted a car two years before the ripe age of sixteen. taylor had one remarked, the night after you confessed your crush on him last year during the fall, at a sleepover with belly and taylor, that "you two would have super-hot rich babies!" with made all three of you collapse in giggles.

your father and laurel had met in college, a fact not lost on your dad, as he kept pestering you to go to the same school as him, and then the same lawschool, and then the same law firm. at first you had thought all people from his college must be screwed on too tight like him, but then you met laurel, who laughed and cursed and sang and danced in public and in private, and then you met susanna on your first trip with taylor to cousins, susanna who jumped in the pool fully clothed, and took you to the beach everyday, and asked you to stay the entire summer, every summer.

but this summer was a cruel fucking summer.

it was a deliriously hot night in august, the days where it was colder outside in the breeze than inside with the AC, so you turned your AC off, blasted taylor swift for the fun of it, and stuck you head out the window with your hair down, hoping to catch and lingering breeze to throw your hair around.

you were craning your neck outside your window, trying to catch the breeze that was rustling the trees around you gently, trying to see if taylor would stick her head out the window from the sounds of the blaring voice of her name double. or belly.

belly, who had been your friend before taylor, but was now somewhat infatuated with conrad, who always seemed brooding and depressing to you, the black cat to the golden reteriver jeremiah.

jeremiah. jeremiah, who got steven to make you free slushies whenever you stopped by the country club. jeremiah, who always sent you packages of gifts on christmas and your birthday. jeremiah, who always shared his penny candy with you, picking your favorite flavors.

jeremiah. your jeremiah.

or, in fact, belly's jeremiah, you realized, as you looked down at the pool.

at first, you thought it was just one person in the water, but then, you squinted, and you saw small lines between them, the water glowing from the pool lights.

your mind immedieatly flashed to belly and conrad, and you were sure, so sure it was them, because when the person closer to your window came up for hair, it was belly, her hair slicked back from the chlorine water, smiling. for a moment, for a hopeful moment, you thought the other perosn was conrad, because his hair wasn't curly, and it was dark, but then that person tilted his head and you saw it was jeremiah, your jeremiah, hair down from the pool water and darkened by the night surrouding you.

you expected to feel rash anger, like maddie in euphoria, like regina george would, like a pretty, confident girl would.

you didn't feel your emotion at first, but then you felt it, your eyes going glassy, and you could imagine them turning red, and tears blurred your vision, reminding you that you were sad, and you were about to cry.

it was jeremiah, your jeremiah, with belly, who was alos your belly. the belly who showed you around the town yoru first year here, who shared clothes with you and taught you how to shave because you were too chicken to ask your dad.

the first song faded into another and you turned to grab you phone and absentmindedly stopped the blasted song, your face still glued to jeremiah and belly. their heads suddenly darted up when the song stopped, probably thinking the previous love ballad was just an addition to their sweet kiss.

her eyes found you first, and for a second, they locked onto yours, deep brown eyes staring at you, and horror flitted across her face. you waited for regret or shame, but just horror filled her face, and the tears turned hot and angry as they streamed down your face.

then his eyes found you, crying on the window, and his face morhped into all the things you expected it to be. you were never good at reading people, that was jeres thing, but you saw everything in an instant, all the regret and shame and shock and everything piling in his face, before he whirled around to the steps leading out of the pool. once he got out of the pool, water dripping from his hair, he darted into the house, soaking wet.

you stared at belly a little longer, wondering if her face would change. if a little sorry of creep in, if she would scream: "yn, he kissed me," because then at least you wouldn't lose one of your best friends too.

but her face stayed the same, and only when you heard noises from the house did you realize jeremiah was coming up to talk to you.

a sob broke out, sounding wild and lose and angry and heartbroken, and you flung your door open and grabbed your phone, throwing yourself out into the hallway. part of you wanted to face jeremiah, to scream at him with tears running down your face, heartbroken, but the bigger part of you was too weak to scream, so you ran to taylor's door, and knocked, leaning against the door.

when taylor appeared, gorgerous as ever, openening the door, her face morphed into an O and she pulled you inside, closing the door behind her.

"what happened?" she grabbed your arms and shook you while the sobs flew out of your mouth. tears traced a path down your face, and taylor wiped them off, her fingers now stained with black mascara. "yn, what happened?"

"jeremiah," you croaked, throuhg the sobs. "jeremiah kissed, he k-kissed," you words were trembling and you threw her name out into the frew. "belly. he kissed belly in the pool and i saw it and-"

"what the FUCK," taylor shrieked, her eyes wide, a small gasp of anger escaping her lips. in your state of heartbreak you seemed to be able to notice everything. "did he-"

her voice was cut off by susannas, downstairs, complaining loudly.

"jere, jere, jere! where are you going in such a hurry, you're dripping wet!" the walls were thin in the house and you could hear footsteps up the stairs.

"just a minute mom, wait, please, please wait," his voice was jumbled too, and his footsteps were quick, and taylor had just enough time to walk in front of the door and lunge for the handle before it was yanked out of her reach.

he stood there.

his hair was impossibly wet, and it was making puddles on the floor as he stood there looking at taylor, who had her hands on her hips and her nostrils flared, you could tell from even behind her. she was shielding you from his view, and gratitiude surged like a tsunami in your heart for her.

"taylor, is she here? her door was open, and she wasn't there-" he tried craning his neck, he was taller, but taylor moved her body according to his gaze and snapped:

"get out. get the fuck out, jeremiah."

she always used a flirting tone with jeremiah, the tone she used with all the boys even when she had a boyfriend, but the kind of empty flirthing that didn't both you. but now her voice was sharp and angry and impossibly mean.

"taylor, please-"

"you know what fuck you," taylor pushed jeremiah back out into the hallway from the doorframe. "you killed belly? her best friend belly? you cheated on her with her best friend? do you know how fucking novel that is, jeremiah fisher? you are so fucking-"

"yn," he had spotted you from out in the hall, behind taylors shoulder, and his gaze melted as it latched onto you, and you imagined what he was seeing, a shaking girl in the middle of the room, black makeup running down her face, cheeks red and eyes down. "yn please-"

"fuck no," taylor let out another huffy breath of angry air. "there are so many fucking things i could say to you right now, jeremiah, but i need to take care of my best friend because you broke her heart. go fuck yourself, and tell isabel to do the same."

you had just moments before been able to register everything that was happening as it happened, but it seemed like the time glitch effect because you blinked and the door was closed, and the echo of the slam sound rung your ears, and then you hear a lock click and taylor was in front of you, face inches from yours, eyes wide and worried, the malice gone from her tone as she said carefully:

"yn? yn are you okay? he's gone now, i'm sorry. i'm so, so, sorry. he is such a fucking asshole, he doesn't deserve you."

her arms were around you suddenly, and she leaned into you, face in your hair, and you breathed in her scent, fruity vanilla and sun. you let your head drop on her shoulder.

"did you lock the door?" you managed to get your sobs under control and pulled away from her, looking her in the eyes.

"yeah," taylor pointed to your phone. "you gonna get that?"

your phone was buzzing in your hand, and you could tell who it was, you had customised cruel summer as his ringtone, but you turned your phone over anyway, just to see his name.

jere-xoxo was calling.

remembering taylor's question, you shook your head, numb to emotions now that the tears had slowly stopped.

"can i?"

you nodded slowly.

almost violently, taylor pressed the red decline, her long nail making a tapping sound against your screen.

you waited for him to call again, like all the boyfriends did in books and movies after a fight. instead, he texted, according to the alert, which only showed a small snippet.

message from jere-xoxo

yn please call me please let me in i...

the alert preview finished in three dots and you let taylor press it to bring up the full message, full of typos in his hurry to send it.

yn please call me please me in i dont know what yiu saw bu ti i can exdplain yn please

"yn?" taylor said softly. "are you gonna respond?"

yn please he sent another plea. im in the hsllway im not levaing

"no," you said slowly. this was what all the girls in movies did, right? leave them on read. "no."

jeremiah kept sending text messages, and you two watched it in silence, taylor sensing you were too tired to talk.

"do you want to sleep here tonight?" taylor asked finally, her deep, soulful eyes focusing on your puffy, ugly ones. "i don't mind."

"y-yes," you whispered. "yeah," you said, a little louder. "but all my things are in my room," you looked down at your ripped jeans and crop top from today, with sand in the waistband of your shorts. you looked like shit and felt like shit, you didn't want to sleep with dirty shit either.

"okay," taylor nodded, gears in her head whirring. "if he's outside in the hallway, we can just sleep in your room, okay? i'll get my PJs and we'll just run to your room and avoid him, okay? it'll be like hes the papparazi and your the movie star," she snuck a small smile at you and you managed one back.

taylor fished a PJ set from her suitcase and came back from the bathroom with a toothbrush. you knew she was purposly ignoring her skincare, which she always applied with so much care everynight, and you knew it was a sacrifice for her, she liked bragging about how many nights in a row she remember to apply every product just so.

and yet, you couldn't muster up the energy to thank her.

taylor looked and you and motioned to the door handle. you shakily grabbed your phone, still buzzing from text messages, and in one brief motion, taylor opened the door, stepped outside and started running.

you hadn't realized she had grabbed your hand, but you guess she had, because when she ran, your arm jerked you forward and your feet went on autopilot, running behind taylor.

jere was there.

leaned against the wall in the middle of the two doors, a puddle of pool water already dripping onto the carpet floor, phone in his hand, his head jerked up when he heard the door open, and his eyes followed you and taylor.

"yn, yn, yn," he said your name three times like a chant and reached out to you when you passed him. "please, i can explain-"

taylor, who was ahead of you, got past the doorframe and started to drag you inside, and you faced your room, but something held you back.

not emotionally.

physically.

you turned around to see his arm, his hand, tanned and muscular, holding your wrist so delicatly. you could pull your wrist back.

but you didnt.

because jere looked in your eyes and said:

"please, yn."

taylor was silent, watching and waiting for your cue.

and you gave her one.

you snatched your wrist back, giving one harsh pull and it slipped out of his hand and hit your chest with a jarring thump.

"don't touch me," you hissed, and in that moment, it felt right, not because some girl before had done it, but because this cheater in front of you had grabbed your wrist and you didn't like it.

you let taylor close the door and lock it on jeremiah's hurt and shocked face, and you let taylor hug you again, and taylor let you sob into her hair and shake in a rhythm of heartbreak until the sobs subsided like before, and you could hear something else.

knocking.

at first, you thought it was jere, by the door, pretending to be a gentlemen, but then the thin wall to your left vibrated slightly, and you remembered the code you, belly, and taylor had made up (stolen) from young sheldon for the hours after lights out when your phones were taken away.

knocking on each others wall, just to know you were there.

belly.

it was belly, it was her room to your left, and you and taylor stared at the walls.

"are you gonna knock?" taylor asked gently.

no. fuck no. of course not.

you said this with your eyes, and taylor understood.

taylor produced her phone from her backpocket, throwing her belongings onto your bed, and texted fuck off to bellly-jelllyyy.

the knocking stopped.

all the quiet in the summerhouse in cousins.

there were many people in the house, but three stood out.

a heartbreaker, a cheater.

a backstabber, a best friend.

a cryer, who sobbed into her best friend's hair up until the long hours of the night turned into the early hours of next morning.

it was a windy morning in august when you and taylor finally went to sleep, and as your eyes closed, a last breeze slipped through the still-open window.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

okayy part one DONE

ik its lowkey crappy im just shit at writing!!!

also ty for sm support on my last story! okay, ik its not THATTT much, considering, but i expected ZERO views and likes and comments and you guys literally made my DAYYYY i will be following each and every one of youu!!!

as always if you guys have any requests, for the next part of this or in general, just ask me!! i promise i'll respond asap! (my rules for requests is pinned!)

comment down below if you wanna get tagged in pt 2!

thank you guys sm, i love you allll!!!

[torawro]

ok prepare for another one of my egregiously long rants that pick apart and analyze a fic and provide an explanation for why i liked it so much 🙂‍↕️

-

as i have told a few days ago, i haven’t really been reading a lot of jjk fics in a long while, esp gojo ones bc i felt like it was getting repetitive, the fics were getting tired, it was more smut than plot— which is fine like we all love to read it but i like when authors switch it up and delve a little deeper — amongst other reasons but i decided to give ur story a try and i was NOT disappointed especially when i sat back and thought about the overall themes you’ve implemented here. this fic made me remember why, once upon a time, i loved gojo so much & i love how you characterized him here: subtly manipulative but just as broken / melancholic as the reader.

i have screenshots in which i highlighted stuff but i wanted to provide my own analysis on why gojo did what he did here. i’m not sure if this is what you have intended when you were brainstorming and writing this but the way i see it, i think the reason gojo likes the reader and has a crush (?) on her is because of suguru and although he isn’t even in the story, he is such a pivotal figure in both of their lives. this like kind of encapsulates that well:

and the reader said it herself: her and toru weren’t too close, they were only connected bc of suguru, even after he left. i feel like satoru’s feelings for the reader have been….kinda suppressed? they weren’t faint and not all that present when suguru was there but his absence left a gaping hole within himself for these feelings to become more prominent. OR perhaps, satoru (being the chaotic bisexual he is) had a crush on BOTH the reader and suguru but nothing would come of it because sugu and the reader were “together”. and although it is depressing that sugu left such a hole in their lives, satoru took his absence as an opportunity to get closer to the reader— to get close to one of the last “remnants” that suguru existed while also acting on his feelings for her. bc satoru missed him too.

but then he learns, that the reader has practically closed herself off because of sugu when they weren’t even in a real relationship in the first place. i imagine this both saddens and irritates satoru, he might almost think it’s pathetic. because he now wants the reader for himself but she’s extremely reluctant, he kinda wants to ‘prove’ himself to her, and he wants her to move on and live— maybe, preferably with him in her life and forget about suguru because she’s only causing herself more pain and missing out bc she’s hanging onto vestiges of a time that no longer exist, and circumstances that never came to be (for example when he wants to put just the tip and says ‘don’t worry you won’t be cheating on him’, his tone almost comes off as derisive). i think he really just wanted her attention as well, esp by through making himself more present in her life (going furniture shopping with her, picking out decor, leaving candy in the kitchen because he comes over so often etc…)

another thing i lovedddd about this fic and how you characterized gojo is the power dynamics between him and the reader. they’re so subtle, blurry and not really established until this fateful night. there’s a dichotomy that exists between them and i highlighted it in these screenshots

it kind of swings back and forth, like a pendulum. the way he said “don’t make break the door” in a joking tone that can be so easily lost over text was a bit unsettling to me and i kinda see it as foreshadowing??? then he goes and says we’re “equals” and insists on the reader calling him satoru, but then the way he talks to her when he’s got her bare, exposed and vulnerable is almost kinda mean….hes trying to bend her in the shape that he wants— just a little— almost to prove to her how good they fit and match together. i thought the reader’s inner monologue of ‘i don’t think he’d approve of that is so interesting because when did she start seeking his approval?? i bet that’s a question that was running through her mind too . and now that he knows he’s got her right where he wants her— where he now knows she wants to be too— he uses that to his advantage to take things further. the subtle manipulation jumps out when he was about to leave and “give her space to think” somehow having a feeling that she would want to continue and imagine his ego bursting with joy when his assumption proved to be correct.

and i think the end of this fic was a satisfying conclusion and wraps up/solidifies my original point about satoru: he does like the reader, he was being very soft and gentle with her urging that they get cleaned up (it can be considered the bare minimum to some but i think it’s still worth noting). he wants to be there for her and show up in ways that require a bit more….more than just picking out what kind of cutlery she should get for her dining table set but on an emotional and psychological level. this is not to erase the borderline reverse psychology he used on her to get her to this point because the reader wouldn’t have arrived here of her own volition. there were definitely other ways satoru could have approached his feelings but this might have been the only way he knew how, and he too is still coping with the loss of suguru; i suspect he pushed it the way he did because he’s lonely .

also the nsfw scenes here def made me a little slick down there JSXHUSXOAKENDH but anyways this was great read, thank u for sharing this venecia 🤍

nocturne, gojō satoru

summary. you feel strange, something that had never happened in Satoru’s presence before. He had never made you feel anything more than comfort, confidence and respect, but now the air is slowly charged with a heavy mist that begins to seep through your skin, weighs on your lungs and makes your beats detonate just a little. You can't know what it is but there's something different about tonight.

tags. (18+), touch starved fem!reader, size difference, dubcon, manipulation, praise kink, reader is geto’s “ex”, gojo a little gay/bi (the usual), just the tip, cum eating, thigh job.

WC. 10.8K — read on ao3

notes. ok, first of all, I have the hc that gojo dances very well (I have zero proof, zero doubt). Second, this is inspired by my under my skin series with geto, writing the last chapter made me think about the people geto left behind when he left jujutsu tech and how they handled those feelings and this was born (you don't need to read that series at all to understand this), third; this came out darker than I had thought and I hope you still love me as much as I love feral gojo

You like to think that nothing has changed since he left. After all, the sun still shines just as brightly, the rain still drenches even the remotest corner of Tokyo, you keep drinking tea without a spoonful of sugar and you still attend Jujutsu Tech like the obedient little sheep you are (his words).

You still work for the higher-ups despite disagreeing with them all the time. You keep improving yourself as a sorceress, completing mission after mission and sending money to your parents every end of the month so they can finish paying off the house and maybe after all the only thing that has changed is that you now have your own apartment, which well, officially will be yours in about two more months when you finish paying off the loan. You are surrounded by things that you can proudly say belong to you and that you were able to buy for yourself, things that you may not need like a vase of candy that you keep in the kitchen for when Satoru is visiting or the cotton candy flavored lip balm that you are currently entertaining yourself with while waiting for the kettle to start squeaking.

The clock-like cat in the background meows at 1:56AM, yet another item Satoru threw in the shopping cart when he helped you get the essentials you needed to furnish your apartment a couple of years ago. It's something you didn't need because you're never home to look at the time or that's what you have your phone for, and after all you were never much of a cat lover. However when Satoru was looking at you over the top of his glasses and those bright eyes were begging you, it was almost impossible for you to say no to him.

Though, how could you? Satoru has been the only friend you've kept after so long, the only one who knows all the pain you've gone through in silence and the only one who was there with you the day Suguru left Jujutsu Tech. Truth be told, you were never that close to Satoru back then, you two never managed to talk that much except for when you would go out in a group and Ieiri would invite you downtown to go with them to eat, shop or drink sake, the memories make you sigh heavily. An ironic laugh crosses your chest along with a bitter memory of those days where you kept looking at Suguru from the other side of the table, every time his eyes met yours you were forced to look away, to run away from that heavy feeling that burned your chest and to ignore the fact that every time he laughed his knee met yours. You remember his cold fingers under the table touching your knee, touching your shoulder when he turned to tell you something funny. 

The clock strikes 2:03AM, the exact moment when the kettle starts to squeak and forces you to get up from your stool and shuffle your bare feet across the tiles to the stove. You turn it off and the smoke leaving the kettle makes you focus again on that day... The day when The High-ups decided that Suguru Geto was officially enemy of the sorcerers and was now considered a curse that needed to be executed, that day Satoru was there too. It was the first time you saw him so quiet, without that sarcastic laughter that characterized him filling the room, the same silence that filled the others rested even heavier on Satoru's head and yours, it was as if a heavy black cloud began to rain down on your heads.

Satoru was silent but his clenched fists spoke for him, shaking on the table. White knuckles and thick veins were marked on the backs of his hands and when you looked up into his face he was glaring at you, that icy stare still makes your back bristle every time you remember it. His nose flaps were dilated and his sharp jaw was clenched. You on the other hand were shivering, as if the gray cloud above your head was actually starting to rain, as if the drops were real and together with Satoru's gaze it was raining on your body.

You never told anyone, not Satoru, not even Ieiri, but deep down you blame yourself for never noticing how he was slowly drifting away from you, how he was losing himself. In the middle of the nights when you talked lying on his bed, while he smoked and passed you the cigarette and asked you about the origin of the curses, when he asked what you thought would be the solution for a world without curses are clues that should have raised alarms in your head, yet you could never connect the dots of the red alerts that screamed to you that the person you were in love with could be about to fall into the abyss.

You lie to yourself, when you fix your hair every morning and put on the spotless uniform next to the plastic smile you have become so used to wearing, you lie to yourself and tell you that everything is fine, that even though you haven't known where he is for four years, even though you hear the trail of death he leaves in his wake, you are fine, everything is fine, the reflection in the mirror smiles back at you and repeats the same thing. You're glad you have a roof to live under, a place to work, friends to worry about, it's okay if you couldn't save one of them after all, right? It's not your fault. The important thing is that you are doing the right thing, that you are saving dozens of innocents, right? 

You just pray every day, to whatever higher being might be listening to you not to be the one to find him, not to be the one to confront him... because if that day were to come, you...

Your phone chimes with a notification and the fact takes you so abruptly by surprise that the teacup you're holding slips and shatters to pieces on the floor, splashes of hot chamomile drops burn on your bare feet and exposed legs, you groan in pain and curse walking away to pick up the phone resting on the counter, just in time to receive another message.

S. Gojō: Knock knock, silly

S. Gojō: I'm outside

Sent at 2:21AM, he's never visited you this late. Usually Satoru would show up suddenly in the nights because he couldn't sleep, midnight, eleven, ten but he always left after two hours of drinking tea and talking about anything. Other times he would text you very late in the dawn because he woke up and couldn't go back to sleep, then he would find you awake because you couldn't sleep either and both of you would stay up late talking and then he would always be late the next day for his classes.

But today was unusual... your phone vibrates with another notification. 

S. Gojō: Don't make me break the door, I can feel your cursed energy from in here :p

You must have been too deep in thought not to notice the strong smell of his cursed energy coming through the door, the sensation even through the walls tingles your skin.

You flee the kitchen scene with your feet marking wet footprints all over the floor, on your way to the front door you stop in the small living room to turn on the lights and give a little more life to the gloomy place. Your footsteps stop right in front of the frame, your fingers curl around the knob and you take a deep exhale that allows you to search for the plastic smile to put on your face, a smile that manages to mask how exhausted you were feeling tonight. Of all the nights, this might have been his worst choice to come visit you.

"Hey—" The creation of your fake smile falls halfway off. You don't remember the last time you'd seen Satoru out of uniform, or at least dressed so formally, just to come see you? But seeing him in casual clothes caused the wheels in your brain to stop working just a little. "What—"

He chuckles, adjusting the sunglasses better on the bridge of his nose. "They canceled the mission to Kyoto." He pauses to tap twice on the carry-on suitcase dragging near his feet that you barely notice. "So I thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

That was it? "You always dress like that for all your missions?" Now he was smiling, almost looking amused at your reaction. "What's wrong with my clothes?" Nothing! That was the point, rather than a mission, he looked like he was dressed for a date. 

He was wearing a black synthetic jacket that came down to his wrists along with a shirt the color of his eyes underneath, the two buttons near his collarbones open revealing a flash of his chest. Those oval sunglasses that couldn't be missed and tight black pants that matched the shiny loafers. Without the uniform he even looked taller, he smelled like he just got out of the shower, a kind of icy mint where you are forced to inhale while blinking slowly.

"Nothing," you comment after you've examined him up and down. You think you were subtle enough that he didn't notice, but you're sure he did anyway.

"May I come in?" he still keeps a smile on his words.

You step aside without adding something else that sinks you into a debate you can't get out of. You wait patiently for the wheels of the mini suitcase to cross the threshold of the door and for Satoru to give you the space to close it behind you.

"Want some tea?" you cross past him to head for the kitchen, his footsteps following your trail.

"Yeah, tell me you have sugar." You want to fight him, to tell him that chamomile tea doesn't really have sugar in it because it's a sleeping tea, but you know you'd just be wasting your time so you end up pointing your finger at one of the shelves instead.

"It's right where—"

"Wow!" His hands suddenly squeeze your waist and make you stop, you stutter his name in confusion. His fingers burn against the flesh your pajamas fail to cover and he pulls you back. "What happened?" he says low behind you. You notice how his hands look squeezing you and then look at the puddle at your feet along with pieces of pottery strewn in front of the sink.

"Your text message, you scared me."

"So it was my fault, hm?" you can guess the smirk  in his tone. "It's okay, I always take care of my messes."

Satoru gently pushes you aside, then asks you to sit on one of the stools while he takes care of picking up the pieces because he's afraid you might cut yourself in the process. He further alleges that you are barefoot. 

"My hero," you say, exaggerating your voice for a louder one. This time Satoru laughs and it rubs off on you. He takes several paper towels and squats down spreading his knees as far apart as he can to soak all the paper while you stare at him silently, it's impossible not to think how big he is if you compare him to your kitchen space or if you compare him to any other object in your apartment really.

"I know, I know. What would you do without me, huh?" he looks up at you from below and you catch a glint of the blue in his eyes before he turns his attention back to the floor, focusing now on picking up the broken pieces and carrying each one to the trash can behind you.

"Sooo." You exaggeratedly lengthen the word until he's back in your field of vision, rummaging through your cabinets effortlessly as if he owns the floor.

"So?" He walks toward you with two mugs that he places side by side. Then he turns around to pick up the teapot and starts pouring the hot liquid.

"Do you always go on your missions like this?"

"Like this how?" Oh, he knows very well what you meant. Like this, you want to tell him, but you know it would only serve to boost his annoying ego a little more. "Tell me when to stop," he asks you, starting to empty the hot liquid into the cup, the smell of chamomile and cinnamon wafting up towards your nose. 

"That's good," you tell him a few inches before the infusion touches the rim and you bring it to your mouth almost instantly. "And I mean like this," you point his body up and down with your free hand, then sip slowly, "so elegant."

"What do you mean? This is me in my regular clothes, this is how I always look." Satoru finishes filling his cup and puts at least six sugar cubes in it before speaking again. "Let's go to the couch." You just shake your head and follow the path he traces because you're sure you're going to be more comfortable on the L-shaped couch he helped you pick out (which is why he loves it so much), conventionally too big for your living room space, but big enough for Satoru to spread his legs and arms on the back and coo like a pleased kitten. "Today's mission was special..." He answers a question you'd forgotten about and takes the first sip of his tea. 

"Hm?" you inquire, curiously looking for more information. Now that you're sitting up, the satin fabric of your shorts rides up a few inches over your thighs and in a vain attempt to pull it down just a little, you find him peering out of the corner of your eye. 

"It was someone... important." You feel his eyes on your thighs, he tries to disguise it but doesn't try very hard either. "I had to escort him somewhere." 

"It had to be someone important to be escorted by the strongest." This time he's the one cooing, hesitant. You know there are missions you can't divulge too much about or you might get in trouble, and even for someone like Satoru Gojo who giving his tongue a life of its own has never been a problem, him being quiet now should be enough to make you desist on the subject or maybe he's just too distracted going back to your legs again and again. You clear your throat. "I-"

"Mind if I turn out the light?" you blink slowly in his direction. "My eyes," he clarifies something that should be obvious to you. An Oh louder than it should makes your throat vibrate. 

"Sure." 

"I just want to take a break from the sunglasses for a while." 

"Sure, yeah." 

Satoru first sets the cup down on the small table in front of the couch, then gets up and walks over and through the various objects in your living room until he reaches the switch. You try not to notice his body as he does so, his long legs or how wide his shoulders look as he walks back towards the couch making the place his catwalk, the height and appearances have always made him look like a model in your eyes, a comment you want to make but your coherent side makes you bite your tongue, you're still too awake for that. 

You try to hide that it doesn't affect you when he takes off his jacket and settles back on the sofa with his mug in hand, staring at you.

"Better?" You clear your throat again, feeling it irritably dry.

"Yeah. I have been using them all day and the bright light sometimes ends up bothering me.” The conversation makes you look at his eyes, even in the midst of the darkness that surrounds you, you can see them shine.

“I'm sorry,” you say, but you don't know exactly what you're apologizing for. Uncomfortable and overheated, you decide to take another long sip of the infusion.

It's strange, you feel strange, something that had never happened in Satoru's presence before. He had never made you feel anything more than comfort, confidence and respect, but now the air is slowly charged with a heavy mist that, although you cannot see, begins to seep through your skin, through your pores, weighs on your lungs and makes your beats detonate just a little. You can't know what it is but there's something different about tonight.

"What about you?" Satoru murmurs with his mouth on the cup, his sweet voice echoing among the ceramics and the way he speaks seems like he's telling a little boy a secret. "Haven't you been on missions in a long time?"

"I don't usually take so many important missions, no." You didn't need to give him any more details because you're sure he knew… that your last name wasn't as well known as his or the Zenins, that you weren't as strong compared to other sorcerers, and that you didn't normally leave town, unlike he.

"I remember when Suguru was here it wasn't like that." His name makes you stop breathing for a moment. Your fingers squeeze the semi-empty cup and your gaze escapes from his to focus on some point on the floor. "He always said how strong you were, how much he wanted to have you under his arm and show you what you weren't able to see for yourself, one day." Was he really saying all that about you? This time you go back to his face, on his expression, his half-closed eyes fixed on what was in front of him, it seemed that he was serious.

"He never told me that."

"I guess it wasn't necessary, was it?"Yes? You have always been a person who likes to hear what others think especially regarding their feelings, no matter how much their facts speak for them, you need to hear them say those three important words. "You guys were really close after all." Yes, Suguru and you were very close indeed. So close that sometimes he would rather study with you than with Satoru even though you were a year younger than them. You were so close that sometimes you slept together, he would listen to your secrets and he would babble about his.

“Gojo…” You scratch the back of your neck, massaging a tendon that tightens and pulls your nape toward the floor. You weren't sure if this was the topic you wanted to talk about tonight.

“Please, we are the same now. You don't have to treat me with such respect, Satoru it's okay." You leave the empty cup on the table before looking at him, a smile was waiting on his face that barely curved the corners of his mouth but there was something in all this that although it seemed innocent, it was not right, and while you pull down the fabric of your shorts you realize what it is.

"Satoru." You say his name for the first time in a long time and that makes the grin on his face widen, he tilts his head forward a bit showing you more of his eyes and invites you to continue. "I don't know if I want to talk about it right now."

You knew exactly what that was on your chest, tight, like a rope knot. It was guilt, because even after so many years you felt that you had to continue being faithful to a person who disappeared without giving you an explanation, guilt because you were seeing who his best friend was with different eyes. Because you were thinking of Satoru in a way that one friend wouldn't think of another.

"Do you still love him? Is that why you don't want to take on the important missions, are you afraid of running into him?" your tongue is heavy, your stomach sinks even deeper. Satoru wasn't looking at you, his attention was fixed on the unlit lamp at the other end of the couch. 

"Yes." It's all you can say, running from his expression to your legs. Not having enough strength to clarify which of the two questions you are answering, concentrating on the heating in your apartment, on how warm it feels to be there.

"Yeah..." He sighs, pausing for a long time. "Me too. I miss him, it's hard not to think about him sometimes." You can sense the melancholy in his voice, his cup crashing against the wood as soon as he finishes speaking, the silence and darkness in the room adding a bit more melodrama to the scene. Satoru splits his legs, spreads his thighs wide, and the mix of emotions inside you intensifies.

"He never contacted you again?" you ask desperately to occupy your mind. He shakes his head, still focused on the lifeless lamp. You? "No." 

And maybe it was better that way. To live in silence, to live hiding and filling the emptiness he left inside you with books and knowledge, with other people who look like him, with missions where you pray you never meet him face to face because the moment you did you wouldn't know exactly what to say or what to do, even though you know well what the orders are supposed to obey. 

You look at the lamp along with him wondering what he's thinking. Filling the gaps in your memory with banal conversations you two might be having right now, yet this didn't seem like one of the many times Satoru has come to your place to chat and drink.

"When was the last time you did something fun?" Out of the corner of your eye you see him rest his head on his shoulder and relax a little more on the couch. “Something that has nothing to do with work. Something you really enjoy.”

If you were honest... "I don't even remember."

He clicks his tongue and you look at him just in time to see him reach for something in his pocket. The blue light from the screen illuminates his face, the keyboard squeaks under his nice fingers, strands of hair stick to his forehead and the light is so bright it makes his eyelashes look like snowflakes. A soft melody begins to play, you're lost, you drop your head to the side along with a pout that makes him laugh, then he holds out his hand. 

"Dance with me."

“Gojo— no, no. I Can't." You laugh nervously, the heat rising from your cheeks to your chest. "I don't know how to dance." You confess quietly, more embarrassed to share that secret than you should.

"Okay, me neither." Liar, you'd definitely seen him dance before at teacher parties and maybe he wasn't a pro but he was good, he did that thing with his feet that was impossible to take your eyes off him when he was on the dance floor. "Come on." 

You chew your lower lip, exchanging glances between the hand that moves its fingers strangely in front of you and Satoru, who is waiting for you with a smile. No, don't, don't take his hand… You know he feels your icy damp fingers as his hand clings to yours and helps you up to cling to your chest. Your lungs empty and fill with him, his perfume, his natural scent, the faint cotton candy scent you manage to identify among the tangle of faint scents. The fact that he had deactivated his infinity so that you can touch him shoots adrenaline through your bloodstream, skin against skin. 

"Okay, what do I do?" You were laughing shyly again, allowing his fingers to take hold of your waist, fixing you close to him just as he wanted you.

"Just follow my footsteps." It was hard to follow him, keep your nerves in check and at the same time try to breathe.

"I'm going to step on you." You tease, his open palm descending to your lower back as the violins pick up, pulling you further into him. "Go—!"

"You're not going to step on me, we're fine. Put your hands on my shoulders." He instructs you. That meant having to leave his chest, stop yourself from looking at his collarbones and look into his eyes. "Like this." He does it for you, takes one of your wrists and delicately places it on one of his shoulders then returns to your waist, his ice-cold fingers a little further below your waist this time, you feel his fingertips brush against the elastic of your shorts, his nails barely scratching your skin. “This is my favorite part,” he says low in your ear, almost mischievous. And in the midst of the symphony of your blood rushing violently in your ears and the drum of your heart, you hear it. The violin had increased in speed which made you go faster, it was almost impossible to follow his turns, impossible not to step on him but this was something Satoru ignored, he allows your bare feet to step on him again and again and again, bringing behind these one apology from you after another.

Satoru was practically on top of you now, hugging you closer to him. His face hidden in your neck —which you appreciate because how could you look into his eyes and dance at the same time—, his lips on your skin, humming the melody of the instruments. His arms squeeze you, make you groan in surprise. Then he kisses your neck and that makes you aware of every little thing around you, the noise that the silence makes, how slowly his feet took you on the impromptu dance floor because the violins had decayed dramatically, you could clearly hear how quickly you were breathing with your mouth open, his arms gripping your waist make you feel small, you can tell how hot having him close is making you, the warmth of his body, how the tender fabric of his shirt felt crinkling against your exposed skin. Satoru kisses you again, this time near the ear.

“Gojo…” you call him, your hands pushing his shoulders in search of regaining your personal space, you needed it or you were going to faint.

"Satoru." He corrects you, breathing heavily into your ear. The warm breath makes your thighs rub against each other.

"Satoru." You repeat, he makes a growling sound. "I don't… think…"

"Do you think he will come back?" A phantom hand oppresses your chest, destroys your ribs to the rhythm of the dramatic melody with which the song continues that seems to never end. "Is that why you haven't been with anyone else?" Satoru leaves the comfort of your neck to look at you, his arms still tied behind your back. He has the look of a feline on his face, white locks falling across his forehead serving as curtains for those eyes that glow like neon lights. An iciness rests on your abdomen, as faint as the flutter of a butterfly.

The song stops abruptly, leaving you alone with the pounding of your heart, your stomach sinking with each breath you take.

“How do you know—” He snorts, his laugh sounding cruel, cutting your sentence off in mid-air.

"Have you?" you refuse to answer, you refuse to keep looking at him so you evade him and those eyes that seem to watch everything. You  think you have nowhere to go —literally, because his arms hold you prisoner—, wherever you look there he is. So you stare past his shoulder, past the baby blue of his shirt to the fresh coat of paint on your wall. "Look at me."

You refuse to do it and show him your vulnerability. Sinking deeper and deeper into that heavy, cold sensation that walks from your navel to your ribs, turning into a bitter cocktail of emotions that you don't know how to swallow. When you don't look at him, one of his hands goes to the back of your neck and forces you to do so, fixes your gaze on him, on his slightly half-open pink lips, then on his eyes and the bitter cocktail becomes digestible, clear....

"I've always had my eyes on you."

...So clear. Underneath the layers and layers of raw human emotions you could make out so clearly the primal fear, you wanted to run away from the almighty, hide from his intense gaze but you also feel guilt because inside you still waited for Suguru, because you still expected him to come back even after four years. Guilt because you still felt you had to remain faithful to someone who never asked you to be his girlfriend, to someone who never told you he loved you. You still want to stay faithful to a ghost. Shame, because you couldn't help that your body reacted so well to his closeness, you were hot in every corner of your body and underneath it all, you were aroused.

Your quick blinks took care of erasing the stupor you were in, protecting your tears from spilling over, why would you cry after all? If you never cried when he left, it wasn't time to cry now.

"What did you say?" You tell him in a shaky voice.

"Whenever you were looking at Suguru I was looking at you, watching you laugh, watching your eyes sparkle every time they met his." You see him move from your eyes to your lips. "Watching you fall in love with my best friend. But I don't blame you, I too wondered how his lips tasted."

"Satoru, I didn't—" You were dizzy, your guts in knots. Your frail fists push him again achieving the same result: him remaining motionless. "I don't think it's right that we..."

"He's gone." He says your name, the tone he uses is so ruthless, his voice sounds broken, hoarse and you can't help but shed a single tear that he tries to wipe away immediately, his thumb scrapes your cheek and the touch makes you close your eyes looking to escape from there, to escape the pain, the loneliness and the hundreds of emotions you shouldn't be feeling right now.

"You're his best friend," you say in a tired sigh, looking for him to see the logic to a situation that is obvious to you.

"Yeah." That's all he says. You see him approach you and your eyes snap open meeting his face bathed in darkness, the shadows of the room dancing across half of his face, it makes the features blur and stand out so much more at once. "But we haven't done anything, have we?" he says even closer to your mouth. "At least not yet."

Before you can protest, complain or bring any sense to his brain, Satoru was kissing you and all you can  feel for a long moment are his gentle, expert lips, kissing you frantically, forcing you to open wider to give him the space he needs to deepen the kiss. You try to push him away but any kind of physical force you try to exert on him is less than pathetic, your fists don't even faze him and as much as you try to run away, his hands are squeezing your forearms tightly forcing you to remain immobile.

After a while of struggling, of denying yourself the pleasure, you let him in. Satoru purrs reaching your tongue. You are clumsy at first but manage to keep up with him, melting into his rough grip that contrasts gently with the way his mouth caresses yours. His tongue drags your lower lip and that makes you moan in surprise, embarrassed your face boils and his teasing chuckle makes your whole body tighten.

When Satoru finally pulls away, it seems like an eternity has passed, every little corner of your body feels hot and unstable. Your lips tingle and your thighs tremble, you don't remember the last time you... actually, yes, you remembered very well.

He still stands close, with a smile you can glimpse cutting through the night. With slightly swollen lips, painted a pink a few shades more intense than before. As you struggled to get fresh air into your lungs, Satoru still maintained the same breathing rhythm as when he walked through your door.

"You really haven't been with anyone else,” he says, tasting his lips with his tongue.

"N-no, I..."

You didn't have to answer, it wasn't a question, you still looked to try to give him a logical explanation for the physiological reaction you were having but he was already smiling, much wider this time without actually showing his teeth. Satoru lets go of your arms and seems to widen on you, he seems taller, stronger, as if all this time he had been bending his knees so he could be completely at your eye level. Suddenly his hands were all over your crotch, squeezing your pussy above the fabric of your shorts, sinking deeper between your folds. The sticky puddle immediately stains the fabric, you feel it and you know he feels it so you slip away from his face paying more attention to the floor.

"No panties," he says loudly in a mocking tone. Your nails dig into his wrist, a futile attempt to make him stop.

"Satoru, please."

"Please what?" With the help of his fingers he strokes your slit up and down damaging your shorts with your arousal, the delicate fabric feels so good on your swollen clit, someone else's touch even with your pajamas in between is so good you can't help but moan, your nails digging a little deeper into his skin. "Please, keep going?" his caresses are barely perceptible now, toying very very slowly with your clit, your jaw drops to the floor. "Or Satoru, please stop?" He pats your pussy in a gentle slap as if trying to prove a point, your whole body arches falling forward towards him and Satoru welcomes you in a kind of strange embrace. "You have to use your words," he clarifies, his voice so much like a siren's song.

With your face in the middle of his chest he turns you into a shell that does nothing but tremble, a shell empty of all logical thoughts. All that comes to you is an explosion of emotions bombarding your senses, you are overstimulated with smells: you inhale with his hand on the back of your neck petting your hair, giving you time to clear your head. Your belly tingles because he smells so good, the icy mint mixes with a somewhat sweet manly perfume that invites you to sniff harder. His chest feels hard and pleasant at the same time giving you the security you've been lacking the last months, you want to hug him and cry while you let him take care of you, the heat emanating from him almost burns you, it seems impossible to you that he's so hot; your eyelids squeeze tighter making the pitch black take shapes: stars, constellations, random dots.

"If you're not going to decide, then I think I should give you space." He takes a step back and your brain has to force itself back to reality, you regain the unsteadiness you lost when you stopped touching him and take two strong steps backwards moving further away from him, even though the heater is still on, your whole body suddenly feels cold. You hug yourself to cover your erect nipples. "I'll leave you to rest and we can talk tomorrow."

Your tongue stays heavy and sticky, your teeth are biting it slowly as you watch him grab his jacket determined to leave.

"Don't go." You don't recognize your own voice.

"What? Sorry I didn't hear you."

"Please stay." You assumed he was smiling, you couldn't bring yourself to lift your head from the tip of his shiny shoes that are getting bigger as he approaches you again. His presence makes you feel  under some kind of spell, you inhale looking for the oxygen that was stolen from you, you feel weak, dizzy... and his long fingers grab your chin to make you look at him, then you confirm he was smirking, the corners of his mouth slightly raised towards the sky.

"Do you trust me?" You do. You'd be a fool not to. Your lips part to respond, but the height difference makes you clam up. "You know I'd never hurt you, right?" You know. "Go to the couch."

That's how you find yourself doing the next thing he asks, sliding your shorts off and placing your legs on the soft surface in an awkward V, exposing your wet pussy to a hungry gaze. In a way he reminds you of Suguru —the way he walks towards you brimming with confidence, the way he looks at you, the aura of superiority with which his height looms over you— and that makes you  feel more shame, more guilt, you want to hide your face but you know that would be much worse so you force yourself to watch him walk towards you and drop to his knees in the middle of your thighs. 

Satoru grabs your calves, your yelp in surprise. The soles of your feet are on his broad shoulders, you  feel the muscles there tense and stretch as he settles in, you watch him lick his lips and your pussy clenches under his nose. Without hands —because these are on your waist, walking shyly over your ribs—, he kisses your navel and your body contracts. Relax, he murmurs, kissing your skin, tickling you every time his pretty lips go down a couple of centimeters more. 

The waves of heat produced by his laughter go straight to your sensitive bundle of nerves, you were shivering under him, as if your body was freezing to death but on the contrary, your temples were wet with droplets of sweat, your back is hot and your hands are soaked, still you can't stop shivering. His nose brushes the short hairs on your mons pubis, then he kisses your clit hidden between your labia and with the help of his tongue he searches for it with his eyes closed, parting your soaked lips until he manages to make direct contact with what he craves so much. 

You don't know what to do with your hands, you want to leave them to the side of your body but they start to tremble, you want to take it into his short strands but you don't know if that would be something he would approve of. 

"More," he says. Satoru takes your hands and makes his words make sense, he helps you place your fingers under your knees, forcing you to open wider for him in an embarrassing position. "Keep your legs open, just like this." 

He mumbles something else between his teeth but you don't pay attention, his thumbs were spreading your lips further apart, uncovering more of your clit and the inspection gets your arousal spilling from your pussy to your thighs and from there to your ass. You were so wet, you could feel it touching the couch. You wanted him to do something, anything, if he kept looking at you like that you weren't going to be able to control yourself. 

"Stop it," you beg him, squeezing your eyes shut, the grip on your thighs weakening a little. 

"Let me look at you. You're soaking wet from just a couple of kisses..." The left one holds your pussy open, the thumb of the right then makes tight circles over your most sensitive spot and an electric current runs through your body. "That's cute." The thumb slides down to your slit, there it collects your juices and returns to the top where it drags them over your clit using them as a lubricant. "I wonder..." You feel his breath close to it, speaking so softly it feels like he's not even talking to you, your hips thrust upward. "Are you this wet because no one has touched you in years or is it just because it's me?" 

He doesn't give you time to answer, you don't even know if you'd be ready to. Suddenly his lips were locked on your clit, sucking roughly, making your legs slam over his head, the vibrations of his laughter going straight to your core. 

"Mhm no, stay wide open for me. I want to taste every last drop." You take a deep breath in search of silencing another moan. His hands on your legs forcing you to open them a second time.

It's been so long since another person touched you that his strokes seem to come in waves, forming with each moan a knot in your lower abdomen tighter and tighter, sharper and sharper. You couldn't form a single coherent thought other than a distant, welcoming white noise as Satoru devoured the feast that seemed to be your cunt, his soft tongue parting your slit and pressing hard enough on your throbbing clit. You open your eyes after a while, you blink looking up at the sky, the darkness you had grown so accustomed to is replaced by the dim lighting in your living room, the white noise turns into the wet and sloppy sounds of Satoru kissing your pussy and between long blinks you gasp—

"I'm close..."

Satoru stands up just a little to tease you and the sensation of not having his mouth near you is almost painful, you feel him shudder beneath your feet. "Already?" he asks without really expecting an answer, his open palm squeezing your clit mercilessly. The sudden electric touch makes you snap your eyes shut again, your eyelids fill with lightning and a cold current coils up your spine. "No— huh, I don't want you thinking about anyone else while I make you cum... open your eyes."

"That wasn't—! Ah." That wasn't what you were doing! That's what you mean, but his fingers were hitting your aching flesh a little too hard, emptying your lungs.

You are so very close to reaching that longed-for sensation but he stops. A coo of no, no, no, no, comes out of your throat, forcing you to swallow a ball of saliva that had formed. But Satoru was standing now, he had left your wobbling body to one side, your weak legs dangling off the couch and he was in front of you, undoing the belt with one hand and stroking the prominent bulge with the other. Now the white noise of your thoughts passed your ears, the drums in your chest were beginning to sound much louder. Then with a, Get on your knees, you knew this was really happening, this was real.

You want to protest because you want to find the release that is burning your core, you want to beg him to continue touching you until he makes you cum but the look he gives you silences any protest, you really didn't want to challenge him. Satoru plops down next to you occupying the previous empty space on some cushions with his body, his legs stretched out as he pleases, lightly colliding with your knee. You get up from your seat to crawl to his feet, there, with his arms on top of the backrest and legs spread apart add that air of superiority that always surrounds him. 

Your hands look small on his legs, the shadow of his cock resting on his thigh makes them look much smaller. The size intimidates you and detonates dozens of unseemly thoughts inside you —how big will he be when you take it out, if you've taken Suguru before you could definitely do it with Gojo— you were scared and you knew he knew it, silently Satoru raises his hips letting you know he's still waiting for you, but to your surprise he was being much more than patient with you. In the process of lubricating your throat with enough saliva and stroking his cock over the fabric at least thirty seconds pass.

You hear him sigh in relief, your palm is like the touch of a feather, so light that you know you will make him desperate if you keep it up. You see him drop his head back and decide to work up the courage to remove the button and then undo the zipper. Satoru helps you with the rest by hooking his fingers into his pants and pulling them down to his knees along with his boxers. You cling to his thighs, your nails digging into his porcelain skin, even with the absence of light you can see it quiver, the size makes you squeeze your legs together, your juices running from your cunt to the inside of your thighs. Again your memories travel to Suguru and you find it hard not to unconsciously compare the two of them, Satoru was definitely much less thick than his friend, something you are thankful for as it makes you think you would have an easier time taking it; however it is long enough to make you just a little terrified at the thought of having it inside you. It was long, pale and slightly curved to the left.

You swallow and come to the conclusion that the right thing to do would be to take it from the base with both hands made into fists, you squeeze it, he groans through his teeth.

"What are you thinking?" you are surprised to hear him speak, you thought after all this time he had run out of inappropriate comments to make.

"It's big." There's not a single filter in your brain at that moment. You still contemplate how much you have left to take in even as you hold it, one fist over the other.

"You like it?" You lick your lips in response, moving from the sticky wet head to his eyes and think as you look into them now they are darker, still glistening with lust. "Use your words, angel."

The petname makes you dizzy. You look down at the cock in your hands again, then back up at him. "I like it," you confess.

"Do you need help?" You didn't think it was possible to get your heart to beat faster but somehow you manage it. You shake your head in denial, see him smile and assume maybe he's proud. Satoru spreads his legs wider and moves his hips closer to the edge of the couch to make you  more comfortable, two of his fingers manage to start removing the buttons on the wrinkled shirt. "No? Alright, show me what a good girl you are then."

His praises were going straight to your head making your brain turn into a sponge asking for more of his voice, more of his compliments. You stir between your legs, the position quickly numbing your knees. You start to move your hands at the same time, up and down very slowly, hoping to get some sign of approval from him but all you get is a long silence, even though it only makes you want to please him more.

You let your hands continue to massage the shaft and focus on the head. Trying to remember the last time you sucked a cock you remember Suguru, you remember what he used to like, the instructions he used to give you, after all he has been the only man you have been with, the only one who has taught you everything you know so nerves eat away at your bones when you finally put it in your mouth. It's strange because you were expecting another taste but surprisingly it tastes like nothing so this makes you suck, swirl your tongue in circles sensing every detail of the smooth texture, that's when you hear him moan, you hollow your cheeks and seek to take it deeper.

You pause for a moment to spit on it and fuck just the tip of it with a tight fist, Satoru gasps and his back arcs in your direction. Standing closer to you his fingers sink into your silky strands and he forces you to steady yourself, his height widening over your crumpled figure.

"Say 'aah', that's it, atta girl." Satoru snatches his own cock from your hand to flick your tongue, then forces your head down to take him deeper. You feel the tip hit your throat which makes you gag around it, you squeeze the fabric of his shirt in your hands, protests get stuck around his shaft and when the saliva is touching your jaw he pulls out of you to let you breathe, as soon as his cock stops clogging your throat you start coughing. "Sh, sh. You're going to take it again." He speaks to you so sweetly he almost makes you believe that you can.

"I can't—"

"Let me try again, your throat feels so good, look how hard you've made me." Amidst your watery eyes you manage to see it throbbing in front of you as Satoru pleases himself by stroking it vaguely with one hand, the head tinted a darker red. "Just a second time, I promise." His words are cotton candy on your palate, they make it all make sense, make you trust him because he would never hurt you and get you to end up opening your mouth like an obedient lamb for a second time.

Satoru slides inside you with a praise and an animalistic growl, first he takes his time and rubs himself on your tongue back and forth, your lips close around him sucking devotedly. You take a big inhale to try and prepare to take him again, this time the fist binding your hair forces you to go deeper. You protest, your hands slapping his thighs. "Mhm almost... almost. I know you can take it all, relax your throat." In between gagging comes the thought that you are going to choke, not just because of the size, but because of the amount of saliva you have accumulated and with the fist on your head pushing you deeper you come to the conclusion that you were going to pass out. Even though you managed to breathe through your nose your throat was burning, you could barely see because of the salty drops accumulating in your eyes and when you had given up and relaxed your throat, the tip of your nose brushes the short white hairs, there finally Satoru lets you go.

You are coughing at his feet with your sore and bruised throat, one hand wiping the drool from your cheek and another drying your tears that apparently overflowed at some point. If you told him to stop, would he really stop now, could you really go through with this? Your lips hurt, your throat burns and your stomach sinks a little at the thought that Suguru might find you like this. What would he say? You don't know at what point you started sobbing quietly or when you ended up in Satoru's lap but when you opened your eyes all you could find was that pair of deep blue eyes staring at you, singing you a coo as he stroked your back. 

"You did so good for me." You did? Your eyes shining with illusion, your stomach in knots. You shouldn't be happy. His thumbs wipe away your tears, his big hands cradle your face and you melt into them, rubbing your head between his palms like a needy puppy. He deposits two wet kisses on your moist cheeks. "You liked sucking my cock that much? Is that why you're crying?" You... you were stunned, you didn't know exactly what you were supposed to answer. You try to swallow and your throat s scratchy, your tongue gritty. "You made me so fucking hard and took me so deep, you should be proud." His thumb travels from your burning cheeks to your lip and he squeezes it back and forth, the soft touch feels so good that you are forced to close your eyes again, letting yourself be consumed by that cloud of pleasure. In the midst of your stupor, you feel two fingers bring a new flame to your core, caressing your clit in lazy circular motions. 

"Satoru..." 

"Open your mouth." You find yourself doing it before you can process the idea, his thumb is heavy on your tongue, the sensation is pleasant and reminds you of his cock; the idea makes you clench around nothing. "Suck it nice and deep, like it's my cock." That makes you moan, his touch has you melting, his fingers go from your clit to your hole and there he slides a finger inside you with such ease, the squish of his finger digging deep inside you exposes how wet you are. "Do you want me to make you cum with my cock in your mouth?" The moan he steals from you is lewd, Satoru replaces your thumb with two of his longer fingers, he squeezes your tongue and thrusts in and out of your mouth as spit starts to puddle on your tongue. "All this wet from sucking my dick?" 

Satoru laughs behind your ear, leaving a kiss there that makes you clench around the second finger he presses inside you. Massaging your pussy slowly in and out, you're sure his fingers are soaking wet when he reaches your g-spot, all the way to the knuckles deep inside you, making your cunt scream with those clicking sounds. He starts to increase the pace pumping that spot and fucking your mouth at the same time, getting your body to start bucking on top of his lap.

His fingers keep pounding your sore pussy and that makes you want to collapse in his arms, his fingers longer and more expert than yours manage to easily reach deeper inside you. You cry out his distorted name thanks to his fingers reaching for your throat, your body twitches and falls silent until he pulls his soaked fingers out of your mouth and lets you collapse onto his body, sobbing into his shoulder as his fingers continue to ride each wave of your orgasm, your hole tightening again and again around him, you are exhausted, empty as he pulls out of you. 

You moan because your whole body is numb, more perceptible to the dim light, to the sounds you distinguish in your own apartment and his dirty fingers from your orgasm now begging for entrance to your mouth. 

"Clean your mess," he says, but he is really ordering you. Your still mush brain allows him to enter your mouth and you suck with devotion until he deems them clean enough, only then does he drag them out of you, gently pat your cheek and that gets your attention back to reality. 

"W-what-" Even though you had learned that complaints were worthless with Satoru, you decide to whine in confusion as he was helping to gently lay you down on the couch and next he positions himself better on top of you. "Wait, Satoru..." You clearly knew what was coming. 

"Squeeze your thighs together." He ignores any kind of complaint to your non-surprise. You manage to prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, his hair falling messily across his forehead giving him a feral touch, almost covering the wild look he was staring at you with... though he wasn't looking at you, at least not directly. His cock slams into your clit, squeezing it back and forth beneath his heavy head and the impact makes you wince. "You know what..."

"I don't think, really... really I—"

"It's okay," he says. Gathering your legs so easily in one hand, pushing them together until they touch your chest. "I'm not going to put it in, it shouldn't count as cheating." He's so hard against your sodden folds, you gasp as you just  the fat head tease trying to push inside you, bumping into your hole to slide all the way back up your slit. You shudder, your hips squirm. "Though for someone who doesn't want to get her pussy fucked, you're pretty fucking wet," he snorts wryly, slamming into your pussy harder this time. "Maybe we could try it next time, it wouldn't count as cheating if I fuck your ass either." Next time.

You don't have time to complain or mention that you've never done anything like this before... you can't take in the icy fear mixed with excitement that settles in your belly as you listen to him talk about fucking your ass because Satoru was pushing himself into the middle of your tight pussy lips, Squeeze your thighs for me, he reminds you, so he can let go and rest both hands on the sides of your head. Your feet are pressed against his chest, Satoru starting a firm pace where he shamelessly fucks your thighs and where you can't do more than take it because your hands are busy holding your legs closed so they don't spill out beside you. 

Satoru is close to you, his shirt falls open around his ribs making it bounce with each sharp thrust. You're panting with your mouth open getting your tongue dry as you desperately search for the oxygen that each time his hips bump against your thighs makes escape. He's certainly not inside you, he's not stretching your insides nice and deep but it's as if he is— each thrust makes you feel dizzy, the swollen tip of his cock rubbing against your tender clit over and over again, your pussy still sensitive from the recent orgasm he had snatched from you.

Contrary to what you might have imagined, if you had ever allowed yourself to fantasize about such a thing, Satoru is quiet, grunting and moaning without any modesty, sometimes gritting his teeth or you notice the Adam's apple go up and down yet he doesn't bother to disguise how good you make him feel, not caring much that the whole building realizes you have company tonight— knowing him, you imagine the idea only turns him on more. You're sure he'd rather be inside you but the expression on his face right now is one of pure ecstasy and lust, a hint of morbidity even as he's not even fucking you properly, the idea of him fucking you with that same intensity... that you even let him use your ass makes you clench painfully around nothing, your walls feel achingly empty.

From below you notice his pearly teeth chewing on his lower lip, his arms tensed at your side from the force he's exerting mark prominent veins and the occasional white strand bounces off his forehead from the intensity, his forehead beading with droplets of water.

"Fuck, I'm close." Satoru sits back on his calves and runs a hand through his hair pushing away the annoying strands. Your legs open, drop down to rest a little from the position feeling already the burning that chews your muscles and will be much worse tomorrow.

He takes the time to take off his shirt which is a mess and you lose yourself for a moment in what little you can appreciate of his marked abdomen, much stronger than you could ever imagine. Satoru wasn't as muscular or beefy as Suguru, but he was just as attractive.

Holding onto your elbows you see him grab his cock with one hand and slap your aching flesh again, tap, tap, tap. "You want to cum like this? Me slapping your clit?" you couldn't answer, you don't really know what you wanted, too deep in a thick fog of desire that manages to sink you deeper and deeper into that white noise. Far away, you hear him chuckling without stopping, rubbing your clit, hitting it with the red tip, teasing it until you gasp squeezing your eyes tight, a big hand pushes your abdomen down telling you dirty and sweet things, thus helping you to reach your sweet orgasm just with the stimulation of his cockhead.

Satoru drops down on you again but this time it's much closer, his wet chest is crushing yours, between your legs you  how heavy his thighs and hips are. His heavy breath hitting your neck, from there he goes to your ear. "Can I put it in? Just the tip, I promise." The tantalizing whisper makes your hips thrust upward seeking more of his hard cock sliding in between your slick folds, you feel it hard, throbbing, begging to finally be emptied. "Please, please..." Your nails dig into his back, he growls biting your neck in response.

"Yeah..." You respond lost amidst your carnal desires. Overwhelmed by the beads of sweat on his back under your fingers, the fragrance of his sweaty shampoo hypnotizing your coherence, his clammy hair tickling your shoulder line. Satoru marks your neck, peppering it with little kisses and sucking until it hurts. 

"Yeah? That's a good girl." Satoru's heat suffocates you against the couch, his thighs heavy on top of yours making you sink between the cushions just a little, forcing you to open wider to take it. You are too hot, too wet. Satoru jerks the tip of his cock at your entrance, making circles that make you clench wanting to have it inside, teasing you one last time he does as he promises, he shoves just the tip of his cock in making you  so empty, it's not enough, it's all you can think about.

You are aching still thanks to your previous orgasm, sobbing, lost in the sweet babbles he drops as he licks your ear.

"I'm going to cum inside you," he blurts out. Followed by a long thrust that gets his hips sliding inside you but he pulls out right away, the motion makes your nails dig deeper into his back. "Sorry, you're so wet..." He shuffles his hips again to thrust into your pussy with a faint clap of colliding skins, there he just grinds his hips against yours, stimulating your clit at the same time, making you feel how deep he is, making you feel every inch of his cock, twitching, as Satoru gasps at the line of your neck, telling you how good you've been for him.

Your body is sticky as he pulls away from you tracing a line of kisses from your mouth, collarbones, navel and reaching your crotch. As he deprives you of his warmth a cold air seems to rush through your limbs. 

"Gojo..." You say softly, lifting your head.

"Sh. I always clean up my messes." You fail to articulate another word, sore and tired you give up on the couch as Satoru takes over licking your pussy collecting his own cum, you feel his fingers inside you a couple of times pumping it just a little, delighted by the way your hole quivers faintly around his digits. "Sorry, I couldn't resist." 

Satoru gives one last suck on your clit and climbs towards you to take you in a strange position, in a sort of spooning attempt but the space is so small you feel like you're going to fall off at any moment, yet his long arms manage to clutch you tighter to his chest, managing to coordinate your unrestrained breaths. Then you let him shower kisses on your shoulder and neck, his long fingers petting your belly. 

"Let's go take a bath." Satoru tries to get up but you stop him with a groan, too heavy to even open your eyelids. 

"Five minutes..." you say, your voice sounding distant. Within the mental morass you sink into, you feel him squeeze you, he leaves another kiss on your shoulder. 

"You're going to sleep. I want to clean you up first."

"Mhm." 

You can't get up now no matter how dirty you feel, your legs are mingling with the cushions, chains pulling you down forming one body with his. You don't know how you're going to present yourself to Jujutsu Tech tomorrow with your neck probably hurt, you didn't know if Satoru had left visible marks but the idea stirs up a feeling of anguish that fades as you give in to sleep— especially you didn't know what was going to happen now, what was going to happen next, you didn't know how you were going to look him in the face…. But maybe this was just what you needed, a reality check, a slap in the face of cruel realism that told you that you can't be loyal to an absent person. You will forget him, you would… you would… you repeat to yourself, having no idea how close you were to uncovering again that Pandora's box you had so much trouble closing.

[onyourhyuck]

Sweater Weather. | J.JH (M) Part 2 <3

prologue- “I wish you could see the way i see you.” + “This might sound crazy but can i kiss you?”

tw- friend’s older brother!jaehyun x fem!y/n. sungchan is jaehyun’s younger brother. y/n has the fattest crush on jae and he finds it rly cute. cute fluff moments here and there. he loves that y/n is a little bit innocent. he kinda just wants to keep y/n in his pocket. Soft fluff nothing smut related bc the way I wrote this was a different vibe.

notes- Heavily inspired by Sweater Weather By Neighbourhood. <3

tag list- @kae-t-eee <3 @j69no <3 @pretiurs <3 @seodami <3 @humongouscowboyskeletonranch <3 @hwaluvx <3 @caramelhyunn <3 @seokjinnjuice <3 @revie-ann <3 @ytzvivi <3

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two weeks has passed and you finally stopped tutoring sungchan because he had the upcoming tests which will prove if he was even listening to you the entire time.

you weren’t necessarily too fussed if he didn’t pass but you would be happier if he did, considering the amount of work he made you tutor him. it would be nice to see him see a difference in his grades.

right now your class has been dismissed and after that you had no class on, nothing planned or scheduled either. So you took your time packing up your school bag, putting forth the text books and pencil case in it.

“Y/n!”

Sungchan runs up to you like there was no tomorrow possible— you turn around in slight surprise as he saw you jump. He really needs to stop sneaking up on you, doesn’t he realise you have one life only? The boy smiles ear to ear as he would open up a grade report card.

He widely shows to the girl the red grades with eighty percent in both English and calculus class. She looks up at Sungchan with curved eyebrows. “Oh my god that’s amazing sungchan, I knew you could do it.”

You clap your hands but the boy went to leap-frog hug you, quite literally make you almost stumble and lose your balance. Sungchan widely exclaims.

“Without you it wasn’t possible, believe me! But thank you so much again y/n.” Sungchan tells letting go off the sudden hug he has placed on you. Your cheeks turn a light reddish colour. You weren’t used to being thanked, at least not as much as Sungchan especially when it really was just… tutoring?

you give him a slight nudge to his elbows. “come on it’s not like i really did some wonderful thing. i’m sure anyone would tutor you if they were in my place.” Sungchan gives you a short glance. “but not as good as you, that’s for sure.”

he thinks you’re good. Y/n blinks in another set of surprises but nods slowly. you pick up your bag from the desk putting it on one shoulder, you fix your cardigan that you’re wearing as well the flowy black skirt and knee high socks.

Sungchan would see you walk past him bowing goodbye but then he reaches to hold them hem of your shirt line a lost puppy; as if he had more to say. You turn around raising an eyebrow.

“Uhm, remember how my brother invited you to the trip down to the villa?”

Y/n slowly nods, murmuring softly towards the boy. Sungchan hums. “It’s today. When I come home we’ll be leaving immediately. Do you want to tag along still?”

“But that’s really…too much to accept— I feel bad.” You begin to spit jambles but sungchan paused you with finger placed between your lips. You immediately seal your lips shut. This was really sudden too. Sungchan curls a smile.

“Think of it like a holiday because you helped me a lot. Yeah? So please tag along my brother never invites anyone down to the villa!”

And that’s exactly how you got yourself in this situation. You were residing in the jung villa that was actually on a cute little private beach. It was meant to be relaxing but you felt far from it.

You explore inside the villa a little bit. Sungchan was nowhere to be seen, as he was most likely packing, so you took your free curiosity to sneak around the rooms.

One room instantly welcomes you into music glory. It was as if your candy store needed a definition, this would be it. Room aesthetically pleasing with white and red band posters, followed with the Neighbourhood, Cigarettes after sex and many more. There was multiple layers of shelves holding large vinyls. On the other side there was a book shelf ton of CDS and a player next to it.

Y/n’s lips carve into a circle, wowing with big gasps unable to keep the excitement in. Your body froze like a grounding tree in middle of nowhere, feeling rooting to the floor, clearing taking in the situation.

Your brown sparkling eyes pry on the vinyl section, running down fingertips to the covers of very famous banging tunes; Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley… you felt like were like in multiple universes.

“I love that one too.”

Jaehyun soon beams out of nowhere behind your shoulders, peaking down at your hands who were busily holding on one of the cigarette after sex’s vinyl. He felt your entire soul jump out your body, because when you turned around your lips fell into a small soft spoken shout.

“Oh! I’m sorry I-“ you look down pushing the vinyl back where it belongs. Y/n turns to look at Jaehyun who flashes her a little smile. “I was being nosey.” You respond. The man leans closer to the section where you used to stand, grabbing out the same album you pick out earlier.

He wipes the little dust left on. “You’re free to roam wherever you want y/n.” Jaehyun encourages, in fact the point of staying here was to enjoy yourself.

You watch him walk to the vinyl player as he took it out, pushing it into the clipping brown rustic structure; it was an antique, it looks as expensive and valuable than you could imagine a normal vinyl not being able to compare it together. Your body larks behind Jaehyun who was much taller than you.

The music softly coos out like magical words. Jaehyun turns to you. “Do you like cigarettes after sex?”

“I love cigarettes after sex actually. How about you..?” Y/n gestures with her little hands that he quickly caught on. He grins. “Me too. My favourite band.”

The quiet room was filled with the music playing gently, soothing these two to enjoy their sense of love for music. Seemingly you and jaehyun have a lot in common— more than you could admit. The both of you enjoy listening to the same music, especially in your free time. Your favourite food would be pizza. Favourite fruit is a peach. Then there was obviously lots of difference between you and jaehyun.

He was good at sports. You were not, in fact you would wish sports (cough mostly in schools) was banned. It’s more like you hate doing it, but you wouldn’t mind watching sports. Just as long as you stayed away from a ball and running on a field.

Jaehyun sucks badly at drawing. You were good at it. You enjoy calculus and english more in school than any other subject. Jaehyun enjoys korean literature and history. You both somehow ended up bashing on physics though, no one likes physics.

But most important you and jaehyun speak about high school musical. You guys are absolute simps for high school musical, and you even told him that y’all should watch it together. He was more than happy to go up on that offer.

“Y/n, Hyung!”

The voice distraught your conversation to shatter into silence as both heads turn the same way, standing in the doorway was a very wild looking Sungchan; he had yellow flip swimming flops, goggles on his head and shirtless as he swore swimming trunks.

He puts his hands on his hips, sassily eyeing you and his brother together. “What are you guys doing? Seriously come to the water it’s hella refreshing out there!”

He immediately reaches for your hand dragging you out to the back of the villa house where the shore would be located at. Jaehyun was left stunned as he follows along casually,

You stutter multiple jambles overlapping your words as Sungchan flung you and him into the cold sea water, the waves crashing you back to the shore. You would be met with pale feet as you look up seeing it was Jaehyun standing in front of you.

He bends down with his hand out. Y/n slowly taking it as Jaehyun helps you up. He notices the wet sweater and skirt sticking on your skin like paper. He softly mutters.

“You’re soaking, what if you get sick? he should at least think about your safety.” Jaehyun chides scolding, watching the younger boy in the distance jumping about like a hyperactive squirrel on caffeine.

You laugh suddenly loudly which made Jaehyun to glance at you in surprise. You hold your stomach a little, giggling.

“That was fun actually. Won’t you join us?” You happily ask jumping up and down into the cold water that actually— somehow eased your mood up. As if it was your source of energy. Or maybe it was because the moment was absolutely beautiful. The reddish orange sunset in the background with white transparent clouds, the soft romanticising breeze blowing through your wet curly locks, brushing by your smooth skin and flowy skirt a little.

He came to a realisation that this was the first time he heard you and possibly saw you smile so happily without a single worry or care flowing in your brain. You were in the moment, enjoying it, seizing it like it was the ultimate opportunity to getaway. Jaehyun would watch you wait for him, in middle of the strong beautiful waves flowing back and forth.

You were a sunshine ray, underneath those rims of clouds blocking your shining light.

Hearing no quicker response your hand instead reaches for the wrist pulling the body mass with force. Jaehyun was flung towards your body into the ocean, as you freely swim around watching the man fall into the water. You sit up, twirling into the water.

Splashing Sungchan and Jaehyun at once. The two boys chuckle at your super sudden child-youthful happiness that they never really expected you to have. You are most beautiful when you are happy.

In that moment this will be a memory you will never forget.

After Sungchan’s shanigians, all of you would be curled on the couch at once with a long thick fur texture blanket. The tv was on and the trio were watching one of the high school musical parts.

Sungchan was completely bored out of his mind to the point he slept, leaving you and Jaehyun in the middle together curling watching with anticipation and excitement.

You tut with squeaky voices when ‘Start of something new’ finished. Jaehyun on the other hand was completely mesmerising you from the sidelines, admiring your side profile, the way your eyes exquisitely never miss a single thing, there would always be a thing you catch on quick like a button. Jaehyun loves the way you remind him of so many things, make him feel so many things. You remind him of the ocean waves earlier, they were so calming and beautiful but have their hidden moments that makes them unpredictable.

You remind him of the morning sunrise, because you make him realise that he wants to see you everyday in his life the more he gets closer to you.

You were the epitome of raw beauty.

“Jaehyun you should sing for me.” Y/n suddenly urges as she turns to face the man who was lovestuck at this point. “Hmm what do you want me to sing?”

The girl lays back humming loudly as she thinks. You sit up suddenly in your position when a brilliant idea struck you. “Sweater weather by the neighbourhood. Because today really reminded me of that.”

“The beach was perfect. This entire place is amazing.”

He hears you say.

“Come out with me then.” Jaehyun would suddenly speak as he stands up. He would be wearing those loose pyjama red checkered pants with slippers on and a loose white shirt exposing those prominent collarbones that left you drooling. You blink wondering what could he possibly be leading you to, but without hesitation you take his hand.

You trust him. He smiles gently as he leads you outside to the sandbox beach, keeping a hold on your hand as he starts to shift you around into a twirl. He was dancing with you, slow dancing at that.

Your body stiffens at the movement, but trying your best to let yourself loose and follow along. Jaehyun’s earthy husk tone later fills your head with nothing but the enteral melody,

As he sang exactly the lyrics of sweater weather just for you. Spinning you round his body in the night cold harsh breeze that never stop you. Y/n would be wearing as well oversized shirt and shorts, something that wasn’t hers May you add.

This was actually Jaehyun’s clothes. He was more than ready to offer some for you.

Jaehyun remarks that stuns you quite a bit. “I wish you could see the way i see you.”

You were left in the open confused by his confession, in reality Jaehyun meant was that he wishes for you to notice how amazing you actually are, because in your own eyes you could never see how much of a loving caring person you are to deserve everything in this world. Y/n looks up at him as he pulls you closer and closer very carefully and slowly.

“What do you mean?” You let out. He looks down at his hands that wrap themselves in yours warmly sharing the body temperatures together against the cold night upon them.

“You’re breathing taking. You sweep me off my feet. You genuinely make me feel like I’m floating, you…” He leans closer whispering. “You’re a lot of amazing things, but you don’t realise it.”

“So that’s what I mean by I wish how you could see you through my eyes.”

Now who would’ve thought the Jung Jaehyun would be so overally engaged and whipped for you and just for you. The way those words roll off his tongue and lips like a romantic poetry. You stand quiet, rather stunned but your eyes were speaking to him things you want to say too. Things you were longing deeply to express and now is your chance to.

“Touch my neck and i’ll touch yours.”

He sang familiar lyrics that make your heart thump in your chest, as if it was ready to escape and burst out to freely roam. Jaehyun softly moving his hands, round your neck tightly his lashes gazing into your round bambi eyes that gave him such innocence. It felt like Disney love. Puppy love.

You caught on quick by wrapping arms around him as you decided it’s time to make your move. Maybe you should make it clear that you do like him, a lot, that you have the massive biggest fattest crush on this man standing in front of you, having hands wrapped round you like a piece of clothing unable to let go off your body. As your feet tip toe, face soon hovers over his and Jaehyun stands still.

“This might sound crazy, but can i kiss you?” He whispers to you, almost scared to now you’ll flat out reject him with discomfort. But instead, as he saw your head grow taller the more you tip toe… he felt a pair of lips roaming freely on his own.

The moment the lips touch together it felt like two pieces of puzzles connecting and fitting instantly, it was perfect chemistry, a perfect Cupid match sent from heaven. Jaehyun swears he felt his own soul ascending to another dimension. It made his heart flutter more now that it was you, who made the first move clear. He returns it as much passion as you shared, pouring all your love and emotion in it.

He felt it. He was touched by it. More importantly, he acknowledges it.

In between the kisses you murmur to make it even more clear to the man. “Jae..” the man didn’t listen as he was far too lost in the moment. he was going back to reconnect your lips once again but you broke it off by speaking.

You confidently tell him. “I. Love. You.” Jaehyun lightly smirks leaning in, pecking your lips that he truly can’t get enough of.

“I love you too, darling.” He caressed your face, pulling into another deep kiss sharing between you two.

You fell first but little did you know Jaehyun fell way harder than you could ever imagine to think.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

@onyourhyuck please refer from translating copyrighting and plagiarising my work thank you<3 reblog this fic and follow me for more it helps a girl out and to keep updated!

[yeongwonie]

lost cause — yang jungwon

tags. high school au, friends(?) to lovers, slow burn warnings. cursing, one mention of piss 

word count. 8.5k

note. thank u in advance for reading! i’m kind of nervous about posting this but i hope you enjoy and look forward to more writing from me in the future :))

playlist. MIMI by youra, 몰랐어 (just a little bit) by enhypen, 긴밤 by seori ft. GIRIBOY

masterlist

SYNOPSIS. since your brief friendship with your crush, yang jungwon, ended in radio silence, you’ve been determined to keep him at arm’s length. jungwon, convinced that you’ve grown to hate him during your months of disconnection, is equally as determined to win you back.

IT’S ALMOST TOO EASY, FALLING for Yang Jungwon.

Between the way his dimples poke into his cheeks when even a hint of a smile crosses his face and the sound of his laughter breaking through the murmur of the cafeteria every so often, the amount of time you spend reminiscing such menial details shows how much of a chokehold the boy has on your mind.

Even in the classroom, he’s diligent and well-spoken in a way that can only be described as admirable. Although the two of you are now freshly seniors, he’s been a shoo-in for class president quite literally since your first year. Although you’re always at the top of the class rank, Jungwon is never far behind, and one semester, he’d even taken the top spot for a few weeks.

Not only does he excel in every subject, but he’s also insanely sociable, which is something you lack. Your mind drifts back to the prior Valentine’s day, when the poor underclassman volunteer had spent 10 minutes handing out his candy grams alone. Or the day he’d gotten a homecoming proposal during every single passing period. It’s honestly a miracle the popularity hasn’t inflated his ego.

You’d formally met Jungwon two years prior when you’d been partnered together for a history project. Initially, literal chills had shot up your spine when the pairings were announced.

You were terrified that Jungwon would slack off and leave you to do all the work, or worse, that he’d be the nicest person ever and you’d let him down and he’d never want to work with you ever again. The two of you ended up talking for hours over a video call the same night, long after the project had been finished.

Three weeks later, you’d realized your feelings. In your mind, putting distance between you and him was the best solution. Jungwon was all kinds of unattainable, and you almost felt bad every time you texted him, the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that he had more important things to be doing and that you were a hindrance.

Your relationship dwindled down to waves in the hallway, then to brief eye contact, then nothing at all. You doubt you even passed the classmate-zone in his mind.

Nothing much changes, when you and Jungwon stop talking. You both continue your studies, you and him remain at the top of your class rankings, and you push your feelings aside.

You spend a year completely fine without having Jungwon in any of your classes to distract you, and the second you’re sat next to him, you fall back into your old ways.

In the year that you don’t speak, Yang Jungwon gets all the more intelligent. Unfortunately, his intelligence also comes with a keen sense of observation. You can’t stare at his side profile, one seat away, without him noticing.

You find this out slightly too late.

“Need something?” he inquires, with a smile so polite it almost hurts.

It’s so weird speaking to him again, with the thick curtain of awkwardness strung up between the two of your chairs. You feel more like a student asking a teacher for help with a math problem than a classmate talking to another.

“Oh, um. I’m good, Sorry,” you stutter out, turning your head back to stare down at your notes so quickly you almost get whiplash.

Five minutes ago, your teacher had seated you next to Jungwon, and not even halfway into the class period, you already want to move.

The said teacher walks to the front of the room and addresses the class with a tight-lipped smile.

“Tell the person sitting next to you about one fun thing you did over break,” she says, then promptly sits at her desk and opens a book. You’re not surprised; the first day of school means playing random icebreakers in every single period, even though your entire class has known each other for years now.

Slowly, you turn back around to face Jungwon, forcing your eyes to meet his. You’re only able to hold his sharp gaze for a few seconds before fixing your stare on your fiddling hands.

“Do you want me to go first?” Jungwon mercifully asks (although you feel slightly ashamed, knowing he sensed your discomfort).

“Sure.”

“I just started a few college applications, but I think that’s about it,” he chuckles.

You nod; probably 99% of your classmates are saying the same thing, which is why your teacher’s choice in question is so ridiculous.

“And I played with my dog.”

“Aww, that’s nice, where are you applying?” you ask, smiling softly at the last comment. He’s still as endearing as ever, unfortunately.

“The usual, I guess. SNU, Daegu, Gwangju. I applied to a couple in the U.S. too, but I doubt I’ll even get in.”

“Of course you’ll get in, I can totally see you at Harvard or something,” you smile. You don’t even have to lie, if anyone can get into such a prestigious school, it’s your class president.

“I think you think too highly of me,” he says, finally breaking the one-sided eye contact to glance up at the front of the classroom. “What about you, where are you applying?”

Your conversation continues until the end of the period, with Jungwon picking up all of the slack that you leave in your nervous state. Eventually, your comments start to flow more naturally, as they had those months ago through the FaceTime call plastered in your head to this day.

It’s sort of unfair, the way he makes you feel like he actually cares about what major you’re planning on pursuing, giving you false hope that this could turn into something more. That’s what everyone else thinks, you suppose, and then they end up as one of the discarded candy grams or the homecoming posters sitting in the trash.

So yes, it’s way too easy, falling for Jungwon, especially when you know firsthand that getting over him is one of the hardest feats in the world.

☆☆☆☆☆

YANG JUNGWON CAN’T FIGURE OUT why you dislike him.

He would even consider you a friend, despite the distinct lack of interactions between you two, save for that one history project a year or so back. You had been surprisingly easy to talk to, and Jungwon would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little sad when your conversations grew drier and eventually subsided.

He knows the two of you were buried in work, thanks to the ever-looming prospect of college applications on the horizon during your junior year. But still, it wouldn’t hurt for you to not act like he’d hit your dog with a car every time you make eye contact.

Jungwon knows what you’re normally like. He’s seen you with your friends; how you act when you don’t think he’s watching you. But the second your eyes meet his, your posture stiffens and your face twists into discomfort, as though being within a one-meter radius of him is equivalent to being dunked head first into a tub of ice water.

Sure, there are plenty of people with valid reasons for hating him, he thinks. People who project their insecurities about their grades or their social life onto him, who paint him out to be some perfect valedictorian golden boy. Or the people he’d had to reject in the weeks leading up to homecoming (he had nothing against them personally, honestly, but he’d have felt too bad choosing one person out of dozens he really didn’t know that well, and there was no way having 20 dates to homecoming would go well).

But, you don’t seem to be either of those things. Your own grades are pretty good, good enough to rival his own, and there’s a distinct lack of your name on all of the love letters he’s received in the past few years.

“I’m sure they don’t hate you, Jungwon,” Heeseung says. The older boy bumps his shoulder, breaking him out of his daze as his eyes continue following you down the hallway. It’s a little scary that Heeseung knows what he’s thinking, although he’s sure the way his eyes trace over your every step makes it a little more obvious.

“I don’t know. What if they’re mad that we stopped talking?”

“Didn’t you say it was mutual? I’m sure they understand how busy you were—they were probably just as busy.”

“I guess,” Jungwon’s voice trails off as he readjusts the strap of his book bag on his shoulder like a soldier, bracing for combat. In long, measured strides, he follows you into the classroom, making sure to greet the teacher standing by the door with a kind smile before scanning the room.

Jungwon’s a little scared to choose a seat. You’re probably the only person he’s had more than one sentence of exchange with in this class, but the months of radio silence between the two of you has built you up in his mind to be some sort of intimidating shadow figure.

Typically he’d just pick another seat, branch out, make new friends. But, at every single other pair of seats, there is at least one girl who has sent him a candy gram or sent him a love letter or even confessed in person in the last 24 months. There are still empty seats, but somehow leaving his partner for the rest of the year up to the hands of fate seems even more formidable.

Basically, Jungwon spends about 45 seconds standing at the front of the classroom, doing mental gymnastics to justify taking the seat next to you, before his legs actually walk him towards where you sit.

As he sets his book bag down and slides into the metal chair, he feels your eyes flit over his frame. Steeling himself, Jungwon turns to face you, but you’re already looking away, hyperfocused on the whiteboard, then the teacher, then the clock ticking on the wall.

He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or terrified when the teacher announces an icebreaker activity. On one hand, it’s the perfect opportunity to talk to you and prove that he’s not the asshole he’s sure you see him as. On the other hand, something about the way you purse your lips at the announcement is insanely intimidating, and a flash of doubt shoots again through his mind.

But he refuses to let this period go to waste. Yang Jungwon will not spend the entire period sitting in awkward silence, especially when the conversation had once flowed so easily. Hesitantly, he begins, telling you briefly about what he’d done over the summer break.

By the end of the period, Jungwon has to bite back a wide grin now that you’re talking to him again. He’s not sure why this fact relieves him as much as it does, maybe you’re a representation of simpler times in his mind, when he wasn’t so worried about the future (or maybe he just missed talking to you).

By the time the boy waves goodbye to you and steps back out into the hallway, he has only one goal in mind. Jungwon is determined to become friends with you again, even if it takes him until graduation.

☆☆☆☆☆

TWO DAYS LATER, YOU DON’T think you’re making any progress. Jungwon is still cute, and you still want to rip your hair out every time his eyes meet yours.

You tell yourself you no longer care what he thinks about you, yet you start waking up earlier and taking extra care while buttoning your uniform and tying your tie in the mornings. The thought of walking into your literature class fills your stomach with equal parts of excitement and dread.

Tapping your foot slowly against the tile flooring of the classroom, you keep your eyes focused straight forward. You’re almost militant about avoiding eye contact with Jungwon unless absolutely necessary now.

You feel a nudge against your shoulder.

“Do you want me to share the lab notes with you?” Jungwon asks, bearing his signature smile. Your brain is split in half between wanting to poke his cheeks and wanting to scream in frustration.

“Yeah. Thank you,” you reply stiffly, missing the way the corners of his mouth drop just a fraction.

You open your laptop with one hand, then grab a pencil in the other. Today’s classwork is relatively easy, typing out observations on some pictures of various plants under a microscope. Your fingers switch between flying across your keyboard and writing in your notebook as your mind drifts elsewhere.

“Woah, that looks so cool. Can you teach me?” Jungwon murmurs, his voice cutting through the daze of your tired brain so early in the morning.

You stare at him, then down at your hands, finally realizing you’d been spinning your pencil. As you look down, Jungwon winces in embarrassment, letting what he’d said replay in his head. He probably sounded like an idiot, and now you’d ask the teacher to move seats and ignore him for the rest of the year.

“Um, yeah. I learned it from a Youtube video like three years ago, so I might not be the best teacher.”

Positioning your pencil in your hand (and praying the slight quivering of your fingers isn’t visible), you look down at Jungwon’s hands to make sure he’s copying you. You demonstrate how to bend your fingers to make the pencil spin around, then stifle a laugh as he fails on his first, second, third, and fourth attempts at following suit.

“Here,” you say, adjusting his grip on the pencil with a feather-light touch.

Jungwon swallows before attempting to give the pencil a slow spin. The grin makes its way back across his face as the pencil actually moves instead of flying out of his grip.

“There you go,” you smile, turning back to continue typing on the document. Jungwon’s eyes linger on your profile for just a second more before he, too, returns to his work.

While you sigh, frustrated at your lack of success less than a week into the school year (because despite your efforts, the feel of Jungwon’s hands against your own was definitely still enough to make your heart race), the boy seated next to you replays the memory of your fingers brushing against his own.

Jungwon thinks that if things continue like this, you’ll be best friends by the end of the month.

☆☆☆☆☆

BY THE NINTH DAY OF your senior year, you are wholeheartedly convinced your literature teacher is trying to kill you.

“Who the hell assigns a partner project one week into the school year?” you scoff under your breath, copying down the rubric into your notebook and pressing extra hard with your pencil into the paper out of spite.

Thankfully, the period ends right after your teacher, Mrs. Park, gives her announcement. You need a little time to process the situation before you can even think about facing your seatmate. Jungwon thinks about staying with you after class for a bit, just to discuss what time you’ll work on your slideshow and script, but you’re already rushing out the door.

He’s a bit disappointed, but you seem frantic to get to your next period. And besides, he has a whole week to talk to you and get the project sorted out. Jungwon lets himself worry for the five minutes between class periods, then moves on.

☆☆☆☆☆

“I THINK YOU SHOULD TRY just being friends,” Sunoo suggests later that day, completely aware that your gaze has been stuck on Jungwon for the past 10 minutes. Even though you and Jungwon have been speaking more and more in class and you’re now able to hold a conversation without picking at your nails or bouncing your leg frenetically, you’re sure a literary analysis project will undo any progress you’ve made.

“Yeah, because being friends with Jungwon turned out so well for me last time,” you groan, rubbing your eyes with the palms of your hands.

“I don’t know, it could be like exposure therapy or something. I just don’t think this whole ignoring him and then screaming at me over the phone about how cute he is every night is working. I could be wrong, though.” At this, you shove him in the arm, causing his light chuckles to turn to full-on giggles.

“I don’t scream about him,” you protest, brows furrowing as your friend eyes you sideways before turning back to his food.

“Sure, and I don’t have pink hair,” Sunoo sighs as you stab at your rice with your pair of chopsticks. “Don’t you think you’re, like, putting him on a pedestal? That boy is literally a puppy dog. The little white ones with the crusty eyes.”

You know Sunoo’s right. He knows you know he’s right, too, and he’s way too smug about your clear internal conflict.

“Maybe you’re right. People always say you can’t be friends with someone you’re attracted to, so maybe if we become friends I’ll finally get over it.”

“I don’t think that’s what that means, but yeah!”

Deep down, you know it won’t be such a simple fix. But, you also feel incredibly guilty, meeting Jungwon’s attempts at conversation with terse replies and avoiding his gaze at all costs.

Across the cafeteria, Jungwon is having an incredibly similar conversation.

When he tells Lee Heeseung about his predicament, his senior stares at him for a solid 30 seconds.

“Hey, are you gonna give me advice, or what?” Jungwon complains, waving a hand in front of the elder’s face.

“Sorry, I just don’t see what the issue is. Your project partner isn’t making enough eye contact with you?”

“Stop making me sound stupid. I want things to go back to normal. Y/N and I used to just click, but now they’re acting like we barely know each other,” he says. Heeseung eyes the younger boy, whose brows are drawing closer together, skeptically.

“I don’t know, from what you’ve told me it just sounds kind of awkward. But that’s pretty normal, you guys haven’t spoken in a long time.”

Jungwon’s brow furrows even more.

“Okay, here’s what you’re gonna do.” Heeseung pulls out a spiral-bound notebook and tears a page of lined paper from the binding. After rummaging for a pen and uncapping it, he begins to write:

“1. text Y/N about the project

2. invite them on a study date”

“Date?” Jungwon interjects, and Heeseung rolls his eyes. He adds “(platonic)” onto the end of the line before continuing.

“3. get an A

4. go out to celebrate somewhere

5. friends!!”

Heeseung finishes the list with an obscene amount of smiley faces after the final step before sliding the paper over to the boy next to him. Jungwon regrets asking for help in the first place.

“Thanks, I guess. I was going to do most of this anyway.”

Heeseung flicks Jungwon’s forehead, then stands and stretches out his legs. “No way, you probably would’ve gotten nervous and then done the entire thing by yourself.”

“No, I swear. Here, watch,” Jungwon whispers as he sees you approaching the same doors. He tugs Heeseung by the arm through the swarms of his classmates, eyes never leaving you. Once he’s close enough, he sets the first phase of the plan into motion. His hands are only a little bit sweaty as they fiddle behind his back.

“Hi, Y/N” he calls out, adding a small wave.

His bright voice makes your head snap up. When your eyes finally fall on his face, you want to bang your head against a wall.

“Hi, Jungwon,” you reply before remembering what Sunoo had told you. “Do you wanna start planning out our presentation tonight?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” He’s a little shocked (but even more relieved) that you’re carrying out his part of the plan all on your own. “I’ll text you?”

“Sounds good.”

After a momentary pause, you continue on your path to your math class, thinking about looking back at Jungwon’s retreating form but never actually doing so because you still have some little sliver of self-control.

Jungwon grins at Heeseung, who gives him a thumbs up. The list remains safely in his pocket.

☆☆☆☆☆

AT 10:13 PM, JUNGWON SITS on his duvet and kneads his lower lip between his teeth. Your contact is open, the last message sent from over a year ago glaring back in mockery. For some reason, it’s so hard to come up with a way to say “Hey, do you want to work on the project right now?” without throwing his phone across the room.

Suddenly, three dots appear, as you’ve started typing out a message of your own. Jungwon nearly leaps off of his bed.

“hey, r u free to work rn?”

Grinning like an idiot, he starts typing out a reply, fingers flying at light speed over the screen of his phone.

Like Jungwon, you sit perched on your own bed, phone in your hands (which are quickly growing clammy). You reread the message you’ve just sent, searching for any spelling errors and contemplating if you’d been too informal or too forward with your wording (even though it was only 7 words). For two minutes, you wait, opting to put your phone down and look around your room, but still picking the device back up every 10 seconds to check for notifications. Eventually, you get a reply.

“yeah, fs! i’ll share a doc w/ u :)”

Satisfied, you flip open your school-issued laptop and click on the new link in your email, smiling when you’re greeted with a blank page and Jungwon’s cursor blinking on the screen. As diligently as would be expected of the student council president, Jungwon begins typing, listing out ideas for your presentation topic, and occasionally texting you to clarify specific details.

At first, your exchange is a little awkward, neither of you wanting to cross the careful boundary between project partners and friends just yet. But, as the night stretches on, you find yourself falling back into the same comfort you had years ago. It’s a little aggravating, seeing firsthand how you still click so easily with Jungwon.

At 12:45, you’re complaining about your various annoying teachers and your coursework. The project remains long forgotten; the two of you had done far more than you’d needed to anyways, seeing as the whole thing is due in 2 weeks.

Suddenly, Jungwon remembers the lined piece of paper, folded up and sitting on his desk. It’s not explicitly written in the plan, but things have been going so well tonight, and he slowly types out a new message. It sits in the little bar below the chat for a solid 30 seconds before he winces and clicks send.

“after we present and get a perfect score, we should go out and celebrate!!”

“what if we don’t get a perfect score?” you reply quickly, though you know better than to doubt the abilities of Yang Jungwon.

“we will.” he shoots back, and you smile a little at the addition of a “>:(” at the end.

At 1:09, you move on to the topic of family and learn that Jungwon has an older sister. By 1:27, you’re back to the topic of colleges, but this time, you find camaraderie in your and Jungwons’ mutual fear of the future and what lies after graduation.

And by 1:58, when you’ve started checking for notifications a little too frequently for your liking, because yes, you are still desperately trying to push any romantic attraction toward Jungwon out of your head, you power your phone off and force your eyes shut. Sleep eludes you until 2:36.

Once you stop replying, Jungwon sets his phone down beside him and flops onto his back. He closes his eyes and breathes in, then out.

A smile crosses his face as he falls asleep.

☆☆☆☆☆

OVER THE NEXT WEEK AND a half, you and Jungwon fall into a routine. During lunch, you spare no small amount of glances his way. By the time the sun sets, his messages fill your hours until you break away from your phone to go to sleep. When you wake up and go to school, he’s waiting for you, never failing to be one of the first few students to arrive in class.

Your resolve crumbles a little more with each passing day.

And now, you’ve allowed him to infiltrate your afternoons. Sunday, three days before your project is due, the two of you meet up to practice presenting. Jungwon had offered up his house, seeing as he’d have the place to himself for the afternoon and early evening, and instantly, sirens went off in your brain. Eventually, you resigned—you know firsthand just how persistent Jungwon could be. And, as if that weren’t enough, he’d bribed you with pictures of his dog.

You and Jungwon sit on the wooden floor of the small study tucked into the corner of his house, slideshow pulled up on the laptop that rests in the space between the two of you.

The door is left ajar, allowing Maeumi—Jungwon’s dog that somehow has the exact same energy as he does—to walk in and out on occasion. Maeumi, who is the only reason you’d agreed to come, rather than insisting on working in the library or a cafe or even over video call.

Being inside Jungwon’s house is so nerve-wracking. It’s not the classroom, or the hallways, or the cafeteria, the places you’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him in. There’s no screen separating you from him, allowing you to hide behind carefully thought-out messages or a well-timed sleep schedule.

There’s just you (sitting cross-legged on the floor and trying so hard to take up as little space as possible that your legs are starting to hurt) and Jungwon, whose catlike eyes seem to peer into your soul.

“Okay, let’s run through the whole thing and time it to see if we need to cut anything out,” Jungwon begins after clearing his throat.

“Sounds good,” you mumble, reaching for the mouse plugged into your laptop to scroll to the top of your shared script.

Jungwon has the same idea.

You feel his hand bump into yours as you rest it over the mouse, and you swear you’re getting heart palpitations even though you’re near 18 years old and absolutely should not be getting so hung up over something as simple as touching fingertips. Quickly, both your and Jungwon’s hands shoot back into your laps, and you take great interest in examining the frames lining the walls of the office. Your ears and cheeks burn in embarrassment.

Hesitantly, Jungwon moves his hand back and scrolls up, and you open a stopwatch on your phone. With a nod, you signal your partner to begin speaking and click play.

“Hello everyone, I’m Jungwon, and this is my partner,” he trails off, leaving the end of the sentence for you to complete, as you’d planned. Instead, you stare at the screen of your laptop, chewing your lower lip.

As the silence registers in your mind, your eyes widen.

“Sorry, I, uh, got distracted rereading the script.

“All good, let’s try again?”

With a nod, you restart the stopwatch. The two of you make it exactly four more lines before your rehearsal is once again brought to a halt. This time, Jungwon is the one who forgets to chime in with his part, instead opting to stare at the floor.

“Jungwon,” you whisper. His ears start to match yours in color.

“Sorry.”

You think that if you can get through today without embarrassing yourself any further, the presentation on Friday will be a walk in the park.

Just as you take a deep breath in, mentally preparing yourself for a third try, Maeumi trots in. The small, white dog wags his tail and runs up to Jungwon, and the project is thrown to the back of your mind.

“Hi, Maeumi,” Jungwon coos, and you reach out a hand to stroke the dog’s fur. At this, Maeumi starts to leap around, excited about seeing the new guest in the house for a second time.

Jungwon stands up, smiling softly and saying he’ll find some treats for you to give the dog. Once he’s on his feet, Maeumi perks up, walks into the center of the room, and starts to pee on the floor.

Jungwon’s smile drops. He looks like he wants to die.

“Shit shit shit. I’m so sorry, he doesn’t usually do this,” he cries, grabbing your arms and ushering you out of the office.

Once the two of you and your laptop are safely outside, standing in the narrow hallway lit by the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, Jungwon’s shoulders slump and he releases his grasp. His lips pull into an even deeper frown and his brows draw closer together.

You look at him, then back through the doorway into the room, and your lips quiver. He looks so distressed, but you can’t help it as laughter wracks your body. Soon enough, Jungwon joins in, and the two of you remain in the hallway, chests hurting and cheeks aching from smiling too hard.

“Um, I’m gonna go clean that up,” Jungwon chuckles as your laughter dies down. “We can just work in my room.”

You nod, and he directs you up the stairs and into a small room. You sit down a little hesitantly on the bed at his suggestion, and then he bolts out of the room, presumably to find paper towels.

Jungwon’s room is somehow exactly as you’d pictured it (not that you spend your free time imagining what Jungwon’s bedroom looks like, obviously). A few pictures are scattered across the white walls, and a navy blue duvet is draped over the full-sized bed. The white desk positioned in the corner of the room is spotless, scattered with a few sheets of paper and a desktop.

A few minutes later, Jungwon finally trudges into the room and collapses down onto the bed, hand covering his face. He peeks through his fingers at you, sitting next to him, and promptly starts giggling again.

Jungwon notices you look a lot less tense, relieving the tight feeling of anxiety in his chest and making his stomach flutter (in relief, he tells himself). He supposes he has Maeumi to thank for cutting through the previously awkward atmosphere, even if it did mean he had to clean up dog pee. He pushes himself up so that he’s upright and peers over your shoulder at your laptop, which rests in your lap.

Your eyes flicker to his face, a few inches away from yours, so close that if you were to turn your heads at the same time, you’d be touching.

“Let’s just run through it first, yeah? We can time it after.”

Stiffly, you nod.

This time, the rehearsal goes without a hitch. Once you’ve said your final line, you both pause, faces breaking out into two matching grins.

Jungwon pulls you into a brief hug, arms tightening around yours. You’re stunned for a second, and then you’re reciprocating, wrapping your own arms around his waist and giving him a quick squeeze before you both pull away.

“See, I told you we’re gonna get a perfect score,” he says as he resituates himself on the bed.

“We better, isn’t it worth like 15% of our grade now?”

Despite your first impressions of Mrs. Park, the woman knew all too well that more than half the class would slack off once college applications were submitted and their grades no longer held as much importance. It adds a whole new layer of stress to the already nerve-wracking project, but you’re just glad it’s happening now, rather than in a few months, when the entire year will be focused solely on their future schools. You’re also glad you have someone like Jungwon.

You’ve decided the two of you work well together. And you’re beginning to hope that he feels the same.

☆☆☆☆☆

DESPITE ALL OF YOUR DOUBTS, Jungwon is right. Your presentation is probably the best run-through you and he have done, and at the end, you see Mrs. Park’s genuine smile for the first time this year.

As you both return to your seats so the next group can go, Jungwon shoots you a smug look, and you can hear his voice in your head saying he told you so. As you watch the pair of students standing near the whiteboard, Jungwon slips you a bright orange sticky note.

“do u still wanna celebrate later?” is scrawled across the slip of paper in looping handwriting. You shift so that you can write your own reply underneath.

“we haven’t gotten our scores yet”

Jungwon frowns at your pessimism.

“did u not see mrs. park smile??? we def got a 100”

“wtv u say”

He unsticks the note from the table once you’re finished writing and resticks it in front of himself. Then, he moves his arm so that you can’t see what he’s writing. Annoyed, you face forward and actually start paying attention to your classmates’ analysis of the poem you don’t know the title of. Jungwon taps his pen to his lips a few times, deeply contemplating his next words.

Eventually, he sticks the note directly in front of you, then swivels to the front, watching your reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“are u free friday at like 7”

You’re a little surprised as you read it; you hadn’t expected Jungwon to actually stand by his suggestion of celebrating after the project ended. You would consider him a friend now, but you didn’t think he’d actually voluntarily want to spend time with you outside of class if not for schoolwork.

“think so,” You write back, trying your hardest to sound noncommittal. The last thing you want to do is turn down the implied invitation, but your palms are sweating a little and your handwriting is a little shakier than normal at the thought.

“great, you’re coming over,” Jungwon pens with finality, effectively shutting down any protests you might give as he grabs his backpack. It’s then you realize that the period has ended, and you watch his retreating figure strut out of the classroom in slight awe.

With a few seconds delay, you also make your way out of the classroom, meeting Sunoo in the hall to walk to your second class of the day.

“Jungwon just asked me to hang out again,” you immediately tell your best friend as you start to walk side-by-side down the hallway. “At his house.” When Sunoo sees your grin, his eyes immediately narrow teasingly.

“What happened to becoming friends so you can get over him?” he drawls, and you immediately look away. “It’s fine, I’m sure he likes you back at this point.”

You almost choke.

“What are you talking about?”

“He asked you out literally five minutes ago and you’re acting like I’m crazy?” Sunoo says incredulously, crossing his arms.

Luckily, you’re only a few feet from your next class. Sunoo glares as you wave to your teacher and practically skip into the classroom. Soon enough, you get a text message from the said boy.

“u know i’m right.”

You roll your eyes and tuck your phone back into your pocket.

The next three hours are spent with you completely tuning out the various lectures and wrestling with your own thoughts. Part of you does know Sunoo’s right; knows that there has to be some deeper meaning behind the lingering glances and touches shared between you and Jungwon. The other part believes that such a thing is impossible, and that you’re delusional for even entertaining the idea.

By the time your lunch period arrives, you’ve psyched yourself out to the point where you think you’ll throw up if you see Jungwon in the hallway.

Of course, this is exactly what happens (besides the throwing up). Heeseung and Jungwon stand by a row of lockers, engaged in animated conversation. Thankfully, there are still more than a few other students walking through the halls, so you’re sure you’ll be able to pass by unnoticed. The two also seem extremely engaged in their own conversation. Jungwon looks a little flushed, while Heeseung wears the condescending grin you’ve seen far too many times on Sunoo’s face.

Briskly, you walk past, ducking your head down, but you’re still able to catch a snippet of their conversation with how loudly they’re speaking.

“See, I knew you guys would get an A,” Heeseung exclaims, clapping Jungwon on the shoulder. “My plan worked perfectly, you should listen to me more often.”

“Of course we did, Y/N’s one of the smartest people in our year,” Jungwon replies, swatting away his friend’s hand.

You nearly forget to keep walking. It feels as though your heart is sinking deep into your chest and pulling your lungs down with it, and you suddenly feel nauseous for an entirely different reason.

In your haste, you miss the second part of Jungwon and Heeseung’s conversation.

“You speak so highly of them,” Heeseung smiles, finally lowering his voice. “It’s nice.”

Jungwon’s eyes widen a little before he, too, starts to smile.

“I think very highly of them.”

“I don’t think you ever needed the plan, honestly,” Heeseung’s smile shifts from genuine back to teasing. You’re both whipped and it hasn’t even been a month.”

Jungwon hums in thought before closing his locker and briskly strutting down the hallway, leaving Heeseung standing a little dumbfounded for a moment before he follows.

During lunch, the last two people you want to see sit perfectly in your line of sight, as usual. Contrary to your normal routine, however, you refuse to look over and bear witness to Jungwon’s joyous laugh or his bright smile. Now that you know, you can’t help but feel he’s laughing at you.

If Sunoo notices your dramatic shift in attitude, he says nothing. It’s not that you don’t want to tell your best friend about what you’ve just heard, but the entire situation has filled you with humiliation so deep that you think you’ll need a few weeks to even admit to yourself that you’ve been completely played.

Eventually, the lunch period ends, and for the rest of the day, you solely think about Jungwon. The boy had occupied many of your thoughts before, but now, instead of reminiscing on his dimples or his cheerful voice, you’re stuck wondering how you’d gotten here in the span of a few hours.

The worst part is that Jungwon seemed so earnest when asking you to hang out just hours before. If you hadn’t overheard the conversation with your own two ears, you’re sure you wouldn’t have believed it.

As you lay in bed, ignoring the couple texts from Jungwon trying to start your usual idle evening conversation, you feel like an idiot.

☆☆☆☆☆

WHEN JUNGWON WAKES UP THE next morning to a distinct lack of a response to his messages from the night before, his heart sinks. He wants to believe that you just fell asleep early or were extra focused on a difficult assignment, but he can’t help the little voice in his head telling him he’d been too pushy the day before, and drove you away.

This fear is only confirmed when you sit down next to him. To your credit, you do respond to his little good-morning wave. But Jungown can see from a mile away that your smile is a little too forced, and your posture is completely closed off.

Rummaging through his backpack, he finds the pad of orange sticky notes and sticks one onto your shared desk. He uncaps his pen and writes in his looping handwriting.

“everything ok?”

When you read the note, you want to cry. You stare straight forward and give Jungwon a single, sharp nod. In your peripheral vision, you don’t see his shoulders slump as a frown is painted across his face.

Luckily, the rest of the period is taken up by more presentations, allowing you to look extremely invested in what your classmates are saying so that Jungwon doesn’t try to start any more conversation. When the bell rings, you quickly sling your bag over your shoulder and walk out. Jungwon peels the orange paper from the desk and crumples it into his pocket.

Jungwon hopes against hope that the sudden shift is temporary. He tells himself that maybe your phone has been broken for the past two days, or that your pet fish died and you’re just too deep in mourning to talk to anyone that isn’t Kim Sunoo.

But then he walks into the cafeteria and sees you and Sunoo, crowded around your phone screen and giggling at a video you’re showing him.

He envies Sunoo, your best friend since freshman year and probably since junior high. It’s becoming increasingly apparent that you and him are not meant for a friendship that lasts more than a month.

His messages still go unread. Your next shared class period on Friday morning is possibly the most awkward hour he’s spent, although he’s opted to join you in your vow of silence towards him.

It’s the final day of presentations, and after the class period ends, Mrs. Park says she’ll be releasing scores. Jungwon, who’d been insistent on your success from the beginning, doesn’t even want to check.

This time, he’s the first out of the two of you to leave the classroom. Even though you’re supposed to be angry, you’re equally concerned. You know that Jungwon cares about his grades just as much as you do.

As you’re gathering your notes, you hear heels clicking against the tile floor.

“Y/N, I just wanted to let you know that you and Jungwon gave the best presentation I’ve heard in years. You’ve both earned a perfect score, please tell him as well,” Mrs. Park tells you. At the moment, she looks strangely maternal, so different from the strict, tight-lipped woman you’d known for the past month.

“Thank you, Mrs. Park. I will.”

☆☆☆☆☆

FOR SOME REASON, YOU STILL show up to Jungwon’s house at 7 o’clock on the dot.

You ring the doorbell, still contemplating getting back in your car and driving home. Before you have the chance, the door swings open, leaving you face-to-face with Jungwon himself. He’s clad in plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt, looking at you as though flowers have started growing out of your head.

After he’s scanned you from head to toe, toe to head, and back down again, he steps aside and lets you enter.

“I didn’t have anything planned,” he mumbles. “I didn’t think you were still coming.”

“Sorry,” you say, because you can’t think of any other way to properly portray how you feel. And you do feel sorry; sorry that you realized too late, that you’re still so willing to show up at his doorstep even after learning the truth.

Jungwon ushers you into the living room and offers you a seat on the couch. Once you sit, he rushes into the kitchen, telling you he’ll be right back.

For the millionth time that week, you've left him completely and utterly confused.

As you listen to Jungwon pacing around the kitchen and flip through different movies with the remote, you begin to hear a faint tapping. When it grows louder, you peer out the window and are met with a rainstorm.

It’s already dark, and with the rain, you would feel completely uneasy attempting to drive home. You get the feeling all of your exits have been sealed.

When you finally decide on playing the first Harry Potter movie, Jungwon re-emerges from the kitchen holding two bowls of ramyeon.

“Here, I didn’t know if you wanted any so don’t feel like you have to finish it.”

“Thank you. Sorry,” you mumble again as you pull your bowl closer to you and pick up the pair of chopsticks resting on the side. The word is quickly becoming the only one in your personal dictionary.

Jungwon spends about three seconds seemingly deep in thought before reaching for the remote and pausing the movie.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, turning to face you on the couch.

“Nothing, sorry,” you reply, chewing your lower lip and picking at the skin around your nails.

“Why do you keep saying sorry?” he continues, and you almost feel guilty with the way he looks at you.

Your mouth is completely dry. You can’t think of an answer.

Jungwon sighs. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

Then, before you can even blink, he’s out the door. You sit in slight shock for a few moments, wondering what the hell you’re supposed to do in a situation like this.

And suddenly, all of the sounds surrounding you rush back into your ears. It’s raining, probably harder than it’s rained all year. With the realization, you’re on your feet, slipping on your shoes and racing outside.

The neighborhood is dark, only dimly lit by streetlights. The moon is hidden behind the storm clouds.

Quickly, water soaks into your hair and clothes, the short sleeves and thin sweatpants doing nothing to keep out the frigid temperature.

You nearly cry when you see Jungwon, walking alone in the middle of the empty road, his figure growing smaller and smaller.

“Jungwon!” you call out, cupping your hands around your mouth in a futile attempt to magnify your voice amidst the torrents of rain pouring from the sky.

A few meters ahead, he pauses, shoulders heaving as he catches his breath. You can see the hesitation in his movements as he contemplates whether to turn around or keep walking away. Shivers start to run through your body.

“Jungwon, please,” your voice breaks, rasping from the frigid weather and the tears pricking your eyes.

Finally, he turns around. He inhales, exhales, opens his mouth, and you finally see Yang Jungwon lose his composure.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Y/N,” he says, with such a sharp look in his eyes that you’re almost taken aback. You grit your teeth. He starts walking closer.

“You,” he huffs, “are so confusing. We talk for the first time in a year, and you can’t even look at me. And then just when I think we’re finally becoming friends again, you completely shut me out.”

Your stomach clenches as remorse and anger simultaneously course through your bloodstream. You have to reassure yourself that no, you’re not being irrational, no matter how much you want to believe that Jungwon hadn’t just been using you.

“I’ve been trying, so hard, to talk to you,” he continues, each word accented with a step in your direction. “I can’t keep chasing after you when you’re making it so obvious that you want me to stop.”

“So why don’t you?” you hiss. “It’s not my fault you see me as some sort of extra credit assignment or something, right?”

You know you’re being unreasonable, but you’ve been wound so tightly this past week that you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Is class president not good enough for you? Do you have to make everyone fall in love with you to fuel your sick ego? I don’t want to be used to keep up your GPA.”

“What are you talking about? Do you really think I’m like that, after all these years?” He spits back at you. “I thought we were friends, but you really can’t trust me enough to believe that I would spend time with you just because I like being with you?”

“So then what did I hear you talking about on Wednesday? Your plan to get an A on the presentation?”

You can pinpoint the moment realization washes over his face like a bucket of ice-cold water.

“You heard—Heeseung, he,” Jungwon begins out, face quickly overtaken by remorse. His shoulders rise, then fall. “The only reason he came up with that stupid plan was because he knew I missed talking to you. I was…”

He runs a hand through his hair, the wet strands still clinging to his forehead.

“I was desperate, okay? I didn't want to lose you before I had a chance to figure this out.”

It feels like you’ve been punched in the lungs.

Even in the noise of the storm, his words sound out clearer than anything, resonating through your head like it’s an echo chamber.

“Sorry, I don’t really know what I’m saying,” he says after the silence stretches out indefinitely. You can see the wall separating the two of you slowly being built back up, right before your eyes. “I can, um, walk you home now. And then I’ll leave you alone.” You swallow.

“I’m sorry for not trusting you, Jungwon.”

“It’s okay,” he chuckles bitterly, still refusing to look straight at you.

Another pause.

“You didn’t lose it,” you whisper. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze off of your shoes as his eyes finally meet yours. “Your chance, I mean. I didn’t even know I had a chance with you, and I still couldn’t get over you after a whole year.”

The rain, the distant sounds of traffic, all of it goes completely silent, and the world stills around you.

Jungwon’s eyes search yours for one, two, three seconds, and then he’s curling his fingers around the collar of your soaked t-shirt, crushing his lips against yours, and breathing you in as the rain beats down on your backs. The tension seeps out of your body in waves as his features draw into a sweet smile.

Everything is so much, the now-soaked fabric of your clothes clinging to your skin, the feeling of his hands running up and down your bare arms, lacing around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until you swear you can feel his heart pounding against your own.

Your fingers hover over his cheekbones before finally threading through his hair, and he shakily exhales into the kiss. You’re only a little satisfied that he feels equally as overwhelmed as you.

Eventually, the two of you pull apart, though you maintain the close proximity.

“You could’ve just told me, you know? Then I wouldn’t have wasted so much time trying to move on,” you tease, heart still soaring.

He ducks his head into the crook of your neck, and you feel his smile press against your skin.

“I know, I already feel stupid.”

“I think that’s an oxymoron or something,” you simper. “I should tell Mrs. Park her star student thinks he’s stupid.”

“You’re really annoying, you know,” he complains, lifting his head and dramatically sliding a hand down his face before turning around to glance along the road.

“Come on,” he says, holding out a hand for you to take. “Let’s go back before we both get hypothermia.”

Something in your chest flutters, and you smile for probably the hundredth time in the span of 10 minutes. Tugging on Jungwon’s hand to pull him towards you, you press a chaste kiss to his lips before releasing your grip and starting off down the sidewalk, giggling.

Maybe you’ll have to give up on getting over Yang Jungwon for a while.

[no1frogfan]

Endings and beginnings, part 3

Tsukishima Kei x gn reader

Chapter word count: ~2k

Chapter tags & warnings: alcohol (mixing drinks), angst, talking about having children, heavy emotional content, divorce, emotional abuse (not by Tsukishima or reader), gaslighting (not by Tsukishima or reader)

Note: Tumblr very much did NOT want me to upload this I guess because it’s taken me now SIX tries. Gods of tagging please stop eating my post

Series masterlist < part 2 | part 4 (wip) >

3. June

Business is slower than usual considering it’s a Friday night. The night is young though, not quite 5pm, plenty of time to organize the glasses and syrups and check the stock of mixers and garnishes ahead of the crowd.

Just in case, you decide to cut an extra container of lime wedges. Last weekend, everyone and their mothers wanted the cucumber melon gin spritz, and by the end of the night you’d run out of limes to garnish the glasses and the lemons you’d used as backup. It’s funny how popular the drink was considering you had to sell your boss on the idea. He was convinced that yubari melon would make the drink too sweet and mask the flavor of the cucumber. Trust me, you’d assured him. After testing a dozen different mixes, you finally hit upon the perfect one. If only you could’ve bottled the look on his face when he first tried it.

You cut into another lime, slicing off the top and bottom before neatly dividing it into wedges and tossing it into the container.

You cut into another.

And another, almost nicking yourself.

And another, because you’re thinking about him again.

Things have felt off between you since Sakusa’s party. You’ve met up with him and Yamaguchi a few times, but he’s been…distant. And even more so over text. Maybe Yamaguchi’s presence at the party lulled you into thinking Tsukishima still felt as comfortable around you as you did around him, comfortable enough to open up to both of you about his feelings, even if it meant yelling at you at first. And without Yamaguchi around — undoubtedly the one who’d kept in better touch over the years — you were merely an acquaintance.

Yamaguchi insisted you shouldn’t read into it, though it was difficult not to. “Tsukki probably just doesn’t want to burden you,” he said. But that’s just it. It meant you were no longer a person he could rely on.

When the three of you first met in middle school, you couldn’t understand why a sweet, bubbly person like Yamaguchi could be friends with an arrogant, sarcastic jerk like Tsukishima. You’d defended him against Tsukishima at first, not believing him when he laughingly informed you that he didn’t need defending. But at some point, over months and months, your opinion of Tsukishima shifted. Maybe you started to notice the near-imperceptible fondness and appreciation he had for Yamaguchi, and the way he supported Yamaguchi in quiet ways, even if he could never bring himself to say his feelings out loud.

Or maybe it was when he started to let you in too, letting you borrow his books, and sending you songs he thought you might like or new artists he came across.

That’s probably what fueled your crush on him, the feeling that you were special to him, in the way that close friends are and maybe hopefully a little bit more.

His words lost their bite over time, and by your second year of high school, Tsukishima seemed a totally different person — still snarky, sure, but more cheek than venom. Quick to tease, but also quick to console you whenever you were actually upset, making you laugh with some choice words about your ex or a bag of your favorite candy which was “coincidentally” in his backpack. The three of you were basically together 24/7, even during practice when you could always be found studying on the sidelines, often with their favorite snacks at hand.

That’s the year when Yamaguchi finally told you about what happened between Kei and his brother — the game that changed him so abruptly into the sullen boy you’d first met. Yamaguchi had constantly insisted that Tsukishima used to be gentler, but you never believed him until then. It was only afterward that you truly understood how hard Tsukishima worked on himself, to put himself out there, to take risks, and be a better person to those around him.

“He doesn’t think he’s good enough at volleyball to make an effort, and he doesn’t think he’s likeable enough to have friends,” Yamaguchi had observed once, surprising you with his teenage perceptiveness. Considering Tsukishima’s breakthroughs in volleyball in those short years, and how often you and Yamaguchi were accosted by classmates eager to date him, you were both convinced it’d only be a matter of time before he’d get overconfident and you’d have to knock him down a few pegs.

But, that’s not actually how self-esteem works.

You know that now.

Over the past few months, Yamaguchi filled you in just a little — maybe because he himself felt guilty for not realizing and intervening sooner — slowly revealing interactions he’d witnessed between Natsumi and Tsukishima that were painfully illuminating. The way Natsumi would condescend to Tsukishima behind closed doors, shout at him, goad him, and ultimately flip it on him, accusing him of being stupid, manipulative, and vindictive. Doing favors for him and then holding them over his head. Blatantly flirting with other people, then ridiculing him for feeling jealous. A million and one behaviors that were sickeningly familiar to you.

You know now that self-esteem can erode quickly, especially a newborn confidence as fragile and wobbly as Tsukishima’s. And to be treated like less than nothing for so long by someone so close to him… well, you suppose it’s not surprising that he’s hesitant to let you in again.

You don’t realize you’re just staring at an empty cutting board until something moves in the corner of your eye.

Looking up, you see Yamaguchi waving at you from the end of the bar. You hurriedly wipe your hands on the towel hanging from your waist. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

“About time you noticed,” he grins, “Since you always come to one of our neighborhoods to hang out, Tsukki and I decided to make the trek out to you for once!”

You hold out a drink menu which he immediately waves off. “I feel like whiskey tonight.”

“Whiskey, hmm?” You turn to take stock of your bar, pulling out a clean single malt along with some smoky lapsang souchong syrup you’ve been dying to experiment with.

“How’s Yachi doing? And your kitten?”

“Yachi’s doing great! The kitten is too, but I think he likes her more than me,” he laughs, “though I can’t blame him.”

You pour some of the syrup and two shots of whiskey into the shaker over ice, eyeballing the amount. “Does he have a name yet?”

“Not yet! We’re going to wait and see what his personality is like first.” You taste it and crinkle your nose.

“And how’s Makoto-kun?” Yamaguchi follows.

You hesitate, brain simultaneously attempting to decipher what’s missing from the drink and answer the question delicately. “He’s fine.” Your eyes land on the house-made umeshu and you pour some in. “We had an argument.” You taste it again — a little sweet, a little tart.

“Oh. Do you want to talk about it?”

You squeeze in some lemon and give the drink a brief shake before straining it over ice with a grimace. “He wants kids as soon as possible.”

“Ah. And you don’t.”

“…I honestly don’t know if I want them at all. But if I did, it wouldn’t be any time soon.” You shrug. “We talked about this early on, but I don’t think he realized how much he wanted kids until all our friends started having them.”

You garnish the glass with a twist of lemon peel and slide it over. Yamaguchi takes a sip, eyes widening and snapping up to meet yours.

“Glad you like it.” You smile, happy to change the topic.

“Who wants kids?” Tsukishima appears next to Yamaguchi. Of course he overhears that part.

“Makoto.”

“Ah.” Thankfully, he doesn’t press you any further. Instead, he scans the drink menu. “Which of these red wines should I get?”

“Are you sure you want one of those?” You laugh.

His face immediately drops into a sneer. “Sorry I don't know what all of these are. Some of us have other jobs.”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have teased you,” you hurry to apologize, “I wasn't implying that you should be familiar with those wines. It's just…I noticed that you always order red wine when we go out but you never seem to enjoy it. The reds we have here are great, and I’m happy to recommend one for you, but I was hoping I could convince you to try something else?”

“Do it, Tsukki! This drink is amazing and all I said was that I wanted whiskey!”

Tsukishima nods reluctantly.

“Coming right up!” You try to remember what Tsukishima drank the last few times you went out together. The first meet-up was at a wine and tapas place near the museum and he’d ordered a cabernet. You thought it tasted fine, but he really had to push himself through it, so when he went to order another glass, you’d suggested a pinot noir, a lighter, fruitier red that might be more to his liking. He did seem to like it better, but still didn’t appear to love it, all the while insisting he did.

At the time, you’d chalked it up to him having an off day.

Something similar happened the second time though. He’d ordered a black coffee, but could barely bring himself to drink it.

Then again, you don’t want to push him too far out of his comfort zone, so maybe…

You scan through the bottles in the refrigerator — “Here we go, try this” — and pull out a bottle of dry rosé. Not too sweet, not too floral, crisp and easy to drink. You pour him a mouthful to try.

He takes the glass skeptically, the corners of his lips pulling down just a fraction. “No offense, but—”

“Just try it,” you urge, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll find you something else.”

“…Fine.” He tosses it back in one smooth motion, head tilting back, emphasizing the single bob of his adam’s apple. He sets the glass back down on the bar. “That’s surprisingly good.”

You give him a smug grin as you fill the glass.

“Don’t get cocky, it’s probably a fluke,” he scolds, reaching over the bar to pinch your cheek harshly.

You reach up to swat his hand away only to accidentally knock over the wine bottle. “SHIT!” You scramble to right the bottle. Luckily, it was only half full so not much spills out.

You quickly wipe the bar down with your towel as Tsukishima laughs, a real one, deep and resonant, that rings out from his chest.

“Remind me why I’m friends with you again?” You glare at him as heat rushes up your neck. He’s laughing at you, they both are, but the fact that you’re also in on the joke makes you feel a sense of relief, like the tension has finally dissipated and you’re floating.

“Ok, ok it's not that funny,” Yamaguchi giggles to Tsukishima as much as himself.

A few customers make their way in and you walk over to serve them before returning to refill Tsukishima’s wine and making Yamaguchi a second drink. Before you finish, another three customers enter one behind the other. 6pm now, prime time for the after-work crowd. Within 45 minutes, you’re absolutely swamped with drink orders. It doesn’t help that the other bartender on shift is late today.

“We’re gonna go get dinner!” Yamaguchi informs you when you finally get a second to check up on them.

“Oh, ok! Thanks so much for coming!” You wave, and seeing them reach for their wallets you quickly add, “Don’t worry, it’s on me tonight. You can owe me a drink next time!”

“Oh, here. I almost forgot.” Tsukishima pulls a big square envelope out of his bag and hands it over.

You accept it with confusion, eyes widening as you pull out a record. “Where did you get this?!”

He shrugs. “Co-worker.”

“But I’ve been looking for this vinyl everywhere!”

“I know. You told me the other day.”

“Well…uh, thank you,” you mumble in disbelief. That floating feeling returns, and you recognize it now.

It’s not just relief.

Fuck, you wish it was just relief.

[thx-immortal-harxm]

Humming in appreciation towards Kyle's professionalism despite his more blatant attempts of flirting with him, Michael nodded in agreement. "I suppose you're right about that. I do put in a lot of effort at the gym. Of course, it helps that the role I play is someone who's meant to be the eye candy. So naturally, my body has to look the part too. But it was definitely a conversation between the writers, producers, and myself about how many shirtless scenes there would be. You know, things like pool scenes where I'm dripping with water, or working in the backyard garden and I tug off my sweaty tank top to flash my abs at the neighbor, or getting rubbed down with oil before a soothing massage. I'm sure the list of ideas went for quite long, but you'll have to watch the show yourself to see which ones made the cut."

He was more than happy to tease Kyle, already grinning at the idea of the other man imagining him in those scenes. "Of course, if we do well enough, I'm sure we'd get renewed for another season. So if you have any ideas for more scenes you'd like to see me in, I'm always open to getting some fan input," the actor hummed. Michael's eyes glimmered in delight as he held his phone out for Kyle to take. "Why don't you put your number in here then? I'll be sure to text you all the details when we find a time that works. And then it'll be a date!" he said happily, slyly sticking his tongue out at Damian in defiance.

"Oh, a shame. Well, that's alright. I can just text over some shirtless photos to you, and you can always show them to whoever decides on the photos for your article. Nothing wrong with just giving them some more ideas. And if they don't end up using them, then that's that. Can't say we didn't try," Michael hummed, already taking his phone back to select a few more personal photos to send to Kyle. Of course, he didn't really care if the journalist ended up using them for the article. He was more interested in showing himself off and flaunting his body towards his crush.

It wasn't lost on the CEO how attractive or charming Michael could be, and the situation must have been overwhelming for Kyle. Damian had already acknowledged that it wouldn't have helped how the journalist was feeling if he ended up fighting for his attention in public with Michael. Still, the large man only stood behind Kyle as a reassurance; a familiar presence for him to always turn back to in case things became too much. He noticed the way Kyle's eyes lingered on the other man though, so much so on the very shirt that was hiding the actor's perfectly sculpted torso.

Michael grinned as he caught sight of Kyle swallowing thickly or the way the journalist's eyes lingered on the his shirt. It was also not lost on him how hot the other man was getting, from the indication of Kyle tugging on his shirt collar every time they spoke. "Mr. Kyle... If I didn't know any better, I'd think your eyes are suggesting something that's better discussed in private," he teased. But the actor nodded once more at the question of tonight, more than happy to give the journalist an in-person viewing of his body underneath all his clothes. "Mm, tonight. You know, if you asked that lapdog of yours for something more private, I'm sure he has a place in mind for us to go to," the actor teased, nodding his head towards the glowering CEO behind Kyle. "And of course, I didn't forget about your job either. So how about... a personal, one-on-one exclusive interview with the Michael Conley? You could ask me anything you'd like, related to the show or whatever else you'd like to report on. And in return... well, you'd get to see and touch anything you'd like underneath this suit," Michael promised as he leaned in again to whisper the last bit into the other man's ear.

Damian's expression lightened to something more peaceful and calm whenever Kyle glanced back at him, only nodding his head to confirm Michael's words. "If you'd like, there's some more private rooms for you to freely ask him whatever questions you'd like. I'll be sure that no one disturbs you two. I'd be happy to give you two space, if you'd prefer, or keep you company."

Kyle felt the CEO's presence behind him, finally understanding why it took so little for people to do what he wanted; the energy he exuded was strong. He didn't need to turn around to confirm it; he knew Damian was behind him.

After his words, the suspicion he had of the other being jealous only grew. Apparently, he thought he was flustered at the thought of Michael shirtless, but that wasn't true; he was like that because of how exposed he felt after knowing that the actor read his thoughts on those scenes. He was about to turn and clear that out, but as Damian warned him, Michael spoke, stealing his attention, which left Kyle with only a mental note of the CEO's comment.

Kyle chuckled at the actor's words, returning to his professional mode. After all, he was there to do his job, and being a little flirty with an actor wasn't a tactic he hadn't used before. "I would lie if I said I don't enjoy those scenes," he said with a smile still present on his face, being careful with his words, talking about the scenes instead of the other's body, trying to still allow the other to know that he found him hot but not explicitly saying it. "But I don't think it's fair to let your producers take all the credit. This little chat we are having lets me know that you probably kill yourself at the gym and then walk into the set and request those scenes, only because of how aware you are of your fans liking them," he spoke, trying to move the attention to the rest of his fans and not only him.

"Umh..." Kyle commented as Michael took a step closer to him, his notes app long forgotten. In it the only information available was the short plot the other described. "I'm gonna have to check my schedule for that watch party, but feel free to text me all the details, and we'll see..." he said, once again nervous, pulling at his collar while thinking about the other's offer to pose for him shirtless. The heat invading his body felt different; before, he could tell it was fueled by shame, but this time, it was out of pure lust. The mere thought of being in a private space with his famous crush shirtless was starting to have its effect on him, even getting him a little hard.

"And I'm really grateful for your offer, but I'm not the one responsible for the pictures that go with my articles, sadly..." he whispered that last part, but thanks to how close the other two were to him, they probably were able to hear him.

Damian, he panicked, remembering that the only reason he was there, "flirting" with the actor, was thanks to the CEO's invitation. He quickly wrote down the date Michael told him, ready to move back and return his attention to the CEO when the actor cleared that if he wanted, he could see him shirtless that night and winked at him.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. Kyle tried to look away, to return his attention to the CEO, which he showed by the way his left foot was ready to turn around, but he couldn't stop staring at the actor. His eyes moved from his face to the skin on his neck, trailing down until they reached his shirt, undressing him with his eyes.

"Tonight?" he asked, swallowing saliva to clear his throat. Still feeling Damian's presence behind him, at which he moved to a new position, standing in a place where he would be able to stare at both of them, the CEO's words echoing in his head. Now, staring at him, repeating the trail with his eyes, mentally undressing him too, wondering if he looked as hot as the actor shirtless.

[astheroid]

A Friend’s Confession

Randomly generated stories: in which Honi attempts to cure her writer’s block with a random word generator and character wheel.

Plot words: escape, platform, negotiation, trivial, public

Character: Oikawa Tooru

Genre: Fluff (enemies to kind-of lovers)

Word count (not including texts): 2,420

You sighed, head down on your desk. School was a nightmare, and there was a dull throb forming in between your eyes. The asshole behind you wasn’t helping, either.

“Y/N! Y/N, hey.”

You buried your head further into your arms. Luckily, your teacher was too busy playing Candy Crush at his desk to pay attention, so you could get away with slacking off. As of right now, you attempted to escape the hellhole that is 7th period social studies.

“Y/N, I’m being serious. Please.” You lifted your head to glare at the boy behind you.

“Not the right time, Trashykawa.” He grinned.

“When is the right time, considering you’ve told me that every single day since our first year?”

“Never.” You were back to resting your head on your desk, too tired to deal with him.

“Like actually. I talk to one of your friends once and you’re dead-set on hating me.” He said, tapping your desk with his pencil.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re an ass.” He let out a soft huff and you swear you can hear his frown.

“That’s not very nice.”

“Mhm, I don’t care. Please shut up.” His chair creaked.

“Fine.”

You were rudely awoken by the shrill screaming of the school bell. As you sluggishly zipped up your backpack, shoving your half-finished notes into your binder, you felt an irritating presence loom over your shoulder.

“My day’s been shitty already, I don’t need you bothering me right now.” His shadow wilted a bit.

“Kind of rude, don’t you think?” He replied snarkily. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Why do you need to talk to me?” You were packed and ready to go, but Oikawa was blocking your way.

“I want you to watch our practice. The Aoba Johsai Volleyball Club hasn’t had enough spectators recently.” He grinned. You scoffed.

“Yeah, no. Now get out of my way.” He shook his head. After a few seconds of wondering whether you should punch him or not, you decided to shove him out of the way and continue walking. Right before you could, however, he sighed.

“Look, I really need you to be there. It’s important.” You grimaced.

“Why? I don’t want to watch sweaty man-children hitting a ball back and forth.”

He snorted. “I don’t need to tell you.”

“Ok, then I’m not going.” You tried to side-step him, but he blocked your path once again. You pushed your hair behind your ear with a frustrated sigh.

“Let’s make a deal. Have a negotiation, if you will.” You raised your eyebrows as he continued speaking. “Someone on the team likes you, and I-” he ran a hand through his hair, “am the one assigned to be their wingman. Come to this practice and I’ll tell you who afterwards.”

You considered it. “Are you sure they like me?”

He held up a peace sign. “I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.”

You shook your head lightly. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go with you.”

He beamed. “Great! You won’t regret it.”

Following him out the door, you grumbled “Of course I won’t…”

As soon as you entered the gym, Oikawa pulled a flustered Iwaizumi to the side and whispered something in his ear. Iwaizumi nodded and shot you a wide-eyed glance before turning to address the rest of the team.

‘Oh. So it’s probably Iwaizumi then, huh. This is… good, actually. Not what I expected, but good.’

You had a few classes with Iwaizumi, but you’d never really spoken to him (save for a few times he’d dropped his pencil under your desk in Language Arts). Sitting on one of the lower bleachers, you examined the boys on the team.

There was Oikawa, of course, with his side-swept hair that looked kind of like a walnut. Despite his snobbish attitude and annoying persistence, he was kind of attractive and his volleyball skills were impressive. You smiled when Iwaizumi hit him in the back with a volleyball. Iwaizumi. In your opinion, he was the best out of all of them. Short, dark hair and muscular arms with a stern attitude. You especially appreciated how he made fun of Oikawa.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa were cool too. You’d seen them around and always thought they were pretty funny. Kyotani was a bit scary, but not too bad-looking. Yahaba was hard to judge, but he seemed pretty nice. You wouldn’t mind if any of them had a crush on you. Except for Oikawa, of course. He was the only one you couldn’t stand.

Time passed quickly with very few interruptions. The most interaction you got with the team was a few side glances and some waves (and Oikawa winking at you, but you returned the favor by glaring at him).

You made idle conversation with the team manager as you waited for them to leave the locker room.

The Great King™ and his entourage arrived shortly, chattering away as they approached. Oikawa smiled and you made a noise of disgust.

“Heyo! Are you down to take a walk around town later?”

“Absolutely not. If you’re not gonna tell me what you promised you would,” you emphasized, “I’m leaving your bitch ass and never talking to you again.” Makki and Mattsun burst out laughing at Oikawa’s offended face.

“Dude-” Makki hiccuped, “you just got completely shut down.” They doubled over wheezing, and Iwaizumi shook his head in disappointment.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes at you. “Well I can’t tell you here,” he said, waving at the gym, “said person is present. If it makes you feel better, Iwa-chan can come too.”

“I never agreed to that.” Iwaizumi said, eyebrows furrowed.

“Oh come on, it’s just for like two hours!” Oikawa pleaded, turning to look at his friend. “If you come I’ll do your clean-up two turns in a row..”

Iwaizumi looked at you and then Oikawa, contemplating his options. “Fine.” he grumbled. “You better not make me late for dinner, though.”

You stared at them. “I still haven’t agreed, you know.”

“If you go with us, I’ll tell you and even maybe set you up.” Oikawa wiggled his eyebrows and you groaned.

“Let me think about this first, I need to decide if it’s worth it or not.”

He nodded and you walked out of the gym, glad to be free of the stuffy air.

Sitting down on a bench, you weighed your options carefully.

Agree to go with them and find out who has a crush on you, but be forced to spend time with the one person you genuinely dislike

Or

Deny the offer and have wasted your time at his practice

Your thoughts were interrupted by Oikawa, who was tapping his foot impatiently next to you. “Are you done now?”

You stood up. “Yeah. I guess I’m going with you, but if you cheat me out of my answer or pull anything, I’m punching you and leaving.”

“I won’t, I swear on Iwa-chan’s inevitable beating-of-my-ass.” Oikawa promised, putting his hand over his heart.

“You still haven’t told me what this deal is about…” Iwaizumi muttered, trailing behind you as Oikawa excitedly led the way into town.

It took 30 minutes and an awkward bus ride before you arrived at your desired location. It was a part of town you usually avoided due to the mass amounts of schoolgirls (in your experience, every teenager attracted to men simped for the guy you were currently standing next to). Although quite populated, you had to admit it was nice.

The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the murmuring of shoppers drowned out Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s trivial bickering. You were led into multiple stores by the boys, trying in vain to switch the topic to your secret admirer. Oikawa dodged the questions and Iwaizumi tuned out of the conversation before disappearing entirely.

You looked around, suddenly all-too aware of Iwaizumi’s lack of presence as Oikawa dragged you into another shop. “Where’s Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa looked at you, and then at your surrounding area. His eyes widened. “Uhhh… I don’t know?” He offered sheepishly. You grimaced.

“We need to look for him.”

“Why? We’re having so much fun.” Oikawa teased. “Iwa-chan’s responsible, he probably just went home.”

“It couldn’t hurt to at least text him. I don’t want to watch Iwaizumi yell at you for losing him in public.”

He shrugged and pulled out his phone. “That would be quite embarrassing.”

He scrolled for a bit and then showed you texts Iwaizumi had sent around fifteen minutes ago, explaining that he was getting bored and went home. “See? Told ya so.” You rolled your eyes.

“Ok, so now that that’s out of the way, can you tell me who has a crush on me?”

“Hmm… maybe later. Let’s keep shopping.” He said with a smile. You weren’t so amused.

“You literally promised to do it after your practice, but you dragged me on an hour-long shopping trip and refuse to tell me. You haven’t even bought anything!”

“All things come with time.” His tone was serious, but the mischievous smile on his face was not. You shook your head and decided to walk away.

“Wait!!” He called after you, speed-walking to catch up. “I’ll tell you, I swear. Just be patient.” You didn’t take this well.

“I’ve been patient for three hours. Tell me or I’m leaving.” You don’t know why you haven’t left already.

“Just do one thing for me, and I’ll tell you, alright?” You glared at him suspiciously.

“What do you want me to do?”

He waved at the shelf behind him, populated with plushies of all kinds. “Pick one!”

You stood there, confusion and suspicion mixing in the pit of your stomach. “What?”

“I said pick one. I’ll pay.”

“Why?”

“It’ll be a nice gift for your secret admirer, don’t ya think?” He beamed, prodding at one that vaguely resembled a duck.

You nodded, still suspicious. After around a minute of browsing, you picked up a small stuffie. He hummed in approval, plucking it from your hands.

“Off to the cash register! Don’t get lost now, you’ve almost discovered my secret.”

You waited in silence as he talked to the cashier cheerily. Despite his demeanor, you noticed his hands shaking when he took the bagged animal. He must have check-out anxiety.

Oikawa reached out to you, looking at you for approval. You shrugged your consent and he patted you on the head while slipping the bag into your hands. “C’mon, let’s get out of the store. I can’t properly confess someone else’s feelings to you in a place with so many people.” You followed him out, noting how he fidgeted with the edge of his shirt.

He led you through an intricate maze of pathways, adorned with soft pink trees and flowering bushes. You made a few snide remarks about how far he was going for someone else’s confession and he replied with teasing gestures of his own. The air, now slightly colder, carried the smell of spring.

At the end of the many paths he had led you down was a small pavilion made of old (slightly musty) wood. The raised platform had a border of carefully carved patterns and a few potted plants on the side. The trees filtered light in an intricate pattern, highlighting the natural themes. There were a few benches near the outside, moss-covered and looking like they had been popped out of a storybook. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), there was no one there but you two. It was the ideal place for a confession.

You stood in the center as Oikawa brushed his hands through his hair and fumbled for words.

“So… you’re probably wondering who’s crushing on you.”

“Yeah, duh. That’s why I’m here.”

“Right.” He muttered meekly. “Anyways, uh… you know what? I’m just gon- I’m just gonna go for it.” He took a deep breath. “It’s me. I like you. I know you kinda hate me and that kinda sucks, but I wanted to prove that maybe I can be okay sometimes. It’s like totally fine if you don’t feel the same way and everything, but do you maybe want to get to know each other better? And you can keep the stuffed animal. That was for you anyways.” He paused at the end of his rant, blushing profusely. “So, yeah. Um. That’s it.” You just stared at him, mouth slightly parted in shock.

This was the last thing you’d expected. Before, when Iwaizumi left, you thought it would be weird for him to avoid the person he liked. Because of that, you figured it was someone else on the team. Or Oikawa was lying to you as some sort of cruel joke. Never in your 18 years of living did you ever think Oikawa Tooru could be attracted to you. And you didn’t think you could ever bring yourself to like him, either.

He was annoying and stubborn and pushed all the wrong buttons, but during his practice you couldn’t help but notice how he gave such specific praise and advice. You’d heard of his infamous rejections, due to him having tons of confessions daily, but he never left his fangirls crying. Despite his playboy attitude, he took the time to let them down easy and encourage them to go for someone else. His sarcasm and jokes were well-planned and rarely had sinister intentions (save for when Ushijima or Kageyama came around, his disdain for them was barely concealed).

All in all, he wasn’t the worst. And he was most definitely the prettiest guy to ever show interest in you. You couldn’t be completely sure of anything, though.

“Do you actually like me?” You asked.

He gasped. “How dare you assume I don’t! Of course I like you, I wouldn’t lie about something this important.” Behind his joking, you could see the glimmers of sincerity peeking through.

“Okay then. Uh, I don’t really know you all that well because… y’know I’ve hated you for a long time, but maybe we could be friends. I want to know you before we like, date and all that stuff.” He nodded eagerly.

“Sure! I kind of expected that, to be honest.” His eyes were lighting up and he bounced back on his heels a little. “Thanks for tolerating me today.” He winked and you sighed, but you couldn’t stop a small smile from making its way onto your face.

“Yeah, yeah. Want to exchange phone numbers so you can convince me you’re not the worst person I’ve ever met?”

“Gladly.”

This was actually really fun OvO my original plan was to write an enemies-to-lovers Oikawa story for my close friend @calicocatwrites (who coincidentally hates Oikawa lmao), but I got stuck on the plot so I used random words to form one :D I think I’ll write some more stories like this eventually. And this is my 100th post, woo!!

[joyfulanya]

anya : is it too late to express how excited i am to watch dune? because, so am! anya : also if i invited you to hang, would you be down?

[phykios]

honesty and promise me part 9, co-written with @darkmagyk [read on ao3]

He doesn’t text her later. He doesn’t text her for two weeks. On day fifteen of no contact from Percy, Annabeth begins to accept that whatever they had might be over now. 

That’s alright, she reminds herself. She had been working up to breaking it off with him for a while, and he just went ahead and did it for her. Saves her the trouble, really. 

October rolls on, wet and cold, inching ever closer to Halloween, and Annabeth finds herself seeking refuge at Piper’s, lending her body and her skills to help her friend finish her collection before her self-imposed deadline. At least the work provides a nice distraction from her silent phone--when Percy stopped texting her, Thalia did, too. Well. That’s that, she supposes.

Still, the fact that they were never officially dating doesn’t stop Annabeth from scrolling through his Instagram at 2 AM like some pathetic ex-girlfriend, screenshotting all her favorite photos so she can look at them later without the threat of accidentally liking them. He’s been posting a lot of stills from that fucking music video again, the divinely crafted muscles of his body on full display in cool, blue light, brown cheekbone and jawline sharper than ever. Beyonce herself even liked a few of them. 

God damn she’s a fucking idiot. 

It must be the self-pity that’s making her crazy, because when Luke calls her up to be his date/eye candy to some fancy semi-costumed party that weekend at an art gallery on the Lower East Side, she agrees without even thinking about it.

The gallery isn’t that far (certainly much, much closer than the Lincoln Center) but Annabeth has not worn heels in probably up to a calendar year, and she just cannot make herself walk that far. She will not. Her tiny-ass cross-body bag isn’t big enough to hold a separate pair of walking shoes. So she ponies up the exorbitant cab fare to the Lower East Side, asking the driver to drop her at the Seward Park Library so she can elegantly sashay down the sidewalk with the rest of the rich and glamorous. 

No one spares her a second glance, which is both relieving and strangely disheartening. She’s become too used to turning heads, she thinks.

Well. One head in particular.

“Hey, Annabeth!” Luke appears from thin air, dressed immaculately as always. His sandy hair has come a long way since business school, now tamed and laid perfectly, but with the faintest touch of dishevelment, like he couldn’t completely fix it after someone’s hands had been all over it. He looks even more handsome than he had on her birthday. He kisses her on the cheek, right on the sensitive skin of an old, failed piercing, and she shivers. “You look incredible.” 

Before she left Piper’s apartment that day, Annabeth had raided her small stash of designer clothes and had rediscovered her old faithful that Piper had tried to bury, the midi-length Valentino dress she had worn to the unveiling of her and Leo’s collaboration. It’s a light, powder blue, which can’t be helped, but the lace collar and three-quarter sleeves cover most of her tattoos. She had dug out her tiara, too, making herself a low-key Halloween costume out of the spring season dress. Though the dress doesn’t fit like it did a year ago, Which is depressing as all hell. “Thanks. You, too.”

He beams at her, holding out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Who did you say was the artist, again?” she asks, taking it.

“I didn’t. Something with an ‘L,’ I think. Levelle? Levique? I don’t remember.”

The white gallery walls have been draped in shades of inky blue and midnight purple, all the better to see the crystal sculptures on display: beautiful renderings of swords and skulls, deadly weapons and human bones. There’s something mind-numbingly obvious about holding a spooky, macabre-themed gallery show on Halloween night, entitled “Death and Riches,” but she has to admit, the artwork is stunning. The crystals take what little light is cast from the weak ceiling lamps and multiply it, casting the dark velvets in rainbow reflections. Annabeth feels like she’s walking through the night sky, like she could reach out and rearrange the stars in the constellations. “Look at this,” she murmurs to Luke, stopping them in front of a sculpture of an ancient cavalry sword. “This is incredible.”

He grunts. “Yeah, it’s cool.”

Annabeth fixes him with a look. “‘Cool’? Seriously?”

“What? It’s just a rock.”

She shakes her head. “You are wasted on an art gallery.”

“I am,” he agrees, swiftly. “I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for my bosses.”

“What do you mean?”

Luke steers her away from the sculpture, moving them onward. “One of our assistant executives, he’s about to close a huge deal with some big wig from Europe who runs this massive import/export, but before everything is made official, he wanted to meet all of us.”

“Why here, though?”

“He’s in town for this gallery opening; the artist is his niece, or something.”

Ugh. This is why she swore off business bros: always an ulterior motive with these people. “Hey, I’m going to go look for something to drink, do you want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” he waves her off.

Annabeth, teetering on her towering heels, has to make her way against the current of the crowd towards the refreshments table along the edge of the wall. She feels ten pounds lighter without all the metal in her face, her center of gravity completely out of whack--not to mention she’s having trouble seeing with all this hair in her face. To better disguise her undercut, she had brushed all her hair over her head in one big, voluminous side ponytail on the wrong side of her face. It’s disorienting, to say the least.

Her stomach roils at the display of food, even as her mouth waters a little bit at the bruschetta with olive tapenade. Rather than risk it, she decides to just go with a glass of sparkling cider. She’s been feeling sick and anxious all day long, dreading every moment of this gala; the last thing she wants to do is exacerbate it with champagne. 

Before she makes her way back to Luke’s side, however, she wants to take another look at the actual art. Or at least find out who the actual artist is. Whoever they are, they are phenomenally talented. 

“Excuse me,” Annabeth says to the staff member manning the food table. “Do you have any more information about the artist? I’d love to see more of their work.”

“Sure!” she chirps, turning round to grab something off a stack of pamphlets beside her. “You can read more about Ms. Levesque here.”

“Thank you,” says Annabeth, taking the glossy brochure. Levesque. Levesque Levesque Levesque. She knows that name, she’s sure of it. Penny in the air… 

Slowly, like she’s walking a labyrinth, she makes her way around the gallery. The booklet has descriptions of each piece of art on display, contexts and histories and prices that make her sweat a little. But by the time she returns to the cavalry sword, her head is swimming--probably from the lack of food--her eyes straining in the dim light. She has completely lost track of Luke. She has completely lost track of the time. Annabeth puts her hand to her head, pressing her fingers against the bone of her forehead.

“Hey, are you okay?”

She jolts at the feel of a hand on her shoulder. The owner of the hand pulls away immediately, holding it up in a placating motion. 

“Whoa, hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Annabeth blinks at the person in front of her. He’s blond, tall, with glasses and a scar on his upper lip, and she cannot shake the bone-deep feeling that she’s seen him before. 

“You look a little pale. Do you need to sit down?” he asks, electric blue eyes shining with concern. 

She shakes her head. “No, no, I’m okay, just a little… the light, you know. Makes it hard to read.”

“I know how you feel,” he says, nodding sagely. “The lighting setup here is absolute murder on my glasses.” Then he sticks out his hand, proud and jutting. “I’m Jason.”

Furiously, she blinks away unbidden tears, turning her sudden sob into a light laugh at the thought of the last time she had met someone named Jason. Or, someone she thought had been named Jason. “Annabeth.” His grip is firm and congenial, like a senator. “Are you with Mercury Exchange, too?”

“Oh, no,” he says, “I’m just here to support the artist. She’s my cousin.”

“Well, congratulations to your cousin on a beautiful gallery opening,” says Annabeth, inclining her head with a smile that he returns. “These sculptures are incredible.”

Jason follows her gaze, and when she looks at him again, he’s smiling. The scar gives his smile an adorable edge. “Hazel is very talented.”

Penny drops. “Hazel Levesque?” Annabeth asks. “Your cousin is Hazel Levesque?” 

“Yeah!” Jason beams. “You ever listen to a band called Pluto’s Daughter?”

“You’re Jason Grace?”

That takes him aback, blinking in shock. “Yes… how did you--oh, you know Thalia?” he asks.

No. No no no, this cannot be happening. “Um, not-not really, I just--”

“I just saw her, like, ten minutes ago--”

No no no, she cannot be here, she can’t see Annabeth, not like this-- “Actually,” Annabeth cuts in, “I should really get back to my date, I’m sure he’s worried sick, it was nice meeting you!” And she bolts from the conversation in the general direction of the exit, leaving a very confused member of the cousin consortium in her wake. 

Stupid, so stupid, how did she not look this up beforehand, how did she not put it together sooner? She can’t let anyone see her like this, dolled up and--and downright clean. The crowd has turned into an impenetrable wall, the gaps between patrons too small for her to slip between. The dark walls close in around her, suffocating her, and her panic rises, stomach churning, bile crawling up her throat.

From the crush of people, a hand shoots out to grasp hers, and she jumps a foot in the air. “There you are!” says Luke. “Come on, I want you to meet the big wig.”

“Oh, Luke, I don’t know,” she stammers, “I’m-I’m not feeling very well, I think I had a bad burrito earlier, and--”

“It’ll just take a minute,” he wheedles, “We just gotta show up, make some small talk for a few minutes, then I’ll get you home. Sounds good?” But she can’t resist as he pulls her deeper into the gallery.

Like fucking Moses and the fucking Red Sea, the crowd parts before them, laying out a clear path to the three very well dressed men in the center of the room. Even from behind, she can tell that they’re all related: three copies of the same broad build, the same thick, black hair, peppered with grey, the same radiating aura of power and influence, engaged in deep, important conversation. 

“Mr. Olympianides?” Luke politely interjects. 

As one, the three of them turn to face him, identical gazes sizing them up, pinning them in place. “Yes?” intones the oldest-looking one, his earth-brown eyes cold and dispassionate. 

“I think he means me, brother,” says the middle-looking one, jovial. “You’re with Mercury too, if I’m not mistaken?”

“Yes, sir,” says Luke, holding out a hand. “Luke Castellan, it’s an honor to meet you.”

“Ah, of course!” he says, taking Luke’s hand. “I’ve heard great things about you from Prometheus. I understand I have you to thank for the success of the Saturn deal?”

Luke, wholly in his element, smiles his perfectly practiced sycophantic smile--just the right cocktail of humble and arrogant, gracious and gregarious. You can tell he double majored in theater. “It was no trouble at all, really.” 

Then he turns his gaze to Annabeth, and she just about faints. 

Those eyes. She knows those eyes. Perfectly blue-green, like the waters of the Mediterranean in the sunshine, beneath thick, black eyebrows, with an aquiline nose and a full, salt and pepper beard--she is, without a doubt, looking into the unimaginably handsome face of Percy’s father. 

“May I have the name of your lovely lady?” He takes her hand, bringing it up to his for a kiss. 

Annabeth’s eyes practically bug out of her head. This is what Percy will turn into in twenty years? Good lord.

“This is my…” Luke trails off, sparing her a glance. “This is Annabeth Chase. She’s an architect here in New York. Annabeth, these are the gentlemen I was telling you about: Hades, Poseidon, and Zeus Olympianides.”

Oddly enough, part of her relaxes, even at Luke’s little fib. If Percy’s father is here, then that means that Percy might not be. She would still have to duck Thalia, but if Luke lets her leave within the next few minutes, that shouldn’t be too hard.

“Chase--like the Boston Chases?” the oldest brother asks. She’s seen those dark eyes, as well, lined with black, and sometimes with glitter. 

Annabeth smiles, just a little vacant. She hasn’t had a conversation like this in two years, but back in Boston she’d had them nearly weekly. “That’s the one,” she agrees, letting a giggle out at the end. With business bros her age, they preferred a little bit of a too cool attitude, they’d loved her with all the metal in her face. But the older ones like a giggle. From the corner of her vision, she sees Luke give her just a little bit of a side eye. 

“You’re Randolph’s daughter?” Asks the other brother. His eyes are electric blue. Even if Annabeth hadn’t just met Jason, she’d have known this was Thalia’s father from twenty paces. 

“I’m his niece,” Annabeth says. “Frederick is my father.”

“The middle one?” Percy’s father says, with a little bit of a grin. 

“Yes.” So far, so good--and no one has asked about her mother. It doesn’t exactly take a genius to see that she is not her stepmother’s daughter.

There’s maybe the slightest hint of snideness when Zeus says, “Another Harvard graduate, I assume.”

So there are a lot of Chases at Harvard. On a whim, one night while she should have been writing her Modernism final instead, Annabeth had spent several hours making an academic genealogical chart, inordinately pleased when she found out that her old, decrepit freshman history professor had also taught her father, way back in the day. 

“Guilty,” she titters, “but I did attend Miss Minerva’s here in the city.”

“So your Randolph’s niece,” Thalia’s dad asks again, “And Frey Vanir is married to your aunt.”

“Yes.” She bites down on the “sir.” She’s got to have some standards. 

“Good families,” Nico and Hazel’s father says, nodding at her, “Chases and Vanir.” 

Annabeth has some very, very hazy memories of meeting her own fabulously wealthy extended family, just after her little cousin Magnus had been born. She doesn’t recall much, but she can remember the high, vaulted ceilings of her aunt’s apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, the view of the Public Gardens just down the block, and the very big, very sharp-looking sword hanging above the mantel. The Chases are a well-off family, it’s true, but the Vanir, old money from leftover Nordic peerage are very much on the Olympianides' level, even if Annabeth is the one wearing a tiara that allegedly once belonged to the crown jewels of Sweden. 

Athena Pallas is on that same level, too, but Annabeth would rather run into Thalia then talk about her mother. Especially with these people.

Then Poseidon’s gaze fixes on something behind her, and he breaks into a broad, heartbreakingly familiar grin. “Ah, Percy, there you are!” he calls. 

The smile drops from her face, and her blood freezes. Caught in the gravity well of a black hole, she turns. 

A huge mistake. 

Her only thought is How dare he be so handsome.

He’s in a suit she’s never seen before, crisply pressed, but comfortable, simple black but with pearl cuff links, to match his father’s. The sharp lines of the suit hide his beautiful form beneath them in a way that makes Annabeth understand the appeal of lingerie like she never has before. He looms, back discipline-straight, his face scrubbed clean and eyebrows perfectly shaped, and to cap it all off, a pair of simple, classy diamond studs in his ears. Percy Jackson remains, as always, unfairly gorgeous, the perfect specimen of male beauty, and Annabeth is powerless under his gaze.

And he’s just heard every word of their conversation.

“Percy,” his father says, “have you met Annabeth Chase?”

Percy stares at her, mouth open a little. She watches those eyes take her in from top to bottom, hairstyle to clean face to conservative dress to high heels. Never, ever one to hide his emotions, she can see his inner monologue playing out on his face: shock and awe, bewilderment and confusion, jerkily transitioning to… to a politely blank face. Like the surface of the ocean, the wave of his feelings disappear beneath his skin, leaving no trace that they were ever there. “No,” he says, in a tone that broaches no argument. “No, I don’t believe I’ve ever met Annabeth Chase before.”

He takes her in again. Percy was never above leering, but he was always pretty situational about it. He would wait until sex was explicitly on the table, wait until she wanted to see him go just a little bit crazy for her. He doesn’t leer now, cataloguing the dress, the shoes, the tiara.

“Cinderella?” he asks, before the conversation can become awkward and their audience can notice something else.

“Yes,” she says, unable to force the smile she’d used on his father just minutes before. “What girl doesn’t want to be a princess for Halloween?”

“Cinderella was always your favorite, wasn’t she?” Percy’s father asks him. Then he laughs. “Once we went to Disney in Paris, I think, and Percy, all of ten years old, cried because he didn’t think he was going to be able to meet her.” 

Percy’s face stays blank. “I was six, Dad.” 

Annabeth winces, internally. That was the year, he’d told her, that he’d spent in shoes that didn’t fit because his new ones had been destroyed by bullies taunting him over ballet, and he didn’t want to tell his mother because trying to buy him a second pair of shoes would have been a struggle. She wonders if maybe he was crying because he’d spent the day walking around Disneyland in shoes two sizes too small, and no one had noticed.

His father laughs again. “Still,” he says, “Cinderella is your favorite.” 

“I don’t have much use for princesses anymore,” Percy says. “Fairy tales and true love are kid stuff.”

His uncles laugh along with his father, and Luke just frowns at Percy, like he’s not sure what to make of him. But his family seems convinced it's the wisdom of youth.

“Oh,” says Poseidon, “You never know when you can find someone special.” He does leer at Annabeth, just a bit. There isn’t a lot to leer at in this dress, but it's unmistakable. He’s very handsome, but the leer is perhaps the first time she’s thought he didn’t favor his son. 

“Were you the one who dated the princess of what it was called?” Thalia’s father asks. “Or was Triton? Or was it both of you?” 

“No,” Hazel and Nico’s father says, “no, they both dated Atlas’s girl. Right?”

“Yes, Uncle Hades,” Percy says. 

“Zoe?” 

Calypso, Annabeth thinks, just before Percy says it out loud and they all nod. 

“Is she here?” Thalia’s father asks, glancing around. “Or do you have a different date tonight?”

Annabeth hasn’t even considered Percy having a date. But the idea of it causes a wave of nausea to come over her, of a beautiful woman on Percy’s arm, one of his fellow dancers, or perhaps some heiress, who he could take to fancy parties and show off to his father and uncles.

That could have so easily been you, says a voice in the back of her head. 

I’m no one’s arm candy, she wants to yell at herself. 

But she can’t, because she’s literally resting on Luke’s arm, while three powerful businessmen ogle her. 

She breathes through her nose, and tries to keep from throwing up. Or crying. 

“Percy knows its best to come to events like this stag,” Percy’s father winks at him, and then unmistakably at her, “you never know what sorts of lovely creatures you might run into.” 

Percy frowns, clearly uncomfortable. “I think Miss Chase definitely came with her boyfriend.” He nods to Luke, and gives him a smile Annabeth has never seen. So forced and fake and clearly unhappy. 

She wishes she could stop everything and scream at Percy that Luke’s not her boyfriend. That he could never be. That she does not want Luke, not the way she wants Percy. 

But time goes on, and so does Percy. “I don’t like coming to these sorts of things alone, if I can help it.” 

And the world nearly collapses out from under her feet. 

“The buddy system is important.” He turns his head, clearly searching the milling crowd for someone. Annabeth doesn’t follow his gaze. She doesn’t want to see the woman he willingly shows off to his father. She glances at Luke instead. His face is still placid, but she’s known him a long time, in all sorts of states. He’s clearly uncomfortable. 

“Thalia,” Percy’s voice says, not a shout, but a request. Annabeth doesn’t look over at him, or the direction he shouted, but Luke does. He breaks away from her gaze and actually unlinks their arms. His mask slips a little bit more. 

At the last possible second Annabeth looks over too. 

Thalia Grace looks exactly like the Thalia Annabeth has always known. Her hair is slicked down in some old fashioned pin curls, and she’s wearing a cocktail dress and red soled heels that are too big for her, but you can see the tattoos up and down her arms and legs, underneath her ripped fishnets. Her facial piercings are all still in, and her eyebrows and ears are full of safety pins and the necklace around her neck is made of them too. She’s wearing the same beat up leather gloves as always. 

For just a second, Annabeth hates her. Because Thalia is clearly so Thalia, so comfortable in being Thalia, and she can walk around this fucking gala, with buisness bros and old money, and look totally comfortable and confident. 

And Annabeth keeps adjusting her sleeves and hair, worried that somethings going to move wrong, and it's going to become obvious that she’s… something? 

Then their eyes meet, and it's almost as bad as when Percy showed up. Thalia looks lost, and then she glances to Annabeth’s side, at Luke and her face settles into a frown not unlike Percy’s. 

She stops beside Percy who smiles at her, “Thalia and I always use the buddy system.” He says. Then, as he holds out his hand to her, his smile becomes the closest she could ever refer to as cruel. “Thalia, have you met Annabeth Chase? Of the Boston Chases? Her uncle is Frey Vanir.” 

Standing tall, bright eyes ringed in black, Thalia takes in all of Annabeth. She’s done this before, when Annabeth was drunk and crying on a dirty bar floor, with a couple hours old tattoo on her arm and a couple of days old ring in her eyebrow. Annabeth had seen her mother on Wednesday for lunch and had destroyed her life by dinner. She doesn’t really remember what they’d talked about, in the wee hours as Friday became Saturday: not being good enough for your family, how New York took your dreams, chewed them up, and spit them out, how your father would never understand you and your mother would never love you. That sort of thing.

She’d been a gross, pathetic mess. But Thalia had seen something in her that night. Had lifted her off the floor and out the door and eventually onto the mattress in the place she’d been renting weekly at the time. She’d taken Annabeth into her world.

Now, it doesn’t look like she sees anything good in Annabeth Chase of the Boston Chases, in designer heels, with a designer bag, wrapped in a designer dress and dripping in jewels. Annabeth knows she looks like a dozen other girls at this event, girls that Luke’s (and maybe Thalia’s and, God, maybe even Percy’s) eyes have wandered over with interest. 

“Miss Chase, despite being from Boston,” Percy says to Thalia, “was mentioning some of the schools she went to in New York. I thought maybe you might have known each other through one.” 

Percy’s face has gone perfectly blank, but Thalia’s… Thalia’s is angry. 

“No,” she says, “we did not go to school together. But Luke and I did.”

It’s Annabeth’s turn to gape, eyes wide as she turns to him, shocked. 

Luke tries to smile. “Yes, we did, but--” 

Thalia doesn’t let him finish. “Are you still sending weekly audition tapes to Lorne Michaels?” she asks, a snarl that only an idiot would mistake for a grin on her face. 

Annabeth would laugh, if she felt like laughing at anything right now.

Luke tries to speak again, but Thalia talks right over him. “No, of course not. You’re doing some business thing.” She eyes his suit and then her three older relatives. “Why else would we be here? I know you never really had the brains for the arts. You were always more interested in the carnal passions of acting.” 

Annabeth actually does laugh, just a bit, both because that’s clearly something Luke had once said (and Annabeth remembered him coming straight out of NYU, a Yankee transplant to Boston, she could totally believe it) and because Thalia got Luke’s cadence and tone down perfectly. 

But it does nothing to relieve the tension. If anything, it's gone up. 

Percy’s father forces his own laugh. “It is so much fun when you run into old friends like this.” He offers, clearly sensing the storm brewing. Percy has at least tried to force it down. “And it's good to see you, as well, Thalia. It's been a long time.” 

“It has, Uncle Poseidon,” She agrees. 

“Mr. Castellan has left the world of acting for our bland business and finance meetings, but are you still acting?”

Thalia goes very still. 

Annabeth, in the two years she’s known Thalia Grace, has never even once heard her so much as allude to acting in anything. She set up equipment and tended bars for cash. The only acting she ever did was pretending not to be hungover. 

It’s a slight movement, but she sees Thalia reach out and grip Percy’s arm. He meets it, holding on. Steadying. 

He understands what’s going on here.

“She’s not,” Thalia’s father says. He’s been polite so far this evening, but now he sounds annoyed. “All that talent and all that promise, and she’s thrown it all away.” He looks at Thalia, electric eyes to electric eyes, and shakes his head. “You could have been just like your mother.” 

Percy, Luke, and Hades all let out a sharp breath. 

Thalia’s smile, sharp, turns acidic. ���I can't be,” she says. “I don't drive. So I couldn't drive myself into a tree.”

Her father narrows his gaze, mouth tight. Annabeth has actually seen that look on Thalia’s face before. Poseidon looks suddenly very sorry he ever opened his mouth. 

Thalia turns to Percy. “Do you think Hazel would mind if I committed a murder and ruined her big night?” 

It's a very Thalia thing to say, but Annabeth has never really considered the theatricality of her before. This is an artist working her craft, taking words and turning them into daggers.

“Hazel loves performance art,” Percy says. “And it is on theme.” 

Thalia nods and then looks at her father. She smiles. “That sounds like a lot of work, so, instead, why don’t I do just what you want. I’ll be my mother. I’ll go get fabulously drunk and embarrass you horribly. Unfortunately, this is a 21+ event, so I won’t be able to endanger any children in the process. But you never know.”   

She spins on her heels, and walks away. 

“I'm going to make sure she doesn’t enganger any children just to prove a point,” Percy says. “I'll see you later.” He nods to his family, and then offers Annabeth a very formal handshake. “So nice to meet you.” 

She’s missed his hands on her. She doesn’t want to let go. 

But she lets him, and he moves over to give Luke one, too. He leans in, just a little bit, and lowers his voice so only Luke and Annabeth can hear. “You shouldn’t make a scene in a public place. But you deserve to know, she’s been cheating on you since May.”

Annabeth can’t breathe for a moment. The perfect man, handsome and charming and crueler than she ever believed possible.   

Her stomach rolls again. 

Behind her, she hears Poseidon say, “Do you often tell women whose mothers’ acting career dried up and then descended into substance abuse that you hope they have the same career as said mothers? Because wow."

“I’m sorry,” Luke whispers. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m very sorry.” 

He turns to speak with the three brothers, to formally and probably seamlessly untangle themselves from all of this, and she tries to turn too, but the effort to spin gets too much. 

She’s still nauseous, feeling light-headed. The stiletto heels only add to the problem. She shakes and stumbles, right into Luke, who catches her on one arm, Poseidon on the other. Annabeth has to work very hard not to yank herself away from him. 

“Are you alright?” Poseidon’s accent isn’t the same as Percy’s at all, his hands too smooth. There are differences between the two that she can focus on. 

“I haven’t been feeling well tonight,” she admits, if it will get her out of here faster. 

“Do you need to sit down?” Asks Poseidon. “I’m sure there is a medical professional around here.” 

“No, no, thank you,” she says. “I should probably head out, If that’s okay,” she tells Luke, apologetically.

He nods, finally complying with her need for escape. “Of course.” 

When Poseidon lets go of her arm, she basically falls into Luke. It's embarrassing. Her eighteen year old self is probably cheering. Unfortunately for her, that crush was killed two great heartbreaks ago. Now, it’s just quiet and awkward as they walk away. “Sorry,” she says. 

“Sorry? I should be thanking you. That was a really good excuse.” Then he looks at her--really looks. “It wasn’t an excuse, was it?”

She shakes her head, miserable. 

“Is it because of that guy? Percy? Do you know him?”

She nods.

“Why does he think you’ve been cheating on me since May?”

“Because he thinks you and I are a couple, and I’ve been sleeping with him since May.” 

Luke lets out a low whistle. “You and those business bros.” He shakes his head. Sometimes he doesn’t quite have the self-awareness that he should, she thinks. “I blame myself. If I didn’t invite you to that MBA party, maybe you wouldn’t have lost your virginity to that asshole in my cohort.” 

“Percy’s not a business bro,” she says, defending him, though for the life of her she doesn’t know why. “He’s a ballet dancer with NYCB. It… ended about 3 weeks ago. I’d tell you about it, but I do actually feel pretty horrible.”

Luke frowns at her. “You want me to get you a cab?”

Annabeth shakes her head. “I know you have more business bro things to do. I can get myself home.”

He waits several seconds, before giving her a hug and a kiss on the forehead, wishing her goodnight, leaving her in the middle of the mingling crowd and the crystal displays. 

Annabeth shuffles towards the exit, passing the food table. Even the smell makes her feel like she’s going to throw up. Walking faster doesn’t exactly help. 

Eventually, she manages to get out of the main gallery, where the lobby and coat check had been set up, very much regretting letting Luke go. Right now, walking outside and finding a cab might as well be like attempting a quick little jaunt up Mt. Everest. Head aching, stomach rolling, she slumps against the wall outside the coat check, laying her warm cheek against the cool wall. 

That’s when she hears the muffled shouting. 

Two voices she knows intimately. 

“How can you say that?” Thalia whisper-screams. “In what possible universe are they the same?”

“How are they not?” Percy quietly shouts back. “They’re exactly the same.”

“I can’t even believe you’re defending her. She lied to us--she hurt you, just like--”

“Don’t you dare try and tell me you’re doing this for me. This is about you and your problems. Like always.”

“I don’t have to listen to this shit.” Then comes the telltale clacks of Thalia stomping about in her high heels. She flings open the door of the coat closet, and comes face to face with Annabeth--who probably looks about like death warmed over. Thalia takes one look at Annabeth, sneers, then stalks away, anger sparking off of her like static shock. 

Hot on her heels comes Percy, equally furious. "Then find someone else’s couch to crash on tonight!" He shouts at her retreating form.

Then he sees Annabeth.

She hopes she never has to see him that angry ever again. 

It takes a couple of pounding heartbeats, but he visibly dials it back down, rage giving way to something a little less intense, the bitterness bleeding out of him until he’s only just annoyed. “Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

There’s a million and one things she wants to tell him; her mind is a hurricane, every thought and feeling moving at a hundred and fifty miles per hour, sentences forming on her tongue in one second and ripped away the next. She wants to tell him that she never meant to hurt him, but all that comes out is, “Luke isn’t my boyfriend.”

“What, he dump you already?”

“We’ve never dated,” she says. “He’s just a friend. I haven’t cheated on anyone.”

“Oh, so you’ll get all dolled up for some guy that isn’t your boyfriend, but you couldn’t be bothered to find a pair of jeans without holes in them to come see my show?”

Her stomach lurches, in both anger and regret. She did do those things. “You told me that you didn’t care what I wore.”

“And I didn’t, because I thought you didn’t either.”

“I don’t!”

“Oh yeah? Is that why you parted your hair on the wrong side? Because you didn’t care if someone would see your undercut?”

She can’t say anything to that, because of course, he had hit the nail on the head. 

“I mean, Thalia may be messed up, but at least she has the guts not to hide it, but you--” he sputters, gesturing angrily to her head, “you put on a tiara and pretend you haven’t been gutter trash for the last two years.”

Indignation rises in her. Gutter trash? “You’re one to talk--you can’t go anywhere nicer than Antonio’s for dinner but you own a custom fucking Italian suit and diamond earrings?”

He scowls. “Oh, I'm sorry, just so we're clear, Kym got me this suit so I would stop, and I quote, 'embarrassing her with my poverty.' I borrowed the earrings from Nico. But you're right. The same Christmas I had my power and heat turned off in Paris, my dad got me these pearl cufflinks.” He raises his hands, brandishing them. “Just what I always wanted!”

“Don’t give me that--the man takes you, his bastard,” she spits, “on the family vacation to the Greek islands every goddamn summer! You think he wouldn’t drop a couple million for you if you asked? Meanwhile, I had to grovel at my mother’s feet for years for even the barest hint of support--”

“That is not even remotely the same thing, and you know it!”

“It isn’t?” She laughs, cruelly. “Because from where I’m standing, we were both left at the mercy of our shitty parents, but you’re too much of a coward to tell your father to fuck off when you really want to.”

That just about sets him off. His eyes darken like sea storms, raging and thunderous. “Don’t you dare try to pin this on me. You’re the one that lied to me for months, to Thalia for years--Jesus, Annabeth, was any of it real? Was everything you said to me over the last five months just some game to you?”

“How dare you,” she hisses. “How dare you even ask me that when you know full well you’re the only person I’ve shown my designs to in years.”

“Oh, really,” he says, and she goes cold. “What about the one that won the Eta Industries award? Did you not show that to anyone? Or did you get that one because they knew you were Annabeth Chase of the Boston Chases.” 

Clenching her fists, she growls, standing up against the wall. “Leo and I put our hearts and souls into that project, and we won, fair and fucking square. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, seeing as you probably only got into NYCB because someone cashed a seven figure check.” 

She doesn’t know if she’s ever said anything she believes less. 

Percy laughs, an ugly, bitter thing. “If it had been that easy, I would have asked him to do that five years ago.”

Then he frowns. “Are you… feeling okay?”

She is not, as a matter of fact, but it’s no longer his fucking business, now is it. Annabeth opens her mouth to tell him so, then abruptly closes it as a little bit of vomit erupts from her esophagus. She covers her mouth, pressing against her teeth, trying to will it back inside. 

Warm hands encircle her shoulders, holding her up as her legs threaten to buckle beneath her. “Come on,” he says, gruffly. 

Together, they stagger into the single-stall bathroom, when Annabeth rips himself from his grasp, dropping to her knees before the toilet, and hurls. Faintly, she hears the lock of the door click behind her, then jumps at the feel of his hand on her back. “Leave me alone,” she spits, hocking bile into the toilet.

He doesn’t answer, only gently repositions her braid behind her shoulder so she doesn’t get any vomit on it. 

She will not admit that his hand on her body is the best she’s felt all day. She will not. 

“Ugh,” she moans, in between bouts of bile. “Fuck me.”

“Jesus, what did you eat?”

Annabeth has barely eaten all day, so it’s mostly sparkling cider and a bit of the olive tapenade from earlier. 

Finally, after several excruciating minutes, it subsides. She feels twenty pounds lighter, like she’s vomited up all of her organs. Now if only she could have barfed up her heart as well. She’s sure Percy can feel how hard it’s beating, just from being around him again. 

When the hell did she let herself get this worked up over a fucking guy, anyway? She hasn’t felt like this since she was nineteen, moping over a missed connection. But she’s not nineteen anymore, she’s a grown woman who doesn’t need anyone taking care of her. She can handle it herself.

“Feeling better?” he asks. 

She coughs, attempting to clear her throat, throwing him a glare over her shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you alone like this.” 

“I said,” she growls, fingers tightening around the bowl of the toilet. “Leave me al--” Her genius retort is, sadly, cut off by another bout of vomiting, so forceful that her tiara comes flying clean off. It would have landed straight into the bowl, were it not for Percy and his lightning reflexes, snatching it out of the air before the crown jewels of Sweden landed in a puddle of barf. 

When she comes back to herself, she realizes that she’s crying. 

The second wave passes, and she can breathe again. Her awareness returns to her in pieces, starting with the pinch in her knees from kneeling on the cold, hard floor for too long, then the cool porcelain of the toilet, oddly soothing against her flushed skin. Her mouth tastes like you’d expect, and she spits, trying to clear it in vain. 

“That’s it,” Percy murmurs behind her, rubbing gentle circles on her back. “Just let it out.”

Her chest heaves on a sob, quickly disguising it as a cough. Why won’t this man just leave?

When another five or so minutes pass without any more upchuck, she pulls away from him, practically crawling back until she hits the bathroom wall, the floor pressing up against her bones, and she kicks off her heels. Everything is too cold and too hot, Annabeth practically shaking out of her skin, taking in huge, gulping gasps of air. Faintly, she hears the door open and close, softly and carefully. 

Good. He’s gone. 

Her whole body shudders. Stubborn tears force their way out of her, crawling down her cheeks, mixing with the taste of vomit and lipstick. 

But she can’t wallow in it for too long, because a minute later, Percy comes back, crouching down next to her, offering her a plastic cup of water. “Here.”

She takes a swig, swishing it around her mouth. Staggering to her bare feet, she shambles over to the sink, spitting it out. 

There’s no way Annabeth can avoid looking at herself too closely in the mirror, but she tries, her eyes skating over her smeared mascara and running foundation, taking in her (thankfully) vomit free braid and her bare head. “Where,” she coughs. “Where is my tiara?”

“I got it.” In the mirror’s reflection, Percy holds it up. “Wouldn’t want the crown jewels of England to wind up in the toilet.”

“Sweden,” she says, on reflex.

“What?”

Why can’t she just shut her stupid mouth, for God’s sake-- “They were part of the Swedish crown jewels.”

He stares at her in the reflection, his eyes unfathomable. “I just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” She asks, a question to which she really doesn’t want to know the answer.

“How I keep letting this happen.” Percy closes his eyes, shaking his head, raising his chin to the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. Like this, all the angles and contours of his stupidly beautiful face are thrown in sharp, brutal relief. He looks thin, somehow, the quiet sadness of his expression carved into the lines of his frown, of his squeezed shut eyes and the grim line of his lips. “I thought I was done with letting rich girls fuck me to make a point.”

Funny, how a simple sentence can feel like a knife in the stomach.

Percy, always so tall, slumps his shoulders, running a hand over his face. In seconds, the sadness is gone, replaced with a blank void of expression. “Will you let me call you a cab to take you home?” He asks, because of course, he’d never leave her alone like this. He’s too fucking good.

Annabeth nods into the mirror. 

He sidles up to her, slinging her arm around his shoulder. In his other hand, he carries her shoes and her tiara, dangling limply from his fingers. For a wild second she wants to turn and kiss him. She’s wanted to do that for weeks. She wants to wipe the tears and vomit off her face, stick back on her tiara, and go back to the party on his arm. They could make a beautiful picture, she thinks, Poseidon Olympianides’ son and Annabeth Chase of the Boston Chases. But when she tries to move, maybe to make a big mistake, she sways, unsteady. His grip on her waist tightens, holding her close, but his face is turned stubbornly out. He won’t even look at her.

The cool night air and the smell of city dirt is a welcome balm on her flushed face. In no time at all, Percy has hailed a cab, letting her hang off of him as she falls heavily onto the seat. With the utmost care and precision, he gently places her shoes and her crown on her lap, as controlled and careful as when he puts down a fellow dancer. There is no mistake here, she knows. Their little dance together is over. It feels like the end of one of those romantic movies from the 50s her dad used to love to cry over.

“Take her home, please,” he informs the cab driver, giving him her address, then without even sparing her a glance, he closes the door on her.

But greedy for one last look, Annabeth presses her face to the window as the driver pulls away from the curb. The night is dark and the streetlamps are unhelpful, but she can still see him as he cups his hands to his face, glowing like he holds a little star between his fingers, can see him tilt his head up and exhale, sending cigarette smoke up into the heavens.

[sophie-writings]

☁️ Synopsis: Bakugou just might have the biggest tiniest crush on you, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it to anyone — or even himself. Inspired by: “I won’t say (I’m in love)” from Hercules.

☁️ Character: Katsuki Bakugou 

☁️ Type: Scenario. Pure fluff and in denial Bakugou.

☁️ Warning: Light cursing. 

☁️ Note: This is the first long fic I’m doing for this blog, so i guess this is a especial moment? As promised, the Bnha x Disney songs is here! Kirishima’s next on the list, can you guess which song was chosen? Tip: lights.

"I'm not saying it!" Bakugou says, glaring daggers at his best friend before huffing and averting his gaze to the door he so desperately wanted to reach.

"Oh, c'mon Bakugou!" Insisted Kirishima, still blocking the blond's way. "You like her ever since that day."

That was undoubtedly true, even though Bakugou wouldn't admit it to himself or the others. 

You both first met on your first day at UA, and you were just another classmate he didn't really pay attention to. You tried to be friendly with Bakugou at first, just like you were with the rest of your classmates, but the explosive boy didn't seem to be open to the idea of friendships, so you eventually gave up. If you didn't cross his way — which you usually didn't, no words were exchanged.

But that changed with time, after the fateful day Bakugou was rescued from the league of villains.

You were never really close to him, but the guilt of not being able to help your fellow classmate was eating you inside out, especially because you were so close to grabbing his hand when he was taken. So you joined the rescue team alongside Kirishima and the rest. 

The smile you had on your face once he was safe and the hug he found himself unable to run away from made his heart beat faster than ever before.

"And you're terrible at hiding it too, dude." Teased Kaminari, who was the first to notice the sudden change in Bakugou's behavior whenever he was around you. “Why deny it?”

That too was true.

Bakugou found it harder than ever before to maintain his cool when you were around. It was like his already sweaty palms got sweatier whenever you got too close to him, he could feel his heart pound against his ribcage and wondered if his heartbeat as always been this loud and if people can hear it too. He found himself sighing more and getting lost in thought while staring at you.

It was like the stupid third-grade crush he had all over again, only that this time it didn't last a week. 

"I mean, how could he hide it? They're so pretty!" Chirped in Mina getting dangerously close to his face, but this time he couldn't even shove his pink friend away because his mind was wandering elsewhere.

You were really pretty, no one could go against that. 

You couldn't blame Bakugou for staring at you for a second too long. Who wouldn't? 

He eventually caught himself noticing small details he never did before.

Like the way your eyes twinkled when you ate your favorite meal during lunch, or how you would scrunch up your nose when eating sore candy. Sometimes he couldn't help but smile whenever your tongue would stick out of your mouth when you were doing difficult math exercises. Only to realize he's been smiling at you for the past thirty seconds and bury his face in his hands in frustration.

Oh God, he's really seeing you through rose-colored lenses and it was so obvious. 

"Just admit it." Now it was Sero's turn to intercept. "You got it bad." The raven-haired boy snickered and nudged his friend's side with his elbow, causing Bakugou to huff in annoyance.

"Okay, let's say I have this small interest on them — which I fucking don't!" He adds before the rest of the group could use it against him. "Why does it matter?" 

He really couldn't see what confessing his very minor interest in you would do. Okay, he might get really nervous when you're around, recognize your scent if you walk into a room, and even let you touch him more than anyone else without yelling or huffing, but so what? 

"You confess and tell them how you feel?" Kirishima said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, earning a "are you fucking serious?" look from Bakugou back. “Just give in, you’re in love!”

“Are you crazy? In love? Me?”

"Confess? Really Kirishima?" Mina asked, and pointed at Bakugou who was still staring at Kirishima as if he had grown a second head. "This guy can't even admit to himself he has a crush on them." "I don't-"

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. 

The sudden notifications coming from everyone's phone expect for Bakugou's was enough to stop the ensuing argument. The blond cursed under his breath while the rest checked their phone and cooed at whatever they were looking at.

"What the fuck is so damn interesting?" He asked crossing his arms and peering over Kirishima's shoulder.

His eyed widened once he caught a glance of the image and he snatched Kirishima's phone from his hand to get a better look at it.

He wished his eyes were deceiving him because there you were sitting next to a guy he has never seen before. The guy's arm was over your shoulder and you were smiling — the smile he really liked — to the camera.

"Who the fuck is this guy?" He literally spat. "Why didn't I get this picture?"

"Bakugou, you’d leave the group chat every time I tried to add you." Kaminari deadpanned. "They send pictures like this all the time." 

"You should've added me again then!" He snapped back before swiping to see the rest of the pictures you sent to the group chat.

You really sent a lot of them. Some smiling, others cutely pouting at the camera, and some with the other classmates. 

His eyes widened when he realized you sent a picture of you pouting and pointing to him in the background. The caption read "grumpy Bakugou won't join us for game night :(" He could feel his face get warmer after knowing you actually realized he was missing during the group activities. He swiped again and his eyebrows furrowed when he saw another picture of you and this mystery guy. 

"Okay, that's enough of staring for today." Kirishima said, taking his phone back from Bakugou's grasp. 

"Who's that guy?" Bakugou was enraged, there was no other way to describe it. Why did you have so many pictures with the same guy? Why has he never heard of him before? And why did he care so much?

"Take a chill pill dude." Kaminari sighed. "That's just her cousin, he visited one and everything, don't you remember? — oh you were sleeping." Kaminari words felt like annoying prickles to Bakugou and he was getting really tired of his friend's nuances.

"But you see that irritable feeling you had when you saw them with another person? That's called jealousy." Mina sang. "And if you don't confess soon, they'll find someone to actually date." 

"They wouldn't do that."

"Why not? They're single" She continued. "And not to mention, super attractive!" Added Sero. 

"Shit..." Bakugou muttered and sat down on Kirishima's bed.

He was in it deep, his friends were right. But having a crush this big was just something he never imagined would happen so soon in his hero-in-training life. He didn't want to be slowed down by things like love, but it's not like you would slow him down right? You were strong and capable, and maybe, just maybe, you could even help him reach new height, right?

Oh, there he goes again. He really can't stop his brain from making up scenarios in his head and finding an answer every time he comes up with a reason why he shouldn't have a crush on you. 

"Okay..." He whispered, loud enough for his friends to hear and stare down at him. "I might have a little crush on them." 

"I fuckING KNEW IT-" Kaminari couldn't even finish his sentence because Bakugou sent a pillow flying to his face, successfully throwing him off balance. 

The rest of the group simply ignored Kaminari's complaints and focused on Bakugou's speech.

"I... I don't want to see them with somebody else."

"Then confess! Tell them you like them." Cheered Mina.

"Do I really need to say it out loud?" He averts his gaze. Bakugou really wasn't the one to turn down a challenge, but the risk of rejection seemed too high to his liking.

"How else would you say it?" Asked Sero, cocking his head to the side in confusion.

"I don't know! This is my first time doing something like this, how am I supposed to know?!" He says in frustation, grabbing a handful of his hair. 

"First say it out loud! Just admit to yourself first." Said Kirishima, sitting next to his best friend while patting his back as a sort of comfort. He could realize that while he was really book smart and strategic, he was still emotionally dumb. "Just say it."

"Okay, whatever." He breathed in and out, before opening his eyes in determination. "I like — fuck, this is stupid."

"Just say it, OH MY GOD." Even chill Sero was losing his temper.

"OKAY FUCK I LIKE THEM OKAY?!" The whole room fell silent with Bakugou's sudden burst and his friends could only stare at him. They were used to Bakugou's outbursts of rage since they happened almost daily, but they rarely came accompanied by red blush across his cheeks. 

"Great!" Kirishima was the first one to break the silence as he got up and grabbed his best friend by the arm, pulling him up with him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Asks Bakugou once he's on his feet again. 

"Now you go out there and tell them that."

"Right now?! Are you crazy?" Bakugou backs up. Oh hell no, he couldn't confess yet. Just admitting it to himself and his close group os friends was too much for the day, he didn't know he could handle confessing to you right now. 

"Do you want someone else to beat you to it?" Asked Mina while typing away on her phone.

"Of course not, I said that alre-" Before he could end his sentence, Mina showed his her phone, which had a thread of texts between you and her, asking you to meet her outside in five minutes. "Then go Bakugou."

Bakugou cursed to himself before opening the door that led out of Kirishima's room. "You're all screwed when I get back." He states before slamming the door behind him.

"Your love muses will be waiting." Was the last thing he heard before starting this walk.

Bakugou mind races as he walks towards the spot he was supposed to meet you, opting to take the stair so he had more time to think. Admitting he had a crush on you to the world was hard enough, but confessing seemed like a whole ‘nother level. He couldn't help but think about all the possible negative outcomes that could come out of this decision. 

“Fuck... what am I doing?”

Maybe things were good as they were right? Sure, he couldn't hold your hand and kiss you like he has been picturing the past few days, but at least you talked to him and made the effort to be in his life. What if after he confessed his dumb feelings to you, you just straight up rejected him and things between both of you get awkward? How was he going to handle that?

"Bakugou?" 

The familiar voice was enough to pull him out of the trance-like state he was in. He was so deep in thought he didn't even realize that he had reached the meeting spot and you were there waiting already. 

Damn, did he make you wait? Maybe he should've taken the lift, I mean, summer's coming but it was still spring and maybe you're feeling cold. Oh shoot, you're staring at him, maybe he should answer right?

"Hey..."

You smiled realizing it was really Bakugou and what your eyes weren't playing games with you. Ever since you've realized that the admiration you felt towards Bakugou was only platonic and that you had a big fat crush on the hot-headed boy, every single attitude he had seemed to mean something more. His long stares, the way he would get nervous when you were around and the oh so light smile he would send your away would make your heart flutter and send you back to your room overthinking his actions. 

"I thought Mina was supposed to meet me here?" You asked, still glad it was the blond who came over to meet you. 

"Yeah..." Bakugou couldn't concentrate on the matter at hand. How could he when you looked so good just by standing there? You were already on your summer pajamas and he couldn't help but blush at the sight of the moon shining on your skin. " I actually need to tell you something."

"Ah, sure! I'm all ears" You tried your best to sound as confident as possible, but the truth is, doing so is hard when you have your crush standing in front of you. Everything about the situation screamed "cliche rom-com confession scene" to you and you didn't know if your increasing heartbeat was because you wanted it to be exactly that, or because you were afraid he was just going to ask for your English notes. 

"Look, this is my first time doing something like this, so if I fuck it up just bear with me for a second okay?" 

God, he must be sounding so stupid. So weak. So vulnerable. So not him.

But then again, this wasn't something he would normally do. Heck, his original plan was to graduate without even having the need to make friends or get into a relationship. He just wanted to be the best, but there he was. He had a small group of friends and was even considering bettering his relationship with Deku.

Nothing like that was ever part of his plans but they happened. And he sure as hell wasn't backing away now. 

"I think I like you, no fuck it, I do like you!" He said staring at you dead in the eyes. "I didn't want to admit it at first but the truth is that... ever since that day, you helped shitty hair and the others, I've felt a different way towards you, and if you don't feel the same way then-" "No."

"What?" Bakugou stopped on his tracks and he could feel all the air getting sucked from his lungs.

"Oh Gosh, that sounded really bad." You say panicking. "I meant, no don't say that because... I really like you too Bakugou!"

Everything about the situation felt unreal.

From the way his words left his mouth to the fact that you were hugging him at the moment, breathing in his caramel aroma, making you melt to his touch. All of those nights overthinking about his actions and imagining how things could go if only you had to courage to confess would cease to exist, and now you would actually live every single scenario you made up in your head.

Bakugou was only glad he listened to his friends and told you how he felt. Not that he would tell them that, he sure wouldn't. And he also wouldn't forgive the fact that they were spying on you at the moment, but he could deal with that later.

Now he wanted to find out if your lips were as sweet as he imagined.

[yeojaa]

“i love you.”  read:  6:45 pm.

drabble inspired by this post that @hobi-gif​​ tagged me in.  i'm a sucker for misunderstandings, y'know?  also, this is unedited and not proofread.  xoxo

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  general.  tags.  a bit of dumb angst due to misunderstandings, some fluff to make up for it, mentions of drinking/alcohol, idiots in love. idk.  wc.  1.9k.

“So, you’re shooting bourbon at 7:30 on a Wednesday why, exactly?”

How Yoongi manages to keep the judgment out of his voice, you’ll never know.  Maybe it’s a bartender thing - some skill you acquire over time, like an achievement in a video game. 

Charisma:  +30 Listening:  +20 Interest:  0

“Because he replied ‘hella’ when I told him I was in love with him.”  You think if it weren’t so funny (and embarrassing and bruising to your ego), you’d have a hard time repeating it.  Instead, it cuts off the edge of your teeth in a melodramatic wail and you knock back your fourth shot in not very long at all. It burns on the way down, igniting your insides in a very different way than you’d like. 

Luckily, the bar is packed - it’s freshman night! - and your cry is lost in the crowd, eaten up by the awful din that seems to only exist in college bars.  It’s only you and your favourite bartender that hear it and for that you’re grateful. 

“You’re not serious.”  From the look on his face, you know he believes you.  Has to, because he knows the culprit behind your heartache. 

“Do I look like I’m joking?”  You deadpan before waving your liquor-laden wrist in a lazy circle.  “Another, bar wench!” 

It’s not that funny but between the alcohol that’s buzzing in your veins and lighting you up like a goddamn Christmas log to the humiliation that’s burning its way through all your sensibilities— well, you can’t help it.  

You’ve always resorted to humour when you were hurting. 

“I think you should slow down.”  He means well - you can see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the way his mouth tilts just enough to make you feel like a kid in front of the principal - but you don’t want well.  You want more.  Need it.

For a split second, you feel a wave of emotion.  It crests and threatens to swallow you whole, dragging you seven thousand miles beneath your own misery.

You swallow it down as best you can, tasting salt water and the sea when you tug a rough hand through your hair.  It aches a little where your rings catch, threading silver through silk.  “Yoongi, c’mon.”  You ignore the way his name slurs out of your mouth, trapped between wet lips that don’t quite move like they should.  “I’m fine.  Please.”  The desperate edge to your plea tells him enough - that you’re well on your way to having too good of a night, inebriation playing at the sidelines of your vision.  You play it off and shift in your seat, sneakered feet kicking this way and that to right yourself.

To his trained eye, you’re about two minutes from slipping backwards off the worn leather stool.

“Can I call someone at least?”  He’s meeting you halfway, begrudging and a little worried. 

“I’m fine!”  It shoots off your tongue, a rocket to the moon.  You don’t want to come down.

He sighs once, a sharp inhale of breath through his nose.  He’s got that look on his face - the one that tells you you’re going to owe him one.  You think that might be better than returning to your dorm, empty-handed and heavy hearted.  

“Please?”  

Amber liquid finds itself in your shot glass again and you’re quick to snatch it up, worried that Yoongi might dump it the moment he has a chance to consider how he’s indulging you.  You swallow it greedily, as if it isn’t pooling uncomfortable heat everywhere it hits - down your throat and around the sides of your mouth.

“Take it easy,”  comes a voice - an achingly, devastatingly familiar voice - to your left.  It steals your breath - tugs it out of your lungs in the same instant your heart heaves out of your chest.

Jeon Jungkook’s grinning that megawatt smile at you, dimples on full display.  His hair’s a little damp and more than a little messed up, sweeping across his forehead in that way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.  Shoulders are swathed in soft cotton and plaid, the navy blue and grey pattern a stark contrast to the blinding white of his tee shirt.  

He looks so good you want to eat him up.

Instead, you jolt like you’re about to lose the contents of your stomach.

Hands - both his and yours - dart out.  Yours grip the sticky booze-stained bartop;  his seize your elbows, steadying you easily.  You try to ignore the way his palms burn heat across your skin. 

“You okay?”  He says it so sweetly, as if he hadn’t just shattered your hopes and dreams into a million little pieces less than an hour ago.  He says it like he always does, with affection painting his words and stars in his eyes.  Even in the dim light, they’re mesmerizing, constellations swirling in his irises.

You have to make a conscious effort to tear your gaze away, redirecting your - admittedly fuzzy - stare to the speck of lint on his collar.  It honestly doesn’t help much, because like this, you can see the trail of ink that drifts past his neckline.  Swirls of black work that make up the roses that span his shoulders, capping each segment of bone prettily.  

He repeats himself when your silence stretches too long for his liking, a tattooed finger rising to tap gently along the ridge of your jaw, thumb sweeping just so across your chin.  “Hey, baby.  You good?”

A part of you wants to live in the way that sounds.  You’re a sucker for pet names and while you’ve heard this one once or twice (or a hundred times), it coils itself like a cobra around the organ in your chest, poised to ruin you.  One wrong move and you’d be paralyzed on the ground.

“What’re you doing here?”  You finally manage, tearing your roving eyes from the patterns you know lie beneath cloth.  

It’s not the smartest move - because you’re distracted by his stupid handsome face again.

“Well, you didn’t answer my text so I got worried.  Checked your Snapchat and saw you were here.”  It comes so nonchalantly, like he hadn’t just discovered you drowning your sorrows in cheap whiskey.  

“I didn’t answer your text?” 

You can see Yoongi lingering at the edge of your periphery, hand paused around a glass that he’s in the middle of passing off.  You wonder how crazy you must sound, or if you do at all.  Maybe just pathetic?  You don’t want to think about it too hard.  

“You said ‘hella’ to my confession!  What am I supposed to say back to that?”

“What’re you talking about?”  It’s Jungkook’s turn to take the title of village idiot, big doe eyes widening to the size of saucers.  You want to smack the expression off his face - would, too, if your heart didn’t also clench pitifully at the thought of hurting him.  

You think he might be backtracking when he retreats a hairsbreadth, releasing you in the same moment his other hand dives into the front of his too-tight black jeans.  The denim strains against his thighs, muscle and sinew flexing when he transfers his weight enough to allow him to yank his phone out of his pocket.  Said device is in your face in the next instant, glaringly bright screen making you shy away.  

Who the hell kept their brightness at 100%?

“Hey - look at this.”  He sounds stern as he continues to wave the sleek black iPhone before your eyes, seemingly unaware of the fact that you can’t damn well see a thing with him constantly moving it.

“Stop!”  You snap, finally, drink-addled hands snatching it out of his hands when he’s still twirling it like the most annoying wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man in existence. 

With the phone in your own two hands, you peer down at the screen, trying to make sense of what you’re looking at.  There’s definitely your last two texts - you cringe at the sight of them, blue bubbles bursting your own - but there’s a slew of others beneath it and they’re all delivered, the read receipt mocking you. 

You nearly yeet the phone across the room when, after two or three read-throughs, you grasp what he’s said.  “You want to date me?”  The words fumble on their way out, knocking into each other in a way that’s equal parts drunk-girl and stupefied-crush. 

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”  He’s got that shit-eating grin of his lighting up his face, sweeping sunshine and daisies into every corner of his expression.  It’s at complete odds with the way his mouth twists and turns, flat of his cheek rounded by the tongue he presses into it.  You’re both awestruck and turned on all at once.  You feel like you might short circuit or maybe that you already have.

It’s the only explanation for the way you’re surging forward - because you’d never do it otherwise, unless you weren’t in control of your own stupid body - and all but throwing yourself against him.

As if he anticipates it, he receives you like a bed you’ve been away from for too long, broad palms sweeping across the backs of your thighs as you cling to him like a koala.  Your cheeks burn white hot and steeped in something - love, lust, a mixture of both - and you hum comfortably against the column of his throat.  The sound is returned tenfold, echoing from his cavernous chest like the happiest cat in the world.  It shakes your entire body, so closely pressed to him that you can feel every vibration that runs through all five feet, ten inches of him. 

“I’m guessing that’s a yes?”  His words lose themselves in your hair, breath warm against the shell of your ear as he squeezes you tight.

You give him his answer in the press of your mouth, parted and a little sloppy, more tongue and teeth than technique.  You swallow the laugh that builds, devouring it like a kid in a candy store with the intensity of your adoration.  “Hell-a yes.”

The way he grips you in response, laughter rolling off him in intoxicating waves - because you’d happily get drunk off the sound - fizzes excitement through your limbs. 

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”  Both of you know the answer to that question, the knowledge passing silently between you.  

You smirk;  Jungkook mirrors it.  He surges forward for another kiss and you’re meeting him halfway, slanting your mouth greedily across his.  He relents for the briefest moment - lets you savour the gentle brush of his lips, the soft pass of his tongue - before he’s taking all he can get.  He’s licking over your teeth, laving hotly across every inch in a way that makes your head spin.  

“Get a room!”  It comes from your right, somewhere just behind you. 

“We should take their advice, baby.”  He coos, breaking away just enough for you to gulp in lungfuls of air.  His lips are the prettiest shade of red, kiss swollen and slicked with spit.  

At any other time, you might be ashamed - you can only imagine how you look - but here and now, fueled by the knowledge of reciprocated love and the pleasant warmth of liquor, you couldn’t care less.  So you kiss the boy you love, eager and with hands trailing the expanse of his back.

“Let’s go.”

[badassbabeparker]

New year, Old feels ~ P.P

A/N: It’s officially New Year over here so Happy 2021! I hope it’s amazing for all of you! This was originally meant to be another fic but I repurposed it and here it is, a little new years eve fluff for you all. I wasn’t going to post this but I ended up liking it. 

WC: 2.5k

Warnings: mentions of drinking

Peter watched the snowflakes flitter past his window as the sun hit its peak in the sky. He stretched out his seat and ran his fingers through his curls as he thought about the one person that had been occupying his brain. 

One of his best friends from high school and the girl he had a crush on since freshman year had recently come back for Winter break. It had been a whole year of lost contact since you had moved away for college. Peter had promised he would keep in contact but between Spidey duties and college work piling up he had let you slip from his mind. It didn’t help that he’d also seen you had a new boyfriend and Peter felt the same jealousy he had always felt about you creeping back up. Feelings he would rather have forgotten. 

The last time you had talked exactly one year ago today at the annual New Year’s Eve party you had gotten into a fight because of said jealousy which ended with you storming out before midnight. Peter had planned to finally confess his feelings and kiss you that night but plans change and so do people.

He kept going back to your contact page on his phone or your social media, sometimes he’d even type out a message but he would delete it before he could press send. Nothing seemed right anymore, he was scared that if he tried to say something to you it would be the wrong thing and end up pushing you away even more. 

It got hard, especially over Christmas. All he wanted was to text you or call you and all he thought about was if you were having a good day or not. He wanted to hear that excitement in your voice and how he could always tell if you were smiling even through the phone. The present he had wrapped for you still lay under his bed, catching his eye every so often and breaking his heart even more.

May, Ned and MJ had tried to cheer him up and get him into the festive spirit but the truth was that without you, it wasn’t the same and Peter was sure it never would be. So he was pretty miserable for most of the festive season, he had gotten up the courage to message you merry christmas but he was yet still to get a reply. 

Just as he was looking at the read message on his phone, something hit his window pulling Peter from his spiralling thoughts. Whatever it was disappeared quickly but still made Peter look out his window to see Ned attempting to throw snowballs at his window. 

He gave a small chuckle and threw on his coat and gloves before heading to meet his best friend. 

“You know you can just text me right?” 

“Yeah but this is way more fun.” Ned laughed and threw a snowball directly at Peter who managed to dodge it perfectly much to Ned’s dismay. “That’s cheating.” 

Peter just shrugged and smirked as he made a snowball and aimed at Ned who wasn’t so quick to dodge and ended up with a face full of snow. Peter let out a laugh and ran away as the snowball fight got into full swing.

Ned got in a few good shots but it was Peter who was in the lead. He was just about to deliver the final devastating blow when someone else intercepted it. The snowball hit May right on the cheek. 

“Oh my god, May! I’m so sorry.” The tip of Peter’s ears went pink as his aunt glared over at him before letting out a laugh. 

“It’s fine honey.” May smiled at him, happy to see her nephew finally having fun and smiling. She invited Ned in for some leftover pie and he followed her inside with Peter behind. 

Peter went back up to his room and showed Ned the new spider-man tech he was working on. Keeping focused on Spider-man stuff and being on patrol had served as a good distraction to what was happening inside of his brain. He had hoped after a year, he’d forget about you but all the festivities just reinforced the feelings of longing and missing. 

He was just rambling about the new gadget he was working on when his phone popped up with a notification. His eyes immediately drifted to his phone but after seeing it was only a candy crush notification, they dropped with disappointment. 

“Dude.” Ned gave him a look and Peter knew what he was about to say. “Just tell her.” 

Peter shook his head, feigning ignorance of knowing what Ned was saying and shrugged. “Tell who what?” 

“Tell Y/n you love her. It’s so obvious and she’s only back in town for a few weeks.” Ned sighed and smiled as Peter’s cheeks went bright red. He tried to deny it but he knew it was no use. 

“I-I can’t.” Peter put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. “I can’t ruin things more than I already have.” 

Ned looked at Peter sadly, he’d never quite seen Peter like this. Sure he’d seen Peter broken after a few fights and battles but he’d always gotten back up, this time it just seemed like he didn’t want to. 

“You know what I think you need?” 

Peter looked up at him expectantly and raised his brow. 

“Social interaction.” 

Peter gave Ned a somewhat disgusted and confused look, shaking his head before realising what he was talking about. 

“Nope, definitely not.” 

Despite his words and his adamant attitude not to go, Peter found himself putting on his best shirt and jacket for a party. He’d already had to talk to more people than he usually did and he really wasn’t in the mood for a party especially not a New Year’s Eve one. 

He remembered this time last year as he watched all the couples around him and how he had wanted what they had so badly with someone. He just never realised that the person he wanted to be with was right under his nose the whole time. 

And now he’d screwed everything up for good. He’d be amazed if you ever spoke to him again after the way he’d acted but if there was one thing about Peter, it was that he always held onto hope. 

He walked into the party with Ned, taking a deep breath as he looked around the room. People were already well into the party spirit with drinks and those cheesy glasses and hats that read “2021”. Peter felt someone clap their hand on his shoulder and turned around to see Flash, already tipsy by the smell of his breath. 

“Penis! I didn’t expect you here. I thought you’d still be crying over Y/n and her new boyfriend.” He made some kissy noises before handing Peter a pair of party glasses and stumbling away. Peter’s face burned red with jealousy and anger. 

So that’s why you’d been so distant. Peter wondered for a second if it was the same college guy you’d been seeing and immediately started trying to scan the room for the face he’d seen in the picture. His heart was racing and his whole body felt like bursting with the amount of emotion he was trying to hide. 

Ned tried to distract him, getting him a drink and including him in some drinking games but Peter’s mind stayed distracted. He assumed you’d be here but maybe you had known he’d be coming and wanted to avoid him or maybe you were too busy with your new boyfriend to think about parties. 

Every thought about you only made Peter grow more upset until finally the alcohol started to numb his feelings and thoughts just enough for him to relax more. Peter started to actually enjoy the party and even won a few drinking games. 

He was just about to get another drink when finally he spotted you across the room, sat in the same spot that you both had been last year. Peter’s memories of that night rushed back; the way you looked so pretty even in the dim light of the party and the sadness in your eyes before you stormed out. Most of all he remembered how you’d cheered him up from that miserable night of being single and the laughter you had shared. He wanted all of that again, he wanted you again. 

The first thing Peter noticed was how miserable you seemed. You were staring into your cup as you swirled your straw around in the liquid, deep in thought so it seemed so much so that you didn’t hear or see him approaching. 

Peter fidgeted with his shirt as he took a deep breath before sitting next to you. You looked at him in surprise before quickly going back to stirring your drink absentmindedly. Both of your minds were whirring at twice their speed trying to figure out what to say and how to act to the person who had been your best friend but for the past year had only felt like a stranger. 

“N-nice party.” Peter mumbled, cringing the moment he spoke. You bit back a giggle and nodded slowly before looking at him. He met your gaze and both your cheeks burned red before you both let out a laugh at the awkwardness. 

“I’m sorry, i was trying to think of something to say and-” Peter laughed and blushed as you smiled at him. 

“Definitely a 10 out of 10 for effort.” You giggled and sipped on your drink, looking back out at the party. The laughter died quickly between you and the awkward tension creeped back in. 

Peter followed your gaze and watched as couples danced around the room. He had hoped last year that when new year’s rolled around again he wouldn’t be single. He had thought that college would help him forget you but if anything it only made him miss you more because every time something happened whether it be good or bad, you were the only one he wanted to tell just like you had always been. 

The truth was that he missed you so much it physically hurt him. Sure it had eased for a while and he knew it was his fault but that didn’t stop the pain from the moment he saw you whether through a screen or sitting next to him right now. 

He had seen all the happy memories you’d been having at college and he wished that he could have been a part of them with you or at least had you tell him all about them but it felt like you were just two strangers now. 

“So how’s college been?” You asked idly, a tension in your voice that Peter couldn’t quite place. 

“G-good. Stressful but good.” He nodded and felt the blush start to spread on his cheeks again. You hummed and nodded, fidgeting with the hem of your dress. “How about you?” 

You looked downwards as Peter turned to you, gripping your drink tighter in your hand. “Um it’s been okay.” It might have been a while since Peter had last seen you but he knew you well enough to know when you were lying. 

“Y/n-?” 

“It sucks okay?” You turned to him sharply and Peter saw the water build up in your eyes, threatening to spill. “I hate it. I missed my home, my friends and I missed…. ” You trailed off your sentence, your cheeks turning red under the dim lights of the room. Peter didn’t have to ask but he hoped he knew what you meant. 

He carefully placed his hand over yours and gave a gentle squeeze. “I missed you too.” 

You looked up in surprise and let a tear fall down your cheek which Peter quickly wiped away. Your heart was racing and you could feel your face burning red the more you looked at Peter’s soft expression.

A million questions were whirring in your mind but you chose the one that had been on your mind for a year. “Why didn’t you keep in touch?” 

Peter sighed and looked down at the floor, he’d been dreading that question the most. “I-I saw your instagram. You had this new life, new boyfriend and well I thought that you didn’t need me anymore.” Peter covered up his sniffle with a cough and sipped on his drink. 

“Peter.” You squeezed his hand and rubbed your thumb over his knuckles until Peter finally looked up at you. “I will always need you.” 

Peter’s heart thumped loudly as his whole body lifted with hope. You didn’t hate him. He knew this was his only chance to tell you the thing Ned had been pushing him to tell you all year. The thing he knew he needed to say and it was the alcohol in his system that gave him the courage to do it.

You gave him a soft smile, practically being able to watch the cogs turn in his head which meant he was thinking something through. The words were bubbling in your chest, threatening to spill like word vomit but you bit your tongue. You wanted to tell Peter the real reason you had been miserable and why you were so thankful to see him here again but you were scared. 

“Y/n.” Peter sat up straight and took both of your hands in his, squeezing gently. “I have to tell you something.” 

You looked at him with a smile, covering up how nervous you felt because if it was what you wanted to say too then this really was it. 

The countdown started in the background but all you could see was Peter. The way he had tried to tame his curls with gel, the fancy shirt he always wore to parties and the nervous smile that played on his lips. For Peter all he could see was you and even with his heightened senses the background noise faded. 

“3…2…1... ” 

Peter took a deep breath but before he could speak, you felt the liquid courage in your system and took the first move. You crashed your lips onto his and kissed him. 

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” 

Peter hummed in surprise and his body panicked for a moment before he realised what was happening and cupped your face in his hands as he started to kiss you back. The words that he meant to say died on his tongue but he knew that everything you both felt was being said in that moment as your lips moved in sync with each other’s. 

It was perfect, it was blissful, it was pure heaven. Just like Peter had always imagined. When it finally ended due to much needed air and the interruption of a party popper covering the both of you, you both broke into laughter as you held each other close. 

“I love you Y/n, I always have.” Peter’s warm breath ghosted over your lips as he rested his forehead against yours, a wide smile on his face. 

You smiled back and ran your fingers through his curls, breaking them out of the gel. “I love you too Peter, always.” You giggled before kissing him again and again, finally feeling on top of the world. 

This whole year had been a disaster but having you in his arms was all Peter needed and now there was a whole new year waiting to start over again, for good this time. 

Permanent - @eeyore101247​ @geminiparkers​ @darlingspidey​ @ameelia @calltothemisha​ @parkerpeter24 @rebekkah4766​ @peaches-parker @tom-hlover @parker-hollandx @call-me-baby-gir1​ @cosmicvibecheck @outshineallthestars @theliterarymess @dummiesshort

Peter Parker - @teen--marvel @musicalkeys @spideyspeaches @kickingn-ames @shakespeareanqueer

[honeyandhondewberries]

Can we get Raihan and Leon's reactions to their crush kissing them on the forehead and murmuring, soft and sweet, for them to sleep well before slipping out of the room quietly. Their crush thinks they were asleep.

😭😭😭🤗🤗🤗 alright ill do it you better get ready for some friggin COMFORT anon this is going to be so soft you dont even KNOW

(dont mind the awkward shift in tenses between Leon and Raihan’s stories either 👀 sometimes that just Happens)

~~

Chicken Noodle Soup & Movie Night (LeonxReader, RaihanxReader)

Leon:

“I’m not sick,” Leon mumbles, and his glassy eyes follow you as you move about the room. You don’t humor him with a response. “You don’t have to do all this.”

You only hum as you continue to bustle about. More tissues, more blankets, and you should probably check his temperature again soon, too. He’s taken his medicine (though you hid it in a snack like you have to do with your Pokemon), and you finally got him into bed after some coaxing. He’s propped up on three pillows, he lets out a hearty cough, full and phlegmy, and you return to his side once his fit is over. You gently sit on the covers, set your hand on his forehead, and purse your lips.

“Yep, still burning up,” you say, and Leon groans.

“I’m fine,” he croaks. “You’re making too big a deal about this.”

“Leon,” you say sternly as you go to find the thermometer. “You’re shaking with chills, burning up, and hacking up a lung every few minutes. You’d probably still be on the pitch if I wasn’t making a big deal about this.”

“Exactly,” Leon says in exasperation as he throws his arms up. The motion sets off another series of deep coughs. “I could be finishing my training! It’s just the sniffles, nothing more.”

“Alright,” you say, and you sit beside him again. “If you don’t have a fever, then you’re right and I’ll leave you alone. If you do have a fever, then you need to promise to cooperate. Deal?”

Leon’s glassy eyes squint, though the effect of his frustrated glare isn’t much when he sniffles through it. You raise an eyebrow.

“Fine,” he says, but he doesn’t look at you.

You offer him the thermometer, he childishly snatches it from your hand, then sticks it in his mouth. You adjust the quilt around his shoulders, fluff his pillows for him, and mindlessly brush his bangs from his face. His eyes widen at the motion, then his gaze flicks to the side again.

Hm, his cheeks are looking quite pink… he definitely has a fever.

The thermometer beeps, you pluck it from his mouth, and showcase that your prediction came true. You set the thermometer on his nightstand without a smug word spoken, but Leon can certainly read it on your face.

“Now that you’ll cooperate, do you want some orange juice?” you ask.

“No.”

“Some candy?”

“No.”

“How about some chicken noodle soup?”

Leon doesn’t immediately grumble anything, but instead fiddles with the stitching on the quilt.

“...with the spiral noodles?” Leon asks quietly.

“Mmhmm.”

Leon purses his lips (not for long since he can’t breathe through his nose), and he finally mumbles an:

“Okay.”

“I’ll go heat some up for you,” you say, and you give his hand a pat. He curls one of his fingers around yours, just to quickly retract his hand again. His cheeks are looking even pinker than before, now. Is he getting warm?

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Try to get some rest,” you hum, and after adjusting his blankets again, you head out of his room and into the kitchen.

You had a can of chicken noodle soup (with the spiral noodles) in your pantry, and you stuffed that and some cough drops in your bag before you came over. You rustle around Leon’s kitchen for a pot to start cooking his meal. As you stir and taste-test the soup every few minutes, you wonder how Leon’s feeling. He isn’t hacking so much, so as the soup simmers, you step to his room to peek.

He’s still propped up on his pillows, though his scowl is gone and his eyes are closed. He’s wrinkling his nose in his sleep, as if to push his bangs from his face without using his hands. You let a smile slip, and a plume of affection blooms in your chest. You step over as quietly as you can, brush his bangs from his face, and before you can stop yourself, you gently press your lips to his forehead.

“Sleep well, love,” you say softly. “I know you want to work, but you need to rest and heal too. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You’re not sure why you’re telling this to his sleeping figure - perhaps telling it to him awake would be much too embarrassing. Leon’s eyebrow twitches, so you stand as quickly and quietly as you can, suddenly embarrassed by your tender moment, and you step out of the room.

If you had stayed for a second longer, you would have seen how Leon’s cheeks tinged pink yet again, how he smiled to himself, curled against his pillows, and so sweetly repeated one word:

“Love.”

Raihan

It was movie night, Raihan’s favorite night of the week, because that’s the night he got to spend with you. More importantly, that’s the night he got to sit on his couch snuggled in blankets and sweaters and drinking tea and bantering back and forth with you as you barely watched whatever was on the screen. It was always such a good excuse to sit close, and it was so natural just to casually wrap an arm around the back of his couch, and he decided that tonight was the night he’d finally make it around your shoulders.

Movie night started out as a joke when you mentioned that you had never seen Love in the Time of Pokerus (a cult classic), and Raihan was absolutely appalled and he demanded that you come over that same night to watch it. You agreed, and even brought snacks. The next week, you were shocked that Raihan had never seen Pulp Fanfiction (another cult classic), and you demanded movie night round two. The week after, Raihan suggested you both should probably make movie night a trilogy in order to honor the true cinematic genius that was trilogies, and you agreed by saying it would be an insult to art if you didn’t.

Raihan had lost count of what number you were at, but you were definitely beyond a trilogy, beyond a quadrilogy, and beyond whatever you called what was after five movies. Movie night had even evolved into dinner and movie night when you came a few weeks ago to his apartment and he could hardly focus with how much your stomach was grumbling. You tried to tell him you were fine, and when he noticed how genuinely embarrassed you were, he lied and said he hadn’t eaten dinner yet anyway, so it really wasn’t a hassle to make you something.

It was, however, an excellent opportunity to show off his cooking expertise. Although he was hoping for affirmation to begin with, your enthusiastic praise actually made him blush. Then, your comment on his blush made him blush harder. Not his best moment, but at least it made you laugh.

Raihan practically skipped to his apartment, noticing how beautiful the autumn trees were and how crisp the air felt in his lungs. Leaves crunched beneath his feet like a jaunty melody to add to the giddiness welling in him. It was your turn to pick the movie, so that meant it was his turn to cook, and he already had your favorite meal planned. It was going to be perfect. You had told him to wear his comfiest sweater, and you would wear yours, because whatever you were going to watch tonight deemed it necessary. He was fine with that, because big sweaters on you made you even cuter. If you were wearing his big sweater, well, that’d be just icing on the cake. One step at a time, though.

As he unlocked his apartment Raihan decided that, yep, tonight was the night. He’d finally break the touch barrier. You’ve hugged before (Raihan made sure of that), but never for longer than a normal friend-hug would last. You’d be full of delicious food, tired from your long shift at work, and you’d be snuggled and comfy and cozy in all the blankets he’d set up. He’d have the window open a crack so you’d want the fresh air and the blankets at the same time, but because you’d be a little chilly, you’d need to sit closer.

It was the perfect recipe for cuddling.

After cooking and prepping and swallowing his excitement time and time again, you finally texted to say you were on your way. Raihan used to be embarrassed by how hard he was crushing (Leon would even say whipped), but now he couldn’t care less. He wasn’t sure how you felt, though, so he tried not to lay the flirting on too thick like he would otherwise, just in case that scared you off. He’d rather have you as a friend than not at all.

There was a knock on the door, and Raihan nearly jumped out of his skin. Okay, be cool, be cool. He checked his appearance in the reflective microwave door, tousled his hair just enough, and stuffed his hands into his pockets nice and casually. He sucked in a breath, then opened the door.

And, he let it out, unable to hide his smile when he saw you standing there in your oversized sweater and cheeks pink from the cold.

“Alright,” you said. “I’ve brought options.”

“Options?” Raihan repeated as he leaned against his doorjam, perfectly cool. “That’s not how movie night works.”

“I’ve already taken it to the movie night board of advisors,” you said as you invited yourself into his apartment. “And they approved.”

You bantered back and forth, just as you did every week, sidestepping around each other as you prepared to eat. You were stepping closer to him than you usually did, though, but maybe that was just in Raihan’s head? It did solidify his plan of finally making a move tonight, though. He even took the chance of brushing your waist as he stepped behind you, but he didn’t get much feeling beyond your thick sweater.

Once his initial excitement to see you ebbed, Raihan covered his yawn with his sleeve. He actually had a pretty busy day himself; early workout, then extra training with the new apprentices at his gym, and a training match with Kabu. And actually, the day before that was pretty busy too… he bit back another yawn at the thought.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, just tired,” Raihan said as he stretched.

“You better not fall asleep,” you teased, and Raihan rolled his eyes as he followed you to his couch.

You both decided on one of the corny holiday movies you brought, turned it on, Raihan adjusted the blankets, you took your regular places on his couch, and his heart was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t initiate anything too early though, he had to set the mood.

Were candles too corny? Too obvious? You liked candles though, right?

“You like candles?” Raihan asked. “A fan gave me one earlier, and it smells like vanilla. Since I didn’t make a dessert, I figured that would be fitting.”

You laughed, and Raihan smiled at the sound.

“Yeah, candles are good,” you said. “Are you getting sentimental on me, Raihan?”

“No,” Raihan huffed, though his smile was prominent on his face. “Maybe.”

He stood, lit the candle, set in on the coffee table, and while he was up, he got your tea and flicked off the lights. Everything was going according to plan, so he took the initiative of sitting a few inches closer the next time he sat down.

The movie started, and the opening scene was immediately corny. Raihan groaned, but when he looked at your reaction, you had your lower lip jutting out, you were leaning towards the screen, and absolutely eating it up.

“Are you getting sentimental?” Raihan asked incredulously. “These movies are so cliche!”

“That’s what makes them nice!” you huffed. You hugged a blanket to your chest in embarrassment. “Yeah some are dumb, but they’re all like, wholesome and warm.”

“Are you cold?” Raihan asked. He knew that’s not what you meant, but he’d snatch any opportunity he had tonight. “Here, let me help.”

He scooched closer, enough that your thighs were touching, and he flung his blanket over both of your laps. He set his arm around the back of his couch, then in a moment of pure, calculated risk, curled it around your shoulders instead.

You blinked a few times, and Raihan tried not to make his tension obvious, though he did let out a deep breath when you eased into his side. Neither of you spoke a word about it with your mouths, but as the movie played, your bodies spoke loudly enough when you curled your arm around his waist, and nestled into his chest.

Tonight was going perfectly.

It was all a little cliche: the movie, the blankets, the snuggling in autumn evening, but Raihan didn’t mind. This was the most comfortable he had been in a while, and his eyes slowly drooped as the night went on. He jolted into focus when you poked his stomach though, because apparently the credits were already rolling.

“That was a good one,” Raihan mumbled, and your laugh shook your shoulders, so it shook his.

“You didn’t even watch it,” you tease when you poke him again.

“Yes I did. The woman came from that big city to the small town, then she met a guy who was humble and she didn’t think she’d like the little town but she did, he taught her the true meaning of family or friendship or something, then they kiss and live happily ever after on their quaint farm.”

Whatever you mumbled next was incoherent, and Raihan chuckled again. He gently fiddled with the fabric of your sweater sleeve and his eyes started to droop again. How could he get you to stay for just a little bit longer?

He didn’t need to think long when you bashfully mumbled next.

“There’s a sequel…”

“Amazing,” Raihan yawned, and he inwardly pouted when you got up to start the next movie. He held his arm out when you came back, an obvious invitation that any other position would be absurd. You quickly nuzzled against him again as the opening scene started.

Raihan let out a yawn and let his eyes close. He actually was dozing at first, but when you started talking to him about the movie, he jolted into focus again. After your brief conversation, he felt how you melted against him, he pretended to let out another snore, then he curled closer to you. And suddenly, the credits were rolling again, and you were both laying on his couch, tangled in thick sweaters and blankets and each other.

“Raihan,” you whispered. “Raihan wake up, the movie’s over.”

He wondered what you’d do, so he kept his eyes closed. He did curl his arms around you tighter - sleeping people did that, right? He didn’t want the night to end.

“Raihan I’ve gotta go home,” you whispered. “I can text you later, okay?”

He didn’t respond, though he was certainly frowning in his head when you untangled yourself from him. He listened to you bustling about, probably collecting your things, but he wondered why you suddenly paused. He heard the soft pat of footsteps, he almost opened his eyes, then his nerves tingled when you pressed your lips to his forehead.

“Um, tonight was fun,” you muttered. “Sleep well.”

He heard you scuffle away, heard his door open, then close again.

Raihan bolted up.

Did you just… did you just kiss him?

His legs and arms and the rest of his body were haphazardly tangled in blankets, so Raihan stumbled to the floor when he tried to stand.

“Hey!” Raihan called. “Hold on!”

He could do that for you too, except aim a few inches lower and really make it the perfect ending to the perfect night. Luckily you were only halfway down the hall.

Yeah, movie night was easily Raihan’s favorite night of the week.