#but feel really weird taking money for fic writing when not absolutely necessary

[idyllic-idioms]

hey guys! it looks like i lucked out in the new job search but i’m still playing with the idea of taking on fic writing commissions. i want to take on commissions for charity donations instead.

i’m researching charities that are possible to donate to internationally: if you have any personal recommendations, please drop me an anon ask or DM me, preferably with a brief explanation!!!

[thetriggeredhappy]

Bit of a broad question, but: do you have any tips on writing the mercs?

broad question means broad answer, pal, hope you like essays.

the unfortunate, terrible truth is that the best way to get better at writing the tf2 mercenaries… is to get better at writing in general. picking up new skills means having more skills to apply, especially in the sense that the tf2 universe’s fanworks can be pretty much any genre you want. i’ve personally written mystery, romance, comedy, drama, slice-of-life, sitcom-esque, and that’s just the ones i can think of. and believe it or not, different genres require completely different skills.

characterization is obviously one thing people struggle with a lot, and my suggestion would be to try moving away from the “incorrect quotes” method of characterization. trying to slot characters into specific tropes can be really limiting, and ultimately doesn’t actually encourage you to get creative with them, it encourages you to follow genre conventions. sometimes that’s good, but it doesn’t help you write any better or understand genre conventions any better in the long run. security blankets are important in any hobby, but that’s the first one i would let go of when you start writing your own stuff.

firstly, free yourself of the concept of one singular characterization. change details. in one universe have heavy talk about how good his relationship with his father was; in another, have him say he doesn’t remember a single thing about him. in one universe the engineer learned most of the things he knows from apprenticing; in another he only started in on practical application when he got to Mann Co. it’s fine. nobody minds. seriously, nobody minds. and moreover, orbiting around the canon details and changing the ones you’re forced to invent whenever you write them will keep the characters fresh for you, and you’ll learn a lot about how to work in weird details; what comes up organically? how do you bring something up in a way that seems natural before that information is absolutely necessary? for example, could you include a detail about pyro not knowing how to swim that comes across naturally and organically so that later on in a scene taking place near the water, it doesn’t feel sudden and contrived to make pyro scared of the water?

secondly, get used to actively considering certain character details. what is scout’s relationship with money? what is demo’s relationship with the concept of a family name? what is sniper’s relationship with the concept of nature vs nurture? consider the more noteworthy aspects of any given merc’s character; why does it stand out? what made them this way? in what circumstance would they break from that behavior or aspect of themselves? in what circumstance would this aspect of them prove useful? how would the mercs describe each other?

some people make character playlists, either with songs they think apply to that character or music that character would like. some people just read a lot of fic and bookmark the ones they like the best to use as references when writing their own (which is fine, by the way. i borrowed a lot of details and concepts from other writers when coming up with some characterizations i use near-constantly). being a bit of a nerd, i’ve taken an approach sometimes where i read personality quizzes or those “oc questions” lists and try to consider how i think that character would answer, which is really helpful for me. but by far the thing that most consistently helps me write characters is writing them. i have literally thousands of words dedicated to writing characters in funny little situations. the engineer talking scout through changing a tire. spy chewing medic out over him being snappy with people. demo trying home remedies for a cold. soldier going through his morning routine. i can assure you, they’re all completely unreadable. they’re boring and uninteresting and contrived, and i learned a lot from writing them. i’ve also made a practice of taking requests—writing five hundred words for a request on tumblr of something extremely simple will do a very important thing called Making You Write. writing is the hard part of writing. the more you write, the easier it gets, and getting into the habit of writing is like taking up exercising, sometimes. important but annoying.

how do you write the mercs. honestly, it’s just that i have practice writing in general. write and then write some more. if you’re having trouble with their speech patterns, try playing stenographer, writing out the script for their meet the team videos. imagine them on a talk show, or an interview. who are they more polite with, and more rude with? writing the mercs feels like memorizing the fuckin’ pokémon type chart sometimes, if i’m honest. i imagine sniper is quiet, unless he has something important to say, and except when arguing with spy, except i think he would argue less in front of other people, except for scout and pyro who take his side, but scout probably wouldn’t start shit in front of the engineer, and pyro would be more calm if around someone they like. have them react to each other. consider what they expect each other to be like, and how they would feel if proven wrong, either disappointed or pleasantly surprised.

make them gossip. make them argue about what is and is not technically a fish. make them get annoyed about each other’s eating habits. make them make bets. my greatest piece of advice that i’ll insist on is to write characters like they’re human beings first. maybe up to some sitcom antics or ridiculous nonsense, but i think everyone on the planet is capable of becoming extremely stupid and hilarious if pressed far enough, so press these characters far enough. make them have to go ask for no pickles. make them have to figure out what to do when the takeout place is closed and they have like no food in the base. make them embarrassed. make them hyped. make them sad enough that they reconsider everything they’re doing. make them happy enough that they find some kind of peace. where are their limits, their boundaries, their standards?

it doesn’t necessarily just apply to the mercs, it applies to writing anything. write some stuff and then write some more different stuff. show people your stuff. try to write some stuff you don’t feel super confident about and then write it eight more times and then the time after that when you write it, show it to people.

i’m not one of those “you have to write every day” people, because that’s a surefire way to lose aspiring authors to burnout, but i do encourage self-indulgence. i’ll have a bad day and feel sad, and i’ll write someone being sad. i’ll be struggling with some aspect of myself and i’ll write similar turmoil. i’ll hate something, and write about it. i’ll love something, and write about it. write whatever you want, until you want to write reflexively, and then soon you’ll be writing things even if you don’t feel like writing, and you’ll only get better from there. you might end up writing every day, which sometimes just means rereading something you did and editing for typos. i write almost every day, in that regard, even if most of it never sees the light of day. for every hundred words i’ve posted, i’ve written three hundred and never shown anyone, and that’s not an exaggeration.

here’s a secret they don’t tell you in any writing class i’ve ever been in: you don’t have to show anyone. it’s alright. just share what you’re happy with, and only if you want to, and only to the people you want to; you don’t need to post it online, you can just send a google doc to three of your friends, it’s fine. sharing will feel nice at times, though. share to justify the amount of time sunk into a project, or to justify the stress, or to justify “well i already posted it so no editing now!”. write some stuff just because you’ll want to reread it later. i have a number of things i’ve written for the express purpose of it helping to calm me down when my anxiety starts spiraling particularly badly. running blind was a writing exercise in limiting my overuse of visual descriptions. persistence was an exercise in writing a character in turmoil from outside of that character’s mind, instead from a different point of view. try writing in an author’s style that you admire. i’ve taken inspiration in writing from Letterkenny and Douglas Adams, in particular, sometimes pretty directly trying to mirror their mannerisms. also sometimes The Stanley Parable, in my narration style. it’s good for you, go on. plagiarize in the privacy of your own home then bring the skills it teaches you with you when you go to write something else. nobody will notice. nobody will go “hey wait a minute, your ability to write tone-neutral humorous third person narration comes from reading A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and internalizing it, you picked up on writing both subtle and non-subtle symbolism and cheesy overly-genuine sentimental shit from reading Castaways of the Flying Dutchman by Brian Jacques (and others in the series), you watched a lot of sitcoms in your youth and model back and forth dialogues after them, and you think dry humor is funny because you watch a lot of twitch streamers who use it”. they’ll just call you gay and neurodivergent. which they should’ve known based on the fact that you’re writing team fortress 2 fanfiction but whatever

i’m running out of helpful advice. all my advice can be replaced by just writing more and reading more and writing more again. probably reread and rewatch the canonical content every once and a while to make sure you’re touching base and not making OCs, because if you’re gonna make an OC, go play a tabletop roleplaying game with them or write your own book or something, don’t use them on fanfiction, they can get so much more mileage out of being used somewhere else and you’ll be glad you did it. or do make fic for them and tag it as OC content! the OC creators in the tf2 fandom are, in my experience, all super sweet super nice people who love making new friends! make your OCs rivals with theirs idk it’ll be great

hope literally any of that helps. i should really get a tag for my writing advice. maybe someday

[ltleflrt]

Hey Carrie! You talked a little the other day about writers' tendency to start a fic too early in the story, and how you see a lot of first scenes that could have been scrapped to improve the story. My question is if you have some tips to recognize while writing that first scene that you are starting too early in the story?

Hello friend!

That's a really good question, and I'll see if I can give an answer that makes sense. I am not a professional, and I'm not educated or trained in this stuff, it's just something that I recognize from years and years and years of voracious reading. And as with all writing advice, I encourage you to take what I'm going to say with a grain of salt and remember that no writing rule is a hard rule, only a guideline.

Also, my advice is going to be pertaining fanfiction, and specifically to AUs. Obviously a published book has an editor with a razor blade going through a manuscript for you, and the problems that bother me in fanfiction crop up in AUs more than Canonverse.

Oh, and every instance of "you" is general, not specific 😜

So I think the main problem that I see is that people are starting with an Info Dump. An Info Dump is not always a bad thing, sometimes it's completely necessary, but it is NOT where you want to start your story. If it absolutely has to be done, it's better to be somewhere in the middle or near the end. When it's something that your characters need to know.

That's an important bit: Do your characters need to know this?

And related to that: Does your audience need to know this for the story to make sense?

And very important follow up: If the answers to the above questions are yes, does the character/audience need to know this RIGHT NOW?

There's a lot of information about your story that YOU need to know. Heck, my notes files are full of sooooooo much stuff that I know about the characters and plot that never reaches the final product.

So when you're reading your first chapter (I say reading, not writing, because sometimes info dumping for your own benefit is good, and then you fix it before you share the story lol), ask yourself those two questions.

So for example:

In an AU where Dean is a tattoo artist, and it's his POV. The story starts with Dean driving to work, and when he gets there he's going to find out that the empty shop next door has been purchased and is going to be a yoga studio. He meets Castiel out front, up on a ladder trying to hang a hand painted sign, and some teens go running buy and knock into the ladder and Dean has to catch Castiel from falling. (Anyone who wants to adopt this idea is welcome to it btw, I would love to read this lol)

The mistake I often see in a first chapter like this is that as Dean is walking to work, there's a whole Info Dump about why he's a tattoo artist instead of a hunter. He'll be ambling along, thinking about his nice little business, and there's info about how his mom died in a fire, and his dad was a jerk, and Dean didn't go to college because he saved his money for Sammy's college fund, and Dean's only passion was art, and Bobby Singer introduced him to a tattoo shop owner who took Dean under his wing, etc.

Question 1, does your character need to know this?: Why is Dean reflecting on his past? Does Castiel need to know this information in order to build a romance with Dean?

Question 2, does your audience need to know this?: Why does this information matter? If Dean's only reflecting on this because you want to make sure your audience knows where the timeline changed and this became an AU, then you're starting too early in your story. Dean doesn't need to know this, and honestly in a lot of cases the reader doesn't need to know this. This is information that should have been left in your notes file.

Question 3, does the character/audience need to know this NOW?: If this information is pertinent to the plot, like maybe there's some trauma there that Castiel might need to know about to develop their relationship, then you don't want to put it HERE, you want to put it in a conversation with Castiel LATER.

If I was writing this AU, I would just start with Dean sipping his coffee, he's kinda tired because reasons, he looks up to see an unusual commotion, and has to drop his coffee and sprint forward to catch Cas. If he's reflecting on anything in this scene, it's going to be whatever made him tired, or how good/bad the coffee is this morning. Since Cas is a new business owner, they can talk about the origins of Dean's business on their first date, because it'll be a relevant response to Castiel talking about the origins of his yoga studio.

And just in general, if Dean's origin story includes a lot of canon elements, like mom dying in a fire, dad being a deadbeat, Sammy being the adorable overachieving Stanford student.... try to hide that info for as long as you can so that the audience is actually curious about it by the time the info might pop up. It's the wild divergences that are more interesting earlier on.

Okay, and then I want to talk about my giant pet peeve for a starting chapter. It's a specific kind of info dump, that often includes the stuff from above, but then goes a step further.

My nemesis, The Daily Grind.

I haven't asked the authors, so I could be wrong about this, but I feel like most of the time when this type of chapter is included in a story it is because the author wants to show the reader that the character's life is boring and meaningless before the plot's inciting incident. I can absolutely see why that might be considered an important detail about the character, but keep in mind if it's boring and meaningless to the character, it's boring and meaningless to your audience.

You know how I said earlier that writing tips should never be hard and fast rules? Well this is in regards to that Show Don't Tell rule, and it's an example of TOO MUCH showing lol

It is possible to do a daily grind in an interesting way, but only if you include a Shake Up right away. And you have to look at the 3 questions a little bit differently.

So for example:

Castiel POV, and he works in an office. His daily routine is to always get up at the same time every day, he goes for his run, he grooms himself, he has his breakfast, he goes to work and talks to Kelly about how Jack's doing in kindergarten for a few minutes before going into his office. Adler comes in to be a prick, Castiel hates him for it, and then he does his reports, has lunch hiding in a corner of the lunch room so that his co-workers will leave him alone, he does more reporting, leaves an hour after his shift technically ends, goes home to a lonely apartment that maybe includes a pet who is the only being that shows him affection, has an unsatisfying dinner of leftover takeout while watching a mindless reality tv show, then he goes to bed.

Ugh.

BORING.

Which, yeah I get it, the point is that his life is boring. But now the story is too, and I've clicked the back button before I can see how exciting it's capable of getting.

Question 1, does your character need to know this?: No. He knows. Poor thing definitely already knows.

Question 2, does your audience need to know this?: Yes, but...

Question 3, does the character/audience need to know this NOW?: Yes, but new question for ya:

Optional Question 4, why does this need to be separate from your plot's inciting incident? The answer to this 4th question is usually that it doesn't.

Chapter 2 of this type of beginning usually shows the shake up of Castiel's day. My advice is to start with the shakeup, and sprinkle in the details of what you would have put into chapter 1 to show the contrast. It's far more interesting to learn how boring Castiel's day is by starting with the shake up.

So, same scenario:

Castiel's alarm doesn't go off for some reason, OH NO HIS ROUTINE IS SHAKEN UP! You're explaining his routine while also stressing him the fuck out because he has to rush, or skip something that he normally needs to do. Action! Interesting! He gets to work late, and has to miss his conversation with Kelly about Jack because she's telling him that Adler's already in his office being a prick because Castiel isn't there waiting for him like he always is. Oh shit, he's pissing off his asshole boss! Conflict! He's so flustered by the shakeups that he misses something on his report, and he gets a call from that new marketing guy Dean Winchester who asks if they can have a meeting about it when Castiel normally takes his lunch. BAM! MEET CUTE OPPORTUNITY! While Castiel is getting all flustered by how pretty Dean is while they talk about TPS reports, he can reflect on how this is both better and worse than hiding from his co-workers in the corner of the lunch room. The rest of the day after that meeting he's thinking about how weird this day is, he still goes home an hour late, he talks to his pet about his weird day when he gets home, and maybe he still eats leftover takeout, but he's not paying attention to the reality tv show because holy shit he wants to count Dean's freckles.

In this example, you're Telling the audience about Castiel's normal routine instead of Showing them. But since it's during a plot heavy chapter, it works!

Lemme see if I can TL:DR this...

As you're reading, ask yourself who needs to know this information, why do they need to know this information, and why is it important for this information to be included early instead of later?

If the answer to any of those questions boils down to "this is backstory" instead of "this kicks off the plot", then you've started too early.

I hope this helps? I'm always nervous about giving writing advice because so much of the time I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm just feeling around in the dark. And I definitely do not ever want to hurt an author's feelings, because this hobby is so fucking hard, and we're all fragile. Even authors who welcome con-crit with open arms will have a weak point that they're unaware of that might get poked wrong and cause a crack, ya know?

I hope anyone who gets this far who might see their own works reflected in my examples understands that I have a lot of respect for their ability to put their work out into the world, and I want them to keep doing it. We're here to have fun, okay? Okay. I love y'all 💜

[eloves-writes]

a failed attempt to hate you

(tristan dugray)

a/n: i can only apologise if this writing is terrible, i wrote most of this in the middle of the night hopped up on medication for my disgusting cold. i hope it makes sense. anywho thanks for reading, enjoy, mwah <3

screw mr medina for making you help tristan study. you knew he knew from rory your inherent disdain for him, and it wasn’t your fault he was falling behind therefore not your responsibility to help him (as you had told mr medina last tuesday, with no effect). it was now sunday morning and you held little hope he would actually show up this time; he had somehow managed to cancel on your little study date 6 times already and it had only been 5 days since you were handed this apparently mammoth task. honestly, you didn’t expect him to show up at all, especially not anytime before noon- for which reasons you had made the decision put on your usual lazy sunday morning reading in bed get-up, which included (but was not limited to) an oversized rock concert shirt rory’s friend lane had given you in an attempt to clear her closet of non-christian attire, nothing but underwear underneath since you wouldn’t plan on leaving the comfort of your bedsheets for many hours, and a loose silk scrunchie you accidentally stole from rory keeping your hair out of your eyes. 

your book of choice today was ‘harry potter and the goblet of fire’ , the most recently released chapter of the boy wizard’s adventures at hogwarts. the clock beside you read 9:15 as you comfied yourself for a morning of magic and adventure, which naturally was ended a mere 8 minutes later at 9:23 when the doorbell rang downstairs. you assumed your mother would answer it, but when it rang a second time you remembered your parents had both gone out to watch your sibling’s soccer match and you’d have to get it yourself.

it didn’t even cross your mind to put pants on, or that it may not be the postman at the door, until you opened it to see your very favourite chilton student whose eyes had hastily wandered to your bare legs. typical high school boy, you thought to yourself before your brain actually grasped the situation and kick started into action.

‘tristan. hi.’ you said with a slight shock in your voice.

‘erm, hi. i hope i’m not interrupting anything,’ he smirked, glancing down at your thighs again.

you rolled your eyes so aggressively you hoped mr medina could hear it from wherever he was spending his day, irritating boy-less and free to do whatever he wanted with his time.

‘you’re not,’ you quipped. ‘i just didn’t expect you to actually show up this time. and early may i add, i’m sure we said 11.’

‘we did, but i’ve got plans later so i thought i’d come by earlier and get this over with.’

‘how did you know i didn’t have plans? i might have been busy before 11.’

he pulled a face of amusement and you could swear you saw a hint of sarcasm shining through his eyes too. ‘right. are you done talking now or can i come in?’

‘you can come in, i guess,’ you sighed, closing the door behind him and showing him to the kitchen table. ‘wait here, i’ll go and get my books.’

‘grab some pants whilst you’re at it.’

‘stop talking,’ you called as you walked upstairs.

you came back downstairs a few minutes later fully-clothed and carrying your english notes to see that tristan had wandered from the chair you specifically remembered telling him to sit in, and was instead tracing a finger along the bookcase that stretched across the far wall of your living room. for a moment you just watched him nosey into your life; the framed certificates, the family photos, the 5 tapes of ‘beauty and the beast’ stacked atop of each other because it was your favourite film when you were 9 and practically every living relative had bought you a copy. beside those was a picture of you dressed as princess belle at disneyworld with chocolate ice cream smeared from cheek to cheek, a huge smile plastered between. tristan picked it up and turned to face you.

‘thoroughly adorable. seriously, you should go for this look more often.’

‘ha ha,’ you grimaced, snatching it off him and placing it back on the shelf. ‘are we studying or reminiscing on my past fashion choices?’ 

‘oo, someone’s in a good mood this morning huh,’ he teased. you pulled another face, once again silently cursing mr medina for completely ruining not just your day, but in fact your whole week. by god this boy got more irritating the more time you spent with him- it had only been 10 minutes, but it was 10 minutes longer than you ever previously had or ever wanted to.

 ‘can i get a drink before we start?’ he asked, redirecting the conversation and walking past you back into the kitchen. he began opening various cupboards, searching for a glass. ‘where’s the-’

‘why yes, tristan. you can have a drink,’ you snarked, opening the cupboard behind him with a dramatic flourish. he raised his eyebrows at you and reached forward to grab a glass, leaning over you as he did so. you caught a whiff of his cologne and almost forgot to dislike him for a moment.

‘there’s, um, soda in the ... fridge,’ you told him, voice unwillingly faltering as he looked down to meet your eyes. he had pretty eyes. pretty, blue, sparkling, stupid, annoying, asshole eyes. 

you found the thick tension sickening. you refused to be another girl at school who simply swooned over him when he walked past your locker. you didn't like him. you were here to teach him english. because he was dumb. and actually, his eyes weren’t that nice.

he grabbed a soda out of the fridge and you both sat down at the table and began reading through your analysis of ‘to kill a mockingbird’, adamantly pretending not to see him staring at you the whole time. 

why? he had had every popular and pretty girl in the whole of chilton, how was he ever so starved of female attention that he would look at you so admirably when you liked to make it clear you despised him? in fact, you enjoyed making a special effort to flip him off, or pull a face at him when he walked by, or kick his chair extra hard in spanish, or... oh shit. you had seen it from an outside point of view now, and it was glaringly obvious; maybe you did like him, just a little bit. shit. rory owed lorelai 10$ and a cheeseburger from luke’s, though you didn’t want to have to admit she was right when she’d said you were like a kindergarten boy pulling a girl’s ponytails because he thought she was pretty.

‘hey tristan,’ you started, breaking the comfortable silence between his questions and suddenly nervous to talk to him. stupid, it was still the exact same boy you’d been complaining about all week, nothing new. 

he looked up from your notes. ‘what’s up princess?’ 

that was definitely new.

‘don’t call me princess’ -he smirked irritatingly- ‘do you need to stay much longer? i mean, is there anything else you want help with?’

‘trying to get rid of me?’

‘no! no. i just thought that you’d only stay and pretend to listen to me for like, half an hour then vanish. it’s 11:30 and you’ve been through my whole binder.’

‘it is? time flies.’

‘tristan.’

‘i do care about my grades, you know. and you’re a good teacher, i might have a chance at an A.’

‘why didn't you show up the last 6 times we planned then?’

he put down his pen- your pen, actually. it had pink sparkles on the lid. ‘got to keep up my street cred.’

‘ha ha. funny,’ you replied as blankly as possible, pulling back a smile you could feel in your stomach. you made eye contact again and, like every other time since you’d sat down and started studying, you held each other’s gaze for longer than necessary. funny how realising you like someone makes you suddenly act like it.

‘i should get going then right,’ he said, picking his jacket from the back of his chair.

you felt weird, almost as if you didn't want him to leave after praying earlier he wouldn't show up. alas, your parents would be home soon and you would be willing to bet money that tristan would have some interesting jokes about your being home alone that would not slide with your dad.

‘yeah. i hope you get that A,’ you said, accidentally smiling as you walked him to the door.

tristan turned to lean on the frame of the now-open door and put on a face of mock surprise. ‘my, my, y/n. was that a kind comment and a smile? you’re spoiling me.’

‘shut up, i hope you fail.’

he smiled back. ‘you really mean that?’

‘i guess not.’

there was yet another beat of heavy silence.

‘see you monday.’

‘see you monday.’

you closed the front door as he walked down the drive, but noticed tristan’s car keys still sat on the kitchen table. a porsche, of course. you picked them up and reopened the door to his fist poised to knock. the two of you laughed awkwardly for a second.

‘i forgot my-’

‘you forgot your-’

another awkward laugh. jesus christ this was uncomfortable. you passed him the keys, and with absolutely no warning at all, your lips were suddenly met with his. they were soft and confident, and his free hand held your face as you tried to process the new situation. you quickly melted into the kiss, letting him take control until he pulled away and smiled that sparkly smile you didn't hate as much as you tried to.

‘didn't see that one coming,’ you said breathily, brushing some loose hairs off of your face.

‘i knew you didn’t hate me.’

‘ever the arrogant twat.’

‘hey, does this mean you’ll stop kicking my chair in spanish?’

‘absolutely not. in fact, i think i’ll kick it harder.’

‘as long as you let me do that again.’

tags: @leossmoonn for inspiring me to start writing again, @account123445 & @lmaoidekanymore6 for asking me to post tristan fics! (couldn’t figure out how to make the tags work but if you read this, you know ✨)

[pepperonijem]

When He Sees Me || Peter Parker

MASTERLIST

Pairing:  Peter Parker x Reader

Warnings: um peter might be a little ooc and that’s because i’m writing about my unfortunate crush but i basically just changed his name to peter parker any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental <3 

Word count: 2.5k

Summary: What if when he sees me, I like him and he knows it? What if he opens up a door and I can’t close it? Catching feelings for your best friend is never easy.

A/N: This fic is sponsored in part by @bitchassbucky, @spiderrpcrker, @shurisneakers, @midnightsunfae, and @blackberrybucky who instead of shutting down my feelings, hyped me up to turn my crush and some of the things that we’ve done into a fic <3 this goes out to anyone who has ever started crushing on their best friend.

Oh God, please don’t walk this way, please don’t wa-

“Oh, hey Peter!” The crack in your voice betrayed your attempt at a casual greeting, despite your efforts to disguise it with a cough. “How’s it-- how’s it hanging?”

“You good?” Peter smiled at you but his eyebrow quirked upwards in concern. “I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tonight?” His concern faded into a wide grin as you nodded in response. Peter gave you a quick goodbye before walking away towards his next class.

As soon as you saw him turn into the classroom, you turned to face your closed locker, letting out a groan before setting your forehead against it. Peter had asked if you were good, and although you nodded, the butterflies in your stomach threatened to give you away. You were very much not good.

A tap on your shoulder snapped you out of your thoughts and you turned to see your friend MJ. “What did Peter do this time?” MJ asked. For the last month, every interaction with Peter -- there have been a lot -- ended this way: a groan of defeat and a few welted lines on your forehead from holding your head against your locker. You turned to give MJ a dirty look, annoyed by the amused smirk on her face.

“Absolutely nothing,” you sighed, finally lifting your head up to talk to her. You opened your locker as you talked, not wanting to make eye contact with MJ as you confessed your feelings. “He just… smiled… and everything went downhill from there.” You rolled your eyes as MJ laughed. “It’s getting worse, I have no idea how I’m going to get through tonight.”

MJ laid a hand on your shoulder. “Well we’ll all be there,” she offered. “And if it makes you feel better, no one’s even noticed. Just act normal and you’ll be fine.” She shrugged her shoulders as if that was the easiest thing to do. But you couldn’t act normal anymore, not with Peter. Not when normal means resting your head against his shoulder every time he makes you laugh. Not when normal means borrowing his clothes when his aunt May tells you to stay the night every time a study session runs too long. Not when normal means wearing the extra sweater he keeps for you because you always forget yours.

Normal was when you didn’t feel butterflies everytime he looked at you, before your curious heart got the better of you and you began to wonder what it might be like to hold his hand. Now, things were just weird. At least for you. Nothing on the surface had changed, no one noticed how your heart rate picked up every time Peter touched you, or how you suddenly felt hot whenever he winked at you. But inside your heart was navigating uncharted territory in your friendship, trying to traipse along the thin line that separated how things have always been and how you suddenly wish things could be.

Pulling your textbook out of your locker, you shut the locker door a just a little bit more aggressively than necessary. MJ gave you a small hug before linking her arm through yours as you walked to your next class.

For the rest of the day, you found it impossible to focus on anything. Instead of taking down notes on George Orwell in English, you found yourself absentmindedly doodling hearts. Everything just reminded you of Peter and your own confusing feelings. Thankfully, you didn’t share any classes with him today, leaving you enough solitude to think about just why you were so frustrated with yourself.

Logically, you knew there was nothing wrong with having a crush on someone. You’ve had plenty of crushes before, a few of which reflected a temporary lapse in judgement on your part. You remember telling Peter about each of them, gushing about the most basic acts of human decency as he rolled his eyes and told you that you deserve someone better, but nevertheless helping you pick up the pieces every time someone broke your heart. That, you realized, was what scared you the most.

If you were to date, and then break up… well who would be there with kind words and your favorite boba when everything fell apart? The thought of losing your best friend over emotions, feelings, left far too much to chance. Was the idea of holding his hand, of hearing him call you his enough to make you risk the friendship that has always been enough for you? It should be enough for you, you reminded yourself. There was too much on the line and not enough guarantee for you to risk it.

With that determination in mind, you steeled yourself for the rest of the day, determined to put your feelings to rest and go back to normal.

Unfortunately, that plan quickly fell through.

You got to the restaurant a half hour late with only a really good nap to blame. You felt bad that your friends were waiting for you, but when you got there, you found an empty spot next to Peter, where your usual order of ramen was waiting and against your will, the butterflies flew rampant. The noodle that hit Peter’s nose as he ate while waving you over made you laugh as you sat down beside him.

“I got you your usual,” Peter explained in between bites. You smiled and thanked him before digging in. Peter had done this for you many times, and you willed your body to fight against the flutter of your heart.

Thankfully, the rest of your dinner was going well, and everyone had plenty of stories to tell. MJ had begun doing more portraits of people in distress and revealed her latest piece -- a portrait of Peter slurping up a noodle only to get a rogue drop of soup in his eye. Ned and Betty were off again, but of course they tried to keep it civil (they were on again by the end of the night) so no one would have to pick sides. Flash teased Peter about the B that he made on his literature exam yesterday over poetry and Peter’s face turned beet red.

“Hey,” Peter began, attempting to defend himself. “I totally could’ve made a perfect score. I was just distracted.” He shrunk down in his seat a little bit, and the rest of you laughed teasingly.

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Flash continued. “You’ve been drawing little hearts all over your notes, dude, it’s unsettling.” He rolled his eyes and took another bite of his food, swirling his fork around the bowl trying to grab as much noodle as possible.

Across the table, you and MJ made eye contact, a look of surprise between the both of you. You tried to signal her to say something before a weird silence fell on the table, but she was not reading your cues. Thankfully, Peter spoke again.

“H-hearts?” He repeated. “Why would I be drawing hearts on my notes?” Although he tried to play it off, the rise in pitch gave him away. He scrunched his face in exaggeration.

“Actually,” Betty began. “Now that I think about it, you were doing that in Spanish class too.” You glanced over at Peter who looked at you with panic in his eyes. You took a long sip of water, suddenly feeling a layer of sweat form at the back of your neck. “Wonder what that’s about.” She shrugged and turned to Ned asking if he wanted to split a slice of cheesecake with her.

Before Peter had a chance to try to defend himself once again, the waitress appeared. “Are you all ready for the check?” she asked.

“Yeah, but we’re splitting the check,” Flash replied. Betty rolled her eyes in response. “What? Just because I’m rich does not mean I have to share the wealth.”

The waitress nodded in response. As she was leaving Peter called her back. “Oh wait,” he called. “I’ll also be paying for this order,” he gestured to your bowl. She smiled at him and headed for the counter.

“Peter,” you smiled. “I have money, I can pay for myself.” Although Peter usually had to order for you, he didn’t usually pay for you, unless it was a special occasion.

“I know, I just wanted to be nice,” he responded, giving your shoulder a playful nudge. “Plus, you seem like you’ve had a rough week. Every time I see you, you seem to be lost in thought. What’s been on your mind?” The sentence came out casually, but the furrow in his brows revealed how concerned he actually has been. Peter was nothing if not observant, like he could sense things better than most people.

You let out a sigh, unsure of what to say. You didn’t want to lie to Peter, but you also didn’t want to tell him the truth, that you were thinking about him-- well, your feelings for him. Just when it seemed like he had backed you into a corner, however, the waitress had returned with the checks, and the question left unanswered.

After dinner, the six of you went to Flash’s house to watch a movie. He had a home theater and early access to new movies and he loved to remind everyone of that. Not that any of you minded, especially if it got you free popcorn and a movie out of it. Every week, a different person got to select the movie and today, unfortunately, was MJ’s turn.

You loved her, of course, but you absolutely detested her taste in movies. Mostly because she was a horror junkie, and you were absolutely not. Her last few turns however had been spent making sure you all had seen all of the Shrek movies. But today, she picked a horror film. Something about demons and the like. Peter and Betty cheered at her selection as Flash groaned. You settled into the couch in the back of the room and grabbed a blanket. Ned and Betty sat together on a smaller loveseat, and MJ sat on the floor in front of Flash’s seat, the perfect spot to be able to scare him with a single touch on his leg.

Peter sat down beside you, handing you a tub of popcorn and a soda. He pulled the blanket over his own lap as he sat criss-cross on the couch. You tried not to pay attention to how his leg was brushing against yours under the blanket, instead focusing on the screen as the room went dark.

The movie had just started, but you could already feel yourself tense up in expectation.The music was coming to a crescendo and you knew something was already going to happen. You didn’t realize just how tightly your fists had balled together in your lap till you jumped at the sound of Peter’s soft voice at the shell of your ear. “Are you okay?” He asked.

He tried to hold in a chuckle as you almost bounced the tub of popcorn off your lap. He grabbed it from you and set it to the side. “Look,” he pointed to the screen where the creature’s head had just rotated a full circle as it crawled up the wall in pursuit of the main character. “That thing kinda looks like the spider from that kid’s tv show, but not as creepy.” You let out a laugh, a little louder than you meant, and Ned turned to tell you to shut up.

The small joke was enough to dissipate the anxiety you felt towards the movie, but unfortunately only heightened your feelings about Peter. But he noticed how your fists unclenched and how your shoulders relaxed once you laughed, so he continued to tell you whispered jokes for the rest of the movie. Each time he noticed your body tensing, he tried his best to make you laugh, and god, how could you stop yourself from those butterflies anymore?

At the height of the movie, you found yourself with your hands over your ears, and eyes squeezed shut, unable to even look at the screen or hear a joke. When Peter realized a joke wouldn’t be enough, he slid closer to you and pulled you into his side and you buried your face into the crook of his neck. Before you had a chance to think about the spicy notes of his cologne or the softness of his skin, the sound of a high pitched scream in the movie caused you to jump with a gasp. In response, Peter wrapped his arms around you tight, with a gentle shush.

It was only after the music began to die down that you opened your eyes again, only to find Peter’s eyes fixed on the screen. Now that the worst was over, you no longer had an excuse to be in his embrace the way you were. You began to wiggle your way out of his arms, attracting his attention.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“Peter I’m a big kid,” you smiled, teasing. “You don’t have to hold me like a baby.” Peter let out a soft laugh before relaxing his hold on you just a bit.

“Okay,” he relented. “I’ll just hold you like this then.” He began to shift so that your head was on his shoulder, and one of his arms looped under yours, intertwining your fingers. The smile on his face was calm as if this was something the two of you did all the time, but his racing heartbeat reminded you this was something new.

The two of you remained that way for the rest of the movie. By the time the soft music began to play in the credits, you could hear light snoring from everyone else in the room. However, you and Peter made absolutely no efforts to untangle yourselves from each other. It was as if you were worried that once the lights came back on, you would never find yourself like this again, and what a sad idea that was. Normal, would never be enough for you again, not when you know now how much better life could be like this.

You weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline from the jump scares, or the sureness of his hand in yours, like it’s always belonged there, that gave you the courage to finally break the silence.

“Peter,” you breathed out, lifting your head from his shoulder, but not letting go of his hand.

He turned to you, with a look of concern, afraid of what you might say.

“Kiss me.” The words came out so softly and so quickly that you weren’t sure if you said it at all.

“Finally,” he whispered as his lips fell against yours, softly and slowly. He pulled away after what felt like hours and yet not nearly enough time. His hands reached up to cup your face. “I like you,” he admitted. “So much.”

Suddenly, you felt it. You felt exactly what it must feel like to fly, to let yourself go without worrying about gravity or anything else. The risks were still there, the numbers hadn’t changed, but you knew that no matter what happened next, just having the chance to fly would always be enough.

[tobesolonely]

kindergarten teachers

summary: teacher!harry and coworker y/n have a hard time coming to terms with their feelings for each other

a/n: ahhh she’s finally done! i’ve been working on this fic for sooo long and i hope u all like it! big thanks to @queencharry​ for helping me when i got stuck and beta reading, and @behindthatbabyface​ for beta reading as well and giving me feedback!! i appreciate u both <3 enjoy ~11.3k words of some mutual pining and teacher!h interacting with lil kindergarteners 🥺also i am sorry if theres any major grammar mistakes (as always) or crazy typos, i always miss some things when i go back and proofread that im sure i’ll catch later! thank u

warnings: smut, mentions of alcohol 

talk to me about harry and y/n! let me know your thoughts!!

my ko-fi! thank you :)

From the time you were very young, you knew you wanted to be a teacher. One of your earliest childhood memories was going to school dressed up as one for career day. Your usually untamed hair was pulled back into a sleek bun (courtesy of your mother), and you donned a funky baby-pink sweater. For bottoms, you wore the closest thing to a pencil skirt you had in your five-year-old wardrobe. When you look back on the photographs your mother took of you that day, you did not resemble a teacher in any way. You were sure if you had not done your Career Day presentation in front of the whole class, no one would have even known who you were dressed up as.

Once you moved onto college and declared Education as a major, that was when people really started to let you hear their opinions on the career path you wanted to pursue. It seemed like whenever you went home for a holiday, relatives were always in your ear saying, “You know teachers don’t make a lot of money, right? Have you ever considered something in the sciences?”. You always responded, “I know, but what would the world do without teachers?”.

Eventually, you finished your undergraduate career, successfully completed student teaching with the highest praise from your superiors and colleagues, obtained your teaching credentials, and even went back to school to get your Master’s degree. So, it was much to everyone’s surprise when you settled on being a Kindergarten teacher. People assumed that because you completed so much schooling, you wanted to be a university professor. However, the thought never even crossed your mind. You always thought Kindergarten teachers were the most impressionable people out there and knew you wanted to be one.

To you, there was no greater responsibility than that of a Kindergarten teacher. It was your responsibility to teach your students reading, writing, art, and music at the most basic level. You showed them how to play with others, how to be kind, and give them the tools necessary to succeed once they leave your classroom. You were the first teacher your students ever had, so you needed to make them fall in love with school instead of hate it, considering they’d have to stick to it until they were at least eighteen. 

You’ve been a credentialed Kindergarten teacher for the last three years, and you’ve loved every moment of it. You were one of the younger teachers at school, but you never felt left out. Your colleagues were amazing people who often shared tips and tricks they wish they knew when they first started teaching.

Now, you were groggily unlocking the door to your classroom, feeling those first-day-of-school jitters you always felt. You knew kindergarteners weren’t there to harshly critique you. Still, you wanted them to go home and tell their parents about how excited they were to have you as a teacher, not run home in tears. That never happened, of course, but you didn’t want to take any chances. You drop your keys and mutter a quiet, “Shit!” setting your travel mug filled with coffee on the ground and readjust the box of donuts you had for your kids on your hip. As you reach for your keys, you hear a deep voice ask if you need help. You quickly turn around, eyes wide from being startled.

“Oh! You scared me,” you place your free hand over your chest. “But yeah, actually, that’d be great. I’m struggling to get my door open.” The man nods, his own keys he wore around his neck jangling as he retrieves first your keys, then your coffee mug.

“I’m Harry– Mr. Styles, if you want,” he holds your keys out for you to take, your coffee mug still in his large hands. “Uh, I’m the new Kindergarten teacher.” You give him a confused look and trade the box of donuts in your arms for your keys, opening the door. “The last one, Mrs. Brown, I think it was, I guess she decided a few weeks back that she wanted to retire.” You get your door open and walk inside your classroom, turning on the lights. It was a little stuffy, considering you hadn’t been there to open any windows in about a month.

“Oh, that’s right! Welcome,” you give him a warm smile. “I’m Y/N– Miss Y/L/N if you want.” A slight blush appears on his cheeks. “We’re gonna be working together then, it seems. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mrs. Brown, but it’ll be nice to collaborate with someone closer to my age, you know?” Harry nods, and you realize he still had your coffee mug and box of donuts in his hands. “You can just set that on my desk, thanks for helping out. Would you like a donut?”

“Um, I- it’s okay,” he stammers, setting the items down. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ll probably crash if I have a donut first thing in the mornin’.” You smile at him and move to open all your windows and the back door, wanting the stuffy classroom to air out a bit before the children got here. 

“I totally get that,” you giggle, walking back over to your desk. “Are you excited about the first day? I always get a little nervous. I also talk a lot when I’m nervous, I’m sure you caught onto that.” 

For the first time that morning, Harry laughs. “Yeah, I’m nervous, too. ’ve never taught in the States before, so this is a bit new to me.” He’s playing with the keys hanging from his lanyard. 

“I noticed you had an accent, but I didn’t know if it was weird to ask about it. What brings you to California?” You open the box of donuts and take one out, wanting to eat it before it gets cold, and the glaze hardens.

“Uh, I went to University here, but when I graduated, I decided to go back home and teach for a couple of years. I really missed being here though and wanted to come back, so I got my credentials, and uh, here I am,” he tells you with a grin, and you notice he has deep dimples. 

“Well, we’re glad you’re here,” you tell him earnestly. “The kids are just gonna love your accent, too!” you joke and Harry laughs for the second time that day. 

“If all else fails, ’m hopin’ to charm everyone over with my accent,” he stares at you for a moment before speaking again. “Well, I better finish getting situated. It’s fifteen til, and I reckon the children will be arriving soon, yeah?” He asks. You nod. 

“Best to be waiting at parent drop-off too, there are always a few parents that are just as nervous as their babies, if not more, and could use a quick pep talk.”

“Thanks for lettin’ me know. I was thinking about standing out there anyway, just to make a good first impression.” You take another bite of your donut, giving him a thumbs up. 

“You’ve got this, Harry. I know you’re not completely clueless since you’ve taught before, but I know the first day can be a little intimidating. You know where I am if you need anything.” He gives you a grateful smile, quietly thanking you before turning to walk out the door. You’re left thinking about your new coworker, only being pulled from your thoughts of him when the first bell rings.

“Good morning everyone, my name is Miss Y/L/N. Are you all excited to get this school year started?” A chorus of high-pitched yeses fills the room, and you smile warmly at your class. “I’m so excited that you’re all here! I have a little surprise for each of you!” You grab the box of donuts and walk back to the rug in the center of the room that the children usually sat on for storytime. Little gasps fill your ears, and they all say, “Donuts!” and “Yummy!”. You smile at the kids again, already feeling overwhelmed with how adorable they were. 

“We all get a donut?” one little girl asks, her eyes wide. You nod at her.

“Of course! Everyone will get a donut, sweetie.” You move to get the plastic food gloves you kept so you can safely hand out a donut to everyone. “Okay guys, I’m going to pass a stack of napkins around the room. Take one and pass the stack to the person sitting next to you. Does that make sense?” All the students nod their heads in confirmation, so you grab a stack and hand them to the child sitting closest to you. “Once the last person has their napkin, let me know, and then it’ll be donut time!” You say this over-enthusiastically, and the children squirm in their seats in excitement.

As you go around handing out donuts to each of your students, you learn their names and ask them to tell you one fun fact about them. Most children say things like, “I have a brother/sister!” or “I can run really fast!”, and you find it absolutely adorable. One thing you loved the most about teaching five-year-olds was their ability to think everything was cool. It was comforting to know that no matter what you did, they’d find you cool, and your first-day jitters quickly dissipated. As the children eat their donuts, you read them a story, putting on different voices for all the various characters. You show them how to raise their hand when they have something they’d like to share and remind them to use their “listening ears” when you or one of their classmates are speaking.

When it’s time for recess, you show them how to line up quietly at the door, and assign a line leader and a hall monitor. You remind the children that they will all get a turn at these tasks eventually because it’ll switch every week, and not to worry. As you’re walking down the hall backward (one of your teachers walks that you’d finally perfected), you hear Harry’s voice.

“Okay Room Ten, we’re gonna go out to the playground now, where you all will get to play every recess and lunch. That sounds like fun, doesn’t it?” He asks them, and you hear little voices chattering out to him in excitement. You can’t help but peek into his classroom as you walked by, as his door was open. He didn’t see you because he was busy organizing his class into a straight line, so you keep going. Your class, who, much to your surprise, was walking very quietly, got loud once they saw the Kindergarten play area had a slide and monkey bars.

“We get to play on this?” one of your students, Destiny, questions. 

“Yup! This is a pretty cool play area, isn’t it?” They nod and stare at you, waiting for direction. “Oh, you can all go play and run around, get some of that energy out. When the bell rings, though, I want you to listen to the yard teachers because they’re gonna help get you all lined back up so we can go back inside. Deal?” The children give you nods and thumbs up, and you grin at them, telling them to have fun and be nice to one another. As you’re turning to go to the teacher’s lounge to refill your mug of coffee, you see Harry walking down the hallway with his class, and decide to wait for him. He gives his class the same spiel you gave yours and tells them to “Treat each other with kindness” before noticing you waiting for him.

“Hey,” he gives you a grin, looking far more relaxed than he did when you saw him earlier that morning. “How’s it going so far?”

“It’s great,” you reply, leading him in the direction of the teacher’s lounge. “They’re all adorable.”

“Yeah, don’t know what I was so nervous fo’. They’re great. Also, you’re right,” Harry has an amused look on his face. “The first thirty minutes of ’em bein’ there was just them askin’ me to say things because they think I sound funny.” 

“I told you!” you exclaim, laughing at him. “A British accent is definitely not something we hear every day, not here at least.”

“I figured,” he replies, and silence falls between you. “Where are we going, by the way?”

You stop in front of a blue door and sift through the keys on your lanyard, finally finding the one you were looking for. “Teacher’s lounge. Have you had the chance to check it out yet?” He shakes his head, and you pull open the door after having unlocked it. “After you.” He shakes his head and steps back, signaling you go ahead of him. You quirk an eyebrow at him, and he gives you a defensive look.

“What? ‘M a gentleman. Ladies first,” he insists, holding the door open. You walk inside the room, trying to refrain from rolling your eyes. There aren’t many teachers in the lounge. You figure they all must be in their classrooms, trying to do some last-minute organization and lesson planning amidst the first day of school chaos. However, a few colleagues that you’re rather fond of are in the room, so you take it upon yourself to introduce them to Harry.

“Hello everyone, I hope you’re all having a relaxing morning!” They chuckle lightly at your sarcasm. “I’d like you all to meet Mr. Harry Styles. He’s the new Kindergarten teacher that took Mrs. Brown’s place.” A look of realization washes over all three teachers’ faces, and they warmly greet him. Harry goes around, shaking each of their hands, voice dripping with charm.

“Lovely to meet you all. Looking forward to collaborating,” he tells them quietly. They begin engaging in polite conversation, so you leave Harry’s side, walking over to the coffee station to get what you came for before recess was over. He joins you shortly after, grabbing a disposable cup. “They were a nice bunch.” He mutters, pouring the steaming coffee into his cup. You hum in agreement.

“Everyone here is nice. The lounge is usually much more crowded than this. Everyone else must be in their rooms,” you flick your wrist up to check the time. “We got some time to sit down and breathe for a bit if you’d like? Unless you wanted to get back to your room.”

“‘M in no rush, trust me,” he tells you, flashing you a small smile. “Let’s take a seat.” Harry walks over to an unoccupied couch and sits down slowly, taking care not to spill his coffee. 

“You didn’t want a lid?” you question when you see him struggling. He shrugs.

“Not necessary. Jus’ some extra plastic,” you hum and look down at your lap. You were quickly learning that Harry was not a big talker, and he liked to get his point across in as few words as possible. Him being a Kindergarten teacher contradicted heavily with his rather bashful demeanor, but that just made him all the more endearing to you.

“Do you live nearby, or is your commute long?” you ask him after a few moments of silence. As soon as you ask the question, you internally cringe, feeling like it was too invasive. If Harry thought the question was weird, he doesn’t show it.

“I live in town. I actually walked here today, believe it or not,” he tells you with a chuckle. “Was such a beautiful morning that I figured I should.” Every time you think Harry can’t possibly get any more captivating, he does, and you find yourself biting back a smile.

“How long is your walk?” You cross your legs and then uncross them, a nervous habit that you had. Harry takes a sip of coffee, mulling your question over.

“I’d say it took me about twenty minutes. I was walkin’ at a pretty leisurely pace, though,” Harry shrugs. “How about you? Do you live nearby?”

“I also live in town, but I’m way too lazy to walk, so props to you,” you smile. “The best thing about living around here is seeing your kids out in public. It’s the cutest thing.” Harry smiles, not saying anything else. A silence falls over the two of you again but instead of feeling the need to fill it, you just sit beside him, drinking your coffee. Your mind wanders off to what you were going to do for the rest of the school day, if you had enough groceries in your apartment for dinner or if you should go grocery shopping after work, and if you remembered to pay your bills on time. The bell rings to signify the end of recess, and you jump slightly.

“Ready to go back?” Harry asks, standing up and walking back over to the coffee station. “Think’m gonna get a bit more.” You go to stand by the door, waiting for him to pour another cup of coffee. He quickly rejoins you, and the coffee sloshes a bit, some getting on his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Hope those lil’ buggers got some of their energy out.”

“Right! Mine was even more hyper than they probably would’ve been ’cause I gave them those donuts this morning,” you laugh. “So, for my sake, I hope so too.” When you and Harry arrive back at the Kindergarten play area, your classes are already lined up quietly awaiting instruction, thanks to the yard teachers. You and Harry both thank them and move to stand in front of your kids. 

“Miss Y/L/N,” one of your children calls out from the back of the line. “Can we get more donuts when we go back inside?” You see Harry smile out of the corner of your eye as he’s giving instruction to his class.

“There are no more donuts, you guys ate them all! I have something even cooler than donuts planned for us, though, okay? Now, remember what I told you all about walking quietly, right? Mr. Line Leader, how does your line look? Do you think we’re all set to go back inside?” The child you appointed line leader turns around to look at everyone, occasionally shushing some people. After a few moments, he turns back to you, giving you a thumbs up. 

Harry moves to stand beside you, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Wanna eat lunch together and do some planning? I feel like it would be a good idea for us to be teachin’ the same things, more or less.” Your body feels warm all over, and you just look at him and nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Harry smiles and places a hand on your shoulder. At a normal volume, he says, “See you then, Miss Y/L/N.” 

Upon entering Harry’s room, you’re immediately met with the scent of vanilla and the loud hum of the air conditioning. It was bright, adorably decorated, and surprisingly decluttered. It was the polar opposite of your room, and you found it very welcoming and comforting. “Nice set-up you’ve got going on in here,” you tell him. He jumps in his seat at his desk, not having heard you come in.

“Fucks sake,” he mumbles, face going red. “You scared me. Thanks, though. My sister helped me decorate, I don’t really have an eye for this type of stuff.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepishly. 

“Well, if you ever need any help decorating for back to school and your sister isn’t around, I’d be more than happy to help.” Harry smiles and suddenly gets up from his chair, offering it to you.

“Please, take my seat. I’ll just sit in one of the kids’ chairs,” he rolls it towards you, and you shake your head, about to object, but he interrupts you. “It’s okay, Y/N. Their chairs aren’t that bad.” You take the seat Harry was just in, mumbling a quiet thank you. He hums and pulls a tiny chair up beside you, legs scraping loudly across the floor. When he sits down in it, you can’t but burst out laughing.

“Harry, that chair is so tiny! Are you sure you don’t want me to sit there instead? You look so uncomfortable,” you tell him in between laughs. “This is your classroom, after all, I’m just a guest.” Harry shakes his head, cheeks flushed.

“It’s okay, Y/N, really. ‘M perfectly comfortable in this lil’ miniature chair,” he looks at the lunch bag you sat on his desk. “What’s for lunch?” You reach for your sack and unzip it, pulling out a pre-packaged salad from Trader Joe’s.

“I’m very lazy when it comes to packing my lunches,” you admit sheepishly, pulling out a fork. “How about you? Did you eat already?”

“Oh yeah, I had a green smoothie. Not a big lunch guy,” he replies calmly. “Wanna get started with planning? I think we only have about thirty minutes left.” He looks down at his watch to confirm the time. Harry opens his planner, and you see pages filled with his neat, blocky scrawl. He jumps right into talking about the ideas he had in mind, excitement filling his voice that you haven’t yet heard. 

The passion and enthusiasm he has for teaching are evident through the way he tells you about the activities he has planned, new materials and teaching methods he wants to try implementing, and things he’s tried before that didn’t work out the way he wanted them to. He asks you for your advice and listens intently when you speak, jotting down notes.

You find yourself having to mentally remind yourself not to stare at him. He was a handsome man– there was no denying that. He had curly brown hair, soft and wild-looking, the most beautiful green eyes you’d ever seen, and arms covered in tattoos. You also noticed he had the tiniest cross on his left hand. You wanted to ask him about it, but you figured that was a conversation for another time. 

“Y/N? Did you hear what I just said,” Harry asks, giving you a concerned look. “Are you alright? I think you just zoned out for a couple minutes or somethin’.” You nod quickly, feeling your palms growing sweaty.

“Oh yeah, sorry, I was just thinking about something I have to do later. What did you just say?” You play off how you were just wholly drooling over your new coworker, feeling scrutinized under his piercing gaze.

“Jus’ got an email from the principal. Said we have a faculty meetin’ after school at three. Wanna go together?” He asks. You know Harry’s asking you to accompany him primarily because you’re the only person he really knows so far. However, it still makes you feel warm and special. “He said we’re gonna go over some planning for the Fall Festival. What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s just the back-to-school festival. It’s adorable,” you explain. “It’s like a mini carnival that we have right here on the playground. Every year they have teachers host booths. It’s a great way to get to meet your kids’ parents and bond with the other faculty.” Harry nods, standing up from the tiny chair right as the bell signifying the end of lunch rings.

“That sounds lovely,” he chirps, smiling down at you. “We’re gonna have the best booth out of everyone Y/N, trust me.” He jokes, the corner of his eyes crinkling. This was the most Harry had talked since you met him that morning and you were enjoying witnessing him open up to you more and more with each conversation shared.

“It is,” you stand up as well, gathering your trash and empty lunch pail. “Thanks for having me, Harry. Next time we can meet in my room. I wouldn’t mind making this a daily thing.” As soon as the words came out of your mouth, you physically wince, figuring Harry had to think you were obsessed with him at this point. He looks down, the corners of his mouth upturned when he makes eye contact with you again.

“I’d like that, Y/N. I’ll actually start bringin’ a proper lunch, so you’re not the only one eating,” you smile. “I’ll meet you in your room after school?” You nod in confirmation, walking out the door in front of him. 

“See ya later.”

“Did everyone have a good day today?” You ask your class, walking backward to the dismissal gate. You’re met with a chorus of cheerful sounding ‘yeses,’ and you place your hand over your heart in a dramatic fashion. “That makes me so happy, everyone! You’re all incredible little people, and I think we’re gonna have a fantastic year. What do you guys think?” The children chatter excitedly, glad to have made it through their first day of school and see their parents on the other side of the gate eagerly awaiting them, cell phones snapping pictures. 

Harry’s already at the gate, waiting for the bell to ring so he can dismiss his class. He’s walking down the line asking each of the children if they see who they’re supposed to go home with, crouching down to their height so they can point them out to him. Some children in his class look a little upset because they don’t see their parents yet. Harry quickly consoles them, telling them they can all play a fun game together while they wait for their ‘Mummies and Daddies.’

You do the same with your kids, and by the time the bell rings and you finish dismissing the ones who saw someone there to pick them up, there was one child from your class who was still waiting and two from Harry’s. He walks over to you, one of their tiny hands in each of his. The boy looks unbothered, but the girl was beginning to cry.

“Hey, Ava, should we ask Miss Y/L/N and her friend if they want to play iSpy with us? The more, the merrier, isn’t that right?” He looks down at her, and she nods, looking down. You figure she’s one of his more shy students he was telling you about earlier.

“Hi, sweetie! I’m Miss Y/L/N, are you waiting for your mom or dad?” She nods, biting her lip. You turn and gesture to your one student who was waiting as well. “Well, so is she! Don’t worry, they’ll be here.”

“I’m Matthew,” the little boy holding Harry’s other hand informs you, shifting from foot to foot. You give him a big smile.

“Hello, Matthew! I love your Spiderman shirt; he’s just the coolest. Jade, do you want to introduce yourself to Mr. Styles, Ava, and Matthew? Remember when we learned about introductions today in class? When you got to introduce yourself to all your classmates?”

Jade nods, a big, toothy grin on her face. “Hi! My name is Jade, and I am five-years-old but my birthday is September 19th, so I’m actually almost six-years-old,” she tells them matter-of-factly. “It’s very nice to meet you!” She adds, remembering the script you gave them earlier. Harry looks down at her, an impressed look on his face.

“Well, it is very lovely to meet you too, Jade! Do we all know how to play iSpy?” Jade and Matthew shout in excitement, but Ava just grips tighter onto Harry’s hand. He looks down at her again. “Do y’ want Miss Y/L/N and I to show you how to play, Ava?” His voice is very quiet, slow, and soothing. She nods, letting go of his hand.

“Well Ava,” you say, looking around for something to start the game out with. “I would say, “I spy with my little eye something green. Then you, Mr. Styles, Matthew, and Jade, would have to look around and name out everything that’s green. If you name something and it’s not it, then I will tell you nope, and you can try again, but if you figure it out, then you’re the winner! Does that make sense?”

She nods, and you see a gleam of excitement in her eyes. “Can I go first?” She asks quietly. You tell her, yes, and she looks around quickly, trying to find something to say. “I spy with my little eye something blue!” She has a triumphant smile on her face, and even though you immediately know she’s talking about the sky and you’re sure Harry does too, you both decide to take a step back and let the children take the game into their own hands.

“Y’know, that lil’ introduction Jade gave was really somethin’. I didn’t even think about teachin’ my kids that. Think I’ll try that out tomorrow,” Harry whispers, craning his neck slightly to be at your ear. You shiver at the feeling of his warm breath against your skin. 

“Yeah, I feel like that’s always a good first day of school activity for them to do. A lot of them have never really been exposed to people outside of their immediate family, so they’re not too sure how to talk to others.” Harry hums, standing back up straight.

“Mr. Styles,” Matthew calls, running over to Harry. “My mommy is here. Can I go now?” Harry nods, telling Matthew to wait for him so he can say hi to his mother. You watch as he walks away, overhearing as he tells the boy’s mother what a great job he did today and how he’s so excited to go through this school year with him in his class. Ten minutes later, Jade and Ava are gone as well, and Harry locks the dismissal gate. 

“I forgot how exhausting the first day could be,” he tells you, letting out a quiet sigh. “Ready to go to that meeting, though? It’s just about three.” You check your watch and see the time read at 2:57 PM.

“Yeah, just let me grab my bag, and we can head over there. I’m really hoping this won’t take too long; I was planning on going grocery shopping after this,” you walk down the hall towards your classroom and feel Harry’s gaze on you.

“Where do you like to go grocery shopping?” he asks after a few moments of silence. “I need to pick up some groceries this week, too. ’ve been eatin’ takeout for the past week, and I’m starting to feel like shit.” You laugh, unlocking your door. Harry stands outside, holding it open while you grab your purse and lunch bag.

“Honestly, I don’t have a preference. I switch it up a lot,” you shrug, making sure all the windows are closed before walking out. “Was there something, in particular, you were looking for?”

“Uh,” Harry scratches the back of his head. “No? Maybe you could text me a list of all your favorite stores, though. Jus’ so I won’t forget.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him, ignoring how fast your heart was beating. “Are you asking for my number, Mr. Styles?”

“I guess I am,” he replies nonchalantly. “We’re gonna be workin’ together a lot. Might as well have your number– if that’s okay, I mean.” He looks down at you.

“Yeah, remind me after the meeting,” you tell him, trying your hardest to play it cool. “Don’t let me forget.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

“So Y/N and Harry, you two will be in charge of the pumpkin decorating booth? Is that right?” The principal looks down at his notes and then shifts his gaze between the both of you. You both nod.

“Yeah, I’m excited! I think it’ll be a lot of fun,” you reply excitedly. “We can go to the craft store and get a bunch of paints, but where do you think the best place to get the pumpkins would be?” You pull out your planner, ready to jot down any suggestions.

“You two could try going to a pumpkin patch? They’re starting to pop-up around town,” one teacher suggests. “I’m sure if you purchased a bunch and told them it was for a school event, we could get some kind of deal.” The rest of the faculty buzzes in agreement.

“Y/N and Harry, could you get to a pumpkin patch sometimes this week and see if they can give us an estimate of how much it would cost? Then I could let the PTA know.” You and Harry confirm that it will be possible to do sometime this week, and the meeting continues on.

By the time you’re finally free to leave the meeting, it’s already growing dark outside. Harry’s hands are shoved in his pockets, and he’s looking down at his feet. “So–”

“Do you want–”

You both stop, laughing awkwardly. “You go first.” you tighten the grip on your purse.

“Uh, I was jus’ gonna ask if I could get your number now. Yanno, so we can plan when we’re gonna go get all the stuff for our booth? And you still gotta tell me what your favorite grocery stores are,” he has a playful look in his eyes. For the thousandth time that day, your hands become clammy. There was just something about every interaction you had with him that made you so nervous. 

“Oh yeah,” you answer coolly, digging in your purse for your phone. “Just text your number, so I have it.” You hand him his phone, and he stops dead in his tracks, a look of concentration on his face. 

“I can’t walk and be on the phone at the same time,” he mutters when he looks back up and realizes you were watching him the whole time. “I don’t know how people do it.” He hands you back your phone. “What were y’ gonna ask me?”

“I was just um, I was gonna ask if you wanted me to give you a ride home? I mean, since you walked to work today and it’ll be dark soon,” talking to Harry made you feel like a nervous school girl interacting with her first crush, and you hated that feeling.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that–”

“It’s no bother, really,” you cut him off, and you realize you sound a little eager, but at that point, you didn’t even care. “I’m sure we don’t live too far from each other.” Harry looks slightly unsure but nods, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

“If you’re sure, Y/N. I appreciate it, I owe you one,” he’s following behind you to the teacher parking lot. You silently pray your car isn’t messy inside like it usually is as you approach it. You decide to pick up your pace and walk ahead of him, telling yourself if the passenger side was messy, you’d just quickly throw everything in the back. “Heyyyy, why’re you walkin’ so fast? Are you sure you’ve got the time to take me home?” He takes a few big strides and quickly catches up with your hurried, tiny ones.

“Yeah, of course, I have time,” you respond, unlocking your car as you approach it. “If it’s messy, then just ignore it.” you preface, honestly not remembering the state in which you left your car this morning when you walked into work.

“Don’t worry about it. You should see mine,” Harry jokes, and it immediately puts you at ease. As you’re about to open your door, Harry quickly rushes to your side, opening it himself. “Let me.” 

His hand rests over yours, and you quickly pull it away, your body heating up. “Harry, I’m already right here. I can open my own car door.” 

“I know you can. But I’m a gentle—“ 

“You’re a gentleman, I know,” you playfully roll your eyes and take a step back, allowing Harry to open your car door all the way. You couldn’t lie and say you weren’t flattered and honestly a little bit turned on. He flashes you a smile as you situate yourself behind the wheel of the car and makes sure you’re all the way in before slamming it shut. You see him lightly jog around to the passenger side, and soon enough, he’s beside you, your car immediately starting to smell like his cologne. 

“What music do you like to listen to?” Harry asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket. 

“You ask me a lot of random questions, Harry,” you reply, looking behind you as you slowly back out. 

“Is it a crime to wanna get to know my new coworker?” you can hear a smile in his voice. “C’mon. What’s your favorite music to listen to?” 

You shrug, looking both ways before exiting the parking lot. “Where do you live?” 

“I don’t know my address yet. Just take a left at this light coming up. Favorite music?” Out of the corner of his eye, you see him scrolling through his music library. 

“You don’t know your address yet?” 

“No. I’ll play something random,” he says, tapping his hand on his knee. “You can take a right at that stop sign up there.” You put on your blinker and glance over your shoulder before switching lanes. Harry quickly pairs his phone with your Bluetooth, and a song you’re unfamiliar with blares through your speakers. Neither one of you says anything else, only speaking to each other when he’s giving you directions to his house, and you’re confirming what he said.

After two more songs, Harry says, “S’right up here.” He’s led you to a beautiful apartment complex— one you were looking at when you were moving out of your parent’s home but just couldn’t afford as a new graduate. You expertly parallel park and then turn the car off, a silence falling between the two of you.

“This is a nice complex,” you tell him after a moment. “Really close to school. I see why you opted to walk to work today.” 

“Mhm,” he hums. His seatbelt is still fastened. “I understand if you’re busy, but did you wanna come in?” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he quickly backtracks. “I mean— it’s just— remember the activity you taught your kids today? About introductions? Jus’ wanted to know if you could walk me through it, that’s all.” 

“Oh. Well yeah, I can hang out for a bit.” You unbuckle your seatbelt and reach in the backseat for your purse that you threw haphazardly over your shoulder earlier. 

“Will your boyfriend be okay with you coming in, though?” He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“What makes you think I have a boyfriend?” You’re slightly taken aback and oddly flattered that he thought you were in a relationship.

“I dunno,” his face grows red. “You got all weird when I opened doors for ya. Figured you had a boyfriend.”

“I don’t.”

“Cool.” More silence falls, this time an awkward one.

“Should we go inside now?” you unlock the doors, quickly getting out of the car. Harry follows behind you and waits for you to walk onto the sidewalk before going up the walkway.

“How close do you live to me?” Harry asks, punching in his gate code. He pulls the gate open and gestures for you to go ahead of him. You decide not to comment on it this time.

“A couple blocks away. I could probably walk over here if I was in the mood to,” Harry shuts the gate behind you and walks over to the first set of stairs, taking them two at a time. “I was interested in this complex when I was moving out of my parents’ but I settled on something else.” He hums, stopping in front of the first door at the top of the stairs. There’s a brown ‘Welcome!’ mat outside his door, along with a few potted plants.

“Here we are,” he looks over his shoulder as if he’s checking if you’re still there. “Excuse the boxes. ‘M not done unpacking yet.” He pushes open the door and steps in, quickly turning on the light. You’re met with the same sweet scent of vanilla that’s in his classroom. Considering he was in the process of unpacking, his apartment was reasonably tidy.

“It looks good in here,” your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. You were in your coworker’s house that you just met that day, and you could already feel yourself developing a crush on him. There was obviously no way you’d let this relationship progress past anything strictly professional, but that didn’t mean you weren’t allowed to admire his beauty.

“Thanks,” he gives you a smile, relief washing over his face. “You can set your bag down if you want. Take a seat, make yourself at home.” He leaves the room, and you hear him rattling around in the kitchen. “Can I get you anything to drink? Wine? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee sounds great,” you reply. You set your purse down on his coffee table and sit on the edge of his couch, inspecting his living room closer. There were two books on the table, both flipped upside down as a way to mark his page. There were a few more plants inside, similar to the ones in front of his door. There was a framed picture of him with two beautiful women you assumed to be his mother and sister. Harry comes back into the room a few minutes later, two steaming cups of black coffee in hand.

“Here you are, Miss Y/L/N,” he puts on an exaggerated posh accent, and you giggle.

“Why thank you, Mr. Styles,” you respond in the same voice. “Do you have cream and sugar?”

He wrinkles his nose. “I think I might have sugar. Is oat milk, okay? I don’t have cream.” He goes back to his kitchen to retrieve the items before you can tell him it’s okay, and you’ll just drink it black. You thank him, pouring the tiniest splash of oat milk into your coffee. You can feel his eyes on you as you add a bit of sugar, stir, taste, and then add some more.

“So,” you begin after your coffee is made to your liking. “What did you think about your first day? You can be honest since we’re not on campus anymore.” Harry laughs, looking down at his fingernails.

“Uh,” he starts. You notice he says, ‘uh’ a lot. “It was terrific. Not so sure I would’ve felt the same way if I didn’t have you to help me through it.” 

“We’re partners in crime now, Harry. We’re the two Kindergarten teachers, and you’re the only other person there my age? We’ve definitely gotta stick together,” you give him a big smile. He doesn’t smile back but looks a bit troubled instead. You wait for him to speak, coming to accept that long pauses were just a thing when having a conversation with Harry.

“Y’know how I assumed you had a boyfriend earlier? I thought after I’d said that–– rather I hoped after I said that you’d be like,” he clears his throat. “‘Why, no! I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?’” He put on the worst American accent you’d ever heard to imitate your voice, causing you to laugh. “To which I would’ve replied with a simple ‘no.’” 

Now it’s your turn to leave Harry wondering what you’re thinking for the first time all day. You can feel his eyes on you as you look at his couch cushions, noticing a bit of crumbs that you hadn’t seen before. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I think you’re beautiful.”

“You don’t even know me. We just met today.”

“Does that mean I can’t think you’re beautiful?”

You bite your lip, feeling yourself starting to grow a bit turned on by his forwardness. There was a part of you that would risk it all for just one night in bed with Harry because you just found him that attractive. The rational, adult side of you was screaming, ‘Don’t mix business with pleasure!’. By now, you had both moved closer on the couch to one another, knees nearly touching. “I think you’re beautiful, too.” He grins, setting his coffee cup down. You do the same.

“Would it be crazy of me to tell you that I really wanna kiss you right now?” His face is mere inches from yours, so close that you could smell the coffee on his breath. You shake your head.

“No. I really wanna kiss you too.”

“C’ mere, then.” 

Harry leans forward a bit more until his lips are ghosting over yours. You pull at the collar of his shirt, bringing his already close body even closer to yours. His lips are softer than they look, and he’s a better kisser than you thought he’d be, too. He brings his hands up to tangle them in your hair, and that’s when you abruptly pull away, not wanting things to go too far. “We shouldn’t…” He looks at you with sad eyes, but he nods, understanding what you mean.

“Probably not the best idea?” his response comes out as more of a question than a statement, but you nod in agreement anyway.

“Definitely not. I’m um–– I’m actually gonna go,” you stand up, slinging your purse over your shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, see––”

You’re out the door, rushing down the stairs before he can even finish his sentence.

The rest of the school week goes on without either one of you mentioning it. It’s a little awkward for a couple of days, but by the time Friday rolls around, both of you decide the best course of action to take regarding the kiss would be to act like it never happened. 

You’re in your room at lunch hanging up your kids’ artwork they made during their ‘Free Time’ this morning, having declined Harry’s lunch invitation for the fourth time that week. You decided to pretend to be busy with work so you wouldn’t be too tempted to go into his room. To most people, you’re sure it looked like you were avoiding him–– and maybe you were. However, you were trying to get over this crush on him in the best way that you knew how.

“Need some help?”

You jump, nearly falling backward off the stepstool you were on. “Holy shit, Harry! You scared the hell out of me!” You feel your body getting warm, and you quickly look away, not wanting him to see how flustered you were.

“Sorry, you weren’t answering my texts, so I decided to come see what you were up to,” he walks over to where you were standing and hands you a piece of art, smiling at it before handing it to you. “You’ve got some artists in your class.”

“Mhm,” you hum, not looking him in the eyes. You hear him let out a quiet sigh.

“Still able to go see about getting those pumpkins ordered after work?”

You had completely forgotten that you and Harry decided today would be the day you’d go get the pumpkin situated figured out for your booth. For a second, you consider making an excuse to get out of it, but you decide against it. This was something that both of you were asked to do, not just him, and you didn’t want the fact that you let your attraction to him cloud your judgment getting in the way of your professional responsibilities.

“Yeah, that works.”

He doesn’t say anything, and even though you’re not looking at him, you can see the gears in his head turning. “Should we talk––” 

You’re quite literally saved by the bell, the end of lunch interrupting where you knew he was about to lead the conversation. “I’ll see you after school? Did you walk here again? I can drive.” Harry nods slowly.

“Uh, yeah. he replies. “I walked. Uh, ’m gonna go get my kids. See you after school then?”

“Yup!” you respond, fake enthusiasm in your voice. Harry gives you one more look before walking out of your room. You wait until he’s all the way down the hall before following behind him to bring your class back inside. You knew you were the one making things awkward between you and Harry. However, the realistic part of you knew getting involved with your coworker was one of the worst ideas you’d ever had in your life. For now, you’d just tell yourself that you were probably more into Harry than he was into you and pray that would be enough to make you get over your crush.

“I haven’t been to a pumpkin patch since I was a kid.” Harry stuffs his hands farther into his pockets while yours are tightly hugging your chest. You hum, not saying anything. The car ride there was a little awkward, and you were glad it was so short. You could tell there was a lot Harry wanted to say, but you were glad he wasn’t saying it. You keep seeing him glance at you, but you pretend not to notice.

“What size pumpkins should we ask for? Small ones, huh?” Harry nods, looking around in childlike awe. There was a small petting zoo, booths selling warm drinks and kettle corn, and an obscene amount of children.

You walk around together for a moment before encountering a friendly-looking employee who looked like he could help you out. Harry takes over, explaining the situation, and why you need to order one hundred tiny pumpkins. While you’re waiting for the employee to ask the owner if that would even be possible, Harry turns to face you.

“Y/N? Can we talk about what happened on Monday?” you’re about to tell him that you’d rather not, but he continues. “I felt something during that kiss, Y/N. I’m not sure if you felt it too, but I don’t want things to be awkward between us. We have to get through an entire school year working side-by-side, and if you’re not interested, then I respect that one hundred percent, but I just want––”

“So the owner said that is possible!” The employee that was helping you out comes back with a form and clipboard in their hand. “Can you just fill out some information and let us know what time you need it tomorrow? The owner said he could get it delivered and give you guys a discount since you’re ordering so much.”

“That’s great!” you exclaim, taking the form from him. You were glad to have been saved from your conversation with Harry. You quickly go through and fill out everything you can, telling them they can bill your school’s PTA. 

The walk back to your car is silent. You’re replaying what Harry was saying to you over in your head, thinking about what he was going to say before he was interrupted. He opens your car door like he’s been doing, but he doesn’t make eye contact with you or say a word as he slides into the passenger seat.

“Y’can just drop me off,” Harry says quietly. He leans your seat back and closes his eyes. You wait to see if he’ll connect his phone, but he doesn’t, so you turn on the radio at a volume so low it almost can’t be heard. It takes everything in you not to speed back to his place. You just wanted him out of your car. You had such strong feelings for him that it physically hurt, and restraining yourself from telling him how you really felt was growing harder and harder.

“We’re here.” your voice is a little hoarse from not saying anything. Harry slowly opens his eyes and unbuckles his seatbelt, opening the door.

“Right. Thanks for the ride. What time do we need to be at school to set up our booth by?”

“Four. I can pick you up if you want?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow, Y/N.” He closes the door and walks up to his gate without looking back at you once.

“Hi Miss Y/L/N! Hi Mr. Styles!”

Groups of your students had been coming up to you excitedly all evening. It made you happy to see that the Kindergarten classes were no longer divided. They were starting to hang out with one another. Their parents tell you how their children thought it was just the coolest thing to be on school grounds on a Saturday, and how even though it was only a week into the school year, they were having the best time. It was comments like this that made you fall in love with your job all over again.

Things between you and Harry were going well. It wasn’t awkward, but you think it was because you were both too busy helping children paint their pumpkins. You were glad that Harry didn’t take the bit of downtime the two of you had when no one was at your booth trying to talk about the kiss and instead talked about other random things instead. You find out he loves baking (specifically, bread), he has an obsession with old music, and has about fifty tattoos. He talks to his mom on the phone every day, and he is extremely close to his sister. You tell him about your parents’, your undergraduate experience, your hobbies, and you finally tell him what music you like to listen to.

The festival quickly comes to an end, and you find yourself sad once you and Harry are done cleaning up your booth, knowing that you were just going to drop him off at his apartment and go back to yours to spend another Saturday night alone. You get to his complex almost too quickly, and you almost want to keep going and pretend you accidentally missed it just to be with him a bit longer. Instead, you park.

“D’ya wanna come inside?” He blurts out. Even in the darkness of your car, you can tell his face is flushed. “I mean if you haven’t got plans. I know it’s a Saturday night, so I understand if––”

“Nope, I don’t have plans. I’d love to.” Your hands are shaky as you unbuckle your seatbelt. He quickly gets out of your car and runs around to your side, opening the door for you before you can do it yourself. You almost don’t even notice since it was becoming such a habit.

“I picked up this new bottle of wine a couple days ago that’ve been wanting to pop open. Think we deserve a glass or two after such a long week, hmm?” You wordlessly nod, wholly mesmerized with just how good Harry looked after such a long day of work. His curls fell perfectly across his forehead, his eyes were sparkling and full of excitement. 

“A glass of wine sounds great,” you reply with a chuckle. “I’m ready to drink a whole bottle by the end of the week if I’m being honest.” Harry laughs, quickly punching in his gate code. You could see his hands shaking a little bit, but you decide not to comment on it. He takes the stairs up to his apartment two at a time like he did last time you were there, but this time there’s an urgency and clumsiness to his actions that you haven’t seen before. He jams the key in his lock, quickly shoving the door open.

His apartment is a little messier than it was when you were in it at the beginning of the week, but it’s nothing disgusting. He runs his fingers through his curls, moving aside papers that were scattered along the length of the couch. “Sorry, I was doin’ some planning. Make yourself comfortable.” He disappears to the kitchen, and moments later, you hear the pop of a wine cork and the smooth sound of him pouring the alcohol into glasses.

He emerges from his kitchen, handing you a generously poured glass of wine. “Thanks, Harry,” you tell him before taking a big sip. It was sweet, and while you usually preferred a more dry wine, it was still delicious. 

“Cheers to the end of a successful first week,” he holds up his glass, and you smile, clinking yours with his. “Thanks for helpin’ me get through it, Y/N. Couldn’t have done it without you.” You give him a timid smile.

“Stop, Harry. You’re a great teacher. I can see your kids love you already,” you take another sip of wine. “I kinda do too. I mean–– that came out wrong. I don’t love you, but I do think I like you.” You didn’t know what came over you at that moment, but something told you now was the time to lay it all out on the table with Harry. He sets his glass of wine down, the biggest smile on his face.

“Really? I thought you weren’t interested. Was kinda startin’ to feel like you hate me,” he sounds a little sad. You shake your head.

“Quite the opposite, actually. I’m really into you,” you didn’t even realize how you’d inched your way towards Harry. “I’ve been trying not to think about how we kissed because we shouldn’t, you know? We’re coworkers. I’ve been trying not to think about it all week, though, and I just can’t get you out of my mind.” He stares intensely into your eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek like he usually does when he’s thinking.

“Can I kiss you, Y/N?” he finally asks. You’re in the same position as you were last time, being mere inches away from the other’s lips. Only this time, you smell the wine on his breath, not coffee. You nod quickly, and Harry cups your face in his hands, hungrily pressing his lips against yours.

“You can do more than kiss me, actually,” you tell him breathlessly. “You can do whatever you want with me.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, a shocked look on his face. “When you say anything…” he trails off.

“I want you to fuck me, Harry,” you tell him bluntly. “Please. Been wanting that all week.” He licks his lips, looking at you in a way he hasn’t yet before. 

“I can definitely do that,” he replies, resting his hand on your thigh. His large hand is dangerously close to your pussy, and you can already feel yourself growing wet. “Let’s get all these clothes off you then, huh?” 

You stand up and quickly start removing your clothes. First, your blouse comes off, and that’s quickly followed by your bra. Harry’s leaning back on the couch, arms resting behind his head. “Enjoying the show?” you ask, quickly pulling down your jeans and underwear. You’re completely naked in front of him in thirty seconds flat, and you reckon that’s the fastest you’ve ever undressed for anything. 

“Very much so,” he mumbles, palming himself over his khakis. “C’ mere, Y/N.” he pats his lap, and you move to sit in it, now straddling him. He softly presses his lips against yours, the hunger that was there just a moment ago completely dissipated. This was a much more hesitant kiss, more gentle and tender. “You’re really beautiful, Y/N.”

You giggle. “I know. You’ve told me that before.”

“I want you to know how much I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Harry nods. “Can I have a taste of ya now?” you notice that his accent sounds a bit thicker than usual, voice a tad gruffer. You nod, swallowing thickly. Climbing off Harry, you lay back on the couch, situating yourself, so it’s a little more comfortable. He looks into your eyes, placing his hands on your knees. “Is this okay, Y/N?” You nod again, and he removes his hands.

“What’s wrong?” your voice has a hint of desperation in it, but after a week of extreme sexual tension, you wanted nothing more than to cum by the hands of this man.

“Wanna hear you tell me it’s okay. I don’t wanna do anything you don’t want,” he’s looking down at his hands.

“Harry, I wouldn’t have given you a striptease and laid back on this couch for you if I didn’t want it. I wholeheartedly give you permission to do whatever you want with me––”

That’s enough for him. He roughly pries your legs open, immediately licking a long stripe up your heat. You cry out, not expecting him to get right into it. You look down at him and groan when you see he’s making eye contact with you, a smug look on his face. “How’s tha’, love?” You nod, tangling your hands in his curls.

“Yeah Harry, please,” you moan. Harry sucks harshly at your clit, pulling off loudly, the sound echoing throughout his minimally furnished apartment.

“Please what, pet?” He’s looking you dead in the eyes, a devilish grin on his face while his index finger rubs small circles on your clit. Your chest is heaving up and down quickly as you try to calm your breathing down.

“Please make me cum on your tongue, Harry,” you try pushing his head back down to your cunt, but he doesn’t budge.

“Think I rather like hearin’ you beg like this fo’ me. Enjoyin’ watching you squirm like tha’, love.” Just as your about to beg for him some more to feed his inflated ego, he attaches his lips to your clit once more, this time adding his ring finger into your tight pussy. “You’re tight. Sure you’ll be able to take my cock?” His voice is muffled, and you just barely make out what he says.

You clench around his finger, and he laughs, the vibrations sending a new sensation across your clit. “Y’like thinkin’ about my cock, hmm?”

“Yeah, want you in me,” you beg, lifting your hips up. He grips onto your hips tightly, keeping you in place.

“Can feel yeh gettin’ ready for me, darlin’. Think you can take another one?” You nod, and Harry gently places kitten licks on your swollen clit while he slowly pushes his middle finger into you. You feel full in a way you haven’t felt in such a long time, and he only had two fingers in you. Once he pumps his fingers in and out of you a few times, he goes back to harshly sucking on his clit, moaning every so often so you can feel the vibrations against your cunt.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning loudly, and you pray Harry’s neighbors don’t hear you, knowing how thin apartment walls were.

“So fuckin’ wet for me, doll,” he mutters, adding another finger inside you. The burn feels amazing, and you place your hand on his wrist, urging him to go faster. “Gonna cum in my mouth, hmm? Gonna let me feel ya around m’ fingers?”

“Yes, please, Harry,” you feel yourself nearly there, your orgasm threatening to overtake you at any moment. 

“Give it to me then, Y/N. Cum for me,” he demands. As soon as he says those three words, you’re done for, your body going tense as waves of pleasure roll throughout your body. He doesn’t remove his digits from the your cunt until you’re coming down from your high, placing a kiss to your clit. He laughs as you shudder at the overstimulation. Harry places his three fingers that were just inside of you and his mouth and sucks on them, not once breaking eye contact with you. 

“That was really good,” you tell him, crawling on your knees towards him to place a kiss on the underside of his jaw—Harry’s beaming, a triumphant look on his face.

“Not yet. Gotta make y’ cum one more time. I’m a gentleman, after all.” You know he’s messing with you but also serious, so you lean back on the couch, opening your legs once again.

“Are you gonna take off your clothes too? Why am I the only one that’s naked?” Harry laughs, and you hear the clanking of his belt as he undoes it. 

“You’re impatient, aren’t ya?” you nod, and he pulls down his tenting khakis and tight boxers. His cock springs up, slightly touching his stomach, and he hisses at the feeling. “Hold on a sec.” He gets up quickly, and you hear him hurry to what you assume in the bathroom, rummaging around. He comes back a minute later with a box of condoms, making you laugh.

“Is that a new box of condoms? Have you been holding onto those all week, Mr. Styles?” Harry rolls his eyes and opens the box, ripping open a condom expertly with his teeth.

“Weren’t you just the one beggin’ for me, pet? I’d watch it if I were you,” he jokes, rolling the condom onto his hard length. He leans down to place wet, opened mouth kisses to your breasts. “So beautiful.”

“Are you gonna take off your shirt?” you ask quietly. “I kinda wanna see all your tattoos.” Harry raises an eyebrow at you but unbuttons his shirt nevertheless, throwing it into the mess of clothes scattered around the living room. You reach your hand up, shakily tracing the swallows on his chest, moving down to the butterfly across his stomach and finally to the ferns on his abdomen. Harry’s staring down at you, watching as you delicately touch his skin. “You have so many.” you finally say. He nods.

“Yeah. Some of them I just got for the hell of it. Felt like after I got that first tattoo, it was hard to stop.” He caresses the skin on your thighs, and you shudder again. “Gonna let me get inside that pretty lil’ cunt now?”

“Please.”

Harry aligns himself with your entrance and slowly pushes into you, sharply inhaling as you clench around his length. “Relax, Y/N.’ve got ya,” he tells you reassuringly. “Can’t get inside ya if you’re all tense like tha’.” You can tell Harry’s trying his hardest not to absolutely wreck you, the vein in his forehead very prominent from clenching his jaw so tightly. You grip tightly onto his bicep, biting your lip as you adjust to his size. You were so wet and indescribably turned on that you felt every vein his thick cock had to offer, and you knew you wouldn’t last long once he started moving. By the looks of it, Harry wouldn’t either.

“You can move,” you tell him, squeezing your eyes shut. Harry slowly pulls out of you and then ever so gently sinks back inside you, bottoming out. He lets out a breathy moan, moving one of his hands up to tweak your nipples. “Harder, Harry, fuck.” 

He immediately pulls out of you and slams back inside, the sounds of his balls slapping against your ass echoing in the room. You scream in pleasure, no longer caring if his neighbors hear what you two were doing. 

“Like tha’?” He asks cheekily, working up a steady rhythm. You nod, gripping your boobs to keep them from bouncing. Harry shakes his head, forcefully removing your hands. “Nope, none of that. Wanna see ’em.” He takes both of your hands in one of his, pinning them up over your head. His other hand reaches in between your bodies to rub at your clit, and before you have time to warn him, you’re cumming again, squirting all over his cock. 

Harry throws his head back in pleasure, his thrusts getting sloppy and frantic, and you know he’s seconds away from his own orgasm. You spur him on, telling him how badly you wanted him to come inside of you (even though he was wearing a condom). He stills moments later, shaking above you as he holds himself up with an arm, not wanting to collapse on top of you.

“Fuckin’ hell, Y/N. Why did we wait a whole week to do this again?”

[chainofclovers]

Grace and Frankie 7x1 - 7x4 thoughts

Meh? Like...I love them so much, but...meh?

(I did enjoy this line about brunch.)

I really loved season 6 of Grace and Frankie. I thought it was well-paced, largely very well-acted, generally well-written, and it culminated in a massive moment of character development for the title characters, who, having spent years growing closer and being there for each other when others could not or would not be, finally articulate to each other that they are the primary person in each other’s lives. Platonic gal pal soulmate BFF emotional support witches 4 lyfe!

I know progress isn’t always linear, and in fact is very rarely linear, but after a moment that significant, you’d think the writers on this show would maybe come up with some more interesting things for these characters to do than spin in circles?

@bristler and I watched on Friday night, and just this morning over breakfast had a good conversation about the first four episodes of the new season now that they have settled in our brains a bit. We concluded that the writing (often noticeably clunky, like the dialogue is responsible for more narration than usual) and the tone (aggressively wacky) feel really off, especially compared to the prior season. I think we diagnosed the big issue, which is that Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda are by far the most talented actors on this show (if you disagree, fight me in the parking lot) and it feels surprisingly unfortunate that their characters have, to this point in the new season, pretty much figured out their perspectives on each other. No matter how people feel about Grace and Frankie’s sexualities, the whole show has been about them finding each other and getting in deeper and deeper, and it’s less interesting to watch other characters have realizations about that than it is to watch Grace and Frankie having realizations about themselves. If the title characters are now limited to reacting to other people’s actions, and the title characters are played by the best actors on the show, the whole show’s gonna suffer. And is suffering, very much so, at least for these first four episodes. I’m definitely still excited for the final twelve in 2022 (twelve! I cannot believe this season will have sixteen eps!), but I’m pretty disappointed so far.

Stuff I Loved:

The family brunch. These families have been entwined for so long, and the backstory for this particular brunch was so fun (even though I didn’t care for the effects they did to depict Grace and Robert 25 years ago; there was no need for a visual flashback in the scene). I love that Grace hit Frankie with a wiffle ball bat. I love that the two couples realized some of the emotional reasons behind their decisions to lie to each other about Bud’s Bunny and about M’Challah. I love the way Jane Fonda sounds uttering the phrase “Bud’s Bunny” with little to no irony. I love that Grace is able to recognize and articulate just how deep and miserable her anger issues were, albeit with the continued help of her omnipresent martini, and that Frankie told her she’d now make up a holiday in order to spend more time with Grace. I really, really hope Frankie does exactly this at some point in the remaining episodes of the season. I love that Grace is generally a pretty good person now, with aspirations of being a delightful person. I love that she and Frankie don’t have it in them to stay angry with each other, and I love all the evidence that they really, really talk to each other about everything now.

Frankie talking to the man at the office (I don’t remember who he was supposed to be? A toilet manufacturer? I didn’t mention this before, but I actually got pretty high while watching?!? Believe it or not, this was the first time I smoked pot and watched Grace and Frankie at the same time despite having enjoyed both activities on their own for quite some time. I would recommend the combo! And I think I still pretty much got what was happening) about paying for the toilet parts with candy. This whole subplot with the money laundering was absurd and not that interesting, but I loved this particular scene because it was finally evidence of some really thoughtful writing. The concepts aren’t enough! You have to write them into good dialogue! And the whole cash/candy thing was a moment of dialogue that only someone as hilarious as Lily Tomlin could pull off. Which she did, IMO.

In a show about super messy people, Coyote has stayed sober this entire time. He is sober, employed, in love, and preparing to buy a full-sized house with his partner. He hasn’t murdered anyone in his family. Hasn’t even attempted murder once.

In 2017 or whatever, Grace Hanson would have been furious about Frankie using obscure Beatles references like a treasure map when hiding the cash. But here in 2021, she cooperates and even gets in on the fun. The writing is very unsubtle this season, but that did feel like a reasonably subtle moment that shows how good of a partner she is for Frankie. (Platonic, of course! So platonic. Female friendship, amirite?)

Stuff I Did NOT Love and Felt Incredibly Negative About:

Brianna. I can only conclude that June Diane Raphael has decided she’s happy with playing a character whose primary role in life is to be hot and mean. She succeeds at being hot and mean, but I have reached my limit with this character. I realize we’re only a quarter of the way into the season, but I don’t think I can take another arc about her learning to compromise only to reveal to Barry that she never intended to compromise at all. At this point, it’s both abusive and boring. How?! The Grace/Brianna parallels aren’t interesting anymore, because one character has grown and the other is stagnant. I get that Brianna was raised in an emotionally stilted environment by two unhealthy people. But I think it would be very cool if she could learn something from her mother at this point. Grace has put a ton of effort into dealing with her “rabbit-killing, mad-at-the-world anger.” She’s put a ton of effort into figuring out what makes her happy, what she wants her life to look like. She’s even started accepting her age and abilities without shame. And that growth is believable; Grace is still short-tempered and she still slugs back way too many martinis and she struggles to articulate certain things, but she’s grown into a truly lovely human. And while, as a daughter with a mother, I can absolutely attest to the fact that it can be difficult and uncomfortable to learn lessons from one’s mother, Brianna really, really should. Grace spent decades letting anger and shame trap her in a small, miserable life. Brianna—and even Mallory, who just seems like a vapid idiot this season—are traveling that same path, but there’s someone right there who could really help, maybe even more than Frankie helped when the Hanson girls were first growing up.

The arraignment. The scene might’ve been salvageable if it was filmed from Grace’s perspective, and filmed to reflect how surreal and improbable it all was. But speaking of non-linear progress, this scene erased everything Nick Skolka has done to put himself in my good graces (LOL) over the past couple seasons. I mean, I tried, man. I even wrote fic about Nick, Grace, and Frankie making a genuine effort at polyamory. But the arraignment is so emotionally manipulative, such a slap in the face of everything Grace has worked for, and while we’re certainly “supposed” to feel the weight of the moment, I mean, it’s not like we’re supposed to be like, “Oh, cool, we’re in a rom com now! This is adorable!” it still felt bad and unearned and slapdash.

And I want Frankie to process these things with her! Frankie seems so happy to have all this information about Grace and how Grace feels, but I want to see scenes in which we can gain an understanding of how Frankie actually feels. Hearing Frankie talk to other people about how Grace feels is interesting, but it’s like there’s no room in these episodes for us to learn anything new about Frankie herself.

Grace’s transitional wig. Is so. Bad. It is. Such a. Bad wig. Oof. I mean, I like what they’re doing with Grace’s hair from a plot perspective, although (see one bullet up) I would really like to get more of an understanding of what’s happening in Grace’s head, not just on top of her head. And gosh, Frankie would be a really good person to talk to about this in a conversation that lasts longer than 30 seconds. But the wig! She’s in a wig in all four episodes, of course, since Jane Fonda went grey and cut her hair short before they started filming this season. The wig for episodes 1 and 2 is fine; it’s a good approximation of Grace’s typical hair, and of course we know that canonically Grace’s hair isn’t 100% her own hair anyway. But the wig with grey roots looks so weird. The part that’s growing out doesn’t look the same as the hair on the wig from 1 and 2. And the grey roots look like a yarmulke. I cannot wait to get to the point in the season when Grace goes all the way grey.

(One more thing about the hair. I can’t let it go. I paused the show while we were watching to rant, but I’m not done.) I had the great privilege of seeing Jane Fonda in person at a protest in 2019. She is an insanely beautiful human. She was growing her hair out and it was partially dyed blonde and partially grey. It looked really cool. I am not ashamed to say I spent that day learning many things about the climate crisis and about Jane Fonda’s hair. Having seen her in real life with her real hair looking that fucking great, I just have a an extra-large grudge against everyone involved in that horrible wig. The wig is necessary, but it didn’t have to be this bad.

What Do I Care About Now?

I am pretty intrigued by the way Grace threw out her real age in a conversation with Nick and Elena. She has nothing to fear anymore! She’s so chill about aging! What could go wrong? I assume that Nick and Elena maneuvering for Nick to be on house arrest in Grace's house specifically has to do with the fact that Grace is 82. She’s gonna find out that Nick is allowed to be with her because she’s ancient and helpless and the court took pity. Or something like that. She’s going to feel betrayed on top of feeling stifled and overwhelmed by Nick’s presence. I want to see where this goes for sure.

Other than that, and other than the fact that I really do continue to believe this show is moving in a direction in which Grace and Frankie will choose each other, I feel very whatever about this whole thing. I love this show and I will always appreciate this show for giving me some incredible characters to spend years of my life writing about, and for bringing me some pretty amazing friendships. Speaking of those friendships, yesterday @ellydash and @telanu and I were talking about some of the incredible TV we’ve watched recently, like Ted Lasso and Hacks and Fleabag and Killing Eve, and how great it feels to watch beautifully written TV crafted by writers who are profoundly—organically yet intentionally—attuned to even the most minor character’s rhythm. The disappointment of these first few episodes of the new G&F season feels like a mild disappointment rather than a sharp heartbreak, and that has a lot to do with being deeply invested in other shows that could also go in all kinds of different directions but with writing I fundamentally trust.

Also Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin are my forever faves and my appreciation for their performances and general awesomeness onscreen and in life is undiminished. So that’s pretty cool.

[smoochkooks]

—it’s december (and i still want you) | m.

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon/reader

⇢ genre: smut, angst, fluff (the holy trinity)

⇢ word count: 16.7k

⇢ warnings: explicit sexual content, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (be safe kids!), dirty talk, just good, ol’ emotional sex

⇢ summary: as the final farewell to your soon-to-be-ex husband namjoon, you spend with him one last christmas in your parents’ cottage far away from the city, reflecting on your life together before you will part your ways for good.

a/n: omg guys!! i’m so excited to post this, you have no idea:( i’ve been working on writing this for a whole month but i had this particular fic in mind since last year so i can’t believe i actually managed to finish this before christmas like i had planned. i hope you will like this. i’m sending you lots of love for the new year! xx, julia.

For how long you could remember, you’ve always adored Christmas.

There’s something discreetly magical in this time of the year, no matter if it’s an unique aura or the fact you’re the family type of person, Christmas used to hold a special place in your heart, spread a distinctive kind of warmth in your body that made you feel calm and loved. 

This year though, it's different. Not because the weather doesn’t suit the occasion and instead of snowing, the sky is cloudy. The very reason is on your kitchen table, next to the big cardboard box you’ve scribbled ‘xmas decorations' on in black ink. There lay neatly folded in manila folder documents, untouched for about a week since postman delivered them. Your future is inside, just above your signature. You know those papers are not going to be read through anytime soon, that the blank space next to your name will be crystal white until the very New Year.  

You know he won’t say a word about it unless it’s necessary. He won’t plead, beg, ask for delay. He’s accepted it. Deep down you wish he put up some fight, resisted, fell to his knees in front of you and counted all his mistakes promising it won’t happen again. But it’s your decision. And he has never denied your choice. 

You’ve always loved Christmas. Family gatherings by the table, the smell of cinnamon in your mum's famous rolls, the colourful lights on the Christmas tree your dad never stops complaining about when he’s assigned to put them on. 

This year however, Christmas is nothing but an unceremonious reminder that it’s going to be your last celebration spend with your soon-to-be-ex husband, Namjoon.

Statistically, the younger you get married, there’s a higher possibility of having a divorce with your significant other. The shorter the period between engagement and wedding is, you’re most likely going to survive approximately three years as a married person. You feel like you’ve never fitted into any statistics and algorithms better than now.

You were twenty one when you first met Kim Namjoon. The only thing you knew about him before seeing in person was the size of his family's wealth. Your mother told you he’s a good man, same age as you, majoring in business and economy tall, blonde fella. You, on the other hand, were just a girl in red pristine dress and uncomfortable high heels, with dreams to trivial for her parents liking.  

The place you first met him was beautiful. A big ballroom in downtown with gleaming chandeliers, filled to the brim with people you wholeheartedly despised sipping on their Dom Perignons, a clique whose money combined together could easily build a few hospitals in Africa. You remember your mum patting you on the back, hissing to your ear to straighten, but you knew it was more an encouraging act of hers than a real reprimand. You remember your dad, laughing at something with mister Kim and from the volume and tone of his voice you knew it wasn’t genuine.  

You also remember Namjoon, good-looking and smart and so sophisticated in his manners and words he could put into shame any college jocks or obnoxious fratboys you’d met so far during your studies. Namjoon with his exquisite demeanor and handsome face that drew attention from every young lady in the ballroom. You felt small standing next to him and it wasn’t just because he towered over you with his height. For the first time in your life you were in front of someone who was absolutely out of your league.

When your parents decided to leave you two alone for a while, Namjoon let out a long sigh, like some weight was lifted off his shoulders and he finally could breathe properly. He smiled at you, two cute dimples adoring his cheeks and said, ‘’Fuck, I thought they would never leave.” gulping the rest of his champagne smoothly.  

You remember how your eyes widened after hearing him speak informally like that, to the point it probably must have looked comical because he chuckled as soon as he saw your puzzled expression. 

“Want to get away from here for a while? I know some place upstairs where we can talk without being watched by all those tight wads.” Namjoon asked you then.

This time, no matter how shocked you were, you manage to keep your true emotions at bay. You smiled at him, nodding. “Lead the way.”  

Namjoon seemed to know this place by heart, easily navigating through long corridors until he found what he was looking for: a large balcony with a view to the whole city. He motioned for you to come closer where he stood, leaning to the rail and fishing out of his jacket's pocket a pack of cigarettes. With one between his plush lips, he extended the rest towards you. 

“I don’t smoke.” you said curtly, probably too abrupt but he didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. 

“Well, I do,” he murmured, lighting up his cigarette and taking the first drag languidly. “Dad's a heavy smoker. He’s been telling me my whole teenage years not to be like him but here I am,” He smirked almost cynically, fuming the poison. “Like father, like son.”  

You didn’t exactly know how to react to that, choosing to stare at the city covered in darkness from a distance instead. The summer was in full bloom, night almost stuffy it made you feel hot. Your feet hurt from the uncomfortable shoes you wore and you wondered for a moment how would Namjoon react if you decided to take them off.

It was still annoyingly mute, you started thinking that maybe he was waiting for you to continue conversation somehow. Why did he even want to bother spending time with you here? Why did he want you to keep him company when you couldn’t hold a proper conversation? God, you were awful at smalltalks. 

Luckily for you, Namjoon always knew what to say. 

“So, Y/N,” he began, your head turning to the side to have a look at him. He was beautiful like this, you had to admit to yourself, dressed in black suit with a cigarette caught between his slender fingers and suddenly a vision of marrying him wasn’t that surreal anymore like you thought at the beginning. “I know what your family business is, I know you’re the same age as me and you don’t smoke,” he listed, gesturing with his occupied hand for emphasis, “but I still don’t know what you’re studying.”  

Apparently you weren’t only bad at communicating. You were also terrible at holding eye contact but Namjoon from the very start of your acquaintance didn’t want to let you go that easily, keeping his gaze fixated on you the whole time. It made your cheeks blush and you prayed he didn’t see that in dim lighting. 

“I am majoring in fashion design and marketing. I want to start my own brand in the future.” you replied. Namjoon hummed, flicking his cigarette with his thumb and ring finger. “My parents don’t really like this idea. They probably wish I worked as an accountant in their firm or something,” You laughed and to your surprise, there was a smile dancing on Namjoon's lips as well, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I am destined to work for my father from the moment my mother found out she was pregnant with a boy,” he said, voice laced with strange kind of melancholy you hadn’t heard from him since you two met. “I will take over his business after his death and work there until I die.”  

“What about your other siblings then?” you asked.”

“I’m the only child.”  

“Oh.” 

Namjoon chuckled. “Yeah. ‘Oh' it’s a good word to describe it.” He took one last drag off his cigarette and discarded it carelessly somewhere on the floor. For a moment you thought he was reaching to his pocket for another one, but he faltered. 

It was quiet for a few long bits of time, until Namjoon broke the silence again.

“It looks like they want us to get married, Y/N,” he said suddenly and you nearly jumped in place hearing his deep ramble. “What do you think about that?” You turned to look at him, only to find his eyes already trained on you, expression smug. 

You shrugged. “I don’t have much say in this.” 

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrowed like he was genuinely surprised with your answer. “Why is that? Aren’t you the daughter who disobeys her parents by pursuing the career they don’t want for her?” he asked almost mockingly, taking a step towards you. “You can say no. You can dump me and find some guy who would be much better husband than me, or maybe you have someone like that already, don’t you?”  

“I don’t.” You didn’t even know why you needed to clarify this so fast, you could have played along and fool him, yet here you were. 

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” he concluded.  

You shook your head. “No.” 

“Well, I don’t have a girlfriend either.” 

You sighed. Was this out of relief or because he was now much closer than you considered appropriate for your personal space? Still staring at you with observant eyes, gaze vibrating, plush lips opening to say, “It’s kind of weird for me that you don’t date anyone.” 

You scoffed. “I could say the same about you.”  

“Not exactly, darling,” he disagreed, leaning his body to the railing so he's back was facing the city, head turned to the side to have a look at you. Your cheeks heated at the term of endearment he used, yet you rolled your eyes anyway. “I don’t do relationships. I was never in one, in fact. But you,” he trailed off, licking his lips, “you look like someone who has dozen of guys lined up to be your boyfriend.”  

You were laughing. An authentic, breathy laugh that made Namjoon smile like fool and he didn’t have anything in his diffence because you were just really pretty in your red dress, standing on the balcony and giggling. He wanted to tell you this the whole night, no matter how lame he probably sounded. 

“God, that was so cheesy,” you groaned. “Thank you for your subtle compliment. You aren’t so bad yourself.”  

Maybe Namjoon was actually content too in this moment, that you didn’t have anyone to come home to as well. Back then he thought it was good because it didn’t complicate things more than that already were. Truth to be told, it was just a disguised excuse. 

He didn’t expect you to ask next question, yet your lips somehow formed words on their own. “If you don’t do relationships, why are you okay with marrying me?” 

He was so close you could count his eyelashes, you could see that little mole on his chin. You could reach and touch the sharpness of his jaw, smooth the crease between his brows that had formed after hearing what you had said. 

“I just have a feeling it might work.” he answered simply. “Will you try making this work with me?”  

You smiled. The thought about being wedded to someone like him at the ripe age of twenty one wasn’t that scary anymore. There was a long way before you two but you were in for a ride. Because it could have been anyone, and it was just Namjoon. Just him and above all him. 

“Only if you promise me you will quit smoking.” you said.

Namjoon reached to his suit jacket's pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes and dropped it to the floor. “Your wish is my command.”  

He didn’t laugh it out, didn’t make some snarky comment about you already wife-ing him up. 

Because Kim Namjoon has never disrespected your decision.

Few months later, you got engaged. Officially, on family gathering with your closest relatives, as a symbolic agreement made between two wealths. But in reality, you and Namjoon were never the so called ‘traditional’ type of couple. He proposed to you a week earlier, after taking you out on a bike ride by the river. There was no caviar, fine wine and crème brûlée when you both sat together on a bench, inhaling autumn air. There was no hushed whispers and clears of throats from the family, no glass clicking to get attention because he had something important to say. No practiced speech with Shakespeare’s quotes (love is a smoke made with a fume of sighs, actually a very accurate one).

It was you, no make up and grey sweatpants and him, favourite khaki jacket and stuttered words when he took out of his pocket a pink, plastic ring, like those ones they add to candies. Just you and Namjoon, the whole world, reasons, what ifs and doubts disappeared. 

He wanted to tell you how much he had fallen for you these past months. That he didn’t believe in love from the first sight and God, yet Lord only knows how he had been a goner from the moment he laid his eyes on you in that stupid ballroom full of materialists. He wished to say he would do anything in his power to make it right, to have you call him your husband proudly while standing hand in hand in front of his future business partners, friends and family. 

He did none of that. You didn’t let him to.  

Your lips were on his and the words will you marry– died on his tongue when yours touched his bottom lip. You were kissing him, deep and intoxicating and he wanted this brief moment of sweet halcyon to never end. Because he was young, foolish and so in love that he could for once be egoistic enough to say the world was at his feet while you were in his arms smiling into the kiss and mumbling those stupid three-letters-long word. 

And you said it again and again. Repeated it when you were home, pinned by his body to the wall of his old apartment while his cold fingers danced on your sides underneath a sweater. You chanted it when he stripped you bare and fuck you silly, no making it even to the bedroom because you were young, impatient and in love. 

The wedding was in Spring. You got married when cherries started to blossom in whites and pinks. On the wall in front of you there’s still hanging your favourite photo from that day. Your sister took it with her phone, not some photographer Namjoon's mum had hired to photoshop your faces afterwards. It’s black and white, a little blurry and you’re laughing at something Namjoon had told you seconds before Soojin tapped the button on her phone.  

You wonder what will happen with this picture and many others after everything will be done. 

Sighing, you open the cardboard box with Christmas decorations. You still have a tree to carry upstairs from your basement but you don’t think about it now. Normally, Namjoon would do it. But you know he will be back by the time you will be already at your sister’s home, eating dinner. 

You hear door lock rattling and instantly annoyance flashes through your whole body. If that’s your mother, asking you to come home today and nag you to change your mind again, you swear you’re going to snap real hard this time.  

But it’s not your mother. She doesn’t have keys to your apartment. She doesn’t own a briefcase and that’s certainly a noise of it being thrown on the floor next to the shoe case. And she for sure doesn’t sound like your own husband, greeting you during lunch hours on Christmas Day. 

‘’God, I was held up in a traffic for an hour. If that’s how’s it going to be for the next days, then I’m not leaving the house,” Namjoon says, walking past you. He pours warm coffee you had made earlier into his favourite Captain America cup right away, and sighs deeply. 

You haven’t seen him in the morning. He had already left to work when you opened your eyes, which is not anything new recently. It feels like he’s avoiding you purposely after receiving divorce papers. Almost as if he’s been growing distant to give you even more reasons to end things with him for good.  

His eyes trail from the kitchen counter to you, still holding a golden Christmas tree chain in your hands. He hums, gulping another sip of his coffee. ‘’Oh, you brought decorations. Remind me to go for the tree to the basement later.”  

You’re irritated. You don’t even know why. Probably because he’s so normal and casual about this. He’s still doing all this domestic shit, keeps up appearances and acts like everything’s totally fine. Except one thing: the lack of intimacy. He stopped calling you baby, giving you good morning kisses and goodbye hugs. He doesn’t touch you anymore, barely talks about anything that isn’t some topic he’d heard in news. He’s become now the stereotypical version of husband every woman wouldn’t want to have. It’s frustrating. 

“Why are you home so soon?” you blurt out before you could stop yourself. 

Namjoon places his cup in the dishwasher (he never does that and you have to remind him to do it every time) and crosses his arms over chest. “It’s Christmas and I’m the boss. I wanted to leave early, so I did.” 

You hate how cynical he sounds. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s not been coming home like that every day just because he can, because he’s entitled to work young economist and businessman who gives himself days off to please his wife.

“I’m not staying here for dinner.” You don’t like how formal your voice sounds. It’s the voice you use while talking with clients on the phone. Two can play this game. 

Something shifts in Namjoon's expression. He clears his throat awkwardly and still, the first words come out hoarsely. “You’re not staying home for Christmas?” 

Home. This shared apartment bought with Namjoon's money is still yours too. Until it won’t be anymore. 

“No. I’m going to Soojin's. She’s making a dinner for her boyfriend and his parents and she invited me as well.” 

You don’t know why you feel like you need to explain yourself in front of him. Namjoon nods his head sheepishly. You haven’t seen him look like that for a while. If anything, he looks disappointed. Something aches in your heart at the sight.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, irritation long gone and replaced with something you could mistake only with genuine concern. 

Namjoon cracks a smile. “No, it’s just… I thought we could eat here, alone. You know, since it’s our last Christmas together,” He's speaking more quietly now. Almost like he’s afraid of even approaching this topic aloud, choosing the words carefully yet they sound uncertain anyway. “Mom is on Maldives right now with her new guy.” he adds after a while.

“Oh.” 

Namjoon scratches the back of his head. “I guess I will spend some time alone, then.” He chuckles but you know it’s not an honest laugh. Namjoon loves Christmas just the way you do, though he will never admit it to anyone and the thought about him being in your own apartment probably even without Christmas tree because he’s too clumsy to decorate it himself, makes your insides clench uncomfortably.

You look at him now carefully for the first time in weeks. He doesn’t look like the confident, snarky businessman he aspires to be sometimes. His hair has grown longer, his skin looks paler, there are bangs underneath his eyes and you wonder if he gets any sleep. He used to cuddle you up during night hours when insomnia kicks in, because he says your body's warmth helps him relax. He doesn’t do it anymore from the day he had read the papers. He lays next you peacefully every night and even if he itches to touch you, hold you, caress you, he won’t.

Namjoon looks lost and perhaps he is, he’s been like that since his father died for lungs cancer over one year ago, leaving his business in Namjoon's hands hence he's the only heir to the empire. It was all too sudden and before you could do anything in your power to help mister Kim recover, the disease had progressed to the point of no return, taking his life away few months after he came to the hospital. 

Namjoon hadn’t smoked a cigarette since the day you asked him to quit. He broke that rule once, on his father's funeral day. You found him on the porch in front of his family’s estate, so sad and broken and with a grey smoke swirling around his features. He was crying. You had never seen him like this before. He used to say tears were the luxury he couldn’t afford.

“I’m sorry.” he said to you, voice rough and strangled because there was another wave of sobs forming in his throat. 

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you assured, coming up to him. He gave you the half-burnt cigarette without a word and you throw it away. “It’s going to be okay, Joon.” He crashed his body into yours, straining your black dress with sadness and grief he was always so afraid to show while you were around. You held him like that, rocked him like a baby until eventually his breathing slowed down to normal.

He put his chin on your shoulder, still hugging you tightly, like he was afraid you were going to evaporate and asked, “Do you think I will be able to do it?”

You knew he wasn’t ready for that. Every twenty-something guy wouldn’t be. But you believed in him like he never did in himself. You had all your hopes in him, signed your future with his name, the name of the boy who let go of his beloved addiction just because you said so. Namjoon might have been entitled to marry you but you weren’t obligated to fall for him, yet you did.

Namjoon has always been the strong, monumental fortification that kept you safe in. And together you’ve made home.

Placing your hands on his chest, you pushed him away slightly so you could look him in the eyes. “You won’t be alone,” you urged firmly. “I am here. You’ve got your father's coworkers who put their faith in you.”

“What if I fail them? What if they don’t see me as someone responsible enough to be in charge because I’m some young shithead who had inherited this business from his father?” 

“Then you have to prove them you’re worth it.” 

“Easier said than done.” 

You shook your head, your palms coming up to cup his cheeks. “Kim Namjoon,” you began, “I’ve never given a fuck about economy but when you rant about it over dinner I find it interesting, because you can make it seem like that,” He smiled lightly and your mirrored his gesture. “And I know your views about business. It’s not some liberal shit that’s actually well disguised capitalism. You are more than that, Joon. Don’t you dare ever put yourself down.” 

And then he was kissing you. It was more a simple smooch than anything else but it felt right to do so. To stand on your toes and capture his lips in yours. When he broke off after a moment, he placed a fleeting peck on your nose. It made you smile silly and he was smiling too, despise the situation. 

“I love you.” Namjoon breathed out, leaning his forehead into yours.

In that particular moment, on a porch of his family's old manor, you were certain you were going to survive every storm when he was by your side.

“I love you too.” 

It’s been two years since that day. A lot has changed, hell, both of you have changed. But looking at Namjoon right now you start questioning yourself again, whether this storm is worth letting the ship sink without trying to at least reach the land. 

One last Christmas together, he said. Nothing more and nothing less beside two married people biding farewells before they part their ways for good. You owe him that much.

“You don’t have to stay here alone. We can go to that cottage my parents have. You know, the one where we spend my dad's birthday in January.” 

If Namjoon is surprised with your sudden statement, he hides it pretty well. His eyebrows raise with interest. “Is that okay for you? I mean, you’re already invited to your sister's and she’s probably waiting for you, she made a whole dinner and–”

“Joon,” you cut his rambling off. Joon. You haven’t called him that in a while. He smiles bashfully and you can faintly see pink tingling the apples of his cheeks. “It’s fine, really. Soojin wouldn’t mind, I’m sure of it. But, uhm–” You clear you throat awkwardly. “–we have to buy some groceries if we want to actually eat something for the dinner.” 

Namjoon's brows furrow. “Do we have time to cook something for ourselves?” he asks.

You open your mouth to object but all arguments die on your tongue. He’s right. You don’t have time to do it on your own. Well, fuck, you want to say but then, an idea pops in your head. 

“I’ll take care of this.” 

You’ve always loved Christmas. Never had you thought about spending them with your soon-to-be-ex husband, though.

Namjoon has always been a convincing person.

You think this side of him comes from the field he works in. When you’re standing in the middle of Christmas market down your street, he analyzes the problem of buying a real Christmas tree like it’s another deal he has to sell to his future business partners, listing you all the pros and cons and transforming them into an excel chart in his head. 

He doesn’t even know why you’re here. One minute you were driving to your sister's house after dropping by grocery store, and the second you told him to pull over and wander with you through the numerous stalls with Christmas decorations.

“Why are you so determined to buy a real Christmas tree?” Namjoon asks astonishingly.

You sigh, sending the seller in front of you an apologetic smile. You’ve been standing there with Namjoon for a few solid minutes now and you can sense the man's impatience. You shrug simply in reponse. “Because I’ve always wanted to have one.”

“Yeah, but,” Namjoon pauses when you click your tongue in irritation. Now it’s his turn to sigh. “We are going to be in that cottage just for one night. We can take our Christmas tree from home with us and decorate it there.” 

Upon hearing that, you take his wrist and walk a few steps from the seller. That’s it, Namjoon thinks, you’re going to pull another card now. You’ve always been persistent when things you want are in the game and Namjoon is terrible at saying no to you. The evidence stands in your living room, an old Chinese vase that doesn’t suit the design of the room at all but you insisted on buying it. No matter how much he tries, Namjoon can’t help but fall for your pleading eyes every single time, like he did when you pursued him to spontaneously purchase plane tickets for the romantic weekend in Paris across the globe, when you asked him to quit smoking. Or when you stabbed his heart with paper dagger filled with words he will eventually sign because that’s what you want from him.

So he won’t protest either when you’re about to buy a real Christmas tree although there’s absolutely no need to do so.

Namjoon knows he’s been gone since the moment you attempted to puppy-eye him. Nevertheless, for the sake of hearing you trying to convince him with sweet words and maybe some PG-13 arm brushing, he tongues his cheek in faux annoyance.

“Come on, Namjoon,” You elbow him playfully instead. “Don’t be like that. We’ve never had a real Christmas tree before.” 

And after that holidays, we will never have an occasion to buy another one together again, he wants to tell you. It’s ridiculous how both of you still sound so normal and domestic when your marriage is yet to be terminated few days after New Year. Maybe it’s just an act you put up for audience.

“Please?” you try once again and yes, there it is. Your hand brushes lightly his biceps.

Namjoon exhales loudly. Then, he points his index finger at the seller. “Give me the biggest one you have here.” 

And fifteen minutes later, you’re driving to Soojin's house with a 5’6 Christmas tree on the roof of Namjoon’s crystal black SUV. 

It’s awfully quiet between you two, mostly because you’ve been wondering for the past ten minutes how to break the awkward silence and ease the tension. Looking through the window, you try to locate any familiar spot on the streets that could tell you how far from your sister’s house you are. When you pass the Japanese restaurant with big koi fish in the logo, you estimate you’re up to five minutes from Soojin's. 

“Does she know you’re not coming for Christmas dinner?” 

You’re so deep in thought you almost don’t register Namjoon's talking to you. “Huh?” you mumble dumbly. 

“I asked if you already texted Soojin you won’t be on her Christmas dinner.” 

In the corner of your eye you see the sports equipment shop. Three minutes to go. “No, I didn’t. I will explain her everything in person.” 

Namjoon nods, stopping the car at the red light. You curse in your head. One more minute longer. “Do you think she really won’t mind? Knowing your sister she’s probably going to be pissed off you’re making a fuss in her well-planned schedule.” he says, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe he’s impatient too.

Instantly, you chuckle at his words. Namjoon’s right. Your sister is a control freak. She doesn’t like last minute changes and sudden cancellations. You’re more than aware of that. But this time, you know she won’t have anything against your sudden outburst.

“Have a little faith in her, would you? It’s Christmas.” you reply teasingly.

The light changes to orange, then to green. 

“I really want to but I can’t help but think how she almost beat the shit out of me when we both overslept that one infamous morning and you were one hour late to your branch.”

“It was a day after we got from the honeymoon. She hadn’t seen me for almost a month back then.” you point out, although not to justify her. 

Namjoon snorts. “She came to our apartment that morning and gave me a lecture when you were showering,”

“Yeah but–”

“She told me, I’m quoting: ‘You had a whole month to yourselves and you decided the morning I was supposed to have a branch with my sister is the best time to bang’.” 

You’re fully laughing now, cheeks red from embarrassment because apparently, Soojin was partially true back then. You did wake up that morning around eight to get ready for the meeting, but you were too distracted by the feeling of Namjoon's morning wood poking you from behind. And when you unintentionally moved your body so your ass rubbed against his stiff shaft, the groan you heard in response and a muscular arm sneaking around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest prohibited you any kind of protest. 

Your face goes hot at the memory. And by the slight blush adoring Namjoon's cheeks, you know he’s thinking about the same thing as you. 

He clears his throat. “So yeah. Your little sister scares me.” 

The car pulls in the familiar neighborhood of akin terraced houses, the one in which Soojin lives with her boyfriend standing at the end of the street. 

“Even though she’s younger than me, she’s always had in herself to protect me at all costs. She really likes you though, Namjoon. She did from the very beginning. It was just her weird way of keeping things in control.” you say and that effectively puts and end to the conversation.

Namjoon's SUV stops in front of the gate and you see him smiling in the corner of your eye. “I know,” he breathes out. “Don’t be there for too long. We still have a Christmas tree to decorate later.”

You don’t know why you’re beaming like a teenage girl when you slam the door behind yourself and walk to your sister’s house.

Soojin, as Namjoon has predicted, is displeased. But apart from everything else, she’s mostly confused, standing in front of you in yellow apron with hands on her hips and raised eyebrows.

“What the hell are you doing here already, Y/N?” 

You sigh loudly, taking off your coat and stepping off your boots. You feel your younger sister’s eyes piercing through your scull yet you don’t falter. Straightening your back, you greet her, “Hello to you too, Soojin-ah.” You hear her scoff in response. 

“Hi, Y/N! What’s up?” Taehyung, Soojin's dear boyfriend shouts from the living room. He’s sitting on their couch, fumbling with Christmas tree lights and probably trying to find the faulty one among ninety-nine others working.

“Hi, Tae. Everything’s peachy.” you answer him and the man sends you his signature boxy grin in response. 

Soojin crosses her arms over chest. “Peachy? Then why are you here so early? I told you we start at seven.” 

“Yeah, about the dinner. We need to talk.” 

She narrows her eyes but cocks her head at you to follow after her to the kitchen anyway. There’s quite a mess going on here and from the smell of the pastry lying on the counter you assume she’s making your mum's cinnamon rolls.

“So,” she begins, taking off her apron. “Talk.” 

“Are those cinnamon rolls from mum's recipe?” you quip, trying to avoid her persistent stare.

“Y/N, we are not here to talk about food,” Soojin warns but when she sees you extending your hand towards the plate where warm, already made ones lay, her gaze softens. “I changed the recipe a little bit to make it vegan. For Taehyung.” The corners of her mouth lift up slightly at the mention of her boyfriend.

Taking the first bite of the roll, you hum between chews, “Tastes good. Like the non-vegan ones.” 

“I guess I made a good job then,” Soojin laughs. “But seriously though, Y/N, don’t play coy right now. I saw Namjoon's car on the driveway. Has he signed the papers yet?” she asks.

“Nope.” you respond, emphasizing the ‘p'. 

���Is you being here has something to do with him?” 

“Kind of.” 

You look up to meet her eyes and that’s your first mistake because Soojin has something in them that makes you reveal every secret you hide right on the spot. It has always been like this between the two of you, you coming to your two years younger sister to talk instead the other way round.  You still admire it in her, the determination and persistence she has. You were the parent’s favourite child from the very beginning and Soojin knowing that, was determined to do everything they would have never wanted for her. She graduated college with degree in journalism and writes to the local newspaper, at the same time saving money to publish her own novel in the future. 

Your parents bitterly accepted it, just like your future career path, but they weren’t going to let her be that easily, arranging a meeting with possible husband-to-be a year after you got married to Namjoon. Little did they know she had been already madly in love with Kim Taehyung, the photographer who she met on an internship. And instead of going on a date with Park's youngest son, she proudly sent your parents a picture of her and Taehyung with a caption ‘sry im taken' like she was responding to some horny man on Instagram.

You never keep anything from her. She was the first person you told you were in love with Namjoon and she was the first one to know you want a divorce. 

“It is about the divorce papers, isn’t it? He doesn’t agree to split up? Is he making any difficulties?” Soojin asks question after question, and you shake your head. 

“It’s not that. He will sigh them eventually, I know this.” 

Your sister purses her lips. “Of course he will because he loves you,” she says matter-of-factly. You bite your lips so hard you might draw blood. “Do you want to know what I really think about this whole situation?” You nod hesitantly. “I think you’re making a big mistake here, sis, divorcing Namjoon. And have in mind that I am the one telling you this.” She points her index finger at herself for emphasis. “When you told me about that I was more confused than anything else because who the fuck would want to divorce someone like Namjoon. I wouldn’t.” 

“Me neither!” You hear Taehyung shouting from the living room.

“Shut up, Tae, it’s ladies talk! Don’t listen!” Soojin shouts back. Her boyfriend’s giggle echoes through the house. “Anyway, back to my point. I know it doesn’t always seem like that but I like Namjoon, despite all the banter between the two of us. He’s a good guy and I’m sure he would never hurt you. That’s why it came as a shock to me.” 

You don’t even know how to answer her. Because quite literally, you aren’t so determined about your decision anymore, as you had been just weeks ago. You feel like you’re doing the right thing yet at the same time you can’t help but question your motives. You came here for Christmas food, for fuck's sake, and now you’re having a free therapy session with your little sister.

Last months, of course, has been tough. Namjoon's firm had its first crisis since he’s become the CEO. He was spending most of his daytime at work, sometimes he was at the office even during the night hours, and at some point your shared life at home started lacking of intimacy and affection it'd had before. It felt cold to come back to an empty house and it didn’t use to be like that.

At the same time, your own business began blowing out. More and more people were buying clothes from your online shop and you started thinking for real about opening your own atelier in the city. And ironically, your biggest dream, the thing Namjoon had always supported you in, was the cause of your huge argument that lead to the situation you’re currently in.

It was two months ago. You remember your personal assistant Jisoo calling you and rambling incoherently through the phone. You were only able to make out ‘agreed to rent‘ but that was enough information for you. The developer let you make a studio in the place you had chosen, the place you knew was the best destination possible for not huge amount of money. In that moment, you were on cloud nine. 

You remember Namjoon coming home late as usual that evening. You had already prepared a celebratory dinner, bought your favourite wine, lighted up some candles to make it even more cheesy but it didn’t matter because you couldn’t even recall when was the last time you both spent your time like this. Alone, all to yourselves.

Hearing the jingle of the keys you rushed to the door, wrapping your arms around his neck as soon as he closed them behind himself. He stiffened at your touch but you ignored it, hugging him tightly. Sensing his discomfort, you pulled off, looking at him with a grin plastered on your face. 

You were too lost in your own excitement to notice how sad Namjoon looked. “I did it!” you blurted out. “Namjoon, I did it! The developer said yes. I can start arranging my own atelier!”

You saw a faint smile on his lips, however it didn’t reach his eyes at all. He sighed and when he spoke after, his voice sounded weary. “Congratulations.” He wasn’t excited like you. There was no trace of a man in him who told you to go after your dreams no matter what. He’s eyes looked shallow.

Your brows furrowed. You instantly felt irritation bubbling in your throat. “That’s it? You don’t have anything more to say?” you snorted.

‘I’m happy for you, Y/N. Really.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. You look so ecstatic,” you said, voice laced with sarcasm.

At that, Namjoon seemed to have lost his control as well. He bit the inside of his cheek before scoffing, “What do you want me to say, Y/N? Should I dance on the table? Open the door to balcony and shout out my immense happiness to the whole neighborhood?” 

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “I just expected more support from my own, beloved husband. That’s it.”

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Listen, Y/N. I really don’t want to argue. I had a bad day at work, a whole week actually, and I just want to spend some time alone.” He stormed off the hallway, walking into your shared bedroom.

“Don’t turn your back on me right now, Kim Namjoon!” you shouted after him,  entering the room as well. “We aren’t done yet.” 

Namjoon practically threw his suitcase on the desk, turning to face you abruptly. “I am done.” 

“Everyone has bad days. Me too. You aren’t the only one struggling here, Namjoon. It doesn’t give you the right to act like that.” 

Upon hearing that, he chuckled darkly. You saw him gnawing his bottom lip, as if he was debating if he should say what he was going to. “You’re right. Everyone has shitty days. But for your information, mine was the worst since I’ve started running this fucking business. Do you know what happened?” he asked. “Our main investor retreated his shares from the project. Do you have an idea how much is that? 20 fucking percent. That’s a lot of money when there’s a crisis on the stock market and inside the firm as well. So excuse me, Y/N, but I have too much on my own mind to care about your stupid shop.” He slumped down on his chair and rubbed his temples.

You stared at him, trying to fight back the tears trying to spill from your eyes. You didn’t want to break down in front of him. This was your day. You were supposed to celebrate, not cry because your husband acted like an absolute asshole. Yet the tears started rolling down your cheeks involuntarily.

“I’m sorry.” you uttered, exiting the room.

Namjoon looked up, catching the glimpse of your expression and that was the moment he realised his mistake. He stood up and ran after you. “Y/N, wait! I didn’t mean it like that, shit!” 

You stopped in your tracks to face him. You were fully crying right now and something in Namjoon's chest tightened at the sight. “Don’t say anything, Namjoon. I get it. Your business is more important than my stupid shop. It’s fine, really.” You sniffed, wiping the smudges of mascara underneath your eyes.

Namjoon put his hand on your arm but when he saw you flinch, he withdrew. “Of course you are important, baby.” he said quietly and another fresh wave of tears streamed down your face when you heard him use his favorite term of endearment for you.

“But it doesn’t look like I am anymore, Namjoon. And that’s the problem.” you uttered brokenly. “I think we should take a break from each other. It’s not healthly for us being together now.” 

Namjoon looked anywhere but at you. “If that’s what you want.” 

You nodded. “Yeah. It is.” 

The break lasted two weeks. You spent some time at Soojin's, travelled to Japan. And when you came back you home you bitterly realised nothing really had changed. Namjoon picked you up at the airport, took you for dinner to your favourite restaurant and back home fucked you so hard and unforgiving you couldn’t remember your own name anymore. He said he missed you and counted days to your arrival. Missed your face, your voice, your pussy wrapped around his cock. You climaxed with his name on your lips and with a promise for a new tomorrow that eventually didn’t come because the reality kicked in sooner than you had expected.

“Don’t you think it was a little bit impulsive of you to file for divorce?” Soojin asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. And you hate your little sister so much because she might be right. You’re definitely far from being all-out and determined about everything. “You know I will be always by your side, Y/N. It’s only your decision to make.” she adds after a moment, reaching to squeeze your hand.

“I know,” you sigh, reciprocating the gesture. “That’s why I need you to do me a favor.” 

“I’m all ears.” 

You take a deep breath before explaining your initial motives. “First of all, I won’t be at your Christmas dinner. Stop glaring at me like that!” you wail, seeing her expression. 

“Babe, do you know where–” Taehyung starts, entering the kitchen but he’s quickly cut off by his girlfriend.

“She won’t be at the dinner!” Soojin points her finger at you accusingly while Taehyung tries to hide his amused smile. He probably has overheard your hushed whispers even though Soojin had asked him not to.

“Oh? Why is that?” 

“Because I don’t want Namjoon to spend Christmas alone since he’s mother is on Maldives.” you answer.

Taehyung hums. “Fancy.”

“So you’re spending Chrismtas with Namjoon, right?” Soojin quips, making you nod. 

“I am. And that’s why I want to ask if you might share some of your food with me?” you hesitantly wonder and Soojin raises her eyebrows. “We are going to our parents’ cottage and we don’t have time to cook for ourselves.” you explain. She eyes you carefully and you know it’s seconds till she softens. “Please?”

Taehyung nudges her side. “Come on, babe. Let them eat something delicious before they eventually fuck as a final goodbye.”

“Taehyung, that’s not funny!” Soojin protests but her boyfriend only giggles in response. There’s a small smile dancing on your lips and when she locks her eyes with you, she reciprocates it. “Okay, fine. What do you need?” 

“What do you have?” you ask.

Soojin gestures for you to come closer to the kitchen counter and opens the fridge. ‘”I've already made bulgogi for Taehyung’s parents so I can give some of it to you. I also cooked kimchi and sweet potatoes. Oh, and those vegan cinnamon rolls. I will pack you a few.” she lists, while taking out the clean food containers from the cupboard.

“Thank you so much.” you breathe out.

“No big deal,” Taehyung assures, sending you a wink. “Although I’m a little bit sad you won’t come for the dinner. Maybe you should just take Namjoon here.” he suggests.

You shake your head. “No, we should spend some time alone, talk through some things and… stuff.” you trail off.

Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. “And stuff,” 

“Jesus Christ,  Taehyung, let them be!” Soojin grumbles, packing the last container into a paper bag and handing it to you. “You owe me something huge for this.” she mumbles but you know she’s just bickering with you. Taehyung hugs her waist tightly from behind, placing his chin on her shoulder and you can help but coo at them.

“Once again, thank you for saving my ass. I gotta go now. Namjoon's waiting.” you say.

“I will walk you to the door,” Soojin proposes, unwrapping herself from Taehyung's arms.

“Bye, Taehyung. Merry Christmas!” You wave at him.

“Bye, Y/N, Merry Christmas! Say hi from me to Namjoon. Oh, and remember: use protect–ouch!” His words die on his tongue when he’s effectively nudged into his stomach with Soojin's elbow. 

Giggling under your breath, you shuffle into the hallway. You could sense your sister's eyes on your back while you’re putting on your coat and the moment you turn around, you find her staring at you with puzzled expression.

She sighs before saying, “Y/N, you’re my sister and you know I want the best for you and I will always support your decisions–don’t roll your eyes! I’m having an emotional speech right now,” she huffs, coming up to give you an affectionate hug. “Just please, promise me you won’t do anything reckless or stupid.” she mumbles into the material of your coat. 

You shut your eyes tightly. “I promise.” 

Soojin clears her throat and pulls away. She looks like she wants to say something more but chooses not to. You’re thankful for that. “Bye, big sis.” she says.

You smile. “Bye, kid.” 

You make your way to the car quickly, apologies already on your tongue when you shut the door behind you. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long.” 

Namjoon shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he assures. “How did Soojin's interrogation go?” 

“Surprisingly smoothly,” you answer. Smooth is an exaggeration here. It was bumby, with a lot of twists and turns but you made it through with even more conflicted mind and a bag full of food. “She gave me bulgogi.” you add, knowing pretty well what kind of reaction would it elite in Namjoon.

“God, please don’t say things like that. We still have some time before the dinner and I’m already salivating.” 

“Let’s go then.”

It’s been quite some time since you’ve been in your parents' holiday cottage. 

You didn’t have time to visist it during summer since you were too busy with setting up your own showroom in Seoul and Namjoon… Namjoon was always too caught up in work to have a free weekend. So the last time you’ve had a chance to spend time in their cottage was almost one year ago, in January, on your dad's 52th birthday. 

The road to the cottage takes about thirty minutes from the city. It’s situated near the small lake, hidden in a valley surrounded by forests from every side. You’ve always found the place charming and beautiful, ever since you were little with Soojin, when your parents decided to buy land there and built a small house on it. 

Your parents visist the cottage regularly, checking out and looking after everything. You had your eighteenth birthday party there. And your bachelorette night was also held there. 

You’re halfway through the distance when Namjoon decides to play some music. 

He turns on the radio connected to his spotify account and puts it on shuffle. When the first tunes of the song start playing, your face instantly flushes in pink.

It’s one of the songs you both included in your ‘sexy times' playlist as you jockingly named it back then when you lived in Namjoon's old apartment with walls too thin to properly mute the sounds of your moans and whimpers of pleasure which were by any means subtle while Namjoon was having his way with you during late hours of the night.

In the corner of your eye you see that Namjoon is as flustered as you are, quickly reaching to change the song but you stop him. “Don't!” He falters. Fucking hell, why did you say it so abruptly? Your blush deepens. “Leave it, please.” So he does. 

It’s a sensual melody, one of your favorite songs in general but you’ve never actually played it for yourself since you moved out from that apartment. It brings too many memories because if anything, sex with Namjoon has never been unsatisfactory and plain vanilla. He’s never left you unsatiate and thinking about those lustful moments makes you squirm in your seat, familiar butterflies flattering in your lower stomach. 

And from the clench of Namjoon's jaw and his tight grip on a steering wheel, you know he thinks about the same things as you do.

You wonder what flashes behind his eyelids now, because for you, it’s always him hovering above you, chest sweaty and heaving with every ragged breath he takes as he fucks you deep and with purpose. He’s rough but you like him that way, when he loses himself in you. It’s his hand on your throat, on your hips, bruising as he takes you from behind; marred in red skin on your asscheeks when you haven’t been behaving good enough. 

It’s him between your thighs, lavishing your cunt with his tongue until you're writhing and begging him to stop but he never listens, bringing you to immense ecstasy until tears well in your eyes and your voice is hoarse from screaming. 

It’s his hushed whispers in your ears leaving you bothered and breathless when you’re on some public event together, flithly promises he’s going to fulfill once you're home because the waiter was too flirty and you smiled at him too courteously. 

It’s him standing above you, pulling the belt from the loops until it lands on the floor along with his pants and you on your knees, taking his cock in your mouth to please him the best you could. It’s his fingers tangled in your hair, praising words on his lips because you’re such a good girl, always so good for me.

It’s Namjoon and his hands placed securely on your waist, chest flushed to your back when he spoons your spent body after another round of love making. It’s his soothing and calming voice in your ears when you drift off to sleep with his love confessions and gentle touches on your bare skin.

It’s him and you’re scared it will always be only him. The song changes into another and you hope he doesn’t hear the shaky breath you let out. You don't say anything else for the rest of the ride.

“And here we are.”  

A thirty minutes long ride has never been more drawn-out than now. Exiting the car, you promise yourself you’re gonna do everything in your power to make this twenty-four hours bearable and not as awkward as your drive here was.  

Once the car is parked, Namjoon opens the trunk and takes out your bags from it along with the cardboard box with Christmas decorations. You scurry to help him but he sends you back with a small smile. “It’s okay. Go and open the door, I’ll get this.”  

Inside the cottage you’re immediately met with chilly air so the first thing you do after putting Christmas food from Soojin on the kitchen counter is taking care of the fireplace. It’s a new addition to the living room's design, your parents new investment in biofuel energy, or something.  

Glancing through the window, you see Namjoon carrying the Christmas tree into the house and soon it’s standing right in the middle of the room in its full glory.  

Namjoon claps his hands. “Let’s do it, shall we?” he asks, reaching to the cardboard box and pulling out the first item that caught his attention: a golden, glass bauble. But before he could hang it on the tree, it slips from his hands and lands on the floor, shattered into pieces.  

“Shit,” Namjoon mutters, crunching down to pick up the mess he’s made.

“Don’t touch it, you’ll cut yourself!”  

He stops abruptly and you can clearly distinguish the redness on his cheeks. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” he says sheepishly.

“We should start with the lights,” You take them out from the box and start to untangle. “Okay?”

There’s a small smile on Namjoon lips when he nods his head and helps you put them on the tree. Half an hour later, your collaborative job on decorating the Christmas tree is almost done. The final touch is the golden star you’re trying to attach to the tip without success, until you feel a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist and lifting you up.  

You let out a surprised squeak at that, putting the star quickly on it’s right place. Once your feet touch the floor, you turn around just to be met with Namjoon smiling down at you softly. “Good job,” he comments, pointing at the tree. If he sees your flustered state, he doesn’t let you feel it. “We should prepare for the dinner. It’s getting late.” he adds and before you could say anything else, he exits the room and disappears in the hallway.  

“Y/N?” Namjoon calls out, entering the kitchen. You whip your head to look at him and can’t help but stare. He’s wearing a plain, blue button-up shirt which sleeves are rolled up and revealing his forearms. He must have taken a shower because his honey blond hair still looks a little bit damp at the roots and when he comes closer to you, you feel the unmistakable musk of his cologne. It’s still the same one he uses after you bought him it some time ago.  

“Yes?”  

You’re dressed in red just like you were three years ago when you first met in that damned ballroom and it’s really ironic, he thinks. Your probably last civilised meeting being like this, a celebratory Christmas dinner made by your sister in a holiday cottage away from the town.  

Whatever he wanted to ask you dies on his tongue the moment he hears your phone buzzing on the counter, your mum's contact number popping up on the screen.  

You exhale loudly. “God have mercy,” you mutter, picking up the phone. “Yes, mom?” you say and instantly roll your eyes at the sound of your mother’s rambling from the othe side. We'll talk later, you mouth to him, leaving the kitchen.

Namjoon curses under his breath and against every fiber of his being, he takes a few step closer to where you stand in the hallway, staring out of the window, back facing him.  

“No, mom, I’m not at Soojin's,” you say to the phone. “I’m with Namjoon. We are having a Christmas dinner at your cottage.”  

You’re silent for a moment, listening to whatever your mum is telling you but Namjoon, even in the dim lighting illuminating from the living room could see you’re tense.

“On Maldives,” you answer. She has probably asked you about his mother, as he supposes. “Mom, I told you to stop asking me this. It’s not your decision to make.”  

You take a deep breath before adding, “It’s Christmas. I don’t want to talk about this right now, please.” He knows what you mean by ‘this’. He doesn’t want to think about what future is going to bring either.  

Your mother can be too much sometimes and he knows it. He’s stood up and defended you in front of her more than once. Responded cleverly and calmly to her every question about kids. And when she met him for a coffee to talk about the divorce, he simply said he didn’t plan to get you in the way, which probably wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to hear.

“Okay,” you breathe out, nodding. “Love you. Tell dad I love him too. Bye.”  

You hung up with a sigh.

Namjoon quickly shuffles to the living room, fishing out his phone and pretending he’s been scrolling through it the whole time. When you enter the room, he’s eyes look up at you.  

“How was it?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“You know how my mother is sometimes,” you trail off.

“Yeah,” Namjoon nods. ‘’Too much.”  

You smile and Namjoon could actually seen in you right now the girl he’s fallen in love with three years ago. You glance at the clock hanging on the wall and say, “I think we can begin.”  

“Do the honors.” 

The dinner has gone by smoothly. You felt normal, like nothing ever happened and you start wondering if Namjoon isn’t doing all of this just for old times sake. He can’t be, another voice in your head is saying, he isn’t doing anything extraordinary for him: he’s just him, the same guy who proposed to you with plastic ring and quit his beloved addiction so you could agree to marrying him.

You’re sitting on a couch right now, your favourite Christmas movie (it’s Holiday; your love for Jude Law has never died down since you were a teenager) playing in the background. It was your silly tradition, to watch them every year like those basic couples do. You both know by heart the ‘to me you’re perfect' scene from Love Actually and it never fails to make you laugh when Namjoon recites the lines so dramatically.  

You’re sitting so close to him you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, your shoulders brushing with every breath or chuckle he lets out and you find yourself wanting to lean into him more. You wish he wrapped his arm around you, pulled you closer, kissed you on the temple and assured everything would be perfectly fine. But it isn’t.

Nicole Kidman has already landed in Los Angeles when you feel Namjoon shifting next you. He takes something out of his pants' pocket, nudging your side in process so you peek at him. You know he wants to say something but doesn’t have an idea how to start, you’ve been with him too long not to recognize the way he wets his lips and rubs his hands on his thighs as the sign of his nervousness. Which makes you jittery as well.

When he finally decides to shoot, Cameron Diaz meets drunk Jude Law for the first time.  

“Y/N?” he says to get your attention because he doesn’t know you’ve been more than aware this whole time.  

“Yes?”  

You’re breathless and you don’t even know why. It’s Namjoon, for God’s sake, your own husband, who won’t be one soon, the voice in your head adds.  

“I know we agreed on not giving gifts to each other for Christmas but this isn’t actually a gift. I mean… It was a gift once but now it kinda isn’t so technically I’m not breaking an agreement,” He's rumbling. A sight he’s definitely on edge.

Before you could stop yourself, you place your hand on his thigh. It’s a gentle manner, an affectionate touch meant to soothe his nerves. He raises his eyebrows at that, staring at your hand absentmindedly tracking patterns on his leg. You withdraw your hand awkwardly.

Your gaze lands on Namjoon's palm. He’s clutching something in his fist. With a deep exhale he opens it and then you see it: the charm you lost some time ago and haven’t found till now.  

It’s a simple, cheesy infinity sign, a gift from him to you. He decided to give it to you this when he saw the bracelet on your wrist and ask you what’s the story behind it, so you told him. Your parents gifted the piece of jewelry to you on your 18th birthday. Then they, including Soojin, bought you charms to complete it. A clover from your dad, a heart from your mum and a star from your sister. And a few days after you shared this with Namjoon, the infinity sign has found its place on the bracelet.

One day you realised the piece he gave you is missing. You searched through the whole house but you couldn’t find it. Ironically, everything seemed to crumble down from the moment you had lost it. And here it lies now, on Namjoon's open palm.

“Cleaning lady found it in my office. It was underneath my desk.”  

“I don’t know what to say,” you blurt out.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to say anything. You can wear it or not, I just wanted you to have it back.”  

He lays the charm on your palm and for a brief moment you hesitate before asking him, “Can you–?” gesturing to your wrist.  

“Sure.”  

He attaches the piece to your bracelet in it’s former, rightful place and there’s a soft smile dancing on his lips. It’s laced with melancholy, making your insides clench uncomfortably. On the screen Graham and Amanda make out and you know there’s something heavy in the air, unspoken words and conversation you should hold but don’t know how to start.

It’s Namjoon who takes the mattress into his own hands this time.

“Do you think we could be friends after all of this will be done?”  

The question surprises you. You don’t have a clever answer for that because the future is always uncertain. You don’t even know if you’re making a right decision. You just believe you do.

Maybe joking isn’t the best thing to do now but it’s your shitty defence mechanism against facing the true. You decide to play it cool. “I don’t know about us but I’m sure my dad won’t stop inviting you to play chess with him.” You chuckle.

It doesn’t seem to amuse Namjoon much, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. You clear your throat, avoiding his persistent gaze. That certainly hasn’t been a good thing to say to ease the tension.  

“Your mum insisted me for a coffee two weeks ago. To talk.” he says suddenly.

You purse your lips. “What did you talk about?”  

“About us. About the divorce,” The movie is playing in the background but you don’t pay attention to it anymore. What’s the most crucial is right here in front of you, in the person of your future ex husband. “She asked me to convince you not to do it. Said you’re irrational and mentioned something about you always making important decisions hastily.”  

You roll your eyes. This is so typical of your mother to say something like that. “And what did you say to her?” you ask, afraid of his answer.  

“That it’s only your choice to make and I’m not going to stop you if that’s what you want.”  

Your breath hitches. Some part of you really wants him to put up a fight. You spent countless hours wondering why isn’t he doing that until it finally hits you like a whiplash: Namjoon has never, ever in his life disrespected your decision. He might not be on the same page as you but he will never beg you to change your mind. That’s his manifest of the love he has for you.

“Namjoon–” you begin but you don’t even know what you’re going to say to that. Fortunately, he cuts you off.

“Don’t pity me right now, Y/N. Let me talk, please.” He's never addressed the divorce directly and even if you’ve been dying these past weeks to find out what’s on his mind, right now, sitting in front of him when you’re both vulnerable, you aren’t sure of anything. “When I read that papers for the first time I thought it's some kind of a cruel joke, you know? But then the seriousness of this hit me and I was like: fuck, it’s really happening, isn’t it?” he says, chuckling bitterly to himself. “I knew it was bad but I hoped that we could figure it out together somehow and the sun will rise again as it always does after the storm. But I guess I was wrong.”  

He pauses and you looks down at his hands. They’re shaking and you fight an urge to take them into yours. “So at first, I was mad at you. I was so, so angry I couldn’t even think straight and I started blaming you for this. I bought a pack of cigarettes and lighted up one but I never finished it. I threw the whole pack into the trash can.” He lets out a long sigh. You’re feeling like the whole air has been sucked out of this room, your heart racing with anticipation of his next words.  

“A part of me wanted to pick the sword and fight. But then, one night a few days after I read the papers, I was in my office. I sat there staring at the wall and thinking through everything. And that was when I decided it’s all my fault we are in this kind of situation. You laid it all in front me and I still couldn’t fucking believe I am the problem.”  

You’re shaking your head because no, it’s not like this, it isn’t only his doing, but he doesn’t let you speak. “You’re so special, Y/N. You make the world revolve around you. I envy you,” Namjoon says, making you furrow your brows in confusion. “You’re pursuing your dreams and you managed to do all of this on your own. There was no family business you were destined to run like I am. All I do is sit in my father’s chair and try not to fuck up everything he’s built so far. And you, Y/N,” He faces you fully, staring at you with so much love and adoration you want to look away. But you can’t. “You’re so much more than this. And now I know I was just holding you back. But I love you enough to let you go.”  

You’re loss for words. Before Namjoon could register what is happening, your hands are on his cheeks and you’re kissing him.  

You’re kissing him until you lose you breath, until you both can’t think straight and you’re drinking from each other’s mouths like you’ve been thristing for it for years. Namjoon tastes like the red wine you drank earlier and something only akin to him.  

He’s surprised at first, not really comprehending it’s your mouth slotted over his, your breath mingling with his. It takes a sharp intake of air from you to him to sprang into action. He kisses you fiercely, like he’s been dying and your lips where the only cure which could heal him. He sighs into your mouth like he’s finally feeling relieved. Like you’re his savior.  

When his hands find purchase on your waist, you feel like you’re grounded after floating in the air for so long. Kissing Namjoon feels like home and you’re scared you will never going to experience this kind of halcyon ever again.  

It’s Namjoon who breaks off the kiss first. He’s breathless, panting against your swollen lips and his eyes are shimmering. “God, Y/N,” He sounds pained, like he’s holding onto the last straw of his sanity. ‘’Please, let me have you one last time. I need you so bad, baby.”  

He never begs but here he is, shaking and vulnerable, with his hands gripping you so tightly like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear the second he’ll let go. You’re nodding frantically at his words and he dives for your lips again. He doesn’t ask you to use your words like he usually does when you’re both in the mood to play. It’s raw and pure passion when he opens the seam of your mouth with his tongue, when he urges your body to lay back on the couch so he could hover over you.  

It’s been long, too long, since he’s seen you like this; keening when his teeth graze your throat and whimpering when he sucks the skin in between harshly and you know it’ll blossom rich red the next morning.  

Your hands move on their own accord, reaching to fumble with the buttons of his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin underneath your fingertips. When the garment pops open you can’t help but run your palms over smooth expanses of Namjoon's chest, digging into every ridge and deep of the flesh so you feel him tense under your touch.  

He detaches himself from your neck and takes off the shirt, dropping it carelessly on the floor. Sitting on his knees and straddling your waist, he looks down at you with hooded eyes. “Take of your dress,” he commands and you hurry to obey him. You missed this side of him, his deep voice that never fails to make you squirm in pleasure and anticipation of his next move.  

You get up from the couch, pulling the zipper of your dress down and letting the material fall to the floor with light thud. You don’t know why you’re suddenly feeling self-conscious, standing in front of Namjoon only in your linegerie. He’s seen you exposed like this many times before yet something about the way his eyes roam your body makes you bite your lip. It’s an expensive set and you’re suddenly aware he was the one who had bought you it. You wonder if he remembers that.  

He gestures for you to come closer and with an unexpected boost of confidence you step out of the dress pooled around your ankles and move to straddle his lap. His hands immadietly find purchase on your waist and you wrap yours around his neck, leaning to kiss him.

He groans when your teeth graze his bottom lip and you feel him squeezing your sides tightly. “You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles into your mouth, making the corners of your lips lift up in a smile. “Let me take care of you, baby.”  

Something swells in your lower regions at that. A sheer want and crimson desire for him to claim you as his for the one last time.

Namjoon reaches to unclasp your bra but he stops with his fingers brushing just underneath the material. “Can I?” he asks gently. No matter how many times he’s fucked you, how many times he's brought you to the brick of pleasure until you were screaming, he’s always waiting for you to grant him consent first.

“Yes.” It’s the confirmation he needs to unclasp it, letting the straps fall to your shoulders and free your breasts to his wandering hands.

One of the things you’ve learnt about Namjoon during years of sleeping with him is that he’s boobs man. So it doesn’t come as a surprise to you when his palms engulf your mounds, squeezing them gently.  

Soon he’s leaning closer, taking one of your nipples into the hot crevice of his mouth and bitting down on it so you let out a small noise of content. The angle is awkward but he doesn’t seem to care, sucking the hardened bud until you’re writhing in his lap, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging slightly on the roots.  

“Namjoon, please,” you whimper, feeling his fingers brushing the waistband of your panties. You’re rubbing yourself against the bulge that has formed in his pants, needing more, always more of him because you know he’s up to please.

He pulls out from your nipple with light pop sound. “What do you want, baby?” he prompts; the chilly air in the room washes over your bare body and you shudder from the sensation, your core getting wetter with each passing second.

“Want you to touch me.”  

“Yeah? Want me to touch your pretty pussy with my fingers?”  

You nod, shutting your eyes tightly when his palms find the inside of your thighs where you need him the most, where you’re throbbing with the desire for him to touch you.  

He runs his index finger through the material of your underwear where you’re sure a wet spot has formed already. “Answer me,” Namjoon demands and his other hand squeezes your hip harder. There’s a part of you wanting to play with him a little, push his strings to the point he has no choice but put you in your place, bend carelessly over his lap and make you count till he forgives.  

But today, it’s not time for that.

You whimper. It’s actually funny how single touch of his combined with his autorative tone can make such a mess of you in span of minutes. “Joon, please,” you moan, bucking your hips into his hand. ‘’Touch me with your fingers.”  

Namjoon smirks in response. “Open your legs wider for me, baby.” You do as you’re told, exposing yourself to him. He hums, pulling the material of your panties to the side. “Fuck, you’re dripping. Is this all for me?” A part of him is disgusted for wanting you to know he’s the only one who can make you like this. It’s ugly possessiveness but he needs you to say it. Needs you to admit it.

“All for you. Always for you, Joon–please,” It’s a breathless plea on your lips that makes him dig his fingers into your wetness. He runs his long digits through your slick folds, thumb circling your clit and you mewl, biting your lip in favor to contain yourself from moaning shamelessly aloud so soon. Namjoon however doesn’t like that idea.  

“Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear you.”  

His middle finger prods at your entrance and you gasp when he pushes it inside, immediately adding second to the mix and curling them up just right, making your walls clench around them. His thumb still abuses your sensitive nub and you’re whimpering incoherently as he toys with your pussy with practiced ease.  

You open your eyes to look at him but his sight is solemnly focused on the way his fingers are sinking into your cunt, bringing you closer and closer to edge until you are actually feeling the coil in your lower stomach tightening. But when you’re about to cry out in pleasure, it all stops abruptly.

Namjoon withdraws his hand from your pussy, placing a small kiss on your pouty mouth briefly, as if he’s apologizing for you denied release. You watch him bring his fingers to his pillowy lips, groaning as his tongue tastes your juices.

“Fuck, you’re so sweet, baby. Wanna taste your pretty pussy.”  

Your face grows hot at his dirty words. Namjoon's filthy mouth is something that never has never failed to turn you on. He knows what to say to get you going, to make a shiver run down your spine and insides tighten.

He mannevrous your body so you’re laying back on the couch again with him hovering above you. He takes off your soiled panties and tosses it on the floor.

“Spread your legs.”  

You oblige, revealing your dripping center to his hungry eyes. You don’t even have time to shy away from his intense stare because he wastes no time and dives in, lowering himself to bury his head between your thighs. He licks the first strip up your folds and locks his clouded in lust eyes with you. You almost come right there on the spot just from the sight of his plush lips covered in your slick.

He eats you out like a man starved, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue and sucking it into his mouth obscenely loud, making you moan out  in pleasure. You aren’t even holding back now, lifting your hips to chase your high but he effectively pins you down in place with his palms sprawled on your hips.  

He laps up your slit, tongue dipping briefly inside your hole and causing more of your wetness to gush out. “Fuck, I could eat you out all day. You taste so good, baby.” he groans, sinking two of his digits into you until he’s knuckle-deep, hitting your sweet spot with every scissoring movement of his fingers.  

You cry out, lacing your fingers through his locks and tugging harsher than you’ve anticipated when his tongue flicks your clit. “Joon, fuck–please, wanna cum.” He starts pounding his fingers lewdly into you faster at that, dragging it through your velvet folds until you're writhing. “Oh, God. P-please.”

“You’re so perfect, baby. Such a good girl. Let go for me.” he murmurs against your pussy, pushing you into your upcoming release.

Your vision blurr and you’re coming undone on his fingers and tongue, breathing heavily. Namjoon doesn’t stop though. He wraps his lips around your abused clit again, lapping your wetness greedily until you’re shaking from oversensitivity.

“N-namjoon–stop, I can’t,” you whine, shaking your head. Tears well in your eyes, hands fisting by your sides.

But Namjoon's doesn’t listen to your pleading cries. He’s ravenous and loves seeing you desperate like this more than anything. “Give me another one, baby. I know you can,” he breaths out. “Show me this pussy belongs to me.”

His onslaught on your cunt and crude words push you over the edge for the second time and you’re spilling all over his mouth again, screaming out his name.  

He waits for you to calm down from your high, rubbing soothing circles on your sides. When you finally open your eyes, you see him smiling down at you, lips and chin covered in your juices he messily wipes with the back of his hand. He leans to kiss you, tongue lacing with yours until you’re tasting yourself on it. He swallows your moans, reaching to fumble with his belt buckle.

Pulling back from the kiss, he stands up to discard the rest of his clothes on the floor. You can see him in his full glory now. You take him in, from his neck and collarbones, through the taunt muscles of his abdomen and prominent v line to the trimmed hairline where you see his cock, hard and leaking precum against his stomach. Your mouth salivates at the sight.

He crawls over you, pumping himself as his eyes roam your nude, pliable body. Your hand stretches to replace his with your own and he lets you do it.  Smearing his creamy release all over his length, you keep stroking him like this. Namjoon groans at that, throwing his head back.  

You sit up on your knees but before you could take him into your mouth, he stops you. “As much as I want to see you with my cock in your pretty mouth, I need to be inside you now.” Buds of sweat dribble down his forehead and you know he’s holding himself back from flipping you on your stomach and fucking you into next week.

You scoot back and lay yourself, watching as he runs the tip of his dick through your dripping slit. He hisses at the sensation, looking up at you, pupils blown out with lust. “Beg for it, Y/N,” he says, voice deepening. “I want to hear you begging for my cock.”

“Please, Joon,” you mewl, moaning when his tip taps your clit.

He doesn’t seem to be satisfied with your answer, biting the inside of his cheek. “Please, what?” He leans closer, until his forehead is touching yours. “Say it.” he demands.

“Please, fuck me,” Your palms cup his cheeks, breath fanning over his parted mouth. It’s pure desire mixed with desperation when you utter your next words. “Fuck me so hard I can’t think straight, make me forget all of this. Please, Namjoon.”  

He doesn’t need to hear anything more. He pushes himself inside you until he’s buried to the brim; your warm, wet walls letting him slide into you easily. You gasp, eyes squeezing shut.

“Shit,” Namjoon curses, closing his eyes as well. His face confronts in both pleasure in pain and you know he’s trying hard no to pound into you. He waits few bits of ragged breaths for you to adjust and starts moving. The first drag of his cock through your walls sends you into frenzy and you moan wantonly when he hits you right there when you want him the most. “You’re so tight, baby. So good, just for me, yeah?” he slurs, picking up his pace.  

You nod, lips choking out, “Just for you.” and eyes rolling back in pleasure.

He groans at your words, hands fighting purchase on either sides of your head. You feel so fucking full, his cock plunging into you faster and faster with each passing second. His eyes dip down where his body ends and yours begin, watching himself disappear into your cunt.  

“God, I’m gonna miss this so fucking much,” he blurts out before he could stop himself, in a moment of careless ecstasy he’s delivering to the both of you. It slips from his lips roughly and hits you right in the guts but you can’t let yourself dwell in this. Not now.  

Now it’s just you and him fucking you into oblivion you’re oh so much craving.

His face falls to the crook of your neck, kissing, biting and sucking every inch of skin he could find as if he’s trying to embed his mark on you forever. Like he foolishly thinks you’ll stay his and only his after all of this will be done.

Namjoon speeds up, thrusting his dick into you in what seems as an animalistic pace now, hammering into your sweet spot with every slam of his hips, making you see stars behind your closed eyelids. He lift up his head to stare at your face.

“Look at me, baby,” he murmurs, engulfing your cheek in his palm. His thumb traces your bottom lip, your eyes snapping open at his command. Your tongue laps at his finger until he pushes it inside your mouth, groaning when he feels you sucking on it. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, so hot–fuck. You take me so well.” he nothing but growls, sliding his hand from your face down your body, until it reaches the apex of your thighs.

Fingers finding your clit, he smirks when he hears you moan his name. “You like that?” he asks, voice sounding almost mocking but you’re keening, nodding frantically. “Want me to make you cum?”  

“Yes, yes! P-please, Joonie,”  

“I got you, baby. Come for me.”  

You’re orgasming the third time this night, even harder than before, clutching onto his arms like they’re your lifeline. He fucks you through this, pushing you past the uncomfortable oversensitivity. You feel his hips loosening their rhythm, thrusting into you sloppily and chasing his own high.

He drops his forehead onto yours, lips hovering inches from kissing yours. “I love you so fucking much,” he chockes out and you feel something wet staining your cheek. Looking up, you find him staring at you with the same kind of fondness he’s been giving you during these past years. It’s Namjoon, your Namjoon who’s never disrespected your choice, who always gives you the part of himself he’s afraid to show to the whole world.

Before you could register what’s happening, you’re sobbing into his mouth, “I love you too,” and kissing him to the point you’re both breathless. You feel his dick twitch and then he’s spilling inside you, coating your walls with his seed in white.

You stay like that for a while, basking in post-orgasmic bliss. You’re rubbing soothing touches on Namjoon's back till he eventually pulls out from you. His cum dribbles down your thighs and you wince when you feel him cleaning you up with your ruined panties. Then, Namjoon puts on his boxers and helps you wear his dress shirt and button it up.

He picks you up from the couch without a word and carries to the bedroom. He lays you down onto the mattress, taking his place behind you. He throws the comforter over your bare bodies, snuggling closer to your back. You feel his breath on your neck, warm and comforting.

He places a small kiss on your shoulder and exhales shakily. “You’re the best thing that have ever happened to me, Y/N,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m gonna miss you so much.”  

You don’t answer him because you’re afraid of what you might say. Your throat constricts and tears involuntarily spill from your eyes, coating your cheeks in wetness. Namjoon's arm tightens around you and for the first time since you’ve given him those damned papers, he’s laying next to you like this, chest pressed flush to your back.

When his breath slows down after a while, you let yourself cry to sleep. You dream about a boy smoking a cigarette on a bench in front of an old manor.

It’s the sunshine who wakes you up the next morning.

The first thing you think about his that someone has seemed to forget to shut the curtains out for the night. It’s definitely too bright for your liking so you narrow your eyes as soon as they're met with the light.  Blinking heavily, you realise where exactly are you. You don't remember you walls being wooden. It’s not your apartment. Which means you're in one of the many rooms in your parents' holiday cottage.  

Turning away from the window, you’re faced with Namjoon's bare back. He always sleeps without his shirt on, no matter how cold sometimes it can be. He’s like a human equivalent of a heater. You observe the steady rise and fall of his body and listen to his quiet snoring. It’s something comforting in this and you find yourself seeking his warmth. You shuffle closer to him but then you stop abruptly.

It all hits you like a tsunami.

The dinner, your talk about the divorce, heated confessions and whispered I love yous with tear strained cheeks. His body against yours as he fucked you hard and unforgiving. It was silly for you to let yourself indulge but you couldn’t help but grant his one last wish. His arms around you when you were drifting off to sleep, his pained voice when he was murming sweet nothings to your ears.

And now he’s right next to you, as he’s been there forever, deep in unaware slumber where the reality of your life is nonexistent. You’re wondering what he dreams about.

Suddenly you’re brought back in time to one morning three years ago when you were still newlyweds, still trying to get used to being tied together for life. It was one of your last mornings in Namjoon’s old apartment. After a round of passionate love making, both of you laid in each other's arms on the bed. Young, foolish and so in love you’ve never wanted to leave the embrace of his firm and protective hold on your body.  

“Can I ask you something?”  

Namjoon hummed hearing your voice, fingers brushing your shoulders with absentminded, affectionate manner and pressing into tight knots from time to time, easing the tension.  

You took a deep breath, your digits playing with your wedding ring underneath the sheets. “How do you think our first big argument will look like?” you asked.

You felt Namjoon's body shaking with laughter as he hide his face in your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo. “Why are you even asking me this? Do you want me to get mad at you? Do I have a reason?” There was a slight teasing lilt to his voice and you knew he was smirking.

“Namjoon,” you whined.  

“I know I have to put the dishes into the dishwasher after using them. And I swear I’m not going to use your hair conditioner ag–‘’

“Joon, I’m serious.” you huffed and he stopped because of the seriousness of your voice.

“Okay, okay. Go on, elaborate on that.”  

You sighed, scrunching your eyebrows. You didn’t even know how to vocalize your thoughts. A part of you was aware how irrational and probably ridiculous you sounded but it was Namjoon. He was the closest person to you. He would never judge you and always listen to what you wanted to say.

“You know, recently I read those statistics about people under twenty five getting married…”

“Oh, God, Y/N. I’m someone who deals with statistics on daily basis. How many times do I have to remind you they’re not always relevant?” Namjoon interrupted.  

You elbowed his side. “Let me finish!” you pouted, earning a kiss on your crown in response and muffled ‘sorry, babe’. “Basically they say the younger you get married, the possibility of having a divorce is higher.” you explained.  

“So you’re trying to say that we fit in those statistics?”  

“I didn’t mean that!” you protested. It wasn’t the case. This stupid article was just a something that made you start wondering.  “It’s just… I’m scared, Joon. Of our future, what it will bring to us. We got married so early and I know the first crisis will come to us eventually but what will we do then?” you asked, voice quivery.

Namjoon was silent for a moment, until he spoke again. “Are you asking me what would I do if we got into an argument?”  

You nodded shyly. 

Namjoon squeezed your hand as he was saying with it he was here to hold onto when you needed him. “It’s okay if you’re scared, baby. I am too. But I can assure you that no matter what happens between us, I will do everything in my power to fix that,” he said. “I love you, Y/N. Back then in that ballroom when we first met I knew you were going be my wife one day. And I promised myself that if I ever felt like I was hurting you, I would let you go and be free.”  

You pouted. “I don’t wanna lose you, dummy. Stop saying you will hurt me!”  

He chuckled. “There are always good and bad days when you’re in love with someone. But they say the sun will rise again even after the biggest storm, right? If you love someone enough, you will overcome all those crisis you were talking about. And change the statistics. ” he said, making you chuckle at his last remark. “I can’t ask you to never leave me but promise me you will always do whatever makes you happy. Okay?”

He lifted his pinky finger and you brought yours, linking them together in a cute, silly manner. “I promise.” you murmured.

Now, laying on your back and staring at the ceiling,  you realise how wrong you were this whole time.

It’s Namjoon who’s making you happy. You can’t let your first, big crisis take him away from you because he thinks you’ll be better without him. Fuck the statistics, fuck everything honestly. You’re having the world by your feet when he’s with you, and you’re not going to give up on that so easily.  

He is your first love and you’re not letting him leave you so easily.

Standing on wobbly legs from the bed, you make your way to the kitchen. You have a plan in your head and you hopefully will manage to succeed.

You stop in your tracks by the mirror hanging on the wall, staring at your reflection. You definitely like you’ve had a rough night. There are smudges of mascara underneath your eyes because you haven’t removed your makeup before going to sleep and your hair’s a mess. There are splotches of red and violet covering the skin of your neck and cleavage and you’re more than aware now that Namjoon's shirt you’re wearing isn’t buttoned properly.

After washing your face in the bathroom, you enter the kitchen. You pull out from the fridge all the groceries you bought yesterday with Namjoon with purpose to make a breakfast the next day after Chrimstas Eve and start cooking.  

You’re going to make your husband's favourite French toast.

Both of you have never been master chefs at cooking, in most cases choosing to eat out in the city or simply order something for dinner but breakfasts have always been something you are celebrating together in your house. And you can proudly admit you’re better than making them than your dear husband.

However, stress is a factor that makes you feel paralyzed in various kinds of situations so before you could blink an eye, you’re smelling something burning. You jump in horror, dropping the teaspoon on to the floor with loud clicking sound. There it is, Namjoon's French toast laying on your pan utterly inedible.

“Fuck!” you curse, sitting on a stool by the kitchen island and burying your face in hands.

Tears well in your eyes. For once you’ve wanted to do something right and here you are, crying over burnt toast because you have no time to make another one and Namjoon's probably already up–

“Good mornin–baby, what’s wrong? What happened?”  

Namjoon's soft, a little raspy voice startles you. Your heart swells hearing the petname he's addressed you. Lifting your face up, you’re met with his worried expression.  

He looks so normal. Like in every single morning you’ve spent together. He’s wearing his favourite, blue pajama pants and a plain, white tshirt. He hasn’t even put on eye contacts yet, choosing to wear his glasses instead that have successfully made you feel weak in the knees a few times before.

“Why are you crying?” he asks. You sniffle, gesturing with your hand to the kitchen counter where still lays the burnt toast. Namjoon follows your line of sight, furrowing his eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”  

You let out a shaky sigh, trying to calm down your breathing. “I wanted to make you a b-breakfast. And I fucked up as always because I burnt your favourite French toast.” you stammer out before another fresh wave of sobs racks through your body.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Namjoon crunches down in front of you, placing his hand on your bare knee and rubbing the skin in soothing manner meant to calm your nerves. Just like you did to him last night when he tried to confess his feelings about the divorce. “It’s okay. We can make another one together.”  

“But I wanted to do that just for you!” 

Namjoon shakes his head and you could see a small smile dancing on his lips. “Silly, why were you so determined to make me a breakfast?” 

“Because that’s what you deserve,” you say firmly.

“I deserve to have a good breakfast?” he teases. 

You angrily wipe the tears off your cheeks. “You deserve everything!” you exclaim, making Namjoon raise his eyebrows in confusion. “You’re always so good to me, Joonie. This Christmas made me realise just how much you care about me. I can’t let you agree to the divorce so easily,” 

“What do you mean?” 

You stand up from the stool and he follows you, towering over your form. You feel small but in a good way. You feel safe. “There will be no divorce. I’m not going to leave you.” 

Namjoon cups your cheeks and he’s grinning like a fool but he needs you to say it. So he begs. “Please, tell me why is that.” 

Your lips are already touching his when you whisper, “Because I love you. And I don’t think I will ever find someone quite like you, Joon.” 

And then he’s kissing you. Your teeth clash but you don’t care, standing on your toes to mould your mouths together in better angle. He lifts you up from the floor with ease, swirling your bodies around. You’re laughing together and he isn’t even ashamed there is a tear or two running down his cheeks.

When he places you on the ground again, he knows he isn’t dreaming. He’s just living his dream life, with you by his side. 

“I love you too.” 

And just like that, your history together starts again.

Bonus: 

“We made up with Namjoon.” 

You hear your sister shriek on the other side. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you actually banged. You’re nasty, Y/N.” 

“It wasn’t like that! I’m telling you we aren’t getting a divorce and the only thing you can think about is us having sex?” 

But Soojin isn’t listening to you anymore. You hear her shouting, “Taehyung, they fucked and now they aren’t getting a divorce!” 

“Soojin-ah!” you wail.

Taehyung's faint voice reaches your eyes. “I told you they would make up. You owe me fifty!” 

“You made a bet?!” you exclaim.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Ghhh-shh. The connection is-shh-bad! I don’t hear-shhh-you! Bye!” She hangs up before you could say anything else. 

Entering the kitchen, you’re met with your husband, casually sipping on his coffee. He lifts his eyebrows when he sees you and asks, “How's your little sister? Is she planning to rip off my balls?”  

“Nope. But I’m changing my statement about her. She’s evil.” you say, sitting on a stool next to him.  

“Glad we’re on the same page, baby.”

[rmtndew]

All I’ve Ever Known

Summary: Fiona’s life is a shattered fraction of what it used to be. She’s trying to navigate her new normal when she meets Detective Marshall, who gives her something more to look forward to.

Pairing: Marshall and OFC.

Rating: PG

Warnings: Mentions of death, cancer.

A/N - This was intended as a short drabble but it got out of hand and became a multi-chapter story instead. It’s my first Marshall fic and the first fan fic that I’ve written in over a decade. The title comes from the song ‘All I’ve Ever Known’ from Hadestown: ‘I was alone so long, I didn’t even know that I was lonely. Out in the cold so long, I didn’t even know that I was cold. Turned my collar to the wind, this is how it’s always been. All I’ve ever known is how to hold my own, but now I want to hold you, too.’

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

The first Wednesday in October was the first day that truly felt like fall had arrived. There was a chill in the air that morning and the fallen leaves had taken on a lovely earthy smell after the rain from the night before had blown them off the trees and pummeled them to the ground. I made a mental note to ask one of the neighbor boys to clean the leaves off the driveway and stone path through the yard so Mom didn’t accidentally slip on them. She’d been so cooped up that summer, I didn’t want anything to be in her way of finally getting to enjoy the weather.

The drive to work was quiet and lovely. The sun warmed my car and when I reached the catering shop where I worked, I sat there for a few minutes, drinking my coffee and soaking up the feeling on my skin. I always got to work early so that I could have those few peaceful moments before the chaos of the day started.

Once inside the shop, I started working with my boss Darcy on filling the boxes for the day's orders. We had two major deliveries that day - a work conference at a hotel, and a training seminar being held in the public library late that afternoon. Other than that, we had our standing order for the homicide unit of the police department. At the beginning of the year, a man had been murdered and according to the news that covered it, there was next to no evidence and the case was sure to go cold. But a couple of the detectives wouldn’t let go and against the odds, they found the murderer and got a full confession out of him. The victim’s wife had been so grateful that she decided to have an ongoing order every Wednesday to buy lunch for the detectives who’d solved the murder, as well as their colleagues. She had received quite a bit of money after her husband’s death and decided to use some of it to pay them back in a small way. That order was always mine. It was fairly small and I could carry it in my car. The detectives were always polite but never tried to make small talk, which I enjoyed. The chatty orders went to Darcy’s nephew Nick, who could hold a conversation with a brick wall and enjoy it. 

Once the boxes for the detectives were filled and loaded into my car, I drove down to the station. I took the dolly from my trunk and strapped down the two insulated containers that had the boxed lunches packed in them. The wind whipped around me as I worked, blowing my hair in my eyes. I pushed it away and held it back with my free hand as I wheeled the food behind me. When I got into the building, an officer went through the containers, as always, to make sure I wasn’t bringing in any weapons, or whatever. The first few times he checked them, I was nervous that he’d find something, knowing full well that there was absolutely nothing illegal in them. Then, once I got to know him a bit, I had considered bringing him a cookie from the shop since I saw him every week, but then the irrational fear that he would think I was trying to bribe him to overlook the non-existent illegal materials I wasn’t trying to smuggle in took over. So, like with everything else in my life, I pushed away any urge, no matter how small, to socially interact with anyone longer than absolutely necessary. That’s why, after delivering there for several weeks, I knew he was Officer Bates (he wore a badge) and I was just ‘Waverly’, as in Waverly Box Catering, my company's name. 

Once Officer Bates checked to make sure everything in my containers was safe, he walked me to the elevator and hit the button for me. Thankfully the elevator was empty so that I wasn’t forced to make small talk with the officers or detectives outside of the homicide unit that always questioned why none of the other units got free lunches. The first few times I’d been asked it was awkward, all the other times after those were both awkward and annoying. 

When I reached the homicide unit floor, I made my way to their break room, where some of the detectives were waiting for me. I started unpacking the boxed lunches, placing them on the table, making sure that the names were clearly visible. As I placed the empty insulated containers back on my dolly, my phone rang. Normally I didn’t take calls on the job, but it was from Mom’s doctor’s office. 

I left the break room and found a quiet hall to answer the phone. It was a nurse called Karen confirming Mom’s appointment the following week. We’d made sure to write it on the calendar to remember it, but I thanked her for the reminder anyway and told her that we’d see her next Wednesday. After hanging up, I went back to the break room to collect my equipment. I was surprised to find that every single box had been claimed but one. I glanced at the name: Detective Marshall. Normally I didn’t keep track of who ordered what after the boxes had been filled and labeled, but I knew Detective Marshall’s order by heart. While every other detective switched their orders up, trying different things on the menu, Detective Marshall’s had remained the same every week. A cuban sandwich - whole, plain chips, and a peanut butter cookie. There were times when I’d be doing mindless tasks - washing the dishes, brushing my teeth, filling Mom’s pill box - when their order would randomly play through my mind, like some strange mantra. It was an odd thing to find calming but it reminded me of one of the exercises my therapist had me do as a teenager when my anxiety attacks would get bad. She had me multiply numbers, or mentally list every detail of my bedroom that I could think of, or recite the alphabet backwards. It was simple, mundane, ground exercises and without ever knowing me, Detective Marshall had become my adult version. 

I was about to leave when a uniformed officer came in. He went to the coffee pot but kept eyeing the box. It was nothing to me, really, if he took it. Detective Marshall could probably handle themselves against a lunch thief, but my gut wouldn’t let me let it go. So instead of leaving, I decided to take the box and hand deliver it.

I left my dolly behind and made my way back down the hall where I’d taken my call earlier. I’d noticed several detectives had private offices there and assumed their office would be there, too. I was right. I found Lieutenant Detective Marshall’s name engraved in a gold name plate mounted on a closed door. I took a deep breath before giving a hard and loud but short knock. 

“Yeah,” a man’s voice called out. 

He didn’t say anything else but I took it as an invitation to open the door. When I did, I was met with my first sight of Detective Marshall: A tall man with a short beard and a head of messy brown curls. He was wearing a forest green sweater, the sleeves pushed up to show his forearms. A gun and badge were clipped to the side of his jeans that hugged his muscular thighs. He was holding a folder, looking at it intently. After a moment, he looked up at me. He must have expected it to be someone he worked with because his expression went from neutral to confused in less than a second. He tilted his head, a crease appearing between his eyes - his beautiful blue eyes - as his brow furrowed. 

“Can I help you?”  

“I, um…” I swallowed hard. “I’m from Waverly Catering. I brought you your lunch,” I said, frozen on the spot at the entrance to his office. 

He looked more confused. “Don’t you usually leave them in the break room?” he asked. He sounded like he had a British accent.  

“Yes. And I did. But you didn’t come to get it. I was about to leave and it was the only one left and an officer came in, eyeing it, I was afraid that they would take it.” I suddenly felt my face get hot as this handsome man stared at me while I mumbled out some weird explanation for why I was interrupting his work. “Sorry,” I said, holding out the box. “Here.”

The slightest hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he walked towards me. “Thank you.” He took the box from my outstretched hand, his fingers lightly brushing mine as he did. I was sure it was an accident and yet it instantly made my pulse race. “I appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome,” I said, then turned to get out of there before I could embarrass myself further. 

“Do you make the cookies?”

I stopped and looked back at him. “What?”

He held up his box. “Are you the one who makes the cookies in here or do you just deliver?” 

“Oh. Yeah, I make them most of the time.”

He gave me a short lived, closed lip smile. “They’re very good.” 

My brain reacted as if I’d never heard a more flattering compliment in my life and I had to physically restrain myself from giggling. “Thank you,” I managed to say without betraying my giggling brain. “Have a good day.”

I left his office feeling like a teenage girl who’d just said something embarrassing in front of her crush and I couldn’t figure out why. The feeling lasted until I was back in my car. 

“Come on, Fiona, you’re a grown woman,” I whispered to myself, massaging my temples. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this.”

The last thing I needed on top of all of my responsibilities and already emotionally complicated current life situation was an unnecessary crush on a man just because he had pretty eyes and liked my cookies. But good heavens his eyes were pretty.

    _____________________________________

When I got home that afternoon, I found Mom in the living room. She was watching a cooking show. I went and gave her a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair was growing back just enough to feel like soft baby hair. I jokingly called it her duck feathers.

“How was your day, sweetie?” she asked.

I sat on the arm of the couch, facing her in the big recliner that swallowed her up. “It was good. Not too busy. I had my delivery to the police station again,” I said, letting myself grin. “I met one of the detectives, too. He was very handsome.” 

She looked at me, her cheeks a pretty pink color. It was such a wonderful sight after months of her being pale and gray. “Oh! What does he look like?” 

“He looks...manly,” I said. She laughed. “He was taller than me, which is always rare and attractive, and he has curly hair, and a beard, which I’m not usually attracted to but it really worked for him.” I sighed. “And his eyes. They were such a lovely blue.”

“Is he single?”

I shrugged and laughed. “I don’t know. I didn’t check for a ring. It wasn’t really that type of interaction,” I said. “I was just giving him his lunch and was surprised by how gorgeous he was.” I stood up. “Oh, and I think he’s English. He sounded like it anyway.”

“Honey, look for a ring next week!” 

“I won’t deliver next week, Nick will. You’ve got your appointment with Dr. Turner,” I reminded her. “I’m going to start dinner. Do you want anything special?”

She pointed at the TV. “They’re making chicken carbonara, it looks awfully tempting.”

I smiled. “I think I might be able to rustle some up for you. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Thank you, Fi.”

[thompsborn]

the portal closed—a concept scene

Peter can’t stand still.

How could he? There’s an alien space ship that just landed in the middle of Central Park, and no one else is here to do anything about it. Hell, Peter shouldn’t even be here—he was only nearby because May’s birthday is in a few months and there’s this shop that sells the really nice jewelry and he wanted to see how much more money he needed to save up for that necklace he wants to get her. Still, he can see Avengers Tower glimmering in the distance, and yet there are no Avengers in sight to investigate the foreign craft.

Lucky that Peter always has his suit with him, shoved into the bottom of his backpack for any necessary emergency use. Like aliens. In the park. On a Wednesday.

Or, he assumes that they’re aliens, because this definitely doesn’t look like any sort of, like, normal human plane, or whatever. It’s a weird, giant hunk of metal, a bit rectangular with odd angles and various different colors, like it was made with scrap metal and there wasn’t any time to paint it before taking off. He only made it over here as the thing was settling into the grass, but it had sounded clunky and loud, so maybe not a highly intelligent alien species, then, or one with few resources and no access to anything better.

He reaches up, adjusts his goggles nervously. Maybe they’ll be nice aliens. Not like the ones that attacked New York back in 2012. Peter had only been eleven at the time, but—still. A terrifying ordeal he’d rather not repeat. especially since there’s still no sign of the Avengers or any other of the various small time New York heroes to save the day.

Peter is strong. And sticky. And has that weird sixth sense thing that has saved his ass from bullets more times than he can even count, but—stopping an alien invasion all by himself? He’s fourteen. It doesn’t matter that his birthday is only a couple weeks away, because fifteen isn’t much better, really. He could try his absolute best to fight them off, but he probably wouldn’t get very far, that’s for sure.

Before he can ponder the likelihood of him defending the city from a fleet of some kind of spike-covered slime ball (his imagination may or may not be running wild with the idea of aliens), the ship in front of him makes a sudden clicking noise that almost echoes around him. Even more nervous, Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking over his shoulder at the vacancy of the park—people had been quick to run away once the space ship had been spotted in the air, and by the time Peter made it here, there was no one in sight. Even focusing his hearing, the nearest heartbeats are no where nearby. Smart of the people to do, and makes it easier to avoid innocent people getting hurt if this turns into a fight. Looking back, Peter watches warily as the ship makes another clicking noise, and then—a door, creaking loudly as it suddenly opens.

The sound of metal grinding against metal fills the air as the door slowly starts to lower towards the ground, making Peter flinch as it grates against his ear drums. He almost reaches up to cover his ears, enhanced hearing despising the way it almost screams at him, but it stops before he needs to, the noise replaced with what sounds like something breaking and the door suddenly drops the rest of the way like a heavy weight, making Peter flinch again at the echoing impact. In the aftermath, silence.

Until.

Until Peter sees a being that looks human stumble out of the ship, tripping down the ramp that the fallen door has created and landing on the grass with a pained grunt. He can’t make himself move, still wary, hands twitching at his sides, unsure, waiting—waiting—waiting—

The being—the person—slowly looks up, squinting through the sunlight. Peter feels every muscle in his body tense, his eyes going wide, jaw dropping as he recognizes that face. Of course he recognizes that face. Anyone in New York would in an instant. Anyone on Earth.

Tony Stark blinks, slow and lethargic. His skin is pale, looks like it hangs off of him, lips chapped as he parts them and breathes in deeply. Smacks them together, exhales through his nose. Peter takes a timid step forward, feeling as though he’s looking at a dead man, because, as of the Battle of New York, everyone said that he was. The step draws the man’s attention to him suddenly, sharply.

Peter swallows. “Uh... M-Mister Stark?”

The man blinks again, just as slow. He’s looking at Peter, but doesn’t seem to really see him. When he speaks, it’s a quiet croak—Peter only hears it because of his enhancements—and all he says is, “I... I made it?”

And then his eyes roll back into his head and he falls onto his back, landing in the grass, unconscious.

-

or: after flying a nuke into a wormhole to save the city of new york, tony doesn’t make it back. the portal closes on him. instead, he’s captured by thanos and his army. for four years, he’s in space, just trying to make it back home.

when he does, it’s peter parker that finds him.

(not sure when i’ll get to this, but i got the idea for this fic last night and haven’t stopped thinking about it since, so i wrote a concept scene that will probably be the introduction when i eventually write the rest of the fic.)

[any st*rkers that interract will be blocked]

[mychemicalxmen]

The Umbrella Academy College Theatre Kid AU Plot

Alright bitches, ask and ye shall receive. 

Here’s the 6k summary of this ten-chapter monstrosity I almost wrote a year ago and just now attempted to flesh out.

Canon divergence from the point of their birth onward. The Commission doesn’t exist here, it would just make everything a little too complicated. No Luther/Allison either, personal preference. If anyone would want to try writing or drawing a scene from this universe, I would be over the heckin moon, please feel free to do w/e if any part of this inspires anyone. And if anyone just wants to shoot hc, pop off!

But yeah. This is a crack concept treated dead seriously. Buckle up.

Chapter One - “Overture”

-I wrote this chapter, but it’s Really Not Good. I had just watched the show and hadn’t written fic in a Hot Minute.

-Welcome to Umbrella University, a top-tier school with a sacrilegiously large budget for the fine arts!

-They’re all freshman atm.

-Basically, all of our kiddos (except Five, we’ll get there) are cleaning the theater between shows in the fall season. Allison is acting House Crew Chief and is overseeing the whole thing. The others are on House Crew for various reasons - tech class credit, volunteer hours, etc. No one is actually studying theatre for their major except Allison, who’s double-majoring in acting and something else

-They’re essentially strangers (except Ben and Klaus, who are assigned roommates). They’re all aware of their own powers, but not any of the others’.

-As they clean, the host on the radio is going on about the one-year anniversary of his favorite “Hargreeves Five” (the current Academy, made up of different kids from the 43, and definitely not based on the ASBO Five) battle, apprehending a robber named Erick Webber in New York City. He was a starving actor who stole from large donation funds that were supposed to be distributed to other starving artists. The battle got violent, and fire got involved. What a spectacle!

-Vanya, who has accidentally skipped her meds that day, sees a rat and screams, prompting Luther to drop the lighting equipment he’s working on. Loud sound. Telekinetic energy starts going.

-There is a comically convenient chain reaction in which all of the siblings’ powers are triggered at once - Diego throws something, Klaus levitates, the Horror has to hold up the light rig, Allison has to rumor to memory-wipe the witnesses, etc.

-Once they have the situation under control, they realize it’s… weird. The odds are absolutely astronomical. How the hell did they all end up in the same place??

-There’s no reason to believe anyone brought them together on purpose, except maybe fate, or whatever Mysterious Space Magic caused their birth in the first place. They have a private House Crew meeting with a lot of freaking out and questions and bonding.

Chapter Two - “God I Hope I Get It”

-Fast forward to junior year. Since that fateful day, the theater has become the siblings’ home base. Luther is the shop foreman this year, Allison is seated at the right hand of the theatre department director (a sharp middle-aged woman who directs half of the shows), Diego knows his way around lights, and Klaus frequently builds and paints in the scene shop. Allison’s the only one of them who actually performs.

-The fall season includes Hair and Othello, and the joint audition for both is quickly approaching.

-Vanya, however, has been drifting away from it all for some reason. Allison finds her in the quad one day and encourages her to audition for Othello. Apparently, the theatre director has observed Vanya’s love of reading plays from afar and asked for her specifically. Vanya doesn’t want to go anywhere near the theater, but she’s touched by Allison’s belief in her and reluctantly says she’ll think about it.

-Diego is going through his classes and can’t help but feel like there’s this one freshman that’s just… following him. Looking at him funny. Keeps showing up in all his usual spots. Must be one of those obnoxious wiz kids - there’s no way in hell that he’s eighteen years old.

-Vanya has a monologue in her back pocket, her favorite from Winter’s Tale, ready to go. But when the day of the audition comes, she walks into the theater for the first time in months, and she breaks down and runs to the bathroom. Allison is too busy helping the director to console her, so she sends Klaus to check on her.

-Klaus talks to her through the door and tries to hype her up for the audition. Ghost!Ben tells him to reel it in.

-Vanya eventually admits that she drifted away from the theater because it was always a special place for the six of them, but after Ben died in a car crash in sophomore year, thinking about it just broke her heart all over again.

-Klaus doesn’t quite have the tact of language to bring her comfort, but Ben does. Without revealing he can see Ben, Klaus just echoes his words. Saying that Ben would still want her to be happy here. Saying that it’s okay to take time to work through all those feelings. He stays there until Vanya’s calm enough to come out of the bathroom, hug him for a really long time, and then go into her audition.

-The cast lists go out, and all the siblings run to see the one for Othello. Allison is the stage manager, to the surprise of no one, and has already seen that she’ll be playing Dionne in Hair. The headmaster’s kid (who I never gave a name, so let’s just call him Ollie) is playing Othello, some guy named Leonard is playing Roderigo, and Vanya is playing Desdemona. While they’re leaving to celebrate, Diego sees The Weird Freshman sign his initial on the cast list, confirming his role. He takes a peek at it later and wonders how this five-foot-six gremlin was cast as Iago, and what kind of a name is Five, anyway?

Chapter Three - “Good Morning Starshine”

-Production on Hair has begun.

-Diego is still a vigilante, but like, specifically for the college’s organization for fighting sexual harassment. Make no mistake, he is not endorsed by the club in any way, shape, or form. But when fellow criminal justice major Eudora Patch gets catcalled on a late night walk home from the library, a fraternity douchebag gets his hoodie pinned to the wall with a knife and receives an extremely harsh talking-to.

-Eudora just sighs into the darkness like “Diego was that really necessary” and keeps walking and Diego runs up to meet her like “yes??”

-Insert exposition here about how they’re exes but there’s still that Tension and fond bickering from the show. Eudora thinks he should get involved in other things on campus, but he immediately rejects it. No. Nope. Nothing else going on. Just lights. And Batman.

-Luther and Allison often hang out in one of the hallways of the theater for lunch. Allison complains that she’s in charge of a lot of little projects in the program, and it’s hard to get people to listen to her. Luther complains that Diego hasn’t been showing up to help in the shop lately. Even though Diego’s not officially on set crew, it’s a little suspicious that he hasn’t been around.

-The mainstage theater has been going through a very fancy refurbishment, and a new chandelier just came in. How the department has the money for a chandelier, no one has any idea. There’s an inside joke that the theatre director must be having a scandalous lesbian affair with the headmaster.

-After a while, Luther enlists Klaus to help him to figure out what Diego’s hiding. With their single shared braincell, it takes them a little too long to realize that Diego’s name is on the Hair cast list. But that can’t possibly be right.

-Luther and Klaus sneak into the blackbox (a smaller, more intimate theater) in the middle of a Hair rehearsal and, sure enough, holy shit, Diego is actually onstage as one of the tribe people, lowkey having the time of his life.

-Enter UT Dallas transfer David Katz in the role of Claude. And it’s just. On sight. Klaus is down for the goddamn count.

-“Who is that??” “I know, right? Like, that’s our brother.” “No, no, not him. The really pretty one.”

-At the end of whatever song they’re doing, Diego locks eyes with Luther and almost dies of embarrassment right then and there.

-Cue big long childish argument of “why didn’t you tell us you had any interest in being in the musical?” and “I didn’t know I had any interest either oKAY you weren’t supposed to find out” “how wouldn’t we have found out you IDIOT we LIVE HERE.”

-At the end of rehearsal, Diego is feeling entirely beaten down. As is Allison, up to her eyeballs in responsibility. They sit on the loading dock and Diego admits he didn't want to make a big deal out of the fact that he was in Hair. But he’s actually really digging the songs and the messages and the comradery. Even though musical theatre is dumb. Allison assures him it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

Chapter Four - “What’s the Buzz?”

-Production on Othello has begun.

-Fluffy opening that’s just a montage of Disaster Klaus repeatedly trying to justify sitting in on Hair rehearsal. “Sure, Allison, let me cut out those gels.” “Sure, Dance Captain, I can record the choreography.” “Shut up, Ben, I’m just really into American military history.”

-Meanwhile he’s just…… watching the show, listening to Dave sing, waiting for the right moment to strike up a Totally Casual Conversation with him.

-And it happens! Eventually.

-Diego meets Eudora on the loading dock and comes clean to her about the fact that he’s in the musical. Eudora is shocked and amused and teases him a little for it, but she’s ultimately supportive. And endeared. Cute bickering.

-When she leaves for her next class, Five is six feet away sipping coffee like “Oh, you’re both the same major? Aww that’s adorable.”

-Diego finally confronts him and asks him what his deal is and Five says something cryptic about “Reggie’s bastards”. Diego grabs him by the arm and drags him to the empty dressing room and interrogates him on everything he knows.

-Five is somewhere in his thirties, he can teleport, his body’s been screwed up by time travel complications, he knows about all the others, and he’s “played a game of hopscotch with an unsympathetic god”. When asked why he came back to this time in particular, he dodges the question with some snarky reply of how he’s not sure he made the right call.

-They decide not to tell everyone else all at once, until they hear faint movement. They find Klaus buried under a throw blanket on The Couch that every theater has, a little stoned, stirring from a midday dressing room nap.

-”I’m a BOY in LOVE, leave me aLONE.”

Chapter Five - “No One is Alone”

-Once again, Allison is overwhelmed. She had rumored her way into the double major when she didn’t actually have the high school credits necessary to graduate on time, but since meeting the other siblings, she’d sworn off using her power. If she was caught, it could start a breadcrumb trail to the others and expose all of them. And like, they just want to get out of here with their degrees, man.

-The theatre department director has had to assign her the most incompetent freshmen in the world to manage with assorted housekeeping tasks. They have an attitude, they don’t know how anything works, and Allison simply doesn’t have the time to lead them. She comes to the theatre director to explain this.

-And for the first time in a long while, the director expresses sternness to her. And it hurts.

-”Come on, Allison, we both know you’re good with people. You can be very persuasive when you want to be. You will work this out.”

-It’s very pointed. She will work this out. There is no other option.

-And. Not to be self-centered, but the spring musical is going to be Cabaret, and Allison has been convinced she had Sally Bowles in the bag. But if she gets on the director’s bad side halfway through junior year…

-It’s a particularly tense day, ten minutes before she has to sign in for Hair rehearsal. Some poor freshman is organizing the costume closet and just doesn’t get it and doesn’t want to be here and the director demands that this is done by the end of the day.

-So. It’s just one. It’s no big deal. She just heard the oddest little rumor that the student could make the closet perfectly tidy within the hour.

-Five and Vanya are at rehearsal for Othello. Now that he’s actually talked to Diego and Klaus, he feels a little more at ease being in this place and time. The two have plenty of time to chat while on breaks. And because Vanya is such a chill, calming force compared to the stubborn and impulsive Diego, it goes a lot smoother.

-Neither of them can stand Ollie, the headmasters’ pretentious son who’s playing Othello, going on and on about his actor step-brother in New York. Whatever. He likes to creep around the scene shop, too. Like he’s judging the tech. I’d like to see YOU pick up a drill, sir.

-He’s also really close to the theatre director. No one’s ever heard them interact, but they’ve sure seen them together. And he’s not even putting in all the hours for her that Allison is.

-Vanya and Five probably get coffee before rehearsal. Run lines. Five rambles about the flaws in Shakespeare’s philosophies over an americano. And they eventually tell each other their stories.

-Pogo had gone with Sir Reginald to examine the children and their potential prior to adoption. Reginald’s technology sensed great power in Vanya, even as an infant. After Vanya’s mother refused to sell, Pogo went behind Reginald’s back and made contact with the mother, advising her on how to suppress Vanya’s powers (but not emotions) with medication whenever they couldn’t be internally controlled. Vanya was good at self-control for much of her childhood, but the adjustment to college and grief of losing Ben put her back in a risky zone, so she’s been leaning a little more heavily on her medicine these days. She knows the adrenaline she gets onstage is good and natural, but it makes her nervous about forgetting a dose again.

-Five’s mother was quite a character. The name came from the fact that, during birth, Five first hit the air at exactly 12:00:05.

-Five had practiced his time jumps all through his childhood. (With none of the spite and rush he had in canon, he had no need to leap years right away, so he took it slow.) Sometimes he would get stuck in a place for a while, but his mom was cool and understood this. He would adapt to the new environment, anywhere between hours and weeks, and jump right back when he got enough rest to use his power again. There were some bugs, some problems with exact accuracy of destination, but he was always working on it. He was very lonely, though, never getting to meet with any of the other 43 and being discouraged from doing so by his mother.

-There was a portion of the future he got stuck in as a teenager in which the nation was governed by a tyrannical organization called “The Macbeth Enterprise”.

-Vanya immediately tries to shush him at this point in the story because he said the Bad Theatre Word. The director is very superstitious. She takes it deadly seriously and has threatened to actually penalty anyone who says it in the theater. Five just chuckles.

-And luckily, they’re rehearsing in the blackbox today, so even if the director could hear, it’s not “in the theater”.

-The future he saw was a century ahead of them, far beyond their lifetime. He was able to glean a little information about the origins of the Enterprise, but he shares none of this with Vanya. Firstly, those in power had high-tech augmentation that gave them a perfect replica of the kind of superpowers the 43 had - mind manipulation, immortality, etc. And secondly, they were credited with destroying the Hargreeves Five. As if the Hargreeves Five were a danger to society.

-What he does tell Vanya is that he’d never made any attempt to change the timeline before, but that’s just what he decided to do. With what little information he had, the only thing he could think of was to ruin the Enterprise’s namesake.

-Five spent literal years of his life, traveling from city to city across centuries, dooming various productions of Macbeth with Commission-level pragmatism until the name of the play itself became the taboo we know irl today.

-Vanya’s laughing. Five is too, honestly. It’s crazy.

-But he didn’t do what he did out of a ridiculous dare to himself. He did it out of desperation to not only to save the country, but to save his family as well. The family he’d never known. The kids all across the globe who went through the same strange hell of differentness that he had since birth. The Hargreeves Five, of course, needed to survive, as they’re responsible for maintaining peace on earth anyway. But if the Hargreeves Five were hunted down, why would the Enterprise stop there? Wouldn’t all 43 of them be in danger? Would all their gifts be harvested from them, and would they then be thrown away?

-But who knows if Five actually made a difference? He prays that it did. But the years of isolation in his personal mission convinced him of one thing - he should know his family. He had no idea when the country would start falling to shit - if it still would - but he could keep an eye on it alongside people who understood him. And with his foresight, maybe they could rise against the evil together.

-And maybe he was just so tired of being alone.

-So, digging was done through the Internet and several libraries in several eras. He found his insertion point at the University. He knew he’d have to look a little younger to fit in.

-But naturally, he got some equations wrong.

-Eventually, Five is formally introduced to Luther and Allison, who welcome him with slight skepticism, followed by a strong bear hug. Five’s not sure how to take the physical affection. He nods, which is a completely normal response to a hug, wraps his arms back around them, and tries to keep his eyes from leaking.

Chapter Six - “Whispering”

-It’s tech week of Hair, and because he’s been blowing his voice out in rehearsal from underdeveloped technique, Diego is on vocal rest.

-Most of this chapter is Diego Is On Vocal Rest and Everyone Gives Him Shit About It in a Loving Way.

-“Everyone” includes Eudora. She just bought her tickets for opening night.

-One early afternoon, Luther and Klaus are back in the scene shop together - Luther’s moving some lumber around and Klaus is carefully painting a setting onto a flat - and Luther vents that he’s not looking forward to running spotlight on Othello. He knows he can do it, but he wishes the theatre director would trust him with more authority and let him be Technical Director.

-Ben is eternally rolling his eyes and bitching about how entitled Luther sounds. He’s already the goddamn shop foreman. Klaus tries not to laugh at how annoyed Ben is about this.

-“But Diego could totally go back to lights for Othello! Hair will be over by then! He’s the pro! If I were TD I’d put him back on in an instant!”

-Dave wanders into the shop and says “hey” and Klaus nearly drops his wet paint brush onto the floor.

-After the brief succession of clumsy attempts Klaus had made to connect with Dave, Dave is actually bothering to return the effort.

-Luther is oblivious as hell while he’s toting the lumber around just like “Oh hi! Welcome! You’re new right? I’m Luther. I’m the shop foreman. You ever been on a tech crew before?” and this whole cringey spiel of small talk he usually gives to new students.

-About a minute into the small talk Luther finally sees how awkward Dave feels and how tense Klaus looks and he’s just like ohhhhh.

-He moves his task about eight feet further away to give them some space to talk. Even though that’s definitely not where the lumber is supposed to go. He just doesn’t want to make it weirder.

-Anyway. Insert fluff that isn’t obscenely flirtatious but is like… flirting with flirtatious.

-Later on that day, Leonard is tapped by the headmaster to join Student Government. Must’ve been one hell of a GPA. The new commitment forces him to give up the part of Roderigo in Othello.

-Leonard tells Allison this. Shit. Just what she needed today. She turns to her assistant stage manager and murmurs, shrugging off the guilt as she says it: “I heard a rumor you broke the news to our director as gently as possible.”

-After an eternity of assembling, dusting, and re-dusting, the Umbrella University theater chandelier is finally risen, ready for the first show of the season.

Chapter Seven - “The Life of the Party”

-After a hurried round of reviewing the audition tapes from the beginning of the year, Dave has been cast to fill the part of Roderigo.

-The technical director of Othello quit. No one’s really sure why. He was solid. But Luther’s been asked to step up, and he’s been trusted to pick anyone he wants to fill his previous spot on lights.

-Cue super petty conversation about how they both know Diego’s bomb at lights but they still annoy each other just by existing. Nonetheless, Diego agrees to hop onto Othello crew.

-Guess what, y’all, it’s opening night of Hair.

-Hard cut to Eudora, Luther, and Klaus, standing awkwardly together in the theater lobby, holding bouquets of various sizes and colors, convincing themselves that it’s a totally platonic gift to give to an actor.

-The show goes great. At the end of opening weekend, the cast and crew and friends go out to celebrate at the local bar and grill.

-At some point, the drinks are on Ollie, and everyone knows he and his mom are loaded. So. More drinks are had than ought to be had.

-ESPECIALLY by Five. He starts rambling about this girl named Delores in his quantum physics class and how he’s not sure if he’s allowed to find her attractive because of how complicated his age is.

-Vanya needed to get drunk. She deserved it. Now she’s yelling about this girl named Sissy in her chamber orchestra. What is happening.

-I’m not saying that Klaus and Dave had their first kiss while buzzed and behind the TUA equivalent of an Applebee’s, but I’m not not saying it.

-Luther has like two beers and starts getting emotional about how pretty the moon is.

-In classes the next morning, everyone’s hungover as shit.

-Except Allison, who was the extra careful Mom Friend and made sure her siblings made it home safe.

-Except Klaus. Who. Y’know. Didn’t really make it home. Ben goes to his 8 AM and takes Ghost Notes for him.

-Sometime that week, Luther comes into the director’s office with a question and sees her finishing a phone call, looking distraught.

-He asks if she’s okay. She doesn’t want to explain, but it eventually comes out that her son was in an accident of sorts three years ago. It’s almost the anniversary. He just got another treatment for the burn scars across half of his face. The director is still grieving the fact that it’s highly unlikely he’ll find success in his dream to be a Broadway actor.

-Luther warns Allison that the director might be in a worse mood this week. So that’s great.

-At an Othello rehearsal, Allison is calling cues from her promptbook. She pretty much has them memorized. But apparently, as the theatre director tells her, she keeps getting them wrong today?

-Allison could swear that last time she was at rehearsal, her book was different. What she’s reading is unfamiliar - lefts instead of rights, blue-outs instead of black-outs, etc. So she’s stumbling.

-On break, the theatre director expresses her frustration to Allison. We’re almost in tech week, for God’s sake. Allison apologizes and promises it won’t happen in the run.

-Allison blames her screw-ups on the stress of her overcommitments. Vanya sees she’s a little upset after the exchange and invites her to hang with her and Five after rehearsal.

-Vanya and Five have actually opened a pretty decent dialogue on mental health as it relates to their abilities, with Five’s powers damaging his psychological state and Vanya’s mood being an element of her telekinesis. Vanya reminds Allison that she’s got a lot on her plate, so she should try to take it easy where she can.

-Vanya still has anxiety, and it tends to flare at the part in the play where Othello smothers Desdemona with a pillow. They had worked out a safe plan in rehearsal. The pillow is thin and held at an angle so Vanya can still breathe, and it is only going to be held for a count of twelve. No longer, no shorter.

-Vanya and her siblings also take some more time to bitch about Ollie, too. Did you hear him accidentally call the director “mom” the other day? How embarrassing. What a dork.

-Hair closes and Othello tech week begins.

-A new batch of freshman House Crew members are cleaning up the theater one day with the radio on.

-It’s now the three year anniversary of the host’s favorite Hargreeves Five battle, a showdown against aspiring actor and convicted robber Erick Webber that went up in flames.

Chapter Eight - “Brush Up Your Shakespeare”

-The twelve-hour cue-to-cue tech rehearsal for Othello is a nightmare. But aren’t all cue-to-cues nightmares?

-They are.

-There might be some fluffy sibling stuff here, but nothing important. Luther, Diego, and Allison are speaking on headset with each other (“on com”). The channel also includes the assistant stage manager and assistant tech director.

-About five hours in, Luther and Diego get real sick of each other. Luther is redundant with his directions. Diego knows what to do. Diego keeps jumping the gun on cues. Passive aggression ensues.

-Allison has had it up to HERE and says “Look, if you’re gonna be children, can you please do it on a different channel?”

-And they do. They dedicate a whole other radio channel to Luther and Diego arguing where the rest of the crew can’t hear it.

-It’s during the cue-to-cue that Allison screws up the calls one too many times - is someone editing her promptbook when she’s not around? - and gets one more comment from the director. It’s worded like encouragement but spoken like a threat.

-“Allison, you were doing so well with the freshman. Just tell yourself you can do this. You’ll be perfect.”

-At lunch break, she wants to collapse. She goes to the bathroom, locks the door, and looks into the mirror.

-“I heard a rumor that you followed that promptbook perfectly.”

-The day after cue-to-cue, Vanya realizes she’s lost her meds. They have to be in the theater somewhere, but she can’t find them. Her siblings assure her that being in the show has improved her overall confidence, and they’ll all come running if she starts to have a meltdown for any reason. She’ll be able to control her emotions until she can get a refill. This warms her lil heart.

-The final dress rehearsals come to pass. Vanya continues to flourish. Five continues to impress and confound. Allison is flawless. Luther and Diego get over themselves. Klaus and Eudora get front row seats for opening night. It’s going to be a packed house. The local news are coming and filming segments to promote the program. As if the program needs any more support. The chandelier still boggles the mind.

-Opening night. The show is going spectacularly until Act V, when Ollie starts pressing the pillow over Vanya’s face.

-This is always the hard part. But it’s just a count of twelve, underscored by two bars of music.

-Until it isn’t. 

-Ollie keeps pressing. This wasn’t what we rehearsed. 

-Allison sees this from the booth and almost feels like they should call a hold, but her rumor kicks in and she can’t help but keep calling the show as normal.

-Vanya starts to hear the music amplified in her ears and starts to lose control of her power.

-Luther and Diego are both in Allison’s headset as the building starts to shake. “Allison, you need to call hold. Right now. Call hold!”

-Panicking, Vanya sends a pulse of energy out, knocking Ollie halfway across the stage, sending the flats crashing down, and shattering a row of stage lights. When she stands up, Ollie is smiling.

-The news crew caught it on tape. The audience is freaking out. Most of them try to flee but are trapped inside at the back of the house.

-Allison’s next call is the newest and strangest unauthorized edit she’s seen in her promptbook. It’s for the wrong play.

-“Spot B to Macbeth.”

-At the first time that its trigger phrase has ever been uttered in the building, the chandelier starts to glow and expand. Then, it drops, lower and lower, until it is right in front of the stage.

-It was never just a chandelier. It’s a piece of extra-terrestrial technology. Standing on the shelf on top of it are the director and the headmaster.

Chapter Nine - “The Point of No Return”

-I don’t know exactly how I’d reveal all of this, but here’s the gist.

-By the way, this is them coming out as extra-as-hell supervillains. So the way this is revealed is probably extra as hell.

-The director’s son is Erick Webber, a starving artist who resorted to a life of crime to pay his bills and got himself tangled with the Hargreeves Five, who are responsible for half of his face burning in the heat of battle.

-The director and the headmaster actually have been romantically involved for a few years, all but legally married.

-When the directors’ son was forever barred from the career of his dreams, the director and very wealthy headmaster first got together. The headmaster got her a job at the school.

-They wanted revenge for their son. But they also deduced that the Hargreeves Five were too immature for their powers and potential to ruin lives. They were just dumb kids. Their powers must be taken from them and placed into more capable hands.

-The couple had done extensive research, learned about the power potential in the 43, tracked down as many of them as they could find - preferably those already living in America - and hired all sorts of people and services to promote Umbrella University to them. They offered each one of them a sizable scholarship.

-They got seven of them.

-And they arranged meetings with characters that Hargreeves had done some shady deals with so they could acquire the otherworldly technology needed to set their plan into motion.

-And Macbeth was the trigger word for the invention - the story of an old celebrated king slain to make room for the rightful leader, as plotted by an empowered and bloodthirsty woman - so they had to put it in a theater. They had to ensure the trigger wasn’t spoken in the room until the correct time.

-Five realizes at this point that the efforts he made to change the past didn’t stop the Macbeth Enterprise, it just gave them a way more convenient origin. God dammit.

-The siblings realize Ollie was in on the whole thing. He had to make sure all seven of the kids were in the theater at the right time, so he snooped around and reported back to the Evil Moms. They let Luther be TD so Diego could cover lights. They cast Five, made Allison recruit Vanya, and made Allison SM. They took out Leonard and cast Dave to ensure Klaus and Ben would be there for opening. Ollie hid Vanya’s pills during the cue-to-cue.

-Allison realizes the director knew about her power all along and really was suggesting that she use it. Allison had done exactly what they wanted her to. They must’ve had someone re-do the promptbook each day and everything.

-The point is, there’s now news footage of a girl with unpredictably dangerous powers ruining a perfectly good school play and two women making a solid case that these children can’t be trusted with their gifts. The chandelier machinery revs up to perform its task - stripping all of their powers away.

-Five knows it won’t end there - the powers will be turned against the Hargreeves Five. Their abilities will be harvested too. And the hands that they’ll all end up in will be military-minded and will seize control of the nation, ruling by fear.

-There’s an extensive fight scene here. One that, again, I have no idea how I would write. It’s something that involves a level of family teamwork that they would not have if the theatre program didn’t bring them so close together in the first place. So it’s pretty ironic and kinda sweet.

-We find out that Dave and Eudora are absolutely ride-or-die for their idiot boyfriends that they just found out have terrifying superpowers, and they each have a moment where they contribute to the takedown.

-Ben is summoned because he legally has to be. The Horror can do some serious damage to the machine, and he finds he’s unaffected by its drainage because he’s dead as hell.

-Vanya grabs a violin from the pit where the underscoring was being played and shreds away at it to channel her power.

-The fight has heavy parallels to the prologue scene, where everyone’s powers went berserk because Vanya saw a rat and freaked out. Except there’s obviously a lot more at stake and a lot more direction in it.

-All of that gets resolved, somehow. Any of their power that gets drained gets returned to them once they get the machine shut down. Luther effortlessly snaps the tape of evidence in half.

-Allison uses her last rumor of junior year to memory-wipe and send away the cameramen and the witnesses.

-Except Eudora and Dave, who are surprisingly chill about this and promise to keep it all secret.

-The gang has no idea how to explain all the damage to the authorities, but the Criminal Justice Duo knows how to detain the bad guys in the costume closet and highlight some evidence to draw the focus to the less-than-legal dealings they made to set up their plot in the first place.

-Corruption? In college administration?? Pssshhh noooooooo never.

-The story embedded in the rumor is that the chandelier overheated and combusted, so everyone ran out. The police will discover the alien tech and go from there.

-Still, the superpower squad realizes they should lay low. Play dumb if interviewed. Skip class for a couple days and stay far away from the theatre department.

-Diego is up on the catwalk - the walkway above the audience where they maneuver the spotlights - collecting his stuff. He hears some footsteps on the ladder and sees Eudora climbing up to meet him.

-Diego starts to say something snarky and casual and Eudora’s like “No. Shut up. Just. Please. Shut up.” and kisses him.

-After weeks of pretending not to care as much as they really did and a solid half hour of having no idea if the other would live or die, here they are, standing over the decimated theater, finally at ease in each other’s arms

Chapter Ten - “Curtain Call”

-And that’s… it. When the siblings start coming back to classes, no one comes after them for whatever happened.

-Needless to say, the rest of the run of Othello has been cancelled. All theatre classes will be moved online or converted to classroom formats until repairs can be made to the building. There’s a new interim headmaster and theatre department director.

-It’s going to take forever for them to fix the damage done to the theater, and even when they do, it doesn’t feel right to keep that as their home base. So, where to now? How are they gonna fill the rest of their electives?

-All of the fine arts buildings are stacked close together. Music major Vanya has an idea.

-Second semester, Diego takes beginning percussion. Luther joins the marching band (and far exceeds the athletic demands for it). Klaus picks guitar back up. Allison ventures into vocal jazz. Five is a natural at composition.

-Sharing practice rooms. Cramming for theory exams. The entire works. They’re music kids now!

-They’re thrilled when they find out that all of their respective ensembles will be featured in the spring concert. 

-But does the conductor of Vanya’s chamber orchestra seem a little… eccentric to you?

...

im a broken woman from this. god dammit.

[a-spectacle-in-the-morning]

“Right in Front of You” -- Rafael Barba

Because I’m in the mood for some sweet stuff here’s a date with Barba that doesn’t go as anticipated, incredible street food, and Barba being the grumpy gentleman that he is.

Notes: This is a *sort of* follow up for this fic (not a necessary read for this one!) since people had very kind things to say about it despite all the grammar errors. Not that this is in any way free of grammar errors. Is this a weird jump in the relationship from the last one? Perhaps. Are you suddenly and inexplicably more sardonic in this one? Mhm. Did I give myself the time or have the energy amidst all my school work to fix these discrepancies? No, not really. In other words: apologies in advance.

--

It takes you a while to decide what to wear when you go out, and that decision is only worsened by the fact that your nights are usually unpredictable as a professional bar hopper. It’s a science, really. The block you start on, the weather, the friends you’re with; all factors. Tonight, however, you know exactly what to wear.  

Mostly because Barba sent you a very detailed itinerary for the evening. Dinner at a ridiculously expensive restaurant, Broadway show at six thirty, and home by ten. You both have work tomorrow and that means an early bedtime. After sorting through your pile of button-ups and dress pants there was really only one option.

It’s a gamble of an outfit and could easily be over the top, but it’s the most expensive thing you own. And if you’re being honest with yourself you’ve been hoping for an opportunity to wear it.  

Despite how incredible you look on the outside you’re a complete bundle of nerves on the inside. By the time Barba rings the doorbell to your apartment you feel like you’re going to throw up. Who takes a raincheck on drinks and turns it into dinner and a show? The kind of man that waits outside your building in a three-piece suit with flowers, apparently.  

“Hey,” you say, nodding your head towards his suit. “You look nice.”

“That was going to be my line,” he replies, standing a bit stiffly. He holds the flowers out for you to take.

“Thank you, sir.” You take the bouquet from him and press it up to your nose. “I’m a little afraid to ask how you knew that I like dahlias more than roses.”

Barba reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck as he says, “You just seem like a dahlia kind of person.”

“What? A little spiky but with beautiful and deep coloring?” you joke.

“Something like that,” he smiles and relaxes a bit.

“I’m gonna run these up and put them in a vase. Do we have enough time?”

“You’ve got five minutes,” he says, fiddling with his watch like he’s going to set a timer.

“I’ll be back in four,” you nearly yell over your shoulder as you rush back up to your building. “I ran cross country in high school!”

You’re back in seven and out of breath, but Rafael wasn’t really counting. He just grins when you return and the two of you begin the walk to the restaurant. When you get about a block away you start to worry.

“Is that a line for the place we’re going?”

“Probably, but I made a reservation weeks ago.”

So that’s why this date was so delayed.

When you get indoors Rafael goes up to the hostess and confidently says, “I have a reservation for two under Barba.”

The woman scrolls through her tablet and shakes her head. “Sorry, nothing under that name.”

Barba presses his brows together. “Oh, well, they should have been made around two weeks ago.”

She shakes her head again. “Sorry, sir. I don’t see anything here.”

He nods curtly and thanks her, turns, and leads you back outside by the small of your back. Once you’re on the sidewalk again he starts to rub at his right temple.

“I’m sorry. I thought I made the reservation. Damn it...”

He starts to mumble something about Carisi and intrusions so you grab both of his hands and squeeze.

“Don’t worry about it. It happens to everyone.”

When he nods his head but doesn’t respond you add, “That was nice of you not to badger the hostess. Harvard douchebags have a tendency to do that when things don’t go their way.”

He shakes his head at your quip. “I’ve worked plenty of part time jobs. I know not to be an asshole when someone doesn’t deserve it.”

“But you were an asshole to me the first time we met,” you shoot back.

“Exactly.”

“Hey! I was perfectly-”

“I know, I know. There's another place I’m thinking of, but it’s in the Bronx. We’ll have to take a cab.”

“Lead the way.”

In under half an hour you are once again following Barba’s lead as he swiftly presses through the streets. He walks like everyone you pass is trying to get in his way even though the foot traffic isn’t particularly bad tonight. The smell of garlic and spices suddenly overwhelms you and your stomach grumbles.

“I hope that smell is coming from wherever we’re going and I hope it’s close,” you whine a bit exaggeratedly.

He laughs. You’ve never heard Barba laugh enthusiastically. It’s kind of beautiful. “Right in front of you.” He points to a food cart across the street.  

La Kubanita, you read. There’s a short line, but nothing like the one from earlier.  

“How do you know about this place?” you ask, making some conversation as you wait.

“I grew up a few blocks from here. My mom would give me some money every once in a while and I would bring her back tamales.”

You give Barba a sideways glance. “I didn’t know you grew up in the Bronx.”

“Well, that’s because I didn’t tell you,” Barba says sardonically. “And nobody ever asks.”

“Rafa!”

Rafa?

“Dios mío,” Rafael mutters. “Cómo estás, Isabel?”

You look up a bit to the window of the truck to find an older woman absolutely beaming at Barba.

“Tú sabes que estoy bien. Quién es?” she asks, pointing in your direction. “Por fin conseguiste una cita?”

“Stop it Isa,” Rafael lightly scolds. “This is my coworker.”

“Alright,” she relents with a grin. “You want the usual?”

“Por favor,” Rafael responds.

You’re handed a couple take out boxes of warm food within minutes and you thank Isabel with a smile. You find a picnic table to sit at nearby and open the food to find three steaming hot and perfectly wrapped tamales.

As he opens his own box Barba says, “I’m not a huge fan of street food-”

“Shocking.”

Barba squints at you then continues, “But, I love this cart. I even brought some of their arroz con pollo home to my abuela once and she gave it her stamp of approval.”

“Alright, that is really high praise. I don’t think my grandma has approved of anything I have ever cooked or bought her. Or really anything I’ve ever done. You should have seen her face when I told her I wanted to work in law enforc-”

“We can unpack that later,” Barba interrupts, “but right now you’re going to stop thinking about your problems and try that tamale in front of you.”

You throw him a look, but pick up your fork and dig in. It is, undoubtedly, the best tamale you’ve ever had.  

“You win this round, Barba,” you concede between bites.

He looks up from his food. “I wasn’t aware this was a competition.”

“It’s always a game with you.”

“Is it?”

You pause, trying to decide if you want to maintain your nonchalance or admit something a little more personal. Fuck it.

“You’re tough to keep up with sometimes. Everything is in order. No nonsense. You’re effortlessly and brutally sarcastic- which is very sexy, by the way. Every conversation is a mini battle. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. It’s just new. I’m not used to guys like you.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer, then busy yourself with unwrapping your second tamale.  

“Very sexy, hm?”

You snap your eyes back up to him to catch his shit-eating grin. “Really? That’s what you picked out of that?”

His smile somehow grows, and you can’t help the one spreading on your own face.  

“You should know after today that I don’t have it all put together,” he says, going back to his meal.

You gently kick one of his feet under the table. “Yeah, I finally have some proof that you’re human.”

“Aside from the fact that I’m fueled entirely by coffee like the rest of you?”

“Yes,” you nod in agreement. “Aside from the coffee.”

The two of you finish your meal while making casual conversation. When Rafael returns from throwing the garbage out he stops to look at his watch.

“It’ll take us about 30 minutes in this traffic to get back to Manhattan. We should probably head out. Are you ready to go?”

“Damn. I was just starting to get comfortable being totally, inappropriately overdressed. Maybe we should just skip the show.”

Barba rolls his eyes but holds out his arm for you to take. “I’ll leave you here if that’s what you want. I’m not missing Anastasia.”

You laugh, taking his arm and walking out towards the street to hail a taxi. As you wait you notice the sun is beginning to set and is casting the loveliest shade of yellow over everything. You catch Barba looking at you with an entirely contented expression and a slight smile ghosting his lips.  

That look alone is better than all the whiskey in the world.  

--

Here’s the thing folks, I haven’t written anything in Spanish in probably three or more years. I know there have got to be mistakes. I apologize. Blame my senior year Spanish teacher for making us watch soap operas more often than actually teaching us anything. And the name of the food cart is borrowed from a real Cuban food cart that I have never been to. I wasn’t creative enough to think of my own.  

Hopefully this was a decent follow up for “Woeful Wins and Whiskey”. I’m trying to get more confident with writing Barba. Trying being the key word. I’m always happy to read feedback, comments, and criticisms. And if anyone wants a third part let me know! I’m thinking more shenanigans with the SVU, maybe some struggles with defining the relationship..... 

[neighborhood-merc]

It is I, and I am back with more a new list of fanfics for this wonderful ship called SpideyPool. 

Listen, I don’t know why I’m doing this as well (maybe because I fuckin love these boys and want to share my fave fanfics of their ship to everyone...or whatever) but here we are. [ Here are Part 1, 3 btw! ]  

Same shit applies:

The themes of the stories on this list varies, I’m either into something heart-warming, fluffy, domestic that sort of stuff or into some really really heavy and dark messed up ones. It always depends on the mood am I right? *wink wink*

It’s always gonna be smutty though lol

As long as it’s tastefully written, whatever kinky shit, I can be into it, I don’t judge the writer. With that being said if I add something straight up messed up here now/or in the future, don’t judge too, just mind the tags of the fic, for your own discretion if anything.

this list should be Wade Wilson/Peter Parker - Spiderman/Deadpool pairing only. I kinda like my babies greedy/possessive for/of each other.

I don’t care who tops or bottoms.  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Summaries are taken directly from the fanfic’s summary.

Read the tags first!

Wolves [ Update: Sadly, the fic has been deleted :( ] (This is WIP, but I swear it’s so fucking good you should read it. It’s a Prison AU, and the writing is sublime)  Peter is falsely accused and sent to jail, where he meets the violent ex-mercenary, Wade.

Don't Forget To Check Your Calendar! Peter REALLY should remember to check his calendar or Peter forgets that he has a heat coming up, and in doing so causes several sticky situations to occur (thank god for Tony's NDA's).

Communication Error “Have you seriously been doing this bit for a year now?” “Bit… what bit?” Wade looked at him, confused. “This,” Peter waved his hand, “the 'we’re dating' bit.” There was a pause, and then suddenly, it was like Wade’s whole body imploded. His shoulders sunk and his head dropped and suddenly Peter knew he’d made a huge mistake. “Hahaha, yeah, the dating bit.” He held up the wine. “One year of one really bad, horrible joke.”

Night Off Wade is taking the night off when a certain Spider calls for help.

The Great Florist, Wade Wilson (this ones got a Sequel) Deadpool has found the apartment belonging to Spiderman. Or Peter Parker, if the name on the door is anything to go by. Now some people might use this information of said secret identity wrongly. Normally Wade would have been one of them. But this is different. This is Spider-Parker, I-mean, Peter-man, I-mean, fuck. Now Deadpool just have to figure out exactly what he is gonna do with this information. Which is quite simple really. He's going to leave Spidey flowers and win his heart this way or the one, where Deadpool spams Spiderman with flowers, and Spiderman has no idea what's going on

Tale As Old As Time, Song As Old As Rhyme (This belongs to the series  “A Spider in the Pool”) It is absolutely fucking good, I recommend you read them. Do read the warnings though yeah?) Peter Parker gradually falls for Wade's dubious charms. They have a lot of hang ups and kinks to negotiate, but with sex this hot, Peter can't help wanting more. Erotica with significant plot and relationship development.

Help Me, Peter Parker, You’re My Only Hope! “I need your help,” Wade admitted. “And why would I help you?” Peter asked with an amused chuckle. “Because, um, I asked you? Isn’t it what you do? Help people who ask for it?”

Damage Peter Parker finds himself in a sticky situation and who should show up to rescue him but the infamous Deadpool? Now Peter feels indebted to the mercenary... And maybe weirdly charmed by him.

I'm Serious Wade wants Peter to top. But he really, really doesn't know how to ask.

Shake it out (this series is a good boi)

Sick Days  "Wade." "Mr. Rogers." They stared at each other, one calm and silent in his fury while the other looked like a deer about to be pummeled by an eighteen-wheeler. "I'm sure you have a reason for being in my son's bed without a shirt on?"

Love Me Dead Peter tries to tell Wade his feelings. It's kind of a train-wreck.

Disgusting -Spideypool (5+1) This is a Wade Centric fic containing topics of mental health struggles and self image. Nothing too graphic but still.

Flip the Safety They both get a little carried away when they fight, but this time Wade grins over his gun and the worst part is that Peter knows he doesn’t plan on shooting him.

Do It Yourself “I bet you’re flexible enough to suck your own dick.” Wade plants that thought in Peter's head and he can't help where curiosity leads him.

Looking for a savior in these dirty streets  (WADE YOU LITTLE SHIT LOL) what's your opinion on eating ass? just looking for a yes or noThat's the text Peter gets when he's in a meeting with Anna Maria, trying his hardest to get back to running a company a few months after an unexpected trip to the underworld.

Act your age (not your shoe size) “Wanna go grab some grub? I have it on good authority there's some qual-a-tee Mexican around here.”Peter’s mouth drops open. “Uh, you always invite guys you just met out for lunch?” Deadpool laughs and leans forward. The words are muffled when he says, “Only the ones I meet in movie theaters.”

That's the power of love (cute af fic) “Yeah, so, about that. Nice to meet ya, I’m Wade Wilson but def not your Wade Wilson although I gotta say, I’m jealous of the asshole.”

Baby, i’d victoria your secret anytime (another good boy) Peter’s known Wade for a while now, so he can maybe see how this makes sense -- like, maybe Wade has a thing about going commando and just happened to have an old girlfriend’s panties lying around, one thing led to another…but…“And the bra?” Peter croaks.

It's The Alcohol Talking It wasn't every day that Wade came across a drunk-off-his-ass Spider-man.

Marco (this is fuckin’ hurt ok???) Spidey was fine. Everything was going to be fine.

Took no time with the fall (Part One of “wasn’t looking for this” series) When the Avengers had briefed him on Deadpool, they played up the Kills People for Money and Has No Real Morals angle and left out the Is Pretty Damn Funny and Charming in a Weird, Terrifying Sort of Way part.Or, five times they meet on rooftops plus one time they take it to the streets*

Now you're in my way (Part Two of “wasn’t looking for this” series) Wade's been with the Avengers for four months. The two of them have been together for five.Their relationship consists of taco-based dates, a ton of sex, and, well, Avenging.

The Stalking of Wade Wilson "It’s around this point that a niggling thread of thought worms its way into his head when he’s not paying attention, one that gently suggests that Wade might be slightly less of a bad guy than Peter previously thought."

Seeing the real you (it's not what I imagined) "The fuck,“ Deadpool said slowly. He was staring at him in a way that made Peter feel decidedly uncomfortable, and this was saying something, considering Deadpool had a habit of leering at him at the most inappropriate times. "Are you kidding me?" he eventually gasped. "How OLD are you? Twelve?“

I'll Always Protect You Anonymous said: If anyone is up for it I have a rescue prompt idea where Peter (he is not in his spiderman suit) is taken as a hostage with a gun to the head along with a few other civilians. Peter is warning the criminals to let everyone go otherwise his fiance,Wade, will kill them all. They mock him and beat him up. Then a furious Deadpool saves Peter by the most badass way possible. Also I would love if someone write how unnervingly skilled Wade is as a mercenary. Please? Anyone?

Your ass is mine  Spidey takes a toilet break while on patrol. He wasn't expecting Wade to join him.

When I'm Inside You Spiders are hard to catch. When Deadpool manages to pin one down on an NYC rooftop, he thinks he deserves a prize.

Daddy It had started as a joke, which was conveniently how most of these things always happened.

Any Means Necessary Anonymous said: Abo au where Peter is a young mutant who both displayed his heat early before his adolscent stage and spidey powers that went out of haywire the moment his heat started, leaving him to thrash around the city, running away from his family. Wade Wilson, an alpha, who happens to be a professional mercenary for hire, is now paid to catch this mutant, and try and calm him down by “any means necessary” because Peter, even as an omega is swrecking havoc amongst the city. [ 1/2 ] Of course, Wade takes those words seriously, and decides to just do that solution by first, capturing and drugging the young omega, and then, placing him in what could be described as a special and adjustable breeding stand in Wade’s attempts to calm Peter down. [ 2/2 ]

One Fear (Two Fear), Red Rear (Pink Rear) (Note: Now this is where “read the tags first” is applicable af. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you dude) Anonymous said: Hello, another one for you: Deadpool adopts MCU Spidey and treats him like his actual child. That is until Peter starts growing up more and Wade can't help but feel attracted to him. At around age 15, Peter starts actively trying to seduce Wade. Wade resists, but in the end gives in. My kingdom for hardcore daddy kink, Sub!Peter, Wade calling him a good boy/baby boy. 

Wo Rauch Ist (this fic is fucking gold) "Someone needs to write a ‘the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear’ AU" 

[luulapants]

Hale Royal Family AU - Part 5

Based on @shey-elizabeth​‘s post:

”Me reading the Prince Harry-Meghan Markel royal family drama:

Wait… I think I read this fic already. (Starts scrolling through my AO3 history)

#random #royalty au #someone write me a steter fic #reading the news before coffee”

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

September 2019

“Lady Danu’s is the largest adoption service for non-human children in the state. Which, as you can see, isn’t saying much,” Dot, the facility director, explained. She made a sweeping motion with her hand to indicate the relatively petite size of the facility. It was a large estate house, but certainly not large enough to hold more than a couple dozen children at a time. “Placements, of course, can be tricky for our kind, but we place exclusively with non-human or mixed families, and we have nearly unheard of retention rates for family placement.”

As they made their way through the front hall, Peter peeked into an empty room, which looked to be some sort of study room. There was a chalkboard on one wall, bookshelves on the opposite. The tables and chairs in the middle had bits of paint and marker stains.

Peter thought about all of the obscenely expensive furniture in their home and found himself horrified almost to the point of delight at the thought of little finger paint hand prints marring the wood.

Stiles squeezed his hand as he tugged him along to keep up. “What age ranges do you have?” he asked.

“We have a couple of teenagers at the moment, brother and sister, but that’s not typical,” Dot answered. She started up the wide wooden staircase. Teenage wolves would typically stay with their packs if any remained. Either they weren’t wolves or they had lost absolutely everyone. “They’ve taken over part of the basement so they can have their own space.”

Peter found himself wanting to ask about the teenagers, see if they needed some help. Maybe he could make arrangements for them. But that wasn’t what they were here for. This was the compromise: instead of surrogacy, they could adopt, so long as it was a werewolf baby.

“Eight through twelve are on that end of the hall,” Dot said, pointing toward a large set of French doors. “Four through eight next to them. Babies and toddlers have the largest space, over here.”

Lady Danu’s was partly funded by the druid’s council, Talia had explained as she gave him the pamphlet for the facility, but the majority of their funding came directly from the royal family. Their doors would be open to Peter and Stiles. There would be no wait list, no agony of false hope. One visit, and they could walk out with a bundle of joy that would satisfy both the family and the press.

Well, she hadn’t said it like that, but she may as well have.

----

She had brought up the subject over brunch, just the two of them. Peter had known something unpleasant would come up – the last time they’d had brunch, just the two of them, had been after Stiles’s infamous leather rant.

“I heard you and Stiles have decided not to pursue surrogacy,” Talia had said over the soft scrape of her knife against porcelain. She lifted a bit of egg to her lips, staring him down while she chewed.

Peter nodded, resigned to let this argument happen. He reached for his wolfsbane mimosa, knowing he would need at least a bit of a buzz to get through. “We discussed it and decided it wasn’t for us,” he explained. “It doesn’t seem right, going to all of that trouble and expense to bring a child into the world when there are children already here, needing homes.”

“Adoption, then?”

“That’s the idea.”

She sighed, and Peter felt a vein in his temple throb in irritation.

“I don’t see why it should matter to you or anyone else,” he snapped.

Talia set her fork down and fixed him with a tired expression. “Of course it matters, Peter. Our bloodline -”

Peter barked a laugh. “Our bloodline? Dear sister, I don’t know if you’ve gotten a good look at our family tree lately, but it’s practically overgrown. I’ve lost track of how many nieces and nephews I have these days.”

“You’ll adopt a werewolf, then?” she pressed.

Then it was Peter’s turn to set down his fork, letting it slam noisily against the table. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but my husband is a human. We may very well adopt a human.”

“Peter,” she practically growled.

He raised his voice, couldn’t help it. “How are you talking to me like I’m being unreasonable when you’ve practically ordered me, as my alpha, to acquire a baby by any means necessary?”

Talia, stubbornly, infuriatingly, kept her voice calm, though condescending. “I know you’ve made it your personal brand to challenge tradition at every turn. And might I remind you, I have been extremely accommodating to it thus far -”

Peter flashed his eyes at her. “Oh, yes,” he shouted, “you didn’t excommunicate me from the family for marrying a man! Have they put you up for sainthood yet, Your Majesty?”

She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground as her eyes flared bright red.

As he felt himself involuntarily cower in response, Peter felt his rage boil down into a quiet resentment. Talia was his alpha and his monarch, but she was supposed to be his sister first. That she would pull this sort of tactic on him stung in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. “Really?” he asked, voice softer than he wanted it to be. “Over how Stiles and I start a family? That’s what you pull rank for?”

Talia softened, her eyes fading back to human. A servant hurried in and righted her chair for her. She sat. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It should just be about you and Stiles – I know that – but it’s not. This world we live in, our position is more tentative than it seems. Peter, our traditions are more than media grabs and money. Humans fear us, instinctively. We are predators. We are stronger than them. We’re a threat.” Her words came gently. Practiced, but honest. “By all logical strategy, they should hunt us, eradicate us, as they did for centuries.”

“Like they still do in many parts of the world,” Peter conceded.

“Exactly.” She offered a weak smile. “And do you know why they don’t, here in this country?” He did, but ducked his head, signaling for her to continue. “Because our structure of monarchy gives us an appearance of structure, of stability. It makes our kind seem integrated and like less of a threat. We let them see into every corner of our lives, poke and prod and evaluate. We show them that we have nothing to hide, and they transfer that sense of trust to every member of our species.”

Peter had received lectures of similar flavor from their parents, but they hadn’t been so brutally honest. He lifted his eyes to meet Talia’s. “And you think that the species of mine and Stiles’s child will make so much difference to that balance?”

“No,” Talia admitted. She reached for her coffee. “But a member of the royal family that challenges our traditions at every turn? That might.”

----

So he and Stiles found themselves in the babies and toddlers wing of Lady Danu’s Home for Children. A caretaker sat in a rocking chair in the corner, bottle feeding an infant. Another stood by the cribs, a baby in each arm, rocking and humming. It felt strange to Peter – no, downright bizarre – to come here and pick out a baby like one picked out a pair of shoes at a clothing store.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss for a little while,” Dot said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ll be just down the hall – anyone here can come fetch me for you.”

Once she was out of the room, Stiles stepped in front of Peter with a slightly panicked expression. “I have no idea how to do this,” he whispered.

“Do I look like I know?”

“Are we just supposed to… pick one? It feels weird.”

One of the caretakers glanced up at them, clearly listening in, and Peter huffed a sigh, glancing around the room. “Let’s just… try to settle in for a few minutes?”

This wing of the home was rather large. They had come into the section for the youngest babies. Another set of doors lead through to a play room for the toddlers where a handful of drooling, chubby little were-tots sat around a kitchen play set, gnawing at plastic fake fruit and miming cooking with a sauce pan.

Peter wandered over to them, giving a wave. One little boy stared up at him with wide eyes, most of his own fist crammed into his mouth. It was refreshing, at least, to not be greeted with a bow.

He glanced around to see where Stiles had ended up and found him sitting on a play mat where an older girl with poorly brushed hair sat with a baby girl, maybe a year old, propped up on a pillow. The older one wore overalls and had a toy dinosaur in her hand. “Who?” she asked Stiles, a bit rudely.

“I’m Stiles. Is it okay if I sit with you?” Stiles had already sat down, but seemed to be second-guessing it under the girl’s intense scrutiny. When she didn’t answer, Stiles asked, “What’s your name?”

She turned back to the baby, ignoring Stiles. “So T-Rex can eat this guy,” she explained to the baby, holding up a smaller dinosaur toy, “but dog is too big.” Peter’s eyes settled on a big stuffed dog next to her and smiled.

“That’s Malia.”

Peter jumped a little, not having noticed the caretaker coming up behind him. He turned and smiled at her. “Isn’t she a little old to be in here?”

“She’s five,” the woman agreed, “but she’s been having some trouble fitting in with the kids in her age group. She’s great with the babies, though.”

“Rawr! I am hungry!” Malia said, rocking the T-Rex back and forth.

Stiles stretched and grabbed another toy off the floor and offered it up. “Can he eat this?”

Malia stared at him suspiciously for a moment, then broke into a bright smile. “Yeah!” She snatched the toy out of his hand and fed it to the tyrannosaurus with delighted violence.

Laughing softly, Peter watched as she slowly accepted Stiles into her game. “How long has she been here?”

“A couple of months.” The caretaker hesitated. “She’s not a wolf,” she told him. “She’s a were-coyote. There were some… safety concerns. With the mother. She was removed from her custody.”

The mother-child dynamic for coyotes was a troubled one, Peter knew. Their powers were passed down during pregnancy. He frowned. “Thank you for explaining,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Tracy. And I know who you are, of course.”

Peter ducked his head and smiled. “Of course.”

He made his way over to Stiles, watching the way his face lit up as Malia’s game devolved into a toy massacre. The baby seemed just as fascinated with her, taking toys as Malia handed them to her, then sucking on them.

Talia would think this was just more of his defiance, more of his stubborn desire to fight tradition. But maybe this could be a compromise on a compromise. Not a baby, no, but young enough. Not a werewolf, no, but not human.

Peter crouched besides Stiles and nudged his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Stiles glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Really?” He glanced at Malia, then back to Peter. “She’s not...” Not a baby, he meant. He didn’t even know about her being a were-coyote.

“I don’t care,” Peter assured him.

Stiles reached over and brushed his fingers against the nape of Peter’s neck, scenting him. He bit his lip, then turned back to the Malia. “This is my husband Peter,” he told her. “Can he play, too?”

Peter waved at her. “Hi, Malia.”

Malia sniffed at him very obviously, her little nose scrunching as she did so. “You have to bring a food for T-Rex,” she told him, her brow furrowing and eyes flashing blue. He knew already that she would be an absolute terror. Forget finger paint on the nice furniture – she would rip it to shreds.

“Fair enough,” he agreed.

----

In one of her less thoughtful attempts at reassuring Peter and Stiles about fatherhood, Laura had told them, “You know, a lot of what people talk about when they talk about being ‘ready’ for parenthood, it just doesn’t apply in our world.”

They had been playing bocce in Laura’s garden, Marco lining up his bowl.

Stiles huffed a laugh. “Why, because we don’t have a choice?”

“No, you absolutely have a choice,” Laura said, and Peter had wondered if she really believed it. “But a lot of the things new parents struggle with – the late nights, the feedings, the expense – we don’t have to worry about that. You would have a wet nurse and a couple of nannies. You already have staff for meals and laundry.”

Peter knew she didn’t mean it to sound as callous as she did. As much as she had inherited her mother’s leadership skills, her poise and ferocity, she had inherited that emotionally tone-deaf streak as well.

Stiles had watched Marco bowl his shot and shoved his hands in his pockets. “That doesn’t sound much like parenting to me,” he had admitted.

A few short months later found Stiles in their daughter’s room, calling for their morning nanny, yelling, “Oh my god, where is Hayden?” while Malia wailed like an air raid siren, shrill and with a truly spectacular lung span.

Peter rushed down the hall to find Stiles kneeling in front of their daughter, frantically trying to extricate a hair brush from the back of her head while she writhed and screamed.

“Malia, please hold still!” he pleaded. “Pulling is just going to  make it hurt more!”

“HURTS!” she shrieked.

“I know, I know, I just -”

“We gave Hayden the day off, remember?” Peter knelt down on the other side of Malia. He reached for her and, though she flinched back at first, managed to press his fingers to her cheek. One tiny, barely-there tendril of black crept up his fingertip. “Now, Malia, that barely hurts at all,” Peter chided. “What are you throwing a fuss about?”

She sobbed loudly and thrashed away from them both. Stiles finally gave up and let go, letting her run away with the hairbrush dangling from the back of her head. Malia threw herself onto her bed to sob into her arms like a distressed Jane Austin heroin.

Stiles held his hands out helplessly, looking to Peter for confirmation that, yes, this was the most absurd show of melodrama this house had ever seen. It was saying something, seeing as Stiles lived there.

They both got up and approached the bed. Peter sat on the edge, not reaching for her just yet, since she was still heaving angry sobs against her comforter. “Malia, sweetheart,” he cooed. “You’ve gotten yourself all worked up. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

It took a moment, but she sucked in one long, shuddering breath. Peter smiled and reached over to rub a hand over her back. Instead of settling, though, she fucking growled at him.

“Malia,” Stiles started to chide, because they had talked about the growling.

But then her whole body started to tremble uncontrollably. In a blink, Peter found a coyote pup curled up on the bed where his daughter had been, her dress pooled around her. The hairbrush, liberated for lack of hair, fell off to the side.

Peter looked up at Stiles and smirked, shaking his head. She did have quite the flair for the dramatic. “That bad, hm?” he asked, teasing a little.

She growled again.

They were supposed to take her to Talia’s today. His sister had come over to meet Malia a few days after she moved in, but the poor girl had still been reeling from the change, too shy, and they let her retreat up to her room to play before more than a few minutes had passed.

Today, she would finally be meeting the rest of the family.

Peter slid down the zip on the back of the dress, and Malia immediately began to wriggle free of it. Her little dress shoes had dropped to the floor at the edge of the bed. He had to help tug her hind legs free of the tights, though. “Alright, come on, then,” he said, scooping her up off the bed. She growled again and he pressed a finger to the top of her nose. “None of that, now.”

Her eyes shone blue at him, but she settled. Peter passed her off to Stiles, who carefully folded her tail down to hold her against his chest with her front paws curled over his shoulder. “You know, you’re much more snuggly like this,” Stiles commented. “We’ll just have to work on human cuddles, okay?”

“What are the chances we convince her to shift back before we have to leave?” Peter asked doubtfully.

Stiles shook his head. “Hey, if anyone can appreciate a full shift, it’s Talia, right?”

----

“Princess Malia Bit The Queen!”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. The tablet was balanced on his knees. Beneath the headline, a photo of Malia waving at the camera. Beside it, a stock photo of a coyote. A real coyote. An animal.

“Who leaked this?” he growled.

Stiles shifted closer to him on the bed, nudging their shoulders together. “Come on, Peter. She’s five – who’s actually going to care? It’s a little funny, isn’t it?”

“It’s not,” Peter gritted out. His mind flashed back to the talk Talia had given him before they went to the children’s home, about the games of public perception they were playing. He sighed and looked over at Stiles. “Malia’s species is nearly extinct outside of Mexico, and they’re still hunted like animals in parts of Mexico. Most humans in the US and Canada have never met a were-coyote.” He tapped the screen. “This is the impression they’ll form of them. That they’re wild, violent, dangerous. Uncivilized. They’ll take this one little girl, and they’ll extrapolate it to every were-coyote. Or they’ll say that clearly she was abused – that were-coyotes must be unfit parents.”

Horror overtook Stiles’s expression, his eyes moving back to the article as if seeing it for the first time. “Fuck. They can’t – she’s a little kid. They can’t put that on her.”

“They will.” Peter rubbed at the back of his neck. He felt wrung-out. It was only ten o’clock. He and Stiles had been getting to bed earlier, so they would have time to start their day before Malia woke up. “God, what were we thinking?” he muttered.

Stiles slipped his hand up the back of Peter’s neck, fingers sliding through the curls on the back of his head to scratch his scalp. “We had no way of knowing it would get leaked,” he reassured. “It happened in Talia’s house, for god’s sake.”

“Not that,” Peter sighed, leaning into the touch. “I mean, what were we thinking, bringing a child into this life at all?”

The scratches stopped. “Peter,” Stiles breathed. “You’re not saying...”

Oh, god. Peter pulled away so he could look Stiles in the eye, wanting to be very clear on this. “No,” he said firmly. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t even think about...” He couldn’t say it, couldn’t say, returning her, like Malia was an ill-fitting jacket and not their family.

“Okay, good,” Stiles said, still looking panicked by the idea.

“But I still wonder,” Peter explained, “what gave us the right, you know? To put her in all of this mess? She never asked for any of this. She never asked to grow up endlessly scrutinized by these vultures.”

Stiles’s expression softened. He reached out and cupped Peter’s cheek. “Neither did you.”

“It’s different,” Peter insisted.

“Why, because you’re Hale blood?” Stiles challenged, though his tone stayed gentle. “Because you’re over it? You’re clearly not.”

His husband’s ability to call him on his bullshit was one of the reasons Peter had fallen in love with him. It was also deeply, deeply annoying. “I just...” He closed his eyes, trying to get his anxieties into some form coherent enough to be voiced. He settled on: “I don’t want her to grow up resenting me for bringing her into this world.”

“Don’t you mean ‘resenting us’?” Stiles cocked his head to the side.

“I brought you into it, too.”

Stiles glared at him. “Peter Hale,” he scolded.

“I know, I know, you chose this,” Peter agreed.

“And, again, I’m the only one in this household that did,” Stiles reminded him. With a sigh, Stiles caught him around the shoulders and reeled him in until Peter was snuggled against his side, head on Stiles’s shoulder. He was quiet a moment before he asked, “Did you resent your parents?”

Peter didn’t talk much about them, and Stiles respected that, understood that Peter had never felt close with them, that they hadn’t been warm people. The press brought them up sometimes, usually around the anniversary of the accident. A helicopter crash in the Rockies. Conspiracy theories had flown about for months, most insisting that militant anti-were hunters had shot the helicopter down. When they finally found the black box, it revealed nothing but a simple engine malfunction.

Peter had been just shy of his thirteenth birthday. He remembered how numb he felt, walking down the street in the funeral procession with a stiff expression as the public wailed in mourning around him. He remembered thinking that these people, these strangers, had been allowed more emotional closeness with his parents than he had. They had owned his parents in a way Peter had never been allowed.

“I did,” Peter admitted quietly. “Sometimes I think I still do.”

Stiles pressed two fingers under his chin to tip his head up, and kissed his lips, soft. “We’ll protect her, okay?” he said. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make sure it isn’t so bad for her.”

Letting out a breath, Peter leaned up and kissed him again, then again until he was pressed flat on his back on the bed. Hovering over him, Peter took in the soft flush on Stiles’s cheeks, the sweet adoration in his eyes, the gentle curve of his mouth. “I love you,” he murmured. “More than I can ever say.”

[sevenpeaches]

About Me Tag

Tagged by the ahga-wife @riceeater22 💜

The rules are:

Tag the person who tagged you

Answer the questions.

Tag 10 people

How tall are you?

5′7 (170 cm)

What color and style is your hair?

Brown with natural highlights that look... copper-ish? in the sun. I dunno, boring old brown. Right now, it’s about shoulder length and messy wavy unless I straighten it.

What color are your eyes?

Hazel?

Do you wear glasses?

Rarely. I wear contacts primarily and only wear my glasses if I’m being lazy and don’t want to put contacts in. I need new glasses tbh, the ones I have are from middle school and look quite dumb on me.

Do you wear braces?

No, my bottom row of teeth could use them though

What is your fashion style?

Ah, how to answer this.. Most of what I currently wear doesn’t reflect my actual style, because I’m too broke to afford what I want (rip). My fashion style depends on the day/my mood. It ranges from cutesy/girly, to athletic wear, rocker chick vibe, chic and preppy, and straight up comfortable hobo. So I suppose my fashion sense is versatile

Full name?

Mina Peaches, Princess of Contradictions, Mother of Cats, Breaker of Hearts, etc etc I’m not giving my full name.

When were you born?

February 24th, 1995

Where are you from and where do you live now?

The US -- New England (any got7 fans around me? No one likes kpop here, come be my friend)

What school do you go to?

I don’t anymore~ all graduated

What kind of student are you?

The one that never shows up to class, yet aces it. Don’t hate me, I put a lot more stress on myself than necessary this way. I procrastinate too much, but absolutely can’t stand not doing well in school. So, I study last minute, write papers last minute, stay up all night the night before something is due. And then I’m all Squidward meme of him looking like hell handing in his work. I used to be the student that wouldn’t study at all, but would still get straight A’s -- until I started going to my last Uni, where classes were actually difficult and I needed to learn how to study properly asap.

Do you like school?

I love learning new things, but I don’t really like the way our education system goes about teaching us. They take out all of the curiosity and fun and just make it so stressful and expensive.

Favorite subject?

Hmm... science and english

Favorite TV show?

Ah so many? Game of Thrones, Grey’s Anatomy, Naruto, Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok-joo, Dream Knight (had to), Real Got7, Real Thai, literally any show with Got7 or Got7 members in it (Mafia, He is Psychometric), The 100, and many more I can’t think of right now...

Favourite movie?

Just one? Since I can never pick favorites, here’s another list. Almost any Disney movie (specifically The Lion King, Mulan, The Aristocats, Atlantis, so much more). Your Name, The Princess Bride, The Money Pit, LOTR series and The Hobbit, Harry Potter movies, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, and more

Favorite books?

Let’s see... Honestly I read the hell out of the Warrior cats series when I was younger, judge me all you want -- I love that universe. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini, Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls was the first book to break my little heart, Winterdance by Gary Paulsen, The Promise of Stardust by Priscille Sibley, Night World series by L.J. Smith, Halo by Alexandra Adornetto. A lot of young adult romance books from middle and highschool as well.

Favorite pastime?

Anything pertaining to Got7 (reading fics, watching content, writing fics, editing pics, gushing about them with others, loving them at all times), watching youtubers like Markiplier and Jacksepticeye. Reading, writing, video games sometimes, finding pretty places to explore in nature

Do you have any regrets?

I regret allowing others take advantage of me and my kindness, and of not putting myself first from the beginning. I regret some of my choices on who I let into my life.

Dream job?

A writer who lives somewhere surrounded by nature, forest or sea idk. Maybe a travel writer. I feel like I would’ve made a good youtuber or streamer, if I had started earlier, like right from the beginning of youtube with all the big name gamers.

Would you like to get married?

If it’s with the right person

Would you like to have kids?

Again, if it’s with the right person

How many?

2? Or maybe just cats. In which case, I’m not limiting how many

Do you like shopping?

Yes, but I’d like it more if I had money~

What countries have you visited?

I’ve never been out of my country. Help, I want to travel so bad

Scariest nightmare you have ever had?

Hm, I’ve had plenty of freaky ones... the most recent I can think of -- It was nighttime and I was in an unfamiliar house. The feeling of dread, tension, and terror was suffocating. I was hiding from... something. Some.. beast, was stalking me. It was like a weird hybrid of a werewolf, one of those deer skull creatures, and a human of some sort. And it was huge. I was sneaking around the house as quiet as I could, but since I didn’t know the house well... I turned a corner, and there it was. Thank goodness I can sometimes take control and lucid dream/wake myself up, because it was leaping for me and my subconscious was like NOPE and woke me tf up.

One that I had when I was a kid stuck with me forever. I was at a birthday party at this old mansion. There were so many kids there, my parents were there too, along with the parents of some of the other kids. We were all playing games and enjoying ourselves, and then we were gathered together while my dad brought the cake out. When I looked at the cake, I realized it was actually the head of some monster. I stepped back in shock, but as I looked around, I noticed that no one was fazed by this. Everyone was acting like it was a normal cake, like they couldn’t see what it really was. The  moment my dad started to slice the ‘cake’ I had to get out of there.

So I started running through the halls, trying to find a way out. It became dark and impossible to know where I was. I rounded a corner and saw the silhouette of a woman. Her back was to me. I started to ask if she could help me, but as the words were leaving my mouth, she slowly turned around and severed her own head off. Her head bounced to my feet, eyes stuck open. Blood was spurting out of both her head and the neck of the body that was still standing for a moment too long before crashing to the floor, covering my poor traumatized ass in so much blood. I don’t remember after that, I think I woke up.

Since I’m already on a rant, I’ll just finish with saying that, as a kid, I used to get nightmares about tornadoes all the time. Even though I had never seen one in real life at the time, and I live in a relatively safe place from that kind of weather. And it was always in those dreams that I could not run fast to save my life. I hate those dreams, where your in dream body is as physically useless as your current sleeping body, you can’t move fast, your punches are weak as hell, sometimes you can’t open your eyes or stand. Lots of fun. Okay, rant over. Ask me about my dreams sometimes, they can be pretty cool.

Any enemies?

Honestly, I don’t think so. There’s a lot of people I don’t like, but people don’t tend to have a problem with me. Wanna be my arch nemesis?

Any significant others?

Nah

Do you believe in miracles?

Yes~ life is a miracle, Got7 is a miracle, Ahgase are miracles, the world shows us little miracles each day, even if we don’t recognize them.

How are you?

I’m better than I was earlier today. But now it’s late, and I can’t sleep. What else is new?

I’ll tag: @maddiekira @madeitwang @screechingaussie (only if you want~ 💌)

[itsclydebitches]

You did a thing in your Cloqwork collection about ice skating? It's winter so could you maybe do a drabble about that Oz and Qrow?

I did! For those of you who are wondering, the fic referred to is here. (I don’t have the patience right now to try and work around tumblr’s stupid link policy...) This can probably be read on its own though. All you really need to know is that Ozpin is a figure skater hurtling towards retirement and Qrow is his new boyfriend. This takes place a few weeks after the first fic and, writing gods willing, I’ll post a story that links the two at some point :D

“So on the scale of legality about where are we at right now?”

“Entirely legal.”

“…lame.��

Ozpin chuckled, pulling the spare key out of his pocket and dangling it high for Qrow’s inspection. No, he hadn’t broken into their favorite rink, but it was only because Maria was an absolute darling and had granted him personal access years ago. In all honesty though, Ozpin might have actually broken in if necessary. It had been that kind of week.

Ah, but Qrow’s hand trailed lightly along his back as he passed him and a bit of the tension drained away.

“It’s weird,” Qrow said, surveying the empty ice; the darkened cafe and the locked-down skate exchange. “This place is always stuffed full of kids. I’m used to, you know, lots of screaming. Parents throwing fits about how expensive shit is. Never thought I’d see it this quiet.” He ran his fingers along the plexiglass now and inexplicably Ozpin shivered. “It’s very…”

“Peaceful,” he finished.

“I was gonna go with creepy, but okay.”

Ozpin threw his head back and let out a startled laugh, the sound bouncing off the high ceiling and settling around their shoulders. Oh yes, he was glad he’d brought Qrow here tonight.

He hadn’t had a laugh like that in ages.

“It is not creepy,” Ozpin insisted, seating himself on the nearest bench and stretching out his legs. “I come here often at night. Usually for extra practice, but sometimes to just… be. A library or the skate rink. They’re the only two places I’ve ever been able to truly relax, and only one of them has provided me with a purpose in life. People often find peace in running water or falling leaves. Why not ice?”

Qrow wandered over to stand between Ozpin’s legs, nudging them open with his knee until he fit there, snug. “You’re so weird,” he said, but it had none of the hostility that Ozpin had grown used to. From competitors. His parents. Even Glynda on occasion. “This place smells like piss and cheap disinfectant. It’s cold even by a rink’s standards. I’m pretty sure I just stepped in gum.”

Ozpin nodded. “It’s wonderful.”

“Oh my god,” and Qrow finally leaned down to kiss him.  

It was such a comforting clash: the old familiarity of this rink combined with the newness of Qrow’s lips against his. The position itself was awkward as hell—Qrow forced to bend too far and Ozpin with nothing to lean against, long legs continually bumping—but that only added to his joy. The moment felt real.

Qrow slid calloused fingers into Ozpin’s hair and he sighed, pulling back so he could focus on the new sensation.  

“Mm. I don’t normally like people touching my hair.”

Qrow’s hand jumped away.

“Normally,” Ozpin emphasized, drawing him back. Qrow’s expression remained wary until he placed his hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to play with the strands there. The question in Qrow’s eyes was obvious though and Ozpin shrugged, gaze shifting away.

“I hadn’t intended to let it grow out,” he said. “It’s simply amazing what one loses track of when training for competitions.”

“Like food,” Qrow muttered. Ah. So he wouldn’t be letting that go anytime soon.

Ozpin inclined his head. “Yes. Like food. By the time I was focused enough to schedule an appointment Glynda had already decided that long hair worked for my brand. Something about femininity, standing out… I hardly know. I was devoted to pleasing her and immediately agreed, but good heavens the upkeep was horrendous.” Ozpin’s mouth twisted down and his shoulders tensed again. Qrow was immediately leaning closer. “Do you know long it takes a team to style long hair in a manner that will last through multiple high speed turns?”

“Nope.”

“Too fucking long, Qrow.”

It was his turn to let out a laugh, though Qrow tended to keep the sound close, slapping a hand over his mouth and holding everything in until he shook. It wasn’t often that Ozpin cursed and in the recent weeks he’d learned to use his exclamations sparingly. For the simple reason that it got him reactions like this.

Ozpin shook his head. He reached out to squeeze Qrow’s hips. “I’d cut it all off if I could.”

“Really?”

“Indeed.” 

“So why don’t you?”

…What?

Qrow’s expression had moved from generally amused to specifically amused—at him. It was what Ozpin was quickly beginning to recognize as the Oh God My Boyfriend Is Stupid expression.

“You’re retiring,” Qrow said, enunciating each syllable like he was speaking to a child.

“…I’m retiring.”

It honestly hadn’t occurred to him. The tiny freedoms that came after making that call to Glynda and Ozpin sat, a little stunned, as Qrow moved to the other end of the bench. He’d thrown his purse over there—and yes, it was a purse. He didn’t know what the hell else to call the small bag he carried around with him everywhere. Yang might be an animal who was perfectly content to live in one outfit and eat random food she found on the sidewalk, but Ruby was a little princess who demanded any and every kind of amenity. Qrow had started carrying a wide variety of supplies with him ever since she’d come home from the hospital.

Small first aid kit. Emergency cell. Emergency cookies. Wipes. A pad for the day it was needed. Stuff like that.

Qrow also had a small pair of scissors.

He raised them and snipped at the air, a grin growing. “Whaddya say? Feel like being impulsive?”

“Here?” Ozpin’s eyes blew wide. “Now?”

“Anything stopping you?”

“I thought we were going to skate?”

Qrow snorted. “Please. Like I honestly thought you brought me to the empty rink at 1:00am to skate.”

He… had. Though perhaps it would benefit Ozpin to be a little less honest about exactly how inept he was at all this. Dating. ...Flirting. He kept his expression carefully neutral as Qrow approached with the scissors.

They were, impossibly, in a rather perfect position. The bench put Ozpin at just the right height for Qrow to work and the plexiglass provided a slight reflection for him to see in. Any mess they made would be cleaned up before the rink opened in the early afternoon.

Ozpin swallowed hard as Qrow parted his hair and drew the ends up for inspection. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Actually yeah. Tai’s a cheapskate.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“It’s true!” Qrow lifted half his hair over one shoulder and fanned out the rest. “We’re not poor, but we’re not swimming in cash either. Especially with two girls who’ll need college funds someday.” His voice had gone quiet and focused and it occurred to Ozpin that this was the most he’d ever heard Qrow talk about money. “I’ve cut their hair since they had any worth cutting. Tai’s now too. It saves a surprising amount.” Qrow’s eyes snapped up to meet Ozpin’s in the glass. “You actually want this?”

Honestly? He wasn’t sure. His hair felt like a crucial part of his identity. Or at least, his identity as a skater…

Which was precisely why he should let it go. Ozpin wasn’t that man anymore. The fuzzy image of Qrow standing at his shoulder was proof of that.

Ozpin nodded and Qrow gave a little hop of joy.

“Fucking love cutting hair,” he whispered. “Okay. Just try to stay calm and trust me. This is gonna be great.”

Oh, he trusted him, but that didn’t make the first cut any easier. Ozpin watched nearly two feet of hair suddenly plummet to the floor and felt a little like his heart was going with it. He blinked rapidly, nails digging into his legs… but then the second cut came and suddenly his whole head felt light. He felt lightheaded. It was such a strange, foreign feeling that Ozpin instinctually lifted a hand up towards his ear. It was caught and set gently back into his lap.

“No peeking,” Qrow said. He bent and pressed a kiss against the back of Ozpin’s neck. It sent a lovely little shiver down to his toes.

Okay. No peeking. Ozpin kept his gaze firmly on the floor as Qrow muttered things about layering and washing and needing a diffuser. He didn’t really follow it, but the careful attention Qrow gave to the task was worth more than Ozpin could say. When fingers suddenly appeared beneath his chin he was surprised by them. The feel of the work had made him drowsy and in the face of Qrow’s ministrations he’d forgotten what they had been leading to.

“Well?” Qrow said, nervousness threading his voice. “What do you think?”

He must have carried the small mirror over with him, the mirror that now reflected a man Ozpin didn’t recognize. His hair hung just below his ears and without the added weight had curled unexpectedly, little flyaways falling over his eyes and lifting in the back. It made him look younger. Approachable. The man, Ozpin realized, looked happy.

Qrow was visible in the mirror’s reflection, stationed beside him with flushed cheeks and twitchy fingers. Ozpin knew he was supposed to be looking at the cut right now, and yet…

“Perfect,” he said and he still hadn’t drawn his eyes away from Qrow.