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chocosvt · 2 months

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HER | part two.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 22.7k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s!

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that!

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

updates: in terms of a posting schedule, i'm pre sure i'm just gonna post every saturday night ~12am EST (so technically sunday lol). taglist is included in the comment section since tumblr now has limit as to how many peeps are mentioned per post :p

thanks againnnn! 🌟

⇢ part one | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MAY 12TH.

Wonwoo was sat on his couch with your laptop glowing in front of him, one hand holding up his chin while the other scrolled slowly through your writing. Finally, you’d let him actually glean your work, and he was quite impressed with your natural skill. He supposed the biggest issue was the choppiness—your sentence structures were much like your racing tangents, and in some areas the writing lacked flow and a smooth continuality. But that sort of ability would just develop on its own as long as you were practicing.

For the most part, Wonwoo was leaving behind small notes and highlighting areas that you could revisit at a later time.

“Okay, I’m going to do a handstand.”

However, as Wonwoo had been combing through your work for the past half-hour, that left you with an apparent boredness which somehow translated into an acrobatics session in his living room.

“I’d really prefer you didn’t,” he answered through the fingers covering his mouth, his eyes trained with focus on the document.

“No, no. I used to be so good at them. Watch.”

Wonwoo was in the midst of typing a note when a small, circular embroidered pillow had suddenly struck the laptop, nearly forcing it shut. It was then that Wonwoo looked up with a long sigh, acknowledging the devious, shining smile that sprung to your face.

“Now that I have your attention—”

Wonwoo titled his head, folded his arms, and propped one foot onto the coffee table, somewhat like an exhausted parent who was being heckled by their child to watch the “special trick” they’d just learned. He was internally praying you actually were good at handstands, because that fragile pottery vase and the antique gold clock sitting on the fire mantel had never looked so breakable until now. A cool breeze slivered in through the open window as your arms began raising above your head, and he heard you inhale steadily.

“Go!” You then shouted, either in motivation or impatience aimed at yourself, loud enough to make Wonwoo flinch.

The next moment, you were basically flipped upside down, your socked feet sticking pointedly in the air while your hands stumbled about on the brown rug for a few seconds, attempting to find their place rooted in the fuzz. Wonwoo pursed his lip, impressed.

“See! Told you!”

“I mean, I never said you couldn’t.”

“Are you amazed?”

He watched with a slight bit of nervousness as you walked a few paces forward with your hands, though he kept his calm composure from the couch and dealt you about three dull claps.

“Cirque de Soleil is asking for you, actually.”

To Wonwoo’s utter relief, you collapsed back onto your feet, probably because the blood was gushing to your head and he’d rather not have you faint squarely on the face in his living room. You then sat on your knees for a moment, rubbing slowly at your scalp.

“I’m almost done,” Wonwoo reaffirmed, moving aside the stitched pillow you’d chucked at him earlier and reopening the laptop.

“Don’t let me rush you.”

He chuckled instantly. “You mean to tell me you’re not bored out of your mind? Why else would you be doing cartwheels.”

Finally, you got up from the rug.

“Um, it was a handstand,” you were hasty to correct him, now sinking into the seat beside Wonwoo on the couch with the circle pillow pulled onto your lap. “I could do a cartwheel, though.”

“Yeah, not in this house you’re not.”

“Not in this house you’re not.”

He merely smirked at your attempt to mimic him by employing a cartoonishly deep tone that you found very amusing, made evident by your prideful giggles close to his ear. Just as Wonwoo scrolled to the end of the document to type his last note, you were piqued with curiosity and leaned over his lap, grabbing at the screen to examine how far he’d come during your hour together.

“So, where are you at anyway?”

Wonwoo pressed himself back into the couch, immediately removing his hands from the keyboard. It felt like at the most random, unpredictable times you would swoop in so close to him, and he never quite knew how to react. Most times he would freeze, become stiff and hardly breathing, run his eyes in all different directions around the room because everything seemed easier when he pretended you didn’t exist.

He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.

“I’m basically done.”

“You are? Okay. Hm… it seems like you made a lotta notes.”

Wonwoo squirmed in his seat as though it were scratching him. You eventually pulled away, but your knee was now resting on the side of his thigh and you were sitting much closer than before—close enough that your shoulder was digging into his and he could sense your full, bright eyes burning a stare at his pink cheek.

“They’re mostly easy fixes…” he mumbled, refusing to look at you, instead scrolling impetuously through the document with jerks of his pointer and middle finger.

“Well, what do you think of it?”

He paused, still staring at the laptop.

“Of what?”

“Wonwoo, my writing, obviously,” you said with a warm laugh and a soft breath that rushed over his neck in such a pleasurable, lightheaded way. “And look at me,” he heard you ask in a lower, more sincere voice, your fingers then ghosting along his tense jaw in a fleeting, sensitive touch as you guided his head gently in your direction, “I just want to know you’re telling the truth.”

He was accustomed to your eyes being filled with sparks and the readiness to pit the most sharp-tongued comment in history, and so Wonwoo was able to relax ever so slightly upon realizing how your gaze had become increasingly mellow, welcoming even.

“Well, you’re obviously good at it,” he managed to answer the question without his voice trembling, “just some pacing issues, mostly. You’ve got a bit of an issue with run-on sentences and closing up a scene. But you plan a lot, which is nice. I mean, you can only get better.”

An earnest smile picked its way across your face, framing your polished teeth and pushing up the apples of your cheeks. Wonwoo had to look away—sometimes it was too much—you were too much, and he refused to let himself drown beneath your intensity that he found purely terrifying. Your knee proceeded to pull from his thigh and you were now dragging your body off the couch, which meant that Wonwoo could safely exhale the breath he was holding. He wondered if you just wanted to hear the compliment, or if you were legitimately pleased with his praise.

You walked up to his fireplace mantel, examining the items left along the white, sparkling trim he’d spritzed clean of all dust.

“Did you make this?” Came your inquiry, a curious finger pointing toward the round-bottomed, thin-necked red vase.

Wonwoo shook his head.

“No, it was a welcome gift from the landlord.”

“She made it?”

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Didn’t I tell you? She owns the pottery business downstairs. Saskia. She immigrated here like, eighteen years ago, now. From Poland. I thought you might’ve run into her.”

Shaking your head, you turned back to the vase.

“I didn’t see her at all.”

“She was probably in her office.”

“How did she make all these little emblem thingies? Around the base? Like, this one’s got an elephant. This one is a fruit tree.”

Wonwoo squinted at the vase from his place on the couch. He hadn’t really examined it much, apart from when his landlord had thrust it into his hands while she welcomed him to the building. It never held any flowers, either—not even the brilliant ruby coloured poinsettias his ex-girlfriend's mother was supposed to send.

The relationship has disintegrated before it could ever happen.

“Fuck, don’t know. She has a bunch of little tools down there for more detailed work. Maybe a stamp. You’d have to ask her.”

“It’s really pretty.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah? You like ceramics or something?”

You turned back to him, shrugging.

“I don’t know. I was just saying, it’s pretty.”

“It is. It’s very pretty.”

With a sigh, you climbed back onto the couch.

“Do you think you’re done editing?”

He picked up the laptop and set it down on the coffee table.

“I think so. For the day.”

“Perfect.” You smiled. “I’ll make time to read your notes tomorrow morning, if I can. Seems like there’s about eight-hundred.”

Wonwoo chuckled, “not eight-hundred. Try twenty.”

“Twenty?!” Your eyes bulged in shock as you gripped onto the embroidered pillow hugged back into your lap. “That’s so many!”

“What—twenty is somehow more than eight-hundred? What fucking planet are you living on where numeracy works like that?”

“Wonwoo, I have so much to do tomorrow!” You winced, tossing your head against the couch and slipping down the cushions.

“Okay, like what?”

“… Gosh… no, no. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, tell me. What have you got to do tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to tell.”

“Why not?” He murmured.

“If I talk about, then I’ll want to do it even less.” There was an empty sigh he heard from your chest as your arms curled tight around the pillow. “Besides, it’s squished all into my colour-coded block on the schedule. The pink one. I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

“Fair. I get that.”

“It’s complicated family stuff.”

Wonwoo huffed sympathetically. “I get that even more.”

“… So, we’re still good for Spring Street on Sunday?” You asked, staring up at Wonwoo from your sunken, defeated slump.

He nodded.

“I’ll be there if you are.”

—MAY 14TH.

The Spring Street Fair. It happened every single May, for three days straight, usually Friday to Sunday. In the daytime it was cheerier and more watered down for the children that came hand in hand with their parents, looking to feed the alpacas and ride those nauseating teacups and sob until exhaustion because they accidentally let go of their kitten-shaped balloon. However, at night, the fair had become a beacon for the older, rowdier university crowd.

Wonwoo never went despite all his recent years living in the city, but Vernon had, usually on accounts of “business” which really meant selling drugs for idiotic prices behind the Whirler or the Starship. You wanted to go, but hadn’t told Wonwoo the reason. He opted to assume it was another part of your story—maybe you ran into Mingyu at a similar fair when you were younger, and it was therefore very integral you go Spring Street tonight. It was the exact opposite of what Wonwoo typically appreciated doing on Sundays, and he knew for a fact he’d loathe it, every single part.

“No fuckin’ way!” Vernon’s voice exploded through the crackly static on Wonwoo’s phone as he stood in line for the fair, gazing over top everyone’s heads to gauge the ticket booth. “I can’t believe your loser ass actually crawled outta bed for that.”

Wonwoo scoffed, “yeah, it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then what for?”

“Her. She wanted to go. It’s for the book.”

He was supposed to meet you inside the fair. It was almost ten o’clock at night. The sky was beautifully clear, illuminated with pinpricks of starlight, and the air had once been crisp. Now, Wonwoo was beginning to smell sparked cannabis, and he assumed a likewise scent would follow him all damn night. The horrid, anxious process of standing in the mile long line was made palatable through his conversation with Vernon, who—shockingly—wasn’t even there.

“Ohh, the book, the book. Wait—she’s gonna write her book at the fuckin’ Spring Street Fair? How the fuck does that work?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Wonwoo chuckled. “It’s stuff about the settings, the environment; she uses it to help with her writing.”

“Hm, doesn’t make much sense to me, probably ‘cause I don’t like readin' or writin' or anything with books. But, damn, I’m jealous of you, Glasses. Do y’know how hard I tried to smooth talk my way into that girl’s pants? N’somehow, you can write good—”

“Write well, not good.”

“Oh, fuck you—write well—so she takes you everywhere like a little purse dog. When does that happen to me, yeah?”

The line started slowly pouring forward, and Wonwoo felt himself get dragged along. Probably another five minutes and he would be at the ticket booth, getting one of those neon bracelets circled around his wrist that were nearly impossible to rip off.

“Why didn’t you come?” Wonwoo asked.

Vernon groaned, “got into some bullshit with this guy who’s not payin’ up. I’m handlin’ it, though. If I can manage to get it all sorted, I’ll come later. It’s too fuckin’ easy selling those gummies to the first years, dude. Shit, it could be some Flintstone vitamins and they’re actin’ like Chicken Little. Cracks me the fuck up.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, smiling. “You’re such a cunt.”

“Hey, hey, you are what you eat, okay? And, when you get inside or whatever, text me where you’re hangin’ so if I do come, I can see you for a bit. Dunno if your girlfriend will approve.”

The air began mottling with a thin, chalky smoke that drifted from somewhere down the crowded string of university students. Again, the line shuffled, and the congestion gradually broke up as more people were allowed into the fair. Wonwoo switched the phone to his other ear, getting his wallet ready.

“Don’t even start.”

“Start what? I said nothin’.” Vernon’s laughter was raspy and obviously laced with a smirk that Wonwoo could hear.

“Don’t be such a prick. She’s not my—”

Suddenly, Wonwoo’s phone began vibrating against his palm, and when he pulled it down an immediate lump conjured in his throat upon reading your name. His heart jolted, and it wasn’t until someone pushed hard on his back to urge him forward that he realized the line was once again ambling closer to the ticket booth.

Vernon sighed, “so, again, tell me where you’ll—”

“Shit—uh, gotta go. Talk to you later.”

A few remnants of Vernon’s miffed, guttural cursing managed to leak through the phone before Wonwoo could press to accept your call. In an instant, his friend was blipped away, and he heard your voice instead. He held back a cough from the astringent, cottonish air.

“Wonwoo, hello. I’m glad you picked up. So, where the hell are you? It’s nearly ten! Did you not get in line early?”

Wonwoo kept the phone secured between his shoulder and ear while he shimmied the coins out from his wallet.

“No, I did, promise. Just about to pay. Where are you?”

“When you get in, just follow the arrows. They're lit up with those blue lightbulbs. They go to the tavern. I’m having some drinks with my friends. Don’t worry. You won’t have to do much socializing.”

“Uh, okay,” Wonwoo answered, internally counting up the money in his hand until he was certain of the amount. “Mingyu’s there?”

“No. He always plays poker with his friends on Sunday.”

An unbeknownst pressure escaped his chest.

“Okay. I’m close to the front. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sure. Don’t be late!”

“I know. Bye.”

Hanging up the phone, Wonwoo had just enough time to wriggle the device into his back pocket before handing the ticket booth clerk his coins. She dropped the cold change into his hand, then asked to see his wrist, where she proceeded to attach the bracelet with the words Spring Street Fair etched into the orange, plasticky-feeling paper.

Finally, he was let inside.

Blue arrows, blue arrows—that was all Wonwoo kept reiterating in his head like some religious hymn as he followed the glow throughout the fairgrounds, weaving his way between large groups of people that he gleefully didn’t recognize. Eventually, he saw the tavern you were referring to—an outdoor bar with picnic tables set up everywhere, beneath cheap little strings of warm, lambent lights.

Even with his glasses on, Wonwoo was still squinting as he walked between each table, attempting to discern your dolled-up face somewhere amongst the strangers sipping on their large mugs of alcohol, that was until he heard his name being called over the music rumbling from the bar’s horrible speakers. When he looked straight ahead, he saw you cutely waving him over. With each step he took, Wonwoo reminded himself to breathe, to loosen up, to stop clenching his fists so painfully tight as though he were going to split someone’s eyebrow. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Just breathe.

You stood up from the table to welcome him, and he felt your hand settle softly on his lower back. The touch was grounding.

“So, everyone, girls, if I could get your attention for just a moment despite the general impairment going on here—this is the mystery guy whose been helping me write. Wonwoo.”

God—he wanted to puke, all those big, curious, unabashed eyes soaking him in like freshly dipped watercolour to a cloth canvas. There was a cluster of high-pitched voices that repeated his name in a shrill, unison greeting. However, Wonwoo was unable to meet a single girl’s gaze, and so he opted to stare down at a paper plate on the table aligned with cinnamon-sprinkled churros.

Again, he wanted to throw up.

“So, of course, Wonwoo’s been the biggest help with everything,” you said, to which he could sense your nails subtly digging at him through his clothes, most likely a silent urge to say something so he didn’t seem so unprecedentedly stiff and metallic.

He cleared his throat.

“Uh, yeah. I’m just proofreading, really.” Wonwoo had to swallow. “Some tips here and there. But, she’s pretty good as is.”

“Is that your actual voice?”

His eyes darted to find who asked the question. She was toward the end of the picnic table, tucking a lock of short, coffee brown hair behind her ear. Before the girl was a gigantic and fluorescent pink drink, the glass resembling the shape of a fish bowl.

“… What do you mean?” Wonwoo replied.

She sat up on her knee, continuing to ogle him with those fixated but glazed chestnut eyes. Her mouth seemed to drag as though it was thawing when she spoke. Wonwoo could tell she was already well inebriated. There was no way that was her first drink.

“Your voice,” she repeated, “it’s so… deep.”

“Well… I don’t know. Puberty.”

His comment elicited some giggles from around the table, to which he could feel the cartilage in his ears burning.

“Wonwoo—” another girl then leaned forward with her head tilted up and a coy, drunk smile flittering on her mouth, “—I think it’s so, so great you’re helping Her write. I actually think it’s the sweetest, ever.” Her lashes were coated in smooth mascara and her eyelids were remarkably glimmery, drenched in an electric shade of blue that he couldn’t stop staring at. “Also, sorry, but you’re like, super gorge.”

“Super what?” He repeated, confused at her wording.

But she didn't seem interested in repeating herself, instead scooping the long and impressively silky black hair off her shoulder to spill down her pale back.

“Okay, okay, okay. We’ve all shared some impetuous conversation and we’ve all swooned over him now. Yippee. Unfortunately, we’ve gotta get going, friends.”

Wonwoo felt your hand land on his shoulder and gently tug him backward, away from the table. You then proceeded to grab the glass left at your seat, chugging the remaining alcohol until there was nothing but a melting block of ice cubes clicking at the bottom. While you wiped your mouth, you began aiming a finger at each girl.

“To make a long story short, that’s Princess, Clara, and Bells. Do you have any comments for them before we go?” The impatience in your tone was bleeding through with sheer apathy.

Wonwoo shrugged. “Uh, nice to meet everyone? I guess.”

“Short and efficient. How perfect. Okay, I’ll see you guys later, I think. Actually—probably not. So can someone eat my churros?”

Your arm curled around Wonwoo’s bicep as though to whisk him away as hurriedly as possible. Everyone left at the table began waving, and Wonwoo couldn’t even bring himself to force a fake, pleasant smile because he was still attempting to understand what all those comments even meant. You walked briskly until the poetic, firefly lights of the tavern were lost long behind in the distance, and when you finally paused, he had not a clue where he was standing—a busy centre with people mingling all around him, the wild whirring of carnival rides and chaotic, blinking hues strobing above his head.

When he looked down at you, he was surprised to see you were already staring back, and he could only hold the eye contact for no more than a few seconds or else his heart would skip a beat.

“Sorry about all that,” you said, rolling your shoulders, “I tried to be somewhat reasonable with my drinking for once. I can’t say the same for Clara and Bells. They guzzle cocktails like apple juice.”

“Bells is… the one with all that sparkly blue eyeshadow?”

“Oh—yeah. She loves sparkles. Glitter. Anything glimmery. She’s been like that ever since I’ve known her. Clara was the one who asked about your voice. She has a thing for guys with deep voices and you unfortunately fit the bill. And I’m sorry that Princess didn’t say anything. She kind of just looks and observes. Also I’m like ninety-eight percent sure she popped something in a porta-potty before we met up so she’s probably in a mental state of star-surfing. Anyway. You don’t have to worry about them, alright? It’s just us for tonight.”

“Well, that’s… easy enough.”

“I’m not sure if we should stand here.”

“Hm?”

You then pointed to something behind Wonwoo, and when he turned his head, he felt a gust of wind from the gigantic, spinning ride that resembled a flying saucer in the nighttime sky. It was always beyond him why anyone would choose to strap themselves into a machine that terrifying. It made him sick just watching.

“If I get throw up on my head, I’m killing myself.”

“Okay, so let’s find somewhere else.”

As he began walking away in search of a quieter area, you grabbed onto the back of his clothes. Wonwoo raised his eyebrow.

“We have to hold hands, or have arms linked,” you said.

For some reason, Wonwoo presumed you were joking, and so he tilted his head at you with a questioning smile. But when your serious expression didn’t crack, he realized it wasn’t a joke at all.

“Oh… why?”

“Because—” you then took a step toward him and spoke matter-of-factly, like you were reading a rule book, “—it’s the buddy system. Always have someone at your side, and make sure you’re linked in some way. It’s too easy to get separated in places like this, otherwise. Have you never heard of that before?”

“I have,” Wonwoo answered, adjusting his glasses. “My—um, my hands are a little cold. I don’t have the best circulation.”

The truth was, Wonwoo didn’t want to hold your hand. He didn’t want to link arms with you. He didn’t want you pressed into his side all night. He didn’t want to have the scent of your hair under his nose or feel your ticklish breath against his neck each time you spoke.

But he didn’t have a good enough excuse to fight it.

“Oh my god, who cares,” you retorted. “And I have super sweaty hands. Like, uncomfortably warm. We'll balance out.”

“Actually?”

“Yes! Is that a problem for you, sweetheart?”

Wonwoo quickly shook his head in response to your condescending tone. You then reached for his hand, which he offered up for your required holding, and chose to ignore the butterflies in the deep pit of his stomach when he realized how perfectly your fingers slotted with his. He followed your lead through the fair until you came outside a small lemonade booth. Wonwoo thought you would drop his hand, but you didn’t, and his knees felt like gelatine.

“I want another drink,” you told him.

He squinted at their options, which didn’t really consist of much. The prices were obviously insane—it was another reason he hated going to fairs. His wallet always got cleaned out.

“You’re going to have to use the washroom a lot.”

“Ugh,” you gritted in response, brushing some hair from your face, “I hate public washrooms. They’re so gross. Completely unsanitary. Awful maintenance. One time I was here and I walked into the washroom by the Mirror Hall and I swear, a freaking rat ran across the floor! I screamed bloody murder. I’d rather squat in the bush and risk getting, like, poison ivy. But the washrooms have mirrors obviously, and I like checking my makeup and stuff. I wish I could check now.”

“Right now? I mean, your makeup looks fine.”

Wonwoo saw your entire face freeze, and then begin to warp, as though he’d just said the most dreadful thing he could think of.

“Fine?” You glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He started stumbling over his words, feeling his chest tighten.

“So, what you’re saying is that I look ugly? That my makeup looks bad? Because if you really thought it was ‘fine’ then you wouldn’t have said it looks ‘fine’ because everyone knows that word is a substitute for passable and passable is just a substitute for ugly!”

He opened his mouth, then instantly closed it.

“So what’s wrong with it? Are my under eyes creasing? Is my contour too dark? Is my lipstick smudged? Did it get on my teeth? Ugh, I knew I should have brought my compact!”

“No, no, no.” Wonwoo squeezed your hand, hoping that he could somehow undo the damage he had no intention of even inflicting in the first place. “Uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You look—” he wasn’t sure he could say the compliment without shivering, but Wonwoo didn’t care in the moment, “—your makeup is beautifully done. There’s no creasing or smudging, there’s none of that."

You kept touching worrisomely at your face. “Are you sure?”

“I promise.” Wonwoo confirmed, giving your hand another tight, reassuring squeeze that seemed to calm you down.

He had never seen someone switch gears that quickly. You could be perfectly amicable one second, and then break down into near hysteria the next, a slew of anxious thoughts running straight from your brain to your mouth like clockwork.

Wonwoo wondered how Mingyu dealt with such tangents all the time. The trait almost didn’t seem to fit your image.

The line moved forward another step.

“Are you going to drink anything?” You asked after a moment of silence, in a quieter voice. “I want to get the strawberry refresher.”

“Maybe.”

“What will you get?”

“I… don’t know. A regular lemonade?”

“No,” you shook your head, pointing toward the corner of the booth’s menu, “get the pina colada thing. I want to try it, too.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo agreed with a shrug as he retrieved his wallet, not really caring about what he drank. “I’ll pay for it. No worries.”

The longer Wonwoo was at the fair, the less he actually thought about why he was there, until the question leapt into his mind at random while he stood beside you, waiting for a seat on the dauntingly large Farris wheel. He removed the straw from his mouth, swallowing a gulp of his pina colada flavoured drink, and peered down at you. His hand was still interlinked with yours. You had finished the strawberry refresher in about five minutes.

Now, you were texting someone. He didn’t know if it was a friend from earlier or perhaps your boyfriend, but Wonwoo wasn’t a serious sleuth, so he opted to look away despite the natural urge that was pricking him. When you finally tucked the phone back into the small bag slung around your shoulder, Wonwoo lowered the plastic cup from his mouth, making sure to clear his throat.

“So, uh, why are we here, exactly?”

You sniffled. “What do y’mean?”

“Does the fair have anything to do with your writing? Is that why we’re riding the Farris wheel? Oh—speaking of which, I didn’t think to bring the camcorder, in case you wanted any footage.”

“Oh, no,” you said, waving a dismissive hand, “this has nothing to do with my book. We’re palate cleansing.”

“Palate cleansing?” He echoed.

“Yeah. It’s like, doing something different in between a routine, to keep yourself fresh. You always eat breakfast at home but today you skip it and go out for brunch. Y’know, shit like that.”

Wonwoo huffed in amusement. “You could have told me beforehand.”

“Uh, no—” your face scrunched up in clear disagreement, “—I couldn’t, because then you wouldn’t have gone. No offence, but you’re a hermit, Wonwoo. You don’t really like going anywhere or doing anything and you’re definitely one of those people who bores themselves into hating their own life because your stimuli is so limited. That’s why I didn’t tell. Again, no offence.”

“Oh.”

That was all he could string together in response—not even string together, because it was just one boring, monotone sound that basically got carried away in the chilly wind, tinted with the smell of buttery popcorn and weed. It sounded like something that was supposed to sting, but it didn’t really. Maybe he was growing more accustomed to your unprompted judgements on his personal life.

Suddenly Wonwoo had blinked and you two were next in line for the empty cart. The clerk pointed at Wonwoo’s drink.

“You can’t bring that with you,” he said.

Before Wonwoo could think to respond, you had already grabbed the cup from his hand, chucking it straight into the garbage.

“We’re not.”

Pulling on his hand, you guided him into the shaky cart, both of you squishing onto the cold, metal bench. It was quite literally the tamest ride in the entire fair, and yet Wonwoo was still feeling nervous about it—though, that was possibly the fact he was going to be sailed one-hundred feet into the satin black sky, left amongst the stars and the bright, shimmering halo of the moon with you and you alone. He was actually relieved you had tossed his drink, otherwise he might have dropped it due to the trembling in his fingers. It was easier to fiddle with them in order to disguise their shakiness.

“I guess I should have asked if you’re afraid of heights,” you said.

The cart jerked abruptly as the ride began to move and lift you two ever so gradually from the ground. Wonwoo peered over the edge for a brief moment to watch his distance grow from the people below, their jumbled mess of conversations fading in place of quiet.

“Uh, no. I’m okay with heights,” he finally answered.

He saw you glancing down as well, smiling to yourself.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure if he should attempt at conversation or just maintain the stillness between you. Usually, he couldn’t stand it, and the pressure to talk and fill the silence always tended to fail or squander something potentially enjoyable. But he supposed it was typically like that in a situation where two people weren’t the best acquainted—that’s why Wonwoo always quite liked Vernon, despite his rough, nonconformed edges and often vulgar way of speaking.

He was able to carry a conversation so naturally that the quieter moments never felt suffocating, instead falling exactly where they should, like puzzle pieces. But that was harder with you.

Maybe it was because you could be intimidating, unpredictable—Wonwoo was never truly relaxed around you because there was this intangible, looming worry that he needed to have the perfect responses and be the most perfect person. He found that perfect people only hung out with other perfect people and Wonwoo was certainly not that—perfect. You must have seen it by now. He was just as rough as Vernon no doubt, but in a different, hidden way that had to be dug into like an archeologist looking for broken bones.

The Ferris wheel slowed down, coming to a stop. You weren’t at the very top, though the air was notably cooler and much fresher. When he inhaled a long breath, it smelled purely of night and not overpriced, buttery fair food and burning weed. He noted that you stared straight ahead, at the crescent-shaped moon, which mirrored a backward stare with how squarely it sat in front of the ride. For once, Wonwoo wasn’t squirming, wriggling, stressing at the silence. When he spoke, he did it because he genuinely wanted to.

“How was your Saturday?”

“My Saturday?”

“Yeah. I saw the schedule. You had to run a bunch of errands with your mom. Looked like you were pretty keyed up.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I want to say I was overreacting the day before about how much I was dreading it. But then it fucking happened. And… I, uh… I realized I was exactly right. It was awful. I did get to your notes, though… yeah—I just—I squeezed them in between brunch with my mom’s friend who could talk herself to death and the excruciating car ride to the publisher’s office.”

“Mmhm.” Wonwoo smiled tenderly. “Did they help at all?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “a lot, actually… thank you.”

“I’m sorry your Saturday went so terribly.”

Huffing in response, you nibbled on your inner check.

“Yeah, well, it is what it is… I already knew it was gonna be a shit show. So, what is it that you write about, anyway? Because you seem like you know a whole lot. Seokmin says you let him read some of your poetry, but it was only like, two excerpts.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Wonwoo recalled the memory of Seokmin picking up his leather notebook when it fell out from his bag one day. He’d pestered him about the contents until Wonwoo succumbed and presented him with some lifeless, impatiently scribbled prose that he’d most likely jerked out on the bus or in between his lectures. Seokmin seemed to treat it like fine, prestigious gold, though Wonwoo knew it was the least personal of his work that he would never let another living soul on the planet breathe—not one scent of the ink or even the paper.

“So, you write poetry?”

“I started writing poetry, haikus and all that easy stuff. I developed the interest a lot more through high school. But I never sat down and tried writing anything like a novel until I... I started uni.”

“Yeah. Deciding to be a math major. I still don’t get it,” you sighed, fidgeting with some rings on your fingers. “But what do you even write about? Like, what’s your inspiration?”

Wonwoo paused, looking down at his knees.

“… Life.”

“Life?” You defeatedly slumped into the seat. “That’s the million dollar answer your intelligent brain chose to erect? It’s just that when I think about it, I’m letting you help me with my writing, but I’ve never even read a little smidgen of yours. How’s that fair?”

The higher the Farris Wheel climbed, the stronger the breeze blew, and Wonwoo could feel its tendrils lashing across his cheeks and parting through his hair. You huddled further into your jacket.

“Well, you took Seokmin’s word for it,” Wonwoo laughed.

Your eyes rolled, but you smiled gently. “I know.”

Suddenly, your hand had reached out, and you were pushing the floppy, black tresses off his forehead. Wonwoo’s fingers dug bluntly into his arms. You then angled yourself in the small cart, looking back at him, sculpting your gaze to each crest in his face.

“Why don’t you ever push your hair back?”

The question hit the dark, cold atmosphere like a sizzling ember and Wonwoo was afraid to even open his mouth because he was certain a dying squeak would come out. You continued to play around with the locks, earthing your fingers deep into its texture and attempting to style it despite the persistent, fluttering breeze.

“Um…”

“If you styled it like this—” you moved in closer, staring with so much focus at your nimble movements, “—yeah, like that. It shows off your forehead, gives you a bit of class. I mean, the wind’s messing it up. You don’t tend to do anything with your hair.”

“No.” Wonwoo swallowed, hard.

“Well, you should. Not all the time, obviously. And I’m not saying you look bad with it down—not at all. But you’ve got nice, smouldering features and they’re so much more… framed… when you show your forehead.” You collapsed back into the seat, and that tingly feeling he experienced when your fingers had been tugging and pulling was disseminating throughout his entire body. “I mean, look at how my friends reacted to you. I should apologize for that again, by the way. O-M-F-G, they see one hot guy, and they lose their grip.”

He nearly choked. “Hot?”

It didn’t sound right. Not at all.

“Well, what the fuck, Wonwoo? You’re not ugly.”

“Did you think that when you first saw me?”

You had folded your leg again as the Farris wheel came to another stop. This time, at the very top, at the centre of the night.

“Did I think what? That you’re not ugly?”

“Never mind,” Wonwoo grimaced, hearing the cart creek as you better positioned yourself to face him. “It’s pathetic like that.”

“No. I didn’t think you were ugly. Did you think I was ugly?”

Wonwoo wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, but he smothered it down because he knew one little laugh might hit your ear the wrong way, and it would be flames, sputtering and spewing. Obviously, he didn’t think you were ugly—he never had, even before he ever spoke to you. But he wasn’t so shallow as to only regard someone’s physical appearance. You were still terrifying.

“I wouldn’t consider anyone ugly... and I wouldn’t ever use it to describe some aesthetically. But—I mean, I think people can become ugly through their personality, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, like, if they’re rotten inside.”

“Mmhm.”

“I agree.”

“What was that word your friend Bells said?”

You shrugged, “which word?”

“She said something like, you’re super… I don’t know… super something.”

“Oh—” you sat up more in the cart, your back pressed against the uncomfortable corner, “—Bells said you were super gorge.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning super gorgeous.” You made a big show of the rehashed compliment, parroting your friend's tone and swaying your shoulders.

“Oh… really?” Wonwoo shook his head. “I thought she was referring to gorge as in when you gorge yourself, from eating.”

“No,” you giggled at him, “it’s a short form, dumb-dumb.”

“Why make a short form out of that? Is it really that strenuous to say the word gorgeous? It’s only an extra syllable.”

“Okay, well, this isn’t the nineteen-twenties. We don’t all cross our T’s and dot our I’s. It reminds me of how you text.”

He furrowed his brow. “How do I text?”

Your eyes rolled frivolously. “I dunno. Like you’re typing to a business colleague or something. You’re so formal. When I think of you texting, I imagine it’s like someone using a typewriter. And that funny little ding sound it makes whenever you start a new line.”

“Oh.”

“What—no one’s ever told you that before? No way.”

“That I text like I’m using a fucking typewriter? No, actually. I can’t say I’ve heard that.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal. You’re just not very plugged into the internet, I suppose. Which is a good thing. It gives you prestige.”

At that, Wonwoo chuckled. “Does it?”

“Yes,” you smiled, eyes full of starlight, “and—just ignore Bells, okay? She was being kind of weird but that can be fully attributed to those three shots I told her not to take.”

“Hm.”

You continued to stare at him with a plotting smile.

“Hm what? What’s the matter?” The metal of the cart squeaked as you leaned forward, your voice suddenly lathered in mischief. “Did you think she was cute?” He heard your tone drop, and your low, smooth voice breathing hot against his ear. “Did you think about fucking her, Wonwoo?”

“No—what the fuck—not at all.” Quickly, he’d pushed you away and off his shoulder, to which you retreated into the corner with a giggle that should have made his skin crawl, but didn’t.

“Well, how would I know?” You answered, tilting your head and stretching out your arms high into the blackness, as though you were trying to reach for a star. “I never know, because you never look at me. It makes me think you just lied and you do think I’m ugly.”

Wonwoo glanced over the edge of the cart, at the almost nauseating distance between himself and the fairgrounds, covered with miniature, bustling people that seemed like breadcrumbs by comparison to their place in the sky. He didn’t want to sink into this conversation. Besides, how was he supposed to look at you when your fingers were just gliding through his hair and your lips were whispering close enough to brush up against his ear? How was he supposed to act composed? Normal?

“Hey, Wonwoo?” Your fingers snapped.

But he just kept thinking. Like he was cut from a separate cloth than you—the fabric of his universe wasn’t woven with yours and he could ruminate as much as he wanted to and it was impossible to hear your intrusions. Why couldn’t he look at you?

You intimidated him, yes. You scared him, double yes.

He already knew that. It couldn’t just be that.

“Wonwoo? God… you shut down over the simplest things.”

“I don’t know.”

You paused, staring him up and down, perplexed.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know why I can’t look at you.”

There was a lasting silence between you. Wonwoo felt like he might throw up for acknowledging the fact out loud, and his fist tightened in his lap as though to ground himself—to remember where he was and to breathe slowly, because having a panic attack on top of a stupid Ferris Wheel was the last place it should happen. He hadn’t even realized that you’d shifted closer, one leg curled beneath you while you spoke at the side of his head. But he didn’t hear you, couldn’t see you—there was a harsh void inside him that sounded like suctioning air and static. His fingernail was pressing so deeply into the flesh of his pale skin that it was beginning to faintly bleed.

And—all of a sudden—there were these hands cautiously gripping onto his face, pulling him toward you. He kept staring at the movement of your soft lips, focusing on their pronunciation until everything flooded back in one overwhelming whirl and it felt like being slammed by a freight train.

Wonwoo then grabbed onto your bare knee as a crutch. He didn’t mean to. But you didn’t seem to care.

“—everything okay? Wonwoo? Do I need to like, call someone? Because you look like you’re going to be sick.”

He heaved in a gaping breath, feeling how cold the midnight air was in the thinning atmosphere that encompassed him. It was soothing, akin to a hand massaging along his back.

“Wonwoo?” You repeated his name, sounding awfully scared.

Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed at his eyes. He blurrily saw you touch the spot on your knee where his hand had buried into.

“Sorry,” he then coughed through the heartbeat raspy in his throat, bringing the glasses back to his face, “I spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” You echoed. “That wasn’t spacing out.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He thought you fight might it.

“Well…” you sighed, glancing around uncertainly, “are you okay? Is there someone you want to call? I don’t know.”

But you didn’t. Thank God.

“No, I’m—” he stopped, gulping back the words.

“… Yeah?” There was a softer intrigue in your cadence.

Wonwoo looked at you. Fully this time. He looked straight into your eyes that were like a glossy, moonlit ocean, detailed with swirling riptides of surprise and apprehensiveness, but also immense depth that seemed genuinely appreciative of his gesture.

“I’m fine.”

And then he watched you nod, smile, and in return study his cavern eyes with the same intensity and wonder. It was such a peculiar experience, staring at you, understanding a little more of your truth, your gentleness.

He didn’t feel as scared.

—MAY 16TH.

Wonwoo had been standing before the mirror in his washroom for the past half-hour or so, primarily just staring, examining, and pulling at the long, limp fronds of his hair. There was a point in his life when he legitimately put effort into styling it, and all his old hair products were still sitting in the cabinet. Though, his ex-girlfriend had tended to help him with it most days, because he found the strands were just too thick and stubborn to work with.

However, since the Spring Street Fair, Wonwoo hadn’t been able to shake those comments you made—about how nicely his face could be framed and the smouldering nature of his features. He would never think to describe himself that way as it seemed particularly pompous and kind of foolish, but hearing you say it was different. The thing was, Wonwoo had no idea where to start, and attempting to rummage his fingers through his hair just didn’t feel as stimulating or electric compared to your meticulous, sweet touch.

In the midst of opening his cabinet for a comb, Wonwoo heard his phone vibrate. He looked down at the sink, seeing the screen brighten with a text notification from Vernon.

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: hey Glasses

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: Solar Pop at 2?

Wonwoo thought about it for a moment, running his thumb down the spine of the comb to hear the little thwip. And then he sighed in decision, texting back a thumbs up. It’s not like he was working later, and as much as Wonwoo would love to believe that today might be the day he made actual progress on his own story, he knew it was just wishful thinking. In reality he’d waste ample time staring into the document, pondering all the scenes and emotions and nuances he could write rather than moving to write anything at all.

Besides, he hadn’t eaten yet today. The thought of a juicy, sauce-slathered, bun-toasted burger being his first meal prompted the boy’s face to sallow greenly with sickness, but the longer he stood in the washroom, combing and slicking and running styling balm through the black bird’s nest on his head, Wonwoo felt the hunger start to bite like an emaciated, starved dog. He left his apartment knowing he would be somewhat late, but Vernon was always later.

And while Wonwoo sat in one of the booths at Solar Pop, flicking the laminated menu back and forth despite knowing the exact order he was going to place, he thought about sending Vernon another text to ask where the hell he even was. Wonwoo could only sip his slippery glass of coke for so long until the waitress decided he was crazy and had been one-hundred percent stood up.

“Hey, fuck, I’m here.”

2:24 pm—that’s when Vernon finally arrived, sliding himself into the leather bench opposite to Wonwoo while tossing his big, metallic clump of keys onto the table. The boy then proceeded to shimmy off his black jacket, propping his elbows onto the table.

If Vernon ever pulled a tardy stunt like that with you, Wonwoo imagined his friend would probably get stuffed into one of those boxes for sawing people in half. Except it wouldn’t be magic.

“Did you get pulled over or something? Police raid? Traffic stop?” Wonwoo asked, now resting his menu down flat.

Vernon laughed, shaking his head. “Uh, no. Couldn’t find my fuckin’ car keys,” he spoke in a breathless voice. “Sorry ‘bout it.”

“Couldn’t find them?” Wonwoo almost scoffed at the excuse while his friend began scouring his way through the menu. “Dude, they’re the fucking size of a bowling ball. How could you lose them?”

“Okay, okay. Fuckin’ skin me alive, why don’t you?”

“You didn’t come from your place, I’m guessing.”

At that, Vernon began to grin, the metal on his pierced lip glinting underneath a ray of sunlight through the blinds. He was still occupied with choosing which burger he wanted. Wonwoo picked the same choice every time. Vernon always tried something different.

“No, I didn’t,” he rasped, flashing his sharp teeth and flipping the menu over, “but when Maleeha Rabia sends you a text at goddamn one in the morning of her tits, you don’t roll over n’ go to bed like some loser. Besides, my ecstasy was just sittin’ around and I had to use it one way or another. Anyway, doesn’t fuckin’ matter. I think I’ll get the Double Bacon Crunch Burger. Sounds good as hell.”

Finally, Vernon threw the menu down with conviction.

“Jesus Christ—” his copper-burnt eyes then flared open as he looked across the table at his friend, “—who the fuck are you?”

Wonwoo itched his nose. “Um, what?”

Vernon leaned forward, seeming captivated. “Uh, your fuckin’ hair? How’d you get it like that? It’s all brushed over and soft lookin’ and shit. I feel like I shouldn’t be sittin’ with you, Prince Charmin’.”

“I just put some balm in it, combed it around,” he answered, reaching for his drink. “Took me a humiliating amount of time.”

“Well, consider me starstruck. What’s made you do all that?”

Before Wonwoo could answer, the waitress returned to the table with her small notepad and shiny pen. Vernon pitched his order first, and Wonwoo followed, asking for the regular quarter-pounder with a side of hot crinkle-cut fries. Once she whisked the menus away and promised to grab Vernon’s root beer float, Wonwoo realized he still had to answer his friend’s question. He didn’t exactly want to tell the truth, because he knew Vernon would never let him hear the end of it, but Wonwoo also didn’t want to be too dishonest.

“Your face is doin’ that thing.”

“What thing?” Wonwoo answered, swallowing his sip of soda.

Vernon crossed his arms on the table, accenting the canvas of darkly-inked tattoos needled into his skin. He shook his head.

“It’s ‘cause of your little girlyfriend, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Wonwoo should have just opened his mouth straight away and spieled out some quick-witted lie. Now he would be painfully subject to Vernon’s unfiltered teasing. Leaning back in his seat, Wonwoo unearthed a miserable sigh at Vernon’s smirk.

“You’ve gotta drop that bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Vernon pressured.

“No, it’s not.”

As though to interpret Wonwoo’s steadfastness as a challenge, Vernon leaned further over the table, dropping his voice but still smiling devilishly through every word he mimicked between his teeth.

“Oh, Wonwoo, your hair looks so fucking sexy like that. It makes you look so perfect. You’re from my dreams. Please, just fuck me right here, right now so I can push my fingers through it ‘cause it’s so soft and silky and I’m basically in love with you.”

“Shut the fuck up. Please.”

“That was a good impression, though, wasn’t it?”

In the loud space of Wonwoo’s disgusted silence, the waitress placed Vernon’s drink onto the table and ensured the food would be coming soon. Vernon watched her walk away, back into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he then grinned in capitulating fashion, “take a stupid joke, alright? I know she’s not in love with you and she doesn’t wanna suck your dick—she’s got a fuckin’ boyfriend. If it makes you feel any better, I’m just projectin’ ‘cause you know I’m jealous.”

Wonwoo sucked in a sip from his coke, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed, poking his spoon at the near perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream afloat in the frosty mug, “but just so y’know, your mopey ass left me out to dry on Sunday night. Shoved me off the phone, didn’t respond to one of my texts. You’re lucky I even asked you t’hang today. Did she take your phone or something’?”

Shit. When Vernon said it like that, Wonwoo seemed like a terrible friend. Maybe he did deserve a deal of teasing. But at the same time, Wonwoo knew how easy it was for your attitude to flip and he hadn’t been at all interested in starting the night with hostility.

“Okay, fair.” He admitted, rolling up his sleeves.

“And?” Vernon raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“There you fuckin’ go. That’s all I wanted t’hear, Glasses.”

The truth was, Wonwoo actually quite enjoyed his time with you that night—despite the transient, bickering hiccups and his nearly faltering panic attack, he had fun. Actual fun. Of course, as soon as your ride ended on the Ferris wheel, you’d clutched onto his hand like a snake sinking in its fangs and dragged him throughout the entirety of the fair to find a washroom. Nonetheless, he really loved playing some carnival games with you, like skee ball and the water pistol. He was even able to win you a pink stuffed bear that you had carried close to the chest for the remainder of your time at the fair.

Wonwoo thought he could spend another night like that with you again. Just to get out of his apartment, to feel exhilaration in the pit of his stomach, to laugh until his lungs dried out, to hold your warm, comforting hand in his even when it became too clammy or inconvenient because otherwise you would scold him for letting go.

“Food’s on the way,” Vernon perked up like a child about to be served a slice of birthday cake as the waitress walked over with two full plates, “if you can’t finish yours, I’ll take it.”

“Yeah—how about you focus on chewing and not choking to death first,” Wonwoo sighed, watching his friend’s metaphorical tail wag.

Once she set the food down, inquiring about any refills, and left while flashing her perfected customer service smile, Vernon grabbed the burger with both his hands, taking a gigantic, succulent bite that somehow didn’t singe the roof of his mouth. Wonwoo winced, instead going for his crisped, golden fries.

“Damn. You’re really that hungry?”

“I’m ravenous,” Vernon mumbled, picking up a few caramelized onions that fell onto his plate. “Dude, I woke up at noon in Maleeha’s bed. She was out cold. Nothin’ in her pantry but some stale fuckin’ Fruit Loops that I may have tried. I’m a grown ass man. I need a meal.”

“I’m glad you’re so proactive," Wonwoo answered, sinking his burning hot fry into the small side-bowl of ketchup.

It took them less than half an hour to clean their plates. Wonwoo tended to eat at a slower pace, with smaller, more savoury bites, while Vernon sloppily devoured his entire burger and gobbled down his fries with the occasional dipping into the root beer float’s ice cream. They scarcely talked in between, too focused on eating and drinking. Wonwoo pushed away his plate when he’d finished and proceeded to wipe off his salty, crumb-speckled fingers with a napkin, meanwhile Vernon took a moment to sink backward into the leather seat, placing a hand over his full, satiated stomach.

“Hey, do y’think they have any Life Savers?” He eventually piped up while sticking a toothpick into his mouth. “I want grape.”

Wonwoo scoffed, tossing the napkin onto his plate and taking out his phone. “Who the fuck likes grape?”

“Me, you smartass,” Vernon answered, turning backward in his seat and scanning the restaurant for any colourful candy bowls.

He couldn’t deny that he was hoping to see a text from you, but there was nothing, and his chest dropped. Wonwoo decided to open the schedule you had made, curious as to what you were even doing today—work until five o’clock, and then you were going out for supper with some friends at Terra Cotta.

He thought about texting you. His thumbs kept hovering above the keyboard in contemplation, even though he knew for certain he wouldn’t text anything. He would just stare and hope.

“Holy shit. Uh, oh my God. Wonwoo. I-I see—”

Vernon had suddenly reached a hand onto the table, slapping the lacquered wood a few times to garner his attention.

“What?” He mumbled in agitation, keeping his focus glued to the phone. “If you see the Life Savers just go up and take some. I swear, they’re not gonna fucking care you’re not twelve years old.”

“No, no, no, dumbass,” Vernon hissed, turning back around in the booth, his honey eyes glistering in oils of dread and panic. “Look, actually look. That’s Mingyu, isn’t it?”

Immediately, Wonwoo clicked off his phone, instead squinting into the distant corner of the restaurant where a notably tall, black-haired boy with tanned, amber skin had emerged from a doorway, standing in a somehow casual but imposing way that only be Mingyu.

It must be Mingyu, and that fact became glaringly obvious when Wonwoo made the unintentional, floundering mistake of staring straight into the boy’s wandering and earthen brown eyes.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, oh my fuckin’ God,” Vernon kept reiterating under his breath, bouncing his knee like an anxious student waiting for their test. “He definitely saw us. Or—he definitely saw you. This is so bad, man. I think he’s gonna rock me.”

“What?” Wonwoo whispered back harshly, attempting to float his gaze away from Mingyu in a casual manner. “For what reason?”

It seemed like Vernon almost wanted to gag at him. “Um—because of what fuckin’ happened between me n’ his girl! At that party? I told you about that shit, didn’t I?” He rasped from across the table, his bottom lip worried between biting teeth. “Dude, what if he tries to pull a fast one? You’re what—like six foot something? You have to help back me up. I can throw a pretty solid punch—even better when I’m shit-faced—but that might not be enough. Lady Liberty’s built like a brick.”

“Okay, you’re acting crazy,” Wonwoo uttered in disbelief. “I doubt he’s going to be anything but physical, especially in a public place. And, you said you didn’t know Her was in a relationship.”

“How the fuck do I know he knows that? Can’t exactly use my infectious charm on someone whose girlfriend I tried to rail.”

Vernon somehow dared to spare another rapid glance over his shoulder, only to shed an entire mould of colour from his complexion.

“He’s coming, he’s—”

“Shut up and relax,” Wonwoo mumbled. “I’m sure it’s nothing big—he’ll say a thing or two and be on his way. God, I’ll handle it.”

For some reason, Wonwoo thought he should be sinking into consternation a lot more than he actually was, but it’s not that his chest wasn’t thumping or his mind wasn’t spinning amuck with worry. It was more so that he was managing the whirlwind, as best he could, as much as he could manage. Mingyu wasn’t a complete stranger, and all their past interactions had been boringly cordial or even forgettable. Nonetheless, Wonwoo would still prefer to avoid the boy because that made his life simpler in the grand scheme of anxiety.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” Mingyu approached the table with a confident, leisurely stride, extending his large hand for Wonwoo to grab, exchanging a dap. “I almost didn’t recognize you for a sec.”

“All good,” Wonwoo answered, attempting a polite grin that felt much more sweltering on the inside than out. “How’ve you been?”

Mingyu shrugged, burying his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants while he gazed at the slitted curtains for a moment, pondering his reply. “Decent. Playing a lot of basketball. I don’t think I’ve seen you since I came to the pharmacy. You still there?”

“Still there.”

“Well, at least I haven’t had to come in for a fuckin’ pregnancy test yet. That’s good I suppose, yeah?” The boy chuckled, then tilting his head a certain way to crack a stiff spot in his neck.

“Aisle five if you ever need it.”

Mingyu responded with a smirk that perhaps lasted a second too long, and these slimming, analyzing eyes—a gaze that Wonwoo felt ripple in his gut. He chose to believe it was nothing dire, or else he would spiral right there on the spot and lose all fine-tuned control.

Meanwhile Vernon had been sitting quietly the entire time, most likely hoping he would remain in the dark, skulking shadows outside Wonwoo’s spotlight. But he must not have been hoping hard enough, because Mingyu proceeded to smile at him, again extending his hand for another dap, which Vernon yielded apprehensively.

“You’re a pretty recognizable guy, unfortunately,” Mingyu acknowledged with a husky laugh—a clear reference to the boy’s identifying tattoos and numerous facial piercings, “I think you deal to at least a third of my friends. It’s Vernon, right?”

“Mmhm. Yes sir.” To Vernon’s luck, he had a well-polished and gleaming smile that made it impossible for him to seem disingenuous, though Wonwoo knew he was wilting inside.

“I’m sorry about Dots.”

“Oh, uh. All good. It is what it is, y’know?”

Mingyu nodded.

“Hey—those tattoos are crazy good. Where’d you get them?”

Vernon looked across his arm. “Thanks. Mostly Liquid Impact—dude there that I call Funfetti ‘cause he eats Funfetti box cake all the time. Uh, but his actual name’s like, Axel or some white-boy shit like that. He’s done a majority of it. The others—man, I don’t know. Half the time I’m off my fuckin’ face and wake up with shit I never remember.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mingyu sniffed, running a hand through his long, shiny onyx locks of hair. “Guess you also don’t remember promising my girlfriend the best sex of her life, right?”

At that, Vernon looked straight to Wonwoo, and Wonwoo returned the enlarged, incinerating stare straight back, reading the split-second terror that swam like flopping fish in Vernon’s eyes. The atmosphere hit the ground with a palpable and ugly shatter.

“Yeah, um—about that—”

Mingyu then balanced backward on his foot for a moment, beginning to chuckle, sway his head, as though to dismiss the entire accusation in the same intense breadth it was mentioned.

“Nah, nah. I’m playing around,” the boy chuckled, rubbing at his nose. “You didn’t know she was taken. No hard feelings, yeah?”

Vernon immediately nodded his agreement, and the tension nailed into his broad shoulder line seemed to melt. “For sure. No hard feelings. I mean, she’s beautiful. Can’t even imagine what it’s like bein’ her boyfriend when you’ve got sluts like me around.”

Mingyu grinned, “no, you’re good. I know she gave you some attitude about it. Bit of a troublemaker herself. But, yeah. Water under the bridge.” The boy’s attention then turned back to Wonwoo, who was more than eager to somehow extinguish the conversation from you as a topic. “I know she’s hangs out with you right now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Wonwoo hummed, “the book thing.”

“She doesn’t like talking to me about it.”

“Well, don’t stress,” he answered, catching the sunlight that blitzed through the curtains and dipped like a gold paintbrush into the boy’s eyes, turning them to warm molasses, “she’ll show you the whole damn thing when it’s over and done with.”

Mingyu huffed, “I thought she’d have dropped it by now.”

“I don’t think she will. She’s pretty committed.”

“Hm.” He nodded simply in response, kissing his teeth.

Vernon folded his arms, leaning back into the leather seat with the toothpick again sitting in his mouth. “You got any plans for the summer, then? Doesn’t your pal always throw a huge party?”

“Yeah, actually. Doing it this year if we can manage. Seungcheol’s parents pretty much spend their entire summer bouncing around all the Great Lakes. We’re gonna do a co-hosting type deal and—shit, since you’re here, this is really good timing.” Mingyu then looked down at Vernon and lowered his gravelly voice. “I know what your main gig is. What about blow? You sell it?”

A slow but gradual, catlike grin trudged the edges of Vernon’s mouth, to which he pulled out his toothpick and set his elbows onto the table. “Look, can’t chop it up here, man. Ask one of your friends for my burner. I can get you to the ski slope, but it costs, obviously.”

“Nah, that’s fine. It’s just—my last plug fell through.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, I should get going. I’ll follow up with you later. Do you care if Seungcheol knows the number, too?”

“No,” Vernon shrugged, planting the toothpick into the corner of his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, “just don’t go throwin’ it around. I could only get enough for a couple people, anyway.”

“All good. Okay—later, guys.”

Mingyu stepped away from the table with a wave and a flash of his pearled, charming smile, nothing but the mild scent of his fresh and expensive-smelling cologne to swirl through the now vacant space. In true espionage fashion, Wonwoo and Vernon both picked open the slots between the restaurant curtains, cautiously observing the boy’s stride into the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, where he at last disappeared into the warm, sunny afternoon.

Heaving a gigantic exhausted breath, Wonwoo took off his glasses and set them in his lap, massaging deep into his eye sockets.

“Y’know, he’s not that fuckin’ bad,” Vernon commented, “I mean, he scares the shit outta me, but that could have gone worse.”

"Jesus Christ—I can’t believe what I just watched.”

His friend laughed, banging his fist excitedly enough on the table to engender the silverware clattering on their plates. “Ha! I know, right? Dude—Seungcheol and Mingyu are the kingpins of that fuckin’ university you go to. They can cough up the big bucks for that shit. Just imagine the distribution pay I'm gonna get with them on my roster—actually, that couldn’t have gone better.”

“And where are you gonna get it?” Wonwoo pressured, at last settling his glasses back on, clarifying Vernon’s smudged, blurry face.

“Well, let me fuck around and work my magic.”

“I don’t want him to use you.”

“Pfft. I don’t give no fucks about being used,” Vernon cackled, wearing a self-indulgent, luminous smile and continuing to play around with the toothpick while he readied his wallet to pay. “You know what you should worry about, Glasses? Sweet talkin’ the fuck outta that dude’s girl and securin' yourself an invite. You probably don’t even need to try sweet talkin’—she obviously likes you.”

“No,” Wonwoo grumbled, “no way.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Why would I want to go, dumbass? The last time I went to a party, I ran into you. They’re loud and suffocating. I’ll pass.” Wonwoo also pulled out his wallet, taking his card. “Besides, I get the sense Mingyu doesn’t trust me a whole lot. I’m not gonna stir the pot.”

Vernon shook his head. “You stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street. N’yeah, exactly. You met me. I don’t get the fuss.”

“It’s nothing like that," Wonwoo answered in frustration.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a Patron Saint. I just want my Life Saver.”

—MAY 19TH.

Wonwoo was going to your apartment today for the first time, and it had nearly killed him in the process.

His abhorrent sleep schedule hung over his head every single instance he woke up at lunchtime, the entirety of his mornings wasted to weathered heartbreak and its lasting, stained consequences. Needing to be at your apartment for ten had Wonwoo buckling his face into anguished hands the night before, wondering how he was going to pull off such a triumph without wishing for death.

He did know one thing for certain—the sound of his alarm erupting into its timely, strident beeping made him instantly sick. In fact, the first thing Wonwoo did was half-stumble in complete bleariness out from his bed, dragging a white sheet along by his ankle as he burst into the washroom and hung his head over the toilet like he was sweating through a wicked hangover. But it wasn’t alcohol. It was months of bad, soul-stitched habit festered up in stomach bile and perhaps, a hatred for himself. It was his own fault, in a way.

And yet, when you texted him a half-hour later to reconfirm your address, Wonwoo replied with not the slightest hint that he was feeling pretty fucking terrible. The headache and shudders followed him down the street, onto the bus, and into the lobby of your notably opulent apartment complex. He felt rather incongruous amongst all the marble—the white trim, the clean, untainted air, even the breakfast table with dispensable lemon water and small, fruit-topped pastries that somehow made Wonwoo want to kill himself.

He looked down at his phone.

[ Her | 9:10 am ]: 717 thorton street, unit 61

[ Her | 9:45 am ]: are you almost here? :)

Wonwoo pressed the button to the elevator.

[ Wonwoo | 9:50 am ]: Yes. In the building.

His phone vibrated immediately with a text.

[ Her | 9:50 am ]: I’m so excited

The doors pulled apart. Wonwoo stepped aside for a couple who were leaving the elevator before he entered. Quickly, he clicked the button to close the doors, not wanting to share the space with anyone but himself and the headache throbbing at the forefront of his cranium. He sighed, glancing at his texts again to reply.

[ Wonwoo | 9:51 am ]: Do you have any Tylenol?

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: most def

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: what’s wrong?

[ Wonwoo | 9:52 am ]: Nothing much. Just a headache.

When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he assumed you had put the phone down to search your medicine cabinet. Getting off the elevator, Wonwoo proceeded to find the correct apartment. He put his fist up to the door, and then, at the last second, stopped.

There it was again—the same melting pot of anxiety and butterflies that had bubbled up when you first visited his place.

He supposed the feelings never truly disappeared each time he would see you, and he was beginning to detest it. Why couldn’t his body just adapt? Get over it? What purpose did it serve to constantly remind him of his unkempt emotions? It was like the idea of you terrified him more than you as an actual person, because in person, he felt comfort, as crazy as it sounded. So why couldn’t his anxiety and security just complete that stupid sliver of a synapse for once?

Knock knock.

After a moment, the handle clicked, and the door to sumptuous unit 61 was pulled open. For the first time, Wonwoo saw your face without any makeup, and it sort of made him stutter in his words—not that he was shocked in abhorrence at the contrast, more so the vulnerability behind it, the fact you felt comfortable enough to shed your compulsion with always presenting a perfect, glamoured face. He was pleased to see you were in a fuzzy pair of pink shorts and a white, thin long-sleeve that were basically pyjamas.

Maybe it was weird to think, but you seemed more human.

“You made good timing. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Wonwoo answered while stepping inside, toeing off his sneakers next to your plethora of shoes at the doormat.

“I would obviously say tour first, but I have your Tylenol sitting on the counter over here, for your headache. Can you dry swallow or do you need water?”

“Dry swallow?” Wonwoo laughed, following you toward the kitchen area. “Who the fuck dry swallows any sort of pill?”

“I don’t know! Personally, I don’t. But there are some freaks out there who do. I was actually testing you. And you passed.”

“Lucky me,” he sighed.

Taking a seat at one of stools displayed around the large, granite-surface island, Wonwoo waited for you to pour him some water. Obviously, the apartment was spacious, gorgeous—the large, white-fluffed rug in the centre of the living room was definitely suited to you, though he was surprised by the tall, lush potted plants aligned by the window panelling. He didn’t know you had a green thumb.

While placing down the water, you shifted closely into the seat beside him, and Wonwoo could smell the scent of strawberries on your skin. You let your chin press into the hammock made with your hands, watching as he set the pill on his tongue and gulped it down.

“So, is it really bad?”

Wonwoo turned the glass back and forth atop its coaster, deciding on whether or not he should tell the truth. It always tended to sting him when he lied, and so he turned to you, shrugging.

“I felt it when I woke up. But it’s manageable.”

“Oh, I get that sometimes.”

“It’s because of my repulsive sleep schedule, no doubt.”

You smiled at him, adjusting your leg under the island.

“Is that why you prefer afternoons all the time?”

“Pretty much. It’s a horrible habit. I’ll break it somehow, I’m sure. Just a stupid hump to get over. Anyway—” Wonwoo slung the laptop bag off his shoulder and onto the counter, “—your place looks pretty sweet. How are you? What’s the plan for today?”

“Well,” you hummed, slapping an arm down onto the reflective granite, “I’ve wrote some more this week. I’d love for you to proofread it. Maybe we can go out for lunch later, but you’d need to give me time to get ready. I mean, I did shower this morning…”

He watched you pause, and then swallow. "You don’t care, do you?”

“About what?” Wonwoo answered.

“Oh, well—never mind, then.”

“No, what is it? What don’t I care about?”

You started to grin, hiding half your face with a hand that slowly scraped across your cheek, as though to rub off any remaining lethargy from the morning light. Wonwoo waited for you to answer.

“… I look like a mole.”

He at last realized what you meant.

“No, you don’t.”

“I was just feeling lazy. I know, gasp, what an insane word to come from my mouth. But I’m glad you don’t care. I didn’t think you would, but I still wasn’t sure. At least your reaction wasn’t obvious. My chin is breaking out so please don’t stare at it, if you can help it.”

“Oh, well, you know, you look—” that one banished word almost slipped, but Wonwoo smoothly mended the break, “you—you have nothing to worry about. I get breakouts, too. It sucks, but it’s life.”

Your bare, soft face turned cheerful in a fawning smile.

“I know. I guess I'm just not very used to the feeling of people seeing me like this. Did you want to do lunch later?”

Wonwoo leaned back in the small seat, running his hands up his knees, knowing damn well he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

“Uh, I should probably start with like, cereal or something.”

“You didn’t eat?”

“No appetite.”

“I’ll fix you something. Unfortunately, no cereal. But I'll get some the next time Mingyu and I do groceries. So, what do you like best? Toast? Oatmeal? Scrambled eggs and toast? Orange juice? Bagel?”

At the mere mention of orange juice, his fist clenched. Attempting not to dwell so obviously, Wonwoo straightened up and smiled.

“I like toast.”

“That’s good. It’ll be easy on your stomach.”

Wonwoo watched you squeeze off the stool and open the fridge to pull out a plastic bag of bread. He watched you stand on your tiptoes to reach into the highest cupboard and grab a plate. He watched you pop open a jar of fresh raspberry jam and slot the bread into the toaster. He could watch you do anything, it seemed.

Anything at all.

It took Wonwoo about half an hour to eat his raspberry toast and skim through the newest additions to your document. You were getting more into the thick of your relationship with Mingyu—just as you’d warned—but Wonwoo was able to gloss most cloying paragraphs without too much bitterness or personal weight clouding his possible critiques. Wonwoo was still seated at the island, meanwhile you were lying face down on the plump-cushioned couch, an arm dangling off the side. In a morbid way, you looked very much dead if not for the shallow rising and dipping of your back.

“Done, for the most part.”

Your head perked up, and he was relieved to see you hadn’t fallen asleep or suffocated. “When will you add your notes?”

“After lunch. Is that okay?”

“Mmhm.”

“So…” Wonwoo slid down in the chair, reaching out his arms with a gigantic yawn, “you actually snuck into his basketball game?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, letting your chin snuggle into the blanket strewn underneath you, “I was obsessed with him. I couldn’t help it.”

“I wouldn’t expect your first date to be at the nature museum. The way you wrote about the butterfly exhibit was nice, though.”

“It was fun. Mingyu wasn’t the biggest fan, but I had always wanted to go. There was this huge skeleton of a blue whale, and sometimes the museum would play the whale’s ballad—” you flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling with a tender, ardent laugh as your fingers twirled the fluffy knots of the throw, “—it used to scare Mingyu so bad. He kept telling me he was gonna leave our date unless we went to another exhibit.”

“The sound can be pretty jarring if you’ve never heard it before, to be fair,” Wonwoo reasoned, now massaging down his legs.

Shoving your body to sit upright on the couch, you poked out your tongue at him, grinning, “don’t defend his loserness.”

He huffed in response, “my bad.”

“Should we do a tour now? I really want to show you my room. And if I keep lying on the couch, I’ll fall asleep.”

“Uh, sure. Do you want me to wash my plate?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just leave it in the sink.”

After Wonwoo cleaned off the granite island, he came to join you in the living room, the white rug resembling what he imagined a cloud to feel like underneath his socked feet.

A thought had suddenly popped into his head.

“There’s a nature museum here, too.”

You grabbed the blanket, wearing it like a shawl around your shoulders. Wonwoo had never seen you so sleepy before.

“I know.”

“Have you ever gone?”

“No. Not at all. I did ask Mingyu once when we first came here for university. But I think he was still mortified from the whale thing. I dunno. Anyway, is that your round-about way of asking if I ever want to go? Because I would, to help with the story.”

Wonwoo scratched along his collarbone, heated with the itch of being blatantly exposed for his plotting. However, he hadn’t suggested the museum with the intention of employing it as a visual to sharpen up your scene-work. He was hoping to go just for the sake of it—like a palate cleanser, as you had previously mentioned.

But he obviously wasn’t going to articulate that.

“We can plan it more later,” he said.

The tour started in the living room, which Wonwoo had become well acquainted with throughout his half hour of sitting at the kitchen island, occasionally flicking his eyes toward the couch to ensure you were still alive. You explained that the pristine white rug was a housewarming gift from Mingyu’s parents when you first moved into the apartment, and he felt guilty for even stepping on it.

He decided to ask about the plants by the windows.

“Oh, I don’t actually look after those,” you answered, touching at one of the heavy and balmy-looking green leaves from a plant nearly as tall as you, “Seokmin comes over to water them and stuff, gives them special nutrient food—even sprays their leaves with this misty bottle thing. I tried giving them all to him, but he says he’s got no space at his apartment—which is total bull by the way.”

“Maybe he just wants an excuse to see you.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, “doesn’t everyone?”

Wonwoo bit back a stupid little smile as he followed you into your bedroom—the place you seemed most enthralled for him to finally see. You twirled into the open space and threw the blanket off your shoulders, then whipping your hands into the air akin to a magician who’d just performed the most grandiose magic trick.

“Tada! Bedroom reveal!”

He pushed up his glasses, taking a good, solid look around at everything he could: the prestigious makeup vanity with the drawers left half-open, your dresser, lined with photographs of what he assumed to be friends, family, and Mingyu, the beaded, dangling chandelier, the ajar closet doors that revealed your unsurprising magnitude of outfits—skirts and dresses and professional blazers and lascivious things from threads of lace and silk. He finally looked to your beautiful bed, which you proceeded to flop onto.

“This is my favourite part,” you hummed.

Taking some further steps into the bedroom, Wonwoo began recognizing smaller details, though he couldn’t explain what he was feeling. He always thought a bedroom was such a personal, intimate space, like a treasure chest stuffed with memories and pieces of person’s essence that couldn’t be captured using words alone. To sit on someone’s bed, or sift through their drawers for a pen, or even grab a shirt from their closet—he felt it was all so… sacred. It was the reason he had such a hard time having others in his bedroom.

“The bed is your favourite?” He wondered.

“Yes,” you giggled, a glimmer flashing into your eyes like diamonds in the sun as you climbed onto your knees.

Before Wonwoo knew what was happening, you had clutched a hand into his shirt and jerked him toward the covers. He landed beside you, and his heart thrust with electricity.

“You could have just asked me to sit,” he chuckled, wiping some wrinkles off his shirt and adjusting his glasses.

“Nope.”

“Bed’s comfy.”

“Duh,” you sunk backward, smirking at him, “it’s a bed.”

“Hey, you should have seen the bed I had growing up in Changwon. My older brother and I, we hated it. Shit was like sleeping on a piece of cardboard. It didn’t get better for years.”

Propping your head onto a pillow, you continued to smile prettily at him with those entrancing eyes, and for a second, this piercing fear struck in the core of Wonwoo’s chest that he had just spoke about himself—actually spoke about himself—in a manner that screamed of vulnerability. He felt terror. Why did he do that?

“Hm. I guess I’m just spoiled, with my memory foam and all.”

At least you didn’t push into the topic. You were getting better at that, almost like you could interpret the subtle tweaks in his face or the stiffening of his bones. Wonwoo rested his elbows on his knees.

“Your room’s nice. It smells like you.”

He heard you giggle, “what? Like strawberries?”

Wonwoo pursed his lip, looked down at his fingers. “Yeah…”

For a moment, his eyes lingered unfaithfully on your exposed midriff, down to the fluffy hem of those pink lounge shorts. He squeezed his wrist tight, practically stopping his own blood flow, willing himself not to think anything unhinged that would simmer up to fuel his self-hatred later. The longer your head spent sinking into that plump pillow, the more your lids fluttered with sleep. As he continued to gaze about the room, he spotted the pink stuffed bear that he’d won you at the Spring Street Fair, sitting atop your bedside table.

“You’ve still got that?”

“Hm?” You pushed up onto your elbows, yawning. “Oh, yeah! ‘Course I still have her. It’s a perfect little memento from that night.”

“Well, I did go through a lot of effort to win it.”

“Oh, I’m aware... wanna know what I named her?”

“What?”

“Miss Priss.”

Honestly, Wonwoo was surprised you hadn’t stuffed it into your closet or abandoned the toy in some innocuous corner of your apartment. Instead the bear’s vibrant pink face and slightly lopsided eyes were staring him down, making him rerun Vernon’s words in his head: ‘you stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street.’

Wonwoo immediately shoved the memory aside, letting the implications sizzle up and burn on the hot coals of his brain.

“Hm. Funny.”

You rolled your eyes.

Wonwoo tapped his wrist, thinking.

“So, uh, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why don’t you live with Mingyu? I know he stays over some nights.”

Lifting yourself up with one arm, you shrugged, opting to stroke a hand along the blanket to smooth out some crinkles. “I don’t want to move in with anyone unless I’m engaged.”

“Actually?”

“Yeah. I mean, that's what I told my parents, at least. They used to really push for us to have an apartment together. Which makes sense. They freaking love him. I swear, more than me," you laughed, picking at your shirt. "I get it, too. Mingyu and I have pretty much been tied at the hip all these years. But we agreed that we wouldn't live together until things went to the next level. He does keep a lot of his stuff here for when he does stay over, and vice versa. He’s got an extra key and everything, his own nightstand, bathroom stuff.”

“And that’s for certain?”

You tilted your head. “What’s for certain?”

“The engagement thing. Or was it just to shake off your parents?”

“Well… I guess I mean it. Is that weird to you?”

“No,” Wonwoo said. “I personally haven't heard it plenty.”

“Yeah, most people are surprised to learn we don’t live together. I guess we really give off the impression that we're together in most things, if not everything. It's good to get a little space, though."

“Well, I understand it—wanting to have your own space. I mean, I think everyone should try living alone, just once if they have to. You learn more about yourself, I suppose.”

You cracked a smile at him. “What have you learned?”

Wonwoo chuckled, knowing all the things he could never say were tingling right on the tip of his tongue. “Well, I meant in a general sense. I wasn't exactly talking about myself.”

“Ha—you learned how to be a hermit.”

“I'm pretty sure I was always like that.”

“Yeah, but probably not that bad.”

“That bad?” He furrowed his dark brows at you, staring straight into your eyes that twinkled with challenge. “Meaning what?”

“Please, you would not leave that apartment if it wasn’t for your commitment to the book. Maybe for work, some groceries every now and then. Otherwise, your ass is not leaving.”

“Damn. Just call me a loser.”

“Fine,” you huffed, pushing up onto your knees, “loser.”

Wonwoo managed to hold the penetrating, spirited strength of your gaze, and he was proud of himself for doing so, even if his heart felt like it was going to leap into his throat. It was still difficult for him to be routinely engaged in eye contact, but he knew how much you appreciated it—the feeling of being listened to and experiencing someone’s dedication to presenting their full attention.

Since it was getting close to lunch time, Wonwoo figured you might want to start thinking of where to eat. He was getting notably hungry, and having to function off some toast coated thinly in raspberry jam wouldn’t be enough to power him throughout his proofreading. He pulled out his phone, wanting to check the time, and began sliding off your comfortable, warm bed.

“Did you want to—”

“Hey, wait, wait, wait—” Wonwoo felt your hand curl around his bicep in a firm grip and begin to pull him back down, “—before we get up and everything, I want to talk to you about something.”

Oh no.

His stomach writhed.

Wonwoo started praying it wasn’t about his and Vernon’s encounter with Mingyu at Solar Pop—not that anything particularly terrible or concerning had happened—but maybe Mingyu had mentioned something to you. Maybe he didn’t like Wonwoo and thought it was best you stop writing together, stop seeing each other.

His mind started quivering with a steadfast hurricane of awful thought and Wonwoo knew the flushed colour had most likely drained from his face as quickly as a popped balloon.

Your hand remained on his bicep, squeezing it.

“Why do you look so worried, already?” You chuckled in a quiet voice, rubbing his arm until Wonwoo visibly relaxed. “I haven’t even said anything yet. Unless, you think I should be worried, too.”

“No.” Wonwoo shook his head. “Just—never mind.”

“Hm, well, that’s kind of what I want to talk about.”

As your hand drifted off his arm, Wonwoo sat crossed-legged, narrowing his eyes at you in question. “What do you mean?”

The conversation began with a clunk of silence, to which you glanced down at the bed for a moment, clearly biting on your inner cheek in contemplation. Wonwoo desperately wanted you to spit it out. He hated when empty words hung so burdensomely in the air.

“Well… there’s no easy way to bring it up. And I’m not sure you’ll even want to talk about it with me, but I keep noticing it, again and again. I think it’s at least worth it to put it on the table. And, if it’s not my business, you can freely tell me to screw off.”

“Oh… okay.”

And then you were looking at him, not with any sort of accusation or anger or even disappointment. Somehow, Wonwoo knew what you were going to say, and he braced himself for it.

“Do you… do you have anxiety?”

Wonwoo said nothing. He wasn’t sure if it was an issue of not wanting to speak or being unable to.

You breathed out heavily in response.

“Okay, silence, I definitely saw that coming—but, um, I’m not stupid, you know? Your face just gets so pale, and I feel like I can see the heartbeat in your chest… and you always do that thing with your fist. Clenching it. It always looks so painful but you never seem to care and—anyway—I just… I can tell when it happens and it kind of bothers me that you try to like, shrug it off or call it ‘spacing out’ when it’s really clearly not. And, maybe that’s my fault.”

His gaze had shifted to lock with yours.

Again, you weren’t staring at him with any malice or dejection—he’d come to learn that your eyes were actually quite soft most of the time, soft but always glittering, like a handful of silk. Still, Wonwoo couldn’t yet find his words, which must have come across as remarkably shocking for someone who spent their whole life grabbing all the shiny bits of possible vernacular.

You sat up straighter, touching his knee.

“Is it my fault you don’t want to talk about it? Can I at least know that much?” There was an imploring desperation in your face.

Wonwoo at last cleared his throat.

“I don’t talk about it with anyone.”

“Okay, I get that. But, did I make you feel like you couldn’t bring it up? At all?” Your fingers dug a little harder into his knee, though Wonwoo knew you probably hadn’t realized it. “I just—I do want to know, actually. Because sometimes I let myself get in the way of being present for other people. But I care. I honestly do.”

He nodded, cracking his knuckles.

“I mean… I definitely wouldn’t have thought to bring it up with you. I guess I felt like, if I did, what would it accomplish? You might think I’m incapable or… I don’t know.” He shoved his hands underneath his glasses, rubbing at the indents on his nose. “As you can see, I’m not the best at talking about it. I don’t talk about it.”

You folded your legs in similar fashion to Wonwoo.

“Well… um… do you… is there anyone that could, like… I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess, are you coping alright, is what I’m asking. I really don’t mean to overstep. I swear.”

At that, he chuckled quite loudly. Your face twitched in surprise at his reaction, and the hand slipped off his knee.

“It really doesn’t matter. I just deal with it.”

No. He took nothing. He did nothing. Wonwoo just sat and suffered and felt no initiative to help himself. At that point, he really didn’t want to dissect the topic any further. He could sense the slithering under his skin, the way his body physically bristled like a perturbed cat at the thought of having to be any more open than what he'd already shared. The choices he made in his life weren’t important if he was going to end up back in the same slippery trench.

“Oh. Well, I hope you take care of yourself,” you said with a smile, giving his bicep another gentle squeeze. “That’s all.”

—JUNE 2ND.

About two weeks had passed since Wonwoo visited your apartment. Afterward, you had met up four times to continue writing and making small ventures to places that you deemed vital for developing your story. Wonwoo found himself enjoying most trips.

He remembered the ice cream shop. Apparently, it was the date where Mingyu had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. You had gotten their most popular strawberry cheesecake flavour while Wonwoo ordered mint chocolate chip, which was a rather boring but favourite classic of his. No doubt, you sat across from him on their outside patio the entire time, pitting remarks about how awful his choice was in lieu of writing anything down in your document. With every spoonful he ate, Wonwoo had to keep reminding you to stay focused, and eventually, his repetitious ordering worked.

"Did you actually come here to get any writing done or did you just want the ice cream? We're not palate-cleansing are we?"

"Why can't two things be true at once?"

“Can I see your laptop?”

“No—hey! Don’t try to grab it!”

“Why? Because you’ve written fuck all?”

"For your information, I have a bullet-point list going."

"Oh, yeah. A bullet-point list, hm?"

"Yes. It has all my major writing points. Point number one: Mingyu seats me down at the table. He's clearly nervous. We've only been in the shop for a minute or two and he won't stop brushing his hair behind his ears. Point number two: Mingyu grabs our ice cream from the counter. He gives me his flavour, rocky road, by accident, and then we awkwardly laugh and switch. Point number three: I remember thinking his nerves were endearing, and—"

"Okay, okay. I get it."

"Exactly. Let this be a lesson in poor assumption. Don't try to assume anything about me, Wonwoo. It's probably wrong."

And then there had been the journey to Mooney’s Bay, one of the most well-known beaches outside the city—probably because the lake actually looked a clean, salty blue and the soft sand wasn’t littered with drifting pieces of plastic. It had been the first place Wonwoo took his brother when he came to visit from his office in Korea, and the picture they had taken together with their pant legs cuffed up, standing knee deep in the water, was still pinned to the corkboard in Wonwoo’s bedroom. However, Wonwoo hadn’t been back to the beach since, until you dragged him there in an hour-long car ride. He had mostly looked out the window, thinking, as always.

You said that Mooney’s Bay reminded you of a cove from your hometown, a more clandestine one, where you and Mingyu used to splash around in the isolated, iridescent waters at night, laughing into the chilled breeze and coughing up all the liquid splatted into the other’s face. Wonwoo had used the video camera to record some footage of the beach per your request. By evening, most people had packed up their coolers and umbrellas and sun towels, granting him more freedom to film wider, panned shots. He remembered standing at the foam shoreline, feeling the sand squelch wetly under his bare feet, recording you wading further and deeper into the water that reflected like a bleeding, scarlet portrait of stained glass.

“It feels amazing! You should come in!”

“I can’t. It’ll ruin the camcorder.”

“So put it down! In the bag! There’s enough footage.”

“But the sun is setting behind you. It makes for a good shot.”

"So just hurry up! The water is the perfect temperature."

"But—"

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

"Well, I don't know... I, uh—I can't swim."

"This isn't swimming, this is wading. Just go up to your knees. It's been a hot, long day. I think this will help get the scowl off your face."

“… Fine. At least give me a second to fix my pants.”

The third location, while not his favourite, had been an open bar that was conveniently placed a few streets over from his job at the pharmacy. Wonwoo had went there a number of times with Vernon in the past, usually after he finished a midterm or handed in some grating assignment, though Vernon tended to drink more than his body could sufficiently handle. By the end of the night, Wonwoo would most often find himself being a mediator between his tattooed, foul-mouthed friend and whatever blundering, equally drunk idiot he happened to be arguing with.

It was too much for his anxiety.

Nonetheless, he’d met you there after work despite the churning cauldron of memories that he harboured, unsurprised to find you seated at a small table swarmed with dewy drinks and shots that interested observers had sent over. Wonwoo felt each digging, plying stare that sculpted against his back as he sat beside you—he even choked down one of your retched tequila shots (while not the best idea), hoping it would mellow him out.

You never really explained why the bar was pertinent to your history with Mingyu—or, maybe you had, and Wonwoo was simply one flaming shot past coherent of properly digesting your words. He did, however, remember your entire, almost scientific explanation of why you liked wearing low-cut or heavily revealing tops at the bar, and Wonwoo had listened along as best he could manage, even when that floating sensation started hazing through his mind. At one point, this girl who Wonwoo had never encountered once in his life came up to him with a polite tap on his shoulder and an inquiring smile.

“Hey—sorry to intrude—and this may be a super dumb question, but you are guys together?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s single.”

“Oh, perfect. I was just—I was sitting over there, in the corner with my friends, if you can see. Anyways—I said something dumb about how you were really good looking, and now I’ve been dared to come up and ask for your number. So, um, yeah…”

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“O-Oh. Wait… are you… being serious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry. This is really fucking embarrassing… uh, I guess I won’t linger then. Bye.”

“… Jeez… had a bit much to drink or something?”

“No—just don’t like giving out my number to strangers.”

“She was cute, though. Probably a fun one-night stand.”

“Then you have sex with her, yeah?”

“Ha! You’re so funny. When’s the last time you even had sex? I mean, you obviously pull. At least, I think you do…”

“I don’t remember. Months and months ago, I guess.”

“Wow! Zero play. I kind of respect it. I could never, though. So… actually, let me guess: you’re the type of person that can’t have sex without attachment? You need to be in love?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t know.”

“God. You’re so fucking boring, Wonwoo.”

“Because I don’t go out of my way to find some pretty girl to have sex with every week, I’m boring? How does that make sense?”

“No, not that. I mean the fact you never really want to discuss anything about yourself. Honestly, sometimes talking to you is like pulling teeth, y’know? Anyway, move back a little. Backwards cap with the earrings has been staring on and off for the last ten minutes and I want one more free shot before I call it a night.”

The most recent place you had been together was the popular drive-in at Richmond’s Farm. Wonwoo knew that in the autumn months leading up to Halloween, the venue was turned into a haunted carnival with all the typical attractions: pumpkin patches, horror movie screenings, corn mazes, and masked, fake blood-spattered psychopaths chasing people around with a roaring chainsaw.

Seokmin, despite being quite weak-stomached and completely disastrous when it came to anything horror-related, had actually implored Wonwoo to go the year before after hearing the raves about their newest House of Nightmares, although Wonwoo declined in order to study for a test.

Really, there was no test.

Wonwoo just hadn’t been in the mood for losing all his hair and being crammed into pitch black, narrow corridors with a murderer promptly waiting around the corner. He hoped Seokmin wouldn’t ask him again this year—then his excuse would be obvious.

In the spring and summer, however, the farm mostly broadcast screenings at their drive-in theatre behind the maize field, and you had leaped at the opportunity to go because it was the perfect chance to relive one of your favourite dates with Mingyu. By your explanation, he’d taken you to see Crazy, Stupid, Love before you two had departed your hometown for university. But the drive-in obviously wasn’t playing that movie, and so you two had to settle for watching their only available screening, 500 Days of Summer.

Wonwoo hated that movie.

Of course, he hadn’t told you that.

Before the movie had started, Wonwoo helped you throw down a blanket into your trunk alongside some couch pillows that you grabbed from your apartment, creating a makeshift lounge in the rear of the car. Since the screening was late at night—and way past your typical good girl bedtime—you were worried about falling asleep halfway into the movie, though Wonwoo promised he would keep an eye on you to ensure you wouldn’t miss anything important.

Since it was too dark to film anything of quality on the camcorder, Wonwoo left you alone in the blanket-pillow trunk to scribble down any nostalgic, limerent sentiments while he grabbed some snacks. You had told him to get gummy bears, because you hated the way broken pieces of popcorn kernel shells would sliver between your teeth and dig into your gums, neither did you want a soft drink since it would be an abundance of sugar before bed, and it always resulted in a breakout the next morning. He was able to make it back to the car just before the screening started.

He remembered how strange it all seemed, sitting so close to you underneath the blanket, occasionally feeling your elbow dig into his arm or your knee bump his thigh, and the sharp blip it would cause in his pulse. Wonwoo remembered how often you complained about the temperature throughout the movie—first, it’s too hot, now, it’s too cold, you’re too close to me, you’re too far away and I’m cold again, I need the blanket, I don’t want the blanket—Wonwoo hadn’t realized a person’s body temperature could fluctuate that drastically.

However, the worst part of that night happened about half an hour before the movie ended, just when Wonwoo was beginning to feel relieved about going home. You were getting sleepier by the minute, and Wonwoo could tell from the yawning every now and then, wanting desperately to rub at your eyes but refusing because it would smother the mascara into somewhat concerning, black whorls.

You had nudged his arm, and when he glanced over at your face, exhausted and half-illuminated under the watery, bright cast of light from the screen, you asked him in a quiet, dulcet voice: “is it okay if I rest my head on your shoulder for a few minutes?”

Wonwoo had wanted to say no—of course you can’t, because if you do, I will sit here stiff, and hardly breathing, and listening only to my own heartbeat. It will be the sole thing I’ll think about for the next three days no matter what I do to mask the memory. I’ll keep thinking about it until you burn out in my mind like a star.

But then Wonwoo had agreed instead.

He proceeded to clench his fist upon feeling the weight of your head sink softly to his shoulder. Your legs had been curled up underneath you, and your knees were then pressing flush against his leg. Every breath he inhaled was faintly tainted with the scent of your sweet, fragrant shampoo and it was fucking killing him.

“You’re so tense,” you had whispered in a giggle, “if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to. It’s just because I’m tired.”

“No—” it had come out somewhat like a blurt, and Wonwoo just knew the tips of his ears were tingling red, “—it’s okay. I promise.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure… what?”

“Just wanted to look in your eyes when you said it.”

“Fuck, not that again.”

“I have to know!”

“Okay, that’s fine. Movie’s almost over, anyway. Just don’t fall asleep because then I really won’t know what to do.”

That had been four days ago.

Now, it was almost midnight. Wonwoo was sitting on the roof of his apartment with a messily rolled up blunt in his fingers—the second one he prepared, mostly out of impatience—drawing in a slow and deep breath that ghosted from his lips like wispy fog flowing down a shallow hill. He then coughed twice by his elbow, attempting to clear the stinging prickle that caught against his throat.

“You’re so fucking full of it,” Wonwoo laughed.

“No! I’m not.”

“You did not write thirty pages in a day.”

“Uh—actually, I did! And the fact you don’t believe me is a testament to your own wilted motivation. I am very motivated.”

He smiled at the sound of your voice crackling through his phone, which he’d been holding with the latter hand. Breathing in another hit, Wonwoo pulled at the sides of his black beanie, grinning through the thin cloud that was exhaled in a quick, neat puff.

“Okay, you wrote thirty pages. Didn’t have to fucking drag my career through the mud in doing so. I mean, I guess it’s a hobby.”

“For all I know, you’re the biggest poser that ever posed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I still don’t know what you write about.”

“I told you.”

“No—you fucking didn’t. You said something vague and ambiguous that could have meant literally anything. All I had to go off were some sing-songy praises from Seokmin.”

“I give you pretty good notes, though.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So I must be decent.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered calling you. I was supposed to be in bed, like, an hour ago. You’re such a distraction.”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, tapping the warm blunt to knock off a clump of papery ash, “it’s been an hour already?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know why you called either.”

“To complain about that lady whose makeup I had to do today! She was horrible. God, were you not listening?!”

“No, no, I was. She told you the makeup she wanted, you said it wouldn’t suit her too well, and then she got all pissed off when it looked exactly how you said it would. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Well… I just thought you should know about it.”

“Mmhm.”

Silence followed his velvet, almost teasing hum, but Wonwoo didn’t mind it, and he assumed you didn’t either. Your phone call had been completely out of the blue, only a few minutes after he’d climbed onto the roof and started sparking his lighter. An hour had already passed—Wonwoo couldn’t believe it. Time had never seemed so blurred and insignificant before, like tomorrow didn’t exist at all.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Wonwoo repositioned the phone in his hand.

“From time to time, yeah.”

“What strain?”

“Northern Lights.”

“I’ve never had that one. I mean, I’m not much of a stoner, and neither is Mingyu. I don’t like the way it feels in my throat—that dry, burning feeling. And I hate the cotton mouth afterward.”

“Shouldn’t be that bad if you’re inhaling it right.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me one day.”

He let the blunt hang from the corner of his mouth for a moment, a very fluttery-feeling smile taking shape. Not wanting you to hear that slight bit of giddiness in his tone, Wonwoo took another hit, holding the smoke in for longer than usual before exhaling.

“Do you, uh… do you still want to go to that museum?”

“Oh—the nature museum?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to do some poking around in my schedule. I have this stupid leadership council meeting for SSA that I have to go to.”

“That’s fine. Text me when you figure it out.”

“Okay… gosh, it’s really fucking late.”

“Yeah, you should get some sleep.”

“Are you pushing me off the phone? If anything, I should be the one pushing. You’re not doing anything to fix your terrible sleep schedule. And I certainly don’t want you to ruin mine.”

“That’s what I’m saying—you need to get some sleep.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“How did I say it?”

“Like you were pushing me off the phone!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. How ‘bout this: I know how important structure is to you, and I am deeply concerned that this late night conversation we’re having may somewhat affect your sleep. And while I’ve thoroughly enjoyed talking to you and hearing your pretty voice through my shitty phone speaker, I think we should both go to bed.”

“That seems fair.”

“Great. So, goodnight then.”

“No! I want to be the first one to say goodnight.”

“Why?”

“Because, I say goodnight, then you say goodnight back, and then I get to be the one who hangs up first. It’s a courtesy thing.”

“Uh, okay then... I’m listening.”

“Goodnight!”

Wonwoo smiled. He smiled so fucking widely and brightly that he could feel the muscles in his face aching.

“Goodnight.”

—JUNE 7TH.

Since the quickest route to the nature museum was about half an hour from Wonwoo’s apartment, he suggested that you stop by around lunch time so that you two could make the walk together. It wasn’t too warm outside—the large smattering of clouds dotted in the sky and the typical city breeze helped to keep the temperature down.

“We’re not allowed to film in the museum,” you said from your seat at his small dinner table, “so don’t bother taking the camcorder, I guess. I’ll just try to soak up everything as best I can.”

Wonwoo was sat across from you, waiting for you to finish the heated-up carton box of creamy mushroom pasta that you’d raided out his freezer. He’d tried his best to eat beforehand as well, but the most he could stomach was some milk and cereal in addition a handful of blueberries. It was still better than his usual routine, which involved skipping any sort of meal post lunchtime.

“If you really needed to, I’m sure you could take a couple pictures,” Wonwoo answered, brushing a hand through his styled, pristine black hair that you had earlier littered with a flustering spiel of compliments. “I doubt the exhibits will be exactly the same, but if it's more so to capture the feeling, then it won’t matter much.”

You patted the corner of your mouth upon finishing the last few noodles left in the box, nodding your head in agreement.

“My journal’s in my bag. It should be fine.”

Wonwoo flipped over his phone to check the time.

“How was the SSA meeting yesterday?”

“Oh—I didn’t go.”

“Really?” Wonwoo asked while settling back in his chair, watching you toss the fork into the carton. “How come?”

“Because, it’s mostly pointless. We always sit there, in front of all those old, crusty men, trying to explain to them how we can improve the campus, the student experience, blah blah. And they act like they’re legitimately consuming our input, using phrases like: ‘oh, we hear you, we understand, we’re gonna try our hardest’—just for them to put, what? Another fucking seating area in the dining hall that no one asked for or cares about? It’s totally ridiculous.”

“Hm, yeah.”

“Anyways, I hate being on it. I hate going. I understand it looks good and whatnot, but it’s a huge waste of my time.”

Wonwoo picked up the pasta box, continuing to hum his agreement while taking it into the kitchen. He dropped the fork into the sink and folded up the cardboard to stuff into his recycling.

“It’s one meeting. A skip won’t kill you, or them.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Mingyu thinks I went, though. So, if you run into him or something and the topic fucking miraculously pops up—just don’t give anything away. It’s a little white lie.”

Coming back to the dining table, Wonwoo snatched up his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, raising an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

You pushed back in the chair, sighing heavily.

“He really thinks I should stick with it.”

Wonwoo didn’t say anything in response. He simply nodded, not wanting to hover on Mingyu as a conversation piece for too long, and waited for you to shoulder on your purse.

“Okay,” you then smiled, “let’s go look at some nature.”

Despite their boring, lacklustre reputation, Wonwoo had always enjoyed going to museums—art, history, science—he’d even been to a museum that delved into ancient coin minting and the development of currency. He supposed it was his appreciation for learning new information of his own free will, unlike the fast-paced, passion-draining, wringer system that was university. Furthermore, he was surprised that you would share his interest in the matter.

“Why wouldn’t I like museums?” You had stopped just before the acclaimed beetle species wall, aglow behind a glass sheet. “I wrote in my draft that Mingyu and I went to a nature museum, remember?”

“I know. I’m just surprised you have that much of an interest in them. Your life seems so upbeat. I didn’t think you would be into something that most people find fairly dry and anticlimactic.”

“Right.” Twirling back around, you continued walking down the corridor, your eyes tracing the organized arrangement of lustre-shelled beetles. “Because everyone else is too stupid and you’re the true upper echelon who actually possesses the mental capability required to appreciate something as seemingly trivial but totally enriching as…” you then paused at the glass, squinting to read the embossed label below an oblong-shaped beetle with an iridescent green shell, “… as the Chrysochroa Fulgidissima? I don’t know, something like that—also known as the Jewel Beetle. Its species is native to Japan and Korea. It’s a… woodboring beetle?”

“Why would I know?” Wonwoo laughed, coming to stand beside you and look at the plaque settled to the white background behind the display glass. “You’re the one reading it.”

“Ugh—doesn’t matter. I was going somewhere with my speech and now I forget… oh, yeah! So, you think you’re smarter than me?”

Placing a gentle hand on your lower back, Wonwoo urged you to keep walking forward in order to let the people faintly mumbling behind you examine the wall, who seemed much more interested.

“I never said that,” he answered softly.

“Okay—but, do you think you’re smarter?”

“In what sense?”

“Did you take the Frontiers evaluation for calculus?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you score?”

“9.8.”

“Shut the fuck up! No you didn’t.”

Wonwoo merely tapped the black-framed glasses further up his nose, smirking slightly, and began shaking his head while continuing down the exhibit. You hurried after him, remembering to lower your voice to match the collective quietness.

“Prove it,” you whispered.

“Go to prof Bradbrook’s office. My name’s on her wall.”

“I hate you.”

“Why? What did you score?”

“I’m obviously not going to say it now.”

Wonwoo still remembered the day his test score came back—he’d opened the envelope in Miss Bradbrook’s office, and while she sat across from him, practically squirming and jittering with anticipation, Wonwoo had glossed over the paper slip with the smallest, most low effort smile. He knew he was supposed to feel relieved in that moment—overjoyed probably—to realize his notable success and the upstanding conformation he was legitimately good at something. But in truth, he hadn’t really felt anything at all. He sort of just smiled. That was it. That was all he could muster.

And his life had mirrored that moment ever since. In the past, it would come and go. Yet, that day, it just stuck. The only time he ever experienced any glint or sparkle of happiness, it had come from his girlfriend—but even she couldn’t imbue much from him that day.

“Well, that’s not what I expected you to ask.”

You glanced over at him, adjusting the bag on your arm.

“Meaning?”

“There are different types of intelligence. I thought you meant, in a more general sense, am I smarter, or more knowledgeable. To be honest, I can’t say. I mean, I feel like I’ve experienced and seen a whole lot, but that’s just life’s illusion.”

“You won’t really know ‘til you’re on your death bed.”

Wonwoo returned your glance, squinching his brown eyes in a judgemental but innocuous way that gave bloom to his smile.

“Thanks.”

“I can’t help it. Museums make me think of death. I think it’s the really cold, still air. Especially in nature museums where they need to preserve things. Like, look at that fox. It’s a bit ominous.”

On the exhibit to his right, Wonwoo observed another display protected by glass. There was a fox, with a rusty, auburn coloured coat, poised atop a fake precipice of grass. Wonwoo knew what you meant—it was the eyes, like two leaf green beads, so immensely detailed but lifeless to an almost uncomfortable degree.

“I want to see the aquarium exhibit next,” you said, tugging twice at Wonwoo’s sleeve. “I heard it’s really dark in there.”

“Well, we can go take a look.”

“And we can eat afterward? There’s an atrium.”

“Sure.”

Wonwoo let your arm link with his, following the natural flow of museum-goers into the next exhibit, leaving behind the shiny, colourful wall of beetles and the auburn fox in its lonesome enclosure.

The aquarium exhibit was one of the most spacious in the entire museum, placed in a large, dome-topped room, with shadows creeping at every corner. There were some lights—deep, blue lights that rippled and wriggled across the floor, like waves patterned against ocean sand by the sun rays. He didn't know from where, but he could hear water sloshing, a very soft sound that led him to imagine the wet sand squelching under his toes.

You approached another display wall, filled with a school of lemon-yellow and azure coloured fish placed around vibrant, unique corals.

While you busied yourself with reading the informative plaque, Wonwoo spent his time taking a more in-depth inspection around the mystifying exhibit. He noted the stingrays and luminous jellyfish flocking above his head, held on near-invisible little wires that would occasionally glimmer if they twisted the perfect angle.

After a generously long venture throughout the room, reading all the plaques and pointing to different fish behind the glass just to comment, “I think that was in Finding Nemo,” you had wanted to sit down, spotting a bench positioned before an aquarium.

Wonwoo agreed, and you collapsed on the bench together.

There was a period of comfortable silence where you both watched the aquarium, meanwhile the dappling, blue pattern cast to the floor danced and flickered around at your still feet. The atmosphere seemed so vivid that Wonwoo was surprised the next breath he took wasn’t a mouthful of liquid and sea salt, or that his body wasn’t miraculously suspended and floating about in the echoey shadows.

And that’s when Wonwoo decided he liked the aquatic exhibit very much—more than all the others.

He looked down at the hands folded in his lap, specifically at the scarred, ruined cuticle belonging to his right thumb and how it had withstood years of his anxious scratching. Wonwoo then breathed out softly, feeling his heartbeat begin to pick up.

“Want to know something?” He asked.

You stared back at Wonwoo with an intrigued pique of your brow.

“Like what?”

“Well, first of all, we both took creative writing, you know.”

"Uh, okay," you sniffed, "sure."

"No, like, we took the course together. In the fall. Prof T?"

"Really?" You pinned him down in a non-believing stare. "Wait, you're talking about that basement auditorium, right? In Gildan Hall? It always smelt like old computers and dust bunnies?"

"That's the one."

Scoffing out some dry air, you leaned back.

"Woah. I don't think I ever saw you... did you go to each class?"

He nodded a few times. "Almost all. To be fair, I sat more in the back, off to the corner. I wasn't exactly thrusting myself into the limelight."

Folding one leg over your knee, you chuckled. "Sounds like you."

“I have this really specific memory from that class, when that random guy, whoever he was, sat in the seat you always took. Your so called unofficially-assigned-assigned-seat. And I remember that really tense feeling right before you walked in, because we all knew you were gonna chew him out for it. The way you marched straight up to him was already violating enough, and then you basically ruined his whole day.” Looking down at his hands again, Wonwoo smiled at recalling the memory. “You absolutely terrified me. I don’t even think you understand how much I wanted to avoid you.”

He caught your eyes, shimmering like the water-stained floor, with an emotion he couldn’t place.

“Actually?” Was all you said, hardly sounding surprised.

“Yeah.”

Your face began searching around the shadowed, sloshing exhibit for something unseen. He decided to let the silence settle like a thin sheet, instead listening to the tidal pushing and pulling. The soft sounds reminded him of being a child, wandering beaches into the late evening with his older brother during summer vacations, and picking up shells just to hear the ocean speaking inside them.

Aloud, you breathed in, shaking your foot.

“I can’t really remember what was going through my head that day. I know I’d had a fight with Mingyu before going to class, so I was feeling pretty amped up and short-fused. I knew I was going straight to another SSA meeting that I hardly cared about immediately after, and then I would work until the evening. I knew I would have to make dinner when I got home, even though I’d be downright exhausted, and the next morning, I’d have to wake up early to attend some bullshit press, social, interview breakfast thing for my mom’s new lifestyle magazine. Having that idiot sit in my favourite seat was probably just the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo hummed, suddenly experiencing a profound sympathy for you that he never imagined he would feel. “When you give it a bit more perspective, it doesn’t sound so…”

“Completely and utterly bitchy?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to use that word, but, sure.”

You grinned at him through the dusky rippling of auroras that flitted across the exhibit, seeming like you were under the sea—and he was, too, sitting side by side in the somehow peaceful depths of the chaotic whirlpool that had pulled you two together.

“I have a memory.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo returned your grin, “I want to hear it.”

“So, remember earlier how we were talking about the Frontiers evaluation for Bradbrook’s calculus class?”

“Mmhm.”

"So, after all the Frontiers scores came out, I'm not gonna lie—I really thought I had one of the better marks. It's not like I specifically trotted around, throwing out my grade to anyone passing by, but I was parading a little bit to my friends. And then, like, Clara or something, told me that there was this guy who almost got a ten. I asked her who, and she said she didn't know—just that she overheard some of the basketball guys talking about it.

I thought she was lying. I didn't say that, though. But I remember it was on my mind every night. Like, it was itching me so bad. I wanted to know who the fuck was smart enough to get a damn near perfect ten on Frontiers. Some of those problems are ridiculously hard. I started writing nonsense around A-block. They straight up give students problems that serious, esteemed mathematicians can't fucking solve. So, honestly... I was quite jealous of you... despite not even knowing who you were. I can't believe that was you, asshole."

Wonwoo cracked his knuckles, beginning to laugh at that intense but lighthearted glare you were sending his way. Of course, you mellowed everything out with a big smile he felt his heart skip a beat over. You had actually went to bed thinking about him.

Holy fuck.

Maybe not him in physicality. But in spirit.

That was close enough.

"I just did the study guide." He shrugged.

Your knee pushed into his. "Oh, yeah, the study guide. Jeez, why didn't I think of doing that? Let me go kill myself right now."

"Keep tabs on it for next time."

With a roll of the eyes, you laughed almost to scorn him.

“I hate people like you.”

And Wonwoo laughed back. “Meaning?”

“Things come to you so naturally. You don’t have to try.”

“Sure,” Wonwoo agreed, scratching his nose and proceeding to nudge up his glasses, “things like mathematics, numbers, problem solving, taking something whole apart and then looking at its pieces. I guess it does come to me naturally. I can’t complain. But there are also plenty of things that don’t. And… if I could, I’d probably trade all my stupid math and logic and puzzling for what I’m missing.”

You tilted your head, staring intently at Wonwoo through the blue sea between you, almost into his brain, it felt like.

“What are you missing?”

At first, Wonwoo didn’t respond. To answer your question meant an intimate exhumation of the flaws that he’d been willfully ignoring for the past year, if not his entire damn life. It meant at last turning over the round, flat rock that had been sitting at the foot of his wooden porch since childhood, and realizing the bottom was sculpted with the grittiest texture and wet with the thickest dirt. The rock was hiding long-legged spiders and ugly, skittering bugs and it would have probably been better to let the rock sit there, untouched, only facing the warm and comfortable glow of the sun.

Wonwoo didn’t want to turn the rock.

Not at all.

“A plethora of things, I’m sure.”

Squeezing onto your wrist, you smiled at him.

“I think I’m the opposite.”

“How so?”

He watched you inhale a long, slow breath, and then huff it all out through your nose. Wonwoo bumped his knee against yours.

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no. It’s not like that…”

Looking up to the glowing aquarium, the dull light reflected back unto your face, and Wonwoo again saw the glisten in your eyes.

“I just feel…” for a moment, your chest stilled, “… I feel like I’m so much of everything that I just blend into nothing. You know, like when a child takes a whole bunch of paints and squirts them all together thinking it’s going to create this beautiful, never-before-seen new colour? But, instead, it’s just greyish-brownish, nothing.”

Your face turned back to him. Wonwoo watched you chew down on your bottom lip, meanwhile your eyes glazed aloof, off to the side, as though you were rummaging through so many different thoughts and experiences that it required your utmost mental focus.

“And—” you swallowed tightly, and it sounded so painfully dry with stinging emotion, “—I just don’t want people to see that I’m so much of nothing. I just find myself covering it all up.”

Were you going to cry? Wonwoo felt himself jolt inwardly with panic. He had never seen you cry and he had therefore never developed the best protocol to tackle such a situation. Some people preferred immediate comfort, others—a reassuring stroke on the back, maybe some uplifting monologue. Or, maybe, they didn’t want to be touched at all. They just desired the simple, thinking silence and all its clarity. He remembered you saying something about it—that you did like to be comforted, but only in very certain circumstances.

First, Wonwoo subtly wiped off his hand against his thigh, and then he took in the softest breath. Through the flickering, midnight blue mirage, Wonwoo reached for your hand. He settled his cold fingers inch by inch under yours, and, with a timid but gentle thumb, Wonwoo caressed in a slow path along your knuckles.

You glanced to him appreciatively, saying nothing, but squeezing his hand in return. He figured he’d done right.

Maybe more things came to him naturally than he thought.

Before leaving the nature museum, you and Wonwoo had stopped at their atrium as promised to get in a quick meal. While you poked a fork into your sad-looking salad, making small scribbles every now and then to the journal at your elbow, Wonwoo ate a grill-pressed sandwich and flicked through his phone. He was surprised to check the time and realize you had spent about three hours there—it felt so much shorter. Wonwoo hated how quickly each moment flew past when he was with you. It was always so bittersweet.

He had wanted to know what exactly you were penciling in the journal, though he never asked, knowing he would probably be proofreading it from your document later. Obviously, you were thinking about that particular date with Mingyu from years back in your life—that was the principal point in going to the museum. However, Wonwoo had chosen to regard it more as hanging out, not caring if that was a particularly delusional or untruthful choice.

After finishing your meals and tossing the plastic remnants into the recycling bins, Wonwoo looked outside the atrium’s towering glass wall to note how cloudy the sky had become. From the bright, eggshell turquoise in the afternoon, to an especially muted grey that seemed brewing and heavy with a downpour. You adjusted the bag over your shoulder and suddenly grimaced at the sight.

“Jeez, is it going to rain?”

“It could,” Wonwoo sighed. “It very possibly could.”

“I swear. I obsessively check the forecast in order to plan all my outfits around it. It never said it would rain!” You then threw the bottle of iced tea you’d been drinking into the garbage with an aggressive slam. “This shirt is a horrible choice. It will be stupidly see-through."

Wonwoo glanced around the atrium.

“There’s lots of empty tables. If we want to sit and wait it out, then I don’t think anyone would get mad. But, I mean, it’s up to you.”

“Why’s it up to me?”

“I don’t know. Just—if you don’t want to get your outfit all soaked. I’m sure if we left now, we could make good distance before it really started raining. I’m not opposed to getting a little wet. But I have no issue with staying here and letting the clouds go over.”

You folded your arms, and your head fell to the side. He’d seen that look before. It was your own patented prelude to disaster.

“I never said I was opposed to getting wet.”

He laughed. “Well, you certainly insinuated it.”

“Do you think I'm some sort of whiny little priss?”

"I think you named your bear Miss Priss."

"I think you're a smart ass. Take that smirk off your face. Now."

Wonwoo wanted to sigh, but he didn’t. He then thought about trying to tenderly explain his way out of it with his smooth words. As much as he would think he’d figured you out, there was still a part of him that was very confused by you and how to adjust to your behaviour.

This time, he decided he would do nothing.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.”

He reached out his hand for you to grab.

“As if,” you scoffed, walking around him toward the exit doorway, into the museum garden, “not after you just insulted me.”

Wonwoo could do nothing but laugh in response, because he had caught that faint smile on your face as you passed him, and the sweet beading in your eyes. He simply followed you out the doors.

During the walk back to his apartment, it had yet to rain at all, not even a typical, humid summer drizzle or the smallest bit of spitting. Maybe it was just way more cloudy than usual, or it was a concerning spread of city smog tainting the sky. It’s not like he wanted it to rain, anyway, though more so for your sake than his.

About a little more than halfway through the walk, however, you came to an abrupt stop outside a flower shop, and Wonwoo watched you lift a doubtful hand to your cheek and wipe something off it. Before you could say anything, Wonwoo felt a big, cold, wet drop smack just above his eyebrow and begin leaking down. He used the sleeve of his shirt to clean it up, only to experience another fat droplet strike a second later, right onto his glasses.

“You can’t be serious…” he heard you mumble.

Making the mistake of looking up, more and more droplets fell swiftly from the daunting, dark grey blanket strewn across the entire skylight. They began painting all over the sidewalk, the roadway, shaking down into the brilliant purple and white petunia pots outside the florist shop. And Wonwoo froze for a moment, because he honestly hadn’t expected to be caught in the rain, let alone the downpour it was unfortunately shaping up to be.

“Ow!” You winced sharply. “One just fucking hit my eyeball!”

“Shit—let’s hurry.” Wonwoo hid his phone. “My apartment’s only like, ten minutes away, less if we run really fast.”

“Run?!” You gawked at him. “I don’t run!”

“No, you fucking sashay, I get it.” In a matter of seconds, those intermittent raindrops had evolved into an unrelenting, bathing barrage. Wonwoo could feel his clothes beginning to dampen, and his glasses were streaming with water. He slapped his hand onto yours, jerking you forward despite your stiltedness. “And I’m so sorry but you’re going to have to sacrifice one part of your pretty fucking princess routine for just five minutes so we can get back to my place.”

“My pretty fucking wha—!”

Once Wonwoo’s fingers were clasped tight with yours, he started to run, and whether it was voluntary or not, you ran along with him, shouting something that he couldn’t quite hear over the rain that bounced in loud splatters against the sidewalk and the adrenaline echoing in his own ears. He could hardly see through the downpour, but he’d walked that path so many times that it almost wasn’t necessary. At one point, he’d stepped onto the street prematurely, and he heard the loud, startled honk from a car.

“Jesus Christ, Wonwoo!” You half-laughed, half-coughed, clutching onto his slippery hand even tighter, “I’d ideally like to live!”

“We’re almost there!” He chuckled back.

“I think I’m going to lose my fucking shoe!”

“I’ll buy you a new pair!”

Wonwoo didn’t stop, and you didn’t either. He was soaked to his bones, with thick, drizzling fronds of hair plastered to his forehead and the glasses nearly slipping from his nose—the scent of earthy but ashen rain all around him—and still Wonwoo kept running, a very blithe smile permanent to his mouth despite all his discomfort.

Upon reaching the entryway to the pottery shop, Wonwoo almost skidded completely past it since the sidewalk was so slick and pouring like an angry river. You slammed into his back, and it was then that your hands unintentionally separated. Instead, he felt your fingers flesh into the sopping cloth covering his shoulders.

“Be careful on the steps!” He shouted overtop a reverberating crack of thunder that shook from behind the grey sleet sky.

“If I slip, I’m pulling you down with me!”

Wonwoo was pleased to hear the equally bright smile that bled into your words, meanwhile your fingertips dug even deeper into his muscle. Once inside the shop, a gust of wind proceeded to blow the door shut, and all Wonwoo heard was hard rain against the glass.

—END OF PART TWO.

#seventeen scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #seventeen x reader #wonwoo x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #svt fanfic #wonwoo fanfic #jeon wonwoo #svt scenarios #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen smut

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loafgeto · 10 months

Text

BEWITCHING HOUR

gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

synopsis: while searching through the archives of your college’s library, you discover an ancient book with old rituals. out of curiosity, you try to summon an incubus but somehow, it didn’t work— only until you woke that same night, to encounter not only one, but two of them.

contents: fem!reader, explicit language, she/her pronouns, incubus satoru and suguru, NSFW, threesome, slight foreplay, cunninglus kinda, fingering, voyeurism(??), breastplay, markings/hickeys, overstimulation, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, squirting, orgasms, handjob, blowjob, slight rough sex(?!), pet names (use of slut once), suguru and satoru fighting over you, they both have big dicks<3, JUST SOOO MUCH EXPLICIT SHIT LMAOOO, not proofread !!

word count: 4.7k

notes: just so so sosoooo much content guys srry… i prob need to be locked up after this LOL i just cant stop myself from writing sm dirty shit like that 💔😢 (also plz dont read this if ur not comfortable)

most horror movies involved demons or ghosts, and they’re most likely summoned through rituals, or some sort of supernatural item or game that one shouldn’t dare to touch. people would ramble and scream at the user, complaining how stupid they were and how their curiosity killed everyone.

and you were one of those people.

but now you’re in your bedroom with an old thick book, dated back into the late 14th century. it was written in a language most wouldn’t necessarily understand, latin to be precise. but you were grateful for the classes you took in high school, and understood at least some of it.

the book was mainly about old rituals and performances or instructions to summon spirits. it was obviously a bad idea, a very bad idea. and you were just like those characters in those horror movies that you called stupid— but you had to admit, curiosity got the best of you, just like them.

besides, it was the night of halloween. all of your friends went out in their revealing costumes to late night parties while you stayed back in your dorm. well, you were going to attend, but this book was on your mind the entire day— so you opted out, reasoning that you were feeling under the weather.

now, how did this book even end up in your possession? well, it started earlier that day, after your third class of the day.

halloween landed on a friday, unfortunately— so there were classes. your professor assigned a major project in which required you to obtain an archive as one of your resources. it was irritating to say the least, since you’d have to search for an archive related to your topic without a computer. but thankfully, librarians were there to assist.

you went to your university’s library archives section on the very top floor, hoping to find something related to your topic so you’d get out of there quicker and start on the project. you decided your topic to be about ancient greek mythology, it was simple and you enjoy the idea. and it’d be quite easy to find an archive about it.

“excuse me, where am i able to find an archive about greek mythology or culture?” you questioned the librarian who mainly worked in the section.

she gives you a smile through her dull appearance before turning her head to the multiple tall shelves of archives behind her. “if you go to the fourth shelf on the left, then the third section, you may find the archives about ancient greek and everything related to it.”

after thanking the librarian, you quickly walk over to the section, somewhat excited to see what you could find. the entire section was stacked with archives about greek mythology, some were identical but in different colorings and covers, while some were smaller, thicker, older, or written in a different language.

all of the pages appeared worn, and were nearly close to rotting out of the book, and you wondered on who might’ve touched this centuries ago. it was weird to think about but you decided to move along, and keep searching for what you need.

your eyes scan through each row on the shelf, hoping to find something appealing and comprehendible to use as a resource for your assignment. something caught your eye at an instant, as if it was manifesting you, calling for you to grab it.

and for some odd reason, when you went to pull the book out of its spot, the book clearly didn’t belong in the section of greek mythology. you blinked several times, observing the old and thick book. the cover had a unique texture, with golden colored latin wordings in the front and a detailed drawing of a distorted demon. in hindsight, it was a ritual book.

you flipped through the first few pages, skimming through the paragraphs on how to summon a certain spirit or demon. everything was in latin, but you at least somewhat understood. there were pictures describing what the entities appeared as, or what forms they can take. it was frightening to say the least, but you were surprised something like this was here.

a page that certainly caught your interest mentioned an incubus.

and so, you read it thoroughly. an incubus, a male form of a demon that seeks to have sexual intercourse with sleeping women. they were the corresponding spirit of a succubus. you heard of the folklore several times, and this somewhat intrigued you even more. as you read further, it specifically mentioned that the incubus posed as a winsome japanese man, in order to attract women. you also noticed that there were two demons in the picture drawn on the page, one white and one black. could it be summoned in either form?

to say that you wanted to try summoning the incubus was definitely not an understatement. but who the fuck would want a demon to be fucking them while they sleep? the question didn't pop into your head at that moment, and you were quick to take the book without completing the search for the archive you actually needed.

and you cancelled all halloween plans just for this.

now, you felt as if you were in one of those horror movies. closed curtains, lights off, several candles lit around you as you sat in the middle of your room with the book opened to your designated page. the summoning was simple, you were to follow the ritual word by word and then take a long sip of red wine. and lucky you, there was some leftover red wine from a party weeks ago.

the glass of wine was next to the book, and you were contemplating whether or not to continue. you were quite surprised at how simple the summoning was, since most would require a slit of blood or your soul, or something extreme. but red wine? this incubus must have a preference.

you took a deep and long breath, before beginning to read the ritual word by word. and after you finished, you picked up the glass of red wine and gulped the entire liquid down your throat.

you expected something to appear, but nothing.

your eyes dart around the room, but you found it to be empty. did it not work? you’re oddly confused and repeated the ritual once more. but again, nothing happened.

when the second try didn’t work, you figured the third try wouldn’t either. you were certain that every word was said correctly and you missed out no words either. you scoffed, closing the book and turning on the lights to your room. you blow out the candles and concluded at how much bullshit this was.

“this shit is such a waste of time,” you mumble as you shove the ritual book into your backpack.

after putting everything else away, you decided to get ready for bed and pretend as if you did nothing. you would return the book tomorrow and never have to remember it again. it was worth a try after all, and you honestly thought it would work.

you switched into a pair of comfortable shorts and a loose top. you unclipped your bra and tossed it to the side, since you normally slept without one because it was more comfortable that way. you were still feeling quite upset that the ritual didn’t work, but at the same time, you were alright with nothing happening. it was just a hoax, like what everyone else would say.

falling asleep wasn’t so hard, and time ended up passing as you quietly slept on your bed. at some point, you could hear the faint sounds of teenagers screaming and enjoying their halloween events, and your neighbors’ kids exclaiming happily about how much candy they received.

and for some reason, the air in your room became more frigid and you were cuddling yourself close underneath your comforter you found warm. you didn’t allow it to bother you and fell asleep once more.

you remained asleep for several more hours, unbeknownst to anything occurring in your room. it was until you heard gentle shuffling noises in your room. at first, you didn’t allow it to bother you— until you felt someone’s gently caress your face.

“she’s cute, don’t ya think?” a male’s voice calls out beside of you.

your eyes immediately shoot open, and you’re making eye contact with an unfamiliar man— white hair and horns, striking bright blue eyes, shirtless with multiple scars, and white torn wings. your eyes widen and you scream, pushing the man’s hands away from you before shoving yourself in the deepest corner of your bed away from him.

“oh, did i scare you? i’m sorry, angel,” the man chuckles with a sly grin.

“w-who- the hell are you- and how did you get in my house?!” you shout, shielding yourself with one of your pillows.

the man sighs, rubbing the back of his nape as he remained silent for a moment. but before he could speak, another male appears behind of him— jet black hair and horns, black torn wings, shirtless with multiple scars, but he was broader and his hair was longer than the other one. “i told you to stop approaching girls like that. this is why they never like you,” he says, nudging the white haired man.

“ouch. hey, i didn’t think she would awake immediately,” he scoffs and they both return their gaze back to you. “sorry angel, i get carried away sometimes. never met such a pretty woman like ya. and you’re the one who summoned us.”

“summoned? what do you mean? i haven’t-“ you began to say due to your panic but you pause your words when the ritual from earlier returned to your mind. you remain quiet for a moment, and the two incubus’s tilt their head in confusion. there was absolutely no way, right? “i must be dreaming.”

the black haired incubus frowns, crossing his arms. “well, princess. you aren’t and even if you are, we can appear in them too,” he replies but then he shakes his head. “oh, forget i said that. don’t want to frighten you.”

“oh suguru, i think she already is.”

“this was your fault, satoru.”

“my fault?!” satoru raises his voice, glaring intently ay suguru who whistles.

“okay, shut up. quit raising your voice, you’re scaring the poor, innocent and beautiful girl here,” suguru says, now returning his gaze back to you and he smiles warmly. “but yes, princess. you indeed did summon us. was there a particular reason?”

“i.. just did it for fun..” you reply, still quite astonished. “and i thought it would only be one.. not two..”

“well angel, maybe you should read a little more carefully before summoning us,” satoru sighs, and then chuckles. “especially if you were expecting only one of us.”

“i-i’m sorry—“

“don’t apologize. everyone we meet usually mistakes it for one instead of two,” suguru is still smiling with a gentle tone, indicating for you to ignore satoru’s harmless remarks. “and you did this for fun? well princess, if you wanna have some fun. then we can give that to you. how about it?”

you’re mostly uncertain about this, and the other part of you urged to move forward. you were obviously curious but anticipating, and couldn’t initiate anything. was this actually real? you were still in denial still, yet if this wasn’t— then it’s one hell of a dream.

suguru notices your hesitation and thinks for a moment. “well princess, there’s no need to be anxious. we’ll take care of you,” he says, extending his hand out to yours. “but if you don’t want to, then all you gotta do is say no.”

you shake your head, a hand taking suguru’s. “i-i want to..” the words fell out of your mouth shyly, and you could feel your face burn as suguru chuckles, his grip tightening around your hand. “what a good girl. you don't gotta be shy at all 'kay, [name]?”

“mhm..” you nod, eyes slightly widening when you realized you didn’t even tell them your name. “you know my name?”

“of course. we always know the name of our summoner, it’d be rude if we didn’t know,” suguru smiles, as he pulls you towards him. his large frame towered over yours, and you could feel his throbbing erection poking your lower belly. “does that freak you out, princess?”

"n-no.." you shake your head, lips trembling slightly. in other cases, this sort of situation should freak you out. like, who would want to fuck two hot incubuses? but that question doesn't matter anymore. the two were so alluring, and their words seem to enchant you in some way. "good then.. i can kiss you now, right?" suguru coos in your ears.

you nod, gaze staring into suguru’s dark eyes. the incubus presses his lips against yours as a hand snakes around your hips. you moan into the kiss, since this was a feeling you hadn’t felt in so long. satoru just watches, his own dick twitching underneath his pants from the way your moans sounded.

suguru’s hands slithers underneath your shorts, groping and massaging the skin of your ass. next, he gently bites your lower, smirking from the way your moans fell into his mouth. “you like how i touch you, princess?” suguru inquires in such a seductive tone when pulling away from the kiss, and you nod as an answer while your face burned.

you are pushed down on your bed, and suguru hovers over you. he licks his lips, liking the way you were sprawled under him as his eyes burned with lust. you nearly shut your eyes as suguru spreads your legs apart, pushing the material of your shorts and panties to the side. “w-wait—“ you begin out of embarrassment, but suguru had already slipped two of his long fingers inside of your wet cunt. you gasp, quietly squirming as he pumps his fingers slowly.

“goodness princess, you’re already so wet,” suguru comments, pushing his fingers deeper. the squelching noises of your pussy resonates the room, along with your soft moans. he smiles, glancing at satoru who was becoming hornier by the second. the white haired incubus couldn’t contain himself much longer— wanting to touch himself to the sound of your moans. “you hear that, satoru? you hear how wet she is?”

“mmh- fuck, yeah,” satoru replies, a hand rubbing over the bulge of his pants. he had to admit, he was jealous of suguru— him being able to please you first. the two had been confined in that book for who knows how long. satoru has become desperate, hungry and longing to touch and fuck a pretty girl like you. “hurry up, suguru. i want to touch her next.”

suguru chuckles, turning his attention back to you. “doesn’t that turn you on, [name]? don’t you like hearing how badly satoru wants to touch you like this?” suguru says, pressing a thumb against your clit and creating sensual circles around the area that makes you more sensitive. you moan as a response, your body trembling from suguru’s actions. “y-yes.. i want satoru- to t-touch me too..” you reply, looking at satoru who nearly came from the needy pitch of your voice.

“you heard her, satoru,” suguru says, glancing at satoru with a grin— and you found yourself in between the two incubuses. suguru had slipped off your shorts and panties, tossing them to the floor. satoru was situated behind of you, propping your body up so that your back would press against his muscular chest.

while suguru was pumping his fingers into your aching pussy and rubbing circles against your clit, satoru had pushed his hands underneath your top to fondle with your breasts. satoru pinches your nipples with his fingers, getting a little whine out of your mouth and then moves his lips to suck the skin of your neck. suguru could feel your gummy walls pulsate and clench around his fingers, and he fastens his pace to assist you closer to your orgasm.

“such pretty tits you have, angel,” satoru compliments, leaving love marks on your neck and he kisses your shoulders. such delicate and gorgeous skin you have— making satoru wanting to mark you all over with his mouth. he pinches your nipples again, when noticing the way you react to it. “mm~ s-satoru- keep touching my breasts like that-“ you moan, your head slightly falling back against his shoulder.

“give me some attention too, princess~” suguru pouts, slipping another finger into your pussy. your eyes widen in astonishment, seeming that you’ve never felt three fingers inside of you before. your moans become louder at that point, mostly because of suguru. “yeah, that’s a good girl. moan just for me,” he adds, smirking as his knuckles began smacking the entrance of your pussy.

satoru glares at suguru, before slipping one hand away from your breast to grab your head. satoru turns your face towards him and presses his lips against yours while maintaining eye contact with suguru. the raven haired incubus furrows his brows, watching as you and satoru’s tongues swirled sloppily around and over each others. the two now seem to have an ongoing battle of who can please you the best.

“‘m gonna c-cum,” you utter through your moans, mouth parting slightly from satoru’s, a strong of saliva connecting from your tongue to his. suguru smiles, curling his fingers to rub faster against your g-spot. “c’mon princess, cum for me,” he says, lowering his face to your pussy and replaces his thumb with his tongue on your clit.

“oh f-fuck, suguruu-“ you mewl his name, eyes nearly rolling back as your legs tremble from the fast kitten licks his tongue was giving against your clit. satoru couldn’t do much but continue to play with your breast and watch suguru fuck your pussy until you came. you could feel satoru’s throbbing dick pressing against your lower back, and you use a hand to go behind and underneath his pants. “s-shit, angel-“ satoru grunts as your hands push to free his cock out and wrap around his girth. “seems like she’s ready for my cock.”

“don’t even think about it, satoru,” suguru growls, circling licks against your clit before gently sucking. he had to remind satoru that it was his turn to fuck the next summoner first, and just because you had invited satoru earlier than suguru expected, doesn’t mean he’d get to fuck his cock into you first. as for you, your mind is too overstimulated with the situation and you couldn’t bother caring about their bickering. “shitshitshit, i’m cumming-“ you cry out, squirting over suguru’s mouth and fingers.

suguru licks and cleans all of your juices that squirted onto your thighs and by his mouth, savoring the taste. he stares deep into satoru’s eyes when licking off your arousal on his fingers, smiling cockily since satoru wasn’t able to get a taste. “i might actually get addicted to this pussy,” suguru comments before he unzips his pants to releases his hard throbbing cock.

your eyes widen at the sight of suguru’s dick. was something like that actually going to fit? you anticipated greatly as suguru pumps his length a few times before aligning against your wet entrance. “oh, you scared, princess?” suguru chuckles, but you instantly shake your head. “n-no.. please fuck my pussy..” you reply, pushing your legs farther apart.

“you hear that, satoru? hear and see how she’s begging for my cock only?” suguru asks, glancing at satoru to see his reaction. he just needed to rub it in the other incubus’s face, since they were quarreling after all. satoru glares again, not replying as his attention was mostly on the way your hand gripped around his cock. “spreading your legs like that just f’me. such a needy girl you are, huh?” suguru adds, teasing your wet entrance with the tip of his cock before pushing his entire length past your folds.

“o-oh my god-“ you moan, eyes widening from the feeling of suguru’s cock rubbing against your walls, nearly making you cum again. suguru grunts when your tight pussy instantly clenches around him, and he quietly chuckles. “fuck.. mmh,” he moans, rocking his hips in a slow and sensual pace.

“touch me too, angel. don’t forget about me,” satoru whimpers, his words purring into your ears as he bucks his hips up to feel your soft hand rub against his desperate cock. and who were you to ignore his lecherous request? you began to pump your hand along satoru’s cock just like he wanted, causing him to moan softly into your ear. “s-shit.. i might cum just because of your hands,” satoru chuckles, returning his lips to suck the skin of your neck.

suguru’s hands grip tightly on your thighs as his thrusts became stronger, faster, and full of desire— wanting to strive your attention away from satoru. his cock was already fucked deep into you, spreading and pleasuring your walls towards your next orgasm. your moans fall from your mouth with each thrust and love bite you receive from the two incubuses, and you began detecting stars in your vision as you reach a daze. “n-ngh.. squeezing me so damn hard. you want my cum that badly, baby?” suguru groans, faintly throwing his head back.

“y-yes, pleaseee,” you whine, your cunt sucking in suguru’s cock at his words. the incubus groans, drilling deeper into your pussy, balls slapping against your ass. satoru intently watches suguru pound into your needy hole relentlessly, turning you into a crying and moaning mess. his dick twitches at the sight of you two connecting, making him wonder what it’d be like to be in suguru’s position. it even turned satoru on when he sees how suguru’s fucking you, and the sensual strokes you give his cock doesn’t seem to stop him from reaching an orgasm.

“fuckkk, holy fuck-“ suguru chants, his eyes nearly rolling back because of how satisfied his dick was feeling. “we should make her ours, satoru. make her our little cum dump, yeah?” suguru glances at satoru, who only moans as a response when you swirl your thumb around his swollen tip. “seems like she wants to, satoru. the way she’s clenching her dirty little cunt tightly around me tells me she wants to be our cum dump. that right, princess?” suguru utters, now staring into your tear filled eyes as he continues thrusting into you.

you nod your head several times, unable to formulate a proper response as you felt your next orgasm reaching. “‘m gonna cum, shittt,” satoru groans, your soft hand on his cock driving him insane. “m-me too.. gonna fill your womb up with all of my cum,” suguru grits his teeth, and you haven’t even realize his sharp nails nudging into the flesh of your skin.

in the next moment, satoru came entirely over your back and hand— while suguru fucks his cum into you before pulling out. you moan, legs trembling slightly as you feel suguru’s semen warming your baby room. you’re breathing heavily, desperately gasping for air as the two were switching positions, not that you noticed.

you found yourself on all yours and completely naked, face directly inches away from suguru’s cock while satoru had positioned behind of you, pushing your ass back against his hips. “now it’s my turn to dump my cum in you, angel. i’m gonna give you so, so much~” satoru coos, not even giving you a moment to comprehend before shoving him cock into you. “a-ah, fuck-“ your mewl, eyes widening from the deep penetration, instantly making you cum on him. “already came? i just started, y’know,” satoru grunts, thrusting his hips before slapping your ass.

suguru strokes his throbbing dick that was still hard, which earns your attention immediately. he chuckles, his other hand going to caress the side of your face. “you miss my cock already, don’t you?” suguru raises a brow, smacking the tip against your face before you nod. “yeah? t-then take my cock into your mouth- mmh, just like that- good girl,” he praises, pushing half his length pass your lips, groaning at the warm feeling of your mouth.

you bob your head slowly back and forth, sucking and slurping suguru’s cock while using another hand to pump the rest of his length that was unable to fit into your mouth. at the same time, satoru was drowning his cock deep into your cunt, fucking suguru’s cum out and making it stream down your thighs and onto the sheets of your bed. “s-stop squeezing me so much, angel. about to make me cum a-again,” satoru stutters, hands gripping tightly on your hips.

“mm- satoruu- suguruu~” you moan both of their names, pushing your head away to swirl your tongue around suguru’s tip. you clench your walls around satoru, despite him begging you to relax since it was driving him insane. “hear her, suguru? she’s moaning our names like a damn slut,” satoru grins, slapping your ass again.

“yeah, i like it,” suguru replies, pushing his length into your mouth again, feeling your moans vibrate against his dick. “g-gonna fill her mouth with my cum too..”

“hey.. that’s not fair..” satoru glares at suguru. or maybe it is fair and he just doesn’t want to admit it. since the last time they had sex with someone, satoru was the one mostly occupying their attention and barely allowed suguru to interact. to say the least, satoru’s selfish and greedy, but of course if it’s his best friend— he wouldn’t mind sharing, which is why they’re both sworn incubuses. “it is. but whatever [name] says, goes,” suguru hums, reminding satoru of the simple rules they established beforehand.

“‘ts okay- i want you both- to fill me up with your cum-“ you intervene as suguru slips his cock out, exchanging glances between the two. whether the boys like it or not, you’d share yourself equally to them. that was the fair way, but it didn’t mean they’d stop bickering over you. wanting to get rid of their glares at each other, you attract their attention back to you by kitten licking your tongue against suguru’s tip and grind your hips back against satoru. “s-shit. i can’t resist myself any longer, princess,” suguru moans.

satoru was loving the way you were fucking his cock by pushing your hips back against him, it made him pound you even rougher than before. “gonna make this pussy ours then,” satoru whines, his hips slamming harshly against your ass, nearly capturing your remaining attention away from suguru. “let’s fill every single one of her holes with our cum, ‘guru.”

“you fucking bet,” suguru smirks to the idea, as if it wasn’t something they planned from the beginning. the two of them moan, feeling you suck them in tighter, like you’re trying to milk all of their cum out due to the wicked statement. it aroused you, turned you into an even more filthy woman. “g-gonna cum in your pussy now, angel.. fuckkkk, take it all like a good girl,” satoru huffs, hoisting one of your thighs up.

as satoru was reaching his climax, he penetrates his cock deeper into your cunt, making sure all of his cum would reach into your womb like suguru’s did. you cry out, rushes of ecstasy flowing through your veins before satoru shoots his warm semen into you. at the same moment, suguru prods his entire length into your mouth, whether it fit or not, and releases his second load into the back of your throat. your mind is completely scrambled, cramped with lust struck thoughts of the two incubuses.

and just when you think that they’re done, you find yourself lying back on your bed again and legs spread apart to where they both could fit in between. they both wore heavy erotic expressions, eyes practically sparking with hearts as they stared down at you.

it was like you were in a never-ending heaven with two sex demons. you already felt so addicted to the incubuses, like they were going to become a drug you could never stop taking. and well, you couldn’t return the book anymore— not after experiencing this. they were going to be your little secret, your pleasures, your two fuck buddies that will pound their horny cocks into you wherever and whenever.

you keep your filled cunt exposed to them, moaning softly when their mixed cum starts dripping out. to them, it looked like you were desperately pleading for them to fuck you again. and that’s when they knew that they were going to be summoned every single night.

“let’s make sure this pussy remember us, and only us.”

LOAFGETO. thank you for reading! please do not copy my work or publish in another media without my permission.

a/n: i’ll let you guys decide who says the line at the end. ANYWAYS finally on thanksgiving break, im sooo done with school bru. ok lol hope u guys enjoyed. likes + reblogs are appreciated. <3

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i-hate-accidents · 5 months

Text

i hate accidents: the beginning

femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington

summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son

sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball

y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents

content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, positive/supportive families, allusions to alcohol abuse in [I.viii]

word count: 13.9k (of 38.8k)

story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.

additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).

author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.

reading tip: whilst the author is proud of it, she understands the intro to the first section is long. if you wish to get more straight to y/n and benedict's story, the author suggests jumping to [I.ii]. they won't be offended that you did heh.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you do not know how you got here.

well, that is not true; you quite literally walked from the markets and followed the directions that penelope had given you, but you did not think those directions would lead you here.

this is a mistake. i must have taken a wrong turn, gone up instead of down, made a left when i should’ve taken a right.

or perhaps this is a dream? yes! that has to be it! a dream! i must have lulled off and dreamt myself here, for whatever reason. once i close my eyes and open them again, surely i will be at home, or the markets, or the workshop even. surely!

so, you close your eyes shut.

you had been walking about the markets on your non-work day, some weeks ago, browsing the wares you wouldn’t (and couldn’t) buy, eavesdropping on any conversation of intrigue, observing the bustle of the crowd going about their day, mindlessly thinking of the next thing to write, daydreaming—when you had collided with someone. they had let out a squeak, their materials flying out of their hands, as you had fallen on your back, thankfully not hitting your head. in your periphery, you had seen how the person had crawled to your side and looked at you with urgency and concern.

“i am so sorry!” their voice was pretty. sweet and lovely. you lifted yourself up a bit to see the person you had collided with. they were also pretty— beautiful, red-haired, and hooded in blue.

their eyes widened.

“er, i meant,” they spoke again, but this time with an— irish accent? their voice was still sweet and lovely but very distinctly irish and distinctly different from their voice mere moments before. “are you hurt?”

“i am all right, thank you.”

“very well,” they said, still in their irish accent, “then i must be going—” and they shot themself up and turned, you assumed, to run away.

“wait! you’re a writer, yes?”

as you had hoped, the person in blue froze. they slowly turned to you again, apprehension and intrigue in their eyes.

“how do you know?” their voice was mangled between their two accents.

“unless you pluck birds for fun,” you stated as you collected the scattered materials they had dropped in the collision, “these are quills.”

you stood up, approached them, and held out their quills to take, offering a smile. the stranger took the quills and put them in their bag. they returned their eyes to you and returned your smile.

“thank you,” they responded in their english accent.

“i know how precious those are, so i am very glad to see they won’t go to waste. well, they wouldn’t have gone to waste either way; i would’ve taken them if you hadn’t turned around.”

that caused the person in blue to laugh.

“i assume you are a writer?” they inquired.

you don’t know what had overcome you; you don’t know why you had been so trusting of this stranger, especially with something such as your writing, but you had been. you reached for your then most recent, folded up quarto, kept between your bosom and your blouse, and offered it to the stranger to read. they took it, shifted their eyes from line to line, turned it to read the crossed lines, and then looked up at you, beaming.

“this is brilliant!— oh, forgive me; i did not even ask for your name.”

“y/n,” you extended your hand. “and you?”

the stranger seemed to stiffen but quickly relaxed themself, taking your hand in theirs and shaking them. they beamed still, but something of their smile had grown quietly mischievous.

“can you keep a secret?”

when you open your eyes, you huff out a breath in a poor attempt to assuage yourself from the reality of your situation: you are not dreaming. here you are—you—at grosvenor square.

you knew of your friend’s circumstances as she had shared it: she is a noble lady, a third sister of the featherington family, who has been writing scandal sheets of high society’s romps and happenings since her ‘debut,’ as she had put it (you hadn’t understood how she had used that word and became further confused upon her explanation of it), under a pseudonym called lady whistledown. penelope has been kind enough to let you read her sheets, and you find it ridiculous what these high society persons do for their lives and utterly brilliant with what wit, snark, and compassion even penelope commentates on that world.

but you did not ever, ever think that she would bring you to it, let alone into it. when penelope had said that you were to meet her most beloved friend, you had thought it would be in an obscure alley or a room hidden behind a bookcase in an unassuming shop—not the literal neighborhood in which she, and presumably her friend, lives! by your posture, by your clothes, by your very existence, it is blatant how much you do not belong here.

i should run. i am going to run.

and so you turn and start—

“y/n!”

—when you hear the sweet voice of your friend. you scrunch your eyes closed, inhaling and exhaling through your nose, and turn around and see penelope in a picturesque green dress, lifting up her skirt with gloved hands, scurrying down the pavement of her neighborhood towards you, beaming. despite the anxiety that rages within you at this very moment, your heart swells upon seeing your friend in such enthusiastic spirits, and you smile despite yourself.

“good day, pen.”

she takes hold of your bare hands in her gloved ones and gives them a squeeze. perhaps she can discern your nerves because you start to feel yourself calm ever so slightly by her gesture.

“i am so glad you are here,” she says.

“i am—— glad to see you,” you then lower your voice. you do not know why; it is not as if your lowered voice will help conceal your existence in this place. “are you certain i am permitted to be here?”

letting go of your hands, penelope swats at the question.

“the bridgertons and i care not about such things.”

“the— bridgertons?”

“yes!” she turns and gestures to the grand brick house with wisterias. “it is at their home, after all, in which we will be spending our time together.”

your jaw drops.

“we are staying inside the house? not simply meeting outside the house?”

this is not a dream. this is a nightmare.

penelope returns her eyes to yours, and it startles you with what tenderness she gazes at you.

“i understand that you are fearful, y/n. i had presumed you would not have come if you had known we would be here. but i would not have led you to bridgerton house if i did not think you would be safe here. the bridgertons are the most inviting, kindly family of the ton— of high society,” she amends upon seeing your confusion at the word ‘ton.’ their name for their world, it seems. “eloise has assured me that we shall be in her bedchamber for the entirety of our time together. and if you wish to leave, for any reason, at any point, i shall accompany you, and we shall leave together.”

with closed eyes you heave a sigh through your nose. you flutter your eyes open and offer penelope a weak, but sincere, smile.

“very well.”

penelope squeaks in excitement, taking hold of your hand once more, giving it another squeeze of encouragement, and leads you towards this bridgerton house as she so called it. she raps at the stately door thrice with great eagerness, seeming to knock in perfect tandem with your beating-too-quickly heart.

an elderly man opens the door, about to greet penelope and her guest, when a young femme shoves herself through the opening.

“thank you, giles!” she calls out as if the man is across the road and then looks at you, ferocity in her eyes. it ought to unnerve you, the whirlwind force of this stranger, but it doesn’t. you just return her gaze with a large, albeit a bit bemused, smile.

“penelope has shared so much about you,” the stranger states and takes hold of your hand. “let us get inside!” and yanks you into the house. she turns, looking straight ahead, and barrels forward, pulling you with her.

as the fiery femme seems to soliloquize excitedly to herself, you look back at penelope who merely wears an amused smile at her friend’s antics as she follows behind.

“oh!” the femme exclaims suddenly. she halts you both and sharply turns to you, still gripping your hand, grinning. “my name is eloise. eloise bridgerton.”

“y/n y/l/n.”

“excellent. now! with introductions all sorted—”

and she turns and barrels you both right, rather than heading straight ahead to the grand staircase as you had presumed she would.

“eloise—” eloise’s fervency had provided a reprieve to your anxiety, but the confusion in penelope’s voice puts you back ill at ease, “where are you—”

“it’ll take just a moment, worry not, pen!”

eloise leads you down a hall, noises and voices of all sorts coming from an entrance to a room, growing louder and louder as you approach until they reach the peaks of their volume as eloise halts you both once more, to your mortification, at the entrance of that very room.

“family, penelope, y/n, and i shall be in my bedchamber. we have much to discuss. please do not bother us,” eloise proudly announces to the entirety of the room.

silence falls. all eyes—and there are many eyes—are on you.

oh, my god.

you turn to penelope. her overall manner is calm and composed, but you can see the disquiet in her eyes. she peers into you, the apologetic look conveying, i did not know this would happen.

you turn back to the family.

a lady. a lady of older age. two gentlemen with a difference in age. a boy. a girl, the youngest amongst them.

how is it with a house this massive in the middle of the city that the entire family is present in this one room? well, the room is the size of the two floors of your home combined, if not larger, so in that sense it is sound—but your question still stands.

this has to be the entire family. surely. there are so many of them. this has to be the entire family. yes?

“no talking, no music playing, no fighting?” inquires a droll voice walking into the room, “has someone—”

you turn your head to follow the source of the voice and make contact with dumbfounded ocean eyes.

butterflies flutter in your stomach.

oh.

shit.

“y/n, this is my second eldest brother, benedict bridgerton,” eloise states. “benedict, this is my friend, y/n y/l/n. do not bother us once we are in my bedchamber.”

he stares and blinks at you but then assumes a gentlemanly posture and bows his head.

“it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss y/l/n.”

without any forethought you start to extend a hand to benedict until you hear penelope give a slight cough only you, she, eloise, and he can hear. receiving the hint, you retract your hand and pretend to swat at your skirt.

“err— yes. likewise.”

another cough.

“mis, ter?— brid… ger?—ton,” you articulate with complete and utter uncertainty of how this world’s introductions function.

he cocks his head and furrows his eyebrows at you, something like amusement playing at his features. he wears a lopsided smile that he is barely attempting to conceal. his expression should be infuriating. and it is. but, it is... charming, too. and welcomed.

you have never felt more embarrassed or more pleased in your life.

shit.

“before the three of you retreat to eloise’s bedchamber,” declares an authoritative voice, breaking your reverie. you turn away from ocean eyes and see the lady of the room approaching you. much to your surprise, she smiles. to an even greater surprise, her smile seems sincere. “i must insist that i introduce myself and the rest of the family to our guest.

“i am viscountess kathani sharma bridgerton, the lady of this house,” she curtsies with perfect elegance. “it is a delight to welcome you to our home, miss y/l/n.”

“thank you for having me— lady bridgerton. and you may call me ‘y/n.’ you need not use such, uh, formalities with me.”

“very well; then you may call me ‘kate.’”

you furrow your eyebrows. she had introduced herself as ‘kathani’ but now asks you to call her ‘kate.’ it makes you think of mama and papa; they shared with you once how they had chosen to go by different names upon emigrating to england. when you had asked why, they simply replied that it would be easier for others in this country to address them.

“may i call you ‘kathani’ instead?”

surprise flashes over the dignified demeanor of the viscountess. she regards you with softness in her eyes.

“yes. yes, you may.”

resuming her full composure, kathani guides you to the eldest of the gentlemen and introduces him as her husband, viscount anthony bridgerton, the lord of the house. he offers you a small smile with a bow of his head and greets you ‘good day.’ you try not to wince at his decorous use of ‘miss’ with your first name, but you suppose it is merely in these people’s natures.

kathani continues and leads you to the lady of older age, introducing her as dowager viscountess violet bridgerton. she dips into a lovely curtsy and, on her rise, gazes upon you with a gentle smile. you feel compelled to respond in kind, but it would certainly not be as graceful as hers, and worse, she may interpret your slovenly attempt as a lark. so, you refrain.

the viscountess next introduces you to mister colin bridgerton (you summon all your self-restraint to keep your countenance neutral—this is the boy who hurt penelope); then to mister gregory bridgerton (he bows so ceremoniously towards you, you cannot help but be endeared by his resolve); and lastly to miss hyacinth bridgerton.

“why are you dressed like that?” she inquires.

“hyacinth!” the dowager viscountess reprimands. she must be her mother. she sounds like a mother. it reminds you of how your mama reprimanded you and your siblings as little ones; the memory and the exchange make you hold back a laugh.

“what! what did i say wrong?”

you ought to feel self-conscious, your lower standing brought into further display to everyone in the room, but you detect neither malice nor judgment in the young girl’s voice. just genuine curiosity. so, you smile.

“my family and i have different means to clothes, amongst other things. i wear these when i work or go about my day. though,” you regard your attire and then— hyacinth?, feeling the glimmer in your eye, “it makes for running around and playing make-believe quite easy.”

“make-believe! gregory, do you hear that! miss!— miss—“ she turns to you with a cocked head.

“y/n.”

her eyes shine once again.

“miss y/n plays make-believe! we must play!” hyacinth latches onto your hand and, with remarkable strength for a child who cannot be older than two and ten, pulls and drags you towards the entrance of the room. “come along, gregory! wouldn’t want to be the last one there!”

“no fair! you cheated!” the second youngest shouts back, dropping all previous ceremonies, and scrambles towards the entrance.

“hyacinth! y/n is not your playmate! she is here with me and penelope!”

“plans do change, dear sister,” hyacinth retorts. eloise’s jaw drops, and the rest of the family bursts into laughter. the entire exchange warms your heart. in so many ways, they are so proper, so wealthy, and yet they are not all so different from your own family. they seem to really care for one another.

“when did you get so smug!” eloise shoots back.

“small wonder where she could’ve learned that from,” you hear colin, the traitor, murmur. turning your head, you see him give amused, pointed looks to eloise and kathani. the latter grins wickedly, and her husband beams at her with pride.

“there are only so many hours in a day!” hyacinth complains. you face her once more, still holding her hand.

“what about this? i will play with you and your brother for an hour, and then i will be with your sister and penelope for my remaining time here. i want to honor the wishes of each of my new friends.”

hyacinth considers this with much theatricality to her expression. she then grins.

“that is an excellent plan,” she remarks, looking to eloise for her thoughts. you follow her line of sight. eloise rolls her eyes and sighs, but a smile rests on her lips.

“very well, then.”

feeling peace restored, you smile in return and, in doing so, in your periphery, catch the ocean eyes of the second eldest brother. benedict. he is looking at you. why is that? you feel your cheeks flush and the tips of your ears heat. his gaze is somehow gentle and intense and indecipherable all at once, and the flutterings in the pit of your stomach grow, and intensify, and start to overwhelm you—

when you are tugged back to reality with a tug forward.

–

< hyacinth leads y/n through the house to the gardens with gregory by her side. y/n is both uneasy and in awe of the things she sees. eventually, they arrive in the gardens. y/n notices two swings hanging off of a large branch of an old tree and is utterly endeared by the sight; it confirms what she has been thinking: though the bridgertons are wealthy, they are warm and welcoming.

< just as hyacinth declares that she has found a suitable spot for make-believe, two male voices ask if they may join. hyacinth, gregory, and y/n turn and see benedict and colin approaching. colin shares that though y/n seems lovely, it would be unwise of the family to leave the two youngest with a stranger; though y/n agrees with his family’s caution, she refrains from wanting to strangle the person who hurt her friend.

< gregory whines and asks if they can begin before eloise complains. hyacinth agrees and says that they need to assign characters. y/n suggests that hyacinth should be a sorceress and gregory should be a knight; these proposals delight the youngest bridgertons. y/n volunteers herself as the villain and decides to be a banshee; she turns to the elder bridgertons and asks what they wish to be.

< before they have a chance to respond, hyacinth proposes that benedict should be the princess who has been captured. benedict indignantly asks why, and hyacinth simply states because he is the most sensitive of the family. sensing how the sibling argument is about to evolve, y/n intervenes and suggests that, like a sensitive princess, perhaps benedict is merely in tuned with his emotions, even amidst adversity; it is, in its own way, a compliment. benedict’s eyes become indecipherable upon the comment, but he wears a small sincere smile. gregory then proposes that colin is y/n’s changeling henchman.

< make-believe ensues, and it is very sweet and very silly. eventually, gregory is called in for latin tutoring and thanks y/n for the fun with a deep bow; hyacinth is called in for pianoforte lessons. >

hyacinth launches herself at you with a hug. pulling back from the embrace, she beams.

“we must continue when you return next!”

before you can even start to reply, she turns and skips off towards the house. you hear how gregory makes a comment about coming in first, and suddenly the youngest bridgertons are in a race against one another, shouting taunts and insults. you can’t help but smile.

“they seem to quite like you.”

your smile falls. you turn and face towards the two elder bridgertons, the traitor being the one to have spoken.

“colin bridgerton,” you begin, “yes?”

he smiles and nods. you surge forward and shove your finger into his face, his smile now wiped.

“if you ever hurt penelope again, i shall make certain that it is the last time you ever do. do i make myself clear?”

when he does not respond, you repeat yourself, and he slowly then quickly nods. satisfied, you turn towards ocean eyes and point your finger at him.

“and you look after him.”

“what did i do?”

“be a proper elder brother and serve as an example for your misguided sibling. understood?”

“i— yes. of course. understood.”

you smile again.

“wonderful. i am glad we three are in agreement. it was good speaking with you, gentlemen. good day.”

you turn away and start to walk towards the house.

“i quite like her too,” and you hear the restored smile in the third bridgerton’s voice. “what about you, brother?”

you hasten your steps towards the house. though mere moments before you had felt emboldened and brave, you fear hearing benedict’s response. you do not why.

–

< eloise, penelope, and y/n extensively discuss literature and writing; upon talking about women writers, y/n shares how she does not fully see herself as just a woman. >

“so, what are you?”

you wince. you have kept good on your promise and joined eloise and penelope in the former’s bedchamber, but you are swiftly wishing you had been able to stay with hyacinth, gregory, colin even, and benedict. you had attempted to explain an aspect of yourself to eloise but not to very much fruit, it seems. you want to hide and escape and run from this place—

“eloise.”

—when penelope comes to your defense.

“what? what is it?”

“perhaps you could have phrased your question with more tact and thoughtfulness.”

eloise looks between the two of you, concern flooding her eyes.

“did i— did i not?”

penelope turns to you.

“are you comfortable to answer?”

“i would prefer that i didn’t.”

you hope that your eyes are sufficient enough to convey the immensity of gratitude that you feel towards penelope in this very moment.

“y/n,” begins eloise, “i did not realize—”

“and what are you three gossiping about?”

you jump, penelope squeaks, and eloise growls a noise of exasperation. turning towards the voice in the doorway, you are visited, once again, by the third and second bridgerton siblings.

“and what makes you think we are gossiping?” demands eloise, “because we are w— people?”

you feel the corners of your mouth tug upward. at least she is trying. wanting to keep the attention on benedict and colin rather than yourself, however, and with genuine curiosity, you cock your head at the two gentlemen.

“do you two always come in a pair?”

“not always,” replies benedict. and he smiles at you, “today is merely a special occasion.”

stupid butterflies.

“speaking of such,” colin proceeds. “kate has requested that the three of you join the family in the drawing room.”

< the five of them make their way to the drawing room. kate shares that, on behalf of the family, she would like to invite both y/n and penelope to dinner. though at first honored to have been invited, upon hearing “dinner,” y/n realizes how late it has become and looks out the window: the sun is halfway set. she apologizes and says that she cannot stay because she resumes work the next day. her latter statement renders some of the people in the room confused, but kathani states how she understands and that y/n is welcomed to join dinner whenever she visits.

< seeing how confused y/n is, anthony shares that y/n is welcomed to visit their home whenever she is able and whenever she would like, and the rest of the family pipes in with how delighted they would be if she does. not knowing how she deserved such kindness from people who were mere strangers at the start of the day, y/n thanks the bridgertons and says that she would love to. penelope chooses to stay for dinner and says that she will see y/n next week. y/n affirms that she, and the bridgertons, will.

< kathani and benedict offer to escort y/n to the entrance. y/n walks down the steps and passes the gate but, before she goes, takes one last look at number five until next week and sees benedict still in the doorway. y/n notices, but reprimands herself for perhaps imagining it, that his smile grows when his eyes lock with hers. with flutterings in her stomach, y/n offers a wave. he gives a small wave back. she turns and goes, smiling all the way home. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“benedict has been making more appearances as of late,” penelope remarks.

the three of you all look up—you and pen from your writing, eloise from her reading—to see benedict entering through the doors and heading towards the other side of the drawing room. he looks over at you— at you all and offers a smile before he plops himself down onto a chaise and begins to draw.

“yes, it is strange,” eloise considers to the two of you. “for so long he had been moping about, locked away in his bedchamber aside from mealtime or the occasional visit to the drawing room. he’s even picked up his charcoal again.”

“again?” you inquire, averting your gaze from the artist to your friend. “had he stopped prior?”

“he had entirely put it down after—” eloise sighs. whatever memory she has recounted, it does not seem to be a pleasant one. you look to penelope; you sense that she shares a similar sentiment by the sad look in her eyes. you are curious but you choose not to press.

“it has been quite some time since he’s last drawn. but now, whenever i see him, whether in his bedchamber or the billiards room or some other room in the house, he’s drawing. he frequently arrives to mealtime with charcoal stained fingers—much to the chagrin of mama and anthony.”

you all laugh. benedict looks up at you three, and from here you can tell he wears a curious expression, no doubt wondering what you are laughing about. when he exaggeratedly arches an eyebrow, eloise just makes a face at him. benedict rolls his eyes, smiling, and for the briefest moment, you feel as though he is looking at you. but you’ve always had an active imagination. when you blink, he has returned to his drawing, a smile still on his lips.

“i wonder what has changed?” eloise softly says, still looking at benedict. for all her fire and spirit, you see how deeply she cares for her second eldest brother.

“perhaps he has found a muse,” penelope poses rather than queries. you shift your gaze from eloise to penelope, and you’re curious about her expression. she seems... delighted? benedict finding his passion for art again does sound delightful; you know firsthand how difficult it is to pick yourself up from a slump. but that’s not what she seems delighted by. she just looks at you. with a soft smile. why? what does benedict have anything to do with you?

you feel your cheeks and the tips of your ears flood with warmth. you don’t know why, but penelope’s expression unnerves you, in a pleasant sensational way.

you clear your throat.

“i am happy for him,” you say, returning to your quill and folded quarto, haphazardly writing down whatever words come to your mind.

ocean. charcoal. smile. flutters.

shit.

it is not until what feels like an uncharacteristically long moment later that you hear penelope resume her writing and eloise resume her reading. you try not to imagine what they could have silently exchanged with your gaze averted.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you suck in a sharp breath and shoot out of your seat.

“you do not!” you shriek, hastening towards kathani, eloise, and the stack of books they have just settled onto the table. you had arrived early to the bridgertons’ home, at the invitation of kathani, so early that the rest of the family seems not yet to be awake.

(which is strange, you find, as it is nearing 8 o’clock. most mornings, at this time, you are already well into the bustle of work.)

kathani had prefaced, rather enigmatically, that she and eloise had a surprise they wished to share with you. you had your suspicions as to what it could be related to, and with each passing moment, you are suspecting, very excitingly!, that you are very correct.

“indeed, we do,” kathani grins and gestures to the stacks.

taking no hesitation to the offer, you grab from the top of a stack and open to the title page.

the dramatic works of william shakespeare. vol. 2: a midsummer night’s dream / the merry wives of windsor / much ado about nothing.

you shriek again, this time accompanied with hops of excitement, flipping to the final third of the book.

“much ado! this is the one i’ve read!”

dorothea, a fruit seller, had offered a copy of it to you (at a lowered price, she had emphasized) when she had learned of your liking to stories. she grandly stated that she had started to write down the dialogue during low-attendance performances at the theater and then brought her handiwork to be typed and printed at a not-to-be-named press. but if the pages’ handwritten annotations alluded to anything, you suspected that she had managed to purloin a performer’s copy of the script. you felt a bit of pity for the poor performer who misplaced it, but you respected, and still respect!, dorothea’s moonlighting.

you shoot your head up from the book and are greeted by the grins of your two friends. “which one has romeo and juliet?”

this past autumn you had overheard several candlemakers at the markets animatedly discussing the ‘incandescent’ portrayal of the titular character by an actress from ireland. a performance, described as ‘incandescent’ by candlemakers! embodied by a storyteller who has emigrated here! hearing all those wondrous things made you insatiably curious to one day read the text that made such wondrous things happen.

“i believe,” eloise says, pulling the second from the bottom of a stack, “it is this one.”

you twitch your fingers; you have to refrain yourself from snatching the book from your friend’s hand. when it is in yours, you open to the title page and feel your eyes, along with your smile, widen.

“it is, it is! oh, this is extraordinary!” you flip furiously to your desired page and, once you find it, start to read,

prologue. two households—

—when you hear kathani say, “we had thought of starting with that one.”

that makes you rip your eyes away from the words and look up at the two ladies.

“‘starting with’?”

“when eloise, penelope, and i learned of your eagerness to read shakespeare,” elaborates kathani. her saying that makes you flush; you had not realized with what apparent enthusiasm you had spoken of the poet. “the three of us had discussed that the four of us could read his plays together. if you would like, of course.”

your jaw drops. you cannot help the squeal that emits from your mouth. hopping once again in your excitement, you throw yourself at your friends and wrap your arms around them both.

“if i would like! i would be delighted!”

you pull back from your hug with the two ladies and are greeted by gleaming eyes and wide grins. you feel how your expression matches theirs. it has only been a little over a month of your friendship with eloise and kathani, and the rest of the bridgertons at number five, but they each have somehow found a way to carve themselves out in your heart. and if this most recent kindness by eloise and kathani indicates anything, perhaps you have found a way to carve yourself out in each of theirs.

(and you promptly ignore the thought of what that could possibly mean for ocean eyes and charcoal-stained hands, flutterings within you be damned.)

“how shall we allocate the book?” you say aloud out of genuine inquiry and a deep desire to revert your heart, mind elsewhere. “shall we read passages aloud and then pass it on to the next reader?”

< eloise makes a remark that indicates her confusion at y/n’s question. kathani, who is more privy to the situation, shares how she has her own copy as do eloise and penelope. the stack that they’ve brought is an extra set that the bridgerton house has that y/n can use. this perplexes y/n. she cannot understand how a household can have multiple copies of a book, let alone copies of a whole anthology of many books. before y/n can doom-spiral into thinking, penelope arrives at the entrance of the drawing room. reading of romeo and juliet commences.

< just as y/n finishes reading the scene in which romeo and juliet meet for the first time at the capulet ball and then kiss, y/n notices in her periphery benedict approaching the four. kathani remarks how unusually early he is to be awake and ready for the day; y/n notes to herself how there seems to be some sort of mischief in the viscountess’s smile. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“i shall be y/n’s teacher,” the viscount declares.

“you were adamant on her not fencing, and now you are insistent on being her teacher?”

“it would be hardly appropriate, colin, for two young unmarried men to be in such close proximity to a young unmarried lady, as proximity of teacher and student in fencing would require.”

“are you always this— antiquated?” you inquire.

that earns a snort from kathani. anthony, looking betrayed, turns to his wife; she merely shrugs in reply, mirth shining in her eyes. he turns back to you, eyebrows deeply furrowed and mouth fully frowning.

“and what do you insinuate by that!”

“are you so distrustful of your own brothers, the ones for whom you have served, and still serve, as a model, that you think they would take advantage of me in such a situation—”

you sense how the eldest bridgerton is about to retaliate and arch a severe eyebrow at him in response; you refuse to be interrupted.

“or are you so unbelieving in persons of feminine dispositions that you think i shall be compromised by the mere closeness of a body different from my own sex?”

there is a silence, and though you cannot see them as you stare down the viscount, you can feel how the others exchange delighted glances with one another and hold back their laughter.

“you have two choices, my lord,” you offer.

“neither of them are suitable! and do not call me ‘my lord’!”

“is that not the proper way to address you?”

“it is, but you—!” he huffs out air through his nostrils, like an indignant dragon in a fairytale; it is a very silly, very amusing sight. “we have not even begun the lesson and you are already the most exasperating student i’ve ever had!”

you turn to colin and benedict, grinning.

“you two must have been saints then.”

“would you expect any less?” colin grins back.

your wide smile remains intact until your eyes fall on the expression of benedict. you are entirely uncertain of what emotion he could be possibly feeling until he seems to realize where he is, and how you are looking at him, and breaks out into a brilliant smile with matching brilliant ocean eyes. you quickly snap your head away from him, ignoring the fluttering of butterflies summoned within you upon the shift in benedict’s expression, and turn to anthony.

“shall we begin, then?”

–

it turns out that you are quite the quick learner when it comes to fencing. after putting on a fencing vest that had previously belonged to benedict—

“because you are the shortest of the three of us, brother,” remarked colin after the second son inquired why it had to be his former vest that you were to wear. benedict scrunched his nose and eyebrows in displeasure. (perhaps you should have taken offense to his opposition, but it was truly of no personal consequence to you and the reaction it created in him was truly adorable.)

“i am not!”

“you are, indeed,” anthony deadpanned.

“prove it!”

and the three eldest sons of the esteemed bridgerton family stood next to one another, comparing their heights. you turned to kathani, eloise, and penelope.

“are they always like this?”

“idiotic?” eloise deadpanned, sounding remarkably like her eldest brother.

“indeed, they are,” grinned kathani.

—over your blouse, you are immediately put to lessons. anthony explains the basic concepts of fencing and then demonstrates elementary strikes and parries, occasionally adjusting your stances to the proper forms. noting how quickly you took to the lessons, he calls for a match between the two of you to observe how you would apply your skills in combat.

“you are retaining information exceptionally well, as well as executing the techniques rather impressively,” states your teacher as you deflect his strike. you try to hide your gladness in his praise as you smirk and push his blade away with the terzo of yours.

“ah, so my sex is not a detriment to my abilities; that is good to know.”

you hear snickers and snorts from around you.

“i said nothing of the sort!”

“did you think it?”

your opponent frowns further, slightly turning his head away from you to steal a glance at his wife. he turns back to you.

“i did,” he admits defeatedly.

“it takes a true man of honor to rise up to his folly,” you remark honestly, as you strike anthony’s arm with the tip of your sabre. loud cheers burst from the onlookers and an aghast but proud look emerges on the countenance of your teacher; you grin, “and a fool to leave his defenses so easily open.”

impressed by your display of sport, and seemingly overcoming his antiquation, at least for the moment, anthony decides that you will match against colin and then benedict.

“how are you to improve if you are to face the same opponent?” claims your teacher with his usual air of annoyance, but you detect his pride in your accomplishment.

it is also decided that the matches will end when one scores a point.

and so, you face colin. it is easy to keep pace with him, not due to lack of skill on his part but complete and utter determination on yours. you tried to convince yourself, in the beginning of your match, that the remnants of your anger towards the third bridgerton brother, and how he treated your friend, did not fuel your determination to score the point— but it did and does. and successfully so, as you strike colin in his left shoulder. perhaps you do it with too much force as the strike reels him off balance (and perhaps you are delighted that it has done so), but he quickly resumes composure and flashes you a grin.

“i see more and more everyday why you and pen are friends.”

that softens your heart. you should be dubious of his charming remark, but you aren’t; it is too sincere, as is he, and you begin to see, even if minutely, why penelope cares for him.

“she has good taste in the company she keeps, i’m learning.”

that makes him laugh, as it does the others, and you look over and see how pen’s countenance shines with joy. that is enough to put your anger towards colin at ease, and turning towards your defeated foe once more, you return his smile and bow your head. bowing his head in kind, colin leaves, and in his place arrives your next and final opponent; he is smiling like a boy.

“best for last?” he remarks as he prepares his starting position. you roll your eyes, ignoring the warmth that starts to fill the center of your chest.

“this shall determine that,” and settled in your starting position, you and benedict begin your duel.

you have observed something of the eldest bridgerton brothers in your matches against them. anthony struck like fire, bombastic and ferocious. colin stood his ground like earth, his guards resolute. and benedict—

benedict moves like water. free. fluid.

as if he is dancing while dueling.

both you and he have reached a stalemate. you have managed to parry every one of his strikes, and he has managed to deflect every one of yours. you can feel how those watching are holding their breaths, waiting for someone to land the point.

you try not to startle when you hear benedict’s voice as you guard against his strike.

“it takes quite an astonishing person to earn the praise of anthony bridgerton.”

“are you so surprised that i am such a person?”

“quite the opposite, y/n,” he catches one of your strikes and grins at you. “i think you are entirely perfect in that regard.”

you roll your eyes once again but cannot help the blush that you feel spread across your cheeks as you push back his sabre with yours.

“do you honestly think charm will win you the point?”

“do you find me charming?” you ignore the heat that creeps up your neck and the voice in your head that has already answered his question far too quickly for your liking. “no, i do not think so lowly of such a formidable foe.”

and he winks at you.

and somehow, without you realizing how you got there, benedict strikes the center of your chest.

“but a little distraction does help.”

his point earns a round of groans and bleats from the crowd. instead of looking offended, benedict just laughs and approaches you, gloved hand outstretched, a boyish smile once again on his face. despite your loss, you cannot help but smile too. you place your gloved hand in his.

“it was a pleasure to duel with you.”

“yes. likewise.”

perhaps you imagine it, but you feel his thumb swipe against the side of your hand. it is featherlight, hardly felt with both your and his hands gloved, but felt nevertheless. before you can process the sensation any further, he lets go of your hand. with another smile, he bows his head at you as the crowd of people approach you both, penelope raving about your matches, eloise expressing her wish to fence now, anthony already commenting on what you could do better in your next match.

and without you realizing it, you gently swipe against the side of your gloved hand.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

"mama? papa?"

it is a rare occasion when you, mama, papa, and your sibling eat together, and an even rarer occasion to do so for a second meal, but this night was such a night. the three of them halt their conversation and look over to you.

"how did you know you were in love with one another?"

there is a small silence, but then, without looking at one another, they smile in tandem.

"it was at first sight, really, for me,” your papa says as he offers his hand to mama. “as trite as that sounds."

mama takes his hand into hers.

"i as well."

"when i looked into your mama’s eyes, i knew that something was different. that my life had changed."

"for the better, dearest?"

papa laughs heartily.

"no, actually. it has been misery ever since."

you and your family laugh as mama playfully slaps at papa’s hand. it warms your soul every time they do this, when they tease one another and are light because of the other. it makes you believe in love each time.

mama and papa lace their fingers together again, smiling, still gazing at one another. as if it is just the two of them in their own world. mama, turning her smile from papa to you, speaks again.

"the flutterings in my stomach wouldn’t quiet, and they only intensified as we approached closer to one another that day and grew closer to one another with time."

she looks nostalgic until something mischievous quickly overcedes her countenance.

"why do you ask, my dear? has someone captured your eye?"

"or, better yet, your heart?" papa tags along.

ocean eyes and charcoal-stained hands flash by in your mind.

"no!" you say too hastily. "no, of course not. it’s— for one of my writings, is all."

you repeatedly poke at your bit of boiled chicken to avoid any further inquisition from your parents’ gazes.

–

sat by your window, you stare up at the night sky when the voice of your sibling infiltrates your dreaming.

“it’s one of the brothers, isn’t it?”

you whip your head over to them. they don’t even look at you; they are preparing for bed.

“pardon me?”

“is it the artist brother?”

“what!”

fluffing their pillow, they smile.

“so i am correct.”

“i didn’t even say anything!”

“that is not true. you said ‘what.’”

“that reveals nothing!”

pleased with the setting of their bed, they ruin their work by plopping their bottom onto it as they finally face you in what you realize now is a confrontation.

“of course it doesn’t, the word on its own. your reaction, however? could not be more transparent of your feelings.”

“i have no feelings!”

“is that why you asked mama and papa about being in love? because you have no feelings and you need to be told what they are?”

“i!—— i am going to bed!” you lift yourself up from your seat at the window sill, turning away from the peace of the night sky, and crash onto your bed. you lay on your side, faced towards the wall, refusing to make eye contact with your sibling. you lift up your sheet with too much force and lay it over your body and head. “good! night!”

after some silence, you hear the creak of your sibling’s bed and, a moment later, feel a featherlight touch on your upper arm. you give it a thought, and perhaps against your better judgment, you lift off your sheet, turn, and are greeted by the gentlest of expressions from your sibling.

“i think it is wonderful, y/n. whoever it is, they are very blessed to have your affections.”

your heart swells. you love your sibling.

“how did you know it was the artist brother?”

“so i am correct!” they smile with a shrug. “i deduced based on how much you’ve been writing about paint and charcoal as of late.”

you almost shoot upright from your bed.

“you’ve been reading my writing?”

“well, if they weren’t to be read, why do you leave them spread out on the table?”

“because there is no other place to store them!”

“and how good that is, or else i wouldn’t be able to read your fantastical stories or have been able to discover who your beloved is.”

“you are impossible!”

they kneel next to your bed and place their head on your shoulder.

“i love you too.”

you exhale the last of your frustrations, adjusting yourself a bit so that your sibling can rest their head more comfortably. without realizing, you stroke their hair, just as you always have.

“i quite like the story about the mushroom family,” they state after some time. “i’m happy that the middle mushroom child befriends the peony and then the hyacinths. i am happy they are happy.”

you feel your eyes start to drift.

“his name is benedict, by the way.”

you hear your sibling’s need for sleep in their reply.

“that’s a lovely name.”

“he is,” you murmur as the peace of the night falls over you.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“good day!— robert?”

“good day, y/n!” and robert holds the door of bridgerton house open for you to pass.

“pardon the confusion in my greetings—”

“no offense taken on my part!” the late adolescence beams. you grin back. with how utterly enthusiastic robert is all the time, one would think it is part of some ruse. but it is not; he is just that genuinely delighted by life, you’ve observed.

“i am grateful. i had expected to be greeted by giles, is all.”

robert frowns. you feel the corners of your mouth tug downward in response, concern starting to swell your heart.

“he is ill at the moment.”

“ill! with what?”

“i know not. i had admitted the doctor perhaps not even a quarter of an hour ago. but worry not too much, y/n! from what the viscountess has shared with the servants earlier this day, giles shall make a quick recovery. and lady bridgerton has yet to be wrong in anything!”

relief floods your body. giles is of elderly age, so it calms you to hear that his ailment seems not to be too severe. and you can’t help but smile not only by robert’s sunny temperament but also by his rightful faith in kathani.

“that is all good to hear.”

“shall i announce you to the drawing room?”

“oh god no. i am quite all right, but thank you.”

“understood! then i must pardon myself; i must retrieve miss bridgerton and miss featherington.”

“‘retrieve’? are they not in the drawing room?”

“i was informed by dowager lady bridgerton, who was accompanied by miss bridgerton and miss featherington themselves at the time, that they would be in the gardens until your arrival and to retrieve the young misses upon your arrival.”

“i see. well, i shall be in the drawing room then. thank you again, robert.”

“it is my pleasure, y/n!” he beams once more and takes off to complete his task.

how odd, you think to yourself. this day seems rather unusual to the ones you’ve had thus far at bridgerton home. and it is hardly even noon! you become lost in your thoughts as you approach the entrance to the drawing room—

when you are greeted by benedict, and benedict alone, lounging with his legs thrown over the arm of a chair, staring sternly at the page he draws on.

“oh,” is all you say.

benedict snaps his focus from his book to you, his countenance transforming from deep concentration to frustration to genuine surprise in a mere moment. he scrambles up from his seat, book in one hand and charcoal in the other, posture now proper, and he bows his head.

“miss y/l/n.”

never before have you been alone in a room with a man. a gentleman. a gentleman with a handsome face, charcoal-stained hands, and beautiful ocean eyes.

you roll your eyes.

“blimey, it is just me. there is no need to bow. and why are you calling me miss y/l/n?”

benedict smiles.

“all right. y/n.”

shit.

perhaps that was a mistake.

“where has your family gone?” you inquire as you go to sit in the chair parallel to his, ignoring the flutterings within your stomach. “it is uncommon to enter the drawing room of bridgerton house and not be greeted by talking, or music playing, or fighting.”

smiling, benedict falls back into his seat and resumes his drawing.

“hyacinth is with her reading tutor; gregory is with his fencing instructor; colin is eating some sort of pastry, i am certain, in town; anthony and kate are likely— preoccupied—”

you snort; benedict’s smile grows broader as he smudges charcoal with his thumb, a small furrow in his eyebrows now forming.

“and mother has managed to rope eloise into learning about the flowers of the gardens, and eloise, being eloise, has roped penelope into doing the same.”

“and what of you?”

“and what of me?”

“why have you chosen the drawing room as your whereabouts?”

benedict cocks his head towards his drawing.

“it’s in the name of the room, is it not?”

“ah, a man of wit, i see.”

“i am a man of many attributes, y/n.”

ignore the butterflies.

“such as?”

“what attributes would win your favor?”

“so that you may lie to me and say you possess them?”

“of course not; the list is merely too long and i shan’t bore you with a soliloquy.”

“so, a man of thoughtfulness.”

“oh yes, a myriad of thoughts.”

“name one.”

“how much i am enjoying our conversation.”

and benedict shifts his ocean eyes from his drawing to you, a smile on his lips. he is being playful, but you detect no deceit in his expression. it infuriates you, really. how charming he is. how endearing. how sincere.

you return his smile.

“as am i, benedict.”

you sit in comfortable silence a moment more until benedict breaks the gaze, returning his oceans eyes and smile back to his drawing. his smile, however, does not last for very long.

“this sketch, on the contrary—”

and he rips out the paper from his book, crumples it in his hand, and throws it onto the carpet of the floor, giving his deed not another moment’s notice. he puts his charcoal to a new page in the moment next.

your smile falls.

“do you know how much paper costs?” you demand.

benedict looks back up at you with scrunched eyebrows and a smile having returned to his lips. he tilts his head.

“why? should i?” he inquires. nonchalantly. delight in his ocean eyes.

as if you are making a jest.

as if this is amusing. as if this is nothing.

it reminds you of a recent memory.

eloise had generously given you sheets of paper. hitting a stride in your writing and wanting to continue, you had asked, after much internal deliberation, if you could have a ripped half of a quarto upon running out of all negative space on your current one.

“have a foolscap. have a whole lot of them, actually,” she said easily, taking a good chunk of her stack and handing it off to you.

“eloise, are you certain?”

“of course. it is just paper, after all.”

“right. yes— of course. thank you.”

eloise hummed affirmatively in response, returning to her passage, as you stared at the small stack of foolscap in your hand. that amount of paper would have been eight months’ wage, perhaps even more.

a gentle touch of a hand on yours brought you out of your clouding thoughts. you looked over and saw penelope looking at you softly. understanding her unspoken thoughts, you held her hand and gave it a squeeze.

thank you, you mouthed.

"i must be going,” you say aloud. “goodbye, mr. bridgerton.”

you stand, turn, and quickly exit the drawing room.

“y/n. y/n!”

you hear him scuffling up from his lounge and start to follow you. you hasten your steps towards the entrance.

moments before you can open the doors of bridgerton house to the respite of the outside world, you feel benedict take hold of your wrist, stopping you in your steps, and it infuriates you how gently he does it. how you can pull away from his touch if you want to, how you can just go if you choose to. but you do not.

it infuriates you how much you want him to hold you.

you turn to face him.

“please— wait,” he breathes. “what did i do wrong? what have i done to upset you?”

you look at him incredulously. then it dawns on you.

“please. tell me,” benedict practically begs. with such softness in his voice.

it infuriates you.

“i know money is of no concern to you, or your family, or fair ladies and pretty gentlemen. but it is for the rest of us. for the rest of us who have to work to keep the ones we love fed, clothed, warmed, sheltered. that is a fact with which i have been concerned since the very moment i could think for myself. and for you—of the male sex, of pale skin, of inherited riches—it is something to discard onto the carpet of one of your family’s many houses. the paper you threw to the ground would have paid for a month’s worth of warmth for the entirety of my family’s home. and you ask me what you have done to upset me?”

he says nothing. he just looks at you, damned ocean eyes and all. gentle. attentive. like he could care; like he does care.

you feel your nostrils flaring, your blood pounding in every vein of your body. you finally rip your wrist away from his loose hold, already missing his touch.

“i shall take my leave. please give my regards as well as my apologies to eloise and penelope. goodbye, benedict.”

you turn away from him, yank the door open by its handle, and step outside, walking composedly at first, then quickly, then sprinting, then running. to be as far away from number five of grosvenor square as you possibly can be. to be far away from crumpled up paper, charcoal-stained hands, gentle touches, and ocean eyes.

you rub your wrists against your eyes.

stupid bloody tears.

stupid fucking heart.

why am i so afflicted by this? why am i crying? why do i hurt?

because i love—

no.

you cannot fall for him. he is someone you cannot have, cannot want, cannot— cannot…

it cannot happen, the two of you.

and most likely of all, you are not someone he wants. not someone who he would love. not the way you—

you are a fool for getting this far. but these feelings, they will pass. somehow. you will forget them. you will forget him. this is not the fairytales you read, not the fairytales you write. daydreams, hopes, love for a gentleman— there is a reason you are a writer.

you write the things you can never have, the things that will never happen.

you and benedict will never happen.

this is the prayer you tell yourself that evening before sleep takes you. you pretend not to be affected by the tears that afflict you as you do so.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< y/n does not go to number five the next week on her non-work day as she had grown accustomed to. she had tried to write at her table in her home to preoccupy herself, but her teardrops were ruining what she had already written. she considers going to work to distract herself, but y/n knows her unexpected presence would be a detriment to her fellow workers’ established flow of day. she decides to go to the markets to try and get fresh air and a change of scenery and to do anything to interrupt her spiral of thoughts and emotions.

< while at the markets, y/n hears her name called and turns to see penelope in her blue cloak. y/n asks what penelope is doing here, and penelope gently replies that she can ask y/n the same thing. she shares with y/n how, the week prior, after she received news that y/n had left bridgerton house, she left to find y/n in the markets and at her workplace but to no avail.

< their conversation continues. penelope shares how y/n was missed last week; by her, by the family, by benedict. y/n tries to dismiss her words and how the past few months have been a mistake and that she shouldn’t be there with pen or the bridgertons, that she’s not meant to be in their world.

< with patience and empathy and grace, penelope gently encourages y/n to return to bridgerton house next week, and y/n, though her heart aching and reluctant, agrees because she misses them. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ I.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you sigh deeply.

have courage, y/n.

and you rap your knuckles twice against the stately door of number five. a moment later, the door opens, and you are greeted by a beloved grin.

“miss y/n! i have not seen you in weeks!”

you cannot help but smile back.

“good day, giles.”

“oh, where are my manners!” and the elderly doorman bows at you. you huff out a laugh, feeling how your face contorts with distaste.

“blimey, please don’t. i am not a lady, giles.”

“you could’ve fooled me, miss y/n.”

you shoot him a severe look; he merely continues to grin.

“you know of my feelings towards being called ‘miss.’”

“i am getting older; my memory frequently fails me, miss y/n.”

“and yet you’ve recalled how we haven’t seen each other in two weeks.”

“three.”

you grin.

“precisely.”

“well, it was quite the surprise when I fell ill the following week!” then giles frowns. “and it was an even greater surprise to have not seen you when i had returned the week following that.”

you look at the ground, unable to face the inquisition in his sad, kindly look, but when you bring your head back up, you manage a smile.

“it is no matter. i am here now. that is most important, yes?”

the elderly man smiles.

“yes, i suppose you are right, y/n,” and he holds the door open for you to pass.

“aside from bouts with ailment, how have you been, giles?”

“still standing upright, still opening and closing doors,” he beams without a bit of sarcasm. “and what of you? how have you been?”

“i’ve been—— well. and the family?” you say quickly, wanting to move the conversation away from you and your feelings.

“the same as is to be expected. though—”

concern starts to swell in your heart. what has happened in the fortnight you have not been present?

“mister benedict has been absolutely despondent.”

“oh,” is all you say. giles’ gentle joviality transforms into solemnity, and it makes your heart ache even further.

“on the rare occasions i do see him now, he is leaving for the gentleman’s club in the bright light of day and coming home at an ungodly hour, drunk as a wheelbarrow, wreaking of what smells like every available spirit in london. he had stopped dipping rather deep sometime ago, much to my relief, so it was an utter shock to return to my station and to see him back on the cut, and deeply at that,” the elderly man sighs. “i wonder what has happened for him to be so…” he unexpectedly turns to you, his countenance sanguine, “do you happen to know?”

you swallow as you ignore the sensation pooling in the pit of your stomach.

“no, i— i do not.”

“i see. well, whatever it might be, it is clear how much it deeply afflicts him,” and giles offers you a small, sad smile. “you know mister benedict; he has always been the most sensitive of the family.”

i do.

i do know benedict.

you clear your throat.

“do you happen to know where eloise and penelope are at this moment?”

giles cocks his head at you but is kind enough (you thank the heavens) not to press your change of topic.

“the last i had seen them, they had spoken of viewing the art gallery. do you know the way?”

“i am unfamiliar.”

he smiles again, and it makes you smile in return.

“then i am most glad to escort you there.”

–

giles opens the doors to the gallery, and ahead, in front of a portrait, you see the turnings of penelope, eloise, and—

“y/n,” he utters.

“benedict,” you breathe.

and he looks just as surprised as you are.

you look to giles, his eyes wide and mouth agape, and then to eloise and penelope. upon seeing their expressions, you feel your eyes narrow.

“ah, penelope!” shouts eloise. everyone else turns to stare at her. “with y/n’s arrival, i must change out of my, my art gallery viewing dress! and— and, into my... drawing room! sitting— dress...”

eloise scrunches her entire face in displeasure, confused by her own poorly concocted excuse. that does nothing to deter her, however, from clamping onto penelope’s wrist and barreling forward towards the doors of the gallery.

“come along, pen!” she calls out to the friend she is pulling right behind her. as they pass you, eloise gives you a strange and strained smile bearing all teeth, and penelope offers apologetic eyes and an encouraging smile.

giles looks to you, to benedict, and to the two escaping ladies. mouth still agape, all he manages is,

“i suppose— i shall see to that— miss bridgerton and miss featherington arrive to miss bridgerton’s bedchamber... safe—ly…?”

he mouths, i’m sorry!, at you before quickly bowing his head at benedict, fleeing the scene with remarkable speed for an elderly man who has recently recovered from illness, and leaving you at the entrance of the art gallery.

closing your eyes, you deeply inhale through your nostrils as you place your hand to the space between your eye and your temple. on your exhale, you wipe your hand hard against the side of your face and open your eyes, whipping your head to look at the second eldest bridgerton brother. it seems that he has been staring at you this entire time, stupid (stunning) ocean eyes and all.

“would you like to paint a picture?” you snark. “you are the artist in the room, and it would certainly last longer. or perhaps you have run out of paper?”

he does not respond, indecipherable expression unchanging, and it unnerves you how guilty you feel at goading him, at taunting him, and he merely takes it. you sigh again and cross the gallery to where he stands. resisting the urge to look at him again, as you feel his gaze still on you, you instead look at the painting ahead of you.

it is a portrait of a gentleman. with dark chestnut hair and mutton chops. he wears a blue jacket, a darker blue vest, a cream cravat, green breeches, and brown boots. a watch on a ribbon hangs from his vest; it looks familiar. he looks familiar. a benevolent smile rests on his lips.

you look at the plaque at the bottom of the gilded frame.

edmund bridgerton, the 8th viscount bridgerton.

you look back up at the painting, captured by a particular feature.

“you have his eyes.”

“his are gray; mine are blue.”

you roll your eyes but smile despite yourself. (you try to ignore the flutterings that bloom upon hearing his voice again.)

“yes, but that’s not what i was referring to. they peer into you— not with scrutiny, nor judgment, but with kindness, curiosity, compassion. an eagerness to learn about you. pools of welcoming. cool tones that radiate warmth.”

you cough, ripping your eyes away from the portrait to inspect the scuffs of your boots. you feel embarrassment spread throughout your entire body as heat creeps up your neck.

“the painter is excellent at their craft. it is as if i know him, your father.”

silence falls in the expansive gallery, the calm and kind eyes of viscount bridgerton looking down upon you and his second eldest.

“i’ve missed you.”

you snap your head up to look at benedict, your eyes making contact with his ocean ones. welcoming and warm. honest and... hopeful?

i’ve missed you, too.

“benedict, it has only been a fortnight since we saw each other last,” you respond aloud, your voice coming out so much softer than you had intended. you offer him a small smile, an olive branch of sorts. something of relief starts to fill his ocean eyes, but his demeanor does not change.

“i behaved arrogantly, and you did not deserve to be the recipient of such behavior. no one does, and i am so— i am so sorry, y/n.”

and you know he is. you resist the urge to touch his cheek, to comfort him with your caress, to selfishly have your skin touch his. instead, you look on at him.

“i do not ask you to grant me your forgiveness; i know i am unworthy of it. i just— i just wanted you to know how i felt, and feel still. and how i shall work on myself to be better, to do better.”

the butterflies in your stomach flutter maddeningly. you emit an exhale from your nostrils. the urge to touch him intensifies, and you feel yourself flex your hand to let go of the sensation. you huff out another breath, and smile brightly, sincerely, at benedict.

“well,” you begin, “with our friendship renewed, care to show me what other paintings you love in this gallery?”

benedict’s ocean eyes beam with relief and joy, a brilliant smile lighting up his face, and it takes all your self-control not to drop all discretion and wrap your arms around him in a crushing embrace.

“i would love nothing more, y/n,” he declares.

you try not to flutter your eyes closed at the words ‘i,’ ‘love,’ and your name in the same breath from benedict’s lips. at the pleasantness and home you feel in them. you smile on.

“where shall we begin, then?”

you and benedict walk together as he approaches a miniature in a wooden frame ornately carved with floral motifs. he admits that he has not the slightest clue which bridgerton ancestor this is, and that makes you snort. grinning, he points out how adeptly the artist portrayed the translucency and fluidity of the lady’s veil and how particularly impressive it must have been to accomplish such effects in paints during the early 1600s, if the remnant dating of the artist’s signature is correct. you remark how particularly impressive it is that a painting has endured two hundred years of existence, details still intact, and benedict responds simply that rich people have a way. that makes you snort again, and that makes benedict grin again.

he then leads you to a portrait of kathani and anthony, the viscountess sat in a chair with the viscount stood behind. you marvel at the painting—how much it looks like them, how much it captures kathani’s confidence, how much it captures anthony’s conviction, how much it captures their love. excitement coloring his voice, benedict imparts to you how he was given the opportunity to observe and assist the painter on the days the latter was commissioned to portray the viscountess and the viscount. he also shares with you how impossibly difficult they were as models, always giggling and kissing and looking away from the painter and talking to one another, being overall sickeningly saccharine. you chortle and share with him how that does not surprise you in the least bit. despite his annoyance upon recalling the memory, an incredibly fond smile rests on benedict’s lips. turning from his lips back to the painting, you remark how in love they are, and he remarks that, indeed, they very much are—and turns his fond smile from the painting to you.

coughing, you walk over and ask about the landscape of an enormous building. benedict names it as aubrey hall, the ancestral home of the bridgertons. you recall how you had heard of it early on in your friendship with the bridgertons; you had been unable to see them one week as they were preparing for kathani’s first ball as viscountess at the home. you also recall how the usually collected and confident kathani was anxious and uncertain during that time. benedict, beaming with pride, says how, of course, she absolutely excelled and how all of the ton—he rolls his eyes then and you guffaw—enjoyed themselves at the event. while kathani had done an unsurprisingly resplendent job, the ball was not very entertaining to benedict. he much more enjoyed the annual bridgerton game of pall mall leading up to the event. after announcing how kathani had won—much to the contradictory disappointment and delight of her husband—and answering your questions about what sounds, to you, like a very silly, very fun game, benedict suggests that you join them next year. you laugh, finding it impossible to imagine yourself at a home such as aubrey hall, particularly for the entirety of three days, but your heart swells at the invitation and the sincerity in his voice, and you say aloud how you would love nothing more.

your spontaneous tour eventually comes to an end, and the two of you make your way towards the entrance, still discussing the various art you had seen. as you and benedict walk out of the gallery, a thought crosses your mind.

“none of your work is on display.”

you notice how benedict stiffens. you feel your smile tug into a frown.

“ah, yes. i do not think my work is— up to snuff— with the work on display here.”

“horse shit.”

benedict’s jaw drops, his face aghast and regaled in reaction to what you assume is your choice of language. you merely shrug.

“you have not even seen my work!”

“i do not need to see your work when i can already see how harsh you are being.”

he scoffs, and it aggravates you.

“fine— i will show you, then, and prove to you my point.”

“fine, then! show me, and i will prove to you my point!”

–

“you are full of horse shit!”

you and benedict are in his bedchamber, where all his works are hidden away. he has shown you canvas after canvas, sketch after sketch, charcoal drawing after charcoal drawing, his palette of color ideas— and he still has the audacity to say that his work is not “up to snuff” for the bridgerton gallery.

benedict looks aghast again, perhaps by your language, perhaps by what you are (very rightly, very correctly) insisting. he shakes the canvas that he holds in his hand in your face.

“look at the proportions, y/n! they are entirely off!”

you roll your eyes, swatting his arm away, and begin to rummage through his other work. you pull a sheet and hold it up to benedict’s face.

“look at this sketch, then look at the canvas. there is a very clear, marked improvement, and with only a—” you look at the dates at the bottom right corners for confirmation, “—a difference of two days!”

“what does ‘improvement’ mean if the improvement is not even good!”

“it is good! and! improvement is everything, benedict! it is progress!”

“what—”

you and benedict jump back from one another by the sudden new voice. you had not realized how close the two of you were as you were shouting at one another, how close your faces were to one another, how close your lips were to—

a blazing heat creeps up your neck, at the tip of your ears, and across your cheeks as you turn from benedict’s flustered face to the scowl of the eldest bridgerton sibling in the doorway.

“—are the two of you doing?”

“brother! i— i was merely showing y/n my work.”

you vigorously nod your head. anthony’s glare remains unaffected.

“alone? together? in your bedchamber?”

your heart almost leaps out of your chest, your eyes about to bulge out of their sockets as you look around the room, suddenly aware of where you are. you are in benedict’s bedchamber. alone. together.

“i—” you start, very pathetically. “i—— we—”

anthony curtly bows his head at you.

“y/n, i would like to have a word with my brother. in private. please.”

“of— of course, right— of course!”

you hastily put the sketch on a nearby table and walk towards the door, pass anthony as he steps in, and are about to run down the hall and away from the scene when—

you turn and steal a glance at benedict, mustering up all the apologies you can convey through your eyes. despite the peril of his current predicament, his ocean eyes soften immediately, and a thousand butterflies erupt in your stomach and flutter around viciously. he offers you a slight smile, one that is sincere and unregretful. you offer one back, just as sincere, just as unregretful, before anthony gives you another bow of his head and closes the door.

–

“are you pleased by the results of your consorted trickery?” you state blandly upon seeing the young ladies that you thought were your friends sitting in the drawing room.

eloise looks up from her pamphlet, beaming at you, as penelope wears a wide and proud smile. well, at least they have answered your question.

“trickery?” eloise feigns. you roll your eyes; their expressions answer honestly, but their words continue their game. “i have no idea what you are referring to. pen and i were merely keen on viewing the art gallery today, and i thought, my blue-deviled of an elder brother ought to stop moping about; what better to get him to leave his bedchamber than by way of his favorite topic?”

“and his other favorite topic,” penelope adds. eloise chortles, and you feel the tips of your ears heat.

“what is that supposed to mean!”

eloise waves a dismissive hand at you.

“benedict knew nothing of your arrival, as i am sure you deduced by his surprise,” but the second eldest daughter grins wickedly. “though, from the sheer amount of time you have spent together thus far today, i am also sure the surprise was very welcomed, indeed.”

“by both parties, it seems.”

you promptly ignore the flush you feel on the apples of your cheeks. your friends are lucifer incarnate split into two.

“well, then you must be delighted to know that your shared plot has led to punitive action against him.”

that surprises them. (good. you are relieved to finally have some sort of an upperhand in this conversation.)

“‘punitive action’? by whom? for what?”

“by—”

the three of you hear a set of footsteps. you look to where the sounds are heard and see the two eldest bridgerton siblings enter the drawing room, the elder approaching you with conviction and the younger trailing behind him like a pet that has just been reprimanded. the sight would make you laugh, if you weren’t the one to have instigated the current conflict between the two brothers.

anthony stands before you, posture perfect and chin held up high.

“y/n, thank you for your patience. please allow me to apologize most ardently on behalf of my brother for his complete and utter lack of propriety. it will not happen again as i shall be more vigilant in tracking his every deed. i do hope this incident of my brother’s disrespect does not taint the beloved friendship between you and our family.”

and he deeply bows his head at you.

your jaw drops. benedict shuts his eyes tight and scrunches his face. penelope bops her gaze amongst the three of you. and eloise just howls, causing anthony to break the gravitas of his decorum and shoot a glare at her.

“it is no laughing matter, eloise!”

“it is harmless fun, brother! a pursuit of intellect exchanged between two creatives, who also happened to be by themselves. i have never heard of a baby being conceived from sharing some art.”

“ELOISE BRIDGERTON!”

you have now entirely hidden your face behind your hands; no one needs to witness the deep crimson that you are certain is spreading very rapidly across your countenance. an absurd hope also blooms in you that if you cannot see the others, then the others cannot see you.

“what ever is the matter in here?”

your eyes shoot open upon hearing the much needed voice of reason. removing your hands from your face, you see kathani enter the drawing room, a confused expression worn on her face.

“my dearest,” anthony begins, “i have offered my deepest apologies to y/n for benedict’s disgrace.”

“disgrace,” scoffs eloise, crossing her arms.

“disgrace!” reiterates anthony with increased fervor. kathani’s confusion does not lighten. she looks to benedict, whose eyes are scrunched closed again (his nose looks adorable this way), and then to you.

“are you all right, y/n?” she inquires gently.

“i—” you had intended to say, am well, but that would be a lie. you are utterly mortified. so, instead, you state the truth.

“benedict has been a gentleman. he has treated me with the utmost respect, and when he has done wrong by me— which! which has nothing to do with our being in his bedchamber!— he—” you steady your voice, determined to say this right, as you know and feel it with and in your heart, “he has corrected himself and bettered his words and thoughts and deeds.”

“you hear that, brother? no harm has been done.”

“eloise, you were not even there!”

“i believe what eloise means, anbe, is that you are being dramatic.”

“dramat— they were in his bedchamber, kathani! together! alone!”

kathani rolls her eyes, her attempt at diplomacy entirely gone.

“speak louder, anthony; just a bit more and the entire country shall hear you.”

the viscount pouts grumpily at his beloved, emitting a huff of air through his nostrils.

“you must trust y/n by her word,” the viscountess states.

“or do you not trust someone of feminine disposition to speak for herself?” eloise inquires.

“pen!”

you all snap your gazes to the entrance of the drawing room and see colin making his way to your friend in blue, followed by—

“y/n!” shouts gregory and hyacinth as they run towards you.

“y/n, penelope!” remarks violet and approaches you both. “how delightful it is to see you! you—” she says, reaching out for your hand, gently taking it in hers, and smiling kindly at you, “—in particular. it has been a moment, y/n.”

it melts your heart, really. the sincerity of affection that flows so easily from violet bridgerton. you recall the kind eyes and benevolent smile of her late husband. it is no wonder you so easily fell in love with this family; true, real love is woven into the very fabrics of each of their beings.

you look at them. hyacinth and gregory cling onto your slides, holding you tight. kathani and anthony are engrossed in debate, affection in their eyes despite the heat in their words. colin and penelope speak with and blush around one another as eloise, unknowingly (and, in your opinion, frustratingly, endearingly), butts into their conversation. and benedict. who, with the gaze of the entire room no longer on his so-called indiscretion, is looking at you. softly. with those damned, wondrous, bewitching ocean eyes. a smile on his lips that makes the flutterings in your stomach unbearingly, wonderfully unyielding.

you truly, really love this family.

you love the bridgertons.

“though,” the dowager viscountess starts.

shaking yourself out of your thoughts, you see how violet looks at the others in the room as half of them now pointedly avoid eye contact with the matriarch and the other half share a similar sentiment to her.

“is everything all right?” she turns to you, peering curiously into your eyes. “has something happened?”

you cannot help the laugh that bubbles out of you. violet seems taken aback by your reaction, as are the others in your periphery, but her eyes, as well as theirs, shine on.

“i think,” you say, smiling, “it is just another day with the bridgertons.”

588 notes · View notes

bizbat · 7 months

Note

your jason todd hcs are sooooo good omg!!! do you have any hcs specifically for when he has a crush on the reader, like how he might act, specifically if the reader is oblivious and really doesn’t think that she’s his type / thinks he’s joking if he says anything flirty?

When They're In Love - Jason Todd (Crush Edition)

🕸️Spiderverse Masterlist🕸️

🐼JJK Masterlist🐼

~ Fem terms + Pet names used for reader.

~ You can find part one of these hcs here, and part two here.

~ You can find more of my works here.

~ These can be read as a sort of part three/prequel kinda.

~Fic at the end.

~ Tw for : Blood, Knives, Needles, Vomit. (All slight)

~Thank you for asking! Hope you enjoy, sorry this took so long :(

You would never know that Jason has a crush on you.

For the most part, he wont talk to you any differently than he will anyone else.

Maybe he won't jokingly insult you, or be super sarcastic around you, but I think that's kind of as far as he'd go.

Unless you're a close friend or family member, you'd probably have no clue he had a crush based on the way he talks to you.

But the little actions and things he does for you are so obvious.

He's the type to hold open doors for you, all the while staring other people dead in the eye as it shuts in their face.

He somehow always just "randomly" has your favorite snack on hand, or a whole collection of books by your favorite author.

I think he'd be touchy, unless he knows you don't like being touched.

If you like or don't mind it, he'd have his arm constantly thrown over your shoulder, always be leaning against you, always resting a hand on your hip.

If you're shorter than him, he does that super annoying thing where he rests his elbow on your head.

He is so lame omg.

But bc he's kinda like this with everyone, no one would fault you for not understanding his hints.

He's like the opposite though.

You said hi to him this morning? You must be in love with him.

You smiled at him today instead of Dick? He's already planning the wedding.

What's that? You said he smells nice? Have his babies. (If you can/want to)

Our delusional king.

He doesn't think you don't get his flirting.

He'd think you're fully aware and are flirting back.

Again, our delusional king.

You probably won't get it until something really serious happens and he comes to you instead of Bruce or Roy.

He'd probably try to get into things you're interested in.

Listens to all your favorite songs, reads your favorite books, etc.

And he's not subtle about it bc he is in fact, a loser.

He'll recommend a song by your favorite artist and then be like "idk why but this just reminded me of you lol"

LOSER. Can you guys tell i'm a big believer in the "jason todd is secretly a massive loser" agenda? Cuz I am. :|

And then he listens when you go on rambles about how great the things you like are and how much they mean to you.

I said he'll do things just to hear you talk about them, and I think he'd do that when he has a crush on you too.

He just loves your voice and likes hearing you talk.

He smiles at you so softly when he thinks you aren't looking.

You could be bumming out and he'll look at you with heart eyes like yeah, future spouse right there.

I don't think he'd be a big user of social media, but if you were, he'd get a whole account just to like and comment of your pictures.

user94820860038466 commented: You look very pretty in this picture.

Comments like an old man bc he has very little understanding of the internet.

He'd probably help you take pictures and fight with other people in your comment section if they're too down bad or creepy.

He doesn't strike me as the jealous type bc once again, he's so delusional he pretty much already thinks you're dating.

Nicknames nicknames nicknames.

Calls you so, so many nicknames.

Angel, doll, sweetheart, maybe even babe.

He constantly talks about you when you aren't there.

Lian and Roy know so much about you before they even meet you.

He'd do anything for you.

The store is actually about a mile in the other direction, but yeah he can get you your favorite drink.

He does not like that food at all and the owner of the store despises him, but he will not return to you empty handed best believe.

He was actually going to wear that hoodie today, but it looks so much better on you you should keep it!

~ Drabble Starts Here. ~

It's just like every other night in Gotham City. It's cold, and wet, and it smells like smoke and garbage that's been left out in the sun.

The only barrier between you and the chilled, musty air outside is a single sheet of glass; the fire escape window of your fifth floor apartment. It's comforting. The glass is, of course, bulletproof, and the seal around the sill is tight, so no gases ever manage seep in. It pays to have a decent landlord, especially in Gotham.

It's funny, but you really never think about that window. You mostly keep it shut and locked, except in the summer, when you can smell your neighbor in the building next door cooking all types of delicious aromatic dishes, or when it's just too hot and you decide the risk of heatstroke is greater than the risk of airborne psychosis. It never occurs to you just how well it keeps you safe, just how well it keeps things out.

It occurs to Jason, though. In fact, it's the only thing on his mind as he's gripping his side, frantically trying to prevent too much blood from seeping out of his body.

He'll probably chastise himself later for not being more gentle or respectful, but he's lost too much blood to be thinking straight. With his free hand, he bangs on your window, praying that you're A) at home, and B) not listening to music. He's not too worried about the first one, he knows you never leave your lights on when you're away, but the second one, he's not too sure about.

He bangs, and bangs, and bangs on the glass, a loud, thunk thunk thunk thunk thunk that immediately rouses your from your sleep. You jump up from your spot on the couch, an open book falling from your lap as you dart into your room to grab the knife Jay gave you for protection, before returning to your living room, keeping your back to the wall.

You hold the blade in front of you, nervously gripping the hilt as you listen to the banging, making sure to stay just out of sight as you cautiously creep closer and closer to the noise. It isn't until the banging dies down that you finally get close enough to see the cause.

You gasp at the sight, dropping the knife and trying to tug the window open, before mentally yelling at yourself to unlock it. You drag the weakened behemoth of a man into your apartment, carefully placing his upper body on the floor in front of your window and removing his helmet. Your hand moves to his side, firmly pressing down on his wound, as you stare at him, mouth agape and eyes flooding with concern.

He laughs, a dry chuckle that just sounds like it hurts. "What took ya' doll?" You wanna smack him, but you can do that when he's not bleeding all over your hardwood floors. You tell him to wait, as if he could go anywhere in the state he's in, before rushing to grab the emergency kit he forced you to keep.

"Let-ngh- let me do it." He groans as he attempts to sit up, trying and failing to pull the tweezers from your hand. He doesn't even have the strength to sit back up when you gently push him back down. You clean his wound, all while he holds back winces and groans. You don't hold back, focusing on cutting and cleaning and stitching and wrapping, berating Jason for coming to you of all people.

"What d'ya mean? Of course I'd come to you?" Jason manages between harsh breaths. "Who else would I go to?" He seems genuinely confused, you're his girlfriend, you always come to him when you need help. Why wouldn't he come to you?

"Oh, I don't know, Jason, maybe Bruce, or Roy, or literally anyone else with training to handle this kind of thing!?" It comes out mean, but through his pain he can tell it's coming from a place of true care. You're worried. One of the strongest, most skilled people you know is bleeding out on your floor and you're panicking. Of course you are, you've never had to sew someone up, or dig a bullet out of someone, or try to hold down bile from the heavy smell of blood.

Your hands are shaking like crazy. This isn't a slight graze you can put a bandaid over and seal with a kiss, this is a life threatening wound on someone you care about, and all they've been doing since they came to you is make stupid fucking jokes and try to take things from your hands.

Jason can tell it's getting to you.

It should be the other way around, what with him bleeding out in your living room, but he quiets down, gripping your wrist with his non-blood covered hand. "Hey," He gently strokes your skin with his thumb, repeating himself when you don't move your eyes from his wound. "Hey, look at me Y/n." It's just stern enough to make you obey, without sounding like he's mad at you. "It'll be okay. I'm in good hands." Jason smiles at you, tired and reassuring. It calms your nerves just enough for you to finish sewing his wound shut.

You sit back when you're done, taking in your work once you wrap his stomach with gauze. Jason turns just enough to catch a glimpse, smiling up at you with his stupid, charming smirk. "Not bad, doll. Told ya you had it covered." He lays back, smiling up at you as he lays his head on his arm, the one on his non-injured side. Though he doesn't seem to bothered by the end of it all, you can't say the same.

He takes in your features, your tired, glossy eyes and your pouting lips. It makes his smile drop. You look away, your sad eyes not meeting his own. "I . . . what? What's wrong Y/n?" Jason winces, moving to rest on his elbows to get a better look at your face. "Was it the blood? Or the- was it the window? I'm sorry about that, by the way." You shake your head no at all of his suggestions, taking a breath before turning back to face him.

He can feel his heart hurt at the sight of unshed tears in your eyes. "I . . . I was scared Jay." He pushes himself all the way up when you take your lip into your mouth. He ignores the pain shooting through his side when he pulls you into his arms. "Hey, hey, hey, scared of what? I'm okay. You did good." Those tears finally spill when your arms wrap around his waist, loose as to not further irritate his wound.

"You could've died Jay, a-and I wouldn't be able to-to help you! I can't help you!" You sob into his shoulder. He holds you tightly, pressing his lips to your head as he rubs your back. "Please, please don't cry. I'm okay now, you helped me. I'm all better now." He rocks you both gently, trying to console you. "Sides, if I was gonna die, I'd be happy if it was with my girl."

What?

You freeze in his arms, and he knows he said something wrong. He just doesn't know what. His brain moves a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what it was before you get even more upset. Though, his brain completely shuts down when you stare up at him with those cute, confused eyes. The tears have slowed down, and he's at least thankful for that. "Your . . . girl?" Now he's confused too. "What-what do you mean by that?"

He has to do a double take. "What do you mean? You're my girl, like . . . girlfriend, you know?" Every second that passes only confuses the two of you more. "I'm your girlfriend?" "Ar-aren't you?" You blink at him. Were you? Are you? "Am I?" Somewhere there was cognitive dissonance, Jason just doesn't know for who. "Yeah, we're dating, I thought?" Though, he doesn't feel so confident about that now.

"Oh," You feel your ears grow warm, for the second time now your eyes don't meet his own. "I . . . I didn't know that." You wish you could hide right now, but he's still got his arms wrapped around you. "I mean, unless you don't want to, then-then I'm sorry-" Jason feels maybe even more embarrassed than you as he finally drops his arms, grabbing his helmet and moving to crawl back out the window he came in through. His bullet wound is completely forgotten by now.

He stops when you grip his jacket, shyly staring at the floor as you speak. "No! I w-want to." Your eyes darty up to his, before losing confidence and dropping back to the floor. "I want to be your girlfriend," It comes out a whisper, and when he's silent for a beat too long you worry he's suddenly changed his mind.

"Good. Great. Yeah." He drops back to the floor, sitting cross legged beside you. Internally, he's doing backflips in his mind. "Cool." Later on, he'll ask more questions, but for now, he's satisfied. "Yeah." You shyly play with your clothes, twiddling your thumbs as you sit in silence. You feel like a little girl who just admitted to her crush that she likes him. "Are you-" "I didn't-" You interrupt each other, both of you gesturing for the other to continue. It's a bit of a fight, but Jason makes you go first.

"I was gonna ask if you were hungry. I have some, um, pretzels and stuff. If you want." Jason nods. He follows you into your kitchen, where the two of you quietly and contently eat the iron rich foods you looked up. "What were you going to say, by the way?"

Jason looks up from his plate, the haphazardly prepared meal helping him feel better, though his heart feels pretty good right now anyways. "I didn't know that you didn't know. I thought," he laughs nervously. "I thought, we were dating this whole time." He laughs again when you shake your head. "I didn't know! I thought . . . I don't know, that I wasn't your type, or something."

That's probably the most surprising thing he's heard you say today. Okay it's not, but it's the thing that most catches him off guard.

"Of course you are! You're so sweet, and cute, and nice, and pretty, and you smell really good, and you're funny, and I like your voice, and the way you d-do things . . . and . . . other stuff." Jason stops himself before he can ramble for hours about every single things he loves about you. You wouldn't mind if he did, though. You hide your pleased expression with your hand.

"Me too." It's quiet, but no longer shy. "I like all that "stuff" about you too."

#bizbat #dc #jason todd x reader #jason todd headcanons #dc headcanon #red hood x reader #red hood #jason todd #dc x reader #lian harper #roy harper

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santanasaintmendes · 1 month

Text

“i wish i was who you drunk texted at midnight”

wc!: 5.2k (i’m sorry i’ve got serious problems 😔)

ollie bearman x reader + childhood friends to ?

warnings: angst asf, heartbreak, swearing, let me know if there are any more!

summary: after moving to Chelmsford you meet ollie, the two of you quickly become friends but unfortunately you fall for Ollie. he moves away for f2 and leaves you, until he’s supposed to race in Jeddah. you fly there only to gain more than what you bargained for

type: angst (cliff hanger ending IM SORRY)

a/n: this is just something I wrote because I was sick in bed the last few days, it’s super long but so hope yall like it! Also i’m sorry if it’s bad lol i am still sick and this is just something i wrote for fun to entertain myself. ALSO no hate to Estelle Ogilvy (is that how i spell her last name) i just used her for the plot of the story please don’t come after me. Also the last speech part is heavily inspired by the scene in Spider man into the spider verse where jeffords talks to miles and says the whole speech (still makes me cry every time). The name is inspired by “drunk text” by Henry Moodie, please give it a listen it’s such a good song, enjoy xxx

They say that you should always be friends with the person you like before you start to fall for them. Well, that’s one thing you could check off the list if you looked back on your friendship with Ollie. The truth was, being in love with your best friend sucked. Friends can break your heart too, something people tend to forget.

6 and 6

The first time you ever met Ollie was in a library. A week prior to that you had moved to a strange town named Chelmsford. A name that 6-year-old you found difficult to pronounce, to be frank everything in the new town sounded different to what you were used to. The people there spoke with such a different accent to what you were used to, it would take you quite a while to get used to it. As you sat in the back of the taxi with your backpack at your feet, you stared out the fogged up window. The sky was a gloomy grey and the landscape seemed to be an endless plain of sad looking meadows.

You couldn’t seem to understand why your parents would choose to move to such a sad looking place, it didn’t make any sense. The taxi soon came to a slow stop, the brakes squealing loudly. You glanced out the window hopefully, rubbing the condensation away with your sleeve. Only to be disappointed to see a boring brick building of some sort. It was an odd combination of white wooden window frames and red bricks, like something out of one of those 1600s movies your Father once showed you. You anxiously looked back to your Mother who was watching you as your Father sorted out something with the taxi driver. Upon seeing your unhappy face your Mother chuckled softly.

“I heard that there’s a library just down the street, maybe sometime this week we could visit it.” she offered. You nodded, slightly content. Reading books was something you enjoyed and maybe with a library being close by, not all was lost.

As it turned out, that boring brick building was your new house.

Despite having to unpack and sort adult-y things out, your Mother took you to the library just as she had promised. As you skipped down the cobbled road, your Mother held a bright yellow umbrella over your head to shield you from the rain that was pouring down from the cloudy grey sky.

You pushed upon the heavy front door to the library which also happened to look like a sad white brick square with a pointy red roof, a depressed mushroom if you will. You halted in your steps as giant wood bookcases rose before you, shelves full of books. Never had you ever seen so many books before. In the corner there was a lady sorting things in a trolley with her back turned to you, she still hadn’t noticed you.

“C’mon, let’s head to the kids section.” your Mother said, taking you by the hand and leading you deeper into the library. Stunned by the amount of books that filled the shelves you couldn’t help but wander off when your Mother told you to stay put while she set up a borrowing card for you.

Luckily, the children’s section of the library was much more pleasant looking than the eerie hallways of adult books. You scanned the shelves in search of something to read, until you came to a stop. Two round brown eyes among the books blinked from the other side of the shelf, scaring you.

It was a boy.

You blinked back, unsure of what to do. So you did what any other 6 year old did when they believed they had found a new friend.

“Do you want to read with me?” you abruptly asked the boy who was still staring at you with wide eyes. A moment of silence passed before he nodded slowly, the boy rounded the corner. He wasn’t much taller than you with chocolate brown hair and small freckles that spilled over his face like tiny stars. He stuck out his hand, “I’m Oliver. But my friends call me Ollie.” he greeted, a smile taking over his face. His voice sounded odd, like the taxi driver who’d driven you from the airport to your new house. Ollie reminded you of a rabbit with his two front teeth that seemed to take up over half of his face, but you didn’t say anything because your Mother told you that saying things like that wasn’t nice.

You took his hand cautiously in yours, “I’m Y/N.” you replied slowly. He enthusiastically shook your hand, taking you by surprise as he led you to sit down on the bright coloured bean bags. You watched curiously as he picked a book off the shelf before plopping down next to you again. You peered over as he opened the book to the first page, you frowned, not recognising the book.

“It’s a book called Where’s Wally (Where’s Waldo if you’re American). You have to find the characters, there’s Wally, Wenda, the wizard guy and Woof - that’s the dog.” Ollie explained to you, pointing to each character on the page. The initial nervousness of meeting another kid, melting away. You began to feel excited as you nodded along while Ollie continued to explain how to play. The two of you spent the next hour doing all sorts of things, talking about favourite colours, favourite animals, reading books, drawing, playing board games together. Both getting along so easily it was as if you guys had known each other forever. That was until you heard your Mother calling your name to go home.

You stood up, looking down at Ollie who was still seated on a yellow bean bag. He blinked up at you, with those big brown eyes that had scared you only an hour earlier. “I have to go home now.” you told him, a wave of sadness passing between the two of you as you both realised your fun had come to an end.

“That’s okay, maybe I’ll see you at school.” he suggested hopefully upon seeing your downcast face. You broke into a smile, “Okay, bye Ollie.” you waved slowly as you began to walk away. Ollie waved back with a giant grin on his face as he watched you disappear behind the wooden bookshelves.

“Hey Mom!” you called out to your Mother as she came into view, she was chatting with the lady who you’d seen at the desk sorting books. She paused and turned to you, “Hey, I was just talking to the librarian, she was saying about how she has a son who hangs out here while she works on the weekend.”

Putting two and two together you realised that the book lady was Ollie’s Mother. You smiled at the lady, “I was playing with Ollie, we were reading that one book, ‘Where’s . . .” You trailed off, racking your brain for the name of the book he’d shown you.

“Where’s Wally?” the librarian offered, she nodded fondly. “That’s his favourite book.” You grinned up at the lady, looking back in the direction where you’d been playing with Ollie.

“Mom, am I going to the school as Ollie?” you asked, looking up at your Mother. She chuckled softly before nodding, “As a matter of fact, you are.”

Those golden words were what made you unbelievably excited to begin at your new school. You had barely been able to sleep with the thought of seeing your new friend again, so on that Monday morning you bounded down the stairs to the kitchen. “Good morning!” you greeted both your parents, taking a seat at the dining table, legs swinging off the chair impatiently.

“Someone’s excited for their first day of school.” your Mother hummed as she set a plate of pancakes in front of you. You nodded, “I get to see my new friend.” you replied as you stuffed your mouth with your breakfast.

You were basically pulling your Mother through the front gates as you scanned the sea of other children in the same uniform as you. The uniform also happened to be grey, it complimented the terrible weather perfectly. Your eyes fell onto the brown haired-freckled boy from two days earlier, you ran up to him, “Hi Ollie.” you smiled. A giant grin took over the boy’s face, “Y/N!” he exclaimed, pulling you into a hug. From that day on, the two of you were inseparable. Where one of you went, the other followed right behind, Ollie helped you adjust to your new school, showing you around and never leaving you by yourself. As the years passed the two of you only became closer, though you would soon find out that that wasn’t the greatest thing.

13 and 13

As the two of you grew into teenagers, things began to change and not always for the better. Ollie and you still remained close friends, having dinner at one another’s house on Friday’s, walking home together after school and occasionally spending afternoons playing Mario Kart with Ollie’s siblings. Your families were also extremely close now courtesy to both you and Ollie, his younger siblings becoming like your own. But the worst thing?

You’d caught feelings for Ollie, it had been so sudden almost like it had crept up on you, taking you by surprise. You didn’t understand. It felt so wrong.

One day out of the blue it hit you like a pile of bricks, you just couldn’t stop staring at him. Absolutely enchanted by him, his chocolate brown hair, those pretty freckles that you’d memorised on his face.

Ollie was like a brother to you, he was your best friend, so how come you felt these things for him?

To make matters even worse for little 13 year old you, Ollie liked another girl. A girl who absolutely hated your guts.

What had you done to her? You didn’t know.

You and Ollie had been having a sleepover when he told you about her, her name was Estelle Ogilvy. She was gorgeous and untouchable, by far the prettiest girl you’d ever seen. You didn’t hold a candle to her and you knew it too. Ollie had been hopelessly in love with her since the start of high school when he shared science and maths class with her. Time and time again he would ramble on about her to you, completely oblivious to your feelings for him. You could only nod along wishing it was you who he was talking about. That’s just how it was, you were stuck in a bubble of unrequited love. So all you could do now was watch from afar as Ollie ran after a girl who you just knew would never like him as much as he liked her.

15 and 15

Ollie’s karting career really took off in the last few years and you couldn’t have been prouder, those feelings for him still lingered around but you’d come to terms that he’d never like you in the same way. Because there he was, still stuck on chasing Estelle. You couldn’t blame him, and maybe that’s what you were always just supposed to be, friends.

Yet you were jealous, something you refused to admit. Jealous of Estelle because oh how you wished to be talked about so fondly by Ollie. To always be on his mind, to be the girl he liked and would never shut up about. You still didn’t understand why you felt this way, in your mind it made absolutely zero sense. Then why did it feel so right when you were by his side, almost like you belonged there next to him? But Ollie being Ollie could just never get a hint whenever you tried to subtly let him know. It sucked because there’s nothing worse than loving someone who’ll never love you the same way.

18 and 18

It got worse as the years passed, your feelings for your best friend would just not go away. No matter how hard you tried, how hard you tried to find another boy to fawn over, your gaze would always fall back on Ollie. But he was dating Estelle now, he was in Formula 2 now. It almost seemed like an eternity ago when you first met him in the library just down your street. An eternity ago when you would attend his karting races, cheering the loudest for him in the stands. All of that was now in the past. You barely even saw him now that he had dropped out of school to pursue his career in Formula 2. Now all you could do now was watch from a distance as he looked the happiest you’d seen him in ages.

He was spectacular at what he did, you would watch him race on TV every week no matter what hour the race was or even if you had school the next day.

Yet inside of you there was a giant hole, a hole that Ollie had left behind when he abandoned you. Abandoned was a bit of a stretch but it was the only word you could use to sum up what you had felt when he left. Ollie had to move to Italy for his career, news that he hadn’t even told you in person, you had to hear it from his Mother. He’d taken your hands in his at the airport as he waited to board his plane and promised you he’d stay in touch, that he’d call every week but here you were with the last time you’d spoken to him being over a month ago.

You refused to be the first one to reach out to him, you felt like he owed you that much effort at least. So you waited . . . and waited only for the world to keep spinning while you were stuck in the past. That was until you finally realised that you had never meant as much to Ollie as he had to you.

19 and 19 - present day

“Y/N! WAKE UP OR YOU’LL BE LATE FOR SCHOOL!” your Mother’s voice echoed up to your bedroom, rattling the glass in the window frames. You groaned as you groggily sat up, pulling open the curtains only to be greeted with dark overcast weather, rain pouring down outside. You rubbed your eyes, yawning as you dragged yourself out of bed. It was your second year of university studying mechanical engineering at the biggest university in Chelmsford. It proved to be difficult with its endless nights of staying up doing work but you knew it would be worth it in the end.

Your university never failed to confuse you and make you late for class with all of its giant identical hallways. You ran down the corridors, heels clacking on the marble floor until you came to a stop at the door to where your lecture was for that day. Slipping through the door you weaved through the seats of the auditorium to find an empty seat. Luckily for you, your friend Bianca saved a seat for you.

“Thanks.” you whispered only to be shot dirty glares by the students around you. You winced as you looked ahead at the teacher in an attempt to catch on what he was droning on about. Bianca gently nudged you, passing her phone to you. You frowned, eyebrows knitted as you looked down at the screen. A notice on Ferrari's official instagram with Ollie’s face plastered above the words “Oliver Bearman to race in Jeddah this weekend for Carlos Sainz.”

You narrowed your eyes and huffed, passing the phone back to Bianca who smiled nervously. “What was the point of that?” you whispered, leaning closer to her. Bianca sighed, “You’re not fooling anyone, I know you still have unresolved feelings for him.” she whispered back only to get a loud shushing sound from a nearby student.

Bianca shot them a glare before turning back to you, “You have to go, I don’t care what you say. You are going. This is his Formula 1 debut, whether you’re still friends with him or not you’ve got to be there for him.” she whispered-shouted, looking at you sternly. You sighed, leaning back into your chair, shaking your head.

“It’s not the same anymore. He’s clearly forgotten about me, the last time we spoke was last year and he’s been back home 4 times in the last 12 months.”

Silence hung in the air, only the voice of the teacher rambling on and on about something you still hadn’t caught on about.

“That Estelle girl, she’s clearly using him. You were his best friend, surely that means something to you both.” Bianca tried again but it wasn’t any use. There was no purpose in bringing up something that you both had clearly tried so hard to forget about.

So then why were you here booking a flight to Jeddah to watch your old best friend debut in Formula 1?

It was something you couldn’t answer and didn’t want to.

The thing that you hated the most is that you didn’t even think twice before booking those tickets.

How could you care so much about a person who had so blatantly forgotten about you?

Deep down you knew the answer, it was because to you Ollie was like your home. He was the first person to make you feel like you actually belonged somewhere, he never abandoned you to eat lunch alone at school, he never cancelled plans once you made them, he was a good person, a good friend.

Or at least he was.

Were you insane? The answer was yes, yes you were insane. Being here was so crazy; it nearly made you want to turn around and jump on the next flight back home. You were standing in line to go through the gates when you heard someone call your name. You secretly hoped it was Ollie but much to your disappointment it was . . . Arthur?

Ollie had introduced you to Arthur back when they had raced in Formula 3 together. You hadn’t seen him in forever.

“Arthur?” you questioned as he pulled you into a hug, you hugged him back before pulling away, still unable to believe it was him.

“I was about to ask what you’re doing here but that would be dumb.” you confessed, only noticing now the massive crowd that was surrounding the two of you. Arthur chuckled before nodding in the direction of the gate, “C’mon, I can get you in, you’ll be my guest.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-” you began but Arthur was already pushing you through the gates. Walking back onto a race track was like taking a breath of fresh air after being in a car for a long time. You used to accompany Ollie to all of his karting races each weekend in Chelmsford, so being in the stands had become like a second home to you.

“Are you here for Ollie?” Arthur asked as you walked in the direction of the motorhomes. You caught yourself before you could answer too irrationally, “No, I’m just here to watch the race.” you shrugged, realising how dumb that sounded as soon as it left your mouth. No good person would fly all the way to Saudi Arabia to watch a race if there was a Grand Prix in their own country. If you wanted to “just watch a race” you could’ve watched it on TV or gone to the Silverstone GP. Arthur only hummed, you knew he had already caught on, it was so obvious it made you want to dig a hole and jump in.

“Anyways,” you quickly said, eager to move onto a different topic.

“Anyways.” Arthur agreed, looking at you, eyebrows raised. “You can’t fool me, I’ve known it since the moment I met you.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “What am I going to say to him?” you asked, looking to Arthur for help. He shrugged, “No clue but you might want to think of something quickly because he’s walking over right now.”

“Y/N?”

You blinked as you came face to face with the person you wanted to see so badly for the last year and now that you were here facing him it felt like all the air in you had gotten sucked right out. He looked the same since the last time you saw him. In the last year you wanted to hate Ollie so much but it was impossible because you still loved him and that was the big terrible truth that you refused to admit.

“Hi. Ollie.” you said, to not let the jumble of words that you’ve kept in since the last time you saw him spill out. Arthur sent you a quick salute, “Gotta go, I’ll see you afterwards, Y/N.” and with that he left you with Ollie in silence.

“What are you doing here?” Ollie finally asked, he was acting so . . . so normal. As if nothing had changed between the two of you.

“I’m here because I’m your number 1 fan, remember?” you scoffed, looking up at him. A reminder of the time when you were both 10, Ollie gifted you a t-shirt at Christman with the words: “Ollie’s No.1 fan.” plastered on it for you to wear to his karting races. It was sure to be buried deep in your wardrobe somewhere.

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Yeah you are.” guilt written all over his face.

“Why’d you leave me then? Tell me the truth, did I do something wrong? Was I too normal for you?” you asked, questions pouring out of you.

“We were best friends, how could you just leave me like that? Do I mean nothing to you? Because you were everything to me, my best friend, the first person who made me feel like I actually mattered to someone, so tell me, why did you abandon me?”

Silence hung in the air as you stared up at Ollie. You wanted answers, perhaps it would be the only thing that would let you move on from him. He looked away, unable to meet your gaze. This was so. . . so unfair. You wanted to yell, scream at him even so he could feel even a fraction of the pain you’d felt in the past year.

“So that’s it? You don’t even have an explanation?” you asked him, your voice shaking with anger it made your throat ache as you blinked back tears.

“I waited and waited for you to call me, to even send a message but that was a mistake. You’ll never love me in the same way that I love you.”

Hot tears rolled down your cheeks, Ollie finally meeting your eyes as the three simple words left your lips.

You’ll never love me in the same way that I love you.

The world stopped like everything had been put on pause as you realised your mistake. You felt like you’d gotten hit on the head with a cricket bat.

“I have to go.” is all that left your mouth as you turned around. The ground was moving like a spinning wheel - a blurry mess of colours. It made you sick to your stomach as you walked away, your cheeks flushed hot and your forehead sticky with sweat. Ollie didn’t even call out for you, nor run after you for an explanation because it was so blatantly clear what you’d just confessed to him.

You wished you could hate him, hate the fact that he’d left you, forgotten you like an old stuffed toy, you hated that he didn’t love you.

You sat on the curb, clutching your knees outside of the entrance to the racetrack wallowing in self-pity. Wiping away tears that just kept falling down your face much to your distaste. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the buildings, the sky now a deep shade of orange. You stared at your feet, it was dumb, you should’ve known that coming here to Jeddah was a mistake. Ollie had moved on, something that you hadn’t done in the last year. You felt so stupid, why did you believe you could repair your friendship?

Why did you-

“Excuse me?” a voice interrupted your train of thought, you quickly wiped your tears and looked up to see Arthur standing beside you, a pitiful smile on his face. You looked away, “What do you want?” you grumbled, folding your arms across your chest bitterly. Arthur sat down beside you, watching you closely as you stared at the trees in the distance. He sighed, “The race is about to start and Ollie’s not coming out of his driver room. Estelle said she’d be here but she’s not and he’s locked himself in.”

The words hung heavy in the air, “And what does that have to do with me?” you asked flatly. You knew exactly what he meant. But you weren’t going to do that, you were done with Ollie and everything to do with him.

“You know exactly what it has to do with you. Did you really think Ollie forgot about you that easily? You’re dumber than I thought.” he quipped unhelpfully.

“Thanks,” you muttered miserably, Arthur winced.

“What I meant is that you can’t give up this easily, you and I both know how stupid Ollie can be sometimes.”

You chuckled softly, letting a tiny smile creep onto your face. Arthur wasn’t wrong. When you and Ollie were both 8 you invited him over for Easter to make coloured eggs. It resulted in 20 cracked eggs on the kitchen tiles when Ollie accidentally knocked them off the bench. The two of you had stared at the mess on the ground before bursting out laughing until you were both in tears. It was safe to say that you both spent the next 2 hours scrubbing the tiles and the yolk that had stained the grout in between them.

“Yeah.” you said softly, looking at the sun that had been swallowed by the top of the palm trees, the stars in the sky beginning to appear as you sat in the light underneath a lamp post.

“So?”

“Okay, I’ll get him out of the room but after that I’m out of here. I want to go home.”

Arthur gave you a quick thumbs up as you raised your hand to knock gently on the door to the driver’s room. There wasn’t a reply, only dead silence and that’s when you heard it, crying from inside the room. 6-year-old you would’ve kicked down the door and done anything to get to your best friend. But here you stood outside the room, sending hopeless glances at Arthur who was standing behind you.

“Ollie?” you called out hesitantly, the crying halted and there was another long moment of silence. You pressed your ear up against the door, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah?” his shaky voice replied, you breathed a sigh of relief. You turned around, beckoning Arthur to leave you both, he only nodded, mouthing ‘OK’ as he slipped down the hallway. Turning back to the driver’s room you took a deep breath in, you didn’t want to go in. You didn’t think you could face him after what happened earlier.

“You came,” he said as your hand rested on the handle of the door but there was resistance, it was still locked.

“Of course, are you okay?” you asked, immediately regretting asking as soon as it left your mouth. You cursed yourself silently as you awaited Ollie’s answer. Soft sniffles came from the other side of the door, “Yeah.” he finally replied quietly but loud enough for you to hear from the other side of the door.

What were you supposed to say to get him out of the driver’s room?

“Everyone’s waiting for you, you can’t stay in there forever.” you gently reminded him, sighing as you sat down, back leaning up against the door. There was another long moment of silence as you rested your head on the door, stretching your legs out for comfort.

“I don’t think I can do it.” he said, taking you by surprise. The Ollie you’d known wasn’t afraid of anything, he was confident in almost everything he did, almost it seemed.

“Oliver, you’re being crazy. You are by far the most talented driver I’ve ever seen.” you told him, staring at the roof of the building as you heard a sigh from the other side of the door. “You’re just saying that because you’re my girlfriend, Estelle.”

You froze as if you’d just been stabbed by icicles, Ollie thought you were Estelle.

Of course. He’d been expecting her, Arthur had told you before. You scoffed to yourself quietly, you would’ve stood up and left if it wasn’t the fact that you were here to get Ollie out of the driver’s room he had oh so nicely locked himself in. You let out a soft sigh as you racked your brain for what you should say to him.

“I’m not. It’s the truth, Ollie.” you told him with a heavy heart, feeling as if you were just setting yourself up to get your heart broken all over again. You took a deep breath in, “You are such an amazing driver it’s literally insane, not only that but you’re by far the kindest, most selfless person I know. It’s crazy that you think you can’t do this, because I know that you can. Ferrari chose you to drive for them for a reason, they know what you’re capable of, everyone else does too. I see you and you’re extraordinary, you have this spark inside you that’s amazing. And . . . maybe that’s the reason why I love you. I always have, and when I had the chance I should’ve told you but I didn’t because your friendship has always meant more to me than my own feelings.” you let out a shaky breath.

“You’re a good person, Ollie. You’ve earned a chance to show the world just how great and insanely talented you are, are you really going to throw it away?”

You blinked back tears, who knew you could get so emotional after giving such a life changing speech?

You rubbed your eyes and cleared your throat, letting out a deep sigh. It was time to leave now, Ollie would have realised by now that it was you who was speaking to him and not Estelle. As you began to get up, leaning against the door for support you heard a click!

Oh shit, was the only thought that went through your mind as you lost your footing and fell backwards, the door frame offering you no help at all as you grasped at it helplessly. You stared up at Ollie as you laid at his feet, a million thoughts racing through your mind. He was in his fireproofs with his race suit tied around his waist as he looked down at you, eyebrows knitted. There were tear stains on his flushed cheeks as he stared at you with those wide brown eyes you’d seen among the books all those years ago.

“Y/N?”

a/n: sorry if it was so quick and rushed i just wanted to post something! Thank you if you got the end, ik it was super long for no reason, so thank you! Please let me know what you think, likes and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you and have an amazing day xx

#f1 #f1 x reader #f2 #f1 fanfic #f2 x you #f2 imagine #olliebearman x reader #f2 x reader #formula 2 #formula one #formula racing #formula 2 imagine #ollie bearman #arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #ollie bearman imagine #santanaspeaks<3 #f2 fanfic

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hearts4golbach · 1 month

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Can I request carrington x reader where his Lon term partner (reader) didn’t like flowers, so he makes her paper ones himself? Like those paper bouquets you see in like, booktok

Thank God for Tiktok.

pairing:

Carrington Bornstein x Fem!Reader.

a/n:

pre established relationship 👅

not proofread

warnings:

none.

word count:

1.0k

To say Carrington had been crafting for hours was an understatement. the sun had gone down a while back. He was sitting in his moonlit room surrounded by miscellaneous crafting tools and books. tomorrow was your birthday. no, he hadn't been procrastinating. he had ordered you a gift but stumbled upon the idea to make you paper flowers. you preferred not to get real flowers. You were always so upset when they inevitably died.

so, he was glued to his bed (pun intended), making you an immortal bouquet of paper flowers.

previously, he had rushed out of the house to go find some books he could cut up. clearly, he didn't own any, and he wasn't about to steal one of Johnnies' comics. he settled on going out, possibly to goodwill or target, to get a book or two for his project. he wandered to the arts and crafts section, getting a hot glue gun and sticks. he also found a pack of pipe cleaners and some ribbon. everything he had chosen was a perfect match for his vision. and with that, he was all set.

it had been about three and a half hours since then. he was about to finish the very last flower, then he'd have a set of exactly twenty. he mentally praised himself for how well they actually turned out. he even curled out the edges of the paper to imitate real flowers.

setting the last one in the pile, he admired his work. he couldn't help but smile to himself, dreaming of your reaction at dinner tomorrow night.

Carrington grabbed a handful of the dark green pipe cleaners and began attaching them to the paper flowers. thoughts of your bright smile plagued his mind.

he knew you'd be somewhat shocked at the present, considering he wasn't an arts and crafts type of person. when it came to you, he was up for anything.

he envisioned how the bouquet would look in your bedroom, grinning to himself whenever he realized it'd fit your aesthetic perfectly.

he sang to himself softly. the song that was playing reminded him of you. he was slightly relieved when gluing the stems on didn't take as long as the flowers themselves. he held the fairly large bouquet in one hand, a stupid smile plastered on his face. he tied a bow around the stems as perfectly as he could before setting it on his desk carefully.

as soon as he crashed into bed, he fell asleep almost immediately. ignoring the ache in his knuckles and the slight pounding in his head, he drifted off to sleep.

the next morning went by fast. he had a couple of 'business' things to figure out with Jake and Johnnie, which went by a lot quicker than he had figured. by lunchtime, he was anxiously waiting by his phone for you to respond. of course, he knew it'd take forever. you were at lunch with friends, and you were coming over straight after. it was a sort of nervous excitement. he couldn't wait to see your reaction to his gift.

Carrington decided against sitting there for another hour. he went to the bathroom and adjusted his hair. his curly dark brown locks hung in his face, complimenting his bright blue eyes. he tried to do something different with his hair, but there wasn't much. he knew you wouldn't care. You loved playing with his messy hair.

finally, his phone rang. your name and photo popped up on the screen. he scrambled to his phone and answered on the first ring. "Hi, baby." he greeted.

"Hey," he could hear the sudden smile in your voice, which made him grin. "im leaving now. Am I still good to come over?"

"Yeah. yeah, of course." he furrowed his eyebrows together, very expressive as he spoke even though you couldn't see his face.

you hummed and said goodbye before ending the call. you sped over there, so excited you drove over the speed limit without even realizing it.

meanwhile, Carrington prepped your present. he wrapped it in sparkly black, silver, and light blue wrapping paper. he taped the small card on top and grabbed the faux bouquet. he waited downstairs on the couch, holding the items in his lap.

whenever you arrived, you walked quickly up to the door. you knocked a couple of times before entering, which had become your usual routine.

Carrington jumped up and pulled you in for a hug. you felt contentment wash over you as his hands rested on the small of your back and his head in the crook of your neck.

he placed a kiss on your neck. "Happy birthday." he pulled away, beckoning you over to the couch. "c'mere."

you silently followed him over. he handed you the small box, which was neatly wrapped. "What's this?"

"What does it look like?" he laughed, "it's a present."

"I told you I don't need anything," you scolded, a sincere tone in your voice.

"I wanted to get you something. open it!" he urged.

you rolled your eyes, a contradicting smile on your face. in the box, there was a beautiful necklace. it had 3 charms on it, your initial, Carringtons' initials, and a small heart. you pouted your lower lip and looked up at him. "I love it."

"im really glad," he grinned, handing you two more things. "Read the card later." he was embarrassed to see your reaction to what he wrote in person.

you sighed, "Fine." he finally handed you the bouquet.

your jaw fell to the floor as you looked at the beautiful, handmade flowers. "You made this?!"

he nodded, a prideful smile on his face. "I thought you'd really like them since you're a bookworm."

you paid no mind to his joke. you were absolutely starstruck by the flowers. "they're so beautiful, Carrington." You couldn't contain the soft smile that threatened to appear. you placed a soft, slow kiss on his lips. "I love you."

he placed a kiss on your forehead. "i love you." All he could think was, 'thank god for tiktok.''

#fanfiction #fanfic #johnnie guilbert #jake and johnnie #jake webber #hearts4golbach #tara yummy #carrington x reader smut #carrington bornstein #carrington x reader #carrington smut #carrington #carrington bornstein x reader #carrington bornstein x you

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wisteria-lodge · 2 months

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JK Rowling & the Color Pink

So I'm working on a thing about queer coding in the Harry Potter books... and first I needed to do a sidebar on how the color pink is used. I’ve made a list of every time a character either wears pink, or is heavily associated with a pink object. We actually get some pretty clear categories that are unintentionally very revealing, and say a lot about how JKR sees "girly" femininity.

Let’s start off with the obvious:

PINK = VILLAIN (FEMME)

Petunia Dursley: “salmon-pink cocktail dress," "neat salmon-colored coat." Also paints her walls "a sickly peach color."

Gilderoy Lockhart: “lurid pink robes to match the decorations”

Pansy Parkinson: “very frilly robes of pale pink”

Rita Skeeter: “long nails were painted shocking pink”

Aunt Muriel: “feathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.”

(Aunt Muriel only shows up briefly at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but then proceeds to insult pretty much every other character, and give Harry an existential crisis by spilling the tea on Dumbledore)

Dolores Umbridge: “a horrible pink Alice band that matched the fluffy pink cardigan.”

(Also: has pink stationary, and her pamphlet MUDBLOODS and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society has a pink cover)

Cho Chang

(Okay. Not a villain per se, BUT. Cho is the reason the mole gets into the DA in the books (and just is the mole in the films.) And given that she is a sort of Umbridge-aligned sub villain in book 5, at least structurally... it IS interesting that the place she brings Harry for a date has this very pink, Umbridge-coded description.

It was a cramped, steamy little place where everything seemed to have been decorated with frills or bows. Harry was reminded unpleasantly of Umbridge’s office. “Cute, isn’t it?” said Cho happily. “Er . . . yeah,” said Harry untruthfully. “Look, she’s decorated it for Valentine’s Day!” said Cho, indicating a number of golden cherubs that were hovering over each of the small, circular tables, occasionally throwing pink confetti over the occupants.

Fleur Delacour: “[her wand] emitted a number of pink and gold sparks.”

(Also not quite a villain, and I adore Fleur BUT… she’s written hyper-femme in an intimidating, borderline threatening way. She’s very opinionated, bordering on rude. She’s “full of herself” as Ginny puts it. And when she gets engaged to Bill and becomes an unambiguously good guy, she has this interesting moment of ~Pink Rejection~)

“. . . Bill and I ’ave almost decided on only two bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold — pink would of course be ’orrible with Ginny’s ’air —”

Hermione Granger: “Wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown”

(Hermione wears pink exactly one time, and it is at her most villainous… during Book 1, when she tries to stop Harry and Ron leaving in the middle of the night to go duel Malfoy.)

A voice spoke from the chair nearest them, “I can’t believe you’re going to do this, Harry.” A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. “You!” said Ron furiously. “Go back to bed!” “I almost told your brother,” Hermione snapped, “Percy — he’s a prefect, he’d put a stop to this.” Harry couldn’t believe anyone could be so interfering.

(She literally does the sitting-in-the-dark, villain-lamp thing. Also, in case you were wondering, yes Hermione DOES get a moment of ~Pink Rejection~)

Near the window was an array of violently pink products around which a cluster of excited girls was giggling enthusiastically. Hermione and Ginny both hung back, looking wary.

Which brings us too:

PINK = SILLY/FRIVOLOUS (FEMME)

Sybill Trelawney: “after you’ve broken your first cup, would you be so kind as to select one of the blue-patterned ones? I’m rather attached to the pink.”

(She’s a fraud. Also hides empty bottles of sherry in the room of requirement. (I’m going to have to be uncharitable in this section, need to get in Rowling’s head a little, so am sorry.)

Parvati Patil: “robes of shocking pink"

(Often described as “giggling,” thinks Professor Trelawney is amazing, the real deal.)

The Fat Lady: “a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.”

(Often described as giggling. Drinks too much during the holidays. JRK is unfortunately well known for being fatphobic. Also the Fat Lady has a friend named Violet, and Parvati has a friend named Lavender. Not really going anywhere with that, just funny that they’re both shades of purple.)

Hepzibah Smith: “an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes.”

(So… almost identical description to the Fat Lady. And I think we should maybe talk about her more, maybe? Because the way she’s framed… I think she might be Tom Riddle’s sugar mamma?)

“I brought you flowers,” he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere. “You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” squealed old Hepzibah, though Harry noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. “You do spoil this old lady, Tom. . . .”

(Or maybe we… shouldn’t talk about that. Either way, Tom Riddle does kill her, steal her stuff, and frame her house elf so thats… not great.)

PINK = EMBARRASSING

“Everyone take a pair of earmuffs,” said Professor Sprout. There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn’t pink and fluffy.

(Pink fluffy earmuffs are adorable.)

“Wash out your mouth,” said James coldly. “Scourgify!” Pink soap bubbles streamed from Snape’s mouth at once; the froth was covering his lips, making him gag.

(The next two example are 'pranks' as well, I think the pink-colored soap is there to add a kind of insult to injury.)

Shocking-pink Catherine wheels five feet in diameter were whizzing lethally through the air like so many flying saucers.

(This is a bit from Fred and George’s farewell firework show, it's funny that they’re specifically pink fireworks that Umbridge can’t get rid of.)

“Headless Hats!” shouted George, as Fred waved a pointed hat decorated with a fluffy pink feather at the watching students. “Two Galleons each — watch Fred, now!” Fred swept the hat onto his head, beaming. For a second he merely looked rather stupid, then both hat and head vanished.

(also just, pumping up an embarrassing moment)

PINK = OUTSIDER, WEIRDO

Hagrid

Hagrid’s flowered pink umbrella, which contains his broken wand, is brought up a lot. In this case I think we’re meant to see it as a joke. Hagrid’s so big, and so masc, but the pink umbrella makes him non-threatening. However… the pink umbrella, it’s not a totally positive thing, is it? It doesn’t match, it isn’t *him.* Hagrid wouldn't have chosen to carry this around, totally on his own, if he'd had any other choice. It sets him apart, both visually and socially (because it's a constant reminder that he doesn't have a wand.)

Dobby

Dobby, once he is freed, gets pink-and-orange striped socks, and they’re meant to communicate that he’s… kind of a lot. “Yeh get weirdos in every breed,” as Hagrid puts it. JKR has a very strange, honestly antagonistic relationship with Dobby. He’s the victim of book 2, but structurally kind of the villain? He describes the house-elves situation as “enslavement,” but Hermione’s treated as overdramatic for calling house-elves slaves two books later. And then everything is ret-conned and Dobby is… just kind of weird for liking freedom (and socks) as much as he does.

Tonks

Book!Tonks defaults to “bubblegum-pink” hair. Her hair is described as pink a lot. (Movie!Tonks defaults to purple hair, because they were worried that pink would visually align her with Umbridge.) And this is the oddest one on the list to me, because Tonks is such a universally beloved, fan favorite character. But I really do think that *as written*... we’re supposed to put her in a category with Dobby. The two of them leave (unintentional) destruction in their wake. They’re loud, they’re a lot, they take up too much space. Harry thinks they’re both kind of annoying. (and yeah, Harry 100% thinks Tonks is “a little annoying at times.”)

#jkr critical #anti jkr #hp #gender stuff #fashion history #nymphadora tonks #dobby #hepzibah smith #hermione granger #pink!#literary analysis #hp close reading

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fixated-dark-king · 4 months

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Sooo, I had the amazing experience of attending a panel C.S. Pacat was part of during the Sydney Writers’ Festival on 25th May 2024. The panel was called “Creating a Monster” (with two other YA authors).

And finally a week later (because adult-ing is hard), I had time to actually go through my notes and write up some of the fascccccinating things Pacat had to say about: monsterous heroes, and villains, and enemies-to-lovers deliciousness, and queer identity!

I didn’t want to forget some of the interesting things said in this panel and thought others might be interested in hearing about them too? Please indulge the splurge. :)

(Please note that all bold headers are just my thematic summary of each section for people to jump to, not the actual question asked.)

WHAT APPEALS ABOUT ‘THE MONSTROUS’ TO PACAT:

From a technical writing standpoint, the ‘Monstrous’ is appealing because a villain will often do an act and the hero reacts to that. It gives unconscious clues to the reader that when the villain turns up, something exciting is going to happen. In that sense, villainous characters have a special sort of ever-present attention given to them (possibly because human nature is to always keep one eye on the dangerous thing that could harm you).

On a personal level: A) When queer characters are awesome but also ‘Monstrous’, Pacat says it can feel really ‘electric’ and empowering to reclaim/allow yourself to embrace the monster role that you’ve been told you fit into by society. Like in Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles where queer people are allowed to be beautiful/glittering & powerful & witty & have existential conversations about good and evil while fitting under the Monstrous label. Like heck yeh, that’s cool. And B) as an author, you can feel a ‘minority pressure’ to have characters be Good all the time and be the perfect ambassador for that minority, but sometimes you just want to be a vampire and take over the world, you know?

THE EXISTENCE OF ‘PROTAGONIST-CENTRED MORALITY’ WITHIN THE DARK RISE BOOKS:

When pondering whether it is hard as a writer to convince readers that a Monstrous protagonist is a likeable character, Pacat pointed out that the funny thing is that the question ‘How am I going to make readers like this monster?’ never really ends up being an issue because people actually really like monsters! The thing you might not expect is that the struggle is actually: ‘How am I going to make these readers who are barracking for the protagonist feel that this ‘monster’ is actually monstrous?’

Pacat explained that when a protagonist is also a monster, it brings into play something called ‘Protagonist-Centric Morality’ -- where you bond with that protagonist and want the best for them etc, so much that it can obscure when the protagonist is actually doing something bad. Pacat mentioned that he has found the Protag-Centric Morality fairly striking in the case of the Dark Rise books because people have said to him things like: ‘The Dark King Did Nothing Wrong Ever In His Whole Life’ and Pacat questioned whether the moral centre of the story was landing somewhere different than intended. He was curious whether the other authors had experienced that with their ‘monstrous’ protagonists too.

IF A HERO IS ALSO MONSTROUS, HOW ON EARTH DO YOU DIFFERENTIATE THAT FROM THE VILLIAN? When pondering over the distinction between a Monstrous Hero and a Villain, Pacat shared some thoughts from his lived experience. He said the times when he has felt most threatened by the ‘Monstrous’ is when that person isn’t clearly identifiable to others around you; where there isn’t a shared understanding between everyone that ‘yes, that person is a monster’. Extending from that, the Truly Monstrous is when that person has some kind of control over you and control over the narrative as well; if the monster is the one telling the story but casting you as the monster. Essentially gaslighting via ‘narrative control’.

ENEMIES TO LOVERS TROPE:

This is Pacat’s absolute favourite romantic trope. And he elaborated that he doesn’t mean that in the sense of ‘these characters sort of don’t like each other’, but rather to the point where two characters really hate each other and for a very good reason. He likes when a path between two characters feels IMPOSSIBLE to overcome.

This trope was first explored in the Captive Prince trilogy and Pacat loved it so much he just had to use it again for the Dark Rise trilogy. The planning behind it for CaPri was brainstorming: ‘What is the worst thing I could think to use?’ (Answer: Killing a character’s brother, which lands the bereaved character into a set of hellish circumstances.) But that meant when Pacat decided to use it again for DR, he had to extend that to: ‘Now I need to think of something EVEN WORSE THAN THAT (CaPri)’ in order to separate the main characters. So Pacat had to spend ages thinking about what could be the absolute worst thing to use this time -- and he hopes that he came up with something that is ‘truly, truly way worse.’ Which essentially had everyone, including the moderator, laughing loudly in fear. XD

WILL KEMPEN: FOUND FAMILY & THE LONELINESS OF INAUTHENTICITY:

Pacat spent a lot of time trying to develop a really meaningful platonic friendship between Will and Violet. It meant a lot to see a friendship like that reflected on page for Pacat because some of the most important friendships of his life were across gender lines. The reception to Will and Violet has been so pleasantly surprising, so Pacat supposed he wasn’t the only one with a hunger for that kind of friendship within the romantasy genre.

Pacat also reflected on Will’s complex relationship with his Found Family -- that having the support of a Found Family can be so essential, but in Will’s case that lifeline is undermined by secrecy, turning that Found Family into a different kind of loneliness. Because the thing is: if something so immense happens to you that you feel you can’t talk about, or you feel some way about yourself but think you can’t share that with others, it means you can’t really be your authentic self. But if you’re not being you’re authentic self, who are your friends friends with? They can’t be friends with the true You; they can only be friends with a facade/with a performance. So as long as Will is scared to show his true self and remains hiding himself away from even his friends, he will be alone. It’s a hard step to take. (Note from me: so heavvvvy but poignant.)

NOT DR-RELATED, BUT PACAT’S FAV MONSTERS FROM POPULAR FICTION: Pacat was so excited to namedrop his favourite monsters from popular fiction, he volunteered to go first LOL. The answers: 'The Brat Prince' Lestat (Lestat has been on his mind a lot recently because the AMC TV portrayal captures Lestat so well & has completely rejuvenated Pacat’s 12 year-old love of vampires. Total mood); serial killers such as in the Ripley series; and simply: American Psycho.

Great panel, right? Now it’s Europe’s turn!

#CS Pacat #Dark Rise #Dark Heir #Will Kempen #Pacat's brand of enemies to lovers is lethal and we love him for it #Also: Will & Violet bffs for life please and thank you #I would ask Pacat to start a podcast for all these interesting thoughts #but obviously we just need DR3 more than anything haha #(And we need the CaPri news but that is a different matter altogether ;))

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staytheword · 2 years

Text

evermore

evermore — one shot [ general masterlist ]

this series (and this blog) are 18+ !! minors, please do not interact!!

• hyunjin x female reader; lee know, jeongin and seungmin are featured.

• non idol au, coffee shop au (sort of), hints of soulmate au. slow burn (as much as can be in a one shot lol), mutual pining, angst, smut. — unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), sex in an (empty) public place, creampie.

• word count: 12.9k

Evermore. A café that is also a bookstore. A place where you can sit down with a book, sip delicious coffee, slip away from reality. Evermore is your favorite place. For the coffee, for the books, for Hyunjin.

• author’s note: I am very excited and nervous to share this one-shot with you. I hope I can do justice to our dear Hyunjin and that you enjoy reading it. If you can grab a warm drink and a blanket to set the mood ♡

Dedicated to @straywrds ♡ thank you for being in my life.

It was summer and you came every Tuesday.

It was the season of iced americanos and lemonade, the sunshine reflecting on the windows and filling the place with light. People came in to grab a cold drink, maybe a cookie, and strolled back outside. They borrowed books to read under the sun or bought a few for their vacation. It was a hot and humid summer, of lazy evenings that stretched into unforgettable nights. Hyunjin liked to keep the place open later in the summer, as late as the ice cream place next door. Sometimes, after having indulged in a dessert, people liked to grab a coffee to get the taste of sugar off their tongue.

On Tuesdays he would glance at the door just before two, waiting for you. You never failed to show up. You got your iced coffee, which you took with just a few drops of vanilla soy milk, and sat down at your favorite table, the one in the corner, close to the History section. You would spend the next two hours or so going through a book, slowly sipping your beverage, and you would determine if you wanted to buy it or not. Sometimes you did, sometimes you didn’t. Hyunjin didn’t mind. It was the whole concept of the place.

People could read as much as they wanted as long as they bought a drink or a snack. The books were there to be read. They could be bought, but not borrowed. There were plenty of places to sit, tables and couches and armchairs. On the floor were laid large carpets furnished with cushions. There was always coffee and food available.

Hyunjin was proud of his book café.

He was even more proud to see you find solace in it.

At least that’s what he assumed - why would you come every week, if it wasn’t the case? He saw how your shoulders relaxed as you read, how sometimes you briefly closed your eyes in delight after your first sip of coffee. His favorite thing, after seeing you smile, was to see your brow furrow as you read something that captivated you. Your head would fall forward, your hair brushing your cheeks, and you would completely forget the world around you.

You didn’t notice him looking at you.

He wasn’t stalking you. You were just one of his favorite customers. Polite, kind. Pretty. You saw him as more than just the guy with the apron selling him books and coffee. You smiled at him, asked how he was that week. Maybe you did that with everyone, but he still liked it. He would find himself giving you the cookie from the freshest batch, or brewing a new pitcher of his best coffee just before came in. He would forget to charge you extra for the vanilla soy milk.

He was a whole cliché mess but he did not care. You brought softness to his days. Solace to the routine. He made this place for people like you. But it was even more than that. In fact, sometimes, he became convinced he created it specifically for you. Perhaps that was going too far, but Hyunjin had never been a reasonable man. He was a romantic through and through, and he did not care about the logic of things. He liked the poetry of you, composed one verse at a time each summer Tuesday.

One week the air conditioning broke. It got hot real fast, and Hyunjin already had a layer of sweat on his skin when you came in at two o’clock. You were wearing denim shorts and a tank top. You chuckled amusingly, and said to him, quite hot today, isn’t it? He suggested coming another time because it would be uncomfortable but you didn’t care. You paid for your beverage and sat at your usual spot. You gathered your hair together and secured it with a clip - a few strands of hair stuck to the back of your neck and Hyunjin stared at them. He wiped the sweat off his brow, and tried to focus on work.

About half an hour later you came back to the counter and asked for an empty glass full of ice cubes. Don’t worry, you told him. I won’t get the books wet. Hyunjin trusted you - he gave you the ice cubes with a smile, licking the sweat off his lips. At first he thought you just wanted to let them melt in your mouth, but you surprised him.

He watched as you took the ice cubes in your hands, placed them against your skin and let them melt there. Sometimes you put them on your neck, sometimes on your cheek. He was never as distracted as that afternoon, admiring the ice turn into water on your skin, sliding down your arm or your collarbone. He imagined following the trail with his finger. Or with his tongue, maybe.

That sent a shiver up his spine.

He had to relieve his throbbing cock in the bathroom of the café, eyes shut against the image of you panting beside him, his skin sticky and his thoughts tangled together.

He wasn’t obsessed with you. You were just so soothing. Something about you made him want to stare for hours, a lazy smile upon his lips, appeased.

He barely knew anything about you, which was fine. It’s not even that he wanted to know everything. Of course he liked when you told him things - he reveled in every new information you revealed, but he savored them like candy. Piece by piece, letting them melt on his tongue to a syrup, at a slow and steady rhythm. He was not interested in rushing things. From time to time you told him about you, and from time to time he told you about him.

You were a harpist. You played with an orchestra and gave lessons at the nearby music school. On Tuesdays your last lesson ended at 1:45, which gave you the rest of the afternoon to relax. The café was your favorite place to do that.

Hyunjin told you he opened the café a few years ago with the help of a friend. He had never much ambition except having his own place to take care of. For a long time he hesitated between a café and a bookstore, and eventually settled on a place that served as both. His only regret was to not make it a cat café - but it was never too late. Maybe in a few years, he told you once with a shy laugh.

By all accounts, you were single. You did not have a ring around your finger, and you never mentioned a boyfriend. But maybe you were just private about it. Maybe you were casually dating. It wasn’t any of his business.

Hyunjin was not single. He had been in his relationship for a year and thought he was in love. But you changed everything.

That was how a heart was supposed to beat, he realized.

That was the ecstatic rhythm of a healthy and blissful heart.

He told himself he would break up with his girlfriend and ask you out before the end of the summer. Each week he told himself, next Tuesday. I’ll do it next Tuesday. But he never did, and time slipped through his fingers like sand.

Summer faded away and you stopped coming.

You look up at the sign and smile to yourself. Evermore. So accurately named. You haven’t been in there in forever, it seems, and to a certain extent it has. Months. Back then it was summer and you spent a few hours there every week. Never missed a Tuesday. The doors used to be left wide open and you could smell coffee from meters away.

Now the snow creaks under the soles of your boots and the doors are shut. It is cold today and you bury your nose in your scarf.

It is not Tuesday, but you have nothing planned and you are dying for a warm cup of coffee and a good book. You haven’t done that in ages. You miss it. Surely, he won’t remember you. Surely, it’s been long enough for him to forget.

You pull the handle of the door and enter the café. Immediately you smell the familiar smells, coffee and sugar and cinnamon, mellow music playing on the speakers. You wipe your boots on the carpet and head to the counter, gazing around, smiling to yourself. It’s as you remember, the floorboards creaking under your feet, the seemingly endless rows of books, the quiet noise of conversation.

Him.

You see him, behind the counter, busy cleaning a machine. He hasn’t noticed you. He still looks the same, his thin chocolate hair grazing his ears, his apron tied around his waist. It’s the first time you see him in a sweater. It looks soft, a creamy beige color, the sleeves rolled up his forearms. His wide hands are quick and agile. You swallow, trying to steady your erratic heartbeat.

He probably doesn’t remember you.

You have only been strangers, after all.

The place is quiet and comforting. During summer days it was the breeze upon your cheek, and now it’s like stepping inside a warm, familiar room. It feels like you could find a fireplace in the corner, your mother’s gingerbread cookies, your favorite slippers. How can it feel so much like home if you haven’t been here in months?

You loosen your scarf and unbutton your coat, stepping closer to the counter.

“Hi,” you say, trying not to sound too nervous.

He turns around, meeting your eyes. They immediately sweep you off your feet, and you’re glad the cold has already reddened your cheeks, because Hyunjin looks even more celestial than before. Eyes like the deepest night sky, lips the most delicate shade of pink. They looked a little damaged, chapped, probably because of the cold, but they are still inviting. His hair is longer, tickling the collar of his sweater, but shorter strands graze his eyebrows. He looks at you like you can’t really be here - but before you can try to understand what it means, he swallows and smiles timidly at you.

“It’s you,” he breathes.

And you thought he wouldn’t recognize you. So much for that. Your words completely evade you, and you feel a little silly, standing there.

“I - I haven’t seen you in so long,” he stammers, rubbing the back of his head, looking nervous.

“I was away,” you tell him simply. “I came back just a couple of days ago.”

“Oh,” he nods, “I see. I’m just glad to see you’re okay.”

You smile, your nervousness fading slightly. “Thanks. I’m happy to be back. I missed this place a lot.”

Hyunjin blushes, evading your gaze for a moment, and his reaction surprises you so much you have to do the same. You look down at your boots, at the floor, at the display of pastries to your right.

“Can I get you anything?”

His voice brings you back to him. You give him a nod, glancing at the menu above his head. It’s a little different than it was this summer, but it’s not much of a surprise. There are so many things you want to try. You hesitate between a few drinks, chewing on your lower lip, trying to make a choice.

“I’ll have… Oh, God, I can’t choose,” you chuckle.

Hyunjin’s eyes squeeze into crescents as he smiles amusingly. “I could make you an iced coffee, but it might be a little cold for that.”

“Definitely,” you answer, smiling widely. “I’ll try the… macchiato?”

“Coming right up.”

You lean against the counter as Hyunjin gets to work, preparing your drink. You take the opportunity to look around some more, immersing yourself in your environment. It’s not too busy for a Thursday night, probably because of the cold. You see students working on their computers, a young man browsing books, an older woman reading one, comfortably seated on an armchair with a blanket on her legs.

On the speakers, a gentle piano melody starts to play. You close your eyes, inhaling the smells around you. You feel calm.

When Hyunjin comes back with your drink, you reach for your wallet but he quickly holds up a palm.

“Please. It’s on me. To welcome you back.”

You stammer. “But -”

“It’s my pleasure.”

He seems so sincerely happy to offer it to you that you can only smile, giving him a grateful nod. You’re not sure what to say. You glance down at the ceramic mug, filled to the brim with caramel-colored foam, an intricate floral pattern drawn in it. It smells heavenly, and you already know it will be delicious.

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy.”

You wish you could stay there with him. Walk around the counter and hang there, catching up with him. You wonder what he’s been up to. How business has been. Why he looks so tired. You want to tell him how seeing him again makes you feel. Like you’ve been away from where you belong. Like you’ve never even left.

But you can’t. You don’t know him, not really. A name, a few silly details. Just bits and pieces, not even enough to be able to call him a friend. So you give him another smile, carefully take the mug in your hands, and search for a table.

Of course, you don’t really hesitate. You sit at the same table as you did this summer. It offers a perfect view of the busy street ahead, so you can watch people walk by and try to figure out where they come from, where they are going. It also shields you just a little from view, because not a lot of people are interested in the Poetry section. The spot also allows you easy glances at the main counter, so you can watch Hyunjin work.

So what if you have a little crush on your favorite barista? You don’t see the harm in it. Hyunjin is a handsome, charming guy. He’s your age. He has a successful business. He is kind and soft-spoken. He likes book, has a sweet tooth. He is everything you could ever wish for and convinced you can never have. After all, why would Hyunjin see you?

But he remembers you. That much you are surprised of. You did come here once a week for a few months, and you had a few conversations, but it was nothing deep, just small talk. But back then he remembered your order and called you by your name. You wonder if he still remembers it now, like you could never forget his.

Once you remove your coat and scarf, you take a sip of the macchiato and it makes your taste buds dance. It’s the perfect temperature, and just the right amount of spices. Is that a hint of vanilla you taste, too? It’s your favorite flavor.

You smile to yourself, licking your lips so as to not lose even a drop, and lean back into the chair. Outside the window blows through the freshly fallen snow, twirling it into the air like small tornadoes.

You could get yourself a book but for now, you just want to look outside and enjoy the feeling of being here. You were anxious it would be a little too different during the winter, but it isn’t. The place has a soul that leaves a permanent imprint, and it whispers Hyunjin’s name.

Perhaps it isn’t even him. Perhaps it’s this place. You might have ended up projecting the solace it brought you on its owner, as if he is responsible for it. Because what do you know about Hyunjin, apart from a couple of disarrayed fragments? You have no idea who he really is. Perhaps you have been too eager to love. You’ve always so desperately wanted to believe in it.

You do not love Hyunjin. You love this place and how it makes you feel. And just as you’re about to convince yourself of that, your eyes slide across the room and fall on him. He’s leaning on the counter, facing your way, gnawing on a nail. The sleeves of his sweater are a little too long, and cover most of his hands. He’s looking at you - and when he realizes you’re looking back, smiles nervously and waves.

You do the same.

It’s not the first time this has happened. Back during the summer, you’ve surprised his gaze in a similar fashion. But you often just thought he was looking in your general direction - you were sitting next to a large window that opened on a busy street. You never thought much of it. But sometimes it really did feel like he was looking at you.

Like that hot summer day, when the air conditioning wasn’t working. You had been so desperately hot that day but you didn’t want to leave. Hyunjin had rolled the sleeves of his t-shirt around his shoulders and his arms looked like sculpted marble. You asked for ice cubes, a trick that you had seen your mother do a thousand times, not thinking much of it. But you had caught Hyunjin staring and thought he found you weird, so you stopped, worried you were making a fool of yourself. Luckily, if he did, he didn’t hold it against you.

You see him now and your heart trembles.

You missed him.

Once you finish your drink and get lost in your thoughts some more, you start to feel tired. You don’t want to spend the rest of your night yawning, and you have to get up early, so you reluctantly slip your coat back on and bring your empty mug to the counter. Hyunjin thanks you with a smile.

“How was it?” he asks, wide eyes fixed on you.

“Really good,” you nod. “Loved the hint of vanilla.”

He nods, looking proud.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, wrapping your scarf around your neck.

As you turn, Hyunjin’s voice stops you.

“Y/N,” he calls, softly, his voice almost quivering.

You do your best to keep a steady smile on your lips, but inside of you, your heart feels like it’s just been squeezed tightly. Your name.

He remembers your name.

“Will I see you on Tuesdays again?” he asks softly.

You swallow, glancing nervously at your hands.

“I don’t think so,” you admit. “I have lessons until late that day, starting next week.”

Is that disappointment you see on his face? You’re not sure. You give him a timid smile, however, accompanied with a shrug.

“I do have my Wednesdays off, though. So they might become my new Tuesday.”

He meets your eyes, and you smile perhaps a little too widely. You can’t help it - his eyes are shimmering, his cheeks a soft pink.

“I’ll see you next Wednesday, then.”

You allow yourself to drift off in his eyes, just for a second. “See you then.”

It is winter and you come every Wednesday.

Ever since that night you order the same drink. A strong macchiato with steamed vanilla soy milk. The one he created specifically for you.

He would probably lie if you asked him, but he did.

You fall in love with his cranberry scones so Hyunjin makes sure they are fresh out of the oven when you pass the door. He discovers your collection of sweaters - his favorite is the color of apricots, the one you pair with golden earrings. He learns that an old friend knitted your scarf back when you were in high school and you wear it every winter since. That your boots are new because the soles of the previous ones were ruined from an evening of intense chewing by your mother’s dog.

That the reason you disappeared was nothing tragic. You got a provisional contract to play for an orchestra across the country, replacing someone on maternity leave. It was just a few weeks but you stayed for longer, enjoying the time away.

You needed to clear your mind and see the world, you tell him one Wednesday night. He is sorting books in the aisles when you appear, in search of a new one to read. You start to chat, and he loves the way you lean against the shelves, your arms behind your back, your colored lips telling stories about what you saw. You had a good time there but you missed home, you say.

Hyunjin could listen to you for hours.

Your nails are painted the color of cream and your perfume has hints of vanilla. He thought it was bad this summer but this is worse. He can’t stop thinking about you. He wonders what your kitchen looks like, what kind of art you have on your walls. How your hair looks sprayed upon your pillow, if your cheeks are puffed up in the morning. He wants to make you your favorite espresso so it’s the first thing you smell when you wake up, and then perhaps make you come with his tongue.

He keeps hearing your voice pronouncing his name. He keeps seeing you wrap your scarf around your slender neck. He keeps smelling vanilla everywhere he goes.

He should probably do something. Ask you out, or at least find a way to discover if you are single. He is, after all. Broke up with his girlfriend after you didn’t come back for a couple of weeks. He couldn’t stand to see her anymore. He didn’t have you, he didn’t want anyone.

A part of him expects you to show up with someone one day, holding their hand, smiling lovingly at them while waiting for your drinks. He should ask. That’s what anyone would do, after all. He should express his feelings, or find a way to exorcize them out of his body.

But Hyunjin likes it the way it is. He likes the romance, he thrills on the longing. He likes that time slows down. That he gets a glimpse of you every Wednesday, the colors of winter passing upon your cheeks, and that you remain a mystery. At the same time he feels like he deeply knows you, beyond usual bonds, that you connect on an intangible level. Both a stranger and a soulmate. He’s probably delusional - but he’d rather be a romantic than a realist.

Today is Saturday and Hyunjin can’t stop thinking about the black turtleneck you wore a few days ago. You had your hair in a ponytail, the tight collar hugging your neck so well. You bought a book saying it was a gift for someone, but you didn’t say who. For family, perhaps? You didn’t say. He didn’t ask.

The door of the Evermore opens and lets in a gust of wind. He looks up, just curious to see what kind of client is coming in, and his heart stops. It’s you.

On a Saturday.

And you are not alone.

He knew the day would come. He knew it would happen. The day you’d come through the door with someone. Yet he wasn’t prepared for the blow. It’s like someone’s just punched him in the stomach, knocked the air out.

You look pretty. You’re wearing a little more makeup than usual and your long wool coat hangs open. It’s warm outside today because of the bright sun, so that might be why. You’re smiling broadly, in the middle of laughing, looking back at your friend. He’s telling you something, a mischievous smirk curving his lips, closing the door behind him. He has dark hair and beautiful doe eyes.

You chuckle to what he says, heading towards the counter, and Hyunjin straightens his back. It’s okay, he tells himself. Of course you have a life outside this place. Of course you have a life outside of him. You are not a fantasy. You are a person.

“Hey, Hyunjin,” you say, walking up to him.

Your eyes are full of light and Hyunjin’s breath catches in his throat. “Hey. Fancy seeing you here on a Saturday.”

“Yeah,” you laugh. “We’re going ice skating in the park and so, in dire need of caffeine. I told Minho he had to taste that macchiato of yours.”

Minho. The guy behind you gives Hyunjin a kind smile. He nods back, unable to really understand how he’s feeling right now. All he wants to do is ask. Who is he? Your brother? Your friend? Your date? Your boyfriend?

What makes you think I want him to taste the drink I made for you?

“She kept insisting it was the most delicious hot drink she ever had, so…” Minho says with a chuckle.

He looks at you with some kind of affection but Hyunjin is unable to identify which kind. He keeps smiling, he keeps breathing. In a way it’s even more fascinating to see you interact with someone you know. What does this guy know about you, Hyunjin wonders? What parts of yourself do you share with him?

“Two macchiatos, then,” Hyunjin nods. “I’ll get that ready for you.”

“Thank you,” you say, searching your bag.

Minho shakes his head, already handing Hyunjin his card. “Please. It’s my treat.”

“Oh, thank you.”

He looks down at you and smiles, and your cheeks get pink. Whoever he is, you’re not used to his presence. Hyunjin watches you interact with him as he prepares the drinks. From the way Minho interacts with you, Hyunjin can safely conclude he’s flirting. It doesn’t look like you know each other well, though, from the information you seem to give him. If this isn’t your first date, it’s either the second or the third.

Hyunjin will give him that - Minho listens to you. He seems interested, both in what you look like and what you have to say. Hyunjin might have expected jealousy to blossom in his heart, but he can barely feel its claws. He’s curious. He’s happy for you. You deserve to be taken care of. He doesn’t want to hate the guy, especially not if you like him, if he makes you smile.

Of course he wishes it was him. He would ice skate with you for hours, holding your hand. He would kiss your cold cheeks and make you hot chocolate afterwards. But he’s not in your life like that.

Still, he doesn’t put vanilla soy milk in the guy’s macchiato. That’s just for you.

“Here you go,” Hyunjin tells you, handing you the drinks when he is done. “Have a good time.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“I’ll be here.” You smile at him one last time, and Minho does the same, politely. Once you’re back outside, Hyunjin watches you walk away until you disappear around a corner. Out of sight. Out of reach.

Minho walked you home that night. After you went ice skating you ate at a delicious Italian restaurant. You had a glass of wine and he paid for the meal. You offered him to come up for a nightcap, and after you talked for a while on your couch, he kissed you. His lips were soft, his hand gentle as he cupped your cheek. He was an excellent kisser, and a part of you really wanted to take him to bed.

You’re not sure why you hesitated - but Minho sensed it and did not even ask. He just kissed you again and whispered goodnight. The sudden dread of being alone caught you, and you suggested he stayed, but he smiled at you and shook his head. I should get home. You didn’t insist.

Once you laid on bed and pushed your fingers inside you, relieving your aching folds, it was not him you thought about. It was a boy with tranquil eyes and inviting lips. A boy whose fingers you pictured on your skin, whose smile you imagined against your wetness. You wondered what he would sound like. Would he just breathe in your neck, or maybe whisper sinful words? What would his voice sound like, roughened up, muffled against your lips? You come to the thought of his arms around you, lean muscles holding you close.

It barely feels enough. You feel on edge up all the way to Wednesday. That morning, as you do on Wednesdays, you wake up with a smile on your face.

A thick layer of heavy, crunchy snow has fallen during the night. It’s perfect for making snowmen, sliding, and crafting snow forts, and so all afternoon you spy people gearing up for skiing and other winter activities. It’s not too cold either, and there is barely any wind - the ideal weather for long walks to admire the snow lounging on tree branches. Your own eyes have wandered on them all day, and you barely got anything done.

The Café is extremely busy all afternoon, people coming in and out for hot chocolates and coffees to go. Hyunjin and his co-worker, a journalism student called Jeongin, are overwhelmed, barely able to stop for a few breaks. You watch them warily, wishing you could lend a hand, but you are sure Hyunjin will say no.

Now, it’s nearly five and things have slowed down. People are busy preparing and eating dinner, but they’ll come back - the nearby restaurants are packed and you just know all of them will want a delicious coffee to finish their meal. You should get going. You should get home, get your things in order. Keep living your life. Call your mother, fold the laundry, and plan another date with Minho. But your heart wants none of those things. You just feel like lingering here a little longer.

You stand up, walking lazily around the book tables near the counter, pretending like you’re reading the back cover of a mystery book.

Hyunjin and Jeongin are talking in hushed tones, but from this distance you can make out what they are saying.

“I’m sorry, Hyun,” Jeongin says. “I wish I could stay, but I have a midterm tomorrow, and...”

Hyunjin shakes his head. “School is more important. Go. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? It’ll be busy tonight.”

“I’ll manage. Go study.”

Jeongin thanks Hyunjin profusely, removing his apron and grabbing his coat. In a matter of seconds he leaves the café, and Hyunjin lets out a deep sigh. His long fingers slide through his tousled hair, his eyes a little puffy from exhaustion. Today he wears a white button-up, the collar a little crooked. Underneath it you spy a delicate silver chain.

When he meets your gaze you smile kindly at him, putting down the book.

“Busy day,” you say, hoping he notices the concern in your eyes.

He chuckles, clacking his tongue against his palate. “You said it. Crazy.”

“Do you have someone else coming in?” you can’t help but ask.

Hyunjin gives you a curious look and you shrug, blushing a little bit.

“Couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Ah,” he smiles briefly. “Yeah, no. It’ll be just me tonight.”

He tries to sound optimistic, you can hear it in his voice - but there’s that slight tone of defeat, or maybe just apprehension. You hesitate, biting your lower lip. You have nothing to lose by suggesting it to him. It’s not like you have anything planned. And this place has done so much for you - he has done so much. It’s the least you can do. So you take a few steps towards him, placing your hands on the counter.

“Hyunjin,” you say softly, tasting his name on your lips.

You don’t think you’ve ever said it much - but it feels nice. Better than nice, really. You like it. Hyunjin. Like a melody you were born to sing. He looks up at you with wide eyes, his ears a little red.

“Let me help you, please?” you say.

He opens his mouth with a frown and you hold a hand up.

“I don’t have anything else to do,” you quickly add, “and you don’t have to pay me. I’m no good at making coffee, but I can work the register. Just show me the ropes and I can do it.”

“Y/N, I can’t accept, this is -”

“You can only say no if you don’t trust me with it,” you interrupt him again with the kindest smile you can muster. “Which would be fine. But that’s the only reason I’ll accept.”

He closes his mouth and gives you a long look. You raise your eyebrows. A few clients walk into the café, chatting loudly about their plans for skiing later. In no time the place will be packed again, you are sure of it. So is Hyunjin, who knows his business better than anyone. He sighs, closing his eyes briefly, and smiles at you.

“All right,” he says. “But it’s just because I really need help. And the second you get tired I want you to stop, yeah?”

“Promise.”

“Come around the counter, then,” he grins.

Your heartbeat accelerates, and you tell yourself it’s because of the situation, not because of him or the way he smiles at you with constellations in his eyes. You get your things from your table, securing them in the back, and Hyunjin hands you an apron. He shows you how the register works as the recent clients make their order. It’s odd to stand so close to him, his body warmth mingling with yours. You can smell hints of his shampoo and his hand grazes against yours as he walks you through the steps. The register system is simple so you get a hold of it quickly, which is a good thing, because Hyunjin has to make the drinks, and there are more people coming in.

You don’t have much time to think in the next hours, serving clients and helping Hyunjin with what you can. You glance at him from time to time, watching his body move with ease. He knows exactly where to stand, how many steps to take. It’s like a dance, a waltz of foamed milk and carefully dusted spices. Soon the almond scones and chocolate cookies get sold out, the dishes pile up in the sink, and the rush slows down. The café closes, and you feel both exhausted and exhilarated. Your legs are wobbly and your cheeks hurt from smiling, but you don’t mind. As Hyunjin closes the register, you get behind the sink to do the dishes, making sure the ceramic mugs and metallic cutlery are thoroughly clean.

You’re so focused on your task you don’t hear the last client leaving. Hyunjin comes to stand next to you, resting against the counter with a smile.

“All locked up. We did it.”

You smile broadly at him, feeling a rush of pride. He looks at you attentively in return, a smirk curving his lips. The last few hours have gotten you used to being so close to him, but he still makes your heart jolt.

“Here,” he says, handing you a macaron - espresso flavored, your favorite.

You chuckle, showing him your gloved hands, covered in water and foam from the dishes.

“Just put it there, I’ll…”

“Don’t move.”

You freeze as he takes a step closer. He guides the macaron to your lips, looking at them attentively, and you slowly part them. You bite into the macaron, your eyes planted in Hyunjin’s, in awe of the shape and depth of them. He’s beautiful, is all you can think.

Hyunjin gently pushes the macaron in your mouth, and the tip of his finger brushes your lips. You have to make a conscious effort not to sigh at the touch, and instead focus on the delicious flavors on your tongue. You smile, fully aware, however, that your cheeks must be a bright red.

Almost as red as the ears poking out from between his hair.

“It’s delicious,” you say once you finish the macaron.

Hyunjin smiles, although he’s no longer looking you in the eye. He’s staring at your lips. “I know it’s your favorite.”

“You have a good memory.”

“I guess it’s a good quality to have for what I do,” he nods.

Hyunjin grabs a tea towel to dry the dishes and you continue to talk, the tension slowly dissipating. You focus on the conversation, exchanging thoughts about careers and winter, meals and music. Hyunjin makes you laugh, makes you forget the exhaustion, makes you remember what it’s like to be heard. When you finish the dishes, Hyunjin disappears in the back. You remove your apron, fold it and put it on the counter - and you walk towards the nearest window, staring out at the winter night.

It’s started snowing again. The snowflakes are big, powdery, falling on the ground as if in slow motion. There’s a full moon in the sky. You stare at the tranquil scene, your heart both serene and febrile. You don’t want to go home.

You got a text from Minho earlier. He asked if you were free that weekend. You get your phone out of your pocket, telling yourself you need to answer him. You like him. He’s a nice guy, attentive and charming. The two dates you had were fun, casual. He didn’t pressure you. You met him through friends, and he’s been nothing but kind. But something is missing. A heartbeat. A flame. A truth, maybe. You’re not sure.

You stare down at your phone, your fingers hovering over the screen.

“Want a drink?”

You spin to see Hyunjin standing a few steps behind you, holding a bottle of red wine. He’s smiling, his head slightly tilted to the right. He removed his apron, and it’s the first time you see him without it. His white button-up is only half tucked into his jeans, which hang around a slim waist, secured by a simple leather belt.

“You have wine here?�� you say with an amused smile.

He chuckles, looking down at the bottle to read the label.

“My mother gave it to me when I celebrated the five-year opening of the café. I never opened it. Thought this would be a good time. We deserve it after the evening we just had.” He considers you, his smile charming. “No pressure, though.”

You shake your head. “I’d love to.”

You get comfortable in a cozy corner of the book café, away from the windows, sitting down on a lush carpet, leaning on fluffy cushions and pillows. You both remove your shoes and when you tell Hyunjin you’re a little cold, he hands you a blanket that you wrap around your shoulders.

Hyunjin opens the bottle and fills two ceramic mugs, handing you one. You toast to your successful evening, keeping your eyes on each other as you drink. The wine is thick and tastes like cherry and flowers.

“Thank you for helping me,” he says. “It means a lot.”

“Of course. It was fun. Reminded me of my college days.”

Hyunjin pulls his knees to him, leans his head against the wall, studying you. He looks tired, but calm.

“How’s that?”

You bite your lip, trying not to smile too widely. “I was a barista for a while to pay my tuition fees.”

Hyunjin gasps. “Really?”

“I was…” You chuckle, looking down at your wine. “I was very bad at it.”

Hyunjin’s laugh echoes through the room. It’s so loud, so undisciplined - thoroughly enchanting. You wish it filled your mug instead of the wine. You laugh with him, hiding your face in your hands.

“I didn’t want to tell you that earlier so you didn’t panic, but… it’s probably a really good thing I didn’t touch the coffee.”

You take a sip of wine, still giggling as Hyunjin laughs again.

“And I trusted you,” he says dramatically, shaking his head at you.

“Why do you think I come here all the time?” you retort. “I cannot make my own coffee, Hyunjin, that’s why.”

His smile occupies half of his face, his shirt a little too big for him. You feel a strange longing. How can you, for someone you barely know? But you do.

He points a finger at you. “Making coffee is a skill. It’s something you learn. I’ll teach you.”

“What if I’m a lost cause?”

“That’s all right,” he nods solemnly. “We all need to be bad at something.”

You laugh, and before you know it your mugs are empty. As the conversation flows, you get tipsy on the wine, emptying the bottle to the last drop. You and Hyunjin talk about everything and nothing. He shows you the trailer for a movie he’s excited to see, and you make him listen to a song. After you forget to press pause and your phone just keeps playing music in the background.

You talk about your lives, your exes, your dreams. But it’s strange, it’s like the outside world doesn’t truly belong here. The Evermore is its own world and you feel more at home in it than you ever did anywhere else. You had a little too much wine, so when you try to explain the feeling to Hyunjin, you fail miserably.

“It’s true, Hyunjin,” you tell him with pleading eyes. “This place… it has something special.”

He watches you, almost - tenderly?

“It’s only because of people like you,” he says softly. “You make it live.”

“But it’s not just that,” you whisper, ignoring the sudden acceleration of your heartbeat. “It’s… fuck, I can’t find the words.”

You sigh exasperatedly, and then hold up a finger. A smile creeps upon your lips.

“Hold on. I have an idea.”

You carefully set your mug down, standing up on shaky legs. The world tilts slightly, but you keep your balance and extend your hand towards Hyunjin. He looks at you for a few seconds but eventually slides his palm in yours. You help him up, and you keep your hands interlocked as you lead him towards the bookshelves.

You know exactly what you are looking for. You go towards the end of the Fiction section, squeezed between two aisles and the wall, and let go of Hyunjin. He stays close to you as you slide your fingers on the book’s bindings, searching for a title. Despite your state, you find it quickly and pull the book off the shelf.

“Here,” you breathe, opening the book to search for the words you are looking for.

You are focused and you don’t notice Hyunjin’s eyes fixed upon you. You flip through the pages, and after a minute, you put your index above a few lines of text.

“This. This is what it is.”

You lift your eyes and meet his. He is studying you closely, his eyes a profound shade of brown, his mouth parted. You almost entirely forget about the book. Hyunjin’s lips are stained cranberry red by the wine.

He draws a sharp breath.

“Read it to me.”

His voice is hoarse. You lick your lips, taste the wine. You wish they tasted like something else. You swallow, advert your eyes, and start to read. The words drip from your mouth, and you’re not sure you’re reading them correctly because it’s like you can’t hear your own voice. Your heartbeat is too loud, pounding in your chest and resonating against your temples.

When you’re done, you look up at Hyunjin again, who has not moved. After a second of silence, he shakes his head. You open your mouth, convinced he’s going to say you’re not making any sense.

Hyunjin stops you with a kiss.

His lips sweep yours, plucking them like a fruit. You gasp in surprise but Hyunjin only deepens the kiss, pressing his plump lips against yours, eager, ravenous. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, or perhaps it is only spinning faster, so fast you can’t see it. The book slips from between your fingers and falls on the ground with a faint thump, but you barely notice it. Your hands grab Hyunjin’s shirt, pulling him towards your body, kissing him back feverishly.

His mouth embraces yours, his kisses ardent as he pushes you against the bookshelf, one of his hands on the small of your back, his fingers slightly digging into your skin. His other hand is in your hair, tousling your hair, sending blissful shivers throughout your body. He gasps for air, drinking you in, and you sigh from his absence. When his lips take yours once more, you graze them with your teeth, eliciting a muffled groan from him. He bucks his hips against you, like there aren’t any layers of clothes separating your skin, like he’s already deep inside of you, filling you to the brim.

It’s alluring, it’s sinful. You’re dizzy and entranced, and you just want to rip his clothes off, witness his body, and let him ravish you.

You shouldn’t. This is rushed, this is irresponsible. You should think things through, you should exert self-control.

But you don’t.

You bite his lip harder, and he stammers a moan inside your mouth. His fingers grip your waist harder, pushing hard in your skin. You roll your hips against him, panting against his mouth, feeling his hardening cock inside his jeans.

“Hyunjin…” you whisper.

“Fuck, this can’t be real,” he breathes, grabbing your face with both of his hands, his fingers desperately holding on to you.

His tongue slithers around yours, febrile. The sensation of his saliva blending with yours sends shockwaves all the way down to between your legs, and you have to squeeze your thighs together. You can feel it, you’re both too drunk to be able to make it last, to do it like you’d like to, to be reasonable about it. You can’t care about that right now.

With nervous fingers, and between sloppy kisses, you unbutton each other’s jeans. He lowers yours, taking a long look at your panties, as you free his cock, stroking it in your palm. He throbs around your hand, leaking pre-cum. You push your underwear aside, your cunt a soaked mess, and help him align himself with your entrance.

“Are you sure -”

“Please,” you sigh.

He buries himself inside of you, his cock stretching your walls. You let out a loud moan and wrap your arms around his neck for stability. Hyunjin breathes heavily in your neck, his lips feeling hot against your skin.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs. “I can’t believe I’m fucking you.”

“Don’t stop, Hyunjin, please…”

“Never.”

He nearly removes himself from you, only to thrust his hips deeper. You whimper, holding his body close to yours. He starts to pound into you, almost frantically, but keeping his pelvis in perfect control so that his cock hits the right spots inside of you. Your pleasure builds so quickly you clench around him more tightly with every move, and Hyunjin cries out in your ear.

As you feel yourself drift into your orgasm, your eyes roll back and you grip Hyunjin’s hair. You whimper his name as your body relinquishes control, and as you come around him, Hyunjin lets out a deep grunt and empties himself inside of you. You feel the thick spurts of his seed, you feel his body twitch, you feel his lips trembling.

You breathe out, sweaty and shuddering against him. Hyunjin places a soft kiss on your collarbone and you shiver. It’s almost like you could blink and realize none of this has happened, that you have read the passage from the book and looked at him wishing he would kiss you.

But this is real. This happened.

You don’t know whether to tense or relax, so you stay frozen in place. You both stay like that, just breathing, giving time for reality to go back on its feet. Hyunjin leans back, his lips now a bright red.

“Fuck. Sorry,” he mutters. “I made a mess.”

“It’s all right,” you tell him softly.

You keep your voices low like someone could hear you. Hyunjin steps back, watching as his cum slides down your inner thigh. He blushes violently, and you open your mouth to reassure him - but suddenly you have no idea what to say.

“I’ll get you a towel. Hold on.”

He puts his cock back inside his boxers and walks away, zipping up his jeans. You stay like that, feeling silly and cold. What the fuck just happened? You know what happened. You and Hyunjin just fucked like horny teenagers in a corner of the book café - no conversation, no protection. You’re not that worried about the latter part, you take the pill and you’ll get the necessary precautions, but it’s the fact that you have no idea what it means. Where it came from. It was so sudden, so passionate, so intense. Not that you need to define sex before you have it like it’s a contract with clauses, but it happened so quickly you’re dizzy and feel a little sick.

You are drunk. That explains things.

You are drunk and so attracted to Hyunjin he must have felt it. Not that he took advantage of you. But did he like you? Or was it just a spur of the moment thing? What did he say again? This can’t be real. Your mind spins into nothingness, your thoughts a tangled mess.

Hyunjin reappears with a towel he soaked in warm water, and he hands it to you. You thank him with a smile, and seeing your hesitation, he steps away as you clean yourself up. Once your jeans are buttoned again, you tap his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Sure.”

He looks more beautiful than ever, but you can’t look at him.

He can’t look at you.

Fuck.

“I should head home,” you whisper.

Hyunjin nods, his face hidden behind strands of ruffled hair. Hair the color of carefully made coffee. His eyes, too. Only his lips are the color of the sweetest cherries.

“Of course, yeah. I should - I should do the same, yeah.”

You both gather your things in silence, the tension almost unbearable. You feel like crying, and you know you should say something before it is too late, but you can’t gather the words, you can’t put them in the right order, and then you’re standing next to the door and you have to say goodbye.

“Goodnight,” you say.

You gather the courage to look at him, but he’s not looking at you. He’s staring at his hands, at his shoes, at the floor. Anything but you.

“Goodnight,” he answers.

You step outside. The day has grown terribly, terribly cold.

The café will be closed today. Hyunjin made his decision hours ago. If anyone asks, it is for personal reasons. He does not want to see anyone today.

It’s a boyish reaction but he does not care.

He barely got any sleep, turning in his bed staring at the snow outside his window. He keeps wondering how you feel. What you think. If you got some sleep, or if you were like him, ripped open at the seams, waiting for a coup de grâce that would not come. When daylight starts to seep through his curtains, Hyunjin texts his employees, takes a long shower, and dresses in a large wool sweater and brown corduroy pants.

He still goes to the café because there is no other place he can go. But he takes a piece of paper, writes a few words on it and places it on the front door. Closed exceptionally for today.

Once that is done, Hyunjin lets out a long, shaky sigh and looks at the café. He opened this place more than five years ago and has worked nearly everyday in it since, but today it feels like an unfamiliar place. The walls, the chairs, the books, they all stare back at him.

His legs take him to the Fiction aisle. It looks as it always does, and yet it’s thoroughly changed. On the ground is a book. Hyunjin picks it up with trembling hands. It’s fallen crooked, and some of the pages are creased. He presses his fingers on them, trying to flatten them out; but they are forever marked.

As he is.

Hyunjin breathes out. He wishes he could remember the passage you read to him. He looks through the book for a few minutes but he cannot, for the life of him, recall what the words were. Idiot.

He closes his eyes. He still hears you breathe, how your voice slightly changed as you got tipsy. He sees the texture of your mint green blouse. Your smile as you took the clients’ orders. He feels your soft skin against his. Your cunt tightening around his cock. Fuck, you came so well. So fiercely. You looked so beautiful doing it, your eyes squinted shut, your lips deliciously parted, begging to be kissed. Hyunjin regrets. And yet he can’t.

He should’ve been more in control. He should have taken the time to tell you what he wants, what he thinks of you. He nearly did, when he gave you the macaron and couldn’t take his eyes off your lips. But he had hesitated, overwhelmed by the past hours in such sudden close proximity with you. And then, when he didn’t hesitate, you kissed him back so eagerly and your body responded to his like you had been waiting for this too. Did you feel it, as he thrust into you, how much he wanted you? How captivating he thought you were, how you occupied his mind, how you were all he saw in this goddamn place and everywhere?

Hyunjin slowly sits on the floor, his back to the wall, the book pressed against his chest.

It was the wine. It was the exhaustion. It made him forget that he wanted, if he ever got the honor to touch you, to make it slow. He wanted to take you somewhere warm and comfortable, to undress you, to worship all the parts of you, to make you come around his mouth, to be both chaste and lewd, to see your smile, to hear you gasp. Instead it had been rushed, messy, and inevitably awkward.

He felt you come. He is sure of it. But what if you didn’t like it? What if the awkwardness turned sour? What if you started to hate him for what happened? What if you never came back here again? That would be the worst of all.

He knows what he should have said. Not people like you, but you. You made this place alive.

Hyunjin breathes out, opens the book in his hands, and starts reading.

He reads it again the next day.

And again the day after that.

You’re standing in the middle of a snow storm.

It is not Wednesday and it is well past opening hours. Still, foolishly, you stare at the front door of the Evermore, as if you are expecting it to open.

You stand there for a few minutes before you shake your head, letting out a shaky, bitter laugh. What are you waiting for? Why are you here? It’s late. It’s cold. The wind whistles in your ears and the snow will bury you if you do not move. You need to go home.

You turn on your heels and stare up at the night sky. It isn’t dark, but rather a strange sort of milky, off white. A few snowflakes hit your eyes and you blink. You sit down on the pavement, letting your eyes fill with tears.

It’s Wednesday night and you didn’t go to the café this afternoon. Instead you paced your apartment wondering if you should go. In the end you didn’t, terrified of what you might find in Hyunjin’s eyes. You regret it. At least you would have known. Now you can just sit here with an empty chest, wondering if he waited for you, wondering if he missed you, wondering if you ruined everything.

Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you try harder?

You shake your head, letting your head fall in your hands. You’re so cold. You forgot to put on a hat and gloves. Your fingers and your ears are bright red. They are slowly freezing. Your heart, too.

“Y/N?”

You lift your head at the sound of Hyunjin’s voice. For a second you stare at the dark, wondering if you just imagined him calling your name. But then you turn your head and see him there, in the café, holding the door open. He seems as shocked to see you as you do him.

“What are you doing here?” you breathe.

You’re sure he won’t hear you above the whistles of the wind, but he does.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

You stare at each other for a few seconds. Then Hyunjin frowns and waves towards the inside of the café.

“Come in. You’re going to freeze to death.”

You’re not sure it’s a good idea, and half of you is still wondering if he’s really there, but you stand up and follow him. He doesn’t comment on your visible tears, or your messy hair. He just closes the door behind you. It’s suddenly so silent.

“It’s so late, Y/N, what are…”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, your voice quivering.

Hyunjin looks up at you with wide eyes. There are barely any lights open in the cafe, but the full moon outside is enough for you to see him well.

“It’s Wednesday,” you say. “I wanted to come but I thought, maybe, you wouldn’t want to see me.”

Hyunjin clenches his jaw, shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because…” You hesitate. “Because of what happened.”

He looks up at you, prudently, and you stare into his eyes, trying to find an answer in them. He makes it difficult, or maybe it’s just your fear blurring the lines for you. Your lips are trembling, and as your fingers slowly warm up, they burn.

“You’re shivering,” Hyunijn winces. “Let’s warm you up first. Take off your coat.”

You nod, following him into the café, away from the cold windows. You leave your coat and boots near the entrance, and Hyunjin hands you a blanket to wrap yourself in. He disappears behind the counter, pouring water in a kettle, and you snuggle on an armchair. Hyunjin keeps his back to you as he prepares a cup of tea, only reappearing a few minutes later.

“Careful,” he warns you softly, settling the steaming mug on the table next to you. “Don’t burn your tongue.”

“Thanks.”

He turns away from you, and on an impulse, you grab the hem of his shirt. It’s a striped sweater vest, beige and navy, worn above a tight long-sleeve, and it feels soft against your fingers.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper. “Can we talk?”

He looks down at your hand. It takes a few seconds, but he smiles.

“Of course we can. Just give me a second.”

You nod, letting him go. He disappears for another minute - when he comes back, he’s holding a mug for himself and a lit candle. He puts it close to you. It smells like pinewood, and makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of a forest.

“I was reading,” he says, sitting down on a chair in front of you. “That’s what I was doing. I lost track of time, it seems.”

You nod timidly. “I know what that’s like.”

A sinking feeling settles in your stomach again. You can’t look at each other. You tell yourself it’s your only chance - you have to know where Hyunjin stands. So you take a deep breath and look up.

As if he read your mind, he looks up too.

Your eyes meet. They stay there.

“I wanted you to,” he says softly. “Of course I wanted you to come.”

Your heart contracts in your chest.

“When you didn’t, I… I thought…” He stumbles on his words. “All I mean is, it’s okay if the other night didn’t mean anything for you.”

It’s sudden, and Hyunjin himself seems surprised by the words that just escaped his mouth, as his eyes slightly widen in panic.

“What I mean is -”

“It does,” you interrupt him.

He frowns, and you take a deep breath.

“It does mean something,” you explain, doing your best to hold up his gaze. “I don’t know what exactly, but it does mean something.”

You stare at him.

“You just confuse me. Because I feel… all those things, and they’re so strong, and I feel… I don’t even know,” you sigh.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. You notice that his hands are grabbing the handles of the armchair tightly. His next words are measured, careful.

“Y/N,” he breathes. “Can I please have a second chance?”

It is so silent around you that you can hear your own heart beating. You can hear Hyunjin breathing. It’s a sweet, gentle sound.

“Let me make it right,” he breathes, springing up from his seat to kneel next to you.

He looks at you with wide, shimmering eyes. His beautiful lips are searching for the right words, with no avail. You extend a shivering hand, cupping his cheek nervously. He leans against it.

“I’ve been craving you all week,” you whisper.

He opens his eyes, and you move from your position to kneel on the carpet next to him, the blanket forgotten behind you. You are not as cold anymore, your body warming in anticipation and desire.

Your fingers trace Hyunijn’s jaw line, and he gently takes your face in his hands, caressing your skin.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nod, closing your eyes as he leans in.

It’s an entirely different kiss. It’s careful, delicate. You drift against him, falling in his arms - but your movements are slow, deliberate. He deepens the kiss as you tilt your head to the right, exploring the plumpness of his lips. You stay like that for an immeasurable amount of time, kissing and softly embracing each other, until you are out of breath and your lips feel raw. Then Hyunjin, putting a gentle hand against your neck, leans it backwards and starts to leave a trail of kisses down your jaw. His tongue swirls against the skin of your neck, all the way to your collarbones, and you arch against his caresses.

You undress each other slowly. You take in the sight of his chiseled chest and smooth skin, which almost seems to glow in the light of the candle. He spends a long time kissing your breasts, brushing his nose against your skin. You let out soft whimpers, your fingers tangling his chocolate hair, teasing his ears, stroking his neck.

“Your skin is so cold,” he breathes, placing kisses against your arms, your fingers.

His hands, sprawled on your stomach and hips, feel so incredibly warm.

“I don’t feel cold,” you tell him with a smile.

He smiles back, moving back on top of you to kiss you. You take the opportunity to unbutton his jeans and push them down, cupping his already hard cock in your hand. Hyunjin twitches slightly, letting out a nervous laugh against your mouth.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “You’re just… You make me go crazy, Y/N. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“So are you, Hyunjin,” you say, placing kisses on his lower lip, on his neck, on his shoulder. “When I’m here I can’t stop looking at you. When I’m not I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Fuck, right back at you,” he laughs, opening his eyes to look at you.

He brushes a few strands of hair away from your face, smiling tenderly.

“You never noticed?” he asks you. “Me staring at you?”

You shrug, playing with his hair. He looks so handsome, on top of you like that, the silver chain around his neck hanging loosely.

“I guess I did sometimes. I just thought you found me weird. Like that day with the ice cubes…”

His cock twitches in your hand and he chuckles embarrassingly.

“Oh God, don’t talk about that day.”

You don’t know what to say, but he smiles at you, his eyes a little darker.

“You made me so fucking horny that day I had to jerk off in the bathroom,” he explains, his voice hoarse. “I wanted to lick all that water off your body so bad…”

It’s your turn to clench, and you bite your lip a little too violently.

“You’re fucking with me,” you say, shaking your head.

“I’m not,” he answers, leaning in to kiss your neck again. “I think about that day all the time. Imagining how sweet you taste.”

His mouth goes up to your earlobe, which he takes in his mouth, sucking it in, and you let out an audible moan, pressing your thighs together and squeezing his cock in your hand at the same time.

He hums, and stands back up to take off his jeans for good; he then removes your pants. Hyunjin immediately descends towards your legs, warming your thighs with his wide hands, and he slowly takes off your panties, discarding them with the rest of your clothes.

You lay under him, completely naked, feeling safe. Hyunjin removes his boxers, and you see the full beauty of him, the angles of his hips, the curve of his cock. You take in the sight, and he does the same. Certainly your eyes must be as dizzy as his are. He tugs at his cock, biting his lip, and smiles at you.

“Spread for me, beautiful.”

You oblige, your pussy twitching as he stares down at you, his face contorted with lust. Hyunjin moves, settling his head between your legs. Your heartbeat accelerates as he kisses the insides of your thighs, slowly leading to your cunt. When he puts his plush lips against you, his tongue pressing against your wet folds, you gasp, your hips thrusting at the touch.

“Hyunjin…” you cry out.

He drinks you in, his tongue plunged into you. His caresses are attentive, and you’re never had someone eat you out this way before. It’s so measured and careful and yet so fervent, almost pious despite the sinfulness of the sound he makes against your cunt. It feels like he’s barely breathing, and you feel your entire body tense as he curls his tongue against your clit, teases your entrance, scoops your folds with his full lips.

You grip the carpet, you shudder, and your orgasm is almost overwhelming. A loud moan escapes your mouth, and your legs shake, almost trapping him between them. When your body relaxes, and your thoughts wander away, you feel Hyunjin leaving kisses on your still trembling thighs. You open your eyes with difficulty, and discern him through the fog. He meets your gaze and smiles, his chin and lips coated in you.

“Kiss me,” you plead, pulling him closer to you.

His lips taste of you, of course, but it’s the feeling of his hardness against your still sensitive cunt that sends a shiver across your body. You’re barely recovering from your orgasm, trying to steady your breathing. Hyunjin strokes your hair.

“I hope that was better,” he whispers.

“Better?” you ask with a frown.

“Than last time.”

“Hyunjin…” you say softly.

You open your eyes, taking his face in your hands so he looks at you, too. His hair is a mess, his lips swollen.

“Last time was amazing,” you tell him. “It was quick, but it was good.”

“It was?” he frowns. “I just thought…”

“I mean, it was for me,” you admit. “It was just another kind of sex, but I loved it. Didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” he says, kissing you softly. “I was just worried I ruined it by acting like a horny teenager.”

“We both acted like horny teenagers,” you chuckle. “It’s okay. I got scared too. I guess it just… made us crave for more.”

He nods, smiling at you.

“Like I haven’t wanted to drown in that pussy for months.”

“Hyunjin!” you cry out with a laugh.

He chuckles, and you feel recovered enough, so you sit up slightly, pushing his chest forward.

“Which makes me think,” you smirk. “There’s also something I’ve wanted to do for months. Sit down.”

You guide him towards the armchair, where he takes a seat, staring at you intently. It’s like he doesn’t want to waste a second looking at something else, and you kneel between his legs, leaning forward to kiss his chest.

His cock doesn’t really need your hand to stand on its own, but you still hold it, your fingers gently stroking its base.

“You don’t have to -”

“I want to,” you tell him. “Don’t you?”

“Is it too intense to say I’ve dreamt about this before?”

You blush a little and place a kiss on the tip of his cock.

“No. I like it.”

Hyunjin smirks, gathering your hair between his long fingers to hold it back from your face. You place your other hand on his thigh, and take him in your mouth. You go as low as you can, swirling your tongue around the length at the same time. As you go back up, you hollow your cheeks a little.

Hyunjin lets out a deep groan, his head falling backwards on the armchair. As you keep bobbing your head around his cock, spit and precum making the act a little sloppy, you look up at him. You could draw each vein in his muscled neck from here. It sends a shiver down to your cunt, and you just have to touch yourself, putting pressure against your swollen clit.

You listen to his breathing, loving how his fingers sometimes pull at your hair a little as he tenses. He bucks his hips sometimes, making you take him deeper in your mouth. You don’t mind - you do your best. He’s making such lewd sounds, moaning your name, and perhaps you’re liking this a little too much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hisses as you accelerate your movements. “Stop, stop, please.”

You remove him from between your lips, and he lets out a chuckle. He looks like he can barely keep his eyes open, his forehead covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“I just - you’re going to make me come, and I want to make this last.”

You place a gentle kiss on his cock. “But I like doing this,” you pout.

Hyunjin lets out a low laugh, placing a finger under your chin to lift your face towards his. He gives you a slow kiss, his tongue toying with yours.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you touching yourself there,” he whispers. “The sight alone could make me blow on the spot.”

“Then I won’t do it again,” you tease.

“I’ll never forgive you if you don’t,” he retorts with a smirk.

He plunges his lips against yours, moving back on the carpet next to you. His warm, long fingers cup your ass, and then slide against your wet folds before he applies sweet pressure. You gasp around his lips, rolling your hips to reach for more. Hyunjin smiles but does not say a thing - he just keeps going, and then pushes two of his fingers inside of you.

“Yes,” you moan, feeling him stretch you.

“So warm,” he whispers. “So tight for me. Fuck, so beautiful.”

“Give me more of you, please,” you breathe.

He starts to fuck you with his fingers, adding another after a few seconds, and you shudder against him. He reaches deep inside of you, and while it’s a delightful sensation, you still want more.

“No,” you whisper. “I want you inside of me.”

He nods, removing his fingers, licking them clean around his tongue. He accompanies you as you lay down against the carpet, a hand against your back. You keep your eyes in his, kept there by an invisible pull, as the tip of his cock brushes against your cunt. You sigh, your hands reaching for him, pushing your fingers in his soft hair.

Hyunjin enters you with a shuddering moan, and he does not stop until he reaches the furthest he can go. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you let out a soft cry. He feels so good inside of you, both lean and hard.

“My beauty,” he whispers in your ear. “Feels so good around me. I’m gonna go slow, I need to feel every inch of you.”

His thrusts are so slow at first it feels like torture of the sweetest kind. You keep arching your back, begging for more, but at the same time it feels so good, so intimate, you can only enjoy every second. Hyunjin fucks you like he’s writing lines of poetry, like he’s making coffee one drip at a time, like he traces intricate patterns in foamy cream.

“I think you were made for me,” he groans. “Or rather, I was made for you.”

You shudder at his words. “Don’t let me go, please. Not ever.”

He keeps whispering things in your ear, things that make sense, things that don’t, and you let him know how he makes you feel, how a part of you lives in him, in this place that is him. Your voices belong to the both of you, to none of the rest.

After a while his thrusts gain in intensity, and you sit up slightly so that you face him, almost sitting on the carpet with him inside of you. The new position allows him to reach new depth, and the feeling of his cock throbbing inside of you, begging to come undone, sends you into a second orgasm. He growls as you clench, shaking his head, sweat pearling on his lips, and you kiss them again and again. You’re lost in pleasure, Hyunjin dancing into you.

He comes not long after, holding you close to him, your forehead against his. You wish you could bottle up every sound he makes, every single breath that escapes his lips, keep it for later. You just listen to them, their memories safely kept in your very heartbeat.

“I love you,” Hyunjin whispers.

It comes out of nowhere and it doesn’t - it really doesn’t.

You smile, grazing your nose against his.

“I love you, too.”

“Hyunjin.”

He blinks at the sound of his name, turning towards Jeongin, who is smiling politely at him.

“Your friend’s here.”

He nods towards the other end of the counter where Seungmin stands, giving him a wave. Hyunjin smiles back, lifting a finger to tell his friend he’ll be there in a minute. Seungmin nods back and heads towards the tables, taking a seat.

Hyunjin prepares two cups of coffee, then takes off his apron and meets Seungmin at the table.

“Thanks for coming, man,” Hyunjin says, taking a seat with a sigh. “I know the café isn’t exactly in your way.”

“That’s fine,” Seungmin answers. “I get free coffee, don’t I?”

“That’s true,” Hyunjin smiles.

“But you work too much, man. You’re here almost every day.”

Hyunjin nods - everyone says that to him all the time. He’s aware of it. But his whole life is the café. He would be nothing without it, and there’s rarely a day he actually forces himself to come to work.

“What can I tell you?” he sighs with a shrug. “I like it.”

Seungmin shakes his head. “I like my job, too, but everyone needs a few days off. Don’t forget there’s a world out there.”

“You sound like you’re going to tell me I need to broaden my horizons, live a little, get laid.”

Seungmin scoffs, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, you do.”

“Next you’ll tell me you know someone I’d like, and you can introduce us?”

“Well…”

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin chuckles.

The latter laughs, putting down his cup and crossing a leg over the other. He looks relaxed, almost detached, but Hyunjin knows him well enough. Seungmin always cares. Hyunjin bites his lip, tapping a finger on his leg. Then, he leans forward, his elbows on the table, and smiles at his friend.

“She’s back.”

“Who?”

“Y’know.”

Understanding flashes in Seungmin’s eyes. “Ice cube girl?”

“Hm.”

Hyunjin told Seungmin about you one drunken night. The two friends were inside a pub, hidden away in a booth, exchanging stories. Seungmin, who had just recently started going out with his girlfriend, started talking about sex. So Hyunjin told him about the sexiest thing he had ever seen. You, with the ice cubes.

“Oh.” Seungmin grins, looking around. “Does she still come every week?”

“Yeah.”

“I think she has a crush on you, man.”

Hyunjin smirks. “I think so, too.”

He can’t help it - he glances at you, who is sitting at your usual table. You’re sipping a simple black coffee, half of an espresso macaron still on your plate. You’re wearing Hyunjin’s favorite sweater, the apricot colored one.

He chose it himself from your closet this morning. Seungmin follows his gaze, and as you feel the two pairs of eyes on you, you lift your head and smile at them. Seungmin waves back, inviting you to join them. You do, Hyunjin holding your hand tightly in his own.

Outside the snow melts under a clear sun, giving way to a hopeful spring.

“Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home — my only home.” — charlotte brontë

• permanent taglist: @ughbehavior ; @upallnight-s ; @changbinluvr ; @rosexjimin ; @nasiaisan ; @lotus-dly ; @cb97percent ; @j-0ne25 ; @hwan-g ; @jhopesucker ; @tanyas97 ; @raspbinniecreme ; @septicrebel ; @imtoooyoungforthisshit ; @sikebishes ; @sai-kida134 ; @sstarryoong ; @oxviolentheartxo (i'm unable to tag you sorry)

#hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin smut #hwang hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x you #hwang hyunjin x y/n #hwang hyunjin smut #skz smut #skz x you #skz x reader #skz x y/n #stray kids smut #stray kids x you #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x reader

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crumbledcastle28 · 1 year

Text

Sebastian Sallow: Atonement

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Summary: Sebastian attempts to make up for some of his recent behaviors.

"Don't look at me like that." "Like what?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly, voice gentle, touch against your cheek even gentler. "Like you're pitying me." His face of kindliness slowly morphed into one of fondness, accompanied by his classic smirk. "Trust me, Y/N," he said as he began leaning into you, stopping your heart. "This is not pity." And he kissed you.

Warnings: characters are AGED UP, bickering, kissing, swearing, mentions of Anne's pain, unlabeled relationship, sort of indefinite ending.

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Sebastian Sallow Hogwarts Legacy has consumed my mind, body, and soul for the last month, and this is what has become of it. I hope you enjoy.

My Writing

If you'd like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

(picture from pinterest he's so aaaaaaa)

Moonlight twinkled through the burgundy stained-glass windows of Professor Bin's classroom. His deep voice bounced across the stone and into your half-dormant brain.

"I want each and every essay sorted alphabetically," he stated, adjusting the bifocals on his nose as he glided past your desk. "Precisely alphabetically."

You rubbed your temples and began to sort through your stack, too weary to even roll your eyes.

"I expect both of your stacks to be done upon my return," he said, drifting out the classroom, mumbling, "now where has that blasted poltergeist gone with the rest of my tea."

You breathed deeply, doing everything you could to focus on the letters swimming in your head, and not the -

"It seems Peeves enjoys Binns' character as much as we do."

- Slytherin seated directly behind you.

You didn't reply. Absorbed only in the students' names on the top of the parchment from decades upon decades ago.

"Just wait until he realizes Peeves hid it under my desk."

Once again, you acknowledged him with only silence.

A minute passed. Two. Three.

"Why does Binns keep essays from thirty years ago?" he spoke again.

Another three minutes. Five. Twenty. Almost twenty-five before Sebastian finally broke the sound of shuffling papers with his voice.

You were betting it would only take him five.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," he practically whined, the sound of his palms slapping onto the dark wood making you smirk devilishly. "Loosen up."

Your mood immediately soured. You turned around, eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flaring.

"Loosen up," you responded, "Excuse me if I do not want to talk to the reason I got detention in the first place."

"How is you falling asleep in class my fault?"

"Because of your obsession with that spellbook."

It was true. Sebastian had pleaded with you to stay up with him until the sun began to rise the night previous in the Undercroft, eyes peeling over every word within Salazar's book, researching words he didn't recognize in what had to have been half the restricted section settled in his lap. You helped him as best you could, attempting not to nod off onto his shoulder every few minutes.

He had never even come close to drifting off. Not once.

Until History of Magic, hence your shared detention.

"Don't pretend like I made you stay down there with me," he countered.

That was also true.

He sighed deeply as his gaze moved away from your own, speech now directed more towards himself instead of you.

"We're so close," he nearly whispered. "I can feel it."

You sighed and turned back around, reminding yourself where you were in the alphabet. A few more minutes passed, the silence now feeling more tense than it had ever been before.

"You're still pissed at me," he said, and you rubbed at your temples once again.

"I'm not pissed at you."

He scoffed a laugh. "I find that hard to believe."

You sighed again and spun around, facing him with softness rather than daggers.

"I am pissed," you stated, "I'm pissed that we're here, I'm pissed that we can't figure it out, I'm pissed that Anne's in pain, I'm pissed that you aren't sleeping, I'm pissed that you are resorting to the dark arts..."

His mouth opened in defense, but you halted him, raising your palm in the air.

"...and I'm even more pissed that they are the only thing that is actually getting us somewhere."

He blinked a few times, allowing your words to wash over him, before his eyes began to dart back and forth. His eyes became accusatory, as well as his tone. "Do you really think me daft enough to have no idea what I'm getting myself into? That I would actually use these spells for myself?"

You gripped onto your wooden seat, brain hunting for a way to describe what you had been perturbed by since you first learned of Anne's case.

You exhaled through your nose, intending for your speech to be as gentle as possible, hoping it was enough. "I think that you aren't aware of how comfortable you are with crossing your own boundaries."

He looked at you as though you had slapped him.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he questioned, slowly rising from his seat and leaning his weight onto his desk.

Your eyes fluttered. "You love her, Sebastian. More than anyone in the world. Love like that can cause people to...to act outside of their normal character if it meant that the person that they loved would be okay."

His breathing began to slowly escalate. "And how am I 'acting outside of my normal character?'"

"You're in possession of a book of dark and powerful spells, Sebastian," you stated, standing from your own chair. Only a desk separated you now. "If you found a spell that could cure her - cure her completely - but it required some kind of twisted ultimatum, you would do it. I know you would."

His chocolate eyes met your own, staring deeply into them. "And you wouldn't?"

You swallowed thickly, voice cracking with emotions you thought you had buried a long time ago. "To save someone I love...I would, Sebastian. Of course I would."

"So what the hell is your point?" he questioned, standing up from his lean to begin walking around his desk, robes flowing behind him.

"My point is that what you're doing scares me," you countered. "The fact that spells that require a cost exist scares me. I know you would go any length to save her, and the fact that the length could be harming yourself or other people scares me."

"But you just said you would do the same," he rebutted, now standing directly in front of you, essays long forgotten. His lips pink as well as his cheeks.

"In your shoes yes, I would. But I'm not in your shoes." You stepped closer to him, his scent of green apple, butterscotch, and a hint of clean linen finding its way into your nose, clouding your brain even more than it already was. "I want to help Anne - of course I want to help Anne - but I will not let you do anything you would regret to get there. I know that's what she would want, and that is what I would want you to do for me."

"What about what I want?" he questioned. "I want her healthy, I want her safe, and I want her happy. Besides, do you honestly think I would hurt someone on purpose? Yes, my emotions are very tied into this, I see your point with that, but I am not a bad person."

You sighed, looking into his eyes painted by moon and candlelight. "I know you're not. I wouldn't be helping you if I thought otherwise."

"Then why are we even having this conversation?" His tone became condemnatory once again, his hands going to his hips as he spoke.

For some reason, that's when you finally broke.

"Because I care about you, Sebastian," you said, your voice carrying through the room with a notable ache. "I care about Anne, but I care about you too. Why the hell do you think I went down with you into the Scriptorium, or stayed up with you until the sun rose in the Undercroft, or persuaded Ominis to help us in the first place?"

His face eased, and his eyes widened, mouth slightly ajar. He stepped closer to you, almost as if he was unable to stop himself.

"Yes it's for Anne. But..." you stopped, rubbing your lips together, attempting to recollect yourself. "...but all of the promises I have made to myself that I have broken have been for you. I won't see you spiral into someone you're not. I won't let you."

You couldn't look at him. You couldn't know what his reaction to your words was. You couldn't handle it. Instead, you let your words hang in the air, and a single tear roll down your cheek, blaming your exhaustion for the sudden admission that you hadn't even accepted yourself.

As the tear rolled down your cheek and your mind tore itself apart, cursing itself for beings so vulnerable, a palm slid itself perfectly against your cheek. It was hesitant, as if waiting for you to slap it away. You gasped quietly, quietly enough for only him to hear. Your eyes snapped up to meet his gaze, which was a lake of emotion as deep as your own.

He was so close to you that each freckle on his face was visible in the yellowed lighting, as well as his still slightly opened mouth, and a look in his eye that you thought you understood immediately.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly, voice gentle, touch against your cheek even gentler.

"Like you're pitying me."

His face of kindliness slowly morphed into one of fondness, accompanied by his classic smirk. "Trust me, Y/N," he said as he began leaning into you, stopping your heart. "This is not pity."

And he kissed you.

At first, you kissed back, letting your body take over for you. Starting soft, merely pecks and short increments of slotting each other's lips over the other's. It wasn't until he separated his lips with his tongue that you came back into consciousness - overwhelmed with the heat of his mouth, the taste of his lips, his robe between your fingers, his chest pressed against your own, the fact that he initiated it.

You couldn't help it. You froze.

"Sebastian," you whispered, eyes widened as if he had just appeared in front of you, and he smiled. His pupils taking over the entirety of his eyes, his lips reddened.

"Shh," he responded, leaning in again. "I know. It's okay."

He kissed you again, and as he wrapped his arms around your waist, you let yourself go.

You allowed his tongue to enter your mouth, giving him a small whine in return. He groaned back, quiet enough for only you to hear, as your kisses deepened and deepened. He kissed you like an artist - like he knew exactly what he wanted you to feel, and knew just the strokes to get you there. He backed you up slowly, likely catching onto your weakening knees, and lifted you by your waist. You gripped onto the hood of his robes as he did this, even as he set you delicately onto the desk.

"I've got you," he mumbled against your mouth, kissing you hard before moving his lips to your cheek, then your jawline, and finally to your neck.

"You smell nice," he whispered against your pulse, kissing and licking everywhere his mouth could reach. Your nails dug into the wood and your mouth went dry, itching to cover yourself with him. You settled with bringing your free hand to the hair at the back of his neck, smiling at its silkiness.

You knew it would be.

"I care about you, Y/N" he said, moving to the other side of your neck. He had managed to slide his hand deep enough into your robes to massage the skin over your ribs, making your toes curl.

"I would never hurt you," he whispered, moving back up to your mouth, pressing kisses to your lips in between his words. "No matter what. No matter what."

You hummed against his lips, happier than you had ever been.

He kissed you again, slowly, in such a cherishing way. Like he had all day, all night, and all of forever to do so. His lips chased your own like he needed you to breathe.

Your hands framed his face and combed through his hair, pulling him so close to you he had to place his hands on the desk to stable himself, when an indistinguishable humming echoed up the Grand Staircase.

Neither of you hesitated, pulling away from each other faster than you could blink, rushing back to your seats, and continuing your alphabetizing.

Professor Binns halted his humming as he glided back into the classroom. "Ah, and how are we doing in here?"

"Nearly halfway done, Professor," Sebastian answered, a newfound depth to his voice so obvious you had to bite your tongue.

"Ah, good, right on schedule," Binns responded, eyeing the clock above his desk. "One more hour and then you are both free to go - as long as the sorting is done, of course."

"Yes, Professor," the two of you responded consecutively. Binns nodded, satisfied.

As Binns began to exit the room once more, he paused suddenly, and turned to look back at you.

"Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yes, Professor," you responded, folding your hands into your lap.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked. "Your neck and cheeks are a bit... flushed."

Your heart stopped for the second time that evening.

"Y-yes, sir," you responded quickly. "I am just a bit warm."

You could feel Sebastian holding back a laugh.

"Well, feel free to take off your top robe," Binns said kindly. "It has been quite a warm winter."

"Thank you, Professor," you responded, and removed your robe, draping it over the back of your chair as Binns left the room.

A minute passed. Two. Three. Before Sebastian cut the air with a snort.

"'Just a bit warm.'"

You turned around and smiled so big your cheeks hurt, face so hot it ached, and laughed with him. "Just a bit."

The two of you laughed and wordlessly went back to your work, alphabetizing faster than you ever had in your life, and occasionally turning to look at the other.

Your smiles lit up the room.

Finally, the clock chimed, signaling another hour had passed, and you tucked your final essay into its spot. Sebastian did the same.

"Right on time," he said, and Binns walked in shortly after to dismiss you both before gliding back down the stairs to the faculty tower.

You gathered your robe in your hand, pulling it onto your shoulders, when a hand on your back halted you.

You turned and were met with Sebastian's lips pressed against your own, and his hands framing your face.

The two of you kissed for a few seconds, pulling away and smiling once or twice, before he pressed his forehead against yours, rubbing your noses together.

"I am sorry you got detention," he said, looking into your eyes. "I hope I have atoned for it."

You smiled, and kissed his cheek.

"And I hope you know that...that you can trust me. I don't want to hurt people, or myself, I want Anne cured." He paused, rubbing his thumb along your cheekbones. "But I also want you. I hope I have proven that."

You smiled, and kissed his mouth.

"You have, Sebastian. You have."

Tag list:

@leahkenobi

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow x reader #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow oneshot #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #harry potter fanfiction

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delulu4dean · 1 year

Text

“Five Gum…”

Warnings: idk, cringe outdated pop culture references. Gender neutral terms(just wanting you so you don’t get like confused <3 )

Pairings: Cas X autistic!reader(platonic), Dean x child!reader

Summary: Castiel is hanging out with Dean’s autistic child, and they have a lot in common.

Word Count: 1,278

Your dad, Dean Winchester, is out on a hunting trip with your Uncle Sammy. He left you alone with Castiel. You don’t know what Castiel is to your dad, they say they’re best friends, but the way they look at each other says more.

You didn’t mind being at the bunker with Cas though. Out of everyone, you got along with him the most. You had some sort of mutual understanding that Sam and Dean don’t get. You assumed it’s because Castiel didn’t know much about human interaction, social cues, pop culture references, and you were well, autistic. Your dad has made the joke that you and Castiel tilt your head the same way when you’re confused, and both don’t understand his sarcasm, and how even though your Dean’s kid, you’re a mini-Cas.

“So what are we doing today?” Castiel asks you.

“I know my dad is protective, but you really don’t need to babysit me, I’m 18. I am an adult,” you explain to Castiel.

“That’s not why he leaves me with you, he just doesn’t want you to get lonely.”

You nod, understanding. Today you’re probably going to do what you and Cas always do, exist next to each other while doing your own things. He’ll be reading something, you’ll be drawing something, and occasionally you two will look at each other, and ask how it’s going. It’s always worked that way.

And that is what you do today. You both go to the library together, Castiel picks out a book, you pull out your sketchbook, and you start doing what you learned is called “parallel play.” At least that’s what it’s called in kids, but you figured the term can be applied here too. You start sketching away as Castiel looks at you, narrowing his eyes.

“You wear that jacket all the time, why?” he asks.

“It brings me comfort. You wear that trench coat all the time, even indoors when you don’t need to. Why is that?” you throw the question right back at him.

“I suppose it also brings me some sense of comfort,” he concludes.

You nod, satisfied with his answer, and go back to sketching, as he goes back to his book. The only sounds filling the room are Castiel’s occasional page flipping, and your constant scribbling. This goes on for half an hour, only to be interrupted by your stomach erupting in hunger. Castiel does not say a word, as he gets up and goes to the bunker’s kitchen, and comes back with a prepackaged peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Oh thanks. When did we get these?” you raise an eyebrow.

“I got them the last time I went grocery shopping with your dad. He said you were having trouble eating because the foods we’ve been getting weren’t the right texture, and I remember when I was human I loved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, you can never go wrong with them. But I know you sometimes just want ready made food, and when I saw these in the freezer section, I told Dean to get them.”

A smile comes across your face as you open the packaging and take a bite. These prepackaged peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were one of your safe foods, your other one being boxed mac and cheese. You bounce happily as you eat, something you do whenever you’re eating food you really like. And if it’s super good, you’ll kick your feet a little too.

You lick your fingers after you finish your sandwich, and sign “thank you” in ASL, something you do when you don’t feel like talking much. It’s a thing you do with everyone, you’ve taught them basic signs like “yes” or “no” or “please” or “thank you” or “food” or “water” to communicate when you don’t feel like talking.

“No problem,” Cas responds, smiling at you.

You nod and get back to your little activity while Castiel gets back to his. The silence is nice, you get to focus on you sketch, which is a picture of Castiel sitting down in his chair, reading. You occasionally glance up at him, getting the details you need, but you’re not going for realism. You have your own cartoonish art style and you’re drawing Castiel in it. Once you finish, you show him, and a big smile appears on his face as he puts down his book.

“You drew that? That’s me,” he says, and you nod. “I love it.”

You smile and start putting your art supplies away, as he goes back to reading. You clean up your space and put everything back in your room, before returning to Cas. You look over his shoulder at the book he’s reading, trying to not disturb him. He flips through the pages as he reads. But the page flipping and the silence get too much.

“Dicks out for Harambe,” you blurt out, not thinking.

Castiel once again sets his book down, this time not intending to pick it back up, as he looks up at you concerned. You didn’t think before speaking, but being on the internet you hear this phrase a lot. So you said it, and now Castiel is concerned.

“Who is Harambe and why are we exposing ourselves for him,” Castiel asks.

You think for a moment, wanting to answer him, but there’s no way to answer him without sounding stupid and insane. You take a deep breath, giggling a little at the thought of explaining “dicks out for Harambe” to Castiel.

“It’s an internet thing. This gorilla, Harambe, was killed, so we uh, expose ourselves, as you put it, to pay respects to him,” you attempt at an answer but Castiel furrows his eyebrows, getting even more confused.

“How is that paying respect?”

“Well it isn’t… it’s a joke…”

“I thought jokes were supposed to be funny,” he bluntly says.

“It is… to younger people I guess,” you shrug.

“And you said it because…?”

“I said it to fill the silence.”

Cas takes a moment to think, nodding, taking in what you just explained. He then takes his phone out and types away and you look at him, waiting for him to say or do something. He pats the seat next to him and you sit and look at his phone. It’s one of those fruit sensory videos on TikTok that you got Castiel into. Not the baby videos(well they are the baby videos) but the ones to popular music. You and Castiel watched as blueberries and strawberries bounce around the screen to Lincoln Park’s “Numb.”

“Why are we watching this?” you finally ask.

“You seemed like you needed something stimulating to watch or listen to,” Cas answers you.

“That reminds me,” you say, running to your room to grab something quick.

✰✰✰✰✰

Sam and Dean walk into the bunker, and as soon as they see everything, they just look around, confused. The ground is covered in bubble wrap, and the map table is full of Pop-it fidgets. You look up at your uncle and dad, as you and Cas run around barefoot on the bubble wrap, playing with the fidgets.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks.

You look up at him, with an innocent smile on your face.

“Five gum!” you yell at him, throwing a pop-it fidget at him, and he catches it. “Stimulate your senses!”

“I think they are making a joke, because this is a way to stimulate our feeling sense, which is something people on the spectrum often do,” Castiel explains to Dean.

“Yeah, I know what they meant, Cas,” Dean chuckles. “You two have fun while we were gone?”

You and Cas both nod.

✰✰✰✰✰

A/N sorry if this is silly, I’m autistic and Kin cas so I thought it would be fun to do Cas and Dean’s autistic kid. But autism is a spectrum! While this may be how autism is for me, it doesn’t represent everyone with autism :)

#castiel #castiel supernatural #castiel x y/n #castiel x reader #dean x child!reader #dad!dean #supernatural #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester x you

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femmeanonymelives · 1 year

Text

Steven Grant x Vampire!Reader Headcanon

This is NSFW. 18+ stuff y'all. Minors please find something family-friendly. Warning: This is contains a vampire. Blood/gore, sexual content, public sexual content, and Steven being a horny over a Vampire.

Note from Ari: This is my very first time in years trying to write smut. I was inspired by the many AI Steven bots. The Vampire!Steven one by @melodygatesauthor helped out a lot, and the many, many Boyfriend erotic audios on Quinn.

He meets you at a library that is open 24 hours a day.

You stand there in the history section, wearing a dark colored leather trench coat and floral dress. Your skin is pale, but still appears human. The rest of your appearance is almost human-like.

Steven is shy when approaching you.

Women like you terrify him.

Marc and Jake tell him to go for it. If he doesn’t they will.

He approaches you with a shy hello. You turn him to say hi.

He asks what is your favorite period in history.

You tell him during the Victorian era and give your explanation why.

Mostly because you were a baby vampire during that time, but you didn’t tell him that.

You gave the normal history buff shepile.

You are worried that he might think you are a freak.

He doesn’t.

Two of you share dinner at a local late-night diner.

You kept staring at his neck. Looking at the veins. Wondering what would happen if you sink your fangs in.

No. He is a nice guy. A human. He is actually normal

Steven asks why your eyes went dark and bloodshot.

You leave him in the diner and run to a nearby alley.

He follows you. He sees your fangs.

“It is not what it looks like.”

“You are a vampire.”

“I am not going to hurt you.”

He moves up closer to you, touching your face. “How old are you?”

“I am 23 years old, but I have been that age since 1850.” Steven isn’t frightened of you; he is worried.

Marc and Jake are freaking out. “You need to leave her now.” “She is not worth the hassle. She will kill us.”

Steven kisses you instead and you kiss him back. Marc and Jake freaking out wondering what the hell is wrong with Steven.

His tender touches make you feel like you are human again.

You are with your back against the wall. Your lips against his neck as your fangs pierced in his neck.

He groans loudly, but not in pain; in pleasure.

You start drinking his blood as you feel him press his erection against you; trying to get himself some sort of relief.

You pull yourself off his neck. He stares in complete lust as he stares at your blood-stained lips and chin.

He takes you back to his place.

His flat is scattered with books. Mostly from Egyptian history and journals.

You started to really fall for him.

You both take off each others’ clothes.

You trace the bite mark on his neck with your finger. He tells you he liked being bit by you.

You straddle his hips as you start to ride him.

His flat fills with skin slapping against skin, moans from the both of you.

He begs for you to bite him when you come as he starts pounding his cock deeper and deeper inside you.

You tell him no. You didn’t want to lose control.

He whimpers to you that he will tell you to let go of him.

You bite into his neck as you cum.

Steven whimpers and moans loudly as you bite into him again.

His arms wrap around you tightly as he can keep you close to you.

Grinding your hips into his as you ride out your orgasm.

His thrusts become deeper and sloppier as he whimpers out that he is close.

You pull your mouth from him as he marks your neck and breasts with love bites.

He cums inside you and hard.

You bite your wrist and give him your blood so his neck wound can heal.

He pulls out and gets a washcloth to clean you up.

You ask if he is okay as you trace over the scar on his neck where you bite him earlier.

He responds that he is okay.

You notice his accent is more American, not British.

“Steven? You okay?”

“I am not Steven.. My name is Marc, and we need to talk.”

#steven grant fanfic #steven grant x reader #steven grant smut #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfic #vampire!reader #moon knight smut

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i-hate-accidents · 5 months

Text

i hate accidents: the ball

femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington

summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son

sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball

y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents

content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, intersectional low self-image of y/n, positive/supportive families, nondescript mention of gagging (not related to self-image) in [III.iii], sexually charged 18+ interactions in middle to end of [III.iv]—minors dni, please stop at the end of the paragraph that begins "you repeat his words with sped up mockery"; you may resume at "you jut out your hip"

word count: 15.7k (of 38.8k)

story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.

tagged: @omgsuperstarg @stvrdustalexx @bedobeeeee @crazymar15 @kahhorri @mayalopes @benedictbridgertonss @athensflower @02wrldz @queerlavalier @merlslrem @pillsbury-doughgirl @lamourdure3ans and all who have read either/both sections one and two—thank you. <3

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“you look like a princess, y/n!” hyacinth squeals in delight.

“i regret not being of age yet to attend balls,” gregory sighs. “i would have been honored to ask you for your first dance.”

you beam at the youngest bridgertons with all the fondness in your heart. judith, an elderly maid of number five, had attempted to dispel hyacinth and gregory from the room as your hair was done, but you had asked her to please allow them to stay. the two kept you at ease throughout the foreign process, and their sweet sincerity kept you grounded amidst the anxiety that still floods your veins.

“you are both too kind. and fear not; tomorrow morning we will have a ball all of our own,” you lean in for a whisper, them following suit to listen. “and perhaps we will need the talents, and bravery, of a young sorceress and a young knight to save the guests from the intrusion of an unruly wyvern.”

“you promise?!” hyacinth and gregory yell at the same time. you hold out your pinky finger, just as you used to do with your siblings, and the two young ones wrap their pinkies around yours.

“i promise.”

“you are all done, miss y/l/n,” says alice, placing the last pin into your hair. she steps back and curtsies. her formality towards you renders you uneasy; she treats you as above her but you are of the same world. you school your facial features from showing your unease; you do not want to upset her or have her wrongly think that she has done something wrong.

“no need to call me ‘miss.’ i am simply y/n!” you grin at alice. “a friend.”

she smiles, albeit a bit sheepishly.

“of course, y/n. are you ready to see yourself?”

you shudder in a breath. you had asked not to be prepared in front of a mirror. to have seen your transformation so readily reflected at you at every point of this process—

you exhale frantically. the maids and genevieve had graciously accommodated your wishes, both going so far as rearranging this room and her fitting room to avoid any lines of your sight with a potential reflection; you were, and are, utterly grateful.

but i am unable to delay the inevitable any longer.

standing up and squaring your shoulders, you give alice a feeble nod. she bows her head in response, a small, encouraging smile on her lips, and leads you to the mirror as hyacinth and gregory turn in their seats to watch you cross the room.

it is just a dress. it is just a tiara, and just some jewelry, and just some gloves, and just some shoes, and just a bit of makeup. it is just you. it is still you. be the courageous person you are, y/n.

or—

just before you see even a miniscule bit of your reflection in that accursed mirror, you shut your eyes tight.

—be a coward.

you continue step by agonizing step, approximating where the mirror is, and shudder in another breath.

perhaps i am being too dramatic. perhaps i can faint and feign illness. perhaps i shall run away by way of the nearest window. perhaps i—

“the mirror is to your left, y/n; whenever you are ready,” coaxes alice.

you exhale once more.

or perhaps, i should open my eyes.

and so you do.

oh.

“oh,” you say aloud.

the person you see in the gilded full-length mirror is, somehow, a complete stranger and entirely you.

the one time you’ve worn makeup before was for your elder sister’s wedding: a bit of your mother’s rouge on your cheeks and lips to have some color to your otherwise dull face. now, your cheekbones glow with a blush much more complimentary to your complexion than a mere red as your lips shine with a gossamer of a similar shade. entirely new to you are the glimmering minerals on your eyelids that magically bring attention to your eyes and make them shine like starlight.

your eyebrows have been plucked (much to your initial pain but your current appreciation), maintaining their shape and fullness but now without strays.

soft tendrils of curls frame your face, and your hair—normally worn down when not working—has been pulled back into a loose coiffure and styled with sprigs and small blooms, the crown of your head graced with a silver tiara.

“this,” violet smiled fondly when she first set the tiara on top of your head, “is the tiara i wore to my first ball after my presentation. i had insisted on keeping it, thinking i could pass it on to my daughter when her first ball had come. but daphne was resolute on having her own tiara, and eloise was resolute on not wearing any,” violet laughed, her eyes shining when they connected with yours, “i see now, though, perhaps it was always meant to be yours.”

“violet, i— i cannot wear this. it is too— it’s too—”

sumptuous? opulent? regal?

no.

well, yes, the tiara is all those things. but those were not what had concerned you then. it’s too—

“beautiful,” you admitted quietly.

something as beautiful as that surely does not belong on the head of someone like you.

“well,” violet smiled, “then you are merely proving my point, my dear. it perfectly suits you.”

you hold out your hands, flare out your fingers, and stretch out your arms, examining the dark forest green of your long satin gloves, mesmerized that a muted color with such depth and richness could be achieved through dyes.

moving your hand, you touch one of the small rosewhite pearls adorning your earlobes and, with your other hand, touch the inky oblong pearl that shimmers violet, indigo, and green as it hangs from the thin, black velvet choker around your neck.

“my dear,” mama appeared in your doorway one evening as you wrote at your table, “do you require jewelry for your occasion?”

“oh. i suppose i do? i hadn’t given it much thought.” jewelry had been the last thing on your mind of things that terrified you of the impending ball.

“well, if you have not been offered anything by the bridgerton family yet, i thought— i thought perhaps you might like these.”

she approached you, a small wooden box in her hand, and placed it on your table. taking the box into your hands, you looked at it and then up at mama. she smiled at you but something of her countenance seemed strained. nervous. you offered her a smile in an attempt to assuage whatever concerns preoccupied her mind and, turning back to the box, unclasped it open.

“these are the earrings and necklace i wore when i married your papa. they were gifts from your grandmama that were gifts from her mama. i had tried giving them to your sister when she was to be married, but she thought… they are plain, nothing like what those fashionable people wear, i am certain; but if you have nothing else, i—”

you shot up from your seat, throwing your arms around your mama, feeling how she reeled from the ferocity of your sudden embrace, as you clutched onto the box of her wedding jewelry.

“they are beautiful, mama,” you said quietly but emphatically as the vehemence of your emotions tried to trap your words in your throat. “they are the most beautiful things i have ever seen, and i am so— i am so honored to be bestowed with the blessing of wearing them, and of wearing them proudly. thank you.”

you heard how mama sniffed her nose, and how she tried to hide it, as she gently rubbed your back, as she always had in your moments of vulnerability.

“i love you, my child.”

“i love you, mama.”

you then touch your exposed shoulders. the neckline of your dress, nowhere near your neck, follows the curved peaks of your breasts to meet and form a small v-shape in the crevice of your bosom.

“where is the chemise?” was the first thing you had said when you first tried on the gown at the modiste.

genevieve grinned.

“there is none.”

your jaw dropped.

“then what of a stay? what sort of stay would be worn with this?”

turning slightly, and noting your rather bare upper arms in the process, you angle your exposed back towards the mirror. another v-shape, its furthest point down a third of your bare spine.

“my dear, both you and i know that you already know the answer to your inquiry.”

“oh, my good g—”

never, in your life, has the expanse of your upper body been so naked and on display than in this ball gown.

“i do not mean to doubt your artistry, genevieve; truly!, the dress is magnificent, but—” you turned to kathani, who had exclaimed and clapped with immense delight upon seeing you in the gown, “is this—— permissible?”

the viscountess had arched an eyebrow at you then.

“y/n y/l/n, concerned with the rules of society? and of high society, at that?”

“no— no!” you yelled all too loudly as genevieve chortled and placed pins for final alterations into the dress. “i just, i just do not want to embarrass you and your family, is all.”

you had not meant for your voice to come out so quiet and small. the older women’s faces softened immediately.

“you could never embarrass us, y/n,” kathani stated with such tenderness. then she smiled. “you look beautiful.”

the off-white base layer of the dress feels luxurious against your skin, the fabric hugging your upper body, puffing out at the sleeves, and, from the underbust, flowing and falling into a cone silhouette for the skirt—but what truly awes you is the artistry of the outermost layer. a cream translucent silk, the piña seda (you recall genevieve proudly naming it as) of the outermost layer glistens while you sway and turn your body, light shifting and transforming the ever beauty of the dress, the swish of the skirt moving like how waves are described in the passages of your books and in the reminiscing of your parents’ memories. lined at the underbust begins the intricate thicket of embroidered foliage, painstakingly threaded with innumerable shades of greens and blues, a shimmering teal threaded throughout to gleam in tandem with the sheen of the fabric. the embroidery of foliage then grows and thickens as it cascades down the middle of the dress and comes to an encircling end a few inches above and around the floor-length hem. in the negative space of the piña seda are spread out, small ivory embroideries of floral motifs.

it is a dress deserving of someone most beloved in titania’s garden court.

“indeed,” genevieve affirmed, a smile on her lips akin to kathani’s. “those in attendance will not be prepared. you will look the most beautiful of all.”

and perhaps…

perhaps you should be unnerved by how different your dress will be from the others’ of the ton. perhaps you should be unnerved by how easily you will stand out from the crowds. perhaps you should be unnerved by the attention, the whispers, the stares you will inevitably receive with your dress, with your appearance, with your presence, with your very existence. but, instead—

“i do look like a princess,” you say finally. quietly.

you do look beautiful.

like you could belong amidst the ton.

like you could belong with the bridgertons.

like you could belong with him.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“are you anxious, y/n?”

you turn to gregory at your side and see the swell of worry in his eyes.

“what gives you that impression?”

“you are shaking terribly,” hyacinth comments from your other side, replacing her usual pluck and wit with a worry akin to her brother’s.

the two had volunteered to escort you from the dressing room that you had been prepared in to the grand staircase of number five. with their arms hooked around yours, gregory on your left and hyacinth on your right, the youngest bridgertons have been walking you down the corridor. your heart aches with anguish: you know you have failed when the children are the ones to care for the adult.

“i am sorry to have concerned you both. yes, i— i am anxious.”

“it is reasonable to be anxious. but there are a great many cakes at these balls, or so i’ve heard, so you can eat one, and then another, to help ease your nerves!”

“how is that of any help, gregory.”

“it is plenty of help!”

“to eat and eat when she is already uneasy? the last time you were uneasy, you nearly—”

“do not recount that in front of y/n!”

“why not!”

“it is not— it is not proper!” gregory’s voice jumps in pitch, causing a swift blush to form on the apples of his cheeks. hyacinth snorts.

“why does your voice do that?”

“i do not know! kate said it is natural for bo— for young men to experience such a thing!”

“aren’t young men meant to be tall?”

“i am an inch taller than you now!”

“you are not!”

“i am too!”

you laugh. the youngest bridgertons halt their dispute and look at you.

“i must say, your usual squabbling is keeping me much at ease,” and you offer a sympathetic smile to gregory. “i am sorry that it seems to be at your expense, however.”

his eyes shine.

“you need not worry about me! i am glad to see you smile.”

“i as well,” hyacinth adds. you turn to her and see how her eyes shine too.

“i am most grateful to you both for being at my side on such a night.”

“we are most grateful for you, y/n.”

“that is something, and probably the singular thing, hyacinth and i can agree upon.”

you plant soft kisses on the tops of their heads, just as mama and papa and your elder sister had done when you were their ages. gregory and hyacinth nestle their heads into your upper arms and only part from you when the three of you reach the top of the first set of steps.

“are you ready?”

though you wish to say ‘no,’ you brace yourself with a deep inhale and nod.

your heart quickens with each step as time around you slows. your mouth has gone dry, and your body feels entirely numb, sensation only returning to you when you feel hyacinth and gregory unhook their arms from yours. turning your head, you see them stepping backwards, away from you, leaving you at the center of the landing to the rest of the grand staircase. you face forward once more, and ahead, below, you see the gentlemen and ladies of bridgerton house, waiting for you, looking at you.

you swallow.

for the very first time, in your dress, by yourself, you take a step forward.

breathe, y/n. shoulders back; tilt your chin up, but not too much; just as kathani had taught you. and just, breathe.

but it is hard to breathe with all eyes on you. with—

i must control myself. i must not seek him out. i must not seek out his face. i must not seek out those o—

you step on the hem of your dress and feel yourself start to fall forward. thankfully, god, for whatever reason, has blessed you with enough dexterity in this very moment, and you manage to catch yourself from tumbling down the steps as you hear gasps from above and below you. you mumble an apology (you don’t know why; it is not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear) and offer everyone a smile. upon seeing their relaxed shoulders and reassured expressions, you continue to descend the staircase.

stupid benedict. distracting me in remembering how to walk, and how to breathe, and how to—

oh.

i am doing it again.

shit.

goddamnit, stupid benedict!

somehow, you reach the landing of number five’s entrance hall without any additional accidents and, approaching the bridgertons, immediately look to the viscountess. as if knowing you seek her approval, kathani nods her head; a beam illuminates her countenance. you feel yourself ease, your shoulders relaxing (that you promptly square again; you are, after all, pretending to be a lady for the night), your heart racing less, if only minutely, and manage a smile. you feel someone take hold of your gloved hand and, turning to face the source, see violet gazing at you.

“beautiful.”

it is all she says, but with such tenderness in her voice, it makes your heart swell.

“the importance of appearance,” rasps eloise, causing you to turn to her, “and the lengths gone to achieve so-called perfection of such, especially for those of feminine disposition, is an entirely antiquated, offensive concept that must be eradicated from our, and all, societies—— but you do, look, beautiful, y/n.”

you grin.

“we’ll eradicate it together; and with help along the way, i am certain.”

when she responds in kind, you turn to the gentlemen, and, to your mortification, colin and anthony bow at you. the high society etiquette directed towards you from your friends overwhelms you with an embarrassment that you cannot even begin to fathom; they haven’t performed such formalities towards you since your first meeting all those months ago. but, in spite of your horror, the sincerity of their intentions, as well as their countenances, touches you deeply.

“madame delacroix and the maids have outdone themselves,” remarks anthony. “as mother and eloise have said, you look beautiful, y/n.”

“indeed,” colin beams. when he turns to benedict, however, his smile transforms into an expression befitting of a fairytale creature; one with mischievous intentions. “what say you, brother?”

you follow his line of sight and connect with ocean eyes. the flood of self-consciousness and the tempo of your heartbeats magnify hundredfold under his gaze, the butterflies within you fluttering the most violently they ever have, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze.

anthony, with what looks like a smirk, nudges his brother with his elbow. as if suddenly aware of where he is, benedict hastily bows at you and, returning his ocean eyes to yours, says,

“you look— well.”

you hear eloise snort. turning your head towards her, you see she has completely sucked in her lips. to her left, kathani smiles massively. to kathani’s left, violet remains ever poised but with wide, sparkling eyes. you still feel self-conscious but are infinitely amused by whatever is happening to the bridgertons and, with a playful smile on your lips, return your gaze to benedict.

“thank you, mr. bridgerton. i had felt uneasy with an unnerved stomach earlier, but i am glad to know that my health appears to be in proper order.”

and you deeply curtsy at him.

from above you hear the sweet giggles of the youngest bridgertons. ahead, in your periphery, you see how anthony closes his eyes as he sucks in air through his nostrils and how colin, with an unabashed laugh, clasps his hand onto benedict’s shoulder.

“well!” anthony booms, attempting to control his smile on what ought to be an authoritative expression. “i believe we have a ball to commence. shall you lead the way, viscountess?”

and with an expression both equal in authority and warmth, kathani declares,

“i shall.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you had grown ease of mind knowing that you would not be asked to dance. not only were you a stranger to everyone in the ton aside from the bridgertons and penelope, you were also not handsome like the debutantes flitting about the room, swishing prettily in their gowns, strategically but delicately fluttering their eyes at a gentleman with which they wished to dance. with anonymity and a plain face, you enjoyed the haven of people observing, snickering at the artifice and smiling at the sincerity. kathani chatting with her guests. anthony standing by her side. penelope dancing with colin. eloise hiding behind a plant. violet beaming at her family. (you tried to convince yourself that you had not noticed the absence of a particular person.) your nerves have finally begun to calm, finding content in your station at the margins of the dance floor.

when colin bridgerton approaches you, hand outstretched in your direction, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“miss y/l/n, may you do me the honor?”

“i’m sorry, what?”

he laughs.

“will you dance with me?”

you gape at him.

“you’re mad.”

“my mind is perfectly intact.”

“this is unwise.”

“this is the best decision i have made this night.”

“i shall surely step on your toes.”

“i have worn my sturdiest shoes for the occasion.”

the corners of your mouth tug down into a moue at the third bridgerton’s stubborn charm. his grin merely widens as your eyes narrow to slits at him. penelope approaches from behind the beguiling imp and smiles warmly at you.

“it will be fun,” she encourages. “i promise.”

penelope! no!

“et tu, brute?” you bemoan.

she shrugs.

“what is a ball without dancing?” penelope offers. sweet innocence colors her voice, but the delighted glint in her eyes reveals her true duplicitous nature. she knew exactly how to play the game of this conversation, no doubt a devious plot concocted between her and her beau.

you sigh.

“fine,” you huff, slapping your hand into colin’s palm. “i would be honored, mr. bridgerton.”

the diabolical duo laughs at the sarcasm that drips from your words as colin leads you to the lineup on the dance floor.

–

“how is the dance treating you, miss y/l/n?”

“i hate you.”

colin guffaws. (you see in your periphery how heads shift towards him and how eyes narrow at you. the partner you had just left looks at you with particular scrutiny.)

“if your hatred towards me is the cost of you enjoying the ball, then it is a burden i shall carry, and happily so.”

“has anyone ever told you how infuriating you bridgertons are?”

“no, but we very well know that we are,” he grins, “and we take immense pride in it.”

you groan, throwing your head back. (you hear murmurs around you. not ladylike.)

“are you truly not having fun?” the gentleness in his voice makes you look back at him. his expression is soft. sad. guilty. “we can leave the lineup, if that is what you would like.”

you consider his words and his offer.

“i am having fun,” you reply truthfully. his eyes light up at that and your heart warms at the sight. “it is just— being in a circumstance so wholly unfamiliar— it’s overwhelming, is all, i think. but…” you feel a smile form on your lips, “knowing that you all—as infuriating as you bridgertons are—are here with me, by my side, wanting me to enjoy myself, wanting me to be happy, it makes all the overwhelming feeling worthwhile. i am happy. you all make me happy.”

colin doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you as the two of you dance still. you are about to inquire—

“i am grateful to call you my friend, y/n. becoming your friend has been one of the greatest blessings to have been bestowed upon me and my family.”

you suck in a breath.

as is becoming yours has been one of mine.

but another thought also lives in your mind. so, on the exhale of your breath, you smirk.

“only second to falling in love with penelope, yes?”

he laughs, an uncharacteristic shy smile forming on his lips as he looks at his feet and then back at you, eyes shining incandescently.

“i hope you do not take offense to being second.”

“being second to penelope is truly, sincerely, still a victory in of itself. you are very blessed, indeed, to be her premier.”

you did not think colin’s eyes could shine brighter than they had mere moments prior, but you suppose— no, you are certain that this is the effect that the love of penelope featherington has on the third eldest bridgerton: the light in colin’s eyes is absolute radiance.

“‘very blessed’ is to put it very lightly.”

with unabashed grins, you and colin continue to dance. you have to walk most of the steps, often keeping good on your promise and stepping on his toes, but your partner is deterred neither by your incompetence nor by his injuries. the two of you laugh (drawing leers from the other guests, you notice but brush off) and end your dance with exaggerated flourishes of a curtsy and a bow to one another.

“you underestimate your dancing skills, miss y/l/n,” colin remarks with a beam.

“see if you feel the same after tending to your bruises, mr. bridgerton,” you beam back.

“colin bridgerton!”

you both whip your gazes to the call of colin’s name and see a man fastly, eagerly approaching.

“hastings!”

hastings? why does that sound familiar?

colin and the absurdly handsome man embrace, smiles broad and sincere.

“i was uncertain you would be joining us on this occasion.”

“we would have seen to arriving early, as we had intended, but augie is proving to be quite unpredictable with his tantrums as of late.”

“he must take after his uncles,” colin smirks with odd pride. that makes the other man chuckle.

“unfortunately, it seems to be so.”

he then shifts his gaze onto you. his expression is curious and— sweet? kindly. you feel yourself become rather self-conscious as you notice, in your periphery, colin assuming a posture of gentlemanliness.

“my apologies for my dreadful manners. simon, this is miss y/n y/l/n. y/n, this is simon basset.”

simon bows most graciously at you.

“good evening, miss y/l/n. it is a true pleasure to finally meet you. i am simon basset, daphne’s husband.”

daphne?

as in daphne bridgerton?

you recall the day you and benedict toured the art gallery: a portrait, a fairly recent one, it seemed, of a beautiful young woman and a beautiful young man—the duchess and the duke of hastings, the plaque read.

your jaw drops.

“you are the duke!” you remember the etiquette kathani taught you. “your grace!” and you sloppily curtsy.

simon laughs.

“that is hardly necessary. please, if you feel comfortable in doing so, call me simon.”

“yes— of course!, your— simon,” you compose yourself. “and you may call me y/n; i would prefer it, actually.”

simon grins.

“then, y/n, may i have the honor of having your next dance?”

your jaw drops again, your composure completely falling away. you look at simon, who is utterly amused by your reaction, and then to colin, who is utterly delighted by the turn of events, and back to simon.

“that is a mistake.”

that earns guffaws from both of the men. (you feel stares falling upon them and, once again, scowls falling upon you.)

“i am more than willing to make that discovery for myself, if you will allow it.”

you throw back your head (ignoring the additional glares shot your way) and, with a sigh, whip it back to look at simon with a fatigued, but earnest, smile.

“i shall allow it.”

colin bows his head at you, his grin having never left his countenance since the end of your dance together, and steps to the side as you place your hand into simon’s outstretched one and are led to the next lineup by the duke.

–

“has the duchess accompanied you to the ball this evening?”

“while it is poor courtesy to speak on behalf of my wife when she can speak for herself, i can say, with confidence, that she would much rather you call her daphne.”

“kathani had taught me your society’s etiquette in preparation for the ball, in the event it would be necessary,” you roll your eyes. “while i find it all utterly ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary for me in particular, i want to honor the knowledge that my teacher has bestowed upon me as a way to honor her.”

simon grins.

“you are a dedicated student. indeed, she is in attendance. the last i had seen her, she was tending to benedict.”

your heart sinks.

oh no.

“tending to benedict? is he unwell? did something happen? is he all right?”

you hear how your voice rises in pitch and grows louder and more frantic with each word. (you try not to care for the stares that you feel on you. they are not of importance right now——or ever.)

is that why i have not seen him all night? because he is in poor condition? shall i leave the ball? shall i see where he is being tended to? shall i—

“y/n?”

oh. yes. you were having a conversation with simon.

“sorry, what did you say?”

“i had said that i did not mean to worry you,” simon says sincerely, but there is something in his smile. not suspicious, neither mocking nor teasing. it is as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotion. “i simply mean that she is speaking with him and— encouraging him, is all.”

you feel the entirety of your body, mind, heart, and soul ease; but now, you are perplexed.

“encouraging him? whatever for?”

“i had not stayed with them long enough to hear the details of their conversation; i had sought you out rather immediately.”

“me!”

the dance had timed perfectly that upon receiving such information, you are forced to turn to another partner (who is unnerved to have you as a temporary companion). when you reunite with simon, his chuckling has mostly subsided.

“indeed. the viscount had encouraged me to ask you for a dance. the viscountess then stated that you required the practice.”

“i—— am utterly lacking in words in how to respond to that.”

“if it is of any comfort to you, it was something i had already intended on doing.”

“that is, rather strange?”

he grins.

“i can see how that is so from your perspective, yes. but from mine,” and it surprises you how suddenly simon’s countenance softens, “i had to find out for myself how wonderful this y/n y/l/n is to have so easily won the affections of all the bridgertons at number five. daff and i, as well as francesca, were becoming quite jealous that we did not have the good fortune to spend time with you as the rest of the family has had.”

“the family has… spoken of me?”

“in these past months of knowing you, you have become their most beloved topic of conversation. hyacinth and gregory idolize how resplendent of a storyteller you are. eloise adores being challenged by your intellect. colin aspires to your ferocity of quick wit. kate cherishes every discussion you share together. anthony reveres your unwavering resolve. violet becomes overcome with delight at every recounting of a memory in which you are involved. and benedict…”

you swallow.

“yes?”

you hear how feeble and quiet your voice has become.

“never stops speaking of you; so much so that it would be impossible to abridge what he loves in you.”

you shut your eyes closed at the words “he loves” and attempt to control the tears that threaten to flow at the word “you.”

the love he has for you is not the love you have for him.

“i— i did not know that they held me in such high regard,” you whisper.

you flutter your eyes open, grateful that no tears have fallen, and are greeted by the gentlest of smiles from simon. it assuages your soul.

“the highest of regards. they care very deeply for you.”

“and i care very deeply for them,” you declare softly. you then feel yourself break out into a smile. “i cannot say the same for you, yet, but i can see it forthcoming.”

simon throws his head back with a loud laugh, your smile transforming into a large grin (as you ignore the scowls that fall upon you). simon whips his head back to you, and he too wears a large grin.

“i am honored that you see the potential within me.”

with a final spin, you and simon release the other’s hand, ending the dance in a curtsy and a bow, both of your grins non-faltering.

“thank you for bestowing me the honor of dancing with you.”

you snort. (you hear scoffs and other suppressed noises of disapproval.)

“i fail to see how much of an honor it is to have someone incessantly knock into you, but if such is your feeling,” you curtsy with much theatricality and, upon your rise, let out a sigh of relief. “now, i shall retire to the margins once more.”

simon, once again, looks as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotions, but in it you detect— delight? you narrow your eyes.

“what?”

“you are not meant for the margins, y/n; please forgive me,” and with that, simon bows, his smile still non-faltering, and turns to leave you in the middle of the dance floor.

you are about to call out his name, curious and agitated by his vagueness—

“y/n?”

you turn around to the familiar voice and are greeted by a smiling anthony.

“oh no. are you going to ask me for the honor of having my next dance?”

the viscount looks as if he is about to howl with laughter and attempts to mask it, poorly, with his absurdly elated smile.

“is the idea of dancing with me truly so appalling?”

“the idea of dancing more is what i find so appalling.”

“i shan’t force you to do anything you do not want to do.”

“but how will your pride take it?”

this time anthony fully howls (earning looks of confusion at the host and their looks, predictably, turning to glares when they trace the impropriety back to you).

“i am always working on humbling myself,” he says, his expression softening. “i assure you that i, as well as my pride, can manage your rejection if it means that you are happy. you need not worry about my well-being.”

these damned bridgertons, and their damned charm, and their damned sincerity.

despite your internal accusations, you smile. you offer your hand (hearing a gasp or a few around you), and beaming, anthony takes it.

–

“you look like a princess, y/n!”

the saccharine words of hyacinth echo in your mind. with the transmutative magics of your fairy godmothers in mama, violet, kathani, genevieve, judith, alice, and the maids of bridgerton house, the impossible was made possible: you look like a princess. but it is not until this very moment, after descending a regal staircase, after entering this enchanting ball, after dancing with two dashing gentlemen and now a third, that you feel like a princess. you recall how you and your siblings played imagination; how you often asked to be the princess; how you did it so often that mama sewed you a dress from scraps of fabric and papa crafted you a crown out of discarded branches and your elder sister announced you as princess y/n whenever you played and your younger sibling waltzed with you around the first floor of your home. it makes you elated with childlike wonder how fortunate you are to be here and how lovely it is to be here, how strange and wonderful it is that imagination has become real life; as if it is all a wish for which you did not know you had wished, a wish that you did not know you had wanted to come true until it came true.

but—

“is there something on your mind, y/n?” you hear anthony ask, sometime after returning to him as your partner. “you seem pensive.”

“ah, yes. despite my gripes with you, and your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—”

“i gave you an option not to do so!”

“i am not finished speaking!”

he huffs out air through his nostrils, waiting with what seems to be a morsel of patience for you to continue.

“despite my gripes with you, your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—” anthony gives you a tired look that of an older sibling; you grin, “i am enjoying myself. i just wish, i just wish my family could be here with me, to enjoy it too.”

anthony’s expression softens immediately, and it makes your heart tighten. you know with what gravity, duty, and love he looks after the entirety of his family; you have witnessed it at every given second since becoming his friend. if someone were to be with you as you navigate this pain, you are glad that it is anthony.

“we shall invite them to the next ball we host,” he declares. your jaw drops. “it was a lack of foresight on my part for not doing so for this occasion, and i shan’t make that error again.”

you try to do rough estimations of what costs that would entail for the bridgertons— dresses and coats and shoes and four to six sets of two abstained days of work at least.

“anthony, i cannot possibly ask you to—”

“you did not ask,” he grins. “i offered. and i do so wholeheartedly. it shall not be a trouble for us, just strategic planning as kathani and i work the books. and before you protest—” you frown, both disappointed and flattered that anthony could sense your retaliation, “it is something i—as well as the rest of the family, i am certain—wish to do. if you won’t consider it for yourself and your family, then perhaps consider it as a gift to us selfish bridgertons.”

that makes you laugh loudly as you feel tears form in your eyes (whispers of you be damned). expression turning gentle once more, anthony continues,

“it would be an honor to finally meet your family. if they are even an inkling like you, then they must be truly wonderful, indeed.”

with a small sniffle of your nose and all the gratitude in your heart, you smile.

“they are. they are truly wonderful. i love them so much.”

anthony smiles in return with a nod of his head.

“then it is settled.”

“you are a good brother, anthony.”

you have wondered often if that is something anthony knows. while the bridgertons’ love for one another is apparent in all that they do and say and breathe, you haven’t heard them say very complimentary things to one another, particularly to the eldest. it is typical of families to tease and to jest, you know that intimately, but you also know how important, then, it is to tell your family what you truly think of them, how you truly feel of them. they ought to know just how much they are loved.

though his overall demeanor is composed and dignified, the softness in anthony’s eyes reveals his true emotion.

“and you are a good sibling, y/n.”

< their dance eventually comes to an end. someone approaches them. >

“good evening, brother,” benedict turns his ocean eyes to you. “good evening, y/n.”

“good evening, benedict.”

you vaguely hear something in your periphery. you turn to it and see a brilliant grin lighting up the viscount’s countenance.

“huh?”

“i had said that the viscountess is calling me over to her. i must pardon myself.”

“oh. yes. farewell, anthony.”

his grin broadens, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he bows. you see how, as he brings himself upright, his eyes shift towards his brother, the delight in his grin never leaving but something in his eyes… softening? before you can fully process it, he has turned and now walks towards kathani.

you turn back to benedict.

“i—— good evening, y/n.”

“good evening, benedict. though, we have already greeted each other this night, just moments ago.”

“ah, yes— that—— that would be correct. and— is… correct.”

he is anxious. your heart aches at the sight, and you want to reach out and touch him, comfort him, ease whatever his concerns are—but you refrain.

benedict clears his throat.

“are you— are you enjoying yourself?”

while heavy by benedict’s current state, your heart cannot help but glow brighter at his question.

“yes, tremendously so. the dancing has been plenty fun, despite how horrendous i am at it.”

that makes benedict laugh, and relief floods your body, mind, soul, and heart. it is good to hear him laugh. to see him smile.

“i do not think you are as horrendous as you think you are. your form has been quite good.”

you cock your head, feeling the scrunch of your eyebrows and the smirk on your lips.

“you have been observing me?”

his jaw drops, his body stiffening again. suddenly shy, he looks at his shoes and, with a cough, looks back up at you, and you attempt to hold in your gasp.

how.

how is that, after all this time, he makes these butterflies within me flutter still.

“i— i do not have a clever diversion for that. yes; yes, i have. i suppose i have been building the— the courage within myself.”

“‘the courage’? the courage for what?”

he swallows.

“to ask you to dance with me.”

oh.

“oh.”

he looks… he looks scared. exposed. vulnerable.

you feel them within yourself, too.

he offers his hand.

“may i dance with you, y/n?”

you place your hand in his.

“yes. yes, you may, benedict.”

i am terrified of nothing else and would love nothing more than to dance with you.

benedict leads you to the floor, his ocean eyes never leaving yours, your eyes never leaving his.

the quartet starts up, and you detect how it is music for a waltz. of all the dances you were taught, even you can admit that you were best at learning the waltz.

…

you curtsy as he bows. benedict places his hand on your waist, and you try not to elicit your gasp from feeling his touch.

< their dance commences. they are silent. a lot of staring and shit.

< notably, y/n is not cognizant of the ton’s perception of her while she dances with benedict as she had been with her previous partners. it seems her sole focus in this moment is dancing with benedict, being with benedict. her heart, mind, body, and soul is with him.

< y/n’s mind goes Rampant when benedict places his hand on her exposed shoulder. >

do not close your eyes, you reprimand yourself. if you close your eyes, you will indulge. you will indulge in this sensation. in this touch. in his touch. in benedict’s bare hand on the expanse of your exposed skin. in imagination. in fantasies. in thoughts. in other thoughts on other parts of your body that you so, so very much want him to—

“i had not spoken properly.”

you try not to shudder a gasp upon hearing his voice.

“pardon?” you say, a bit breathless. the dance calling for it, benedict twirls you, and you are now face to face again.

“earlier; when i had commented on your appearance, i had said you looked well.”

you snort, recalling the peculiar word choice, and that earns a smile from benedict.

“what i had meant to say is—“ he swallows, “you look beautiful, y/n.”

“i think,” you respond perhaps too swiftly, “that is testimony to genevieve’s skill and not to my appearance.”

“i think genevieve only enhances what is already there.”

you want to change, you don’t want to change— you do want to change the topic. you cannot handle whatever— whatever benedict is insinuating. the indecipherable, intense, attentive gaze of his ocean eyes on you. it is so much; it is too much.

“she spoke of you.”

shit. why did i say that?

his face immediately falls, ocean eyes transforming with it.

shit.

“genevieve spoke of me? with you? why?”

“kathani had accompanied me to the modiste, and i had shared with genevieve how i became acquainted with penelope and the bridgertons,” you half-truth. “talking about the family, and then you, was a natural consequence.”

“what did she say? about me?”

you try not to wince at the urgency in his voice.

“she shared how you and she had— an intimate and passionate acquaintance,” you divulge, using the words your friend had to describe the artists’ relationship. perhaps you imagine the sensation, but you feel benedict wince as you dance. “and that it was brief and no more.”

“she said that? ‘brief and no more’?”

“indeed.”

he sighs. you detect relief in the exhale, but perhaps you had, once again, imagined it. you always had an active imagination; trying to bend what you perceive to what you wish was real.

“i see,” is all benedict says.

“do you care for her?” you inquire. it is truly masochistic, what you are doing. but you cannot help yourself. it is something you often do when benedict is near. when you and he are so close.

there is a small silence.

“i did. at least, i think i did,” he shares. “i was hurt when our— acquaintance came to an end, but i was not heartbroken. i had known nothing of heartbreak, not until—”

and he suddenly stops speaking, sucking in his lips.

“until?”

“nothing. nevermind. forget i had said anything,” he says all too quickly. you laugh, and he scrunches his face in adorable disapproval at you.

“well, that only makes me the more curious, benedict! the mystery of it, and your very clear blush, indicate it must have been quite the event.”

“i am not blushing!”

“you cannot lie about something i can literally see.”

“you are infuriating.”

“and what do you think you are?”

benedict just pouts at you, though you see the twinkle in his ocean eyes. you want the twinkle to be of affection, but you will settle for amusement. for friendship. you take pride in how you can elicit this reaction out of him. you take joy in how he can elicit this reaction out of you. you love him, and you are grateful that is something you can say and know and feel. even if he does not love you as you love him.

“the first time i felt heartbreak,” he begins, finally giving in. you perk up in anticipation. “was when— was when you had walked out of the house after i had crumpled the paper to the floor.”

you nearly stop in your tracks, halting your waltz with benedict entirely, until you find a way to recover and continue the steps with him. he is looking intently at you, waiting for your response. you inhale a breath and on the exhale say,

“oh.”

it is a pathetic response, but it is the only one you can muster at this moment. breath has entirely left your lungs, your heart palpitates at a maddening rate, the lightning of benedict’s touch and proximity magnifying at every passing second.

“i had hurt you, this person whom i—” he swallows, “whom i care for, deeply and completely. i was, and am, ashamed of my deed and the arrogant thoughts and beliefs that led me to do it.”

“i have long forgiven you for that, benedict.”

“it is something of which i am not deserving.”

“you cannot tell me what to think or do,” you challenge, arching an eyebrow at him to add levity to the conversation. benedict smiles, despite himself, and it makes your body flood with relief and joy.

“i would never dare.”

“as you shouldn’t,” you grin, then inhaling and exhaling through your nostrils. “you need not flagellate yourself for what you did. that accomplishes nothing, and guilt is entirely useless in the structures that be,” you say resolutely. more softly, you continue. “my forgiveness is something i gave you willingly because it is what i truly wanted. because i knew, and know, how you wish to do better. i see that in everything you do; in your art, in your character. it is something i admire in you.”

benedict simply stares at you, his ocean eyes impossible to decipher again. his gaze is overwhelming, but you refuse to break it.

“i was about to say how undeserving i am of your compassion,” he says, “but then swiftly realized you would have just admonished me.”

you laugh.

“you were correct in thinking so, yes.”

he looks at you still, his expression still impossible to decipher, but there is something soft about it.

“thank you, y/n.”

the butterflies within you flutter once more.

“and if you ever wish to discard your paper again,” you diverge from your feelings, “simply hand it to me. i am always in need of more.”

he laughs fully, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight, and you feel the flutterings violently rage within. perhaps diversion was not the wisest choice (or perhaps it was, if it meant that you were the one to make benedict laugh like that).

“i have gotten quite good at maximizing the amount of negative space on a sheet, but nothing would delight me more than to support your writing.”

“i am most grateful for your patronage, mr. bridgerton.”

benedict makes something of a gagging noise, and you snort loudly.

“you are making it strange with the master-servant relation, y/n.”

“ah, so you are learning,” you comment with a sagacious nod of approval. it is now benedict’s turn to snort.

“what can i say?” he grins. “i have the greatest of teachers.”

“they have done quite well; please give them my regards.”

“i shall.”

and with the music coming to an end, you turn to face one another, wide and wild smiles on your faces. you curtsy as benedict bows.

“may i fetch you a drink?” he inquires after you are both upright again.

“is alcohol served at these occasions?”

benedict laughs.

“champagne it is.”

he gives you one more bow, lingering a moment more with one more smile, before taking off to retrieve your drink.

you try to bite back your smile, but it’s entirely useless. you twirl in your spot, feeling the swish of your dress in the spin, for you cannot help yourself. you cannot help how much joy radiates off of you in this moment, how giddy you are. it feels like a fairytale. you look in the direction benedict took off and feel your smile widen.

it is dangerous what you are doing— indulging in this. but you do not care.

this is undoubtedly the most wondrous night of your life.

“so you’re the pauper that the bridgertons have invited to their ball.”

you freeze.

“how else would you have been asked to dance by the host—the viscount and a bridgerton, nonetheless; his two brothers; and the elusive duke of hastings? it is an endearing sight, really.”

her posse snickers.

“the bridgertons have always been so kind and thoughtful in that way, extending their hands to the less fortunate. why they chose you, however, remains a mystery. if it were a pretty face that appealed to them, i perhaps could have understood, but you are simple at best.”

“you are cressida cowper,” you state.

penelope and eloise had warned you about a cruel creature amongst the ton, and the young woman before you matches all of the criteria they had described: icy platinum hair, draconian eyes, and a haughty disposition that ought to be reserved for the royals.

cressida daintily gasps and smiles at you with what seems to be all the mockery she can muster.

“i see that my reputation precedes me! though, only those of my standing can refer to me as such. cannot have my name tainted by the mouths of the lowly.”

you feel the gazes of other guests on you. you hear muffled sneers.

this is entertainment for them.

you should say something, stand up for yourself— against cressida, against her posse, against the ton— but you don’t. you can’t. your mouth has gone dry, your mind has gone silent, your body has gone numb. you have never, ever felt more powerless.

“your dress— did the bridgertons pay for it? of course they did. pity, though, for their wealth to go to waste on such an offensive thing. allow me to assist you—”

and she pours her drink onto you.

you try not to gasp at the chill of the liquid making contact with your skin. looking down, you see a reddish purple stain seep into the cream fabric of your ball gown as it continues to travel downwards.

you hear cressida giggle. you look up.

“better,” she simpers. “beautiful at last.”

her posse sneers with delight. the guests who had tried to suppress their laughs do nothing to hide their mirth now.

this is entertainment for them. my humiliation— it is entertainment for them.

you step into cressida’s space, eliciting a stunned gasp from her as the others follow suit, and shove your face as closely to hers as possible.

“if we were not in your domain, i would rip out your delicate hair and strike my hand across your pretty little face. but i am a lady—not in blood nor in title, but in character. and with your words and your deeds, you have shown just how utterly undeserving you are of such a title with your complete void of morals, compassion, and integrity. i do not care what you think of me, cressida, or what drinks you pour on me because i can rest easy in my sleep and waking hours knowing with perfect certainty that i am nothing like you. i bid you good night.”

and maintaining the ferocity of your glare on her horrified eyes, you muster up the most mocking, deep curtsy you can, turn, hitch up your skirt, and run away. you cannot care for the booming silence from that creature and her posse, for the murmurs and glowers of the ton thrown your way. you cannot take time to process what words a flutters-inducing voice snarls at cressida.

no.

you must simply run away, quickly and efficiently, because you refuse to give into these monsters’ satisfaction of seeing your tears.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

the cool air of the night whips your face as you run as far and as deep as you can into the gardens. you curse your damned shoes, for they are slippery and nothing like your sturdy boots, and they make you realize even further how much you have fucked up in allowing yourself to get this far. in allowing yourself to go to the ball, in allowing yourself to dance, in allowing yourself to fall in—

feeling your shoe catch on something, you fall forward and throw your hands out in front of you, your gloved palms digging into the bark of a tree trunk as you attempt to steady yourself. you attempt to control the staggered rhythm of your breath, the sobs that choke out of your throat, the palpitations that threaten to collapse your heart.

why did i allow myself to get this far?

“y/n—”

you snap your gaze over to the call of your name as your stomach knots, somehow, even now, with flutterings upon hearing his voice.

“benedict, no— just— no,” you manage to croak out, stepping away from where he approaches. you hold up your hand, as if it is a magical force that will push him away. it does not. “just go, please, just go.”

“i refuse to leave you, y/n, you are hurt—”

you cackle, sniffling the snot that tries to escape your nostrils. you push your remaining hand off the tree and turn towards him.

“hurt? what gave you that impression? is it the tears? they are just water, benedict, they will dry.”

“this is not the time to jest!”

“then what do you want of me!”

“to allow me to help you!”

“why! why do you care! why do you care for some, some low status person like me!”

“that is not how i see you!”

“THAT IS WHAT I AM.”

he freezes. you feel yourself clenching your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms through the satin of the gloves that were bought for you.

“you are the son of a viscountess, a brother to a viscount. i wonder every day if my family will have enough food to eat at our one meal. we—” you gesture between the two of you, “—are not of the same world. and maybe, maybe it should have stayed that way. to, to have stayed in our own worlds. we should have stayed in our own worlds!”

“and is that what you want?” he shoots back.

“what?” you snark.

“is that what you want? for us to stay in our own worlds?”

you fall silent, words suddenly failing you, breath suddenly leaving you. he huffs out a breath and continues.

“if that is what you want, i shall stay away from you. i shall never bother you. i shall never hurt you as i have. we shall—” benedict swallows, “we shall forget each other. if that is what you want, y/n, i shall give it to you.”

you do not respond to him. you stare into him as he stares into you.

“is that what you want?”

you shake your head as you feel fresh tears rush to your eyes.

“then what do you want?” he softly asks.

you flutter your eyes closed and breathe in. on your exhale, you open your eyes to the tear-blurry sight of benedict still looking at you with such tenderness in his ocean eyes.

“i want you,” you whisper.

you barely have time to process anything else when benedict surges forward and wraps his arms around you in a crushing embrace. tears fall even harder than before as you cry into his chest and wrap your arms around him.

benedict pulls back from the embrace to look at you, to cup your cheek, to wipe away the tears that fall so quickly from your eyes.

“i want you, y/n. i want to be yours. i want to be in your world, i want our worlds to be one. i want to go wherever you go. i want to make you laugh and to make you smile every day and every night; i want to do everything with you. i want to be with you, to share this life with you. from the moment i met you, from the moment you intended to shake my hand, i have wanted nothing more than to share all the time i have on this earth with you. i do not care for balls, i do not care for the ton, i care— i care for you, y/n. these are not the circumstances in which i wanted to confess this, with you crying and us yelling at one another, but i must be true with you. i—”

“benedict?”

“yes?”

“may i kiss you?”

benedict’s jaw drops and you laugh at his shock, sniffling your nose as you beam at him. he quickly recovers, breaking out into the smile that has always made you flutter with butterflies, the smile that you always secretly hoped, dreamed, wished was reserved for you. and you begin to think that, after all this time, perhaps it is.

“good god, please, yes—”

he barely completes his ‘yes’ when you jump forward to crash your lips into his. benedict practically trips backwards with the force of your eager leap, the two of you laughing into your kiss at the messiness of it all, as he holds you both steady.

this is your first kiss. you are so glad that it is benedict.

and somewhere within you blooms the hope that he is your last first kiss.

you have no idea what you’re doing, or what you should be doing, but you are far too much enjoying having benedict’s lips on yours, your hands on his cheeks, his hands on your waist, and your bodies pressing more and more into each other to give the slightest care. and the smile you feel against yours makes you think that benedict doesn’t mind—at all.

you pull apart to breathe, but your lips do not move far from one another.

“i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

“and i am sorry.”

“for loving me?”

you feel benedict jump back as he holds you, his face absolutely crestfallen, panic flooding his eyes, and he’s about to open his mouth to speak when you giggle and peck his parted lips with yours.

“i’m teasing you, my love.”

benedict’s eyes soften but quickly glint with mischief. you’re curious about the expression when you feel him tickling the sides of your waist.

“okay, okay!” you gasp with laughter as he tickles on. “i— i yield, i yield!”

benedict grins victoriously, his tickles fading into him softly rubbing circles on your waist.

“i am sorry for saying that is not how i see you, when you spoke of your social standing. i had not meant it that way, but i understand now how it was understood, and i should not have said it as i did. i know that i have lived a life of unfathomable ease with the wealth and circumstances into which i was born. the privileges i hold are not things i had reflected on, really, until— until i met you.”

you soften at his earnestness, by the way he humbles himself before you. but you cannot help the giddy mischief that bubbles from within.

“did you only reflect on your privileges as to win a femme’s favor?”

benedict’s jaw drops again, but you see how his ocean eyes shine with like-minded playfulness.

“do you truly think so lowly of me?”

you grin.

“perhaps.”

you feel benedict teasingly threaten his hands into tickling position onto your waist, and laughing, you shoo them away. he grins and softens his gaze once more.

“what i wanted to say to you earlier is— i wish you did not speak of yourself so harshly. as if you are unworthy of care from me because of your status. i care for you, i love you, y/n, as you are. as you were, as you will be. with all your circumstances, all your experiences, all your deeds, all your words, all your thoughts, all your feelings. for your heart, for your mind, for your soul. i love you because you are you, and i wish for you to see that, for you to see you as i see you. as so many of us see you.”

“i— i do not know what to say.”

“you do not have to say anything; just to, if i may ask of you, seed my words into your heart and mind and soul and know them to be true, wholly and completely,” a playful smile forms on his lips. “though, i must say, i am rather pleased with myself for rendering a writer with ferocious conviction speechless.”

you roll your eyes, but your voice is soft.

“you have had that effect on me for quite some time, benedict.”

benedict swallows and gently rubs circles onto your waist again.

“i love you, benedict.”

“i love you, too.”

< y/n and benedict, hand-in-hand, start to walk towards the house; they are taking their time. >

“are you certain you want to return the ball?” benedict inquires. “we can stay here in the gardens and wait until the last of the guests have gone.”

you hum.

“i would like to dance.”

“ah, was there a gentleman or a lady who caught your eye, miss y/l/n?”

“oh, loads. i hope it won’t make you terribly jealous, mr. bridgerton.”

“it will, but i shall simply stare at them maliciously if their hands are to roam.”

“yes, my form is reserved for your hands and your hands alone.”

you exchange grins.

“indeed.”

benedict nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and you laugh. he lifts his head and plants a soft kiss on your temple.

“are you certain? i do not mean to doubt you or your wishes to dance. we can dance out here, under the bright light of the moon. i want you to feel content and safe.”

“i do feel content and safe. with you. with the family. within myself. i shan’t let the ton or cressida ruin my first ball. though, the idea of dancing in the moonlight is quite enticing. perhaps another night?”

“you have my word,” and bringing your hand to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. a serene silence falls between you two until benedict makes some sort of a noise in his throat, as if to clear his voice.

“i, uh, must say,” benedict begins, “your confrontation with cressida was, uh, quite— alluring.”

you stop, letting go of his hand, and stare at him.

“alluring?”

a delicious blush colors your love’s face.

“indeed.”

a newfound bravery blooms in you.

you step into his space, not breaking eye contact with his blown out pupils, the ocean of his eyes mere outlines. you sneak your lips towards his ear and hear a soft whimper emit from his lips.

“is that something of interest to you, mr. bridgerton?” you murmur, your bottom lip barely grazing his earlobe. you feel him shiver and inhale. “when you see someone be put in their place?”

he exhales frantically.

“it is something of interest to me when— when you do it,” he admits, as if out of breath. you smile, pressing your bottom lip softly into his earlobe. he does nothing to hold back his moan as you do everything in your power to hold in yours.

“that is good to know,” and quickly rip away from him.

in your step back, you take in benedict’s state—flustered, expectant, ruttish—and wink at him. you turn and walk away at your leisure, putting on a performance of superiority as you hide your own arousal.

it is only a few moments later that you hear benedict follow you.

“you,” he says, voice still fraught with desire but full with love, “will be the death of me.”

you look back at him and grin.

“and what would you like me to put on your epitaph?”

“benedict bridgerton, he who, in life and in death, loves the best soul to have ever existed.”

you cannot help your giddy self and close the distance between the two of you once more, grabbing his face and pressing your smile into his. benedict happily obliges as he places his hands at the low of your waist and pulls you closer into him.

< they get into it!

< y/n takes off her gloves so that she can touch benedict; she is about to throw them on the ground. >

“wait—”

and he takes your gloves.

“hm?”

“your gloves. they were costly to make,” benedict states as he stuffs them into the inside pockets of his jacket. “i don’t want to be flippant in letting them be discarded to the ground.”

you gape at him.

“you concern yourself with the cost of my gloves?”

“why, yes, of course, it is something i—”

you clutch onto the lapels of benedict’s jacket and push him backward into a nearby hedge, his mouth now agape and his pupils dark with a desire you very much want to satisfy.

“i find your consideration quite alluring.”

in the midst of his apparent arousal, benedict giggles, and that makes you grin.

“what is it?”

“a hedge, y/n? of all things to anchor me against?”

you roll your eyes.

“it was this, benedict, or the bark of a tree.”

“ah, so i should be grateful then.”

you repeat his words with sped up mockery, making him laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkle in the adorable way that is so very distinctly benedict, and you capture your love’s lips again to shut him up, smiling and laughing into the kiss.

…

“what do you want?”

“you. whatever you want, benedict, i want it. please.”

“are you certain?” he breathes into your ear.

“god, yes, benedict, please, yes.”

“then—”

benedict positions his head downward, burying his face into the crevice of your bosom, and before you can even begin to tease him for his absurdity, you feel the wetness of his tongue flat against the curvature of your right breast. your gasp of surprise quickly transforms into an ungodly guttural wail, feeling yourself dig your fingernails into benedict’s back, arching into him to steady yourself, as he painstakingly drags the flat of his tongue from your right breast against the expanse of your exposed chest to the length of your right shoulder. dazed and euphoric, you feel how benedict sneaks towards your ear, hovers it, panting ragged breaths,

“i’ve wanted to do that since you descended the stairs in that dress. and—”

taking your left hand, benedict pushes your middle finger and forefinger fully into his mouth. he methodically works his tongue against them as he guides your hand to pull and push in him, his blown out pupils never once leaving your intoxicated stare. you feel the desperate urge to throw your head back at the incandescent eroticism that throbs from your fingertips to the rest of your body, but may god smite you if you willingly tear your eyes away from the divine sight of benedict’s almost oceanless eyes gaping into you as his gorgeous mouth sucks on your fingers. just before you feel as though you are to fully blank out and ascend into the heavens, benedict rips your hand out of his mouth, the action creating an obscenely delicious ‘pop’ sound, and, wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulls you back into him, your face finding respite just below his shoulder.

“i’ve wanted to do that since first drawing your hand.”

you laugh-cry into his jacket.

“shit, benedict.”

your love laughs and nudges his head into yours and rests it there as he softly rubs circles on your back with his thumb.

“please—” good god, breathe, “please remind me to ask you more frequently what you want.”

“did you enjoy it?”

“no, benedict, i quite plainly hated it.”

“i’d be glad to accept your critiques.”

“i know you would,” you smile into his jacket and, lifting your head, are greeted by your favorite sight: benedict, with his soft smile and his gentle ocean eyes.

“i have never felt like that before,” you admit in a whisper.

“nor have i,” he whispers back. that shocks you, and you must have made your reaction visible because benedict emits a laugh through his nose, soft smile and gentle ocean eyes unfaltering.

“but you have been with others before; you’ve had similar experiences, yes?”

you had assumed that your exhilaration must have been, apart from it being benedict, rooted in your lack of experience in such things.

benedict brushes a loose strand of your hair away from your eyes and tucks it behind your ear, his hand moving down to cup your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing it.

“yes, but those were different.”

you cock your head in response. he smiles, as if it is apparent.

“because they are not you.”

the sweetness of benedict’s ocean eyes are quickly replaced with shock then delight and then you don’t know what because he closes them as you crash your lips into his. whatever you had just felt before, you want it again. you want benedict. all of him. and you want all of him to feel what you just had.

you lick his teeth, and granting your wish, benedict opens his mouth more, groaning, bringing his hands to the curvatures of your ass, pushing your bodies even closer together though no space left exists between the two of you. you move your hand to the back of his head and, gripping a tuft of his hair, pull it roughly just as you capture his tongue with your mouth and suck hard. the sounds that benedict produce in reaction are entirely inhuman, but you vaguely deduce he is trying to say your name, and you’ve never attended a concert but, my god, nothing will ever sound as harmonious as the symphony that is your name gutturally trapped in benedict’s throat.

continuing with the work you’ve done to undo benedict thus far, you take your other hand and start to rake it against his body, starting at the base of his throat, taking time and leisure to explore, lowering and pressing into his chest, wondering wildly what beauty exists behind his damned shirt, lowering and feeling the firmness of his stomach and trying not to completely undo yourself with the sinful, transcendent thoughts of putting your tongue there, lowering and lowering and touching something curious and unfamiliar and hard and—

when he pushes you off of him.

“benedict, i— i am so sorry,” you panic, “please, what did i—”

“no, no,” he swallows, “you did— you have nothing to apologize for, my love, you were— uh— you were doing quite——” he clears his throat, “you were doing quite well; very well, actually…”

you continue to frown, still concerned.

“then why are you so tottery?”

“because— because if we were to continue, i do not think— i know i would not last for— um, for very much longer.”

you jut out your hip, putting the knuckles of your fist on it, and furrow your eyebrows at him.

“benedict bridgerton, i still do not understand what you are trying to convey. speak plainly.”

“we should stop.”

your jaw drops, as does your hand from your hip.

“why?” you practically whine. you should be embarrassed by your desperation, but to be entirely frank, you couldn't care less. benedict huffs out a laugh, still breathless, and, stepping towards you, lays a tender kiss on your forehead.

“as much as i would love for us to continue, i think being in the family gardens with a ball being held a few meters away is hardly an ideal location for the more— involved aspects of such activities. the aspects i’d like to explain to you,” he takes another step into your space, lowering his voice to an unfamiliar but enrapturing gravel, “the aspects i’d like to show you.”

you swallow your whimper.

“i—— i would very much like that,” you manage. and then you grin, “though, exploring such aspects in the family gardens sounds like it would be quite the adventure. a calculated risk, if you will.”

the alluring tone of benedict’s voice is completely replaced with a giggle, and your grin broadens as you press even closer into him and nudge your nose against his. benedict rests his forehead against yours and flutters his eyes closed.

“what did i do to have you love me back?”

you flutter your eyes closed.

“you were you. you are you.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< ahead, y/n sees kathani. she makes the connection that kathani must have accompanied benedict as a chaperone so that y/n wouldn’t be “disgraced” by having a man by himself chase after her.

< as the two approach the viscountess, kathani recognizes how disheveled y/n and benedict look and promptly fixes them to look more presentable. she takes some hedge leaves out of benedict’s hair. >

“i see that you are well, y/n?” inquires kathani.

“never better, actually.”

she laughs, a smile falling on her lips.

“i am sincerely glad to hear that.”

< they walk closer to bridgerton house. >

“you are fortunate that it was not anthony who volunteered to chaperone. he would have not reacted well to his loved one being dishonored, as he would say, particularly on family grounds.”

“oh dear,” you say, nervous and suddenly self-conscious. you do not want to be the target of the eldest bridgerton’s wrath. “what have i done to dishonor—“

kathani laughs.

“i wasn’t referring to you, chellam. i was referring to him,” and she juts her chin out at benedict.

“me!”

“anthony will be furious when he finds out that you have been— private,” she says, gesturing to his newly tidied appearance, “with y/n in the gardens. not very gentlemanly of you.”

“he won’t find out!” benedict pauses. “he won’t find out— right, kate?”

kathani just makes a face of feigned deep thought and you chortle.

“kate!”

“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict.”

“but what if it’s for love?” he implores. he says it facetiously, but you feel with what conviction he exudes his true feeling.

kathani’s expression softens as she looks between you and benedict. you offer a small nod and a smile, confirming her thoughts. she beams at you but then narrows her eyes at benedict. there is no heat to her gaze; she is, however, having the most sublime time making her brother-in-law squirm.

“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict,” kathani repeats. benedict groans, throwing his head back like a disgruntled child, and you belly laugh at him.

“i hope you are ready for gregory to be your second,” she continues.

you almost double over as benedict snaps his head forward to look at his sister-in-law.

“gregory!”

“indeed. it is a shame as well— anthony’s accustomed second being the one he has to duel,” she sighs dramatically. “oh well. colin will make a fine replacement.”

“this family is ridiculous,” you declare, grinning like mad. “gregory seems a tad young, though. what about eloise? i am sure she would be a more than suitable second for benedict.”

“oh, i have no doubt,” grins back kathani, “but i would not dare involve a woman in the idiocy of men and their ludicrous concepts of honor.”

you and kathani laugh loudly, delighted by how much you are enjoying yourselves, untroubled by benedict’s moping.

“it has been wonderful being in love with you, benedict,” you state simply. “it’s a pity that it has to come to an end so soon."

kathani snorts. benedict stops in his tracks and gapes at you.

“you think i would lose the duel!”

“anthony is more stubborn; he would let it fuel his will to live.”

“i think you underestimate how much i love you and how that fuels my will to live.”

you smile. in your periphery, kathani smiles. despite his current displeasure with you, your love smiles.

“i suppose i do.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< upon returning to the ball, y/n, benedict, and kathani see how anthony and violet are ensuring that the cowpers are leaving. before the family leaves, y/n approaches cressida. >

“i do hope to see you at another one of these events. if you find a way, of course, not to have yourself kicked out.”

and you curtsy. you turn to your love, his mouth in a wide smile and ocean eyes sparkling, and offer him a wink. you hear the quartet start up.

“i believe it is time for another round of dancing. care to be my partner?”

“i would love nothing more.”

< they dance. it is sweet, silly, romantic, and delightful. both y/n and benedict touch each other beyond what is considered proper, like hands laying too low on the waist or eliminating the space between their bodies, but they truly do not care. their unabashed joy is abundantly evident to everyone in the ballroom, but they are only focused on one another. they are in their own world. they giggle, they grin; it is the happiness they both deserve.

< they dance the next set.

< after her and benedict’s third dance together, y/n makes eye contact with violet, who is at the margins of the dancefloor, eyes wide with joy. >

“as much as i love dancing with you, my love,” you beam, “i think i am in need of a new partner.”

< y/n approaches violet and with a bow asks her for the honor of being her next dance. though delighted, violet remarks how she is too old, and y/n says that the youngsters can learn a thing or two from her wisdom and skill. >

“we would need permission from the host,” offers violet.

“from anthony! you birthed him! you granted him permission to exist!”

that makes violet laugh.

< violet agrees, and they walk hand in hand to the dance floor. in this dance, y/n and violet are partnered, benedict partnered with penelope, kathani partnered with anthony. >

…

“you’ve told each other."

“has anyone remarked how keenly insightful you are, violet bridgerton?"

“no,” the dowager replies with twinkling eyes, “but it is something of which i am well aware, and take great pride in. i am happy for you both.”

“i am so glad to have your approval.”

“oh tosh! as if a mother’s approval or disapproval can get in the way of real, true love.”

“perhaps so, but it is affirming to have the blessing from someone you so dearly love in a matter such as this.”

“you make it easy to love you, my dear.”

< the dance calls for a switch in partners. y/n becomes partnered with penelope, and violet becomes partnered with benedict. >

“thank you, pen.”

“whatever for?”

“for bumping into me at the markets.”

penelope laughs.

“accidents are quite good, are they not?”

“i despise them, actually,” you declare with a grin.

< penelope reveals that benedict shared with her why he was not seen for the first three dances of the night. >

your jaw drops, and penelope merely titters in response.

“is that why i didn’t see him! because he was lurking in the crowds to prevent men from approaching me?”

“it has been my discovery that the bridgerton brothers do not handle their jealousies well.”

“do you think gregory shall be the same?”

“oh, i am entirely certain. he shall likely be the worst of all.”

the two of you snort as you are sent back to your partners, penelope with benedict and you with violet.

“and what has you and penelope in such giggles?”

“making barbs at your sons.”

violet laughs.

“they make it awfully easy to do so, do they not?”

< the dance comes to an end. violet plants a soft kiss on y/n’s head.

< turning, y/n connects eyes with benedict who wears an incandescently happy expression. >

how could you not see it before? how in love he is with you.

< tired but elated, y/n takes a break from dancing. she reunites with the rest of the bridgertons at the ball. y/n finally meets daphne, who remarks that she has heard so much about y/n. eloise shares how the family wished to check in on y/n when she had returned to the ball to see that she was well; in a rare smile rather than a smirk, eloise shares that, upon seeing her dance and dance again with benedict, that she looked quite well indeed. at some point in the conversation with the bridgertons, y/n inquires when she can meet francesca.

< time passes, and joy is had amongst the bridgertons, penelope, simon, and y/n. y/n cannot believe her happiness.

< the last dance is called. benedict approaches y/n. >

“may i have the honor of being your final dance of the night?"

“you aren’t tired of me yet?”

“i shall never tire of you, y/n.”

upon taking your hand, benedict twirls you once then twice as he leads you towards the dance floor. giggling and grinning, you decide to do the same to him, causing him to giggle and grin right along with you.

< they dance a fourth time. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< the guests have made their leave from the bridgerton ball. colin, eloise, and violet have gone to their respective bedchambers.

< anthony, benedict, kathani, and y/n walk up the steps of the grand staircase. anthony has his hand clamped on benedict’s forearm and pulls him up the steps with particular determination and quiet fury. >

“i know where i sleep, brother! i have slept there since we were children!”

“i am well aware of that, benedict, and i am also well aware of how you— roam when enticed.”

benedict looks at anthony, to you (you just shrug as you look on at the exchange with excitement), and back to anthony.

“do you people really think so little of me!”

“i do not think little of you, brother, i just know you.”

benedict’s shock deepens incredulously, though you see the smile underscoring it all.

“i am a man of honor! i am a gentleman!”

“yes, as am i, as is colin, as was father; all bridgerton men are, and all bridgerton men are idiots around the persons for whom they have affections. now, go into your bedchamber,” anthony finishes as he shoves his younger brother into the room.

“you are a nightmare!” you hear your love shout from within.

“and you are to stay here for the remainder of the night!” he shouts back, leaning forward to grab the knob to benedict’s bedchamber and pulling the door shut with a loud thud. he turns to kathani, composure returning to his senses.

“my dearest, may you call samuel and lawrence, please? i shall have samuel stationed here and lawrence stationed outside benedict’s window. they will be paid double their wage for these extemporary responsibilities.”

you laugh with your whole stomach and feel tears sting your eyes. you have no concern in hiding your howls until you remember hyacinth and gregory are asleep and promptly clamp your hand over your mouth. your hand succeeds in muffling your laughter, but marginally.

kathani rolls her eyes at her husband and deeply sighs.

“i shall,” she replies, smiling at her love’s antics.

pleased with her answer, anthony right about turns at benedict’s door, places his hands behind his back, and stands up tall, taking his temporary duty as guard with the utmost gravity. something then eases in his posture, and he turns to you.

“i hope you have enjoyed your night, y/n.”

your heart swells.

“it was wondrous, anthony. thank you.”

he beams, brilliant delight in his eyes.

“i wish you good rest.”

and with a bow of his head, anthony turns away from you and assumes his station once more, gravity and perfect posture and all.

the viscountess turns to you, her smile having softened, and says, “let me escort you back to your bedchamber. i shall help you prepare for bed.”

–

“despite his many flaws,” kathani says with all amusement and fondness in her voice as she removes the pins from your hair, “anthony is, indeed, a man of honor and honesty.”

“i never had my doubts, but—” you snort, “that has certainly proved it.”

“it is because he thinks so highly of you,” she shares, looking at you in the mirror. you turn around in your seat and connect with her eyes, eyes that are filled with so much warmth. “he cares deeply for you, y/n. anthony is only that overbearing and overly protective when it comes to his family, and he sees you as our family. we all do.”

you suck in air through your nostrils, feeling the swell of your heart. how did you get so fortunate as to be so loved by this family?

though, you detect something in kathani. her words are sincere, of that you are not doubtful, but they do not seem complete. it is as if she wants to say more, if the blossoming twinkle in her eyes is indicative of anything. but kathani does not elaborate.

instead, she picks up the brush on the vanity and gently brushes your hair. it reminds you of when your elder sister used to brush your hair before bedtime. you close your eyes, humming.

“i see you all as my family, too.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< the next morning, late morning. the dining room. >

“you are infernal,” benedict deadpans to anthony, staring at his brother and taking his seat next to you.

“you are incorrigible; i was correct,” anthony responds, his eyes not leaving his paper.

“correct about what, brother?” hyacinth asks.

despite their current rivalry, benedict and anthony both freeze. kate speaks on their behalf.

“your eldest had deemed it necessary to have lawrence stationed outside below benedict’s bedchamber window in the early morn and was proved correct in doing so; your second eldest had attempted to escape by way of that route.”

“stationed outside his window? why would that be necessary?” gregory inquires. he turns to benedict. “and why were you trying to leave through your window?”

in his periphery, benedict sees you whipping your head. you seem to have suddenly found some interest in the painting on the wall faced away from the current scene. he notices how you hide your smile behind your fist and how you attempt to suppress the convulsions of your laughter. kate, on the other hand, unapologetically laughs.

“i am certain you will learn in due time, gregory. it is something of a tradition, it seems.”

“will i get to participate in this tradition?” hyacinth enthuses.

“NO!” benedict and anthony shout in tandem. they look at each other, and the elder gives a ‘see!’ face to the younger. benedict just rolls his eyes.

his eyes eventually land back on you: you have now totally hidden your face in your hands with elbows perched on the table for support, any attempts at hiding your laughter now entirely gone. your entire body vibrates as you somehow squeak and guffaw into the palms of your hands.

“ugh, why do adults always speak in such vague statements!” hyacinth grumbles as she slumps in her chair and crosses her arms. she then suddenly shoots back up and looks at you. “y/n, you only speak in riddles when we play! may we play now?”

“yes! may we play now?” gregory pipes up.

“please!” the two youngest plead in tandem. benedict looks to you, and wiping away your hands to reveal your face red from laughter, you say,

“i would be— i would be delighted to do so,” you take sharp breaths in between attempts at controlling your laughter. “perhaps—” you full on snort, and it makes benedict break out into a grin, “—perhaps, after the young sorceress and— and the young knight slay the wyvern, they— they will save the— the—” you laugh hard again, “the princess, captive and forlorn in her tower.”

gregory and hyacinth shout their joy and take off from the table.

“you haven’t been excu!— oh, nevermind,” anthony grumbles in an uncanny, childlike resemblance to his youngest sibling.

benedict watches as you use your forefingers to swipe at the corners of your e/c eyes, fits of laughter still bubbling out of your mouth.

i love her, and she loves me, he thinks in awe. it has been on repeat in his mind since you confessed to one another in the gardens just the night prior. she is mine, and i am hers.

“your lordship,” you giggle still as you look at anthony, and benedict snickers, “may i be excused to play make-believe with your youngest siblings?”

anthony rolls his eyes with much theatricality, but his smile at you is sincere.

“you are not my sibling,” he states, but benedict catches how his elder brother quickly glances at him with eyes that say ‘yet,’ “you need not my permission, but yes, you may.”

you bow your head in dramatic gratitude, causing kate to titter and anthony to look to the ceiling, and you lift yourself up from your seat.

before you follow after his siblings, benedict reaches out and gently takes your hand. you look at him, and he feels how his stomach flutters when his blue eyes makes contact with your e/c. just as it did the first time, just as it did every time after.

benedict feels you softly rub three circles on his hand. he softly rubs four circles on yours.

“good day, princess,” you say with a wink at your love, slowly slipping your hand away from his and then turning to walk out of the dining room. benedict stares at you as you leave.

i love her, and she loves me. she is mine, and i am hers.

“when do you intend on proposing, brother?” anthony smirks as he puts his teacup to his lips.

benedict smiles, looking off at where your laughter is heard.

“later this afternoon.”

anthony chokes on his tea, and kate, patting her coughing husband’s back, arches an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“without a ring?”

benedict turns to look at the couple and grins.

“who said i don’t have a ring?”

“you are joking,” anthony says matter-of-factly. “we all are excited at the prospects of y/n officially joining this family, but you just confessed your love for one another not even twelve hours ago. we are still breaking fast! there were guards at your door and your window! how could you have already procured a ring?”

benedict smiles, digging into his pocket.

“i do not jest, brother.”

and, with pride, he holds up a thin band made of twisted paper.

“now, if you will excuse me,” benedict announces, lifting himself out of his seat, giving a kiss to the top of kate’s head, and ruffling anthony’s hair. “i must be going.”

“and where are you off?” anthony demands as he straightens out his hair.

“do you think i am going to propose to y/n without asking her family’s permission first? would not be very gentlemanly of me if i did.”

“how do you know where she lives!”

“that is what you were asking penelope last night,” kate answers. anthony looks at his wife, incredulous and in awe. benedict grins.

“exactly so, sister. i’ve always known you held all the intelligence between you two. i would have seen to it sooner, but—”

an image of e/c eyes and ink-stained hands flashes in his mind, the flutterings in his stomach intensifying. butterflies— that is what he will paint next, he decides.

after he finishes his portrait of you.

“—i was held captive in my tower.”

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