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reinvent-and-believe · 4 years

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48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.

“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.

The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”

A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.

“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”

Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”

Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.

He’s not sure why he bought it.

He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.

They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.

“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”

“So...it’s a pretty weed.”

“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.

Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.

The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.

Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.

Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.

Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.

In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.

It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.

It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.

(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)

The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.

Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.

The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”

Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.

(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)

“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”

Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.

“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.

Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.

A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.

“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”

“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”

There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.

Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”

“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”

Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.

Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.

“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”

Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.

“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”

“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”

Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.

“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.

“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.

He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?

Except...

Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.

The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.

Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.

Sometimes I want things I can’t have.

“Geralt?”

The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.

“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”

Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.

“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”

When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.

“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.

Geralt nods.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.

His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Geralt.”

He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?

“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.

And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”

And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.

His kiss tastes like sunlight.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #the witcher #my fic #anon asks #prompt fill #thank you so much for this absolutely lovely prompt!!!!! i'm so sorry it took me months to actually filling it!!!

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themagicians-girl · 4 years

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Sun Through The Houses

Sun in the 1st house:

People notice these individuals because they are leaders and exude confidence. They are unapologetically themselves at all times regardless of where they are or who they are around. It is easy for these individuals to gain respect for this reason. On the other hand, others can envy this and display jealousy or hatred for them. You can often find people with their sun in the first house on the stage whether that be in a leadership position in the workplace, at a theater, or in front of a camera. These people shine and they do so, usually, gracefully. These individuals hold themselves in a proud and dignified way, and expect those around them to do the same. They put much emphasis on their appearance. This does not necessarily mean their looks but mostly how the carry themselves. They will never show up in a wrinkled shirt or with smelly breath. They must appear presentable at all times, because they are opportunists and they want to be ready for anything. On the dark side, they must watch out for their egotistical and domineering tendencies.

Sun in the 2nd house:

These individuals strive for pleasure and comfort. They like to own nice things - whatever that means for them individually. Because of the need for possession these people can become workaholics. They may work long hours or strive to be very financially set. Actually, when these people are struggling financially expect them to become severely depressed. They cannot fathom living paycheck to paycheck, its their biggest fear. When these people aren’t at work you can often find them at a restaurant or hanging out at home, which, by the way, their home will be their safe space and very comfortable. They may struggle to leave the home, or with moving in general. These people grow very attached to their home base. They may move out of their parents home older than most, or, if the childhood was chaotic, leave as quickly as possible to find the security they are craving. Sun in the 2nd house people enjoy food A LOT. Cooking them a nice meal is the way to their heart. They are usually good cooks themselves. On the dark side, be mindful of your materialistic nature. It’s okay to believe in things that aren’t only tangible. You don’t need to work 24/7. Money comes and goes. Embrace change, and remember that nothing in the universe is solely ours. Father may have put a lot of emphasis on career growing up, also may have been overbearing and put a lot of pressure on the child.

Sun in the 3rd house:

These people love to learn and travel. They live for it. They are the types to buy a rundown bus, throw a mattress in it, and travel the country. They don’t care for materialistic possessions, they just wish to seek endless knowledge. Actually, they need to be mentally stimulated at all times. Which may cause mental anxiety at times because they do not know how to slow down, rest, and recharge. These people may be good at trivia, because they know a little about everything. If aspects are positive, will have a solid relationship with siblings. You can find these people listening to podcasts, at the library, reading, or watching documentaries. Most likely the podcasts though, because they like to be on the move. Expect these people to travel often. If they don’t have the means to travel, they will immerse themselves in travel any other way they can via; movies, events, stories, friends, etc. Could be excellent teachers if they can develop patience, something they struggle with. Skills to develop: dig deeper into your passions, not just surface level. Stick with hobbies and projects longer, see them through. How many unfinished projects do you have right now?

Sun in the 4th:

These people have an attachment to their family whether it be good or bad, its there and prevalent in their life. They are always pulled to the family, away or towards. If aspects were negative, they may have had an abusive father who stifled their growth or did not allow them to be who they truly wanted to be. If aspects were good, they probably have a very good relationship with the father. May really want children or at least, a solid family structure (family can mean anything). These people are nurturing, kind, and empathetic souls. They enjoy feeling embraced and cared for, and will make you feel the same. They are very proud of those they consider family and are protective of them. These individuals may work in settings where they serve others in one way or another. People trust them. Be mindful not to become possessive of those you hold closest to you, and if you’re struggling with the family, it’s okay to get help for that.

Sun in the 5th:

Some of the most creative people you will ever meet. They love the arts and creative adventures. They are most likely involved in art in some form, whether that be singing, modeling, painting, or photography. These individuals have what it takes to entice an audience, and they do all of the time. Many admirers. May struggle to chose a long term partner due to enjoying attention from many. Sun in the 5th house people have many friends and people will admire them. They are gregarious and full of life. They love to party and have a good time. They aren’t the type to spent much time alone. They’d prefer to be out adventuring or creating with others. Probably love children and children probably love them too. These people are very vocal, it’s hard to miss them. They may love makeup, and put a lot of effort into their looks. They can charm others. On the dark side, be weary of leading people on or being too full of yourself. Ask yourself, do you really like that person, or do you like the attention they are giving you? It’s okay to share the spotlight with others. You will find support when you give support.

Sun in the 6th:

These people throw themselves into work and serving others. They spent a majority of their time at work, and find it hard to take vacations or relax. May have an emphasis on nutrition or working out, may take those aspects of life too far and struggle with self-esteem. These individuals are often selfless and caring. They are excellent friends. They are practical rather than emotional in their approach to life. May have had a parent that was overbearing and expected them to be perfectionists which developed into anxiety and indecision in adulthood. Lack of trust for oneself. These people are good at tending to things. They are the type to find a stray animal and take it home and nurture it. They are fixers in all aspects of life. Should their chart have positive aspects to the sun, they will take good care of their physical and mental health and will inspire others to do the same. On the dark side, your career is not a personality trait. Develop skills and passions outside of work, or you will bore others crazy. It’s okay to relax and experience pleasure.

Sun in the 7th:

Expect these people to have a close circle of people very dear to them. They strive for interpersonal relationships. It makes them feel whole. Other people, make them feel whole. Which can teeter on negative or positive, depending how much independence the person has acquired. Regardless, these individuals know how to make connections. They may have many acquaintances. They strive for balance and harmony in life. They may work in fields where they act as a mediator of some sorts, such as counseling. When the Sun is in the 7th house of one on one relationships, these people will struggle to distinguish themselves between their own self and others. They must work hard to maintain boundaries for themselves or they will run themselves too thin. These people are empathetic, caring, and selfless. They will be the most support friend and lover. They are excellent communicators and can make two of the worst enemies find an understanding. They are respected for their diplomacy.

Sun in the 8th:

Regardless if the Sun is in an extroverted sign such as Leo or Gemini, people with 8th house Suns will appear quieter and more private. Much of their personality is hidden and they only show it to those they trust. These people may appear distant, without trying. They just feel hard to reach. These people enjoy what is hidden. They may have secret hobbies or passions. May have obsessive tendencies and struggle with depression. May live a double lifestyle. Dark humor. If aspects to the sun are negative, may have lost the father during childhood in someway. These people are excellent detectives. They love uncovering the mysteries around them, especially other peoples mysteries. You can’t hide anything from Sun in the 8th people, and if you do, they will feel betrayed and never trust you again. Trust is big for these people. May have few friends, but the friends they do have will last a lifetime. May dabble with the occult or darker aspects of life such as taboo, kink, witchcraft, etc. Dark sense of humor.

Sun in the 9th house:

These individuals put much emphasis on personal development. They want to endlessly search for knowledge and to become the best person they can be. They would prefer to be intelligent above anything else. These people make excellent teachers. They want to travel or live in foreign countries. Father may be of a vastly different nationality to mother or was born elsewhere. These individuals are interested in history, law, philosophy, and language. May speak multiple languages. May have friends that live all over the world. These people are expansive and want to adventure the world. They feel they must in order to fulfill their life purpose. They need independence and freedom from others. They enjoy mentally stimulating conversations. If they can learn something new from you, they will respect you.

Sun in the 10th house:

Individuals with their sun in the 10th house are easy to spot. They will be in a position of power or will be in the spotlight somehow. They strive to be in the public eye. They are leaders and want to live a life of fame. They want to be known and respected. They usually deserve the roles they achieve because they are hard workers. They have much to teach others regarding chasing success and dreams. Very rarely will you meet a Sun in the 10th person that isn’t chasing a dream of some sort. These individuals need to have goals to work towards. Complacency is not their friend. When they aren’t being productive they may become depressed. A struggle for people with their Suns in the 10th is that, although they want admiration, they struggle to have meaningful relationships with others. Relationships may rely on business partnerships rather than a true bond. Don’t abuse your power or sell your soul in search of it. Fame is nothing compared to genuine care and love. Balance.

Sun in the 11th:

People with their Sun in the 11th house have booked schedules for months in advance. They are always attending events, workshops, or traveling. They are involved in many organizations whether that be community outreach, clubs, committees, or social circles. They want to be surrounded by people and community. These individuals bring friends together and can introduce many people to one another. They feel most whole when they belong to a group. You can expect them to have many acquaintances and friends. On the downside, their romantic relationships may struggle because they want to spend all of their free time with friends. Must achieve independence from their groups. May be great planners and organizers. Eccentric and unique people. May struggle to understand who they are apart from others.

Sun in the 12th:

These individuals are sensitive idealists. They love animals and taking care of vulnerable people, because they feel vulnerable them self. These people often get stuck in a daydream or fantasy world. They can struggle to ground themselves in the present moment because of this. Psychic intuition. Escapist tendencies due to feeling like the world is too harsh. Must work to develop thicker skin. Usually extremely creative and artistic because they hide away so often into their own world. May be quieter individuals or introverted. They enjoy one on one interactions or smaller groups to a big crowd. May have very vivid dreams. Can easily read others emotions. May be prone to wearing rose colored glasses. Father may have been aloof or not in the childs life. Be mindful of substance abuse or manipulating others when you feel threatened.

As always, look at your chart as a whole.

Love,

Jaclyn

#sun in the 1st house #sun in the 12th house #sun in the 10th house #sun in the 9th house #sun in the 8th house #sun in the 2nd house #sun in the 4th house #sun in the 5th house #sun in the 6th house #sun in the 11th house #sun in the 3rd house #sun in the 7th house #astrology #westernastrology

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demowogorgon · 3 years

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The Art of Breathing

Summary: In which Julie chases you down and fucks you in the woods. CW for Primal/Prey play and Knife Play. Reader is completely gender-neutral but has a vulva.

Pairing: Julie Kostenko/Reader (Established Relationship)

Word Count: 2537

If there’s one thing you know about Julie, it’s that she loves the thrill of the chase. The pounding of blood and adrenaline flowing through her veins like a dam newly burst is a feeling like no other, and it's one that she looks forward to in every trial. But it’s even more exhilarating when the chase leads to you: or perhaps, when the chase starts with you.

The cabin is eerily quiet as you pass through the threshold, save for the sound of howling wind gliding off and around the rotting wood. It’s cold and quiet, absent of the joy, jokes and laughter that usually echoes through their halls.

It’s strange to wander around like this. You know that you can’t really be hurt outside of the trials - at least, not permanently - but you still feel the lightest of shivers rack your body as the unsettling atmosphere starts to set in. For a moment you consider turning back and returning to the campfire for the hour, rather than wait for your friends to return.

“Are you gonna come in and sit down, or are you just letting the cold air in?” Julie’s voice echoes from the shadows, making you jump out of your skin. Only then do you notice the edges of her boots swinging from the armrest of a plush chair, illuminated faintly by the dim moonlight that filters through the dilapidated wood. You smile, finally at ease and kicking the door shut with your foot, crossing the room in great strides. The wood creaks underneath your excited footsteps in the most familiar way that makes your heart soar, like a mother welcoming her child home. In another life you would have found the creaking and groaning wood eerie, like a scene out of a horror movie, but perhaps it’s the fond memories that you’ve shared at the abandoned resort that’s made the sound pleasant to your ears?

Julie smiles up at you as you walk around the armchair, kicking her feet off of the armrest and opening her arms for you. You walk closer, draping your arms around her neck while she drums her fingers along your waist. Her cropped brown hair is messy, and you card your fingers through her hair with a chuckle.

“No fire?” You ask.

She hums, pulling you into her lap rather than responding. You’re vaguely aware that the front of her pants isn’t flat as you lean in to kiss her, and you roll your hips experimentally. Your suspicions are confirmed when she leans back with a mutter.

“They just left, you know,” she murmurs, “Everyone should be out for another hour, at least.”

“Yeah?” you smile, leaning back in for another kiss. But you’re stopped when she winds her hands through your hair, pulling you back and drawing a hiss from your lips. The telltale click of a switchblade makes your heart race, although not unpleasantly so. Your eyes follow its path as she brings it up slowly to your cheek, dragging it down delicately past your neck and over your sternum. She makes no marks, but the cold blade leaves electric jolts flying through your body. She releases her hold on your hair, instead resting her newly-freed hand over your thigh. Part of you wants to move, to rock your hips into hers, but the reminder of the sharp blade keeps your hips in check.

“Are you gonna behave?” She all but purrs, flipping the blade and dragging it back up to your neck.

“Yes,” you whisper, “I’ll be good.”

“Good. I think…” she pauses, tapping the handle of the knife gently, “that I’d like to chase you tonight. Would you like that?”

You’re more than familiar with the game, and you can’t help the excited whine that claws its way from your lips at its mention. You hum affirmatively, resisting the urge to nod as the blade presses into your skin.

She smiles, revealing her all-too-sharp canines as her eyes darken in the pale moonlight. She taps the blade again before applying more pressure, peering at you through her eyelashes. “Use your words,” she says. Her voice lifts a fraction, teasing you with a grin. You fight the urge to swallow, heat rushing to your face like a dam newly burst.

“Yes,” you repeat.

She chuckles, letting the pressure off with a smile. “Always so eager,” she coos. She closes the blade with a dull “click” and places it on the arm of the chair, placing her other hand on your thigh. Her hands roam up and down your thighs, and you take the opportunity to lean in once more. The kiss she leaves on your lips is chaste, and you know not to push the boundaries any farther.

One last squeeze to your thighs, pleasant as it may be, coaxes you out of her lap. The silence is deafening as she stares you down like a hungry lion, eyes dark yet playful. Her tongue darts between her lips subconsciously, and it’s embarrassing just how hard you fight to suppress the urge to lean down for yet another kiss. You're so focused on her lips and the look in her eyes that you almost miss the words that flow out of her mouth, lips parting with a smile.

“Run.”

And just like that you’re out the door, rushing into the woods and frantic to abuse whatever headstart she feels like giving you. Your hands scrape against the rough bark of the trees as you run, peeling around one section of the woods before crossing to the other side in an attempt to make your tracks more complex, more confusing. The branches whip against your arms, drawing blood as you dart through the densest areas of the forest, and the air stings as it slaps against your new wounds. You’re not sure how much of a headstart you’re being allowed, but you’re determined to use every second of it. Your lungs burn as you push yourself further and further, leaping over fallen trees and ducking under larger branches like a frantic deer escaping a predator.

That feeling is only heightened as you hear another set of footsteps join your own, but your movements are fluid and practiced as you bound through the dense woods. The supernatural, perpetually-nighttime air is ice-cold in your lungs, but it only serves to exacerbate the burning ache that grows within them. You zigzag through the trees, hoping to throw her off enough to make more distance, but the thudding of her boots seems to come from every direction as you run.

Your only mistake was attempting to pass through a clearing, and you realize it the moment you feel her body slam into yours. You push yourself off the ground, kicking as you try to get away. And for a moment you succeed, rising halfway to your feet before she grabs you by the ankle and pulls your body back with a ‘zip’ along the grass and snow. Your struggle ceases for a moment as she rolls you onto your back, climbing onto you and straddling your hips with her knees pressing down onto the backs of your hands. You try to pull your hands out, to possibly push back and prolong the chase, but you stop the moment she pulls out her hunting knife, slamming the blade into the dirt above your head with a force that seems to shake the world. And in that moment the world stops, rocked by the sheer force of metal piercing through the earth.

“Caught you,” she breathes. The longest strands of her hair hang down from her face, chest heaving with the exertion and adrenaline that comes with her favorite game of chase. Her sepia eyes glint like the cat who caught the canary as she catches her breath, sweat rolling down her exposed arms and disappearing under her black tank top. She leans up, carding her hand through her hair once she’s sure that you’re not going to attempt another escape. The thick and endless woods are silent, save for your shared breaths and the heart that hammers endlessly in your ears. You swallow, eyes tracing the glints of her canines as she smiles down at you.

Your breath catches in your throat as her hand makes its way up your shirt, lingering at the lift of your chest before pushing up and tweaking your experimentally. And oh, the whine that claws its way from your lips is equal parts sinful and shameful, the chase having lit each and every sense on fire. Your body feels like it’s burning, and god how you ache to have her hands on you. She chuckles at your sensitivity but wastes no time, taking her knees off of your hands and undoing the buckle of your belt to pull your pants and briefs away from your body.

And just like that she’s on you, with her teeth on your neck and hand between your legs. Her fingers dip into your natural slick before darting back up to your clit, twisting and pulling at a pace that leaves stars floating in your vision.

“Fuck, Julie, please,” you babble mindlessly, “Please, I need it-”

“Use your words,” she coos.

“Please, I need you inside, please, please,” the words tumble out of your mouth, voice pitching as you buck against her hand. You hardly even recognize the words as they tumble out of your mouth, too desperate to even think straight.

She pulls away from your neck with a hum, drawing your gaze. Her eyes are dark, almost teasing. “I won, didn’t I?” Her voice is cocky as she speaks, the corners of her mouth lifting up in a smirk. “I think that means I get to choose.”

But she dips her fingers into your heat regardless, curling and fucking inside you in the way that leaves your legs shaking. Her palm presses against your clit, rubbing against it each time she pistons her fingers out of you. You can feel your wetness dripping down her hand, and you revel in the way that her breath shakes. She hums, sighing quietly as she gazes down at you - helpless and needy. She rocks back on her heels and returns her other hand to your clit, and you practically sob at the sensation. It’s not long before you’re shaking, the telltale wave of heat zipping through your body and the coil in your abdomen snapping. You come with a cry, unable to suppress the arch in your back or the gasp that tears its way through you.

The soft moan of your lover makes your cheeks flush and she dips down to lick up all that you have to give, holding your hips down with her arm as your body instinctively tries to squirm away.

She hardly gives you a moment to breathe once she comes up, maneuvering you onto your hands and knees. The dirt is cold against your chest, and it’s a mind-numbing contrast to her warm hands as they travel along the dip in your spine and back to your ass. And then she’s pressing you back down again, digging her palm into the valley between your shoulder blades. The noises that follow are a blur - the clinking of her belt, the shucking of her pants, the clicks of a cap. But before you can even breathe, you feel the head of her favorite cock pressing at your entrance.

Each press into your sex leaves you breathless, the ridges of her strap leaving you with stars in your vision. Her grip on your hips is tight enough to leave bruises, and you can’t tell if the whine escaping from your throat is from the strength of her hands, or if it’s because of the way her strap is stretching you, filling out any bit of room you’ll allow. Her breath trembles before she laughs under her breath, and you feel a surge of pride in knowing that it’s because of you.

Your nails dig into the earth as she bottoms out, nerves still reeling from your previous orgasm. You whine at the fullness, prompting a chuckle from her.

“You really are just a dumb little prey animal, huh?” she laughs, “And you’re gonna take all that I have to give, understood?”

You nod rapidly, babbling half-broken yeses and pleads, far too gone to form coherent sentences. You’re vaguely aware of the way you’re moving your hips back against her strap, begging for more movement, more friction, more anything-

And oh, you’re damn close to praising every god under the sun when she starts moving your hips, rocking into your oversensitive hole. Her moans mix with yours as the silicon rocks back into her own clit, and you’re a babbling mess as she pulls you up by the throat, pulling you flush against her chest as she rocks into you relentlessly. Her mouth returns to your neck and shoulder, sucking dark marks into what little space isn’t covered by her hand. Her teeth leave deep indentations, canines threatening to break through your skin in a way that leaves you panting and whining - although whether you’re begging for more or less, you can’t seem to tell. Her mutterings of praise and adoration become background noise as she rocks into you, and each sensation - the way she’s fucking into you, the sting of her bites, her hand on your clit, the feeling of her fingers digging ever so slightly into your neck and instilling the most euphoric sense of lightheadedness - sends you shaking and coming with a cry that would rival the deafening call of an angel from heaven.

You suppress the urge to whine when she pulls out of you, instead choosing to wrap your arms around her neck as she pulls you flush toward her chest once more. Your heart still pounds as you come down from the high, heavy thrums pounding in your ears.

Your voice is dreamy when you find the words to speak, looking softly at her bright brown eyes. “Hey,” you greet.

“Hey,” she laughs. She cards a single hand through your hair before placing a chaste kiss to your shoulder. You smile and return the gesture, humming at the softness of her hair.

The next few moments together are tender as you coax each other into half-modesty, reclothing one another with quiet laughter and gentle jokes. And before you can react she’s sweeping you off your feet, twirling you around as she carries you back to the cabin. And in this world of darkness and uncertainty, everything seems to fall into place - even if only for a moment.

Your feet dangle as she carries you back to the little lodge, arms wrapped loosely around her neck.

“Hey baby?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

She laughs obligingly before planting a kiss to your lips. When she pulls back she scrunches her nose at you, sticking her tongue out playfully.

“One more?”

Again, she obliges.

“More?”

It’s not long before she’s twirling you around, placing goofy little kisses anywhere she can. The forest is filled with laughter like no other, and you’re certain that this is where you were always meant to be.

#julie kostenko x reader #dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight imagine #dbd x reader smut #the legion x reader #dbd the legion x reader #dbd julie x reader #dbd imagine

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blossom-hwa · 4 years

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Skipping Stones - KEVIN

This was the second full scenario I ever finished for The Boyz and I think it was pretty nice to start with some soft Kevin :D THANK YOU KAI FOR LETTING ME YELL TO YOU ABOUT THIS ONE I HOPE IT LIVES UP TO YOUR EXPECTATIONS.

Anyway! Happy (slightly early but only by a couple hours??) birthday to one of the best boys in the world, the one and only wonderful beautiful lovely Kevin Moon! I hope you all enjoy this <3 please reblog if you did!

Pairing: Kevin x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, teacher!au

Triggers: cursing, alcohol

Word Count: 7.8k

Falling in love with you, Kevin thinks, is a bit like skipping stones.

Alternatively:

Five times Kevin felt himself falling deeper in love with you, and the one time he knew he was gone.

TBZ Masterlist | Touching Stars | Breathe, and Live

prelude.

Kevin knows he exists to be clowned. His sister says it’s something about his face – there’s something undeniably meme-y about his reactions, apparently, that makes him very clownable. His students tell him it’s in his demeanor – he comes off as pretty chill, according to them, which makes him easy to tease because they know he’ll react in some hilarious way, but it won’t affect him too deeply.

(Changmin just says he’s stupid, which makes him clownable to the highest degree, but Kevin refuses to take information from the teacher who still scares him every other week with whichever horror movie mask has recently caught his fancy.)

So Kevin knows he’s just a clownable human being, and he’s resigned himself to that fate for the rest of his life. But around you? His calm, collected, hilarious, wonderful partner? He expected a little less clownery and a little more loving.

“Oh, come on,” you laugh, trying to get Kevin to turn around. Honestly, he’s already feeling the effects of withdrawal from not seeing your smile for more than a few minutes, but he refuses to budge, lips curved downwards in a semi-permanent pout. He knows he won’t be able to keep this up for long (he’ll miss looking at your face too much, and really, he can’t be mad at you about anything), but he can make a scene. “Kevin!”

“You’re so mean,” he whines, still resisting your efforts to make him look at you. “I just poured out a very embarrassing part of my childhood to you and instead of comforting me, you laugh?” His pout deepens. “I don’t know why we’re dating.”

Your hands leave the back of his shoulders. For a second, Kevin thinks you’ve given up and he’s about to start whining about that too, but then you appear in front of him, fingers clasped placatingly. “All right, all right, Kevin.” Still grinning, you grab his hands. “I won’t tease anymore. But seriously, how could you expect me not to laugh my ass off when you told me you learned to skip stones for the –” you make jazz hands, presumably to emphasize your point – “aesthetic?”

Kevin sticks his lip out childishly. “I didn’t think it was that funny,” he mumbles.

“It’s not, not really.” You squeeze his hands. “But it’s a move that’s got Kevin Moon stamped all over it.” As if to accentuate your point, you snort. “Of course you’d learn to skip stones for the aesthetic.”

“Y/N,” he whines.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop.” Your teasing grin melts into an eager smile. “Hey, teach me?”

“Right now?”

“Why not?”

It feels like Kevin’s physically crumbling to pieces with the way your hopeful voice and sparkling eyes just attack him from all angles. Grudgingly, the deep pout on his lips stretches into a smile, the starstruck smile that all of his friends like to tease him for. “Fine, let’s go.”

He spends the rest of the afternoon stepping around small children and younger couples, trying to find suitable rocks for skipping and teaching you the right angles, the right stance, the right way to hold the stone in your hand before sending it into the water. You learn fast, something he envies – where it took him at least a couple of weeks to perfect the art, you (mostly) pick it up in a matter of hours – but he can’t feel too jealous or too bad when you look up at him after your stone skips once on the water. “Kevin, I did it!” You shake him slightly. “Did you see that?”

The softest smile spreads across Kevin’s face as he kisses your forehead softly “Yeah, I did.”

When he pulls away, you give him the brightest grin before scrambling away to find more stones to skip. Kevin just watches, taking in the way your figure looks against the setting sun, bright gold and pale pink light streaming over your body, almost making you glow.

This is why he fell in love with you, he thinks. Your character, your tenacity, the way you throw yourself into every task you’ve been assigned so that you can complete it as best as you can. It doesn’t matter if you’re trying to treat a new cancer case at the hospital or trying to skip a stupid rock across the water. You always give it your all.

Idly, Kevin picks up a stone of his own. With a practiced flick of his wrist, it goes sailing onto the lake, skipping three, four, five times before sinking beneath the surface.

Falling in love with you is a bit like skipping stones, he thinks, watching the stone disappear from sight. Someone had to force him into that first blind date with you, much like making the first toss of the stone into the water, but every skip after that was quick, effortless, the way he felt himself falling for you, step by stumbling step, until his heart finally gave in and sank below the waves of your warmth.

It’s hard to imagine a time when he wasn’t in love with you, even though such a time did at one point exist. But the way you make him feel with the smallest things you do – the way you scrunch your eyebrows in confusion, the way you rest your chin on your hand in thought – it feels like he’s known you for an eternity and loved you even longer, loved you before time existed.

Your stone skips twice across the water and you shout with joy, racing up to Kevin to celebrate. He catches you when you leap at him, arms wrapping around your waist automatically, smiling into your shining face. Yes, he thinks, he’s in love.

He’s so in love with you.

. . . . .

Kevin, by all definitions of the word, is panicking.

He’s been dreading this blind date for almost a month now, circling the day on his calendar and marking it D-Day, begging Jacob and Changmin to come along and hide in case he needs to be bailed out, relentlessly praying that he’ll be able to leave the stupid date in one piece.

(Look, as much as he appreciates Mrs. Park’s kindness and her brownies, she can be… a little overbearing. To say the least.)

Just a few hours ago, he was putting on his yellow sweater and bemoaning the existence of his pushy coworker. Just a few hours ago, he was lamenting his fate to his two friends (friends is a term he will use loosely for today – all they did was laugh at him). Just a few hours ago, he was cursing the existence of Mrs. Park and her brownies for getting him locked into this date with her sister’s kid. Wait, was it her sister? Or her brother?

(“Yes, her sister,” Changmin says, rolling his eyes. “Pay more attention, won’t you, Kev?”

Kevin groans. “Why couldn’t either of you be chosen by Mrs. Park, huh? Why me?”

“Because I have a partner and Jacob is good at disappearing.” Changmin grins that evil, evil grin he always has on just before he’s about to execute a prank on someone (usually Kevin).

“More like the two of you are good at leaving me to fend for myself against Mrs. Park, even though you know I can’t say no to shit,” Kevin grumbles.

“Give up her brownies,” Jacob suggests.

Kevin gasps. “No way in hell.”)

But now, he’s actually sitting across from you in a café not too far from his apartment, holding a cup of coffee between his (visibly shaking) hands. And he can’t even think of why he was dreading this date so much because you’re just… really, really perfect.

Why are you so sweet? he’s screaming inside. Why are you so funny? Why are you literally the perfect mix of snark and kindness and just – everything?

“So my aunt told me you work with her,” you say, seemingly oblivious to Kevin’s jitters. The smile on your face is really sending electricity racing through his heart. “I know the children must be fun, but I know she can be a bit… overbearing.” There’s a hint of apology in your eyes, like you know your aunt must have pressured him into this and you’re sorry that he had to come on a date with you.

Kevin’s stomach flip-flops. Okay, so Mrs. Park maybe did severely pressure and sweetly blackmail Kevin into a blind date. But Kevin also doesn’t want you to feel bad for it because it’s not your fault at all, so as usual, when he finds himself in a tight spot, his mouth decides it’s time to run.

“No, your aunt is really nice,” he starts. “I really mean it – she’s always very kind to the kids and to the rest of us teachers. I’m still kind of new compared to the rest of them – I’ve only been at the school for a few years now – but she helped me feel welcome that first year when I was still figuring things out. And she also likes Beyonce! You know, the greatest female artist there is? She let me play my entire playlist of Beyonce songs for her last year and she liked every single one of them!”

Kevin’s babbling now. Rambling. Whatever he wants to call it. His brain is screaming for him to stop talking but his mouth won’t stop running because this is what he does when he’s nervous. He talks. Endlessly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the table where Changmin and Jacob are situated in case they need to rescue him from mental or physical harm. The top of Changmin’s head is barely visible behind a huge menu so Kevin can barely see his friend, but somewhere in his babbling haze, he notices a phone camera poking out from behind the menu.

If he wasn’t blushing before, he definitely is now.

Finally, his mouth listens to his brain and he trails off on his last thought on why Beyonce is the best artist in the entire world. There’s a second of silence.

“Sorry,” Kevin finally squeaks. “I… tend to ramble when I get nervous. Or when I talk about Beyonce.”

Your smile flashes even wider. Kevin is torn between wanting to melt into the ground out of embarrassment and staying upright to keep seeing that grin on your face.

“Don’t be sorry,” you laugh, fiddling with your cup of coffee. “I thought it was cute.”

Kevin’s face burns so much that he misses what you say next. “Sorry?”

You grin. “I’m always interested in hearing about a new artist to add to my playlist.”

Kevin lets out a theatrical gasp. “You don’t have Beyonce in your music library?”

A sheepish look spreads across your face. “… No?”

“Oh my God.” Kevin pulls out his phone. “Okay, I’m about to educate you on the artist of our time.”

The afternoon, then, passes in a flash. Changmin and Jacob eventually just up and exit the café (presumably with enough blackmail to last the rest of Kevin’s life – he knows he was acting like a complete fool, but luckily, you didn’t seem to care), leaving him alone with you. Under any other circumstances, he probably would’ve started crying, but you’re so sweet and so interesting that Kevin thinks he could stay and talk to you in this café forever.

He learns you’re an oncologist at a nearby children’s hospital, that even though the work is hard and tiring and sometimes overwhelmingly depressing, the strength of the children and the families you work with inspire you to keep going every day. He learns that you don’t have too much of a sweet tooth (though you won’t say no to ice cream or cheesecake, both of which he notes in his head), he learns that you love coffee, and he learns that you like to take walks in the park whenever you have a little bit of free time.

He also learns that you’re snarky, intelligent, driven, hardworking. He learns that you’re something far beyond the beauty of your face – that underneath your skin, there’s a heart that’s warmer than the sun.

Kevin understands that this is only the first date and that he maybe shouldn’t be making judgments so quickly. But he’s been told that he’s a relatively good judge of character, and the genuine look in your eyes when you talks speaks volumes about the person deep inside.

Even though you live further away, Kevin takes the bus with you to your home, citing that it’s only polite to walk one’s date to the door (in reality, he just wants to spend a little more time with you). As the bus rattles along the road, Kevin lets you listen to the songs on his phone, delighting in the way your head bobs to the beat of his favorite tracks.

Kevin’s a bit sad when you reach your apartment, sad that your time together is over for the day. He lingers outside the building for a moment, trying to work up the courage to ask about a second date.

Suddenly, you lean forward. Kevin jerks back – he briefly wonders if you’re trying to kiss him – but you just pat a spot on his sweater, frowning slightly at your fingers. “Is that… paint?”

Oh my God.

Kevin tugs the material of his sweater forward so he can see the spot you’re pointing at. Sure enough, there’s a small patch of red paint on the yellow fuzz. He groans. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Well, that’s what people like us get for working with children.” You roll your eyes comically, and Kevin bursts into laughter that’s definitely too loud for the small joke you made. Then silence falls again.

You break it. “Listen, Kevin.”

He perks up. “Hmm?”

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this date because my aunt has been trying to set me up with people my age for several years now.” For the first time today, you look shy. “She was probably really pushy with you too, so I’m sorry about that. But I really enjoyed this afternoon.” You meet Kevin’s eyes. “If you’d like, I’d love to go on a second date.”

Kevin’s heart explodes. It really does. Sheer excitement courses through his veins, and he has to stop himself from smiling widely enough to mimic a god damn clown. “I’d love that,” he says trying to hide how eager he really is. “Um, I’ll say that I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this either, mostly because my experience with blind dates has had… limited success. But I’m really glad I met you. You’re a wonderful person.”

Your smile grows wider at Kevin’s admission. “Thank you, Kevin. You’re wonderful too.”

“Do you kiss on the first date?” he blurts out because his brain has no filter. Then he backtracks. “Um, it’s totally okay if you don’t, I was just asking, please don’t think I’m a creep –”

You briefly press your lips to his. Kevin shuts up.

When you break away, Kevin honestly thinks you’re glowing. “Does that answer your question?” you ask, bravely trying to hide something – is that embarrassment? Whatever it is, he thinks it’s adorable.

Kevin blushes. “Yes.”

People probably think he’s insane with the way he’s smiling on the bus ride back to his apartment. He can’t help it, though – the tingling touch of your lips, gentle against his, plays over and over in his mind, along with memories of your lovely voice and your lovely smile and your lovely, lovely disposition. Some people are giving him weird looks, and Jacob and Changmin are sure to tease him to no end when he comes in to work tomorrow.

But who cares? Kevin’s got a second date in the works with one of the most wonderful people he’s ever met.

In his mind, he’s on top of the world.

. . . . .

ii.

Usually, when Kevin gets lucky and scores a second date or a third, he suggests taking his date somewhere with children to gauge how they feel about small toddlers tearing up the place. Children are a huge part of Kevin’s life – he teaches elementary school and knows he wants kids when he gets a bit older – so one of the silent standards he’s set for potential significant others is that they have to like and be good with children.

You work at a children’s hospital, Kevin knows, so you must at least be good with kids, even if you might not like them (hey, it’s possible – Kevin has known many people who are good at things they hate). That fulfills half of the standard. He just needs to gauge the other half.

There aren’t many events at the school coming up, though – no plays, no art exhibitions, nothing he can really invite you to. He’s racking his brains for a third date somehow involving children when you unexpectedly call him about an event at the hospital.

“I know it’s last minute,” you apologize profusely, “but the guy who was supposed to come today for the kids’ music hour called in sick. I don’t want to cancel the event because they always look forward to it and I know you play the piano – would it be possible for you to fill in?”

It is possible, it turns out. He may not be able to pack his Yamaha upright into the back of your car, but he does have an electronic keyboard that fits into your trunk. The whole way there, you’re apologizing, but between reassurances that it’s totally fine, Kevin can’t help but anticipate how you’ll act around the children once the two of you arrive.

Setting up takes more time than he’d like (the extension cord that comes with his keyboard is too short, so you disappear on a twenty-minute manhunt for a longer one while Kevin just stands there awkwardly), which makes him feel slightly like a burden on the rest of your coworkers. They’re so polite, though, so genuine and kind, that Kevin eventually starts to feel more at ease.

(He’s still endlessly grateful when you return, extension cord clasped victoriously in one hand.)

Then the kids start trickling in, and Kevin’s heart immediately both breaks and melts. Some are in wheelchairs, others have lost their hair, but they’re all smiling with so much excitement, chattering to their parents and the staff around them as they settle on beanbags and pillows on the floor. Several look at him curiously and he smiles at them, prompting several questions about who he is, why there’s a keyboard and not a guitar, and why the normal guy isn’t here.

“The usual guy got sick and couldn’t come,” Kevin says to one sweet girl with chubby cheeks and shining eyes. “I’m just here to replace him for a day.”

“Do you play the piano?” she asks, shyly pointing at the keyboard, which more than a few curious souls are standing around.

Kevin smiles. “Yes, I do.” He would say more, maybe offer to show her the instrument a little, but then you’re walking over, and her eyes brighten. “Dr. L/N!” she cheers.

With a loud laugh, you swoop her up carefully, cradling the girl against your shoulder. “How are you, Daeun?” you ask, lips spread in a smile that Kevin knows can’t be faked.

The girl – Daeun – grins. “I’ve been good!” she announces proudly. “Are we going to start soon?”

You laugh again, settling her back down on the floor. Kevin thinks his heart melts with the way your eyes sparkle. “Yes, we are,” you say. “I see you’ve already met Kevin?”

“Your name is Kevin?” Daeun looks at him curiously. “Your name is strange.”

Kevin has to force himself not to coo. “I was born in Canada,” he says. “My Korean name is Hyungseo.”

Daeun’s nose scrunches. “I like Kevin more,” she decides with finality.

Kevin feels brave enough to pat her on the head. “Then you can call me Kevin.”

“All right, Daeun. Go find your mom, okay? Kevin and I are going to finish setting up, and then we’ll get started.” With a soft kiss on the forehead (Kevin makes a sound he really hopes you don’t hear – the scene is just too adorable), you send the small girl off, turning back to Kevin. “Shall we get started?” you ask, grinning widely.

It may only be the third date, but he’s falling in love, Kevin thinks, falling in love with your shining face and sparkling eyes, with the way you shower love upon the children you’ve placed under your care. Right now, you’re everything he’s ever wanted in a future partner – beautiful in character, kind, gentle, fiercely loving.

His heart pounds a little faster.

Belatedly, Kevin realizes you’re waiting for a response and nods quickly. “Yeah,” he breathes, eyes glancing over the sea of children waiting (somewhat) patiently. A smile to rival yours spreads across his face. “Let’s get started.”

. . . . .

iii.

Kevin loves the last Friday of every month, he really does. It’s been tradition for several years now to go out with Changmin and Jacob on what he calls nights for “the boyz” to eat cheap food and get drunk. And no matter how much the others complain about the stupid name (Kevin will admit it sounds stupid now, but that doesn’t mean he’ll change it), he knows they enjoy the nights all the same.

Sometimes, though, Kevin just wishes he had more of a filter on his mouth. If not that, then maybe his brain could stop remembering every single dumb thing he said or did on drunk nights out. It would make his life a lot easier if he could just forget being stupid.

But no, God decided to be mean when making Kevin Moon. So Kevin, as a result, is an emotional drunk. He cries a lot when he hears about sad or adorable things, he says a lot of stupid stuff to (badly) express his overwhelming feelings, and worst of all, he remembers all of it when he wakes up hungover the next morning.

(None of this stops him from getting drunk anyway. Kevin Moon doesn’t learn lessons when it comes to alcohol. When he falls on his face (sometimes literally), he just gets up again, even if it’s with a bloody nose.)

Luckily, the night doesn’t end in chaos. Even though Jacob, who’s half of Kevin’s impulse control, leaves after an hour (he’s meeting with his family the next day, so Kevin is obligated call him a noob – it’s like a law of physics or something), Changmin doesn’t seem to be in the mood to do weird things without Jacob there to stop him, so the night passes relatively smoothly without Kevin throwing, like, a tantrum or anything.

He gets close, though. Because damn, if Changmin isn’t so fucking adorable when talking about his partner. Buried in his purple hoodie, black hair peeking softly over the top, it’s impossible for Kevin not to tear up when Changmin begins gushing over his beautiful, amazing, wonderful significant other whom he just compared to stardust.

Stardust.

Kevin wants to scream, that’s so romantic.

When you come to pick him and Changmin up, Kevin can’t resist relaying all of this to you as soon as he gets in the car. Vaguely, he thinks he should be worried about Changmin hearing it and hitting him, but the boy is mostly asleep in the back, eyes only fluttering slightly when you go over a bump or something. After Changmin gets dropped off at his apartment, Kevin turns the gushing on full force.

“Y/N, the love of my life, he called her stardust,” he’s still babbling even as you strongarm him up to his own apartment. “He’s so adorable. Changmin is so adorable. Oh my God.”

He thinks you snort. Probably. It would be a normal response. “Didn’t you call him the spawn of Satan just a few days ago?”

Definitely a snort, Kevin thinks, but he’s too invested in Changmin’s loveliness to whine about you making fun of him. “Y/N,” he pouts instead, “listen to meeeeee.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening.” You grunt, catching him just as he misses the next step and almost falls forward. “Hey, be careful.”

“’M trying.” Kevin manfully does his best to stop the world from tilting on its side. “But Changminnie.”

“Yes, yes, Changminnie.” Even drunk, Kevin can make out the playful exasperation in your voice. “Keep going.”

“Thank you, love of my life.” Kevin tries to give you a kiss but his lips hit air instead of your cheek. “Heck.”

You burst into loud laughter. “Kevin Moon, you never told me you were this adorable when drunk.”

“Changminnie,” he says more insistently.

“Okay, yes, I’m listening.” You kiss his cheek instead, and Kevin almost topples over right then and there. “Hey, you can’t fall over whenever I kiss you. Tell me about Changmin.”

Kevin starts flailing his arms around as best he can. “He’s so cute!” he half-yells. “He told me his partner was like stardust because she’s so perfect and warm, but she’s also like stardust because… because…”

His lip juts out.

“Oh, no, don’t cry, Kev.” You stop moving, then Kevin registers you bundling him into a hug, patting his head. “I know you’re a sad emotional drunk, but don’t cry.”

“Not crying,” Kevin protests, visibly crying.

“Mhm.” You pat his head one last time before letting go. “Hey, give me a second, I’m going to unlock your door.”

There’s some fumbling and a quiet snick, then Kevin obediently follows you through the door of his apartment. Once inside, you press a thumb to the side of his face, brushing a tear away. “Tell me what Changmin said to make you sad.”

“Changminnie said he’s afraid she’ll… she’ll… slip away between his fingers. Like stardust.” Kevin feels like he’s going to start sobbing any moment now. “He’s afraid she’s going to leave him eventually because she’s too perfect and he’s not good enough.”

“Oh my God.” You sit down on the couch. Kevin follows suit, albeit a lot more ungracefully as he collapses onto a cushion in a tangle of limbs. “Oh my God, that’s so sad and cute at the same time.”

“I said he should call her his star,” Kevin mumbles, turning slightly so he can burrow into your side. “Because stardust. Texted them about it. Both of them.”

Your laugh sounds like music even to the drunken haze of his brain. “Wonder what they’ll think when they see a drunken keysmash on their phones first thing tomorrow morning.”

The two of you sit in silence for a bit. Kevin feels his eyes beginning to get droopy, and he almost falls asleep before a thought strikes him with lightning force.

“I need to give you a nickname!” he almost yells, sitting bolt upright. The movement makes the room spin, but he doesn’t care. This is urgent. “Changmin’s going to call her his star, but I haven’t given you a nickname yet!”

“Kev, Kev.” You hold him by the shoulders, and he relaxes a little. “You can come up with a nickname for me in the morning. Right now, I think you need to sleep.”

“No,” he whines, shifting in your grip. “This is important. You need a nickname.” He sinks into deep, drunken thoughts, the kinds of thoughts he has when he ignores everything around him in favor of getting philosophical after having drunk too much alcohol.

Then it hits him.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Oh my God.” It’s his turn to grab you by the shoulders, now. “Oh my God. You’re the sun. Because I’m the moon. Get it? Kevin Moon?”

Through his drunken haze, Kevin thinks he sees you smile, maybe. It looks like a smile.

Your eyes are sparkling. You look happy.

Probably a smile.

“I’m a genius,” he whispers. A genius for coming up with the nickname and for making you happy.

“Sure, Kevin.” You grunt a little as he shifts his weight. “Come on, get up. We’ll see if you’re still a genius tomorrow if you wake up and remember all of this.”

Kevin doesn’t register much for the rest of the night, just remembers falling into his bed and forcing you to lie down next to him. The next morning, he wakes up with a throbbing headache and the vague, ever-present worry that he said something stupid last night.

You’re not in the bed with him anymore. Kevin blinks once, twice, before trying to sit up so to figure out where you went. Then he remembers you don’t live here. You probably went home.

Which is why he nearly goes into cardiac arrest when you appear in his doorway, holding a mug of coffee and a glass of water.

For a moment, the two of you just stare at each other. Kevin’s not sure what thoughts are running through your head, but he knows he’s trying to piece together what happened last night, and whether or not he should be hiding under the covers out of embarrassment.

Then it hits him.

Sun.

Moon.

Genius.

Oh, God.

Kevin wants to die.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, using your new nickname in the desperate hope that it’ll distract you from remembering the rest of what he said last night.

A catlike smirk curls your lips as you walk over, pressing the glass of water into his hands. A feeling of dread fills Kevin’s heart as he takes it.

“Morning, genius,” you say with enough evil delight to power Changmin for a year.

Kevin groans. “I was drunk.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Your teasing smile melts into something gentler as you place your mug on the bedside table, turning to bring the glass of water in his hands to his lips. “Coffee’s mine, don’t touch it or I’ll break a bone. Drink the water. I made some breakfast, so come into the kitchen whenever you feel up to it. After you’ve brushed your teeth.”

Warmth courses through Kevin’s body, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol from last night and everything to do with how you’re here in body and mind, sweetly helping him recover from a stupid hangover even when it’s definitely not your problem to take care of and you probably have better things to do. His heart thumps, loud enough that he thinks you could probably hear it.

In this moment, Kevin doesn’t think he’s ever been more grateful for anything than you coming into his life.

“Got it.” He awkwardly tries to salute, but he does it with the hand holding the glass and the water nearly spills onto the bed. As his cheeks flush, you break into snorting giggles.

Even though it’s at his expense, Kevin thinks he would do anything, anything in the world, to keep that wonderful smile on your face and that musical laughter in the air.

. . . . .

iv.

Only when you move in together does Kevin realize just how taxing your job is. He had an idea from when you sometimes had to cancel or move around dates, but when you did meet up, you were usually energetic and cheerful. Of course, there were the token dates where you just came over to Kevin’s apartment or he came over to yours and you just flopped around for a few hours. Outside, though, you always showed a bright face.

But that was because dates were mostly on your days off or when your hours were short, and as a result, you felt good enough, energized enough to show Kevin your brilliant smile. When you first moved in together, Kevin felt a bit surprised – well, maybe not surprised, but saddened – that you didn’t have the energy to smile as brightly as he saw before.

It’s fine by Kevin, though. You smile often enough, and if your teeth don’t show as much as they used to, there’s something beautiful, something calming and sweet in the slower curve of your lips, the gentle, lethargic way you lean up for a kiss. After all, Kevin has enough energy to compensate for when you might lack some of yours.

(It helps that he can cook, he thinks. Even when the kids at school sometimes wear him out, the brief sparkle in your eye that spreads across your lips when you walk through the door to see him stirring something on the stove is more than enough to make up for it.)

You’re cute, too, when you’re tired. Though Kevin loves it when you’re energetic and ready for whatever the day has decided to throw in your path, there’s something so peaceful, so pleasant about feeling you lying lethargically against his side on the couch, scrolling through your phone or reading a book or just resting, doing nothing but breathing softly. Kevin cherishes those small moments, the soft atmosphere where he kisses your hair and you smile, reach up, and press a kiss of your own to his cheek.

Tonight is one of those nights, a night of soft, comforting silence, words few and far between. It’s been a bit warm lately, so Kevin’s elected to wear one of the tank tops he keeps for the warmer months instead of his usual sweater.

You sit next to him on the couch, back pressed to his side as you send off emails on your phone. Kevin’s working too, inputting grades on his laptop. He hums a little under his breath to take his mind off of the monotony of his task.

At some point, you finish, putting down your phone with a sigh and slumping into his ribs. Kevin starts at the sudden movement. “Sunshine,” he whines, even though he could really care less.

“Moon boy,” you parrot in the same tone of voice.

Kevin’s attention turns back to his laptop, so he barely registers you shifting on the couch to a new position. He does notice it, though, when your fingers start trailing along his skin, exposed by the lack of sleeves on his tank top, because your touch tickles.

You completely ignore his resulting twitch of surprise, only keep tracing the skin of his rib cage. Kevin looks down, confused as to what’s caught your attention.

Oh. His tattoos.

“Sunshine?” he asks softly, watching your fingers shift along his skin.

“Mm,” you hum, eyes still fixated on the ink decorating his side.

“Sleepy?”

Slowly, you shake your head, fingers paused on the image of Mickey Mouse. “Not yet.”

He goes back to inputting grades, all the while still aware of your fingers tracing the lines, the curls, the swirls of black ink along his side. When he finishes, he looks over before closing his laptop to see your eyes still focused on his skin.

Something in his heart explodes, spreading a tingly, comforting warmth throughout his body. It’s a feeling he’s come to associate with your presence, a feeling of absolute security, absolute trust, absolute warmth that comes with falling in love with you.

You look up, noticing his lack of movement. “Finished, moonbeams?”

“First moon boy, now moonbeams?” Kevin teases you lightly, picking up the hand you were using to trace his skin and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. Just like every other time he’s ever done it, a wide smile spreads across your face and a shyness sparkles in your eyes, as though you still can’t believe the bliss of the moment.

(At least, that’s what Kevin feels every time you do something to remind him that he’s yours.)

Your voice breaks into his thoughts. “Can’t call you moonshine, that’s an alcohol.” You shrug as best as you can in your stretched-out position. “Moonbeams, moon boy… whatever feels right.”

Kevin puts his laptop on the coffee table. As he leans back into the couch, you curl up into him, one hand still lingering against the Mickey Mouse tattoo on his side. “Tell me about these?” you ask, pressing your fingers a bit more firmly against the ink.

His tattoos are personal, serving as reminders of the past and inspiration to keep moving. Rarely does he share their meanings with anyone (not that people usually ask, because the tattoos are mostly covered by his clothes), and only with those who mean the world to him.

Kevin thinks you qualify as one of them.

Touching your shoulders, he turns you around slightly, just enough to press a short, sweet kiss to the top of your head. “Of course, sunshine.” He smiles, gazing into your eyes, feeling the warmth of your love travel through his limbs. “Which one first?”

. . . . .

Kevin Moon, for the majority of his life, has hovered in between being classified as a morning person or a night owl. Yes, he gets up at six in the morning for a cup of coffee, but he also stays up past midnight doing… stuff. Grading, writing reports, watching cat videos, wasting time.

(When Changmin judges his lifestyle, Kevin just reminds him that he fell in love with his roommate’s hookup and is on a dance team with the parent of one of his students.)

Honestly, if Kevin didn’t remind himself every so often that he’s currently a full adult, his lifestyle would make him think he was still in college. He certainly still acts like it when he isn’t working. Procrastinating? Check. Crying over reports he needs to submit at three a.m.? Check. Flopping around on the floor when life is going badly? Check.

And most importantly: nonexistent sleep schedule? Check.

You put a stop to that real quick when you move in, both directly and indirectly. Directly, you make an appointment for him at a sleep clinic after figuring out his shitty sleep patterns, and Kevin finds out he probably has mild insomnia. The aftermath is horrible – you put him on a strict sleep schedule and all but ban caffeine from his diet (goodbye, morning coffee) – but it helps, after a couple of weeks. He sleeps better. Perks of having a partner who works in medicine.

Indirectly, though, you probably make a bigger difference.

See, the way Kevin thinks about it, he just never had a lot of reasons to stay in bed very long. Even though he appreciates sleep, really appreciates it on long days, it’s just that he can’t really force it if it doesn’t want to come. He’d also rather be doing something productive (or not productive, depends on the asker’s perspective) than lying awake for hours, anyway.

But now that he’s waking up to a face he loves?

Well, even if you sometimes disappear before he wakes (hospital hours are whack as hell, but sadly, you can’t ignore your job), Kevin will just say your warmth is a powerful incentive to stay huddled under the covers, even if he can’t fall back asleep.

He still wakes up every morning to grey light beginning to peek through the window. No matter how hard he tries to sleep in just a little longer, his body can’t seem to stay unconscious past six in the morning, so both of you have just resigned yourselves to the fact that Kevin will always be an early riser.

Before you walked into his life, he would’ve rolled out of bed almost immediately, stumbled to the bathroom (and maybe knocked his knee against the doorframe, who knows), then started brewing coffee in the kitchen to start the day.

Now?

A drowsy smile begins to make its way across Kevin’s face, soft as the morning light, when his brain catches up to the present and he registers your warmth under the covers. Sleepily, he blinks, taking in the sight of your peaceful face buried halfway in the sheets.

You shouldn’t look this beautiful, Kevin thinks, not with your hair strewn all over the pillow, blankets rumpled around your shoulders, arms outstretched so that one sort of curls over his body while the other is held up to your chest. It’s the morning – no one should look pretty and put-together. That isn’t natural.

(Unless you happy to be Kim Younghoon, but that’s another story.)

Yet you somehow look like a sleeping deity in Kevin’s mind, even with your hair a mess and drool drying on the pillowcase. As the drowsiness clears from his eyes, as the light from the window grows brighter, Kevin can barely even think of moving, of disturbing your peace.

He dislikes your alarm. It’s loud, annoying, and hits him with a jolt when he’s just trying to take these stolen morning moments to admire your beauty. When he complains about it the first time, you tell him to serve as the alarm, to wake you up himself.

Kevin counters that he’s an artist, that he needs peace and quiet to give beauty of such a degree the respect it deserves. You just roll your eyes, telling him that if he isn’t going to wake you up, the alarm’s going to have to take that job. The smile on your face, though, and the brief kiss you press to his lips right after, speaks volumes for the emotions Kevin’s words make you feel.

(He loves flustering you like this, even if you pretend his words don’t make you feel some sort of way.)

So eventually, you wake, eyes fluttering as the alarm brings you back to the conscious plane. Kevin’s heart feels like it’s bursting when your eyes fully open, blearily blinking at the world.

“Morning, sunshine,” he whispers, running one hand through your hair.

You lean slightly into the touch, the corners of your lips twitching up. And every day, as he stares into your sleepy eyes, lips curling as you whisper a quiet “Morning, moon boy” in reply, Kevin knows he’s falling, falling in love with every part of you.

. . . . .

+i.

Kevin’s waiting in front of the school when you pull up at the curb. Smiling apologetically, he gives you a quick kiss on the cheek as you step out of the car. “Sorry, sunshine.” He gestures at the two small boys standing beside him, absorbed in their own world. “Their uncle’s running late and Changmin and Jacob have things to do, so I need to wait for Sangyeon to pick them up before we can go.”

“No worries.” You return the kiss, smiling as bright as the sun. Kevin feels a flash of pride for coming up with a nickname that fits you so well. “We have the whole afternoon, don’t we?”

“That, we do.” He grins, squeezing your hand.

“Mr. Moon, who’s that?” a small voice asks closer to the ground. The two of you turn to see Sunwoo and Eric trotting over, curious looks on their faces.

Kevin looks over at you, but you’re already bending down to get to eye level with the two boys. “Oh, hello!” Your grin, if possible, grows wider. “I’m Y/N, Kevin’s significant other. What are your names?”

“I’m Eric,” Eric pipes up. “This is my brother, Sunwoo.”

Sunwoo just stares with round eyes. Well, he’s always been the shyer of the two.

“Those are lovely names,” you reply smoothly, giving Sunwoo an encouraging smile. Kevin feels his heart melt completely at how well you interact with the kids. “I’m just going to be waiting with Kevin until your uncle picks you up, is that okay?”

The two kids nod and immediately go back to babbling in their own little world. Kevin notices the fond smile on your face, and his heart melts even more.

“They’re so cute,” you whisper to him.

“I know, right?” Kevin clutches his heart dramatically. “Can you imagine teaching them every day?”

Just as you’re shaking your head in comic disbelief, another car pulls up behind yours. A harried-looking young man quickly exits and Eric and Sunwoo cheer, distracted by the arrival of their uncle.

“Sorry about this,” Sangyeon says, absentmindedly patting Eric’s head as the boy hugs his leg. Sunwoo seems to be attempting to climb onto his uncle’s back. “Traffic wasn’t the kindest when I was getting out of work.” Then he notices you. “Oh, hello. Are you Kevin’s partner?”

“That I am.” You stick out a hand. “I’m Y/N, and I’ve been told you’re Sangyeon?”

Sangyeon nods, smiling. “Nice to meet you. And to see that Kevin’s found someone to deal with his antics.”

Kevin blushes as you laugh. “Hey,” he complains. “No jokes at my expense, please.”

“Sure, moonbeams.” You roll your eyes, then turn back to Sangyeon. “It’s nice to meet you. Your nephews are adorable.”

The smile that Sangyeon gives the two boys clambering around him says it all. “They are, aren’t they?” He checks his watch. “I’m sorry, I have to go now. My sister’s expecting us back soon, and I’m already a bit late.”

Kevin breathes a sigh of relief. No more teasing at his expense from Sangyeon, at least, though there’s no guarantee from you. “Nice seeing you, Sangyeon. And have a good day, kids.”

A small chorus of “You too, Mr. Moon!” sounds, and Kevin expects that to be the end. Sangyeon will herd the boys into the car, Kevin will follow you into yours, and then you’ll go your separate ways. What he doesn’t expect is for Sunwoo to look out at you from behind his uncle’s leg, round eyes cautiously curious, and ask you a question.

“Y/N?”

Immediately, you turn around, teasing smirk melting into a gentle smile for the small boy. “Yes, Sunwoo?”

Sunwoo’s eyes dart between you and Kevin. Then, softly, shyly – “Do you love Mr. Moon?”

Time seems to stop as Kevin’s breath hitches in his throat at the sudden question, but you only look back at him, eyes soft and sparkling in the sunlight.

Your answer glitters in your gaze.

Though you’re supposed to be talking to Sunwoo, your eyes stay fixed on Kevin, strong and unyielding, yet gentle and affectionate, as you answer. Your voice is soft when you reply. “Yes, Sunwoo. I do love him.” The smile on your face grows wider as you turn back to the child. “I love him very much.”

Indescribable warmth floods Kevin’s chest and tears prick his eyes. And as Sangyeon hurries his nephews away, as you turn around to unlock your car, one truth burns with absolute, crystal-clear certainty in his mind.

He isn’t falling in love with you, not anymore. No, he’s far past that stage.

Kevin Moon is completely, wholly, irrevocably in love with you.

“Kevin?” You look at him from the other side of the car. “You coming?”

A wide grin spreads across his face as he meets your sparkling eyes. Love blooms in his chest.

“Coming, sunshine.”

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for kevin’s whipped ass ksjdkgsdhjk)

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joontier · 3 years

Text

Subliminal in Scrubs | V1; report vii

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, romance

warnings: FINALLY~ we get to see a little bit of JK’s pov heh

word count: 2.4k

g/n: Send me your thoughts?

[taglist] @nottodayjjk @ditttiii @zeharilisharaban @btsbunny07 @turquoiseandplaidinautumn @aamxxrii @codeinebelle

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) | navi. | m.list

“I hope you don’t mind us picking up a friend first then a drive thru afterwards... we did promise someone a ride to the ceremony as well.” Chohee eyes Jungkook through the rear-view mirror. “Plus, we haven’t had any breakfast yet sooo…” Your new passenger uncharacteristically nods with unbridled enthusiasm. Huh.

“Totally not an issue at all. If you don’t mind, breakfast is on me,” he announces, sitting up a little straighter in his seat. You raise a freshly threaded eyebrow. There is no way this kid is actually offering to pay for your food. Jungkook clears his throat quietly, “Um...since you guys offered me a ride...you know…”

Without even having to look at each other, you just know you and Chohee have similar smiles plastered on each of your faces. “Well,” Chohee makes a quick glance at the man seated at the back, “if you insist, Jungkook-ssi. How nice of you to do so.”

You’re positive Jeon Jungkook will regret he even offered - in half an hour. Probably less.

Just recently, Chohee has decided to relive an old hobby of hers: teasing you relentlessly with men clearly way out of your league until you actually end up investing much more time than intended (just as planned by Chohee) - until you come to the realization that there wasn’t going to be even the slightest chance of them even liking you back. End point is - you end up getting heartbroken for irrational reasons.

Chohee, whose eyes sparkle with mirth with every mention of the Jimin, continues her teasing, despite your constant reminders to have her energy and time diverted to another subject, instead of poking her head through your currently non-existent love life.

It’s an undisputed fact that Jimin is a cutie and quite the charmer, especially with his heroic deed of saving your sorry ass from getting your drinked spiked at the bar. However, there is a part of you that knows the slightest bit of infatuation you might feel or might have felt for Jimin was probably caused by the lack of interaction with men for the majority of your collegiate life. Of course, you always came back to your principles, that of which is prioritizing your career to shun love interests.

Admittedly, you might have gotten distracted once, but you won’t ever let that happen again.

In line with your best friend’s attempt to have you score a date and a boyfriend eventually, (her timeline, not yours!)Chohee had even gone so far as offering Jimin a ride to the oath taking ceremony that’s going to be held today at the Coex convention center at Gangnam.

With Jimin’s apartment just a couple of blocks away from the gasoline station, you spot him right away when Chohee turns right into the corner. He’s stood by the entrance of his apartment building, looking effortlessly attractive as he scrolls through his phone while waiting.

Chohee presses her fist lightly against the center of the wheel, the car emitting a soft honk to get Jimin’s attention. Jimin gives a curt wave in acknowledgment and reaches between his legs to grab his satchel. As soon as Jimin opens the car door, his head jolts slightly backward in surprise when he sees another passenger already inside.

Chohee does the ice-breaker, introducing Jungkook to Jimin while she drives off. “Just before we got to your place, we had to fill the tank first and whaddya know? Met Jungkook at the gas station too! His bike broke down and I’ve offered him a ride - ergo, your new seatmate.” She adds a thumbs up. “Park Jimin, Jeon Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin.”

Contrary to Chohee’s cheerful voice mere seconds ago, awkward silence ensues after the two men bow to each other in greeting. The only subject of sanity the car was holding onto was the soft voice of Chohee’s navigation app coming from her phone on the dashboard.

Why was it so hard to talk when you’ve all got at least a few things in common?

Right, maybe it’s the fact that Jimin may or may not have known about your beef with Jeon Jungkook. Chohee’s doing, obviously.

Thankfully, you spot a Burger King joint along the way and propose getting a greasy breakfast instead of looking for other options. There are murmurs of agreement heard in the suddenly cramped space of your best friend’s car. “Jungkook-ssi, breakfast still on you, yeah?” Chohee asks, joining the queue.

“Uh…yeah-”

“Perfect! Just making sure because _________ and I are famished!” Okay - that wasn’t exactly the word you were looking for, but if it gets you the free meal, then you’re absolutely ravenous. Chohee’s eyes briefly pass yours before sending a wink in Jungkook’s direction. “How ‘bout you Jimin-ssi? You hungry?”

He looks at you, then Chohee, then at Jungkook. “I’m fine, I’m not hungry.” You see Jungkook trying painfully hard to not let his eyes dart around too much. Just then, a low rumble erupts from Jimin’s stomach. Woops. Your brain can dictate your emotions but tummy would never lie outright.

“Jimin-ssi!” Jungkook clasps a hand on the blond’s shoulder. “It’s fine! Breakfast is on me. Order up, bro!”

With Jimin still looking hesitant, Jungkook decides to add a little fairy dust to his encouragement, “think of it as a mini celebration of us finally getting to be licensed doctors in a few hours!” Jimin gives in with very evident reluctance, even offering to pay for the whole group instead at one point.

Your swear you see hesitation cross Jungkook’s eyes briefly, but you’re glad he’s a man of honor, even if it be for this particular instance only, firmly dismissing Jimin’s proposal. Which is perfect, honestly, because this time you get a chance at revenge and a very hearty breakfast.

“No crumbs on the floor, please!”

From the backseat, you see Jungkook eyeing your paper bags on yours and Chohee’s laps, face stoic as ever. Emphasis on bags. A little more concentration and Jungkook can pretty much send lasers blasting through his eyes with the way he’s scrutinizing your orders.

As shameless as it sounds, you and Chohee were never ones to back out of a free meal - and make the most out of it, especially when one had offered so nicely. So imagine Jungkook’s reaction when he and Jimin only got a Whopper meal and you and Chohee get upgraded full meals.

“Doesn’t seem like we’re the ones who should be worrying about crumbs…” Jungkook mutters, taking a bite of his fry that’s a little too harsh for a slice of a poor fried potato.

“You say something Jungkook?” Chohee queries, unabashedly letting out a small burp after taking a sip of her chocolate flavored milkshake. Bowing his head, Jimin tries to hide his smile as he takes a bite of his burger. You decide to step in, wanting to add a little more MSG to your breakfast menu this fine morning.

“Hey Chee, heard of the news last Monday? There had been recent occurrences of drivers kicking out their passengers in the middle of the expressway, especially this road in particular… talk about some zombie apocalypse shenanigans...I wonder why though…”

Jungkook clears his throat, addressing you this time. “Your strawberry milkshake...good, yeah?” With cheeks flushed, Jungkook dares not to look forward, murmuring his regrets over ordering more food next time.

You nod with genuine gusto, throwing him an additional thumbs-up, which only causes Jungkook to sulk slightly in his seat. You eat the rest of your food with a bright smile. Ah, free food - what else is there to say?

“If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help.”

After reading the Hippocratic oath, the newly declared licensed medical doctors collectively put their hands down and take their seats. There is an immediate sense of fulfillment heavy in the air. Nobody can blame them - not when one has gruelled through six years of medical school.

Jungkook inhales deeply, yet he still feels like he’s out of breath.

He draws in another long one, savoring each second of exhale afterwards. From his peripheral vision, Jungkook watches you as you wave endlessly to the someone on the far right where the family and relatives are seated. Though he can’t see much from afar, with the way your hands are moving slower by the second, he figures you’ve already managed to catch the attention of whoever it is you were waving at.

Jungkook diverts his eyes somewhere else, eventually landing on the stage where he sees his own father, standing behind the podium as he gives - what people beside him would consider - a ‘motivational’ speech in front of all the new doctors of Korea.

He wonders if he could even see him, if he knew that his own son actually made it through college, if he realized that they were under the same roof at this very moment - an occurrence he never thought would happen again.

Jungkook reverts his eyes back to you, watching you in secret as you talk to yourself while trying to address someone else. So you were waving to your parents after all. Cute. The man couldn’t fight back the small smile etching onto his face.

He was happy for you - a genuine statement, even though majority, if not all, your encounters consist of you both bickering like small kids… And yet, he can’t deny the strong feeling of envy brewing at his heart, knowing that he could never have the same type of interaction you had with your parents, with how tight you all seem.

Jungkook felt sick. Even though you ordered twice as much as he did, he felt like throwing up. He wanted this ceremony to be over with already.

Much to Jungkook’s relief, the program ends shortly after that. Excited to greet and congratulate the new batch of doctors, people from all sides of the venue rush to the entrance. With literally nowhere else to go, Jungkook decides to follow you through the crowd, in the hopes that you’ll lead him to Chohee and Jimin so he could properly thank them for the ride and he could be on his way.

He’s surprised to not see you the least bothered by it, but then again, the convention center is packed with both the oath-takers and their relatives, so you might have really not known that he’s been following you all along.

Like usual, it’s Chohee who notices him first. This girl is everywhere, all the time.

“Jungkook, you’re here!”

Chohee's acknowledgement of his presence causes you to turn in your heel quickly to verify it. You stare at him briefly, opening your mouth as if to say something when someone calls out your name. “Mom!! Dad!!”

Your English call causes a few onlookers and Jungkook recalls somebody once pointing out that you were a foreigner - and that you were also the first one to finish at the top of the class at SNU.

With Chohee’s parents tailing yours, they rush to their own daughter, congratulating her with a hug and a cute bouquet of tulips. As Jimin appears with his own party not too long afterwards, Jungkook figures it’s his cue to leave. At this rate, none of you would have noticed if he actually left.

Just as Jungkook was about to take off, a small hand grabs his wrist. You’re looking up at him and he swears he sees your lips curve upward a little before dragging him back to your little group. Stunned as ever, Jungkook wonders if he hinted on a little bit of concern in your features… and you smiled at him! For the first time! At least that’s what he thought he saw.

Admittedly, all interactions between you and him were not the most friendly. Jungkook knew he acted like a dick a couple of times, but it’s the only way he knows that might allow you to lower your guard because the only thing he was certain of was that you get worked up every time you see him.

Regardless of whether or not it really was a smile, Jungkook finds himself standing in the midst of this gathering of some sort. “Moms, Dads, this is Jeon Jungkook and Park Jimin.”

The moms suddenly gush over them, while their fathers eye the two younger men warily. “Are you?… you’re not…” Chohee’s mother nudges her husband a little too obviously. “If they are, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it?” she grits, a bright smile plastered on her face. Jungkook wanted to laugh at the uncanny resemblance with her daughter.

“Oh what young fine men you are! Mrs. Park, you must be very proud of your son!” Your mother exclaims, resting her cheek on her palm. “But Jungkook-ssi, your parents must be lost then… my husband and I couldn’t figure out how this whole convention center works either…”

Jungkook shakes his head slowly, lips pursed. “Oh. Um, my parents won’t make it today. They’re very busy people…” Jungkook drags his words, hoping they’ll drop the subject.

Well, they did, but there was an inevitable pregnant pause after that - one which Jungkook was avoiding in the first place. Chohee’s mother clasps her hands together, breaking the awkward tension. “Uh - would you like to join us then? A little celebration for a memorable day?”

Jungkook bows his head curtly and declines the offer. He wanted to, but he knows it’ll only do more damage to the wound. “It’s okay, Ma’am. I still have quite a lot of things to do today, like getting my motorcycle fixed.” Jungkook nods to Chohee and the girl briefly recalls how they got to the venue together.

Jungkook doesn’t take long after that, bidding his goodbye to everyone and thanking Chohee for the ride that morning. “Well, I’ll be going now. __________-ssi, Chohee-ssi, Jimin-ssi, guess I’ll….see you when I see you.”

“See you when we see you then,” you reply and Jungkook swears it’s an actual smile on your face this time. He returns the action and gets on his way, hoping that he really does get to see you all another time.

#jungkook x reader #btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #btsghostie #jeon jungkook #bts aus #bts fic #jungkook au #jungkook imagine #bts series #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff

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lowlights · 3 years

Note

YEE HAW AND CONGRATS MY FRIEND!!! 🎉🎊🎉 You deserve all the love, tasty treats, and delicious smut your heart desires for all of the wonderful things you write for us gremlins living in your computerbox!

May I make a matchmaker request? Pedro boy of your choice!

I am an AFAB nonbinary person, they/them preferred but ok with she/her. Bisexual or pansexual. Ok with either term too. 5'7", plus sized, stocky but strong, my head is shaved on both sides, what's left is pretty long and blueish green at the ends. Big bust big butt. 😂 My wife says I'm snuggly. I have nature tattoos, my septum, nostril and ears are all pierced up. I really am a pagan witch, the username don't lie. I'm big on family, natural, found, or internet made, it's all important to me. Love kids, dogs, corvids of any kind. Springtime and fall are my fav seasons. I have mushroom decorations all over my house. (Full merry mushroom set in my kitchen.) I love a well written love story and hate a sad ending. I've been crocheting since forever, love making art of many different types, and love to snuggle down when it rains to read a good book or watch a comfort movie. I also have ADHD and tend to struggle with hyperfocusing on art/reading/finding that one song I heard once four years ago and now the chorus is stuck in my head when I need to be like, adulting.

THAT IS SO FUCKIN' MUCH INFO. I don't want you to feel obligated to do anything at ALL with this, just figured I'd throw my hat in the ring. MUCH LOVE TO YOU DEARIE ✨🌿🍄🌿✨

Sweet Rowan, I've just the man for you. Your match is a little different than the others, though. But I feel *really* solid about this one.

It's Din Djarin, but very specifically @floraandfrost's Cottagecore!AU Din.

First and foremost, Din doesn't care about labels as long as you're yourself. You have what matters to him: a strong love for family, of all sorts. Is there any Pedro boy more centered around family? It's Din Djarin, all the way. Our Mando also loves a strong partner. He adores your body and all of the ways you express yourself, and I feel like you would really help him explore his own individuality after so long living hidden from view. He can trust you with every part of his life, and he feels as safe as he makes you feel.

Now, why specifically cottagecore!Din? He is going to live the dream with you, in a cute cottage with mushies and dried herbs and crystals and everything that matters to you all around the house. Din respects people with deeply-held beliefs and would want to know how he can find the right type of sage for you or bring back certain barks that you need. He would love to snuggle with you and read together and would be the perfect balance to your ADHD moments. He would never be exasperated, just help you quickly think of the song name that's been stumping you for hours and lovingly redirect your attention back to the task at hand.

And oh, you would make him laugh. Truly laugh. He would love your excitement over tiny creatures and the shiny things the crows leave for you and would listen to you talk endlessly about your latest crocheting project. He would absolutely wear the hats and scarves you make for him.

Most of all, cottagecore!Din loves with his entire being, and you are worthy of that love. You must go read through Flora's stories if you haven't already, they are some of my favorites in the whole world. She has created a beautiful universe and I think you will love it.

No sad endings for Din, or you.

I hope you like your pairing, dear! Sorry it's a bit unique but I just felt so strongly about it I couldn't resist!

Requests still open for my 500 followers celebration!

#character match #din djarin but make it filled with wonder #cottagecore din #to the rescue!#thanks for letting me borrow him flora #din djarin #the mandalorian #500 follower celebration

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horribletestsubject · 3 years

Text

Fic I just wrote based on These Two art pieces that I’ve drawn and THIS POST by @body-utensil-travels-terrain

———

You’ve spent your life being told you couldn’t. Now there’s a voice telling you that you can.

You remember it distinctly. You were fourteen at the time, just really starting to figure out what you wanted to do with your life (it certainly isn’t what society expected from you— but then, society doesn’t expect someone like you anyway, does it?) when you first heard her voice over the radio in your living room. The words she said resonated with you, the promise and ambition that she spoke with. It was almost like she was talking directly to you.

You do your research. You study hard. You tinker away at things in your garage, supplementing your studies in your own way. And five years later, after you’ve graduated, you put in your application.

A letter arrives a few weeks later, emblazoned with the circular symbol you’ve kept in your mind’s eye all this time, and bold lettering on the front— Aperture Science Innovators. It’s addressed to you. You open it, and your fingers tighten around the smooth paper— “congratulations” it says. You’ve been accepted. At the bottom is Her signature. You trace over it with your fingers. Delicately, as gently as you’d handle an irreplaceable machine part.

Two weeks later your bags are packed and you’re boarding a flight to Detroit. The attendant greets you. You hold up your boarding pass and get on. You land a few hours later. Getting a cab would be too complicated— people don’t like to take the time to read, and most can’t speak the way you do. So you walk to the train station, it’s not too far. Just an hour or two. You’ve walked further before.

Flat fields flow by endlessly as the train rattles down its tracks. You lean your head against the window, watching the hues of gold rush by, blurring on into infinity.

The sun is gone when you pull up outside a strange little town, surrounded by chain link fence. You fish through your bag for the packet you’d been sent— and pull out the temporary ID you’d been given. You show it to the gate guard. He lets you in. A man is waiting to show you your dormitory. You shake your head at his offer of a tour— you’ll explore the place yourself tomorrow. There are a few days before you’re actually needed for orientation.

The room is small and plain. A bed, desk, and dresser, and a small closet. That’s alright. You don’t need much. You hang up your few articles of clothing and tuck your shoes next to the door. The bed isn’t soft, but it isn’t hard. You fall asleep quickly, exhausted from your travels.

The next few days are spent wandering. Visiting the little shops, the stations. Peering into labs where you can. Climbing over fences (they could never keep you out) before quickly retreating as a security guard passed. You don’t want to get in trouble before your internship even begins. You wonder if you’ll see her. But you only hear her voice in announcements as you trigger motion sensors throughout the complex.

When work actually starts, it’s tedious. Getting coffee. Taking documents to the shredder and the incinerator. You don’t usually see the labs. Or, well, much of anything. It’s just a lot of running here and there, back and forth at your superiors’ beck and call. It’s tiring. But you do it— after all, you want to be here, you want to do this— and you never give up.

It’s a few months before you see her— before your internship takes you to the main complex. Now you’re checking inventory, sorting mail, sorting records (and chucking the casualty lists into the incinerator as instructed). Occasionally they’ll call you in to fix the coffee maker or the refrigerator.

You hear her voice once, muffled— she’s talking to someone, to a group it seems, just outside the room you’re in. You look over your shoulder and catch a glimpse. Rosy cheeks and bright-red lips, wavy dark hair flowing around her shoulder, a smile on her face (manufactured, you can tell with just this glance that she’s concealing so very much), a bright red scarf tied around her neck.

Your eyes lock for just a second, and the corner of her mouth creases, dimpling her cheeks. Your heart races— that, that was a hint of a true smile. Warmth flushes your own cheeks and you tear your gaze away. Suddenly shy— much shyer than you’ve ever been before.

It doesn’t make sense to you. Not yet. Not until you start seeing her more. Not until her smiles become more frequent and pointed. Not until her gaze lingers on you a little longer than before each time. The fluttery feeling doesn’t go away— and you’re determined more than ever to reach her.

Of course, it happens sooner and easier than you think. She starts requesting you specifically to bring her her coffee. You take a red pen and draw a little smiley face next to her name before giving it to her. When you come up to her office, there’s a sticky note left on the monitor, in that oh-so-hard to read yet absolutely beautiful cursive of hers. At the end of it is a smiley face, so much more elegant and less childish than yours. You keep the note. On her next cup, you add a heart to the dot of the ‘i’ in her name. You start responding to her notes with little notes of your own, your rounded, sometimes scratchy handwriting a stark contrast.

The notes are never there when you get back. You like to think she kept them. You’re pretty sure she did.

A year after you arrive, your internship is over, and you’re up for a promotion— junior mechanic. Probably still more of the same, but you’ll be getting a salary now (not that you really have any use for it since Aperture provides your housing) and you’ll have a permanent place. But you’ll see her less. You’ll miss that, of course— but you’re finally moving beyond your station, moving up in the company.

The day before your internship ends, you get another note. “Wanna get coffee together tomorrow?” Your heart leaps. You scribble out your answer just beneath her writing.

You’re sitting across from her at the cafe table. The cafe serves the same stuff as the cafeteria, but it’s decorated more quaintly, and always costs more for some reason. Maybe because there’s sunlight coming through the windows.

“So, headed up the ladder,” she begins after the two of you sip your drinks (well, she sips her drink, you’re too caught up in the crimson of her lips). “I guess I won’t be seeing as much of you now.”

There’s something behind her cheery voice, a sadness that you’ve caught glimpses of before, a wistfulness deeper than her words. You look up, catching her gaze for a moment and nod in response.

“Well, this is nice. Maybe we should do this more often. Once a week, at least? Or you could come over to my place. We could spend time together. As friends, or something.” With that, she gives you a wink. Your cheeks flush bright red.

You catch the implication right away. Your hero, your inspiration— and now here you are sitting across from her at a cafe while she all but outright asks you out.

You thought you’d be excited for things to grow beyond the notes and the gestures. But you feel different than that. After the initial jolt, the initial flutter, you look back over at her and you see the chasm yawning out between the two of you. The mountain she’s perched on, the valley you’re standing in. Your scratchy print against her elegant cursive, your short, bitten nails against her sharp manicure, your messy ponytail against her shiny waves. You look down at your simple intern’s badge, then over at her emblazoned one. She doesn’t even have a title listed— everyone knows who she is.

You’re miles apart, even if you might have seemed to be closer.

You stand up, your throat knotting up as you shake your head. You can’t look at her now, but you can practically feel the disappointment in her face as she murmurs “oh.” You want to explain but you can’t, your thoughts racing a mile a minute. The last thing you want is to turn Her, your idol, the one who makes your heart flutter, the reason you came here in the first place, down.

But you can’t do this now. Not yet. Not until you’ve reached the top of the mountain. Not until you’re close enough for her to reach out her hand and pull you the rest of the way up.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she says.

You pause, halfway to the door. You turn back just enough so that you can glimpse her, and give a tiny nod.

After that you throw yourself into your work. Up to senior mechanic, then technician, then engineer— you’re working on Aperture’s new technology now, its most important projects. But you’re still not close enough. Into the test chambers you go at the CEO’s behest, defying death and physics at breakneck speeds, trusting in the tech you’ve helped create to ensure your survival.

Sometimes you look up and see her watching from the observation room, the tell-tale flash of red. You don’t look too long.

The CEO falls ill. He leaves a disturbing message. You try not to think too much of it— you’re almost there.

Your superior fails a test. You’re not surprised. Not hurt, not sad. It just happens and now you’re in the upper echelon. Now you’re at the top— now, you can reach out to her again. Tell her you’ve changed your mind. You can be equals now.

You go to her office. She isn’t there to answer the door. “Don’t you remember Mr. Johnson’s last request?” They say to you. You tried to block it out, but you remember.

You use your pass on a high security door. It opens. Your name is emblazoned too now. Just like hers was.

Before you is a massive operating system. On the screen reads a message: “transfer complete. transfer successful. writing data : do not disconnect subject.”

She’s lying inside a tube-like compartment. A transparent coffin. Wires hooked up to her. Eyes closed. Lips still ruby red.

You reach out and touch the glass. There’s no response. There won’t be a response.

This technology is untested. This is the first human-AI interfacing project Aperture has conducted. There’s only a fifty percent chance it will work, and even if it does, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s gone. You’ll never clasp her small hands inside your own calloused ones, tuck your head against her shoulder, press your lips against hers.

You’ve finally reached the top of the mountain. Finally reached her. But it was too late. When you crested the summit, she was already gone, and there was only a spatter of crimson left behind to show that she was ever there at all.

#portal #fanfiction #portal fanfic #portal fanfiction #chell #chell portal #portal chell #caroline portal #portal caroline #chelline #cheroline #chell x caroline #portal au #intern chell #intern chell au #my writing #cinna writes #might edit and post to AO3 at some point #but for now have the rough draft

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sooibian · 4 years

Text

Flambé - I

poster and edits/collage credits to @is-that-baekhyuns-shirt !

chapter two | moodboard by the lovely @pororodks

🍜 pairing: kyungsoo x fem!reader ft. baekhyun, mark lee

🍜 description: pull up a chair. take a taste. come join us. life is so endlessly delicious. - ruth reichl

🍜 themes: fluff, crack (ish), slight angst, a lil bit of spice (in the future), rivals to lovers au

🍜 word count: ~ 9.7k

🍜 a/n: writing this makes me feel lonely and hungry and that, my friends, is a deadly concoction of emotions so while i wallow in my misery, i dearly hope you’ll enjoy this creation. i'd love to hear from you <3<br>

🍜 reference notes: yt channels: maangchi, one meal a day, bore.d; netflix shows: midnight diner, street food: asia, chef’s table

🍜 tag list: @changshapatrol @j-pping @kyungseokie @exosmuttytalk @his-mochi-cheeks @littleflowercrown13 pls lmk if you’d like to be added/removed from the tag list!

Water bobs in frenetic bubbles in a massive ancient stone pot perched atop a fort of raging wood. Amidst brutal peals of thunder, a gushing stream rises from a nearby hill, obscuring the shrill cries of the sacrificial crab.

Chanting a spell, you lift the enormous crustacean by its pincers and lower it into the growling, pitch black utensil. Blubbering helplessly, it lodges its claws at the rim of the pot in desperation, seeking escape. The sound of your maniacal laughter reverberates through the cave as you thrust it back into the violent undulation with a heavy-handed flick of the bladed-spatula.

All of a sudden, you’re swept over with a wave of unconsciousness, your skin tingles, and boiling water begins to fill up your lungs.

You are alone at the bottom of the very same utensil.

“Help!” frantic, you stagger up, gasping for air. But the bladed-spatula wielding crab, now untied and hovering over you, roars jubilantly at your defenseless form.

Maybe the spell didn’t land, you think.

“Please, Chef!” you whimper as a last ditch attempt.

In one swift motion, it swooshes down to your eye level.

Bushy black brows sprout on its forehead, just a little over a pair of big brown circles for eyes. Then comes the nose, followed by a bloody red mouth that snarls at you.

zzzz…

“Late again?”

zzzz…

4:00 a.m., your phone blinks.

In a sleep befuddled state, you reach out for the wailing device. ‘Late again?’ Chef’s cold, deep voice sounds in your consciousness as you wipe the droplets of sweat off of your forehead.

Chef.

Doh Kyungsoo had insisted on the title and you’d boldly refused to call him that. What business does a man working at a Kalguksu stand in Gwangjang Market have, being called Chef. You’d seeked redressal with the higher ups. The owner.

Your aunt.

“Aegiya, he has something that you don’t.”

“A dick?”

“YAH! A degree in culinary arts.”

“Imo, haven’t you watched Parasite? Anyone can forge documents these days and if so then why is he here? He could very well land a job at Four Seasons like Hyunjin. Think, Imo. Think!”

“Exactly! With forged documents, he could be anywhere. But he’s here, no?”

“Maybe you’re just easier to manipulate.”

Finally, she said in her no-nonsense, stern voice. "Chef. You’re calling him Chef.”

Every time the egotistical madman opens that darned mouth of his, it makes you want to knock him down with a roundhouse and beat the living daylights out of him.

But, counting to five, you always resist the temptation.

Because one day, one glorious day, you’d take over your aunt’s business and the very first item on your agenda would be….well, the obvious. With a glimmer of hope, you flounder out of your comforter, muttering every cuss word you’d learnt…and crafted in the course of working with the devil himself.

“Ah 3000 is a bit too much for cucumbers", he says to the middle aged vendor, flashing a boyish grin.

The face of sourcing has drastically changed in the last six months since Kyungsoo’s arrival. Prior to his dictatorship, Imo had tie-ups with vendors who’d hand deliver the produce every single day, without fail. Guess Kyungsoo didn’t fully comprehend the benefits of customer loyalty. ‘There could be better quality ingredients out there, Sajangnim…economically priced, I might add’, he’d convinced your aunt using his military corporal voice. No matter if it meant awkward break-ups with the vegetables ahjumma or the prawns ahjussi: you were left to do the dirty work.

And required to tag along for the routine 5 a.m sourcing runs. Every morning, he’d greet you with an accusatory ‘you killed my cat’ expression.

Groaning, you shift your weight from side to side. If only he’d quit flirting with every woman in the market and hurry up! The purchases have long exceeded the capacity of your humble cart. Flailing your numb arms awake, you urge him to speed up with a nudge of the knee but he glares at you like you’d asked him for a kidney.

Kyungsoo has a tendency to overbuy but never does he help with a single bag. ‘I don’t like to sweat’ is his excuse. Which is pretty ridiculous considering he spends over ten hours a day overseeing a scorching frying pan at the stall.

But you know better than to argue.

Because as much as you loathe every fibre of his existence, he terrifies you a little. The man possesses the duality of a psychopath. As fierce as he is in the Market, ruthlessly competitive even, he’s quite the sweet talker. Incredibly charming. And you can bet your life on the fact that every ahjumma - whether or not a rival - would take a bullet for him.

“Ahdeul-ah”, the woman coos at him, making your insides violently contort, “you know how tight the market is these days. But I’ll throw in some more only for you.”

The additional weight of three kilos on your right arm ends your sourcing run for the day.

***

“Chef”, huffing, you say to him on your way out, “I had a late night last night.”

“And I need to be privy to this little nugget of unwarranted information because?” He paces ahead of you at his usual lightning speed.

“No, I meant, could we stop”, panting you continue, “could we stop for a quick cup of coffee.”

Halting abruptly, he turns around to look you square in the eyes, “No.”

“Asshole!” You murmur under your breath.

“I heard that.”

Monday at Choi Yoonsun’s Kalguksu stall was busier than usual.

It went by in a daze amidst the cacophony of a sizzling girdle, clanging of pots and pans and Imo’s relentless vocalization inviting guests to the stall. Having served thousands of bowls of Kalguksu and Kimchi Mandu, you rely heavily on muscle memory to get you through a workday’s demands.

Despite its massive chaos and commotion, you quite enjoyed working in the Market.

Not being particularly skilled at much and having nearly flunked out of high school, cooking was the one thing that defined you. It was your safe harbour. You’d lost your father in an accident at the tender age of ten and your mother was forced to work long hours to put food on the table. So you honed your culinary skills, little by little, because you thought it vital for your own well-being as well as your mother’s.

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

At the end of yet another rewarding day, you leave a wet towel soaking in vinegar for Kyungsoo to clean the iron girdle and proceed to tend to the dirty dishes yourself.

“Yahh!” Imo calls out for Kyungsoo and you, thumping her hand on the table, gesturing for you to join her.

“Ahh! Imo, there’s a huge pile of dirty dishes!” You cry out in response, only to turn around to find that ass-kisser already at the table, schmoozing with your aunt. Hastily taking off your grubby apron, you wash your hands and wipe them clean with a rag cloth. Straightening your black shirt, flattening unruly flyaways, you rush toward the table but she’s already up and ready to leave, “We’ll have dinner together tonight. I want to have a word with both of you.”

“But -”

“Sajangnim”, Kyungsoo interrupts, wagging a finger in your direction, face scrunched up in mock concern, “this one’s had a late night last night -”

“Chef! So I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight. As if seeing you every day of every week wasn’t enough already!”

An overtly saccharine smile spreads across your face and his jaw hardens in response.

“Aish….you two…I’m leaving now”, shaking her head, she sighs, “see you both in two hours.”

Kimchi jjigae, Pajeon, Tteokbokki, Jajangmyeon, some leftover Bibimbap with sides galore from Hong Lim Banchan Stall. Imo clearly has something important on her mind.

But the vibe at the dinner table just doesn’t sit right with you.

The reason for that could be the bespectacled black hole of negativity that’s seated besides you in all black clothing but there’s something off about Imo.

She’s being a little too nice.

Fear gradually starts to settle in your bones. Is she finally closing down? Is this delectable fare an attempt at softening the blow? After all, she’d settled her husband’s debts over five years ago and her sons were doing well for themselves. Quite well, in fact. The elder one, Hyunwoo, is an investment banker and the younger one Hyunjin went to culinary school and is working as a chef at Four Seasons’ Chinese restaurant. It only makes sense for her to trade the Market’s gruelling ways for some much deserved peace and quiet.

“We’re closing down the stall”, she says coolly.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

“Imo -”

“Aegiya”, she rests her chin on her hand, face clouded over with serenity, “the Market’s given me everything. It’s given me a sense of independence…a sense of pride. It put my family back together. I used to think that I’m nothing without my husband and my sons…but the Market gave me an identity. I continued to work even after my husband’s passing not because I needed the money but because this is something that I’ve created and I’m mighty proud of what’s become of it today. My name is a brand in itself. And a decade ago I couldn’t have imagined this even in the wildest of my dreams.”

A million scenarios cascading through your head drown out Imo’s voice.

Would you now have to go back to Bucheon? Or invest in a stall of your own at the traditional Gwangjang that would never accept your big and bold ways with cooking? And to start from scratch? With a new recipe? Kalguksu with a twist, perhaps? But you had no insight into your aunt’s special broth. She’d never let you or even Kyungsoo for that matter whip up the hand-cut noodles. The two of you only ever helped with the ancillary tasks.

You soon come to the realization of not being the only one caught in the eye of the storm. Kyungsoo’s unwavering gaze is scarily fixated on the bowl of jajangmyeon before him. His miserable state gives you a fleeting sense of relief and it’s in that exact moment that he chooses to say something unpalatable.

“Sajangnim, you’ve worked too hard. It’s time for you to reap the fruits of your labour. We’ll be fine, you don’t have to worry about us.”

Of course he’ll be fine.

Nearly all food stall owners in Gwangjang have been vying for him ever since the day he set foot into Choi Yoonsun’s with his phlegmatic personality. Whereas you had nowhere to go. The world conveniently assumes Imo hired you only because you were her poor sister’s daughter who she sought to help financially. Not because you had what it took to be there and survive.

“Did I say I was ready to retire?” She laughs, eyeing Kyungsoo quizzically.

“Here’s the thing..I met up with a friend last month. She was looking for a buyer for her little family run restaurant in Gangnam. So I took out a loan, made her an offer”, balling her hands into fists she sighs, “put in the deposit…and the place is pretty much mine now!”

“IMO”, you yell, “you didn’t have to scare me with that long winded speech! God, you’re so dramatic!”

“Well, it is a big move. I’m not sure either of you are ready to take the leap. It requires a tonne of work and I may not be able to pay half of what you earned at the Market for at least two months until we open. It’ll take the restaurant two years or so to break even and only then will I be able to afford scaling your salaries. On the other hand, what I can do is, help you secure a job at the banchan stall since you love seasoned spinach so much and Kyungsoo even stands a chance at managing one of the Pakgane stalls!”

Pakgane is the mung bean pancake stall that had gotten so popular that the owner managed to branch out of Gwangjang. So even your beloved Imo believes that you’d make for a better “help” and Kyungsoo, a Manager.

Ugh!

“I’m coming with you”, you say firmly, “I’ve saved up a little and Eomma will gladly pitch in, if need be…”

At this point, you’d expected Kyungsoo to be ready with his luggage considering the little sycophant he is but his expression is stoic, eyes still glued to the jajangmyeon bowl, filling you with insane hope.

He was going to jump ship…finally!

“Chef…”, you couldn’t resist, “you don’t have to worry about us…I’m more than enough for Imo. You may…”

He shoots you an angry glare making you chew on your unsaid words. But wanting to rile him just a little more, you excuse yourself and bring out a bottle of ketchup. Squeezing it generously atop the stack of pajeon, you snicker maliciously.

Ketchup.

The tangy, unassuming condiment is the sole reason Kyungsoo abhors your very existence. But as this dinner marks the end of his torturous regime, you celebrate with ketchup - lots of it - right in front of his nasty eyes.

Steam swirls in different directions and at every twenty metres a contrastive redolence tickles your olfactory senses. Experiencing Gwangjang as a guest is clearly a far richer experience compared to the donkeywork involved in life as a vendor.

A proper send-off is essential lest Kyungsoo decides to stay, even if it means creating a huge dent in your pocket. You plan on giving him a final tour of the Market where you could both say your goodbyes while receiving a premium fuel of vitamins, minerals and carbs.

Lots of carbs.

“Let’s start with Pakgane”, says Kyungsoo, with a skewered sausage in one hand.

Wanting to start with nothing less than the best in order to create a lasting impression, you shake your head in response. This was supposed to be a farewell he’d never forget.

With every step, the aroma of scallops drizzled with butter and cheese grows stronger. You start your tour by ordering two portions of the delectable street food which sets you back considerably but you’re far too elated to care, even refusing Kyungsoo’s offer to pay as the woman sets the scallops ablaze with a blow torch.

“Do you know what this technique is called?” Kyungsoo gives a little nod in the direction of the flaming food.

A teachable moment. How does his own personality not wear him off?

You’d made a firm resolve to not let any of his condescension bog you down so with a sweet smile, you reply, “No, Chef. I do not.”

“Flambé, minus the alcohol. Do you know how they manage that?”

The ahjumma calls out for you and you nearly jump to collect the order, the slight upward curl of his lips coming into your peripheral vision.

***

The Market supposedly looks the same as it did fifty years ago and you quite enjoy eating your way through it. The tour makes your heart grapple with nostalgia even though your partner’s vibe is akin to a mug of insipid coffee.

Although you’d spent only a little over a year at Choi Yoonsun’s, the goodbyes were long and hard. Some of the vendors squeeze you and Kyungsoo in heart wrenching hugs, the others give you a little cash to help you through the transition and for some of the food, you pay only with smiles and thank yous.

After a gastronomic fiesta entailing tteokbokki, pajeon (minus the ketchup - you did it Kyungsoo’s way), sashimi, kimbap, different types of banchan, a thousand more teachable moments, the both of you end the day on a sweet note with hotteok.

The ahjussi wishes you both luck, making you choke back tears.

Your moist eyes don’t escape Kyungsoo’s attention.

“Are you…. Is the hotteok spicy? No, I mean it’s obviously not…erm”

The dam of your tears explodes.

You were going to miss this place. Even the less appealing aspects of it. You were going to miss the kimbap unnie who greeted you with a hug everyday, also the snooty mandu ahjumma who could hardly stand the sight of Choi Yoonsun’s crew. You were going to miss washing dishes in the winters with water that was supposed to be ice and the sweltering summers that had you sweating through every layer of clothing.

Hell, you were even going to miss Kyungsoo.

“No”, you sniffle, “No, no Chef, it’s nothing. Take care of yourself. As much as I’m glad that our fateful working relationship has met its rightful end, I truly, genuinely, wish you luck. And learn to smile a little more, yeah?”

“Are you dying?” Eyes glinting, mouth agape, he chuckles.

“What? NO! What? You’re leaving. What is wrong with you?”

“Who says I’m leaving?”

“You! You’re not coming with us to Gangnam!”

“Says who?”

“Your stupid face that looked like it was hit by a freight train when Imo broke the news last week!”

“I’m not leaving?” He draws his words out in a question.

“This is no time to joke, Chef. You are leaving!”

“Says who!”

“Your stu-”

“Stupid face? I wasn’t planning on leaving at all. I’ve even found myself a place close to the restaurant. Oh yeah, sorry for having misled you. It was really just - my stupid face.”

A month from Grand Opening

It’s not just about food.

Food only makes for a fifth of a restaurant’s success equation. Management and promotional skills are essential because a restaurant is, first and foremost, a business.

Mark Lee, the young consultant from PCY Associates had imparted this crucial business knowledge to your compact team of three aspiring restaurateurs in exchange for an egg sandwich and watermelon juice. The enthu-cutlet has been overseeing the legal set-up of your humble restaurant for a month now.

However, according to Mark, the crème de la crème of the success equation is customer service.

Customer service.

Here’s where the crusty Chef was supposed to take a backseat and you - a real people person, a socially adept charmer - were to sashay in and shine.

These ideas were a bit too much for that thick, globular skull of his so you tried to educate him with a practical example.

He’d added a rule to the first draft of the menu - a shared document for brainstorming purposes. It read ‘No ketchup for you.’ This rule (or insolence as you called it) went against your belief system as the restaurant’s to-be-anointed Manager (a girl can always hope). ‘Never say no to a customer’ being the foundation of customer service, you slashed the rule with a strikethrough.

But the next time you tried to log in, you found yourself locked out of the document.

“Chef, why can’t I find the draft menu anymore?”

He’s aggressively julienning leeks, pretending to not have heard you.

“CHEF!”

“What?” Finally, he looks up. The skin between his eyebrows pinched and his arm raised to level his brand new 1-piece chef’s knife (initials etched into the blade) with his profile.

“Why-why did you lock me out of the draft menu?”, you stammer, gaze trained on the cutting edge glistening with tears of The Leeks.

Kyungsoo’s been visibly getting jittery by the day as opening day approaches.

He deliberately places the knife to the side of the board and you take a gutsy step forward. He uses a cold, serial-killer voice to ask, “What makes you think that I locked you out?”

You lean over from the other side of the granite counter, face barely an inch from his, “Who else could’ve? Imo is technologically challenged.”

“Fine”, he sighs, “I locked you out.” His lips curl up in a menacing smirk, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Grinning, you stare right into his dark eyes and let out a shrill, high-pitched scream, “IMO!”

This throws him back a few steps and he’s rubbing and pulling at his right ear when Imo walks into the kitchen.

“Yah! Am I your babysitter? Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear about it. I am asking you”, she looks at you before spinning her head in Kyungsoo’s direction, “and you, to sort this amongst yourselves. For once!”

“But-but Imo!”, you protest.

“Aegiya, I really don’t want to ship you back to Bucheon.”

***

“Here’s your tax ID, liquor license… okay so this was a touch-and-go because the officer is transferring to another Department and the one that’s supposed to be coming in is a real piece of work….”

Mark Lee is here with the final set of documents.

Imo’s eyes are gleaming with excitement and sheer joy but she’s held a businesswoman-like composure. On the other hand, Kyungsoo looks very much like himself - like someone’s sucked the life out of him.

You bring Mark his usual egg sandwich and watermelon juice because there’s only so much your restaurant can offer at this point in time, feeling brutally overwhelmed with the volume of pending tasks until opening.

After practically inhaling his mini-meal, Mark dabs his mouth clean and says, “My work here is done. If you need anything you know where to find me. And good luck. Trust me, you’ll need it.”

Imo looks worriedly at Kyungsoo and then at Mark and at Kyungsoo again which prompts him to ask rather uncomfortably, “What do you mean ‘you’ll need it’?”

Mark’s dramatically long sigh is an indication of a sermon to follow. As he leans back into his chair, Imo and Kyungsoo instinctively cower like an invisible weight has been plopped onto their shoulders. The sight is beyond pathetic: they are like peasants before a feudal lord. It makes you want to smash the know-it-all smirk off of Mark’s face.

What comes after, though, isn’t a sermon but a sentence and a half that leaves the three of you shaken.

“The dining business here in Gangnam is hyper-competitive and most restaurants fold in six months. And if that sandwich is any indication…”

Kyungsoo valiantly advances to rescue your team out of the dark bubble of Mark Lee’s words with, “What’s wrong with the sandwich? She makes a perfectly good sandwich!”

What was supposed to be a compliment somehow sounds very wrong in your head, but before you could give him the death stare he leaps to damage control, “What I mean is, we all ate the very same sandwich for breakfast. I don’t usually dissect food for novices but the egg was perfectly cooked, mayonnaise was just the right amount and the seasoning was balanced, too. So I’m not sure what you’re trying to say. We’re serving perfectly good food here.”

“The thing is, this is something even my mother could make and dude, believe me, she’s terri…her culinary abilities are highly questionable. Also, do you think your friend would’ve sold you this place if it were thriving, Mrs. Choi? She’d inherited it from her grandfather and she sold it to you at a dirt cheap price because she was neck deep in debt. I’m sure you know, real estate here is three and a half times the country’s average. So not only do you have significant funds locked into a possibly deadweight property but also your plan clearly lacks vision. Gwangjang’s Choi Yoonsun can keep you afloat for four…maybe six months but Gangnam’s Choi Yoonsun has to create an identity for herself. Look around you, everyone’s serving good food”, Mark tilts his head in Kyungsoo’s direction, “Here, people eat with their eyes first. Now, I’m not saying family-run restaurants serving traditional cuisines don’t do well. A lot of them have been passed down for generations. What I’m saying is…..find your USP.”

Mark squints, looks into the distance, and pinches the air a lot during this damp squib speech of his.

So the menu isn’t very different from what Choi Yoonsun served in Gwangjang. Her USP has always been homestyle cooking with a twist. But that was the demand of a Market that upheld traditionalism and Gangnam, being precipitously everchanging, would be quite something to keep up with.

The weight of Mark’s words manifests on Kyungsoo’s shoulders. He lets out a sharp exhale and starts to clear the table, giving him plenty non-verbal cues to leave. You rush to help him out and meet his defeated form (crouched over the sink) in the kitchen.

The shuffling sound of your footsteps reaches his ears and he pivots to face you.

“We’ll be okay”, your voice is but a calm whisper prompting his creased forehead to slowly smoothen.

“We’ll be okay”, he forcefully echoes.

Grand Opening Day

A frisson of fear laced with excitement descends your spine.

Choi Yoonsun’s is enveloped in a pin drop silence save for the sound of Kyungsoo’s pacing. It’s grating on your nerves but Kyungsoo pacing is far better than Kyungsoo “going over the plan” for the umpteenth time.

The kitchen’s prepped for battle so you’re seated at the cash counter, cuddled close with Imo, placated by her soothing, motherly presence. The three of you are like ticking time bombs, ready to go off at any minute.

This, right here, is the perfect example of a pinch-me-it-doesn’t-feel-real moment. You allow yourself to feel the forces at play as your eyes take in every nook and cranny of the restaurant. The place is agreeably well lit and the ventilation hoods aren’t an eyesore either. The decor’s minimalistic with a sand and stone colour scheme and the floor’s been scrubbed spotless. Eight sturdy wooden tables, tactically placed, allow for movement and privacy yet the area has been optimally utilized.

Fifteen minutes for the ‘Open’ sign to light up.

Kyungsoo and you proceed to help each other out with crisp bright yellow aprons affixed with red name tags (handpicked by Imo, the aprons made you both look like dumpy chicks) and clear plastic masks and wish each other luck with curt nods.

***

Imo’s sons are the first to arrive with some friends in tow. They are served with Kyungsoo’s Yachae Twigim and Budae Jjigae, your Gyeran-mari and Kimchi Bokkeum-bap and of course, Imo’s famous Kalguksu and Kimchi Mandu. Makes you wonder if they’ve had enough of it but they seem to be greatly enjoying themselves. Some of Hyunjin’s friends from Four Seasons are here too, their mighty presence driving Kyungsoo to the edge.

But a few compliments from them are enough to soothe his nerves.

Among the flurry of patrons through the day were vendors and stall owners from Gwangjang along with their family and friends, Kyungsoo’s acquaintances who you knew nothing about and neither did you care enough to ask, Mark Lee with his very handsome boss Park Chanyeol also dropped by sometime around noon.

Your mother couldn’t make it to the opening. It stung a little but as usual, you sucked it up and went on with the highly stimulating day that anyway left you with very little time to mull over any unpleasantness.

***

By the end of it, you were pretty sure you’d wake up with blistered feet the next morning.

It’d been a splendid opening with sales tallying up to KRW 2500,000: nearly two and a half times the estimate. Imo breaks into a dance at the figure, even Kyungsoo lips stretch into a reluctant grin.

You intensely wish Mark Lee were here to witness this euphoric win.

Six months later

Mark Lee had been right.

Choi Yoonsun was miles from creating an identity in Gangnam. Regulars from Gwangjang could make it to the restaurant only twice or thrice a week, support from acquaintances had been gradually trickling, and some negative reviews floating around the internet about poor table turnover had also been driving potential guests away.

You tried to mitigate this by hiring part timers at minimum wage but for several reasons, none of them managed to stay: anti-social hours and Kyungsoo’s hostility being two of the key causes.

On your best days, the sales would total up to KRW 1500,000 and the weekday numbers had been dismal.

***

“Dooly-dooly!”

Your eyes light up at the familiarity of that voice. Mirroring its excitement, you run into the arms of its owner.

“Baekhyunnie!”

Kyungsoo peers over his glasses while scrubbing the iron girdle, studying the floppy haired, cheerful man with a wide grin plastered across his face that’s pranced into the kitchen at closing time.

Byun Baekhyun has been your best friend since time immemorial. Growing up in Bucheon, he’d been the only family you’d known besides your parents and Imo’s family. You weren’t even as close with Hyunwon and Hyunjin as you were with Baekhyun. Since work always kept your mother busy, his parents had practically been the ones to raise you and not once did they make you feel like an outsider.

“Yah! Quit calling me Dooly we’re not kids anymore! Have you eaten? Let me whip you up something real quick. Look at youuuu, when did you get this skinny! How long are -”

“Not to interrupt, but you’ve left the water running”, Kyungsoo drones, lazily pointing in the direction of the sink.

You clearly remember turning it off before darting to greet Baekhyun.

‘Sonofa-’ exasperated, you mouth to Baekhyun, whose eyebrows have shot up to his hairline out of vicarious embarrassment, before turning around to face Kyungsoo who seems to be scrubbing the iron girdle to gold. “Chef, you’re closer to the sink.”

“Reiterating. You’ve left the water running. If you wanna go on tittle-tattling, by all means….this wastage is on you.”

“Make yourself comfortable”, too exhausted to pick a fight, you whisper to Baekhyun, gesturing towards the closest table, “I’ll be with you soon.”

***

“It’s bad”, Imo sighs, burying her face in her hands.

11 P.M., two hours past closing time.

The sparse lighting in the restaurant is causing you an eyestrain to look at the scribblings on the register. Your neck and shoulder muscles are tense from all the chopping, stirring, and scrubbing: a slow day does not translate to an easy day. You notice that Kyungsoo is growing weary, too.

Or maybe discouraged.

You communicate with each other in evasive glances as if the restaurant not doing well is, somehow, on the two of you.

“Imo”, Baekhyun speaks first so as to allay the looming dread, “I’ve been reading the online reviews and those who’ve visited here have been raving about the food - especially the Kalguksu. They say you’ve brought the flavours of Gwangjang to Gangnam. There’s this one thing, though - ”

“Sajangnim”, Kyungsoo interrupts a zealous Baekhyun’s pitch, “I don’t think this is any of his business. We’ve been keeping track of reviews and such - ”

“Let the boy speak. He’s family.” She says softly, pressing her fingers to her temples, clearly clutching at straws now.

Kyungsoo clenches his jaw and nods in Baekhyun’s direction, indicating him to continue.

“There-there”, Baekhyun stutters, eyes fixed on Kyungsoo who’s vaguely fascinated with his cuticles, “are some complaints about slow service. Particularly between starters and mains.”

After an uncomfortably rich pause, Imo gently rests her hand atop Baekhyun’s “Baekhyunah, how long are you here for?”

“For as long as you need”, the apples of his cheeks rise as his eyes crinkle into a gleeful smile.

***

“Somebody is early. Also, the cart looks different…it’s..?”

Dressed in his usual black athleisure, round eyes framed with chunky glasses, Kyungsoo jogs lightly to match your out-of-character sprightly pace into the market.

“Bigger. I bought a new one.” You chirp, shooting him an out-of-character smile.

Even the dreary weather isn’t a buzzkill because today is supposed to be Baekhyun’s first day at work.

“How did you get Sajangnim to agree? She can be -”

“Miserly? Stingy? Close-fisted? Also, when will you stop calling her Sajangnim?”

“Just so that you can stop addressing me appropriately? Dream on. And I meant economical. Sajangnim is economical.”

“Chef, do you even listen? I bought it. With my own money. I figured since we’d need more ingredients now, we could use a bigger one.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?” Impervious to his smug tone, you step away to pick up a one kg bulk pack of dried shiitake mushrooms while he’s examining a small batch of zucchini.

“Because Baekhyun’s gonna be working with us now.”

“Temporarily. And we’re suddenly going to start doing better because of an inexperienced, unemployed -”

The wheels of the cart hit his ankle when you swivel it, making him wince in pain.

“Oops! Sorry.”

“You did that on purpose!” He chides.

Half-shrugging, you say nonchalantly, “Serves you right. Baekhyun may be inexperienced but he isn’t unemployed. If anything, he’s doing us a favour. He’s whimsical like that.”

“I know”, he states, forcefully taking control of the cart, “I know he isn’t unemployed. He owns a Hapkido training academy for elementary school children and is on a break these days. I looked him up. I, personally, wouldn’t have hired him if it were my restaurant but I’m sure Sajangnim -”

“Chef?” You stop dead in your tracks.

“What?”

“You’re on…” you wanted to say ‘social media’ but the words sounded almost blasphemous to be used in front of a very uptight Doh Kyungsoo: a man with absolutely no online presence.

“What is it?” His eyebrows knit together in annoyance.

“Nothing, let’s go.”

“You know what else is different today?” He says on your way out, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

“Hmm?”

“You. You’ve showered.” He chortles, thinking he’s being funny.

But with a hardened expression, you let him know that he’s crossed a line.

“Too far?”

“A tad.”

“Let’s get you some coffee.”

“No.” You smile inwardly, relishing his apologetic tone.

“No?”

“We have to pick up Baekhyun’s apron and nametag.”

At first you thought you were imagining this.

A group of high school girls frequenting Choi Yoonsun’s must obviously be because they want to get healthy, homely meals instead of the trash served at fast food chains or the uneconomical subsistence of instagrammable cafes. They’re obviously not here for the charming server with an athlete’s body and a boyish grin.

“He should wear respectable clothing”, says Kyungsoo, indicating at Baekhyun’s skinny jeans and fitted black tee, hiss sharper than the sizzle of minced garlic in butter.

“Why, I don’t think his cleavage is showing”, you retort, scooping out a serving of rice from the cooker.

“You have absolutely no shame”, he states matter-of-factly, stirring the soup pot.

“What? Is my cleavage showing, too?” You ask in mock-surprise, fixing your apron theatrically.

“Forget I said anything.”

The aroma of Kimchi Jjigae had you salivating and you couldn’t wait to taste it for seasoning. Kyungsoo’s cooking amply made up for his drab, lacklustre personality.

“Chef, lighten up. Any publicity is good publicity.”

“You sound like a tabloid journalist”, leaving the soup to simmer, he turns around to face you, “What’s wrong with your hair?”

“I got a haircut”, scrunching your face you respond suspiciously, the fact that he noticed it despite the hair cover makes your heart palpitate.

Taking the unwarranted attention away from your hair, you ask hastily, “You think they’re here for Baekhyun and not your food, right?”

“Ye-yes”, he stutters, looking away.

“These people wouldn’t be here time and again if it weren’t for the food, Chef. You should know that.”

Moving closer to him, you lightly dust flour off of his shoulders.

“How did you get flour on your shoulders?”

His ears go scarlet.

Imo comes into the kitchen while Kyungsoo and you are preparing for the day ahead. Baekhyun has gone down to Bucheon to oversee the affairs of his training academy.

“There’s this new officer who’s reviewing all liquor permits issued this year. Be careful and make sure to check all IDs twice. I’m taking the day off. Will you two be okay by yourselves?” She swooshes out of the kitchen, not bothering with your incoherent replies.

“Can’t believe they’ve ditched us on a Friday.” You grumble, soaking clams in fresh water.

“We’ll be fine.” Kyungsoo reassures you.

***

It had been quite the day and nearing closing time, your feet were going sore. Baekhyun taking on the toughest role in the restaurant made you greatly appreciate his efforts. While most guests are civil, he’s experienced his fair share of rowdy ones firsthand and his ability to deal with them is unparalleled. He’s never, ever let any matter escalate to a point of embarrassment and has demonstrated the maturity to overcome every crisis situation with a smile on his face.

The fact that he’s only temporarily here suddenly starts to wear you out.

Kyungsoo sticks a handwritten note on the steel holder which reads - Yangnyeom - 2. It’s only been a little over eight months since the restaurant’s been fully functional yet the holder’s worn out more because of use and less because of time.

“About time we advanced to kitchen order tickets, right? Saves Baekhyun…or either of us unnecessary excursions to the kitchen. Also, billing will be simpler that way.” You offer while straightening your apron and getting ingredients ready for Kyungsoo to prepare the sauce.

“Yeah, it does”, he seems really out of it as he’s getting chunks of juicy chicken ready for the fryer. He’s moving around the kitchen rather clumsily, nearly tipping over the bottle of corn syrup.

“Wah, Chef, are you alright? Would you like me to do this?”

Resting his back against the wall, he slowly sinks to the floor, face buried in hands. “Yes, please.”

While you’re preparing a sauce the recipe for which you know like the back of your hand, his instructions don’t cease. The only thing you’ve ever liked about working with this man is that contrary to Imo, he does not believe in micromanaging. But right now it feels like you’re in the kitchen with her and not with Kyungsoo.

The tension causes you to lower the chicken into the fryer hastily resulting in specks of flaming oil to splatter onto your arm.

He’s quick to rush to your aid with a cold towel.

“Yah, Chef, you’re making me nervous, what’s with all this nitpicking?” You almost yell at him as he’s gingerly dabbing the towel on the affected area.

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry. It’s just”, he pauses briefly, worrying at his lower lip, questioning eyes peering into yours, before helping you with the chicken - slightly more confident in his movements now, “whatever you do, don’t get out of the kitchen. Table number four, those guys there, are weird.”

“Weird, how?”

“Rowdy, mannerless and drunk. Really, really drunk. Steamrolled by the ‘Friday happy’.”

“Ah, Baekhyun’s well-versed with their kind. Don’t worry, just be polite. Are you sure you don’t want me to intervene?”

“Positive and whatever happens?”

“Stay put. Chef?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s only thirty minutes to closing. We can get through this, okay? And don’t accept further orders!”

***

Twenty minutes after, you’re aimlessly scrolling through your phone to take your mind off the stabbing pain in your lower abdomen. Simultaneously playing a little game of inventing the kind of content Kyungsoo would upload if he were a user on these sites only to be jolted with the realization as to how little you know about the man.

As the restaurant’s occupied with boisterous conversations and raucous laughter, you’re counting seconds to closing. Multiplying three hundred with every bracket of five on the clock.

The din comes to an abrupt halt when you hear a middle aged man bellow, “Yah, punk, do you have a death wish?!”

Gradually moving closer to the door, you try to get a view of the scene outside.

You see a polite but firm Kyungsoo bow before the man, “We can’t serve you any more alcohol, sorry, we’ll be closing now.”

The other two men along with the nasty vermin have long passed out. You quickly call for a cab, subconsciously grabbing a hold of Kyungsoo’s knife in the process.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO RIGHT NOW?” He thunders.

Kyungsoo recoils as the man grows louder by the second. “We cannot serve you anymore alcohol, sir.”

It happens in a flash.

So fast you almost feel like you’re astral projecting.

One moment, the man raises a hand to strike Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo swerves. You dash out of the kitchen with the knife in your hand. Face to face with the man, you scream until your lungs hurt, “GET OUT! I SAID GET OUT OF MY RESTAURANT!”

The vermin’s companions stir at the sound.

With frightened eyes they take in the scene as their drowsy brain is still trying to assess the situation for action. They soon pull the man by his shoulders while Kyungsoo’s tugging at your knife bearing arm that’s still raised in combat mode, simultaneously apologising to the rowdy guest.

Wagging his sausage like finger at the both of you he warns menacingly, “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Slapping the tab on their table, you proceed to threaten him, “Settle this and get - the fuck - out of my restaurant before I call the cops.”

Throwing a couple of bills on the table, he staggers out, grumbling, “You just wait”, still wagging his finger and reeking of stale alcohol.

It was only then that your grip on the knife eases as Kyungsoo carefully draws it out of your hand and you see, just like you, he’s shaking too.

“What just happened?” He’s the first to speak as you sit across the table from him, dark orbs glinting in the dim light, forehead beaded with sweat. His hands are tightly wound together as he places them on the table. One day without Baekhyun and Imo and Kyungsoo and you had messed up real bad. By the looks of it, neither of you were ready to accept this fact.

“We did exactly what we were supposed to do. Stop worrying!” You say more to yourself.

He’s not convinced.

“Chef, that man’s reaction wasn’t something that you could’ve preempted or….controlled in any way.” Finding yourself getting mildly annoyed, you try your best to lay the edge off of your voice. All you wanted was for him to be alright because, technically, none of this was his fault.

“Would you have allowed him to take a swing at you?”

“He was far too drunk for that”, he exhales heavily and you notice his stance relax before clamping up again, “but you-you came out with a knife!”

His tone isn’t accusatory. He’s simply baffled.

“Fight or flight…”

“It’s my knife.”

“I’ll be sure to hide the murder weapon.”

He nods slowly.

“Do you need some water? Tea? A hug?”

You half expect him to scowl or groan or whatever it is that he usually does but he seems to be actually evaluating his options.

“A beer?”

“Down for Chimaek?”

Stood up to go into the kitchen, you awkwardly, and very, very slowly put an arm around his shoulders and give him a tight squeeze.

***

This was your first time having fried chicken and beer in complete silence - a few minutes felt like hours with the incident still hovering over both of you.

“Chef, you know we haven’t murdered anyone right?”

“The restaurant feels like a scene of crime to me. Also, what did he mean by ‘you just wait’?”

“Eh. Empty threats. Testosterone poisoning. Do you think they’ll throw me into prison for threatening him with a knife?”

“You should be sent in for pilfering stock”, he says gesturing at the tray between you, taking a chunky bite of the chicken, “you were going to take this home, weren’t you? It’s good, by the way.”

“Ah, this makes me happy”, you lean back into your chair, smiling discreetly at Kyungsoo’s messy fingers and mouth.

“A compliment from me makes you happy?” His eyebrows shoot up as he takes a swig of beer.

“Testosterone poisoning”, you say pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I couldn’t care less what you think. I’m pretty confident in my skills.”

“As you should be. Then what ‘makes you happy’? The thought of going to prison?”

“Yes”, you lie, “you think I’ll have a prison bitch?”

“I think you’ll be the prison bitch.”

You open your mouth to protest but what escapes is a mortifying burp.

Uncomfortable silence.

Meeting his eyes, you purse your lips, feeling your face flame. He smiles at you and says, ‘wait for it’, before belching. Loudly. Sending you both into fits of laughter.

“What happened here last week?”

Kyungsoo and you are seated opposite Imo like criminals before a cop in an interrogation room. Baekhyun is holed up in the kitchen, cleaning. For the most part, he avoids conflicts like these where Imo’s red hot beam of anger could be misdirected at him.

She’s glaring at the responsible child, Kyungsoo, to break first but since it was your idea to keep the incident from her you start to explain. By the time you’re done she seems angrier, but not at the two of you. Only after a tiny lecture on how you should learn to be more tactful in such situations does she spell out her real concern.

Turns out the man the both of you had a scuffle with last week is the new officer’s brother-in-law. Now, the restaurant’s received a notice from the liquor permit’s office for an “inspection” in the coming week. Although aware that this situation isn’t either of your fault, Imo is far from pleased with this development.

“Fix this”, she orders and disappears into the kitchen.

There’s only one person who can help you out of this mess, but neither Kyungsoo nor you possess the emotional capacity to deal with him.

“He’s our only option”, you deadpan.

With a heavy sigh, Kyungsoo dials Mark Lee.

***

Mouth stuffed with egg sandwich, Mark Lee garbles, “What do you want from me? It’s an inspection so let them come and - inspect.”

Imo’s taken off for the day and it’s just you and Kyungsoo trying to sort out the mess you weren’t entirely responsible for.

“You said we could call you if we needed help with anything”, Kyungsoo reasons with Mark who’s now ogling at him as if he just got spoken to in an alien language.

“Yes, but I don’t see how I can be of help here?”

“Tell us anything you know about this new officer. Don’t leave anything out.” You’re nearly begging at this point and Mark Lee, as always, is reveling in your misery.

He relaxes in his seat, swirling the glass of watermelon juice, “You know you can’t buy your way out of this right? He’s an uptight bugger and you screwed up! Big time! All you had to do was give his brother-in-law a bottle of beer.”

“Oh, we’re sorry we didn’t have his family tree handy”, Kyungsoo rolls his eyes, “Besides, were just trying to abide by the rules - ”

The helplessness in Kyungsoo’s voice causes you to lose your cool at Mark. “Yah! Quit being cocky and just tell us everything you know!”

“Oh-oh feisty”, his mouth spreads into an annoying grin, “okay so he loves his wife, obviously, it’s why he’s doing this. Has an eleven year old daughter who is the apple of his eye. Erm, let’s see, he’s spent his teenage years in Japan and the country is all he’ll ever talk about. Piss him off and this inspection turns into a review and if things continue to spiral you’ll have your permit revoked. So be careful.” His eyes lock with yours making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“What are you planning to do with this information, anyway?”

“We don’t know just yet”, Kyungsoo starts clearing up the table, as usual, and Mark knows that his time is up.

“Dude”, he leans towards you, whisper-chortling, as Kyungsoo retires into the kitchen, “did you drive him out with a knife?”

Nodding, you grin gleefully.

“Fiery! You’re totally my boss’ type.”

***

“So what are we going to do?” Rubbing your eyes and stifling a yawn, you ask Kyungsoo.

While the world sleeps, the market is awake. Buzzing with a contagious energy. Although you hate having to wake up this early, the moment you step into this space, you’re completely taken by its vigour and gusto for life.

It’s nothing short of a celebration.

Chefs, big and small, passionately scour every nook and corner for the perfect herbs, veggies, and meats. You may not know each other closely or even by name but you feel part of a community - part of a family. True to character, you won’t ever stop whining about this routine with friends and family and occasionally with Kyungsoo, Baekhyun, and Imo but you know it in your heart of hearts, you wouldn’t skip sourcing for the world.

“So he’s spent his teenage years in Japan right?” Kyungsoo muses, lowering a crate of mudfish in the cart for today’s special, Chueotang.

“Let’s recreate his teenage years for him. Japanese dorm meals?”

Kyungsoo stops abruptly, “That’s a thought!”

“We can set the menu today after closing.”

“How about a coffee now?” He asks, averting your gaze as a slight smile forms on his lips.

On the morning of the inspection, Kyungsoo sneezed. Once. Twice. And on the third strike he was sent home by Imo because “this is not a good look”. Or forced out of the restaurant - depends on who you ask. He whined a little, even shed a few tears but Imo steeled herself and drew him out, anyway.

Although the menu is simple, the concept is layered and robust. The exercise is, after all, being undertaken merely to impress the officer in question. Well equipped for the inspection, the restaurant’s closed for the day.

This is nothing Baekhyun and you can’t manage but, obviously, Kyungsoo feels otherwise. He’s been calling to check in in intervals of five but seems like the medication’s finally kicked in and put him in a state of deep slumber. Good for him. And for you.

Two hours until showtime.

Under your close supervision, Baekhyun is labouring over the fairly straightforward stuff: tako sausages, potato and macaroni salad and egg sandwiches while you’ve kicked off the recipe for rolled omelettes.

Egg mixture aside, you start the rice cooker, leave green tea to boil for salmon ochazuke while the frying pan’s heating up for yaki udon.

***

Once you’d gotten all the dishes down, done exactly the way instructed by Kyungsoo: rolled omelettes, yaki udon, tako sausage, potato and macaroni salad, egg sandwiches and salmon ochazuke, it was time for you to take on the simplest but the most provoking dish on the menu.

Neko Manma. Or, cat rice.

“Ah, Dooly, shall I bring out the jar of bonito flakes?” Baekhyun prompts.

“The one Chef brought us this morning?”

He hums in response.

“I think we should use the store bought one instead.”

“But he’s worked on this recipe all week. You sure you wanna do that?”

“Positive.”

“He’ll flip out.”

“I’ll deal with it. We’re altering the recipe for Neko Manma, this ones too pretentious. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

“So, what do you want to do with it?” Baekhyun’s tone is wary and questioning.

“Rice, soy sauce, store bought bonito flakes and just a faint drizzle of butter. Nice and clean.” You respond confidently.

“Are you really sure?”

***

“Why are you here?” You hiss at Kyungsoo while Imo is outside, busy greeting the motley of high-headed officials, giving them a brief of the restaurant, herself, her team, and going over the licenses and documentation.

Face flushed, Kyungsoo’s lips are swollen and his eyes are runny, puffy, and bloodshot. He’s clearly in the need for some rest.

“To see if everything’s in order.” His voice is hoarse.

He starts to closely examine the entrees laid out, a smile of approval gracing his lips until he stops short of cat rice.

“These bonito flakes -”

“I didn’t use the fresh ones. I thought -”

“There’s no miso soup?”

“No, Chef, I reckoned -”

“No grilled fish? Are you being lazy?”

“Chef, no, I am not being lazy. The original recipe just didn’t feel right. So i changed it up a little -”

“Changed it up? That decision was not yours to make!”

“It’s just a side, it’s not going to matter so much!”

Absolutely livid, he runs a hand through his hair and laments. “If we weren’t this close to serving i would’ve dumped this into the bin because that’s where it belongs.”

“Chef, please”, your voice quivers, “let me explain! This was supposed to be the lightest dish on the menu. We ended up styling it with… overwhelming ingredients, so I -”

“I’m utterly confused! What on earth led you to believe you’re qualified enough to teach me? I’ve trained at a diner in Tokyo for two whole years. I know exactly what I’m doing here!”

Eyes brimming with tears, you glance over and Baekhyun who has ‘I told you so’ written all over his face.

"Kyungsooyah? When did you come in? What’s going on here?”

Imo’s bewilderment cuts through the tension.

“Sajangnim, I was feeling slightly better so I thought of dropping by to wish you luck."

Courtesying, he quickly dashes out through the back door.

***

The inspection has been revoked. Unofficially, atleast. The restaurant is to receive a written order in a week’s time.

The officer was impressed to the extent of apologising for his brother-in-law’s behaviour. He even lauded Imo on teaching her staff to stick to the establishment’s principles which made you wonder if he was fully aware of the facts of the case: knife and all.

He also mentioned how, as a student, he’d eat a bowl of Neko Manma before every exam because at the time, to him, anything else was unpalatable.

And that, this was what he considered to be the perfect recipe.

You go through the rest of the day as if sleepwalking. How stupid could you have been believe you were “on good terms” with Kyungsoo or that this was an equal and productive partnership. The fact remained that he still thought of you as someone frivolous: some air-headed moron who has no idea what she’s doing.

Someone beneath him.

You made an effort to appreciate this victory but the day had only left you with a bitter taste. Your mother had been right. You’ve always been too soft. Too trusting. Letting people in too easily and allowing them to walk all over you.

Now, Kyungsoo’s always been like this: controlling, stubborn, absolutely thorough. He never deviates from his well laid out plans. But today was different. Today, you expected something out of him. You expected him to trust you. You expected him to understand your reasoning, to give you a chance. To comprehend the fact that you could have a mind of your own and that not everything has to be exactly by the book.

You loathe yourself for expecting this out of him.

Sailing rough seas together doesn’t bloom friendships. You were stupid to think of him as a friend while, in all these months, his opinion of you had remained the same.

Contrary to the Gwangjang days, you’d long stopped wishing him gone. In some farthest corner of your heart you were even grateful that he chose to say.

You’ve been so stupid.

Two months later

The kitchen has been fervent but hushed.

After all this time, Baekhyun, Kyungsoo and you seem to have found a rhythm. You don’t need to verbally communicate to get through a workday.

But, you used to.

Sometimes unnecessarily even. Kyungsoo and you hardly saw eye to eye on most things but there would be some semblance of friendly workplace banter. He’d say a little something about a perfectly done piece of meat or a well seasoned soup. Baekhyun would take wickedly funny pot shots at some of the customers (to the utmost horror of Imo). Imo would sporadically push morsels of whatever was being prepared into your mouths.

Baekhyun receiving feedback in the form of grunts has shut him up altogether. And the busyness of the restaurant has seemed to have blinkered Imo into not being able to perceive the tension between Kyungsoo and you.

It’s a dance to no music.

Furtive glances. Measured smiles. Curt nods. Exceptional dishes. Decent earnings.

That’s it.

Maybe that’s how it should’ve always been.

“Ready to go?” Baekhyun asks, dressed in a well fitted black shirt and slacks.

You’re mopping the floor. Clearly not ready to go.

When you make this known with a sharp glare, Baekhyun giggles.

Nothing good can come out of that impish smile of his. But before you can sink your claws into him and drag him back, he’s already chatting up Kyungsoo who’s fixing the chairs.

“Kyungsoo, you coming?” He says a little too loudly and you groan. But you know Kyungsoo all too well. He’s one to decline offers involving socialising with you (unless of course, the offer is put forth by his dearest Sajangnim).

’You can do better than that’, you mouth to Baekhyun.

Incurious about Kyungsoo’s answer, you’re fully prepared to chomp Baekhyun’s ear off for inviting him.

“Sure”, Kyungsoo says plainly.

Sure?

Without taking the where-what-why route like normal people do? Just..sure?

“Great! We’re going out for drinks since it’s Dooly’s birthday today.”

“Oh. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. But, Chef, you can’t come. I don’t want you there. I’m sor-”

Swallowing the apology crackling at the tip of your tongue, you dash into the kitchen, your periphery catching his lowered gaze and tight smile.

Regularising the erratic thrumming of your heart with deep breaths, you shove the mop into the storage area, take off your apron and throw it in the laundry bag (which you were to deal with the next morning), straighten your outfit, fix your hair, dab some rosy tint onto your lips, throw your tote bag over your shoulder, run back out, grab Baekhyun by purposefully lodging your nails into his arms, and take off.

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13atoms · 3 years

Text

Close Protection (Davos x F!Reader)

Chapter 1: An Introduction

Bodyguard AU, post-S2. Davos finds his way out of prison, and straight into trouble. Fortunately he meets a woman who's in even more trouble.

___________________________________________________

The rain hammered down on New York, making the scent of garbage and concrete and people stew in the air, a cocktail of misery which made Davos’ chest ache for the open air and biting cold of K’un-Lun. Life in the mountains had been difficult, survival more challenging at altitude, at the whims of the climate, but at least it had been fucking simple.

Behind him yet another Kung Fu kwoon had slammed their doors closed at the sight of him. He could teach their students discipline, mastery of the craft he had dedicated his entire life to, and instead he had been shunned. Turned away. Davos had expected to shed a few surly words, perhaps give a mild demonstration of the martial arts he had learned as a child, and an easy ticket to his own kung fu studio would be available shortly thereafter.

In the half-dozen establishments he had visited, none of these weak imitations of Shifus had given him a chance to speak.

This watered down version of his entire livelihood, taught to children after school and bored, middle-aged office managers, was an insult. More insulting, he was not even deemed worthy to teach it.

Davos growled with irritation at himself as the rain made him shiver, his body betraying him in its coldness. His hair had grown out in prison, for the months he had been left to rot before his charges were abruptly dropped, and beads of the grimy American rain clung to his dark hair. He ran his hands over his face, wincing at their softness after months without even a spar, ruffling the shaggy mess which had taken root on top of his head.

The beard, too, was irritating. He hadn’t had the chance to shave. A shaggy moustache brushed his top lip and nose, making him look as bedraggled as Danny as he wandered the streets aimlessly.

His cheap rubber shoes slapped against the sidewalk, making smashed glass skid and trash crinkle with each step. Car headlights cast unnatural white-light, skimming across the puddles of the road, their drivers taking it in turns to cut one another off and create meaningless traffic as Davos trudged past them.

He scowled at a taxi driver, the irate man yelling at someone in a black car who had blocked an intersection, spitting with anger as his words were lost to the chaos of the city before they reached their intended recipient. Was this all these people did? All that was beyond K’un-Lun?

In cities across the world, was this man’s meaningless argument being replicated and replayed, night after night? It was enough to make a man give up.

He stared down at the cracked screen of his smartphone, barely functional with a soaked screen, trying to find the next dojo he was looking for. Perhaps they might offer him lodgings, if not work. Surely someonepracticing Kung Fu in this city had a sense of honour.

As he approached the cheaply printed banner outside the building he saw the lights switch off, the heavy doors already firmly closed. Bastards.

Davos stood for a moment, silent, trying to listen for voices inside. Another taxi driver was screaming at a drunken boy for throwing up in his car. A rat skittered across the pavement, searching for its next bin to scavenge through. There was no activity in the dojo.

With a groan of frustration, a kick at the door just substantial enough to bask in the pain of the collision, Davos turned back to the unforgiving city.

New York’s skyline was not high-rises here, none of the grandeur of the city centre which Joy had so nonchalantly enjoyed. This version of the city consisted of three-story buildings and fluorescent signs, shabby facades to concrete buildings which hid a multitude of sins.

A multitude so great that Davos had decided he no longer cared. He slumped on to the curb, his soaked feet perched at the edge of a river of disgusting water which rushed down the tarmac. It was unhygienic, it was uncomfortable, and Davos no longer cared. The slab of cast-concrete curb he sat on was loose, one more piece of this hodgepodge city which was falling into disrepair, wobbling as he shifted his weight on it.

Overhead a helicopter was circling. It seemed to happen endlessly, in this city, always one chase afoot. A huge rat run, filled with eyes and yet powerless to stop the proliferation of vermin throughout the streets.

A stray cat roamed past him, fur plastered to itself and revealing a bony skinniness after years of struggling to survive, a dead rodent in its mouth. The feral creature looked up at Davos lazily, unfearingly.

It walked right past him, on its merry way. He wasn’t even a threat.

The crack of your knees against the cheap plywood floor was barely more than a whisper, but you winced at the noise, hoping the honks of irritated taxi drivers and the shouts of pedestrians outside would conceal the indiscretion of your body. You contorted your torso down, out of sight, feet braced and ready to run if you had to.

You cursed yourself for being barefoot. For being unarmed. For choosing such an obvious place to hide. Scrambling out of bed in the wee hours of the morning had left you a little disoriented, and you forced yourself to blink sleep away, tensing your body against the threat in your house.

A heavy footstep crossed the threshold, distinct and deliberate as the hunter got closer and closer to your hiding spot. The living room was a small space, the kitchenette an even smaller corner of it, and the man coming after you looked big. His shadow was fuzzy from the low lighting as he took another taunting step, daring you to move. You stayed as still as you could manage, fingers reaching for the lip beneath your cabinets. Crouching behind the counter, reaching blindly, you muffled a breath of satisfaction as you found a knife concealed beneath the kitchen island.

The handle of it was dismally small, the blade barely any bigger and not even fixed, but it was something. With the steel in your hands, you felt a little bit stronger.

The intruder was rounding the counter deliberately. You felt sure he knew you were there, with nowhere else to hide in this damn place. You had the same training, and you knew he was toying with you. Trying to flush you out.

You unflipped the blade, and waited.

“If you come out now, we can get takeout on the way to prison,” he sing-songed, and you forced yourself not to laugh at the taunt.

You had always liked Agent Byrne, all things considered. He was a little heavy-handed, but he got the job done. But you would certainly never see a prison, if he was the one sent to capture you. You could picture the butt of handgun cradled in his non-shooting hand now, dwarfed by the giant of a man, as he braced to get a clear shot of you.

It was his distinctive move. He liked to fire a single bullet. Usually through the forehead.

It was merciful, in his strange way. He had always liked to take the shot himself, overruling his partner, and for good reason. He was one of the finest assassins the Firm had. Regardless, it would almost be embarrassing, to be taken out on the floor of your own kitchen, armed with only a knife.

An assassin of that skill deserved a much better fight.

As the scuffed nose of his sneaker edged around the kitchen island, you knew you had to give him a hard time. Clutching the knife in one fist, you drove it clean through his foot, leaving the blade there was Bryce screamed in pain and anger. You were out the door before he had time to draw his weapon, ducking as a bullet perforated the drywall above your head.

“Sorry!” you called behind you, another bullet rocketing dangerously close to your arm as you grabbed your go-bag from beside the front door.

Then you paused, hearing your name bellowed by the man as his limping footsteps approached the front door. You felt a little bad for him, wincing at the memory of your own injuries.

Still, it was part of the job. And one of the reasons you had been so desperate to leave.

He screamed your name again, colourful threats and curses spewed after you. You winced at the harsh insults, taking a second to cut the building’s intercom wires and close the door for good measure. Another bullet punctured the door as your keys left the lock, and you bolted.

Without an elevator, the fastest way to street level was the stairs.

You thundered down them, uncaring if your neighbours were woken up at this ridiculously early hour. The city itself could be louder, and the gunshots would have tipped them off that something was wrong. It didn’t matter if you were heard, you had to leave. Fast.

You heard the slam of a door upstairs, one heavy footfall followed by a lighter one, screams of your name. Your heart pounded, grab-bag thumping against your back, as you took the steps faster still. Agent Bryce was limping as he followed you, but he was certainly giving chase. Your gaze was fixed on the ground, one hand ghosting the railings, as you descended stairwell after stairwell, sticking to the outer perimeter where Byrne couldn’t get a clear shot at you.

He was following, slowed down the by agonising wound to his foot, and raging with anger at the escape of a bounty.

Perhaps he had thought you would go down easily, that you wouldn’t be waiting for him. No one left the Agency. You knew it. You had sprung out of your bed when he had snuck into your apartment with a gun in his hand, perhaps hoping if he creeped enough you wouldn’t hear him.

No. You had heard him coming, sensors on the stairs tripping and the man’s heavy tread unable to be disguised even by tiptoeing.

His feet were louder now, slapping against the stairwell, echoing alongside his roars. The whole damn place stank of piss as you inhaled raggedly, lungs heaving as you reached the final stairwell and took it two stairs at a time.

You had no idea what you would do once you were at street level. You couldn’t go to the police. You certainly couldn’t go to your new employer, not at this hour, and not with an assassin on your tail.

When you burst out onto the open street you cursed at the heavy rain, instantly drenching you, ruining your visibility as you looked around wildly for somewhere, anywhere to hide.

Unarmed and unskilled in fighting, you knew you couldn’t take on Bryce. The man was a mountain of muscle, wielding a pistol with enough bullets left to take you out half-a-dozen different ways, faster and stronger than you.

Though perhaps not smarter.

A taxi driver was idling outside the building, and you moved to wrench the back door open, ignoring the driver’s shouts of irritation through a puff of cigarette smoke. You threw yourself into seats, ducking down to hide, ignoring the irritated glare the driver gave you.

“Please, drive. Get me away from here,” you panted, glancing back nervously at the building. The man scoffed, glaring at you in the rearview mirror.

“I’m waiting on a job, lady. Get out.”

“No! Please, it’s dangerous, you don’t understand,” you begged, but you could already see the driver’s uncaring stare, rejection in the premature wrinkles lining his face.

“Out.”

When you ducked down, staring once again at the doors of your apartment building, he sighed. Climbing bodily out the car, leaving his lit cigarette smouldering on the dashboard’s ashtray, the driver opened the taxi door. He attempted to haul you out of the vehicle, and even in your terrified state you were forced to comply. What else could you do?

Out on the cold road again, you stared wide-eyed as the taxi driver slammed his door shut, moving the car up the block and away from you.

As you stood in the middle of the street, dismay sinking agonisingly into your stomach, you found your feet frozen to the ground. The front doors of the building finally slammed open, a sickening grimace spreading across Bryce’s face.

His roars of anger had been terrifying, but that silent smile sent a chill through you like nothing else.

“You’ll pay for this, you bitch.”

He lifted his injured foot, blood seeping through his sneaker and glinting in the streetlight as it mixed with the oily water on the road’s surface. Then, he lifted his gun. Sirens were blaring in the distance, but you knew the cops would be too late. You would be bleeding out on the road, your blood joining the city’s bilge, and Bryce would get a pat on the back for a termination well done.

You hated your voice, your shaking, as you started to beg.

“Please! I’m sorry! I did nothing wrong I… if you knew what they were doing. All the fucked up shit I saw in those files, they’re not the good guys! The Firm… they’re –”

At the mention of your ex-employer’s name, a gunshot ricochet through the night, skidding off the road.

It was a warning shot. Agent Bryce would never miss otherwise.

Your head ached, pre-emptively, at the thought of the bullet which would smash through your skull and separate the tissue in your frontal lobe as soon as the assassin stopped having his fun.

“Shut up, you traitor bitch,” he growled, and it gave you some measure of satisfaction to see the pumice red crawling up his face, the shaking and the frustration building in him “I know what you did!”

He spat as he yelled, his voice echoing around the streets even louder than the pounding of the rain and the whine of distant cars. You noticed the taxi which had kicked you out creep around the corner, and tried to push down a sense of irritation at the man’s cowardice.

You turned back to Bryce, wondering how to stall for time. And if stalling for time would even help. The sirens seemed to have gotten further away – maybe your neighbours hadn’t even bothered to call the cops.

“I did what was right!”

Your voice shook, body trembling in the rain, grab-bag limp on your back as the barrel of the Agent’s handgun stared you down from the sidewalk. You tried not to jolt at the whisper of movement behind you, unable to break Bryce’s stare. To give him the window of non-judgement he could use to kill you.

This was good. You knew that Agents should never get personally involved. Should never let emotion cloud their operations. Clearly, he felt very emotional about this particular job.

“You have no idea what’s right, you disloyal –”

Your jaw dropped, the gun clattered to the ground, and Bryce crumpled.

Behind him stood a soaked man, significantly smaller than Bryce, a concrete slab in his hands. You stared wide-eyed at the attacker, watching as he crouched smoothly to inspect his victim, sprawled unnaturally on the ground. The gunman’s head was split open, and you didn’t need to get any closer to realise that he was dead.

“You…” your voice came out strained as you looked at the man who had saved you, the piece of concrete curb he had wielded smashing as it dropped to the ground.

Both of you seemed as surprised as each other, your jaw hanging open while the stranger’s was clenched painfully tight.

“You needed help,” he offered, stunned.

You nodded.

“Thank you.”

The pair of you startled, your standoff interrupted, as wailing sirens seemed to get closer.

“We should go,” you declared, watching as the stranger nodded his head firmly, glancing at the entrance to the street.

You took off, bare feet protesting against roughness of the ground, surprised to hear the slap of rubber on tarmac as the stranger followed you.

“Where to?” he asked, wide-eyed as he took one last glance as Bryce, bleeding out in the taxi lane.

“Not sure,” you admitted, “away from here.”

In truth, you hadn’t expected your sudden accomplice to stick around. He kept up, following you as you avoided glass and obstacles on the ground, mere inches from your side.

“That works for me.”

__________________________________________-

A/N: This is due to be chapter 1 of 8. The fic is still being written, so let me know what you think! I'm hoping to get a chapter out every few days, as I write them.

This one requires a little cheesy-trope-tolerance, but it'll be worth it.

#davos x reader #iron fist #fic #close protection #that name is a WIP let me know if you think of any other ideas #13atoms

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solomonish · 4 years

Text

Dating Solomon Headcanons

sometimes (all the time) i think about the sorcerer

Also! I'm still working on my characterization of him so I might change all of this if it doesn't feel right. Please tell me what you think so I can improve!

Solomon

Before the two of you started dating, he managed to stick to your side as often as possible. It never seemed like there were ulterior motives - as the two human exchange students, you naturally sought each other out to share your experiences (or, on occasion, you just needed to seek someone out who understood the specific human brand of humor you had).

Even if demons didn’t always share your humor, there was the ever-present trend of a few daring ones spotting the two of you together and cooing something about lovebirds in mockery.

Solomon normally ignored them, but when he wanted to get a rise out of them (or you) he’d sling an arm around your waist and beam. Most demons just let their faces fall as their fun was ruined and walked away.

Once you do start dating, though, he either ignores them or purposely exaggerates his gags.

“Me? Date them? I’m not so desperate, how could you mistake me as such?”

He’ll stop if it starts to bother you, but that doesn’t mean he won’t replace it with something more annoying.

As friends, you’ll act all lovey-dovey, but dating you’ll be (even more) at each other’s throats

Solomon is all tricks and show, so dating him will sometimes feel like a performance art. Not necessarily in a shallow way - just sometimes, you notice the glimmering curtains he puts up for fun and scramble to get in on his act.

One thing Solomon really likes to do is subtly match outfits, especially if you’re out to something nice. Put on a nice dress/dress shirt and he’ll be asking for what color his own shirt (or tie, or something) should be. He won’t tell you that he likes looking like the two of you are a set.

He is neither big on nor against PDA. He’ll go along with anything you initiate and if he feels like he wants a quick kiss he’ll take one, but don’t expect anything hot and heavy in the RAD halls.

(Unless, of course, you let him usher you into an unused classroom. But more salacious instances don’t normally happen without provocation, and he would never actually let anyone actually walk in and see you in such a state.)

However, if you don't wait for him before following the masses of demons to the doors after your classes are over, you can expect him to find his spot beside you and slip his hand in yours before you leave the school grounds.

He does that lot: appear out of nowhere and grab your hand, or elbow you gently so you can hold his arm. Solomon won't say anything, but the more natural it becomes the happier it makes him. Its almost like you mold into each other, like it was meant to be...or so you said one time before he pestered you endlessly about it. You may never know the thought loves rent-free in his head

Doesn't really believe in conventional dates. If there's a place you want to go then he's down for an outing, but wine-and-dining doesn't open the door for romance the way a formal "date" should for him.

How to tell what he considers your excursions together:

"Didn't you want to ___?" = not a date, but he won't refuse any kisses or happy endings you might plan along the way.

"Would you be willing to ___?" = not a date, he needs help with a spell. You can get yourself a reward out of it easily (though he'll bemoan the absence of generosity in your soul and comment on your roommates and their influence over you multiple times)

"Can I show you something?" = probably a date, especially if he starts the conversation like this. You know you've got him pinned if he's standing before you thoughtfully, holding his chin and blushing as he averted his gaze.

Most dates involve magic - he can't hold back the urge to impress you, even if on the outside he'll scoff at the thought.

Has definitely tried to cook for you twice and only twice. The first time was a joke - he wanted to see how far you'd go to spare his feelings and was impressed at just how much you ate of his charred and ruined meal

The other time was a genuine attempt, and that's when he asked you to teach him how to cook

He will invite you over all the time to practice cooking and each time you can see Simeon glancing at the two of you from the corner of his eye

Solomon will definitely cheese it up here, asking if you could "guide his hands" or coming up behind you and resting his chin on your head while you cook

Because let's be real, you end up doing the bulk of the work here anyway

Solomon doesn't say "I love you" easily or often - and he would honestly prefer if you didn't need to hear it that often

He acts casual, acting so well its hard to remember he's lived and loved and lost for countless lifetimes. There are walls he isn't sure how to topple, so he just decides they must stay.

Solomon will definitely make sure you know you're important to him, that you hold a special place in his heart, but he shies at the idea of love

At first it manifests in offerings of peace, hoping to make your life easier: he's got a spell for anything and everything, all you need to do is ask

He'll transition into softening just slightly, a more tender expression on his face or his laughter lighter than it used to be. (Only for you, you notice.)

You'll realize the extent of his love not when he's melted into a puddle at your feet, but when he holds you as an equal in every regard

No longer will he coddle you: he'll offer to teach you anything you may want or need to know to face the troubles the Devildom has to throw at you

Perhaps most notable is the fact that he stops seeing you as a vessel for his entertainment: you still amuse him, sure, and he is intrigued by you every day, but those start to take shape as pros of knowing you rather than the purpose you serve him

Its a subtle shift, sure but when you realize that all of a sudden his words and caresses feel like they mean more, it makes you ridiculously giddy.

When he finally does say "I love you," he's breathless - he probably just barely got you both out of dire situations his latest magical excursion brought, escaping some rabid mythical beast with a quick spell after what felt like hours of running.

He looks over to you, just as breathless as you run your hands through your hair. Your eyes are wide and wild, and when you look at him he can still practically see exhilaration swirling in your bloodstream

He doesn't mean to say it but he doesn't mean not to - it just slips out because an adventure like this would normally leave him frustrated and sore, but all he sees with you in the picture is fun.

Solomon doesn't miss the way your eyes soften and your grin grows, and that alone hits him so hard he realizes he'd say it a million times over just to keep you this happy.

He doesn't do that, though - but every now and then you can feel the ghost of his breath on your ear and his warmth radiate to you the whisper of those three words forcing your face to blush

Sometimes he does this without actually saying "I love you," and it always makes you flustered. When he pulls away from you, though, his eyes are so happy you're fine to leave them unspoken

This time.

#solomon #swd solomon #obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me imagines #obey me #om solomon #solomon fluff #solomon hcs #my fics #solomon writing #satan writing #mine

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 4 years

Text

Summer Nights: Part 3

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Charlie Weasley x Overweight/Plus size Female identifying Reader

Series: Summer Nights

Warning: Fred’s death, the series will mention issues such as guilt, grief, etc. + Chapter specific warnings: guilt, self-blaming, trauma, scenes of magical healing, mentions of past childhood fatphobia/body shaming

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff (formerly imaginesofeveryfandom) aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Summary/Request: You’d always had brief glimpses of Charlie Weasley throughout your life, but despite your closeness with the rest of the Weasley family and your friendship with the Weasley Twins, you had never officially met. Until Charlie Weasley decided to take the summer off from his work as a Dragon Keeper at the Romanian Reserve and come back home, to the Burrow, that is.

Notes: Gif is my own, using my art of Charlie Weasley which you can find on my art blog @artisticwarnug here. If you use please make sure you credit me and my art blog properly, that the ownership is clear as it is my own art and I would hate for it to be unclear that I made it <3 x

Prologue / Part 1 / Part 2

Dinner that night was a riotous affair. You, six Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione all crammed in around a table, reaching for the amazing food that Mrs Weasley always made. Shoulders bumped against each other, the volume reaching extraordinary heights, but as you sat there you couldn’t help but smile. This felt right. Being around all these people. So welcome. Watching the way Ginny looked up to Charlie and the way Ron and Harry joke around, while Hermione rolled her eyes at George. You’d often felt alone since Fred’s death, a distance seemed to exist in your mind between yourself and the Weasley’s, a gnawing guilt. While you lived with them there were very few moments like this, one’s where you felt like yourself again.

As you look around the table with a smile, your eyes catch Charlie’s. A soft, small smile, shy, lifts at the corner of your mouth and you're delighted to say that Charlie smiles more with his eyes than anything else.

When you go to bed that night you think perhaps it will be a night in which you will fall asleep easily, in which the memories won’t haunt you, in which the guilt that settles like a stone in your stomach will ease...that is a foolish belief you realise rather quickly. Your head rests against your pillow as you stare at the ceiling.

You toss and you turn, twisting this way and that. You lie on your side for a moment, arm curled beneath your pillow, before flipping onto your back and then your front before going back to your back. You try sleeping with your head at the other end of the bed, maybe you’ll trick your brain that way. It doesn’t work. You try every trick possible, but you just can’t sleep. The frustration is clouded by other thoughts, intrusive ones, the ones you try not to dwell on because you can’t change the past and you can’t bring him back. You don’t have that kind of power, although sometimes you wished you had a time turner, you might go mad, but maybe, in the process you could bring one of your best friend’s back. Maybe you wouldn’t fail him this time.

You lie there trying desperately to calm your mind, to silence your thoughts, to sleep, for what seems like hours. In truth it can’t have been more than an hour before you decide to just forgo all the tossing and turning and potter downstairs to make a warm cup of something and maybe nab a biscuit or two.

The Burrow is eerily quiet at this time of night, the lights are out, the stairs creak as you pad down them, and a chill has you grabbing the knitted throw blanket from the living room on your way to the kitchen. There was never a shortage of blankets at the Burrow. Something you could thank Mrs Weasley endlessly for.

You wrap yourself up as tightly as possible, the blanket a soothing weight across your shoulders, before putting the kettle on the stove. Despite magic being at your disposal, you always preferred to make hot drinks whether coffee, tea, hot chocolate or otherwise, the muggle way. Working with your hands, going through the motions of creating something whether food, drink, art or something else entirely, helped you calm down more often than not. You suppose it was very Hufflepuff of you, doing things the muggle way, doing things the homely way.

You look up before he’s even at the entrance to the kitchen, you hear the footsteps softly pad down the stairs, the creek of an old floorboard, the quiet shuffling of clothes and a soft sigh of frustration. You didn’t know who you’d expected, Charlie, wasn’t it though. Perhaps Ginny or maybe Ron or even Mrs Weasley.

The tattooed dragon that had previously been on his neck had moved, as magical tattoos are want to do. It was now laying across the other side of his neck, nearer to his shoulder, barely peeking from his sleep shirt, sleepy and annoyed looking. You wondered if it wanted to sleep but couldn’t because of Charlie’s alertness. You’d never given much thought to wizarding tattoos, but you suppose they must have some sort of personality or thought process or....something. Why else would they move? You supposed that they might work like wizarding portraits, perhaps the dragon had been a real one, its likeness etched into his skin.

His hair is out from the tie it had been in during the day, loose around his face and a sort of bird's nest that screamed ‘i’ve been tossing and turning for a while now’. During the day he’d looked so confident, put together, like everything was okay, but here, in the dark of the kitchen, with only a few little lights to provide a warm glow, he looked haggard. He looked how you felt.

“Would you like something to drink?” You keep your voice soft. Partly knowing that the walls in the Burrow were thin, not wanting to wake the others, and partly because it didn’t seem right to speak loudly or even speak at your normal volume right now.

He pauses for a moment, taking in the kettle on the stove that’s begun to whistle quietly, thanks to a well placed muffling charm, the blanket across your shoulders, the bags underneath your eyes. He blinks before nodding his head towards you in confirmation, a small upturn at the corner of his mouth, a polite smile not more and not less. It cannot compete with his earlier bright smile during the day.

“Tea, please, love.” You grab a tea bag and another mug, making both your own preferred hot drink and his mug of tea. Only stopping to ask if he had sugar in his tea, for him to respond with 3, and you to not comment further despite knowing his mother would probably exclaim that 3 was 2 too many.

You carefully hand him the mug, not wanting to spill a drop, fingers brushing against his. You note his hands are rougher than most wizards, years of hard work will do that. Most wizards and witches have soft hands, skin that only ever touched a wand. The Weasleys are some of the few you knew who relished in hard work and manual labour, some things magic helped with like chopping vegetables, but other things like collecting eggs or planting fruit in the garden seemed to them more suited to their hands. Like you they seemed to enjoy the calming nature of going through the steps, of grounding yourself with the world around you.

You sip at your drink and study the grooves in the table, the different grains of wood, the stains and the marks. Some you know the story of. Like the burn that was caused by Ginny playing with Arthur’s wand at the age of 5. Others are the sorts of stains and marks that come from a family using it every day, from children playing and drawing and existing.

Charlie clears his throat and you lift your eyes to his, he looks a little sheepish, “Sorry, if this is a bit...if you don’t want to talk, but can I ask why you’re not in bed?”

The truth is that you’ve barely known Charlie a couple of days and perhaps normally you’d be reluctant to talk about anything personal, about nightmares or your guilt or your feelings. But, Charlie isn’t a complete stranger. He’s a Weasley and there has never been a Weasley you couldn’t talk to, even Percy who could be and had been an arse in the past. Even when he wasn’t around, the other’s talked about Charlie, their darling boy or their amazing brother. If you knew one Weasley you inevitably felt like you knew the rest even if you’d never met. Maybe it was that he was a Weasley, that he was Fred’s cool older brother, or maybe it was that you were lonely and fed up of hiding it all...that you knew him the least and it seemed easier to talk to someone who’d understand and yet didn’t know you well enough to push too far. Or maybe it was just that Charlie Weasley had one of those faces that made you want to talk.

“I...I struggle to sleep these days. I’ve struggled to sleep since the battle to be honest...if it's not tossing and turning then it’s nightmares. When the lights go out the thoughts come out...”

“From what I heard you did alright. You helped people, you got a few death eaters along the way...” There was an unspoken question, ‘what do you have to be haunted about? What did you do? or what did you not do?’

“Yeah....I helped some people, used my healer training to my advantage and sure I got a few stunning spells in, but I....I couldn’t save the one person that really mattered. I couldn’t....” You breathe in a shaky breath and can already feel the tears welling in your eyes at the thought of him. A hand reaches across the table and covers your own. It’s a comforting gesture, it reminds you that you’re safe here.

“I couldn’t save Fred...I tried, y’know, I even tried muggle methods, I thought maybe if magic wouldn’t help, muggle medicine might...I thought if I could just get him breathing again he’d be okay. It would all be okay...I” You close your eyes hard, feeling the press of your lids together, the wetness welling at the corners, “It’s my fault...I don’t even know why your parents let me stay...how any of you can even look at me...if I had been a better healer, or better at defence, then Fred might still be here.”

“You can’t seriously believe that?”

You lift your eyes to his, his eyebrows are furrowed, twisted down, mouth set in a frown. “I should have been able to save him. I have helped so many people. I have stopped so many people from dying...but I couldn’t save him.” You avert your eyes, his stare feels too intense, too much.

“You’re not to blame, look at me,” He squeezes your hand, firmly, but still gentle. The other reaches forward, a finger underneath your chin to lift your face as he brings your gaze back to his and leans ever forward as if all he wants is for you to truly listen and truly believe. “You didn’t kill Fred. You didn’t cause his death. No one can bring someone back from the dead..there was nothing you or anyone else could do. Rookwood was to blame. Voldemort and his followers were to blame. Not you.”

“Then why do I feel like I am? Like I should have done better?”

“Because we all do. Do you think Percy doesn’t blame himself? Like maybe if he’d not made a joke, not distracted Fred, he’d still be here? Do you think George doesn’t think he could have protected his own twin better? Me? I wish I'd bloody been right there, right next to him. I wish I did more and I feel the guilt of not doing more each day...We all feel like we failed him. You don’t feel guilty because you did something wrong, you feel guilty because he was your friend and you’re a good person. Good people always want to do better, even if it's not possible, love.”

“How do you do it? How do you keep going?” It feels impossible some days, the idea that you shouldn’t feel guilty or sad or angry or hurt. Some days you almost forget that he’s not here, you see George and go to ask after Fred, you think of a joke and think that you should go tell him...Some days simply getting out of bed seems impossible.

“I let it go. You can’t live in the past or else you’ll forget the present, and never look to the future. That’s what we were fighting for. That’s what Fred was fighting for, a better future. I chose to stop punishing myself for what I did or did not do because my brother would feed me a canary cream if he heard me blaming myself.”

You let out a sharp laugh, quick, unexpected even for you, and it's true. Fred wouldn’t stand for it, he wouldn’t stand for anyone blaming themselves, he’d tell you to buck up and crack a few jokes, stop hurting yourself. He was like that. Whenever he found you squirrelled away behind a tapestry, sad and crying, he always found a way to make you smile. His life’s work was getting people to smile.

“...Thank you. I know it’s not going to get better over night, but...maybe it’s time to try and stop dwelling in the past.” You stare into your empty mug for a second before rising to place it beside the sink. He’s still drinking his tea, and you, realise this whole time you hadn’t asked him why he wasn’t asleep.

“Why...why aren’t you asleep, Charlie?” You lean back against the counter to watch him, the blanket slipping off of your shoulders slightly.

“I...I have a few old injuries that keep me up sometimes. Mostly my back, the scars I have ache a lot...but I...I sleep best on my back so...”

It surprises that his lack of sleep was something that seemed so fixable to you, but you often had to remind yourself that most witches and wizards struggled with even basic healing charms and didn’t think in the same way that you did. Healing was a skill and knowing the right solution to a problem took both natural intuition and training.

“Do you...have you ever learnt lenio?” You move closer to him, throwing the blanket off of your shoulders and onto the back of your chair. Each step shows your healer nature as you itch to get closer and have a look at the problem, to solve it like you do every day of the week.

“Uh, I’ve never heard of it?”

“Oh...I suppose you’re probably used to being given potions for pain, they usually last longer, don’t rely on the witch or wizard’s will power. It’s a...a pain relief spell, it works on a great deal. I...Hermione’s scar hurts a lot so I taught her it, but her scar’s easy for her access...you could always see me before you go to sleep each night and I can administer it. It’s considered outdated because of potions but I find that it’s most effective for scarring or pains that distract or make you unfocused and people don’t get as reliant.”

“Does...does it last awhile?”

“It varies on the caster’s strength of thought, I typically find when I cast it it lasts anywhere between 12 hours to a day, some people it can last minutes. Hermione manages to make it last around 8 hours. It’s why it fell out of fashion, not a lot of wizards or witches have the aptitude for it.” Potions had become easier. Easier to make. Easier to administer and more predictable when duration was involved. But, pain relief potions could be addictive and you always found yourself leaning towards charms and spells over potions, where possible.

“Before you...before you go to bed could you cast it? I’d really like to get some sleep, love.”

Nod with a small smile, easing the tension in Charlie’s shoulders just that little bit. That famous bedside manner of yours pushing its way to the surface.

“You said it was your back?” You ask as you reach for your wand in the waistband of your pyjama shorts. He nods at you, “First year on the reserve a Hungarian Horntail decided he didn’t like me very much...never told mum.” You let out a little laugh at that, the thought of Mrs Weasley’s reaction was rather comical in your mind. While she could be fearsome, she was also known for her over the top and sometimes melodramatic responses.

You understand why he chose not to tell her. Mrs Weasley could be overbearing in her protectiveness and you’re sure she would never have let him work on the reserve again, no matter how much he loved it. “Could you...um, disrobe for me.” You ignore the nerves in your stomach and try to get into the healer mindset, you’ve seen plenty of patients wear even less and it was never a problem before. You weren’t going to let Charlie Weasley taking his shirt off get to you. You’d seen him without it early that day and surely he couldn’t affect you quite so much the second time.

Or that’s what you told yourself before you found yourself gazing at him a little too long. Truth was Charlie was an attractive man, even fully dressed and the beauty of his torso was not diminished by you having seen it previously. Up close you noticed things that you hadn’t earlier in the day. Scars of various types caught your eye, a few bite marks you recognised well as various types of dragon, scratches, burn marks, his body told the story of a dragon keeper who had known pain and yet still enjoyed his job. He was covered in freckles head to toe, or at least what you could see of his body, and red hair that criss crossed his arms and his chest. The dragon had moved from his shoulder and neck area, stalking its way across his left ribs, breathing little spouts of fire.

You cleared your throat and gestured for him to turn his back towards you. You could see it was covered in scars, a large portion was burn scarring, but there were claw marks too. You placed a hand gently on the top of his shoulder and gently pushed him forward so that you could get a better look. Your other hand softly trailed over the skin, examining the depths of the scars, making an assessment of what sort of scarring it was. “These were healed poorly, did you not go to the reserve healer?” You could tell they could have been healed better, they would have left a mark certainly, but with less pain you were sure. It was, in truth, a rather shoddy job.

“Oh, I went...he’s just not very good.” You scoff, not very good was an understatement and you wrecked your brain for anyway you could fix the damage done. You’d never seen wounds healed so poorly or such extensive scarring caused by magical healing, you think that they might have healed better on their own.

“This was about nine years ago, correct?” You watch the back of Charlie’s head move up and down in a nod, “He used a mending charm.” You scoff, irritation strong within you.

“Is that wrong?”

“They’re meant for objects not people, it’s why you have so much scarring, why it hurts...I just wonder...I wonder if...I know you just wanted me to do a quick lenio, Charlie...but I’d like to try something, I have absolutely no idea if any of the spells I know will work, but I might be able to permanently reduce the pain, and the damage.”

“You couldn’t do that with Hermione?”

“Her scar is the product of dark magic...that’s...we’re still trying to figure out how to undo that sort of injury, but this is normal in comparison. I could make it worse or I could make it better or it could do nothing...”

“Love,” he looks over his shoulder at you, eyes surprisingly full of mirth, “I doubt you could make it worse, give it your best shot.”

You think through all the healing spells you know and you contemplate the nature of this. It isn’t an open wound or a broken bone, but it is damaged flesh, scar tissue so mangled it hurts and you think deep about your time at St Mungo’s, the many healer’s you’ve known and learnt from and you think of your own experience creating spells, melding your wants, desires, outcomes, into a single word, a single channel for your magic. You use his confidence in you and your desire to see his pain reduced or undone as a force behind the words that leave your mouth without even thinking and the almost natural movement of your wand.

“Renovare” It’s not a spell you know and yet, as you speak the words and channel your magic through your wand, you know what it does and you know what it’s purpose is. Renew. To fix what isn’t wounded, but is damaged, to heal what has been healed poorly. You watch delicate streams of pearlescent light, flickering between white and pink and teal, fall over the scars and break them apart delicately before rehealing wounds. You hear Charlie hiss and squeeze his shoulder in reassurance that everything is working the way it should and that you’re sorry it hurts. The scars that are left behind are less angry, closer to the skin, and less like knotted damaged tissue. Perhaps had you been there when it happened, there would be no scars at all, but unmending and re-mending a wound is not so perfect or simple. You have the presence of mind to realise this is a new spell, of your own creation, and that you should write all of this down before you go to sleep tonight. This spell could be a breakthrough for wizarding medicine, at least where angry scars that cause pain are concerned. You’re so focused on fixing his pain that this realisation doesn’t bring you the pride it should, after all, not many witches or wizards could simply create a spell.

There’s something satisfying about watching the process, the breaking open of skin and the regrowth of new. The new scars looking as you’d want them to be, knowing that you have fixed the work of a poor healer and hopefully, in the process, stopped the pain that causes Charlie’s lack of sleep.

You run your hand over the new scars once you’re done, checking the thickness of the scar tissue, his dragon has moved to his back now, curiously dancing around your fingers, nipping as if it could catch them. You get the feeling that it is grateful for your work. “Does it hurt at all? or...at least is the pain lesser?”

“It’s...it’s sore, like i’ve just come off the quidditch pitch, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like it used to.”

“Mmm...,” you continue your observations for a while, asking more questions about how it feels as you go, “I suspect the soreness will go, I have just broken your scars open and re-healed them...they look better, proper healing work, none of that bollocks from before.” You find your patience for bad healers always to be quite small, healing was serious business, people’s lives, their feelings were at risk and bad healers, in your opinion, simply shouldn’t exist.

“I...thank you for letting me try I...”

“I’ve never heard that spell before.”

“That’s because I just created it.” He looks at you as you expect, surprised and a little bit in awe. Most wizards and witches can’t just make their own spells, you know this, but your experience with Fred and George had taught you a few things. The two of them had always innately created their own charms and potions, and they taught you how it should feel, how to focus, how to think, how to tap into that part of yourself that was purely magic, that knew without words what it could and wanted to do.

“That’s...impressive.”

“Your brothers’, they’re...they were...George and Fred have always...” You sigh in frustration, it is so hard to find the right tense now. George is here and Fred is not, but they're a pair, not individuals and it feels wrong to...to leave one out. He’s patient with you, soft eyes, a reassuring smile as a hand reaches for yours and gives a quick squeeze. “When we were in school, the twins just knew how to make their own spells...all their products are their own work and creation...they taught me how to...how to tap into that part of me, the part that knows what to do. I’ve not done it in years, I've not had need to...I just knew what I wanted to happen and I let myself guide me.” You smile at him softly, round cheeks pushing upwards with your smile. His eyes are darting curiously across your face as if seeking out the answer to some question only he knew.

There’s a look of surprise behind the curiosity. You can see it, that he never fully realised just how brilliant his brothers’ were. Most of the people who meet...met the twins underestimated their abilities, but they were brilliant. Sometimes you just have to look past the laughter, the jokes and the ostentatious colours.

“Thank you...thank you for this,” He gestures to his back, “and thank you for teaching me something about the twins that I...that I failed to realise myself. We’ve always undervalued them, I love them...loved...but, even I saw them as jokers and never...never realise the work they put in.”

“Brilliant, that’s how I describe them. Insane. Terribly immature at times. Quick to anger, like most Weasleys, but brilliant and kind...” You look off into the distance, eyes losing focus for a second, “have I told...has anyone told you how I became friends with the twins?”

“I always assumed they just wouldn’t leave you alone,” It’s a cheeky smile that makes you laugh, “that would be rather like them.” You lean against the table, thick thigh pressing lightly against the outside of his knee as you think back on how you met the twins.

“In truth...it’s not a wholly happy story. But it’s not entirely sad either, meeting them was the best thing that ever happened to me. They gave me friendship, companionship, knowledge, protection, and family. They gave me a wizarding family that would always support me and I don’t think at the age of eleven I truly understood the importance that your family would play in my life. Now, I couldn’t live without them.” You turn your eyes on him with a soft smile.

“We have a way about us...Weasley’s collect people, I think. We’re never happy alone, we like a full house, we like fighting over a bathroom in the morning and cramming around the table. Mum loves adding people to the family, and I'm sure the moment she met you she knew you’d be the newest addition.” You smile at that. You wonder if a Weasley could ever truly be happy alone. While Charlie lived away from his family, you were sure, judging by his little smile, that the distance was hard on him and that he probably surrounded himself with friends and colleagues to feel that familiarity.

“It was my first year and I was crying…” You look up at the ceiling, the wood beams that cross it, the hanging pots and drying herbs. “I was behind the tapestry on the 5th floor...there’s this little room behind it and I found it by accident, I’m rather clumsy,” You laugh and look back at him. It startles you a little to realise you have his undivided attention, but it also pleases you, to know that he’s listening, that he values what you have to say even if it's just a silly little story.

“I was bawling really, none of that quiet dainty crying. It was rather horrible actually...they must have heard, said I sounded like Moaning Myrtle which just upset me more...they sat beside and they asked ‘what’s happened? Who do we need to prank?’' It was ever so Fred and George even back when you were all just eleven. Their solution to a problem was often either pranking the person responsible or starting a fight with them. The latter was your least favourite of the two.

“Sounds like them, although I wouldn't have been surprised if they offered to throw a few punches...we have hot tempers.”

“You seem awfully mild mannered for a Weasley to me?” It was true, Charlie and Bill both seemed like two calm individuals, at least compared to Ginny or Ron or even Mrs Weasley. All of whom were known for their explosive, passionate tempers.

“Well, love, you’ve never seen me nearly tear the Ravenclaw quidditch captain a new one after a blatant display of cobbing...Although, i’m definitely less fiery than Ginny. She scares me a little sometimes.”

“She is prone to bouts of violence,” You love it about her though, her quickness to defend others, her bravery. If there ever was a Gryffindor it certainly was Ginevra. “Either way, they offered pranking services rather than violence...good move on their part, I suspect I would have been terrified of them had they offered to break someone’s nose…”

“So who or what made you cry? Homesick?”

“No...I mean, I was homesick, but that wasn’t what had me crying behind that tapestry...it was boys actually. They’d been picking on me, all years, all ages, all houses, for the first few weeks of my life at Hogwarts. Sometimes it was my hair...and other times it was my teeth, sometimes it was the fact I was muggle born...but mostly, it was that I was fat,” You see he rearing up to say something at the word, but you stop him before he can speak, “I am fat. Charlie, that’s not an insult to me, I can be a million wonderful things, and fat is just a descriptor. I am fat and a hufflepuff and I am pretty and I am brave and I am terribly dedicated to my work. But back then...the way they used it. That was an insult. I was fat, I was a whale, a pig, or some other creature they could demean me with. They said I was ugly and unworthy and ‘who’d want to date you?’...I wasn’t even old enough to care about dating, but they made me feel like I was unlovable...and then your brothers came along.”

You smile at him, at the hand he’s placed on your knee in reassurance, the hand that doesn’t stay there too long out of respect for you. He’s listening now, truly, there is no desire to butt in, to interject, because he realises that you do not unjustly hate your body. You are simply telling a story. “After that they never let anyone say a bad word about me...they protected me and I protected them too...you’ve not seen a thing until you’ve seen a hufflepuff fly at Draco Malfoy with the intent to maim.” You quirk a lip thinking of all the times you’d nearly hurt the boy, he was better now, you could have a civil conversation, but Merlin, he’d been terrible in school.

“Should I worry for my personal safety?” Charlie laughs, leaning back away from you as if you might attack at any moment, but it is all play and it makes you chuckle. “I think you’re safe, dragon boy…”

There’s a comfortable silence in which your leg pressed against Charlie’s as you leant against the table, Charlie leaning back in his chair. It’s the sort of silence that feels like companionship, there is no pressure in your chest to speak, no feeling that the silence was wrong, no strange buzzing in your chest.

“I’m glad they looked out for you...you deserve to have people who look after you the way you look after them.”

“You...you barely know me.” You look at him through your lashes, feeling shy, bashful at the kind words. He just gives you a stunningly soft smile, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

“True, but in the short time I have known you you’ve been nothing but kind, caring, and you even invented a spell simply to help me. Love, that says more than anything else about you. You care about people...and people should care about you too.” The tenderness should scare you, intimidate you, instead it makes warmth blossom in your chest and happy tears well in your eyes because no one has ever said something so kind. Even when you doubt how useful you are, even with the guilt, it means so much to hear someone acknowledge the kindness you give, the care you provide, and not take it for granted. It is this that makes you realise how desperately you want to keep Charlie Weasley in your life, even simply as a friend because he cares so deeply about people and because he doesn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed to share those thoughts or feelings that would matter most to a person.

It is with those words and thoughts in your head that the two of you say goodnight and you return to your bed, the blankets don’t feel irritating anymore, your head does not buzz with bad thoughts. While it is hard to go to sleep it is not out of guilt or anger or sadness, but a sort of giddiness that you haven’t felt in so long. You fall asleep with a smile.

#summer nights #reader insert #readerinsert #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasleyxreader #charlie weasley/reader #charlie weasley / reader #harry potter #harry potter reader insert #plus size reader #overweight reader #female reader

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 3 years

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Dear Tucker Carlson,

Hey Tuck, I just got done watching a segment of your show. You know, the one where you suggest that there should be a camera in every classroom in order to root out…let me get this accurate…”civilization ending poison.” https://twitter.com/ndrew_lawrence/status/1412566208763895810

I’m going to zig where you thought most teachers would zag. I welcome your Orwellian cameras in my classroom. Frankly, I don’t know many teachers who would object to having people watch what we do. As a matter of fact, I hate to tell you this Tucker Swanson McNear Carlson, but most of us spent the last year having video cameras in our classrooms.

See, I think you believe that your suggestion that people see what happens in our classrooms will somehow scare teachers. The truth of it is that we have been begging for years to have people, such as yourself, come into our classrooms. I somewhat famously asked Ms. DeVos to visit a public school before she became Secretary of Education (https://www.huffpost.com/entry/an-introduction-from-public-school-teachers-to-betsy_b_5845e2fbe4b0707e4c8171a3). It’s unclear whether she has yet to set foot in an actual public school classroom, but I digress. I sense that you think you’ll see all of us pinko teachers speaking endlessly about Critical Race Theory leading to…and again, let me get this right, “civilization ending poison.” I’ve been in a lot of classrooms (more than you I am willing to bet) and I think you’re going to be disappointed on that front.

What happens in America’s classrooms is teaching and learning. Your “spy cameras” will see teachers and students working together to be better every day. I’ll tell you what I saw on a tour of classrooms not that long ago. I saw a group of kindergartners trying to create bridges over running water with basic classroom supplies in a lesson about collaboration. I saw a high school literature class talking about the character development in The Glass Menagerie. I saw a middle school history class participating in group project where they had to solve problems in a fictional city, with specifics of how they would utilize resources and build public support for their projects. Anyone watching your cameras will see learning…all day every day.

For those who watch your “nanny cams” carefully, they’ll see a lot of other things as well. They will see teachers working with students who have vastly different life experiences. They will see students who are fluent in multiple languages working with teachers to become proficient in yet one more language. They will see students who are hungry get their one solid meal a day in the cafeteria. They will see students itching for more fine arts, industrial technology, or world languages to be offered in their school. In my classroom, if we’re being honest, they’ll probably hear some sketchy intonation from my saxophones, and I promise we’re working on it. But for sure, they will see learning…all day every day.

To be honest, I’m fascinated by the logistics of your proposal. In a world where school districts are struggling to recruit and maintain teachers, who is going to man your “citizen review boards” (setting aside the fact that public school teachers already answer to publicly elected school boards)? For instance, in my school district I sense you would need well over 500 cameras going every day. Who watches those 500 screens 10 hours a day (I want you watching my 7 am jazz band and my after school lessons)? What qualifications would these “experts” need to know what they were watching for? What happens when they catch a teacher teaching…let me get this right…”civilization ending poison?” Who do they report that to? I’m also curious who will pay for all of this incredible technology. Maybe I missed it, but can you point me to a K-12 institution where Critical Race Theory is being taught? Hell, can you define Critical Race Theory for all of us? I’m sure you’ve got answers to all of these questions.

Frankly, I’ve never been able to figure out, instead of dreaming up Orwellian plans to have Big Brother in all of our classrooms, why you don’t round up an army of bright young conservatives to actually step up and teach? Is it because teachers work hard, aren’t paid as much as those with similar educational backgrounds, don’t have support from our elected officials, constantly serve as punching bags for those who don’t understand public education, or is it just because it’s easier to throw rocks at a house than to build one?

Here’s the real deal Tuck, I grew up with my mom making me eat your family’s Salisbury Steaks once every couple of weeks (his family makes Swanson TV dinners) for many years. I struggle to take advice on teaching and learning from a guy who makes a steak that, on its best day, tastes like shoe leather that has been left out in a goat pasture for a few weeks. I get that Critical Race Theory is your latest attempt to scare your easily manipulated demographic, but let’s just admit that you don’t know what you’re talking about.

With all of that being said, count me on the cameras Tucky. Like many teachers, I’m in the early stages of understanding Critical Race Theory (most of us hadn’t heard about it until you and your people started crying about it), but if you find me teaching it, have one of the Tucker Youth watching your surveillance devices let me know. If Critical Race Theory involves talking honestly about American history, I’m probably doing that sometimes. I spent much of the last six years advocating for a way for teaching to become more transparent, and in the dumbest way possible, you are joining that crusade. Let’s make this happen TV Dinner Boy.

Sincerely,

Patrick J. Kearney

Actual Teacher

#education #teaching and learning #Patrick J. Kearney #political

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kisskissbanggang · 4 years

Text

Hello Stranger

[14K Words/1Hr. Read - Teacher!Bang Chan x Admin!Female Reader - Fake Relationships, Guest Appearances, Fluff, Smut, Slow Burn, New Teachers, Vanilla, Office Sex, Allusions To Troubling Subjects]

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You should’ve expected a phone call when you read the email. At least then you would be somewhat prepared for the verbal lashing you were currently receiving from one of your greatest teachers.

“I’m sorry, but — wait, you know what? No I’m not, I’m not sorry — but I am not staying here with this dumpster fire waiting to happen! He’s wrecking the department — Johnny, let me talk — and I didn’t even want him here to begin with. Congratulations, ma’am, you torpedoed my program I worked so hard to build.”

Doyoung paused, waiting for you to call his bluff, to appeal to his good side as usual. He was right. He’d done so much for his school — for the district, really, and this was getting out of hand. Johnny could be heard behind him, the poor principal having apparently had his desk phone wrestled away from him to begin with.

“Mr. Kim,” you spoke into the phone, mustering all the confidence you had in you, “what do you want me to do? I mean it. Tell me what you want.”

“He goes or I go,” Doyoung dramatically laid out into your ear. Johnny could be heard trying to console the raving teacher before Doyoung apparently ducked him every few seconds. “I’m losing my mind. I have 150 students becoming fucking hypnotized and they’re influencing their peers like the plague.”

“Besides losing either of you,” you carefully negotiated, “what do you want me to do? I value your input; I always have. Dig into the meat with me here, please.”

“I will not teach beside some noble renegade who wears hoodies to class and asks his students to call him by his first name. I won’t teach in the same building, nor in the same school. This is dangerous, and you know it is. For all the money you’re throwing at PR this year you could be putting it in your students.”

You hated that Doyoung was right. This was not a great start to the year. A sigh escaped that you had not meant for, and Doyoung audibly steeled himself on the other end of the receiver. He was waiting now.

“I’m coming down there,” you announced. Apparently Johnny heard you, a god fucking dammit being heard behind Doyoung’s shoulder. Doyoung, however, was sated.

“Fine,” he replied, but he didn’t sound fine. He sounded like he was surprised he got anywhere. “I’m sorry I got so upset.”

And like that, Doyoung hung up. You slumped down in your chair, having been pacing your otherwise pristine office for the past 15 minutes which had felt more like 15 hours. You were fussily rearranging your desk, trying to calm yourself back down when your assistant finally felt it was safe enough to poke her head into your office.

“Ma’am—” Yeji greeted before you held up a hand to stop her. You pinched the bridge of your nose in exasperation.

“How many more calls this week?”

“Only four,” she replied. A relieved sigh softened your tense shoulders as she set the personnel file you requested on your desk.

You felt so old now, run ragged by all the mayhem, but it wasn’t so long ago that you were young yourself. Even then, you still were according to most standards. You were the youngest assistant superintendent to ever serve the district, a set of magnet schools within the city comprised of one private Montessori primary school, one public STEM-focused junior high, and one private-public hybrid high school of the arts. You pined for the ultimate position, but that chair was long occupied by Mr. Simmons, a token favorite of the school board. He called you dear and was always acting like some big man pitying a little girl. However, this didn’t mean you hadn’t tried like hell to make an impression.

Your first three years had been a terrific uphill trajectory. In year one, you brought on Doyoung to replace the retiring choir teacher and head of the music department at the high school. To date, he’d brought in more accolades than his predecessor did in twice the time. For your second year, you collaborated with your junior high on an agricultural enrichment program that offset food costs district wide to the point you could improve offerings in all three cafeterias. This year, you re-established the district PTA. Doyoung’s rabid Booster Club and the parents of the junior high’s robotics team made up the first meeting, and more and more parents had joined since.

So it only seemed fair that this year was your first true hurdle. It had been such an innocent decision: you took a proposed program from the junior high and adapted it for your high school students. A music production and distribution program was a clean, sleek idea that was sure to impress the PTA and enrich the lives of your students in their already affluent music department and work as a dual credit with the business side of the class. What you hadn’t betted on, however, was what exactly a young teacher could get into in a high school setting.

Chris Bang wasn’t naive — you were sure of it, looking at his portfolio. He’d cut his teeth independently producing from a young age and gathering a loyal following online. This was a concept you understood well enough, but had a time and a half explaining to anyone older than you, it seemed. Anyone older than you, but also especially Doyoung, who was very fiercely proud of his hard work to get his double Masters in Choral Conducting and Music Theory at 21 and didn’t have the patience for homegrown prodigies. You couldn’t blame Doyoung, really, even with his dramatics. His competition choir was a force to be reckoned with — surprisingly disciplined, endlessly talented, and ravenously competitive — and now two of his students were wrapped up in all this, too, and that was just the extent you were aware of.

You tapped out an IM to Yeji from your desktop, asking her to come back into your office, and she dutifully popped in a few seconds later. She pulled up a chair in front of your desk as you rested your head in your hands for a moment. “Tell me, Yeji,” you sighed, “what’s your read on this?”

“Well, ma’am,” she mulled it over, “it’s not great. It’s awful, really. But it’s hard to tell by now what’s real, what’s a cry for attention, or what feels real but is actually just the zeitgeist. You know how this is, what it can turn into.”

You did. You’d remembered your own whirlwind feelings at a similar age, even just out of high school. Strangers and dissenters had a hard time believing it, but before you had assumed the role of meticulously poised and proper, you were frustratingly belligerent and stubborn like many of your peers when you were younger. It was easy to recall how real, how present every moment was at the time, but you didn’t even remember the whole story now. In fact, you hadn’t thought of that story in ages, but you were suddenly reminded of the smell of pine trees and sugar, the cool electricity of being out past midnight. It was quite possibly the most excited you’d ever felt, but now you couldn’t remember the fine details, the corners sanded down to curves over time. To your students, these letters were the most exciting and dramatic thing to ever happen to them, and if they would remember the details later on would depend on how you handled the situation.

The first letter surfaced just a week before, and online of all places. A full declaration of this girl’s undying love for Chris and all of the very, very, very inappropriate things she wanted to do with him, found in an envelope on the keyboard outside his office and posted online before he could ever see it. The next letter was eventually found two days later, apparently picked up from where it had missed the trash can: a 17 year old boy, feeling emboldened enough to finally profess who he was — gay, madly in love with Chris, and willing to risk it all. A third was stolen from a girl’s backpack from some bullies and she had been a wreck, so sure that Chris had picked one of the other two and she’d missed her chance. That girl hadn’t returned to school yet. Who knew what else was going on in the hallways, in the cafeteria and bathrooms, in the parking lot after school?

Four more parents contacted your office, according to Yeji. Four more letters. And now Doyoung was threatening to quit, for added reasons you hadn’t even been aware of. You flipped through Chris’ personnel file, hoping not to find any red flags, but hopefully find any reason this spiraled out of control, anything other than tumultuous teenage life wreaking havoc on your students.

Your sigh renewed in spades as you glanced at your assistant again. “Who do you remember most from high school?”

Yeji’s eyes were cast downward as she thought about it. “Other than my friends? Probably the student teacher in my auto class,” she blissfully reminisced. “The teacher would sleep half the time and the student teacher would just teach us whatever we wanted to know and what we needed to know for tests. I remember I had the biggest crush because of that.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Yeji gave an apologetic smile. “What about you?”

Her question knocked you off your feet for a moment. For some reason, you hadn’t been expecting it, but you immediately had an answer. “Aside from friends? Weirdly enough,” you began, “someone I didn’t meet until graduation.”

As sickly sentimental as the thought of it was, it was true. You didn’t even remember that boy’s name anymore, but you’d met exactly three times before you left for college. He had been hanging out by the bonfire on the beach at a grad party no one had expected to get so crazy. You couldn’t remember your conversation, but you could remember his bleached hair tucked under a beanie catching your eye as he sat by himself, his friends apparently wreaking havoc on their own somewhere. His lip ring was crooked, and in a fit of beer-buzzed confidence you’d fixed it for him while you talked about the phony gravitas of graduation. You’d almost kissed him, too, connecting over things that seemed way more kismet than they probably were when your friends finally made you walk home with them.

You gathered up the rest of your patience and courage as you bid Yeji goodbye until your return and headed out to your car in the lot, making the tedious journey to the high school. The handsomely vintage architecture was charmingly modern inside the gates and within its walls, but not overly so. However, this also meant the school was a hike and a maze to navigate through to find the music department. You were distracted, though, missing a turn here or there and having to turn back a couple times now that you were suddenly remembering your clandestine romance from years ago. What was his name? It wasn’t even that long ago. Had so much really happened since then? You wracked your brain. He had a reasonably fresh and nice scratcher tattoo on his bicep, you remembered, but you couldn’t remember what it was for some reason, just like his name. He had to have said it in one of these memory bites.

The second time you’d met, he’d been handing out flyers on the boardwalk for his own show at a rave in a warehouse on the other side of town, out where the beach met the woods. He’d seen you before you’d seen him, and he had popped up with a greeting of Hello, stranger. He had made you promise to be there, which is where you met the third and final time later that night. He greeted you again the same way. Hello, stranger. You’d thought it was cute then, and still did, which must be why you still remembered that detail, at least. He liked your shoes, your worn work boots you’d picked up at a thrift store and refused to get rid of despite all the times your parents asked.

Those warehouse shows were always nuts, all sorts of vendors arriving who were willing to shack up with any event that passed through. He had bought you cotton candy from one of these vendors when you met him after his set and you chatted as you walked along the tree line, talking about his dreams of becoming rich and famous on his own terms. He kissed you, once, and you tasted his lip ring and spun sugar for weeks. You found yourself wondering now if he ever did become rich and famous.

Doyoung gave you a passing glance in the hall as you stalked towards Chris’s classroom: he looked impatient but thrilled and, sure enough, well dressed in his usual suit and tie. You wondered if this new staff member was exactly what Doyoung was fear mongering. Maybe it was simply a difference in values. This was Chris’ first year teaching professionally, you remembered, and now you felt miserably guilty. What a horrible way to start a career. You hadn’t even visited your new teacher since he began, but just the door outside his room was a mess. Doyoung’s fretting made more sense now. Even though you’d only gotten four phone calls, Chris’s classroom door was plastered in letters.

The door creaked and fluttered as you opened it and peeked your head inside. The room was devoid of any human presence. For a space that needed to serve multiple purposes, it was sparsely filled except for classroom materials and equipment. Regular desks and chairs filled the floor as opposed to risers or music stands like in the other department classrooms, but there was still a soundproof practice room in the back of the room, and only the recording equipment stored around the room gave any hint to the classroom’s purpose. To deal with the mess after the third letter, a sub was leading Chris’s classes in the library, but you at least expected to find him here himself, or at least some posters or framed photos. You peeked inside the small office at the head of the classroom, finding it just as empty as well, but with some more personality. A few extra milk crates of visibly nicer vinyl records for sampling and listening were stacked beside the desk along with a nicer record player than what was by his desk out in the classroom. Some books sat on a shelf with a modest cactus in the corner, and finally some photos: Chris shaking hands and smiling with tons of industry players and friends, and occasionally appearing in one of those hoodies Doyoung had been warning of. He did own suits, apparently. Multiple. And he looked good in them.

A polite cough surprised you at the door of the office.

You whirled around, the sun outside silhouetting Chris as he stared at you in his dimly lit office. “My office hours are cancelled this week. May I help you?”

It was your turn to cough, clearing your throat. He was certainly young. He was certainly handsome, his grimace pronouncing the charming dimples in his cheeks. He certainly didn’t dress like a teacher. Chris stood in the doorway of his own office, looking at you curiously in his hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. He even had a backpack hung on his shoulder and a bag of greasy fast food in his hands. He suddenly looked down at it, embarrassed.

“I, er, wore out my welcome in the teacher’s lounge, it seems,” he sighed out a sullen laugh. “And I needed some fresh air.”

“Mr. Bang, I—“

“Call me Chris,” he insisted with a tired grin. Your heart shamefully thumped at how friendly and cute he was. It was easier to pretend you didn’t hear him. He stepped around you and dropped down into his desk chair. He silently gestured at his food, appearing to ask if you were alright if he ate while you talked. You nodded. He dug into the bag and cheekily offered you a fry. You coolly shook your head.

“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but as assistant superintendent—“

Chris sputtered, standing up from his chair as he choked down the fry he’d just put in his mouth. “Ma’am,” he gasped finally, “I didn’t—“

“I know,” you nodded again. You waved up a hand in understanding. “Please, sit back down. I wanted to come by and see how you’re doing, considering the current state of affairs.”

Chris stayed standing, uneasy and fidgeting. “Alright, what do you want? Is this it? Please don’t suggest I need an attorney, I don’t think I can handle it.”

“What?” You asked, surprised.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” Chris lamented, “but I’ve gotten dozens of emails and messages through the school portal from parents and students asking me if I did anything, and it’s doing my head in.”

“They’re what?!” You hadn’t even considered anyone actually thought the teacher was guilty of anything. He nodded gravely.

“Read the letters outside!” His demand came out brokenly as he pointed behind you. “They’re begging me and taunting me to do all sorts of shit. Confess, quit, fuck them — all sorts of awful trash that I never even imagined. I just wanted to teach. I don’t know why the hell this is happening to me.”

You had no idea about any harassment. This looked bad. It looked bad to your students, their parents, the staff — everyone. You pulled out your phone from your purse and brought up the PR rep’s number, now on your speed dial. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Of course I didn’t—“ he sputtered before you cut him off.

“I wasn’t asking, Mr. Bang. You didn’t do anything and I believe you. A good superintendent would support good staff. Your first few months brought nothing but praise past my office.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Chris quietly said. He finally sat down as you dialed the rep. She would be by shortly. You found another chair hiding under a pile of books and cds and moved them so you could sit. Chris was looking at you oddly now as you hung up, sitting closer than you’d normally like in the small office. You shifted uncomfortably. Chris offered you a fry again before you stiffly refused once more. He shrugged and began inhaling his food in earnest.

“Hungry?” You asked sarcastically, instantly regretting it. There was no sense in kicking him while he was down.

“Emotional eater,” he clarified around a mouthful, equally sarcastic in your resumed awkward silence. You considered the young teacher in front of you. If you recalled the personnel file, he wasn’t just a brand new teacher, he was new to the area as well. A rumor apparently spread among the students and even some of your staff that he had been running away from something, but you never paid that any attention until you were actually in the same room with him. He caught you zoning out in his direction, an eyebrow raised as he paused on his mouthful of food, and you sheepishly pulled out your phone and checked your agenda until your rep finally found you hiding out together in the tiny office.

Ryujin had become your go-to girl since the school year started but even more so over the past week. Public relations for a school district should never have to become very high-maintenance work, but Ryujin was quickly proving herself over-qualified for the job. She stood in the doorway, tall and cool in her confidence despite her short stature as she looked over the situation.

“Stand up,” she simply directed Chris.

He gave you a quick glance, not moving until you nodded. Chris set his food down and stood, hands in his hoodie pockets as Ryujin circled him. He warily shied away from her prodding as she pinched and pulled at his clothes, looking at tags and labels. She fiddled with the cute studs in his ears, tugged on the strings of his hoodie to draw him more to her level, and ruffled his dark, fluffy hair to look for showing roots or product. Ryujin looked at you now. “This isn’t so bad,” she told you decidedly.

Chris was confused, left about ten miles behind the conversation. “Why—“

“What do we do?” You asked. Chris looked wildly between both of you as you decided his fate without him. “We’re dealing with harassment now.”

“Of course we are,” Ryujin nodded thoughtfully, “I mean, look at him.”

“Hey!” Chris rightfully looked offended, even as you held up a calming hand to settle him down. Ryujin impatiently waited for you to let her continue.

“He doesn’t look like a teacher, he doesn’t act like a teacher, he’s under 30, and— I’m sorry— he’s cute. He was bound to get eaten alive when his students are only a few years younger than him and he has no experience.”

“So,” you reiterated, “what do we do?”

“He can go back to teaching,” Ryujin ruled, “but he has to look and act the part. No more first-name basis, no more street clothes.”

“This is so ridiculous!” Chris laughed in disbelief.

Both you and Ryujin glared at him now before she continued. “He’ll have to make a statement first. I’ll write it, of course. He can speak at the next PTA meeting. But —“ she turned to face him for once, “you shouldn’t be alone. Do you have a spouse? A partner? Some boyfriend or girlfriend?”

Now you shared Chris’ confused look. “Why does that matter?”

Ryujin folded her arms. “I don’t mince words. Sympathy, mostly. For anyone worrying, he’ll clearly appear to have support. For anyone who is doubting him, he clearly appears to have a loyal and loving presence in his life that can attest to Mr. Bang never having any nefarious predilection for his students and never intending to inspire any regrettable actions. It’s ultimately a similar reason to why I suggested you should wear a wedding ring.”

Your face heated up once again at being outed in front of your staff member. Ryujin had suggested a fake wedding ring ages ago when you first hired her. The moment you were appointed, parents instantly began doubting you. Even Superintendent Simmons, a parent himself, questioned you at your third interview. How could you — a young woman with no spouse and no children of your own — ever deign to understand what it’s like to raise and nurture one? The sheer stubbornness that you felt in response to that sentiment made you refuse such a placating notion as a fake wedding ring. Chris seemed to notice your embarrassment before he piped up himself, almost seeming to want to change the subject back for your sake.

“No,” Chris said simply, “I’m single and fine with it.”

“Look,” Ryujin rolled her eyes, “that is fine. Find a fake, then. It just needs to look real. It’s not fair, but these parents will assume you’re a better person if you’re not single in this situation. They need to see that you’re a loving and committed professional who just wants to teach and nurture young minds. The next PTA meeting is this Thursday night. Today is Tuesday, so you have a little time, but not much. Consider it, and I’ll have an optional line in your statement for whatever you decide. Do you have a suit?”

“For funerals and weddings,” Chris grumbled.

“A sweater is fine then,” Ryujin shrugged. She put a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “This is going to be fine. Let me know if you need anything.”

“You’re leaving?” You realized with thorough embarrassment that you sounded distressed.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she sighed, “the Superintendent wants a meeting about his son or something. You will be fine. Keep me updated.”

Ryujin ghosted out the door as fast as she’d come, and Chris reeled. “The nerve! I can’t believe her, can you?”

“Yes,” you nodded seriously, “I can. She’s right.”

“Oh, come on!” Chris blustered. You stood back up now, gathering your bag in the crook of your arm and straightening the carefully pressed collar of your suit jacket.

“I don’t want to see you have to end your career so soon, Mr. Bang,” you sympathized as you pulled out a business card from your purse and handed it to him. “Again, I’ve only heard good things about you until all this. Call me if you need anything. You shouldn’t have to face this alone.”

Things settled for one day. And then Thursday morning happened. Yeji was pale as you entered the office in the morning.

“John called from his cell.”

You checked your watch. First period was just starting at the high school.

God dammit.

You jogged into your office, grabbed the phone, and dialed him back. Johnny was out of breath. “I have a situation,” he panted into the phone. You could hear shouting behind him. Specifically, you could hear Doyoung shouting behind him. God dammit.

The tires on your car screeched as you peeled out of the parking lot of the admin building, tearing across town and barely breathing until you passed through Johnny’s office on your way into the building. He was icing his cheek with a cold pack from the nurse, his tie loose and slack around his neck and his suit jacket haphazardly slung over the back of his chair. Before you could say anything, he just shook his head with a disappointed laugh before returning to work at his computer. You walked quickly through the hallway, students watching you from their first period classrooms until you reached the music department. Taeil, the band teacher, closed Doyoung’s door behind him as he saw you in the hall.

“Ma’am,” the teacher greeted, thoroughly exhausted, “I wouldn’t go in there. We already called a sub for the rest of the day and I took Doyoung’s kids to the library for independent study.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moon,” you thanked him graciously, “do you have any idea what happened?” Taeil shrugged helplessly. His tie was crooked as well, his rolled sleeves uneven. You looked over at Chris’ room, open to the hall. Letters had shuffled off the door and onto the hallway floor. “Take care of Doyoung,” you instructed Taeil, “make sure he’s okay and that he gets home alright.”

Taeil nodded and let himself back into Doyoung’s classroom as you carefully approached Chris’. The room was dark, books and papers strewn across the floor. You cautiously switched on the light, only to find the teacher slumped in his chair at the head of the room, icing his own face with a metal water bottle. He silently glanced at you and sighed as you rushed over to check on him. You set your purse on his desk and gingerly pulled the water bottle away, sharing Chris’ sigh as you saw the bruise on his cheek. It felt a bit gross to still find him so frustratingly handsome in this moment.

“What happened?” You softly asked him. Chris sank into the chair and gave a dejected shrug, helpless to recollect. And he didn’t get much of a chance to even try, as a commotion erupted in the empty hallway. Doyoung stood fuming in the doorway with Taeil futilely attempting to pull him away.

“So you are here,” Doyoung grimaced at you before he shot a glare at Taeil, “why are you lying for her? Everyone is treating me like I’m insane and I’ve had it.” He stormed over, only stopped as you turned to press a confrontational hand to his chest. Doyoung had quite the busted lip.

“Mr. Kim, I know tensions are high—” you began staunchly before Doyoung steamrolled you.

“Do you?! Do you even know what happened?” He leaned to the side, staring daggers into Chris. “Tell her, you sorry excuse of a—“

“I’m telling you, Kim, just like I have been telling you,” Chris glowered, “I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about! You’re the one who came in here looking to start a fight.”

“You’re a goddamn liar!” Doyoung shouted. You put your hands on his shoulders, making him look at you.

“Tell me, then, Mr. Kim.”

Doyoung shiftily looked back and forth between the two of you. “Tell you what, ma’am?” he grumbled. “Tell you that I had the joy of overhearing one of my brightest students talking with her friends during zero period, bragging about fucking in his practice room? Tell you that she’s just a freshman? Tell you that I caught her and her friends giggling as she wrote her own fucking letter?”

Doyoung pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper out of his suit jacket and shoved it into your hands. You looked back at Chris, his shaking eyes horrified as he was apparently hearing this all for the first time.

“I admit, I took matters into my own hands. I flew off the handle. Why, though, would I come to you with all this first, ma’am?” Doyoung pleaded. You recognized the helpless heartache in his eyes, hating how much he was losing his students. “You wouldn’t come to me first if I asked for your help. You’d go straight to him.”

You glanced down at the notebook paper in your hands, catching glimpses of curly, naive confessions, and you looked back at Chris again. He didn’t look guilty. You didn’t want him to be. You wanted this all resolved, as cleanly as possible before you possibly wrecked the year before winter break. You thought fast.

“I did go to him first, Mr. Kim,” you conceded, quiet yet confident, “and I apologize if my actions come across as selfish, but this ordeal has caused quite the strain on mine and Chris’ relationship, even more so since it’s still fairly new.”

Doyoung backed up, aghast as his eyes flicked between the two of you again. His normally soft gaze was pure hellfire. “You’re kidding me,” he shook his head in disbelief. He had no interest in waiting for a confirmation before he turned to storm off, herding Taeil along with him.

Chris was staring at you when you turned back to face him, shocked as he was at your sudden plan. “Why the hell did you do that?”

You pulled out your phone to dial Ryujin, but before you actually sent the call through, you bored your eyes into Chris, who was still wincing past the bruise on his face. “You still didn’t do anything?”

“Never,” he adamantly shook his head.

“Good,” you nodded. “We will need to talk before the PTA meeting tonight. My assistant will call you with details.” You plucked your purse up from his desk and shouldered it. Chris watched, still stunned as you made for the door. His continued stare made you pause, a hand on the door frame as you turned back to face him. “You’re innocent,” you explained, “but if you quit you’ll be proving everyone who’s doubting you right. It seems like no one is on your side except me, so if no one will do anything then I will. You’ll be fine, Mr. Bang.” With that, you regained your confidence once more to walk down the hall. You caught your breath before you tapped out a message for Ryujin on your phone. Somehow, you didn’t expect her to call you right away.

“I’m sorry, but you what?!” Ryujin exclaimed, stooping you in your tracks from wherever she was.

“You said he needs to find someone and make it look real!” You hissed, trying to keep your composure the best you could in the quiet hallway.

“I didn’t mean you!”

You grumbled out a curse under your breath. “Well, it’s a bit too late for that clarification,” you bit out, “so what do I do now?”

Ryujin could be heard tapping on her cell phone as she spoke to you. “I’m on it,” she assured you, “and I’m sure you already figured you need to talk before the PTA meeting tonight. We need to make sure you’re on the same page. I’m forwarding you the statement I wrote. Hang tight, I’m going to meet you at your place.”

Chris frowned at the suit laid out on top of your couch after you’d extracted it from its garment bag. Ryujin had brought it, on loan from some unnamed resource, complete with notecards of her prepared statement in the breast pocket. “Why does this also feel like proving everyone right for some reason,” he said uncomfortably.

“What exactly is wrong?” You sighed. Chris fidgeted. He looked out of place in your apartment, his soft black hoodie and worn jeans contrasting starkly with your minimalist and meticulously organized sanctuary. His brows were furrowed with impending panic, but he looked determined.

“I’m nervous,” he bemoaned, “tell it to me again.”

“We met over the summer at a cafe downtown,” you explained impatiently.

“That’s so soon for someone like you to be backing up a pariah like me,” Chris laughed, almost on the verge of breakdown, apparently. He was choking down a milkshake. He’d brought you one too, of course, but when you politely refused he took it as a consolation prize. It was incredible to you that he seemed to be in such good shape for how much food he put down. Or, you realized, maybe a catastrophe of this caliber wasn’t very common for him.

“Put on the suit, Mr. Bang,” you urged, “please?”

“Oh my god, you need to stop calling me that if we’re dating!” Chan nervously laughed again.

“Look, I’ll be just fine, I’ll be able to fix it when we’re in front of people,” you insisted, “but you need to calm down.”

“Calm down? I’m having an entire escape plan thrust upon me and I’m trying to adjust.”

“Well,” you huffed as you found yourself meeting his level, “maybe you wouldn’t need this escape plan if you didn’t take such a lax approach to teaching.”

“Excuse me?” Chris asked, blindsided by your outburst.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what people are saying!” You doubled down in defense, squaring up against him as you impatiently folded your arms.

“Why don’t you tell me, ma’am, what exactly people are saying about me?” Chris stood defiantly, toe to toe with you and daring you to follow through. You took the bait.

“You know exactly what people are saying,” you challenged him, “that you refuse to take the role seriously because it’s easier that way. You give these students too much freedom, and you’re encouraging them to act out. Who needs homework? Who needs textbooks? Who needs seating charts? They call you by your first name and think you’re their best friend, that you’re one of them, only older, just like they wish they were! They live and die by your approval because you seem so cool and you don’t seem like a teacher.”

“Oh, so I don’t seem like a teacher now?” Chris scoffed.

“They certainly don’t respect you like one,” you snapped. A deep pause coursed through you both like a cold breeze before he burst.

“Well you sure as hell don’t respect me like one, so why the hell are you helping me?!” Chris shouted.

“Well,” you mocked, quickly losing grip, “here I was thinking it was the right thing to do!” You heaved out a frustrated sigh, throwing your hands in the air and finally turning away as you couldn’t stand to look at him.

However, you may have glossed over the in-progress milkshake that had been in his hands, now currently all over his hoodie and on the spotless hardwood floor of your apartment.

“Oh, great!” Chris laughed incredulously. “I sure look like I could use the help now, Miss Assistant Superintendent. Guess I’ll put on the stupid suit so I don’t make a bigger fool out of myself at my public execution tonight.”

Your face regrettably heated up as Chris frustratedly tugged his hoodie off over his head, his shirt following right after as he fished the pressed white shirt out from within the suit jacket. He had an admittedly nice figure, his toned torso never being hinted at through his comfy wardrobe. A set of tattooed compass roses on his upper arm caught your attention, and you wished you didn’t find it attractively endearing. “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” he ranted, “no one would ever believe I’d date a stuck-up, uptight, tyrant like you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” you fumed as you turned away, not wanting to get distracted, “except no one would believe I’d ever date an arrogant ingrate like you.”

Chris could be heard pacing behind you as he buttoned the shirt, apparently pausing at your mantle over the fireplace. “I bet you were a nightmare as a student, a real grade-grubber and brown-noser,” he grumbled, now seeming to have found your framed photos of you and your friends at graduation, first from high school and then from undergrad. “I’m going to hang myself with this godawful tie— is this you?”

You rolled your eyes as you walked over and snatched his tie out of his fingers to do it yourself. He’d already deftly changed his pants while you weren’t watching. “Sure, that’s me,” you muttered, “and no, I wasn’t a nightmare, thank you very much.” You paused as you felt a shift in his silence and glanced up at him. For the first time you noticed a subtle cologne on him, a gentle musk that was miserably attractive on him and you just wanted to get this over with even faster. Chris was giving you that indecipherable look again as you fiddled with the stupid necktie. From this close, you could see a cute little dot just under his lip, a telltale spacer that more than likely usually held a lip ring and—

Oh.

Hello, stranger.

Chris was gravely silent as he parked in front of your apartment later that night. The PTA meeting had been a disaster, starting the moment you left to travel back to the high school, where the meetings were held in the main theater. A loaded silence had staked itself between you the whole drive, and neither of you had reviewed Ryujin’s statement whatsoever. Nonetheless, you sat and stood close enough to each other during the meeting to be clear but not obscene in what you both were implying with your proximity, and you were faithfully beside him as he approached the podium. It was difficult to ignore the hushed whispers resounding through the audience. Chris’ brazen confidence was all but gone by now, fully broken as multiple hands immediately shot up to get a word in. Chris had forged ahead, though, even as his hands tried not to tremble around his notes. Ryujin’s statement didn’t mince words, just like her. He read out how his inexperience wrongly led him to take a more casual approach to teaching, how he’d recklessly and misguidedly inspired his students to put too much trust in him. He read out what a struggle this presented for both of you, being faced with accusations of such severity, and wishing to regain the trust of the assembled teachers and parents. The hands stayed in the air, and Johnny moderated question after question and Chris adamantly confirmed again and again and again that he had done nothing except naively neglect to put a firmer stop to all this. He was the one, and not Ryujin, to say that he should have brought the letters to Johnny’s attention and not simply ignored them, hoping the situation would stop on its own. More hands kept raising. Seemingly every parent belonging to a letter on Chris’ door was here wanting personal reassurance and, subsequently, a reason from him that their children were acting out. It felt like a never ending ordeal, a constant string of hurt and confused parents needing comfort. Johnny had no words for Chris when he finally ended the meeting, putting him out of his misery. Nothing else got done on the agenda that night. He only clapped a sympathetic hand to his teacher’s shoulder.

You tapped out what happened in a text message to Ryujin. Her diagnosis was optimistic but tough, and in your continued silence in the car, you suddenly realized you were stopped in front of your apartment. Chris was quiet, zoning out at the wheel until you nudged him.

“Ryujin says we can still do this,” you encouraged him. “Enough of the parents should believe you. We just need to make sure the students and staff do, too…. as well as the board.”

Chris leaned forward, letting his head rest against the steering wheel. “I wish they didn’t have to believe me. They’re probably stressed as hell over this. This whole thing is such shit,” he muttered. “We don’t even like each other.”

“We don’t?”

“What?” Chris sullenly chuckled. “Just because we did ages ago?”

“I mean,” you shrugged, “I remembered that pretty fondly. I thought of that kiss all summer.”

“We kissed?”

Ouch.

You sighed. “Fine then. You’re right. We don’t like each other. You’re cocky and naive and I’m…”

“Uptight?” Chris smirked, but he shut his mouth when you clearly didn’t appreciate the jab. “I’m sorry. I do appreciate everything you’re doing, you know. I just… I’m going through it.”

“I know,” you commiserated.

“What do we do now?”

“There’s a board meeting next Wednesday night,” you explained. “You can accompany me to that, and that’ll take care of them. Until then, we keep up appearances at school, now that we’re exposed.”

“How are we doing that?”

“I’ll figure something out,” you reassured him. “What’ll you do now?”

“Oh, you know,” Chris laughed tiredly, “probably go pick up a taco box and try not to ruin this suit.”

You nodded in understanding as you unbuckled your seatbelt and dug around in your bag for your keys. “No hoodies, okay?”

Chris nodded, watching as you stepped out of the car and fussily smoothed your skirt back down. “Do you need me to walk you up?”

“I can manage,” you grinned softly as you pulled something out of your bag. You handed him the offending note from that morning. “I didn’t do this just because I thought you didn’t do anything. This letter is addressed to a Chris but it appears to actually be a student named Christian S.”

“Oh,” Chris grimaced, “isn’t he Superintendent Simmons’ son? I have him in fourth period. He’s one of the first chairs in Taeil’s concert band. He’s sort of… gross, sometimes, about girls. I can’t say I’m surprised, but I’m still disappointed.”

“You alright?”

“I should’ve done something,” he muttered as he sank back into his seat, still staring at the letter.

“Don’t start with that,” you lightly admonished, “it’s not always easy to know when to interfere.”

“Thank you,” Chris said quietly.

“Of course,” you said with a small smile. “Goodnight.”

Johnny and Doyoung did a double-take as you walked into the music department the following day at lunchtime. It only made sense to you that if Chris was trying to dress up more, you’d match him by dressing down more. Your requisite suit and heels were switched out for a simple blouse with some tailored jeans and flats. That alone was a huge step for you, considering you even refused to dress down for the annual Welcome Back picnic for the district staff every year. You felt uncomfortable despite still looking clean and poised, but leagues more approachable apparently, proven as students’ passing glances lingered on their way to the cafeteria. Johnny’s look was simply one of surprise, but Doyoung’s was nothing but bitterness. Even Chris, as he happened to prop open his classroom door when you walked down the hall, was curious to see you looking so casual and chipper as you strutted up to him with a bundle in your arms. He was surprisingly handsome, wearing a blazer over a simple t-shirt with some slim jeans and sneakers — better, but not quite there. He couldn’t help a small smile as you theatrically revealed what you had brought: his cleaned hoodie and shirt folded and draped over a bag of takeout to split.

“Hungry?” You asked sweetly, but hopefully not overdone. A couple of students walked past, their eyes boring into you. Chris looked unfazed, took the hoodie and shirt from your hands and, with a quick look down the hall at Doyoung and Johnny, beckoned you into the classroom with a nod.

“Starving,” he answered with a grin, and even gave Johnny a cheery wave as he promptly shut the door again behind you. “What are you doing here?” He quietly asked you, the dazzling facade of confidence instantly crumbling. His panicked surprise wasn’t lost on you.

“We need to keep up appearances like I said. It’s Friday, you’re going through a hard time, and you’re eating like you grew another stomach. I brought us something to eat,” you explained, pushing the bag into his hands.

“You—“ Chris looked dumbfounded, eyes darting between you and the food in his hands, “— brought me lunch?”

“Yes? What else was this supposed to be? I’m your girlfriend, for all intents and purposes.” You led Chris back into his own office and helped yourself to a seat. “We also need to brush up on our relationship in case anyone asks.”

“Fine,” Chris nodded as he dug into his food. “Let’s study, then. I’m guessing you went to college right after we met, and I’m sure you taught at least a little before this.”

“Grade schoolers,” you nodded, “it was good but not for me. I never asked about your accent.”

“You did, actually. That first time, so that’s probably why you don’t remember. I grew up in Sydney, moved here before junior year in high school. Do you live by yourself? I didn’t see a roommate or any cats.”

“I live by myself,” you confirmed, “I gave up on roommates around the time I took this job. No time for pets, either. I guess I’m too uptight.” Chris winced as you continued. “Yes, I’m aware of it; I guess I’m just sensitive. Did you find a good place in the area?”

“Yeah,” Chris said thoughtfully, “cute little house. You should probably see it sometime.”

“You bought a house?!”

Chris’ ears reddened. “Yes? Again, it’s little. A couple bedrooms, a couple bathrooms. Lots of work to be done on it, but it’s all mine. Here, look.” You watched, momentarily stunned as he fished his phone out of his pocket and clicked it open. He pulled up a surprisingly adorable photo of Chris in front of a humble little house, holding what you could only assume was his dog you didn’t know he had. “Cute, right? Her name is Berry. You should meet her.”

“I’m so sorry,” you shook your head in advance, “but you could afford a house? What brought you to teaching anyway?”

“Producing was good, but not for me,” Chris meekly bit at his lip, “I always wanted to try teaching what I know, and thankfully your team brought me on while I’m still earning my degree.”

“So one day you just decided to be an educator?” You asked dubiously.

“Didn’t you?” Chris seemed more cagey now, more defensive.

“Sure, but maybe this explains your approach to teaching.”

Chris sighed hard and set his food down. “You know what? I knew you were bringing it back to that. Here I was thinking we were on a little better footing after last night. My approach to teaching came from thinking of what I wanted when I was these kids’ age. I wanted someone to treat me with respect and value my opinion and talk to me like an adult.”

“Right,” you nodded, “but that acceptance clearly looks like an invitation to some students.”

“An invitation to what? The other staff are always saying how closed off their students are, but they’re not like that with me. They’re proactive, they’re independent, they’re thoughtful, they’re excited to be here.”

“What about students who aren’t yours?” You challenged him with your stare. It would’ve looked better in a suit. “Your students are in love with you — some of them literally — and it makes them act out with their other teachers, even students who aren’t yours are citing you as their inspiration. Terrific and capable teachers are being defied simply because they’re not you. Admit this is easier for you than establishing and upholding boundaries.”

Chris listened, but he scoffed nonetheless. “Fine. It’s easier. I’m terrified of these kids but I want them to like me and trust me. But even if I assign them homework and treat them like they’re children, that still won’t solve how the teachers don’t trust me.”

“They will,” you impatiently assured him.

“Even Doyoung?”

“Why do you care?!” You gave a stunned chuckle.

“I mean he punched me in the fucking face yesterday,” Chris shrugged. “Is it true you two dated?”

You gaped at him, stunned. “Why do you care?” You repeated. Chris nonchalantly shrugged. “Are you jealous?” You were provoking him on purpose, but there was no use in pretending you weren’t disgusted with this line of questioning.

“No! We don’t even like each other.” Chris was floundering, now facing his desk more than you. “I’m a naive and arrogant asshole and you’re an uptight ballbuster who sold out, remember?”

“Sold out?” You guffawed, standing up now. “Who the hell do you think you are?! I grew up.”

“Right, well—“ Chris barked as he got up to square off against you. “Did you grow into a stuck-up busybody who is more worried about how she looks than how she’s doing?”

Chris’ ears were burning scarlet as you bristled at his words, but he still walked you to the door as you stormed away. “That was too much. I’m sorry,” he apologized sheepishly before he opened the classroom door into the hall.

“Go fuck yourself, Mr. Bang,” you quietly gritted out, despite your saccharine smile in case anyone was watching. “I’m helping you and then I’m never speaking to you again.”

You were right back in your suit jacket and skirt on Monday, having stewed all weekend over how much more you hated doing this with Chris now. Worse, you hated feeling like he was right. He was shamefully attractive and smart and funny and charming and as much as you hated it — he was right. Somewhere between getting your teaching degree and getting offered your job, you’d become incredibly jaded by the people around you, but not without reason. Even now, the only people who went out of their way to make sure you didn’t feel like you were some child were Ryujin and Yeji… and Chris. Doyoung had, too, which was why you had dated briefly, but now he had joined everyone else in babying you like you were bound to fail. That wasn’t even mentioning the board, made up of all men from old money who mostly seemed to hire you for humor and bragging rights. Even still, this wasn’t even mentioning Superintendent Simmons, who talked to you like he was a lion with a mouse in its paws.

So, sure, you had reasons to be aloof around the people surrounding you, but Chris’s nagging was starting to bother you. Yes, you were leagues more organized and fastidious than you had been growing up, and you even took some solace in sprucing up your space, but you also had to recognize you were quick to do that instead of facing problems at times. It was easy to organize the kitchen for the fourth time or clean out your closet, but it wasn’t always easy to deal with adult problems. You took great pride in your appearances, because looking capable helped you feel capable, but did that mean you were? It was difficult to say, almost as difficult as deciphering Yeji’s bemused look on your way into the office on Monday.

A gorgeous bouquet of flowers was sitting on your desk. You curiously walked over, plucking the small envelope from within the buds and gently prying it open.

Hello Stranger,

1. Are these still your favorite color? You mentioned it years ago so I could be wrong.

2. I’m sorry about Friday again. I know I’m a hot-head and what I did was terrible. You’re not stuck-up, and you’re not a tyrant. When I think back to that summer, I thought we were on the same page, and now you make it look so easy while I feel like I’m completely lost and failing the whole time. I appreciate you helping me. Thank you.

A stiff sigh fell from your lips as you looked at the note in your hands, with Chris’ dumb, nice handwriting giving you a feeling you couldn’t quite place. You quickly paged Ryujin and Yeji into your office. Once both girls were sat waiting for you, it was time for the dreaded question.

“What do people think of me?”

Both girls looked like they’d seen their lives flash before their eyes as you sat at your desk and did some quick typing. When you showed them your screen, they both gasped. There was you, all acne and unfortunate appearance choices at your high school graduation. “It’s not a loaded question,” you promised, “think of it more as a confirmation. I think I’m trying too hard to hide this person.” You gave the girl in the photo a sympathetic look. She was bright, funny, and brimming with potential — even you could see that.

Yeji surprisingly sighed out her answer first. “The other office staff were still whispering about you when you hired me. They said you just wanted to hire other young women to look progressive.”

All three of you rolled your eyes at the sentiment before Ryujin piped up. “The board does like you… because they think you’ll do their bidding. They think you’re ruthless. The teachers think you have an iron fist. The Superintendent? Well, you know how he feels.”

A sour grimace pulled at your lips. “Why don’t I like any of that?”

“Is it because it’s not what she would want?” Yeji thoughtfully asked you as she nodded in the direction of the photo on your computer screen. You thought back to what Chris had said, about wanting to be the person he wanted around at that age. It was such a trip, thinking of what that girl would do if she saw you now. She’d give you a belligerent sneer and close herself off from you because you were a cold witch and you knew it. The girls watched as your shoulders softened, sinking into your chair as you pulled out your phone and found Chris’ number that Yeji had fetched for you.

>>Thanks for the flowers. I’ll be by tomorrow so we can try this all again before the board meeting dinner on Wednesday.

There were decidedly less stares as you walked down the halls of the high school again the next day when the lunch period began. You saw Johnny try to catch your attention out of the corner of your eye, but you simply waved as you passed his office. You had a sneaking suspicion it was about your outfit. As opposed to Friday’s jeans, you felt much more comfortable being more comfortable as opposed to someone you thought you should be. The pencil skirt remained, only now in a cozier dark pallet and much comfier material. The biggest changes were pairing the skirt with a soft flannel shirt and a smart pair of suede oxfords. You felt exposed in how dressed down you were again, but Chris’ surprised smile as you stood in the doorway of his classroom reassured you. He looked good, his hair moderately styled back and wearing another smart blazer over another old band tee. You could see he was even wearing chinos today, still managing to coordinate them with some worn boots not unlike the pair you used to own all those years ago. It was a good look, one that made you a bit more bashful than you had been already.

“Hello, stranger,” you cheekily greeted from the doorway.

“Hey,” he smiled back, motioning for you to come in.

“Hungry?” You asked, fishing a bag out of your purse and placing it in his hands. He peered inside as you set your purse on his desk.

“Are these—?”

“I felt so awful this weekend,” you sighed as you leaned against his desk, still unable to keep from straightening stacks of his papers, “and especially after yesterday. I couldn’t think straight so I cleaned my apartment and made you some cookies.”

“You made me cookies?” He asked incredulously before taking a bite. You could’ve sworn his eyes actually sparkled for a moment. “Alright, these are so good there’s no way you still can’t think straight.”

“You’re right,” you nodded. “Just like you were already right, about almost everything. But you left one detail out.”

“What’s that?” Chris grinned around a mouthful of cookie.

“You make it look pretty easy yourself,” you smiled softly. Chris raised an eyebrow.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I know you do,” you laughed, “but it’s true! You’ve already done just fine in an industry of your choosing and impulsively decided to become an educator? And you just happen to be financially smart enough to have a house already? It’s reckless but it’s admirable.”

Chris choked on the last of his cookie, his dark hair falling out of place as he composed himself. “I, er, should be up front about that.”

“About what?”

“About deciding to change directions,” Chris sighed. “I had a giant proposal on my hands. I could have had my own company and my own team, but it was a huge investment entirely depending on me and my success. I froze up. I had enough. It felt way too big. I got rid of my fancy apartment, I got rid of my suits and watches, and I just moved.” A sigh fell from Chris’ lips as he folded his arms. He couldn’t meet your imploring stare. “I wish I could do what you do,” he continued. “I want to march headfirst into every single thing no matter what people think of me.”

A surprised laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You covered your mouth as your face heated up. “I’m terrified,” you explained. “Just like you were scared to take that chance, just like you and most of us are reasonably scared of these kids — I’m terrified. I’ve worn suits to attend sports events and picnics with the staff from how terrified I am of them.”

“Well, you look really good today,” Chris beamed at you, but the distracted nuance of his gaze didn’t let it last long. You playfully sat back on his desk, trying to keep his mood up.

“I feel good today.”

“I lied, by the way,” Chris sheepishly blurted. “I know we kissed that night. I thought about it all the time. I didn’t go out with anyone for almost a whole year, I thought about it so much. If you knew I still remembered, I would be too tempted to get distracted. But I’m getting distracted anyway, so I thought you should know. You look really good today.”

A flattered smile pulled at your lips as you reached for Chris’ hand where it rested on the desk. His hand was warm and gentle in yours and he looked up at you, silently gauging your look to see if it was alright to lean up more into your space… when your phone buzzed with a message. It was Johnny.

>I was trying to get your attention when you came in. Simmons is here TOURING THE MUSIC DEPARTMENT. Get that time bomb out of there NOW.

But it was far too late. Superintendent Simmons could be heard talking to Doyoung in the hallway. Chris watched curiously as you whirled around just in time to catch them appearing in the open doorway.

“Yes, Mr. Kim, I’d love to hear your plans for the year but— ah, hello, dear!”

You winced at the use of the word “dear” but fought it back. “Superintendent,” you nodded cordially, “what’re you doing here?”

“I wanted to take a stroll through the department,” the older man coolly insisted, his hands in the pockets of his suit. “I also thought I could finally meet young Christopher here since I wasn’t sure if he was accompanying you to the meeting tomorrow.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Your question was stated friendly enough, even as you subtly waved a calming hand back to Chris to keep him back.

The Superintendent shrugged. “You know how it is, dear. My son takes his class but I haven’t even met the man before. We’re certainly not exempt from being aware of current goings-on and I wanted to see who all the fuss was about.”

“Do I live up to your expectation?” Chris suddenly asked, unmistakably indignant as he came forward.

“Seeing as my expectations were of a naive, insubordinate, carpe-diem-prescribing kid,” Simmons smirked, “then yes.”

“Excuse me, Superintendent,” you huffed sharply, “but I do not appreciate you speaking to Mr. Bang that way, first as one of my staff members and second as my partner.”

“Oh-ho!” Mr. Simmons threw his head back with a laugh. “Your partner? How unbecoming of you, dear. Now, I would normally do the professional courtesy of discussing this in private, but as you always deem it appropriate to throw a fit, I’ll do it here— you know we need to terminate Mr. Bang. Too much liability.”

A wildfire ignited behind your eyes before you quickly jumped into action. If you had a moment to spare, you would’ve considered the possible consequences. “Mr. Simmons,” you spat, “you know for a fact there are liabilities just as big, if not bigger, right under your nose, just like I know for a fact Mr. Bang is in possession of a confiscated note containing quite the insinuation that your son Christian is having a very close and troubling relationship with one of Mr. Kim’s most promising freshmen.”

You hazarded a look behind you and Chris returned it, petrified. It was a low, risky blow, but an apparently fair one as Mr. Simmons’ eyes grew wide. He stubbornly shook his head. “Christian is a smart boy who is studying hard and has no time—“

“—Christian turned 18 over the summer and wants to have as much fun as he can in high school before he goes to college,” Chris finally spoke up. “He’s said as much in class, and if I recall correctly, that girl is 14. I can show you the letter. He met her at a party that she doesn’t remember but all she knows is she is woefully in love with him. As your son’s teacher I’m a mandated reporter if I think this is an unsafe situation for either of them.”

“You want to play executioner with a man you admitted you just met? Fine,” you warned. “But just like your gossip, you’re not exempt from this, either.”

At that moment, Doyoung sheepishly poked his head into the open doorway, politely coughing to get the attention of Mr. Simmons, who was now sputtering until his face had turned red. “Mr. Superintendent,” Doyoung timidly spoke up, “perhaps you would like to come discuss those plans—“

“Fine time for you to decide to act like a teacher,” Simmons growled towards Chris, before he thrust a fat finger into your chest. “This isn’t done, dear. He’s on thin ice, and now you are, too. Let’s see how long it can hold both of you.” Superintendent Simmons turned on his heel, marching out the door past Doyoung and towards his classroom. Doyoung leaned into the room, giving you both a look that remarkably appeared to be sympathetic support. “Are you alright?” He quietly asked.

You nodded shallowly, still a bit stunned. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Kim.” Chris was seemingly dazed as you turned to face him. “Mr. Bang, can I see you in your office?”

Chris barely nodded himself, having gone pale during your confrontation, and Doyoung silently wished you well before closing the door behind him and trotting down the hall after the older man. You clutched onto Chris’ sleeve and pulled him into his office, guiding him in before you quietly closed the door.

You realized you were breathing heavily, chest rising and falling hard with adrenaline as you looked behind you to check on Chris. He was staring back at you, almost shocked, even as you gently took his hand again to make sure he was alright. His fingers had turned clammy where they squeezed yours, and you shared a brief silence, recovering and staring at each other until he finally spoke up.

“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”

“Yes, Mr. Bang,” you nodded, leaning back against the door and pulling him a little closer. You felt a bit lightheaded. “I wanted you to finish your thought from before we were rudely interrupted.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded dutifully, now cutting right to it as he followed your hand in his to press against you where you leaned against the door. His lips hesitated a mere breath away before he finally kissed you, deep and seemingly driven by every kiss he’d wanted to give you since that night years ago. You could’ve sworn you tasted cotton candy and his lip ring again, maybe even smell evergreen trees if you weren’t mistaken by his cologne. It was electric, re-energizing enough that Chris seemed to finally realize what just happened outside in his classroom.

“Holy shit,” Chris gasped like he just came up for air. “Did I just threaten the—“

Chris’ frantic recollection persisted even as you continued to kiss him. “Did you just warn the superintendent that he is better off tending to matters closer to home in more need of his attention? Yes.”

“Holy shit, I’m going to be fired,” Chris lamented, but even still he let his lips run over your jaw, falling into you and pressing you into the door.

“No, you’re not,” you shook your head as you cupped his face in your hands to make him look at you for a moment. “He would’ve said so. He knows this is bad and it’s going to be a pain to deal with.”

“Wait, you don’t want me to—“

“Report? You just said you should. Honestly, Mr. Kim probably would’ve already if he read the letter more closely in the first place.” You held his gaze as you led his hands around your waist and he quickly got the hint, wrapping around you and diving back into you. “Am I still a ballbuster?” You breathlessly chuckled.

He nodded heartily as he nibbled and kissed your neck. “I love it.” Chris hesitated as he pulled away from your throat, almost asking permission as he kissed you hard against the door, his tongue hot and needy against yours as he almost knocked the breath out of you.

“Mr. Bang—“ you gasped, and you felt him shiver in the cutest way. He seemed emboldened to let his hands get a little braver, following your hint when you led them to the waistband of your skirt, and he fumbled with your shirt as he untucked it and began unbuttoning it. It was a bizarre sensation, feeling so vulnerable to someone you hadn’t known long but had been thinking of for years, and maybe you weren’t the only one. Chris’ breath seemed to catch in his throat as he leaned back enough to see, his hungry eyes falling on you as he pulled open your shirt and became impatient for more. You gasped again as he pushed you back against the door, his strong hands now tenderly roaming down your chest and groping your breasts as he kissed you before he came back to the waist of your skirt again. His confidence seemed to be returning in full now as his hands firmly ran down your thighs to the hem of your skirt, his lips trailing down your chest and nuzzling your cleavage as he gingerly lifted it. Another gasp caught in your lungs as his fingertips wandered up your legs and paused, his trepidation even spreading to the extent that he seemed hesitant to kiss you again. You reached up to gently cup his face, his cheek warm against your palm as you tried to see what could possibly be wrong in this moment. Out there, sure, that was all understandable, but in this tiny office there was no reason for anything to be wrong.

“Mr.—“ you began softly, instantly cutting yourself off as you realized. Oh. “Chris,” you began, more confidently now, “are you alright?”

He sighed out a small laugh before he finally kissed you again. “I am. I just missed you, is all. I’ve been thinking about you. It’s still hard to believe any of this is happening, so Mr. Bang is going to be fine for my students but I’d much prefer it if you and I are more personal than that.”

“I can do that,” you grinned, that stunted gasp from earlier finally coming back and completing as Chris finally let himself caress you under your skirt, getting as personal as you both were yearning for. His fingertips were firm but slow, purposeful as they teased the hem of your panties but continued over them to feel you between your legs, making you so aware of your heat against his hand. He smirked as you shivered at his touch, and you felt your face heat up. “Sorry,” you laughed breathlessly, “it’s been a while.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Chris assured you, finally gasping himself as you regained your mental footing and let your hand drop, trailing down his chest to get an exploratory grip on his growing erection in his pants before you brought him back to kiss you again. His muffled sighs and moans grew feverish as you teased him through his clothes, up to the moment he pressed your hips back against the closed door. You watched curiously as Chris’ lips ghosted down your chest and stomach until he was on his knees for you, dangerously close to nuzzling your damp heat until you let yourself subtly roll your hips towards his mouth. He took the cue to instantly pull the thin fabric aside, just enough that he could dip his tongue into your folds.

Chris couldn’t take his eyes off you as he lapped you up, one hand holding your panties aside and the other clutching onto your bared thigh as you squirmed and mewled for him. Your fingers stroked back through his hair as he held you tight and hungrily licked until he just happened to hit the perfect spot. That, of course, was when he stopped, leaning away and his shiny lips pulled into a mischievous smirk. “I need you so bad,” he drawled, “I’m getting impatient.”

“You?” You giggled sarcastically. “Impatient? Impossible.”

Nevertheless, Chris rocked back onto his feet and pulled you over to his desk before he sat you on top of it, gently pulling your knees apart to step between them. “Are you sure?”

“Definitely,” you nodded. “Do it.”

Chris grinned shyly as he unbuckled his belt and brought his pants down enough to reveal his hard cock, groaning as you brazenly grabbed his length and pumped it a few times in your hand before guiding him into you. You both gasped in tandem now as you were stretched open, and your legs quickly found purchase around his hips as he kissed you again, the faintest taste and scent of your wetness still on his lips. He filled you out unexpectedly, prodding deep into you in this angle and his girth just wide enough at the base to make you whimper each time he bottomed out.

“God, this is so good,” Chris groaned against your lips, “you’re so good. I’ve thought of this so many times.” His groans and whispered curses were hot in your ear as he fucked you on the desk, and you were both lost in this endless moment while you both sounded like you were steadily climbing your respective peaks until you noticed his prolonged smirk.

“What’s so funny?” You jokingly accused.

“Nothing,” Chris shook his head with a breathless smile, “I’m just surprised. I honestly expected you to be a little more in charge.”

“Oh, am I not as dominant as you thought?” You pouted for effect, seeming to only convince him for a second before you kicked him back into his chair anyhow and willingly taking his bait. He watched, his hands clutching the armrests with intrepid excitement as you dropped onto his lap. “Is this more what you had in mind?”

“Actually, yeah,” Chris nodded hungrily as you raised your hips, just enough to pull your panties to the side and grind your soaked pussy against the head of his cock. You both sighed in pleasure at the sensation as you took your sweet time dipping his length into you just the slightest bit, your lips parted to barely kiss him the whole time you teased yourself against him. He actually waited patiently as you barely rolled your hips lower into him, even as he began to get impatient again. “Heh, hey,” Chris laughed under his breath, “aren’t you gonna—“

“Whatever happened to your lip ring?” You asked him, teasingly oblivious to his question.

“My wha— oh, that?” Chris was almost delirious trying to rock his hips up into you. “Don’t laugh, but I didn’t think it looked very professional when I first interviewed. I already wasn’t wearing it out to events and meetings, so not wearing it to school made sense.”

“I’m not going to laugh,” you smirked as you playfully pretended you were about to kiss him over and over, your lips ghosting over his own time and time again as his cock surreptitiously tried to work deeper into you, “but that’s ridiculously funny. You’re literally still wearing your earrings, and don’t try telling me that’s different. Weren’t you waiting for something, by the way?”

“Was I waiting—? Come on, aren’t you going to…?”

“Aren’t I going to what?” You asked innocently. Chris’ head lolled back against the head of his chair in exasperation.

“Aren’t you going to fuck me?” His question was quiet, almost as if he were shy to be saying it out loud, but he asked it nevertheless.

“Sure,” you shrugged casually, “are you going to wear that lip ring for me sometime? I want to see if it has the same effect.”

“Anything, if you’re that easy,” Chris quipped, even as he was unable to hide the excited tremble in his voice.

“I’m easy?” You asked, eyebrows raised as you finally sank deep onto Chris’ erection and kissed him again. His muffled groan was thick, laced with satisfaction as you began to ride him in earnest. The hot moans falling from his lips echoed your own impassioned whimpers, only growing more feverish as you angled your hips down, enabling yourself to grind your clit down against his lap. By now you were so lost in it that were thoroughly soaked through your panties you were still wearing.

“Are you sure you’re not easy?” Chris chuckled exhaustedly, even as he nuzzled against your heaving cleavage and gripped tight onto your hips. It was his turn to whimper as you desperately ran your fingers through his hair to clutch onto him as you felt your peak coming fast. Chris must’ve not been far behind, considering the way he sweetly groaned your name against your skin, as if to personally coax out your orgasm.

The air between you was hot, static, and the way Chris held you was surprisingly affectionate. Despite how much ire and sarcasm had been slung between you previously, now you were both rendered speechless, your staccato breaths falling heavy in the spaces between your sighs and moans. Giving in to Chris didn’t feel like giving up like you had been afraid of for some reason. Reality seemed to be that he may even be quite fond of you, maybe even more than you’d previously imagined, despite how much you did or didn’t change. He obviously wanted to do more than kiss you, and now it seemed he wanted to do more than just fuck you. Chris’ fingertips dug into your hips as he thrust up against you, and you suddenly caught yourself meeting his gaze. The feeling was mutual, apparently, the blown out arousal in his eyes probably echoing your own impending orgasm slowly rising up your spine and making your head spin. He seemed to catch this as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight and pressing his lips to your throat as he pistoned his hard length deep inside you, the head dragging along your sensitive walls and daring you to cum.

So you finally did. It hit you hard, giving you barely a moment’s notice for you to grab onto Chris, wrapping your arms around his neck as your core shuddered, radiating out to your quaking thighs and trembling fingers as your heightened moans hit a fever pitch. This, of course, was the final straw for Chris, his orgasm not far behind yours as he tensed up, palms pushing flat against the small of your back as he rutted into you with a broken groan. He uttered a sharp curse under his breath, eyes squeezed shut with the force of his own climax spilling into you as you finished riding out your own on his lap.

It felt like an eternity, wrapped around each other, faces buried in each other’s shoulders as you both fought for breath and you finally realized how cramped it was straddling Chris in his desk chair, the armrests uncomfortably digging into your legs. As if to mitigate this silent complaint you had, Chris gently began to ease you off of him as he simultaneously pulled you to him for a tiredly satisfied kiss. The bright lights in your eyes finally dulled and the imaginary cotton in your ears finally fell out, letting the sound return to normal. You could hear the low drone of the air conditioner, the muted hum of the hard drive in Chris’ laptop, the clatter of the classroom doorknob outside turning open—

Chris heard it, too, with how he bolted upright with you in his lap. You both stared at the door of his office in terror; this was no way for the assistant superintendent to be found, in post-orgasmic bliss with her legs wrapped around a teacher who was still in a heap of trouble, and you had no chance of escape. Footsteps could be heard approaching before Chris quickly pushed at your retreating knees, apparently on the same page as you when he helped you slide off his lap and under his desk. You scrambled forward to grab at his chair and wheel him close as he desperately stuffed himself back in his pants and tried to make himself presentable. A knock came at the door and Chris quickly wiped the accumulated perspiration off his brow.

“Come in—!“ he coughed, trying to sound chipper and casual, and as if he didn’t just orgasm with you barely two minutes prior. He gave you one crazed look to make sure you were alright shoved under the desk before the door to his office gingerly opened.

“Hey—“

Doyoung?

“Mr. Kim!” Chris sat up a little straighter, inadvertently kicking you in your shin in the process and nearly making you curse out loud. You reflexively punched him in the knee, making him jump as he tried to appear natural. “Is everything alright?”

“What, with me? I’m fine. It’s just...” Doyoung sighed, apparently not moving from where he awkwardly stood in the doorway of the tiny office. “Was it true, what you said about the superintendent’s son?”

“It was,” Chris said solemnly. “Would you like to see the letter again?” His question was genuine, any ill feelings towards the other teacher seeming to have dissipated by now. Your ears perked up as Chris leaned forward. You could hear papers shuffled overhead. He still had it? You could hear a piece of paper being handed to Doyoung, whose sigh only multiplied.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured, “that’s so…”

“I know,” Chris commiserated. “Will Samantha—“

“I’ll talk to Sam,” Doyoung resolved, “but first, about the other day, I’m sorry about—“

“Mr. Kim, you don’t have to apologize,” Chris insisted, “tensions were high, you were upset, and you were protecting your student. If you’d like to help me report this I’d appreciate that. You’re a good teacher.”

“So are you, Mr. Bang,” Doyoung conceded sheepishly. “Maybe you can join me in the teacher’s lounge for lunch tomorrow.”

“I’d like that.”

You could hear the smooth heel of Doyoung’s oxford turn to leave and Chris backed up from the desk. The sigh of relief you both let out revealed that you had apparently been holding your breath. He slumped back in the chair before leaning forward to offer you an assisting hand.

“Oh, one more thing—“

Chris snapped upright in his chair, accidentally kicking you again before his knees knocked into the top of his desk. He grinned through it as he attempted to look nonchalant again. “Yeah?”

“So,” Doyoung began stiffly, “you and her are, like… a thing?”

“Er,” Chris floundered for a second. “Yes. Why?”

“Why? Oh, I mean, it’s nothing,” Doyoung fumbled, “I meant, I guess, is it serious?”

Chris’ Adam’s apple could barely be seen bobbing with his sudden gulp from your vantage point, and you didn’t blame him. Serious? It wasn’t a stretch to imagine his ears turning beet red again. Your thighs were beginning to get sore where you were folded under the desk. “No! I mean, not yet,” Chris said, his stammer matching Doyoung’s now. “I want it to be, though. I really like her. Why?”

Your heart thudded against your ribs. You felt like such a sucker, but why did you also feel so smitten?

“No reason,” Doyoung laughed politely. “I’m happy for you. For both of you. She looks different with you, you know? You look good together. See you later.”

The door finally clicked closed and you both waited for the classroom door to do the same before it was Chris’ turn to let out the breath he’d been holding. He sighed heavily, melting into his chair before sliding back. His gentle hand reached down to help you out from under the desk. You held his hand, his fingers warm in yours as he met your gaze. “Hello, stranger,” he grinned, “did you have fun under the desk?” Chris fussed with your clothes, helping smooth your skirt back out and buttoning your blouse back up before he realized you were staring at him. He suddenly looked concerned, sitting up as he tried to make sense of your expression. “What? Is everything alright?”

“You want this to be serious?”

Chris almost flinched as he defensively tried to figure out your tone. He settled for getting back up from his chair and squaring up against you once again, arms folded matter-of-factly like he anticipated a confrontation. “You know what? I do.”

“This isn’t even real, Chris,” you smirked, flattered by his sincerity. “We don’t even like each other, remember?”

He let out an exasperated laugh. “Holy shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Go ahead, then, tell me how we aren’t real.”

“Well,” you smiled, “you haven’t asked me out, for one thing.”

It seemed Chris finally caught up to your game. “Fine,” he sarcastically scoffed. “Would you like to go out with me some time?”

“Sure,” you playfully shrugged with a smile. “How about now? Are you hungry?”

Chris was amused as he pulled you close into his arms. “You know what? I’m actually not.”

#stray kids smut #bang chan smut #kwritersworldnet #kprosenet #bang chan x reader #bang chan breakdown

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bbugyu · 4 years

Text

in your dreams + lee seokmin

your lifetime best friend visits you in a less than pg dream.

wc.7413 | fluff, mentions of sex, potty mouths across the board, hs/friends to lovers au, fem reader

i finally am posting a fic about one of my ults haha! this is also a recycled/reworked fic from my old blog so if you've read something similar to this before no you haven't <3

Mornings were never your strong suit. You always hit snooze as many times as possible, rushed to get your uniform on and fix your hair, then ran out the door with a piece of toast. You knew you’d feel less tired if you just woke up at a decent time, had a proper meal, and got ready like a real human being, but staying in bed felt so much better for those few luxurious moments. There was no stopping your bed bug habits, especially after being accepted into university. Suddenly, getting to school on time was the last thing on your mind when you were swimming under your covers.

You always knew you would make it when you caught up to Seokmin. He lived a block up from you, and he always turned up for class exactly three minutes early. If you saw him, you knew you’d be okay.

Today, he was much further ahead of you than he normally was. So, you sprinted past his house, earbuds in and chewing on your breakfast that you hadn't even managed to toast, hoping you would see his familiar form when you turned the corner a couple blocks down.

Sure enough, as you skidded around the corner, you spotted him at the end of the street. You let out a groan, already winded, before shoving the rest of your bread in your mouth and running towards him. You flew past him and pulled out the earbuds when you were a few yards ahead, bent over with your hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. He laughed as he caught up to you.

“You’re later than usual.”

You wiped your nose on the back of your hand. “Really? I hadn't noticed.” You fell into stride next to him, still breathing heavily while you straightened out your skirt. “I swear if we're running in gym today, I’m going to fake a migraine.”

He watched you pull your ponytail tighter. “Did you run the entire way?”

When you nodded, he got a plastic water bottle out of his bag and handed it to you. “Oh, god, you’re the best,” you said, drinking from it. “Water tastes so good.”

Seokmin laughed as you chugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. “That means you're dehydrated.”

“I’ll buy you another bottle when we get there,” you said after you drained the one he gave you. “Thanks.”

“You should’ve tried for the track team this year,” he said teasingly, nudging you with his elbow.

You laughed. “I’d only do well if you’re at the finish line, yelling at me that I’ll be late.”

“I would have done it, but you better break some school records if I’m doing that much work.”

You liked Seokmin. Your mothers were good friends, forcing the two of you to play together while they talked when you were barely potty trained. Lucky for them, you got along well, and lucky for you, you ended up in the same class all the way through elementary school. You had been worried when you entered high school that he would grow out of having “girl friends,” as many of the guys did, but he never stopped hanging out with you. He continued to walk home with you, at least as far as his house. He still helped you with your homework, even when he was just as confused about the mathematics problem. He kept the promise he made you when you were little tots.

“Seokminnie,” you had said, tiny hands covered in markings from your colored pens. “Can we be best friends forever?”

He had given you the biggest smile his six-year-old face could manage. “Yes! Best friends forever.”

You walked into the classroom and put the bottle of water you had just purchased on Seokmin’s desk, letting out a “thanks again” as you passed. He saluted you as you walked to your seat, then went back to his conversation with his friends. You could hear them teasing him as you put your bag down.

As the two of you grew older, you gained more friends of the same sex. It didn’t stop you from calling Seokmin your best friend, but it seemed natural to have a different group to hang out with at school, one you could go to the bathroom and fawn over boys with. However, whenever the two of you interracted within eyeshot of any of them, they seemed to insinuate that the two of you should be something more than friends.

“You know who’s handsome?” Haseul said once. “Seokmin.”

Sooyoung giggled. “Watch out, somebody already has dibs.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop it. We’ve been friends since diapers.”

“How romantic,” Haseul swooned. “Childhood friends turned lovers!”

You threw your pencil at her, and she laughed as she deflected it. "Guys and girls can be friends, you know!"

From what you could tell, Seokmin’s friends did the same to him, teasing him endlessly about his girlfriend, even though you had spent plenty of time with them by proxy.

“You look like hell,” Sooyoung said as you sat down in your usual seat behind hers. “Late again?”

You laughed, tucking a loose hair behind your ear. “Thanks. Yeah, I had to run to catch up today.”

“Thank god for your oppa, huh?”

“Ugh, don’t call him that,” you said, covering a yawn.

“Ah,” Haseul exhaled to your right, straightening out her notebook. “Is ‘jagiya’ better, then?”

You hit her shoulder and she yelped, making Sooyoung laugh. They started talking about something else and you stole a peek over to Seokmin’s desk. He had his face buried in a hand, being prodded by his friends. His eyes opened and he noticed you. You sneakily pointed a finger gun under your chin and he stifled a laugh, which set off his friends again when they realized he was looking in your direction. You would have to apologize later for triggering his torment

When classes ended, you found Seokmin waiting for you by the school gate. Sooyoung cooed at the two of you from a distance, making you roll your eyes as you straightened the straps of your bookbag.

“They’re relentless,” you said.

Seokmin groaned, throwing his head back in agreement. “Has it been especially bad recently for you, too?”

“It's springtime,” you laughed. “They want to watch a pretty romance blossom with the flowers.”

“Someone should tell them to stop watching so many dramas.”

You ended up at his house, reading a webcomic on your phone while he played a computer game. Afternoons were often spent like this. You were sprawled out on his bed, mindlessly crunching on a bag of chips, when he suddenly let out an expletive and dropped the controller on his desk.

You looked up, then read out the red text that was splattered across the dark screen. “You died.”

He spun in his chair. “Yeah.” He pulled the chair towards you and stole the bag, shoving a handful of Fritos into his mouth. “Whatcha reading?”

You looked at your phone. “Slice of life romance. It’s cute, I like the art style.”

He nodded, chewing slowly. He was obviously thinking of something else, even as he was staring at you, but you didn’t blame him for having other things on his mind.

When you looked up at him again, he suddenly dropped the bag by your side and turned back to his computer, scooting his chair as he did. You tucked your hand into the bag of chips and went back to your comic. You ended up going home for dinner, messaging Seokmin when you made it back to your house.

You found yourself in his room again that night, this time the details warped. You spent so much time with Seokmin, it wasn't uncommon for him to appear in your dreams, but this context was entirely new for you.

He crowded you, filling your personal space, his fingertips tracing lace patterns on your bare shoulders. A hand found its way to the back of your neck, tipping your head to let him place delicate kisses on your lips that left you breathless. Every time his mouth found yours, a shock of electricity ran down your spine, the tingling settling in your core. He caressed you, held you, laid you out on his bed. Your understanding of the situation was blurred by the dreamscape, but you liked it. In this reality, you liked him. And you liked what he was doing to you. You even liked it when his thumbs grazed over the peaks of your bare breasts, when he sucked bruises onto your neck, when you felt the pressure of his erection filling you.

He muttered your name into your lips. “I love you.

Your legs were wrapped around him, hands desperately pulling him close. You gasped. “God, I love you, too.”

You woke up suddenly, sitting up in bed with your heart pounding. It took you a moment to recognize the sound of your alarm clock, and you hurriedly shut it off. You were sweating. You kicked off your covers and swung your legs over the edge of your bed, staring down at your hands.

Was that a wet dream?

You felt your already hot face turn red. Not only was it a wet dream, but it was about Seokmin. An involuntary shiver ran up your body, remembering the torturous detail that your imagination had held you hostage for.

Unsure of what to do with yourself, you rushed to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face. The feeling of his hands ghosted up your torso, and you stomped your feet slightly in an attempt to ward off the strange sensation.

It was just a dream, you told yourself. But... it had felt so real.

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you got ready for school. You spent a long time staring at yourself in the mirror, fixing and re-fixing your half up-do. You couldn’t remember the last time you had this much time to get ready. The time felt empty, somehow. Your mother saw that you were awake and excitedly fried an egg to put over rice for you. The metal spoon lingered in your mouth as you stared into space.

“I love you,” he had said. His voice had been low, gravelly, a tone you had never heard before. You shuddered.

“Are you okay?”

You snapped to attention, looking up to your mother. “What?”

She pouted. “You look feverish.”

“Ah,” you felt your cheek. It was hot. “I’m fine.”

“Be careful of hay fever,” she said, clearing her own place at the table. “Your father has bad seasonal allergies, too.”

As you left the house, you realized that you would have to walk right past Seokmin’s. Panic stricken, you wondered if you should start walking faster to make it past and avoid him, or if he had already left. You checked the time on your phone, realizing that he would probably be leaving soon.

Your legs moved as fast as they could without running. If you made it past his house before he left, you wouldn’t have to face him until you had more time to process. But, as you were about to pass, the front door opened.

“Ah!” Seokmin waved to you. “You’re early.”

Externally, you smiled and waved. Internally, you collapsed into yourself.

“Your hair looks nice,” he said, patting your head. “Did you actually wake up properly today?”

You nodded, trying not to wince at his touch. “For the first time ever, I didn’t want to go back to sleep when my alarm went off.”

“Wow,” he laughed as you walked beside him. “I’m impressed.”

You had never seen Seokmin as anything but a brother. Your best friend. Someone you had been close with since childhood. Now, you looked over to him and couldn’t help but see his naked body hovering over yours. Your heart raced as you stared at your feet, all while he told you about the complex lore of the game he had been playing the day before.

It was unbearable.

Your friends would be no help. You knew better than to confide in them - they had already been so convinced that the two of you should hook up, if you said anything that hinted at some subconscious attraction you might have towards Seokmin, they would never let you live it down. You spent the entire day avoiding him, thinking that if you allowed yourself time to forget the dream, things would go back to normal. But when you saw him with his friends by the school gate at the end of the day, your stomach flipped in your gut and you felt your pulse quicken. You thought about walking past them, blending in with Sooyoung and Haseul, hoping he would be distracted with their conversation, but you had no such luck.

“Hey!” Seokmin waved you over. “The guys wanted to get some food, you in?”

“Uh,” you looked over to your friends for help. They stared back at you.

Mingyu spoke up. “You two are welcome, too, obviously.”

“Sure,” Sooyoung said. “It’s Friday, why not.”

Haseul nodded, and you were dragged along with them to a small restaurant a few blocks down. This had happened a few times before, where the two of your friend groups went out together. The six of you crowded around a table, everyone hungrily picking at the side dishes while you waited for the stew to boil in the center of the table. After getting a consensus from the table, Mingyu got the attention of a waitress.

“Unnie! Could we please get some ramen noodles, also?”

“And more kimchi,” Seokmin muttered, shoving a scoop of rice in his mouth.

“And more kimchi,” Mingyu repeated. “Thank you!”

Sooyoung laughed. “You guys sure like to eat well.”

“We’re growing boys,” Seokmin said.

The dried noodles got added to the stew, and you took it upon yourself to break it up as it boiled, mixing it in with the army stew. Mingyu was the first to steal some of the cooked noodles, slurping them down and grabbing bits of meat from the stew as he chewed.

“Oh, it tastes really good,” he said, leaning back. “It never tastes this good when it’s just us guys.”

Haseul laughed as she took a spoonful of the broth. “It can sense your fear.”

“Hey,” Seokmin nudged you with his elbow, sticking a folded bit of meat and kimchi in your face with his chopsticks. “Eat up.”

This was a normal gesture, you tried to remind yourself. This was something he did all the time when you went out to eat. You always distracted yourself so much with cooking the food, you hardly ate anything, and Seokmin always made sure you enjoyed the meal with everyone else. But the action felt strangely intimate today, and your leg bobbed nervously as you chewed. It reminded you of the electricity you had felt when he touched you.

In your dream, you reminded yourself. When he touched you in your dream.

“The three of us will split the bill,” Minghao said when all the food had all been devoured.

“Eh?” Sooyoung looked at you, then back to the boy across from her. “We can pay for ourselves.”

“No no no,” Seokmin insisted. “We’ve already discussed it. We invited you three out, so we’re paying.”

“Wow, what gentlemen,” Haseul giggled. “Thanks for the food!”

You and Sooyoung repeated the thanks, the boys saying that it was no big deal. The three pooled their money to cover check, then met you girls outside the restaurant.

“I should study for that quiz on Monday,” you said when the conversation started to die down.

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Mingyu groaned. “I don’t want to think about school all weekend.”

Haseul laughed. “Good luck failing, then.”

You threw up a peace sign, backing up towards the road that led to your neighborhood. “Thanks for the food, guys!”

“Seokmin-ah,” Minghao nodded to him. “You coming over?”

Seokmin shook his head and started to follow you. “I should get help studying while I can. Tomorrow?”

You waved to your friends as they headed in the direction of their own homes. Seokmin fell into step beside you as you trotted down the steep alley that was a shortcut towards your street. His hands stuffed in his pockets, as usual. You tucked your thumbs under the straps of your book bag, examining your feet as you walked.

“I love you,” he had said. For some reason, the dreamy sound of his voice wouldn’t get out of your head. The words rattled in your skull; you could almost feel a headache coming on in response to it. The two of you walked in near-silence the entire way.

“Do you wanna come in?” He asked as you approached his house.

You distracted your fingers with the hem of your shirt. “Ah, maybe not today.”

“Eh?” He punched your shoulder. “Why not? I wanna play Mario Kart.”

You laughed shortly, hoping he wasn’t noticing your blush. “I was serious about studying, Seokmin.”

“Well, come on, then.” He tugged on your arm, pulling you towards the front door. “We can study and then play Mario Kart.”

Unable to find a worthy excuse, you let him pull you through the front door. You slipped off your shoes, greeting his mom and waving to his sister, both of whom were practically family for you, but the interaction felt stilted in your current state. The two of you escaped to Seokmin’s room, where he dropped his bag on the floor and pulled a folding table out of his closet. Trying to not act as awkward as you felt, you busied yourself by messaging your mother on kakao to let her know you would be at the Lee household for a while. You thought about sitting on his bed, but you were hit with a sudden flashback of being pushed down onto it. You picked at your nails instead.

Seokmin quickly set up the short table in the middle of the room, then situated himself at one of the sides, pulling his bag closer to get his school things out. You hesitated before you sat across from him, back to his bed, tucking your legs under you and flattening your skirt.

“You’re acting weird,” he said suddenly.

You looked at him, wide eyed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been all day, but don’t know how to describe it,” he said, leaning back on his hands and furrowing his brow at you. “It’s weird. You’re acting… timid.”

You tried to laugh it off, but it sounded unconvincing even to yourself. “You’re crazy.”

He laughed at you. “You know it, too. You’re acting weird but you’re trying so hard not to.”

You groaned, putting your forehead on the table. “Leave me alone.”

“So... are you gonna tell me why?”

You adjusted onto your chin, eyeing him. “I said leave me alone.”

“C’mon, aren’t we supposed to be best friends?” He reached over and poked your forehead. “Tell me what’s up.”

You exhaled while you got up onto your elbows, rubbing your face. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about it with you.”

Seokmin’s eyebrows furrowed again. “Is it really that serious? Are you okay?”

You laughed, despite how incredibly nervous you felt. “It’s nothing serious, I promise. It’s stupid, really.”

“Now I’m worried,” he whined.

“How about that quiz, huh?” You said, pulling notebooks out of your book bag. He whined at you again, but complied and retrieved his own study supplies. He allowed an hour to pass before he brought it up again.

“Do you have a crush on someone?”

Your pencil clattered on the table when you fumbled with it. “What? No! What the hell?”

He squinted at you. “Is it Minghao?”

“Min, seriously,” you rubbed your face again. “I don’t have a crush.”

“You’re lying.”

You laughed incredulously. “I’m not!”

He studied you a moment. “You have a tell,” he said finally. “I’ve always known when you’re lying.”

You were sure the color washed from your face. Always? Surely that couldn’t be true. Besides, you really weren’t lying this time. “Seokmin. I don’t have a crush.”

“Liar,” he said after a beat. “You were being weird when we went out for food. Minghao?”

“No,” you said, suddenly nervous.

He squinted at you. “Mingyu?”

You rolled your eyes. This was insane. “No.”

He paused. “Haseul?”

You laughed. “You think I’m gay, now?”

“Well, who else?” He asked, exasperated. “Me?”

“No way.”

He stared at you a moment, clockwork moving behind his eyes. “Oh my God.”

You frowned. “What?”

“You have a crush on me.”

“You’re crazy.”

He pointed at you. “You chewed on the inside of your cheek. That’s your tell. You did it just now.”

You stared at him, your tongue running to the side of your mouth. He was right. The inside of your cheek was raw from the nervous habit. You stuttered. “Min, I swear, it’s not a crush, but I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”

“How long?” He asked, slouched over the table, watching you closely.

“Listen to what I’m saying, idiot.” You pointed at your lips for good measure as you enunciated each syllable. “It’s. Not. A. Crush.”

He exhaled and leaned back on his hands. “Then what is it? I’m not gonna stop until you tell me.”

You whined, dropping your head onto the table. “God, this is a nightmare.”

He poked at your head. “Tell me.” You whined in response. “Tell me!”

“Fine!” You said, sitting up and slapping away his hand. “I’ll tell you. But you better not tell another soul, Seokmin. Swear on your life.”

He crossed his heart. “I swear.”

You sighed deeply, leaning back, avoiding eye contact. “I had a dream last night.”

Seokmin watched you. “Wow, I got chills.”

You threw your pencil at him. “Shut up, I’m getting to it.” You exhaled again. “I had a dream about you last night, and it was… confusing.”

“Confusing how?”

You looked over at him. “Confusing… like, I don't know how I feel about it. It was… charged. Sexually.”

He stared at you blankly for a second. “Wait-”

You groaned and collapsed onto the floor, already regretting saying anything. “This is a nightmare.”

“Wait wait wait,” Seokmin’s hand hit the table. “You had-”

“This sucks!”

“-A sex dream-”

“Shut up!”

“About me?”

You groaned. “This is why I didn't want to talk about this.”

He picked up your pencil off the floor, laughing. “Wet dreams happen. Why do you feel so weird about it?”

“What,” you said, straightening out your shirt as you sat up. “You wouldn’t feel weird if you had a sex dream about me?”

“Well, I mean,” he paused, fiddling with the pencil. "I have. Had them about you, I mean."

You stared at him, cheeks burning. “What?”

He laughed, looking down. “I’m a guy,” he said, nervously folding the corner of his notebook. “And you’re pretty. I can’t control my subconscious.”

“Pretty,” you repeated.

“Yeah, I mean, obviously.” He shrugged. “That’s not a secret, or anything.”

“Right.” You nodded slowly, “So you’ve dreamt about… us.”

“Not on purpose,” he said, fussing with his notebook still. “But, yeah.”

“I guess that makes sense,” you said sheepishly. “We spend a lot of time together.”

He nodded, pointedly tapping the table with your pencil’s eraser. “Yeah, that probably has a lot to do with it. Was this the first time for you?”

“With you, yeah.” You pouted. "I know I've had them before, but I never really remember them like this."

Seokmin chuckled. “Well, I’m flattered.”

There was a pause between you two, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as you expected it to be.

“So,” you swallowed. “Are yours just fucking, or…”

“More than that?”

You nodded, staring at your hands.

“It depends,” he laughed nervously. “Sometimes they freak me out a little bit, actually.”

You chewed on your lip. “This one freaked me out.”

He shifted, obviously wanting to ask about it, but not knowing how. You took the hint.

“It was really… intimate,” you said quietly. “Like,” you paused, studying the wall. You put your hands up, palms together. “Like, looking-deep-in-your-eyes intimate.”

He stared at you. You cleared your throat nervously.

“You said you loved me.”

He exhaled. “Damn.”

“And I said it back.”

“Like…” he trailed off, gesturing.

You nodded. “During.”

“Wow,” he flipped the pencil around his thumb. “That’s a lot more than just fucking.”

“No kidding.”

“So,” he started after a long pause, then cleared his throat. “That’s why you've been acting weird?”

You groaned. “Yeah, it’s all I’ve been thinking about all day.”

He stifled a laugh. “It was that good, huh?”

“Shut up,” you giggled, despite how embarrassed his implication made you feel. “I don't know. Every time I see you now, I see that dream in my head. It's awkward.”

“Does that mean…” he paused, tapping your pencil again, his eyes wandering around his room. “You’re imagining me naked?”

“Ugh!” Your hands covered your face. “Well, now I am, you asshole!”

He laughed. “For what it’s worth, I have to pretend that I’m not imagining you naked way more often than I’d like to admit.”

Your fingers slid down your face, uncovering your eyes so you could stare at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he dropped the pencil on the table. “Like, yesterday. When you were reading that comic on your phone?”

You nodded slowly, flattening your skirt against your thighs.

“It reminded me of this dream I had once, where you showed me a hentai and wanted to act it out with me.”

Your jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”

He laughed. “Listen, I don’t come up with this stuff on purpose.”

“How long ago was that dream?”

Seokmin thought a moment. “A few weeks ago?”

You eyed him. “How often do these dreams happen?”

He shifted. “I… I don’t know.”

“You’re lying, but I’ll let it go,” you said, sitting back and leaning against his bed.

He laughed. “Thanks.”

You watched him a moment as he stared at his fingers, fiddling with your pencil again. You suddenly remembered the way his lips had felt against yours. You had never really paid much attention to them before, but when you examined them now, you realized how full they were. They formed a sweet heart, you thought, and you wondered if they felt as velvety as they looked. You spent too long staring at his lips, you had to stop yourself from biting your own.

Seokmin exhaled and held out your pencil. “Back to studying, I guess?”

You blinked. “Right. Yeah.”

His brow raised while you took the pencil from him. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

He laughed. “You were looking at me really weird.”

You examined your pencil. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously.” He cocked his head at you, a smile teasing his lips.

“Stop that,” you muttered, pouting. “I don��t like that I’m noticing you like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like,” you scoffed for a second, unable to believe yourself. “Like not my brother. Or best friend. I’ve been noticing you. As a man. All day. It’s weird and I can’t stop it.”

“As a man?”

You looked up. Seokmin’s brows were furrowed, but his expression was still gentle. You felt your heart quicken. You screwed your eyes shut. “I’m going to do something. I want you to be totally honest about it after it happens, okay?”

“O-okay?”

Before you could change your mind, you steadied yourself as you leaned over the table, planting your lips on his.

And you stopped. And he stopped. And you felt electricity run down your spine.

Then time started again, and you pulled away slightly, your eyes opening to find him staring at you.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “Was that-”

His hand reached up to you, pulling you back into him with a gentle grip on the back of your neck. This time, his lips moved against yours. You immediately settled into him, goosebumps forming on your arms when you felt his tongue brush against yours. When the pace slowed, he let out a hot breath, and you rested your forehead against his.

He laughed. “Holy shit.”

A giggle escaped your lips. “Yeah.”

“I,” he laughed again. “I’m not gonna lie to you. I have a raging boner.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from looking down, immediately noticing the tent in his pants. You sputtered out a laugh. “Oh my god, Min. You’re such a romantic.”

“Listen!” His hand moved from your nape to your jaw. “That was… A lot. I didn’t realize that kissing you would be like that.”

You smiled gently. You’d never seen his eyes this close before. “Me neither.”

“Like,” he paused. “Is it always like that? Or are we just… insanely compatible?”

You giggled. “I’ve never had a kiss that felt that good.”

“One second,” he said, adjusting himself quickly and standing. He stepped around the table and put out a hand to help you to your feet. “Can we continue?”

You giggled as you stood, straightening your skirt with your free hand. “Yeah, I think I want to.”

He placed his hands on your waist hesitantly. The touch was new. Different, but not unpleasant. You settled your arms on his shoulders, and he dipped down to kiss you again. It was exploratory, almost nervous, but you both settled into a rhythm quickly. You found your hand burying itself in the hair above his nape, and he pulled your hips into him. You gasped slightly, surprised by the unfamiliar feeling of his clothed hard on against your pelvis.

“Too much?” He asked breathlessly, pulling away.

You shook your head and pulled him back onto your lips, immediately deepening the kiss. After a few beats, your teeth tugged on his lip and he groaned, fingers gripping you desperately. His heavy eyelids opened, and you stared at him, trying to catch your breath. “We should… stop.”

He nodded. “Probably, yeah.”

“This is…” You watched his lips. “This is your first time kissing a girl, right?”

He nodded.

“And it would be, you know…” Your fingers were still buried in his hair. “The first time doing that for both of us.”

He nodded.

“So…” You bit your lip. “We should stop.”

He nodded.

But neither of you really wanted to stop. Despite all logic pointing towards it, you really had a hard time justifying it to yourself when you were here, with him, and everything felt so good.

So you didn’t stop. Not yet.

You slowed the pace, both of you aware that you were no longer participating in a sprint, but rather a marathon. He was gentle with you, his hands following the curve of your waist as he discovered your weak points - the small of your back, your lower lip, and the skin between your ear and jaw. You couldn't stop thinking about how you just couldn't believe he had never kissed a girl before, considering how easily he was making you melt in his hands.

And when a curious hand found its way to your ass, playfully pulling up your skirt to grip you better, you nearly fell apart. You desperately wanted to do something, despite knowing that you probably shouldn't, and you fought with the notion for a long moment, all while Seokmin made a very compelling case for you to strip down right that second.

You needed to think logically. Seokmin was your very best friend and you didn’t want to ruin that, but you were a bit beyond that at this point. You had only admitted attraction, not even feelings. You weren’t even close to dating, you thought. You always wanted your first time to be with someone you had been seeing for a while, someone you really cared for and really cared for you. Someone special. But the more you considered it, you realized Seokmin might be the perfect candidate; he was the person you were closest to, and you shared an emotional intimacy that you couldn’t even imagine with anyone else, so even that argument seemed null.

It didn’t take much for you to work up the courage. He pulled your hips into him again, and you let your hands drift downward, finding their way to the (impressive) bulge in the front of his pants. He made a noise - a mix between a yelp and a groan - before grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away slightly.

Your already rosy pink cheeks went bright red. “Bad?”

“I-” Seokmin stuttered. “I thought-”

“I just,” you paused, looking down. You tried not to stare at his crotch. “We don’t have to do anything major but… I want to touch you.”

He let out a strangled laugh. “What happened to ‘we should stop’?”

You bit at your lip, pushing him lightly until he sat on the edge of the bed, sinking to your knees in front of him. “Do you want to stop?”

He stared at you, seeming to consider everything for the first time, suddenly awake to what you were suggesting. “Not really, no.”

“Then,” you looked down. “Let me touch you.”

The next day, you were on his bed. You were laying next to each other, listening to music, when you suddenly propped yourself up on an elbow to look at him. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“Can I help you?”

You laughed. “Yes.”

He smiled, placing a hand on your nape to pull you down to him, resulting in a long, slow kiss. That same electricity ran down your spine.

“Uh oh.”

He laughed lightly. “Why uh oh?”

You examined his face for a moment. “I think I might actually have a crush on you.”

“I told you you were lying yesterday.”

You laughed and hit him. The music stopped suddenly, his phone ringing from where it was plugged in across the room. Seokmin groaned.

“Can you get that?”

“You’re closer than me, asshole.”

He groaned again, rolling off his bed and onto the floor, crawling his way to his desk. He pulled it off its cord and answered. “Hey.”

You watched as he stood, making a noise of recognition. His hand hit his forehead.

“Ah, I forgot. Do you wanna come over here instead? I don’t wanna leave the house.”

As Seokmin walked back towards the bed, you could hear Minghao’s annoyed voice through the phone. “-been waiting all afternoon. Mingyu’s here already, you know? And you’re gonna make us come to you?”

“Ah, well,” he said, flopping back onto the bed and putting his phone on speaker. “Y/N’s over here, so. Are you gonna make her walk all the way to your house? Are you even allowed to have girls over?”

You laughed at Minghao’s stutter as he repeated your name. “Hey, am I on speaker? That’s rude, you know.”

“Hi, Hao,” you said, giggling. “You and Mingyu should come over, the four of us can play Mario Kart!”

“See!” Seokmin said. “Listen to your elders, Myungho.”

“We're the same age, don't call yourself my elder.”

“See you soon?”

He sighed into the phone. You stifled a snort. “Fine, we’ll come to you. Be there in twenty.”

You laughed at the dial tone that signified Minghao hung up without letting Seokmin say bye. He had a look of betrayal on his face before he dropped the phone and rolled onto his side, facing you. You raised a brow. He contorted his face to wink at you dramatically, making you laugh, and him follow suit.

“Yah,” he rolled over again, rubbing his face. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

You poked his side and he swatted at your hand. “What do you mean?”

“To be totally honest?” Seokmin inspected the ceiling. “I’ve liked you for a really long time.”

Your mouth opened involuntarily. “Really?”

He nodded. “I woke up this morning thinking for sure that I dreamt yesterday. I’ve thought about confessing to you so many times, but you never seemed interested in me that way. I didn’t want to make our friendship awkward.”

“Well,” you said, picking at your nails. “I’m interested in you now, so…”

Seokmin laughed, tucking a hand under his head. “Good thing, I was getting worried I wouldn’t be able to keep it in much longer. You keep getting prettier every day.”

You coasted on that high, laying on your stomach and smiling at your phone, for the time it took your friends to make their way to you. You heard the door opening downstairs and Seokmin’s mother’s voice as she told them to go ahead up.

Seokmin rolled off the bed. “I should move. They might suspect something if we’re laying in bed together.”

You nodded at him, looking back at your phone and mindlessly playing a puzzle game as he settled, seated on the floor with his back against the bed. There was an unspoken agreement that the two of you should keep whatever relationship developed a secret, at least for now. The two of you didn’t even know what this was yet, it’d be stupid to let others in on it, too.

When Minghao and Mingyu practically kicked open Seokmin’s bedroom door, you jumped at the noise and stared at them wide eyed.

“Yah!” Seokmin yelled. “Be careful! The hell is wrong with you?”

Minghao looked like he was trying to be intimidating, pursing his lips to stop himself laughing while he tried to be serious. “You lazy assholes made us walk all the way over here.”

You looked from him to Mingyu, who looked back at you, his face reading like a hostage. You burst into laughter, rolling onto your side.

“Don’t laugh!” Minghao pointed at you, a smile breaking through his facade. “I’m serious. This jerk agreed to come over to my house, yet we somehow ended up here! Because you’re here! Why?”

Seokmin was staring at him, mouth open and squinting. “In my defense, I forgot.”

“I wanted to hang out,” you said sweetly, sitting up and leaning against the wall. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s always choosing you over us,” Minghao pouted, crossing his arms as Mingyu snuck around him to sit on the bed next to you. “What’s up with that?”

“Well, first of all,” Seokmin said. “She’s way cooler than both of you.”

You laughed and said “thanks,” while both Mingyu and Minghao whined in unison.

“Secondly, I’ve known her for literally a decade longer than I’ve known you guys.”

“Whatever,” Minghao said, pulling his phone out of his jeans’ pocket and sitting on the floor. “You’re weirdly confident today. Did you finally get laid?”

You almost snapped your neck with how quickly you looked up at him. Mingyu snorted, laughing at the idea, but both you and Seokmin were frozen, staring at Minghao, who’s forehead creased when he saw the looks on both of your faces. Realization dawned on him and Mingyu almost simultaneously.

“Holy fuck, you two-”

“I have to pee,” Seokmin announced loudly, standing so suddenly that he toppled slightly before walking past Minghao and exiting the room. You stared after him incredulously, ears bright red, silently cursing the scaredy-cat bitch for abandoning you.

Mingyu cleared his throat. “So.”

“Nope,” you said. “This isn’t happening. We’re not talking about this.”

Minghao pointed at you. “So it’s true!”

You shook your head and rubbed your face. “That idiot really just walked out of the room.”

Mingyu laughed his big loud laugh, making you chuckle into your hands as you continued to cover your face.

“I’m so pissed. I can’t believe he actually just walked out.”

“I can’t believe you fucked him,” Minghao said.

Your hands fell off your face. “I didn’t! We didn’t fuck!”

He pointed at the door. “Then what the hell was that?”

“That was an idiot.”

He pouted a moment. “That’s not fair. I can’t argue with that.”

When the door opened again, you threw a pillow at Seokmin. “You jerk!”

He caught the pillow and stared at you. “What?”

The other boys stifled laughter as you fumed. “You abandoned me, you asshole!”

“I had to pee!”

“Nice cover, dick.” You crossed your arms. “I’m mad at you.”

“Don’t be mad at me!” He pointed at Minghao. “Be mad at him!”

Mingyu whined. “Mommy and Daddy are fighting...”

You smacked him in the arm with the back of your hand, and he jumped, rubbing the spot you hit.

Minghao laughed and leaned back on his hands. “You’re a real dumbass.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, hugging the pillow while he sat down across the room. “I didn’t know what to do.”

You scoffed. “Clearly.”

“So... are you guys done talking about it?”

You threw your phone at him, and he deflected it with the pillow.

“Hey! That could have actually hurt me!”

“Yet it didn’t,” you said, trying to grab Mingyu’s phone out of his hand to throw that, too, but he held it out of your reach and pushed you away. “We didn’t talk about anything, and we’re not gonna talk about anything.” You pointed a look at Minghao. “Right?”

“Right,” he said, sighing. “Whatever. I’ll corner Seokmin later.”

You continued to fume from your curled position on the bed, pouting and glaring at Seokmin. He stared back at you, eyes wide and lips slightly curved downwards. He mouthed an I’m sorry, but you just kept glaring.

“So,” Mingyu said, scratching his head. “Mario Kart?”

Hours passed, and you slowly let out your anger one shell at a time, Seokmin crying out and begging you to stop every time you hit him. At the end of a Grand Prix, you announced that you needed to pee.

“Have fun,” you said to Seokmin, then stood up to go to the restroom. He stared at you, wishing for mercy, as you closed the bedroom door. You giggled to yourself as you walked down the stairs.

You purposefully took your time, using the restroom downstairs, washing your hands extra well, looking at photos in the hall, peeking into the kitchen and chatting with Seokmin’s mother. When you finally returned, Seokmin looked shellshocked and both Mingyu and Minghao looked up at you.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Minghao nodded. “He’s easier to crack than you are.”

That was the moment where you thought, oh, this may have been a mistake. You gulped, looking at Seokmin. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he said, but it came out as almost a whisper. He cleared his throat. “Nothing, I swear.”

You looked at Mingyu, and he shook his head with a frown to tell you he was lying. “Seokmin, what the fuck?”

“You abandoned me!”

“That doesn’t mean you can tell them everything!”

“I didn’t tell them everything…”

“Oh,” Minghao said, “So you guys did do more than that.”

You stared at him. “Seokmin, what the fuck!”

“I’m sorry!” He put his hands together and getting on his knees to plead with you. “I’m sorry! I’m weak! You know this!”

“You’re a fucking traitor,” you said, shaking your head as you sat down. He practically put his head in your lap while he bowed to you, muttering apologies. “I’m never sucking your dick again.”

His head shot up while both of the other boys burst into laughter. Seokmin let out a weak “really?”, which made them laugh even harder.

You almost snorted at the look on his face, shoving on his shoulder while the boys were distracted laughing. “Stop digging your own grave, idiot. What did you even tell them?”

He sat up, lower lip sticking out as he stared at you, clearly searching for a sign that you weren’t absolutely pissed at him anymore. "Just that you, y'know," he muttered, aimlessly gesturing. "Taught me how to make you feel good."

"You got pretty good, too," you giggled. You leaned over, planting a quick kiss on his lips.

“Wait, no, come back,” he said, pulling at you with a hand on the back of your neck. You laughed while Mingyu made a gagging noise behind you.

“Ugh, get a room.”

“This is my room,” Seokmin snapped back, looking over your shoulder. He kissed you again, then finally let you sit back. “Hey,” he started. You looked up at him, pursing your lips. “Wanna be my girlfriend?”

You giggled.

“You two aren’t even together?” Minghao whined.

“Seriously, you have to do this right now?” Mingyu groaned.

“I’d like that,” you said.

“Me too,” Seokmin grinned.

#hhahahahah #ive been debating whether i would post this for like two weeks its fine im fine #lee seokmin #dokyeom #dk #seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #dokyeom imagines #dokyeom fluff #she do be pretty suggestive tho #anyways the idea of dating seokmin in high school hurts me a lot #sunshine #i wrote dis

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