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hexonthepeach · 3 months

Text

perfume - k.dy

pairing: f4!nct doyoung x fem!reader (past johnny x reader mentions)

genre: hana yori dango/boys over flowers/meteor garden/f4 thailand reverse harem au (mild allusions and characterization only)

warnings:

bully-to-friends-to-lovers, established relationship, polyamory, dom!doyoung, glucose father adjacent, scent kink, control over food consumption/bathing (for scent kink purposes only), gratuitous use of the l-word by anti-romantics, angst/feelings, flashbacks and history

🔞 edging, cockwarming, orgasm denial, oral (m/f receiving), passionate sex, rough sex, spanking, creampie, bukkake, consensual negotiated kink (degradation, somnophilia), anal play (f receiving)

wordcount: 20k

author's note: this is a doyoung-centered continuation of my ongoing F4 au. it can stand on it's own but i recommend reading Dive for more context. Doyoung's role in the F4 is Sojirou Nishikado/So Yijung/Ximen/Kavin (playboy control freak) so this fic incorporates elements of his secondary romance within the original/adaptations, now with y/n.

read on AO3

fic headers / dividers credit to @ saradika + please do not repost

Freshman year, Kocher International.

Head down in your books at lunch, trying so hard to escape scrutiny from above, you pretend to be no one.

It shouldn't be hard to be nobody, otherwise ignored and immune to whatever social contract deliberates your life. In a better world you'd be invisible. It's a superpower you'd wish for much more over the usual playground answers of super speed or control of the weather.

Let me be unobserved, you'd thought. Let me open a door and not worry about a bucket full of dirty mop water falling on my head or the inevitable posting of a grainy video of it, posted in a Telegram channel to fulfill some checklist made up by bored, rich monsters.

Your four-generation-behind phone with its cracked screen proved useful in some regards; you never heard about these public pillories until some kind stranger sent you a screenshot of them, usually in the context of whatever plans they'd made to torture you again.

Every notification is already a pain, driving splintered glass into the pads of your fingers. Just now you're reading a text message from your father asking you to pick up more cheap instant noodles from the convenience store on your walk home to round out whatever scraps he's picked up from the local restaurant your mother bussed tables and cleaned dishes at when she needed extra money.

"Why is Saint Kim watching you?" your friend asks across the table. She's been looking up at the room this entire time, unable to give you even a moment of her attention or assistance to finish the English homework you'd been working on. You'd been rushing all day to finish it before afternoon class, after a late morning of delivery driving for your family's drycleaning business.

"Are you sure it's not the Devil?" you ask, parsing through the lines of a book you'd bought secondhand, trying to match verse for verse.

"No," she says, shaking her head when you finally look up. "Don't react. He's coming this way."

"Shit," you say under your breath, eyes flicking to your untouched lunch. "I need you to leave now. Take these trays and dump them and I'll meet you outside of 4th. If I make it."

You don't look up from your book as you mutter, but you follow her path and her hesitancy as she internally debates whether to heed your warning or watch from a safe distance.

Your handwriting becomes a scrawl of nonsense you have to cross out in sharp lines. You begin the verse again, holding your breath as you will your entire body and mind back to a manufactured calm.

If you can't be invisible, you can at least play your role. You're copacetic by the time you see the tips of polished black wingtips beside you, before you hear the Saint clear his throat.

“Y/N.”

He drops a familiar, school-mandated clear cosmetics bag next to your ratty backpack. The already embarrassing stash of tampons and old chapstick has a new bounty including a "used" pregnancy test stick with a second line drawn in with pink gel pen jumbled into its contents.

"You left this . . ." he says, not finishing the sentence to indicate where he'd found it. You immediately hear a titter. Your flock of spectators is growing by the second and the useful idiot at its center seems wholly unconcerned.

"Thanks," you say, not bothering to look up or to even hide the bag. You keep writing, blindly, the English words just rounded shapes flowing from your shaking hand.

Their kind fed off attention, your only defense is to starve them of it.

The Saint clears his throat, again. Apparently he’s not just unconcerned, he’s also unwilling to leave.

"Aren't you grateful Doie found it before someone else did?" You don’t have to look up to know it's Miranda who’s asked, glimpsing her manicure as she picks up your bag, green gems shining on perfectly-tipped nails.

"Oh this must not be hers. I didn't think she could afford this."

You think she might be diving into the stash for one of the Lilies' pointed additions but no–you watch in horror as she plucks out the bottle of perfume you'd been carrying with you since your parents had gifted you a single, tiny box last Christmas.

"Chanel?" she says, laughing. "No wonder you smell like my grandma."

"Probably a knock-off," another of the Lilies says. Ginger, by the sound of her grating voice. Her handwriting on the board in homeroom listing out your abortions is as familiar as the pink gel pen script on the extra large foil condom with xoxo slut written on it staring at you through the plastic.

"Definitely a knock-off. You have a nose, don't you, Doie?"

You look up, finally, at Saint Kim. He's alone for once–the other one, the Devil Kim that shadows him is still up on the second level, leaning on the railing over his shoulder. You watch the Saint’s small mouth turn into a moue of distaste, nose wrinkling at the proffered bottle.

"Authentic," he says, capping it before offering it back to you. Your field of vision is obstructed by that veined, pale hand–fingernails as perfectly groomed as the rich girls who surround him.

You reach up to take your most prized possession back only to find he doesn't let go, holding tight when you try to pluck it from his fingers.

"You should know . . . " he says, sniffing slightly.

You look up at him with alarm blazing in your eyes. Every word Kim Doyoung says to you writes your next damnation. You should ignore him, run, anything–but you can't look away once you've met his assessing gaze, his tall frame limned in the fluorescent cafeteria lights like he's carrying his own personal halo.

Even seeing him at a distance every day can't depreciate how ethereally handsome he is. You know better than to swoon at that elegant face, night-black hair pushed away from his forehead. Beneath his family’s charities and his PR-scripted concern you know he’s just another ungodly creation birthed of nepotism and curated genes.

He leans in, carefully, musical voice a whisper.

"You should know it doesn't suit you."

The laughter that follows is deafening.

No, you think. He's just as soulless as the rest of them.

“What do you mean actually sleep?" you ask, coyly, unbuttoning your romper. "Like after we . . . ?"

"I've managed 6 hours of sleep in 36 hours, y/n–” Doyoung seems to hesitate, dark eyebrows raising, hand pushing his hair back from his pale forehead. He snaps his laptop closed, at last, shoving it to the farthest edge of the bedside table.

No–you think–not hesitation.

Frustration.

You've seen this man before.

All work and no play made Saint Kim into a Prince of Hell. He'd spent the first 8 hours of your date day half-present–the other in the 4 hours of sleep he's gotten since some crisis at his family’s headquarters in London that usurped your vacation.

A whole 2 days in which he hasn't held you at all. His rules, his chance, but you can't help but wonder what has him so clenched that he's barely even touched you since your date began at 6 am Bangkok time.

You'd taken two extra strength melatonin and slept like the dead, anticipating his early-riser schedule. Only you and God had to know you'd fallen asleep next to your day tour fit ready to be fucked in it.

You’d made yourself so pretty only to find him in the kitchen hunched over his phone, laptop softly pinging with notifications. Doyoung had still been dressed in the clothes you'd seen him in the night before, ending his conference call to laser in on you hovering in the kitchen.

"Are you upset?" Doyoung asked.

"No," you'd lied, pushing the piece of paper he'd left the staff on the counter, his English handwriting crisp and formal. "What’s this?"

"We have a few dietary restrictions today," he’d said.

"Are you saying I am what I eat?" You’d asked, taking a bite of a plump strawberry. "Is this some kind of prep?"

"It's for the date," he'd said, resigned. "Just be patient with me."

Then he'd smiled, disarming you with a casualness you hadn’t seen on him in a long time, rubbing his eyes blearily under his thick glasses.

"Can we go back to sleep?"

And so you'd settled into his grasp on your made bed, scrolling Insta and waiting for the inevitable alarm–which turned out just to be Jungwoo delivering two iced Americanos in some gambit of checking your progress.

"Missed the floating market opening?" Jungwoo asked, eyebrows raised at the sight of Doyoung face first in a pillow.

You'd silently mouthed your thanks, leaving the drinks to sweat on the bedside table as you changed into your second outfit of the day, occasionally drifting in to check on your sleeping beauty.

It was a rare delight to have him so vulnerable beside you, blanket rucked up beneath his chin and his white teeth visible past the sweet curves of his mouth. Without consciousness your partner for the day is just Kim Doyoung, the gentler side of the same creature who you knew would often choose a couch to watch serial television with you over a day trip if you wanted it.

But this was different.

Now instead of using his precious time to fulfill what you'd felt promised in his casual brushes against your back when you'd finally traveled out, or the way he'd stroked your leg at brunch under the table (every bite chosen by him, of course), you're being railroaded into lying still while he sleeps.

Again.

You continue undressing, letting him drink in the sight of the lingerie set he’d left in your room. You knew it was custom made by the way it lifted each curve he’d already had access to, tailored for you as if every millimeter of your body was to account for.

Doyoung's cheeks are hollowed, lip chewed. He pulls his glasses down and regards you even more as you continue to undress yourself.

"You do know what the word 'nap' means, don't you?"

"I'm not the one who hasn't slept," you say. "At least let me get comfortable."

His stare pierces into you as you turn around, stripping for utility rather than give him a show he clearly hasn’t earned. You check yourself in the floor-length mirror beside the bathroom, viewing yourself through his eyes as you pluck the lace over your curves to sit just right.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

You may as well be speaking to the floor when you turn around, finding him buried in the pillows only by the dark fall of his hair.

“You can’t be that tired,” you say.

You're used to taking a late afternoon siesta in peak summer but you're far too excited to even consider sleep right now. For one, it's sweltering–windows open to allow the noises of hawkers and traffic not far off to drift in.

Second, you've never been more turned on in your life.

You can still feel the tingling in your toes from when he’d slipped his hand up under the hem of your shorts, teasing at the velvety smooth skin on your inner thigh as you tried not to choke on your mimosa.

You make your way to the bed languidly, crawling up the thick white duvet with a teasing smile.

"Just stay on your side of the bed, please," Doyoung says.

"Oh," you say, collapsing on top of the covers beside him. "Well you're no fun."

"And you're impatient and uncouth," he retorts in a way that makes you wonder if he really means it.

"Will you at least hold onto me?"

"Too hot." He rolls on his back, flapping his half-buttoned shirt in the breeze from the fans. You sigh dramatically, collapsing into the pillows in the middle of the bed.

"You should get naked, then.” You say. “Don't be modest on my account."

He opens one eye to glare at you, finding you relaxed and inviting beside him. His throat bobs, gaze flicking to the ceiling.

"That year of celibacy really took a toll on you, didn't it? Two hours. Indulge me."

"Please, sir," you whisper. "I've been such a good girl."

It had been a stipulation of the F4’s latest deal–24 hours for you to recover from your first night before the gauntlet began. Doyoung had been more than strict about the terms, leaving you your own set of instructions including–not surprisingly–not touching yourself.

Under normal circumstances you wouldn’t think about masturbation constantly, at all hours of the day. He may as well have told you to try not to think about a white bear for how powerful the intrusive thought had taken over since then.

"You'll get your reward. Later," he says. He's an impassable wall, stretched out beside you, so you content yourself with staring at his profile. Even under these oppressive circumstances you appreciate the light dusting of freckles on his cheek brought out by the sun, the dark lashes dusting his cheeks over the slight bluish marks of sleep deprivation.

"Yes, sir."

It only takes a few minutes for him to snap at you again.

"Stop that,"

"Stop what?"

"Getting so handsy."

You hadn’t even realized your hand had drifted over the plane of his belly under his white shirt, too absorbed with watching the muscles in his cheek spasm as you inched nearer.

"Can I help it when you're right there?" you ask. "I thought this was your–"

Doyoung rolls you before you can slither any closer, pressing your back into the sheets with his hands on your wrists, knees digging into your thighs.

If the intention was to get you to stop being uncomfortably turned on it has the opposite effect: you let out a moan of pleasure, legs twisting together for friction. He slams them shut between his own, groin pressed into yours.

He's as hard as you hoped, and you lift up into him to let him know you know it.

"If you don't behave I'll have to cancel this," he warns directly in your ear, sounding as choked as you feel. "I thought you were already trained."

"Trained to fight back," you correct, pressing against him with your own strength.

"That's not trained," he says, lifting up. "I'll blame your lack of experience and experienced partners. Nothing we can't work on. Until then you'll follow my rules or I pull you from the game. Understood?"

You let a few beats pass, accepting there's no way out and you don't have anything to throw back at him.

"Yes, sir," you pout.

"Now that's a good girl," he says.

Just as quickly as you were taken down you're let go, inhaling deeply now that you're not being pressed into the soft bed.

"You really don't want to play with me before you sleep?" you ask, brushing your lips against his chin as he crouches over you. You’d be a liar if you didn’t say you enjoyed the way his nostrils flare a bit, working his pink bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever arbitrary rules he’d set for your time together you can tell he’s at least regretting it right now, stiff length brushing against your bare leg as you lift your knee to test it.

“Are you trying to make me punish you?” he asks, voice husky.

"I thought you liked it when I was a brat," you say, cocking your head.

Doyoung sighs, eyes half-lidded. "I do. But not when you're using it to avoid intimacy."

Your throat clenches, a hard knot forming in it you can't seem to swallow as your face gets even hotter.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

“I think you know what I mean,” he continues. “It’s not like we both don’t have a habit of using sex as a distraction from anything emotionally challenging.”

You gape up at him in disbelief.

Of course you’d never been able to hide that aspect of your last relationship with him when he’d often been right outside the door. All of the F4 knew how many times your arguments with he-who-should-not-be-named-especially-not-while-in-bed-with-his-best-friend had ended in you shutting him up by any means necessary. Not that you didn’t enjoy it at the time–but rather you understood it wasn’t the most healthy template for a relationship.

"I thought this wasn't going to be about feelings," you blurt out.

“Proving my point.”

Doyoung tsks, tapping your cheek with his fingers–nowhere near a slap but just as effective, soothing the spot with his thumb. Soon he’s brushing your tears away when they inevitably spring up and you have to turn to hide their seep into the mass of pillows.

"If I wanted therapy I wouldn't be here, Kim Doyoung," you say, trying to bury your face in the piles of soft down.

“Shh, silly girl,” He gently pulls you out from hiding, soothing you with a warm kiss against your forehead when you stop struggling and let him hold you, releasing that surge of emotion and writing it off to hormones and the sting of rejection.

“You know I’m speaking to myself here, too,” he states softly. “Bear with me, I’m learning.”

"Do you even really like me?" you ask, face pressed into his chest.

It’s horrible to admit this specific insecurity but you can’t help it. Being abandoned multiple times in your life when you’d finally, finally let your walls down would damage anyone’s trust. You’d hoped this day with him would be easy and carefree and light, not dimmed by the shadows of your anti-romantic histories.

"I adore you, actually." He settles partially on top of you, leg wrapped over yours as he props himself up on his elbow. "Which is why I want to start this right. You wanted the F4 boyfriend experience. This is mine."

"Last I checked you’ve never seriously dated anyone," you groan, sniffling.

"Last I checked, neither have you."

Well, that connects. You swallow your fears, relaxing into the cage of his embrace, retreating a little from the vulnerability of being exposed.

"What kind of girlfriend experience were you expecting, then?"

A lazy smile gusts across his features. You can't help but find it a bit sinister after being handled so indelicately.

“I don’t always know what’s going on in that empty little head of yours." He accompanies his statement with a brush of his thumb across your flushed cheek, tracing your semi-parted lips in a way that sends sparks down to your core.

"I’d like to stop guessing and actually get you to let me treat you the way you want to be treated. Have you ever asked yourself what you want?"

You panic a little, considering his words. Living with disappointment had made this question a hard one to even consider.

"I just want a good time. Isn't that what you want, too?"

Doyoung seems to ignore your ask, drifting into a relaxed state against the pillows. His hand traces the hairline at your temple. "You know I worry about you. All the time, actually.”

His voice is lower, a little wistful, and it’s doing just as much as the slight brushes of his fingertips to make you throb all over again. A lack of sleep must have made him delusional, you think. This is not the Kim Doyoung you know.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

"Is that why you're always involving yourself in my business?" you ask, matching his tone in how breathless you are. You expect a quip, not the sincerity written on his face when he swoops in to press a gentle kiss against your lips, too fleeting to be anything but sweet and sincere.

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do all this time? It certainly wasn’t just to get into your pants. I want you. All of you.”

You're taken aback by his honesty. You'd always suspected his constant meddling in your affairs came from a place of interest but you'd never wanted to give him too much of a response–maybe a little afraid his fickle nature and fear of commitment would mean he’d give up on your friendship, too.

Another thing you knew about Saint Kim: he had a tendency to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of emotional neediness in his partners. You'd never given him reason to believe you expected anything from him, but you'd also stopped fighting him on giving you what he desired to give.

It wasn’t just presents or expensive experiences, of course. He’d found out quickly those weren’t welcome without some cajoling. No–his art was in knowing what you needed even before you realized it, nudging it across your path.

You’d figured out his deviousness after the umpteenth time someone was charitable at your little florist shop part time job, offering to fix your scooter in exchange for a nice arrangement for a proposal. As soon as you’d seen the fully restored bike outside and the customer didn’t return your texts you’d called Doyoung, completely unsurprised to find he was at the coffee shop next door, waiting to pick up his flowers.

“Stop being so nice to me,” you’d said. “It makes me uncomfortable.”

“What makes you think I’m giving you charity,” he’d responded, dropping a department store bag and your own custom coffee order on the counter. “You’ll wear this when I come to pick you up tonight at closing, including the jewelry and perfume. I need you to play your part again. The flowers are a consolation for the heart we’re breaking.”

He’d enlisted you as his defacto “new girlfriend” for the more difficult separations, and though you’d gotten your share of a glass of expensive wine thrown in your face more often than he ever experienced it (his type always went after the easier target) it wasn’t like he didn’t have a replacement dress ready and a nice dinner waiting after you’d cleaned off the Chateau Lafitte Rothschild.

You have to face the fact that no matter how many times he’d treated you like his girlfriend, you’d never actually expected him to want you to be one.

“I’ve waited a very long time for this, Y/N. Which is why I want our first time together–alone," he adds quickly. "–To be special."

It's difficult to believe him but you're spellbound all the same, watching pink dust his cheeks and his ears turn a shade darker as he most likely realizes how ridiculous it is considering him fucking you senseless the other night with the help of two other men.

But you can empathize with his anxiety. Yesterday's Thai massage he'd arranged had helped you work out the flight or fight of anticipating being alone with him. It’s back now, but different. The way he's looking at you makes you feel infinitely naked, infinitely unlocked.

"What do you mean special?" you ask, wary, hoping to see some glimmer of uncertainty or falsehood in his gaze. You want to believe it's a lie or just some artful prank, trying to ignore your heart flip-flopping in your chest.

It’s a mistake to let him see you squirm considering it’s Doyoung’s drug of choice–his lips twist into another menacing grin as he plays with the charm on your necklace. Another of his little gifts.

"Do you think you can handle it?" Doyoung asks, dripping self-satisfaction. “Or are you going to chicken out on me?”

You turn over so he can't see your expression, realizing he’s throwing your own words from the night before right back at you.

"I haven’t decided if I want to date you, yet,” you say.

"Maybe not," he says. "But you'll have to pardon me for wanting to show you this good time you supposedly want while also treating you decently. Unless we're no longer friends?"

"We are," you say, biting your lip, "even if you enjoy torturing me."

"Torture?" He laughs, breathy.

"Metaphorically speaking."

"You have no idea, do you?" You can feel the edge of his glasses as he bites the place where your clavicle connects to your shoulder, his hand snaking around your bare middle.

"You could show me," you invite, mid-gasp, as your body responds to his long-awaited touch. His fingers are almost cool in contrast to the heat in the room, tracing circles in your skin that have you squirming.

"Is that a challenge?" he asks.

Why not?

"We don't have to have sex," you offer. "Maybe you could just–"

"Shh," he says, fingers skimming lower. "My terms. Are you going to stay quiet for me?"

You nod into the comforter, breath hitching as he touches you through the thin layer of your underwear, veined hand flexing as he molds the damp fabric to your body. It's such a delicate pressure but he's already memorized your shape, index finger sinking into your folds, gently rubbing a ring around your throbbing clit.

You're sticky and swelling with each pass, entranced by how good he is at teasing you, cherishing the way he sucks in his breath when he pushes into the indent of your hole.

“Doie,” you whine, leaning back into him, trying to get him to kiss you as he laughs into your hair.

“Quiet,” he reminds you, kissing your cheek and teasing the seat of your underwear where they're soaked the most. "You want to take these off?"

You shake your head, sensing it would be too easy of you to give in.

"That wasn't a question," he says, tugging down the band, leaving them trapped tight around your thighs. "I don't want you to wear them until I tell you that you can."

You feel your core clench at the way his voice cracks, his fingers sliding back up to slowly and delicately draw a thread of moisture from your bared slit. You whine a little when he stops touching you, bringing his fingertip to your lips.

"Taste it."

You let your mouth fall open, let him run it over your tongue, beginning from the middle and swirling over it.

"Describe it," he murmurs. "If I like your answer, maybe I'll indulge you more."

"Salt," you say, immediately.

He tugs your hair, making you meet his eyes.

"Have I taught you anything? I want specific notes. Flavors."

You're transported back to the time he'd taken you to your first (and last) wine tasting. Spitting into a bucket and being lectured about body and tannins and soil conditions was the last thing you'd wanted to do after an hours-long trip to a vineyard but you'd indulged him, allowed one glass of what he considered the only drinkable wine on the premises.

An unrefined palette, he'd called you.

"Fruity and floral," you make up. "A nice lingering finish. Want a taste?"

He looks down at you behind his glasses, equal parts amused and unimpressed. "Did you use the soap I asked you to?"

Your brain glitches at that. Had you? You'd been in such a rush to go out–

You gasp when he palms your breast, squeezing the meat of it through the breathable fabric of your matching bra.

"I'll take that as a no," he says. "I guess you're not ready."

He rolls off of you, leaving you in a lurch as you realize your legs are locked together by your underwear. You move to remove them, taking off your bra as well to avoid the awkwardness of being partially dressed.

By the time you're done you realize he's on his back, the hand that had been stroking you buried in his loose khakis.

"What are you doing?" you ask, more than a little pissed off at the sight of him masturbating as if you aren't ready and willing to assist beside him.

"Getting ready for our date. You can watch. No touching." He cracks an eye to look at you before closing it again. "Either of us."

"Are you edging me, Kim Doyoung?" Your menacing tone is entirely natural.

He hums a bit, working himself at a more punishing pace, knuckles peeking out from under his boxer briefs with each full pass over his length.

"Can't even look at me? Afraid you'll lose control?" You sidle down on the bed, beside his tensed thigh. You can smell a bit of the ozone on him from a morning in the sun, your knees knocking into his calves when you move over him.

"I don't trust you," he says, voice deeper than you've ever heard it.

"Is it touching if you finish on my face?" you ask when he finally blinks up at your presence, hovering over him with your breasts dangerously close to his clothed thighs.

"Absolutely not."

"Not touching–"

"Just. Watch," he orders.

He pulls himself free from his pants, surprising you with how dark and weeping his tip is as his thumb encircles it. Pools of white precum spatter on his lean, pale belly, your head dipping dangerously close–

"I said watch." He grabs at your hair, denied when you bend up again, showing him your dirty tongue.

He groans, fingers clenching air. "You were put on this earth to test me, weren't you?"

Still, he doesn't break his attention on the way you roll the drops you'd licked from his clean skin in your mouth, swallowing once you've fully enjoyed the taste.

"A little sweet you say," teasing him. "Drinking pineapple juice?"

"Brat," Doyoung says, but he's almost gone–eyes dark with desire, gently gripping your skull as you continue to ease in.

You're a master at following his lead, blowing a breath over the spot you'd licked, and then his length until his movements slow, cherishing the way you hold your mouth over his cock.

"If you can't give me what I want, then at least give me a taste," you say, sticking out your tongue in offering. You love the way he responds to the sight, needy and losing it when you hold eye contact, drilling into him.

"No," he echoes, weakly. He's too smart to push into your open mouth, instead driving his hips up to fuck his fist as you watch his glasses slide down his nose, eyes clenching shut.

"You're no fun," you say. "Just a little swallow can't hurt?"

"No. Don't want to ruin it," he says cryptically, making a choked noise as you brush his fingers with your nose and he has to pull you away.

"I promise you it . . . It will be worth it," he manages. His jaw clenches as his movements relax, finally in control of you both.

"It better be," you say.

You lower your lashes as your eyes flick between his cock and his face, stretching out your tongue to the point that drool begins to drip down your chin, splashing on his whitened knuckles and the tight stretch of his balls peeking out from his underwear. He bites his lip, breath holding as he starts to spiral.

The first thick rope of white rockets up his half-bared chest. Soon he's spurting even more, cum reaching his rucked up shirt, a little getting on his glasses.

He's so out of it he doesn't fight as you wrest out of his limp hold. You clean up the sticky mess on his skin with your tongue, his abdominal muscles twitching under the light flicks and drags.

"Want to give me some notes?" you ask, straddling him without resting any weight down, taking off his glasses. This time when you move to kiss him he rises weakly to meet you, lips parting to accept what you haven't swallowed.

In truth, he tastes wonderful. Coffee, a little menthol from toothpaste and a hint of the watermelon you'd shared earlier mix beneath the coat of his spend.

He licks into your mouth until you moan, your body throbbing with unfulfilled pleasure. You follow him as he sinks back into the pillows, enjoying having him at your disposal, your core leaving wet trails on his thigh when you brush against the fabric.

"I'm going to wait until you're asleep and use you if you don't help me get off," you threaten, pressing soft kisses to his slack face. It’s no use. Doyoung has passed out again, lower teeth visible as he snores softly, forehead sheened with drying sweat.

Fuck it, you think.

You ooze off of him to take your second cold shower of the day, and maybe get acquainted with one of the fancy showerheads in his massive walk-in while you use his special soap.

It's not–technically–touching yourself.

Your mystery destination isn't an unknown–it's in every tourist booklet and blog you'd skimmed before your trip, thinking you'd be on your own to find a good spot to traverse to. But it still takes your breath away the moment the car door opens in the sprawl of motorbikes and delivery trucks and Doyoung takes your hand to pull you into Paradise.

Pak Khlong Talat is a bustle of energy well after dark, the time you know its treasures are delivered fresh and unbloomed, wrapped in newspaper and steeped in crushed ice. For as far as you can see the market sprawls along Chak Phet road, but even more overwhelming than the sights and sounds is the scent.

Jasmine, roses, lavender. Thousands upon thousands of blooms strung up and tended to by night owl vendors, delicate arrangements hand-sewed by artisans streetside into garlands so well-crafted Doyoung has to tug you to keep you moving, onwards to some other unspoken destination.

"I was worried you might hate flowers after working with them for so long. I take it you like it?" he asks, indulging you when you ask if you can take his picture at a particularly lovely hang of garlands, the purple-blue light perfect for the film you'd loaded into your father's old camera. Photography had never been your craft, but after your dad had passed you'd made an effort to capture more of your memories, cherishing what you'd taken for granted before.

“It’s perfect,” you say, admiring him through the viewfinder. "But can you look like you're having fun?"

Your model is stiff, mouth a moue as he checks the street for other observers or a possible collision with a laden handcart.

"Fun?" Doyoung asks, and you snap his picture on the offbeat, enjoying his look of surprise.

“Like you've taken your date to one of the most romantic places on earth, after buttering her up with a night cruise of Chao Praya and finally letting her eat real food."

He sniffs at a fall of marigolds, a smug look on his face that you commit to film, right before he sneezes.

"For the record, we're eating after this. Som tam hardly counts as a meal, I just didn’t want that drink going to your head."

You're shepherded through the vast warehouse of the main market, to an adjacent street, and into a non-descript building painted in a funereal white.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" you ask, once the key code is entered and you enter the strange business.

"I called in a favor," he says, taking your hand, leading you up a metal staircase past a simple storefront of dried blooms and shelves laden with boxes and bottles alike.

An apothecary? An alchemist's shop? The purpose of the space eludes you.

"An atelier," Doyoung explains. "One of the most sought out in the world."

There's the distant hum of the city outside and a central air you're unused to in this climate but the upstairs is quiet–by all accounts either an office or a laboratory, or a mixture of both. The central working area is a chaotic but organized space filled with tables of glassware and dried floral arrangements contrasting potted orchids, small beakers of coffee beans littered amidst rows of labeled brown bottles.

"So this is how they make perfume," you say, inspecting a stoppered bottle labeled "Gerianol 10%".

"Not just any perfume. The best. Here." Doyoung leads you to a much less cluttered workstation, the desk arranged with the lights still on, a note detailing some instruction you can barely read before he slips it into the pocket of his slim-tailored pants. Beneath it is a notebook, scrawled with a perfect cursive English you recognize from the cards he’d included in boxes or bags whenever he’d bothered to claim their contents.

"Sit," he instructs. You think he means the comfortable chair but before you can sit down he presses you to the desk, caging you in.

"Sit," he repeats, hands on your hips through your slinky skirt, lifting you to the bench. You scoot back, carefully, the white blooms of some exotic flower brushing against your cheek until he can move the vase a careful distance.

"Do you understand what we’re doing here?"

You can't possibly know what he means, eye level with the graceful column of his neck and his exposed collarbone beneath his translucent button-down, drowning in the melange of scents but most especially his clean, neutral cologne.

"No," you say, honestly, heart beating fast.

He picks up a corked flask from some kind of metal scale, dipping a thin thread of paper into it to waft it a fair distance from your nose.

"Before we came here--before you even agreed to this trip–I sent instructions to my friend for a specialty blend of their creation. It took quite a bit of back-and-forth–I even visited here last month to take a private class and make sure we prepared the base and middle to your standards."

"For me?"

You feel dizzy, reaching out to take the sample and smell it again, his hand capturing your own before you can bring it too close to your nose. He wafts it for you, expectant as you absorb the details.

Indeed, it smells divine–exactly the kind of warm, bright notes that make your heart feel at ease. There’s something floral and citrus worked in, not too heavy, the finish leaving you with an impression of a lazy summer afternoon.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Did you make this to match what you knew I liked?”

"Yes.” Doyoung exhales, looking almost sheepish. "I had some references. That cheap shampoo you never stop buying, the Lush exfoliator with the orange blossom, even–" he shudders a bit– "that awful Chanel you doused yourself in, in high-school."

"Coco Mademoiselle," you say. "It's been years since I–"

"It didn't suit you," he says, standing up to sample another bottle from the neat row.

Something dawns on you, a distant memory locking into place.

"It was you," you gasp in realization. "You're the one who got rid of it. I should have known when you tried to give me that bottle of Jo Malone–"

“It had already turned. You need to store your scents away from direct light.”

“It was a keepsake!” There were very few possessions from your youth that you’d been able to hold onto–not only because your parents had been barely able to afford your school uniforms, much less gifts. What little you’d had was lost when your house was destroyed by the men your father owed money to, this small thing neglected in the destruction.

“It didn't suit you because it wasn't made for you," he continues. "You wore it because you thought it would make you fit in, when you should have made what you wore wear you–"

"Please, stop."

You have to bite your lip to the point of pain, remembering how excited you'd been to unwrap that tiny bit of luxury your parents had saved up to buy you, your mother sure the brand name would save you from another day of humiliation. You didn’t have the heart to tell them that the cutout ad from the magazine on your wall was for the model, not the actual perfume, but you felt loved by the gesture all the same.

Hundreds of thousands of won an ounce for it to only turn on your skin, well before afternoons spent on the basketball court under the thankless sun. That memento had aged from pink to a sickly rose unused on your cosmetic shelf, a totem from a time when you imagined yourself belonging. Before it had disappeared, like so many other things.

You can't remember the last time you'd worn anything, had never even gone near that section of a department store after the humiliation of being made fun of for smelling cheap.

“My dad skipped lunches and my mom worked double shifts to get that for Christmas my first year in Kocher,” you say. “Mira was the brand ambassador for that campaign, you know.”

Mira had been your idol even before you won the scholarship she’d established to attend Kocher. Perfect, beautiful, but most of all the first girl in their sphere to show you genuine kindness.

"It must be so easy for you," you say, wiping your face. You rarely cried these days but that memory was particularly painful, a reminder of how often you’d assumed Doyoung found you just as offensive. Not just your scent, you thought, but you.

Something to be tolerated. Below his regard.

"Whatever you want, you can have. Whatever you don't like, you can get rid of. I'm sorry, I don't live in your world. I can’t just throw something away when it’s not useful."

"No," he says, quietly, abandoning his explanation. "That was thoughtless of me. I can replace it–"

“Can you?” You glare up at him. “Is this what you really want? To dress me up like your perfect doll and feed me from your hand so I’m more able to suit you?

Doyoung looks like he's going to be ill, every design in his head unraveling before your eyes. You’d feel sorry for him if you didn't know this was a lesson worth imparting.

"Don't ever offer to replace what you don’t know the true value of," you say, voice trembling.

There's a weighted silence as he considers his next words. You still haven't slipped away from him, choosing to hold your ground. How many times had you been forced to be the antagonist in some fruitless class warfare, unresolved? But then you also had a habit of finding battles in peacetime.

You pluck the newest scent strip from his frozen hand and waft it between you, at the designated distance.

“Thank god this smells nothing like it,” you murmur. You offer him a wry smile, anger fading. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You feel Doyoung’s relief as he collapses against you, forehead against your hair as his arms wrap tight around your middle. You relax after a bit, cheek pressed to his collarbone as you breathe in his unique scent–a little like fresh laundry left out in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “All these promises and plans and stupid details and at the end of the day I really . . . Don't know what I'm doing."

"I really don’t know what you’re doing, either," you say. "But I like that you try.”

"You do?" The hope in his voice makes your iciness melt a bit. You let your hands twine around his neck, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with the gesture.

“I know it’s not easy for me to admit but I do appreciate everything you do for me, Doie,” you say.

He doesn’t respond in words but you savor the shift in his demeanor, like a weight has been lifted from him. You think even he didn’t know it was there. You ignore the glassiness in his eyes when he pulls back, choosing to look at his notes instead.

“Are these all the ingredients?” you ask, working out a few of the more familiar words. “What’s op–?”

“First things first,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. "Did you touch yourself?"

"No," you say, surprised by the shift. "I followed your instructions. No products with scents. No underwear."

You spread your thighs to make your point. His hands hike your skirt up, over the breadth of skin to your hips and then to the curl of your belly, his breath hitching as he finds you already glossy.

It had been a bit of a gambit considering your riverside excursion but he'd allowed you a lemongrass-based repellent–the scent of which is still clinging to your bare skin as he kneels down to press a kiss to where his fingers had traced earlier.

You jerk a bit, conscientious of the workspace as he spreads you, just that light touch making your nipples harden beneath your thin shirt and bra.

“Are we allowed to–”

“Shh. Relax and try not to spill anything,” he interrupts, breath cooling your wetness. “I just need some inspiration.”

“What?”

"You’re so good already," he says into your sex, spreading you so he can lightly tongue at your skin. “Perfect little flower just for me.”

After waiting so long, you're torn between begging and shoving his teasing licks away, hand threading through his raven hair as the notebook slips from your hand.

"Kim Doyoung–” you gasp as he spears his tongue through your upper folds, nose nudging the sensitive bud. “–if this is another round of teasing I will murd–”

You yelp as he hunches down to wrap your legs around his shoulders, hands re-occupied by exposing you as you try to stay upright.

“Don’t worry. You can come like this. I want to know if you taste different after.”

You don't know what he means until his mouth closes over your clit, sucking just right. You jolt, pinched on the meat of your thigh until you can relax again, making little mewls as he rolls his thumbs alongside the point of contact.

“I want you inside of me,” you beg, feeling that fluttering sensation that heralds a build-up. “I wanted to come with you inside me.”

“Soon. Just need to be good while I sample you.”

“Sample?” Your hand sinks into his hair in panic, tugging, but Doyoung is too lost alternating between suckling at your sex and palpating you with a circling thumb, his beautiful hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread.

“Drip for me, first.”

“I don't think I can–”

“You giving up already?” Doyoung scoffs, smirking up at you with reddened lips, tongue-tip darting against your clit. Every brush of soft muscle makes you spasm a bit, belly tightening unfulfilled.

You shake your head, panting. “I just . . . Doie I want you inside me.”

“You can relax and take it,” he says, tongue wrapping around your labia, sucking slightly. Your head is buzzing, every stray thought removed by his exploration of you.

“Relax. If you don't I'll just have to try until you're begging for me to stop.”

“No, please, Doie. I'll be good,” you plead. “Just . . . need something inside. Hurts so bad being empty.”

“Hand me a pipette.”

“What?”

“The one that looks like an eyedropper,” he says, hand open to accept like he’s performing surgery. You fight to find the right glassware with his mouth still on you, efforts more focused and intense as your legs tense with each hit. You find the rubber-stoppered glass cylinder, stomach dropping.

“Is this safe?” You ask, gripping his mussed hair tighter when he pulls away for a moment.

“If you hold still, yes,” he taunts. You seize when you first feel the tip slip inside you. The glass is cool but warms to your body heat quickly, too slim to feel anything.

“Good girl,” he says. “You’re even pushing this out, you must be so tight.”

“I am. Too tight,” you groan. “Please don’t tease me anymore.”

He ignores you, focusing on his work, pulling the instrument free when he’s satisfied.

“Not bad,” he says, dropping it on the desk beside you before he’s back on his knees with his nose buried in your cunt. “Bet you can do better than that.”

“No, please, I need you–”

“Then drip for me,” he laughs into your leg, tracing the wetness down the crease in your thigh. You tense your hold on the desk’s edge when you feel his tongue prod at your entrance, muscle breaching your hole to lick into you. He makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat that has you plummeting just as he resumes stroking your clit through the slippery coat of your arousal.

Finally, you think, feeling the advent of tears for how wound tight you are, how desperate you are to feel him give you just one more point of contact with the ache inside.

“Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” you repeat, the noises obscene as he drinks you in, other hand on your hip to hold you against his face. It’s not even the stimulation that makes you begin to come but the audible groan he releases as he feels you quake against his mouth, heels snagging on his shirt when the first wave breaks and those little tics inside you turn into powerful contractions around his tongue-tip taking everything you can give him.

He keeps licking you even when you’re begging for him to stop, nose tracing down to catch a stray drop from the back of your knee with a playful dart of his tongue.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, folding over him as he wipes his mouth clean in your drenched skirt. You know it’s just the start but you already feel wrung out and feather-light, wicking away the sweat that’s beaded on your own face despite the cool, dry air of the room.

“Hmm?” he hums a bit, disentangling to stand up and hold your face in his hands. His pupils are blown, sweat beading on his temples, but he looks as satisfied as you hoped he would be, your arousal drying on his slender features.

“All the prep,” you say. “Isn’t that why–do I taste as good as you expected after all that?”

Doyoung looks down on you, amused. Already you feel like you’re heating up again, with how his dark eyes flit to your mouth and back up again.

“You think I prefer you prepped?” he asks, angling his head down besides yours to whisper in your ear. “The next time I eat that perfect little pussy of yours I want it to be filthy.”

He traces the lobe with his teeth for good measure, pulling another moan out of you. “I’ll even make sure to wait until the other two have a go at you, first.”

You feel your heartbeat stutter as he presses his lips to your pulse point, tongue darting past his lips to dab at the sweat there.

“No, precious, I wanted to make sure the perfume we make tonight matches all of you.” Doyoung’s nose brushes your ear as he breathes in your scent. “Every time I wear it I’m going to remember the way you sounded when you first came for me and me only.”

The promise of it has you feeling a different kind of heat, dizzying for how much you want it to last past this night.

“Fuck,” you whisper explosively, eyes clenched shut to stay fixed upright, fisting the thin material of his collar as he pulls you from the countertop and against the hard planes of his body. “I need you. Now. Please.”

“I like hearing you say that,” he chuckles a bit. “But I’m going to make you earn it. You can wait a little longer. You made me wait years, after all.”

You let him guide you into his lap, in the chair, pushed into the desk as he opens the notebook to another page. And another, until you take over and explore it for yourself. In the dim golden light from the street outside you catch glimpses of colors and drawings, notes written of impressions and memories you’d all but forgotten in your haze of grief these past few years.

There’s even photographs taped to some of the pages–ones you know well by the fact that they’d been taken on your camera. Doyoung didn’t have Jaehyun’s artistic training but he did have an eye for capturing candid moments.

November, your first year of college. You’re standing in the first snow of the season, catching flakes on your tongue. You can still feel the burn of them, hear the murmur of the city dulled in a fresh blanket of white and taste the roasted yam you’d eaten, tossing it in your mittened hands until it was cool enough to peel.

Doyoung’s shoulder is off-kilter beside yours, unable to capture himself in the frame for all his long reach. The peek of the striped scarf you’d knitted for him in gray and blue is all that’s visible of him under his peacoat, the mismatched weave of it captured even in this poor exposure.

“Base note: cedarwood,” you read, carefully, eyes hazing a bit with emotion. Evergreen.

“I still have it, you know,” he murmurs against your temple. “I only stopped wearing it because it started unraveling.”

“I’d make you another but I quit knitting after making three scarves,” you say, wryly. “Well two and a half, actually, I ran out of yarn on Jungwoo’s and made him a hat instead.”

“I thought you were just trying to get him to hide that ridiculous military haircut,” Doyoung muses. “Keep going or we’ll be here all night.”

“Now you’re impatient?” you ask, cementing your flirtation by shifting in his lap. You can’t ignore the feeling of his erection folded against the curve of your ass, or the way he grunts when you find a better seat with it nestled between your thighs.

“Sometimes I forget you were put on this planet to vex me,” he says. You’re lifted up by the waist, a hand on your lower back the moment you’ve found the desk for support, face above the book.

“Why don’t you try reading until I’m satisfied you know exactly what you’re getting?”

You don’t fight him, elbows bent as he rucks up your skirt. You feel your face grow warm with blood as you find yourself exposed to him again, locked in by his legs and his groping touch reaching up beneath your shirt.

"Base notes: amber and–" you have to fight to keep your voice steady as he swats your exposed curves, hard enough to sting.

"Ambergris,” he corrects, voice fried with delight.

“Ambergris,” you repeat. “And white musk."

"Good. And?"

"Bisabol–" you begin, corrected with another slap on your ass that hits, hard, glass jingling on the table.

"Did you jump ahead?" He asks, knowing full well your eyes are swimming with tears.

"No sir," you say. “I didn’t think that was a real word.”

"Opoponax." He says, reaching over you to grab a bottle, dropping a thick oil on you and rubbing it into your bruising skin. "Also known as sweet myrrh. Go ahead. Keep reading."

"Source: distilled from resin from ancient groves in Somalia, bought in Mogadishu from a local orchard, all profits to fund schools and clinics for women displaced by civil war."

"Do you believe this to be a charitable effort?" He asks, hand spreading over your buttocks. You think he might be referring more to your arrangement than whatever is written on the page.

"No," you say. Your history and political know-how might be lacking but you've seen the wrong side of kindness. "It sounds like what people write to make themselves feel better about exploitation."

"Clever girl," he answers. You feel his nose brush against your skin, testing the mingling of scent with it. "Keep going."

You turn the page, swallowing back your protests. This spread is rich with text and color, a veritable garden bursting from the page. You fix on the first entry in the upper corner, bracing yourself for another faux pas.

"Heart notes: Turkish rose," you say. "What is this, poetry?"

"Aren’t you familiar with it?"

You shake your head, lips pursed in delight at the scrawl of English. “No.”

You let out a gasp as he bites the flesh nearer your back, the sting of it surely leaving a mark by the way the pain lingers.

"Read it," he says, dipping over you for another bottle. “You’ll remember.”

"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows," you dictate, stumbling over every word and yet never punished for it. Instead Doyoung lets a steady drip of the bottle fall down the back of your leg to your knee, his fingers bringing up the rest to mix what he's already poured on you.

"Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses and with eglantine."

You end your recitation in a whisper, leather binding and paper gripped in your fingers as he massages the oil gently into your tingling skin, careful to avoid where your legs are locked together in arousal. You're heady with scent and sensation, awaiting some reminder that this isn't just a strange dream you’ve wandered into.

"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight," he finishes for you as he paints the rest up your spine beneath your shirt. You let him ministrate on your body as the words settle, as time recedes and you face a version of your youth you’re not sure isn’t just fiction.

That book beside you, the first time he’d spoken to, long forgotten.

“Midsummer’s Night Dream,” you say, turning to face him again, settling between his thighs as he fails to meet your gaze. You lift his face with your fingers, cheeks indented by your gentle hold. “You remembered that, too?”

“It was the first time you ever looked at me,” he says. “And it felt like you saw right through me.”

No, you’re not dreaming. You’re the architect of this moment just as much as he’ll claim to be a cursory observer if confronted on it.

You take in his mismatched eyes–one folding a little more than the other when he smiles at you ruefully. Those freckles you’d never really spent time examining, a happy accident of the time he’d spent with you in the sun. His fingers catching yours for a moment when you weren’t paying attention.

But most of all, the haunted cast where he’d lost sleep managing someone else’s problems. When he’d still been worrying about yours.

“You’re always thinking of how to take care of the people around you, I think you’ve forgotten how to relax and let other people take care of you.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think I ever really saw you until now.”

“What didn’t you see?” he asks, expectantly.

Six years of his careful distance from you, that coldness and disinterest just another mask for someone who was as raw and vulnerable and real as you if you managed to pry open their shell. His tendency towards control, towards the knife’s slice of cutting you so cleanly from his life no one would know your name unless he spoke it aloud.

There wasn’t another human being in their right mind who’d last that test, your only grace being that he’d thought you were untouchable. His best friend’s girlfriend, of course. But beyond that, one of his best friends.

No, one of his only friends.

“What didn’t you see?”

It wouldn’t require money or taste or a family name to bring Saint Kim down to earth. Just time and small acts of resistance, like the beautiful shell remnants you’d spilled into his hands on that last trip to Maui together, when it had still been the five of you. Each ground down to a small disc with a perfect spiral at its center, a reminder of the beauty remaining in broken things.

You place the notebook in his hands, curling your fingers around his. The pages it’s opened to are sparsely constructed, besides the photographs nestled between. Only you two know what’s there, buried in black sands and blue waters. You can see his handwriting falter where he’s written the notes for this moment in your shared history, sketches of those shells, and flowers.

A single photograph of you watching the others playing in the surf, his shadow cutting across the stretch of your legs.

Top notes: Jasmine for sensuality.

Orange Blossom for innocence.

Plumeria, for admiration. a new beginning . . .

You recognize the creamy yellow-white flower he’d tucked behind your left ear when you’d fallen asleep beside him. A non-native plant to the island, you’d learned, worn to indicate one was taken. A weed, like you, now prized as a treasure.

“What didn’t you see?”

You pull back to look at him, giving him yourself without reservation.

“That I think you love me . . .” you say. “. . . Like I think I love you, too.”

He looks up at you, astounded, the chair beneath him creaking as he collapses.

For once you regret being beside him when you’d heard the same words spoken to him by other people, pulled into their lives without you ever remembering their names. The difference between you, you once believed, was that they didn’t mean it.

Now, you understand, they just never knew the true cost of losing him.

You watch him collect himself, running a hand back through his hair and curling into his seat, memories forgotten in his lap, bedamned. You’re sure the engines of Hell are running hot for the way he can’t even look at you right now.

He needs a way out, you think. You’d rather be drowned in other women’s wine poured over your head than be on the receiving end of his disregard again, the script already constructed in your mind before you’d found you had the nerve to sleep with him.

"You can be honest with me,” you say. “Tell me it's been fun but you're not interested in a relationship.”

“What?” Doyoung is just as confused as when you’d told him you loved him, as honest as you’ve been in both sentiments.

“Your family will never approve of me. I’m just another fling you happened to take a more lasting interest in. It’s better this way. Cut me off, forget about me and move on.”

It's his turn to balk. You expect his pre-programmed response. Saint Kim's gospel for turning down the interested but uninteresting party: deflect, dissuade, detach.

“No,” he says, face draining of color.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I can handle it. Really. We can still be friends.”

“No,” he repeats, more forcefully.

“What do you mean, no?” you ask. “Isn’t that how this always ends?”

“You stupid girl,” he says, grabbing your face in his hands so you can’t escape, making you look into his warm gaze.

"Don’t you get it? This was always about feelings.”

When his lips crush against yours you don't have to speak to respond, catching his head so you’re not suffocated by the raw emotion you can feel in every movement. You return each kiss until the breath is out of your lungs, until you're drowning in his scent as he forces you back onto the desk.

You’re impatient to feel him, everywhere, aware you’re ripping buttons as you open his shirt to gain access to his smooth chest, trailing kisses as far down as you can go, still unable to escape his tongue sliding over yours.

“I wasn’t going to do this here, like this, but fuck it,” he says once he’s free, fumbling with his belt as he holds you to pepper your face and neck in a steady reminder of his affection. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” you echo wholeheartedly, helping free him out of his clothing, pulling his length to where you’re still slick with oils and cum and ready for him. God, you think you’ve never been more ready to break around him, to show him what he’s brought out of you with this game.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore,” you whisper.

You watch his face, breath held and heart stuttering as he sinks into you slowly, both of you gasping at the way your heat resists each measure of his continuous thrust. It feels like he’s barely in you when he stops, making you moan in dismay.

“Doie, please,” you say, trying and failing to wrap your legs around his slender hips to capture him deeper. You’re half out of your mind with that burning weight inside you remaining still.

“Say it,” he says, taking off your shirt to have access to your skin. He pulls down your bra, nipples tugged between his fingers as he assaults your neck with his tongue and teeth.

“It’s special,” you choke out. “Thank you, please–”

“Say it,” he corrects, twitching inside you but not moving an inch more. He curls down to nip at your breast above the lace, sucking a mark into the softest part. “Without the ‘I think’.”

“No,” you resist, realizing what he’s asking too late. Your nails sink into his half-bared shoulder, head rolling against his. “You don’t get to torture me for that.”

“Don’t chicken out on me now.” Doyoung laughs against your cheek, hand splaying around your hip to still your squirming. “I can do this as long as it takes.”

He thrusts, just a little more, making you cry out in desperation as the contents of the desk tinkle behind you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “You think I love you?”

“So, so close.” He pulls out, rocking into you again to feel the seize of your entire body when you anticipate just how far he’ll go before denying you. A little more, at least, and you can feel how much it’s taking for him, see the strain in his body as he holds back.

“You love me,” you tease, this time not a question, no you think. “Saint Kim loves me.”

He sheathes himself in you fully, gripping your nape to kiss you as you clench involuntarily around him, protests in the back of your throat muffled by his tongue sliding across yours. He tugs at your bottom lip when he breaks free, fully smiling now like he isn’t buried completely in your cunt just warming himself instead of chasing his own bliss.

“What did you call me?” he asks, leaning over you to retrieve something.

You take advantage of his distraction to snake a hand between you, slipping beneath your skirt before it’s grabbed, tight, and brought up to his lips.

“Don’t cheat,” he says, wrapping your fingers around the cap of a bottle.

“You never heard anyone call you that?” you murmur, opening it.

You smell spring flowers and delicate citrus before it’s taken away, set aside when you nibble and suck at his sensitive ear to make him twitch, hands drifting across his ticklish belly down to his hipbones. He reads your intent again, stopping whatever silly task he’s doing beside you to lift your wrists to his shoulders.

“The name is a little ironic, isn’t it?” you say, squeezing him experimentally with your thighs as you stroke his nape with your nails. You flex other muscles too–earning the grunt he makes as he feels you squeeze around his girth.

He angles your head, pressing something wet and soft to where your pulse flutters in your neck. You’re immediately permeated with a light, airy, sweetness, the different scents revealed like a melody that ends in that richer, warmer scent from earlier.

“Is that my perfume?” you ask.

“An anointment,” he says, blowing across your skin to dry it and sending a shiver down your spine to where your bodies are locked together, that fullness and muted pleasure of him radiating down to your toes.

“I do seem to have a demon inside of me,” you sigh into his neck as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Do they do that in exorcisms?”

“Blessings,” he corrects, adjusting with another grunt. “We’ll find out if it worked in about an hour.”

“An hour?” you grumble. “You think you can keep torturing me that long?”

“I think I gave you the key to your own cage,” he says, checking his watch. “About five minutes ago. Does it feel like longer?”

You mumble something into his rumpled collar, making him laugh beneath you. Even just that tiny movement has you involuntarily gripping him, abdomen clenched.

“What’s that?”

“I’llsayitifyoumakemecome,” you repeat, embarrassed enough to hide your face in the crook of his neck again.

“You think this is a negotiation, Y/N?” Doyoung’s hands are back on your breasts, thumbing the areola in slow circles that are very much a reminder of his touch earlier on your throbbing clit. You whimper, trying to stay still so he doesn’t figure out that if he continues to do that you might have a chance–

“You trying to make me come squeezing me like that?” he asks, breath ragged. “That seems like a quick way to end this.”

“You . . . you could just fuck me,” you wheeze, feeling the way he teases your pebbled, hard nipple with lighter brushes, his mouth quirked where it��s pressed to your forehead.

“What if I want to make love to you, instead?” he asks. He inhales sharply at your body’s response.

“Fuck, you liked me saying that, didn’t you?”

You nod, unable to speak, holding onto him in desperation as the combination of his words and soft strokes make you melt into the pleasure of every small motion of him inside you. You realize he’s unconsciously pushing into you, too, unable to keep his hips from pressing into yours.

Overstimulation is making you hyperaware of the scratch of his unzipped jeans against your burning thighs, the random brush of his open belt against your belly. Time seems to disappear as he holds you quietly, letting you soak up the fragrant, radiating warm reality of him.

“I can wait all night for it,” he threatens, even just his lower register making you quiver a little around him. “Count every time you twitch and moan on me until you break.”

You’d felt him flag a little while he worked but now he’s fuller inside you, stretching you wide as he twitches to life. It’s even hotter than all of this build-up, you think, knowing he can act a menace but that the idea of you surrendering to him is what’s really getting him off.

Of course, you think, mentally steeling yourself like you’re preparing for war. In a way this is something like it, up against as formidable a foe as he is.

“Doie,” you whisper, threading your hands in his hair as you nuzzle for his lips, kissing him softly and intimately, like it’s your first time. “When did you know?”

“What?” He goes a little rigid against you, unable to hide his rapid heartbeat with how close you’re pressed to him. You blink up at him, expectantly.

“When did you first know you loved me? Really?”

He smiles, shyly, but you see the hint of anxiety on his features beneath his arousal. There it is, you think, having to hide your own satisfaction.

“Is this a trick question?” he asks, warily, eyelashes half-lowered.

“Not if I know the answer,” you say, smoothing his kiss-swollen lips with a touch. “I don’t think it’s in that book, either.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued, a tentative rock of his hips against you making you dizzy. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, just as playful.

“I’ll tell you later,” you say. “After.”

He sighs explosively, nose wrinkling. “You don’t know.”

“Want to bet?” you ask. It’s always a little thrilling seeing Doyoung presented with an opportunity he can’t resist. He fumbles for the notebook beside you, almost slipping out of you when he has to reach even farther for a pen.

“Write it down,” he says, smug as a cat who’s caught something small and easily toyed with.

“Only if you do, too,” you say.

His answer is a pained sound of agreement, adjusting himself against the desk.

“No peeking,” you say, flipping to a page in the back.

“Wait,” he says, grabbing the book before the nib of the nice pen touches the creamy paper. “What are the terms?”

You ponder for a moment, feeling a grin slide onto your lips. “Doesn’t our perfume need a name? Whoever is right, gets to name it.”

You can practically taste his delight as he leans in to kiss you, forcing you to pull your page closer to you. You make him wait, filling the blank space as best you can with detail as he fidgets between your legs, sending small shocks of pleasure through you both.

“Thank you,” he says in earnest once you’ve handed him it open to a new leaf, his hand and the notebook shaking a little as he tries to write mid-air, finally resting it awkwardly atop your head in order to scrawl out his own answer.

“My eyes are closed, Kim Doyoung.”

“You’re a cheat,” he says, shushing you with an added thrust of his hips.

You settle back on your elbows, already enjoying your victory as you feel the tiny pressure of his handwriting, hear the scratches of his sketch. You're more emboldened than ever when the leather binding snaps shut.

“Now tell me,” you say, looking up at him coyly.

“Can’t I just show you–”

You snatch the book from him, turning to your entry. Then, to his horror, you rip your page free and fold it shut, tucking it into the pocket of his open shirt.

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “You had 24 hours, right? I’ll give you my answer tomorrow morning.”

Doyoung looks as if he’s tasted something sour. “You won’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell you that you won,” you say, looking down at his page. You trace the fresh ink with care, admiring his tight script and explanation. “February to April? How could I have guessed an entire season?”

“Did you at least guess the year?” he asks, looking a little better for your affirmation of his win.

You nod, finally feeling the discomfort of your position and resting your head against his warm chest. There’s nothing awkward about being wrapped around him like this, the late hour and strange, still space making it easier to forget the world outside.

“Hard to forget,” you say. “I thought for sure I’d never see you again after that winter holiday.”

Another break with Johnny, of course–but this one had been your choice. You’d finally felt the crushing weight of two years of contempt from the people around him, the Suh family matriarch at the center of it all, doing everything in her power to crush not only you but the people you loved.

And then, when you’d needed him the most, Kim Doyoung had walked away from you, too.

“I didn’t think I’d see you, either,” he sighs. “It was the first time in a long time you weren’t with us. With me. And it was my fault for pushing you away when you were just trying to–”

“It’s in the past now,” you cut him short with a finger pressed to his lips.

The memory is painful, still–and you don’t want to sully this moment with it. You appreciate that even in his roundabout admission there’s a clear understanding for all you’d been through. You’d hoped he remembered that time from the past, when you’d first peered between the cracks in his carefully-manufactured facade.

Now you could be sure of what it meant to him. You feel like your own walls are crumbling, the light shining through.

“So you chose the period of time when we didn’t speak to one another, at all?” you muse. “Not just one day?”

“You know what they say. Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he says. “You were on my mind every minute and every hour of those three and a half months.”

He pauses, sigh warm against your brow. “I couldn’t tell you when I knew, for sure. I certainly couldn’t admit it, then, even to myself. But sometime then, I realized I cared more about you than a friend.”

You’d never doubted he was capable of it, never doubted it might be true. But hearing him admit it, now you know why he wants to hear it from you, too.

“Say it,” you say.

He finally looks at you again, tired but alight with amusement.

“You first,” he says.

“Who knew three simple words would be so difficult for Saint Kim?” you tease him.

“Alright. Come here,” he motions, slipping out of you with a shared groan. He pulls you to a couch under the shuttered window, settling down and forcing you to straddle him. In this position he can’t stop you from immediately taking all of him, his eyelids fluttering when you bottom out.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmurs.

“You’re not going to last,” you laugh, delighted by the way his nose scrunches when you clench around him.

“Says the girl who’s sucking me in like you never want me to leave.” He grabs on to your hips to roll them against his own, fingers tightening when you wriggle against him. “You’re gonna say it first even if I have to fuck it out of you.”

“Whoever comes first, then?” you offer.

“I can live with that,” he sighs, head resting back on the couch.

You rock on your knees slowly, satisfaction warming you throughout as you force him all the way inside you. You let him hear how he makes you feel, pleading sounds and whispers every time he hits that place in your upper walls, curved inside of you perfectly. It doesn’t matter if you're in control you can’t help but hunt down that lovely rush of pleasure in your belly, twining your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself.

“Good girl,” Doyoung praises, watching you in awe through half-lidded eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I always wanted to know what it would look like when you lost yourself with me.”

His words make you shiver, brushing his lips until he holds you against his mouth to show you how he likes it, less exploratory and more confident. It’s maddening how good he is at this, making you feel every single sweep of his tongue across yours, hand on your neck keeping you from escaping.

“Don’t you want to–” you protest as he helps you to lay flat on your back across the length of the wide loveseat, settling between your thighs.

“Oh god, Doie,” you whimper when he takes over, finally, finally, beginning to fuck you. It’s just as slow but at least he penetrates you fully before pulling out almost all the way, shoulders quaking as he holds himself up.

“Promise me you'll let me dote on you for the rest of your life,” he says, not waiting for your response before driving into you again. His movements are barely controlled, grunts escaping the back of his throat when his hips snap into yours again.

“I promise,” you hold onto him, back arching off the cushion to meet him, blissed out in the relief of each, careful stroke against your fluttering walls. That crescendo is happening whether you want it to or not, every overworked knot of muscle threatening to snap loose.

“Promise me that no matter who you fuck you’ll always let me treat you right,” he says, voice breaking. “You’ll let me show you how I feel even when I can’t say it.”

“Yes, Doie. Yes.” You pull down on his shoulders, trying to move for you both, kissing his jaw and throat.

“Stop fighting me and take it,” he says, moving more easily with the thick coat of your cum, establishing a gentle rhythm.

His voice has always made it hard for you to pay attention to anything else but he abuses that power now, murmuring guidance into your neck that has you tightening around him as he fucks you deep and slow.

“That’s my girl,” he praises. “You’re taking me so well. Take all of me.”

You feel shivers up and down your body, nipples hardening tight as they brush against his chest, his hair tickling your forehead as he blindly kisses and licks at your mouth and chin.

You’d thought he’d be concentrating on something else in his head to keep from losing himself but instead it’s you who's floating, breath captured in your lungs when he adjusts on top of you to pin your hips down, pressing your leg wide to bury himself to the hilt.

“You feel so perfect. I could really do this all night, you know,” he smirks down at you from where he’s supported on his elbow. “Is that what you want?”

“No, fuck, please,” you whine. There’s no thoughts in your head besides just how much you want that ache inside of your cunt to melt into real pleasure.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, feeling how you begin to pulse around him as he swirls his hips up into that most sensitive part of you, his flat belly grinding into your clit. You gasp, leg locking around his, helping him work you apart.

“No no no,” you beg, face hot. “Just . . . just kiss me through it, please.”

Doyoung’s smile grows wider. “Say what you already told me.”

You twist your head against the cushion, earning his hand on your jaw as he makes you look at him while you break, kissing you between panting breaths. His confidence is written in the cocksure grin remaining on his mouth, more cruel when he bites at your bottom lip, hard, before licking the pain away.

“Say it,” he breathes, slowing down on purpose.

“I . . . ah,” you cry out, “I love . . . please don’t stop.”

“What’s that?” he asks, pace punishingly slow. Your legs lose feeling, vibrations starting in the back of your thighs and tremoring down to your feet.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you repeat, nearly tipping off the edge, “I’m coming, I’m finally–”

He slows down right as you hit that crest, making you cry out in frustration.

“Doie, I’ll kill you–”

“Say it,” he says into your lips, pulling out–too far–

“Iloveyou,” you exhale, seizing around him in time to your wildly beating heart.

“Louder.” He slams into you again, merciless.

“I love you, you stupid bastard,” you say, hanging on to his shoulders. “I love you!”

“Good enough,” he says, drilling into you until he can feel you break, orgasm sustained through the painful pressure of him losing himself in your throbbing heat, finding your mouth again, finally, to silence the repeated mantra on your tongue.

You kiss him fiercely, unloading everything words aren’t enough for, legs tied around his waist to keep him locked inside you until he’s fighting back, fucking you so hard the sound of it fills the quiet room.

“I love you,” you repeat a final time for him, just to watch the way it makes him break, jaw slackening when he loses control, finally.

He stutters into his own orgasm, teeth scraping against your locked lips, forehead pressed into yours as he empties inside you for what feels like forever, finally collapsing on top of you with a whimper when his arms give out and he’s as limp as his cock inside you.

You scrape your nails across his scalp, soothing him. You don’t mind his weight, or the way you’re still pressed together with sweat and your combined spend.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” he rasps, eyes dazed as he looks up at you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head tightly. “Not for me, at least.”

“You’re not mad?”

You know he means his inability to say the magic words but you crack a smile, just as pleased with yourself.

“About the bet?” you ask. “No.”

Oh, it’s delicious seeing realization dawn on his face, little glimmers of surprise and horror bubbling up from his afterglow.

“Fuck,” he says. You’re grateful he doesn’t deny it, rolling to the side in defeat.

“Who told you? ‘Woo?”

You laugh softly, rolling over to pin him down with your leg, trapping him against the back of the couch.

“You did, right now,” you say, relishing having him where you want him. “I had a hunch. And I know you, you’d never beg for someone to say something during sex–”

“I didn’t beg,” he corrects, grimacing.

“What was it? The first one to get me to say it? Bonus points if it’s on your cock?”

“Ah, well,” he says, perking up despite the fist pressed to his forehead in embarrassment. “Then you don’t know.”

“I’ll find out soon enough, Jaehyun wouldn’t–”

“You’re really not mad?” he asks, painfully reticent as you pull his hand away from his face and twine your fingers together.

“Not if it means I can use it as leverage,” you say, kissing his knuckles.

That doesn’t seem to surprise him, at all.

“Good girl,” he says. “What do you want?”

A few years ago, give or take

You’re a little too happy, an awful fact considering how much he'd missed seeing you this way.

Lately you’ve been sleepwalking through your life, all those tiny fractures and bruises finally having the time to mend–but healing is a painful process in itself. Doyoung had returned from his family’s formal Chuseok gathering in Singapore, eager to check in on you after receiving sparing responses from you via text.

You didn’t have a friend he could check in with instead any longer–not after that one girl had fled the country, the other ghosting you after their father was mysteriously laid off from a company he well knew did business with Suh International.

He’s worried about you long before that, terrified that one last straw would break you even if by all indications you were strong enough to take it. After you’d had Johnny arrested and solicited a no-contact order you’d cut your ex off completely, moving to a tiny apartment far from where you’d grown up, changing your number.

Only Jungwoo knew about it, and it was he who’d reluctantly offered your whereabouts to him after a few glasses of whiskey in their usual club.

“She asked me to keep her info on lockdown. Got that hacker kid, what’s his name–Haechan? Wiped her socials off the map, so he can’t find her. He did good but you know Suh.”

Doyoung nods. They hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, probably because the idiot was combing through every civic office and apartment building in the city. Hell, he’d probably driven around until he found her by sight alone, knowing that animal wouldn’t rest until he knew her whereabouts, as stubborn about chasing her down as he was about refusing the F4’s help.

“His mother called me to ask if the place he bought in cash was for her,” Doyoung says, knocking back his drink as he receives a text, heart sinking that it's not you. “Did you help him buy it for her?”

Jungwoo sighs. “No. I just got her rent halved with some coercion, you know? But then he goes and buys a unit in the same building with whatever stash he thought the Old Tiger didn’t know about.”

The Devil Kim leans back, long legs akimbo as he gestures towards the server for a refill. “He’s waiting for her to go back to Chicago before he moves in. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I did not,” Doyoung affirms, turning away from the group of women at the bar sending looks towards their private table. “Let’s plan for when Madam Suh leaves. I can have her pull him into the London offices, considering he’s failing his courses.”

“Stone cold,” Jungwoo says, smirking. “Glad I’m not on your shit list.”

“Just don’t fuck with her,” Doyoung says. “Or fuck her.”

Jungwoo laughs into his glass. “Even I’m not that stupid.”

He’d thought he wasn’t, either.

Not until you’d called a few days later, your speech a little slurred. He couldn’t have told you if what he was doing was important even if he was in a meeting, showing up to find you picking at a bowl of bar snacks in what he thought might be one of the nicer bars in your shitty part of town. Not as shitty as your old neighborhood, but it wasn’t a competition.

“Saint Kim,” you’d heralded him, raising an empty glass still smelling of watermelon and hibiscus.

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, here,” he’d said.

You were dressed in one of your few nice outfits, a little on the revealing side for his tastes, but those had been Johnny’s you’d conformed to–animal print and thin straps, tastefully tasteless.

“I wasn’t,” you say, hiccuping. “Alone.”

For the first time in a long time fear spikes his blood pressure into overgear. Were you drugged? Was he going to have to fend off another predator who'd found you vulnerable?

You deserved the chance to move on but there was a real threat in what would happen to anyone who approached you without their permission. Johnny’s, yes, always, but the F4 had also agreed to look out for you well before your last incident at a club.

“Who?”

“She left,” you say. He feels instant relief, reaching out to adjust the thin coverup slipping off your bare shoulder.

“You make a new friend?”

You shake your head. “She’s nice. Met her in one of the ikebana classes work is paying for. Thought we were hitting it off but I must have said something dumb because she ran out of here, fast.”

You look up at him cautiously, too inebriated to realize he can recognize a set-up before it begins.

“You didn’t just talk about your ex, did you?” he asks, settling beside you at the bar. He orders something less ridiculous than whatever you'd been drinking, while you scroll through an Instagram feed, finger trembling over the screen.

You look up at him, color-stained lips curving in an easy smile. “You want to see what we’re working on?”

Doyoung finds himself looking through a grid that is immediately obvious is not yours. His mouth goes dry, seeing rows of beautifully-staged floral centerpieces, the backgrounds as familiar as the back of his hand. You don’t seem to notice, going to the user’s story and tapping in vain to find the picture she’d posted.

“She deleted it already. Huh. Well, she texted me the picture–”

“Stop.” Doyoung places his hand over yours, his palm damp from the immediate flood of adrenaline.

“So you do know Mona,” you say. You look up at him, expectantly, eyes glassy with the brand of hopefulness and naked curiosity he’s seen you charm everyone else around you with before.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

Doyoung pulls cash from his pocket, not caring how much he puts down except that he’s sure it’s enough to cover the amount he’d like to drown himself in right now. Enough to go blind and burn out the phantom of that face he’d put behind him years ago.

“Put your coat on,” he says. “I’m driving you home.”

“But I’m not–”

“Now,” Doyoung says, grabbing your wrist. He’s barely ever touched you in the years that you’ve been friends, and it sickens him when he feels you freeze in fear and confusion, that trauma response buried so deeply it's in your bones.

He wants to be kind, he wants to be patient with you. He just doesn’t have it in him to be anything to you right now.

“What’s wrong, Do–?”

“We’re leaving,” he says, dragging you out into the bitter cold evening, the streets slick with sleet, your heels catching on the pavement as you stumble in his wake.

“Stop,” you yell at his back, trying to yank your arm free from where he’s bruising your skin with whitened knuckles. “You’re hurting me–”

“You’ll live,” he says, pulling you to where he’s parked his car, the engine roaring to life the moment you manage to close your door. He can barely look at you, realizing too late that your crestfallen expression is making him more upset than the lightning strike of seeing her name again.

“You didn’t ask my address,” you say, quietly, met with his silence as he drives much more dangerously than the weather permits. He's forced to speak with you once he's slammed the brakes at an intersection, red light shading you through the windshield.

“Tell me one thing,” he says. “Did you try to set us up by having me come there?”

You’re petulantly silent now, an answer in itself.

“Answer me,” he orders, hands gripping the wheel.

“I thought you’d want to–”

“Do you think we have the kind of relationship where you can just do whatever you want and get away with it?” Doyoung’s voice is calm but he sees you flinch at his words and tone, your shoulders moving under your jacket as you begin to quietly cry.

It drives him deeper into anger, hitting the gas with a roar of the engine the instant the light turns green.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself for this one, Y/N,” he says, already regretting every word tumbling out of his mouth. “You fucked up.”

“I just thought you could both have some closure after that–”

The car jerks as he brakes in the side lane of the service road, cars roaring past them honking their horns. Your sobs are barely audible over the idling engine and the blink of the hazards he turns on while he tries to find calm, your face turned away from him.

“You thought that interfering in other people’s personal lives would make you feel better,” he says. “No wonder you don’t have any real friends.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see your full body shakes still, can feel as that armor encasement you’d put together piece-by-piece over years of dealing with loveless reality falls back into place. And, years later–no, even hours later–he’ll remember how at the time he was stupid enough to think it was the right thing to say.

You needed a reality check, he’d thought. A reminder that all the wishes and hopes in the world wouldn’t change the bleak architecture of it, uncaring by design and much easier to navigate without them. That moving on was the only path to this idiot’s dream of closure, something you knew nothing about for how often you’d let them pull you back into their world, blinded by sunk-cost and loneliness.

All the things he wished he believed for himself, but without the benefit of your optimism.

“Fuck you, Kim Doyoung,” you say, opening the car door and slamming it shut without so much as a glance behind you. He’d waited to make sure you reached the nearest bus stop before driving off, calling Jungwoo to let him know you were here–crying in the cold.

He'd seen you in passing.

His best friend knew a lie when he’d heard it, most especially from him.

He wouldn't hear from you again until spring.

Kim Doyoung can’t sleep.

He’s not allowed to.

He can’t move either, arm going numb beneath your curled body, your breathing finally easing for the dozenth time since his trial began. You have horrible sleep habits–kicking off the covers, stealing the pillows–but tonight you’ve passed out with that same bone-deep tiredness he’d felt earlier, face beatific in the slivers of light piercing through the slatted shades.

It’s close to dawn, he thinks, the cacophony of insects and birds outside transitioning from a quiet chorus to a full orchestral suite. Soon it will be too loud to sleep deeply.

“Y/N?” he whispers, tentatively, not daring to move.

You don’t respond, relief rushing through him. It’s not that he’s desperate to join you in slumber but that he’s waited for you to finally surrender to REM. He needed you down.

And you needed it, too.

He’d negotiated with Jaehyun when you’d been in the shower, earlier, sacrificing precious moments of shared time exploring your skin and the new taste of you under the water to supplicate himself to his best friend and worst enemy in this moment.

“It’s a charter,” Jaehyun said, blinking sleep from his eyes but awake enough to be angry. “You’re not finding another one short term.”

“I emailed you the tickets. Cattle car but first class, at least,” he says. “Jungwoo agreed to give you his day, he doesn’t want to take her out until after dark, anyway. You can sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Jaehyun had slammed the door shut in his face, but he hadn’t missed the budding smile on his friend’s face. At least one person was rooting for him.

That’s how he’d earned another morning with you. As always, making up for lost time.

You’re half out of the covers, one leg sprawled over the duvet as you sleep. You’d put on one of his softer button-downs, inhaling the smell of it after he tried to steal it back.

“Please let me wear you,” you said. “I want to dream about you.”

Being around you like this is more comfortable than he imagined, as if you’re being slotted into a position he didn’t even know there was an existing space for. He’s woken up to women in his bed but you’re the first who’s ever asked him for this, particular experience.

“I used to have this fantasy, you know, whenever we crashed at your apartment.” He’d watched you go sheepish recalling, dates omitted for a reason. “Sometimes I’d lie there and touch myself thinking about you crawling into that guest bed–maybe a little drunk or you’d forget which room. Or maybe, you just wanted me to think that. I’d be awake but I’d pretend to be asleep while you . . . used me.”

He experiments by tracing his fingertips up your bare leg, the peek of your lace underwear beneath the hem of his shirt maddening for how it curves into the crest of your ass, presented for him. A treat dangled before him, the command to partake only that you wanted him to make it slow–you wanted to wake to it.

He sucks a breath in, erection in his sweatpants hard against the band already from just watching his sleeping beauty. He finds every mark on your leg, every fine hair, thanking Heaven above you aren’t overly sensitive or ticklish like he is when his hand slips beneath his shirt to your belly.

He slots himself against you, carefully, as if adjusting in his sleep. He has to wait for your breathing to even out again, slipping his free hand up to your breasts.

“Used you? Did you not get off in this scenario?”

“I mean, yes. But it’s mostly about you. You wouldn’t say anything at all, you’d just fuck me full of your cum and then you’d leave me leaking it on your sheets and go back to your room. Or sometimes I’d crawl in your bed, if you were alone, and you’d cover my mouth so the others couldn’t hear it. And the next day it would be like nothing happened, you wouldn’t even bother to ask how I’d slept.”

He loved how much of a slut you were, when you felt comfortable enough to share that side with someone. Johnny had certainly never appreciated the subtleties of your nature–too blinded by adoration to even consider degrading you on purpose.

No, Doyoung had known for awhile you pushed the boundaries with him to see if he’d break.

Your nipples harden even though he’s barely handling them, discovering what shape your breasts make in repose as he tries desperately not to rut into the swell of your ass. Warming himself in you earlier had been one of the hardest challenges he’d faced but it had been worth it to learn you inside and out, to know how to make you grip his cock with that delicious little cunt of yours with just a kiss or a word that pleased you.

You don’t wake but he knows he’s gotten through to that little lizard brain of yours when your legs rub together unconsciously, pushing back into him so his cock is settled between your buttocks. The friction from the lace is like the proverbial pea under a mattress–rubbing against his cock through the layers, catching on the veins and scraping the underside of his cockhead.

It’s already a nice ache, one he ignores as he adjusts to better continue plucking and teasing at your body beneath your shirt, until you’re used to his touch enough to truly fall back under, once more.

You're so vulnerable, completely at his mercy as he brings his hand down to test the patch of moisture growing in the fabric, that lace sticky with your dreams of him.

Use you, he thinks. You have no idea what he wants.

Doyoung can play with the fantasy of you crawling into your boyfriend’s best friend’s bed while he’s passed out in the other room, determined to be punished for waking a sleeping monster . . . but it’s not what he's fantasizing about now.

He takes time in stroking you, a single finger digging in between your lips through the fabric, listening intently for your breathing to change. You sigh, one of those full exhales one does in their deep sleep, but you arc back a little, into his touch, leg falling forward crooked so you’re a little more spread.

Doyoung wishes he could move down there and use his nose to push you apart instead of his hand but that’s not your fantasy–not this time. You didn’t want him to spoil you anymore, completely underestimating his love for it. True, he didn’t often eat other girls out, too personal or just too much of a chore to figure out what they liked, but you weren’t ever going to be with him and not come from that first.

Just the thought of tying you up so he can spend hours fucking you on his tongue is making his cock pulse, too hard to be ignored. He quietly pulls down the drawstring of his sleepwear, freeing himself so he can replace his finger with the much wider tip of his cock, biting back a groan as he rubs into that damp, soft lace he’d known would suit you the moment he’d touched it in the display box brought to his private buying room.

You'd never know he’d already fucked himself with it before ever giving it to you, that errant fantasy of touching you finally realized as you whimper a little in your sleep at the soft push of him between your legs. He finds where your clit is getting just as swollen as the rest of you, bouncing against warmth and the promise of unspooling that need with his help, again.

Just his precious little cocksleeve, spoiled and worshiped, showing your gratitude by begging for it even when you’re unconscious. He tests the waters of the scenario by slowly pulling the seat of your underwear to the side, easing in between the fabric and your folds.

You twitch against him, sheets rustling. He holds still, cock jumping and balls tightening with a little anxiety.

He only has this one chance.

Outside in the dark and quiet of the house sleeps the man everyone knows you’re really with, the one who doesn’t have to fight for an I love you to pass your lips. You’d never understood what it felt like watching you climb into Jaehyun’s lap whenever the whim took you, pretending you didn’t know what it did to him or the other two of them watching you.

Your breathing is shallow and your hand flexes a bit, against the pillow, but that’s it. Within a minute he’s grown more confident that you’re still asleep.

He reaches over you, pressing the pads of two fingers against the front of your underwear while he slips a little deeper between your legs, eyes almost rolling back in his head at the contrast between the satiny slide of you and the rougher cling of your panties. It’s a relief as he loses himself to it, rutting from the back while he applies constant pressure to your bud.

“Mmm.” You make a soft noise, but he doesn’t pull free, choosing instead to keep a hypnotizingly steady pace fucking against you. Your hips twitch against him, seeking out more contact, but he doesn’t rush–pressing his head against the back of yours and melding with you in the softness of the pillows and sheets.

You’re so wet you’re soaking his pants, everything he collects tickling down to his balls pressed into your ass. He’s going to stuff your mouth with his fingers, when you finally open it, make you gag on them while he fills you full from behind.

You moan now, voice syrupy with sleep. He doesn’t care if you’re still down, not with you gently pushing back, trying to get release.

Not yet, you little harlot, he thinks, hips going still again. He’s burning at the wait, your cunt continuing to glide against him as you act out whatever is going on in your dreams, the movement making him insane for how closely it adheres to his desire to have taken you back when you were innocent, his little virgin weed learning what her body wanted, seeking it out in his bed.

“Treat me like one of the girls you don’t really like. Use me.”

Such an unending fantasy of yours that he never wanted you, almost sweet for how dumb you are–or just willfully ignorant. He’s always liked the second one better–your little game played out that you were one of them. Dressed in that school uniform, kicking your skinned knees, sucking on a piece of candy while four college-age idiots hid their bathing-suited boners under their robes, fighting or fucking around in front of you so you could keep up that precious little illusion of immunity.

“Johnny,” you murmur in your sleep.

It should make his blood run cold but as with all twisted-up and tangled desires it only makes him feel ignited, pulse pounding in his head. You’re still asleep and thinking of someone else, someone not even in this house, the guilt of it passing over him faster than a cloud on a breezy day.

He rocks back into you, this time pulling out enough that he can find your soft hole, already tight again–the only part of your body not relaxed as he forces his way past the flutter of your opening, cockhead sensitive enough to sense the more textured g-spot where he knows you’ll come fast and easy if he fucks into it.

“Shh,” he says, finally trailing his mouth against your jaw, pushing into you softly. “Go back to sleep, baby.”

“Mmhmm,” you reply, nuzzling into the pillow, curling into him. He pushes a knee between your legs, folding you into the bed beneath him as he begins to fuck you, finally taking you for himself and himself alone.

You’re so warm inside, body adjusting to take him easily for how boneless you are, kitten-like mewls muffled by the pillow. It turns him on hearing the edge of pain there, the way you struggle when he pulls your underwear up so tight it sticks between your folds, clit rubbing against it the way he’d stroked himself to completion with it tied tight around his cock.

“Stay quiet or I’ll stuff your mouth full instead,” he whispers against your shoulder, feeling as always a little stupid but losing that internal cringe when you choke on a moan.

“Is that what my little slut was dreaming about? Gagging to tears on another man’s cock?”

He feels you tense at a bit at the suggestion, letting him use you in spite of the rougher handling.

“That’s right. You said another man’s name in your sleep. Do you think that's acceptable?”

You shake your head, whimpering.

“Such a whore you can't keep track of who's dick is inside of you. Tell me, who's fucking you right now?”

“Doie,” you say, music to his ears. He'd always hated the nickname until you started using it. You were the only one–you were always the only one who made his chest burn with unsated desire when you said his name.

“Who owns this tight little pussy?”

“You do,” you gasp out.

“Are you going to forget me? Maybe I need to fuck you so hard you only think of me when you spread your legs for another man.”

Doyoung feels electric at how easily you begin to crumble with just a few words, squeezing his dick so tight when he says something you like, even more when he makes it hurt.

“Sleepy baby going to let me stuff every one of your holes until I’ve had enough? Use you like my own little doll?”

You nod, no longer capable of speaking except in a plaintive moan when he leaves you to shuck off his pants and pull down your ruined panties, pillow pulled beneath your belly to force your ass up. In this position he can drill into you deeper, burying you into the mattress with each thrust.

“That’s what you get for crawling in here,” he says, fingers digging bruises into your hips to hold you down. “Keep your mouth shut and take it.”

The pleading, almost scared noises you're making have him hard and pulsing, two steps away from coming himself but in no hurry to. He pulls your hair to bring your head back, shoving his fingers in your mouth.

“You like that?” Your cunt can't hide it, sucking him in. “Get them wet for me.”

You drool over his knuckles, gagging as he fucks your mouth with them in an awkward rhythm to his merciless rutting. He spits into his hand when he's satisfied, fingers swirling around the tight rim of your ass so quickly it makes you buck.

“Don't scream,” he murmurs, giving you two fingers at once. You make a noise through the pillow you're biting, gripping him tight. He's gentler with this, slowing, letting you adjust to take him.

“This is my favorite, right here,” he groans. “Feeling my cock inside you with my fingers. I'd fuck this tight little ass again but I want to feel you come like this.”

He begins to stroke you harder, deeper, wet and sticky when his balls slap against your abused cunt. He keeps his fingers buried in you, scissoring you open as you take it.

“Come for me, Y/N, grip me good so I can fill that pretty mouth of yours.”

It's a beautiful feeling when you begin to throb, contractions in your ring of muscle letting him know when you hit your peak. He fights the tingling in his balls, the urge to come with you painful for how long he's been holding it back.

He talks you through it, instead.

“Such a good little hole,” he says. “You're coming so hard, baby, can feel it so well.”

You moan, loud, as you break, loosening almost immediately, flooding him with sweet, hot warmth. He makes sure the last of those tics is gone before pulling out.

“Roll over,” he says, straddling you with a hand on the headboard, delighted by the sight of your flushed face and starry eyes. You already know what to do, tongue lolling and uvula exposed as he guides himself into your mouth, soft tongue swirling around his tip.

God help him he's been thinking about this since yesterday, pushing deep enough to gag but not choke, fucking your mouth and the hot tightness of your throat when he hits it. It’s the sight more than anything that drives him to spill hot white ropes of cum into your mouth, pulling out to milk the last few splashes on your parted lips and delighting at the sight of you licking them with your spend-covered tongue.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, dropping down and kissing you, finally, tongues stroking each other until you finally pull free to breathe, blinking up sleepily at him.

“You do taste different,” you tease.

“I taste like you,” he says, pressing soft kisses all over your face. “My sweet, sweet girl.”

“Did you like that?” you murmur.

“I loved–” he pauses, watching the smile spread on your wet lips.

“I love you, you know,” he finishes. You reach around his neck, comforting him out of instinct, but he doesn’t need it.

“I love you,” he repeats, testing the words on his tongue now that they've flown out so easily, the tightness in his chest easing as you rise up to kiss him.

“It's beautiful to hear you say it,” you say. “But you're right, I know.”

“I think I even know the exact time and date,” you say, reaching between you into the pocket of your shirt to pull out that torn and folded art paper scrawled with your words and an amateurish sketch.

Tomorrow morning . . .

[Unknown number] [Tomorrow morning April 13th dawn is at 6:17] [I have something to show you. Meet me on the roof of the East Wind Hotel]

Doyoung looks at the text message again, hand hanging over the railing of a dance floor, conversation with the woman by his side forgotten. With the blur of a late night and a trip to a different hotel room, with a different woman, he'd almost missed it.

Probably one of the innumerable flings he's had, Jungwoo recruiting him to get every last lick of enjoyment out of Seoul before he enlisted. His friend snatches the phone from his hand.

“No business,” Jungwoo slurs, eyes bloodshot as he focuses on the text. “I thought you weren't working hospitality anymore.”

“It's not . . .” There's something nagging at him, like a bird pecking at his skull in time to the drone of the EM, the buzz of conversation. A sense of deja vu so strong he's forced to cycle on it.

“Pfft. I know you don't bring girls back to your kingdom,” Jungwoo says. “Stop working and party.”

Doyoung doesn't know why he feels compelled to see the cryptic message through, doesn't know why he races across town at 5 am, reeking of whiskey and another woman’s perfume, doing his best to sober up as the designated driver talks about the change in weather, the cherry blossoms in full bloom outside the window.

The morning commute is already surging and the destination central to the city so by the time he makes it he's out of breath from running two blocks away from a jam, head pounding.

“ . . . restricted for non-guests,” someone is saying, voice recognizable as an intern he knows from his leadership program, still stuck on night front desk duty.

“I just need a few minutes, please. I need to take a picture–” He'd recognize that voice in a hundred years if he hadn't heard it, not just a hundred days.

“What's going on here?”

You freeze, shoulders stiffening as you turn to face him. Not much has changed–a new haircut, same ratty old sneakers–but you look different. No longer a ghost, but just as untouchable for the skittish way you hold when he approaches, only the barest relief on your beautiful features.

You don't smile, don't even say hello.

You're scared of him, again, just that thought making him spiral.

“You came,” you say, exhaling. “We need to hurry. We need to get to the roof.”

Doyoung turns to the staff. “Is the roof access still shut down?”

“Stair access only, sir.”

Your eyes go wide at the interchange, something like embarrassment passing over your features as you begin to laugh.

“Of course this is your hotel,” you state, smacking yourself on the forehead. “Of course, why didn't I think to check that. God, I'm an idiot.”

“We didn’t change the name when we acquired the chain so it would be unlikely for you to have guessed that,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“There's no time and it's easier just to show you. We need to get to the roof, now,” you say, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it towards the stairs.

“Y/N,” he says, holding you fixed and pointing at the elevator. “We can take it up as far as we need to.”

You're still laughing maniacally twenty floors up. “I was going to cry if I had to go up another flight of stairs.”

“Are you really taking pictures?” He asks, gesturing at your camera.

“No, but I started carrying it the first time someone called the police on me thinking I was going to jump,” you giggle, wiping away tears. He feels delirious from lack of sleep, so maybe you are, too, but it doesn't seem to be the case as you spring out the doors, forcing him to guide you when you're lost in the executive suite hallways.

“I managed to sneak in last time, otherwise I wouldn't have gotten this far. I'm glad you came just in time, I think they were going to kick me out.”

He's surprised at how easily things have snapped back into place between you, no mention of anything that's happened as you race up the stairwell to the roof access.

“Will you tell me–”

“Oh thank god,” you say once your through the heavy doors and collapsed on the green helipad, growing impatient when he props the door open out of habit. He's been up here many times, nothing remarkable about the space besides the legacy sign on top, view crowded by other buildings at varying levels.

“Stand here,” you say, pushing him into place, turning him by the arms. “Do you see it?”

“I don't even know what I'm looking for,” he says, beginning to grow annoyed.

“Look over there, at the People's Bank. Relax your eyes, it will only take a minute.”

He feels increasingly foolish but he does what you ask, cool morning breeze clearing his muddled head. The sky is washed in a pink and blue haze, the sun cresting the more mountainous region of the city behind you to bathe the city in solid gold.

“There,” you breathe, letting out a little sigh.

“What?” All he can see is a few birds passing over the vista of crowded advertisements and neon.

“Do you see the light?” you ask.

“There's tons of lights–” he begins, cut short by the blinding catch of the sun's reflection on one of the characters, then another. He spells it out slowly, guided by your hand holding his to each one.

The bank: Sa.

The next building over, also burning brighter with the touch of the sun: Rang.

Then an advertisement that has been up long enough most of the original message is lost. Hae.

“How did you find this?” he asks, knowing it would be impossible for him to have ever seen this without knowing the trick of the light.

“I didn't find it. Well I did–I had to search some buildings for it.”

Later he'll find out you climbed close to fifty flights of stairs in the last two months, had spent every waking moment not working or in school breaking into buildings before sunrise to find that exact spot, forever amused at the thought you hadn’t checked his family's flagship hotel first.

“You don't remember getting the same message from someone else?” you ask. “I was worried you wouldn't come, again.”

Again. Something tugs the memory up from the oubliette he'd locked it into, Mona teasing him about sleeping in and missing their appointment.

Mona.

His stomach falls, checking back behind him at the door as if that particular ghost will return to haunt him.

“She's not here. I wasn't trying to set you up,” you say, recognizing the dismay he can't hide. “Honestly. And I know whatever closure you find is yours and yours alone. You were right about that, too, I'm sorry.”

You twist your hands in front of you, suddenly overwhelmed with anxiety. “I did this for me. Because I wanted to know what she tried to tell you, even if she couldn't say it aloud.”

You don't look at him, can't in order to continue. Doyoung feels like a live wire, exposed, two months of painful loneliness and a lifetime's worth of avoidance of this fact all surging through him in this moment.

As much as he would prefer to leave he's not going to run like he did back then, when he'd ignored the hard parts to pretend like a friendship wasn't something more. Not with the stakes of losing this one.

“You once told me you were just friends, even if you couldn't be one anymore for her after you realized you loved her. How it broke you to be with someone you couldn't be with, who wanted something different.”

“Now you know. She didn't want to stay one, either,” you say. You look up at him nervously, regaining your confidence.

“I just wanted you to know that you were loved, Kim Doyoung. You still are.”

You turn away towards the door, pretending not to have seen the tears dripping down his face under his glasses. He ignores them, too, not knowing what to say or do to make sure you never leave him again.

The spot never mattered to him, the word and it's confession forgotten in time. What changed that day was having you in front of him after so long, the way you were a reflection of him so many years ago, fighting to be by the side of someone who didn't know how to love you back, the right way.

He'd promised himself than that even if he couldn't say it, he'd show you.

“Thank you for coming. I'm sorry for interfering with your life, but that’s what friends do.”

You'd almost made it to the stairs when he'd wrapped around you from behind, the first ever time he'd held you in an embrace, unsurprised to find you shaking like a leaf as he rested a wet cheek against your hair.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “Thank you.”

You relax a little, squeezing his hand. In that small gesture everything is reset, everything is okay again. They won't talk about this for the next few years, even when Jungwoo asks how you'd come back into their lives so suddenly and without any indication that things had changed.

But they had. Deeply.

“You can make it up to me by buying me breakfast,” you say, smiling up at him, wiping his cheek with your sleeve. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

“Did I win?” you ask.

Doyoung can only laugh, giddy, as you burrow into his side to smother him in kisses and teasing. You were put on this earth to challenge him, after all–always right there to match him in stubbornness and competition.

He presses his nose to your neck, inhaling the remnants of the scent you'd made together, one bottle for each, though you didn't have to know his formula was just a bit different.

“‘Tomorrow Morning’ has a nice ring to it, I suppose. It lingers well.”

“It was my answer, actually. I needed to see if I could break Saint Kim's vow of romantic abstinence before I made up my mind,” you say, smug as you move to get up. “Glad you were able to find out before your time was–”

You shriek as he pulls you down again, pinning you to the bed.

“I still have a few hours,” he says, voice dangerous. “I'd like to hear you say it again.”

#kim doyoung x reader #kim doyoung fic #kim doyoung smut #nct smut #doyoung x reader #doyoung smut #doyoung fic #nct x reader #nct fic #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct djj fic #nct dojaejung fic #nct djj smut #nct dojaejung smut #nct f4 au

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jellyjays · 1 year

Text

come away, oh ghostly child... (pt 4)

(PT 3 <-) (-> AO3)

Tim strolled down the street towards Dick's apartment. The coffee in his hand was already almost gone, and he was feeling like a sack of shit. He felt like Tom in the one episode of Tom and Jerry where the cat tried and failed at several methods of keeping his eyes open.

He needed Dick to look over his reports for WE, he wasn't entirely confident that he hadn't missed anything.

Pulling out his phone with the hand not clutching coffee like a lifeline, he dialed Dick's home phone for the apartment Babs had said he was staying in while he visited Gotham. After a few rings, Dick picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Dick, it's Tim. I'm headed over to your place, I need to run some WE stuff by you."

"Ooh- this might not be the best time, Tim. I've got a kid with me right now, and he's got a lot of energy."

"I can pick up some stuff for the kid to entertain him for a bit if that helps? I really need your help, nobody else is free right now."

Dick sighs on the other end of the line.

"Alright, that works. Could you pick up some groceries while you're at it? I used up the last of my non-cereal food feeding him this morning. Just the basics- eggs, milk, bread, fruit, etcetera. I'll pay you back."

"Yeah, I can do that. I'll call when I'm done and on my way to yours."

"Thanks a million, Tim. I'll see you later."

With that, there's a click as the line is cut. Tim sighs.

Tim stares at the milk cooler in the grocery store. Which kind of milk is best again?

A text conversation with Alfred tells him whole milk is the correct option, so he grabs a gallon.

They're set in the cart next to the other groceries- honey wheat bread, a carton of eggs, and containers of basic fruit. A collection of toys sit in the cart as well- an inflated ball, two dolls- a barbie and a Batman toy- with their accessories, three different stuffed animals, and a book (he has no idea what the kid would like, so he's playing it safe).

He moves out of the milk aisle and towards the checkout. Along the way, he grabs some snacks- fruit snacks, animal crackers, and crackers.

When he reaches the checkout, he pays with Bruce's card- no need to infringe on Dick's savings by making him pay Tim back.

(Tim doesn't need to mention that Bruce had been an asshole recently and Tim doesn't really feel that amenable to being kind to the man.)

He struggles to carry all the bags on his own but manages eventually- most of the bags hang from Tim's elbows.

As he walks back towards Dick's apartment, he pulls his phone out to call Dick again. It takes longer for Dick to answer this time, but he does.

"Tim?"

"Yup, I'm on my way. Just letting you know."

"Sweet. Thanks. Bye!"

And then the line cuts again.

That was hasty.

Tim knocks on Dick's apartment door with one grocery-laden arm.

"Come in," comes Dick's muffled answer, accompanied by mad giggling. Tim opens the door to find Dick lying face down on the ground. A black-haired, blue-eyed child giggles as he sits on Dick's back triumphantly.

"Apologies, I would greet you properly, but alas, I've been defeated."

"I see that," Tim says, closing the door behind him and moving across the apartment to set the groceries on the kitchen table. The child giggles madly.

"I gotchu! I gotchu!"

"Yes," Dick says, moving his face off from the ground to lay on his cheek, "But can I have up now? I admitted my defeat, I am an honorable loser."

"Okays, you can have up. Since you're nice about it."

The child slips off Dick's back, and Dick rolls over to his back before sitting up.

"Thank you, Danny. I see you're an honorable warrior."

Danny giggles some more. He seems to be a very happy child.

"Hey, Danny, I'm Tim," Tim greets. "I brought some gifts for you."

Danny runs away from Dick and towards Tim, throwing his little arms around Tim's legs.

"What!? Gifts!?"

Tim laughs and reaches down to ruffle Danny's hair.

"Yeah, buddy. Do you wanna see?"

"Yes!!" Danny practically shrieks, jumping up and down, still clinging to Tim's pants with his little hands. Tim reaches into the bag that the cashier had put the toys in and pulls out the two dolls. Danny does shriek when he sees them, grabbing them out of Tim's hands and moving back so he can spin and jump up and down, shrieking all the way, grin wide on his face.

"I always wanteted one of these!! A doll, a doll!" Danny yells, tearing up. Tim hopes they're happy tears.

"You like 'em?"

"Yesyesyesyesyesyes!!"

Tim laughs and reaches down to ruffle Danny's hair again.

"Do you think I could have a little grown-up talk with Dick while you play with your new dolls? Does that sound fair?"

Danny nods frantically and scrambles away to the living room with his new toys. He gets behind Dick and pushes him towards the kitchen where Tim is.

"Go, go, go!"

Dick laughs and acts like Danny can push him, shuffling where Danny pushes him. When Dick is near Tim, Danny runs away to the living room, Barbie and Batman figure in hand.

Tim turns to Dick.

"So, WE figures- Ready to talk finance?"

tags: @basilf1res @ollietheotaku @angelheartgamer @justgray15777 @terzatheunderscorerima @phantom120 @undead-essence @crazydoughnutlady @big-flrda-kys @pheonixdemonqueen @confused-moose-child @the-fandom-hopping-mage @rangerhorsetug @shamelessstudenthideout @nonbinary-disaster @keegan-parker @terrasolstice @eonic @mayoota-blog1 @theonewiththegays @glitchedchaos @nikki-pondtheauthor @allee52hrz @blacksea21090 @crazylittlemunchkin

(been thinking about continuing this on ao3. i have a whole doc for this. can't decide if i want to continue here or on ao3- if i did on ao3, i'd share the link and tag everyone, ofc. i think i'd explore more of danny's time exploring gotham if i made it an ao3 fic as well. thoughts?)

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #gotham #dc #batman #batfam #nightwing #dick grayson #tim drake #red robin

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carmyboobear · 14 days

Text

ALEXITHYMIA CH 5: detergent, thrifting, and cake

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Chapter Rating: T (11k)

ao3 link, ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

Chapter Summary: It’s his roommate’s birthday this week, and Carmy doesn’t find out until it’s a couple days away. Once he finds they’re unluckily spending their birthday alone, he makes it his mission to make their lonely day better. It’s the least he can do. Little does he know how much more he has to discover about them and about himself.

Tags: reader having trauma, carmy having trauma, toxic families, domesticity

A/N: It’s time… it’s time. I said last chapter was the longest…just kidding. THIS ONE is the longest, and it was hardest to write so far. The duo gets to have a lot of fun this chapter, though! arguably the most so far! A lot of domestic goodness and good food and shopping! Until… :)

also HUGE shoutout to @justaconsequence on tumblr for being my beta reader for this chapter! she was so kind and so helpful. this behemoth of a fic is too much for me to proofread on my own. anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy! can't wait to hear what y'all think!

Typically, by this time on Monday morning, Carmy's usually three cigarettes deep into paperwork, urgently (and poorly) calculating the sales the restaurant needs to make this week to stay afloat. Because even though it's a Sunday closing activity, he never seems to find the occasion to get around to it, and by 10 pm, he doesn't have the capacity to be crunching numbers.

Not that 8 am is much better. At least he's not dissecting the debt this morning—he's studying detergent prices.

“Why is this one, like, almost 20 dollars?” Carmy stops reading the price tags and glances over at his roommate, who's squinting at products on upper shelves. The lights are always too bright in this place. “And for such a small bottle…”

“Pre-mixed organic sulfate-free 100% vegan bleach,” Carmy reads dully.

“So stupid.” They shake their head. “Does grocery shopping ever depress you?”

“Usually,” he replies dryly. “Inflation is pretty depressing.”

“Don’t even get me started. Capitalism in general depresses me.”

“Hm, yeah. That too.” He sighs through his nose and tries to refocus. He's having a hard time processing all the numbers and letters today. “You see any unscented detergent? Somethin’ mild?”

“Um…” They crane their neck up and down, and then they crouch on the ground. They pick up a white bottle. “How's this? It's like, 8 dollars. It's not name-brand, but…”

“You know I don't care.” He kneels with them, huddling in close. They smell faintly of a sweet, yet musky perfume. He reminds himself to focus on the detergent, not the way they smell (even if it's far more interesting). “Yeah, this looks good. Thank you.”

“For your vintage denim, right?” They stand up to put the detergent in their shopping cart, which is barely separated with his stuff vs. theirs. He doesn't understand why his face grows warm at their comment, but it does.

“Uh, yeah. It is.” If the blush shows on his face, they graciously don't comment. “Although I'll admit I don't get around to washing them as much as I should.”

“You're not supposed to wash jeans that often anyway, right?” They lean their elbows onto the rickety cart as they push it, and he ambles along next to them, matching the slow, relaxed pace of their walk.

“Yeah, but I really…” The implications are clear. They fail in suppressing a laugh, and it makes him smile. “And I’m supposed to hand wash them, so.”

“Oh, so what you're saying is that you never wash them,” they tease.

“That is not at all what I'm saying.” They make an unimpressed face. “I do laundry, it's just…”

“Not often,” they supply helpfully. He tries to come up with something, but he's got nothing. “It's okay, I understand.”

“I promise I wash my clothes,” he mumbles, wilting.

“I know.” There's that new smile he's grown to recognize more clearly. It's this mischievous one they get when they’re teasing him, and it's so cute he doesn't have any room in him to get even a little irritable. “I've seen you do laundry maybe once or twice.”

“Hey,” he says, warning, and they laugh and run ahead of him, the squeaky wheels of the cart giggling alongside them.

After the night he almost burned down their apartment, he had felt different. It was like a switch being flipped, light abruptly filling up a dark room, and he's been squinting, struggling to adjust. But as he walks with them today, grocery shopping lit by blinding white fluorescents, he finds that he can see them rather clearly.

The connection between the two of them is tangible, palpable. It's workable pasta dough that's been kneaded to uniformity. The dough is malleable, clean, and when he touches it, sticky, glutenous residue doesn't cover his palms. When he catches at them peeking over their shoulder to make sure he's still following them, he chases away the urge to pull them into his arms. He throws the desire into boiling water in hopes that enough pressure will change those feelings into something more palatable. He's not sure if it's working.

Something happened when he hugged them that Saturday night. He doesn't dare name what that “something” is, but it's rising from where it's sitting at the bottom of the pot, just about to hit the surface—

“Hey, I gotta get some stuff in this aisle.” Carmy snaps out of it and follows them as they veer the cart to the left. He raises his eyes to read the categories on the sign.

“You bakin’ somethin’?” They both move out of the way for an oncoming cart.

“Yeah, was thinking about it.” They halt to a stop in front of the boxed cake mix and step back to fully peruse the shelves. He stands next to them, and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye. “You’re not judging me for getting box mix, are you?”

“Not at all,” he answers honestly. “Food is always better when made from scratch, but box mix has its uses. Besides, I’m not a baker.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure you still make an insane cake.” Carmy’s aware he can’t make them unsee his flash of a smile, but he still shrugs. “Sure, stay humble.”

“I try. What’s the occasion?”

“Ah, nothing much. It’s just my birthday.”

“Oh, okay.”

…And he's about to move on, just as casually as it came, but then the processing finishes.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” They ask confusedly.

“Is it your birthday today?”

“No, um, it’s this Thursday.” He exhales in palpable relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hates at how worked up he sounds.

“Um…” Their face is twinged with guilt. “...There was never a good time to bring it up?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be getting upset.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I just feel like I should’ve known, I guess.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I never brought it up. Um…” Their hands are fiddling with the edges of their sleeves. “I just have complicated feelings about my birthday.”

“Ah, I see. I get that.” That, he can understand. “Is it all the gifts and stuff?”

“Kinda. It’s a part of it.” They lean down to grab a box of devil’s food cake, and that makes him remember that they’re in a grocery store. Not quite the best place for a personal conversation like this. They’re being vague, but he won’t press. Not right now.

“You shouldn’t be baking for yourself on your birthday,” Carmy mutters. They smile at that, but it’s different. It’s heavy with melancholy.

“It’s alright. I’m gonna be celebrating with my friends this weekend, just not on my actual birthday.” His conflicted expression persists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a day. It’ll be enough of a present to not have to go into work.”

“Put that back,” he blurts out. “I’ll make you a cake.”

“Don’t you work?” Their eyebrows are arched in surprise. “You really don’t—”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. I do work, yeah, but I’ll, I’ll get someone to cover me.” He’s never said those words before in his life, and now that they’re out, he can’t take them back. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to take them back. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” they reply quickly.

“Then let me do this. Please.” He has no idea where this courage is coming from. “I want to. I know I'm always working, but I really…” Their eyes are wide with wonder, yet watchful. It shouldn't make him falter, but it does. His heart stutters and whatever bravado briefly gripped him fades away. “I’m…probably being too pushy right now. Tell me to fuck off?”

“I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off for wanting to bake me a cake,” they laugh, easing his worries like they always do. “C’mon, Carm.”

“So, uh, is that a yes, or…?”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to ask you to take off of work for my birthday,” they start carefully, “but I wouldn’t object to it. So, yeah. It’s a yes.”

“Okay.” He can’t help his giddy smile. There's someone saying you look stupid like this, but he’s with them, and it makes everything else silent. “Okay, good.”

“You’re…being super sweet about all this.” He doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s the way they say it—but hearing that makes his neck go hot.

“I mean…friends do stuff like this, don’t they?”

“Only the good ones.” They beam beautifully at him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their affection, he thinks, but the feeling of their smile is so warm. He can’t resist soaking in it.

He's glad that lady luck blessed him just enough to stop their birthday from passing him by. He's been itching for an opportunity to repay them for all the bullshit they've had to take from him as of recent (although he knows if he brought it up, they would say it wasn't anything worth repaying). They deserve something good from him for once, not panic attacks and nightmares.

He just wishes he could figure out why they were going to spend their birthday alone. He knows them a lot better now, but there's still so much left shrouded. He wants to know them inside and out—he wants to learn what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, what makes them happy. He wants to know all of it in its entirety, to fill in the gaps in the puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for.

He has some of the pieces. He understands that their relationship with their family to his—distant, strained, and difficult. Unfortunately, that’s about it. He doesn’t know any of the specifics. It’s not like he’s talked to them about his family outside of the off-handed bitter remarks, just as they have, but he finds that this fact leaves him dissatisfied.

He just hopes that they'll let him in. He's not sure if they will, but…he's gonna try. He has to. He's sick of not trying.

. . . . .

“You want to take off?” Richie’s staring at Carmy like he’s grown a second head. They're taking a smoke break in the back. “I don’t know what sort of doppelganger bullshit this is, but if you’re trying to pretend to be Carmen, you’re doing a shit job.”

“Very funny, jackass,” Carmy mutters. “I’m being serious. This Thursday.”

“All day?” Carmy grimaces, but he nods. Richie shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Really fuckin’ weird.”

“I know I shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, but—”

“Cousin, no, that’s not at all what’s goin’ on here,” Richie interrupts, and Carmy’s at a loss for words. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“What?” Carmy squints at him. “Are you being serious?”

“‘Course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” Carmy decides not to comment on that. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you off this ship for just one fucking second?”

“As the owner of this place, you’ve tried way too many times,” he replies dryly.

“Uh, as the original co-owner of this place, you don’t listen to me enough.” Again, Carmy decides not to elaborate on that one. It’s not worth it. “Take the day off. I was running it fine before, and I’ll keep running it.”

“No, no, we’re not saying that, it was not fine,” Carmy starts, but Richie’s already flipping him off.

“Whatever, I already know, new fucking system and all that. Don’t get anxiety or whatever over it, that’s why you got Syd hustling shit your way, right?”

“Uh.” Carmy didn’t realize that Richie had even been paying attention to the new hierarchy in the restaurant, let alone respecting it in any capacity. “Yeah, she is.”

“Then it’s fine.” Richie blows smoke in his face, and Carmy swats it away with a glare. “It was fine when you came in an hour late today, wasn’t it?”

“You guys knew I wasn’t gonna come in until later,” Carmy argues, defensive (although he’s not sure if there’s actually anything to argue about).

“Exactly.” Richie sighs all of a sudden, a long one that sounds like it’s bone deep. “Carm. Let me be straight with you. You need to do this. Okay? No backing out of this one.”

“Why’re you sayin’ this? What are you sayin’?”

“It’s ‘cause of your roommate, right? This Thursday?”

“...Yeah.” Carmy pales. “How did you—?”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Richie says, grinning. “It was obvious.”

“No way. I didn’t say shit.”

“You didn’t need to.” Richie flicks the ash off his cigarette. “They’re changin’ you, man. We can all see it.”

“...” Carmy can’t deny that. He doesn't have time to ponder on that right now. “Is it really okay?”

“Yeah, you could stand to have an attitude adjustment.”

“I wasn’t talking about that, asshole. I was talking about Thursday.”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s completely fine.” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, solid in its grip. It makes Carmy’s eyes snap to him, mostly in confusion. “So what’s the occasion? Must be important.”

“It’s their birthday. I mean, I could just go home early that day, but—”

“Yo, if you’re gonna take off, don’t halfass it—”

“That’s not what I was gonna say. When I’m here, I can’t seem to find my way out. This place…it just has a way of trapping you in.” He doesn’t expect Richie to nod, but he does. “I know if I don’t take the whole day off, I’ll never get out of here in time. Not until it’s too late.”

For some reason, that makes Richie laugh.

“Yeah. That's it.” Richie shakes his head as smoke trails out of his mouth. “That’s just it, man. You have to make time for the things that’re important. Even the recitals where you have to listen to five year olds play twinkle twinkle little star 20 times. You can’t miss shit like this. Because once you miss it, it’s gone.”

“Rich.” Carmy wants to say something to make that haunted expression leave Richie's face, but he doesn't come up with anything in time.

“Don’t give me that look.” Richie’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from fucking shit up. They actually seem like a good person.”

“Y’think so?”

“I do. You?”

“Yeah.” Carmy doesn’t bother hiding his smile, even though he can already sense Richie’s teasing coming from a mile away. “They’re a really good friend.”

“Friend. Sure.” Richie snorts.

“Don’t push it,” and for some reason he adds, “they were gonna spend it alone.”

“Huh. Sociable guy like them spending it alone?”

“I know. I didn't ask. Maybe I should've.”

“Maybe. I dunno, cousin. Everyone's got their secrets. Especially the ones that try to act like they don't have any.”

“You're strangely full of wisdom today.”

“Fuck right off,” Richie responds in regular Richie fashion.

“I think they're like me. Like us.” Carmy's not sure why he's saying this on a Monday afternoon at work out of all times, but the truth bursts out of him beyond his will. Richie's expression shifts into something more solemn, something recognizable. “Y'know what I mean.”

“...Yeah.” Richie claps his hand on Carmy's back again. “Shitty parents club.”

As Carmy stands there in the back, feet sore and tobacco in the air, he sees his childhood in flashes. He's five years old again and is following Mike around with scuffed sneakers and untamed hair, although he supposes that unruliness never truly changed with time. There's warm sunlight filtering through green summer leaves. He hears his mother behind him, somewhere, but maybe he doesn't.

He thinks of home, of his bedroom, and it is cold. He has homework he’s failed to complete again. It's sitting on his desk, on top of all of the other shit he can't finish. There's screaming, and he's not listening.

He blinks. He’s 30, and he hasn’t talked to his mom since Michael died.

“Shitty parents club,” Carmy repeats hollowly.

. . . . .

When Thursday morning arrives, Carmy ends up greeting his roommate with flour in his hair and eggs sizzling on the pan.

“Um,” they say, just as Carmy goes “G'morning.” They both freeze, brief awkwardness circling between them before it dissipates with their breathless laugh.

“Good morning. I didn't think you'd actually take off,” they admit.

“I said I would,” he replies quietly, but it's not accusatory. How many times had he said he'd be home for dinner just for him to arrive when they're already asleep? He tries not to make empty promises anymore. Nonetheless, he understands their surprise. “Um, I'm almost done with breakfast. I didn't get to the coffee yet.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” They laugh. “That's the least I can do, with you doing all of this.” They sluggishly shuffle behind him to reach down into some kitchen cabinets. “It's a special day, so I'll even make us pour overs.”

“That's true. It is special.” He peeks over his shoulder, pausing from basting the eggs in brown butter to see them setting up on the kitchen island. They gently place the hourglass-shaped glass onto the counter with a light clink. He silently switches the button on for the electric gooseneck kettle to his right. “Am I allowed to wish you a happy birthday, or should I not?”

“Hm, I don't mind. Just don't overdo it, which I doubt you will.” They pull out a bag of coarse ground coffee and a filter. As soon as they open the bag, he can smell the sweet scent of the light roast floating towards him.

“Okay. Then, happy birthday,” he says as casually as he can.

“Thanks, Carmy.” He studies their expression, searching for annoyance in their content expression, but he doesn't find any. “That's not even really what I meant by today being special, though.”

“How else did you mean it?” The eggs are done. He reaches over the hot pan to cut the heat.

“Well, y'know. I dunno if we’ve ever had a full day off together.” They're carefully scooping grounds into the filter fitted on top of the glass, creating a small hill. “I think I managed to catch you coming home early on my off days sometimes, but never a full day.”

“Huh.” Carmy has to take a minute to think about that one. “Yeah, I don't know either. I think you're right.”

“Then, like I said. It's special.” They seal up the bag of coffee grounds, and then they frown. “Shit. I forgot to turn on the kettle. Can you—”

“Already did it,” he reports, pleased, and his sense of accomplishment only doubles at their sigh of relief.

“Thank god.” There's the familiar clicking sound of the kettle reaching the perfect temperature. “Just in time, too. Can you hand it to me?”

“Yes, chef,” he says, because it always makes them laugh. Today is no exception. He slides the metallic kettle over to them.

“So what delights did you whip up over there?” They ask. They begin pouring the almost boiling water over their coffee grounds in a slow circle, gradually inching towards the middle. “It smells amazing. I want the full break-down.”

“The full break-down, got it.” On two circular plates, he's carefully placing a fried egg, thick cut bacon, and a slice of toast with jam and butter. “Uh…it's nothin’ special, just stuff we had in the fridge. We've got a, uh, brown-butter fried egg with a little paprika, sage, pepper, salt…”

“Oh, just an egg made with liquid gold, no big deal,” they imitate.

“Cut it out,” he snips back, but he's smiling and they know it. “There's honestly not much to it. This thick-cut bacon was in the back, so I cooked the rest of it. And the toast is just brioche with salted honey butter and blueberry jam.”

“Carmy. C'mon. That's nothing special to you?”

“I mean.” It's not quite nothing, he thinks. “I can make nicer breakfasts, is all.”

“That's what you said when you made me garlic bread, and that fucking blew my mind.” They set the kettle down with a thunk. The glass is full of dark coffee. Prepped next to them is their favorite glass mug alongside Carmy's. He's not sure how they knew that it was his favorite, but he doesn't question it.

“I'm just letting you know that you should wait to be really impressed.”

“Too fucking late, man.” He's turned around and placed the two breakfast platters on the kitchen island, and they gawk openly at it. “Holy fuck.”

“It's ready,” he says, surprisingly meek. He can't comprehend why anxiety's hitting him now of all times. He's served acclaimed food critics, top-security government officials, and celebrities more times than he can count. Before that audience, he never faltered, but in front of his roommate in their crumpled pajamas, his heart stutters.

“Oh, wow…” They regard the food with undeserved softness. Like a punctured balloon, his anxiety immediately begins deflating. They're staring at the food like it's a painting in a museum. “You seriously didn't have to do all of this.”

“I know. I just wanted to.” He feels heat on the back of his neck. “Is…is that okay?”

“It's more than okay.” Suddenly, he notices their eyes are puffy, like they were crying. “Goddamnit, get over here.”

He only registers what's about to happen for one second before they're hugging him. Their palms are on his back, and the top of their head tucks under his chin perfectly. He makes a small, surprised noise.

“I, I'm glad you like it.” He links his arms around them, allows himself to rest his chin on their head. With their face turned to the side, their ear's pressed up against his chest, and he's instantly struck with the paranoia that they're gonna hear his rapid heartbeat.

“I haven't even taken a bite yet, and I love it.” They lean back then, arms still wrapped around him and head craned upwards to look at him. It's far too intimate for what they are, and Carmy hates how his heart beats even harder. “Thank you for doing all this. Seriously. I…”

“The breakfast's just a side thing, I'm, um, still baking you a cake.”

“What? You're doing this and a cake?”

“Um,” Carmy repeats intelligently.

“Carmy. Carmy, Carmy, Carmy.” Their words ooze affection, but surely he's just imagining it. Their hands are crawling up his back. “God, I could just ki—”

“There's the timer,” Carmy blurts out, because his phone's ringing and so are his ears. At the sound, they let him go, and he grabs two towels to retrieve the two circular cake pans from the oven. A toothpick poked through the middle comes out clean, so he sets them on a wire rack to cool.

He needs to focus on the cakes. That's the most important thing.

“Oh my god.” They lean in close to the cake and take a deep breath. “Is this—”

“Devil's food cake, yeah.” The heat searing his face is surely from opening the oven.

“You—how did you—” Their smile is luminous with joy. “You really pay attention to every little thing, don't you?”

“Sometimes. When it counts.” He fidgets awkwardly, nails picking at the sides of his fingers. “Wanna eat by the window, or…?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Can you bring the plates over? I'll have the coffee over in just a second.”

Carmy sets up at their little table first, placing the plates just right across from one another. The morning sun casts a cozy glow through their speckled window, streaking planes of light across the floor. He patiently waits and watches them pace from the fridge to the counter, splashing cream into their mugs. Through the transparent glass, he watches the white fizzle into the dark coffee, blending into a warm brown.

“Just a tiny spoon of sugar for you, right?” They peek over their shoulder, catching his stare, and he nods. He's also not quite sure how they know that, either. They've had coffee in the morning maybe a handful of times before.

He supposes they also pay attention sometimes, when it counts.

“Alright, here we go.” They bring a mug in each hand and set them delicately down on the table. He notes that his coffee is the perfect color. “Oh, thanks for waiting. You didn't have to.”

“I, I guess so, yeah. It's just, uh, you always wait for me, so…”

“That's—that's true.” An odd tension sets in their face, but they laugh it off, and it disappears. “I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

A part of him wants to ask further by what they meant by that, but they're already taking pictures of his food so dutifully. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he eats.

It's nice to have a solid breakfast for once. He had taken their advice from the other night and had been drinking milk with protein powder. It was nice not to feel like he was teetering the edge by lunch time, but truthfully, it was a bit unsavory. This breakfast platter is much more palatable. It also helps that his stomach pains aren't active today.

Time rolls by slowly this quiet morning, and Carmy recognizes the oddity of it immediately. It's clear to see when by this time, he's usually already done at least ten laps through the restaurant. An irritating signal in his brain is telling him that he needs to get up and do something, not sit around and eat, but for once, he doesn't want to listen.

A memory from roughly two weeks ago (or was it one week?) unearths all of sudden. He was up early, drinking shitty coffee and sinking into dissociation. Mornings were lonely, as he was usually the only one up, but not that day. His roommate came stumbling into the kitchen, awake from a restless night. They chatted before he had to head out, and he remembers wishing he had more time in the morning to spend with them.

He imagined a morning just like this one, with pajamas, food, and messy hair. He daydreamed about having all the time in the world, and he thought about getting to spend it all with them. Now he’s sitting in that moment he imagined, except that it’s real. They're across from him in their wrinkled pajamas and bedhead, contentedly mowing through their food. There's a smear of jam on the corner of their mouth. He takes a sip of his coffee, and it's perfect, just as they made it for him.

This amount of good should scare him, needs to scare him, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. He wants more than nightmares, cigarettes, and floating just above the budget. He wants this.

He tastes his coffee and reminds himself that he’s still here. The moment hasn’t passed him by.

“Is it good?” He asks quietly. It’s a rhetorical question, it always is, but he can’t help himself. He wants to hear it from them.

“So. Fucking. Good.” They have to finish chewing before they answer. “You always knock it out of the park. If this is the prelude, I don’t know if I can handle what’s next,” they say, gesturing towards the cooling cake.

“It won’t be ready for a while yet. You have time to prepare yourself.” That makes them smile. All according to plan. “Got anything in mind for today?”

“Nothing glamorous. I was just gonna go out for a little. Go thrifting, maybe watch a movie later. Smoke a joint.” They shrug. “Just my usual sort of thing.”

“Mm.” He dusts off crumbs from the toast off his fingers on his pants. “Sounds like a good time. You still wanna go?”

“I do, yeah.” They stare at him for a moment, as if processing his words. Or just him. “Do you…wanna tag along, or…?”

Whenever they ask him if he wants to spend time together (whether it’s grocery shopping, smoking, or watching a show), they usually offer it with an air of nonchalance. Carmy’s assumed it’s been out of politeness, restraining their expression as to not put any pressure onto him. That’s the person he’s used to, not this uneasy anxiety, someone afraid to ask him to spend time with them.

It reminds him of himself in every way.

“I’d love to tag along,” he answers easily, just as they’ve always done for him. “I’ve got the whole day off, after all.”

“Right. ‘Course.” He watches their little smile double in size. “I promise to not make you watch me try on clothes for too long.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I like thrifting, y’know.” And you, he thinks to himself.

“You do? Oh, of course—” They make a contemplative noise to themself. “Vintage denim. I always wondered how you managed to have so many pairs.”

“Once you know where to look, they’re pretty easy to find. I can help you find some, if you want.”

“I’d love that. I realized the other day that I don’t have any dark wash jeans, so—actually, the truth is that I do have a pair, but they’re so fucked up and old that I never wear them anymore. Anyway, I need new jeans. Think you could find some dark wash blue jeans for me?”

“If you’re willing to hit up more than one store, then definitely,” he replies, just a smidge cocky.

“I’m willing to hit up even two more stores.” He pretends to gasp, to which they nod confidently. “Yeah. That’s right. Maybe even three.”

“We won’t need three,” Carmy promises. “I’m better than that. Probably won’t even need two, but…” He shrugs. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”

“Okay, Mr. Confident over here,” they tease. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

They head out after they both clean the kitchen and freshen up. Carmy gets the flour out of his hair and rewets his hair to revive some of his curls. He silently thanks his past self for showering the night before. With the passage of the morning cold and the rising sun, the afternoon weather’s become brisk and pleasant. However, the weather’s barely a factor in how he’s dressing.

Is this too much? Is this not enough? He’s switching shirts and pants in the mirror like he’s about to go on a date. He knows he’s not, swears to himself that he’s not, but he’s put product in his hair and cologne on his wrists and temples. It’s not a date, but he can’t fucking decide what to wear.

He sucks it up and settles on a gray sweater, light wash blue jeans, and white sneakers. From under his collar and at the bottom of his sweater peeks out a brown button up. It’s probably too much, but this is his sixth outfit change. He’s fed up with it and himself.

After adjusting the gold chain that got hidden under his collar, he steps out.

He finds them already waiting by the door in this thick knit cardigan and fitted plaid pants that makes his heart stutter. When they hear him approaching, their head snaps up from their phone, and their skin sparkles with touches of makeup.

“You look really nice.” He has no idea how he let that slip, but he’s more shocked that he didn’t stutter once.

“Ah, th—thank you,” they stammer, fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. He’s not sure if it's their makeup or their skin that’s doing the blushing. It’s nice to see them being the one tripping over their words for once. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Oh. Um.” Handsome? It echoes in his head. He instantly feels self conscious. So much for being the more suave one for once. “Thanks, uh…I just didn’t wanna wear my work clothes,” he lies in an attempt to ease his embarrassment.

“I gotcha.” He’s glad they don’t challenge him on it. “Shall we head out?”

“Yeah. Where we headed first?”

They take the metro to their personal favorite shop a little up north. The metro’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but the crowd forces the two of them to be huddled next to each other. They’re both standing close to a pole by the window, each with one hand wrapped around the metal.

As passengers come and go, they step closer to him to move out of the way. Eventually it just gets to a point where they’re standing nearly pressed up against his chest. He tries not to dwell on how that makes him feel, but he can smell the fragrance they put on, and it’s very distracting.

Luckily, the ride is short. Any longer on the train, he might’ve put an arm around their shoulder, god forbid.

“If we can’t find what I’m looking for here, maybe you can show me one of your favorite spots to go thrifting,” they say as they enter the thrift store. The interior is decorated, clean, and lovely, and unlike the metro, it’s not packed to the brim with people. It smells faintly of incense, and there’s local art framed all over the walls for sale. It oozes warmth and excitement, much like them.

“There’s a ton of shit here, so maybe we won’t need to after all.” He finds himself intaking everything at once, eyes flickering from sign to sign. “I’ve never been here before. This is really cool.”

“It’s my favorite place to find new clothes.” They trail down the racks, finger flitting between clothes. “I hope you can find something you like here, too.”

“I’m sure I will.” He’s already walking to their denim section and immediately spots some contenders. “I think I already have.”

He’s not sure if they mean to spend hours in there, but he certainly does. There’s more than just clothes to look at, although that’s what takes up most of his time. There’s dishes, furniture, cds, vinyls, books, even electronics. He goes back and forth with them, clothing articles piling up in his arms as they sit on battered couches together and peruse scratched cds. Everywhere he looks, there’s just more, more, and more.

“Okay, I’ve gotta cut myself off,” they say as they leave the furniture section. They’ve sat on nearly every chair in that place. “I already have so many clothes to try on, and that’s not even including the jeans you’ve picked out for me.”

“If it helps, some of these are mine.” Carmy flips through the layers of hanging jeans that have built up on his forearm. “If you can believe it, I even found some stuff that isn’t denim.”

“I’m not sure if I can, but seeing is believing.” They thumb through some long-sleeves he’s carrying that are seeping out from under the jeans. “I’m just glad you were able to find some stuff for yourself, too. Not that I was that worried.”

He hands them the jeans he’s found for them, all dark wash and in their size. To his surprise, they also hand him an article of clothing for him to try on.

“I thought you’d look good in this. You’ll have to show me when you try it on,” they say, and it’s innocent, completely meaningless, but as soon as Carmy agrees and rushes to hide in the changing room, he views in the mirror and sees his flushed face.

Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. Stop getting in over your head.

He tries on his items of choice first. The first is a dark green henley that looked better on the rack than it did him, so he puts it in the reject pile. The second is a dark blue long sleeve that fits just right. It’s cheap, too, so it’s an automatic purchase. He presumes the way to word it is that it hugs him in all the right places, but he’s not sure. The rest are jeans, of which only one he decides to buy. A bit pricey, but for the brand and year, it’s worth it (although he basically always uses this reasoning with himself).

Now, for the piece of clothing they picked out for him. It’s a dark brown t-shirt that seems like it’s just the right length. It’s a muted, yet warm brown, a bit rosey in hue. He doesn’t realize it’s a v-neck until he gets it over his head and down his shoulders.

“I’ve never worn a v-neck before,” he calls out to the room next to him.

“Oh, are you trying it on? Do you like it?” Their slightly muffled voice calls back to him.

“Um…I’m not sure,” he admits with a shaky laugh. The collar is lower than he’s used to. It dips below his collarbones, and between them dangles his chain. “Should I show you?”

“Yes! Hold on, lemme get some pants on. …Okay, I’m stepping out!”

He hears their door open alongside his. When they see him, their expression snaps into what he believes is surprise and delight. He’s sure he looks somewhat the same.

They’re wearing one of the vintage jeans he picked out for them—dark blue Levi’s. Although they’re rolled up a couple times at the bottom, it seems to fit them just right. As he stares, he’s reminded of his many pairs of Levi’s, and it’s more or less like seeing them in his clothes, which is. Which is. Uh. Yeah.

“I knew that would suit you,” they say with a grin, to which he realizes he can’t hide his blush.

“It’s not weird?”

“Not at all. It looks good.” They tilt their head to the side as they openly look him over, hip cocked. Something in their gaze is making him hot. “No pressure to buy it, of course.”

“It’s different from what I’m used to, but…” He looks down, smooths the fabric with his palm. “It’s kinda nice, something like this. Um, and what do you think about the jeans?” He needs to direct the attention off him quickly.

“Oh, I love them. The others ended up fitting not quite right on me, but that’s how it goes.” They move from side to side, almost twirling. It’s cute. “I love these, though. Just a little long, but I’m used to it.”

“That’s how it always is. I can hem them for you, if you want. I usually hem mine.”

“And he sews,” they say, seemingly to themself, but they’re looking right at him. Embarrassing. “If you don’t mind, that’d be amazing. Either way, I’m probably getting them.”

“Good. You should. They fit well.”

“Yeah?” They glance back into their fitting room, likely examining themself in the mirror, and then back at him. “Okay, then. Definitely getting them.” With that and a cheeky grin, they go back into their dressing room to try on the rest of their clothes. Carmy follows suit, grateful to hide his embarrassed face.

Carmy heads to check out with the dark blue long sleeve, a pair of jeans, and the brown v-neck. They’ve decided on the pair of jeans they showed him earlier and a little purple tank-top he wishes he got to see on them.

“Will that be all for you today?” The cashier asks him as he checks out first. Even the cashiers here are pretty nice, he finds.

“Oh, their stuff, too.” He nods to them, who’s standing right next to him.

“Carmy.” They glare at him.

“What?” He feels himself smiling.

“You can’t do this to me.”

“C’mon.” He nudges them gently with his elbow. “It’s my present to you.”

“Oh, so the present wasn’t the breakfast? Or the cake? Or helping me pick these out?”

“Why can’t it be all of them?” He decides to stop this in its tracks and takes the clothes out of their hands, sliding it onto the counter. “Just these two, and that’ll be it.”

“Just you wait until your birthday hits,” they mutter darkly, shaking their head. “Just you wait.”

“I haven’t told you my birthday.” He pauses. “Right?”

“I’ll ask Richie.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re giving me no choice.”

“You could also just, I don't know, not ask—”

“I wouldn't have to if you didn't force my hand—”

“You guys are cute together,” the cashier comments with a smile, surely a harmless, meaningless thing, but it shuts the both of them up. Carmy can already feel the impact of it on his psyche, and he decides to tuck away the surging emotions to unpack later. At least, he'll try.

“You really didn't have to get those for me,” they tell him when they're exiting the store. “But I guess I should just be saying thank you. So…thank you.”

“Sure. I mean, it would've been better if it was wrapped and stuff, but…” He shrugs. “Had to get you a real present, not just food.”

“Not just food, my ass.” That makes him laugh. “It'll be nice to have something to remind me of this day, though. That's one of the nice parts of getting gifts. Everytime I wear these clothes, I'll think of you.”

“Good. Yeah, that's…good,” he finishes lamely. He nods like their words haven't flustered him, but he's sure they can tell. They laugh, and he can tell it's because of his reaction.

“I'm sorry that the cashier said that,” they say out of nowhere.

“Why're you apologizing? It's not your fault.” Any embarrassment he was feeling before is immediately replaced with a new, more potent sort of embarrassment. He was hoping they wouldn't mention it.

“I guess that's true. I don't know, I just…” They trail off. “Just hope it didn't upset you.”

“Not at all,” he lies, and he prays they believe it.

. . . . .

The metro is less crowded on the way home. They sit comfortably next to each other and watch the city pass them by. A part of Carmy mourns the closeness they had on the way there, but the other part tells him to get it together and keep his distance.

“I'mma take a nap,” they say with a yawn. Their cardigan and bag have been tossed onto the couch. The new clothes have been thrown into the laundry machine, and there's the muffled sound of running water. “Maybe we could smoke and watch a movie later, though.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He peers into the fridge to check on the cake rounds. Just as he left them. “Have a good nap.”

“Thanks, Carm,” they reply sleepily. “Wouldn't be a good day if I didn't get to have a nice nap, after all.” With that, they shuffle into their room and shut the door behind them.

Carmy spends the next two hours flying around the apartment, baking, cooking, cleaning. The sun slowly sets as he goes. He keeps his body and hands moving in hopes that his head doesn't have a chance to catch up, but it manages to keep the pace. It always does.

The crumb coat's fucked up on the left, his first train of thought says. He inspects the surface, eyes following the circumference of the cake. There's a little loose crumb. With the edge of his spatula, he tucks the crumb away.

The faint smell of chocolate wafts up from the cold cake rounds. He's hunched over the kitchen island, hands reaching between dark chocolate frosting and cake. The afternoon sun casts harsh lights onto the cake, and it glistens. He genuinely can't remember the last time he's made a layered cake. He's never been much of a baker, anyhow.

You're going to disappoint them, his second train of thought interrupts, running parallel to the other one at full speed. Who do you think you are? You don't make cakes.

He leans back, inspects his work. The crumb coats are perfect.

Fuck off, he thinks back, triumphant. Look at that shit. He runs his finger along the spatula, picking up congealed crumbs and frosting. He licks it off, and it's delicious. And it tastes good, asshole. So shut the fuck up.

You're being a nuisance, the thoughts continue. Carmy's pops the crumb coats in the freezer for a quick set. They don't actually like any of this. They're just being nice to make you feel better.

They seemed happy to me, he thinks, but he's faltering. He's washing the dishes, and the sensation of the warm water feels distant. They loved the food I made.

Couldn't you tell they were lying? He doesn't understand why these thoughts are rampaging through his head now of all times. It's not unfamiliar, but it's inconvenient. Keep this up, and you'll actually be surprised when they drop you.

Without warning, a memory hits him . As his hands drip with soap, he's reminded of playing with Michael and Sugar in the summer when he was five. Or six, or seven, he's never quite sure. They were outdoors at a local park, and the heat made the metal of the playground searing hot to the touch.

He was blowing bubbles, and the sticky mixture from the bottle was getting all over his hands. In his memory, Carmy watches the way the iridescent bubbles floated away and left little circles on the surface of the plastic slide. He can't remember why he wasn't playing with the others. He can remember the sound of their laughing voices in the distance, gleeful and delighted without him. He thinks he tried to join in, but it didn't work. It often just didn't work, and it was all his fault.

The memory ends, and Carmy's finished washing the dishes.

This is working, he thinks to himself. His hands are dried out from the hot water and soap. I swear to you, it's working. So just stop. Okay?

There's no response. Good enough.

He hears the door opening as soon as he's putting the finishing touches on the cake. With a damp paper towel, he carefully swipes away stray drops of frosting that fell onto the cake stand. He thinks it's best described as if a tiramisu was turned into a devil's food cake. It's not the best cake he's ever made, but it's definitely up there in terms of looks. All the components of the cake tasted good separately, so he hopes it makes sense in his mouth as much as it did in his head.

“Have a nice nap?” He asks before he turns his head. They're standing in the hallway, bed hair hastily tied back.

“Sorta. It was okay.” Their eyes are glued onto the cake as they walk up to the island. “Is this…?”

“This is for you, yeah,” he finishes for them. They take a seat on one of the chairs at the island. “It's a, uh, devil's food cake with vanilla mascarpone cream on the inside. The outside's this coffee buttercream…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say. He could mention the dutch processed cocoa powder, the expensive vanilla bean pods, or the endless sifting, but it feels too gratuitous.

“Wow…” They're still staring, as if it's not quite real to them. “I can't believe this is for me. It almost looks too pretty to eat, but you know I can't wait to tear into this.”

“We could, uh, have it now, if you, if you want,” he says hesitantly.

“I don't know if I could wait.” Their smile grows wider. “You even put candles on it?”

“We don't have to light them or anything if you don't want to,” he adds quickly.

“The candles are the fun part. I don't mind that. The song is…okay I guess, but…” They give him an expectant, excited look. “Were you gonna sing for me?”

“...Only if you wanted to,” he mumbles, suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

“Would that be okay? If I wanted that?”

“I wouldn't mind.” Not if it's you.

“Okay. Then, yeah.” They pull out a lighter from their pocket. “I’d really like that.”

Carmy cuts the overhead lights before taking out his own lighter to help them light the rest of the candles. One by one, the dark room gradually illuminates until it's filled with a warm, orange glow. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows onto their smiling face and reflect into their glossy eyes.

“Ready?” He asks quietly.

“I'm ready,” they whisper.

Carmy doesn't really need to clear his throat, but he does so anyway. He can't recall the last time he sang happy birthday to anyone, let alone by himself. This is the first time he's ever sung in front of an audience, too.

I can do this, he thinks to himself. I can do this.

His voice is awkward and scratchy. He never uses it like this, has never sang for anyone in his life. His ears burn, and he hates the sound of his voice, but he reminds himself to focus on their delighted little smile and warm gaze. The room is far too quiet for his voice, making the words painfully clear.

“Happy birthday to you,” he finishes singing, voice trailing off awkwardly. He's more than ready to finish singing now. “Uh, make a wish…?”

“Right.” The two of them sit in the flickering candle light for a moment longer, the silence thick. Carmy watches their face, their eyes boring into the candles with an expression he can only describe as longing. Then, they blow out the candles with a decisive blow, and the room goes dark.

He moves to switch on the lights. When he turns back to look at them, tears are streaming down their face.

“Hey,” he says softly. He props his elbows on the counter, standing across from them and tilting his head to the side. They're not meeting his gaze, glazed eyes boring into the dripping candles. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” they whisper with a sniffle, and it sounds like a reflex. Something about them suddenly seems so much smaller. “I shouldn't be crying.”

“It's okay. I don't mind.” That makes them smile, even if it's shaky. “Was the singing too much?”

“No, it wasn't your singing,” they say with a laugh. “Your singing was lovely. It's just—I'm so happy. You made today so special.”

“Yeah?” He fights the urge to reach over and wipe their tears. “I'm glad. I wanted to make it good. I…” He hesitates. “...I didn't like the idea of you spending it alone.”

“I didn't either. And I thought I was going to have to be alone…but then you—then you took off work, and you made me breakfast, you went shopping with me—even got me clothes—and now this—” Another rush of tears gushes from their eyes, and they hastily wipe at it with their shirt.

“You've done way more for me. This is the least I could do.” Before he can stop himself, his hand is brushing hair out of their eyes. They freeze for a split second, eyes finally flickering up towards him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay,” they whisper back. “Um…” They let out a shaky sigh, the sort of trembling sound that happens after crying too much. “I feel like I should explain.”

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” he assures them quickly, “but I…I'd like to know. If that's okay.”

“I want you to know. I, I do.” They open their mouth to keep talking, but shaky breaths continue to stifle them. It's hard to watch.

“Breathe,” he reminds them, quietly. He visibly takes in a deep breath, silently encouraging them to breathe with him. They follow suit, closing their eyes and taking a slow breath. Tears slip silently from their eyes. Gradually, their breathing becomes less of a staccato, evening out into something much more manageable.

“Thank you,” they murmur. He nods. They already sound a lot calmer. “I'm not sure where to start. I…I suppose I'll start with today.” Another deep breath. “I didn’t get a call from my parents today.”

“Ah…” The first missing piece.

“I knew they weren’t going to. But a part of me still hoped…” They stop and shake their head. “It's the first year that it's been like this.”

“What happened?”

“Uh…I went no contact with my family about a year ago.” Another pained, hollow laugh. The second piece. “I didn't even really want to—it was a complicated, shitty situation. My parents were being their usual shitty selves, and I just wanted them to apologize. It was over such a small thing, and, and I just…I don't know. I thought maybe I could fix things.” He's never seen them with such a heavy expression, etched with such weariness. “I just wanted them to apologize to me, Carm. That's all I wanted. And then they cut me off cold.”

Their voice is trembling again, and the tears are falling faster. The collar of their shirt is dark with moisture. Carmy hates that he doesn't know what to say. He hates just staring at them, silent as he tries to find the words.

Suddenly, he thinks of Michael.

“Michael never let me work in the restaurant,” he tells them. “That's why I went to culinary school. A big part of it, anyway. He just cut me off, didn't let me in no matter what I did, and it was…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “I felt insane. I was so fucking angry. I couldn't understand him. And I'm not saying that's anything like what you've been through, but…” He looks into their watchful eyes. “I'm sorry. I think I'm trying to say that I, that I understand. A little.”

“I…I appreciate that.” They give him a small, wobbly smile. He adores their smile, but seeing it through their tears twists something painfully in his chest. “He would've been lucky to have you. You're an excellent chef.”

“I am now, anyway.” He sighs. “Your family's missing out on you, too. You're…” Say it. Just say it. “You're a really wonderful person. I can't imagine…”

I can't imagine anyone looking at you and not loving what they see, he thinks suddenly, and he instantly realizes he can't say it. He can barely even comprehend that he just thought it.

He can't process this right now. This isn't the time.

“I keep trying to wrap my head around it all, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done better… Sometimes, the conclusion I arrive at is that I must have done something to deserve this. That I just, I don't know, that maybe I'm just this permanent fuck-up, and…” They run a tired hand over their wet face, through their hair. “My parents fucked me up real good, man.”

There's something familiar about their words, and Carmy realizes it's because it sounds like him. He would've never guessed that under their easy-going smiles was a reflection of himself. He recognizes himself in their self-deprecation, the bone-deep pain. There was always a sense of sympathetic connection between the two of them, but he had no idea. He had no idea how far deep the mutual experiences went.

A part of him still can't believe that this is the truth, that this is what lies at their core, but then he remembers. He thinks about the night they were throwing up into the toilet. They were sobbing, crying into his shoulder about how much they hate themself.

“You know you didn't deserve it. Right?” Carmy's not sure when they started leaning in so close to each other. He's looking at their wet eyelashes with startling clarity. “You did all you could.”

“You don't know that.” Their words are so soft-spoken, but it still catches him off guard. “You don't know what happened.”

“You—” Irritation prickles inside him, his instincts itching to snap back, but he doesn't. He sees himself in them, and he holds back. “You're right. I don't know what happened. But I know you.” The shock is on their face as clear as day. “At least, I think I do.”

“I want to think you do, too,” they whisper. “But this—this messy bullshit is also me. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't have to see all this. I…don't want you to…think any less of me.”

“I don't think there's anything you could do to make me think less of you.” He doesn't resist dragging his thumb across a stray tear on their cheek. To his surprise, they lean into his touch. “Y'know when I almost burned down the apartment?”

“Oh my god.” They smile, and he feels their grinning cheek against his palm. “Yeah. Is it crazy to say I remember it fondly?”

“A little bit.” They laugh. It's quiet, but it's real. “Remember that talk we had after?”

“I do. Why?”

“You're allowed to mess up on onions,” he says softly. “It won't push me away.”

They stare at him for what feels like a long time. Their eyes refill with tears, but they don't spill. With a clammy hand, they shakily place their hand on top of his hand that's still cradling their wet cheek.

“Fucking onions,” they say finally with a wet laugh. Fresh tears drip onto his thumb, and he wipes them away again. As many times as it takes. “God damnit, Carmy.”

“No one deserves to have shitty parents, let alone ones that walk out on them.” He thumbs away more tears. “You being an imperfect person like everyone else doesn't justify that.”

“There must be something more I could've done,” they whisper. “Something I did wrong.”

“Maybe. But they're your parents, not the other way around. It's not your fault.”

“I know. I know that. I do. There just has to be a reason, because—fuck—the truth would just be too fucked up.”

“...And that is?”

It takes a long, still minute before they can get their words out.

“...It’s—it's that—” Their cries are verging on sobs, increasingly more staggered and uncontrollable. “It's that s-some kids—are just—some kids have parents that will never—never love—”

They can't finish. Their sobs have overtaken their whole body. Their body's hunched over the counter, curled into themself. Carmy can't think of a time where he's ever seen them crying so hard.

Without another word, Carmy pulls them into a hug.

They cry for a long time. Through it all, fleeting condolences pass Carmy by in his head, but they all feel too cheap, too meaningless. So all he does is hold them tight, letting them grab onto his shirt and soak the fabric on his shoulder. It's all he feels he can really do.

After a while, the tide subsides. He feels them wilting in his arms, exhausted from sobbing so violently. He doesn't actually want to let them go, but their sniffling nose sounds like it's completely stopped up.

“I'm gonna get you some tissues, ok?” He says quietly. They make a quiet noise of acknowledgement, and they pull back. He snatches up a box of tissues from the coffee table. He places it in front of them before grabbing them a glass of water.

“Thank you,” they mumble, voice scratchy. Carmy stands and watches as they blow through several tissues. The water gets downed instantaneously.

“Better?”

“Yeah. A lot better.”

“Good.”

“...I think, deep down, I know I didn't deserve what happened. Or just having shitty parents in general.” They sigh. “It's just easier to think that I do. That I deserve it.”

“...Yeah.” That resonates with a part of him he's not quite ready to acknowledge. “You're one of the kindest people I've ever met,” he admits quietly. “If someone like you deserves a shitty hand in life, I'm fucked.”

“Carmy…” Their smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. I want to be able to genuinely believe that, one day. I'm going to try.”

“I know. I get it.”

“I know you do.”

That makes both of them smile, even if it's bitter.

“Thanks for telling me. About everything.”

“No, thank you for listening. For just being there for me.” They prop their chin in their hands, their elbows resting on the counter. “Y'know, this past year, I've been trying to find a sense of joy in all this mess. Sometimes it just feels so far away, like…like any happiness is just impossible. But I think I've found it. Rather, I've already found it.”

“Yeah?” Carmy looks at them expectantly, but he never expected this—

“I found you,” they tell him.

“...” He immediately fixes his shocked expression. He's at a loss for words.

Me?

��I never found a chance to mention it, but…my parents are the reason I decided to live with you. That's why I wanted to be your roommate, even though we were strangers.” They shrug shyly. “My lease was up on my last place. I was gonna go home, but then all that stuff happened at the last minute, and…yeah. I needed to find a place to live.”

“Seriously?” They just nod. “Damn. Uh…Yeah, that's fucking crazy. I had no idea.”

“At the time, I was miserable. I kept thinking to myself, ‘I can't believe how shitty this situation is!’ Don't get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but…it led me to you, so…it wasn't really all that bad, in the end. I got lucky.”

Fucking hell, he thinks to himself. Fuck.

“If you hadn't roomed with me, I wouldn't have been able to come back home for my brother's restaurant,” he says, mostly because he's so embarrassed that he swears his whole body's red at this point. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. “I think I'm the lucky one.”

“Can't we both be lucky?”

“I guess we can. Just doesn't seem very realistic.”

“Little too late to say that. It's already real.”

“...There's no other shoe?”

“Not that I know of. I think the other shoe's already dropped for us a while ago. Surely there's no other shoes left?”

“I hope not. I don't know if I could take another one.”

“Me neither.”

“...”

“Do you…want to eat your cake now?”

“Fuck, oh my god—I completely forgot! Yes!”

Just as Carmy planned, the flavors go perfectly together. Even though he knew it was going to be delicious, when he takes the first bite of the cake, relief washes over him. They seem to be overjoyed, inhaling the cake at dangerous speeds.

“You're gonna hurt yourself if you eat that fast,” he observes, both amused and concerned.

“Can't talk. Need to eat this.” That makes him laugh so abruptly he nearly gets cake up his nose. “This is the best birthday cake I've ever had, both visually and taste-wise.”

“I'm glad. Like I said, I'm not really a baker, but…I make an alright cake.”

“You make a fantastic cake.” They’ve got a bit of frosting on the corner of their mouth. “It doesn't get much better than this—eating a cake made by you.”

“Because I'm a chef, you mean?”

“No, not that. Not just that, anyway,” they amend with a cheeky grin. “Because you're my best friend.”

You're my best friend.

…

I'm their best friend, he repeats to himself. I'm their best friend.

He thinks about crying. He won't cry, but he thinks about it.

“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “...Really?”

“Y-Yeah. Unless, uh, you don't—”

“You're my best friend too,” he blurts out, and the anxiety on their face fades away into a relieved, beautiful smile.

“Thank god. That would've been pretty awkward if you didn't…” They shake their head.

“I've never been anyone's best friend before,” he confesses.

“Seriously?” They recover from the shock quickly. “Lucky me, then.”

“I thought you established we were both the lucky ones.”

“Oh, right.” They chuckle. “Lucky both of us, then.”

Carmy thought that life would always be the same. He thought that he was fated to a routine of nausea and nightmares, never quite close enough to reach a rest point. He thought that he was okay with it being his fate, because he never knew anything else.

He thought that loneliness, cigarettes, and memories would be enough, because it always stays the same. Nothing ever changes.

Until them.

He thought he had outgrown happiness, that his body had grown accustomed to living without it. That there was no longer space in his heart to withstand the weight of joy. But as he sits here with his roommate, chatting and laughing over a cake he made for them, he finds that's not true.

His capacity for happiness had never left. It had been there all along.

And with that, something in him lets go.

Carmy sees it all at once. It starts from the beginning—he sees the first day he met them, an initially hesitant meeting gone surprisingly well. He sees the first time the two of them smoked together, deliriously laughing through shared smoke. He sees them in the mornings, messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts. He sees them in nothing but an apron. He sees them in tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. He sees them laughing at a joke that he didn’t think was all that funny.

He sees them in his dreams, red tomato puree bleeding from their gums. He sees them holding his trembling hands in theirs, soothing him back down from the storm in his hand. He sees them comforting him through his tears. He sees them sobbing, hot tears on their cheek and his hand. He sees them heaving into the toilet, whispering that they want to know him. He sees himself, embracing them tightly in his arms.

He sees it all. He knows that he can't avoid it anymore.

Carmy is completely, undeniably in love with them, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do to make that realization disappear.

…Some things, he understands, refuse to stay the same.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto @thehouseofevangelista

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy the bear #the bear fx #my fics #alexithymia fic #GOD. IT'S FINALLY HERE. THIS ONE'S A BEAST.#ch 6 is gonna be the climax..... it's gonna happen yall. it's finally here. hahahaha #anyway this one took so long to write because it was so revealing for me... as i'm sure yall have guessed. sigh.

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mellaithwen · 1 year

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All these memories run my mind in slow motion buddie coda to 6x18 “Pay It Forward” inspired by @rosietherivendell 's agonising but amazing post :') After the bridge collapse, Eddie's reminded of the moments right after the shooting... [also on ao3]

tagged in seven sentence sunday by my darlings @homerforsure @littlespoonevan @fcntasmas @nymika-arts @rewritetheending @capseycartwright and @indigo2831 and I'll tag @princessfbi @buckactuallys @renecdote @hopeintheashes @thekristen999 @henswilsons @like-the-rest-of-la @lovebuck @ghosthunterbuck @shortsighted-owl @tripleaxeldiaz and @buttercupbuck <33

Buck says, I’ve got you, when he pulls him out from the camper van, and Eddie can’t shake the sense of déjà vu that haunts him alongside the burning ache of his broken ribs.

At the hospital, in the waiting room, and later still once they’ve all been kicked out and sent home by Athena, Eddie can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t ignore the feeling that he’s missing something; that he’s forgotten something.

Now that they’re home, Buck’s pottering away in the kitchen, and Eddie’s been ordered to stay on the couch for the foreseeable.

“Take it easy, I got this,” Buck had insisted when Eddie had made a noise of complaint at being coddled.

I’ve got you.

Christopher’s video game is set to a lower volume than usual, and ever since they’d picked him up from school, he’s been careful to sit with space between them to limit the chances of accidentally elbowing his father in pursuit of a high-score.

The cold pack Eddie’s holding against his abdomen is getting warm, and he can hear the tell-tale beeps of the timer being set on the oven. A pasta bake, if Eddie remembers correctly. Or. Was it something with broccoli?

Maybe both?

He yawns. The day’s harrowing events bear down on him, and showering away the dust and grime off of his body had taken more effort than he’d expected. He shifts, and a wave of exhaustion has him blinking slowly in its wake. He wonders what time it is, but his eyes remain closed.

“Food won’t be long,” Buck’s voice drifts from above—closer now, and Christopher responds with a hangry remark. One that, judging by the ensuing complaint of “Buuuck!” resulted in having his hair tousled for the cheek.

“Just for that you can come help me with the salad,” Buck tells Chris, and Eddie feels his son shift to his feet beside him.

“Dad’s sleeping,” he says in an exaggerated whisper but Eddie doesn’t catch a response if there is one. He feels the touch of careful fingers brushing against his own as the not-so-cold pack is gently pried from Eddie’s grasp, and without it to hold on to, the dream comes quick.

He’s on the ground—pinned by the detritus of the camper van—pinned by the threat of a sniper—pinned by the determined look of his best friend crawling across the asphalt to get to him. “Hang on, just hang on!”

Buck grabs a hold of his right arm—in one instance he apologizes in advance, in another, he screams from beneath the fire-truck as he scrambles forward, and in both Eddie yells at the pain as he’s dragged to safety. Pulled to his feet, and held by a steady grasp. Cradled and carried and lifted to safety. I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve—I’ve—I’ve—

The images overlap, memories intertwined, and Eddie struggles to make sense of any of it until he sees the dried blood across the side of Buck’s face. Streaming from his nose, with small grazes by his eye. Red smears on the side of his neck, more still on his white shirt—no, his black turnout—Eddie’s mind switching between the two like some garish flip-book. Night and day, but one constant remains.

Buck.

The last thing Eddie sees clearly in the dream is the image of Buck’s face hovering above him—fear and desperation painfully visible through the violent red splatter on his cheeks. Like an awful piece of performance art, Eddie’s existence has been boiled down to an imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting on his best friend’s shirt.

Is that mine? He wonders with a new kind of horror as his eyes flutter open.

“Are you hurt?” He whispers, still caught in the dream as he slowly wakes to find Buck staring down at him, in the same way he had in the dream. Eddie reaches up to gently touch the small scratches and cuts dotted across Buck’s frowning face, only to elicit a small wince from the other man.

“You were dreaming,” Buck whispers, but he doesn’t pull away—if anything he leans into the touch, sighs at the feeling. “Dinner’s ready,” he adds softly, making no move to stand from where he’s crouched in front of the sofa. In front of Eddie.

Eddie doesn’t know how to tell him that the dreams were really memories—nightmarish ones, hidden, buried deep, and knocked loose by the image of Buck’s face—bloodied and shouting—as he pulled Eddie to safety again and again. He doesn’t know how to respond at all, so he lets his thumb drift across the beginnings of a bruise running into Buck’s hairline instead. Close, and intimate; quiet and soft.

“Were you dreaming about today?” Buck asks gently, his words laced with a painful kind of understanding. Eddie’s voice catches in his throat. Yes, and no, he thinks to say. Why didn’t you tell me? He wonders too.

Before he can say either, Christopher calls out to them from the dining table, washed up and ready to eat, and the moment has passed.

Eddie gives Buck a small smile instead, slipping into the familial domestic routine of dinner with his son and his best friend—his family.

“Help me up?” He asks with a slight groan as his ribs remind him of the endless ache that stretches closer to Eddie’s heart that he’d ever care to admit.

“Sure,” Buck says, standing tall, and reaching down, his hand outstretched to Eddie; a steady anchor, a port in the storm. Always.

“I’ve got you.”

[ also on ao3 ]

#911 spoilers #911fic #911 #911 fanfic #911 fic #buddie #buddie fic #evan buckley #eddie diaz #911 abc #911 fox #911 on fox #mellaithwen fanfic

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tojisbbygworl · 11 months

Text

Just For The Night - Hobie Brown x Black!Punk!Reader pt. 1

Summary: Two anarchists meet at a concert and decide that one night just isn't enough...but one night is all they have.

Characters: Mentioned - Gwen, Pavtir, Miguel. Featured - Miles, Hobie

Words: 3,694

Tags: 18+, 3rd person, Mutual Pining, Suggestive Content (Smut in part 2), Hobie is Whipped, Aged-Up Characters (Miles/Gwen is 17), Reader and Hobie are 21+, Mention of Marijuana, Canon Divergence (Doesn't follow ATSV events/Miles is not an anomaly/Hobie's universe is present day instead of 1978), Hobie and Miles are like brothers, I tried my best with the British slang

author's note: The Hobie brainrot is real. I wasn't planning on writing for ATSV at all, but some of the fanfictions just weren't scratching the itch and you have to be the change you want to see in the world and all that other shit. I don't think that Miles would listen to Rico Nasty, but I definitely think Hobie would. I had to write something putting the two together like it just makes SENSE TO ME!

You don’t have to listen to the music at all I’m not even sure if I want to keep it in there. Anyway, here's the story. More notes abt me at the end.

AO3 version part 2 epilogue

"You tryna' go to this concert with me?"

Hobie stopped playing with his guitar pick to look Miles in the eyes. The day was over, for them at least. Miguel was satisfied with their work and they didn't have to deal with him until it was time to be called back into action. Gwen had already gone back home, something about her band, and Pav wasn't on the schedule for today. It was one of the only times where Miles and Hobie could really work as partners and they cherished it.

Miles was especially glad to have Hobie all to himself, as he felt this question would be a bit more awkward around the others. He waited until they were grabbing something to eat in the food court so he was sure anyone who would overhear his question couldn't. He had always been a fan of this artist, but never really embraced it in fear of embarrassment or rejection.

"Who's playin'?" Hobie asked him, already knowing he was going to say yes no matter what Miles said. He saw him as a little brother, and he was happy that he wanted to spend time together outside of work.

"Her name is Rico Nasty." Hobie raised a brow. Either this artist is only popular in America, or he didn't have her in his own universe. He had never heard of her before.

"Oh? Who's that?" Miles lit up like a fire, excited to show Hobie something new. He hoped to whoever was listening that he would enjoy her.

To say that seeing Hobie begin to head bop with his headphones in filled Miles with joy was an understatement. As the song continued, He began making a stank face and looked at him. He was enjoying himself, clearly, and Miles knew he had him hooked.

When the song ended, Hobie took out his headphones and gave Miles his phone back. "Yeah, I'll go with you."

Miles throws a small celebration. He pumps his fist and says "Yes!" dancing for a second before stopping and clearing his throat. He turns back around to see Hobie looking at him amused.

"Am I the only one going?" He asks him, biting into a burger.

Miles sits back down across him and sighs. He looks down at the table. "Yeah," he says, dejected. Hobie gives him a worried look, which Miles is quick to dismiss. "Oh, no! It's nothing bad. I just...I don't really know anyone else who would come with me and it seemed like music you would like..." He trails off for a minute. Hobie urges him on by gesturing his hand. "And I kind of wanted an actual adult with me because I'm really nervous and kind of scared and I needed someone I could trust completely. You fit all the criteria."

Hearing that made Hobie insanely happy. He gives Miles a sideways smile. "That warms me up inside, you know that?"

Miles lets out a small, breathy, laugh. "Yeah, yeah."

"So," Hobie wipes his hands with each other and takes a sip of his drink. "What's the scene gonna be like?"

"Well...you, really. Your whole aesthetic."

Hobie raises a brow. "Oh yeah?"

As a connoisseur of moshing, in Hobie's opinion, the venue was perfect. Big enough to fit scores of people, too small to have any personal space.

It was completely painted black with a black floor as well. Purple, green, and red stage lights shone over the thickening crowd. It was already so hot, a stark contrast from the chilly Brooklyn night air.

That day, Miles had visited Hobie's apartment to get dressed. Hobie gave him loads of clothes and accessories to choose from. Miles, unfortunately, had no sense of style, and everything he chose clashed with each other. Hobie had to completely dress him from head to toe. "You look like a proper rebel without a cause," Hobie had told him, which Miles took as a good thing.

Miles took one look at the bartending stand, gave Hobie a stupid smile, and as funny as it was, he shot him down immediately. "Uh-Uh. 'low it."

It was 7:30. The concert didn't officially start for another 30 minutes, and Rico wasn't going to come out for an hour after that. Miles was taking everything in. He had a look of wonder in his eyes. Hobie found it amusing. Him and Miles have been friends for some time now, but he’s never seen him this relaxed.

“You didn’t think about bringing Gwendy here?” Hobie asked him. Gwen should see this part of her boo thing. (They still haven’t made anything official).

Miles hisses and scratches the back of his head. “Eh…nah man. I’m still nervous about showing this side of me to people. You’re the only person I’m confident enough to show it off to.”

Miles’s sweet words brought a genuine smile to Hobie’s face, and he smiled back. Hobie wrapped his arm around him and rubbed his head. They continue talking as the venue fills more and more and people gather behind him. Soon, it’s hard to move around and the two boys finally notice how packed the floor has become. Miles begins to look a little nervous, but looks up at how chill Hobie is and adjusts himself accordingly.

When he’s done trying to look cool he taps Hobie on his arm. The man looks down at him in curiosity. “Hey, so…what’s your situation?”

“What do you mean?”

Miles makes a fist and punches his palm. “I mean, do you got a girl, bro?”

Hobie scoffs and laughs at his question. “Nah, man. My Gwen Stacy is a capitalist pig. And I don’t know a Mary Jane.”

“Maybe you can have the Gwen from my universe.” Mike’s jokes. Hobie laughs and punches his arm.

“Sorry mate, but if she’s anything like others, I don’t want her." He gets a far off look in his face, and Miles's grin straightens out. "It’s like in every universe, she’s a "good" girl.” Hobie explains his thought process. Miles is greatly interested in what he has to say. Hobie looks up and speaks as if this is something he’s put a lot of thought into. “My person needs to have my ideals. I want her to be loud and obnoxiously motivated. Like me.” He says the last part with a grin. Miles shook his head.

“So you want an anarchist?”

Hobie shrugs. “If she’s not a felon she’s not for me.” They laugh with each other until the opening DJ comes out. It was 8:00 and the concert was starting. He played some popular mainstream music that Hobie wouldn’t otherwise listen to. But Miles had started rapping 21 Savage with some other teenagers around him and he couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Hobie easily towered over the crowd, so he took a moment to take it all in. In his opinion, he had the best spot on the floor. Right in the middle. He could see everything. Everyone had on some form of punk-like, gothic, or emo styling. He saw many spikes, chains, and buckles. So many creative hairstyles and outfit choices. He truthfully felt that he was in his element. It was nice.

Oh! Es-pecially the fine thing standing right in front of him.

Well, he assumed that she looked good. He was absolutely digging her hair. She had large Bantu Knots going across her head. It was was a nice Cajun Spice color. This hair definitely takes the cake for him.

His eyes trail down her body to look at her outfit. She had fishnets on her legs and torso. Over the fishnets, she had on an AC/DC crop top with jagged edges that she probably cut herself. Her bottoms were black ripped shorts. Extremely short, they wrapped around her ass so nicely, and some of the flesh hung out of them. He couldn’t see too much of her feet, but he could guess that she’s wearing Demonias. He really wanted to see the front of her choker.

She was moving to the music and shaking her hips to the beat of ‘The Boy’s a Liar.” It was a cute song in his opinion, and her dance was just as adorable. But it was dangerous how the plush of her ass moved in those shorts.

Her friend who was dancing beside her accidentally backed into him. She turned to apologize and Hobie gave her a nod and a “you’re good,” then went right back to staring at Bantu Knots. The girl peeped him, and she smiled and nudged her to get her attention. She whispers in her ear, then turns back around completely.

When Hobie makes eye contact with Bantu Knots, his heart feels like it’s slowing down. Then, immediately, it runs. She had big brown eyes and the cutest ring on her round nose. Her makeup wasn’t much, but she still looked stunning. She clearly had on foundation, concealer and some sort of powder. She had long false lashes on, sharp wings, and black glossy lips. On the flush of her cheek, there was a small black heart drawn with eyeliner. She was gorgeous.

He was mesmerized, it was like his body did the work for him when he nodded and smirked at her. She gave him a sideways smile back, looked him up and down, then turned back around. The whistle that Hobie let out was long and smooth. Miles nudges him in the arm having been witness to the whole thing. Hobie grins.

He takes another chance to enrapture her. He taps her shoulder than leans down next to her ear. He keeps his voice low, and mutters, “I love your hair.”

He guessed she really liked that compliment, because she immediately lights up and turns around fully to look at him. The girl puts her hand on his shoulder to pull his ear towards her. A shock courses through his body when her breath hits his skin.

“I love yours, too.”

Somehow, her voice was even more breathtaking than she was. Hobie shivers. He resists the urge to ask her if she wanted to use his wicks as handle bars. Then he blinks. He has no idea where that idea came from, but he liked it.

He also liked her voice. She didn’t sound like she was local. Most spidermen in the spider society were from New York or some variation of it. He had heard his fair share of Northern American accents. Hers was more southern. Not nearly as southern as Webslinger’s though. Or, a different kind of southern.

"You’re not from around here, are you?” He asks her.

“Neither are you, mate.”

Hobie chuckled at her joke. Even though she was mocking him, it was pretty good. He decided then that he likes her and he doesn’t want to stop talking to her. He looks to his side to see Miles caught up in his own conversation with his new buddies. Good, he’s occupied.

“I don’t entirely think it’s fair that you know where I’m from and I don’t know where you’re from.” He suggest.

“I’m from Atlanta,” she answers, her deep voice relaxing him. “I moved to Brooklyn not to long ago.”

That was interesting. “Oh, really?” He wondered what might have brought her all the way up here.

She nodded. “What about you?”

Hobie rubbed his chin and quickly thought of a small lie to tell you. “I’m just visiting my bro, he invited me to this concert. I’ve never heard her music before, but I like what he showed me.”

The girl gasped as if Hobie had just told her of a terrible crime. “You've never listened to Rico before?”

Hobie shook his head. “Don’t worry, love. That’s gonna change real soon. Especially when her fans look like this.” He looked her body over and smirked.

She returns his advance with a sensual smile of her own. “Like what?”

His face doesn’t fall. “Like, bare fit.”

“What that mean?”

“It’s UK for, ‘fine as hell.’”

She continued smiling at him. They stared at each other for a second, then she spoke. “My name is Y/N.”

“Hobie.”

Before she could continue talking to him, the music starts to pick up a bit more. The playlist becomes a little more raunchy. She turns back around to dance with her friends and Hobie begins rapping along with Miles. While the music played, Hobie would occasionally catch Y/N’s eyes look at him. She was dancing really cutely, which was absolutely not the vibe of the songs that were currently playing. He could tell she wanted to really move. But, she was most likely afraid of making him uncomfortable.

Hobie had to let her know that he wants it. With all the confidence and audacity he can muster, he rubs his hand on her lower back, wrapping his fingers and palm around her waist. She turns slightly to look at him, and her eyes are full of mischief. Hobie leans over to her ear once again. Her friends are watching the scene somewhat discreetly and giggling.

“You can throw it back on me, love. I don’t mind at all.”

Apparently, that was all she needed to get absolutely loose with it. She beamed at him, caught the beat, then started dancing on him while he held her waist. Hobie’s grip is firm, but he doesn’t force their hips together, no matter how much it would turn him on. This wasn’t the first time he’s been twerked on, but he hasn’t been this into it. He grabs the other side of her hips with his other hand.

She bounces herself on him a couple times, and Hobie had never been more happy that he was wearing jeans. He doesn’t know how she would react to feeling his boner on her. However, the thought excites him. How good would it feel to just start humping into her backside? Everyone is paying attention to themselves. Would anyone even notice if he slipped his finger in between her thick thighs and underneath her shorts?

As she continues to dance on him, his imagination begins to run wilder. He doesn’t even realize how much time had passed and that the opener had already came and gone. There was a new DJ who was to introduce Rico any second now, and all Hobie could do was watch her skin bounce on his pants. There’s only a slit going from the back of her shorts to the front to cover her pussy. He assumes that she has a thong on, or he would be able to see her panties. If she just bent over a little more and stuck her ass in the air, Hobie could play with her for a little bit. And if he just angled his hips down a bit, he could pull it to the side, unzip his jeans, and just…

That would be disgusting. Fucking this random girl in the middle of a mosh pit floor. It excites him. He wonders if she likes that idea too. He doesn’t even realize that she has moved his arms completely to the front of her torso. His hands were gripping her lower stomach. She was practically grinding on him. Hobie’s mouth opened only slightly. He licked his bottom lip then bit it, not noticing the way Miles’s eyebrows lifted in shock.

At one point she looked back at him without stopping with the same bright smile on her face. Just when Hobie was about to say ‘fuck it’, the DJ begins to hype everyone up. He lets go of Y/N and looks towards the stage. The lights are going crazy. So is the crowd.

Miles is shaking his arm back and forth. “That girl was going crazy!”

Hobie slapped their hands together and bumped his chest. “Hell yeah.” He takes one more look at her back. As if she feels his eyes on her, she looked back at him. They smile and she turns around. Hobie doesn’t stop.

Miles squints his eyes. “Wait a minute, big fella.” He holds his arms out. “Whatchu thinkin’?”

Hobie shrugs, but still doesn’t stop looking at her. “I’m not thinking anything, mate.”

The crowd gets louder as one of Rico’s songs finally start playing.

“You ready?” Miles yells at him.

“Ha!” Hobie laughs and grabs Miles’s arms. “Are you? Your first time moshing, big steppa,” He shouts back.

“I’m scared as hell!”

“Don’t be! I got you!”

With that, Rico finally comes out and the crowd screams. All at once, the entire venue starts jumping. Hobie’s eardrums feel like they’re about to explode. With the way he’s moving along with his height and his firm grip over Miles’s shoulders, he feels sorry for the people behind and next to him.

The crowd isn’t pushing so much as everyone is just too filled with adrenaline to stay still. Rico herself is having a lot of fun on the stage too. Jumping up and down with everyone, screaming into the mic, feeding off the crowds amazing energy. Hobie’s really feeling it too. He hadn’t been moshing for a while, it felt good to be in his element.

As the songs change, the crowd gets more and more hype, but it isn’t until STFU when they really start moving.

Hobie doesn’t let go of Miles and pushes people around, almost falling over himself. At the same time, he makes sure to push against Y/N’s back. Everyone is screaming, pushing and throwing themselves into each other. It’s wild, hot, and exciting. It’s the most fun Hobie has had for a minute.

Y/N kept up pretty well, as if she’s true to this too. The concert goes on, and Rico begins to play her more down tempo songs. Hobie and Miles are sweating , but Miles is heaving. Hobie nudges him.

“You alright, bro?” Miles doesn’t stop heaving, but gives him a thumbs up. Hobie groans and slaps his head.

“Bro, so sorry, I completely forgot to bring some water for you. Ay listen, we can go and get some, and I’ll push us back up here, that good?” He suggests.

Miles waved him off. “Nah man,” he says exasperated. “I’m chilling.”

His new group of friends hand him a hydro flask and tells him to waterfall. Hobie thinks it’s gross, but it gets the job done. Miles looks fine again. He sighs in relief and turns back to see Y/N just vibing.

He takes the liberty to tap her shoulder and lean down into her ear. “You doing okay?” She was sweating, so was he, but she was still the most gorgeous girl in the venue.

She smiled at him thankfully and nodded. Once again, placing her hand on his shoulder she talks into his ear. “Yeah, thank you. What about you? You look just as crazy as I do.”

Hobie laughs. “How bad do I look?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t say you look bad, baby. I said you look crazy. I like it.” Hobie’s heart flutters at the pet name, her southern drawl coming out a bit. He decides then that this can’t be the only time they talk.

“How much do you like it?” Pussy Poppin’ begins to play, Y/N turns around, grabs his hands to put them around her waist and begins to dance on him again. Hobie smiles again. This time, there’s no letting of each other. His hands remain on her waist for some time. She often looks back and stares at him. He knows this girl likes him just as much as he does and if he was only back in his universe, he would have grabbed her and swung her back to his place immediately. But, he can’t leave Miles-

Where is Miles?

Hobie lets go of her and begins looking around in a panic. She becomes worried. “Are you okay?” She yells while placing her hand on his chest. Hobie is too worried to revel in her touch, but one of the boys Miles was interacting with gets his attention.

“Hey, that boy, Miles?” He starts. “He said to tell you he was feeling lightheaded so he went to his dorm.” Hobie closes his eyes and sighs in relief. But he was also upset that he had just left without a word. Then, the kid gets his attention once more. “Um, he also said good luck with your girl.”

Ah, so that’s why. That’s kind of awkward.

“Everything alright?” Y/N asks again.

Hobie’s reassuring smile relaxes her. “It’s fine. Was looking for my bro but he went home.”

That mischievous glint in her eye came back. "So you’re free?”

Hobie pauses. Was this really happening right now? Was he really this lucky? “Yeah.”

“Want to go to my place after this? I got a blunt.”

The night just keeps getting better. Hobie chased off a stupid smile and says a thankful prayer to whatever is listening. Then he realizes. It’s only gone 10:00. The concert can’t be ending for at least another hour.

“After?” Hobie debates his next move, then he grabbed her hand. Without looking away from her, he slowly brings her hand to feel his crotch. Her eyes widened. He was very turned on, he had been since she backed up on him. He rubbed her hand up and down a bit so she could feel his arousal even better. When she began squirming and rocking back and forth on her feet, Hobie's smirk grows. Her legs were clenched shut and she couldn’t take her eyes off his waist. He leans down again, his breath making her shudder. “You see what you did to me? You’re really gonna make me wait, love?”

He stares into her eyes. Hers flicker back and forth between his, and eventually to his studded lips. Hobie anticipates her answer, but from the way she began to grip his member he knows she’ll take him up on his offer.

She takes in a breath, turns to tell her friends that she’s leaving, the grabs Hobie’s arm and starts walking through the crowd.

ending a/n: That’s the end of part one to the story. How did you guys like it so far? I wanted to add a few Rico songs to get a gist of how the concert went, but I didn’t want to overload the story. I hope the suggestiveness is to y’all’s liking. I promise the nasty raunchy sex is coming next. I can’t help but to write lore for every story I write, so you, the reader, will have a little back ground story in the next part. Just a couple of heads up, it will be a little bit angsty towards the end, and involve having sex while under the influence. They’ll be smoking while they’re fucking, basically.

about the author: I do not write for this fandom, this will be my first and probably only story involving spiderverse. I write Jujutsu Kaisen fanfiction, pretty much exclusively Toji. I also don’t write on Tumblr. I will link my AO3 but please be warned that the stories I write have very dark content matter and are angst the whole way through.

#across the spiderverse #spider punk #spider punk x reader #spider punk x you #spider punk smut #hobie brown #hobie brown x you #miles morales #SoundCloud

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duskyashe · 10 months

Text

CAMP NANO DAY 8/9

(please see tags for trigger warnings)

[first three chapters] [AO3]

============<×^-^×>============

It had been a long time since Bruce had been this unbalanced by the thought of a conversation. He was unafraid to admit, if only to himself, that he was terrified about the kinds of things he'd hear from the young woman now sitting across from him. On the way to his office, he'd asked her if she felt safe and comfortable talking to him by herself, or if she'd prefer having his youngest adopted son sit in with them, and while she was understandably hesitant to let an unknown fifteen year old sit in on their discussion, he'd also seen the way she'd unconsciously relaxed when she saw Tim walk in.

"Before we start, my name is Timothy Drake-Wayne, please call me Tim, and you have permission to hug me, cling to me, cry on me, or even squeeze my hand tight enough to break it. Whatever you need to do to get through this discussion. I'll even leave for snacks if you need to say something intensely personal or that you feel I shouldn't hear," his son said with a small, supportive smile. Bruce was so proud of Tim, he'd come so very far since first coming to them. "I'm very well used to standing in as an emotional support person when a foster kid gets comfortable enough with Bruce to want to tell him exactly what happened wherever they'd been before coming here, and I'm perfectly content to keep doing so for as long as I live here."

Bruce watched as Jazz processed everything Tim said and caught the question in her gaze before she'd even opened her mouth to speak it. "Tim has decided he wants to work with CPS when he gets older, take his own experiences with the system and use them to help improve it. I do whatever I can to help him, to help any of the children who find themselves in my care, achieve his dreams," he explained softly, pride warming his heart and voice. "I'm not sure how well you remember him, but my first adopted son, Dick, recently decided to open his own gymnastics studio here in Gotham. His experience with you and Danny when you lived with us really left an impression."

Jazz nodded in understanding before glancing at Tim, reached for his hand, and took a fortifying breath. "My—the Fentons are… scientists, inventors, innovators, they—they discovered, independently, an entire species of interdimensional beings with incredible powers and such a rich mixture of cultures, and… and they decided those beings were unnatural, that they were evil and needed to be experimented on and exterminated. They created a portal to these beings' home dimension in our basement without following any sort of safety regulations or protocols." Jazz took another breath, swallowing as she looked down at hold on Tim's hand. "Th-the green on me and Danny when we first got here, it's called ectoplasm. It's basically the lifeblood of these beings, it makes up almost their entire bodies. Their dimension is full of it, as any excess they produce gets shed off into the environment around them.

"When the Fentons created their portal into the Infinite Realms, they didn't realize they'd installed a secondary switch that also needed to be flicked for the thing to work. A switch that was on the inside of the portal shaft and could only be reached by physically going inside it." She shuddered as she tried to bite back tears. "I wasn't home at the time. I was tutoring a fellow student in English at the local fast food joint. Danny was at home with his two best friends. Mom and dad had left the day before to track down the supposed "ghost" that had caused their magnum opus to fail to work. He should have been safe.

"I got a frantic phone call from Danny's friend, Tucker, telling me I needed to get home ASAP, that Danny'd had an accident and wasn't waking up. The student I was tutoring asked me what I was waiting for, to get going, and so I did. I—by the time I got back to the house, Sam and Tucker had managed to drag Danny away from the portal, but i-it was pretty obvious what the accident was, I mean… the portal hadn't been on before I left…"

Bruce had a bad feeling about where this story was going. He'd seen the product of lab accidents too often to be able to con himself into thinking it could be going in any other direction. He almost stopped her from continuing, but while she was very obviously distressed, the process of telling him, of telling them, seemed to actually be doing her some good, so he kept his silence and watched as she clenched Tim's hand even harder for a brief second before relaxing her grip almost entirely.

"Sam was fussing over Danny's prone form, trying to make him more comfortable on the steel flooring without moving him too much, while Tucker was pacing between the two of them and the swirling mass of green that was the portal when I got there. As soon as they saw me, Tucker was on me with tears in his eyes. "We thought he'd died," he said. "The screaming—we thought he was dead. We're so sorry, he could have died—we're so unbelievably sorry,"" Jazz quoted with a strained voice. "Sam's makeup was running from how much she was crying. Sam never cries, and there she was, kneeling over my barely breathing baby brother, nearly sobbing in terror and guilt. They—Sam had apparently dared Danny to go inside so they could get a picture, and while in there, Danny tripped, and he hit the secondary switch. The Fentons had apparently not turned the other switch off after the thing didn't work the first time, and Danny ended up paying the price of their stupidity. He was alive, he'd survived, but now he's rightfully terrified of anything to do with electricity above what comes out of your stranded wall outlet. Only, come to find out, Danny hadn't survived. Not entirely… not unchanged."

Knew it, Bruce thought wearily as he leaned back in his chair. He resisted the urge to rub his hand across his face or run it through his hair and instead just continued to listen to Jazz's tale.

"The combination of all that electricity running through him, killing him, as a portal made pretty much entirely of ectoplasm opened up literally right on top of him changed Danny on a molecular level. He's no longer fully human. He's now something called a halfa, half human and half… half ghost."

============<×^-^×>============

FINALLY got that finished! I sincerely apologize for not getting this out yesterday, I had to take a general health day due to both my lactose intolerance realizing, three days after the fact, that I'd eaten dairy and decided it didn't like that at all, and my sleep schedule being crap the past two days (⁠-⁠_⁠-⁠;⁠) that's why today's post says "day 8/9", I'm counting it for both days since I *did* start writing it yesterday (⁠^⁠～⁠^⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

For anyone reading this directly after day 6 but hasn't read any of the reblogs of day 6, this is actually chapter 4 of this fic, not chapter 2. I have two amazing co-writers who have each written an amazing chapter for this fic, which can be more easily read on AO3 by hitting the link up at the top!

Also, due to this fic having two co-writers for it, from now on, when I post a new chapter for it here on Tumblr, I won't be linking back to my previous chapter, since there will be two chapters between each of my own. Instead, I'll be linking back to the first post back on day 6 and to the AO3 version, where the entire fic will be readily available for reading.

Also also, because this is being co-written, any and all updates for this fic will be highly sporadic at best. Please don't harass me or my co-writers for quicker updates, we're all very busy people working together to write this purely for fun.

Have a wonderful morning/day/night everyone!

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mayajadewrites · 4 months

Text

suguru geto x fem reader: lucky

roommates to lovers–friends to lovers–slow burn

story synopsis: Suguru Geto is your best friend and roommate. After a year of living together, there have been more than one opportunity to throw away your friendship. The question is, would you get lucky as fall in love for the rest of your days?

ao3

CHAPTER FOUR

🎧🌙🧺📖🕯️🧸🤍

You woke up in your own bed, the sunshine peering through your curtains. You squint as you look around your room, wondering how you got there.

You heard the sound of something sizzling, which means Suguru is awake and making Sunday breakfast.

You yawn as you open your door, your first sight being Suguru's toned, muscular backside. He's – which is weird for Suguru. He doesn't usually walk around half naked.

"Good morning." He says without turning around. His voice is soft and you can hear the smile forming at the corners of his lips.

"Did I sleep walk into my room?" You put on your slippers, walking towards Suguru.

"No. I put you in your room."

"Oh." You looked down at your cow slippers, tapping your feet.

"I didn't want to move you, but I was sweating my ass off with you on me. Especially because of your hair."

"Hey, you have more hair than me Sugu." You press the back of your hips to the counter. "Thank you."

"You don't need to thank me." Suguru flipped a pancake and put the freshly done turkey bacon on a plate. "So, how was your date?"

"Shit." You remembered you were supposed to text Choso when you got home. You fished your phone out of your purse and saw he text you 3 times.

Choso: Did you get home alright?

Choso: Hey, I'm worried.

Choso: I hope you're ok. Goodnight.

"Fuck." You threw your head back. "He probably thinks I'm laying dead in the middle of the road."

"I'm sure he knows you're fine."

"I was too distracted cuddling with you to text him back." You groan, typing away at your touchscreen.

"I can't help that I have that affect on you." Suguru took a bite of turkey bacon, shrugging his shoulders.

You ignored his comment, pressing send on your phone.

You: I'm so sorry, I walked in my apartment and knocked out last night. I had an amazing time.

Choso text back almost instantly.

Choso: Good morning beautiful. That's ok. I'm just happy to see your name pop up on my screen.

You could feel Suguru staring at you as you smiled at your screen, moving your thumbs to type.

"I'm assuming your date went well then."

"It did. He's even sweeter than Shoko described. How's, uh, Mackenzie?"

"It's Mikayla. And I'm not dating her." Suguru said flatly.

"Could've fooled me. You brought her back here." You grabbed a plate and began adding food to it.

"I thought I would like her, but..."

"But what?" You shoved a forkful of pancake in your mouth, hoping the answer doesn't feel like a stab in the stomach.

"I don't know. Something felt off. I kissed her goodbye and–"

There it is.

The anxiety in your abdomen.

You wish you had a time machine to go back to 2 minutes ago when you didn't know her lips touched his.

Suguru watched as your face changed from curious to... well, the exact opposite of curious.

"And what?" You raised your eyebrow. You can't even be mad – you kissed Choso last night. And you liked it.

"There was no spark. No butterflies. I didn't wake up and think about her. I didn't think about our kiss for the whole night. I could've lived without it."

You nod, taking a sip of the orange juice Suguru put out for you. "I'm sure you'll find someone else. It might be awkward at the bookstore now."

"Yeah, she took it pretty hard."

Fuck Mikayla.

"She'll be alright." You shrugged, setting your plate in the sink. "I'll clean since you made breakfast. Thanks, Sugu." You hold out your hand for Suguru to give you his plate when his fingers brush yours.

You could've started a fire with the sparks that flew from your touch. Suguru looked into your eyes as yours met his chocolate ones. The moment felt like hours, but in reality it was for a second.

"Can you water my plants for me?" You broke the tension as you turned the water on for the dishes. Suguru nodded and made his way to the patio where your plants were.

You and Suguru pretend that you share custody of the plants, as if they are both of yours. When in reality, you brought them home despite Suguru saying you wouldn't remember to water them ever.

Soon after you got them, he was sitting outside drinking tea and tending to the plants.

You watched as he watered them, a piece of hair falling from his bun. He touched the leaves, saying something to them while doing so.

Snap out of it.

You finished the dishes and felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. You see Choso's name on your screen, snapping out of the Suguru-trance you were in.

Choso: Would you like to go out again this week? Maybe Friday?

You smile as you type back.

You: Absolutely. Let me know the details this week. :)

Suguru came in from watering the plants, grabbing a book from the coffee table that he must've been reading last night. His tall body landed on the couch, his long fingers flipping through the pages to find his bookmark.

"Want to come grocery shopping with me?" You plop yourself next to Suguru. "I'll buy you a coffee."

"You don't need to bribe me." He smiled, closing his book after only reading a few pages. "I'll take the coffee though."

"Perfect. Let me get changed." You walked to your room, closing the door gently. You changed into an oversized sweater and black leggings, along with crew socks and your converse. You're most comfortable in clothes that don't hug your skin.

Suguru already had his car keys in his hands, his hair now in his signature half-up, half down hairstyle.

"One of these days you're gonna have to tell me your haircare routine." You grab your purse from the entryway table.

"I will." Suguru smiled, opening the door for you. You felt butterflies fly around in your stomach as you walked down the hallway.

One of your Sunday traditions with Suguru is grocery shopping and buying new flowers for the kitchen. Since he loves plants (now at least), and is more organized than you, he is a great help.

Your cart is full of groceries and you and Suguru made your menu for this weeks dinners. It's the easiest way to buy groceries so you don't have to stop by the store every night.

You couldn't help but think about how you would love to make this, with Suguru, your reality. While grocery shopping, you would steal kisses from him, soaking in every smile.

But he's not yours.

You're not his.

"Sugu, look at these bouquets." You made your way to the florals section. You found some beautiful roses, your favorite. You bring the bouquet to your nose, breathing in the sweet smell. When you open your eyes, Suguru is staring at you.

"Looks like you picked which one we're getting." He smiled, grabbing the bouquet from you. "These are beautiful."

You nod, pushing the cart towards the checkout lane. Your mind went to daydreaming about a life with Suguru.

Getting married.

Having babies.

Growing old together.

Snap out of it.

#suguru geto #suguru geto x reader #geto suguru #suguru #jujutsu kaisen suguru #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto fanfic #suguru geto fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfiction #roommates to lovers #friends to lovers #slowburn

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mykinkyyandere · 2 years

Note

rules five has for his darling?

Five's Rules

AO3

Pairings: Yandere/Dark! Daddy! Five Hargreeves X Naive! f!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of dub-con/non-con, alcohol sex, smut, forced housewife, forcing to love, kidnapped/isolated reader, yandere, dark, obsessive, possessive, controlling, stalking, punishing, pet names, daddykink, forced age regression, implied killing

A/N: Five's a grown-up and didn't stuck in the future.

"My rule is actually very simple. Be my good little princess and I'll make you very happy."

His simple rule includes 10 basics:

Tell him everything. (He wants to know everything from what you do during the day to what you think. You have to share everything with him or he'll punish you if he thinks you're hiding even the smallest thing. So when he sits you down on his knee and asks "Tell me, my princess, how was your day today? Did you miss me?", you can't stop yourself from crying.)

Take off his clothes when he gets home. (A good housewife greets her husband at the door and helps him undress. This is exactly what he expects from you. The times he comes home changes very often so you rarely wait for him at the door. Other than that, he almost always suddenly appears in the house and calls you. All you have to do is go right to him and take off his jacket, vest, tie, watch and belt. He often asks you to take his shirt off too, which turns into an intense sex in the bathroom.)

Take your punishment like a good little girl. (It's your fault for not listening to him, disobeying him, and misbehaving. If you try to run away when he punishes you, you'll be a very, very bad girl. Hold on to him, squirm on his lap, scream and sob, but don't try to run. If you do, he'll only punish you more. If you don't, he'll reward you.)

Don't go where he doesn't let you go. (You can't wander around the house on your own. Especially if you wander around the kitchen, your punishment will be very harsh. All you have to do is playing in your room, totally unharmed. You have everything in your playroom, so play like a good little girl and make him proud. The toys, dolls, books and many more he brings to you are enough to keep you busy while he's gone. He's trying to be with you as much as possible but unfortunately he'll lose you if he can't save the shitty world.)

You're his possession, be aware of this. (He's madly in love with you, but it's mixed with overwhelming possessiveness. If you have powers, you don't have them anymore because he makes you forget or lose your powers through Allison or someone else. He stalks you all the time, expects you to act the way he wants, all because of his desire to control you. Including forcing you to fit in the kinks he knows or doesn't know he has. He loves to see you in cute little dresses. He loves when you rub your pussy on his knee, calling him daddy. He even plans to put a cute choker on you. He doesn't care if these desires have a specific name, all he knows is that he wants to dominate you.)

Behave in public. (If he ever takes you out, you have to show your loyalty to him to the fullest. You can look around, but it's a very risky freedom for you. Because if he thinks you come eye to eye with a man, he'll first kill him and then punish you. You need to be very careful and make sure he knows that you're only looking at nature. Always hold his hand and take his arm. Keep calling him daddy. Never speak to anyone. If someone tries to talk to you, lower your head and lean on his chest. Five will handle the situation for you.)

Ask permission for anything and everything. (Need to wipe up the food you spilled on? Want to sleep? Need to use the toilet? You have to ask his permission.)

When you want something, be sure to ask him. (A jewel, a new doll, a nice skirt, your favorite ice cream, whatever, just ask him. He gets really pissed off when he catches you shyly staring at the things you want. He's the last person to deprive you of something. He doesn't understand why you're so afraid to ask him for anything. Don't you know he's your daddy? Why are you acting like this when it's his job to take care of you in the best way possible? It also breaks his heart to see you like this.)

You can never drink. (Alcohol is for adults. Sit on his lap and drink your milk from your cute bottle while he drinks, with his unbuttoned shirt and untied tie. This "evening relaxation" often ends up him spilling his drink on you and bouncing you on his lap. He likes to suck your alcoholic neck and nipples.)

Love him. (You have to show your great love, gratitude and need for him. You have to love him. If you want to be able to live comfortably in the house of a psychopath who is madly in love and obsessed with you, you have to learn to love him. This dangerous killer only goes crazy when he sees that you don't love or want him. He makes your life more difficult with his punishments and turns into a maniac outside. Don't force him to show the maniac.)

See, very simple. Isn't it so easy to be his good little princess?

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sailor-aviator · 7 months

Text

Fool's Fare: Prologue

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Trigger Warnings: Death of parents, angst, talk of ghosts and the supernatural, Big Brother!Bradley...I think that's it?

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: I couldn't help myself, so I went ahead and wrote this. I am just as interested as y'all to see where this fic goes lol As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are encouraged and appreciated! I'll be doing Drabble Sunday this weekend to celebrate my first 100 followers! So get your requests ready!! 18+ ONLY!! And you can find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator!

Series Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist || Jake "Hangman" Seresin Tag List

The ocean was a deep, terrifying swirl of forgotten pasts and harrowing mysteries. The vicious pull of the waves sending many sailors to their graves for thousands of years without mercy. No, the ocean was not kind. It was the source of life on the best of occasions and cruel and unforgiving on the worst.

Your father had been a sailor. Working for a large shipping company hauling various goods from one end of the sea to the other, he was often gone for long stretches of time. After months of being away, it was always a joyous reunion when he would return. He would swing you up in his arms, twirling you until your little giggles turned into full blown laughter. He would set you back down on your feet and greet your mother with an affectionate kiss to her temple before tugging you both into his arms.

“My best girls are always here to greet me when I get home,” he’d grin. Your mother would hum, running her hands through the beard he’d grow during his time away.

“Come inside,” she’d say, leading you both into your modest, seaside home. Your father would sit at the table as your mother fixed him a plate. He would tell her that he was more than capable of fixing his own plate, but she would wave him off and place the food gently in front of him with a kiss to the top of his head.

One day, when you were a little over four years old, your father had come home from a voyage with a scraggly looking boy who looked to be about twice your age. Your father had been dragging the boy by the scruff of his collar when you and your mother had come out to greet him. The boy had dark brown hair that had been bleached from time in the sun and steady, brown eyes that held steady as he took in the house before him.

“Found this one on the coasts of the Carolinas,” your father had said with a grin, letting go of the boy’s shirt. He stumbled forward, almost falling headfirst onto the ground. He looked back at the older man with a scowl before turning to look at the two of you.

“My, don’t you look a sight?” your mother had said with a small smile as she took the boy in. He puffed out his chest in a bid to make himself seem bigger and your mother had laughed. You took the few, small steps up to him, taking his hand in yours excitedly.

“My name is y/n,” you chirped up at him. “What’s yours?”

The boy studied you with pursed lips.

“Bradley,” he muttered. Your father had let out a booming laugh, causing Bradley to jump.

“That’s the first answer we’ve been able to get out of him since we caught him rifling through our supplies on the ship!” he guffawed. “C’mon now, boy. Let’s go get us some supper.”

And so your family had taken in Bradley Bradshaw as one of your own, and he settled in fairly quickly amongst the rest of you. He would help your mother out with different chores around the house, and when your father was home, he would take you and Bradley down by the docks to teach you the ways of sailing.

“You want to tie it like this, sweetheart,” he’d say to you as he guided your hands on how to move the rope. “It’s one of the most important knots a sailor needs to know. It’s called the ‘bowline.’”

“Like this?” Bradley had asked, holding up his own rope for your father to inspect.

“Atta boy, Rooster!” your father had laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. Bradley had earned the nickname not too long after he had joined your little family. Your father had just gotten back from another transporting job. He had been woken from his sleep by sounds coming from the kitchen. When he had stumbled into the room, he had seen Bradley already working on feeding the fire for the day.

“The sun isn’t even up yet, Bradley,” your father had laughed as the boy shrunk in on himself. “I doubt even the rooster is awake! Looks like you’re gunnin’ for his job.”

And the name had stuck.

Now, Bradley was more confident in his place within your family. Now, Bradley was much taller and his form was filling out thanks to the many hours spent doing the heavy lifting around your home.

“Keep this up,” your father started, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips, “and maybe I’ll take you with me on a job here soon.”

Bradley’s face lit up. “Do you mean it?”

“Let’s see, you're about, what, sixteen now?”

“Yes, sir,” Bradley nodded, a smile etched onto his face. Your father nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, you should be ready here soon.”

You looked down at the rope in your hands with a frown. “I’ll never get this. Why do I even have to learn this?”

“Because, my little minnow,” your father smiled, “it’s an important skill to know and have.”

“But Mama says that women aren’t even allowed on ships,” you muttered. Your father smoothed the hair out of your face with a thoughtful hum.

“It’s true, women were once considered bad luck to have on ships, and many men still consider them to be so,” he began. “But times are changing, and maybe one day soon you’ll get to set sail with us.”

“Really?” you asked him, eyes filled with hope. He laughed and nodded, turning to look at Bradley.

“C’mon you two. Let’s go see what Mother’s been cooking.”

The three of you trudged up the hill to your home where your mother was already standing outside to greet you. Greeting her with a tender kiss, your father ushed you and Bradley into the house.

When supper was finished and the table had been cleared, you all gathered around the small fireplace. Your father sat in his favorite chair while Bradley and your mother took up the other two. You sat by your fathers feet, resting your head against his knee. The smell from your father’s pipe permeated the room and left you with a sense of fond familiarity as he slowly stroked your hair.

“Papa,” you said, “will you tell us a story?”

“And what kind of story would you like to hear, little minnow?”

“An adventure!” Bradley had grinned. You shook your head.

“No,” you argued. “A ghost story.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, y/n,” the older boy scoffed. Your father hummed with a low chuckle.

“I wouldn’t be so sure o’ that, Rooster,” he smiled. Bradley fixed him with an incredulous look.

“Surely you can’t be serious?”

“As the dead, lad,” your father said solemnly, rubbing the bowl of his pipe. “Ghosts walk amongst the living, as real as you or I. Some even sail the seas, waiting for the day Davy Jones lets them pass into the great beyond.”

“What does Davy Jones even have to do with the dead,” Bradley huffed. Your father arched an eyebrow at him.

“He has everything to do with the dead at sea, Bradley,” he replied softly. “Davy Jones is a powerful man. Not quite human, not quite god. He’s as cruel and unforgiving as the sea, and some even think he was born from the waves that beat against the rocks by the shore. They say his very will controls the tides, and any man foolish enough to invoke his wrath is met with a gruesome fate.”

“Those are just superstitions,” Bradley countered with a scowl.

“You’re free to believe that,” your father began, “but you’d be a fool to. No sailor with a lick of sense is going to take that chance. Davy Jones will come for us all.”

“Why does Davy Jones stay at sea, Papa?” you chirped.

“No one is quite sure,” your father mused. “Perhaps he’s searching for treasure.”

“Would you ever go looking for treasure?” you questioned. Your father smiled.

“I’ve already found my treasure,” he said, casting a fond smile to your mother, who blushed under his gaze.

“Have you ever seen Davy Jones?” you prodded with wide eyes. Your father chuckled, patting your head in reassurance.

“No, little minnow. But those who have are few and far in between. Davy Jones isn’t in the business of letting witnesses stay alive.”

“That’s enough, Maverick,” your mother had chided. Your father had the good sense to look sheepish. Maverick was a name your father had earned during his time at sea, and your mother only called him that when she was cross. Usually, she called him by his given name; Peter or Pete.

“My apologies, Penny, my dear,” he said. Looking back down at you, he offered a smile. “Alright, y/n, it’s time for bed. You too, Bradley. I need you up bright and early tomorrow morning.”

You and Bradley bid your mother goodnight as your father followed you down the hall. When you had crawled under your blanket, he had made sure to tuck you in tight.

“I didn’t scare you too bad, did I, little minnow?” he asked. You shook your head vehemently.

“No, Papa. But, what if you meet Davy Jones one day?”

“That won’t be for a good, long while, sweetheart,” he said with a smile. You nodded, resting your head back down onto your pillow. Your father leaned over to peck your forehead before standing to walk out the door.

“Goodnight, y/n,” he said. You smiled.

“Goodnight, Papa.”

A good, long while was not long enough in the end. It was six years later when you got the news that your father’s ship had gone down in a storm off the coast of the Caribbean. Your mother had been beside herself, crying all hours of the day as you and Bradley did your best to stay strong for her sake.

Bradley had caught you crying by the fireplace one night after you thought everyone had gone to bed. He sat next to you, and pulled you to his side as you cried into his shoulder.

“I miss him so much,” you sobbed.

“I know,” he said softly. “I do too.”

“He should be here.”

“I know.”

“It’s not fair,” you cried. “We didn’t even get to bury him.”

“I know, Guppy,” he sighed, hugging you tighter. Bradley wasn’t very good with words, and he sure as hell wasn’t good with emotions. “But he wouldn’t want us to dwell on this, you know that.”

“I know,” you sniffled, rubbing at your eyes. “He always loved the sea.”

“He loved being here, too,” Bradley countered. You looked up to see his own eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Your mother had followed your father not long after. She had stopped eating and barely took a sip when you begged her to drink some water. She would stay perched by the window in the bedroom she once shared with your father, just staring out at the sea as if willing him to return. It had ended up being a fever that had taken her one early, autumn morning. It was your turn to be inconsolable as you once again found yourself buried into Bradley’s shoulder as he held you tightly. You buried your mother on the hill that overlooked the sea, forever waiting for your father to return home.

You and Bradley had stayed by her grave until the sun began to set.

The following days were filled with familiar motions and quiet sobs hidden behind closed doors long after the stars began to shine in the night sky. One night, you had set a bowl of stew in front of Bradley after he had come home from working at the docks. The two of you sat in silence for a few more minutes before Bradley pulled you to your feet. You went to say something, but he motioned for you to be quiet as he pulled you through the front door and out of the house.

“Where are we going?” you hissed quietly.

“Just trust me,” he shot back, dragging you down to the beach. The cool sand rubbed against the soles of your feet as you followed him, and he stopped you when you both were standing at the edge of the water. The water felt like ice as it licked aginst your ankles, and you felt a shudder run up your spine.

“There!” he called out, gesturing towards the open sea. You looked, but saw nothing but the white caps of waves.

“I don’t see anything,” you mutter, shaking your head. Bradley offered you a smile.

“That’s because you aren’t looking hard enough,” he murmured. He bent down, pointing his finger so that it was directly in your line of sight. “There, do you see it now?”

You squinted your eyes, trying to see what it was he was looking at. “Rooster, I don’t-”

“I see them,” he interrupted you, smiling confidantly. You fixed him with a puzzled look. “I see Mav and Penny just over there past the waves.”

Your heart stopped and hot tears licked at your eyes as you looked back at the churning waters. It was then that you saw what Bradley had been talking about. You saw your mother and your father with smiles on their faces, staring at each other with adoration clear as day on their faces. You wiped the tears away from your eyes as you looked back to see them waving at you. You huffed a laugh and smiled back at them with a wave of your own.

“Looks like Davy Jones let Mav come back for his treasure,” Bradley said. You threw yourself into his arms, holding him tightly.

“Thank you, Bradley.”

The sea could be cold and cruel, but you had the strength to weather the storm.

146 notes · View notes

tavyliasin · 2 months

Text

Bouquet of the Frontiers - Wyll Week One Shot

Wyll Week Day 2 - Flowers

This is my entry to the Wyll Week Fanworks event that's running from 3rd-9th March - Please take a look at the other wonderful entries!

It's the night of the Tiefling Party, and despite being a true hero and helping keep all of them safe, Wyll finds it difficult to join the merrymaking. He chooses a quiet spot by the water, away from the noise and celebration, reflecting on everything that's happened in the last tenday. His friends, however, don't want to let him sit out there alone. One by one they drop by, giving him gifts that mean more than they first appear.

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Click Here to read on AO3 5,701 words

Spoilers Act 1 only.

Canon Compliance The party is canon, most of the rest isn't. Though all of the flowers are real, and the symbolism matches mostly to modern European interpretations.

Other Notes I'll include pictures of all the different flowers at the end of the piece!

Mood/Song Life is a Flower by Ace of Base

"When every race is run And the day is closing in I don't care about the world I'm living for the light Don't cry for me today' ah ah ah

We live in a free world I whistle down the wind Carry on smiling And the world will smile with you Life is a flower So precious in your hand Carry on smiling And the world will smile with you"

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FULL ONE SHOT FIC BELOW THE CUT

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Bouquet of the Frontiers

The sounds of the celebrations were filling the camp. Songs and laughter, drinks raised, stories swapped between old friends and new ones. But for Wyll… It was all a little too much, at least for now. He slipped away not long after the first bottle was opened, taking a lesser vintage for himself and a few pieces of simple food from the table.

It was quieter to sit by the water’s edge, looking out at the moonlight reflecting on the rippling surface, grateful that it wasn’t mirror-smooth to show his reflection. He subconsciously reached up and touched his horns, pulling back in an instant as if he had touched a heated pot on the stove. His head ached, still unused to the balance of extra weight curling around and back;, the horns themselves were sensitive at times, too.

Everything had changed. Again.

Wyll had just about accepted his fate in leaving his home behind and taking up the mantle of the hero, stepping in to help the refugees from Elturel the moment he found them after escaping the grasp of the mindflayers. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, though. Or in this case, out of Avernus and into the pitfalls of a contract written by one who stretched the truth to its limits.

He didn’t regret it, not for a second. The loud laughter booming from the Tiefling woman in the middle of the party was a comfort. He would gladly accept the torture of feeling his entire body being transformed before killing Karlach, who was a victim of the Blood War as much as he was. She was having fun. Laughing, smiling, making friends with anyone who took long enough to realise she was more than she appeared to be on the surface. The irony of the thought escaped him as he continued to fret over his own changed looks.

“He looks sad.” The voice of one of the children - he couldn’t remember which - broke him out of his thoughts.

“Come on, quickly!” Several more followed, giggling, the sound of small footsteps carrying mischief quickly came closer.

“Now hold on just a moment-” Wyll tried to stop them, though he feared reaching out in case one of them got hurt.

“Nope!”

“Not gonna!”

“Come on, Mister, you’ll look nice!”

The group of them were working like a terrifyingly efficient team, leaping and scampering around him, weaving vines around his horns before taking his hands and pulling him to his feet.

“Careful, I don’t want to-” They cut him off again with their giggling, as the vine wove around his outfit, each of the children swapping around to dance with him as he was wrapped and decorated. “What is all this?”

“You weren’t at the party.”

“So we brought the party to you!”

“You look pretty…”

Wyll couldn’t help but laugh. “Pretty? The stone eyed monster is pretty now?”

“Mmhmm.” The children nodded, all in agreement with their assessment.

“Thank you, I think.” He patted each of them on the head in turn, a little regretful that he didn’t have any treats to give them.

“Alright, tiny soldiers, hup hup!” Karlach appeared with a beaming smile, ordering her small army to line up with sharp salutes. “At ease, now go on back to the party - Gale and Rolan said they’re going to do some magic tricks soon!”

“Magic’s a bit boring…”

“Everyone will be distracted though, not looking at their pockets.”

“Oooh! You’re right!”

Before either of the adults could stop them, the miscreants scampered off back to the main party, giggling and conspiring with one another as they went. “Are you sure it’s safe to let them go pickpocketing?” Wyll raised an eyebrow towards Karlach, but her smile didn’t fade.

“Oh, they’ll be just fine! Didn’t you get into a little trouble at their age? Or were you running around with a pot lid and spoon playing the hero to stuffed toys?” She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow.

“I didn’t go around stealing from anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.” He sighed a moment, taking a seat back on the fallen log he’d been on before. “Sorry, Karlach, I’m not the best company right now. Go on and enjoy the party, please - don’t stay out here on my account.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” She took a seat nearby, leaving enough space to not worry about an accidental touch burning him. “So, what’s eating you? Is it the horns? Gods, they’re a pain sometimes.”

Wyll watched her as she talked a mile a minute, the brightness of her eyes never dulled, her gestures adding to the feeling of how passionate she was as she spoke.

Karlach pointed to the stump of her horn, rough from the break. “When I first lost this one, gods it was so hard to get used to. My balance was off for weeks! And I kept reaching up or ducking through doorways on that side like it was still there - ridiculous, right?”

“No, not ridiculous at all.” He looked at her with concern. “Does it still hurt?”

“Come on, Wyll, that was meant to make you smile at least a little!” She poked the stump of her horn. “I feel it, a little, but less and less with time. Part of my devilish charm now, might as well own it.”

“You’re not a devil, Karlach.” He looked deep into her eyes, the softness in them clearer than ever as she blinked, perplexed. “I wish I had seen that sooner.”

“No use dwelling on the past, soldier. Plenty more problems ahead to kick us in the arse all over again.” She looked over his shoulder for a moment, leaning around and plucking something from the bushes behind him. “Well, will you look at that. Just like us!”

The flower she quickly placed in his hand - before it could char in her grip - was strangely familiar. The centre of the blossom was a large pale yellow petal that curved in an almost egg-like shape, with a hole like an open hood in the middle. At one end of the oval, there were three dark burgundy petals, one rounded and curled, but the other two were thin and twisting, curled out to the sides-

“Just like our horns.” She repeated, quieter this time, her eyes fixed on the delicate bloom. “Well, you’re already decorated with leaves, why not add that one too?”

“An infernal flower for a cursed fiend?” He contemplated it, hesitating until she corrected him.

“Enough of that. You know already, don’t you - it’s not what we look like that makes us who we are. Besides, it’s pretty, right? So it suits you.” Karlach patted him on the shoulder, standing up to leave again. “I’ll leave you to it, but you know they’d love to see you. Out there. Where the actual party is.”

“I’ll…” He paused, looking at the flower once more before tucking the stem into his hair at the base of his horn. “I’ll think about it. Thank you, Karlach.”

“Don’t mention it, soldier!” She beamed, smile brighter than the moon, tail swishing behind her with a spring in her step as she left him to his thoughts for a while.

He didn’t have long to himself before another voice cut through the bubble of quiet by the water. “So this is where you’ve been? And you took the good wine, I see.” Wyll turned to see Shadowheart approaching, empty chalice in hand and a wry smile. “Mind sharing a drop?”

“I’m sure they have a better vintage back there.” He said, even as he was picking up the bottle to top up her goblet as well as his own.

“Maybe.” She replied, already taking a seat beside him. “But then you’d be out here on your own, wouldn’t you?”

“You don’t need to be here on my account.” He countered, watching her expression for any clue as to what she was really thinking. The cleric kept everything close to her chest, so it was hard to tell what she really wanted.

“You don’t need to be so suspicious - Karlach mentioned you might be getting some headaches from your…situation.” She gestured to his horns, pulling a couple of herbs from her pack. “The wine certainly won’t help with that, not by morning anyway. So take these, and make them into a tea. Consider the drink as payment, if you must.” A wry smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, cheer up, Wyll. They’re celebrating all of us, you know.”

“I feel more like a decoration than a guest right now.” He gestured to the new adornments to his outfit.

“So you do.” She smiled, reaching back into a pouch at her side and drawing out a stem of large violet flowers. “Do not touch this one with your bare hands, and definitely don’t get it near your food.”

“You’re giving me poison?” Wyll leaned back involuntarily as her gloved hand came closer with the plant.

“It’s not poison if you treat it with care.” She took a little of the vine that was around his right horn and wrapped it gently around the blossoms, being cautious to secure the stem without damaging them. “Call it…a reminder. That even though something might be dangerous, it can also be quite beautiful.” She wiped her glove carefully with a clean cloth, rinsing with a little water from her flask.

“Are you still talking about the flowers?” He took a sip of his wine as he watched her stand.

“Maybe,” she smirked. “Hold still.” She laid her bare hand on his forehead for a moment, a wave of cooling and soothing magic washing through him, the dull throb at the base of his horns melting away, and even a few lingering bruises from the day’s battles healing in an instant.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Wyll looked up at her, trying to find the right words for gratitude but falling somewhat short.

“No, I didn’t. But I wanted to.” Shadowheart began to walk away without leaving a chance for him to reply, though she did call back over her shoulder. “Thanks for the wine, Wyll. Perhaps next time we can share more time with it as well.”

—

The next voice to disturb the peace carried a familiar lyrical quality. “Wyll, darling, why are you out here all by your lonesome? No dance partner catch your eye for the evening?”

He looked up to see the owner of the voice sauntering over, carrying with him half a bottle of wine and a few white flowers. “Not you as well - is this entire camp determined to turn me into a bouquet?”

“And what would be wrong with that?” Astarion grinned, a hint of sharp fangs glinting in the moonlight. “Have you forgotten the old tradition of fair maidens giving flowers to their gallant knights on the eve of battle?”

“You’re not a maiden, it’s not the eve of battle - it’s the night after it - and I’m hardly a knight.” Wyll argued, though he made no move to get up or leave as the pale elf began to place the blossoms at different points on his outfit.

“Oh, details, details. Does it matter? They suit you.” Astarion took a couple more moments to check the positions of the flowers, before standing back with a satisfied nod to himself. “And you, my dear warlock, have plenty of the qualities of a knight. Heroic, chivalrous, and that dreadful habit of being all too ready to throw yourself onto the sword to save someone else’s sorry hide.”

“We all have a duty to protect those who are weaker than us, to stand up for what’s right.” Wyll sat up a little straighter, feeling the slight swell of an older pride stirring in his chest. “You would do well to remember that, yourself, sometimes.”

“Perish the thought - no, I’ll leave the good deeds to you, darling. The whole shining armour thing never suited me anyway. Clashes terribly with my complexion.” He ran his fingers through his hair for a moment for emphasis on the last part, smoothing it to just the way he preferred his waves to fall. “It suits you, though. Better than that stern look, at least.”

“It’s never too late to change, Astarion.” The warlock tried to appeal to the vampire’s better nature - if he had one. The man didn’t seem entirely evil, but he was harder to read than Shadowheart.

“That wine really is going to your head isn’t it~” Astarion laughed, brushing off the comment and turning to leave once more. “Do remember to have a little fun sometime, Wyll. Happiness isn’t deadly, you know.”

Wyll leaned back, taking a moment to look up at the stars. He wasn’t unhappy, not entirely. But if even Astarion was trying to cheer him up then maybe he should at least make more of an effort.

The sounds of the party grew louder again, the bard starting a new bawdy tune, with the crowd clapping along.

Later. An effort can be made later, when it is a bit calmer. He reasoned to himself. Plenty of night left.

—

Dammon’s footsteps were so soft that Wyll barely noticed the Tiefling approach until he was standing right next to him.

“Do you know what they mean?” The blacksmith asked quietly, gesturing above. “The stars, that is.”

“I have no idea,” Wyll laughed, the warmth of the wine making the corners of his mind just a little fuzzy around the edges now. “Do you?”

“They’re beautiful, I know that much.” Dammon turned to look down towards him, the sparkle and warmth in his expression not so dissimilar to the twinkling of the constellations above. “We can give them our own meanings, though, can’t we?”

“Then what meaning do you see up there, out in the dark?” He couldn’t help the curiosity, and the blacksmith’s presence alone felt somehow calming.

“Freedom.” Dammon replied simply, a hint of something deeper behind bright eyes. “To be out here, looking up at the stars - it means we’re still alive. And that we’re no longer trapped in Avernus.”

“We’ll get you all to the city, somehow.” Wyll felt the need to reassure him, noticing the edge of fear between calm words.

“We should be able to make it most of the way.” A new voice joined them, as Zevlor strode into view. “So this is where the man of the hour had disappeared?”

“It is quieter here, at least.” Dammon reached into the pocket of his apron, pulling out some small pinkish red flowers, similar to daisies but with a deep orange centre of pollen, the petals curling back a little. “These make a nice addition, if you don’t mind?”

“Please, go ahead.” Wyll shrugged, accepting his fate to become a walking bouquet, but not averse to the gentle nature of the Tiefling threading them into the back of his locs with care.

“A fitting choice,” Zevlor hummed, nodding his approval.

“Our Blade needs to remember that the same sword that cuts flesh can also slice a cake.” Dammon stood back, looking to be in deeper thought for a moment. “I hope someday that’s all you’ll need it for, and that I can go back to making tools and decorations, rather than instruments of war.”

“Your steel has been a great help to all of us.” The old warrior patted his shoulder kindly. “Go and check on the young ones, won’t you? They’ve been giggling to themselves a little too much for comfort. I need to rest my old bones a while, and that looks like as good a place as any.”

“I’m not sure I can keep that lot out of trouble, but maybe I can distract them for a minute or three.” Dammon gave Wyll a short bow, his tail raising behind him as part of the gesture. “Take care of yourself, my friend. I hope we meet again soon.”

“You, too.” Wyll replied, a little lost for words for a moment as he considered how easily, and sincerely, Dammon had called him friend.

“Good fortune is hard to come by, but serendipity found us with both of you.” Zevlor mused, watching the blacksmith leave before taking a seat next to Wyll.

“Serendipity? It feels more like one long nightmare to me.”

“I know nightmares. Mine are filled with my mistakes…” The old warrior softened, the edge of pain carefully hidden again behind a kind sincerity. “You are no mistake, Wyll, nor are you a nightmare. Only a knight, and a fine one at that.”

“That might depend on who you ask.” He felt the old conflict in the shadows of his mind - the wish to live up to an impossible standard, and the fear that he had already lost that chance.

“We’re the only two on this log - and of the two of us, you’re far more worthy of the title.” Zevlor laid a hand on his back for a moment, careful to avoid the vines and flowers, a gesture akin to a proud parent. “You will find your way, in time. Ah, and of course there is this.”

“Not you as well…” Wyll sighed with half a smile as the paladin pulled out a single beautiful violet flower. Three larger petals on the outside - with dark veins, a white band, and a yellow centre - surrounded narrower violet and white striped petals in the centre.

“I’m afraid so. If you’ll allow an old man to be nostalgic for just a moment, I’ve always been fond of these.” The tiefling fixed the stem to Wyll’s shirt over his heart with a small pin. “They suit you perfectly.”

“You make it too hard to argue.” He looked down at the new addition to his outfit, a question tugging at the back of his mind. “Do they mean something to you?”

“A simple flower can mean a lot.” Zevlor smiled, a far off look returning to his eyes again. “But I think perhaps you should make them mean something to you.”

Wyll touched the edge of the petal with a careful thumb, thinking over for a while what a blossom might mean beyond just something pretty to look at.

The two sat quietly for a while together, sharing a bit more of the wine and enjoying the sounds of their friends having a much louder gathering in the centre of camp. The laughter, cheers, and even the sounds of pointless arguments between friends who didn’t mean a word of insults thrown with drunken vigour - it was a comfort just to be near.

“It has been a pleasure, Wyll. I should go and make sure that everyone stays in one piece until morning at least. Should our paths cross again, I would consider us to be more than fortunate.” Zevlor groaned quietly as he stood up with a stretch. “Perhaps it would be even more fortunate should we meet again somewhere with comfortable seats.”

“I’d settle for a rickety bed at this point.” Wyll complained with a smile.

—

It was a little longer before the next visitor arrived to Wyll’s little corner of serenity. “Lae’zel? I didn’t expect you to drop by”

“Tchk. Expectation would mean being predictable. A swift way to earn defeat.” She admonished him for his words, but not unkindly. A hint of playfulness flickered across her eyes. “I hear we are to pay tribute. With these.”

“Is everyone in on this?” He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as if trying to work out who had come up with this devious plot. Not that he was going to complain; it felt rare for the Gith before him to make such a gesture, and he had no intention of insulting someone who wielded a sword that large without breaking a sweat.

“Perhaps. I was intrigued. Is this a usual custom?” Lae’zel came closer, carrying several long stems with a ball of tiny blossoms at the top of each. The smell of onions was strong which he quickly realised were from the flowers themselves.

“These are…unusual?” He stayed still as she threaded them through the vines on his shoulder, like a decorative pauldron of petals.

“And what exactly is usual?” She hissed, though without any malice in her meaning. “Should we not be celebrating? There is strength in knowing what you’ve won…and enjoying it.”

Wyll shifted slightly as he caught her eye and the hint in her words, a little unsure of what to do with it. “Hard to join the party when I look like this. Like a monster.”

Lae’zel laughed, her face breaking into a genuine and wide smile of amusement. “This? These horns, a few scars and ridges? Your horns are weapons, should you need them, and scars proof you are alive. That’s no bother to me, no more so than the fleshy noses and small ears of your kin.” She peered closely at his face for a moment, a little too closely. “As long as there are no ghaik tentacles, you are just fine.”

“Well, that’s…reassuring?” The smell of the flowers was clearer now they were so close, but he found himself not minding the unusual scent. It was interesting to learn more about what his companions liked, and to a degree how they saw him.

“They suit you.” She stepped back, nodding firmly with her choice. “Come and find me later, if you want to share a fresh bottle.” She indicated the empty wine by his feet, long since emptied with Zevlor’s help.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He gave an appreciative nod as she turned and walked back to the main celebration, seemingly satisfied with the brief conversation.

—

“Would you like to see a magic trick?” Gale’s smile was wide as the great Wizard of Waterdeep stood in front of Wyll dramatically, cheeks a little flush from the evening’s events.

“Don’t tell me - there’s something up your sleeve? Behind my ear?” He teased, already checking behind his head just in case.

Gale rolled up his sleeves with more performative flair, demonstrating there was nothing there. “Not at all, my dear warlock! That would be far too derivative and predictable, so no, far be it from me to bore you with those old parlour tricks.”

“You do remember I know magic as well, don’t you?” Wyll smiled, still wondering where this was going, but entertained nonetheless.

“Well, yes. But do you know…THIS!” Gale’s hands moved in the quick gestures of prestidigitation that Wyll knew well, the faint hum of an old melody singing through the Weave around them as the Wizard looked perplexed. “No, wait, that’s not right…it was…THIS!” A rather crude symbol appeared on Gale’s own forehead this time.

He stifled a laugh, as best as he could. “Are you sure that’s what you-”

“No, no… No idea what that just did, but I’ve got it this time!” The third casting produced a shimmering blossom in the Wizard’s fingers, the illusion sparking around the edges with the frayed Weave pulled into shape by his drunken spell. “There. This will do just perfectly.”

The rich pink petals were soft and layered on each bud, open and closely packed around the stem. Wyll took it and fixed it to one of the few remaining spaces on his outfit carefully, hoping the magic might stabilise a little more. “But this one is an illusion, it’ll only last an hour, won’t it?”

“Well, that’s the beauty of all flowers, is it not? Are they any less beautiful just because you know they’ll be gone in a few days? Are the petals less bright because they’ll wilt?” He wasn’t sure if Gale was still talking just about the plant any more, as his smile slipped for just a moment into a far off look. “Personally, I think they’re more special because we only have them for such a short time. We treasure them whilst they’re there, make the most of every moment we have to admire their beauty, burning them into our memory where they can never truly wilt.”

“I must admit, I’ve never thought of it like that.” He found himself a little lost for words, fingers lingering on the edge of soft petals.

“Well, it would also be a shame for them to be all gone before the night is over, so I did bring some real ones too.” The spectral form of Mage Hand floated out from where it had been hidden behind the wizard, carrying three more of the same flowers in a small bouquet of pale pink, rich magenta, and a vivid violet.

“You are full of surprises, Gale of Waterdeep.” Wyll couldn’t quite hide the genuine astonishment at the gesture.

“I told you so.” The wizard winked. “I dare say there’s plenty to all of us that we don’t yet know - some more than others, of course - but that’s where the fun is. Although, it really is more fun out there, with all of our companions and their secrets. Who knows what Shadowheart might let slip if we give her just a bit more wine!”

“Soon.” Wyll nodded. “I just need a little more time, if that’s alright.”

“I shan’t force you.” Gale smiled, leaning down a moment to straighten the magical flower, the magic symbol still on his forehead. Wyll contemplated telling him, knowing the spell would last an hour if not erased, but truthfully he didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Thank you for allowing a humble wizard to entertain you for a while, at least.”

It was hard not to laugh again at the bow and flourish that followed his parting words, but perhaps it was intentional after all? Well, he thought, someone’s going to tell him soon enough.

—

Sure enough, the laughter from the camp - and the indignant cry of mock-injured pride that - followed it carried clearly on the night air.

“You could have told him.” Halsin chided gently, sitting comfortably on the log beside Wyll.

“And deprive everyone of the fun?” He replied, a hint of a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“You sound brighter than you did earlier - and you look it, too.” Halsin gestured to the array of flowers adorning Wyll’s body and outfit.

The look brought forth a question, one that had been playing on the back of his mind for a while now. “Did you put them up to this, Halsin? Turning me into a walking bouquet?”

“Don’t you think I am a bit old for pulling pranks?” The druid smiled warmly, his deep voice just as welcoming and soft.

Wyll nudged the large elf gently with his elbow. “You’re only as old as you feel, or so they say.”

A low laugh bubbled up with the response, still neatly evading the question. “In that case, I must be older than the Oakfather himself!”

“He’s preserved you well.” The wine brought the words forth without much more thought beyond how the moon lit the druid’s admittedly handsome face. “Sorry, what I meant to ask was why? Why has everyone been so insistent on giving me flowers?”

“The children started it, I believe, when they decided to cheer you up with some games. They remember you looking out for them in the Grove, standing up for them, telling them all sorts of stories in the short time you were there.” Halsin began. “Did you know that ivy is known to represent loyalty? One of your many strengths. A fine choice.”

“Plants have meanings now?” Wyll looked across the array of leaves and petals again, already wondering what they might be.

“They do, and they always have.” The druid pointed to the first, the one Karlach had plucked from nearby. “This one here, Cypripedium, the Lady’s Slipper Orchid. It means protection against curses, hexes, and malevolent spells.”

“Isn’t that ironic? That something that looks so devilish is meant to be protective against them?” Even the petals looked like the curling horns of an infernal beast…

“Are your horns, or Karlach’s, or even Zevlor’s, are any of them a mark of true evil? There is more to nature than what is on the surface.” Halsin reminded him of how Karlach had spoken, how there really was no match between her hellish traits and the boundless positivity and kindness that radiated even brighter than her mechanical heart.

“Then what of this one? Shadowheart told me it carries deadly poison, hiding behind the pretty appearance.” Wyll was careful not to touch the flower that the cleric had carefully bestowed on him, just in case.

“Fitting for her, isn’t it? Look at the layers. A beautiful flower, hiding deadly poison, almost the opposite of your devil horned orchid. Aconitum Napellus, monkshood. To some it might mean misanthropy or treachery-”

“That’s hardly a comforting thought.” A slight shiver chilled his spine, fears yet to ease until Halsin continued.

“But to others, it represents chivalry and knights who stand against those principles.”

“I wonder which she will turn out to be…” Wyll wondered aloud.

“No doubt your influence may be of help there.” Halsin patted his shoulder gently, cautious to avoid the various carefully woven plants. “Similar to Astarion, perhaps - those ones were his, were they not?”

The warlock looked to the delicate white flowers, placed carefully and deliberately to balance the aesthetic like a florist arranging a bouquet. Quite unlike how some of the others had simply found a space to add their own offerings. “They remind me of stars.”

“As well they should, they’re often called the starflower. Ornithogalum umbellatum, they represent trauma, mourning, but more importantly welcoming pain without repressing it.” Halsin’s voice grew quiet for a moment, dropping to almost a whisper. “I cannot tell you if they are more for you or for himself, but it wouldn’t harm you to work through everything that troubles you, unlike the man who hides it all behind an easy smile.”

“That’s not a very comforting thought.” Wyll felt a pang of that pain sting at his heart like a thorn. There was a lot he still needed to mourn, and that was no secret. And they had all witnessed… He wasn’t quite ready to think about that just yet. “Please tell me that at least Dammon’s isn’t so depressing?”

“The starflower is still beautiful despite the pain, and perhaps it is more symbolic that Astarion trusted you with something so personal…but the blacksmith’s gift was far more positive, much like the giver.” The druid’s voice grew a note more hopeful again, along with his words. “Echinacea, the coneflower. It represents a spiritual warrior and a shield, and the blossom is also well renowned for its healing properties. It represents protection as much as strength.”

“Almost like he gave me a shield…”

“Your well-being is important to your friends, Wyll, you would do well to keep that in mind before you make any risky decisions.” Halsin seemed to be looking right through his eye in that moment, past the flame-tinted iris, and speaking directly to his heart. “Zevlor, too, his gift is one of protection. The Iris may have a simple name, but the meaning is layered. There are some who see it only as hope, valour and victory, but it may also represent pain, wisdom, and protection from evil spirits.”

“A gift as complex as the one who gave it,” Wyll smiled. “I can think of none better from a paladin of his experience.”

“And I am certain he would be grateful you called it experience instead of age.” The druid smiled and pointed to the next flowers, the faint smell still clear in the night air. “Lae’zel chose an interesting one for you, Allium, the same plant as the onion in your stew.”

“That explains the aroma.” He had to admit it was surprising for a beautiful flower to have such a strange scent, but it was beginning to grow on him as the night wore on.

“The interpretation is fitting too. Mostly referred to as simply strength, those little blossoms are also nature’s way of saying you’re elegant, you’re perfect. You do not have to be a rose to be admired by those who appreciate you.”

“That is…surprising.” Wyll considered the words, wondering if she knew all of those meanings when the gift was presented.

“I should say that your companion is more surprising than you give her credit for, too.” Halsin winked, the meaning behind it completely lost on the warlock who was already looking at the next flowers.

The last ones to be given, one magical, and three more entirely natural. “Gale already talked more about these a little, though I couldn’t tell you if that was anything accurate or just the wine making its what into his thoughts.”

“Those come from the same family as the humble cabbage.” Halsin began, already hinting a little of his own interpretation in the origin. “Matthiola incana, to give it the proper name, quite simply represents lasting beauty. His way of saying you'll always be beautiful to me.”

Wyll felt the blush rise to his cheeks, each and every person who had visited him had given him something quite wonderful and filled with meaning. Whether they knew it or not, they had covered him head to toe in affirmation, validation, and a warm feeling of acceptance that threatened to sting at his eye with tears…he could probably blame that one on the onion, at least.

“There is one more.” Halsin held out his palm, a small seed growing in his hand and rising to a tall stem with a cone of tiny pink flowers. “Epilobium angustifolium, fireweed. I think this one most fitting for you. Bravery and humanity, Wyll, qualities that you embody entirely.” The druid fixed the flower front and centre, before standing up and offering a hand.

“I’m not sure…” Wyll hesitated still. The party was still loud, and he felt almost a fool to walk in there as a living bouquet. Reluctantly he stood, careful not to let a single petal fall to the ground.

“Just for one song?” Halsin offered hopefully. “Although you may find yourself hard pressed to leave after one alone… You will not find yourself lacking in dance partners.” --- ---

ENDING NOTES --- ---

This was a lovely prompt to work on, so I'd like to add in the flowers for you here at the end so you have a better idea of how they look.

Please keep in mind that many of these flowers might be pretty but are actually poisonous. There are poison cures in BG3, magic, potions, and resistances. We don't have those in real life! Please do not pick, touch, eat, or even sniff any flowers that you are not certain are safe. This is also just general life advice!

Karlach's Flower - Cypridedium, the Lady’s Slipper Orchid.

Shadowheart's Flower - Aconitum Napellus, Monkshood

Astarion's Flower - Ornithogalum umbellatum, Starflower

Dammon's Flower - Echinacea, Coneflower

Zevlor's Flower - Iris, Iris

Lae'zel's Flower - Allium, Onion

Gale's Flower - Matthiola Incana, Cabbage

Halsin's Flower - Epilobium angustifolium, Fireweed

Ok and that's your floral lesson for the day! I hope you enjoyed my entry to Wyll Week - please do go and give all the other creations over on @lovewyll and on the tags some love, there are some absolutely beautiful pieces that deserve to be shared and seen~

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shenrickyz · 29 days

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UNKNOWN

5 times seojun makes sure to look after jisung, and 1 time jisung returns the favor

FEATURING ᝢ kang seojun, park jisung, & nct dream ensemble. WARNINGS ᝢ 5+1 things, mentions of mark's graduation, overworking, and implications of depression. WORD COUNT ᝢ 9k NOTES ᝢ okay okay so HIII!! first of all, this is for the biggest seoji fan ever aka @junjiie, also my bsf ever jj we all love you ☹️💟 second of all, this doesn't even scratch the surface when it comes to seoji, their dynamic is so intricate that i can't even to explain them bc i'll go crazy and start sobbing uncontrollably from how much i love them 😭😭 third, yes this is a 5+1 thing, going back to my ao3 roots and shit, you will never know the name of my account btw..🙁 just know there were a lot of weak hero things on there, i miss ao3 (i got locked out of my account), anyway, yeah this is a very experimental i wrote through many many all nighters and many iced coffees, but now it's done, seojun might be one of my fav nct ocs sorry zixin & niko 💗 seojun cutest person ever wbk!! okay bye bye dont crucify me pls 🙏

one

jisung is on one of his nightly walks again.

nightly walks around the dorm that is, he isn't about to go outside at one in the morning, one; because renjun would definitely kill him if he ever found, and two; he doesn't need fresh air right now.

jisung finds his own body confusing, he's tired, but can't sleep. the ground is practically stabbing his feet, but he's already walked seven circles around the couch in this short amount of time. he feels out of it, he craves something, not food, he's not hungry, he's not thirsty either, he doesn't know exactly he feels. he's sleepless, yeah, but sleep probably won't do the trick.

thoughts are rampant in jisung's mind, many thoughts. the fucking comeback, the hours of practice he's gonna subject himself to, the hours of recording they'll have to endure, the hours he's spent without even eating, how is he still alive? he might collapse onto the floor in this very moment and sleep just like that.

but instead of that, jisung (or his feet, he guesses) has other plans. he stops his tenth lap around the couch and beelines towards seojun's room, those thoughts still rampant in his mind as he starts his way there.

seojun always pulls all-nighters, he truly only needs 3 hours of sleep to thrive in this world (his words, not jisung's). the other doesn't really get how that's healthy, considering seojun's a dancer, and he's constantly up 24/7, sleep should one of his top priorities, jisung doesn't understand how he never gets tired, but he guesses the constant need to be doing something is a huge factor.

the light in his room is on, jisung can see from the crack under the door, and even if it wasn't on, seojun is always awake. he lightly twists the doorknob, peaking his head through the opened door.

seojun is, of course, doing like three things at once. he's cleaning his glasses, has a book open, and is singing along to a song playing in his mind. when he hears the door open, he glances up, smiling at the sight of his fellow 02 liner. "hi, what's up?"

jisung pauses, holding the door with his shoulder so he can use his right hand to scratch his arm, he shrugs, licking his lips. "can't sleep" he says easily, and seojun just hums, sitting up.

he doesn't say any more, patting the spot beside him on his bed, beckoning for jisung to sit with him. the younger doesn't think twice before closing the door behind him (gently though, because hikari has issues with noise). the moment he sits himself down with seojun, he feels comfortable, cozy.

"why'd you come to my room?"

"you were the only one awake".

a lie, a pretty obvious one too. jisung knows hikari is also awake, he usually gets plagued with sleeplessness when comeback preparations roll around. jisung doesn't really know why he lied, it's not like seojun would reprimand him or anything.

seojun doesn't need to know it was a lie, though.

"mmh" seojun looks back to his glasses, putting the napkin back in the case. "why can't you sleep, ji?" he asks, glancing down at the book he'd previously been reading.

jisung glances down as well, eyes focusing on seojun's bracelet. "i don't know.." he mutters, beginning to fiddle with seojun's blanket, his nose scrunched as he takes in a deep breath. "just thinking, i guess".

"ah" seojun puts on his glasses and shakes his head. jisung always thought seojun looked exceptionally pretty like this— not that seojun isn't usually exceptionally pretty, jisung just thinks he looks so good in this current state. somewhat messy hair, reading glasses on, no makeup, just.. seojun. "so what? you want me to read you a story or something?"

"no i just.." jisung pauses, scouring his mind for the right words to say. seojun's eyes go back and forth, between the younger and pages on the book before him. "i'm just— i'm thinking too much, i need to just sit down and be fine".

jisung doesn't really think the words make sense, but seojun gets it, and jisung can see that he does with the way his eyes soften. "so you just want to sit in silence?" he asks, fingers caressing the cover of the book in his hands. jisung's eyes follow seojun's fingers, humming lightly.

"not really.. can we just talk?"

"about what?"

jisung groans, covering his face with his hands. "i don't know just.. stuff" anything to distract him from his irritating thoughts, he doesn't want to think about the comeback, or the performance, or sm, or anything pertaining to that, he just wants to talk about stupid shit, talking with seojun will relax his mind. "just don't be quiet".

"well lucky for you, park, i'm a professional loud mouth".

oh do i know.

jisung makes himself comfortable, lying his head down on one of seojun's many pillows. the older simply smiles down at him, glancing back at his book and only skimming the page before turning it. "what's keeping you up tonight?"

"comeback thoughts" jisung answers immediately, getting only a small hum from the older. "i don't know, i'm nervous, anxious, worried that i'll slip up and put the whole group in jeopardy?"

his tone is questioning, like he's even confused on why he's having such thoughts, but seojun doesn't reply. the silence isn't a taunting silence, one where jisung can tell seojun is making fun of him in his mind, it's more of a silence of solace, jisung likes how the air in the room feels, his thoughts aren't yelling at him right now, they're silent, they don't bother him. "is that weird?"

"it's weird that you think you'll ever mess up" the park almost rolls his eyes at the kang's words, but he doesn't interrupt him. "you're an amazing member, jisung, you're talented, you never slip up, and you'd never bring down the group".

"you're just saying that to make me feel better.."

"i say it all the time, though" seojun adds, and jisung has to admit, he is right, but he wants to remain stubborn, wants to ignore his reddening cheeks. "and i mean it, ji, don't ever think about yourself like that, you're important, and everyone thinks so".

the words make jisung pause, he doesn't have an immediate answer for them. seojun is just so good at doing that, making him speechless. it's not like what he said was new or revolutionary, seojun says shit like this all the time, it's just something about him, not exactly his words.

seojun makes jisung feel things he can't explain.

jisung's silence doesn't bug the older, who just takes his hand, intertwining their fingers. "you— we'll be fine".

"we always are, aren't we?"

at the words, seojun snickers, unconsciously tightening his hold on jisung's hand. "yeah, we always are".

two

these days, jisung is easily tired.

maybe it's just the back to back promotions, having to learn five new choreographies and master them so he doesn't make a mistake on stage, so he doesn't upset any of the members. they're all having a rough time as well, he can't even begin to imagine how mark and donghyuck feel, knowing they have to do these promotions and also prepare for their upcoming 127 comeback (and apparently with a song they hate too, donghyuck is not a fan of sticker).

jisung just chalks up his exhaustion to the many hours he trudges around the practice room, doing the same dance seventeen times with minimal breaks, no sleep, then waking up and having to repeat the next day.

and jisung thinks it'll all be fine, because he has never actually ever been behind. if he has to force himself to learn a new choreography, he will, he doesn't care if one of his legs falls off, by the time jisung is seventy, he's probably still gonna be dancing himself to death.

so here jisung is, trying his best to keep his eyes open as he stares out the window of the van. it's way too late, schedules took way too long today, jisung just can't wait to get home, to lie down on his bed, and let the sleep take him away.

but for now, he's awake, wide awake. he's not exactly sure why he's keeping himself awake, some dumb reason he can't explain through the fatigue plaguing his own body. it's not like no one else is asleep, chenle dozed off forty five minutes ago, hikari and jeno are both gone, laying their heads on each other. it looks like sleep is about to take jaemin away pretty soon, renjun is silently sleeping in the seat in front of them, whilst mark and haechan are watching stupid videos, tired, but not tired as if they're about to sleep.

and seojun, seojun is wide awake.

seojun is always wide awake, jisung can never get it. seojun is one of the youngest members, and young people need sleep (that's what everyone says, at least), but every time jisung looks at seojun, he's awake. jisung doesn't know the last time he's seen seojun sleep— of course he sleeps, but jisung hasn't seen him doze off in a long time, the older must be an owl or something.

jisung finally stops looking out of the window, glancing over at seojun beside him. he takes his time observing the older. seojun is listening to music, a cnblue song, jisung can hear it faintly from his headphones. he lightly chuckles at the fact, and it seems that seojun hears him, removing one of his headphones. "did you say something?"

jisung suddenly startles, shaking his head through the tiredness attacking his body. "no i just.. nothing i said nothing".

seojun blinks, humming. he turns off his headphones, taking them off. "why aren't you sleeping?"

the question puzzles jisung. "what do you mean?"

"you're tired".

it's not a question, the words that escape seojun's lips are a remark, a statement. he isn't asking jisung if he's tired, if he wants to sleep, he's telling jisung that he's tired.

"that's funny" jisung replies, it's not surprising for seojun to have predicted this, it's obvious that he's tired, there are clear bags under his eyes, he can barely speak above a whisper, and he keeps having to pick himself up when his head starts slipping down, beckoning him to such a desirable slumber. "you just.. know?"

"it's pretty obvious" seojun responds, he doesn't display any kind of exhaustion, something that is absolutely stunning to jisung. seojun should be knocked out cold, he always does so much, but he never seems to ever be tired, he has to be some sort of superhuman, how does he survive without sleep? jisung will never know. "and i know you".

jisung could never disagree with that. sometimes, he thinks seojun might be a mind reader. he always knows when it comes to jisung, he can pick apart the smallest things, notice the smallest differences, and can somehow always know what he's thinking. on certain occasions, it freaks out jisung, just how much seojun knows, but on most occasions, it just confuses jisung.

"yeah, you know me so well.." jisung mutters, his tone is meant to come off as sarcastic, but seojun clearly can't notice because of how low he says it. he looks down at his feet, bumping them together.

"you should sleep".

jisung disagrees, he doesn't know why, he just wants to stay awake, staying awake is what he wants to do. "i'm not.. sleepy".

"you're a terrible liar" seojun chuckles, merely glancing at his phone before focusing all of his attention on the maknae. "you can sleep, you know, i'll wake you up when we get back".

"i don't wanna sleep".

"yes you do".

"no i don't".

"you do".

"i don't".

this childish back and forth comes out of nowhere, and it goes on for much longer than it should. it's nothing serious, playful bantering like this between the two has always been prominent in their relationship, arguing over stupid things has always been a them thing to do.

"will you stop fighting me on this?" seojun asks, his voice softening. "there's nothing wrong with sleeping, why don't you want to?"

"if i sleep, i'll sleep for too long".

seojun raises an eyebrow, clicking his tongue (a habit which makes jisung's stomach flip in ways that are so strange), a small hum leaves his lips and he leans back in his seat. "why's that a bad thing?"

"because i have to wake up early tomorrow to get extra practice in".

seojun laughs again, his laughter is a pretty harmony, one jisung loves witnessing. he doesn't mean to focus on it so much, the curve of seojun's mouth that is, but he does, he can't stop himself.

he feels himself get flicked in the head by the older, and a small yelp escapes his lips. "you dummy, that's really what your worried about?"

"dummy? you could at least not insult me.." jisung frowns, rubbing his forehead as he reels from the flick from seojun.

"seriously jisung, you need sleep".

jisung scoffs. "that's ironic for you to say" his words make seojun snort, he can't disagree with that. he's much too lively at a time like this, after the day they had, seojun still finds time to be awake, even while most of the members let their exhaustion take them away to dreamland. "you never sleep".

"this isn't about me, though" classic seojun, deflecting from anything pertaining to him and focusing on jisung. "it's alright if you sleep, i'll make sure to wake you up for your early practice".

the words come out in a joking way, but jisung knows seojun is serious when he says them, he just knows seojun, he knows how he is. seojun is always going to look after him, no matter how stubborn jisung tries to be, the older will never truly let him. taking care of him is his thing, jisung thinks the other will be looking after him until he dies.

and he wouldn't really mind it anyway.

"i—"

"jisung" seojun grits his teeth, the tone is a warning, the kind of tone mark uses with the group when they're acting like idiots. jisung thinks it's so weird when seojun talks like this, because energetic, childish, outgoing seojun should never be sporting a tone like this. "don't argue with me, you need to sleep, i'll wake you up, you know it".

i do. but jisung doesn't say that, he just lets out a tired chuckle, shaking his head. "you're so assertive.." he mutters, scooting closer and leaning his head down onto seojun's shoulder.

"anything to make sure you get sleep" seojun carts his hand through jisung's hair, an easier way to coax him to sleep, but jisung doesn't think it was on purpose, just seojun being seojun. "i'll wake you up tomorrow, and when we get back".

he doesn't need to reiterate his words for jisung to know, seojun is always going to take care of him, making sure everything is going okay with him. "uh huh, thanks".

though jisung says those words with a tone of mild irritation, he doesn't mean it.

and seojun knows, because he always knows.

three

"hyung have you seen my—oh.."

jisung can't even focus on what he's looking for anymore, because he walks into the kitchen turned bakery and experiences a type of whiplash he doesn't think could ever be replicated. he's met with the immediate aroma of chocolate chips, cookies, cookies are being made. he stops in his tracks, because the sudden chocolate chips which litter his nose aren't the only surprise.

"oh hi jisungie!" jaemin exclaims, quickly taking jisung's attention away from everything else. "what were you looking for?" jisung feels like his mind has gone blank as he tries to figure out everything he needs to articulate right now.

"my uh.. my watch" he responds, but the watch is the furthest thing on his mind. "why are you all, baking?" he finally asks, catching the attention of his fellow members.

"were doing something nice for mark!" renjun exclaims, his words muffled, his mouth is full of something. "celebrating golden hours release!"

ah, that makes sense. jisung finds the gesture cute, how they're gathering together to do something nice for mark, he really is special to them. all of them. "oh, so you're making just cookies?" he asks, not knowing what to do, so he just stands awkwardly.

"no, were making brownies too".

"were trying to make brownies" jaemin corrects, making donghyuck whip his head back to glare at him. "you didn't even get the right cocoa powder for the recipe".

"okay and? the brownies will still be good it's not like mark will even notice!"

and just like that, the pair begin arguing. wow, how fitting for them. jisung is quick to tune out of their argument, instead walking around to the other side of the kitchen counter, making his way to a certain someone.

seojun had been quiet the whole time, which is, frankly, unusual. jisung notices immediately how focused he is on making sure the cookie dough and chocolate chips mix together perfectly, so focused that he doesn't even look up to greet jisung when the younger stands beside him.

"hello? earth to seojun?" jisung calls out, suddenly craving the older males attention. the kang finally looks up, but he doesn't pause his aggressive mixing, his arm continuing to do it's thing. "are you okay?"

"hm? yeah, why wouldn't i be?"

"well.. you're quiet" jisung immediately remarks, opting to tell seojun about his newfound observation instead of making small talk. "that's weird".

seojun snickers, poking jisung's cheek (a gesture which the younger pretends to be annoyed by). "i just need to make sure these cookies are perfect, i want mark hyung to like it.."

he pokes his tongue through his inner cheek, and jisung simply nods. he gets it, seojun's need to impress mark goes way back, all the way back to their trainee days, where an eleven year old seojun would do extra well in practice just to get better praises from mark. "he will, when have you ever disappointed him?"

jisung can't do the complimenting as well as seojun does, but at least they have the same affect, because seojun smiles. a small, cute stretch that highlights his pretty pink lips.

jisung has no idea why he's staring there anyway..

"you know what, you're right, i shouldn't be stressing so much about this, these are just baked treats at the end of the day".

"glad you can see that".

the pair go unnaturally silent, the chatter of their fellow members still prominent in their ears, but nothing else seemed to matter to the 02 liners. jisung doesn't break the silence, intertwining his finger with seojun's. seojun has pretty hands, is that weird of jisung to say? no, he doesn't think it is. the rings that litter his fingers fit him so well, a barrage of gold and silver metal that compliment him perfectly.

seojun, who also doesn't say anything, just takes the act of affection as it is. his lips part, as if he wants to say something, but he immediately closes them, staying silent. jisung doesn't try to force seojun to talk, seojun doesn't try to force jisung to talk, they just stand there with their fingers laced together, comfortable in the silence overtaking them.

then suddenly, the two of them engage in a high end staring content. at this point, everyone else seems to be absolutely useless, the only thing mattering in the moment being them and their little staring competition. jisung loses almost immediately, because he does the stupid thing and lets his eyes wander down towards seojun's lips, totally not purposefully of course!

seojun laughs at the direction his eyes go, and it makes jisung immediately look up, blinking at the older.

but before he can say anything, chenle's familiar pterodactyl screech sounds in their ears.

"SEOJUNIE! COME HELP ME PLEASE!"

the shout is enough to snap seojun and jisung out of their thing, and jisung's cheeks flare up immediately, he forgot everyone else was still here. seojun snaps out of his little daze much more naturally though, even with the red hue that tints his cheeks.

"coming!" seojun quickly looks back to jisung. "uh.. do this for me? please?" jisung could never really refuse, even if seojun was really just asking him to stir cookie dough and chocolate chips for him. "i'll pay you back".

"no no it's fine go help chenle" jisung whispers, not knowing if he could speak without his voice cracking. seojun smiles at him, a pretty smile, then quickly lets go of his bowl (and jisung's hand) to go and help the yelling chinese with whatever issue is plaguing him.

jisung takes over seojun's former job of stirring together cookie dough and chocolate chips whilst the older helps chenle with his issue. he listens to the continuous bickering of renjun and donghyuck, trying his best to ignore jaemin's knowing gaze, he feels it burning holes through the back of his head.

seojun isn't gone for too long, as he comes back giggling and ruffling chenle's hair. "thank you, jisungie" he whispers, quickly taking the bowl of now mixed cookie dough and chocolate chips away from the maknae.

"no problem" jisung politely smiles, not even looking seojun in the eye, but the older seems to find his awkwardness cute, because he pinches the younger's cheeks. "what was that about?"

"what? with chenle?"

no, the other thing. jisung is referring to their little staring contest, that random moment they had, where no one else seemed to matter, like it was just them in the room and nothing else was going on, but jisung doesn't want to ask about that while everyone else is still in the room. "yeah.. uh— with chenle".

seojun narrows his eyes, but just hums, beginning to shape the cookie dough so it can start baking. "chenle just couldn't reach for something, he needed my help".

"ah" jisung hums, chewing on his bottom lip as he averts eye contact with the older, who blinks at his sudden silence. "are all of these enough?" he abruptly asks, changing the subject, much to the dismay of seojun. "mark hyung won't ask for more?"

"if he does ask for more we'll just make more!" hikari shouts from another part of the room, answering jisung's question instead of seojun, who smiles, agreeing with his answer. "it won't be that hard".

jisung hums again, having no idea how to start up another conversation. "anything i can do to help?"

"you don't have to do much" seojun responds, finally turning away from the baking cookies and back to the maknae. "unless you want to be apart of haechan and jaemin hyungs argument about cocoa powder".

jisung snorts, humored by the suggestion. "no i think i'll pass.."

"speaking of jaemin hyung, did you find your watch yet?" seojun asks, and the realization suddenly dawns on jisung, he totally forgot that he was originally looking for his watch this whole entire time. "you haven't even tried to look for it?"

"i did! but then i got sidetracked by the baking and cookies and those two arguing over cocoa powder!"

seojun chuckles at jisung's response, cupping his face as he coos at the other. everything jisung does is cute, but everyone else thinks that as well!

it's just different when it's seojun..

"you're such an idiot, jisungie".

the nickname is stupid, but jisung loves when seojun says it (but he can't say that out loud, because the other members would pout about it all day). he doesn't mean to pick favorites, he just thinks seojun is extra adorable with the way he does things, and no that is not biased.

seojun continues shaking his head, sighing. "your watch is in my room".

jisung blinks, puzzled by the words. "my watch is in your— how did it even get there?"

"you tell me, i didn't even know it was there until like twenty minutes ago, you probably put it there and just don't remember".

"but that doesn't make sense i—"

"COOKIES ARE READY!"

jisung, again, gets cut off by a loud shout, and both 02 liners immediately whip their heads towards the second eldest, who jumps up happily at the sound of the oven dinging, indicating that the cookies were ready. "jeez, why is everyone yelling today?"

seojun snickers at the comment, head still turned away from jisung. "they have to combat the other shouting hyungs somehow" he mutters, patting jisung on the shoulder before going to hikari's side, helping him with the cookies.

once they're placed onto the kitchen counter, an immediate argument starts between renjun and donghyuck, who are talking about uneven chocolate chips or something. jaemin is begging hikari to try a cookie, but the older doesn't give into his demands, and it seems that he's working a double shift, because he's making sure to slap chenle's approaching hand away each time it gets closer to the plate. jeno, on the other hand, is just standing by, helping his bo— hikari by also shooing chenle away from the batch of cookies.

jisung is just staying silent, standing by as his members get up to their own things. seojun, again, comes back to his former spot beside him. the older doesn't say anything, just reaches for jisung's hand and laces their fingers together. "what?"

"what?"

"why the sudden hand holding?"

"we were doing this before.." seojun mutters, and jisung doesn't try to shake his grip off or anything, just allows for seojun to intertwine their fingers. he smiles lightly at the fact, a smile that doesn't go unnoticed by seojun. "you like holding my hand".

"don't get too cocky".

jisung allows for his eyes to cast towards the plate of cookies on the table, and seojun notices right away, because of course seojun notices right away. "what? you want one?"

confusion colors jisung's face, and he shakes his head. "i mean yeah but hii would never let m—"

seojun doesn't wait for him to finish, grabbing a cookie from the plate and handing it over to jisung. "he's occupied with jeno hyung, he won't mind".

"but what about mark hyung?"

seojun snickers, taking jisung's hand and putting the cookie in it. "he won't mind, i'm making an exception for you, everyone will get it" jisung wants to protest, but he can't, because who is he to turn down the lovely seojun's lovely offer?

"don't worry, i'll cover for you if hii or injunie ever finds out" seojun whispers, giving a short glance to the older members in the room before raising his pinkie towards jisung's. jisung uses his free hand to take his pinkie and intertwine it with his. "pinkie swear".

jisung laughs, even if there is a cookie in his mouth. though he can't respond, seojun gets what he means, smiling lightly at him.

four

"are you going for an insomniac world record or something?"

the question makes jisung snap out of his little late night daze, and the moment he catches sight of seojun, a tired smile makes its way to his lips. the older comes up to the couch and ruffles his hair, an equally tired smile on his lips as he then turns away to go get himself some water. "i'm not an insomniac, sleeping is just becoming difficult these days".

"anything in particular keeping you up?"

jisung pauses, taking a yawn. of course there's a lot keeping him up, the groups future, mark's graduation, other upcoming graduations, what all of that means for the group in general, his role as a member of the group, but he doesn't say all of that, just hums as a response to seojun's question. "a lot".

"don't wanna elaborate?"

"not now".

the older 02 liner makes his way around the couch, throwing jisung's legs off to make space for himself. the younger groans, but ultimately allows seojun to do so, as the younger quickly takes his place on the couch. "don't whine you big baby".

jisung frowns, but ultimately lets his legs fall off the couch. he enjoys seojun's company, he doesn't want the older to leave. he likes that he's here. "i'm not whining, just annoyed that you made me move".

"you can always just kick me off the couch" yeah, jisung can, but that doesn't mean he will. he feels much more relaxed with the older there. he would never make seojun leave a room, he enjoys being around him.

"yeah.." jisung mutters. he's bored, overwhelmed with thoughts, and he feels like everything is going wrong. "but i'm lazy" he answers quickly, a good excuse, seojun won't suspect a thing.

the older hums, silent. he observes jisung for a moment, eyes scanning his body, he pauses for a moment, fingers picking at a spot on the couch, and then he stands up, sighing. "get up".

surprise colors jisung's face. "what?"

"up, i'm gonna give you a massage".

jisung blinks, completely puzzled about what the hell seojun must've picked up on. "a massage? why do you want to give me a.."

"your posture's gonna go to shit if i don't" jisung picks up on the uncharacteristic swear, but he can't exactly argue with seojun. so, begrudgingly, the maknae sits up and sighs, he always ends up giving into seojun doesn't he?

"my posture is fine" jisung argues silently, lightly wincing as he feels seojun's thumbs make contact with his back. the older gives the younger a look of bewilderment. "what?"

"why did you even wince?"

"because.. your fingers are cold".

seojun chuckles at the response, starting off much more gently this time. "your shirt is that thin?"

jisung lets out a short breath, looking away from the older. "yes, it's also the middle of the night and everything that touches me feels cold, seojun".

"no need to be such a pessimist".

jisung yawns, closing his eyes as seojun kneads the muscles in his back. he has to admit, he is getting the slightest bit relaxed. "not pessimistic just tired".

seojun hums once again, a small smile coming to his that he doesn't allow jisung to see. "so what's bothering you?"

"hm?"

"what's bothering you? tell me" seojun responds immediately. "is it mark hyung?"

jisung's silence is enough of an answer to him. seojun makes an indescribable sound, then takes a deep breath. "you miss mark?"

"everyone misses mark" jisung finally opens his eyes. "it's not just mark it's.. everything, the group, the company, future promotions, the stupid graduation system, all i want is for us to be like how we were when we debuted but now mark hyung is gone and hii has all this added stress and.. i don't know what to do, it's all eating me up inside".

jisung then lets another wave of silence hit as he finishes his long spew of words. seojun doesn't respond immediately, taking in the words and thinking of a response, but jisung doesn't doubt seojun, because he always knows what he needs.

"i just want everything to be okay—"

"it will be" seojun cuts in, a weary escaping his lips as he pokes his tongue through his inner cheek. "it's important to remember that you can always come to me with things like this, it's alright to talk about how you feel and i just.. i don't want you to feel like your alone in these thoughts because you're not and.."

jisung hears seojun's voice break, and when he glances back at the older, he's looking somewhere else, fingers still gently kneading jisung's back as he tries his best to think of what to say next. "i don't know, it always feels hard to think clearly these days".

jisung's face falls, seojun doesn't disclose things like this, he'd rather die before ever crying in front of anyone. he bites his bottom lip, but seojun shakes off whatever he was previously thinking, lightly laughing to himself. "sorry i don't know where that came from".

"no no no it's fine it's good to talk about how you feel".

seojun snickers, humored. "well now you sound like me" he turns jisung's head back forward, being only the gentlest with him, of course. the older treats jisung as if he's a fragile piece of glass. "i know i'm usually jokey or whatever but.. i don't know i'm just worried for the future of the group, i don't know what i'm going to do after graduating".

jisung blinks. "what's that supposed to mean?"

seojun goes silent for a few moments, letting out a small sigh. "seorin and i were talking about it once, how following graduation i'd probably leave the group".

just the three words 'leave the group' are enough to make jisung's stomach drop, he feels like he's about to throw up just hearing them. seojun can't leave.. what would that be like? how would jisung fare well if seojun wasn't around?

"what do you mean leave?"

seojun sighs. "jisung—"

"you can't leave! you're not going anywhere, your— your staying" jisung doesn't ask, he states, all seojun can do is pause his little ministrations and try to calm down the youngest.

"jisung—"

"why did that conversation even come up?"

"because we were just talking and.." seojun hides his face behind his hands. "i don't know, i don't have much use after i graduate i'll just be tossed out by sm, it doesn't really matter what i do".

"yes it does" jisung presses, grabbing seojun's hands. "you're not leaving the group, i'm not going to let you".

seojun allows for himself to laugh. "you're not going to let me?"

"no, and chenle won't either, probably, you can't go it'll just—" jisung pauses, gathering his words. "it won't be the same without you".

seojun stays silent for a while, basking in the feeling of jisung's hand in his own and their breathing in the now soundless living room. "okay, i'm sorry i just.." he twirls a strand of hair between his finger. "i don't know, i was just in a bad spot when i brought that up, i'm just not feeling my greatest".

jisung frowns again, now upset that the older is upset. "it's really fine, if you want to talk about it we can.."

"no, we don't have to" seojun quickly dismisses, waving off jisung's words. the maknae narrows his eyes, a look of pity in them that he knows seojun hates more than anything. "just— let's finish with this stupid massage and get you to sleep".

"what about you?"

"what about me?"

right. jisung doesn't know what he should've expected, seojun putting himself first is one of the rarest sights he'll ever behold in his lifetime. he sighs lightly as the older continues with the gentle pressing of fingers into his back, slowly feeling himself get sleepy from the ministrations. "on another note, i'm pretty sure seorin hates me".

seojun giggles. "seorin does not hate you, she literally told me she likes you!"

"then she must've been lying cause i don't remember the last time she looked at me like she wanted me in the room".

seojun narrows his eyes at jisung, finding the statement about his sister hard to believe. "she'll warm up to you eventually".

jisung frowns, sending seojun an 'are you serious?' look. he often feels awkward around seorin, yeah she's nice and everything but she always glares daggers at jisung, he assumes it's all unintentional, but it doesn't stop him from being endlessly intimidated by her.

seojun can't believe the words escaping jisung's lips, because to him, seorin is probably the least intimidating person he knows, but he also knows her better than anyone else. "i hope that eventually is soon because i can't deal with feeling like your own twin sister hates me".

"she doesn't" seojun reassures once again, stopping his message and placing his chin on jisung's shoulders. "can't you trust me on this?"

jisung finally gets to look at seojun closer, though he rarely has to turn his head to get a good look at the older. "i always trust you" he whispers unconsciously, he originally meant to think that, but judging by seojun's reaction, he knows that he indeed did not think it, and he said it out loud.

if there's any sign of a red hue on seojun's face, he quickly shakes it away and clears his throat. "alright um— massage over, it's time to sleep".

seojun quickly moves away from jisung, whose silently confused about his change in behavior. "seojun?"

"hm?"

"can i uh.." jisung pauses, he doesn't stand up right away, feeling seojun poke his cheek and then pull it. "can i stay in your room tonight?"

seojun chuckles immediately, probably his fastest response to jisung this whole night. "of course, you didn't have to ask" jisung knows that, seojun would've even made the offer himself, that's just the way he is.

jisung just knows how seojun is, he's become very in tune with the older.

"okay come on, you need sleep".

and what else can jisung do but follow?

five

"it's cold".

if jisung knew having to promote in the middle of the december meant he'd be provided a sweater only half the time, he would've faked a sickness or something. don't get him wrong, all the songs are so fun to perform, but he was never truly on board with the whole winter special album thing, he likes performing in not so hot but not so cold temperatures. having to promote in the middle of december is not his thing, even with him being a winter baby himself.

he felt as if he wasn't made for the cold.

"you've been saying that for the past five minutes, we get it jisung-ah".

jisung gasps at the comment from jaemin, feigning offense at the words. he doesn't care if he has to repeat it another seven times, he will, it's unbearably cold in this waiting room, and jisung isn't wearing anything that covers his arms. of course he isn't the only one here without a sweater, hikari is currently on his phone, trying his best not to shudder, and jaemin seems to be happy in all of his sweater-less glory, probably because he gets to show off his arms or something.

"well as i will continue to say that! it's freezing in here!" jisung exclaims, a frown on his face as he earns nothing but a laugh from his fellow members. he crosses his arms, looking away from the rest of the group in fake anger. "i'm the maknae, you guys should be caring for me.."

"just ask noona for a sweater".

"i— she's busy i don't want to waste her time!" jisung is quick to yell, but he really just doesn't know how to approach her, he doesn't want to make anything awkward. he also just really hates asking for help, so he lets the goosebumps begin appearing on his skin, trying his best not to shiver in the freezing temperature of the room.

"then stop complaining if you won't ask" jisung snaps his head towards chenle, opening his mouth to make some snippy remark, but he's quickly cut off by the small sound of the door colliding with the wall. "we're back~!"

in walks mark and, of course, seojun, who are wearing joyous smiles on their faces, plastic bags in their hands. jisung hums at the sight of them, whilst donghyuck jumped up excitedly at the sight of the leader and second youngest. "did you get them!?"

mark sighs, pretending to be disappointed that the snacks they went to get are all donghyuck cares about. "yes, we got them, we got enough as well".

"we've been saved! thank you!"

jisung watches the members rush to get the snacks they so desperately begged the others for, he doesn't really want anything, he's not hungry at the moment. so now the members are gorging on their little treats, their hearts happy, thanks to mark and seojun. "you don't want anything?"

"hm? no, i'm fine" jisung responds quickly, but then he feels uncomfortable again, trying his best to keep calm in this terribly freezing room. "it's just so cold!"

mark raises an eyebrow. "you're cold?"

"what do you mean? it's very cold in here.." hikari chimes in, clearly shivering when he mutters those words. the leader, whose wearing a jacket, has no idea what kind of cold these two could even be feeling at the moment. "jisung's been professing that for the past hour".

"not the past hour! it's just.. very cold" jisung reiterates for pretty much the hundredth time that hour, trying his best to warm himself up by rubbing his hands together.

"you guys are cold? i'm hot" seojun comments, unzipping his sweater as he stares at his fellow 02 liner, who gives him a dumbfounded look, it seems that hikari also shares the sentiment jisung has in his head.

"that's cause you're weird! you never get cold!"

"well it's not cold!"

"it's never cold for you!"

jisung exchanges glances between the two nct sei members, humored by their small argument about the weird temperature physics regarding seojun's body. jisung finds seojun confusing, he's constantly energetic but never tired, constantly hot but never cold, what kind of a person is he?

"jeez your shivering.."

jisung flinches the moment seojun's finger graces his goosebump filled arm, his hands are always so cold, he thinks seojun might be a walking ice block, elsa's long lost cousin or something, he's always so cold, a clear contrast to his personality. "yeah i'm shivering! do you not the feel the below zero temperature in this room?"

"nope, your whining so much, you could at least take it like a champ like jaemin hyung".

jisung scoffs, wrapping his own arms around himself in other attempt to try and heat himself up manually. he gives a frown, and his fellow 02 liner does nothing but laugh at his display. "are you enjoying my misery, seojunie?"

"very much".

"of course you are" jisung crosses his arms, turning away from seojun with that same frown remaining on his face. he hears the kang chuckle again behind him, and a small shuffle he can't exactly explain.

it's not until jisung feels someone put something over his shoulder, that he realizes what happened.

seojun took off his sweater, and gave it to jisung.

the maknae immediately feels rebuttal, moving to take the sweater off but only feeling seojun's hand get placed on his shoulder. "don't even think about taking it off".

jisung sighs, shaking his head. "seojun i'm not wearing this.."

"you said you were cold, right? take the sweater" seojun doesn't seem to care, seeing that he looks virtually unaffected by the freezing temperature of the room. jisung's about to disagree again, and seojun can tell before he even opens his mouth.

"jun, i was just being overdramatic i don't actually—"

"jisung, stop being stubborn, your cold, i'll be fine" the older is quick to cut him off, shoving his hands into his pant pockets and humming along to a song playing in his head. it's that one paramore song he's been obsessed with since forever that jisung still doesn't know the name of.

jisung hesitates for a moment, registering the feeling of the sweater on his back. seojun just nudges him, a knowing look in his eye. finally, not wanting to be scolded any more for being stubborn, jisung puts on the sweater, the fabric smoothly slipping through his wrists and immediately making him feel comfortable. "uh.. seojun?"

seojun turns back to the maknae, smiling. "yes?"

jisung fidgets awkwardly, settling with the feeling of the fabric against his skin. "thank you" he says, just a little whisper that's meant to be kept between the two of them, jisung isn't sure why he whispers exactly, but he felt that in the specific moment, he couldn't control the volume of his voice.

seojun smiles at the words, his smile is beautiful, jisung thinks it compliments his features so well. "it's nothing, jisungie, you know i'm always here for you".

seojun doesn't have to say the words for jisung to know, his actions already speak loud enough to him. the maknae continues to fidget with his fingers, but he shares a smile with seojun, a small feeling of elation soaring through him.

jisung knows that, as long as seojun's around, he's always going to look after him.

and he doesn't mind it, really, he loves it, in fact.

+ one

jisung feels like he hasn't seen seojun all day.

he's seen the older maybe once or twice, but he hasn't exactly seen him. he feels like he hasn't heard him speak, or seen him smile, or heard him crack some stupid joke in years, jisung knows even the most energetic of people have their days, but seojun? seojun is mr. 'i don't care how tired i am i'm going to scream in your face all day', but seojun practically feels invisible today.

jisung knows seojun is tired, he knows seojun, he knows the older's constant all nighters would catch up to him eventually, but he feels like a ghost today, like he's just dragging himself around.

jisung is.. very worried.

"where's seojun?"

the first person to look up is hikari, who seems just as confused as jisung. hikari usually always knows where seojun is, but that's because the older seems to have some tracking device on him or something. he blinks for a moment, confusion coloring his face. "i don't know.."

"for once" jaemin snorts, and all the older does is glare at him, flicking him in the forehead. jaemin gives his best pitched up squeal at the collision, pouting as he rubs his forehead, but hikari pays him no mind, waving him off. "ow! you're so mean.."

"stop being stupid then".

jisung just stands there awkwardly, still having no answer to his question, he has to admit, he is starting to get a little bit weird, his leg bouncing up and down as his mind races with..thoughts. if seojun were here, right now that is, he'd talk with jisung about it, he'd run his hand up and down jisung's back comfortingly and do the seojun thing.

the seojun thing is what jisung calls the little mind reading powers seojun has. seojun is basically a master at everything jisung, he can tell what he's thinking, why he's thinking it, what he's about to say, and why he's about to say it. he thinks seojun knows him more than he knows himself sometimes, he's just so good at things pertaining to him.

"you're looking for seojunie?" renjun suddenly inquires, entering the room with his eyes pointed at his phone. at the sight of jisung's nod, the older gives a small frown, but jisung can't figure out why. "he's still practicing, i think".

jisung furrows his eyebrows, it is way too late for anyone to still be at sm. "at this time?" he questions, what the hell is he doing? he only earns a shrug from renjun, who is just as confused as he is.

"he said something about wanting to get extra practice in, it has been a while, though.."

that's all jisung needs to hear, he mutters a tiny "thank you" and goes back to his room to get his jacket, not focused on anything but seojun and his weird late night practicing. when hikari and jaemin interrogate him on where he's going, all he says is that he's going to check up on seojun, make sure he's okay. he pretends to have no idea why jaemin is staring the way he's staring, whatever that taunting look means.

jisung doesn't like leaving the dorm after dark, it's strange to him, but he has to get seojun before the older ends up sleeping at the sm entertainment building.

his jacket isn't zipped up, and the nightly breeze isn't exactly warm, but jisung doesn't care, he's only focused on seojun, seojun who he pretty much hasn't seen all day, seojun who he pretty much hasn't heard all day, seojun who he just wants to make sure is okay, and healthy, and alive and totally not suffering.

when jisung steps into the sm entertainment building, a strange shiver run downs his spine. it's like a ghost town in there, save for a few murmurings he can hear from the some of the rooms littered in the halls.

but he doesn't allow for himself to stray away from his main objective, quickly turning and heading to the practice room. jisung always thought these halls spread way too far, it was only a good few feet, but sometimes, especially at night, it felt like an eternity. he almost feels like he walks forever, and when he makes it to the door of the practice room, he pauses.

it's silent, no music, no footsteps hitting the floor, no heavy breathing, it's just silent. the silence concerns jisung, because seojun is known for making noise, but he doesn't allow for his anxieties to amplify, just places his hand on the doorknob and turns it.

the lights are still on, jisung notices, so seojun couldn't have left. when he finally looks down, he finds seojun. seojun is dozed off, asleep on the floor with his arms caged around himself. jisung lets out a sigh of relief, it could've been worse, he doesn't exactly know how, but it could've.

but seojun's okay, he's just sleeping, taking a much needed nap. jisung hurries over to his fellow 02 liner, peacefully lying on the floor with his head rested on his arms. he taps him lightly, not wanting to startle the older. "seojun".

"hm?" the response is silent, and seojun shifts in just the slightest, but he doesn't open his eyes. jisung frowns, shaking him by the arm. "what? what?" that seems to do the trick, because seojun rubs his eyes, finally sitting up and trying to shake off any tiredness. "oh— oh god hi, what time is it?"

seojun looks shaken, like he just got hit with the worst kind of realization imaginable. jisung usually never sees him like this, but he guesses it has to do with him being tired. so, he gives a small smile, rubbing seojun's shoulder softly. "hi, it's like.. ten, almost eleven".

the words make seojun's eyes widen, he looks terrified, like this time was horrible for him or something. "oh— oh my god i fell asleep i didn't even mean to.."

"hey it's fine" jisung reassures, placing both of his hands on seojun's shoulders. "you were just tired, you needed that sleep anyway".

it doesn't seem the words ease any of seojun's worries, cause the older just looks away, the look in his eyes telling jisung that this is a much more important thing to him than he thought. "did you eat today?" the maknae immediately blurts, making seojun snap his head towards him.

the question is the kind of question seojun always asks, the kind of question he asks every few hours to make sure jisung isn't skipping meals. seojun pauses, thinking about it.. or thinking about what to answer. "..yeah".

jisung narrows his eyes, that's a lie.

"seojun".

"what? i'm not lying!"

"when?"

seojun scoffs, turning around with crossed arms. jisung sighs, he knows he's stubborn himself, but seojun is even more stubborn, he'll never admit his lies even if he was being held at gunpoint. "stop nagging me.."

"i'm not nagging you i'm concerned for your well-being!" jisung whisper-yells, pulling seojun closer to him, as the older was scooting away. "i just need to make sure you're alright, i haven't seen you all day and.. your health is important to me, seojun".

the older blinks, as if registering the words in his mind. jisung suddenly feels his face burn, feeling seojun's eyes look him up and down. seojun snickers, playfully nudging the younger. "aww, thank you" seojun gives his best fake pout, over exaggerating it to tease jisung.

jisung just scoffs, lightly pushing seojun's shoulder. the older just laughs at his response, staying on the floor as jisung gets up, dusting off his pants. "come on".

seojun blinks, as if dumbfounded. "come on where?"

"were going to the convenience store, i'm getting you something" jisung tries his best to pull seojun up off the floor, even with how the older seemed adamant on staying down. he's finally able to lift seojun up, much to the dismay of the kang, who frowns.

"you don't have to get me anything" seojun mumbles, staring down at his own moving feet on the floor. "don't spend your money on me" he says, looking up at jisung with an indescribable look on his face.

jisung just shakes his head. "don't try to argue with me, your hungry, you'd do the same for me.."

the words make seojun go silent, and he removes jisung's grip from his arm, intertwining their fingers. he's.. not used to this, he's the one who does the taking care of, he's not the one whose usually taken care of.

seojun has spent so much of his time in this group just looking after jisung, and the maknae never knew how to thank him besides giving him a few small smiles and muttering awkward "thank you's". seojun never asked for anything in return, obviously, but jisung always felt like he never offered enough to seojun, even with how the older has always been looking after him, since the two of them entered sm entertainment.

then, seojun smiles, squeezing jisung's hand laced with his. "thank you" he replies, turning away from the younger with a flustered feeling he can't exactly explain.

jisung smiles seeing seojun smile. "it's nothing, really, it's the least i can do".

seojun doesn't respond to that, just squeezes his hand again.

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zorosjuicymelonsx · 1 month

Text

Finding You

A/N: Guys I'm here and I'm so sorry I'm a week late with this. I got a new job after losing mine a few months ago so things have been hectic lately with my schedule. All I can say is sometimes adulting SUCKS but I love money so 😭🤑

A lovely reader on AO3 had helped me realise there was an anomaly with the timeline of how Y/N and Zoro meet and all so I went through it and I thought I would go through this:

Y/N's flashback of Zoro sleeping in the forest in Chapter 3 was when they were 15 so its actually 7 years ago and not 4 years ago. I've edited this and amended the story you tell Zoro slightly in Chapter 5 to correct this so my apologies for not finding this sooner. I wanted to show that she had a crush on him before they officially met after he rescued her in the alley. They then turn 16, graduate school and then Zoro asks her out. They date till 18, get engaged and marry at 19. Zoro disappears a few days after this and you spend the 2, almost 2 and a half years looking for him so he's 21 and your 21.

Its sometime after Wano and Egghead doesn't exist in this "dimension" when you find him in Chapter 1 so they're just cruising right now. I wanted to match the actual One Piece ages he was before and after timeskip.

I hope this has helped clarify if anyone else was confused of the timeline but please do enjoy this chapter. Because of my new job, I'll do my very post to work and post in a timely manner. Thank you for everyones patience and support with me.

Chapter Eight Previous Next “Zoro? You okay?”

“i-I have to go, m’sorry.”

That was the last thing he said to you a week ago in the Crows Nest. You had gone through every single possible reason for why he suddenly would switch up the way he did which left you nowhere near to a conclusive answer. You were sure you’d done absolutely nothing but at the same time doubted yourself and wondered if you had done something unconsciously.

Since then, he'd practically been living in the Crows Nest. He never ate in the galley anymore, never came on the deck to hang around with anyone and you weren’t even sure if he was sticking with his once a week baths. Every time you tried to seek him out, you noticed the hint of stress in his face and would walk away in the opposite direction. Thankfully you weren’t the only one who noticed the swordsman's strange behaviour.

“Marimo is really starting to piss me off, can you believe he’s making me bring his meals to him like I’m some waiter?!” Sanji spat with annoyance as he piled nourishment onto Zoro’s breakfast plate. You knew Zoro wouldn’t have asked Sanji for food, you just understood Sanjis code of ethics when it came to making sure that every member of the crew was properly fed and nourished. You appreciated him for it.

You were one of the few who remained in the galley after breakfast, sitting with Jinbe and Usopp who were finishing off their own meals. You’d leaned forward to sit your chin on your forearms as you traced the rim of your coffee cup with your finger caught in a net of progressive overthinking of the enigma that was your husband.

“Has he really not said anything?” Usopp asked Sanji, the cook turning to face them, the plate in his hand piled high in mostly eggs, sausages and toast.

“Not a word. I swear the algae on his heads really taken over his brain.” Sanji cursed before leaving the galley, chewing on his unlit cigarette.

“Isn’t this normal for Zoro? I mean he is pretty quiet.” Jinbe asked Usopp. Since Jinbe was the most recent crewmate to join Luffy and the crew before you, it was understandable he would ask. You would have agreed with Jinbe on the fact Zoro was quiet, however, you knew better than to mistake this for just his regular self.

“When something is bothering him, he shuts down. He avoids everyone, he won’t talk, he’ll just isolate. I just can’t figure out what's bothering him.” You grumbled out before lifting your cup to take a gulp of your coffee. Setting the cup down, you realised you couldn’t hear either of them talking anymore and turned to see them both staring at you with wide eyes.

“Has he really never done this in front of you guys?” You questioned the gaping pair with a raised brow slightly mocking their owlish stares back. Jinbe shook his head as expected whereas Usopp's gaze drifted off behind you in thought. You assumed he was revisiting his album of memories with the swordsman.

“Well…there was the time on Thriller Bark when he shut himself away to train but it wasn’t anything like this.” Usopp answered cautiously, his mouth slightly turned down in slight distress.This caught your attention and your heart filled with anxiety.

“What happened?” You asked, unconsciously frowning. Usopp's gaze refocused back to yours, adjusting himself uncomfortably in his seat as he seemed hesitant to retell the story. Nonetheless, he sighed before clearing his throat to speak.

“We were on Thriller Bark where we met Brook. Brook was stuck on his old crew's ship and he couldn’t leave because his shadow being taken by the ex-warlord Gecko Moria.”

“Brook has a shadow?” You asked in surprise trying to suppress a laugh. You valued Brook as a crew member despite his panties fetish. Thankfully Nami always stepped in after he asked to put him in his place.

“I don’t even know anymore, ANYWAYS ....we managed to defeat him but another ex-warlord named Kuma came for us.We don’t know what exactly happened because Kuma knocked us out but we know Zoro got really hurt. He was unconscious for a few days after that. I think at the time we underestimated them but knowing him, he blamed himself for not being strong enough.”

Usopp clarified, his tone laced with guilt. Your heart ached at the idea of Zoro being that severely injured to that extent. You knew he didn’t care as long as he met his goal in the end even if you did reprimand him on his mentality many times over the years you both dated. You had eventually accepted it and you didn’t want to stand in his way.

“Let's just give him space and see what happens.” You spoke assuringly to the two despite your chest hammering with the anxiety of unsurety.

One Week Later

Two weeks had passed since you last heard Zoro's voice. The patient person you were two weeks ago was buried deep inside and now your patience was wearing thin along with your paranoia running rampant. You couldn’t take the silence anymore and neither could the rest of the crew.

It was the afternoon and Nami had called everyone in for a crew meeting on deck, including Zoro who had unsuccessfully attempted to blend into the background. Your eyes has locked in on him from the moment you walked in and spotted green. You also saw the obvious attempt he made to avoid looking your way as he chose to focus his gaze on the wall behind Nami.

‘Just what was so interesting about the wall you fucker?’ You thought to yourself as you leaned back in your chair in observation.

“Right guys, I called this meeting in because I came across information that there's an island nearby rumoured to have a fuck ton of treasure. We gotta make a game plan.” Nami excitedly spoke, the berries practically beaming out of her eye sockets. Reluctantly, you took your eyes away from Zoro to focus on Nami.

For about an hour, she went over and planned in detail how to navigate the island, showing you and the others the maps and other sources of information from a book she read detailing the treasure and its history.

“I also decided that not all of us can go on the island so I’m picking Zoro and Y/N to stay behind on the ship.” Nami added. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Zoro stiffen before clearing his throat to speak up.

“I’m coming with you guys, have Sanji stay on the ship with Y/N.” Zoro spoke in a low, reserved manner clearly disguising his obvious discomfort towards you. It was the first time you’d heard his voice in two weeks but hearing the words he chose only had you gritting your teeth. You took a deep breath in and decided that at that moment you couldn’t take anymore.

He had drawn your last straw.

“Oh Y/N-chan, I’d love to-” You cut off Sanji as you stood up from your seat, the feet of the chair roughly scraping against the floor boards as you paced your steps towards Zoro to now stand strong in front of him. You felt the intense gaze of the others on you but ignored it, the anger you felt overpowered your rationality.

“Whats your fucking problem?” You spat out as you looked up at him.

This caught him off surprise. You could see he was trying to shift away from you but you weren’t going to allow him to get out of this. You moved in tandem with him whenever he attempted to get away from you only to have him give up and stay glued to the wall behind him.

“I ain’t got no problem-”

“Bullshit. You’ve been avoiding me for the past two weeks. In fact, you’ve been avoiding ALL of us.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“No I’m fucking not.” You somehow got even closer, your chest practically touching his as you felt his body heat against you.

“She's really not Zoro, did something happen between you two?” Nami asked cautiously behind you.

“Did I do something?”

He could see you were frustrated with him and he could see he was only hurting you more than he wanted to.

‘I’m sorry….’ He thought as he looked at you, the guilt overwhelming him.

Whilst he didn’t appreciate the questioning from you and the heavy gazes of everyone, he will admit he had isolated himself from you. It wasn’t because you did anything to him personally and it wasn’t because he started rejecting your presence on the ship; by far you'd been patient with him by letting him be. The persistent questioning he got from the others, especially the shitty cook despite being appreciative of him bringing his meals to him only to be met with silence from him only fueled his guilt. Since the discovery of his feelings for you, he felt overwhelmed. Being around you distracted him. He felt the want to be with you but at the same time, his mind shielded him from you as if he was protecting himself from you. He prided himself in being strong minded and he felt frustrated with himself over how he could possibly feel this way when he prided himself in being strong minded. He could only theorise that this mental block with you had to do with the guy who’d wiped his memory.

‘Was his named Edward? Ethan? Whatever, it didn’t matter.’

He knew he was being a dick by staying away from you but he didn’t know what else to do. The moment he accepted his feelings for you, he’d also accepted what felt like an overwhelming burden in his stomach. He felt panic, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time. He left you in the Crows Nest, remembering the feeling of not being able to breathe. This was why Zoro did not do feelings; they were complicated.

“You didn’t do anyth-”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” You persistently questioned, the frustration brimming in your eyes.

“I’m done with this, I’m leaving.” He felt his heart climbing up into his throat with you being so close to him.

“Oh no you don’t, you’re not getting out of this one.”

You made an impulse decision out of anger. With your free hand, you summoned a hole behind Zoro. You pictured the very island where you spent time training yourself with your devil fruit, knowing it was quiet and you wouldn’t be disturbed. The hole behind him had formed and Zoro had realised too late he was no longer leaning against solid and fell through the smoke of clouds that enveloped him.

You turned to the others who were gaping at you in shock. Even Luffy stayed glued to his seat with no attempt to jump through the cloud of smoke.

“I’ll bring him back tomorrow.” You huffed out before going through the hole yourself.

As you landed in the sand of the island, you looked up to see the hole you summoned. You then looked around to see your surroundings. The island hadn’t changed one bit; the wave of nostalgia hit as you breathed in the smell of the sand and sea, the lingering scent of greenery coming from the forest coming into the mix as well. If you looked around again, you’d be able to find the rock you carved the last date you were here before leaving to continue your search for Zoro.

You purposefully summoned the hole on the empty side of the island, choosing to leave the small population of habitants to the other side undisturbed. They were peaceful people and had even shared a few meals with you from time to time whenever a few of them found you exhausted from exertion after training. They knew you well and that you didn’t pose a threat, choosing to peacefully coexist with them.

Once closed, the anger still ever present in your system you looked around to spot Zoro sitting in the sand as he looked around taking his surroundings.

“Wh-where are-?”

“You gonna talk or what?” You aggressively asked.

Zoro was now angry. He didn’t want to fight with you, he just wanted to piece together his feelings and rebuild his courage to be around you. He wasn’t ready to face you and being here with you only made him feel worse.

He stood up from the sand and stomped over to stand over you, pushing the bile from his thumping heart back down his throat.

“What…the FUCK…were you thinking? Why would you do that? Do you realise without me there, you’ve put the others in danger? Take us back NOW.”

“First of all, step the fuck back and calm down. Second of all, they’ll be fine. Third of all, were not going anywhere until we sort whatever the fucks gone up your ass and died.” You said as you matched his energy.

“Fuck this, I’m out.” Zoro refused to admit anything. He couldn’t. He turned away from you and began walking.

“Roronoa Zoro, come back here now.” You ordered him as you followed behind.

“No. Piss off.” He called back as he continued stomping.

“Zoro, stop.” You shouted, your voice almost broke as your anger now turned into hurt.

“Leave me alone Y/N.”

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?” You now cried out. You couldn’t stop the tears and the lump in your throat as you stared at his back.

Zoro stopped at the sound of your voice breaking. He frowned at the thought of you upset, his heart ached but he couldn’t turn around.

“I’m not doing anything to you Y/N. I just need space.” He spoke regretfully before he continued walking again and turned left heading into the forest. You stood still as you watched him walk away.

“Fuck.” You whispered to yourself, taking your palm to rub against your forehead in frustration and then using the back of your hand to wipe your tears away. You hated crying, you’d always felt so weak. No matter how much you try to control it, the tears always win. You decided to sit, digging yourself further into the sand before leaning back to let it envelop you.

You breathed in, allowing yourself to take in the sound of the waves crashing against the damp sand. You didn’t realise how much you missed being back on land. You loved being on the Sunny, you really did but sometimes allowing yourself to be grounded for a bit always helped.

You let your hands moved with the sand, feeling the softness of it between your fingers. You clenched the sand into your palms finding the action soothing and allowing the anger you’d felt seep into each particle.

What were you going to do with Zoro?

————————————- ⚔️✨ ————————————

A few hours had passed and you found yourself waking up from a nap you had unconsciously taken. You noticed the sun was beginning to lower, you predicted you had a few hours left before nightfall. You sighed before getting up from the sand, swiping off the residue of sand that was left on your clothes and turned to face the direction Zoro left you from. You were grateful the island was small and you knew it wouldn’t take you long to track down the lost swordsman.

As you were about to start walking, you felt a presence lurking near you. You stiffened before smiling and realising there was more than one and posed no danger.

“How long have you guys been there for?” You called out. You turned to find a small group of what you assumed were hunters gathering food. The group consisted of three men and one woman.

“Y/N, are you okay?” One of the male hunters asked.

“I’m fine don’t worry…you didn’t happen to see a green haired guy with three swords roaming around?” You queried. You didn’t know them personally but you assumed the few that did check in on you when you were training spread the word to the others of your existence.

“He’s sitting by the waterfall.” The female hunter softly answered. You nodded as you brought the memorised path to the area up into your mind to plan out your short walk.

“Thank you, don’t mind us. We’ll be gone tomorrow.” You promised before you began making your way to him. A short walk through the forest and your feet found you at the beginning of a small lake. As you continued, your eyes caught the waterfall and the blue hues of water falling over into the lake. You looked around and soon enough your eyes caught on a head of green hair. You frowned at his slouched demeanor, noticing his eye was lost in the water and in thought. You took a quick breath in before continuing your walk to now stand near the swordsman. You noticed his body stiffened as you felt your presence before slouching back, his eye not breaking out of his lost gaze.

“Zoro…I.”

“Don’t speak.”

Your mouth closed into a straight line, the words ‘I’m sorry’ stuck at the tip of your tongue. You felt like you stood for eternity but just a few short minutes later and you decided to find a seat on the grass near him. Your eyes followed his and soon enough you were also lost in the water with him. Apart from the sounds of the water crashing into the lake and the gentle calls from the birds in the trees, the angst between the both of you laid thick.

As you watched the water, you were reminded of how much you missed swimming and the ability to just float. You had thankfully never fallen into the ocean since obtaining your devil fruit but the thought of sinking struck fear in you. You missed the feeling of saltwater soaking into your skin, letting your fingertips wrinkle and allowing your mind to wonder and be free. Sure you were able to shower in non-sea water but it just wasn’t the same.

Time had passed and the sky had turned into a deep hue of orange indicating the end of daylight. The forest had begun to fill out with fireflies, adding to the ambiance and giving light to where you both sat. You knew you’d have to start a fire and look for food soon but you couldn’t find the will to do so yet.

You had decided to scoot closer to the edge of the lake, allowing yourself to indulge in the only closeness you can have to water.

“You ain’t plannin to jump in right?”

Hearing his voice shook you out of thought, you shook your head to answer his question.

Zoro had every right to be pissed at you but seeing the sadness in your face made him feel guilty for letting himself behave like a teenager for hours. This was his fault after all but admitted he let his pride get the better of him.

“Why’re you moping?”

“I’m not moping..I’m just remembering how much I enjoyed swimming and just being in the ocean.” You confessed, pouting and allowing yourself to lean on your hand.

“I thought you didn’t regret-”

“I don’t regret anything. I’m allowed to feel sad.” You snapped.

He allowed silence to fill the space between the both of you for a moment before he made an anxiety-consuming decision that would definitely change everything.

“You wanna go in?” Zoro softly asked.

You turned to face him, surprise evident in your face.

“That's impossible, I’ll just feel weak and sink.” You answered.

“Not if I’m holding you.” Zoro said.

“I thought you were avoiding me, now you wanna hold me?” You questioned back.

“Answer my question; you want to go in yes or no?” Zoro bit back with slight annoyance at you being argumentative.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from going into a tangent, turning to look back at the water before nodding.

From seeing your physical consent, Zoro stood up and began to strip. You visibly blushed and let your gaze turn away from him refusing to turn it into ogling. He brought himself into your line of vision as he walked forward and stepped into the water, waiting with his back turned to you at the edge to allow you privacy. You were able to see he was just left in his boxers. You stared for a bit before finding your brevity and beginning to strip until you were just in your underwear and bra. You walked a few steps forward until you stood just behind him but you hadn’t stepped in the water yet.

“Am I okay to pick you up?” Zoro cautiously asked, his back still facing you.

“y-Yeah you can.”

Zoro turned around, pushing back his raging heartbeat and ignoring the growing heat in his skin before scooping you into his arms bridal style and slowly walking back into the lake until he was halfway submerged. You relished in the warmth of his skin and you hadn’t realised just how much you missed his presence.

“If it gets too much for you, tell me and I’ll take you back.” Zoro’s voice almost broke. He was currently fighting back the blush that had threatened to consume his wholebeing as he avoided looking down at your naked body. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen a naked woman before, heck Nami and Robin walked around the ship in practically nothing and it never once bothered him. Seeing you see this way; shy and almost vulnerable gave a completely different meaning to it. He couldn’t fathom anyone else seeing you like this and the mere idea of any man seeing you this way made his skin itch and his temper rise.

He hadn’t even allowed himself to be consumed in the lust-filled thoughts he had of you since his recent awakening of feelings he had for you. He felt too much respect for you to subject you to his internal needs. He didn’t even know if you both even consummated the marriage before he disappeared but refused to go down the tangent of thoughts surrounding it.

He slowly began to lower you into the water, allowing the flow of the water to cover your legs and your arms. You gasped at the sudden coolness of the water, immediately feeling the weakness of the ocean consume you. Rather than fighting the weakness, you allowed it to sit as you relished in the feeling of the cool water and Zoro’s body heat.

“You okay?”

“Thank you Zoro.” You quietly spoke, grateful to him.

His concern alone was enough for you to choke on a sob. You were overwhelmed.

“Why did you avoid me?” You weakly asked, allowing yourself to cry.

“M’sorry.” Zoro mumbled back as he bit the inside of his cheek.

“I don’t want a sorry…I want an answer.”

Zoro said nothing. He didn’t know how to confess his feelings to you. He couldn’t even begin to explain or know where to start with talking about what was wrong with him. Seeing you broken hurt him badly and he knew he couldn’t let this go on anymore.

‘Show her.’

A small voice in his head spoke. He frowned at the intrusion of the voice.

‘Show her how you feel.’

He looked down to see you looking back up at him. The yearning he felt to hold you closer, the want to be with you overtook him.

He decided to listen to the foreign voice, putting his anxiety to one side as he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours in a chaste kiss.

————————————- ⚔️✨ ————————————

A/N: HE DID IT!!! FINALLY HE KISSED YOU AHHHHHHH 🥳 😭💚

Taglist: @starlightanyaaa @eggrollforyou @rosellerinfrost @qalable

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #memory loss #romance #zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #slow burn

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