#I could drink black coffee without sugar also

[amberinn]

I love u tea without sugar I love u coffee without sugar my babygirls

[kiba-uwuzuka]

Bitter Sweet Café

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x reader

summary: five times Bucky orders a black coffee, and one time he takes your suggestion.

word count: 4.7k+

author's note: this is the first fic i've ever posted! this is also my first attempt at reader insert, so bear with me! all reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!! ‪❤︎

this has also been cross posted on my ao3!

The morning rush at Rise & Grind Coffeehouse was slower today, some merciful god looking down at you so that you might have a breather on this early Tuesday morning. Spring was here, shaking off the frost of winter, reminding people that it was okay to come outside and feel the sun. 

You wipe down the espresso machine, appreciating the lull that was soon to end. You often worked the morning shifts, it freed up your afternoons to take a walk around the city or return home and unwind with a good book or some mindless tv. 

The doorbell rang as another customer walked in. You look up, calling out a greeting. “Welcome to Rise & Grind!”

The man was someone you had never seen before; tall, broad shouldered, wearing a long black overcoat and a finely pressed suit underneath–the kind that looked allergic to color or fun. His facial hair was short but neat, his eyes tired and apprehensive as he took in the brightly colored cafe. 

“First time in?” You ask, your lips curving in a slight grin as he walks up to the counter. His posture was straight and his expression was serious, like a man on a mission for caffeine in enemy territory. He definitely looked out of place here with his monotone color palette.

“My regular place closed down recently.” His voice was quiet, measured, but not unfriendly. “This one’s on the way to work.”

You nod, understanding. Independent coffee shops in the city were a hit or a miss. “Well, what can I get you started with? Maybe a Sugar Cookie Frappe?” You suggest, giving him a playful smile. “It’s been a real hit lately.” 

He levels a stare at you like you had just personally ran over his cat. “A what?” 

“A Sugar Cookie Frappe.”

“...Why would anyone drink that?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Some people like flavor?” 

He looks apprehensive, almost offended. “Just a large black coffee. Whatever your.. Most normal medium roast is.” 

You huff a laugh as you type his order into the system. “No cream or sugar, I’m assuming?” 

“You would assume correctly.” He said dryly. 

“One large, boring coffee coming right up.” You say, and write the order on a cup. He makes a noise that could perhaps be a chuckle as you write medium roast, maximum mystery in place of a name, and he pays with a card. 

You don’t mean to look at his card, but you catch a glimpse of a name. Barnes. Familiar, but you couldn’t place your finger on it. 

It takes you no time to make his simple order, which is probably good for you. Questions were on the tip of your tongue, but he didn’t seem the type to give you a real answer. You hand the finished coffee back to him with the lid on tight and a sleeve on the cup, your fingers brushing a bit as he takes the hot drink from you. He looks at the cup like it might poison him, and you snort a bit. 

“Have a good day, mystery man.” You say with a wave as he walks to the door. He leaves without a word, but you're almost certain that he might have smiled.

It had been two days since that mystery man came into the cafe.

Not that you were counting. 

But you did look up ‘Barnes’ as soon as your shift ended. You told yourself it was because the name sounded familiar, vaguely historical. A quick google search confirmed what your gut had already suspected. 

James Buchanan Barnes. 

New York’s 12th Congressional District Representative. 

Mid-30s (appearance wise). War veteran (WWII, specifically). An interesting metal arm that you realized you mistook for a glove when he first arrived at the cafe. You barely remembered a historical paper you did on the Avengers in college, and wondered why it took you so long to recognize him. 

Your search only came up with headlines and boring congressional interviews, no nonsense such as social media or anything he was currently up to in his private life. No fun, no flavor. 

So when he walks in again – same time, same coat, same dry stare – you’re smiling a bit brighter than you probably should be. 

The cafe is quiet this morning, the faint whirr of the grinder blending in with the lo-fi music playing over the speakers. A few people were tucked away in the corners, tapping away at their laptop for some midterm paper, probably. When he approaches the counter, you tamper down your school-girl excitement – you don’t want to scare him off.

“Morning.” He says, almost apprehensive. 

You tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “You’re back.”

He regards you for a moment. “All the other coffee shops are out of the way.” He says lightly, almost like it was an excuse he just made up. 

You can’t help but grin, and tap your screen awake for his order. “May I suggest our Cotton Candy Cloud Macchiato?” You say breezily, knowing it would probably make him rethink his entire life choices. 

He narrows his eyes, most certainly offended. “Do I even want to know what that is?” 

“It has edible glitter.” You say with a sparkle of mischief in your eye. 

He scowls. “No.”

You laugh, and type in his order in the system. “Alright, alright. One large black coffee. No cream, no sugar, no joy.” 

There’s a pause as you write zero sugar, zero joy on his cup, and he exhales a short breath of a laugh. “Do people not get regular coffee anymore?” He asks, looking at you with a slight smirk on his face as he slides his card into the machine to pay.

You look over your shoulder at him with a sly grin as you brew his coffee. “There’s enjoying coffee, and then there’s drinking it like it’s a punishment.” His order is simple and done almost instantly, you place the lid and sleeve on and slide it to him. He hums, picking the cup up and inspecting it like it might bite back. 

“Tell me something, Congressman Barnes.” You say casually, wiping your hands on your apron. “Is the joyless monotone vibe a politician thing, or a personal choice?” 

His eyes narrow, but only slightly. “You looked me up.” 

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “I may have seen your name on your card.”

He glances at your apron, where a name tag might be, but your boss wasn’t a fan of such things. He looks back up at your eyes, the direct eye contact making your heart stumble a bit. “Are you always this nosy?” 

You grin, shameless. “Only with regulars.”

That gets another faint smile – barely there, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting it. You take that as a win.

“You planning on making fun of me every time I come in?” He asks. 

“Only if you keep denying joy and exciting flavor.” 

He takes a sip, eyes still on you over the rim of the cup. He hums, seemingly satisfied with the drink, and turns to leave. “Then I guess I’ll see you again.” He lifts a hand in a small wave as he heads to the door. 

You smile, soft and warm. “Till next time.”

It’s the middle of the lunch rush, and the cafe is buzzing. Apparently everyone in the city has decided that this is the place to get mediocre Wi-Fi and overpriced croissants. You’re practically vibrating off of three espresso shots, you’re two orders behind and you’ve already spilled mocha sauce all over your apron at least once. 

Which, of course, is exactly when you see him. 

You lift your head away from some overcomplicated almond milk situation to call out the usual greeting as the door chimes, catching sight of the tall man scowling at the sight of the line ahead of him. He lingers by the door for a moment, seeming to consider his choices, when he catches your eye. A flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes, and he joins the line with disgruntled reluctance. 

 You catch yourself smiling a bit and take over for your coworker at the counter who was getting overwhelmed with the line. When it’s his turn, he raises an eyebrow at you. “I came by the other day, you weren’t here.” He says casually with a smirk. “I didn’t know this place existed without you.” 

You laugh, feeling a bit warm and gooey inside that he looked for you. It had  been about four days since you had last seen him, and you couldn’t help but feel your pulse quicken under his intense blue-eyed gaze. “Am I hearing that you missed me?” 

“I wasn’t suggested some sugar-filled heart attack inducing drink, if that’s what you mean.” He snorts, but you notice he didn’t deny your question. 

“Speaking of,” you start with a grin, “Why don’t you try our S’more Mocha Madness? It even has mini marshmallows.” 

“Tempting.” He says in a voice that is not tempted at all. 

You shake your head almost teasingly, tapping in his order and grabbing a cup. Still bitter, with a side of coffee, you write on the cup, turning away to brew his drink. It’s simple and quick, and you turn back around just as he finishes paying, sliding him the cup. “Here you are. Large, medium roast, no joy and extra bitter – just how you like it.” 

He snorts, picking up the cup. “Are you always this aggressive with your customers?” 

“Only with people who actively reject happiness.” You say with a sly grin. The line grows behind him, but you can't find it in you to care. “You know, at some point you’re going to have to try something new.”

“I sit through six-hour budget hearings.” He says dryly. “I know how to outlast you.” 

You narrow your eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “So this is a power struggle now?” 

“I'm a congressman. This is the closest thing I get to winning a debate.” 

You laugh despite yourself, and he watches you with a hint of a smile on his lips. Not in a predatory way, not even flirtatious, just… Present. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth focusing on. It makes your heart skip a beat, and you’re sure it’s not from the excess amount of espresso in your system. 

“Well, we do have a reward system here, you know.” You say, wiping your hands with a clean rag. “You might even get a free latte one of these days, Barnes. Maybe even something with sugar in it.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” He says with a snort, but it comes out a bit softer than he meant, something more teasing and playful than that first day he came in. 

He picks up his drink and nods his thanks as he disappears behind the line and out the door; moving like a man who was well experienced moving silently and unnoticed. 

You take the next customer, giving them a smile that was much more real than your usual customer service attitude, a warmth lingering in your chest for the remainder of the day.

Rain was pouring unrelentingly outside, a storm had moved in the night before and seemed to be here to stay. You opened the coffee shop by yourself this morning–the rain made it too difficult for any of your coworkers to come in–but it also kept away the usual Monday morning rush. Only a few wet and determined loyal regulars trudged their way into Rise & Grind, leaving you behind the counter doing some idle sweeping. 

It had been a whole week since you had last seen Congressman Barnes, (James? Mr. Barnes? What do you call him?) and you couldn’t help but overthink your last encounter. Maybe you were pushing it with your teasing? You’ve only met a handful of times, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know your name. 

You were busy sweeping up fallen coffee grounds from when you emptied the grinder when the door jingled, announcing another brave soul who survived the torrential downpour outside. ”I’ll be with you in a moment!” You call over your shoulder, sweeping the pile into the waiting dustpan. 

When you turn, dustpan and broom in hand, you almost jump at the sight, nearly scattering the coffee grounds everywhere again. 

Like you summoned him from your internal lamenting, there he was. Standing before the counter like a half-drowned rat, his hair slicked back with rain and his long black overcoat dripping everywhere. Exhaustion wore heavy on his shoulders, bags under his eyes showing countless days of minimal sleep. His beard was still short but rough and in desperate need of a trim. His face softened a bit when your eyes met – not necessarily a smile but… Relieved, almost. Kinder. 

“Congressman Barnes.” You say lightly. He physically cringes at the name as you tip the dustpan into the trash, and set the dustpan and broom away. 

“Bucky.” He says. 

You lift an eyebrow. “Bucky?” 

He shrugs as you lean against the counter. “I’ve been Congressman Barnes for a very long, exhausting week.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a tired, lopsided smile. “My friends call me Bucky.” 

The familiarity in his tone throws you off a bit, but a soft smile of your own plays on your lips. “Well, my friends call me ____.”

“____.” He repeats softly, like he’s testing the name out on his tongue. You can’t deny the way your stomach flutters with butterflies at the sound of him saying your name. 

You tap the order screen awake, trying to push down the soft feelings and potential swooning you were getting just from him saying your name. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” You say lightly, curious but not outright prying. 

He sighs, the sound nearly bone deep with exhaustion. “Yeah, sorry. Its been.. A rough week.” 

“I can tell,” you say, raising both brows slightly. “I figured you were off somewhere being important, or wrestling with some government things.” You were not going to admit that you had almost convinced yourself that you had scared him away.  

He huffed, pushing his wet, rain soaked hair back, his metal fingers gleaming in the light of the cafe. “A bit of both, I guess.”

You type in his regular order, not teasing him so much about it this time. He truly did look tired, and probably needed this coffee for more than the caffeine. 

Still… You really couldn’t help yourself. 

“You know,” you say slowly, earning a playful narrow-eyed stare from Bucky as you grab a cup. “We do have this wonderful Peach Hibiscus Tea that might revive your soul a bit.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he was remembering how to smile. “I don’t think I’ve got a soul left after the way this week went.” 

“All the more reason, then.” You grin, writing soul healing caffeine on the cup. 

He snorts like he was trying not to, and pays as you turn around to make his coffee. Not a laugh, but close enough. Real. 

You turn back around and slide the warm drink towards him. He holds it, looking like he was savoring the warmth it brought to his hands, both metal and real. You lean to the side, reaching into the display cabinet next to the register, and pull out a blueberry muffin. Still soft and fresh from when they came out of the oven when you opened this morning. You place it on the counter, and push it towards him. 

He raises an eyebrow, and you shrug. “On the house. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it. He picks it up, almost carefully, and regards you for a moment. His lips pull into another crooked smile, warmer this time. Softer.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, and you can tell it wasn’t just about the muffin. You smile, glancing down at your hands as you absentmindedly wipe them on your apron.

“Just doing my job.”

“It’s not just your job.” He says softly, making you look up again. 

He lingers around for a bit. Not long, just enough time for him to finish the muffin. You two talk quietly, despite the cafe being empty and the rain still pouring. You tell him about the ridiculous orders people come up with, and he tells you what ridiculous things the old men in the Senate say nowadays. 

It’s the longest you two have talked, and the longest that he’s stayed in the cafe. When he finishes his muffin and departs, he does so slowly, like he doesn’t actually want to leave. You smile and wave him goodbye, your heart warm knowing he’ll be back sooner or later.

The air was filled with humidity the next morning, the storm finally blowing away and leaving behind wet, sticky air and puddles everywhere. You got the morning shift again, and hoped for another slow day (and maybe a certain congressman). You slipped into the rhythm of opening the cafe with practiced ease, a routine you’ve done hundreds of times in your time of working at Rise & Grind.

You had the doors unlocked for barely ten minutes when the bell jingled, the noise echoing in the silent cafe – the music had yet to be turned on. It wasn’t uncommon for an early riser or someone pulling an all-nighter to walk in as soon as you had opened, but it was still far too early to deal with customers. Regardless, you turned to the door with the regular greeting on your tongue and a smile forced on your lips before you see who stepped inside.

Bucky Barnes stood just inside the door, his eyes sweeping the empty cafe in a way you’ve noticed him do before. His eyes were clear and bright when he saw you, a slight pleased expression on his face as he came up to the counter. He looked refreshed, maybe even vibrant. His coat was dry and he even looked like he got a full night of sleep. 

“We just opened.” You say with a smile that was much more genuine as he joins you at the counter. “Are you that desperate for bitter-filled punishment?” 

He huffs out a laugh, shrugging. “Desperate, yes. Bitter? The day is young, and I am a pessimist.” 

You squint at him. “Are you smiling?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” You say with a beaming grin. You study him for a moment, then turn to the menu with a dramatic hum. “Hmm, let’s see. You look like you are in great need of our Unicorn Fuel Mocha Latte, I think.” 

“Unicorn fuel?” He repeats, like you just suggested committing a war crime.

You point at the menus behind you, in the latte section.

“Why is this the second drink you’ve recommended that has edible glitter?” 

You shrug. “Some people like to have fun, Bucky.” 

He looks back at you, narrowing his eyes but an amused expression on his face. “No way.” 

“Come on,” you say, grinning. “Live a little.”

“I am living. I actively choose life. That’s why I’m not ordering that.”

You laugh, shrugging in defeat as you reach for a cup, his order already typed into the system. “Alright, alright, fine. Back to the most boring coffee known to man.”  You write faithful and bitter on his cup.

“Who even names these things?” He asks in disbelief as he continues to read the menu while you make his drink. “Birthday Cake Iced Latte? Banana Cream Cold Brew?”

“My boss, actually.” You laugh. “She’s quite proud.”

When you hand the drink back to him, he makes no move to leave. He takes a sip, and leans against the counter, regarding you with those blue eyes. “So, I never did get around to asking you. Do you often google your customers?” 

You pause mid-wipe on the counter, looking up at him. “Only the ones who drink coffee like divine punishment.” You say teasingly, but truthfully you don’t quite know why you looked him up in the first place. 

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what did you find?” 

“Mostly congress stuff, nowadays. A piece on you in World War II. Buzzfeed did an article on you, you know. Most importantly, no social media.” You shook your head in mock shame. “You are practically impossible to stalk online. It’s tragic, really.” 

He chuckles a bit. “Social media isn’t really my thing. Too much.. Noise.” 

“Makes sense.” You nod sagely. “You seem pretty.. Old fashioned.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me old?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you like, 110? How’s your back feeling?” 

He laughs, a real one, the noise coming out like a surprise. “Do you treat all your regulars like this?”

You couldn’t help the small smile rising on your lips. “Not all my regulars are so interesting, after all.”

He made a small, curious noise in response, his eyes glinting a bit with amusement as he took another sip of his coffee. “Well. I'm glad that you find me… interesting.” His voice was soft and low, his eyes meeting yours over the lid of his cup. 

You fought the rising blush on your cheeks, the eye contact and sound of his voice making your heart thud in your chest. He headed to the door with a slight smirk, pausing before he exited. He turned to you, and raised his cup a bit. 

“See you later, ____.” He said, giving you a wink, and was out the door before you could stumble together your words. 

You spent the rest of the day smiling like a fool, thinking that maybe he found you just as interesting.

Saturday brought in a different type of rush – the regular 9 to 5ers usually taking the weekend to stay home or run errands – leaving a more relaxed crowd to come into the cafe. 

The cafe was buzzing with activity, people at almost every table catching up with friends or huddled in groups with laptops. The sun was bright and shining outside, making people come out to enjoy the fresh weather and a good cup of coffee. 

You wiped down one of the empty tables, sighing. You hadn’t seen Bucky since Tuesday (you had already given up on denying the fact you counted the days between his visits), but you weren’t as worried that you did something wrong this time around. 

You had only met a handful of times, but there was something about him that made your heart flutter. The way he smiled, soft and rare. The way it was so easy to talk to him, something effortless and comforting. He lingered in your mind more than you cared to admit.

Your coworkers had already caught on, teasing you about your not-so-subtle crush, but you hadn’t bothered to deny it. Why would you?

Still, part of you held back. He was a congressman, after all. A former ally to the Avengers. (Part of the Avengers? That never did get clarified, in the end.) He was a man with nearly a century of a past, and a future shaped by headlines and handshakes. 

And you were… Here. Behind the counter. Watching the door, wondering if he ever thought of you the way you found yourself thinking of him.

You finished cleaning the empty tables and walked back to the counter, pushing those thoughts out of your mind. You huffed to yourself, and glance at the clock. You had just about ten minutes left in your shift, and then you would be free to go grab some lunch and head home. Just as you got behind the counter, the door jingled with the arrival of another customer. You looked up, standing at the register, and raised your eyebrows in surprise. 

Bucky Barnes, here on a weekend. He was obviously off work, his outfit was much more casual than you had seen. He had a navy henley on with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing one muscular forearm and more of his metal arm than you had ever seen before. He wore dark jeans and sneakers, and gave you a slanted grin as he walked up to the counter. 

“I didn’t know you existed outside of the weekdays.” You say, your eyes openly taking in his relaxed appearance. “Or had any other clothes.”

Bucky chuckled, running his metal hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but admire the way the dark metal gleamed in the light. “I do actually have a life, you know.”

“Do you?” You ask with a tilted head and narrowed eyes, a small teasing smile playing on your lips. 

He gives you a dry look, making you laugh a bit. He shakes his head, a small smile rising on his face. “Alright, alright. What’s the weekend special you’re having? I’m sure it’s something equally horrifying to the abominations you’ve mentioned before.”

“Have you such little faith in me?” You muse, and glance up at the menu with a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps our Honey Oatmilk Latte?” 

He paused, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.” 

You turn back to him, blinking in surprise. “What?” 

“I mean, it doesn’t sound that bad.” He shrugs. He looks at your surprised face, and grins a bit. “Just don’t send me into cardiac arrest, alright?” 

You huff a laugh, and grab a cup. “Such high standards,” you tease, shaking your head. You step away from the counter as he pays, and begin to make his drink. It was a simple latte, espresso with oatmilk, honey and a dash of vanilla and cinnamon. It wasn’t overly sweet, not too complicated, but you wanted to make sure it was perfect. 

You turn back around and slide the drink to him, an almost nervous smile tugging at your lips. He picks up the cup and gives it a look. 

“What, no passive-aggressive notes today?” He asks, amused with an eyebrow raised. You roll your eyes playfully, waving him away. 

“Positive reinforcement, and all that.” You shrug, but you don’t take your eyes away from him as he gives the drink a small sip. 

He’s quiet for a moment, considering the flavors, then raises both his brows. “This is.. Pretty good, actually.” 

“Wow, look at that.” You couldn’t help the smug grin on your face as you lean against the counter. “A compliment? And you doubted me, what a shame.” You shook your head. “You could have had so many good drinks by now.” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Well, we’ll just have to make up for lost time now, won’t we?” His grin makes your stomach twist, and you find yourself trying not to blush. 

You glance away, at the clock, and realize it's about five minutes after your shift ends. Bucky glances that way as well, before looking back at you. “Ah, my shift is over.” You say, feeling a bit awkward now. He often came by in the mornings, or that one time you had an afternoon shift. You step back, and then shuffle awkwardly to the back to hang up your apron and clock out. 

When you come back to the front, Bucky is still there, standing a bit aways from the counter. He smiles softly at you as you come up to him, your bag slung over your shoulder. “Have you had lunch yet?” He asks, almost too casually. 

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is this you asking me out on a date?”

He purses his lips, and takes another sip of the coffee. “I might have waited to come in when I thought your shift ended.” He shrugs. “There’s a deli shop I like, just around the corner. Why don’t you join me?”

A smile tugs at your lips, your heart practically leaping out of your chest. “My, my. You let me pick your drink, and now a date. Have I worn you down that much?” 

He chuckles, the sound rumbling softly out of his chest. “You can tell me what I should get there, too, if you’d like.”

You laugh, and he leads you out of the cafe. The bell over the door jingles as he pushes on it and holds it open for you. Your heart is light and you can’t keep the smile off your face, and it delights you to see a smile on his, something more genuine than you’ve seen in the whole time you’ve known him. He looks down at you with a gleam in his eye, and you know you’ll never be wondering for the next time he comes around.

my very small taglist <3 -

@makehydrafictionagain

[stevie-petey]

track one: i wanna get off

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.” Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm.  “I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it. But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well. 

Summary: a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (argyle)

Words: 15.4k

Before you swing in: SHES HERE !!! MY BABY !!!! ever since writing lonely hearts club ive been craving more band aus and then joe covered gasoline by haim fundamentally altered my brain so naturally i blacked out and outlined an entire series surrounding rockstar!steve so ,,, here we are lmao. this series is different from come home. steve is a bit edgier, more rough and mean but also still the same charming asshole. later there will be some excessive alcohol use and this is a slowburn of weird twisted feelings and messy situationship so ,,, prepare for that !

enjoy :)

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The usual Sunday morning crowd has staked its claim in the cafe by the time your boots click softly on its tiled floors. Baristas call out names belonging to men in wool jackets and women with small children bundled beneath layers of scarves. 

Freshly fallen snow lines your own wool jacket and falls to the tiled floor when you take it off, draping it across the chair of the first empty table you find. It’s a bit further back in the shop than you would’ve preferred, but it will have to do. Setting your scarf across the other seat in front of you, claiming the chair for yourself, you catch a barista’s eye and smile as you walk to the register. 

You order a black coffee, no milk, only sugar, and a simple vanilla coffee for yourself. The barista tells you the drinks will be ready in a few minutes and you thank her. Heading back to your seat, you hope that you’ve correctly remembered Jonathan’s coffee order.

The last time you saw the man had been at your graduation back in May. You’ve loosely kept in touch since then through sporadic phone calls and gallery openings. Both having majored in photography and the visual arts, your friendship had been built upon red rooms and empty film canisters gallery halls. 

Now, as snow falls and coats New York in pristine white, he’s asked you to meet for coffee. The sudden proposal admittedly confused you, though you accepted the invitation without any hesitation. 

The barista calls your name right as Jonathan stumbles through the cafe’s door. His skin is flushed from the cold and snowflakes ravage his messy brown hair. Hearing your name, Jonathan grabs the drinks from the pick-up counter, spots you sitting in the corner, and quickly makes his way over to you. 

He places the drinks down, wincing when a few drops spill onto the table. “Sorry.”

You wave his apology away and stand, pulling him into a quick hug. “Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “I got you black coffee with sugar. I hope that’s alright?”

“God, of course it is.” Jonathan sits down and takes his scarf off. “You didn’t need to get me anything, you know.”

“Figured you’d be running a little late.” You tease gently, fiddling with the straps of your camera. 

“I’m only five minutes late. I’d consider that a new record in my book.”

“And would Nancy agree?” 

You have fond memories of Nancy from your few interactions with her. She had been majoring in journalism and was in the running for a position at the New York Post the last time you spoke with her. 

“No, probably not.” Jonathan snorts, now taking a sip of coffee. He sets the cup down and then leans over the table, arms bracing his weight. He raises his eyebrows at you. Smiles. “So, catch me up. What’ve I missed?”

“Nothing much,” you admit. “Still doing freelancing.”

“I thought you hated freelancing?”

“Oh, I do. The pay is shit and the clients are almost always shittier. Theater majors are really annoying about ‘capturing their good side’.”

Jonathan frowns. “You’re way too talented to be stuck photographing wannabe actors.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. “We live in New York, Jonathan. We’re surrounded by wannabe actors desperate for camera time.”

“It still feels like a waste of your talent.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You wink at him playfully. “What about you, though? I think you were everyone’s favorite street photographer at the studio.”

Jonathan blushes at the praise and looks down at his coffee. “Well,” he clears his throat and looks back up. “I’m actually in a band now. A drummer.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re kidding, right?”

It’s hard to imagine Jonathan Byers as anything other than a photographer. He was arguably one of the best in your class. His work was beautiful with such a natural edginess to offset the delicate scenery. Your professors raved about him whenever they could. His senior thesis gallery was such a success that the school had to prolong its exhibition dates an extra week. 

Jonathan laughs at your disbelief. He’d been expecting it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Sure, I love photography, I always will, but…”

“Music was your first love.” You finish for him, remembering the times you were in his apartment with soft rock records filling the silence as the two of you developed film together. 

“And I don’t regret it.” Jonathan’s fingers tap against the table. A nervous habit he was never able to break, and now you suppose that maybe he was never meant to break it. He shifts slightly in his seat, coughs as a sudden unease settles over him. 

You tilt your head at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to walk into a confessional with a priest?” 

“Christ, Y/N.”

“Correct. He’s who you usually confess your sins to.”

Jonathan sputters out a laugh and his shoulders fall, relaxed after being drawn tightly together moments prior. “Alright, you got me. I didn’t ask you to coffee just to catch up.”

Intrigued, you forward. “If you’re about to ask me to take engagement photos for you and Nancy, please know that I’m too broke to offer you a friend’s discount.”

“We aren’t engaged,” Jonathan’s face is even more red now. “Not yet, at least. But what if I asked if you were interested in being my band’s photographer?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I’d ask you to elaborate.”

“Look, my band, we’re good, Y/N.” Jonathan tells you, eyes alight more than you’ve ever seen them before. “Sure, we’re still relatively small and you definitely haven’t heard any of our music, but we’re consistently booking three gigs a week. I mean, we can’t pay you any better than freelancing can, but we’d definitely be less shitty than your other clients.”

“Jonathan…”

“I’m not just asking you because you’re painfully talented.” Jonathan shakes his head. “I’m asking you because you were my closest friend in college and we always had fun working together. You have to admit, we made a good team.”

You throw a napkin at him. “Way to guilt trip.”

“I’ll say whatever if it means you say yes.” 

And Jonathan’s sincerity is almost overwhelming. You’re hesitant, but not because you don’t believe him or the offer doesn’t interest you. If anything, you’re actually incredibly interested in being a band’s photographer. Portrait photography was never your favorite medium, and the mundanity of it is slowly driving you insane. 

You’re hesitant because you really, really need money. Freelancing, as unreliable and shitty as it is, at least guarantees enough money to cover rent. But being a photographer for a band no one’s heard of? Not so much. 

“As much as I want to say yes, I meant what I said earlier. I’m too broke, Jonathan. I have to sneak out the backdoor of my apartment building to avoid my landlord because she’s days away from evicting me.” Your head rests in your palm, sighing. “It’s grim.” 

Jonathan, however, doesn’t seem to think that your current financial situation is bleak. If anything, he perks up and fucking smiles at what you’ve said. 

“I’m sorry,” your eyes narrow at him. “But why are you smiling while I’m talking about getting evicted?”

Jonathan flinches at your brewing anger and quickly tries to explain himself. “Sorry, I just-it’s kinda a perfect dilemma?”

“You have five seconds to explain before hot coffee falls in your lap.”

“My bandmates are looking for a roommate!” Jonathan blurts out, unconsciously covering his lap with his hands. Surprised by his own outburst, he clears his throat and lowers his voice to a more neutral tone. “That’s why your dilemma is so perfect. I can talk to them for you, set up a time for you to meet them.”

Seeing that he has your attention now, Jonathan holds a finger up. “But only if you agree to be our photographer.”

Your head spins. It’s almost too perfect of a circumstance. The flesh on your lip stings as you bite down on it, uncertain. You’re tempted. Unbelievably tempted, but you don’t want to say yes just yet.

“Did I mention that they live in the same building as me?” Jonathan smirks, knowing the effect his words will have on you.

His apartment building is gorgeous. Positioned perfectly in the East Village with Tompkins Square a block away and lush green grass in the communal outdoor area reserved only for residents. You’ve complained to him a million times about how you’d kill to have as much outdoor space as he does in your own apartment building. 

That, and it’s one of the few remaining goddamn rent controlled buildings in Manhattan. 

“You’re evil, Jonathan Byers.” You stick your hand out and he laughs, knowing he already has you before you’ve shaken on the deal. “I better not regret this.”

“You won’t.” He promises. 

– 

A few days later you’re checking your watch nervously every few seconds. The silver on your wrist reflects in the moonlight. Small hand on the seven and long hand on the five, you curse under your breath. They’re still not here.

“Y/N!” A feminine voice, familiar, surprises you as two bodies round the corner. 

Recognizing Nancy’s lithe figure and Jonathan’s awkward footsteps, you greet them, relief flooding through you. “Oh, thank god. Thought I was getting stood up.”

Nancy looks pointedly at her boyfriend. “Blame him. We would’ve been here ten minutes earlier had he not insisted on popping into a record store on the way home.”

“It was worth it.” Jonathan holds the record up. The Talking Heads bright and alive in the dim dusk light. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“Save the apologies for later. We still aren’t sure if I have a place to live after tonight.” You remind him. 

Nancy rolls her eyes at the two of you before grabbing your hand. “C’mon,” she says, now opening the apartment building’s door. “In less than twenty-four hours this will be your home, too.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Jonathan pokes your side to shut you up and you swat his hand away. A doorman tips his hat at you and the others as you walk past, his smile kind and warm. The apartment’s lobby is the same as you remember it being. Plush sofas pushed against a soft white wall. A grand mirror across from the elevator that has a few scuffs in it, yet is charming nonetheless. Simple, though elevated enough that you can’t help but feel that you don’t belong here.

Inside the elevator Nancy presses the sixth floor. When she sees your slight confusion, she laughs. “We may live in the same building, but they’re two floors below us.”

“Mike says it’s physical proof that he’s better than Dustin.” 

You turn to Jonathan with a slight frown. “Mike is Nancy’s brother, right? And he lives with you guys?” 

Nancy nods encouragingly. “And Dustin is one of his friends from high school”

Jonathan pokes his head between the two of you. “And soon to be your roommate.”

“Hopefully.” Your tight lipped smile looks more like a grimace. Your stomach twists with every floor you ascend. You try to remember all the names you’ve been told. There’s Dustin, Mike’s friend. Then there’s… Rachel? Robbie? You think you remember Jonathan mentioning someone named Stephen.

Already the names are floating around your head. There are so many of them to remember. New faces you’ll be meeting tonight and desperately trying to impress. And you’ve already forgotten half of them. 

The elevator comes to a stop. Nancy and Jonathan step off, but you’re rooted to the floor, unable to move. “Please tell me this is a good idea.”

“It’s a wonderful idea, Y/N.” Nancy reassures you, grabbing your hand and gently pulling you from the elevator’s closing doors. Her eyes trace over your tense figure and she smiles sympathetically. The hand she isn’t using to hold yours plucks lint from your jacket, smoothing over its folds. “I promise you’ll love them.”

You really want to believe her. “And ‘them’ being…?”

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve.” Jonathan supplies. He’s smoothing your jacket down as well. The couple frets over your appearance in the narrow hallway and you almost feel like a lost child under their nurturing gaze. 

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve,” you repeat under your breath, over and over again. Their names roll over your tongue and you like how the weight of it feels. “Okay, I can do this. I’m fine. This will be totally fine.”

Jonathan nods eagerly and then shoves you towards a door at the end of the hall. In faded gold plating reads 6B on the door’s purple frame. There’s a cheesy floor mat that greets you in cursive lettering.

“Ready?” Nancy asks you.

You inhale, close your eyes, and exhale the remaining fear from your bones. Opening your eyes, you nod at her. 

Three soft raps against the door. There’s shuffling on the other side. Voices talking to one another. A set of footsteps running towards the door before a girl your age swings it open and lunges into your arms as if you’re lifelong friends.

“You’re here!” She exclaims happily, arms clasped tightly over your neck. You stumble back at the sudden embrace.

Jonathan sees your obvious overwhelm. “Ease up there, Robin. You can’t kill Y/N yet.”

The girl, Robin, you remind yourself, quickly releases you. Her freckled cheeks blush a pretty pink that matches the faded pink streaks in her choppy hair. “Sorry,” her blue eyes are wide and youthful. “I just-Jonathan and Nancy have been blabbing about you for weeks now and it’s just crazy that this is finally happening! I mean, you’re real! You’re here!”

She’s speaking a mile a minute and you’re trying your best to keep up with her, but you’re still nervous and deeply overwhelmed now and all you can say is, “Your hair is really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Robin’s bashful smile is beautiful. Her fingers tangle through her shoulder-length hair. “It was Steve’s idea. He helped me dye it.”

“Steve sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the conversation going as Nancy and Jonathan watch the two of you quietly.

Robin laughs as if you’ve said something funny. She doesn’t say anything, though, and instead grabs your arm to pull you inside. She hardly gives you any time to look around the apartment before she’s talking a mile a minute once again.

“This is the kitchen,” she waves her arms out with a flourish, giggling when your jaw drops. There’s more counter space than you ever thought possible in a New York apartment. A kid, maybe a few years younger than you, is taking pizza out of the oven. “And that, my dear and new friend, is Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dustin sets the pizza down before giving you a thumbs up. “Pizza?”

Jonathan and his brother Will are already grabbing plates and cutting into the still hot food before you can even say yes. Jonathan hands a slice to Nancy while Will passes a plate to you. You thank him kindly, recognizing him from Jonathan’s senior thesis photos.

The moment you have your food, Robin yanks you away again.

“This is the living room.” Giant floor to ceiling windows that you definitely can’t afford replace the walls that should be in their place. The entire skyline of lower Manhattan winks back at you. 

“No fucking way…” 

A scrawny kid, maybe Dustin’s age, who looks a lot like Nancy snorts from the sage green couch that wraps around the area. “Isn’t it obnoxiously nice? I hate it.”

Robin flicks his head. “Ignore him. He isn’t relevant to our tour.”

“I take it he’s Mike?” You ask, again being at the will of Robin’s strong grip as she parades you through the apartment. 

The decorations, though minimal, make the place feel like a home. There’s art hanging on the walls. Photographs of faces you recognize, though most are people you don’t. Belongings strewn throughout the space that tell you there’s stories and love within these walls. 

“Unfortunately,” Robin stops in front of a set of doors. “We only keep him around because we like Nancy. Anyways, here’s the bathroom.”

Though small, it’s nice, and you nod appreciatively. Satisfied with your response, Robin flings open another door. Inside are piles of screws and wires belonging to various unfinished technical exploits and it takes you a moment to realize that there’s even a bed in this room. 

“Dustin’s room?” You guess, remembering the City College of Technology logo that was on his hat. 

“Correct,” Robin then opens another door, this time revealing a room full of rosie pinks and deep purples and blues. A keyboard rests on a bed. There are vinyls everywhere and pink hair dye spilled on the small desk. “My room. Admire her while you can. I deeply hate people in my space.”

You laugh. “Noted.”

Robin slams the door and turns to the next one, though she hesitates. “Technically, Steve also really hates people in his room, but the douchebag is late even though he promised he’d be here on time so,” she opens the door. “Voila.”

While you want to respect the wishes of the roommate you still have yet to meet, curiosity wins. You peek inside. The room is a mess of guitar picks littering the floor. You see a dark blue acoustic guitar in the corner, its edges almost midnight black, and an unmade bed full of vinyls. On the walls are photos. Some are of bands that you’re familiar with. Most aren’t. In between it all, however, are photos who you can only assume are Robin and his other friends. 

There’s a desk shoved to a corner that has pen marks and papers with messy writing scrawled on them. Everything inside the room is used, worn, though somehow there’s still a sense of calm within the chaos of it all. 

“None of you are neat freaks, huh?” 

Robin winces. “No, but I promise we’re clean. Scout’s honor. Please just ignore the blatant oxymoron of our rooms.”

You laugh and shake your head, telling her it’s fine. Robin beams once again and takes your hand one last time to guide you back to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the counter, pizza in their hands as lazy conversation fills the room. 

And even though an hour prior you were afraid that you were in way over your head, you fall into conversation easily with everyone else. Dustin is charismatic and asks for your thoughts on the apartment. Will’s soft spoken nature is comforting. Mike is witty and enjoys that you play into his jokes. A little later a young girl named Max appears and she’s just as enigmatic as her red hair and asks you a million questions about photography.

Robin doesn’t stop poking your skin and clothes and fretting over you the entire time. You adore her within minutes. 

“Alright,” you say after finishing the last of the pizza. “Tell me. Who’s in this alleged band I’m putting all my blind faith in?”

Dustin throws his head back and groans. “God, don’t get them started.”

Mike hits his shoulder. “Dude, shut up.”

“We call ourselves the Februarys.” Jonathan ignores the boys bickering. 

“The Februarys?”

“Guess which rocket scientist thought of it.” Dustin snarks. 

Mike hits him again and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, I like it. It’s a bit odd, but interesting. Unique.”

“You’re perfect. Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” Robin throws her arm over your shoulders. “Anyways, I play the keyboard. I’m good with my fingers,” she wiggles them at you with a sly wink, “and sometimes lend my voice to songs if Steve allows it.”

“He’s the lead vocalist,” Jonathan explains. “He also plays the guitar, but he mostly just likes how cool it makes him look.”

“It doesn’t, by the way.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Not unless it’s an electric guitar, which I do play.”

You raise your eyebrows in shock. “Aren’t you a little… young to be in a band?”

Loud cackles tumble out of Dustin and Robin while Jonathan tries to hide his own snickers behind Nancy’s amused smile and Will’s soft laughs. You look around with wide eyes, terrified you’ve said the wrong thing, when Max crosses her arms at you. 

“Find someone who can play the bass as well as I can. I dare you.”

Her unwavering confidence in her ability leaves you breathless. Your uncertainty crumbles the moment her knowing smirk spreads across her face. She knows she’s good. She doesn’t need your approval.

“My apologies, Mayfield.” You nudge your shoulder against hers. 

Mike scowls. “Do I get an apology, too?”

“No,” you and Max say at the same time. 

This time everyone laughs and you’re amazed by how easy this is. Talking to them, laughing and teasing them with the shared understanding of respect. You’ve been welcomed into something warm and precious, friends who seem to have years stretching between them. 

A series of clicks and the scraping of metal before the front door swings open. A man stumbles inside, cursing and swearing under his breath when his foot catches on a stray shoe and he nearly falls. It’s a cacophony of sound and discarded energy and Robin watches it all with a bored frown.

“You’re late.” She greets the intruder.

He hunches over, hands on his knees. “Give me a second,” his breaths are heavy and brown hair falls in his face. He brushes it aside haphazardly with a practiced habitual ease. “Christ, I ran ten blocks to make it here on time.”

“And yet you’re still late.” Robin turns to you, frown etching her soft features. “I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Hearing your name, the guy’s body suddenly snaps up from its prior hunched posture. Brown eyes land on you. Curious, excited, and then slowly interested. They travel up your body once, twice, then a third time. He fixes his hair again and smiles at you. “Is this our new roommate?”

“Possible roommate.” You correct him, a hint of a smile back at him. “You must be Steve.”

His smile widens. “The one and only.”

Strong jawline, doe eyes that are soft enough to be vulnerable, yet teasing. Hair that’s just long enough to curl over the nape of his neck. Classically handsome, Steve’s delicate features are juxtaposed by the silver nose ring that catches the light, by the matching latch earrings that parallel the moles that line his neck and jaw. 

Steve knows he’s beautiful. And he knows how to use it to his advantage as he drapes an arm over you, grabs a piece of pizza from your plate, and sits in your chair that is already too small for one person. It forces him to be pressed tightly against you. His jeans dig into your waist, his thick silver bracelet on his wrist cools your heated skin. 

“Hi, beautiful,” he winks at you, taking a bite of the food he’s stolen. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Robin gags and everyone else rolls their eyes at Steve’s exaggerated charm. They’ve seen this before. They’re used to his theatrics and need to be the center of attention for every girl he meets.

“Steve’s a bit of a flirt, if you couldn’t tell.” Jonathan shoves his friend away from you with a slight eye roll. “If he gets too much, just spray him like a cat.”

You watch Steve, studying him. He’s charming and beautiful, putting on a show for you, and underneath the performance is a shallow surface. He’s exalted by the attention. It’s not that his actions aren’t genuine, but they border on fictitious. 

The fictitiousness is intriguing. 

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” to everyone’s surprise, you pull Steve back into the chair. He makes a startled sound, caught off guard by your forceful hands, and completely infatuated with them already. Pleased, you pinch Steve’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, handsome?”

You feel him lean into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s studying you the same way you’ve been studying him. A pause, your fingers linger on his cheek. Just before you exhale, Steve grabs the hand that strokes his face. His grip is loose on your wrist. He kisses the inside skin that’s the thinnest, veins beating. 

“You’ll move in tomorrow.” He murmurs against your skin. “And your first gig with us is Friday.”

It isn’t a question, and you don’t correct him. 

Already it’s been decided. 

– 

The heater in your apartment broke a year after you moved in. Your landlord promised she would fix it come winter, but as pockets of snow fill the window’s ledge, your hands are numb from the brisk air and lack of heat. 

Packing is easy enough, though seeing your small assortment of belongings piled into boxes causes a tug of longing in your stomach. The brick walls of your apartment are worn and scuffed from previous tenants and the floorboards creak with every breath you take. It’s an awful, old and frigid apartment, but it was also the first place you ever called home in New York.

“This really all you have?” Steve looks at the handful of boxes with skepticism. Being the only one who doesn’t have classes or a day job, he happily volunteered to help you move your things to the new apartment. 

You tape the final box shut. “For the most part, but there’s a box or two in the bedroom.”

“I get to see your bedroom?” He wiggles his eyebrows and you throw a balled up wad of tape at him. He dodges easily, laughing. “Want me to go get them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous. Beautiful. Babe. All compliments Steve has showered you in since meeting him fifteen hours prior. They fall from his lips without any hesitation, always accompanied by a charming smile or sly wink. 

If it were anyone else, you would’ve told them to fuck off by now. But with Steve there’s no weight behind his praise. No expectation of you to return them. He praises you because he wants to, compliments you because he likes the way you blush afterwards. 

You’ve only known Steve for fifteen hours, and yet you’ve never felt this comfortable alone with anyone else. 

“I know this may sound like I’m sucking up considering I’m trusting you to make my band look cool, but,” Steve carries two boxes, arms straining under the weight and you watch as his biceps ripple under his tanned skin. He sets them down, opens the top one, and then pulls out a collection of your photographs from within it. “You’re insanely talented, Y/N.”

“I sent you to get my boxes, not go through them.” You try to take the photos away, but Steve is fast and holds them out of your reach. 

“No, I’m serious. I mean, Jonathan is cool and all and we all cried seeing his thesis show, but you?” He holds up one of your favorite photographs. He huffs in disbelief, eyes roaming over the image with a hunger of amazement and awe. “I almost feel bad that we can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

The photo is one you took when you first moved to Manhattan. Eighteen and naive, you viewed the city through your lens greedily. Your first few months in the city all you did was carry your camera around with you and use up canister after canister of film. The images were fine, nothing monumental, until one day, somehow, they were. 

An older woman sitting on a park bench. There is no one sitting next to her. Her head is down, hands clasped in her lap. There is a bird mimicking her downward posture beside her. Almost out of view, almost a shadow, and there’s something tender in the image that you’ve never quite managed to capture again. 

“The apartment makes up for it. I mean, floor to ceiling windows? Fucking insane.”

Steve chuckles, agreeing silently. “How’d you get into photography, anyways?” He picks through some more of your pictures, uncaring of the fact that you’re shy of your work.

“My mom was a photographer and gave me my first film camera when I was nine.” You shrug, a nostalgic smile on your face. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I get it,” Steve hums, still admiring every image of yours that he finds. “That’s how music was for me. I was eleven and my parents weren’t home so I snuck into their room. They had this giant record player. I remember being so amazed by it, but God forbid I touch it.”

Steve looks down at his hands, tight smile and narrowed eyes. “Anyways, one day they weren’t home, so I ran right up to their room, laid my head right next to the record player, and played the first record I found.” 

“What was it?” You ask softly, curious. 

“The Velvet Underground. I inherited a lot of things from my father, but thank god he gave me my music taste. The moment I heard Sterling Morrison’s guitar strings in Heroin, I was a goner. Begged the old man for my own guitar the very next day.”

“And did you get it?” The question is more to keep the delicate look on Steve’s face. He unravels when he talks about music, almost softens at its melodies. He’s beautiful, he always is, but music only makes him glow. 

“I did,” Steve nods, proud. He walks up behind you, arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you in, his chest solid and warm. He kisses your hairline, smiling into your skin. “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” your body leans closer to his.

“I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.”

Steve’s childish declaration mirrors every other young boy’s dream. Every artist’s dream since they were a child. Dreams of grandeur, recognition, of creation and passion and freedom. You twist your head around, wanting to look at the man holding you. His face is calm, open and unapologetic. He believes what he’s said. There isn’t a hint of uncertainty or hesitancy within the lines of his cheeks. 

And you believe him, too. Steve has the charisma to set the city on fire, an ease to his movements and beauty that’s addicting. Devastatingly handsome. It’s inevitable that the world falls to its knees before him one day. 

“Think you’ll ever write a song about me?” It’s meant to be a joke, a tease, but when you turn to face him your nose brushes his cheek. This close, you can count his freckles. The proximity catches your breath. 

Steve wraps his entire body around you. The kiss he places at the base of your neck burns. “I think all my songs will be about you, angelface.”

And yet another name, this time accompanied by his fingers digging into your ribcage to get you to squeal out laughter. You twist in his grasp, shrieking at Steve to stop, but he has you right where he wants you.

“Ow!” Steve rips his body away from yours after you land a particularly hard pinch to his arm. He rubs the forming bruise, glaring at you. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re the one who started it!”

He sticks his tongue out and all you can do is roll your eyes at him. Catching your breath, you remember where you are. There are still boxes everywhere. You sigh, bend down, and start sliding them against the wall.

“What are you doing? Don’t do that.” Steve swats you away, offended you’ve even considered moving the boxes yourself. 

You blink at him. “Did you just hit me?”

Steve ignores you, focusing on the boxes instead. He stacks them one by one in front of the door. Hair falls in his face and you have to remind yourself to look away. After he’s done, Steve studies the boxes before him, their appearance deceptively multiplied when piled all together. 

Dropping his head, he groans, “This is going to suck.” 

The two of you will have to carry all the boxes down five flights of stairs and into a taxi that will almost definitely be too small to sit in. In the February snow and midday commute. 

“Yup,” you pat Steve’s chest. “It’s a good thing you’re so strong, right?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that how you’re supposed to talk to your subordinate? I mean, I am working for you now, right?”

“Please pick up a box and shut up.”

– 

Robin helps you unpack everything in your room. The space itself is beautiful, arguably the biggest room in the apartment. Wood flooring, cream walls, and even a window that overlooks the park. You ask her who died for you to be able to live here, and she confesses that the only reason she and the others didn’t claim your room when their old roommate moved out is because they didn’t feel like keeping the large space clean. 

Who knew laziness could get you a giant room with a view?

Except Steve’s room is next to yours, and after a few days of sharing a wall, you quickly realize that one: he brings a new girl over every night, and two: Robin is a liar. Her and Dustin weren’t lazy, they just didn’t want to share a wall with Steve.

And you can’t blame them. The first night it’s jarring hearing the subtle thuds and moans that leak through the thin plaster. The second night, you roll over, hit the wall once to signal to Steve to keep it down, before grabbing your walkman and slipping on headphones.

Soon you learn the signs. The slam of a door, feminine giggles, his breathy voice as he guides them past your room to his. After the second night and your annoyed thud, Steve starts playing music to drown out the unwanted sounds. 

The third night, you’re in the kitchen working on some film when the front door slams. You look up at the clock, cursing the late hour. You’d been so engrossed in your work that you forgot that any minute Steve would be home with yet another girl.

They don’t see you at first. Her face is buried in Steve’s neck and he’s caressing her bare skin that her small top doesn’t cover. They’re laughing, slightly intoxicated as they stumble through the living room. 

“Wore this just for you,” the girl murmurs against his lips. Her hands yank her top down, to bring his attention to it. “I remember you said you liked green.”

Maybe they aren’t new girls every night, you think. Then, promptly remembering that you aren’t supposed to be here right now you then think, oh God, do I need to duck behind the counter?

Steve doesn’t bother looking down at her top. “Cute,” he says simply. Nothing more. Like he doesn’t care to say anything further.

He tries to kiss her instead, impatient and done with the attempt at conversation. It’s odd seeing him like this. Displaced, almost cold in a calculated way that you suppose can come off as charming. 

Only the girl pulls away, obviously displeased with the throwaway comment. Her eyes squint at him, but before she can either tell him to fuck off or to keep kissing her, her unhappy gaze lands on you. 

“Who the hell are you?”

You should’ve ducked behind the counter. “I-uh. Live here.”

“I was here last week. You weren’t.”

“Quick turnaround period?” You’re awful with confrontation and Steve isn’t helping, arms crossed and smiling like a goddamn saint while you’re drowning. You glare at him. “A little help would be nice.”

Steve grabs the girl and spins her once, twice, before pulling her into a kiss. Not at all caring that you’re watching, he slips his tongue into her wanting mouth and moans. She clutches his chest, and the second he has her pleading, he pulls away.

“Go wait in my room, I’ll be right there.” He tells her, kissing her again before she can argue. “Promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t I always?”

The girl sighs, as if he’s taken her ability to say anything else away. She nods at him, starts walking to his room, and she’s gone without another word.

“Charming,” you shake your head at Steve, who now leans against the counter and looks at the film developing. “Not the way I would’ve handled the situation, though.”

“So I wanna get off, doesn’t everyone?” He’s coy, peering over your shoulder and his hair tickles your skin. “New project?”

“Testing aperture settings for Friday.” You point at a grainy photo, ignoring his previous words about getting off. “Too dark. I need to figure out how to get the best lighting out of a dim venue.”

“You’re cute when you try to impress me.” 

You pinch his side. “Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

“Do I sense jealousy, Y/N?” Steve bites the inside of his cheek, looking you up and down.

“Not in the slightest.” 

And there really isn’t any jealousy. You don’t mind that Steve has a different girl in his bed each night; you knew that he was this way before Robin even had to warn you. You saw through him the moment you met him. 

You’ve known men like Steve. Their wanting ways and sugar coated praise; he isn’t any different. 

The outline of Steve’s figure becomes blurry when he’s with these girls. A thin layer of film over how he normally is, like his words and actions aren’t quite real. Superficial, putting on a show for them that you somehow know he only reserves for the stage. 

“Anyways, I’m exhausted.” You rub your eyes, vision blurred from staring at images for hours. You ruffle Steve’s hair fondly. “Try not to keep me up tonight, please.”

He catches your hand that falls and kisses the same spot on your wrist that he’s come to inhabit. Soft eyes and honest lips, he promises you, “whatever you ask, angelface.”

Soft. Steve is always soft with you, genuine to the raw way in which he looks at you. For some reason he’s different this way with you.

“Goodnight, Steve.” Though you linger for just a second. He sees it.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Tomorrow you’ll inevitably find him in the kitchen making breakfast for the apartment. He’ll be shirtless because he gets hot when he cooks. You’ll see the scratches down his back and the hickeys on his neck and the physical reminder of the marks on Steve’s body will be a reminder to step away. 

The flirting is fine. You enjoy being adored by him and making him laugh at your quick responses. Even if the adoration is fake, even if sometimes Steve’s eyes make you wonder how you can capture them with your lens, he’s quickly becoming your best friend. Robin, too. And Dustin and Jonathan and everyone else entangled in your life now because of Steve. 

You don’t want to jeopardize this, even if you still aren’t really sure what this is. The Februarys, the apartment, the people within it. 

But whatever this is, something tells you that Steve doesn’t want to jeopardize it either. 

– 

The heat of the apartment coats the loud buzz of the people in the crowded space talking over one another the next night. It’s full capacity in the apartment. Voices mix together and there’s hardly any room to breathe. 

Steve had warned you it’d be like this. The night before a performance is always this way: bodies crammed into the apartment, all intoxicated on the rush of figuring out a setlist and chords. 

The intoxication leaks into your blood, too. Cheeks aching, you can’t stop smiling. The excitement, the giddy curiosity, now fulfilled as you finally get to see the band in action.

Steve’s curled around you on the couch, his body heat only overheating you more, but his insistence of crawling into every seat you inhabit is easier to let happen than fight. He’s talking animatedly with Robin and Jonathan as they agonize over a list of songs while you and Nancy watch, silent.

“We could play Clear and Void?” Robin suggests to the boys, pencil in her mouth with her eyebrows knit together. “Or maybe Happening New?”

Neither songs are songs you’re familiar with, though you remember Jonathan telling you that the Februarys had a working collection of four of their own songs. The problem is that most venues require a minimum of six for a gig. 

“We played both of those last week.” Steve shakes his head. “Isn’t Higgins more of a cover venue, anyways? Shouldn’t we just pull from our covers set?”

Jonathan bites his cheek. “I say we do Clear and Void, Happening New, and then mix in a few covers before closing with Limerick. Three of our most popular songs and three covers. Balance it out.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but a shout from the corner of the room pulls your attention. 

“I’m not crawling through a goddamn cellar to get to our gig!” Max scoffs at Mike, both of them hunched over the kitchen counter with a paper between them.

“Got any other brilliant ideas, then?” 

A girl, who you’ve been introduced to as El, places a hand on Mike’s shoulder in what you can only assume is a feeble attempt at calming him down. He tries to say more, but El shakes her head softly, so he curses again and messily erases whatever he’d been writing on the paper.

“This is stupid.” Mike spits out. “Why the hell is twenty-one the deemed age to get shitfaced?”

“Prohibition,” Dustin says, as if it’s obvious. He swings an arm around Will and grins. “What are the odds they make it in?”

“Pretty terrible.”

Lucas, who you've also met tonight, looks wearily at Max and Mike, scared they’ll overhear the taunts. He lowers his voice and turns to his other friends. “Can we not piss them off more? You’re not the ones who have to go home with them.”

Max, however, does hear this. “Insinuate I’m a pain in the ass when I’m angry again, Sinclair. Go on.”

Lucas shuts his mouth and the boys all snicker at his misfortune. Max and Mike go back to their metaphorical drawing board of figuring out how to sneak into a twenty-one and up venue. Their situation is amusing, even if you do feel slightly bad that they have to jump legal hurdles to perform. 

“What if we just get Dustin to print us fake IDs?” Mike proposes, a glint in his eyes.

“No!” Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all shout at once.

Mike lets out an obnoxiously loud groan and Max flips off the older adults, though none of them pay them any attention. Instead, they go back to their list of songs and resume their own argument from earlier. 

“What do you think, Y/N?” 

Steve’s question surprises you. He’s turned to you and he’s expecting a response, wanting your input on a matter that you have no knowledge in. He knows you’re more interested in photography than music, he knows you’re still figuring out the music scene with the Februarys.

Yet Steve still wants to consider your input.

All eyes on you, your dry mouth swallows sticky saliva. The only thing you can think of is the length of Steve’s neck when he recounted a childhood memory to you in your snowy apartment.

“I guess, uh. Cool It Down?” You stumble slightly, worried you’ll embarrass yourself and suggest a song everyone hates.

Steve, however, is so in love with the idea that he practically crawls into your lap to take your face into his hands and kiss your cheek, loud, wet, dramatic and infatuated. “God, I’m in love with that angelface of yours.”

Robin and Nancy look at each other in disgust. 

Jonathan doesn’t share this disgust. His eyebrow jumps in interest, watching the two of you. “The Velvet Underground?”

He doesn’t ask as a way to clarify who sings the song. He asks because he knows that the band isn’t the usual music you listen to. He’s had their albums playing before and not once have you ever showed any interest. 

“Higgin once had them play a gig there.” It could be a lie. You aren’t really sure. All you know is that Jonathan seems far too interested in your sudden change in music taste. “That’s why I suggested it.”

“I didn’t know they played there.”

Steve’s nose presses into your neck. “Leave her alone, Byers. She’s a born and bred musical genius. Don’t be jealous.”

Jonathan ducks his head, surrendering, and you exhale a shaky breath. In being a photographer, Jonathan has learned to see the smallest details that often go overlooked. It’s a quality you both share, but now, with his knowing eyes on you, you’re really pissed off he graduated top of your class. 

“How should we arrange the chords?” Robin breaks the remaining tension between you and Jonathan. You don’t think she’s even noticed it, but you’re grateful for her nonetheless. 

“Chords?” Mike’s head pops up from the crowd of his friends. “Did we get a setlist arranged?” 

Robin holds up the list. “Read it and weep, Wheeler. Help us figure out tuning.”

Mike runs over and Max isn’t far behind him. Soon they’re all talking over one another again. You’ve lost the Februarys to the lyrics and chords that swarm around them. They all come alive when they talk about their music. They’re beautiful when they talk about their music. 

Nancy catches your eye, thinking what you are. She smiles. You smile back. 

A little while later the apartment’s buzz dies down. Mike and the young teens all crowd themselves in Dustin’s room. Robin tells you that they all grew up together in Indiana. Inseparable then, inseparable now.

Steve is with her in the kitchen. She had a craving for ice cream and he had a craving for caramel. Naturally, they’re now rifling through the pantry for sundae ingredients at nearly midnight. 

You’re sorting through film cartridges on the couch with Nancy and Jonathan sitting beside you. They’re whispering to themselves, lost in their own world, and you almost forget they’re there until Jonathan’s voice reminds you. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he shifts a bit closer to you so that he can look over your camera set up. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Do you need to borrow any of my equipment?”

You shake your head. “No, I did some test trials a few nights ago and I think I’ve finally figured out the right aperture for the venue. The photos came out pretty good, actually.”

“They were amazing!” Steve butts in, voice carrying from across the room.

Jonathan and Nancy snort and you pretend you didn’t hear him. “As for the plan, I was thinking some behind the scenes photos, you know? Take some of the band while you’re getting ready before the show and then once you’re up I just, I don’t know. Glue myself to the barricade and pray?”

Jonathan hums, pleased with what you’ve come up with, though Nancy pokes your knee. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time, so don’t worry about getting lost in the crowd.”

“Thank god.” Then an idea comes to you. “Oh, what about taking pictures of the crowd, too?”

When Jonathan and Nancy tilt their heads at you, not quite following, you’re quick to explain. “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool to have documentation of a growing crowd? Compare your earlier gigs with hopefully bigger and better ones in the future.”

“I’d kiss your face, but I’m afraid Steve might throw a spoon at me.” Nancy says, voice purposefully loud so that the intended audience will hear.

“I’m armed, Wheeler.” Steve holds a spoon up and glares at her. 

You all laugh and she reaches over to squeeze your hands excitedly. “I think documenting the crowd is a brilliant idea.”

Jonathan kisses his thumb, presses the finger to your nose as you giggle, and ruffles your hair. “A stupidly brilliant idea.”

You bat his hand away as Nancy laughs at the two of you. From the kitchen, in between your laughter, you hear Steve’s disgruntled, “What did I say about being armed, Byers?”

– 

Higgins is a shitty venue in an even shittier location with a history so rich and complex that you can’t help but admire its delicate and stained walls as you walk around the dressing room. Signatures from artists like Hendrix and Joplin line the walls. Someone has signed the mirror in thick ink with the words, know your history and then tear it apart.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Nancy murmurs, standing next to you as you both admire the walls.

“It is,” you softly agree. Raising your camera, you take a picture of the mirror. “I can’t believe your boyfriend is performing here.”

“Neither can my boyfriend.”

A pounding noise can be heard from beneath you. You look at Nancy, silently asking her what the hell the sound could be, but she shrugs at you, also confused. The pounding happens again, this time forceful enough to rattle the floor, and you jump back and find that you’d been standing on top of a hidden hatch beneath the purple carpeting. 

The hatch’s door swings open, revealing a very angry Mike and Max.

Guess they found a way into the venue, then.

“Did you really have to stand on our escape plan?” The boy sneers, his glare deepening when he sees you and Nancy holding back laughs. “This isn’t at all funny.”

Only he looks so small down below the hidden cellar routes that remain from the prohibition days, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing excessively. 

“Just help us up.” Max pleads, annoyed and sweaty and covered in god knows what. 

Taking pity on them, Nancy offers her hand and helps them crawl out from the hatch of death. “If mom ever asks,” she says to Mike. “Tell her I’m taking really good care of you here in New York.”

“Ha, ha.” He responds drily, though he shrieks in upset when a flash goes off and he realizes you’re taking pictures of his and Max’s situation. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“Well, children.” You take another photo. “I’m capturing behind the scenes content.”

Max scoffs and steps past you, her shoulder clipping against yours, leaving Nancy to deal with her brother’s outrage so that she can help him get ready. You wish her luck and she waves you off, focusing on Mike now. 

Camera in hand, you take pictures of anything that your gaze lingers on. More signatures on the wall. The bands only sign that hangs above the door frame. Robin’s platform sneakers that lay abandoned next to her chair. Steve’s guitar next to the sneakers.

And even though there is so much history within these walls, so many intimate details that you know you want to capture forever, your lens draws you to Steve. Body turned to his, you find him through your viewfinder. 

Robin sits at the vanity. Her eyes are smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and the blue of them shine. Steve stands next to her, styling his hair with sticky pomade and hopeless fingers. A silver chain hangs from Steve’s neck, his white t-shirt strains against his back, muscles outline faintly in the dim lighting as he bends towards Robin to tangle his fingers in her hair, too, styling it as she wants. 

They don’t see you at first. It isn’t until you’ve brought the camera back up to your face, eye squinting in the viewfinder to focus on the expanse of Steve’s taut back, do they see you. Robin winks into the mirror and Steve tips his head back, smiling lazily at you. 

Something tight grips your throat, but you swallow it down. 

In the corner Nancy is fixing Jonathan’s jacket and you take a picture of her tender hands around his waist. You photograph Mike and Max tuning their instruments; the girl’s red hair almost glows besides the boy’s fluorescent skin. As Robin and Jonathan go over the setlist for any last minute changes, you take a picture of their downcast heads, their similarly colored hair blurring into one body. 

The excitement in the room is tinged with tension, with apprehension, but still there is a breathlessness to it. 

Steve watches your every move as you walk around the room. His eyes are a pleasant warmth that simmers on your skin. You take a photo of his hands wrapped around his blue guitar neck. His fingers picking at the strings. His lips humming a song. 

He lets you. 

“Five more minutes.” A man, tall and large, knocks on the dressing room door. “Get ready.”

The static in the air multiplies at the announcement. Steve jumps up from his seat, clapping his hands. “Alright, everyone. You know the drill.”

They fall into formation. Jonathan, Mike, Max, and Robin all in a circle facing Steve. 

He brings his arms around them, forcing them into a huddle. Their eyes are bright and smiles wide and you take one final photo of them, just like this, just like little kids, grinning mischievously at one another and flushed faces. 

“It’s just us.” Steve tells them. “Just us up there on stage. No one else. Not one fucking any person but us.”

They repeat him. Just us. Just us just us just us.

Steve licks his lips at the sound, coating the cheshire smile on his face. He leans closer, impossibly closer to his bandmates, words edging his lips as they wait, dangling before them, desperate, waiting, before finally, finally–

“Showtime.”

– 

The cold metal of the barrier digs into your stomach. Nancy stands next to you, her own body flush against the railing that separates the barricade from the main stage. The small section is reserved only for you and Nancy, separate from the rest of the crowd, yet hardly big enough for the two of you to stand comfortably. 

Loud, disorienting noise surrounds you. Higgins is one of those smaller venues that insists on cramming as many people as possible inside. Your heartbeat pounds along to the sound of drunken conversation and Nancy’s reassuring glances. 

“You ready?” She shouts into your ear, barely heard above the crowd.

“Not at all,” you admit to her. Your camera is poised in your hands. You’re anxious to see the Februarys perform, to see who exactly you’ve chanced your career on. “I swear to god, if Steve can’t sing I’m making him pay me double what he’s already–”

Your words get drowned out by a deafening wave of cheers and screams. The sound vibrates your skin, rattles your bones, and when you look up, all you see is the stage flooding with color as Steve and the others fill it. 

Jonathan sits at his drum set, its white reflecting the stage’s fluorescent purple lighting. Max plugs her bass to an amp and its deep maroon hue ignites the dark around her. Next to her Mike’s sage green electric guitar makes a small click sound as he connects it to its own powersource. Robin places herself behind her keyboard, its effervescent multitude of colors that she’s painted onto its body a commotion of everything that exudes who she is. 

And then there’s Steve, standing front and center on the stage, holding the same acoustic guitar you saw in his room the day you met him. Dark blue, its edges black, the fingers wrapped around it tanned and rough. 

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Steve grabs the mic, still engulfed in the colors. You think you see him smile at the crowd’s excited response. The flash of his white teeth vivid against his pink mouth. 

Steve extends his arms out towards the band. “Over here we have Robin Buckley on keyboard,” she playfully bows. “Jonathan Byers on drums,” deft fingers twirl drumsticks before colliding them onto cymbals. “Playing bass we have Max Mayfield,” the girl smiles coolly at the crowd, completely at ease. “And Mike Wheeler on electric guitar,” he twists the instrument and releases a cacophony of sound and the venue explodes into howls.

“And finally,” Steve presses his mouth against the mic again, eyes only on the crowd. He lets his words hang, the cheers become feminine, the howls become wanting. He laughs at the reaction. The sound is infectious. The flex of his arms ripples in the lighting. The beauty of his features only melts into the air, cages your lungs, and you see, in the end, just what every girl he takes to bed sees. 

Only when he has the crowd in the palm of his hand does he finally introduce himself, “I’m Steve Harrington.”

Your voice joins the screaming chorus and Steve grabs the mic with both hands and shouts, “We’re the Februarys, let’s go!”

No buildup, no anticipation, the band dives right into their first song. 

And they’re fucking incredible. They flow together well, losing themselves in the songs and chords they’ve created, and it isn’t their talent that makes you believe they’ll be a sensation one day. It’s the genuine compassion they have for one another on stage. 

Steve and Robin trade off on vocals easily, without any mixed cues or forgotten lyrics. Steve never strays away from her during the entire performance, always right next to her, always sharing his mic with her just because he can, because he enjoys her presence. 

Mike and Max harmonize and their voices mix so well together that you’re momentarily stunned. During every song Mike plays his chords to Jonathan, always looking to the older boy for a reaction, always eager to please, and Jonathan plays right back to him.

Max and Robin do an intricate handshake between the songs. The quick movement of their hands are a blur on stage but their smiles are vibrant and saturated in clarity. 

The Februarys are addicting to watch, they’re indescribable, even, but Steve is too unspoken to even capture on camera.

His body sways with the beat, singing in a whiskey colored tone that hits you like a sucker punch to the heart. The dip of his nose runs against the mic’s edge. The veins in his hands contrasted by the flash of lights. 

You take what feels like endless pictures. 

Your film roll becomes overwhelmed with images of the crowd, alive and swarming to get closer to the stage. With images of Steve, beautiful and raw. Nancy and her fondness and pride watching Jonathan. Max’s hands interlaced with Robin’s during their handshakes. Robin’s pink streaks in her hair and their vibrancy in the purple light.

More, your body screams at you, humming with the images that you’re aching to capture. More, more, more.

The lights shine down and you crawl over the security barrier, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder. Nancy doesn’t realize what you’re doing until your body is already over the railing. You think she calls out to you, but you’re gone before you can question what the hell you’re doing.

A security guard steps towards you but you quickly flash him the flimsy VIP badge you and Nancy were given when you were placed into the security area. 

You press against the edge of the stage with your camera angled up and as close as physically possible to the music. 

Steve finds you immediately.

He bends down, peers over the edge of the stage as he continues to sing. He’s dripping in sweat and his t-shirt clings to his wet skin. His chest heaves every lyric and his voice, this close, this full, makes you bite your lip to steady your shaking hands. 

“Don’t you know, honey, you can get it so fast?” He sings into the camera, silver chain dangling in front of the lens. He’s close enough for you to smell, to feel the heat of his body as he performs. “But of course, you know it makes no difference to me.” 

Steve sings into the camera, looks right through its lens, finds your eyes through its viewfinder.

He’s performing for you. 

Only for you. 

– 

In the dim, cramped hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the main stage, you wait with Nancy after the show. You’re both exhilarated and still riding the post concert high and you’re showing her all your pictures and she’s breathless and her hair is wild and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this type of adrenaline. 

A mixture of cheers and celebratory shouts echo down the hall and you hear, before you see, the Februarys returning. They’re equally drunk on the adrenaline that courses through your veins. 

“Did you see that?” Mike flies straight to Nancy, a little kid in his older sister’s arms. “I swear, the crowd was a fucking monster.”

Jonathan is by Nancy’s side in an instant, throwing his arms around her and joining Mike’s excited ramblings.

“They were singing our songs!” Robin screeches at the top of her lungs as she runs straight towards you, Max not far behind. “Y/N, did you hear them? God, please tell me you took a picture of the crowd–”

Suddenly you’re weightless, feet lifting from the ground as your body spins recklessly around. You scream, hands clutching your camera in alarm, until a rough and familiar voice kisses into your ear, “Angelface.”

“Steve!” You hit his arms playfully, belly full of laughter. “Put me down!”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night,” his hands slide down your waist and your feet touch the ground once more. “Christ, you look fucking amazing in the purple lights.”

Standing on the tips of your toes, you fix the messy pieces of Steve’s hair. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the entire night, I mean, look,” giddy, you shove a small camera in his face. “I shot some digital, I knew you’d be too impatient for the film to develop. And as much as I hate to admit it, the stage loves you.”

Steve’s mouth parts, momentarily surprised you’ve done this small, unnecessary thing for him. You only agreed to shoot the band in film, that was all they could afford to pay you for, and yet here you are, once again surprising him.

“God, you’re my favorite fucking person ever.” Steve hungrily grabs the device, licking his lips. He flicks through the images in a maddening frenzy and his heartbeat almost deafens his ears. “Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.”

He says it as if to gloat, to exude your talent once more, but deep down, Steve’s stomach twists a feeling he’s never felt before. Screaming crowds and late night lyrics felt cliche, ingenuine, but now looking at the pictures you’ve provided solely for him, this is the first time he’s ever truly felt like a rockstar. 

Your perfume invades Steve’s senses. Your cheek presses against his bicep and he can feel your grin. You point to his face in one of the pictures. “You get really red when you perform.”

“I’m going to pretend that’s your poor attempt at flirting with me.”

You laugh. “No, it wasn’t. You get all rosie,” you look up at him and your smile softens slightly, more tender, delicate. “I think it’s cute.”

“Rosie, huh?” Steve’s heartbeat spikes again. The haze your perfume has left him in threatens to overspill into his wandering hands. His eyes wander to your lips; you see it.

“Share with the class, Harrington,” Robin snatches the camera from him. “Quit hogging Y/N’s talent.”

Steve immediately tries to grab the camera, but Robin is fast. She runs to the others, ducks behind Jonathan, and Steve glares at her. “Buckley, I wasn’t done–”

“Let them look, Steve.” Your fingers wrap around his wrist, gently pulling him back. “You’re not the only one paying me, you know.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes, to say that actually your pay comes out of his bank account, but then he sees the pure joy in your eyes as you watch the Februarys pour over the photos. You try to suppress your obvious pride by biting your lip and all arguments die in his throat.

There aren't a lot of pictures, not nearly as many as you’re sure you took on your film camera, but watching the band’s eyes light up as they see your work is like molten chocolate coating your stomach. Syrupy and indulgent and lovely.

“I’m framing this one,” Robin announces, holding the camera up. “Because holy fuck do my tits look great from this angle.”

“Wasn’t my artistic intent, but please feel free to frame your tits.”

Max points to an image of her with her eyes closed, fingers soft and poised over the bass strings. “I look so… holy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way, right?”

“I think so.”

“Good enough for me.”

Mike smacks Jonathan’s shoulder, not even bothering to look up from the camera. “Why the hell did you hide Y/N from us for so long?”

Nancy pinches her brother and Jonathan rubs his sore skin, and while he tries to explain that no, he hadn’t been hiding you this whole time, Steve’s lips graze your head and he wraps himself around you, steadying your body that sways with amused and childish laughter. 

– 

Life becomes a blur of venues and gigs and flashing lights and developing film and Steve and his lips and soft voice humming to himself most mornings.

He’s always awake before the others. Your habit of working on your film late into the night leaves you the only one up when he rises.

It’s become a sort of tradition, spending quiet mornings together. Steve makes you coffee and goes over the film with you from the night before. When he’s done admiring your work, he prepares a lazy breakfast and you sit at the counter and listen to his soft hums.

“What do you think of the lyric, ‘left for want and wanting’?” Steve asks you one morning, the sizzle of eggs on the greased pan threatening to burn his exposed chest.

“Is it a play on ‘left for want and nothing?’” He nods and you tilt your head. “I think I like it, though Robin might say it’s redundant.” 

Steve sighs. “Every time I show her what I’ve written it’s like sophomore English all over again.”

His annoyance makes you laugh, though you do pity him. Following the gig at Higgins, Steve and the others decided that they needed more than their four original songs. The crowds are getting bigger, demanding more than just covers and a handful of songs. 

With this demand came late night bickering between Steve and Robin over lyrics and chord progressions and, more often than not, Mike frantically running down to the apartment at odd times with a line he’s thought of to insist they write it down.

“If it’s any consolation, I like the stuff you guys are coming up with.” Steve and Robin are a good team and Mike’s sudden strikes of inspiration only add to their music. From the little you’ve heard, the new songs are already more mature, even better, than their old ones. 

“You’re biased,” Steve sets a plate down in front of you and kisses your cheek. “You’re supposed to like everything I do.”

“The only thing I like about you is your face, rosie.”

Steve snorts, going back to the stove so that Dustin and Robin have their own meals to wake up to, and a comfortable silence falls over the two of you once more. 

In the blur of gigs and venues and music comes another blur of barely legal teens and their symphony of adolescence. 

Max and Lucas stop by the apartment often with El in tow. Somehow Will and Mike are never far behind despite having their own apartment upstairs. 

“Why do you guys always take over my apartment? Why can’t you go upstairs?” You ask the teens, eyeing your kitchen counter that has been buried underneath mounds of school assignments. 

“We like it here better.” Will shrugs. “Plus, you and Dustin help us with our work.”

You and Dustin do, unfortunately, enjoy helping them figure out math problems and essays, so you can’t really argue with that logic. 

Dustin becomes your accomplice in more than just assignments, though. Being the only one not in the Februarys, he’s your solace when the apartment fills with Mike and Steve arguing with Robin over a chorus or bridge or whatever else they’re stuck on that night.

“If I didn’t enjoy the idea of knowing rockstars, I would’ve moved out by now.” Dustin pounds on his bedroom wall, connected to Robin’s, where yet another argument floods the silence, and shouts, “Knock it off!”

A thud, then a door slams, before Steve comes barreling into the room and collapses at your side. “Robin said I’m trying too hard with my lyrics.”

“Oh, sure, come right in.”

Steve ignores Dustin’s sarcasm and pouts at you. “I mean, can you believe her? Me? Trying too hard?”

Then Robin launches into the room, nearly trips on the wires that litter the floor. “He’s too in his head right now! The songs all sound like slimy poetry!”

You frown. “Isn’t that what songs are–”

“You guys got rid of my seafoam gloom line?” Mike’s agitated voice is the only warning the precedes his stumbling presence into the already overflowing bedroom and yet another argument rises between the three band members.

Dustin is pinching the bridge of his nose and you’re sympathetic to his lost cause of a room. Standing up, you grab his hand. “C’mon, let’s hide out in my room. My door at least has a lock.”

“You’re leaving me?” Steve cries out, betrayed, but his voice is muffled by the door’s closing.

A lot of nights follow a pattern like this, bickering between friends, torn scraps of paper left throughout the apartment, slamming doors and laughter that follows. Sometimes the monotony is broken by Jonathan’s comforting presence helping you develop the film as Nancy brews tea. 

Tonight is like any other night. Robin has gone to bed, Mike left with his sister and Jonathan a while ago, Dustin is in his room hunched over a project for school, and Steve is in your bed, tired fingers plucking over guitar strings as you go over your photos from a gig the night before. 

Along the walls of your room are a series of photos, some film, some digital, varying in size and shape. Though some of the images are from recent performances, most aren’t even of the Februarys themselves. 

One photo is of Dustin laughing about something with Will. There’s a few of Max, one with her hand shyly clasped in Lucas’ as they watch a movie. Multiple images are of Robin and Steve, always eager to pose for you whenever your camera is near. Nancy, her beautiful side profile admiring Jonathan. 

Your room has become a collection of images of everyone you love, and slowly, it becomes Steve’s room, too.

He tells you he prefers your room over his because it’s cleaner, though really you know it’s because he also enjoys being surrounded by everyone he loves. 

Soft acoustic notes float through the room. The silence is comfortable, as it always is with Steve. His eyes are closed and he simply plays whatever comes to mind. He’s the most at ease when he’s playing music, and truthfully, tucked in your bed with his hair framing his face, you think he’s the most beautiful this way. 

“I have a question.” Steve rolls his head to look at you. The song he’s playing doesn’t waver and this act of talent, albeit small, still amazes you. 

“When don’t you have a question?” 

He pokes your thigh. “Be nice, it’s a serious question.”

Placing your film down, you give him your attention. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s up?”

Steve places his guitar down and rolls onto his side. He stares up with tired eyes and he hesitates for a moment. Opens his mouth, closes it, looks away.

“Steve?” You don’t like the uncharacteristic hesitancy. 

Sighing, he faces you again. “Why did you take this job?” 

Your confusion must spill over your face because Steve inhales and tries again, tries to articulate something that you can tell has been bothering him for a while. “What I mean is, why did you decide to put your faith in the band? Work for shit pay, live with complete strangers? Aren’t you, I don’t know, worried that we’ve somehow jeopardized your career by making you stay?”

A part of you wants to deflect, to make a joke about how you never really had a career anyways. Except Steve is looking up at you and you see a flicker of insecurity in his eyes, doubt that has never been there before. 

“Because,” you tell him, easily and without any doubt yourself. “One day everyone will know your name. You’ll be known as Steve Harrington, lead member of the Februarys, a band that will be remembered for generations to come.”

You reach out, tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear. “And, selfishly, I want to be a part of the history you make. Even if only as the photographer.”

“You really believe that?” His golden smile is bashful. 

“I do,” your lips fall to his cheek, a fluttering reassurance. “The Februarys, you guys are special. There’s something in your band. Something good. I can feel it.”

Steve grabs your ankle, skims the flesh there with the pad of his thumb. He watches himself trace your skin, smiling still golden and youthful. “I can feel it, too,” he admits to you as if it’s a secret. “Thank you, you know. For believing in us.”

Removing your ankle from his grasp, you curl your body into itself, falling against his chest, forgetting about the photos and guitar and simply laying on him. Listening to his heartbeat. Music somehow innate within him. 

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.”

Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm. 

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it.

But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well. 

– 

After a month of multiple arguments, insults, tears, midnight snack runs, and emotional outbursts, the Februarys’ EP, creatively titled The Februarys, is finished. 

“You agonize over these songs for weeks on end and then you name the EP The Februarys?” Dustin makes a face. “Were you too burnt out to think of anything better?”

Robin throws a pillow at him and Steve has to leave the room before he screams. 

“Is now a bad time to ask how you guys plan on recording an EP without, you know, a studio or any connections to a studio?” The death glare Robin sends you immediately shuts you up. “Yeah, okay. Bad time.”

The dilemma of not having a studio or even a record label to help produce the EP is quickly solved by the grace of one Jonathan Byers. 

“Okay, I have a plan.” He sits everyone down a few nights later, looking like King Arthur at the head of the round table. “I can get us into a studio.”

Max tips her chair back and crosses her arms. “If it involves anything illegal, I’m out. My mom said I can’t keep abusing the family lawyer.”

“You have a family lawyer?”

“Focus, Y/N.” A pen gets thrown at you and Jonathan sets his gaze on Max. “And no, it isn’t illegal. Technically.”

“I’m listening.” Mike leans forward in his seat.

Nancy frowns. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

You nod in agreement, eyeing her brother, to which he scoffs at you both. 

Jonathan either doesn’t see this or he simply doesn’t care. “Do you guys remember my old coworker Argyle? It was back when I worked at that deli on fifth.”

Everyone nods, you included. You vaguely remember the stories Jonathan told you about his time at the deli. It was run by an old man who didn’t care about labor rights but in a way that only benefited the employees. Unlimited breaks, a disregard for public health codes, and free food if you worked overtime. 

You never set foot in that deli for obvious reasons, though Jonathan loved every second of it. 

“Well, turns out he managed to bypass mandatory state drug tests and got a job working security at Major Tom’s.”

A lot of things happen at once. 

Robin, who had taken a poorly timed sip of her water, spits it out all over Steve. Cringing at the attack, his knee hits the table, eliciting a pathetic yelp from him. Mike slams his hand on the table and screams something about fate, and Max, who had been tempting the limits of how far her chair could tip back, is so surprised by the news that she leans too far and ends up on the floor. 

“Oh, Jesus.” In dire need of damage control, you quickly stand up and help Max off the ground. On your way you toss a roll of paper towels to Steve and tell him to clean himself up. 

“Major Tom’s?” He screeches, a wet paper towel hanging from his face. 

Jonathan gulps, nods. “Yeah.”

Robin’s rapid breathing borders on hyperventilating and Mike and Max are in stunned awe. Meanwhile, you’re getting ice from the freezer to ease the sting of the girl’s fall, completely caught off guard by everyone’s startled reactions. 

“In fear of looking like a moron,” you hand the ice to Max. “What the hell is Major Tom’s?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, just the most culturally significant recording studio in the world.” Steve sputters a laugh. “It’s where every fucking rock band who’s recorded there becomes a household legend.”

You sit back down. “Oh, so this is like. A pretty big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Robin exclaims. She clasps her hands in front of Jonathan, goes flying to her knees before him. “Byers, light of my life, love of my beloved Nancy Wheeler, apple of my sour eye, please, for the love of god, talk to Argyle.”

He gently grabs her arm and forces her back into her seat. “I thought I told you to stop begging for things like that. It creeps me out.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“Nancy said I need to work on expressing how I’m feeling, and I really dislike that you continue to do something that makes me feel–”

Now it’s Max’s hand that slams down on the table. “Hey! Assholes! Can we go back to Argyle finally being useful?”

“I’ve always thought he was useful.”

“You’re about to be banned from this conversation, Y/N.”

Steve, who has been shockingly quiet throughout all of this, calmly says, “Byers, you need to talk to Argyle.”

“That’s the thing.” Jonathan leans his weight against the table, crosses his arms in a smug manner. He looks around at everyone and shrugs. “I already did. He agreed to sneak us into the studio for three days. For free.”

This time there’s an even bigger reaction and it isn’t until hours later, deep into night with Steve staring up at your bedroom ceiling, does the adrenaline finally die down. 

Argyle’s deal with Jonathan is simple. The Februarys get three straight days of studio time. That’s all he can afford to give them before he risks his own job. All they have to do is record, edit, and mix eight songs in three days. 

All for the price of Jonathan’s film canister so that he can sneak weed to work.

And while the three day limit seems impossible, it’s more than enough for the band. This is too big of an opportunity to fuck up. They’ll stay up those entire three days, work themselves to the brink of death, if it means that they finally have a chance.

Which is ultimately what ends up happening.

A maddening rush settles into the band’s veins and they spend the rest of the night drawing up a plan.

Day one will be recording all eight songs. Steve won’t say a single word unless needed so that he can preserve his voice. Extra guitar strings will be stashed in Robin’s bag. Bandaids. Aspirin, whatever they can possibly need. No one leaves the studio until the final lyric has been sung and the final chord has faded. 

Day two will be the production day. With Mike and Steve mixing the songs, they’ll be at the mercy of Robin, Max, and Jonathan. Everyone gets a say in what happens. Every soundbite, every amplification of bass or keyboard gets approved by everyone. If they don’t agree with each other, they get one veto each. That’s it. There won’t be any time for arguing or stale compromises. 

Day three, the final day, will be the last minute edits. They’ll re-record if needed. Change a progression or note. It has to be perfect; it has to feel perfect. There is no other option. 

“We’ll see you and Dustin in a few days.” Steve throws a few more things into his bag. He’s called a taxi that will be at the apartment any minute. “I’ll leave some cash so you guys can order out. Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

Dustin looks offended. “Why are you making it sound like Y/N is my babysitter?”

“Because technically she is.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Which puts the ‘baby’ in ‘babysitter’.”

“Not to interrupt this groundbreaking conversation but,” your bag, which you’d been hiding behind your back since coming into Steve’s room, lands on the bed beside his. “I’m coming with you, Harrington.”

Both Steve and Dustin look at you as if you’re insane.

“You’re leaving me all alone for three days?”

“Thought you didn’t need a babysitter, Henderson?” Dustin closes his mouth and glares at you. Meanwhile, you flash Steve a wide smile. “Any complaints from you?”

“No,” there’s still an odd look on his face. “I mean, definitely not. I get you for three straight days? Heaven. I just… we can’t pay you for whatever pictures you take. It isn’t in our budget. You know that, right?”

“Keep your money,” Steve’s concern of valuing your work melts your skin. “I meant what I told you. I want to be a part of your history. And your first recording session at Major Tom’s? That’s history, rosie.”

Early morning sunlight streaks the hardwood floor of Steve’s room. His guitar is packed away in its case. His bag overflows with more than he probably needs. He’s kneeling on his bed, one leg in front of you, body angled towards yours, and the raw and vulnerable way his eyes soften when he looks at you, it’s worth more than anything he could ever pay you. 

“Taxi’s here!” Robin bangs on the doorframe. “Let’s go, wombats.”

Steve tosses your bag and grabs your hand, spinning you as he tugs you out the door. You’re used to his boyish antics by now, but still you laugh like a schoolgirl and follow him wherever. 

“So I’m really gonna be alone for three days?” Dustin calls out, following right behind. 

“I’ll call Luas and have him stay with you.” You placate. “And Steve will leave even more money for food.”

“No I won’t–”

“Bye, Dustin!” You kiss his head, ruffle his hair, and then extend your arm out towards Steve, palm facing up, expectant. “Cough it up.”

His amused smile betrays his downturned eyebrows. “Why do you treat me like the bank?” “You grew up rich. This is financial compensation for everyone who is poor.”

 Dustin nods. “Yeah. It’s economics.”

Steve sighs, knowing he won’t win this fight, and hands the kid an extra five dollars on top of the twenty he’s already left on the counter. “I hate you both.”

“Guys!” Robin’s scream can be heard from the street below. She’s outside the taxi now and her glare can be felt from six stories up. “Let’s. Go.”

“That’s our cue.” Steve grabs your hand, cocks his head at you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

– 

Major Tom’s recording studio is deep in the West Village. A few blocks away resides the Hudson. The building itself is small, no more than five floors, yet it’s a maze within its lush walls. Deep red lines the velvet walls. Amber wood flooring, gold plated chandeliers, and records spanning decades. 

Similar to Higgins, so much history can be felt within the walls. Icons from eras passed, their music transcending their vitality.

No one has time to admire the studio’s beauty, though. The second Argyle sneaks everyone inside, they scatter like bugs. Steve runs straight to the first recording booth he finds. Jonathan grabs a drum set base, Max digs through drawers for music stands, and Mike and Robin pick at a locked door to see what’s inside, hoping for at least a few mics. 

Knowing better than to get in their way, you stay back. Keep to the shadows in their chaos. All you do is silently take pictures, documenting it all. 

Before you know it the band has managed to cram their way into the booth and they’re performing the first song in minutes. Seeing them working together so fluidly is beautiful. Argyle, with limited knowledge of how music production works, monitors the soundboard. 

Despite the time constraints and the pressure to get everything right in just one take, Steve performs every song as if he has all the time in the world.

His smooth voice and dropped vowels coat the soft hums of Robin. He moves slowly, his eyes closed for every song. He gets lost in the music and you get lost watching him. 

The Februarys finish recording all their songs right as the sun starts to set. By this point, Steve’s voice is raw and the flesh of Max’s fingertips and Mike’s palms are cut up and bleeding. Jonathan has splinters from his drumsticks. Robin’s feet ache from standing.

But they’ve never been more alive.

They talk over each other and surround the soundboard, itching to hear what’s been captured and even more anxious to pick it apart and stitch it back together again. 

Throughout the night they tear over melodies and chords. They work until they can hardly keep their eyes open, and still they insist on listening over and over again to the songs. Late into night they take turns sleeping, never allowing for more than two of them to sleep at the same time in fear of losing daylight. 

The second day follows this pattern. By the end of the night, they can feel the exhaustion in their bones. And yet, despite this, there has never been more laughter, more quips and tears and sentimental smiles, between them. 

The third day is slower, easier. The final stretch. Somehow they manage to stay on track and with only a few more songs to finalize, the energy in the room shifts. The once manic, frenzied static that coated the room becomes mellow, calm, like quiet acceptance. 

“We’re really good.” Steve murmurs to you, resting his head beside yours against the wall. He was forced to take a break a while ago and sits down next to you on the ground. 

“You are.” Though you’re not sure if you’re affirming a belief of doubt or a belief of quality. “Everything you’ve done is incredible.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice thick with tears. “We’re really good.”

In his brown eyes you see a dream being fulfilled. A realization that more will come from this. That years of sleepless nights and strained vocal cords has amended him this: a quiet moment between childhood friends getting everything they’ve ever wanted.

The final song plays over the speakers. There isn’t a breath released during its entirety. Robin's keynote fades. The key evokes an image of goodbye. The clapping that follows from behind you evokes terror. 

Everyone turns around. The room stills. 

Leonard Branham, manager and producer of Major Tom’s, stands in the doorway. 

He’s a short man, more belly than body. His white hair is almost translucent against his pale skin. Large sunglasses rest on his veiny head. A cigarette dangles from his wrinkled mouth and when he smiles, his teeth are yellowed, aged. 

“Well, what do we have here?” 

Steve is the first to react, scrambling to his feet. “Mr. Branham, sir, I–”

“Do not.” 

The silence turns into terror. For three days the Februarys have been using the studio without explicit permission. They snuck in through the backdoor and illegally used equipment worth thousands. 

And now, just as they’ve completed their mad dash to the finish line, the owner of Major Tom’s has caught them, quite literally, red handed. 

Maybe Max’s family lawyers will be useful. 

“Mr. Leonard, uh. Branham. Sir. Sorry, do I call you sir?” Robin’s squeaky voice of fear rings in your ears. “I-okay. Not important. Can I just ask you not to arrest us–”

“Please don’t arrest us. My sister will kill me and she’s really annoying–”

“I know a good lawyer.”

“God, my dad is an asshole and I know I’m twenty-four but he’s fucking terrifying and–”

“My step dad is a cop, I know my rights–”

Leonard hands up his hands and his loud voice booms, “Enough!”

Silence. Pure, utter silence. 

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man puffs out smoke. Flicks the ash onto the expensive carpet like it’s nothing. “You’re not getting arrested, alright? I’ve known you were using my studio since the first day your asses got here. Your little friend over here,” he waves his cigarette at Argyle. “Can’t keep a secret to save his chubby little life.”

“It’s true, dudes.”

Steve’s mouth tightens. “So we’re… fine?”

“Fine?” Leonard cackles. “I don’t know, boy. You tell me!”

“Full transparency, sir, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.”

Leonard exhales more smoke. “Now that, my boy, better be the nerves talking. I don’t sign druggies to the label. It’s a bad image when they kneel over and I’m the one managing them.”

Steve pales and for a split second you really do think he’s having a heart attack. “I-I’m sorry. Did you say sign?”

“Told you. I’ve known you were here the entire time. I have cameras. This equipment cost more than my third fucking divorce.” Leonard kicks at a speaker and huffs. “But that’s besides the point. I’m here because I like you guys. Your songs sound like the colors blue and yellow and I fucking love that they make green. You understand?”

Robin laughs nervously. “Can’t really say I do. Personally.”

“Christ, doesn’t anyone listen these days?” Leonard flicks ash off his cigarette and stares at the group. “I’m giving you guys a chance. I want you to join my label. Is that English enough for you?”

Mike screams. Full on, knees to the ground, screams. Max isn’t any better, joining him immediately and grabbing onto his body to try and support her own failing one. 

Robin’s eyes roll back and she nearly faints. Jonathan has to be the one to catch her, because Steve just stands there, eyes wide, shell shocked and unmoving. His entire body tenses up and you wouldn’t be surprised if ends up fainting as well. 

In the midst of everyone’s overwhelmed reactions, you’re the only one coherent enough to step forward and shake Leonard’s extended hand. 

“I hear you loud and clear, Lenny.” He smiles, impressed with the confidence to call him by his name. “The Februarys will happily sign with you.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Leonard clasps his hand over your intertwined ones, shaking it aggressively. 

A weight gets thrown upon you and Steve’s arms tear you from Leonard. He clings onto you from behind, nearly sending you to the floor, as he laughs and cries and screams. He’s in your arms and around your waist and in your neck and your stomach and he’s swallowed entirely by the bliss that erupts in the room. 

The beginning of it all.

-

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[at-this-point-i-dont-even-know]

Always and Forever

Jack Abbot x Reader

About: Jack Abbot lost his wife in the war, and her memory haunts him for six years, three months and twenty four days.

Warnings: I don't know anything medical or anything military so everything is just a guess , this also might get angsty

part two

Six years, three months and twenty four days.

That was how long Jack had been considered a widower.

Six Years, three months and twenty four days since he kissed his wife goodbye and put you on a helicopter never to see you again.

And every night, for those six years, three months and twenty four days, he has woken from the same nightmare.

He’s standing in the desert, the camp behind him as he waves his wife off, your face smiling down at him from the open door as you yell out something he can’t quite hear. He smiles up at you and then turns his back, just slightly, for a half a moment to talk to someone whose face he no longer remembers, and then the blast forces him onto his back, his face burning from the explosion and the helicopter he had just put you on is alight in the air. Your screams cut through the ringing in his ears as he tries to crawl to the rubble falling from the sky. Trying to get to you as you fall, gracefully and lightly to the ground. A dead weight against the world as he finally gets to you, your face and body burnt beyond any recognition.

Every night he would wake screaming from the dream, his hands clutching the sheets and his breath ragged as he tried to pull himself back to reality.

A reality that didn’t have you in it.

He hadn’t been there the moment you died, no one had, your helicopter had gone down over enemy territory after a routine day. There were no survivors and no opportunity to retrieve your body. 

So every day Jack got out of bed, poured a strong cup of coffee with equal amounts of coffee, sugar and milk, before turning on his police scanner and doing the work outs given to him by his physical therapist. Every day he goes through the motions, eating, drinking, chatting to friends, talking to his therapist, helping in the ER and every single day he is reminded that you are gone.

He moved to Pittsburg once he had been honourably discharged a year after your death and after his reckless actions had cost him his foot. Before Pittsburgh, your home had been an army issued backpack and whatever tent you both collapsed in after performing surgery for 23 hours straight in a makeshift hospital. Your address in the States had been a house in Arizona that you both had put all your life savings into, bought without seeing and sold before either of you had moved in a single box. You were gone before the ink had dried and Jack couldn’t go there without you, so it had gone back on the market and he had moved to Pittsburgh at the insistence of your sister, a woman so much your polar opposite he could not believe you were related let alone see you in her.

Emery Walsh was a force to be reckoned with, and while she may never forgive Jack for talking you into another tour (in her opinion, you were going to go no matter what your husband decided), she had taken one look at him at your gravesite, an empty coffin below his feet, an empty wine bottle in his hands and moved him to her city. Got him a job in the Emergency Room, where she could keep an eye on him without hovering. 

And the days went by.

Six years, three months and twenty four days to be exact.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a better day than most when everything changed.

Jack had been rostered on the day shift, which he was starting to think wasn’t as bad as he had originally thought. His friend Dr Michael Robinavitch had brought him a coffee and the Nurse Dana manning the ship it was easy to fall into a comfortable banter with his colleagues. 

“I don’t know how you can drink that stuff!” Dana quipped, as she scrunched her nose at Jack's coffee order, and sipped her own black coffee.

“It brings me joy- which is a good thing i’ve been told.” he laughed as she rolled her eyes.

“If you keep seeking joy, people are going to think you’re more than a grump.”

“Who called me a grump? I am a pocket full of freaking sunshine!” he said, as dryly as possible.

“Sure-” Dana said before her next words were swallowed up by an incoming emergency. 

And the day continued on, Jack was working on a teenager with too many bullet holes in his chest to survive, when Walsh slammed her way into the Emergency Room, it was her day off so instead of the surgery scrubs she normally wore she was in jeans and a fluffy jumper.

A joke about her outfit was on Jack's tongue when it faded away the moment he caught her face.

Emery Walsh was a stone cold bitch, with a face that normally gives nothing away as she deals with life's challenges. 

Jack keenly remembered her face on the day of your funeral, dressed in Military garb she had remained stoic beside your parents, she had made an emotionless speech about your character with no stories of your shared youth and when your empty coffin had been put in the ground she had simply walked away. 

Jack had never quite forgiven her for that, but on the other side of that argument, who was he to judge, you died, he drank and then marched head first into a firefight with no backup and no worries for his own safety. It was Walsh’s unit that had pulled him out, screamed at him and then Walsh had taken leave of her own tour to stay by his bedside, not for emotional support but by some kind of twisted familiar duty for her sister.

But today, her face is white, and her eyes bloodshot red as she scanned the ER, her hands wringing as she fidgeted on the spot.

Jack moved towards her, ripping off his bloodied gloves and apron and yelling at someone else to help the kid, and grabbed her by the shoulder pulling her attention to him.

“What's wrong?” His voice is commanding, military, which pulls Walsh a little bit back to herself.

“I need Robby, now.” She says, each word an effort.

“Emery-”

“I need Robby- not you!” she hissed before turning on her heels and marching to another end of the ER.

“Dana?” Jack called out as the Charge Nurse rounded a corner.

“Yes?”

“Where’s Sad Boy?” The nickname had stuck months after the Pittfest Shooting much to Robby’s disgust. 

“Ambulance Bay- I think he’s trying to get some second hand smoke.” she laughed as she wandered away. 

It was a running joke, Robby trying to quit smoking, every couple of months he goes a few weeks before giving into the temptation. Jack always thought it was the biggest joke in the medical world, the fact that so many doctors, who all know the risks, still smoke so much. But who was he to judge, he ends most of his shifts at the edge of the roof. 

“Marsh!” the brunette turned to him, her eyes wide and her hands still shaking, “Ambulance bay!”

He wanted to follow her, to find out what had made the woman so shaken up but as he stepped forward he was bowled over by Dana who called him over to the incoming trauma.

--------------------------

It was almost an hour before he was finally back into the bullpen and away from any patients. 

Jack couldn't get the picture of Emery’s pale face and shaking hands out of his mind the whole time he coded his last patient, he didn’t even celebrate the small moment when they came back to the world of the living, instead briskly walking away leaving one of the residents to tell the family the good news. 

As he walked past Dana’s desk, he couldn't locate the charge nurse, Robby or Walsh. 

Where is everyone he thought to himself as he looked subtly behind curtains.

He wandered through the ER, nodding to people and stopping to ask some where Robby or Dana was but everyone was none the wiser.

He was starting to get frustrated, it was unusual for both leaders of the ER to disappear at the same time, normally they take turns having little meltdowns. 

As he headed towards the peds room he finally stopped the Charge Nurse. Dana was leaning against the door and typing quickly on her mobile.

“Hey! Have you seen Robby or Walsh?” 

The nurse looked up, like a deer in headlights, she went immediately ridged and stood between him and the door.

“He’s busy, can you man the front?” she asks, gently trying to push him back but he pushes his heels in.

“Dana? Where is Robby?”

She flicked her eyes between him and the shut door behind her.

“Please Jack- Go back out the front.”

“Why?”

“Jack-”

“What's going on Dana?”

“Sweetheart, I need you to go back out there.”

Icy filled his veins and suddenly he felt like he was back in the desert, having the worst news delivered to him by a patchy radio and uncaring radio operator who didn’t know who they were talking to on the other end. Whatever was behind that door was enough to have Dana calling him a pet name, and her eyes almost brimming with tears. 

He gently moved her to the side and slammed the door open to peds. 

The sight before him stopped him in his tracks. 

Robby and Emery stood over a bed, Robby putting in an IV line while Emery sat on a stool holding the hand tight of the person in the bed. 

“Who-” he whispered before taking one further step into the room and Robby turned to look at him. The attending eyes are wide and filled with emotion as he realises who walked into the door but Jack couldn’t look at him further. 

Jack felt his knees buckle as he took in the patient in the bed.

Pale and sleeping with a ragged breathing pattern, covered in black and blue bruises and a scar now running from brow to lip but he would know that face anywhere.

Jack Abbot had been a widower for six years, three months and twenty four days.

But it was you.

You were there, in the bed.

Alive.

“What the fuck-” he whispered before his knees gave out and darkness took over.

[nanamiskentos]

going to a cafe with the jujutsu kaisen men a/n: (based on irl experience with a wide variety of subpar men) 😭 gojo's order being my order...aurkay!

gojo — def the type to walk in and push his sunglasses down to check out the place. his order def goes something like a venti caramel macchiato with almond milk, two pumps of vanilla and two pumps of hazelnut, and a little caramel swirl at the top. smiles and is friendly to all the baristas, he's never rude to workers. tells the barista is gojo, with an o. whoever's unfortunate enough to be stuck next to him is doomed to hear him wax poetic about how coffee beans are the soul of the earth, and its 'really deep, you wouldn't get it lol'. if you order a black coffee, he'll ask if everything is okay at home. can't leave the cafe without ordering a $8.00 sweet treat and then wondering why all his purchases are adding up

geto — walks in as if he's a regular and tells the barista that he'll have his 'regular'. the barista has never seen him before. probably orders a flat white, double shot of espresso, no foam. he always says he doesn't have to pretend to like foam because he's chill like that. he'll ask for the wifi password, but only so he can show off how good he is at working in a cafe, but his ass is on coolmathsgames. will nod and pretend to care about whatever you're saying but he's still thinking about coolmathsgames. will also drop random metaphors like 'life is just like coffee. you either take it strong or with sugar.' you tell him to save the bad metaphors for his cult.

nanami — doesn't wander or hesitate when he enters the cafe. checks his watch every five minute. orders a black coffe, medium, and adds one packet of sugar. he's pretty good at ordering what he wants efficiently, and it leaves even the barista worried. he's here to relax so don't ask him any unnecessary question because this man needs a break. actually enjoys eavesdropping on people's conversations, and ends up tilting his angle to snoop on gossip better. avoids small talk like its another curse. you can't really make him react too much in a cafe, unless you spill coffee on his freshly pressed suit. will be passive aggressive and suggest that the cafe chooses better music. likes a good, dependable pastry. apple danishes are a favourite.

sukuna — prefers tea, without debate. but still orders relatively normal things. likes a good latte with chocolate syrup. but the king of curses kinda has to look cool, so he powers his way through a black coffee, with no sugar or milk. you swear his eyes are tearing up as he pretends to like it. after every sip of coffee, he sighs really loudly and it gets a bit annoying. even after you ask what's wrong, he says its nothing and continues to sigh loudly. nanami may be the one who eavesdrops, but sukuna is the one who interferes. will turn around in his chair to give unsolicited advice, but he genuinely thinks he's being helpful by telling schoolgirls to buy cleavers to chop their friends' hands off. is mildly offended when they move tables and give him weird looks. passes loud comments on other people and tells couples when he thinks they will breakup. attempts to connect to the wifi three times before threatening to burn the router.

toji — the barista asks if he wants a pastry with his drink and he asks 'do i look like the type of man to eat a muffin?' but if they're free, he'll take two. sits with his back to the wall like he's in a mob movie. god help anyone who sits too close to him, he really just doesn't trust anyone in his personal space. doesn't even acknowledge the existence of others until he's had at least three sips of his coffee. you could tell him his house is on fire, and he’d just mutter that he can't do anything about it now. types the wifi password on his phone with one finger like a caveman. tells parents to 'control their spawn' but entertains kids with coin tricks when no-one is looking. sometimes struggles to fit the lid on his go-to cup, and refuses to asks for help. wrestles with it for five minutes, getting increasingly annoyed before rushing out the door.

choso (this one is dedicated to pookie @creamflix) — frowns at the menu like it's written in an ancient language, like wtf is affogato. if someone behinds him coughs, he scolds them and says he's going as fast as he cans. spends 10 minutes deciding and then panics at the last second, tells the barista to give him whatever. if the barista asks any follow up questions (like milk preferences) he genuinely short circuits, "what kinds of milk are there?" he's genuinely baffled that there are options beyond 'cow.' he'll point at a pastry and ask what's in it. the barista explains and he replies with 'okay i trust you.' always ends up picking a wobbly table by accident and spends 15 minutes trying to fix it with folded napkins. if someone asks to share his table, he'll look like they just asked for his kidneys. if someone asks for his opinion on his pastry, its always a dumbass cryptic answer like 'its interesting.' uses his phone on full brightness and everyone can see him look up 'how to pronounce cafe au lait.' cleans up after himself because he's nice like that. if the staff get his order wrong, he never says anything even if it tastes like dirt.

[hqwkeyes]

okay soo... yelena loves going to the cute little coffee shop near the watchtower, and when she does, she knows she won't hear the end of it if she doesn't bring anything back for the others. coffee orders incoming:

alexei will drink anything. you could add diesel fuel to his coffee and he'll drink it. hot or iced, whatever milk or milk substitute, it doesn't matter as long as you give him two cups of it. whenever yelena wants to try out a new drink without committing to it, she gets it for him and takes a sip beforehand.

john takes his coffee black. he says he can't drink it any other way because he got so used to it in the military. sometimes he'll sneak a bit of sugar in it when no one's looking, just when he wants a little sweetness, but he always orders a black coffee.

bucky will order either an iced americano, a cold brew, or on occasion, a hot cappuccino, much to the others' surprise. "what? i like a little variety." yelena always asks him before heading out just to be sure.

bob doesn't drink much coffee because it makes him jittery, so when he does it's more of a treat than anything else. he might get a mocha frappé, or maybe a tea or something decaf. when he says he doesn't want anything, yelena usually picks out a pastry for him instead.

ava sometimes tags along for the vibes, but also to check out what the new "flavor of the month" is, which is her favorite part about this café. she's always trying a new flavor, and when she discovers cold foam, it changes the game for her iced lattes. sometimes she'll have the flavor added to the cold foam, sometimes the latte itself, sometimes both. the salted caramel cold foam is one of her favorites. and yes, she is a pumpkin spice enjoyer when it's in season.

yelena drinks coffee a lot of the time, usually iced coffee. sometimes she adds a flavor or a little almond milk, sometimes she likes the astringency of the coffee on its own. she also enjoys a good matcha latte. she's very into interesting flavor profiles, so when she isn't in the mood for coffee, the earthiness of a matcha latte is her go-to. as long as she gets enough caffeine to put up with the others, though, she's fine.

and of course, she uses valentina's credit card and leaves a generous tip for the poor baristas fulfilling her outrageous coffee orders.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Masterlist ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Join a Taglist // Send a Request

If you like my writing and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee!

[inkedinshadows]

Azriel headcanons

Since I'm working on too many fics and not finishing even one, here's a list of random headcanons I have about our favorite shadowsinger. Seriously, they're very random.

I have so many more, but I didn't want this to be too long lol. Let me know if I should write more of them.

If it weren't for his scars that make it impossible for him (it'd probably be really uncomfortable), Azriel would wear rings. And I mean a lot of them, on both hands. Very slutty of him if you ask me. This is how I imagine it to look like:

And necklaces as well. Like silver little chains and similar.

Azriel is 100% a cat person. I don't think I need to say more, we can all agree on this, right?

The shadowsinger can sing, we all know that. But my current obsession is him playing the piano. He probably learned while healing his hands when he was a child because it helped with coordination. He's really good at it, but he doesn't play in front of people. Only for you. (I wrote a fic about this: Play It For Me)

He has a very neat handwriting. Again, he had to practice a lot after his hands were burned to use them properly again. I picture something like this:

He's the kind of "monster" that eats pizza with a knife and fork instead of just cutting slices and using his hands (I'm Italian, I'm allowed to say this). He would also always stick to the same pizza, never changing the topping too much (relatable). He'd probably keep it simple, with mozzarella, black olives, and maybe anchovies if he feels extra.

Since we're talking food, if you are out on a date or just eating at a restaurant or whatever and you order something you end up not liking, he's swapping your dishes and giving you his. If you do like it but you also like his a lot, then he asks you if you want to share and eat half of each.

He's not a cocktail guy. Here as well, he likes to keep it simple: whiskey, brandy, wine if he's eating, and beer if he's hanging out with Cassian. If he does drink a cocktail, his go-to choices are Black Russian, gin and tonic, Old Fashioned, Manhattan, and Negroni (which might be an Italian cocktail, I'm not sure).

Oh, and he loves coffee. Black, no sugar, no cream. Mostly espresso, but also full mugs of it, especially in the morning.

Azriel loves turtleneck sweaters. Leather jackets are another favorite. When he's out, he mostly wears black or dark jeans, but at home? Sweatpants. Those infamous grey sweatpants we all love. Again, very slutty. He bought them without thinking too much about it, but once he saw your reaction to him wearing them, they became his favorite piece of clothing out of everything he had ever owned.

On the topic of clothing, we know he mostly wears black, but we also know he loves Winter Solstice. He could be easily convinced to wear one of those ugly Christmas sweaters, especially if you bat your eyelashes at him. He can never say no when you give him doe eyes. He'll complain about it, but he secretly loves it, even more so if you're wearing a matching one. The first three are nice and simple and cute, the other two if you want to embarrass him a little (but he still wouldn't say no):

Same goes for Halloween. Couple costumes? He's down. Would he admit he likes it? Probably not. Would he refuse to do it until you're begging him to, just so he can see your cute pout? Absolutely. And of course, he lets you do his make-up.

He smokes. Not much, just 2/3 cigarettes throughout the day, but it can be more if he's stressed or nervous. (Just imagine the hand in the first picture with a cigarette, it's just the perfect position already. I don't smoke and I can't even stand the smell, but I would honestly let Azriel blow the smoke in my face fr)

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @andreperez11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate

[seasaltcosmos]

NAME: Seelie the Hedgehog

AGE: 14 (varies depending on what i draw, but HERE she's 14)

PRONOUNS: she/her

BIO:

seelie is sonic and shadow's daughter, inheriting their super speed and ability to use chaos control- but also sonic's "dark/darkspine" form, and shadow's black arms.

being the child of two incredibly powerful hedgehogs, seelie's chaos energy is dangerously unstable to the point it could be lethal. her limiter rings, given to her by shadow, allow her to use her powers without risk. she's deeply insecure about her black arms heritage, sometimes bordering on self-loathing.

seelie is a cheerful, fierce hedgehog who wears her heart on her sleeve. she takes mostly after sonic in personality, but she clearly inherited shadow's temper. while she loves both of her dads, she very much favors shadow, often trying to look cool with a "dark, mysterious badass" facade, but it always fails. she's incredibly hyperactive and has a bad habit of recklessness- one leading to the other a lot of times.

FUN FACTS:

seelie loves to play guitar!

her favorite color is purple

she drinks coffee with 4 sugars, much to shadow's horror

her middle name is "marie"

she's a lesbian

seelie was conceived because sonic thought male hrt prevented pregnancy. it doesn't.

she calls sonic "daddy" and shadow "dad"

her powers are based on butterflies and fairies. when she runs, she leaves a trail of purple butterflies, unlike sonic and shadow's basic blue and red streaks

when she reaches her max ring limit, seelie can temporarily float through the air with glowing fairy wings

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 1 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 3 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

The morning rush had ended a while ago, leaving you with a few stragglers tapping away on laptops, a couple on their second hour of an intense whisper-argument, and some guy in the corner who had been staring at a single muffin for a concerning amount of time. Business had been slow after the morning rush as per usual, this meant you’d had plenty of time to reflect on things that didn’t deserve the mental energy you were giving them. Namely, Choso. It had been a few days since your encounter with the world's most socially inept man and his human golden retriever of a brother.

That guy had been… odd. Not in a bad way, necessarily—just in a "probably spent his childhood in a cave and was learning about the modern world in real time" way. The guy had stared at you like you were a cryptid when you asked what kind of coffee he wanted. You had spent way too long trying to figure out if he had just been raised extremely sheltered, or if something was actually wrong with him. Either way, the guy had stared at his latte like it held the meaning of life, and you weren’t sure whether to find it unsettling or endearing.

Because, seriously. That was not a normal interaction.

Most customers came in, ordered their drink, paid, and left. Some lingered. Some had weirdly specific orders that made you question their sanity. Some just sat there typing aggressively on their laptops like they were composing an email that would change the fate of mankind.

None of them, however, had ever been like Choso.

Since then, you’d been left in peace, which was all you could really ask for in life. Life at the café had returned to its usual monotony. The usual entitled customers still came and went, Greg the Manager still did absolutely nothing while pretending to be busy, and the espresso machine still sounded like it was trying to contact the underworld whenever it turned on. In other words, business as usual. Everything was normal.

Which, naturally, meant something was about to ruin it.

The bell above the door jingled. You sighed, plastering on your most convincing Hello valued customer, I sure do love working here! expression before turning around.

The first person to walk in was a tall blond guy in a suit, carrying himself like he had somewhere better to be. He looked exactly like the type of guy who drank his coffee black and silently judged people who put sugar in theirs. He had the air of someone who used Google Calendar religiously and paid for everything with a metal credit card. The second he stepped into the café, he surveyed it with the deeply unimpressed expression of a man who had already decided he hated it here. You immediately got "overworked businessman" vibes. He looked like he hated fun. You respected that.

The second guy, however…

Oh, no.

Oh, this one was going to be a problem.

He was even taller than the blond one. Very tall. Like, shouldn’t be allowed to exist in regular human spaces tall. He had white hair, wore sunglasses indoors, and was dressed like some kind of high-fashion hobo. He had a self-satisfied grin that made you think he had never experienced a single consequence in his entire life. Something about him screamed problem. His whole vibe was just "that one coworker who does absolutely nothing but still gets paid more than you."

"Nanamin!" Tall Guy whined, dramatically throwing an arm around his companion's shoulder. "See? This place is cute! You never wanna go anywhere fun."

The blond man—Nanamin?—exhaled through his nose with the weariness of a man who had dealt with this for far too long. He shrugged the arm off. "I don’t need fun. I need coffee."

"Okay, but coffee can be fun—"

"Coffee is a means to an end."

"See, this is why you have no joy in your life."

You plastered on your most professional smile, already dreading whatever was about to happen. "Welcome! What can I get started for you?"

Nanamin exhaled slowly, the sigh of a man who was one bad decision away from quitting his job, leaving the country, and raising goats in the mountains. "A black coffee. No sugar."

Bless. A simple, no-nonsense order. You liked him already. You punched it into the register. "Sure. What size?"

"Large. The biggest you have."

"Got it."

You turned expectantly to the taller one.

Tall Guy hummed, tapping a finger against his chin like he was making a deeply philosophical decision. "Hmmm. What do I want? What do I need?"

You resisted the urge to check the time.

"Do you have anything sweet?"

You gestured to the massive menu behind you, which had an entire section labeled Sweet & Flavored Drinks. "Yeah."

"Okay, okay. But like, really sweet?"

"Yeah."

Tall Guy nodded, his wide grin never faltering. "Good. I’ll take the sweetest thing you have."

"...You sure?"

He leaned forward, grinning like a child about to cause chaos. "Hit me with your worst."

You stared.

Alright.

You rang up a Death By Sugar—an abomination of a drink loaded with caramel, white chocolate, vanilla syrup, and enough whipped cream to suffocate a small animal. It was the kind of thing you usually only made for children with zero parental supervision.

Tall Guy looked downright delighted when you told him.

"Yay!" Tall Guy beamed. "And make it with love!"

"I am physically incapable of that."

Nanamin gave a single, approving nod. "Good work ethic."

Totaling their order, you glanced at them. "You want your names on the cups?"

Tall Guy nodded adamantly. "Of course! That’s the most important part!"

Nanami exhaled heavily. "Nanami."

Ah, so not 'Nanamin' then.

"Just put 'The Strongest' on mine," Tall Guy added with a wink.

You didn't know what the hell he meant by that exactly, but you did not react.

You took your sweet time making their drinks, mainly because Tall Guy was watching you with the shameless enthusiasm of a child at a magic show.

"You’re really good at that," Tall Guy commented as you poured steamed milk into Nanami’s coffee.

"Yeah, it’s almost like I work here."

Nanami sighed. "Gojo, stop harassing the barista."

"How is that harassment? I’m being nice!"

"You are being a nuisance."

Tall Guy—Gojo, you guess his name is—gasped, utterly scandalized. "I’m adding joy to their day, Nanamin."

You handed Nanami his drink before he could respond. He accepted it with a grateful nod, took a sip, and immediately looked one step closer to inner peace.

You handed Gojo his monstrosity. "Look at all the caramel drizzle!" He took a sip and moaned. "Ohhhh yeah, that’s the good stuff."

Nanami looked like he had just witnessed a public execution.

"Please never do that again," he muttered.

Gojo, of course, did it again, staring directly into Nanami’s soul as he took another dramatic sip.

You were so glad these people weren’t your problem outside of this café.

"Glad you like it," you said dryly.

To your mild horror, they stuck around after getting their drinks, settling into a table near the counter. Nanami was reading a book. Gojo was not reading a book. He was watching you.

Oh no.

"Hey barista," Gojo called. "You ever get bored working here?"

You stared at him.

"Like, when it’s not busy. What do you do for fun?"

You considered telling him you started counting ceiling tiles just to make him go away. Instead, you said, "Mostly, I wait for my shift to end."

Gojo laughed. "You sound like Nanamin!"

Nanami did not look pleased with that comparison. He exhaled through his nose like he was actively restraining himself from committing a felony.

It was at this moment the door opened again.

You glanced up—

And nearly dropped the milk frother you were holding.

Because there, standing like a glitch in reality, was Choso and Yuji.

Yuji, ever the golden retriever, grinned. “Oh, hey! You guys are here too?”

Gojo turned. “Huh?”

Your eyes darted between them.

They all knew each other?

Of course they did.

Choso approached the counter, completely ignoring the other two men. His expression was blank as ever, but the moment his eyes landed on you, something shifted.

“Barista.”

You braced yourself. “Choso."

“I have returned.”

“Yes. I can see that.”

“I would like another latte."

You nodded, trying to ignore Gojo’s eyes burning into the side of your skull and the way he was grinning like he knew something you didn't. “Got it.”

Gojo crept towards Choso with that same knowing grin. “Choso, buddy, pal. This is a big deal.”

Choso frowned. “What is?”

“Oh, you know,” Gojo drawled, “you like the barista.”

Yuji coughed violently. Nanami looked ready to walk into the ocean.

Choso, to your utter confusion, considered this. Like he was running some kind of internal diagnostic.

Then, after a very long pause—

“Yes.”

Silence.

Yuji choked once again. Gojo lost his mind, cackling. Nanami, to his credit, simply closed his eyes as if this entire experience had finally broken him.

You, meanwhile, stood there with Choso’s latte in your hand, processing the fact that a man who seemed to barely understand how cafés worked had just admitted, without hesitation, that he liked you.

Nanami, who had been spectating in exhausted silence, shook his head. “I regret coming here.”

Gojo pouted. “Oh, don’t be like that! It’s fun!”

“Nothing about this is fun.”

"I think it's fun!" Yuji piped in with a wide smile.

Ignoring them, you turned back to Choso. “So. I guess you, uh, really liked the latte, huh?”

Choso nodded, looking far too serious. “It was the best thing I have ever consumed.”

You stared at him. He stared back, intense as ever.

God. This was your life now.

Choso, completely unaware of the sheer weight of his words, took the latte from you with his usual blank expression.

“Thank you, barista.”

And just like that, he took a sip, eyes half-lidding like it was the greatest thing he had ever experienced.

You exhaled. “You’re welcome, Choso.”

Gojo, still wheezing, turned to Yuji. “You have to let me know how this plays out.”

You just stared at Choso, who was still enjoying his latte like nothing had happened, wondering how your life had spiraled into this.

"Alright," Gojo said, standing up and stretching like he’d been working hard at sitting down. "We’ll be back!"

You had never heard a more ominous sentence in your life.

Nanami placed a few bills on the counter—far more than necessary—and gave you a knowing look, like he already pitied your future.

You watched the four of them leave, took a long breath, and checked the time.

Somehow, you still had four hours left on your shift.

Great.

[menagerofmischief]

Ask and you shall receive!!! With nico rosberg

Stuffed cherry tomatoes served cold with fish and chips, chicken quesillda, and spring rolls. Drinks are ice tea, black coffee, and iced water.

Have fun!! 😉

Dia's Diner Menu

stuffed cherry tomatoes sugar daddy cold appetizer rough sex fish and chips "Where are your manners" chicken quesadilla "So pretty with my cock down your throat" spring rolls "All you do is complain, perhaps I should shut you up" ice tea oral black coffee chocking iced water dirty talk

Nico Rosberg x sugar baby!reader

TW: blowjob, mean-ish!nico at the start, gagging, chocking, hair pulling

WC: 1k

A/N: nico rosberg, my favorite pop queen <3. this is actually so bad, I hate it but I'm mentally drained and this was the best I could do. also I added lance, arthur and mick to the menu if anyone is interested in requesting for them.

The whole car ride home was unsettlingly quiet. Nico was mad, I knew it. His hands gripping the steering wheel as he sped through the busy city traffic, passing cars like he was still on the track.

“Nico,” I said his name, trying to break the silence we had fallen into.

His head snapped towards me, his eyes narrowed and he gave me a look that conveyed what he wanted to say rather clearly. Stop talking.

I shut my mouth and tried to lean back into the seat of the car, knowing that we were going to be home soon and how things would go once we got there.

Soon enough we made it up to our, or rather Nico’s, penthouse. The moment the doors were shut, Nico grabbed me and pushed me against the door. 

“What was that, huh?” He asked, his voice rough. One of his hands trailed up my body and wrapped around my neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. Not enough to stop my breathing, but enough to put pressure. “Is that how I taught you to behave?”

I did my best to shake my head, my cheeks warm. “No,” I said, the word coming out as a whisper. 

Nico’s eyes fixated on mine, his pupils blown wide, and desire and lust clear in his gaze. He removed his hand from my neck and I immediately sucked in a breath. Nico moved his hands down and the sound of him unbuckling his belt filled the room.

I knew the rules we played by, I should have already been getting on my knees, desperate and wide eyed and asking to pretty please, suck his dick. But my mind was blank, my eyes focused on the way his hands moved as he opened his jeans and pulled them down. On the bulge in his black boxers, on how he took them of and on his semi-hard cock.

I snapped out of my trance once Nico’s hands were on my shoulders. Without a warning he pushed me down, making my knees hit the floor. I hissed at the contact, the tiles cold and digging into my naked skin.

I whined, looking up at him through my lashes. “You pushed me,” I said, pouting my lips. “That’s mean, Nico. You could have bruised my knees.”

I was going to keep talking but Nico grabbed my chin roughly, towering over me and looked down into my eyes. “All you do is complain,” he said, the tone of his voice dark. “Perhaps I should shut you up.”

With one hand he grabbed ahold of his dick, giving himself a few tugs and growing harder before slapping the tip against my lips. When I noticed him about to do it again, I opened my mouth, hoping that the tip would just slip right in but instead he grabbed my hair and tugged my head back.

“You really are acting like a dumb little whore tonight,” Nico said. “Where are you manners, huh?”

I whined, looking up at him, one of my hands braced against his thigh. “Please,” I said, my voice giving away how desperate I felt. “Please let me suck your cock. I need to feel it in my mouth.”

Nico humed, satisfied with my response. His hold on my hair eased up and he placed his hands against the back of my head. Not pushing me, just giving me the sensation of knowing he’s there.

As soon as he nods his head, I’m surging forward. My lips wrap around the tip, suckling on it and running my tongue over the slit to collect some of the precum that had started leaking. Nico groaned at the feeling, his hand pushing my head further, forcing me take him deeper into my mouth until the tip of his cock hit the back of my throat.

He held my head there for a moment and I gagged around his length, providing the additional sensation of my throat tightening which made him moan. His hand moved away and he let me start working at my own pace.

I started bobbing my head, trying to take him all the way every time my lips glided along his dick, hollowing my cheeks and running my tongue along the vein that was on the underside of his cock.

“Fuck, there we go.” Nico said with a groan. “My pretty little slut, sucking me off so well. You look so pretty with my cock down your throat, baby.”

Nico moved one of his hands to my neck and wrapped it around my throat just as I was moving down his shaft. He laughed, the sound mixed with a moan of pleasure, and it sounded beautiful. “I can feel my dick sliding down your throat,” he said, his hand staying where it was placed. “God, your mouth feels like heaven. Keep going, baby, I’m almost there.”

That made me speed up, bobbing my head faster and doubling my efforts to make him cum. Nico’s fingers gripped my hair and that was all the warning I got before he was twitching inside of my mouth and shooting his load down my throat.

I pulled off him with a pop, the taste of his cum salty against my tongue. Without as much as a second thought I swallowed everything inside of my mouth, sticking my tongue out proudly and looking up at Nico to show him.

He smiled down at me, his cheeks flushed and mouth open as he panted, trying to catch his breath. One of his hands came to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. “Good girl, baby,” he said. “You’re such a good girl for me.”

Nico helped me up and pulled me into a messy, passionate kiss. He lifted me up into his arms, making me giggle and started making his way towards the bedroom. “Now, how about I give my good girl a little reward?”

[loveanddeepspacestuffforfreaks]

"Coffee without sugar is a crime."

Loveanddeepspace stuff for geeks, Coffee date~ It is my mission in this community to pump out as many Zayne fics as possible. Call me the Zayne fic factory- (no, actually don't...)

Zayne x reader, gender neutral reader.

Summary: Cafe date with Zayne, the waiter gives you to wrong drink assuming that you're the one with the sweet tooth. (Couldn't be further from the truth. Hehe)

I didn't proofread this- It's my fatal flaw, I know... ✋😔

GODDAMN I LOVE WRITING THIS STUFF

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smell of roasted coffee beans fill the space as the two of you entered, walls decorated with an array of posters, plants and flyers bringing a sense of joy to your face as you step further inside.

Zayne follows behind, observing the surrounding as you approach the counter, greeted by a young barista as she writes down your order of a small black coffee, one sugar no cream.

She looks up expectingly at Zayne.

"And for you, sir?"

"Oh, may I please have-"

Without skipping a beat he begins to chant out his order.

"A mocha caramel latte chino made with skim milk, extra whipped cream. Please put that in a medium cup but use the same amount of coffee that you put into a small that way there's about an inch of extra room on top to stir in my own nutmeg without spilling any coffee at all." (Yes, this is a reference.)

The young women gawked at him, failing to write anything down as she stared at him, utterly baffled.

"Along with your- my lord that print is small- Chocolate monster shortcake." He spoke, adjusting his glasses as he squinted like an old man at the board.

"Oh you aren't writing anything down." Looking down he notices that she has failed to write. "Do you need me to repeat that?"

The young barista gives him a small nod and you leave a smile planted on your face. Headed off to find a place to sit as you hear him restate his order in addition to a couple more things.

"I would also like whipped cream on the cake along with the addition of chocolate syrup... That costs extra? -What an odd thing to charge extra for... a bit of syrup and cream? What is the economy these days...- Yes that's fine, thank you. Yes, it's for here."

In your search, you found a corner spot, perfectly shaded from the invading sun yet positioned in a way that made it easy to turn and look of the window and into the busy street.

Zayne would find you looking out the window of your seat and sit across from you, lightly placing the plastic card with the number 'fifteen' on the edge of the table.

Reaching for his hand, you would place your hand over his. Smiling adoringly at him as he met your eyes.

"You're so handsome~"

His brow twitch, as did his verdurous eyes. Turning his hand so that he could gently brush the tips of his fingers against your palm.

"What has led you to say that?"

Your smile would turn silly, intertwining your fingers with his before giving him a light squeeze.

"You just are~ oh so pretty and handsome~"

A chuckle would rumble in his throat as his hand pulsed against your skin.

"Well, that is due to the Hunter dotting on me left and right."

"You sure are lucky~"

His brow and the corner of his lip twitched a look of amusement forming on his face.

"Is that so?"

"Oh absolutely, who else what treat you like a king? Spoiling you with delicious treats huh?" You mused, resting your face in your hands.

Zayne leans back in his chair, one of his eyebrows lifting in a questioning manner. "I believe I'm the one that paid-"

"But I'm the one that took you out, no?" You interrupted; a triumph smirk plastered on your face.

A breath of air brushes your face as he sighs, conceding to your argument. "I guess that's true, hm."

You notice the waiter coming with your drink order and sit up, ready to receive your drink.

"Well hello there, thank you for joying us at the Luna Cafe! I'm Randy, if you need anything. Just give me a holler!"

You giggled at his silly mannerisms.

"Alright, I have one small black, one sugar no cream- Oh I bet that's for you, sir."

You had to bite back a laugh as he placed your drink in front of Zayne, who immediately looked down at the drink, giving, Randy a rare side-eye. Looking him up and down with a look of disdain through his dark eyebrows.

"And one a mocha caramel latte chino made with skim milk, extra whipped cream. Oh, that sure looks yummy!"

The waiter giggled placing it in front of you and politely nodding trying to desperately hold in your laugh.

"And one chocolate monster shortcake. Aw, are you guys sharing? how cute~!"

It was like a kick in the gut for you, a snort escaping your lips before covering it with a cough as the corner of Zayne's lips frowned.

"Alright you folks enjoy!" Randy ran off.

"Thank you~" You teased in a sing-song manner. In comparison to Zayne's curt. "Thank you."

One the two you made eye contact; it was over for you. Practically bawling your eyes out from laughter.

"Bahahah! Ah haha! oh, my goodness! That's hilarious!" You wipe a tear from your eye.

Zayne rolled his eyes, as you pushed the latte towards him.

"Switch?" He shots you a glare before passing you your order.

"Do you even need to ask?

"No you're right~ it's obvious!"

The two of you successfully make the switch and begin to chug it down as sip on yours. Placing your hand over his you smile once more.

"Zayne, you're such a cutie~"

He frowns, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. "In what way?"

You chuckled. "You looked so disappointed when you got the wrong order but you handled it like a big boy, I'm proud of you."

Zayne huffed. "Well of course I did. I'm grown. I can handle a slight mix up."

"Then do you want a sip of mine?" You tease, bringing his knuckles to your lips.

"Absolutely not." He says with the utmost certainty.

"Why not?" You coo, amused.

"Coffee without sugar is a crime to my body."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Did you enjoy that? Pls give me more suggestions in the comments! what would you like to see next? Let me know, love ya!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

No Sugar Tonight 3

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Brock Rumlow

Summary: A regular customer becomes more than just a familiar face.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Your shifts are often tedious. Slow and dull. You like the night shift because it’s not as stressful. Or was.

That night you spend looking out the windows in expectation. For each customer that walks across the tiles with echoing footfalls, you wait in expectation. They come and get their treats and go. None of them are him. That stranger. The one who looms like a shadow in your mind as he had that day on the street.

Dayani is late. You give her the keys with a yawn. You get a day off and you’re more than eager for it. You’re relieved to leave shy of the dreaded encounter.

You head off through the front doors and turn down the street. The tree planted between the sidewalk blocks splits in too and as a figure emerges from the shade. Oh no.

You make to walk past the dark-haired man who prefers his coffee black. He simply turns and walks parallel to you.

You glance over at him warily. He doesn’t look back. He keeps walking, only reaching blindly to take your hand in his. You go rigid but don’t pull away. You’re jittering in terror.

“What are you--””

“You think anyone’s gonna mess with me?” He says flatly.

“No, sir, but--”

“Brock,” he says, then recites your name. “Now we know each other.”

Your mouth opens and closes. His hand is hot and a woodsy cologne wafts from his jacket. His skin is rough against yours. He squeezes as if he can sense your reticence.

“Brock,” you repeat. “Okay.”

“You got a day off.”

It’s a statement. It’s without a sliver of doubt. How does he know that?

“I told you, you’re easy to follow. You need to look around more.” He reprimands. “Too late to see me. I’m here.”

His tone is eerie. It makes your skin tingle. He drags you on but not towards your usual route. He also told you not to take the alleyways.

“Sir, er, Brock?” You murmur.

“Those muffins are too sugary. You need a full breakfast.” He insists.

“Right, that’s... okay. Erm...”

“It’s a nice place. You’ll like it,” he says bluntly.

You don’t know what to say, or do. You want to run away but can’t. His hand is a snare and you’re a helpless rabbit caught in it. You look down at his thick fingers. You don’t understand. He was always so silent. You were sure he hated you.

He takes you into a diner. You’ve never noticed it before. It’s quiet this early. He brings you to a booth and sits across from you. You fold your hands in your lap as you sit on the bench and wait. You could try then to escape but you wouldn’t want to make a scene.

“Coffee, black,” he orders as the waitress comes by. He looks at you for the first time and as you ask politely for a green tea, he doesn’t look away. His eyes bore into you. The waitress goes to get your drinks.

“Quit.” He says.

You frown, “huh? What am I doing?”

“Your job.”

“My job?” You utter.

“No need for it.” He says.

“Sir, Brock. I... I have to pay my rent.”

“No. You don’t.” He lifts his menu and drops his eyes to the laminated list. “You have to eat.”

You follow his lead, only to have something to do. You take the menu and read it. The waitress returns and puts down your drinks. He gets sausage, bacon, and eggs. You get a waffle. She goes and you’re alone again.

“Good.” He says.

Your confusion tautens in your cheeks. Good what?

“Call your boss.” He says, “then we can enjoy our meal.”

“I really can't afford to quit–”

“I didn't ask. In fact, I didn't ask a single question. I'm telling you.” He sneers.

Your heart flips and you bit your lip.

“I'm more than happy to tell him myself. He pays you shit. I'll take care of you.”

“I don't… what do you want from me?” You croak.

He snickers, the most humour you've seen in him. He reaches for his cup and drink. He grimaces at the taste. “That's dog shit.”

You sigh impatiently. You're getting frustrated by his terse way. Somehow he is straight to the point but you're completely missing it.

“You. Just you. That's what I want.” He sits back and pushes his shoulders wide.

“Me?”

He stares at you and nods.

“Are you asking me out?” You wonder.

“I don't ask,” he jabs his finger into the table with each word.

“I… I don't know you, I–”

“You're too old for roommates. The place is shit anyway. Those old wires will start a fire and the sprinkled are rusted.” He overrides you. Again.

“No.”

“No,” he echoes with a snort. “Again, no question marks here.”

“You can't do this.”

“Can't do what? It's done.”

“No.”

“Give me your phone,” he demands.

“No, you can't–”

“Give me the damn phone. Now. Or I'll burn down that box you call a home myself.” His eyes are black pools that threaten to drown you.

You reach into your purse and take out your phone. He snatches it before you can react. His thumb taps and drags quickly across the screen. He puts it to his esr as the waitress returns with your food.

You thank her quietly as he ignores her.

“Yeah, I'm calling on her behalf. She quits.” He doesn't wait for a response. He hangs up and dials again. “She's tendering notice. Moving out. Fill the lease.”

In a few fell swoops, he's cut every string holding your life up. It all comes crashing as he hands the phone back and turns his attention to his food. You're not very hungry. A glance from him changes that. You lfit your fork to ease the edge in his jaw.

“Good girl,” he says as he cuts into the sausage.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #08 死

† chai †

"Sweetness doesn’t have a place in Jeon’s life, or at least it didn’t, until now. Because he’s been craving vanilla and cardamom and… chai? Hoseok is as annoying as always, and the fact that you may be at tonight’s celebration is… something he doesn’t quite know how to process."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 6.3k

rating: mature

content: snippet into jeon’s head, jeon’s POV, jeon being emo, sad vibes, insomnia, mental health issues, pills, suicide jokes, j-hope being a good friend and also a good doctor, celebrations, booze, female friendships, moon being surprisingly good at mixing drinks

☠ author's note ☠

I can literally HEAR all your "I can fix him" screams from here and honestly? SAME. I, too, want to fix the emotionally constipated sniper who probably sleeps with his combat boots on (￣ω￣)

Here's the thing—I started this whole endeavor thinking I'd stick strictly to the protagonist's POV. Very tunnel vision, very "we only know what she knows" vibes. But then Jeon's broody ass started living rent-free in my head and I was like... fuck, I want to show what's happening in that disaster brain of his too???

I'm sure you know the feeling. When reading, you just NEED to know what the hell is going on behind those cold eyes and that jaw that could cut glass. But it gets tricky, especially when you're trying to do this whole slow reveal thing without dumping too much info at once.

And trust me, the character of Jeon is like a cocktail made by a bartender who's having an existential crisis—way too many conflicting ingredients, definitely going to give you a hangover, but you're still going to drink it because you hate yourself. Or love pain. Or both.

So I decided to include snippets of his POV sometimes. It feels necessary—some conversations need to happen when our protagonist isn't there, and some emotional baggage needs unpacking for you readers to understand what's actually going on (like back in chapter 2 when we got that glimpse into his head).

Now, I'd love to ask for your opinion on this whole POV-switching business, but let's be real—this story is pretty much gonna be completed by the time you're reading this author's note. So... I'm just gonna trust my chaotic writer instincts on this one.

And if you don't like getting glimpses into Jeon's beautiful disaster of a mind? Well... you're gonna like it today anyway (•̀ᴗ•́)━☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ

⚔ socials ⚔

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Jungkook doesn't do sweets. Never has.

His world operates in darker shades, tactical operations and precise calculations. Sweetness belongs to a different universe—one of bright colors and soft edges that he left behind long ago.

Sometimes a piece of candy appears in his pocket, usually after a meeting with JM who keeps bowls of them everywhere. He'll unwrap it absently, the crinkle of plastic echoing in his quiet office. Let it dissolve on his tongue while reviewing mission reports. The initial sweetness isn't unpleasant, stirring something old and forgotten in his chest.

But it never lasts.

The sugar becomes too much, coating his mouth like an unwelcome invasion. 

Cloying. 

Suffocating. 

He usually tosses the rest, wondering why he even bothered.

Lately though, something's changed. 

He finds himself reaching for vanilla cookies in the cafeteria. Ordering cardamom tea instead of his usual black coffee. Small impulses he can't explain, like his body's searching for something his mind hasn't caught up to yet.

And now?

Now the clock reads 4:16 AM. 

It's yet another night of minimal sleep—three and a half hours if he's being generous. The neon numbers mock him from his bedside table, surrounded by an array of pills that could probably tranquilize an elephant. 

All prescribed by J-Hope.

All increasingly useless.

Benzos. Narcotics. Nothing touches the corners of his insomnia anymore.

He's been fighting with his sheets for the past hour, tangled evidence of another failed attempt at rest. The black covers pool around his feet like spilled ink. His bedroom surrounds him in familiar darkness—walls painted to absorb light rather than reflect it, matching the void that lives behind his ribs.

The king-sized bed stretches out like empty territory, conquered by nothing but restless thoughts and the occasional phantom of memory. His room is a fortress built of clean lines and minimal decoration, a cell of his own design where even the shadows know better than to dance.

But lately, even this usually comforting solitude feels... different. Like something's missing. Something warm and sweet that he can't quite name.

Jungkook steps into the cold, the floor a shock against his bare feet. The shadows stretch across his bedroom, making the space feel hollow and vast at 4 AM. His movements are silent—years of training making even his insomnia graceful.

The lounge area of his wing feels abandoned. Empty sofas and tables wait like props on a stage, missing their usual cast of lieutenants and strategists. During the day, this space buzzes with mission plans and tactical discussions. Now it's just him and the quiet.

He closes the door to his wing, crossing into the neutral territory of the entrance hall. It's the DMZ between his domain and V's—a thought that makes his head hurt. Even at this hour, he can feel the shift in energy. 

V's presence lingers here like a bad taste.

The access card feels heavy in his hand. A small piece of tech that reminds him of his rank, his responsibilities. AD's security system responds with a soft beep, elevator doors sliding open on silent tracks. He steps in, presses the button for the common area. It's not his usual haunt—too exposed, too public—but lately he's been drawn there.

The descent gives him time to think. His mind drifts between fragments of nightmares and that strange, persistent craving for sweetness. It's been haunting him for weeks now, this urge for vanilla and cardamom. 

For chai and spices.

Maybe his brain is trying to balance out the bitterness that fills his days, or maybe he's finally losing it.

The elevator announces his arrival with a quiet ding. The corridor stretches before him, dark and empty. Somewhere down there is the snack area, and maybe, if he's lucky, a moment of peace.

He moves towards the corridor. Posters and artwork splash color across the cream walls—a jarring contrast to his stark quarters. He never quite understood the need for decoration, but the members insist on making the space "lived in." Whatever that means.

After 3 minutes, the common lounge sprawls before him, so different from his wing's militant precision. Here, rank means little. Divisions blur. The high ceiling should make the space feel cold, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe it's the worn leather sofas or the gaming consoles scattered about like abandoned toys. 

The air smells of polish and something unknown yet weirdly tranquil—comfort, maybe. 

He pushes that thought away.

Vending machines hum quietly in the snack area. Behind the glass, rows of sweets beckon. His eyes linger on a vanilla protein bar, then drift to some cardamom cookies. The craving hits again, piercing and mercilessly insistent.

But he's not alone.

AD slouches in a puff chair, bathed in the blue light of his game screen. His face twisted in its usual scowl, fingers jabbing at buttons with unnecessary force. 

The sight stirs something in Jungkook's chest—regret, maybe. 

Or guilt. 

Both emotions he'd rather not examine.

Their eyes meet. The air grows heavy. Unspoken words. Shared trauma.

The gaming console beeps softly. AD's character dies on screen. The silence that follows feels like an accusation.

Jungkook notes the way AD's blonde hair glints in the dim light as his eyes snap to Jungkook. His fingers still on the controller, body shifting into something more guarded, more alert. 

Jungkook feels his muscles tense automatically. The late-night sugar craving fades to background noise as AD's frosty stare pins him in place. 

Like a fucking needle cutting into skin. 

His hand hovers over the door handle, and he can't decide whether to stay or retreat. There's too much history here, too many buried regrets—and AD's presence brings it all rushing back—memories Jungkook would rather keep locked away with his other nightmares.

He immediately clocks the way AD's face contorts—sharp and bitter—and it makes Jungkook's chest tighten with familiar remorse. 

The younger man has never quite forgiven him. 

Probably never will.

Just as Jungkook decides to leave, to return to the safety of his isolation, AD's voice slices through the silence.

"No need for you to scurry off." The words barely mask the hostility underneath. "Was about to leave anyway."

Jungkook forces his shoulders to relax, though his jaw remains tight. Their paths cross rarely these days, and when they do, it's always like this—loaded silences and measured distance.

AD sets the controller down. Sharp. Angry. His movements are stiff as he rises, radiating enmity in waves that fill the common room. The scent of fresh lemons—AD's signature—grows stronger as he approaches.

But Jungkook doesn't move. 

Doesn't flinch. 

He deserves this, after all. This anger, this hostility, this remorse that reminds him of betrayals he can never make right.

The collision comes swift and deliberate—AD's shoulder slamming into his with force. The impact jolts through Jungkook's body, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the guilt that floods his system. His throat tightens with dusty apologies he knows AD would never accept.

He watches him stride away, the blonde's back rigid with years of accumulated anger. The sound of his footsteps fades down the corridor, leaving Jungkook alone with the quiet hum of the vending machines and his own thoughts.

There was a time when AD looked up to him, when their dynamic was different—better. Now all that remains is this bitter aftermath, this chasm Jungkook carved with his own choices. The memory of who they used to be makes the present cut deeper.

The gaming console's screen still glows, enhancing AD's absence in the empty chair he left behind. The 'GAME OVER' message blinks mockingly. Jungkook's fingers twitch, remembering late nights spent teaching AD new gaming strategies, back when trust wasn't such a foreign concept between them.

He should feel angry at the shoulder check; at the constant hostility that feels like a reprimand. 

But all he feels is hollow. 

Empty. 

Because how can he blame AD for hating him when he did this? When he destroyed something irreplaceable with decisions he can never take back?

He can't help but stare down the empty corridor where AD disappeared, the bitter taste of their encounter lingering longer than he'd like. His craving for sweetness feels almost desperate now—a childish attempt to wash away the guilt that gnaws at his chest.

His throat tightens. He swallows hard, trying to maintain the aloofness expected of Kkangpae's deadliest sniper. 

But it's hard, when AD's hostility has cracked something open inside him, letting old memories seep through like poison.

The vending machines hum quietly, offering a welcome distraction. He scans the selection without really seeing it, until—

Croissants.

Something shifts in his stomach at the sight of those packaged pastries. They're nothing like the fresh ones from the cafeteria, the ones you always grab during breakfast. Not that he's been watching. It's just that you're always there when he is, picking up one of those flaky pastries along with your coffee.

He's noticed, despite himself, how early you arrive to snag them before they run out. Same time as him, though his early mornings are spent running from nightmares rather than hunting down breakfast.

The memory of your routine feels oddly grounding after his encounter with AD. It's something simple, predictable. 

Unlike the mess of guilt and regret that follows him through these halls at night.

It's a strange comfort, this knowledge of your habits. 

One he doesn't understand.

One he probably doesn't deserve.

The scent of fresh lemons still lingers in the air, like a ghost of bridges burned and trust fractured. But as Jungkook stares at those artificially-made croissants, he finds himself thinking of chai tea instead.

He tears his gaze away, scanning other options until he spots a nutty protein bar. Practical. Sensible. The kind of choice the Chief of Tactical Assassinations should make. 

He jabs at the keypad hastily, and then, the machine whirs and drops his selection with a dull thud.

The wrapper crinkles in his grip as he retrieves it. Such a simple thing—choosing a late-night snack. No one gets hurt. No trust gets broken. No consequences ripple through the gang's hierarchy. 

Just him and a protein bar at 4 AM.

The common room feels different now that AD's gone. Quieter. Jungkook lets himself breathe, really breathe, for what feels like the first time since AD's shoulder slammed into his.

He should feel worse, probably. Should let the weight of past betrayals and broken friendships crush him like they usually do. But something about this moment—this stupid protein bar in his hand, the quiet of the room, the lingering thought of croissants and early mornings—makes everything feel a bit lighter.

His lips almost twitch into what could be a smile. It's weird, this tiny bubble of something in his chest. Almost like contentment. He doesn't examine it too closely, afraid it might shatter.

The corridors don't feel as suffocating as he makes his way back to his wing. The shadows seem less interested in reminding him of his sins. 

For now, in this small hour between night and dawn, he allows himself this moment of peace.

He probably doesn't deserve it. But for once, he takes it anyway.

Jungkook stares at his lunch without really seeing it. 

The cafeteria bustles around him, but he's carved out his own bubble of silence at the far end of a long table. It's better this way—no small talk, no pretending to care about division gossip.

His chopsticks push a piece of fish back and forth across his plate. The encounter with AD keeps replaying in his mind, each memory tasting bitter like the coffee he's been nursing for the past hour. Some wounds, he's learning, don't heal with time. They just scab over, waiting to be picked open again.

And then, a tray clatters across from him. 

J-Hope drops into the seat, his white medical coat slightly rumpled from what's probably been a busy morning in the infirmary. The doctor's eyes scan Jungkook's face with scrutiny, his mouth pulling into that familiar worried frown.

"You look like shit," J-Hope announces, ever the picture of bedside manner. "Two hours of sleep? Maybe less?"

Jungkook shrugs, still focused on mutilating his fish. "Don't count anymore."

"Those new meds I gave you—" J-Hope starts, unwrapping his sandwich with more force than necessary. "You're actually taking them, right?"

"They don't work." The words come out flat. "Nothing does."

"Jesus christ," J-Hope mumbles through a bite of sandwich. "Have you tried, I don't know, taking them before you spend six hours staring at your ceiling? Maybe with some tea?"

The concern in J-Hope's voice makes something twist in Jungkook's chest. 

He doesn't deserve this—the worry, the care, any of it. 

Not after everything. 

But J-Hope is one of the few people who still treats him like a person rather than a cautionary tale, so he tries to sound less dismissive when he responds.

"I don't need a lesson on how to take pills. They just don't work for me."

The doctor sets his sandwich down, eyebrows pulling together. A bit of lettuce falls out. "Look, I know you've built up tolerance, but we need to find something that works. You can't keep going like this."

"I'm fine." He's not, but he doesn't truly care. "Function better on less sleep anyway. More efficient."

"That's bullshit and you know it." J-Hope's voice rises slightly, anger seeping through. "You think I can't see what this is doing to you? The mood swings? The isolation? This isn't healthy, Jungkook."

Jungkook flinches at the use of his real name. "I don't need a lecture. I'm handling it."

"Oh yeah, real healthy coping strategy." J-Hope's scoff holds more concern than mockery. "Just pretend everything's fine while you run yourself into the ground."

Exhaustion weighs heavy on Jungkook's bones. Three hours of sleep and memories of AD's hostility from last night make his tongue looser than usual. "Maybe you should prescribe me your finest benzos. Let me wash them down with vodka. That ought to do the trick."

The slam of J-Hope's palm against the table makes the silverware jump. Several heads turn their way, but Jungkook can't bring himself to care. 

"If you want to kill yourself," J-Hope's voice is deadly quiet, trembling with rage, "don't you dare make it my prescription."

The cafeteria suddenly feels too small, too crowded. J-Hope's worry tastes bitter in the back of Jungkook's throat, mixing with guilt he doesn't have the energy to process. He shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have joked about something so dark. But three hours of sleep and a lifetime of regrets make it hard to care about much of anything anymore.

Silence stretches between them. Jungkook stares at his mangled fish, not really eating anymore. He knows what's coming—J-Hope never could leave well enough alone.

The doctor's voice softens, trying a different approach. "Have you considered meditation? Or maybe some calming music? I know a sleep therapist who—"

"I don't need a damn therapist." Jungkook's tongue plays with his lip ring, a nervous habit he can't shake. 

The metal tastes bitter, or maybe that's just the exhaustion talking.

Because J-Hope is wrong. Therapy won't fix this. Pills won't fix this. Nothing can erase what happened, what he let happen. Some stains don't wash out, no matter how hard you scrub.

"Look, Jungkook." J-Hope uses his real name again, and his throat constricts uncontrollably. "Ever since what happened with—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

J-Hope holds his gaze, unflinching. "You can't keep punishing yourself forever."

"I'm not discussing this." His voice turns to steel, matching the cold weight that's made a home in his chest.

Another sigh from J-Hope as he leans back. "Fine. But you know where to find me when you're ready to actually try and fix this."

Jungkook's jaw clenches so hard it hurts, a muscle jumping under his skin. But he stays quiet. What's the point of arguing when J-Hope doesn't understand? 

Some things aren't meant to be fixed. 

Some people don't deserve to be.

Jungkook pushes his half-eaten lunch away with a tired sigh. He can feel it coming—the same conversation they have every year.

"So," J-Hope starts, right on cue. "Making an appearance tonight or pulling your usual disappearing act?" He peers at Jungkook over his coffee mug, eyes too knowing for comfort.

"Haven't decided." The words come out clipped, because he feels already exhausted by the mere thought of socializing.

"You should come." J-Hope takes a careful sip. "Might help to interact with actual humans instead of just your rifle for a change."

"I interact plenty." It sounds defensive even to his own ears.

"Glaring at people from across the room doesn't count as interaction." J-Hope's voice is dry as desert sand. "Neither does grunting one-word responses."

Jungkook's tongue finds his lip ring, playing with it absently. "It's just a casual thing. Not mandatory."

"Right, just our leader's rise to power celebration. Totally insignificant." The doctor's sarcasm could cut glass. "Definitely not something a Council member should show face at."

"RM himself said it's not formal." 

"Maybe not officially. But you know what it means to everyone else. Especially the newer ones—shows them what we're about, what matters to us."

Newer ones. The words make him hold his breath. He thinks of Yunjin's bright enthusiasm, of your sharp wit. Of how you'll probably be there tonight.

The thought doesn't help him decide whether he wants to go more, or run faster in the opposite direction.

"You seem perfectly capable of handling traditions without me."

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook." The doctor's frustration bleeds through. "This isn't about tradition. It's about you actually being part of the team for once. Don't you ever get tired of the whole lone wolf act?"

Something bitter rises in Jungkook's throat. His tongue presses against his cheek—a habit from childhood he never quite shook.

Silence. He takes a slow breath, measuring his words. 

"I'll think about showing up."

It's not a yes, but J-Hope takes what he can get. The doctor's shoulders relax slightly as he leans back, apparently satisfied with even this crumb of compliance.

"Got patients waiting," J-Hope says, collecting his things. The coffee mug scrapes against the tray. "Try to sleep before tonight, yeah?"

Jungkook makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into thoughts of empty corridors and quiet corners where he won't have to pretend to be social. Where he won't have to see AD's hatred or V's cruel smile. Where he won't have to watch you move through the crowd, chai-scented and d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ irrelevant.

J-Hope's footsteps fade into the cafeteria buzz, leaving Jungkook alone with his cold coffee and colder thoughts. 

Another conversation that changes nothing, fixes nothing.

Just like everything else in his life.

"What?"

The word tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

Smooth, real smooth.

Chaewon snorts, eyes crinkling. "Right, keep forgetting you're still a baby gang member. Tonight's the whole 'RM took over this shitshow' party."

You frown, because seriously? Four months in and you're just now hearing about this? Some Seduction Division recruit you are.

"It's not a big deal," Chaewon adds, probably seeing the confusion on your face. "RM didn't even start it. We just got drunk on the first anniversary and now it's a thing."

Eunchae pops her head between you and Chaewon, her light brown hair tickling your cheek. "Plus, you know. Give gang members an excuse to drink and we'll run with it."

You lean back against the couch, letting your head fall back softly. 

Great. 

Another Kkangpae tradition you and Yunjin missed the memo on. At this rate, you'll still be the clueless newbies when you're both grey and wrinkled.

"So what, we just show up and get wasted?" you ask, trying to sound casual. Like you're not low-key freaking out about what to wear or how to act around the higher-ups when they're three sheets to the wind.

Chaewon shrugs, picking at her nails. "Pretty much. Some people get all fancy, others come in sweatpants. It's not like RM gives a shit either way."

A flash of bubblegum pink catches your eye. Yunjin shuffles in, hair wrapped in a towel and dripping onto her shoulders. Perfect timing, as always.

"Did someone say alcohol?" She plops down on the sofa arm, water droplets flying everywhere. "Because I'm not playing nurse again tonight."

"That was one time!" Eunchae's voice pitches up in defense. "And that mark needed me to drink!"

Kazuha snorts. "You could've said no."

"To free drinks?" Eunchae spins around, hand on her chest like she's been mortally wounded. "In this economy?"

"She's got a point," Sakura drawls from her sprawl across the couch. Her long legs dangle over the armrest, taking up way too much space.

Yunjin tugs at her towel, rolling her eyes. "Well, don't come crying to me when you're hugging the toilet later."

You can't help but laugh. These idiots are really your team now. "I take it parties get pretty wild around here?"

"Oh honey." Kazuha's lips twitch. "There's a reason strip poker got banned."

"I'm sorry, what?" Your eyes go wide. Because what.

"It was brief but iconic." Eunchae grins, nudging your shoulder. "Sakura tried to slide across a table."

"And I would've made it!" Sakura calls out, not even bothering to lift her head. "That loose board was sabotage, I swear."

"Sure, blame the table." Eunchae turns to you with a conspiratorial wink. "Just wait till you see what happens when someone breaks out the tequila."

You raise an eyebrow, already mentally noting which Council members to avoid when the drinks start flowing. 

"Thanks for the warning. I'll stay away from any furniture surfing attempts."

Your teammates' laughter fills the room, and something warm blooms in your chest. It's weird how these chaotic idiots have become your f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶y̶ friends in just four months.

Chaewon leans back, crossing her legs. "Tonight's pretty chill though. Eat, drink, try not to pass out in a bush somewhere."

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Eunchae bounces in her seat like an overexcited golden retriever.

"Open field, 8 PM." Chaewon's voice shifts into what you've dubbed her 'mom tone.' "We're doing BBQ, and there'll be enough booze to knock out a small army. Wear whatever, but bundle up—it gets cold as balls out there."

"That's two hours from now!" Eunchae flops dramatically across the couch. "Two whole hours. I'm starving now."

"Is food literally all you think about?" Kazuha rolls her eyes, but there's fondness in her tone.

"I could think about other things." Eunchae wiggles her eyebrows. "But food's never disappointed me like men do."

You snort at that. She's not wrong. In your four months here, you've learned (mostly from Yunjin's gossip) that Kkangpae men are like a box of chocolates—mostly bitter, occasionally nutty, and always complicated.

The girls dissolve into giggles again, and you find yourself joining in. Maybe it's the promise of alcohol, or maybe it's just the way these dorks make even a deadly criminal organization feel weirdly homey, but you're actually looking forward to tonight.

God help you.

It's 8:10 PM when you finally head out. You went with comfy over fancy—oversized grey hoodie over a white turtleneck, because fuck freezing to death. The thermal lining is probably the best purchase you've made since joining Kkangpae. That, and these loose jeans that actually have functional pockets.

A flash of pink appears in your peripheral vision before Yunjin loops her arm through yours, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

"Aren't you excited?" She bounces on her toes like a kid with a sugar rush. "I heard these parties are insane!"

You can't help but laugh. Her enthusiasm is s̶w̶e̶e̶t̶ infectious. But the elevator dings before you can respond, doors sliding open to reveal—oh.

V lounges inside, arm draped over JM's shoulders like the Finance Chief is his personal armrest. JM seems unbothered, wearing that patient smile he gets when dealing with V's... everything. His salmon-colored hair looks soft under the elevator lights.

"Ladiessssss!" V draws out the word like he's auditioning for Parseltongue lessons. He shifts to make room, though his arm stays firmly around JM. "Coming to party with us common folk?"

"Free food's free food." You shrug, stepping in beside Yunjin who's still clinging to your arm.

She giggles at your response, squeezing your arm tighter. You catch JM's eye and nod—proper respect for a Council member and all that. He returns it with a warm smile that makes his eyes crinkle behind his round glasses.

The elevator feels smaller with four people, especially when one of them is V taking up space like it's his job. But hey, at least it's not AD. Or worse, J̶e̶o̶n̶ certain other Council members.

"Evening, JM." You smile at him, because it's hard not to. His aura always feels like a warm blanket—the complete opposite of V's chaotic energy.

"Good evening." JM's voice is soft, gentle. "I hope the night finds you well."

"What is this, fucking Shakespeare?" V waves his hand dismissively. "Save the fancy talk for business hours. Tonight's for getting wasted and making bad decisions. Luckily we will be free of certain judgemental stares."

"V." JM's warning comes with a poorly hidden smile.

"What? Just saying what everyone thinks." V grins, all teeth. "Not my fault someone walks around like they've got a steel rod up their ass."

"Pretty sure that's just the natural reaction to dealing with you for years." The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Wow. Wow." V pretends you've stabbed him in the chest. "Already picking sides? And here I thought we were gonna be besties."

You roll your eyes. "Not picking sides. Just speaking from personal experience."

"Brief experience," he corrects, wagging a finger at you. "You haven't seen all my charms yet. I grow on people, like mold."

"That's... not the selling point you think it is."

Finally the metallic doors open to the ground floor. Through the glass gates, you can see the open field where everyone's gathering. The sky's already dark, stars peeking through like tiny paint droplets.

Here goes nothing.

The field buzzes with activity, gang members scattered around like the stars peppered across the night sky. A bonfire crackles in the middle, throwing warm light over everyone's faces. The smell of BBQ makes your stomach growl—you haven't eaten since lunch.

RM's white hair catches the firelight, making him look almost ethereal. It's weird seeing him like this, gesturing animatedly as he talks. The fearsome leader of Kkangpae, actually laughing. Who knew?

Moon hovers by the drinks, playing bartender—although still maintaining his usual polite efficiency. Though tonight his smile seems more genuine, less 'I'm being nice because I'm your superior' and more 'want another beer?'

Jessi and Chaewon huddle together near the fire, probably plotting world domination or sharing gossip. The flames dance in Jessi's red hair while Chaewon leans in close, looking more relaxed than you've ever seen her during training.

V drags JM toward the grill, still attached to him like a very loud, very clingy octopus. "Make way for the master chefs!" he hollers, making JM shake his head with fond exasperation.

Your eyes scan the crowd before you can stop yourself. Looking for broad shoulders in black leather, for silver piercings catching firelight. For that scent of pine and wood that's become way too f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶a̶r̶ noticeable lately.

But Jeon isn't here.

You feel something waver in your chest—disappointment maybe, or just hunger. 

Yeah, definitely hunger. 

You push the thought away and focus on the party. There's food and alcohol and your friends are here. That's what matters.

Yunjin tugs you toward the bonfire, and god, the warmth feels good after the castle's perpetual AC chill. It's weird seeing everyone so relaxed—like someone hit pause on all the gang politics and murder plots for one night.

You sink onto a log bench, letting the fire chase away the evening cold. The flames bathe everyone in soft gold, making even the most hardened killers look almost n̶i̶c̶e̶ normal for once.

J-Hope appears through the crowd like a ghost in his white medical coat, looking like he's about to collapse. The bags under his eyes have bags of their own, but he's still got that manic energy that keeps him running on fumes and spite.

He drops onto the bench nearby with a groan that sounds like his soul trying to escape. The scent of sandalwood follows him, mixing with woodsmoke.

"Rough day?" you ask, eyeing his very out-of-place doctor getup.

His laugh comes out more like a wheeze. "You could say that." He waves vaguely at his coat. "Didn't exactly get a wardrobe change break."

Yunjin giggles beside you, still clutching your arm like a pink-haired koala.

Your eyes scan the crowd again, definitely not looking for anyone s̶p̶e̶c̶i̶f̶i̶c̶ particular. "Where's the rest of the Council?"

"Well," J-Hope snorts, "AD's busy losing at League of Legends. Says he'll grace us with his presence when he's done raging at his screen."

"And Jeon?" The question slips out. Smooth. 

J-Hope answers your question with a nod toward the field entrance. Your eyes follow and—oh.

Jeon strides in with Takama, both of them loaded down with enough meat to feed a small country. The firelight catches on his silver piercings, and fuck, he shouldn't look this good just carrying groceries. Your heart does that stupid little skip thing it's been doing lately whenever he's around.

But it's like... something's different about him tonight. The usual ice-prince vibe is dialed down a notch, replaced by something almost... approachable.

Unapproachably approachable.

Takama actually has him engaged in conversation—a miracle in itself. His shaved head immediately grabs your attention as he says something that makes Jeon relax slightly.

They drop the meat by the grill, and you notice how Jeon's eyes sweep across the crowd. It's quick, casual, but you catch it anyway. There's something searching in his gaze, like he's looking for... well. Probably just checking the perimeter or whatever security shit he does.

You turn back to J-Hope, trying to ignore the warmth in your cheeks. "Even party night comes with duties, huh?"

"That's Kkangpae for you." J-Hope's voice carries a touch of dry humor. "We don't do proper days off here."

He's right. Even now, surrounded by laughter and firelight and the promise of good food, you're all still playing your parts. Though watching Jeon handle those heavy bags like they're nothing makes you think some roles aren't so bad to watch.

Get it together. 

You sink deeper into the bench, letting the bonfire's warmth seep into your bones. The sound of laughter and sizzling meat hovers around you; everyone's guard lowered just a fraction under the stars.

Takama then leads Jeon toward the fire, some members sprawled out on the grass around them like lazy cats. The deputy's eyes find yours, his smile genuine—a rare sight in your line of work.

"Ankle doing better?" he asks, and you're touched he remembers.

"All healed up, thanks." You return his smile, because Takama's one of the few higher-ups who actually seems to give a shit about the recruits.

Jeon just nods at you, dark eyes meeting yours for a split second before sliding away. You're starting to notice is his thing—minimal effort, maximum impact. Your skin prickles despite the fire's heat.

The conversation naturally flows around you, mission stories and inside jokes mixing seamlessly even between different divisions. You half-listen, too aware of Jeon's presence at the edge of the group. He pulls out his cigarettes with those r̶i̶d̶i̶c̶u̶l̶o̶u̶s̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶e̶ steady hands, placing one between his pierced lips in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

But before he can light up, J-Hope shoots him a look that could freeze hell. Some silent doctor-patient communication passes between them, and Jeon clicks his tongue, shoving the cigarette back in its pack. Frustration flashes across his face before he quickly shoves it down. 

But you catch yourself studying him—the way his fingers fidget with the lighter he can't use, how his jaw clenches when he's annoyed. Little details that paint a picture of the man behind the cold exterior. 

Not that you're paying special attention or anything.

Moon's got a nice little bar setup going by the drinks station. You could use something to take the edge off this weird night. So you stand up, already missing the bonfire's warmth whilst stretching your arms above your head.

"Getting drinks," you tell Yunjin, who's deep in conversation with some other recruits. "Want anything?"

Her eyes light up. "Beer, please!"

You glance at Takama, still chatting with his boss. "Beer run. You in?"

"That'd be great, thanks." His smile is genuinely warm.

You look at the doctor—J-Hope's been quiet, watching everything with those too-observant eyes—and ask him too. 

"Can I grab you something?"

"I don't drink." His tone is light but final. Like a door closing.

You nod, not pushing it. Your eyes drift to Jeon last, catching him staring into the flames like they hold all life's answers. He meets your gaze for a second, and you'd swear something unreadable flickering across his face before he looks away.

"Whisky on the rocks," he mutters, barely audible over the crackling fire.

You bite back a smile. Of course he drinks whisky. Probably the expensive kind too, the pretentious a̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ guy.

Moon's showing off his bartending skills to an impressed crowd when you approach. Time to see if the Deputy Commander makes drinks as precisely as he runs operations.

His back is turned to you as you approach, mixing something that probably has enough alcohol to knock out a horse. But he moves confidently, like he's done this a thousand times before.

When he finally finishes serving another member, you step up. His serious bartender face melts into something more welcoming.

"What can I get you?" He wipes his hands on a towel, all proper and polite as usual.

"Vodka lemonade for me," you say. "Plus whisky on the rocks and two beers for the others."

He nods, already reaching for bottles. "Coming right up."

You watch him work, impressed despite yourself. "Where'd you learn all this fancy mixing stuff?"

"Been around a while," he chuckles, measuring vodka into a shaker. "It's useful—nothing settles gang politics like a good drink."

"You're really good at this," you say, leaning against the counter. "Like, seriously good."

His hands pause for a split second. A small smile tugs at his lips. 

"Thanks. It's an old passion. Actually wanted to open my own bar once—somewhere quiet, away from all..." He gestures vaguely at the chaos around you.

"That's... not what I expected." You watch him pour whisky over ice with perfect precision. 

"Life's funny that way." He slices a lemon expertly. "We all had different plans before this. Different dreams. But here we are."

Something in his voice makes you pause—because yeah, it's so easy to forget sometimes that everyone here has a story, a before. Even Moon, with his perfect posture and formal suits, had different dreams once.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as he lines up your drinks. You wonder what dreams everyone else gave up to end up here, in a criminal organization's makeshift bar under the stars.

"What about you?" Moon asks, stirring your drink now. "Got any derailed dreams?"

You consider the question, because it feels surreal to be having this kind of talk with the Deputy Commander—usually conversations here stick to missions and murder plots.

"Pretty sure we all left something behind when we joined." The words come out slower than intended. "Different paths all leading to the same fucked up destination, right?"

Moon hands you the drinks, and his expression is softer. "That's gang life for you. Trade in your old self, get a new family and some trauma in return."

"Any regrets?"

He gets this far-away look, like he's seeing something beyond the makeshift bar. Then he shakes his head. 

"Made my choice. Even the darkest paths have their bright spots."

You take the drinks, mentally filing away this unexpectedly deep conversation with Kkangpae's second-in-command. Who knew he had a philosophical side under all that formality?

"Thanks for the drinks. And the..." You gesture vaguely with your chin, since your hands are full. "This whole thing."

His smile actually reaches his eyes this time. "Anytime. Now go before those drinks get warm."

"You joining us later?"

"Once dinner's ready." He's already turning to help another member.

You nod, somehow managing to stuff the beer cans in your hoodie pocket while balancing two glasses. The bonfire calls you back, its warmth promising more interesting conversations ahead.

Though probably none as surprising as this one.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[imastrangeone98]

Wishes Best Left Unanswered

(A/N: ITS THAT TIME OF THE YEAR 😉😏😏 HAPPY BDAY OF BDAYS TO MY BESTIE @philistiniphagottini !!!!!!!! I present to you this short and (bitter)sweet fluff with your ever beloved gege Bladie)

No warnings, maybe just a tad bittersweet but overall fluffy like a cloud ☁️

Blade sometimes wonders whether or not you truly are aware of the sins that mark his very being. Or whether you do know and are simply that ignorant.

Because while he is nothing more than a sharp blade, you are but a soft cloud that floats in the sky, a wisp of a warm breeze echoing through a meadow of days long past. You are softness, and he is anything but.

You have no reason being so close to him, not when his edges are so sharp that they could cut into your pretty skin. But you still cling onto his arm and nuzzle against his side, as though he is harmless, and you smile up at him to ask him what he wants to eat.

Nothing, he wants to say. He is not becoming of such human needs; he is not worthy of your attention, or your affection.

Yet you give it to him freely, without restraint, as though you have an endless spring of love dwelling within your soul, a fountain that will never dry up, or an oasis in the barest desert.

So he simply points at some random snack at the stall you both stopped in front of, and with a sunny smile, you reach into your backpack to pull out your wallet. But you splutter when he swiftly steps in front of you, placing a large wad of credits before the baffled stall-owner and grabbing your drink (that's no doubt as sweet as you) to put it in your hand.

You smile so brightly, it hurts his eyes. And when you stretch on your tiptoes to give a swift peck to his lips, the taste of sugar and peaches lingers on his tongue, so strong that a small part of him desires a swig of strong, black coffee- especially since the snack he randomly chose was also just as sweet.

But the rest of him seeks out your warmth, your softness, your sweetness, and he is willing to risk his life and limb if it means you will embrace him in your arms once more, scolding him on his carelessness while you dab healing salve on wounds that he knows will already heal.

"Why do you stay with me?" he asks you one night, as the two of you lay together on the overly plush mattress in the hotel room Kafka managed to secure for the night. "You are a small, soft thing. With one wrong whisper of the mara, I could destroy you."

You hum, nuzzling your face further into his chest. "But you won't. I guess I just trust you that much."

"...You shouldn't."

"Probably...? But I do." You lean over him and gently cup his cheek in your palm. "Even when I know you carry the strength to rip me in half, I know you'd do anything but."

And when you kiss him, he knows, deep down in his soul, that you speak the truth.

Blade knows that he must seek death, now more swiftly than ever. But when you lay in his arms, he cannot help but wonder if eternity would be so bad if you were there by his side, making the pain just the slightest bit sweeter.

--------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: once again NAGA HAPPY BDAYYYY!!!! YOURE GETTING ONE STEP CLOSER TO THE GRAAAVE 🥳🥳🥳

[destinationtrekk]

arcadia

This is only a dream, and you will never hear that laugh again.

1.9k, wesker lives, referenced sex, flashbacks, angst with a happy ending, also kind of ambiguous ending, descriptions of depression

a/n: all my fics are cross posted to my ao3. named after the lana del rey song. also, i have a post-re5 wesker playlist if anyone wants it!!!

-> masterlist

-> arcadia on ao3

This day starts out like every other day since he died. 

You wake up an hour before your alarm, though you think it’s generous to say you woke up if you never really slept. Your bedside clock reads 5:09 am, and you crawl out of bed anyway. You start getting ready for work, carelessly throwing on something vaguely professional looking. You had taken up managing a few of his labs. Not doing any real science of course, you were never as smart as him, but helping with hiring and on-boarding, being the pretty face that introduces young people to the insanity that is - was - his world. 

You think they pity you, his employees and peers, because they ask quietly how you are, what have you been up to, how are you liking the job? You know they just want the gossip on how their dead boss’ widow is surviving without him. You had no clue where his money came from, or his nice house, his expensive cars, your expensive car he bought you. You had just taken everything he gave you with a blush and a smile, with devotion to him that ran deeper than blood. 

You were worried, once you were able to stop crying and pleading for him to come home, how you could possibly manage to handle his assets. You quickly realized he had taken care of it, he had taken care of everything, just like he always had. A lawyer stopped by and handed you a few files, apologized kindly, and left. You only read enough to know that the house was yours, and you had enough money in your bank account to last you the rest of your life, if you were smart with it. 

Now, you look at yourself in the mirror, your eye bags covered perfectly in makeup, and you feel sick. His towel is still hanging behind the door. His cologne is still sitting next to your perfume on the counter. You can’t bear to touch either. 

You drive his black Jaguar to work. You remember when he brought it home, angry after a long day and storming into the house like there wasn’t a sparkling new car in the driveway. You had calmed him down, and kissed him sweetly until he let you drive it to town for dinner. You park the car at the lab and don’t look back. 

Your day drags on but you can’t remember any of it. Everyday feels like this. You smile politely and drink coffee, shake hands and sit in meetings, drink more coffee. After lunch you make two cups of coffee, and you stare at the second cup with too much sugar and no cream until your eyes burn. You give it to an intern and ignore them when they try to thank you. 

Your drive home is stunted by an hour of traffic, so you turn the music up until your head pounds and you aren’t tempted to look in the back seat, where he had fucked you so hard on your anniversary that he scratched lines in the leather with his nails. 

It’s raining when you finally pull into the driveway. You go straight for the shower, scrubbing until your skin is pink and staring at nothing but his half empty shampoo bottle. You go through the motions of cooking dinner, but you feel too sick to eat. It gets portioned away in the fridge, where you know you’ll eventually just give it to someone at work, claiming you’re not hungry. 

You lay on the couch for a few hours, eyes staring unfocused at the TV screen, until you migrate to bed. You do the same under the cold covers, which smell of nothing but laundry detergent now. Your eyes fixed blank on the ceiling. You doze off, just to repeat the day again, and again, and again.

You're splayed across the couch, his broad form crushing you into the cushions. You're both laughing, gasping for air and clutching at each other like teenagers. You don't remember the joke, but you do remember the way his blonde hair glowed like an angel across the table at dinner, lit by candles and the rosy haze of a bottle of wine, domestic in your kitchen. He sits up, straddling your thighs with his own, and looms over you. His eyes glow red in the dim room, and you smile so wide you swear your mouth would be stuck like that. He leans down, whispering sweetly against your neck, hands gliding over your clothes, under them, touching your skin-

This is only a dream, and you will never hear that laugh again.

Before you know it, nearly a year has passed. You had stopped going to the labs a month ago, and soon after the BSAA raided every known location of his research. You don't know who the rat was, but you're happy he's not here to see it. You've done nothing with your time except sit around, cook too much food for one person, and occasionally go running until you make yourself sick.

You're having a... better day than usual. It sets you on edge, thinking that you're on the path to heal and move on. You don't ever want to move on, to forget him, but it's inevitable. You had gone into his closet tonight, taking a sweater much too big for you that had long lost his smell. It was only the second time you had touched his clothes, but you thought you could handle it. Now, laying curled in bed, his sweater nearly swallowing you, you weren't so sure.

He's been gone for a week, and you've taken to sleeping in his shirts. The expensive fabric wraps around you in a poor mimic of his calloused touch, but it smells like him. When he finally comes home, he finds you curled up in bed, face buried in his pillow. Obviously, he has no choice except to drop everything and crawl under the covers, wrapping you tight in his arms. You groan as you come to, immediately smiling as you recognize the vice grip he holds your body in. It makes you laugh, and your joyous sound makes him smile into your neck.

"Nice shirt you have there," he rumbles, breath warm against your cheek. "Where did that come from?"

You giggle and turn in his arms, and you press your lips to his. "Just some guy I met, no one special."

He rolls you onto your back, gaze dark and adoring, and-

You snap awake. The front door alarm was blaring through the speakers downstairs, but it was silent by the time you jumped off the mattress. The alarm could only be turned off with a code, which meant-

You felt panic begin the climb up your throat, and you scrambled for his pistol, still tucked neatly in his bedside table. Your steps were quiet, the gun raised as you searched the house. Nothing was out of the ordinary, until you rounded the corner to the kitchen. You froze immediately, gun falling to your side as your eyes widened in shock.

Albert was hunched over the sink, white-knuckling the counter. His head shot up as the sound of your gasp, his eyes meeting yours in the reflection of the window. The gun clattered to the ground beside you and you nearly fell to your knees. His arms were around you in an instant, holding you up against his chest. A sob escaped you, and you squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head and struggling in his grip.

"Quit it, you animal." His voice was the same dark murmur, a deep rumble against your cheek as he held you still. One of his large hands was cupping your head against him, his other arm wrapped around your shoulders. He buried his nose in your hair, breathing deep while you cried and squirmed against him. "Relax, sweetheart, breathe."

A few moments later his grip has loosened enough for you to pull away, and your heart breaks all over again at the sight of him. His hair is longer than you've ever seen it, hanging limp over his forehead and curling slightly behind his ears. His eyes are a familiar red, but his exhaustion is palpable in the air around you. His hands come up to cup your cheeks, and your expression falls at the texture of his skin. Your head rears back, and you take his hands in yours. He's covered in thick scars, pink and white flesh rigid under your fingers. You look up at him, noticing the same scars climbing his neck and crawling over his cheekbone.You reach a hand up to cup his face, and a devastated sound leaves you when he leans into your palm. "Albert..."

He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes, turning to press his lips to your wrist. He doesn't need to say a word, not when you can still read each other perfectly even after a year apart. You can see it in the corners of his mouth, the stiff way he moves his shoulder, the rasp of his voice, like it takes too much effort to open his jaw. This isn't the same Wesker you lost. This is someone else entirely.

All at once, the person you used to be comes back, like you never lost them at all. You take his hand in yours and lead him to the guest bathroom downstairs, flicking the light on and pushing him to sit on the toilet lid. He's slouching and avoiding your gaze, an act so unlike him that it makes you pause. You make him undress to his boxers, and he obeys without question. Confusion and grief and relief are clouding your mind. You reach again for his cheeks, and you can tell he wants to resist but you pull him to face you anyway. Under the fluorescent lights his scars look even worse - no, you won't say worse, you love him - you trace the lines gently up to his cheekbone.

"Do they hurt?" You whisper, turning him to take a closer look.

He doesn't answer for a moment, and then barely tilts his head in a nod.

You apologize, and quickly pull your hands away. He grabs your wrists and holds you still, before correcting himself. "Just sensitive."

You can tell now that he isn't injured - he isn't bleeding at least. You spend a long moment just looking at him, taking in the ways his body has changed, and the ways it hasn't. He looks a little thin, his collar bones prominent, new scars riddling his skin that aren't from burns. However, the burns do continue past his neck. One of his shoulders looks, well, frankly it looks like it had been shredded - the thick burn scars the apparent reason for his stiff and pained movements on his right side. The scars continue down to his ribs, all the way to the v of his right hip, where they fade into smooth, unmarred skin.

The shock on your face must be apparent, because he reaches back for his shirt, and you quickly stop him, your voice breaking. "No, don't- I'm sorry, I just... how are you alive?"

He looks uncomfortable, his jaw clenched tight as he still avoids your eyes. "Honestly, I don't know. It's... a very long story." His voice is still hoarse, and you start to think it's not just from exhaustion.

He finally looks up at you, and his red eyes are wet. You decide then and there that, even if this is a dream, he's the most beautiful you've ever seen him.

"Then why don't you start from the beginning?"

[unstableforensicscientist]

Okay these are the head cannons I have so far, and yes I will always add more 🙏🏻🙏🏻

Herbert West headcanonnons:

a gay or unlabeled trans man

also aroace

AuDHD

Hates loud noises or bright lights specifically

Clenches his jaw or grates his teeth when he sleeps

Rarely ever remembers to shower but also needs everything around him to be clean

Despises coffee but if he had to drink it, he would either drink it purely black and probably like the bottom of the coffee pot or so much sugar it’s insane

He secretly has a sweet tooth (PLS HEAR ME OUT ON THIS)

Literally only wears suits and will sometimes sleep in them

Doesn’t remember to take care of himself like ever

he loves compression socks (once again just hear me out)

He wears sock garters

smells like either mold/corpses or hand sanitizer, no in between.

he has two different handwriting, one that is like a mix of cursive and his normal in pen, and really shitty writing in pencil.

Rarely would ever care for music but he would occasionally go with classical

LOVES the rain/thunderstorms

Wanted to study archeology when he was younger (I’m projecting)

will go through math equations when he gets bored or stressed

Definitely stims, but specifically hand taps, leg taps, facial movements, and scrunching his hands or opening and closing his hands into a fist shape, or swaying/pacing.

He also Stims by breaking the fuck out of No.2 pencils and sometimes even pens if he’s stressed out/agitated enough

He fidgets with his tie and watch a lot, especially when he’s nervous, it’s one of the only ways you can tell he’s on edge

Either can’t sit still for hours or will be so silent/still you won’t notice he’s there.

Has a collection of encyclopedias that are really fucking old.

Will read fiction on very, and I mean VERY rare occasions. They will most likely be science fiction too.

Gruber was 100% a father figure for him.

Genuinely couldn’t give less of a fuck about your opinion on him unless you say something about his work.

did his own top surgery with perfect performance and had guidance from Gruber

Doesn’t drink much besides water or just well nothing, but will have some tea on occasion.

I also like the idea of him liking 7 up from the cut scene because it’s silly

used to wear socks with fun yet sophisticated designs on them in high school.

He definitely dressed like your average high school nerd when he was younger, suspenders and all.

Used to have glasses that would make his eyes look 10x bigger

His vision is absolute shit without his glasses, basically a male Velma.

also I think it’s silly to say he did ballet when he was younger (reference to the bride commentary)

used to have his hair a bit more shoulder length in high school

literally sleeps with one single pillow and a sheet. Also his bed feels like a rock when you lay on it. (He never fucking sleeps)

actually really enjoys nature and not just in the experimental environment way, but you would have to water board that info out of him.

Genuinely wants some kind of reptile as a pet.

he has so many random facts on the most niche things you could possibly not want know/hear about.

Genuinely likes the color green, but more of a forest green and not bright ass neon.

has gone camping ONCE.

has a specific routine for everything and will breakdown if it doesn’t go accordingly

never ever shows his meltdowns to anyone but himself

Has gone to the psych ward during his time in Switzerland after Grubers death

Doesn’t trust psychiatrists

this one I think is just funny to me but he has tried to read fiction with magic and shit and HATES IT. Read love craft and he had called that man out for his writing and bigotry so many times to Gruber and probably Dan.

Has the most manic laugh/giggle you’ve ever heard

smiles with his teeth if he’s being an asshole, almost like the Cheshire Cat, smiles with his mouth closed in a tight line when he’s sarcastic or annoyed, only has smiled genuinely like twice.

Hates showing emotions, even negative ones. He prefers to seem entirely neutral unless provoked

never looks himself in the mirror

hates going to the barber shop and prefers to cut his own hair

Literally cannot legally drive

Speed walks, he cannot walk at a normal pace ever.

Enjoys puns and jokes but only if he’s the one making them.

Death glares that could kill a man if it were possible.

thinks he’s very clever but sometimes he really is just stupid 🙁

thinks logically but not rationally

His morals are so fucking grey, like he has his lines he won’t ever cross but besides that, he does not give a fuck at all

He sits with his legs crossed or he sits like a bird perched on a branch, no in between

He either really loves or really hates small spaces

loves curling his body into himself or have his chested puffed out really proudly once again, no in between

He has SERIOUS back problems, and has kinda bad posture

He paces so much that it freaks Dan out sometimes

Talks to himself a LOT

If he lets himself relax, he often does crossword puzzles or just reads medical textbooks and highlights the misinformation in them

does actually care for Dan, just has a really hard and shitty way of showing it

Finds the realism art movement very interesting, and did a lot of research on Eakins to understand how to draw anatomy for his subjects