#But the fact that they have the same nose too...

[cosmoszyn]

thinking about prince!zayne who is regarded as the highest scholar of the academy, contributing miles and miles of favorable studies in the medical field of the kingdom despite being a mere student, insofar as mentors acknowledging his wisdom and graces.

except for you.

it was a known fact that when the two of you were placed in the same classroom together in the academy, debates would occur. the back and forth would last for hours, despite the protests from your fellow students. unfortunately for them, the mentors would find your arguments rather amusing and would even pose several questions to trigger even more dispute between the two of you.

however, for zayne, arguing with you felt too troublesome. your stubbornness allowed you to never concede nor recognize his opinions. while you, on the other hand, refuse to let him feel that he has the leverage over you.

due to the heated discussions being the talk of the academy, the news was delivered to the elder.

leading you to your current predicament.

"i demand that you sleep on the floor."

"i refuse. i will never let your royal status get in the way of my nightly comfort and rest," you scoff, crossing your arms against your chest and looking away.

the elder proposed a research over exotic plants in pairs, but the catch is she would be the one to assign the partners and the plants involved.

and you knew in that moment that she schemed to have you by pair with him.

"i did not use my royal status to have you sleep on the floor," zayne argued.

"you demanded," you replied.

"demanded is rather different from commanding you to do so. i assume you'd know the difference since you've buried your nose in books all day."

you gasp at him in outrage, "you overbearing prince!"

he rolls his eyes at you before plopping down at the queen-sized mattress, "should you change your mind about sleeping on the floor, then i'd be more than glad to serve you your pillows and the curtain as your blanket," he replies in his usual flat tone, and yet you could tell the sarcasm lacing his tongue.

zayne fluffs the pillow behind him with his one hand as the other places his glasses on the bedside table.

"as if i'd let you hog the comforts of the bed!" you cry, tossing yourself over the bed and forcefully pulling the blanket away from him to drape it over yourself.

zayne clicks his tongue in annoyance, tugging the other end of the blanket to him, "you are such a nuisance," he comments.

"why, i am grateful to receive such high praise from the prince. i could say the same thing to you," you shoot back with a forceful grip on the cloth.

"strange, i have never received that compliment before from other people," zayne replies, continuing his strong grasp.

"well perhaps, you should talk to other people apart from your servants," you proclaim. and those are the last words that tumble out of your mouth before zayne vigorously heaves the blanket and you to his side, effectively bringing your body to his corner of the bed with a yelp.

a beat of silence engulfed the room.

your chest drapes over his lap while your left hand remains on the cushion beside his thigh, propping yourself up and the right resting on his knee. you could feel your cheeks heating up and your heart picking up its pace.

suddenly, a whirlwind of emotions surges in you. you hastily removed yourself from his body to apologize, because after all, he is still a prince. but before you could turn to him and profusely explain, perhaps even blame him, the gleam from the moon trickling through the sheer curtains of the floor to ceiling windows caught your attention.

it's the full moon.

shit.

you'd be hearing your soulmate's thoughts in no time.

"i could still feel her heartbeat against my skin."

"oh dear heavens this prince is going to behead me!"

you both slowly fixate your gaze to each other.

"fuck."

mweheheh anyone down for an academic rivals to lovers, slow burn, soulmates and fantasy/royalty au prince!zayne? >:))

[itneverendshere]

what’s lyayw!reader and rafe doing for her first mother’s day?

also, what did bartender!reader and rafe do for mother’s day

can't reply to lyayw portion bc i'd be giving out spoilers. based on this prompt + rafe trying to surprise you with a new bag, but he lowkey forgot you get notified about charges to the card.

MOTHER'S DAY BLURB

It’s hardly 7 AM when you hear the muffled rustle of fabric, the bedroom door opening, and then the softest thump as it clicks shut.

You stir but stay still—half-asleep, one arm cradling the little heater curled against your chest. Your six-month-old daughter, Autumn, born on a cold Thanksgiving day—is still asleep, her tiny hand gripping the neckline of your oversized tee as if she owns the entire place.

Which, arguably, she does.

You don’t wake up properly until a little past eight, when she starts babbling against your skin, lashes fluttering as she kicks her socked feet into your stomach. There’s drool on your shirt. Her hair’s doing that feathery halo thing, all staticky and fine.

You press a kiss to the crown of her head.

You don’t remember the date until you’re halfway through the skincare aisle at Target, three hours later, clutching a cold green tea and trying to ignore the fact that your baby is chewing on the corner of the shopping list in her car seat.

Your phone buzzes.

“Thanks for your purchase at CHANEL.”

You frown.

Another notification.

$7,128.94.

You blink at the total. What the fuck? You’re genuinely thinking your card’s been stolen, seconds away from calling the fraud line when another notification rolls in:

Rafe Cameron Memo: “don’t look at this. ily”

You stop dead in the middle of the feminine hygiene aisle. Autumn shrieks delightedly like she knows something you don’t.

You FaceTime him immediately.

He answers after one ring, forehead already creased, face angled down, knowing he’s been caught.

“Hi, baby.” he grimaces. “You weren't supposed to see that yet.”

“Seven thousand dollars?”

“It’s not just one bag,” he adds defensively. “There’s one for you. And one for—”

“You did not.”

“I did.” He sounds smug. “It’s her first Chanel. She’ll thank me later.”

“She can’t sit up by herself.”

“She will soon. Our girl’s a prodigy.”

You close your eyes, fighting a laugh. “I’m at Target. She’s eating a receipt.”

He grins. “So you’re saying she could use a purse.”

You hang up on him.

By the time you get home, the apartment smells like waffles (burnt), the kitchen is suspiciously clean (you don’t trust it), and there’s a giant black box sitting on the bed with an even smaller box beside it, both wrapped in a thick white ribbon like it’s Christmas morning.

Rafe is nowhere to be found until he peeks in the doorway, holding a single daisy from the bodega in the other. Your favorite.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” he sings. “I know it’s not the same as, sleep, or sanity, or alone time, but... I thought you deserved something you didn’t have to share. Well—except the second bag. That’s hers. Technically.”

Your throat gets tight. You don’t cry—you’re too tired to cry—but you press your face into your daughter’s cheek and breathe her in. She squeals and grabs your nose like it’s a button.

He grins, eyes so in love with you it hurts.

“Look at you,” he says. “Six months in and already the best mom in the world.”

You’re still scolding him for the baby-sized luxury bag when Rafe steps closer, brushing a piece of hair from your cheek with a look that’s suddenly dangerous for your hormones.

“There’s one more thing,” he says.

You narrow your eyes. “If you tell me you bought her a baby Rolex, I’m going to throw the waffle maker at your head.”

“I booked us a hotel on the mainland. Just for the weekend. You and me.” He pauses, gauging your reaction. “Autumn’s staying with JJ and Kie. They said they’d bring her to the beach, and JJ already bought one of those ridiculous baby sunglasses and called dibs on bedtime duty.”

“You… booked a hotel?”

“For you,” he says. “For us. I thought you missed having time where we weren’t just swapping off who gets to shower first.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out and then you’re crying. So much for being too tired! It turns into a full-on, ugly-face, can't-catch-your-breath crying. You press your palm to your mouth hoping it’ll stop the sob that escapes anyway, and Rafe’s already wrapping his arms around you, placing Autumn on the bed, before you can make another wailing sound, that weird noise of relief and guilt and love all at once.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, his voice flooded with worry. “Is that a bad surprise? I thought—baby, I thought you’d want—”

“I do,” you cry into his shirt. “I miss you so much. I haven’t shaved my legs in threes weeks. And—and we never sleep at the same time and she’s perfect, I love her so much, but I miss you and now I’m going to miss her and I—why would you do this to me on Mother’s Day?”

He chuckles, rubbing your back, trying to soothe you through the whole hormonal meltdown.

You sniffle into his chest. “You should’ve just gotten me a massage. Or, wine. Not a full-blown identity crisis in a Ritz-Carlton suite.”

He laughs again. “It’s not the Ritz. I couldn’t get us in last-minute.”

You smack his chest through your tears.

Autumn squeals on the bed beside you, arms flapping like a baby bird, oblivious to the absolute emotional hurricane her mom is having over the idea of sleeping without her for two nights and also finally getting railed in a bed that doesn’t have spit-up on the comforter.

Rafe kisses your temple. “It’s just a weekend. She’ll be fine. And we need this. You need this.”

You exhale shakily, nodding and then laughing through your tears. You wipe your face on his sleeve, and reach for your daughter—because yeah, you’re going to miss her. You’re going to ache for her the whole damn weekend.

But you miss Rafe more right now. The yearning keeps building when you’re both too tired to kiss properly at night; when he brings you coffee the way you like it without asking; or folds your laundry even though he sucks at it; or stares at your stretch-marked hips with the same old devotion.

You sniff, wipe your eyes again, and glance at the little Chanel box your daughter is now enthusiastically chewing on like a teething toy.

Rafe notices.

“Don’t worry,” he gloats. “I made sure her bag has the gold hardware. She deserves the best.

You groan. “She spits up on her own hands, Rafe.”

Your eyes linger on the boxes. The old you would’ve torn him a new one for spending that much on bags—especially one for a baby who thinks her feet are edible—but things have been good lately. You’ve both been trying so hard, loving harder. Giving each other grace. It doesn’t piss you off like it used to. It feels… kind. Thoughtful, even, in a weird, over-the-top Rafe Cameron kind of way.

He leans down and kisses your shoulder. "Can’t be caught in lambskin and silver like a peasant.”

You snort—an undignified, exhausted sound that gets muffled as Autumn yanks your hair. Still, the warmth is there, as always. That's what happens when someone loves you this fully, this dumbly.

You glance up at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to throw things.”

“You always say that. We’ll leave Friday. You can cry in the car if you want. Or wait until after check-in.”

You nod, pressing a kiss to Autumn’s cheek as she starts to drift again, thumb curled against her lip, her tiny breaths hiccuping with sleepy satisfaction.

“And when we come back,” you murmur, “I want to sleep with her on my chest for twelve hours straight. No one’s allowed to touch her but me.”

“Deal,” Rafe says. “As long as I get you on my chest for at least four hours before that.”

You give him a tired, squinty-eyed glare. “You’re disgusting.”

“Married me anyway.”

[mahmahmahmysharona]

When you and Bob try to stay away from each other and fail miserably.

(Bob Reynolds x Avenger Reader) Part 4/?

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Over the next few weeks, you found yourself falling apart. Not enough for everyone to notice, but enough for you to feel it.

You missed him. You missed your friend. And unfortunately, now that you knew you loved him, Bob's absence hurt you.

Maybe you did something wrong. Maybe you didn't. Bob is a complicated person with a complicated past. Perhaps he just changed his mind about wanting to know you.

You found yourself staying in your room to avoid accidently coming across him (you didn't need to bother: Bob was also hiding out in his room for the same reason), and this raised questions from the others. But you shrugged them off, not wanting to spill your secrets and worries when it looked like they might not even matter anymore.

Things aren't helped by the fact that Bob was getting worse. Not that you witnessed it, but the others made sure to mention it to you. He seemed more agitated, more careful than usual. He was talking to himself again. He was jumpy, too. It scared you. You wanted him to be okay.

Finally, you could both stand to be in the same room again. But there was little eye contact, and only conversation when necessary. ("Can you pass the milk?") You hated it.

If you had more courage, you would have told him that you couldn't stand him not being around you, and how unfair it is to lose someone just when you realised you loved them.

You would happily pretend not to if it would make him come back to you.

Things came to a head one afternoon when Bucky and Walker came to blows. Walker, resorting to pointing out the flaws of other team members in order to defend himself, ended up using Bob as collateral damage, calling him "the world's worst house pet."

Bob was standing right there. Walker didn't mean it. It was a cheap shot. But Bob took it personally. You should see his his fists curl up and a sadness wash over his eyes. He slipped out of the room, unnoticed by the others in the chaos of the fight.

You were furious. Raging. If you couldn't help Bob like you used to, you could sure as hell still stick up for him. You crossed over and knocked Walker to the ground, slamming your fist into his nose.

Walker yelped, but he fought back. He always fought back — you made him promise never to go easy on you in training, so why should he now?

The fight lasted a good while, and the others even got bored and wandered off. Eventually, you both called it quits, somewhat unsure of who actually won. But you were fairly certain he got the message you were trying to send.

Afterwards, you headed back to your room, your cheek scraped and jaw bruised from the scrap. You were about to go inside when you heard a crack from across the hall. Bob.

You rushed inside his room without knocking. He was pacing the floor, rubbing his wrists together. Talking to himself. To him. Behind him, a fist-sized patch of the wall crumbled inward.

"Bob," you said, stepping forward. His fist wasn't bloody — he doesn't get injured as easily as you — but he looked shaken. When he saw you, he stepped backwards. God, it hurt you to see him look at you like that.

"Please, don't come any closer," he said. "Something's happening to me."

The tremor in his voice and the self-hatred you felt even from where you stood was enough to make you move towards him again. "You're upset, that's all," you said. "Ignore Walker, he was just heated. You were in his eyeline, and you're an easy target. He was out of line."

"Except he's not out of line," Bob said. When you reached out for him, he shifted away, suddenly alert. He told you again to stay back. It was the worst he's been in a while, and he didn’t know what would happen to you if you touched him.

"I'm here with you," you told him. It's the best you could do if he wouldn’t let you go any closer. His eyes were red with restrained tears.

He continued, "I'm the most useless person here, and even if I weren't, I'd be the most dangerous."

"I don't believe that. I don't believe it for a second."

"None of you are safe with me."

"I'm safe with you, Bob."

He looked at you. You could practically hear his heart splintering into a thousand pieces beneath his ribs. "How can you be sure?"

You once told him that if he ever got lost, you'd find him. You'd crawl through your worst memories to bring him back. He was lost now, right in front of you, and you needed him. He needed to know you trusted him, that you'd give him everything on blind faith alone, because you believed in him.

You reached out, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him into you. You kissed him. His body stiffened under your touch, but he didn't pull away. Your lips moved against his, trying to say a hundred things without speaking at all. I'm safe. You're safe. We're safer together.

You kissed him for god knows how long, until you needed to come up for air and you heard him choke out, "I—I don't know if I can—"

But he could. You knew he could. You took his arm and wrapped it around you, holding onto him for dear life as you did so. His hand hooked onto your shirt and grasped the fabric tightly. A lifeline. He was coming back to you, out of the darkness.

"Don't let go of me, okay?" you told him, your lips grazing his mouth again. He nodded, tightening his grip on you. You kissed him, and his time, he kissed you back. At the feeling of it, you became undone. Suddenly, it was you who needed to be held. You'd never felt like this, and it was almost too much. Between kisses, you heard yourself begging him, "Don't let go of me.”

He held you firmly, and when he pulled away to speak, his voice was calmer. He pressed his forehead against yours, lips skimming your own as he said, “I won't.”

And he didn’t. He didn’t even when you had to pull away from the kissing for good, dizzy and breathless. When you finally looked at him again, he was flushed, his nostrils flaring with loaded breaths. But he was calmer. He was back. And more importantly, he was holding you steady. Weren’t you supposed to be supporting him right now?

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“Yeah. …How did you know to do that?”

��Honestly, I didn’t know if that would do anything. Worth a shot.”

He caught your eye, and before you knew it, his thumb was touching your cheek, just below the fresh grazing.

"Did you have this before?" he asked.

"I beat the shit out of Walker. I'll admit, he got some good punches in."

Finally, he laughed. Then you. When you both regained yourselves, you worked up the nerve to say something — something you’ve been wanting to say since that day in the elevator.

“Bob…” you began. “I’m not sure I can be your friend anymore.”

His first reaction was one of hurt, and it’s one you’re far too used to seeing on his face. But once he understood what you were saying, he nodded.

“I don’t think I can either.” You felt his hands tighten at your back, and he whispered, “I'm going to ruin this.”

“No, you won’t. And even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you.”

“How can you be sure?”

When the words landed, you both caught each other’s eyes and smiled. Right before you pulled him down to you, your lips meeting again, and the world disappearing once more.

Next time: When it’s yours and Bob’s first time…twice.

Tag list: @purplefluffycows @i-shall-abide @avengersinitiative2012

[carminejade]

On the Subject of Xenodrugs

Being quite a disreputably reputable guide book, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has very rigorous standards for the quality of its articles, researchers, and recommendations. It is thus puzzling when many hitchhikers who attempt to study the incredibly diverse drugs of the Affini Compact are either never heard from again, or send long complex articles that are almost completely illegible save for their glowing recommendation that any curious intelligent traveler wave down any of the Compact's craft and get injected as soon as possible.

However, any willing and perfectly independent traveler can learn all they can remember as the affini are far too willing to share that information.

Xenodrugs, as is the easiest word to describe them in local galactic vernacular, are a wide and diverse collection of legal and useful substances that the affini develop for the purpose of "making all the cute and silly little cuties be much happier while we give them all the huggies and pets their little hearts desire, and then some." There are a potentially infinite number of possible xenodrugs in the Affini Compact's vast and unknowable archives. This is due to the fact that, interestingly, one drug does not work the same across species. A xenodrug that may cause a Betelgeusian to taste the color red with his/her/their left toe may have a much weaker effect when applied to a Vogon, but be even more potent when injected into a Rinan.

Rather than do what any irresponsibly talented drug maker does, where you make a catchall that can make as many people as possible at a fancy dinner party think their chandelier is actually made of giant fire-breathing locusts, the affini believe in making new versions of every drug they possess to meet the metabolic threshholds of all the species they bring under their lovingly oppressive vines. This makes it very difficult to track all the possible xenodrugs currently circulating in the galaxy, as any sophont who uses them inevitably ends up spending more and more time among the affini and becomes a good little floret.

But, if you ever end up at a fun party where a towering plant person is offering you "something to ease your precious mind just a little, sweetheart", you should inquire as to what letter is associated with that drug and accordingly run based on which of the following letters the terrifying cosmic being says absolutely agree on the spot and show the nice affini your little arm or nose to receive the xenodrugs from the wonderful and loving affini looking to help your cute self be extra happy and precious.

A- Your standard fare drug. Effects often include things like your sense of touch being amplified, and your body chilling out as if you just finished inhaling the fumes off your ship's warp drive. Not that you should do that, and please tell any affini if you've done that at all.

B- Often used to manipulate the memory of any foolhardy partygoer, or to help you forget just how many hits you took off the ship's warp drive coils. Again, please let an affini know if you have done that, because its not good and they will help you forget that urge and get you the best care possible, dear reader.

C- Unfortunately, very little information exists on this particular xenodrug but they're very dangerous if used irresponsibly and should be treated with great caution, petals. All that is known is that when applied to any person, be they hitchhiker or not, they quickly end up enslaved to the will of an affini domesticated very quickly and go home with their new owner almost immediately after meeting.

D- Very likely to make you spill all of your secrets and reveal all of your secrets about your travels and where you hid your towel.

E- Very good at calming you down while trying to run or escape from the loving and tender vines of an affini trying to domesticate you.

H- Psychotropics that make you very susceptible to hypnosis or subliminal messaging. Far more potent than whatever convinced you to take hits off the warp drive coils, and can make you very easily guided to go talk to all the wonderful affini looking to help you find a home and stop hitchhiking.

S- The kind of weird things that are only possible in this weird and uncontrollable very adorable galaxy we call home. Messes with the body's senses and causes them to overlap in interesting ways like allowing you to taste the colors of an affini's flowers or make all her words into a beautiful tapestry of pretty colors.

Z- Easily takes you out, knocking you straight out into slumber as if you just hit your head after being caught taking hits off the warp drive again. Please be careful with these if you aren't being offered them, though. We wouldn't want you to get hurt while you're being all precious before taking a cute little nappie.

We hope this guide of all publicly available xenodrugs has been most helpful you silly little hitchhiker, as you continue to travel the stars for reasons no one can truly ever comprehend. Make sure to notify any nice looking affini at a moment's notice if you get at all curious about xenodrugs, and we would be happy to administer them for you and launder your towel while you enjoy your trip into drugged out bliss. See you soon, petal~! And remember.

Don't Panic.

[jijournal]

A WEASLEY GIFT | R.W

Summary: Ron surprises you with something very special in the Weasley household.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

You were only half joking one evening in the Gryffindor common room when you’d said, “Honestly, Ron, I’m starting to feel left out. Where’s my Weasley sweater?”

You were curled up on the couch, watching as Fred and George wrestled over something ridiculous while Ron lounged beside you, flipping through a Quidditch magazine. He’d glanced over at you with a crooked smile, laughing lightly. “Yeah? I’ll tell Mum to put you on the list.”

But what you didn’t notice was how his smile lingered a little too long after your words—or how his gaze dropped thoughtfully to your hands as you tugged your sleeves over your knuckles, looking almost wistful.

You’d forgotten the comment by the next morning.

But Ron… hadn’t.

⸻

A few weeks later, you came back to the common room after a long day of classes, ready to collapse into your usual spot by the fire. But as soon as you stepped inside, something felt different.

Ron was there—standing by the fireplace, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his cheeks flushed pink. His eyes locked onto yours the moment you walked in, and he stiffened, gripping something behind his back like he was hiding a weapon.

“Hey,” you greeted, raising a curious brow, sensing the nerves rolling off him in waves. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—fine,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Just… uh… actually—wait.” He took a deep breath and stepped forward, pulling something out from behind his back and holding it up between you.

It was a sweater.

A big, chunky, obviously handmade sweater.

Your heart actually skipped.

It wasn’t perfect—in fact, it was hilariously imperfect. The stitching was uneven, the sleeves looked slightly mismatched in length, and the maroon wool had random streaks of mustard yellow running through it. But there, front and center, were your initials—crooked but unmistakable—stitched right onto the front.

You stared, mouth falling open.

“Ron…” you said softly, reaching out to take it from him, “is this—did you…?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, staring determinedly at the floor. “I mean, yeah. I did. Well—Mum helped a bit with the… magic bits. But I—I did most of it. Thought you deserved your own Weasley jumper if you were serious about wanting one.” He glanced up quickly, eyes flicking to yours, then back down just as fast. “It’s not… y’know, perfect or anything.”

Your heart swelled in your chest.

“It’s perfect,” you said, barely getting the words out before you were tugging it over your head. It was huge, hanging past your hips, and the sleeves were way too long. But it was warm and smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke, and you honestly couldn’t have loved anything more in that moment.

You stretched out your arms, grinning. “How do I look?”

Ron’s grin bloomed, wide and proud, his freckles practically glowing with how red his face got. “Like a—like a proper Weasley,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse.

You laughed, stepping closer, wrapping your arms around his middle and squeezing tight. You felt him freeze for a second in surprise before he melted into the hug, his arms coming around you with that same awkward, sweet gentleness that was so him.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his cheek—soft and lingering—and when you stepped away, he looked completely stunned, blinking down at you like you’d just set off a firework between you.

“Best gift I’ve ever gotten,” you said, resting your chin on his chest and beaming up at him.

He gave a breathless little laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah? Well… good. I’ve got years of practice ahead if you’re gonna keep asking for stuff like that.”

“Careful,” you teased, leaning into him again. “I might start making demands.”

Ron chuckled, tightening his arms around you as he pressed his nose into your hair, warm and content. “Anything you want,” he mumbled against your temple, voice low and sincere. “You’re worth it.”

And as you stood there, wrapped in both his sweater and his arms, you couldn’t help but think you’d never felt cozier—or more loved—in your entire life.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

masterlist!

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

L. “immovable objects”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: you show Bruce around your hometown, the filter between you both rapidly loosening.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, grief, fluff, yearning

words: 6.8k

a/n: i love this chapter name sm, I love all of them, but this one feels extra sweet to me because they AREEE moving !! they are no longer immovable objects, they’re moving toward each other !! big shifts!! also, because I only have a few weeks left of college EVER 🥲 and we’ve been diving into psychodynamic / object relations in class, so it feels very timely, and this whole trip with them feels so psychodynamic!! going back to childhood, roots, disrupting cyclical maladaptive patterns !!!! 

Walter ate his kibble across the kitchen, tail wagging. You couldn’t believe he’d eaten, much less that the only reason he had was Bruce. Hunger strike no more: the cure was a tall, pale man who looked vaguely vampiric dishing out the goods. If the house were any less stale, you might’ve laughed at the image of him opening a can of Friskies and pouring the clump into the bowl while trying—and failing—to avoid Walter’s head as he fiended for his bowl. Walter still had some pureed chicken on his nose. 

A fading cluster of daffodils sat in a vase by the microwave. The only sources of light streamed in from the window above the sink and hovered below the oven light. The low buzz from the fridge was a constant backdrop to the click of the wall clock—one that looked painted by you at some point in… elementary school? Bruce didn’t want to judge. 

You picked at your bizarrely lemony noodles and stared at where the smear of your mom’s blood had been. 

“Don’t like it?”

A piece of basil stuck between your teeth and it practically sent you spiralling; it would’ve been less annoying if your mom wasn’t currently being monitored and if she hadn't banned you from coming back. 

“Do you need anything from home before I head over?” You stood in the hallway between your room and theirs, trying to gauge what might be most helpful. Slippers? Change of clothes? Bruce had been playing with Walter in the living room—playing used very lightly, as Walter refused to leave his side, and the man looked like he might’ve never seen a real-life cat before.

“The doctors are discharging me Monday morning, stay put. Throw on a movie for you guys.” 

“Mom,”

Your dad had chimed in about how ‘right’ your mother was, and that they expected to see more energy in Bruce’s complexion by the time they arrived. “Let that boy sleep.” 

The noodles looked slimier by the second. You shoved another shell into your mouth. “Not like there’s anything else.” 

“Is there any fast food around?” 

“Next town over there’s a Taco Bell.” 

You didn’t sound particularly enthused, but maybe you’d like it more than what was in front of you. Bruce finished his second apple, his stomach a rock, only eating so you wouldn’t worry. His hunger cues were made even more fucked since starting the medication. In fact… 

“Gonna grab something from the car.” He could’ve stepped across the kitchen, but he didn’t, opting for the long way around. It felt too sacred to step on the linoleum in front of you while you gazed at it so wistfully. Whenever he started feeling helpless, he reminded himself he’d cleaned the blood and soup, and at minimum, brought you here. 

He was helping, even if he couldn’t take the pain away.

The brightness scared him when he stepped out, smacking him at the same second as the wind chime at the edge of the porch. The handle to the car burned his palm, and the leather of the seat stung his elbow as he reached into the backseat. Rustling into his bag, pulling out his meds, then a dry swallow. He capped the bottle, shut the door, and jogged up the ramp. He paused with his hand on the rusty doorknob. 

He took in the smell of the breeze. Freshly cut grass. No burnt rubber, car fumes, vomit, or cigarette smoke tainting it. Shit. After breathing this all your life, how the hell had you managed in Gotham? 

Melancholy called if he dared to linger, so he pushed his way inside. Walter jammed into his ankle again, giving him a small bite that didn’t hurt, nor break skin. Just in the hour he’d been here, he’d learned that meant he hadn’t given the cat enough attention. He knelt to pet it—him, damn—and startled when you emerged. Carpet really muffled foot sounds, didn’t it? 

“Actually, there might be a taco truck open. I forgot it wasn’t the middle of the night.” 

“Jesus, Bruce.” You sat back in the passenger as he awkwardly loaded his taco with sauce. 

Bruce side-eyed the stuff you practically slurped with each bite. Verde sauce was always the mildest; the angry, orange-red hazard you globbed on was the real enemy. He hovered the bite in front of his lips, wary. 

“Go for it.” You watched as he loaded sauce on the first bite, and cringed when he tasted it. He was making the same mistake you had a handful of years ago—assuming green meant mild, not holyshitwhatthehellisthis. You hadn’t listened when your dad warned you, and Bruce also seemed the type to learn by fire. 

He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments. The flavors were rich, complex; the meat seasoned with so much depth it made the ‘top shelf’ shrimp at the meetings taste like cardboard. An acidity hit him, and an “Mm!” slipped out. 

You grinned, never seeing his eyes light that much before. “Looks religious.” 

He took another bite, basking in it. Maybe Alfred could learn how to make this. Why hadn’t he before? He went in for a third chomp, not finished chewing, not really caring.  

“Oh, shit,” his lips tingled, then burned, and his tongue became very apparent. He glanced at the tea in your cupholder, regret washing over him in waves at the ‘No, thanks’ text he’d sent while you waited in line minutes before. 

The backdrop of your laughs quieted him a bit, and he made the mistake of rubbing under his sunglasses in his distraction.

“Bruce!”

“Fuck.” Pain slammed against his eyelid. He heard a crunch somewhere, maybe plastic…? 

Glasses off. 

“Open your eye.” 

You poured the dregs of the bottled water from the hospital into his eye, and it cascaded down his chest and pooled into his lap; he felt the slight coolness start to soak through to his thighs. Blink, blink, blink… 

“So you can track every centimeter of a crime scene,” you capped the empty bottle and tossed it to the floor as you sat back in your seat. “But some salsa throws you off?”

“Guess Alfred spares me.” He thudded against the seat, shying away from the hot sun jabbing into his skin like he traced it with a magnifying glass. Was there a different sun here? Wasn’t the Pacific Northwest supposed to be dreary and cool? He squinted on each blink, right eye drenched in lukewarm water and adaptive tears. 

You finished your tacos, crumpling the foil and taking a sip of jamaica. Never would he have thought rural America would hold more cultured food dividends than he’d encountered in Gotham. Then again… he never went out during the day. 

“Maybe if you went out more,”

Reading his mind again. He folded the wrapper around the rest of his food and buckled his seatbelt. You questioned if he was safe to drive, and he scoffed at the clear two blocks it would take to get back to your neighborhood. “I’m good.” 

You followed suit, making quick work as the buckle was in direct sunlight. It wasn’t lost on you how he didn’t even turn the car on until you clicked in. So concerned with other’s safety, but none of his own. Curious. 

“Whoa,”

You glanced up to see a tractor hogging the road in front. Some hay stuck between its plates. 

“Can they do that?”

You laughed at how floored he was. “You’re starting to make me feel like this place is alien.” Sitting up straighter helped your back, and seemed to soothe him. “I’ve gotten stuck behind tractors hundreds of times. And those tacos aren’t even the best in town.” 

Bruce hadn’t turned onto the main road yet, the right turn signal clicking diligently while he peered with a ridiculous amount of suspicion at the green behemoth. 

“I know another route.”

He side-eyed you as you made him do an illegal u-turn, which you happily pointed out was precisely in his wheelhouse due to his vigilantism—’just make a quick getaway in this… SUV?’—and had the both of you set on a dusty gravel road, flanked on both sides by old wire fencing, the occasional goat or cow, and thick lines of Douglas Fir. You asked a question you might’ve already found the answer to in the roaming of his eyes, but figured it polite to ask. Bringing a little bit of him here. “We only went to the outskirts of Gotham when it was dark. Is it like this?”

He made a sound that was half-bewildered, half tired. You couldn’t imagine he’d slept on the plane, and who knew the last time he’d slept prior to the accidental post-club nap. “No.” 

Gravel’s crunch made up the decibel disparity between here and there, and once you thought a halfway point had been reached, you instructed him to turn the car off. “Hop out.”

Hardly enough warning to bring the car to a complete stop, it startled him when you opened his door. “All the way off, Gothamite.”

He removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out carefully, ensuring his ankle was supported in the thick, slippery gravel, and winced as he shut the door behind him. Body tense. Pupils constricting. But no flashes came. Only your grin and the foggy background of flying dust particles and green fields. 

“Quiet, right?”

Quiet was an understatement, silent was too benign. He could practically hear his organs. The sky was bright, and every splash of color felt punctuated. Some orange and yellow clusters nestled in the trees and bushes. Low-hanging clouds fluffed the tops of the trees in the mountainous skyline. There wasn’t a building or human in sight. 

“Very.” 

Standing with him in boring gray gravel helped you realize at warp speed why you’d idolized the city in the first place: shit was boring. Wanna have a rock fight? Get tetanus trying to climb over the barbed wire to talk to a cow that doesn’t care, maybe get shot by a rogue farmer in the process? 

Thankfully, a car pulled off where you had and started down the long stretch. You folded your hands in your lap and pretended to care about what passed the side window, trying and failing not to worry about what he thought past the ‘it’s nice’ comment he’d placated you with at the hastened getaway. Trees, grass, and gravel. Riveting.

A few minutes later, he waited at the intersection that looked like the only one in town; a bar of sunlight fell onto his arm, prickling along the already pink skin. He jumped when you touched him, and tried to work the mechanics on why he’d been so off guard the past day. “I have some aloe in the bathroom. Want to get that before it peels.” 

The light turned green, and he tried to focus on the road while battling thoughts of you touching him again. It was too overwhelming here. The trees that towered like skyscrapers herding the city limits. The wind that drowned out every other sound, yet still not louder than a whisper. How, for once, he swore he could hear your breathing when he wasn’t holding you. 

Bruce’s hands tightened around the wheel, and you tore at your cuticles. Were you being too overbearing? 

You didn’t have time to ask. He parked, unbuckled, and walked to your side like he had somewhere important to be. The thought of him opening the door for you was agonizing, so you stumbled toward the porch before he could start and thoughts could meander. If you paused too long to think about how alone you both were, you knew you’d clam up. Not very conducive to being a good host. 

Walter ignored you to make a beeline for his new best friend, and as you motioned for him to follow you down the hallway, you wondered if you shouldn’t keep them apart. At this rate, Walter might prove more devastated by his absence than you. 

“Is that your room?”

Yellow-gold light popped on in the bathroom with a pfh, a familiar sound you’d never noticed before. “You can check it out if you want, I need to find that gel.” And I don’t want to be in there alone with you for longer than necessary. I might combust. 

Surreal was the word bouncing across his thoughts as he strolled the small, olive-green painted room. It was evident life was lived here; the path to your bed, closet, and desk were worn from the doorway, and the brass finish on the doorknob had become tarnished from use. The bottom half of the door had nearly imperceptible grooves, likely from the cat demanding attention. Some paint was chipped by the light switch. Drawings and pictures hung askew on various walls, but the ones on your desk caught his attention. 

Two photos sat on the back of your desk, one framed glittery gold, one rainbow. Dust collected in the corners of them, on an evidently used piece of furniture, like they’d been willfully ignored. In the gold frame, you looked a decade younger, leaning yourself hard toward three other girls. You almost eclipsed from view while they huddled close. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. 

The glare was hitting from the overhead light on the second one, and a single spiderweb covered in dust curled around his palm when he grabbed it. His chest tightened looking at you on a beach, eyes puffy, looking even younger than the previous photo. You leaned your head on one of the same girl’s shoulders, smiling weakly toward them with glistening eyes. They looked at each other, not at you. They seemed toasty in fleece zip-ups while your lips chapped from the chill. He set it down, heart knocking angrily against his ribs. 

“Bruce?”

You stood in the doorframe, one hand on the knob. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah?”

A green tube got tossed to him, and he tried not to visibly deflate at not having your hands apply it. For the better. His body was hot as it roared into hyperdrive. 

“How’s your eye?”

“Fine.” You’d been a part of that friend group for at least a few years, and a million questions came to a simmer. Was this the friend group that you’d accurately described as not giving a shit about you? And who had taken that photo? Your parents, theirs, another ‘friend’? What were they thinking not intervening? If these were the ones you framed, too—

“You have to actually use it for it to work.” You leaned against the doorframe with your arms crossed, eyeing the patch on his forearm that looked redder than it had in the car. 

Did you feel that way with him, and he just wasn’t catching it? Though, he’d seen your eyes crinkle enough to memorize it and could recognize your laugh in a crowd. Did they even know what it sounded like? 

“You sure you’re good?”

He cleared his throat as if that were any defense against his inner machinations, and squirted some of it onto his arm. The mindless slip of it across his skin cooled him enough to refocus. Change the subject. “Alfred is going to your apartment at eight. Got a small moving crew.” 

“Oh, right.” You stared at the ground, and he wished he could press a button to spill out things unsaid. Would you miss the place? He’d only been there a handful of times, but even he felt a pang. 

“I can call them. You don’t have to move out before you’re ready.”

“No way.”

He wanted to press you, but knew better. He snapped the lid shut on the aloe. “Do you want your things moved to the same room?” Your room, but again, he couldn’t press it. Those photos made him so upset he was about to call the construction lead of the Wayne Foundation, get your name up on Wayne Tower instead of his. How’d they like seeing those news articles after leaving you in the dust? 

“The room above yours?”

He nodded, channeling his frustration into the divot on the plastic cap. Or his room.

“Sure. Any room’s fine.” 

A gray feline curled his way between your legs, meandering lazily toward where he stood at the desk. Walter stretched his paws up the leg of it and yawned. Bruce glanced at your bed, then to the bags under your eyes. 

“You should sleep.”

When you didn’t immediately balk at it, he excused himself, knowing it was long overdue. The cat followed in tow, his tail tapping his shin. You started to move down the hallway, but Bruce wasn’t having it. “You’re exhausted.” 

“A little.” Your shoulders hunched forward, and your breathing was deep and slow like you were already there. 

Bruce heard his order in Alfred’s voice, and once again, felt a little closer to the old man. “Sleep.” 

Walter meowed in agreement, and your mouth tilted into a smile. Bruce swore he could survive off of that alone. “Seems I’m outnumbered.” 

“A little,” he teased. How you siphoned off his anger so quickly, he might never know. Walter climbed up his leg, and he reached down to pick him up—under the armpits, not touching the belly. The way your eyes lit up then, that could keep him warm in the coldest Gotham winter. You shut the door, slowly, but kept it open a sliver. 

You fell asleep in the single worst position your body had ever been in, one leg off the bed entirely, hand bent hard at the wrist, neck tucked to your chest at such an angle you wondered how the hell you’d managed to breathe. 

The cracked window let a frog’s croak into your room, the backdrop of grasshoppers making your head buzz. You sat with your head in your hands, rolling your shoulders to wake yourself. So soothing, the silence… moonlight filtered through the half-broken blinds, hatching patterns onto your comforter. 

Oh, shit!

You separated the blinds and peeked up at the sky—cloudless. Yes! 

You threw on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, and grabbed a blanket out of your closet before racing out. Walter batted at Bruce’s knee as he sat up from the couch and stared at you with alarm.

“Is your mother alright?”

“Yeah,” you yanked on your shoes and tossed the blanket at him. “Put on a jacket.” You flashed him a smile to show that it was fine, and rushed to the kitchen to fill a water bottle. The image of his inky hair mussed from your parent’s couch would hold you tight later, when you were inevitably alone in bed again. 

Bruce was confused; moving with such urgency so late at night, yet nothing was wrong? Walter swatted at him when he stood. A subtle shhk of water from the kitchen sink let him know where you were—thank god Wayne Tower wasn’t carpeted, or he’d never be able to avoid his surrogate helicopter parent, who he realized he was emulating more and more every day he spent with you.

Was it normal to worry so much about someone? 

He realized how tired he’d been after he blinked and you were driving onto gravel. At first it was strange to have you in control, but he moved away from the idea when he started feeling how much he liked it.

It was impossibly dark outside of the car; headlights were the only thing that gave any guidance, but they hardly made a dent. Sitting in a moving car with his hands not on the wheel felt so foreign it took until you parked on the side of a disastrously isolated road to pinpoint the last time he hadn’t been the one driving—and not due to crisis. Years, it must’ve been. Over a decade. 

He stilled before exiting the car, only hopping out to be able to protect you against a coyote if one appeared. You’d rolled the windows down for a portion of the drive, and he heard one howl. He’d been stiff the next five minutes, struggling to conceptualize how to apprehend one. Sacrifice himself, hope his meat took long enough to chew on that you could make a getaway? 

It couldn’t be normal to worry this much. 

You tossed him the blanket after he’d carefully placed it in the backseat, and chastised him for not bringing a coat. “You’re going to get annihilated by mosquitos, Bruce.” 

Going to get annihilated by you. A silent prayer rattled within him for a different time, a different world, where he might be anyone else. In a timeline where you might sneak looks at him like he had at you the whole drive, where panels of moonlight framed his eyes instead and your breath caught from the passenger each and every time. 

“It’s gonna be nasty laying in a buggy field, but I’m willing to endure it for your first time.”

“My what?” His knees went weak as he felt the blanket’s fabric differently now. He dug his hips into the front fender for balance. First time? Certainly you didn’t mean… did you really think he’d never—

“C’mon.”

Tentatively, Bruce stepped away from the car and followed you off the gravel road, eyes trained on your phone’s flashlight lighting the foot in the front of you. There was no reality where you’d actually want to have sex out here, right now, with your mother still in the hospital. You’d regret that. You were riddled with grief, and he wouldn’t take advantage. Did you see him as a weapon to hurt yourself with? Only asking for sex when drugged, overwhelmed, depressed. Did it help you de-stress? Could he help you with that? 

No. Obviously, no. You were just as inebriated now as at Penguin’s club. Your mom was in the hospital, for god’s sake. Thought she was comatose, why was he even entertaining this for a second? 

You laid the blanket out and adjusted the corners, pulling them tight before you plopped onto your back. Your phone sat on your chest, the flashlight illuminating your face just enough to tell you were looking at him. He froze in place. 

“Lay down here.” Rolling onto your side made more space, and you patted the area right beside you. His cheeks burned, sweat beading on his forehead. He plopped down near you, sitting, not wanting to get closer. You pouted, maybe mockingly, exaggerative, but he couldn’t tell for sure. 

“No, lay.”

“What are you doing?” He’d be firm. Gentle, but firm. Very gentle, but firm. He couldn’t seem to draw in a full breath. 

“You’re like the worst person to surprise.” 

“Let’s go back to your place.” 

“Seriously?”

Biting the same spot on his cheek made it start to bleed. 

You gestured to the sky, letting your arm flop down on the blanket. “I wanted you to see the stars, jeez.”

He flushed with relief, his brain fighting to catch up. “I was getting in my head,”

“Why’d you think I brought you here? I thought it was obvious.” 

You watched him finally lay, the brush of his shoulder against yours cording electricity up your spine, making you sit up to dig into him. “No, really. What did you think it was about?”

He had never looked more nervous, and your interest piqued. “Just a misread.” 

Your heart was going through it tonight, currently jackhammering. “Can you stop being so cryptic all the time?”

Heavy, awkward, long-winded sigh. Your eyes flashed. What?! 

“When you said first time,”

You gasped, all conscious thought vanishing. “You thought I brought you to this lumpy field to hook up?”

“It was confusing,” he admitted. He could blend in with a tomato, and a glow grew in your stomach. 

“Now I know what scares you.”

He scoffed. 

“You looked scared, Bruce. Truly terrified.” 

“Uh huh.” He didn’t doubt he looked it, but for different reasons than you assumed. Falling into you would be a hole he’d never crawl out of. Even burning with embarrassment, feeling the godawful sear of it on the surface of his skin, he wouldn’t rather anyone see it but you. 

“Would it be?”

“First time?” For how much he wanted it, it felt strange to talk about it with you. Strange in an enigmatic way. “No.” 

“So you’ve stargazed before?” How many women had been so lucky to live the depth of your imagination? 

He laughed under his breath, and the glow in you morphed into something harsher. “A few times.”

“Didn’t know you got out like that. Thought you didn’t have time.” Jealousy was its shape, and suddenly the field, the sky, none of it existed. Just him and his extracurriculars. 

“Not anymore.” 

Bruce was painfully aware how he had time right now, that he was here with you and not there, and really, really, really hoped that for the first time since he’d known you, you didn’t read his thoughts and pluck out exactly what he didn’t want to talk about.

“Is that really all you do? Be Batman?”

Why did dodging a bullet feel so disappointing? 

“Guess I hallucinated all those meetings, too.” He hid it with a playful jab, and it worked, and his body heaved with relief when you nudged him, smirking. 

“You know what I mean.”

He turned to the stars, noticing how brightly they twinkled; that wasn’t just a nursery rhyme? Was the smog in Gotham that bad? “Just about. Only the past four years.” 

“Got your Bachelor’s in vigilantism.” 

He snorted, which made you laugh, which made him smile and everything hazier. “I’m trying to stargaze.” 

“Mm. Am I ruining the mood?”

“Everyone’s into different things.” 

Light, pleasant sounds bubbled out of both of you, and you relaxed under the moon, settling into the eventual silence with ease. 

For a few moments the stars were all-consuming. Fluttering and bright, but slowly pushing him younger, smaller. This compaction had him instinctually looking to you for an escape—but your attention focused on a constellation to your right. The space between distraction curdled his stomach, and forced a pause. 

Tension. Weight.

Bruce kept his eyes trained on you; sloping down your cheeks and bridge of your nose down to your chin; equal parts begging to magnetize, to pull himself from this feeling, and seeking to admire you. 

Tightness. 

He threaded his focus back to the sky, though it stayed buried in the thick of his chest. No sounds existed here. Not even the wind.

A whirl of smoke twisted his stomach, and the tension intensified to a tourniquet. As his vision fuzzed and he pulled out of his body, he focused on a particularly bright star. Iris had always said to grow increasingly singular and intentional in these moments. What was there to do when he felt placed in a deprivation tank? No lights, cars, horns, ambulances, voices.

What would his mind do here if left to itself for too long?

“So, what do you think?”

He was trying not to, desperately in fact. “It’s nice.” It came out too mumbly, and he held his breath.  

And there you came knocking. “What’s up?”

Cold breath plunged into his lungs as he locked eyes. “Too quiet.”

“You look tense.”

Bruce looked away and snorted, a bit frustrated—and relieved—that you’d read him. The quilt bunched between his shoulders, or was it a rock? “I am.”

“Why?”

He shifted. Yeah, it was a rock. 

“Tell me.”

He shoved words out without care for how they tumbled. “Never been where all I can hear are my thoughts. Especially not since…” God, it didn’t make it any easier, he had these defenses for a reason… “The schizophrenia.”

The word was dry on his tongue, far too severe to be real. Bricks balanced on his Adam’s apple, catching his voice, trapping him underneath. Shame. 

“Think that’s the first time I’ve heard you say it.” 

He turned sharply at the pride in your tone. No pity, no coddling. His bones filled with helium. “I’m confused why you’re normal about it.” 

You shifted, your gaze dropping to your feet. “My best friend had it.” Was he making you uncomfortable? Did you not want to tell him? You didn’t have to tell him. You didn’t have to tell him anything. You owed him nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Didn’t want to make it about me, so I never brought it up.”

He fixated on the word friend like how Walter had the laser he’d grabbed on the key holder by the door. “One of the people who hurt you?” 

“You remembered?”

The waver in your expression sliced him clean open, a protectiveness swelling in like a sneaker wave that slipped his filter. “I remember it all.” 

Oh. You held his stare a millisecond too long, as if you could measure it with him, like time didn’t fold in on itself with his gravity. “No. She didn’t. Didn’t mean to, anyway.” You stammered on, verging on hyperverbal. “Met her in second grade, she left at the end of seventh. She’d always hear and see things, but she didn’t get diagnosed until fifth grade when they pull you out of classes to do evaluations and stuff. We had a whole game about it. I came up with it to make it less scary for her. We named the hallucinations Oinky. She had a guinea pig that would not stop talking, so, naturally.”

He just watched you, carefully, and your stomach flipped. Fuck. 

It made sense now. How gently you held him, the complete lack of hesitation you had when he’d clung to you—and probably scared you with his bugged-out eyes and shaking torso. But maybe not. 

You’d done this before. Something so terrifying for him was like coming home for you. Hmm.

“What was her name?” He knew you wouldn’t like it, and since he’d promised, he wouldn’t do it without your permission, but if he could find some photo, some video—

“Don’t even think about it.”

Did he even need to speak around you? He turned to see you staring back with a knowing glance. Like it was his hobby to stalk childhood friends, lost connections. He hadn’t even stalked Tommy, though he hadn’t needed to. Still in New York, being the perfect surgeon. Probably…? Did he have a problem with stalking?

“Cooper.” You admitted, crossing your arms over your chest and biting your lip like he’d interrogated it out of you. “Not getting a last name, though.”

Bruce withheld a sarcastic, ‘Don’t need one,’ and flicked his gaze back to the stars. He didn’t realize he was grinning until he felt your eyes on him and it pulled back the veil. He hadn’t felt so in his body in ages. 

Talking about Cooper, with her light brown hair that skirted her shoulders and the hyper way she talked next to you in middle school English, made you sore. How suddenly she’d left without a trace reminded you a lot of him. Like you were on the precipice of the rug pulling out from under you, and feeling all of that again. All for the crime of choosing the wrong seat, and letting yourself get a little too comfortable. 

Why was he tolerating you, and why wasn’t he admitting that’s what this was? Your head was a storm of swirling leaves, spiraling toward a tornado. 

“Do you just want to fuck me?” It blurted out of you, from a depth of insecurity you weren’t willing to admit to and hoped he wouldn’t tug on. You’d unravel. More than you already were. An unbearable amount. 

“What do you mean?” His head snapped to you like a gun had gone off, that furrow back between his brow. 

“If it’s not because of guilt about Batman, then maybe it’s this power fantasy of getting to fuck the person who knows, I don’t know.” Oh god, this is so embarrassing. Kill me now. You’d opened a box you couldn’t very well close. 

His sigh made you squeeze your eyes shut, tense. “I care about you. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you’re you.” Well, guess it’s all coming out. 

“I’m not inhuman because I have money,”

“No, I mean, I kind of think that, sometimes.”

Bruce’s stare fixed on you with a pressure that could’ve drilled a hole. What were you not saying?

“Outside of knowing, I’m not special. And I don’t mean that in some bullshit flatter-me way, just, logic.”

“No, I don’t just want to fuck you.” And yes, you are. The most. The silence from before, the lack of wind, of cars, of people, became devastatingly, intimidatingly barren. He hoped you couldn’t hear the crack in his heart. At how your tears were barely contained. At the bass in your voice he hadn’t heard before. “Did I make it seem like—?”

“No. I’m trying to find an explanation.”

“You think I’m above you.”

He watched you nod, then shake your head. “I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I do. You’re really confusing to me.” Your lip trembled. 

“How do we level the playing field?”

You met his gaze to hold it for a few seconds, as if to say you were thinking about it, too. About bitter words shouted on the way to the subway neither of you arrived at. About immovable objects. Mutually-assured destruction.

“I don’t know. You can be really warm, then really cold. I don’t like it. But I don’t want to change you. Then it’d be fake. And I hate that.” And I deserve the coldness, you bit back. 

Hate rolled off your tongue with a cutting ferocity. He adjusted, nervous; this felt prickly. “But you still don’t trust me.” 

“I trust you. Just not about me.”

“Interesting.” 

“What?”

“I’m reliable about everything but you.”

“I’m the only one who knows.”

He held the gaze you wouldn’t meet. “You’re fixated on that.” 

“Of course I am. It’s like being—”

“What if I like that you know?” His heart pounded. What if you knew that he liked you, too? What if he told you, right now, and settled the score for good? 

You laughed. His shoulders sank. 

“I do.” Indignance deepened his furrowed brow, fire burning in his throat. 

“Yeah, right.”

“Hated it initially. Now it’s relieving.” It became a vow; it was suddenly his life’s mission to convince you. 

“Ha-ha.”

“What will convince you I don’t have an ulterior motive?” Would he have to overstep and spill it all? What if he admitted that he treasured every touch, glance, syllable from you, that each minute he spent made him more sure you were absolutely perfect, that everything might’ve happened for a reason; that ecstasy overwhelmed him whenever you smiled and laughed, even right now when he was frustrated, when you didn’t believe him, when you didn’t believe in yourself. Admitted that you weren’t the problem, he was, that he wasn’t good enough for you; that he was a monster, a curse, and he couldn’t bear to bring you into it any more than he already had. That he burned, ached, died against every word unsaid and every restrained touch. 

“Nothing.” 

The balloon popped at how plainly and surely you spoke. Your profile, half in view, reminded him of how you looked with your friends. Resigned, isolated. Defeated. It wasn’t fair.

He heated with anger, the injustice surging him with newfound energy, and he propped up on his elbow to stare into you. “I saw the photos on your desk. With your friends. From what you’ve told me about them, they didn’t care about you.” 

He could’ve sworn the bottom of your eyes sparkled with tears under the moonlight. You didn’t respond.

“And you said they were your closest friends?”

“Yeah.” 

Dejected. Worn. God, you didn’t deserve this! “Look,”

“Bruce,”

“I’m not them.” 

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m not like the people at the meetings, either.” 

“Obviously.” A bit of you was creeping back in, and you successfully sniffed up tears.  

He hadn’t made it easy. He saw it so clearly now, pale blue waters stilling to inspect the mossy bottom; how he kept you at a distance, and how you’d taken it: as rejecting, as not being enough, as him not caring. He cared so much it scared him. Was it possible to tell you without pulling you under? “I’m sorry for being cold. It’s not you. I’m really not used to this.”

When you looked at him, there was something you hadn’t seen before to this extent. Like his mask had fallen off. Something in his ‘really’ gripped you like a vice. He wasn’t used to this at all. He meant it like stumbling in the dark in a room you’d never been in, like trying to speak a language you’d never heard. You hid a tremble. Tried to, anyway.

He meant he’d never navigated this. It felt impossible to imagine him as anything but popular; for his family name and legacy, for how he looked, for his bank account. When had that changed, and the haughty man you cursed became an unparalleled comfort? 

He was dry. Nerdy. Insular. Shy. Desperate, reaching. Intent on being understood. Intent on being understanding, and you did the same with him. Because you’d never had it. 

Two truths slotted into place with an intimidating thunk. Bruce was kind and self-sacrificing, but Bruce was also honest and straightforward. Which meant… you swallowed, hard. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. And fuck, that scared you. 

“Let me show you something different. Let me care about you.” 

It was like he’d shanked you—at least, what you imagined it might feel like. A sharp, deep ache in the stomach from an external force that was currently rearranging your organs. Vulnerable. Laid-out. Seen. By the most observant man in the history of the universe. 

You wanted it. You wanted it so badly you wanted to throw up, but it would kill you if he cared and you let yourself feel it, really feel it, and then he stopped; you clung to every breath your mom took, watched her breathing every night through the crack in your parent’s door ever since you thought that you might lose her. Let me care about you = let me kill you when I pull the plug. 

Was it better to feel this than nothing? Under the duress of these fucking blue eyes, your footing slipped. He cared. And wasn’t that all you ever wanted—someone to choose you when they didn’t have to? Now that someone was, you couldn’t breathe.

You’d meant some plebeian from high school you forgot about. You’d meant a cashier in this forgotten town that had the same shift as your day job. You’d even meant an ex coming back and apologizing, some big romantic gesture momentarily overwhelming the suffering they put you through. Not Bruce. He was too…

He said your name with a question mark, sloping and tender.

Him. Too big, too consuming, too real, and overwhelmingly elusive. Your heart bruised itself against your ribs as you struggled to grasp the reality of Bruce Wayne. 

Way, way too real. With a big, consuming, terrifying knife that broke skin at Arkham, bled when you wailed into his shirt, and hit deep tissue when he’d hugged your mom like they’d met a thousand times. Why couldn’t he be around that long? 

“O-kay.” Stuttered on the dismount, but that was alright. He made you feel like everything was alright, and nothing was. 

“What do you want to do tonight?”

Cry. Kiss. Cry some more. Stare at Walter. Hug Mom. Hug him. Shove him away and bolt the lock. “I don’t know.”

“What did you not get to do with your friends?”  

You’d only dreamed someone might look at you like he was right now. Like the cosmos orbited you alone. You looked away just in time to see a shooting star—or maybe it was a regular one smeared by the moment. A fluffy childhood dream fluttered to you, and you alluded to it quietly, letting him know it was okay to go back to cold, distant Bruce and stop drinking you in. “It’s dumb.”

“Let me.” He didn’t look away, didn’t flicker in intensity. Like he’d do anything if you asked, with or without reciprocation, because he only existed for you. “No judgment.”

You hated the hope that filled you at his earnestness, and how helplessly you followed him; like a loose petal giving in to a caress. 

taglist: @noisylime @jonathancranesgf @hedonisticwomen @vampiresvengeance @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sarcasticwalrus0 @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

[xo2dee]

Could you possibly do a small fic about readers first time with Vergil or Dante? ^-^

PAIRING: Vergil/(Fem)Reader. WARNINGS: MDNI/18+ ONLY. Virginity Loss, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Soft!Vergil. WORD COUNT: 1,713.

A/N: thank you for the request! wasn't sure if you meant like reader being a virgin or just in general the first time having sex with them, but i chose this route since i've already wrote a oneshot like that and wanted to do a softer route for vergil. i hope you enjoy this though!

DMC MASTERLIST

It wasn’t that you were afraid – no, it was more that you weren’t sure what you were getting into when you thought long and hard about it.

Virginity loss was never a topic you’d been present in with friends when they gossiped about it at college parties, keeping your cup full with no sips taken as you refused to lose it until it was with someone you wanted, and someone you trusted. And sure, even when you’d finally gotten into a serious relationship with an equally serious man, there was also the minor setback on the fact that you were dating a man who wasn’t even fully human. Like… he was half-demon, half-human.

Maybe it was stupid, but you sat there mulling it over at times thinking that perhaps they did it a certain way, or under some damn ritual… That made you balk from it when things seemed to grow hot between you both (sweet kisses turning to hurried smacks with teeth and tongue and hands sliding places for stimulation as your breaths intermingled with sighs and moans), and when you’d finally told Vergil on the reason why you seemed to back out when things got heavy, his response wasn’t what you would’ve expected. He had blinked languidly, then his words were as soft as his lips:

“I don’t mind.”

There was no weird ritual, no bonding he needed to do with you… All it seemed was just you and him, and the stokes of fire burning within you of your desire for one another.

Anxiety had nearly vanished, and there was nothing in-between the enclosed space of your bodies afterwards.

Despite the hardened and intense sheen within his eyes, Vergil had been nothing if not gentle with the way he touched you. And when it came to the moment you wanted to take a step further in your relationship, he kept that same semblance – if not somewhat wary in the way his hands sat on your waist, holding you like he was afraid you’d break from too much pressure that his muscles were used to applying. You’d been grateful he let you set your own pace, starting with fleeting touches and chaste kisses, but when his fingers were two knuckles deep and your walls were fluttering around him as he curled three fingers into you, you found it incredibly hard to resist any longer on what you wanted him to take from you. Your whimpers in his ear spurred him on, teeth and lips nipping and sucking at the exposed skin of your shoulders and collarbones as he went on, but it soon came to a moment where you knew it wouldn’t be enough and he’d desire for what you wanted to give to him.

Vergil’s mouth found yours again, hot and needy as a gentle nibble accompanied his newfound desire, and your fingers tangled in the hair at the base of his neck as it pulled a growl from the back of his throat. He only pulled back from your face far enough to mumble messily against your lips, “More.” 

“More what?” you sighed, feeling yourself clench around his fingers once more as he flexed them and pulled you further into his lap. His head shook, nose rubbing along your throat, and you could feel the tension of his thighs underneath as he held himself back.

“You.”

It was enough to make you spiral, and your own desire coated on his fingers agreed with the sentiment.

Fingers lifted to pull down the straps and negligee you wore, silky and unburdened by his hands, as your chest was exposed – yet, not for the first time. You could feel him throb underneath you, his own arousal digging up into your thighs as it twitched to beg for relief. Letting go of him for just a moment, you pulled back enough to tug at buckle of his belt, a small hiss blown through the cracks of his teeth as he leant back a fraction to allow you access to taking it off of him. It wasn’t hard to get it off of him, your ears burning at the sound of the zipper’s teeth whining as you pulled it down and freed him, and then with what you had learned from friends you rubbed yourself up along his length in shaky strokes, slicking up his cock since the size was to gawk at and something you needed more preparation for.

Vergil’s voice – usually as soft as the moonlight looked shining along his skin –  was blunt, rough, and grounded as he grunted into your neck, “Don’t stop.”

You obliged as your nerves began wane into the fog of desire, grateful for how he continued to let you do what you wanted. Feeling bold as Vergil was pliant and under your control you lined his cock up with your pussy, lifting yourself up ever-so slightly away from his hold before you began to gradually lower yourself onto him – a sting and wince as you felt the engorged tip of him split your flesh open. The fear from before of it sounding like some horror story due to the pain of it briefly entered your mind, before you went slow and pushed yourself onto him inch by inch as it only reduced itself as the time passed. Maybe it was Vergil himself soothing you, or maybe it was your paranoia receding back into your mind, but the pain was absent as you latched yourself to him.

Vergil held you with a firm grasp, letting you seat yourself onto him as slow as you needed to be, but it was borderline painful not to move the moment you fully slid him within you. You twitched and sighed, and when you started to lift yourself off of him and dropped your hips back down in slow yet agonizing roll, he let out a soft growl. It seemed too much for him to not move, a shudder his body and burn in his skin as he lifted his hips gently to meet yours, just enough to get a little deeper than when you first took him. The reaction was instantaneous within you both, his fingers dug deep divots into the fabric of your lingerie in a bid to control himself, your moan raising the hair on the back of his neck as you felt the urge to grind yourself so hard it broke all momentum and softness between you both. His head shook again, then you could feel the shudder he gave vibrate into your chest as his fingers twisted into the hem of your gown.

"Again," he groaned completely breathless, and you whined into his burning skin. Vergil was never too open with his wants and needs with you, often showing it through his actions instead, so to hear him become so vulnerable in his desire for your touch… You felt so powerful in that moment, like you weren’t the one who was the inexperienced virgin, and perhaps Vergil was doing that for your benefit as a heat bloomed within your heart. You felt as though you could nearly come undone from that alone, and you began move with purpose with the need to hear his voice again… and again.

With swollen lips and a slight ache in your shoulder from Vergil’s teeth there was a rush of heat within your mind that made you falter in your movements, the upwards jerk of his hips afterwards reminding you to maintain your focus. Fresh silk on worn leather you found yourself lost within his lap, legs locked around his hips with your toes pointed into the sheets while an arm anchored you to him as the hold was possessive as it was needy the closer he pulled you to him. He continued to hold himself back, but you could tell from the tremor along his abdomen as you grew closer and his finger mimicked a drawing atop your clit that it wasn’t going to be a drawn experience for the both of you.

It was too much haziness within you, too much heat, so much of Vergil with his cock thrusting inside you, his fingers on your clit, his sighs pressed into your mouth and cheeks, and the way he was trying so hard to not flip you over and plow you into the mattress like you know he wanted to so bad. You weren’t sure when you picked up the pace, but Vergil was vocal about it, and when a particular snarl purred out from the back of his throat and he rolled his hips up a fraction as his finger pressed headily down on your clit, it was no wonder you didn’t last long at all.

With no warning, your body suddenly jerked atop of him, shivering and shuddering with ecstasy as something within your body clenched and let itself go for euphoria. Your moans were bouncing off the walls as your fingers clawed into his shoulders, completely unaware of him finding his own speed to follow after you as you pussy pulsed and tightened on its own as he did so. It wasn’t long until he was joining you with a strangled grunt, teeth surprisingly soft in your flesh as he did his best to hold back the rising volume of his growls and groans to keep you at peace. You wiggled at the foreign, yet welcoming feeling of his cum seeping up into you, a new feeling completion within you as you began to sag in his arms and his arms slipped around you in an embrace to keep you tied to him.

And quiet as always with his consolation, you felt Vergil’s hand come up and caress the back of your head with a sigh, and then even then you could still sense the bout of urgency within him for more. You smiled over his shoulder and bit your lip as he twitched within you, then with the newfound confidence you hadn’t possessed while a virgin you rolled your hips experimentally with a small shudder in your sensitive body. Vergil’s reaction was abrupt, and you knew then by the way his body tensed and his lips skimmed along your ear, you knew what he wanted…

More.

Another time, and you’d let him have his way.

[dreaming-of-epiphanies]

𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓬 𝓻𝓲𝓿𝓪𝓵!𝓣𝓸𝓶 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼

Description: A series of headcanons about being Tom Riddle's academic rival because let's be real, that's definitely the trope he'd have.

A/N: While I work on part 2 to Locked Out (and hype myself up to post smut for the first time... on that note, check out the poll at the end of this please!), I thought I'd share this! academic rival!Tom is my favorite.

Warnings: Suggestiveness (like very clear, but not spice... yet).

Additional notes: I'm not sure if this'll make sense, but if you want to hear the vibe I get when I imagine academic rivals Reader x Tom slowly falling in love, listen to Champagne Coast by Blood Orange, specifically the part starting around 1:53. :)

Okay I've been talking too much so here are the headcanons:

--

Your rivalry starts off early, like first or second year early. Tom is used to being the only one to answer questions in class (or at least answer them right), so when you raise your hand and beat him to it for the first time, he’s immediately intrigued (and annoyed) by you. 

The rivalry is a one-sided one for a couple of years, until near the end of fourth year you ask the professor about O.W.L. exams and if you should start preparing for them over the summer. Tom takes this chance to scoff and rather loudly remark how he’s already started studying- over a month ago, in fact. You fix him with a pointed stare and innocent smile, saying you were simply asking for the other people in the room, and that you’d actually begun two months prior. 

When you’re both chosen as prefects for fifth year, the stakes become higher. Tom makes it a point to brag about his marks whenever you’re near. He even goes so far as to boast about them in class when he knows you’ll overhear him. He’s trying to intimidate you and make sure you know he’s the top student. What he doesn’t expect, however, is for you to stalk up to him one day in the library and shove your paper in front of his nose. You scored half a point higher than him on your latest Defence essay. And that right there is when Tom realises he might’ve messed with the wrong person. 

He’s always glaring at you from that point on. He’s always looking at you in class; while you’re studying in the library; during meals in the Great Hall. And you’re glaring back. If he beats you to answering a question right in class, your glare is shooting daggers at the back of his head. When he grabs the book you need to write an essay before you, you watch him until he’s done. The second he is, you snatch it out of his hands and he watches your retreating form.

He memorises when your prefect schedule is so he can study more during those times. Now he’ll have a slight edge on you. What he doesn’t know is you’re doing the same thing when he’s on patrol. 

You start to sit next together in class, just so you can see the annoyance on the other’s face when you answer first. Really, each of your scowls are so satisfying. Has Tom’s smirk always been that cute? 

He doesn’t admit it, but he likes your rivalry. He likes the challenge. He likes being up against you. He tried to challenge someone else in a class you don’t share once, but it wasn’t the same. 

If you get the same mark, you both go to the professor and ask for feedback. Whoever gets the least amount is declared the unofficial winner and you correct your essays together in the library, exchanging glares every so often. Over time, these glares turn into glances.

And you start studying together nearly every night as well. It only makes sense- you’re in the majority of the same classes and you have to make sure you each have all the opportunities to get the best score. Maybe he marked down something you didn’t. Maybe you heard the professor hint as to what would be on the exam while he was preoccupied taking notes.

When you get sick, he gives you an exact copy of his notes. He has to make sure you stay a formidable opponent to him, after all. He wouldn’t want his win to be hollow when he does score higher than you. 

Everything changes when you’re paired together for a project in the winter of sixth year. You have to have productive conversations and not just argue about your marks. You meet in the library more frequently (even though you study there together every day). And when it closes, you both go to his dorm to continue working on it. Seeing Tom in his dorm casts him in a new light. You’ve never seen him outside of the library, class, or the Great Hall before. Is that why you’re suddenly captivated by how he looks?

The project opened up a new avenue of communication with Riddle now: friendly conversation. He’s surprisingly enjoyable to talk to. You find yourself laughing with him more than you should. Academic rivals aren’t supposed to look forward to seeing each other, are they? 

And yet you do. You always glance at him in the Great Hall or the corridor. He nods when he meets your eyes. Then you start smiling at him when you see him. He smiles back. And then he starts meeting you outside of your classes when you have a period apart, and walking you to your next one or to the library or the Great Hall. 

You start congratulating each other when the other scores higher than you. You start looking forward to the smug smirk you give each other. Why does your stomach flutter at his triumphant smile? Why does he think about the proud look on your face whenever he closes his eyes?

It isn’t until Tom skips one of your studying sessions and you miss him that you realise what’s happening. Merlin’s fucking beard, you’re in love with him you might possibly have a very small crush on him. 

And now that you’ve realised it, you can’t shut it off. The spark of happiness you feel whenever you see him. The heady rush you feel when he steps too close to you. The butterflies in your stomach when he meets your eyes. You’re falling, and you’re falling fast. (You’ve already fallen. So hard.)

Tom realises it one day when the two of you are reading by the Black Lake and you abruptly put your book down, running and leaping into the water. It’s so unexpected and he can’t deny the way he wishes he could freeze time when he sees you get out of the water, your dress soaking and hair dripping as you come and sit back down next to him, purposefully flicking some water onto him. 

Now that he’s realised it, he can’t stop looking at you. He couldn’t stop before either, but now he really can’t resist. The way you laugh. The way you smile at him. How you briefly touch his hand to get his attention when you’re studying in the library one day. It takes everything in him not to reach over the table and haul you into his lap right then and there to kiss you.

Of course you both think about kissing. A lot. Like, more than you know you should. When Tom’s head is bent over his parchment and you’re staring at his lips, the sweep of his hair, the firm grip of his fingers on his quill. What else could he do with those fingers? Tom can’t seem to tear his gaze from your mouth either. When you’re at the Three Broomsticks one day for a Hogsmeade trip and you pop a teacake into your mouth, he literally has to close his eyes to look away. The image is seared into his mind and he keeps picturing the way your fingers hovered at your lips at the most inopportune times.

This all comes crashing down one day when you get a perfect mark on an exam Tom knows you didn’t study as well as he did for. You start arguing and before you know it, it’s turned into a full-blown shouting match. You’re screaming at him for being a prick, he’s shouting at you for being lazy, and then he loses his train of thought because his attention is suddenly diverted to your lips. You stop screaming when you see his odd stare. He looks up in confusion before seeing your eyes are on his lips. And then all of a sudden you’re kissing and he has you pressed up against the wall. 

The kiss escalates fast. Years of pent up tension and feelings let out and as soon as it’s over and you’re lying together on his dorm bed, Tom asks you to be his girlfriend. You accept. 

Your rivalry only increases after that but somehow it makes it more fun. Now you can argue about marks and make out in the Room of Requirement twenty minutes later. And if you score higher than him? Well, be prepared for the ferocity with which he’ll kiss you. 

You each get Head Boy and Head [Girl/Boy] in seventh year. You study together for N.E.W.T.’s. There’s nothing left to compete for, and once you graduate you fear your rivalry will dissipate. But no, it remains just as strong, just with other things now. Who will be the first to make coffee for the other in the morning? Who will suggest the best date night idea? Who will propose first? (Tom wins that one). 

At your wedding, everyone’s speeches in some way mention the rivalry that brought you two together and how glad they are that it's stopped now. You just roll your eyes and smile at each other because you know it never has and never will stop.

And when your first child starts showing signs of competitiveness, the two of you exchange a knowing look and finally decide you can both be the winners. (Each of you secretly thinks they won, though). 

--

A/N (again): So if you read Locked Out (linked at the top of this post!), it's set up pretty well for a spicy part 2. I've never posted spice before, but I want to, so do you guys want that as well? (I'm making part 2 no matter what, already over 4000 words in!)

@viperify thought I'd tag you here since we both love academic rival!Tom 🤭

[soobadnoonecanstopher]

Rat Bastard - Part 12

Pairing: You x Kyungsoo

Rating: M

Word Count: 10.1k

Warnings: There were too many beds, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Sexual Tension, Idiots to Lovers, Mature Sexual Situations.

Tag: @ilovemyapopbaby @blvked19

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

Rat Bastard Masterlist

You had a countdown running inside of your head. 

It felt like a doomsday clock and it kept running and running and you did your best to live your life, ignoring the constant, terrifying ticking.

You were a fraud and a fake. You’d all but explicitly promised him you’d come clean with Claire by the time he’d returned from his work trip. By the time you catch a glimpse of his beautiful face surrounded by the flowers, ribbons, and opulent table decorations of Sam and Mari’s wedding — this relationship wouldn’t have to be kept a secret from anyone. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t tried. 

Rehearsing what you would say in your head at least twenty times and chickening out every single time you saw her in person with some new excuse like “Now is not the right time,” or “I’ll definitely tell her next time,” counted as trying, right?

But the timing had always been wrong. At first it really, really wasn’t the right time. The constant ruminating over it continued inside your head. 

She’s still recovering from the blow in her relationship. I shouldn’t be feeling so happy right now when she’s feeling this awful.

How would you feel if, on the night your boyfriend of two years had dumped you, and in between the glasses of wine and slobbering tears, your best friend picked then to tell you all about her brand spanking new boyfriend and about how perfect he was and about how handsome and sweet and caring he was and how mind blowing the sex was and how delicious the food was, and, and, and —

Well, now she’s crying again. I can't tell her when she’s crying.

So you pushed it down. You put it all away and you hugged your friend and didn’t say anything when she dribbled tears and snot all over your shirt. You drank wine with her and you agreed with everything she said; calling him a bad person, calling him an fucking idiot, swearing off all men with her in solidarity, but, with your fingers crossed behind your back, nodding in convincing agreement when she told you how lucky you were that you were young and pretty and single and not tied down to some man. You were quick to switch from nodding enthusiastically to frowning and shaking your head in disagreement when her hate speeches turned to questions about whether or not he had another woman. 

“There’s no way,” you declared as a fact even if — if you really thought about it — “He wouldn’t — Eric wouldn’t,” you added with a voice that lost some of its conviction at the tail end because if — if you let your mind drift there, what other reason — what noble reason could there be? 

Even if you had to lie to yourself about how sure you were, you’d do it. You were playing your part and you’d do what you had to do to get her through this. 

She’d done the same for you when you’d lost your job and even jumped through hoops to get you an exclusive interview at a sister firm of her company. You hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell her that you’d been offered and had accepted the position and would be starting next month. 

“You’re right,” she nodded, blowing her nose into a wadded up tissue, but her eyes refused to look up into yours for longer than a half a second at a time and your throat had gone dry with the unsaid accusations playing just inside of your throat. 

You even promised not to tell anyone in the whole wide world about this because she was feeling too horrible for anyone to know. Anyone except for you. Rejected, devastated, absolutely humiliated, she wasn’t ready to face anyone looking at her with pity, or treating her like some sort of fragile, frail, fractured thing all because some man had dropped her without any fucking warning like she never even meant anything at all to him, like — like — like the last two years they’d spent together, the promises they’d made each other were all nothing.

You listened to her and you supported her. You would love her enough to overcome whatever anyone else did to her because she was your best friend. You knew she wasn’t lying when she told you she hadn’t told another soul about this, not yet, she wasn’t ready yet, and as the evening progressed you kept her from sending any drunk texts to the latest specimen of the male species to be crowned a rat bastard (derogatory).

Your first real chance came as she was drifting off to sleep on the big sectional sofa in her living room. Her swollen eyes had finally been drifting closed as the blinks grew longer and her sniffling had settled and you felt in your hand, your phone that sat beside her confiscated phone, was buzzing softly. 

Doh Kyungsoo was calling you. You watched it ring — your fingertips trailing lightly and, against your will, quite lovingly up and over the edge of your screen, you hovered an index finger over the button that would reject the call and you nearly mustered the strength to push it. 

“Is that him?” Claire’s voice was tiny, muffled by sleep and by the pillow her face was pressed up against, “is that Eric?” The tragic hope you heard in her voice pulled your lips into a deep frown. 

You pressed a button on the screen, sending a canned text message in response to his call to stop the buzzing, and you swiped quickly to turn on the Do Not Disturb function before laying your phone face down on the sofa beside your thigh. 

“No, Honey. That was mine. I’m sorry.”

You felt her movement through the back of the sofa and she slowly lifted her head and peeked through her lashes at you, “You can take it — if it is important — oh,” she interrupted her own words with a pause, pulling her face up higher as she struggled for balance. She stretched out with a hand, gripping clumsily at your hand that you offered toward her.

“Didn’t you — didn’t you have some — news — you said —” the words came out stuttering and jagged through a stopped up nose and light gasping hiccups; evidence of the hours of upset and several glasses of wine she’d been through. 

Before she got the bulk of her words out you were shaking your head back and forth, a small smile pulled onto your lips. No. Not now.

“No, tell me.” She squeezed your hand and shook it but you were still shaking your head, looking down and away from her insisting face. The thing about Claire though, was she was not one to be dissuaded. She was relentless when she wanted to be and after the third shake of your hand you felt yourself crumbling. It began with the smallest sigh of resignation and you lifted your head fully prepared to spill the beans. 

You nearly did it. You inhaled a fortified breath and everything. But, looking into her face, with her swollen and puffy red-rimmed eyes and the deep and profound sadness she couldn't hide inside of them and you just couldn’t. 

You couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. 

“I, umm,” you began, inhaling through your nose deep and slow and you dropped your eyes from her pleading face, looking down at her hand that you now held tightly inside of both of yours, “I got the job.” The words, despite being the truth, burned the back of your tongue. Just like lying to your best friend might. “That’s all I was going to tell you. I start next month.”

Claire gasped. The inhale caught resistance in her stuffed up nose and you felt the lightest swat of her free hand on your shoulder. 

“I knew you would!” she cried. It pulled your eyes back up into hers and you pushed the false narrative up to your face, slipping your smile up wide enough to push at your eyes convincingly. 

The smile on her face, although small, was genuine and truthful. When she leaned forward and gripped you tightly around your shoulders and pulled you into her chest, you felt her honesty. “Will you stay the night with me?” She whispered over your shoulder into your ear and you nodded your head. 

“Of course.” You were placing warm palms over her arms, pulling her off of you and laying her back down onto the sofa where she’d drifted off earlier. 

“I’ll be here. You just sleep.” She was always an agreeable drunk, even when her heart was broken. She laid back down in the same position, stuffing her face into the back of the sofa and you patted her back slowly until her breathing grew steady, slow, and even. 

When you’d snuck off to the bathroom with your phone to call Kyungsoo, he was patient and quiet as he listened to you whisper on the line. He was easy with his acceptance of your vaguely secretive reasons as to why you were whispering, why your voice sounded a little bit upset, why you wouldn’t be able to fill his ear with your silly chatter as you usually did in the evenings until you fell asleep to the sounds of a rapid knife hitting a cutting board as he started that evening’s fancy schmancy dinner service for his clients in some other time zone. He didn’t prod or pry about what exactly happened with Claire that required such drastic measures. 

He only hummed in response and told you he would miss you tonight. His goodnight message had the now familiar crypticism of his. 

“Two sunsets,” he whispered into your ear and your lips twitched with a smile, a tiny giggle betrayed you through the miles and miles that separated you. Yesterday he had promised three sunsets. The day before it was four. How far you’d both come from that first frustrated groan that vibrated through your eardrum, a noisy complaint that he would have to survive fourteen whole days and nights without you. 

“That’s fourteen days and nights without seeing you. Fourteen sunsets missing you. Absolute fucking torture. I don't think I’m gonna make it.”

While he was obviously very good at hiding it beneath a cool, unphased exterior, this man was turning out to be much needier than you’d ever expected him to be. It was ridiculously flattering and you were admittedly on cloud nine about it. But, between the two of you, you had been the more mature one in handling the separation. 

You had things to occupy your mind, of course. You had been quite busy while he was away. The stressful job interview and days of interview preparations that went before it. The days after when you were obsessively refreshing the job portal to check for any changes in status. Answering every single phone call that came into your phone with a desperate “hello?” Fighting for your life against the robocallers and scammers until that fateful phone call where you held your breath the entire time as you were offered the job and you could finally unclench long enough to get on with your life knowing you wouldn’t be destitute, hungry, and homeless anytime soon. After the offer you even allowed yourself to splurge on a pretty dress, shoes, and jewelry for the wedding. Making a few appointments for important things like hair, makeup, and nails. 

All the while, the entirety of the time, never once letting up, the ticking of your doomsday clock echoed. Reminding you that again and again, whether you wanted it to or not, time, the stupid son of a bitch, was relentless and never stopped moving forward. 

“Two sunsets,” you sighed and the breath stuttered through your lungs. You hadn’t intended it, but it came out sounding defeated. Sad and hopeless. You held your breath and you braced for him to notice, praying he wouldn’t bring it up.

He would have had to have known and understood that you’d been through a rough evening with Claire. Maybe he could even read through the lines enough to surmise that perhaps something devastating could have happened to her and of course, you being her very best friend, would have felt equally as devastated. Kyungsoo would, no doubt, have attributed whatever he may have heard in your voice to that upset. It wasn’t because you were a shitty girlfriend and hadn’t fulfilled your promise to him yet. Claire still didn’t know anything about the two of you and this beautiful, wonderful, precious human being was still nothing more than a shameful secret that you didn’t have the nerve to reveal to anyone yet. 

You heard a sound. The small inhale. The sound of air pulling over his phone’s mic. The tiniest little hum from the back of his throat before, “You okay?” 

You were chewing on the dried skin on your upper lip, your front teeth grabbing at a tiny corner of skin. You let out the softest hum of uncertainty and you had to clear your throat of the tightness you felt in there.

“Hmm? My Love?” His low voice coaxed over your closed up skin, pulling lightly against your limbs, begging for you to unfold yourself.  

“Kyungsoo, I didn’t tell her yet.” That tightness spread from your throat down your breastplate, curling itself up on top of your lungs and you swallowed noisily, feeling no relief in the action, “I couldn’t. Something happened tonight — Something I promised I wouldn’t talk about happened and…I wanted to tell her, but I haven’t been able to — yet.”

You cleared your throat again. The silence on the other end of this phone call inflating that feeling inside of your chest the longer it went on. 

“I’m sorry.” You whispered on the tail end of the air left in your lungs. You wanted to keep going. You wanted to tell him how much you practiced telling her, how much you wanted to tell her, how much you loved him and didn’t want to keep hiding like this but you simply could not bring yourself to speak again. 

“I see,” he said after what felt like ages of you waiting to breathe.

The breath you managed to take after he spoke again didn’t really help this feeling. You couldn’t tell what emotions lay behind his response, mostly because there was so little he said. 

Was he upset? Hurt? Sad? Angry? His non-action made your mind run wild and you inhaled again, “Ar—”

But, “Does—” he was speaking at the same time as you. An awkward half syllable. His thought interrupted when he heard you speaking and he stopped abruptly. 

You stopped too, much more desperate to hear his reaction than to get your silly silence filling words out. 

“Go ahead,” he said in a flat voice.

“N-No,” you mumbled, feeling very genuine heat filling up the blood vessels of your cheeks, “I wasn’t saying anything important. You can speak.”

It hadn’t felt like this with him before. Your breath was catching in your throat, not satisfying your need for oxygen. You felt dizzy and unfinished and unfulfilled. 

“I was just,” he spoke up after a few seconds, his voice holding just a touch more energy than the first few syllables he’d tried, “does that mean, this Saturday?” 

His inflection trailed up, posing this half question to you.

”Y-Yeah,” you said, gasping again through the discomfort you felt all over. “I’m sorry,” you added, even though you knew your repeated apology for your failures did nothing to fix this. 

“You,” he spoke again, quicker this time. Just under the surface of his voice you heard a tinge of something, some familiar echo of annoyance that you’d definitely heard from him in the past. He was upset.

“You know I’m a groomsman, right? So that means I won't have time to come and see you when I get home? Like, my flight lands and I’ll have to get ready for the ceremony and we won’t see each other at all until the wedding and — and—” You could practically see the wide-eyed annoyance on his face through the phone.

“So, we’re still — a secret, then?” 

“Yeah,” you relented. He was right to be annoyed with you. “I’m—,” you cut yourself off before you could apologize again. But, he was right. This would be awful. 

“Can you really do that? Just — pretend? After everything. Just—”

“I don't know what else to do. I think — we’ll have to — for now.” Your voice was pleading now. Followed quickly by your words in a pathetic whisper, “Please, Kyungsoo.”

He responded first with a quick puff of air through his nostrils and then you heard the mirrored inhale, counted out at least three seconds of silence before you heard the quietest humorless chuckle, “I’m just — I get it, okay? For the record, I understand. And please believe me when I say I won’t do anything to ruin your friendship with Claire. You know, I won’t, but—” he inhaled a deep breath, exhaling for a long time, and even pulling his face away from the phone as the sounds of his breathing seemed to grow further away for a while. 

“Okay.” 

When he came back, you sensed the shift in him. 

“Okay.” 

With the next deep inhale you felt the man cave to you. 

“Okay, Baby, that‘s okay. What do you need from me? Tell me the plan. I‘ll do it. I‘ll be who you need me to be.” His voice was a warm and steady summer rainshower. 

The pet name, the gentle agreement, the softness, the forgiveness. It took you a moment to absorb the push you felt against your heart. You inhaled a deep, satisfying breath of fresh air, fighting the tiniest stammer in your throat. 

“Just act like — like before, I guess.”

“Are you kidding me? Before?” 

“Well, not before before. Not like, the cruelty, name calling, cyberstalking, the bullying—” You answered lamely. He was right. You were awful to him before. He was a rat bastard and you were pretty sure you were the devil in high heels.

“No. I‘m not doing any of that. And you better not either. I swear to God.” In your mind's eye his finger was raised, pointed at you in accusation. You pouted out your bottom lip, fully feeling the scolding he dished out for your past behavior. 

He let out a long exhale. 

“Best I can do is indifference. Take it or leave it.” 

“Indifference?”

“M-hmm,” he hummed.

You genuinely considered it. 

It was so… easy sounding. 

“Hmm…I can do indifference. Yeah. Just two people who are indifferent to each other. We’ve matured. Moved on. Put the past behind us, right?” 

“M-hmm,” he hummed again. Easy-peasy.

But your mind was whirling. 

Suddenly it didn’t sound so easy. What if he looked at you in that way? The same way he looked at you when he made love to you? 

You inhaled to talk yourself through it.

“Doesn‘t matter what you do — or what I do? No connections to each other. Nothing promised between us.” You began to feel funny.

“Just nothing … I’m nobody to you.”

Oh god, what if he didn‘t look at you at all? Didn’t notice how pretty you looked in your fancy dress, or imagine even taking it off of you later that evening? 

What if he looked too good in the suit? You’d never seen him in a suit before. Jesus, a hot man in a suit was your kryptonite. What if he was too handsome for anyone in the entire place to resist? What if his good looks and cool, unaffected attitude attracted too much attention? 

What if some sexy floozy flirted with him? What if she laughed at his sarcastic jokes and what if he let her? Were you really indifferent to that? What if you had to jump some slut in the bathroom for flirting with a man who you were completely indifferent toward? Could you really win in a fight? What if you had to enlist Claire as your backup? Could she fight in her vulnerable emotional state? You knew she would. In a heartbeat, she would. But how effective would she be at grabbing that bitch’s hair and dodging fingernails in between the tears?

“I mean, yeah. You can do whatever you want. With whomever you want. But then I can also do whatever I want, right?” You couldn't help feeling annoyed now. 

“You don’t matter to me and I obviously don't matter to you, right? That‘s indifference, right!?” 

Oh you were heated now. How could you possibly go along with this plan? His could he ever entertain the thought of treating you like you were nothing. Even when you hated each other there was always something there. Something intense driving that passion. 

He’d gone suspiciously quiet as you talked. You harrumphed noisily. Getting more and more irritated with his suggestion the longer you ran it through the countless lists of hypotheticals. 

“Jeez, I'd rather you still hated my guts.” You were mumbling under your breath. Not quite trying to not be heard. 

“O—kay? You sound — a little —”

“Indifferent?” You interrupted. With sass.

“No…”

”No, I wouldn’t call it that.”

Oh his words came out so slowly and carefully. So much less sure of himself now. Now that he‘d pranced around all night looking like a fucking snack. Laughing and dancing and flirting and having the time of his life with strangers but treating you, of course, with absolute indifference.

You could feel yourself spiraling. You missed him. You wanted to be with him. You only had yourself to blame for this. You were the one who hesitated for two whole weeks until you painted yourself into a corner and actually couldn’t be honest with Claire. This was your fault. You were the only one to blame for this mess you both found yourselves in. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, having had a few moments of his patient waiting to rein in the crazy side of you that he always seemed to politely ignore. 

“I just…miss you like crazy today.” Having admitted that, you let out a long exhale of air through your mouth and you heard the softest little hum in response from him. Was he practicing his indifference already?

“Maybe we can just avoid each other,” you offered. You weren’t about to spiral again, thinking too hard about how tortuous it might be to be slighted by him when you saw him instead of scooped up, spun around in a dramatic circle, and kissed. 

“Do you think we can?” He seemed to be moving around. “It’s not that big of a wedding.” He spoke matter-of-factly. Like this was a business transaction. His voice level and calm as he simply stated truths. You heard familiar sounds for this time of night. Water running somewhere, and that quick, high pitched metal-on-metal shink sound that happened when he was sharpening his knife. 

He started chopping something. Rhythmic and steady taps. You’d long ago slumped down to sit down on the edge of Claire’s bathtub, paying only half attention to any sounds that might be coming down the hallway. You knew Claire. With as much wine as she drank, she’d be out until dawn.

Over the sounds of his knife hitting the wooden cutting board, you heard the soft call of his voice over the far-away connection. He spoke out your name with his sweetened tongue and the sound beckoned sweetly to you, pulling your bottom lip forward into the smallest, silliest pout. He couldn't see you so you could get away with it. You missed him so much. 

You hummed out a response to him calling you. 

“You didn’t answer my question?” He said when he heard you respond. “Do you think it's even possible to avoid each other? I know I don't want to.” 

Your pout turned into a frown. Your head lolled to one side. You did not answer. You simply exhaled noisily through your nose. 

“I don't want to avoid you. I want to see you. Talk with you. Laugh with you. Be with you. I want to touch you. Hold you in my arms and kiss you. Unlike you, I don't see the value in lying to myself about it. And at the risk of setting you off again —” he filled your silence up with his heady voice. 

You heard notes of his usual sauciness and you rolled your eyes just a little bit, despite the hard pull at the edges of your mouth. “— might I remind you that this was all your idea. I gave you ‘indifference’ as my only option. I believe I said ‘take it, or leave it.’ And you left it. So good luck avoiding me, I guess.” 

“Kyungsoo.” You lightly scolded, whining into it, earning the smallest chuckle from him. You groaned out loud, out of options and he simply laughed again. 

“Wait, can I still have indifference?” This made him laugh even harder and it took a few times calling his name to get him to stop and answer your pleas. ”I would like indifference, please.”

When he spoke again, it wasn’t to promise you he’d follow the original plans. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of Claire tonight, my Love?”

”She’s out cold,” you answered candidly, having let down all of your guards you let slip, “cried herself to sleep,” and you heard a pause in the steady tapping of his knife. Too late though, you lifted your fingers to lay them over your lips as if you could put the extra details back in. 

“That bad?”

You nodded your head. He couldn't see, yet he grumbled as if he could, before asking another one word question. “Eric?” 

You sniffled your nose a little and cleared your throat, worrying over the words that sat right on the tip of your tongue. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.” Technically you didn’t admit to anything but still, the man could read you pretty well at this point. It felt like you might have spilled. 

“That asshole,” he cursed. 

You nodded your head, feeling some sort of satisfaction to hear him as upset as you felt, before you realized that you may have just accidentally let slip your best friend’s secret. Well, technically your boyfriend guessed it. 

“Kyungsoo, no one else is supposed to know. You don't know anything. Got it?” You called out over the sound of his aggressive chopping. You heard the sound of the pause a second before you heard his voice. 

“I always felt something was off about him. I could feel it, you know?” The chopping resumed. “Still. I tried to like him, for Claire.”

”You too?” You had to speak up. He had been lost in his rant. “I felt the same way. I don't know, I honestly feel like she’s better off. Still, it’s hard.” 

“Of course it is. But, she has you. She’s going to be okay.” His voice grew closer, it felt like a farewell, “and Babe, about Saturday? I’ll be who you need me to be. Don't worry about it.”

“Two sunsets,” you whispered across the ocean, hoping he could feel how much you loved him from so far away. 

Those two sunsets slipped by so quickly. You’d soon find yourself getting that first bitter taste of an indifferent Doh Kyungsoo. 

Claire was just well enough to make it to Sam and Mari’s wedding but it took some convincing; and even then, it was only after you came up the plausible story of a family emergency out of state to explain Eric’s absence that she crawled into the shower, slapped on just enough makeup to cover the dark circles and slipped on a fancy dress that looked good beside you in your black number. You couldn’t imagine Eric would have the nerve to show up tonight, so you linked arms with her as you made your way through the rows of tables. Just a couple of secretless gals out for an evening of dancing, drinking, and mingling. 

The event was well attended and most of the guests, like you, had arrived just in time for drinks service to begin. 

Despite the multitude of familiar faces, many of which stopped to greet you with toothy smiles, excited hugs, or hopeful promises to catch up, your eyes moved on their own, searching for one face in the sea of faces — for one person in particular whose familiarity ran so deep through your veins that they seemed to pulse with the rhythmic anticipation of shared heartbeats and mirrored breathes. 

Another friend greeted you. You played the part, smiling wide, moving in for a hug and holding eye contact for as long as you could physically stand before you risked another glance around the room. 

Just one look. You’d be satisfied for the whole night if you could just see him. It had been so long since you’d let your eyes wander over his pretty face, his imposing and powerful eyes and plumped lips that balanced out the perfection of his face. You’d only look and you wouldn’t even stare at him dreamily. Even if he kept his end of the bargain up and did not smile at you in secret or slip his fingertips lightly over the bare small of your back that this sexy dress exposed, you’d be satisfied with simply seeing him and knowing he’d come back home to you. 

After one too many newly discovered faces turned into disappointment, you stiffened to feel someone’s hand slip into the crook of your elbow and you turned with a start, catching the familiar eyes of your best friend who moved in close to you, linking elbows and placing a warm hand over top of her grip as she leaned in for a message. 

“He’s not coming,” she said in a gentle whisper against your ear and you couldn’t hold the quick flash of shock that must have flown over your face before you’d had a chance to settle it. Claire pulled her face back to look into your eyes, if she’d been tipped off to your strong reaction she didn’t let it be known for long before she shrugged and frowned slightly with a head shake. “He wouldn’t. These are my friends. This is my world. He wouldn’t have any reason to come here without me.” 

Eric. You steadied your eyes on her and nodded your head lightly, giving her a small wince with your eyebrows. 

“H-hey, Cl—”

Something jumped inside of you.

You’d started to speak. 

“Claire!”

For a moment, you’d begun to test the waters but her attention was diverted by the sound of someone — someone — 

Someone had called her name. 

Someone.

Your pulse jumped and you closed your eyes up, losing the warmth of Claire’s arm that kept you tethered here, your eyes opened and followed her back where she vanished. Strong, black-suit clad arms wrapped tightly around her waist and squeezed, then lightly lifted in place by his strong back and plopped back down on her two feet, his arms still encircling her waist and the sounds of genuine giggles erupting from inside of her.

She was all smiles as she tried to pull away from the tight embrace he still held her hostage with. He seemed to be holding on. He seemed to be overdoing it. Taking a simple greeting and turned the hug into something much more comforting. Something you might do for a dear friend who had been through something, or was having a hard time lately. Something designed to sooth and fix. Which was absolutely not allowed for someone who wasn’t supposed to know anything about Claire’s fragile emotional state right now. 

“Kyungsoo!” She cried through a wide grin, tapping her palms lightly over his back.  

He rubbed comforting circles over her back. You crossed your arms over your chest and took a step back, rocking on your heels and turning your focus away from the spectacle this man was becoming. 

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” Claire looked up into his bright eyes the moment he came to his senses and relinquished the woman. If she had suspicions about Kyungsoo she certainly didn’t point any in your direction. “When did you get back from the trip…or…trips, is it?” 

“God, I feel like I’ve been gone forever. Just got back this morning — didn’t even get a chance to unpack.” Kyungsoo was whining, a soft and gentle complaint on his voice and his focus never once drifted over to where you stood — arms still crossed, standing with your balance shifted over to one hip and then shifting back to the other when your anticipation quietly turned into impatience, and then seemed to be moving into dangerous moods like petulance, bitterness, annoyance that he was just so very good at completely ignoring you. 

“Didn’t even get to see my puppy,” he frowned between complaints. “How’s your mom been? Everyone alright at home?” 

You didn’t even know he had a dog. He’s never mentioned having a puppy. Didn’t people with pets talk about them? Show them off with wide grins and eyes full of love to half interested parties?

The longer you stood directly beside your best friend while being purposefully excluded from the conversation by an overly zealous, rule following man who looked unreasonably, and unbelievably attractive in what should just be a run of the mill black suit and tie, the louder your bored spoiled brat mood and resulting sounds you made about it began to grow until you were sighing dramatically, until you were uncrossing and recrossing your arms, rocking on your feet, shifting around on your ankles, rolling your eyes, and finally, fucking finally, catching someone’s attention. 

It wasn’t Kyungsoo because that man was extremely good at playing his role. He seemed completely immune to anything you did. A master class of indifference. 

That someone who’d had enough was Claire who shot you an admonishing look — not unlike the look a mother might threaten a misbehaving child with — just you wait until we get home, young lady. She motioned dramatically with her eyes that you should behave while she was having a conversation, goddammit, and she would be done when she was done. Yes, even if she was talking and laughing and giggling and catching up with your sworn enemy who would not even look at you once. How was he so good at that? He wouldn’t even look into your eyes when you searched for him — wouldn’t look at how pretty your makeup was today — or how sexy you looked in the black dress. Forget clandestine meetings, or secret touches, the man wouldn’t even acknowledge your existence. 

Claire had looked at you as if you were just supposed to be okay with this. So what if she was even asking if he’d met anyone new, which he denied. An expert at lying. You made a mental note of this troubling detail. Even if she was offering to set him up on another blind date, which he quickly and sweetly declined with some backhanded dig at you like ‘Thank you for offering, ClaireBear, but I don't ever want to go on another blind date, ever again. Never ever, ever.’ He emphasized it in a pretty offensive way that had you feeling personally attacked, as if that vehement denial was only for you. You, the sole reason for the disaster that was the last blind date that Claire had facilitated for him. 

If you had intended to keep your relationship with him a secret from Claire, she seemed to be buying it easily. You had enough of a history at this point that you felt too powerless standing here in front of the two of them to do or say anything too out of character or risk anything that might let the cat out of the bag. All you could do was stand there and pout. 

All you could do was stomp your foot on the floor in front of him and open your stupid mouth and say “Well, I also, never want to go on another blind date. Never. Ever. Ever.” And Claire’s wide embarrassed eyes were on you in shock, but more urgently, Kyungsoo’s focus was pulled down to the floor where you’d clipped the toe of his patent leather dress shoe with one rogue stomp. 

There was the smallest scuff in the leather. A little mark left by your stupid outburst and you gasped out loud, hands over your gaping mouth. 

Offering reparations, seeking forgiveness, your hands, both of them moved toward the man.

Your mouth was already opening for the quick apology. You’d already inhaled the breath you’d need to speak the words and you’d given into a stumble to move closer to him. Your slippery fingertips reached the cuff of his suit jacket and the stiff fabric creased between your thumb and index finger. Standing closer to him now, a clean crisp fragrance danced up to your nose. In your immediate field of vision, independent of the insignificant peripheral view where Claire visibly stiffened on high alert — his soft lips, the movement of his tongue inside of his mouth a split second before his jaw set in hard and his eyes still forced downward, refusing you, fluttered and fought against his iron will. 

All at once, you itched. All at once you ached. Just to touch him, just to squeeze his arm, just to tell him you were sorry you were acting like a child just because he wouldn’t fucking look at you dammit, and you were feeling pretty desperate about it. Just to tell him you loved him and you missed him terribly while he’d been gone and you wished you could just have ten minutes alone with him to hug him and kiss him and just to take back whatever outburst you may have given into just now. 

He faked his own exit. Acting as if he’d perceived some sort of signal, Kyungsoo turned his head to look behind him, nodding his head once and at the same time mumbling, “Oh, that’s my cue,” before turning back to look into Claire’s face, “I’m up, Clairy. Save a dance for me later.” 

You’d recovered yourself by then and dropped your hands at the same time as you felt one of Claire’s hands land over your forearm and not that gently pulled you back a step to stand beside her once again. 

She was nodding. She was agreeing. She was smiling and giving him a raised fist in the air, a cheer or good luck gesture of some kind and he quickly spun on his heels and left. 

Just — left. 

You were being dragged away.

“What is the matter with you,” she whispered harshly under her breath the second he was out of earshot. “I know you hate him, but for the love of God, this is a wedding. We are in public. You looked like you were about to jump him — the patience of a saint.” She was pinching the bridge of her nose. Muttering complaints about your unacceptable behavior to herself. Comparing the man to some holy being for not engaging with a spoiled rotten brat.

“ClaireBear?” You breathed out in frustration. “But that’s my nickname for you.” 

“Listen. Kyungsoo is one of my oldest, dearest friends—” You followed her to stand in some line. The line seemed to be moving slowly and people who emerged were carrying —- ooh drinks. This was a good line to find yourself in. 

“I knew you first and this is a private wedding.” A petulant mumble escaped. You expected some snappy retort from her but she seemed to be staring ahead at the drinks menu, yet something in her focus seemed off. She was pondering something. 

“Actually, now that you mention it, he’s never called me ClaireBear before this. It’s usually just Clairy, E-Claire, Claira-dactyl, Claire-buoyant” 

“Claire-buoyant?”

 “We had swim class in college together.” 

You’d stopped examining the drinks menu and you were looking at the puzzled face of your best friend, feeling just a little bit guilty to realize that nearly every time you mentioned her during your late night phone calls with your boyfriend, you used your favorite nickname for her. 

Kyungsoo must have picked up the new moniker from you. 

“Hey, Claire… about Kyungsoo?” You closed your eyes and you braced yourself, peaking one eye open and finding you had her attention. Could you do it? 

“I think he got ClaireBear from me.”

Your pulse raced inside of your chest. You could feel it with each second that passed and after a few of those seconds with her just staring at you, you broke the eye contact and looked nervously around the space. Behind her, someone was tapping a microphone. Someone with a professional sounding announcer’s voice was introducing the new happy couple who had just entered the vast wedding hall. Your focus behind her made her turn her head just as the opening notes of a romantic ballad began to play and the doors behind you both opened up as the crowd began to clap wildly. Sam and Mari entered, Mari’s big ball gown sparkled and Sam looked stunning in his suit and the song began to play out over the sound of the crowd's cheers. 

It took you a few seconds to realize that someone up on that stage was actually singing. The song wasn’t just a recording created in some studio by professional musicians. The delay in you realizing was simply because of how good they sounded singing this song. You felt drawn to his voice in a way you had genuine trouble explaining, but every note he sang sounded effortlessly beautiful and yet, something in the color of his voice was hitting you right through your chest with how achingly familiar it was. Not only the sound of it, but the feeling of it. 

“I don’t know how many times I need to tell you, Doh Kyungsoo is not stalking your Instagram. He’s simply too busy, too talented, too desirable to be worried about petty fights with you. Didn’t you see him tonight? He didn’t even react when he saw you. He must have gotten ClaireBear from somewhere else. Hell, maybe he just made it up all on his own.”

“No, Claire, listen to me.” you begged, but her hand was up on your arm, stopping you from talking over the song Kyungsoo was singing up on that stage right now. 

“Shh—”

She had a point in shushing you. Holy shit. You hadn’t heard him before, not like this. You knew he could sing well, but this felt otherworldly. More than just hearing the lyrics come out of him, the way he delivered them made you feel every word he was saying. Every single emotion in the romantic love song sunk in deep. 

The song was building and building and you stepped to the side to be able to see around the crowds of guests. You could feel yourself being drawn in so easily to his voice. For someone with such a low speaking voice he really did sound like some sort of an angel when he slipped into the upper octaves. 

He was magical. There was so much about this man that took your breath away. So much that took your reason and sanity for a spin.

You lost your grip. Only for a moment. You were so far under his spell.

 But that was all it took. A moment.

“Ugh,” a complaint erupted from the back of your throat, “I love him so much.” 

You said it right out loud with your own mouth and after two seconds of the words hanging in the air between you and Claire you actually realized what you had just said. What she had just heard you say. 

She was looking at you, no, staring at you with eyes wide and mouth gaping and you turned to look at her too. You found no handy excuses ready to defend. There was no escaping this.

“Did you —” her words were sticky. The disbelief held on tight as each word tried to leave her mouth, “— just say — that?”

His song was winding down. Claire’s eyes flitted between the two of you, looking into your quiet eyes, devoid of any sort of denial in them, and back up toward the stage where Doh Kyungsoo smiled and extended both of his hands out toward the happy couple, directing the crowds cheers and applause back toward the beautiful newlyweds. Ever the gentleman. Humble, beautiful, spectacular in every way.  

You were no longer lovingly staring at the man on stage as the current crisis took precedent. You felt too defeated to answer her question. You simply closed your eyes, set your jaw hard and nodded your head twice. 

“Are you serious?” She must have seen something in your face; in the defeated way you offered no excuses or denials.

You felt strangely lighter. As if maybe you could get the whole story out without disaster unfolding. 

Her next words took the wind out of your sails.

“You better not be serious.” She was shaking her head, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away from you, her face grave and serious. “Do you even know what it was like for me? Having two of my favorite people in the world hate each other like that? And worse, the whole blind date was my idea. I made both of you completely fucking miserable.  And what? Now you say what?” 

“Claire—” you stepped forward, hands outstretched, pleadingly. This feeling, this was guilt. This was why you’d wanted to be the one to tell her yourself. But now you’d fucked up and chosen a place like this to do it. 

“Wait.” Her hand were up.

“Wait.” Her head was shaking.

“That’s the first time you’ve heard him sing, right?” She was speaking clearly now. Her smile was coming back to her lips and in her eyes was a look of genuine relief, having come to some sort of conclusion all by herself. 

“That’s it. You wouldn't be the first person to think they’ve fallen in love with him after hearing him sing. That’s all it is, dummy.” She was shaking her head back and forth. Her smile was back at full force and she was still talking.

You felt deflated. Dismissed. 

Your shoulders slumped and your hands hung lifelessly at your side. 

Somewhere in your distant vision, you watched Kyungsoo move around the big ballroom; laughing, smiling, enjoying the praise he received for his breathtaking performance. Shaking off compliments with waved hands and a bashful giggle.

“Just…stay single. Trust me. I know how much breakups … suck.” With her next words the smile was long gone. She’d just reminded herself, it seemed and having had a little break from the pain for even a short while made its return that much more unwelcome. You heard her words get stuck in her throat and you saw the flash of the wound, still very fresh, flow over her features. 

You swallowed up whatever else you might have wanted to say on the topic of you and Kyungsoo, admonishing yourself for even thinking you could come clean here, in public. No, you were right to want to wait for a better time. A time when you both were alone and you could be delicate about it. You could apologize earnestly. You could show her that you were absolutely serious about him. You wouldn't jeopardize the friendship they shared. You wouldn’t fuck it up and ruin everything for everybody. 

You caught a reflection of moisture in her eyes. She was blinking faster, trying to get rid of it quickly, trying to push that dark mood deep down inside so it wouldnt ruin the night. You wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed, giving her a bright smile that she sighed and rolled her eyes in response to. You leaned forward and smacked a kiss on her cheek and she laughed and lightly pushed you away. 

“Come on,” you said, not letting go of her despite the playful pushing. “ Let’s forget about those stupid boys and dance. Dance with me. It’s a party.” You steered and you pushed toward the lively thumping music and crowds of people moving together as one. You could tell that a few had already started drinking with how rowdy they’d become and in between jumping and dancing you grabbed two glasses of something fruity looking from a waitress’s tray and you both downed the strong liquid, thankful for the brief respite from reality that it promised. 

You danced and you drank, keeping some your own rules in mind regarding just how much you both were drinking, not wanting her to get sloppy and possibly weepy by overindulging, and you were in caretaker mode a bit more than you would otherwise be, so you kept your alcohol consumption on the tamer side. Still, the liquid moved through you and you leaned in close, letting her know you’d be headed back to the table for dinner soon after a quick stop at the ladies room.

This place was a bit of a maze. It took a few twists and turns to find the ladies’ and the quiet and peace within those doors was a welcome shift from the chaos of the party atmosphere. You washed your hands and laid your cold palms over your cheeks to cool your skin a little and a glance in the mirrors told you that your hair and makeup were holding up well and you still looked hot in this dress — especially the view from behind as you made your way out of the bathroom. 

You made it three steps away from that secluded hallway when you felt a warm hand touch around your wrist and pull gently against you. The surprise made you gasp and spin on your heels. It took your balance for a spin too and you stumbled to catch yourself; falling right into strong arms that quickly wrapped around your waist. 

You heard his giggles first. Good Lord, the sound was like a drug that moved through your veins instantly flooding you with euphoria. The crisp clean smell of him hit you next. Kyungsoo. Your Kyungsoo.

And he was still smiling when your movement settled in front of him, both of your palms laid over the crisp black suit jacket on his chest and his hand hot against the bare skin of your lower back. 

“Hi,” he whispered, his eyes roaming over your face and his cheeks positively pink as he looked at you up close. 

You inhaled a breath and exhaled it slowly in some attempt to calm the racing you felt in your heart to find yourself here, at the end of some secluded hallway off of the edge of the ladies’ bathrooms, finally getting the close up look at his face that you’d been craving all night long. Finally getting to touch him and from that flex of his fingertips that dug into your back that pulled you in tighter against him, you weren’t the only one aching for any sort of contact. 

You managed to mirror his greeting, breathing out your own little, “Hi,” before the air in your too full lungs had to make an exit. You pushed the air out slowly. It was a meager attempt at controlling yourself. Your slow exhale had his eyes looking down at your mouth and his lips twitched. The tip of his tongue slipping over his bottom lip, moistening it and then pulling the soft flesh in between his front teeth.

“Kyungsoo,” you whispered. His eyes pulled back up, an eyebrow bounced lightly over his left eye when you said his name. The giggles were gone. This look was more primal. Definitely not something for you to encourage right here tonight. It was incredible how quickly that shift had happened.

“What are you doing?” It came out breathy and desperate. Betraying some of the weakness you felt with him holding you like this. 

“I saw you dancing. You looked happy,” he said, his eyelids half blinking as he spoke. He felt almost drunk as he spoke to you, but his breath didn’t smell like alcohol at all. He smelled sweet and enticing.

His lips stayed parted and a puff of warm air fanned over your lips, “God. You are so fucking beautiful. I don't know what to do with myself.” 

The words, the candid compliments slash confession coated you — slipping over you — heat moved from the crown of your head and spread; as if his words themselves ran their spindly fingers down the back of your neck, between your shoulder blades and right down below the spot where his hot hand touched your skin. You moved into him —  the length of his body flush with yours.

”Kyungsoo.” This time his name came out as a plea. This man needed to put a stop to this. You felt entirely too weak to resist him. “What … are you … doing?” 

“I know,” he said through his parted lips. He had leaned his face — too close. You felt the pull of air he took from beside your face as he inhaled you. “I know, I know.” He said it again and again, but he wasn’t pushing you away. He didn’t act as if he knew. He continued to pull you against him. You felt the effects of this closeness pressed into your hips. The slight friction built with his pulling building more of that heat. 

His hand’s grip behind your back felt so strong. 

“I wouldn’t be like this …if I saw you first,” he whispered into the spaces between your breaths, “I know, I shouldn’t.”

He wasn’t stopping this madness. He wasn’t pulling his face away from your skin. You felt the tip of his nose nuzzle against your earlobe, breathing in and out. His lips lightly popping against your earring. His mouth opened and pulled your scent over his tongue, into his lungs. 

That warmth you felt building between the two of you was dangerous. You heard his low moan. You felt his mouth open up, his lips parted and the tip of his wet tongue slipped along your skin. 

You responded with a whimper — a cry — a desperate need that overwhelmed you so entirely. That spreading warmth traveled lower, between your legs. Too much. He’d taken you too far. 

Alarm bells rang inside of your head. A light push against his chest told him so and you heard the resulting frustrated, animalistic growl that came out of him. It sounded an awful lot like the same sort of frustration you felt inside of you.  You pushed again, harder this time, a firm hand placed atop his breastplate, his wild heartbeat thrumming beneath the fabric of his crisp white dress shirt. 

You felt him loosen. You felt him give. He had heard and he was stopping. He didn’t want to stop and you didn’t want him to stop, but he was stopping.

You hadn’t even kissed him yet. 

You wanted to. You were close enough to each other for it. Just a lift of your face and…

A sound came from behind you. There was the sound of the ladies’ room door, the hinges had a squeak. It was pulled open and you heard a throat clearing, the kind of throat clearing that was meant to be heard. 

It sent a jolt through you from head to toe and you took a big step back, out of his arms, away from his warmth and tempting lips and pretty face and those dark eyes that hid within so many bad intentions. Your posture looked caught, your head hung down, arms behind your back with your hands clasped firmly together; obviously guilty as hell.

After a few seconds you worked up the nerve to lift your eyes, to turn around and look behind you. 

An old woman stood there; you didn’t know whose grandmother or aunt or mother she might be, but she stood, paused at the doorway, looking at you both with lifted eyebrows and an expression on her face that seemed more amused than admonishing. She shook her head back and forth a few times, clicked her tongue inside of her mouth and pulled the door open further. 

“Ahh. Youth,” she mused out loud before she disappeared through the doorway. 

It was a close call. It was stupid. Even standing here so close to him was stupid. What if one of your friends saw this and rumors got back to Claire. 

You looked back into his face and he had a sheepish look there. His lips moved and he chewed somewhere inside of his lip, a habit he had when he was feeling just a little uncomfortable. 

“I’m going back now,” you said, giving him a warning before you abruptly left this dangerous spot. 

He nodded his head; a shrugging expression touching upon his face. 

You’d taken another step toward the exit of this hallway, turning around to look back at him once more while you still could and in your double take you caught the drift of his eyes down your back. 

“Indifference,” you said as a farewell. He smiled a dreamy smile in response and nodded his head in understanding. He wouldn’t let you down. 

The wait staff was beginning their dinner service. You’d welcome the distraction food might bring to your overstimulated body and you weaved through the big round tables and floral arrangements to find your table. Claire was already seated and her eyes smiled to see you coming back to her side. The seating arrangements had you seated on the other side of Claire and Eric and you grabbed the name place with that name and quickly crumbled it up into a ball and tossed it away. Waitstaff were filling glasses with water, wine, sodas, and plates of food were pushed out on carts by caterers. 

“Nothing for this seat, they aren’t coming,” you motioned toward the empty seat beside you where you’d originally been seated that was now empty.

The waitress looked down in interest at the vacant spot and she reached down into her pocket to pull out a remote control. 

“Empty at 4,” she spoke into the mic and her little device crackled out a “10-4, be right there,” in response. 

The voice on the other end of that radio belonged to one of the coordinators of this grand event. A woman wearing a clean business suit wearing a pleasant smile on her face approached the table, apologizing for the intrusion and sweetly asking if we had any objections to one more guest being added to our table. It seems that some folks two tables up did not rsvp, pushing some single guest out of their spot. 

Of course, not a person at your table had any objections to adding to the mix. This was a party. Any friend of Sam and Mari was welcome to celebrate the happy couple here at your table. 

You really should have known. 

The universe seemed to have become predictable at this point. 

A few moments later, the fateful guest arrived by your side. Pulling the chair out with his familiar fingers and sitting his butt down directly beside you, close enough for you to feel the warmth arm through the crisp fabric of black suit. Close enough for that clean fragrance he wore to waft into your nose, a scent that hadn’t yet faded from your nose; you’d just had him in your arms mere moments ago. You still felt the flush all over your body from the effects of him.

Mr. Indifference himself unbuttoned his suit jacket as he sat down, straightened his neck tie so it pointed straight down between his parted legs and opened his eyes on you. Then he opened his mouth to speak, not to you, but through you; to the woman who sat on your other side. Kyungsoo looked into your shocked face as he spoke to her.

“Thanks for letting me sit at your table, ClaireBear.”

Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

Rat Bastard Masterlist

[fellkyd]

Update on "what would Kid smell like?" situation

So I went around my city smelling local brands and well... they all smell the same, and I hated every single one of them. So all I got is a runny nose and a headache for smelling too much.

It made me realize that maybe this is why almost all men smell the same to me. All scents for men have the same formula that I could only describe as stingy to my nose.

But I'll be going to another city soon, so maybe I'll find something there!

You might be thinking, why can't I just answer it as how I imagined him to be?

Well, the thing is....... I don't think about scents. As a matter of fact, I avoid it most of the time. But that's because, as I said, everyone seems to smell the same way to me: vanilla, citrus, menthol, the usual stuff.

The shampoo and perfumes I would only use are floral scents, and I don't think Kid would smell like that lol.

But I guess if it's floral, sampaguitas smell lovely and are (at least to my family) associated to death.

Also, I asked some people's opinion and realized it's useless because I don't have access to the scents they recommend, so I have no idea what it smells like 😭

I saw some headcanons where it said sandalwood (i have no idea what this smells like), newly bought books, and gun powder.

I would've agree to the books, but gun powder??? Does Liz and Patty even use that?

[uncanny-tranny]

Shoutout to all the other adults who have acne or any other condition of the skin that you are expected to outgrow or "just deal with."

Adulthood isn't this magical time where everything just disappears, and the reality is that these skin conditions are largely genetic. It isn't your fault (nor your skin's fault) that you are an adult with different skin than other people. In fact, it's neutral (and even, dare I say, good!).

[moeblob]

I unfortunately picked up Bravely Default 2 again (I bought it back when it released) and then started over since I last played it in June 2021. And. You know what. I like these silly beans. And then I saw concept art for Dag's expressions and I am not the same. Why did they decide to give him huge fangs in it.

(also I'm trying so hard to avoid spoilers less for plot but more for characters so if you know anything that happens to characters shhhhh. also the expression concept is below the read more so you can see what I mean.)

[moe-broey]

Fellas can you take this somewhere else. Maybe. Just not in the fucking halls. Thanks 🫡

I couldn't resist drawing out these tags I wrote on a dif post LMFAO

Moe just has...... SO many problems.......

Close-ups of my fave shots!

The elusive Líf...

[out-of-characters]

Me: hmmm, have I ever written Emil experiencing phantom pains?

Emil: ...

Me: :)

Emil: stop shaking my tupperbox >:(

Me: >:)

[quetiapinnapark]

idk what happened but i went to a show last saturday and hung out with so many conventionally normal looking upper middle class people and that has got me questioning my hotness WHICH MAKES NO SENSE because for months I've been feeling like the sexiest weirdest bitch that has ever stepped on earth like literally not comparing myself to ppl but just Knowing im the Pretty 24/7

[dante-mightdie]

so let me share something with you guys for a second

(nsfw)

ghost is hot, right? we all know that. picture him always having someone sneaking out his room during unsocial able hours, shushes and clattering of buckles hitting the floor as his latest hookup creeps back down the halls to the cold barracks

and you, the awkward recruit with a fat crush on your lieutenant who envys every person who shamelessly shoots their shot with him and succeeds. letting him make a mess out of them for one night only

and it is always one night only

no same person has ever left his room twice, nothing more than a cheap hookup to him. you know you wouldn’t be any different, shown the door before you can even get your cargos zipped back up but if it meant at least one night with simon riley, you really didn’t care

but when it’s finally your turn? when you finally drink up enough courage to speak to the brooding man in the corner nursing his own drink in the corner of the bar, it turns out he didn’t even know your name

but that’s okay, it’s not like he was gonna be your future husband anyway so you power through. pull out all the charisma you have stored away for moments like this and you soon find yourself back in his room, making a complete fool of yourself

struggling to unbuckle his belt, biting down too hard on his lip during the, quite frankly, terrible make-out session that led up to your current situation, responding to his dirty talk with blinded stutters

and when he finally pulls out his cock? you’re too nervous to relax, and it doesn’t fit. before he can give you some half-assed ‘s’alright, love. another time, yeah?’, you’re shoving him off and rushing out his room before you can even get yourself fully-dressed

for weeks, you avoid him. at least, that’s what he calls it. you didn’t consider it avoidance under the assumption that he had no intentions of pursuing you again

simon was under the same assumption, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about you. every hook-up leading up to you was a performance, an act he completed as some odd way of reminding himself that he was still, in fact, human

your heated cheeks and scrunched nose every time you fumbled was strangely refreshing to simon, a friendly reminder that not everything needed to be so serious, so professional. maybe the humanising act could be an experience instead, he thinks as he reaches for his phone

that night had been keeping you up for weeks, replaying every stupid way you messed up the thing you had been thinking about since you laid eyes on simon

and then your phone pings. from an unknown number.

‘price is off base. come to my room and I’ll make it fit this time.’