#but i should stress nothing beyond biting happens in this | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

koqabear · 1 year

Text

love fool ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

♫: Seven, Jungkook // Lovefool, The Cardigans // I only want to be with you, Tommy february6

“In which Yeonjun is more than willing to show you the lengths he’ll go for you.”

yeonjun x fem!reader

Genre: established relationship, inspired by “Seven” mv, fluff, angst, smut

Word count: 10.6K

warnings: don’t take this story seriously pls. it’s ridiculous. yj is clingy. and emotional. and a bit pathetic. the mc is avoidant… and a bit of a bitch ! Lack of communication smh, a bit toxic if u squint ur eyes but it’s supposed to be cute idk (seven mv type toxic skdjdj) yj is a frat boy & a himbo (pick a struggle, pls), arguing, mc has acrylic nails, use of the phrase “boyfriend-girlfriend” bc i’m obsessed w it

smut warnings: mean dom!mc, sub!yj, (mentions of dom!yj) service top!yj, unprotected sex, manhandling (m. rec), hairpulling, name calling, (bitch, stupid, slut, etc) pet names (baby, good boy), dry humping, biting, marking, scent kink (?), scratching, dumbification, dacryphilia, forced orgasm (kinda), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, yj rambles. a lot. breast play, handjob, humiliation, creampie, subspace, implied oral (f. rec) (lemme know if i should add anything!)

Notes: fucking hate arguing with men w/ pretty puppy eyes like i will fuck the shit outta y-

Yeonjun hates when you’re mad at him. It makes him feel guilty and leaves him with a gross feeling in his stomach, pouty and annoying as his friends are always left to deal with the mess.

It doesn’t happen often— he tries his hardest not to make you mad, always saying yes and going above and beyond with you— he loves to please you and make you happy, which is exactly why it hits harder when you look at him like you never want to see him again.

“I don’t want to see you around, don’t talk to me!”

But sometimes, he just can’t help it.

He seriously doesn’t know what he did wrong— there were no anniversaries forgotten, no plans he stood you up on, no petty arguments— and yet, here he sits, sinking into his couch and burrowed in blankets as his friends try to get him to come out of his cocoon, all with no success.

“Is she mad at you again?” Beomgyu asks, his voice muffled despite sitting on top of Yeonjun— literally, he couldn’t feel his legs— and he hears him groan at the sight of Yeonjun nodding under the mass of blankets, cursing quietly to himself and undoubtedly rolling his eyes, “dude, what did you do?”

“I don’t knowww,” Yeonjun cries out, throwing the blankets off him and onto Beomgyu as he whines— he watches as Beomgyu flails about for a second, running his hands through his hair as he continues to stress about you, “she— she said she didn’t wanna see me again, but I miss her…”

“Fuck, she’s probably just saying that because she wants space— dude, are you crying?”

“What if she was breaking up with me?” Yeonjun asks, and Beomgyu is amazed to see the way his wide eyes are welling up with tears; god, he’s actually crying now, the sight childish and unhinged as he watches his (older) friend sniffle and hiccup through his sentences, “what if— what if she— she, she, she really meant it— god, I don’t wanna break up, I don’t even know what I did wronggg!”

“Okay, okay,” Beomgyu grimaces, watching the way his friend breaks down before his eyes; his hand is stiff and awkward as it pats Yeonjun’s back, trying his best to comfort him, wincing at the way Yeonjun only cries harder, “It’s… probably nothing, I’m sure she’ll talk to you again tomorrow, or once she’s calmed down.”

“You think?” Yeonjun asks, peeking through his hands and up at Beomgyu with sparkling eyes, full of hope as Beomgyu can only crack a nervous smile.

“Yeah,” he says, patting Yeonjun’s back again in reassurance, “Yeah— just, be patient, okay?”

Patient is the last word one would use to describe Yeonjun.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

MONDAY

This is it.

Yeonjun has been waiting all weekend for this moment (Or just Sunday, to be more accurate), restless on his feet as he finds himself pacing back and forth— he’s nibbling at his lip nervously, arms sore and tired from the weight of the gift he holds in his hands; a bouquet of your favorite flowers, pristine and in full bloom— it’s large and quite heavy as it practically covers his face, but Yeonjun knew that a small bouquet would do nothing to show his love for you.

He would try to talk to you as soon as your class ended. He needed to know what he did wrong, and he sure as hell would not do it again. You didn’t text him after the argument, and it only left him uneasy at the thought of you really wanting to end things.

He didn’t want to lose you. Not like this.

Admittedly, he got a bit ahead of himself— he’s been waiting outside for the past half hour, arriving much too early as he stood out in the hall awkwardly— at some point, he tried peeking into the small, rectangular window next to the door, hunched over slightly and pouting as he scanned the room for you.

When he spotted you, he was delighted to see you had already been looking at him.

He couldn’t contain the wide smile that stretched across his face, waving at you excitedly in hopes you’d do the same— unable to realize that the whole class was now looking at him, he was confused to watch the way your face screwed up into an expression of sheer embarrassment, shielding your face with your hand and looking away as some students began following his line of sight.

Why did you do that? You were ignoring him, and it hurt like a bitch as Yeonjun frowned. His mind was racing as he began wondering what he might’ve done wrong— he was so focused, in fact, that he failed to notice the professor blocking his view, his reaction time much too slow as his eyes flickered up to meet the man’s gaze. Flustered, he backed away quickly, his face heating up as he bowed in apology— he hugged the bouquet close to his chest as he did, mumbling out a soft sorry the man probably couldn’t even hear.

You, on the other hand, could hear the way your professor laughed at Yeonjun’s actions, absolutely mortified by the way he turned around and began to joke to the class, saying that “It looks like someone here has an admirer,” whilst looking in your direction, your classmates laughing along before he went back to his lecture.

Shit, this was so embarrassing.

Yeonjun is so fucking stupid, you cry to yourself, peeking over at the doorway in hopes that he took the hint and left— but no, he definitely didn’t, because you could still see his figure through the window, leaning against the wall and holding an item the size of his whole upper body close to his chest.

The last thing you wanted to do was go outside and see him— but that’s exactly what happened anyway, even if you lingered behind once class ended in hopes that Yeonjun would get impatient and wait— patience was never his strongest virtue, after all.

But for you, anything could change.

This is exactly why you find him outside the door, face hidden with what is, to your surprise, a large bouquet of your favorite flowers.

Fuck, you seriously don’t want to talk to him right now. Gritting your teeth, you use this moment to sneak past him, a slight guilt tugging at you as you look back, spotting the way he seems oblivious to the fact that you’ve left already.

Looking back was your first mistake.

Because Yeonjun, in a truly creepy fashion, is almost able to sense it, whipping his head to you and perking up at the way you only walk faster— then begin sprinting, refusing to look back again once he starts chasing after you.

“Baby,” you hear him call out to you, the ridiculous rustling of his bouquet slightly muffling his words as his footsteps thud against the tiles; for an athlete, you’d expect him to catch up to you already, but you quietly pat yourself on the back for the slight head start you gave yourself.

“Baby, wait!” he continues to yell, ignoring the strange stares from those passing by, “Please, let me talk to you!”

“I don’t wanna talk!” you growl out, your emotions taking over as you remember why you’re mad at him, “leave me alone!”

You’re outside now; you’re a huffing and sweaty mess, but you refuse to slow down for even a second, the threat of Yeonjun hot on your heels fueling your stamina.

“Can you please tell me what I did wrong?” He yells, exasperated as he watches you run off the sidewalk— you’re attempting to lose him, but countless running drills and morning runs have prepared him for this moment— without a second thought, he’s following you, attempting to peek over his— inconveniently large, he must admit— bouquet, watching the way you simply continue to run, glancing back every once in a while to see if he’s still there.

“Please, can we be civil and talk about this?!” his words have you turning around to send him a glare— instead, you stumble to a stop as you watch Yeonjun trip, eyes widening at the dramatic sight before you.

He’s fallen flat on his face, a puff of petals blowing up around him as you wince— he’s face-first into whatever’s left of the flowers, the rest of the petals fluttering in the air around him and falling delicately on his figure as you stare, the place eerily silent save for the chirping birds and rustling leaves.

He doesn’t say anything— he doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even attempt to get up, left splattered all over the grass as you stare at him in slight concern.

“Yeonjun?” you call out uncertainly, shifting on your feet as you pause. He doesn’t respond— he’s left frozen on the ground, and you’re frowning at the sight as you slowly make your way to him; you approach him slowly, as though you were approaching a wild animal, tense in your movements as you lean in to observe him.

“Did you die?” you ask quietly, taking in the way he still hasn’t moved. Not an inch. You feel more concerned than you want to admit, crouching down in front of him as you bite your lip in worry.

“Do you hate me.” the sudden words have you flinching, staring down at Yeonjun, who’s still eating dirt and flowers. You frown, scoffing at the way he weakly reaches out for you— swiftly, you slap his hand, watching the way it flops back onto the ground.

“No— yes— a little,” you stutter out, angry at the way you bounce between responses just from the mere pathetic sight of him.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks, the words muffled as it takes you a minute to decipher what he may be saying— you can’t help but roll your eyes at his antics.

“For what?” you ask, picking a petal off his back absentmindedly as you wait— if he could answer properly, you might consider giving in.

“For existing.”

God, Yeonjun was such a sap. It has you biting back a smile as you resist the urge to stroke his hair, mused and riddled with petals from his grand gesture— but his answer was not the one you were looking for, and you’re standing back up and readjusting your clothes without another word.

“pleaaaaseee,” you hear him whine, watching the way he shrivels up into a ball— then, he’s sitting back on his legs, whipping his head up and looking at you with wide, teary eyes.

“Please take the flowers with you at least,” he pouts, thrusting the bouquet— or, whatever was left of it— up at you with pleading eyes.

Pressing your lips together, you sigh; a moment passes before you’re taking the gift from him begrudgingly, ignoring the way he perks up happily at your action.

“I’m still mad at you,” you hiss, and he immediately deflates at your words, “Don’t visit my class like that again. Please.”

He says nothing, left to watch as you turn your back to him and walk away; he has yet to get up, his heart pounding against his chest as he watches the way you hug the flowers close to you, shaking your head at the state of them.

This was… progress.

But you’re still mad at him.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

TUESDAY

Visiting you in class was a big no.

Visiting you in general, however, wasn’t off-limits.

You don’t want to talk to him? Fine, he can understand. In fact, he won’t talk to you at all— a feat much greater said than done— but hey, he always loved staring at you anyway.

Well, it’s a little hard to stare by the way you’ve propped up textbooks around your face like a fort.

He’s staring. He’s still staring. You can practically feel his puppy-eyed gaze burn into your brain telepathically; no matter how hard you try to focus on your work, it’s become damn near impossible with the way you can feel Yeonjun’s presence, your neck beginning to ache from the way you’ve remained ducked down this whole time.

It was easy to deal with at first; you chose not to do anything the moment you saw Yeonjun emerge from the staircase and onto the top floor of the library— otherwise known as the quietest level.

He wouldn’t be able to talk to you without disturbing the peace of others— and potentially being asked to leave— so you decided to not make a scene and go back to studying, even when you felt his eyes lock on your figure and beeline to you.

He sat across from you first. Though, you were quick to move, pretending as though you were looking for a book as you quickly ran away to the other side of the library. You felt the way his eyes followed you the whole time— he looked like a kicked puppy, and damn did that stupid tactic of his always work, because you even felt yourself pausing for a second, wondering if you should give in and talk to him.

But, you are a horrendously petty person.

You were holed up in some random corner. You didn’t even know there was a table there until today, the spot so secluded and quiet that you silently celebrated getting him off your trail.

It was peaceful— for like, a good ten minutes.

You didn’t think much of it when you first heard it; footsteps, slow and calculated as they rounded about the bookshelves. You could hear the sound of books being pulled out clear as day, though you chose to ignore it all and keep focus on your assignments instead.

After a moment, the footsteps disappeared.

It was back to being completely silent. And, in your bored state, you began to look around the area you were huddled up in; curiously, you allowed yourself to walk around, reading the spines and pulling out books that seemed to pique your interest even slightly.

There seemed to be another person here as well— maybe it was the same person as before, or maybe it was someone new— you didn’t pay mind to it nonetheless, continuing your journey as your eyes locked in on a particularly colorful book.

Slowly, you pulled it out— on the other side, you watched the book adjacent to yours slowly get pulled out as well, and a smile tugged at your lips at the odd coincidence.

Then, your eyes met with Yeonjun’s.

His gaze filled with admiration was only returned with a mean scowl from you. You were quick to shove the book back into its place, storming off to your table without a moment’s hesitation.

Yeonjun was quickly able to find your hiding spot— one might think you could cry from the way you buried your face into your hands defeatedly, refusing to look up from your dark refuge as the sounds of a chair scraping against the carpeted floors met your ears.

That’s how you found yourself here, ignoring what people might think as you hide behind your fortress of textbooks. You didn’t feel good staying in a secluded area with Yeonjun— not because you thought he might try to do anything— but because you were afraid of your own resolve crumbling, especially after you’d spent so much time trying to ignore him.

You wonder if he’s still here. Who are you kidding, of course he’s still here, though you can’t really bring yourself to check and see for yourself.

After a while, you hear scribbling sounds.

You can’t hide the way you jump as a piece of paper hits your head, folded into a perfect heart and landing in front of you with a dull thud.

Open me :( it says, and though you wish you could say you were strong enough to ignore it, you definitely aren’t.

Can you pls let me look at u at least?

You don’t get much of a moment to process the message. Another paper lands directly in front of you, shaped into a heart and scrawled with the same words as the last— slowly, you open it, dreading what might be written inside this time.

I miss you so so so so so much.

You shake your head at his words. Sliding the paper to the side, you ignore his request, choosing to focus on your work instead of giving in to his silly tactics. After a moment, you wonder if you’ll be getting another paper— instead, nothing happens; the sigh of relief you let out is almost comical, your body relaxing a bit as you allow yourself to wonder if he’s finally left.

That was your second mistake.

Because after a few minutes, another paper hits you. It’s another heart, and you find that you don’t need to open it this time, the message scrawled on top for easier access.

I’m sorry.

Another paper flies over your fortress.

I’m sorry.

Then, another.

Pls forgive me.

Then another. And another, and another, and another.

Pls, I hate making you mad. I feel so gross and sad rn. I seriously can’t go a day without you. I miss you sm, pls :(((

You feel like you’re under attack— the way he continues to throw paper after paper is rhythmic and almost impressive, the endless stream of hearts covering your keyboard and forcing you to sweep them to the side after seconds.

It’s useless to study. How can you, when Yeonjun keeps throwing his apologies at you? It’s stupid and childish and is enough for you to take your textbooks down, your jaw clenched and your eyes pointed in a sharp glare that has Yeonjun pausing in his actions.

There’s a small pile of hearts next to him.

Neither of you move— he’s frozen mid-throw, his eyes widening as though he can’t grasp the fact that you’re actually looking at him— even if it’s filled with rage and annoyance.

Slowly, the corners of his lips curl up— you can’t find it in you to react as he throws the paper in his hands, feeling the way it smacks right onto your forehead before it falls to the table.

Can I show u how sorry I am??

You don’t seem to think of the consequences as you reach for your bag in the seat next to you— devoid of anything except a few pencils and your hoodie— and throw it at him, watching the way he yelps in surprise, your bag spilling out it’s few contents all over the floor. The sound is enough to have the people around you glancing at your table, curious or angry at the sound of the ruckus.

You’re worked up and huffing as you watch Yeonjun scramble to gather the spilled contents of your bag, watching as he stutters out whispered apologies between his actions.

“Excuse me,” the hand on your shoulder is firm as you twist your head to look at the librarian, your expression falling at the realization of what you’ve just done.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Whipping your head around, you meet eyes with a sheepish and guilty Yeonjun, gritting your teeth as he holds out your bag for you to take.

Wordlessly, you snatch it from him, shoving your computer and the rest of your items into it before you’re turning around to face the librarian; you whisper out a soft “I’m so sorry” as you bow in apology, waiting for her to leave before you’re facing Yeonjun again.

I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, he mouths to you, though you ignore it all as you choose to whack his shoulder with your very-full bag instead; the pained whimper he lets out has you gritting your teeth in irritation, watching the way he pouts up at you as he rubs his arm pathetically.

“Don’t pull this shit again,” you hiss out, storming off before he can get another word out.

There goes all his progress.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

WEDNESDAY

Today has been an oddly nice day.

It’s nice— too nice, you wonder, pondering what may be different enough to have you walking with a smile on your face, appreciating the beautiful weather in a light mood.

A guy your age is leaning against a tree up ahead. He holds a bouquet of roses, and you smile at the way he seems to be passing one out to every person that passes him. That’s so sweet, you think to yourself, and you can’t help the way your stomach twists in anticipation the moment his eyes meet yours.

“Would you like a rose?” he asks you, his blond hair shining under the sunlight as he sends you a bright smile— you don’t hesitate to say yes, taking the flower from him with a cute thank you!

The flower is in full bloom as you twirl it between your fingers absentmindedly. The smile on your face is seemingly permanent as you make your way to your favorite cafe, though as you think back to the interaction, you can’t help but wonder if you know that man from somewhere.

It isn’t until you stop at a crosswalk that you notice it— there’s a tag on the rose, and though you initially thought it was just a price tag, you realize that it’s something else; pausing before you cross the street, you take a moment to tilt your head and read it, feeling your jaw drop as your brain registers the words in disbelief.

Yeonjun says he’s sorry.

“What the fuck,” you mutter to yourself, ripping it off without hesitation and shoving it into your pocket— you definietly recognize the man from earlier, you realize— that was Hueningkai!

You roll your eyes at Yeonjun’s weak ploy to talk to you— you can’t help the way it leaves you irritated as you stand in line to order, trying your best to recite your regular order to the barista with a smile on your face, the man before you giving you a dimpled smile before he’s off to make it.

By the time you get your order, you’ve calmed down— you’re quick to exit and make your way back towards campus, using this small break between classes to study again. (without Yeonjun around, hopefully.)

Your fingers are absentminded as you trace over the printed sticker on the side of the cup that has your order printed on it, glancing down at the text before you take another sip.

Yeonjun is really sorry.

…What?

You were more unnerved than anything. The lengths Yeonjun had gone through to communicate almost concerned you, though all you could do at this point was rip the sticker off and shove it in your pocket, ignoring it like the other one. You wracked your mind for answers as you began to wonder if you had seen that barista anywhere else, and after a moment, you settled on the vague conclusion that you think you’ve seen him in Yeonjun’s frat house before.

He’s so annoying, you sigh to yourself, rubbing at your temples as you fear an upcoming headache.

You’re startled back to life at the sight of a puppy running up to you— you’re frowning at the sight, unsure of what to do as it stops right at your feet, jumping up on you and barking excitedly— almost like it recognized you— squinting, you observe the dog.

Oh god, you think to yourself, realizing with dread that you do recognize this damn dog.

“Matcha, who let you out,” you huff, leaning down to scoop the tiny dog into your arms— in the distance, you can see someone running in your direction, though you choose to ignore it as you notice Matcha’s brand new collar.

Yeonjun misses you more than anything.

The words are wrapped around his collar, leaving you to throw your head back and groan at the sight; the footsteps are much louder than before, and you’re looking forward again as you spot yet another familiar face.

“Beomgyu,” you sneer, shoving Matcha into his awaiting hands. All he can do is laugh sheepishly, muttering out what a coincidence! Petting Matcha, he pauses, giving you an expectant look that only leaves you confused.

“Could you forgive him?”

“Go away!” you say in return, weaving out of his way and practically running off to the library; you can hear Matcha barking at you, though you choose to ignore it as Beomgyu’s calls of your name fuel you further.

You feel out of breath by the time you finally enter the library, finding the nearest help desk and beginning to rummage through your bag for any books you need renewed— the librarian simply smiles at you patiently as he waits, adjusting his glasses before he quickly turns around to get something— by the time he’s back, you’ve laid out your books for him, thanking him quietly as you watch him renew them quickly.

When he slides them back towards you, you frown— there’s a bookmark on top of your small stack of books, laminated and shiny under the lights as you pick it up to get rid of the glare— reading it, you can already feel the need to tear it, though it seems as this cheeky worker is already one step ahead of you.

Yeonjun just wants to talk to you again.

Three ways to better communication in a relationship:

The glare you send the worker— Taehyun, his name tag reads— is lethal, though he doesn’t seem to be affected by it as he simply sends you an innocent smile. Without another word, you gather your books, shoving them into your bag as you turn to leave.

“Ignoring him won’t solve anything,” he calls out quietly, though you don’t seem to appreciate the advice by the way you don’t even bother to turn back and react. Instead, you walk right back out, storming home as you type on your phone furiously.

my baby :((

stop using others to relay messages damn it!!!

my baby :((

and don’t use matcha against me you loser!!!!!!

Through his end, Yeonjun is just happy that you’re texting him— though, the mean name is not much appreciated.

Choi Yeonjun.

can you pls let me talk to you instead?

You don’t bother opening the notification.

That was your third mistake.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

THURSDAY

Today has been relatively peaceful. You have yet to be bothered today— no Yeonjun, no Matcha, and certainly none of his friends.

Maybe because he was aware of your plans today; you did tell him a while ago about your reunion with one of your friends, always chatting his ear off about how excited you were to finally see her again—it slightly warms your heart to know that he actually listens to you.

Well. Most of the time.

“You’re fighting right now?” Tzuyu asks, leaning forward in her seat with wide eyes. You didn’t expect this sudden change of topic, but you can only nod grimly in response, watching as she sighs in dismay at your situation.

“Wow, you guys never fight— at least, not to this level,” she’s deep in thought over your relationship as she frowns, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares down at her empty plate— you both chose to forgo dessert, and now you wait patiently for your check.

“Well, what are you guys even fighting about?”

“It’s just—“ you’re cut off by your server placing the check in between the two of you, thanking him with a smile on your face before you’re freezing; you’re unsure of what to make of the plate that he places before you, stuttering out unintelligible sentences that you didn’t order… whatever this was.

“Free of charge,” the man says, before bowing politely and scurrying away; you’re barely able to get a word out before you huff in defeat, looking back at the treat in front of you as you take in Tzuyu’s amused laughter.

“What?” you ask, frowning as you watch her turn the plate towards you— you’re left a bit speechless by what you see, mouth falling open as your brain attempts to comprehend how you should react to this.

It’s dessert— well, more specifically, three full scoops of ice cream, the caramel drizzle and other toppings decorating it to make it look like a cat; more specifically, a sad cat. All along the plate, more caramel drizzle decorates it to form a sentence.

I miss you. Please, talk to me. YJ.

Your head snaps up in the direction the waiter went in; looking out the small window of the kitchen door, you spot none other than Yeonjun, his eyes widening before he’s ducking out of the way like a deer in headlights.

“How the fuck did he get back there?!” you cry out, running a hand down your face in disbelief— but no, one more glance back in his direction is enough to catch him peeking at you again, flinching in surprise before he’s ducking out of your sight once more.

“Who let him in there?” you hiss, placing your head in your hands as Tzuyu merely laughs; you ignore the way she begins to dig into the dessert after you express that you won’t touch it, humming happily that it was a sweet gesture.

A moment’s thought is able to remind you where you are— in Beomgyu’s older brother’s restaurant, of course.

Defeatedly, you open the checkbook to offer to pay— though the price has your eyes practically bulging out, reading and re-reading the strange excuse of a check this waiter has brought to you.

Your meal was free.

The only thing you read on the paper was a poor excuse of Yeonjun replacing the food items with “i miss you”s and “i’m sorry”s, the sight baffling you as Tzuyu turns the check towards her in curiosity.

“Interesting,” she hums, closing the checkbook before she’s fishing for tip money, “Are you sure you wanna lose a guy like him?”

You take a second to think her question through.

Yet another mistake on your part.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

FRIDAY

Remembering what happened today is enough to have your head hurting— so, you’ll keep it short.

You were working— working, minding your own business, prey to unsuspecting events— when it happened.

Fridays were always rush days. Maybe that’s why you didn’t think to pay attention to your surroundings, to the blasting music, the yell of your coworkers calling out drinks and names, or to the endless chatter of the customers around you.

You should have paid attention— maybe, if you did, you would’ve been able to spare yourself the embarrassment— another mistake of yours, if you will.

The break of music from the radio was not what caught your attention— radio hosts do it all the time, speaking in between songs with useless chatter as they find a song to play next— no, what did catch your attention, however, was the eerily familiar voice, and worse, the eerily familiar message he broadcasted all over your local station.

“This next song is called Seven,” he spoke, smooth, suave, and relaxing as the track rolled in quietly in the background, “a song about a man more than willing to show how devoted he is to his to his partner— ___, come home, the kids miss you— well, more like Matcha, but still.”

You could feel your coworkers freeze around you. You could feel their gazes slowly drift to you, could feel the way customers got a good look at the decorated name tag you once showed off proudly.

“Is— is he…?” your coworker whispered beside you, watching the way you caved into yourself in attempts to hide your nametag, “is he that frat boy you were talking about?”

“No.” you say, avoiding everyone’s gaze as you focus on making your drink instead, “No. That’s not him. This isn’t about me, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“___, I’ll keep waiting for you patiently. Have a good shift today.”

Christ!

Your coworkers could only laugh lightheartedly at his words— they found it cute, which was even worse for you, because all you could wonder was how the fuck he was able to get into the broadcast station— this time, you seriously couldn’t figure out any ties between him and the place.

“Looks like he won’t give up,” to say you were horrified at the way a customer told you this was an understatement, her eyes alight with amusement as she spoke to you with a tone so genuine you almost thought she was in on it— fuck, maybe she was— “if anything, you should turn him down soon before he goes too far.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” you breathed out, tired of these constant antics as you thought over her words, forced to go through the rest of your shift pretending as though Yeonjun hadn’t broadcasted his pleading message to the whole city— well, more like anyone who was listening to the local radio station willingly.

You feel like you’re on The Truman Show, or something.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

SATURDAY

You were scared to talk to Yeonjun.

Scared— why were you scared? You don’t know why, but you couldn’t bring yourself to send him a text message, pacing around your room like an idiot instead as you wondered what you would tell him.

Would you talk? Would you finally break up with him?

The way your stomach sank with dread at the mere thought of the second option was enough of an answer for you— no, you shouldn’t break up with him.

However, it was storming today— there was no way in hell you would be going outside to meet him in such weather, so you opted to psych yourself up to send him a text message asking to meet up instead.

You were pacing around your room again when you noticed it.

There’s a bright umbrella outside— shit, you recognize that umbrella, you realize with a heavy dread, walking up to your window and pulling your curtains open as you stare out in dismay.

Why the fuck is Yeonjun outside right now?

It’s perfect timing, the way his umbrella raises to show his figure; oh my god, you think to yourself, biting your lip as you take his expression in, he’s crying!

This was not your intention. You never meant to hurt Yeonjun like this, but you also were not ready to see him yet— so, with a slight pang in your heart, you shut the curtains again, leaving just enough of a crack to make sure that he’ll leave.

Instead, he stayed there. In true Yeonjun fashion, squinting up at your window in hopes that you’d at least tell him to go away. Instead, he watched as you peeked through the crack of the curtains, his heart fluttering slightly at the way you thought you were being discreet with your actions.

Slowly, Yeonjun turns his phone to you; there’s writing flashing by in his phone, though you have to squint your eyes and wait for the whole sentence to roll by to see what he’s trying to tell you now.

I know you don’t… want to see me… right now but I … seriously just need… to know what I … did wrong.

God. Fuck. This whole “ghosting” ordeal was harder than it should be when someone like Yeonjun was involved.

It’s been like… a week and you… still haven’t talked… to me.

Oh, the guilt is seriously eating you up right now. You weren’t supposed to ignore him for days on end, but each time Yeonjun reached out for you, you couldn’t control the way you ran away in return, still hurt by the things he didn’t even realize he did.

You’ve finally gotten a good grasp of his obliviousness.

I’m sorry… I love you… I love you… I love you…

Only three words are rolling by on his phone now. You think you’ve gotten the gist of what he’s trying to tell you as you sink to the floor, out of sight and exasperated as you reach for your phone to make a call.

“Hello?”

“Please come get Yeonjun. He’s outside my apartment in the freezing rain.”

“Uhm, let him in then?”

“I— I can’t,” you mutter sheepishly as you feel your face heating up, your stomach sinking as you hear Beomgyu scoffing on the other side of the line, “I don’t want to talk to him right now. Not like this.”

“Then I guess he’ll stay out in the freezing rain.”

“He’ll get sick!” you say, and it’s only now that you feel stupid for this push and pull you’ve created, “please. I’m begging you.”

“You need to talk to him.”

“I want to. I will.” you say, placing a hand on your forehead as you sigh, “Tomorrow.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

A pause. Then, you hear rustling, and the sounds of Beomgyu grumbling quietly to himself.

“I’ll go get him,” he says, and you can feel yourself sink further against the wall in relief, “you better not back out on your word, okay?”

“Okay.”

You hope you’re not making a mistake.

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

SUNDAY

This is awkward. You feel awkward. You probably look awkward, too.

Yeonjun, for once, looks just as awkward and tense before you. His whole body is rigid as he sits on your couch, feeling more like a stranger in your home than the man you’ve spent the past few months with, the way his eyes wander around making you feel like it’s his first time here.

“Yeonjun,” you sigh out, catching his attention as his eyes zero in on you immediately; you feel nervous under his gaze, unsure of what to say as your brain begins to stutter, your mouth opening and closing in hopes that a proper sentence will come out.

“What did I do wrong?” he cries out, snapping you out of your troubled reverie as your eyes meet his— they’re glossy, and you’re afraid he might just start crying again if you look away, “can we start there?”

“You— you seriously don’t know?” you ask, bewildered by his question as you sit back on your couch— Yeonjun simply shakes his head reverently in response, and you’re blinking owlishly at him as you stare at him in disbelief.

“We didn’t have any arguments before this,” he says, nibbling on his lip as he thinks back to the moment you yelled at him, tearing his arm off you as he attempted to keep you from running away, “You just snapped at me then disappeared— I, I want to know what I did wrong, at least.”

“Yeonjun you—“ you’re dragging a hand down your cheek as you clench your jaw, taking a second to breathe to not snap at him again, “that’s the problem, you’re just so— so oblivious, I seriously thought you’d be able to put two and two together by now!”

Oh, oh this is embarrassing; you should not be getting worked up right now, your hands immediately coming up to hide your face as you hear Yeonjun cooing out your name softly— he’s next to you at the speed of light, attempting to take your hands away as he quietly tells you to breathe in his stupid, calming voice.

“You’re always at those stupid parties, you stupid frat boy—“ you’re stuttering through your sentences, the heat in your face humiliating as you feel your emotions finally tumbling down, “and I know I told you I’m okay with it— I am, I really am— but what I’m not okay with is how fucking flirty you are!”

You can feel Yeonjun’s hands stiffen; slowly, his mouth drops in shock, his face beginning to pale as he realizes just why you’re mad at him.

“I’ve told you— time, and time again— that, that I don’t like when you feed into people like that, that you never reject advances and tell them that you have a fucking girlfriend,” you know he never means it in a harmful way. You know that, nine times out of ten, Yeonjun doesn’t even realize those advances are happening, but it’s always just as painful to watch, knowing that charming attitude and cheeky voice is exactly how he got you, “and it just makes me feel so… so stupid and jealous and unwanted!”

You feel out of breath by the time you finish. Though you remain silent and try to calm yourself, you instead begin to feel more anger festering inside you as you take in Yeonjun’s face, full of dread and realization as he begins to think back to how he was acting back at the frat party that caused this mess.

Yeonjun was used to people acting the way they did around him. It never fazed him, and most of the time he simply followed along because he found it fun. No, he never thought of having anyone else but you, you’re his everything— though, he does realize how inconsiderate he’s been of your feelings now.

“Baby, baby, I’m so sorry,” he says, his words genuine and filled with guilt as he cups your face gently, “I didn’t know.”

“Fuck!” Your response is unprecedented as you shake his hands off you, pushing him back and forcing him to lay across the couch as he looks up at you in surprise. He’s unable to do anything as he watches the way you throw your legs on each side of his waist, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and tugging him up as you sneer at him.

“That’s your problem, you just don’t know—!” pushing him back on the couch, he lets out a soft oof! unable to help the way his stomach swirls in anticipation of your next move, “You’re just too stupid, you don’t know anything unless someone spells it out for you!”

Shit. Yeonjun has never seen you like this, frustrated and restless as you shift above him, your eyes alight with rage as you begin tugging your hoodie over your head; his eyes widen comically at the action, shifting nervously under you as he realizes that oh, you’re not wearing a bra.

“You’ve seriously left me wondering if you’re even taking this relationship seriously, it’s ridiculous!” Yeonjun feels like he’s been left on autopilot as he lets you tug him up again; he’s sitting up, hands hovering precariously as you glare at him, the sight enough to have him gulping nervously.

“I— I do,” he stutters out, watching as you send him an accusing look, “I do, I do I do, I take you so seriously, and fuck, I haven’t been thinking of anyone but you all week.”

“Yeah?” you ask him, patronizing and unexpectedly mean as you look down at him, “You never fucking act like it.”

“Yes I do—!” he yells out, though it’s cut off by the way you sit down firmly in his lap, a hand threading into his hair and yanking at the roots as you tug his head back cruelly, “I’ve shown you this whole week just how much I think about you…”

Yeonjun is hard. Painfully so, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get turned on so quickly— it’s enough to have you laughing breathily, tugging on his hair again and listening to the way he only lets out a high whine in response.

“What you’ve shown me this week,” you hiss, bringing him close to you, your lips grazing against his as you speak, “is that you’re a desperate bitch that doesn’t know how to be patient.”

“You were ignoring me,” he fights back, letting out a breathy wince at the way your grip tightens on his hair, “you’ve been so mean to me—!”

Yeonjun doesn’t get another word in on the matter. The way you bite his lip ruthlessly and sneak your tongue into his mouth has you feeling the way he practically turns to putty under you, his cheeks just as red as his lips as he gasps against your own, feeling the way you begin to grind against his cock without remorse.

“Me? I’ve been mean to you?” you wonder out loud, hands running down his chest before you’re tugging his shirt up; you don’t bother taking it off as it rests against his chest, leaning him back and running your hands over his skin as you take in the way his stomach twitches in response. “do you know how many people think they’ve actually got a chance with you, all because you refuse to use common sense and say, oh, I’ve got a girlfriend!”

Yeonjun shakes his head; there’s no way your words are true, especially when he’s literally obsessed with you. But of course, you’re always right— which is exactly why you’re fueled to rake your nails down his skin, leaving him to hiss and twitch at the feeling of your acrylics digging into his stomach and leaving bright, red scratch marks— acrylics he paid for because he thought they were pretty, the reminder only making his cock twitch pathetically.

“There’s no one in this world that has a chance with me but you,” Yeonjun insists, pouting at the way you only scoff at his words, “I’ve never done anything to fuel other people’s strange fantasies.”

“God, you’re stupid,” you say, and Yeonjun thinks he must’ve lost his mind from the way he can feel a whine building up in his throat, “and to think I found that endearing.”

“You’re so mean,” he pouts— though he’s quick to regret it, letting out a loud cry as you begin grinding against him, able to feel the warmth of your pussy through the thin shorts you wear, your breast bouncing from the way your body begins to move.

“You don’t like it?” You ask, tilting your head to watch as he merely shakes his head in response— all you can do is plant yourself to where you can feel his length pressed up against your slit, throbbing against you as you pout at him in false pity, “no you don’t like it, or no you do?”

“I— I…” he doesn’t know how to respond; it seems as though Yeonjun hasn’t figured out the response for himself, but you can feel it from the way his hips buck up into yours, stuttering and without rhythm as he remains defenseless under you.

“You do like it,” you say, mocking at the way he only whimpers from the feeling of your nails digging into his hips, “Feels nice to be on the receiving end, baby?”

Fuck. Fuck, oh fuck, this was strange and new and Yeonjun was definitely enjoying himself more than he thought he should, a melted pile of remorse and love as he pathetically waited for your next move, doe eyes staring up at you as he felt his mouth part, unable to say anything as he gave in to the mean look you sent him.

“Been waiting patiently for me, hmm?” you ask him, thinking back to his earlier words as you watch him nod eagerly in confirmation, “So you bothering me every day of the week was you being patient?”

“I just wanted to talk,” Yeonjun whines out, chest heaving at the way you begin rolling your hips against his, your rhythm firm and dangerous as he feels weak moans leaving him like a stream, “but you— you kept avoiding me, I wanted to get some confirmation that you didn’t break up with me that day…!”

“Yeah?” you mock him, your voice just as whiny and breathy as his as you lean down to him; placing your hands on his chest, you tilt your head, grinding your cunt against him in a way that has him panting and looking for someplace to grab onto, “and did you get your answer?”

Yeonjun doesn’t even think he registered what you said. All he knows is that the way you’re sitting on him is genuinely cruel, especially with the way he hasn’t felt your body against his in so long. His mind is muddled and he can feel himself losing control from the way his hips begin to buck up, his brain going blank except for the thought that he hasn’t felt you against him in what seems like ages, his body so pent up with frustration that he can’t help but chase after the slight pleasure you offer him.

Yeonjun’s mind has blanked out. You can see it in his face, the way it’s twisted with pleasure as he fails to respond to you, body bucking up into you so wildly that you have to steady yourself with two hands pressed firmly against his chest, your balance getting screwed over at his attempts to fuck up into you.

The feeling of your warm hands is enough to bring Yeonjun back, eyes widening in realization as his eyes meet yours, clouded with so much need that it has Yeonjun slowing his pace immediately.

“Fuck, fuck, wait,” he stutters out, eyes widening at the way your cunt is practically leaking onto him— he can feel it through the layers of clothes, “wait wait wait, I’m so— ah, please— so… sososo close, baby, please…!”

“Wait?” you echo, brows furrowing as he nods frantically in response, “thought you didn’t like waiting?”

“No, please, please,” he whimpers, though his hips don’t stop their mindless rutting into your warm cunt, “please, don’t wanna come like this, wanna be inside you.”

“No?” you repeat, the mocking tone of your voice making his eyes screw shut, “why don’t you stop then? It’s all up to you.”

Oh, of course he can stop— though, that doesn’t mean he will, your hips slowly grinding against his as you watch the way his mouth falls open, not a sound falling past it before his hips buck up into you wildly— slowly, you feel a warmth spread beneath you, Yeonjun’s eyes screwed tightly as tears begin to peek from the corners.

“Nooooo nonono, no, not like this,” he cried quietly to himself, ever the hypocrite as his hands fly to your waist, riding out his orgasm with loud, shameless moans.

“Oh, my baby,” you say, pouting at the way he apologizes to you under his breath, “Is that it? Are you done now?”

“No, not done,” he’s quick to respond despite his rattled state of mind, looking up at you through bleary eyes.

“No?” you hum, taking a moment to watch him carefully.

“No,” he repeats, breathless as his grip tightens on your hips— even through the sensitivity, you can still feel his hips roll up into yours, quiet whimpers and whines leaving him as he does so— though, he can’t find it in himself to stop, at least not with the way he has yet to feel you around him.

“God, this is so pitiful,” you say, frowning at the way Yeonjun struggles to sit up underneath you; you’re cupping his face as he looks up at you, teary eyes and flushed face unable to say anything as he simply leans into your touch— the way you coo softly has him pouting, and you can’t resist the urge to hover over his lips, teasing him with a smile as you brush over them, placing chaste kisses that only have him chasing you for more.

“What a good bitch,” you hiss, feeling the way his hands have wandered up to play with your breasts, obsessed as always as his fingers tug and circle your nipples, eager to feel them harden under his touch, “doesn’t matter how many times you cum, hmm? Just need to make me feel good?”

“Yes, yes yes yes,” he babbles, wincing and moaning at the way your lips have begun to wander along his neck, nipping and sucking and leaving enough marks that a person could spot from far away with ease; the way your teeth sink into his skin practically has him crying, and he can feel his heart pounding against his chest the moment he feels you pause, your nose nuzzling into the spot behind his ear, your breath ticklish on his skin as you laugh.

“Are you wearing my perfume, junie?” You mumble, hearing the way he can only whine in embarrassment; he doesn’t answer you, and you bite at his earlobe softly as you wait, silently demanding a response as his hands fall to your hips, gripping them pathetically as though his life depended on it.

“I missed you,” he repeats, the words making you roll your eyes as your hand finds itself in his hair; you’re tugging at it, tilting his head and exposing his neck to you as you begin to nose along the column, closing your eyes to confirm if this is really your scent, “couldn’t smell you on my clothes anymore, love your scent s’much, ah…”

His neck has always been sensitive; that’s exactly why you choose to focus on it so much, not leaving until it’s covered with your marks and his tears have run down them, his soft sniffles making you glance up as you take him in, overstimulated and a mess as he bites his lip in an attempt to quiet himself.

“Too much, baby?” You coo, running a hand through his hair and pushing it back comfortingly, watching as he shakes his head adamantly, his wide eyes shiny and tear-filled as he looks up at you.

“No,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around you and tugging you towards him; his face is buried in your chest, and you can’t hold back the gasp you let out as his mouth immediately attaches itself to your breast, plump lips sucking at it as his tongue runs along it, messy and spit-filled as he looks back up at you, grinding you into him with weak whimpers, “want you to use me, you can do anything you want to me, just wanna please you.”

“Such a good boy for me, junie,” you say, his eyes fluttering close at your fond comment. “Are you gonna listen to me, for once?”

“I always listen to you,” he insists, and you feel irked by his words as you scoff.

“Like hell you do,” you sneer, easily angered as he shrinks down from your cold gaze, “Show me then— strip.”

Yeonjun is eager to listen, eager to please; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get undressed so quickly, kicking off his pants and throwing his shirt off in some random direction as he looks up at you expectantly, his cock a mess and already beginning to harden as your eyes fall to it.

“Hard already?” You muse, watching the way his cheeks blush red at your comment. Your hand is teasing as you wrap your fingers around his length, your perfect nails shining under the light as you slowly begin to move up and down, the cum from his previous orgasm guiding your movements as he begins to twitch under you, crying softly at the overstimulation.

“Guess you weren’t lying,” you sigh out, finger swiping over his throbbing tip as you hear him yelp at the feeling, “just a cute body for me to use, hmm? You’re nothing but a dick for me to get myself off on?”

Yeonjun is mindlessly agreeing with you— your words are clearly affecting him, his cock leaking and throbbing in your hand, making a mess of it as his head falls back, throat displaying all the marks you left on him earlier like a trophy.

His head is snapping back up the moment you sink onto him. You’re warm, tight, and so fucking wet, his body jolting at the feeling of you clenching around him, taking him inch by inch as he feels the way your walls stretch to adjust to him.

“Fuck…” you hiss, your arousal practically dripping on him from how good he feels— “Yeonjun, shit.”

“Waiiittt, wait, oh god, no— don’t say my name like that, fuck,” Yeonjun begins moaning, your lips quirking into a smile as you watch his eyes screw shut, already knowing what’s coming from the way he holds onto you tighter, head buried into your chest as he tries to still your hips.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” You ask, feigning innocence as you roll your hips into him, moaning dramatically as you do, “Oh, Yeonjun, Yeonjun— fuck, junie, you feel so good, feel so full…”

He’s shaking his head hopelessly; you know what you’re doing to him, and he feels pathetic by the way he loses his senses the more you sink onto him, his cock twitching in you uncontrollably as he warns you to stop, stop, stop before I…!

“This is embarrassing, Yeonjunie,” you pout, feeling the way a warmth spreads inside you the moment you sit on his hips snugly, feeling him bottomed out inside you as he attempts to muffle his sounds. His ears are bright red and he refuses to show you his face as he keeps you close to him, his arms still hugging you flush against him as you feel the valley of your breasts become wet with his tears.

“Why are you crying, hmm?” You ask him, looking down to see the way he still hides his face, “You’ve already come twice, shouldn’t you be happy? You’re so easy, Yeonjunie.”

Your words are degrading, your voice cold as continue to mock him— and though you pretend otherwise, you can feel the way he ruts his hips into you with every mean comment, clearly enjoying himself more than he lets on as he lets out a broken cry against your skin.

“Fuck, are you seriously getting off to this?” You snap, bored with pretending as though you don’t feel your boyfriend clinging to you tighter as you degrade him, “You’re such a fucking slut— you get off to anything, don’t you?”

The way you pull him away from your skin is sudden and rough, a soft yelp leaving him as he’s finally forced to face you, eyes fluttering open and meeting your own, your face twisted in annoyance as you look down at him.

“Acting like a bitch in heat, already came twice from nothing,” you grit, rolling your hips against his as you watch the way his eyes roll back— your other hand comes up to grip his cheeks, digging into the flesh and squeezing them together as he pouts at you, eyes welling with tears as he feels your nails dig into him.

“Don’t you feel bad? How am I supposed to get myself off if you can barely keep your dick up for more than a minute?” Your eyes darken at the way he simply lets out a pathetic sorry, ‘m so sorry baby, “What? I don’t think I heard you right.”

Your pussy feels so good around him; Yeonjun is barely able to think straight from the way you’ve begun to bounce on his cock ruthlessly, the sight of your breasts bouncing before him hypnotizing as you jerk his head back up to look at you, towering over him and demanding as you slow your hips to a mean grind.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whines out, his words incoherent and mushed together as you keep a hold of his face, listening as you hiss out for what? “‘M sorry for being so impatient— ah, ah, please— ngh, sorry for coming too soon, sorry for…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He can’t find the ability to, distracted by the way your sounds have picked up, your fingers rubbing circles on your clit as you continue to use his cock like a toy; his cheeks feel sore as he stares at you with wide eyes, watching your face contort with pleasure, your rhythm become sloppy as you feel your legs getting tired.

You didn’t think Yeonjun would pick up on it; without any warning, you find your back colliding against the couch, your eyes widening as you feel Yeonjun still settled in between your legs, cock still nestled deeply inside you; he’s still a pouty mess above you, hands gripping onto your hips as he begins rutting into you, his thrusts rough and out of control as he takes in your figure hungrily.

“Sorry for making you feel unwanted,” Yeonjun babbles, feeling you throw your arms around his neck from the sudden confession, bringing him in close as you feel his face hover above your own, “I only want you, want you to use me and mark me so others know who I belong to, I’m all yours baby— please, please please please tell me you’re close, wanna feel you come on my cock, wanna make you feel good, missed you, missed this pussy, fuck, mmh, ugh, feel so good, so good, soso good, please, baby—“

Yeonjun thinks you’re something of an aphrodisiac to him; at least, that must be the explanation if he’s able to cum the moment he feels you unravel around him, unrestrained and addicted to the feeling as he listens to your pretty sounds, practically melting as he hears your voice purring under him— so good, fuck, you’re all mine Yeonjunie, all mine…

You don’t think you’ve ever felt Yeonjun cum this much— his cock continues to twitch and release inside you even after you’ve come down from your high, the man above you burying his head into the crook of your neck as he cries softly at the feeling, unable to help the way his hips buck forward to ride out his orgasm.

This shift in dynamic is new— but it’s addicting, and you find yourself thoroughly enjoying the way Yeonjun clings to you, his head hazy and needy for your comfort as he lays on top of you, uncaring of how heavy he may be as he wraps his strong arms around you.

Missed you s’much baby, missed you, please don’t do that again, you could hear him mutter into your skin, a bit out of it as he peppered kisses along your collarbones.

“Alright, alright, I won’t,” you breathe out, running your fingers through his hair soothingly as he leans into your touch like a cat, “I’m sorry I kept running away from you.”

“But then again,” you trail off, tightening your grip on his hair teasingly, feeling the way he immediately whines softly, “you should’ve given me space when I asked you to. It was kinda cute, but don’t do that again— okay?”

“Okay. Of course. Whatever you say,” his response is immediate, not an ounce of hesitation as he stares at you with eyes shining with devotion. After a second, his lips part, and he’s hovering over you again as he looks down at you in wonder.

“Does that mean we’re boyfriend-girlfriend again?”

You laugh.

“You idiot,” you coo, placing a soft kiss on his lips, unable to control your laugh as you do, “We didn’t stop being boyfriend-girlfriend. I was just mad at you.”

“Hmm. Then, can I eat you out?” His words have you freezing, looking at him in bewilderment as he simply smiles at you sheepishly, “To like. Show you how sorry I am.”

A pause.

“…And, because I really missed eating you out.”

You sigh— and try not to show how eager you are as you nod softly. Yeonjun however, is shameless as he immediately pulls out, hissing softly at the feeling before he’s sinking to his stomach— you’re gulping at the sight.

“You’re insatiable.” Your comment doesn’t faze him— if anything, it makes him smile, his pretty eyes staring at you with enough adoration and love that you’re squirming slightly under him.

“For you, yeah.”

-ˏˋ♡ˊˎ-

On Monday, the sight of Yeonjun on campus is enough to have you spinning on your heels and running in the opposite direction. He wears nothing but a thin tank top, wondering why you’re yelling at him to cover up the moment he answers your phone call.

“Why? It’s hot outside— …and, like, I wanna show everyone who I belong to.”

(You refuse to stand by his side until he covers up—though, you can’t ignore the way his words send butterflies through your stomach.)

#txt fanfic #txt fanfiction #txt imagines #txt oneshots #txt ff #txt angst #txt fluff #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun x you #yeonjun x y/n #yeonjun ff #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun oneshot #txt smut #txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #yeonjun smut #sub yeonjun #sub txt

3K notes · View notes

blushk1tten · 7 months

Note

Mmmm, fucking loved the breeding kink you added at the end of the roadtrip fanfic. You should do an aftermath where reader finds out she is pregnant after the trip mmmmdhshd.

thinking about making this a series now, oops. i hope you enjoy!

you had started feeling sick a little over a month after your road trip with schlatt ended. at first, you put it down to the flu or food poisoning. then, it kept happening. what really kicked you into gear was when you missed your period. you hoped beyond anything it wasn't what you thought it was, but now as you looked at the two positive pregnancy tests you took, you knew you were in trouble.

you and schlatt had been doing long distance since the trip ended, and you had no clue how he would react to you being pregnant. for all you knew, he could completely deny everything, turn, and run. just the thought of it made you want to cry. then again, so did the thought of telling schlatt.

still, you knew you had to do it, especially since you wanted to keep the baby. you were young, but you couldn't really see yourself doing anything else. so, after steeling yourself the best that you could with your hormones, you decided to facetime schlatt. the minute you saw him though, smiling and asking how your day had been, you burst into tears.

"doll, it's okay," he reassured you, though he looked a bit panicked at the sudden tears. "what's wrong? did ya have a bad day or somethin'?"

shaking your head, you tried to calm down and wipe the tears from your eyes. this was it. you were about to tell your long distance boyfriend of two months that you were pregnant.

"'s not a bad day," you sniffled, still brushing away the tears under your eyes and running down your cheeks. "'s something else."

schlatt's brows furrowed, and his concern seemed to grow as you spoke. "what d' ya mean, doll? is everything okay?"

you took a deep, shaky breath. then, you said it. "i'm pregnant."

for a moment, there was silence. you couldn't even look at the screen to see schlatt's reaction. then, he spoke up again. "you're pregnant?"

you nodded, biting your lip with anxiety. it was hard to tell from his voice how he was feeling, and the stress was weighing on you.

"doll," his voice was soft and gentle, making you look back at the screen to face him. he looked nervous too, but at the same time, his eyes showed nothing but concern for you. "i'm not mad at ya. how'd you find out?"

"you know i've been sick lately," you explained, voice quiet and a bit raspy from crying. "then my period never came, so i took a couple of tests and they both came out positive."

he nodded in understanding, running a hand through his hair and taking a deep breath before speaking again. "do you know what you want to do?"

you could feel your voice grow smaller as you spoke, terrified to tell him your choice. "i want to keep them, jay."

to your surprise, he spoke up in a soft, understanding voice, the one that helped to put you at ease. "that's okay, doll. we'll do whatever you want, and i'll be there to help ya."

"really?" you asked in that same, small voice.

once again, he nodded. "really. hell, i'll move to los angeles if i need to help you. i don't want you to be alone f' this."

your eyes widened at that. he hated los angeles, and never failed to bring up his hatred for the city you lived in. if he was offering to move there to help you with your pregnancy, he really meant it. "no, i wouldn't make you do that."

"i know you wouldn't, but i want to be close to you, and once they're born, i want to be close to the baby too."

once upon a time, you had thought your craziest idea had been offering to strip for schlatt. now though, you had a much crazier idea, one he could easily reject.

"what if i moved to austin, and moved in with you," you asked anxiously. "then you could help me, and when the baby comes, you'd get to see them all the time."

there was another pause, but this time, you watched as schlatt's lips curled into a smile. "doll, i think that's one of the best ideas you've ever had. i'd love to move in with you. i know we haven't been together long, but it seems like we're just doing everything out of order."

your own lips quirked into a smile at that. "we really are, aren't we?"

his smile only grew as he chuckled at you. "you know i'm still bookin' a plane ticket to come help you until you can get moved in, right?"

finally relaxed, you nodded and smiled. "we'll be waiting for you, then."

his eyes seemed to light up at the use of the word "we." he was invigorated by the idea of you and your child waiting for him. "i'll see you soon, doll. i love you."

"i love you too, jay."

#jschlatt x reader #jschlatt x you #schlatt x reader #schlatt x you #jschlatt hcs #schlatt hcs #jschlatt headcanons #schlatt headcanons #blush ꨄ

108 notes · View notes

steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

Note

omg hi-- can you do 89 for the writing prompts thingy? it made me almost laugh out loud at work & i think twould be very funny so !!<3

(also you are doing so good & i am loving what you're writing !!!!)

HI! This one is hilarious and I am so amused by the versions I've already read: 89. "YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING!"

Rated M | tags: mention of nude pictures, language, allusions to sex, this is borderline a crack ficlet because it's funny and absurd, modern au, rockstar eddie, corroded coffin guys

📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱📱

Steve hadn't moved from bed all morning, couldn't even try at this point.

He was a little sore from Eddie's homecoming last night, but that was to be expected when he'd been gone for a month.

But he could accomplish a lot in bed, even if Eddie had to go to some stupid meeting this morning with the band.

The photographic evidence of all the things he could accomplish were sent and Steve was just waiting for the hilarious emoji response that was sure to come.

But minutes went by and he got nothing.

Eddie had definitely seen the pictures, the little 'Read 10:06am' popup under the set of four images showing he'd seen them immediately.

By 10:15, Steve was sitting up in bed, biting his nails, a nervous habit he'd picked up during his senior year of college and hadn't been able to kick.

His phone started buzzing, Eddie's contact photo filling the screen.

"Eds?"

""YOU SENT ME PICTURES OF YOU NAKED WHILE I WAS IN A WORK MEETING!"

"No, I sent you four pictures of me naked while you were in a work meeting," Steve replied, smirking to himself.

"And you didn't think that maybe that wasn't the best idea? That maybe someone sitting next to me, or two someones sitting next to me, might see these pictures? That thought didn't occur to you?" Eddie sounded mad.

Which was something Steve wasn't used to.

No matter what, Eddie was never mad at him. He'd never raised his voice, never ignored him on purpose, never done anything to show anger.

Except now.

Steve bit his lip, pulling the covers over himself and curling into a ball.

Eddie sighed.

Steve could picture him running a hand over his face, tugging on his hair, closing his eyes, all the things he did when he was stressed.

"You look beautiful, Stevie, okay? I'm just, I'm stressed and the meeting was really important and our producer saw them. He's such a creep, and then Jeff accidentally saw them when he heard my phone vibrate, and he won't even look at me now, and it's just not good timing."

Steve nodded to himself. He probably should have thought about that, but honestly, he was so high on having Eddie back, he didn't consider much of anything beyond showing off how his morning was going.

"I'm sorry, Eds."

Steve wasn't crying, it was clear that Eddie wasn't actually mad at him, but his voice still came out a bit broken, a bit sad.

"Sweetheart, I promise I'm not mad about it. I'm gonna be home soon and I'll show you just how much I loved the pictures, okay?"

"Okay." Steve smiled to himself. "Maybe we could take some new ones together?"

"What, and send them to Jeff? He might leave the band," Eddie joked.

Joking was good, it was their baseline. Steve could handle joking.

"As if he hasn't been sneaking looks at my ass for years."

"Hey!" Jeff's voice yelled in the background. "It happened, like, twice!"

Steve giggled.

"It's okay, bud, it's very distracting," Eddie said to Jeff. "Let me just grab some coffee with the guys and then I'll be home to take care of you."

Steve let out a moan, tried to hide it in his pillow.

Eddie wasn't mad, but Steve heard the tone of his voice, knew exactly how he'd be taken care of when Eddie got home.

"I was gonna get dressed and go to the store," Steve lied.

"You won't. You'll stay right there." A door closed as Eddie spoke and Steve knew he'd just found a room to talk to him privately. "You won't put any clothes on, and you'll stay in bed with your fingers keeping you ready for me just like in that third picture you sent me."

Steve was gonna scream.

"But I was gonna run errands..."

"You aren't going anywhere until I've made up for the last month. We'll have food delivered. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good." The door opened. "Do you want me to bring you any coffee?"

Steve snorted. "Nope, I think you'll keep me awake just fine."

"Why do you even have him on speaker right now?" Gareth's voice said, faked annoyance in his tone.

"Because I have my hands full!"

"We know!" everyone yelled.

"Not like that!" Eddie yelled back. Then, "Okay, a little like that."

"See you soon, baby," Steve smiled into the phone. "Sorry about the pictures."

"You can say you're sorry when I get home," Eddie replied. "Love you."

"Love you too."

When Steve ended the call, he was sent a steady stream of texts:

Jeff: i swear i don't look at your ass. it's a nice one tho

Gareth: literally i don't wanna look at eddie anymore please make him come home now

Gareth: seriously please he doesn't need coffee he's already annoying

Grant: that's a good angle

Eds: be home soon 😉

An image came through a few seconds later, one that was clearly taken while he was talking to Steve, probably when he hid in a room.

It was just a dark shot of Eddie's crotch, pants unbuttoned and unzipped, showing absolutely nothing.

Steve shook his head and replied: you're not very good at this. love you though.

He would just have to show Eddie how to get a good angle for his next attempt at sending something suggestive.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #make me write #modern au

78 notes · View notes

xxrainshadowsxx · 9 months

Text

Question...?

Oh hey look, it's the return of angst. Jack asks about his dad for the first time. Takes place about two years before Jack meets Oncie.

Rating: K

Warnings: Nothing but angst

You push hair off of your forehead as you bend down to shove more clothes into the washer. It was Saturday, and Saturday meant catching up on chores. That had been your routine for years now.

“Hey, Mom?” Jack’s voice comes from behind you.

“What is it, sweetheart?” you ask, glancing back at him as you get the last of the clothing into the machine. He’s looking quite nervous, twisting his hands, biting his lower lip, and he can’t meet your eyes. His body language sets off your alarm bells immediately. “Jack? Is everything okay?” you ask, much more urgently now.

“Yeah, it’s just… can we talk about something?” he evades, finally looking up at you with pleading eyes. Eyes that were so much like his father’s…

“Of course,” you say before you can become lost in your own thoughts. “Do you want to go to your room so we can have some privacy?”

He just nods, so you take a moment to start the laundry before following him to his room, taking a seat next to him on his bed. “So what’s going on?” you ask him. He was starting to worry you. You’ve never seen him act this way before.

‘Well, it’s…” he pauses, then takes a deep breath as if to steel himself. “It’s about my dad.”

You feel yourself freeze and your senses go numb. Although you knew this question would be coming at some point, no amount of mental preparation could have sufficiently set you up for the reality of hearing it asked. You take your own deep, shuddering breath before answering. “What about him?” You’re shocked by how even your tone is.

“Like, who is he? Why isn’t he around?” Jack asks in a very small voice. “It’s just been you, me, and Aunt Aurora my whole life but… that isn’t normal, is it? Most of the other kids in my class have dads, and I don’t.”

Damn this kid. He’s always been too smart for his own good, but this is a new level even for him. His perception was beyond incredible, and you were going to have to handle this very delicately. You couldn’t insult his intelligence, but you also had to keep in mind that at his core, he was just a very confused seven-year-old.

“Before we start, I need you to understand something,” you say, taking his hands. “You might have questions today that I won’t be able to answer just yet. I’m not trying to hide anything and I won’t lie to you, but your father is a… touchy subject. Please trust that if I don’t tell you something, I’m doing it for your own good, and that you’ll almost certainly find out one day, just not yet. And when you’re older, you’ll understand why I didn’t tell you everything right away. Can you be okay with that? I know this is a lot.”

“Um, yeah. I think that’s okay,” he says, albeit uncertainly, but you can also tell his curiosity has been piqued even further. With a second deep breath on your end, you try and find a good place to start. After a minute of thinking, you land on something.

“The first thing you should know is that your father is not a bad man,” you stress. “I’m not keeping him away because he’s bad. But the reason he isn’t around is because he doesn’t know you exist, baby.”

Jack’s brow furrows. “How does he not know I exist? I don’t understand,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes as you try and figure out how to best explain this. “Even though he’s not a bad person, he made a pretty big mistake, and we broke up. I didn’t find out I was pregnant with you until a little while later. You know babies are in mom’s tummies for nine months, but we don’t always know right away.”

“And once you found out, you didn’t tell him?” Jack asks, making you sigh again.

“Honey, I don’t think he’s in the town. This was right around when the wall was going up, and I think he made it out before he didn’t have a chance anymore. I can’t say for sure if this is what happened since I honestly don’t know, but I’ve never seen him in Thneedville since we broke up. I don’t think he lives here anymore.” It kills you to admit it, but you know it’s true. You’d tried going to his house several times once you’d discovered you were pregnant, and had found it empty every one of those times. You didn’t like to admit it, and you were definitely not going to tell Jack yet, but you think he ran after destroying the trees. It wasn’t a good look for him, but it couldn’t be helped or changed now, so you tried not to dwell on it too much.

“So I’m never gonna meet him? Ever?” Jack’s voice sends another dagger through you. He sounds so heartbroken. You’d worked so hard to provide for him, but this was something you couldn’t give him, no matter how hard you tried or how much you wanted to. He had Aurora, but as good as she was, she wasn’t his dad and never pretended to be. She knew her role was as his aunt, and that was the part she played.

“Sweetie, I don’t know,” you do your best to comfort. “We can’t see the future, and never is a long time. That wall might come down eventually, we don’t know. I don’t want you to completely lose hope, okay?”

Jack slowly nods, looking down at his feet. He’s quiet for a moment, then asks the question that you’ve been dreading more than any other. “What was his name?”

It was such a simple question, and should have had such a simple answer, but of course your situation had to be complicated. You couldn’t protect him from what his father had done forever, but you could put it off until he was ready to hear it. Even if you didn’t tell him the full story yet, there was every chance he could overhear someone talking about what Onceler had done. And if Jack didn’t have a name, he could live in ignorant bliss for a while longer.

“I… I can’t tell you that,” you say hesitatingly. You see his face fall, and hasten to explain as best as you’re able. “And I know you don’t know why, and I wish I could explain it better. I will tell you one day, I promise. It’s just… complicated. I don’t want you to get caught up in it until you’re ready, okay?”

“I don’t understand,” Jack says with a frown.

“I know you don’t,” you sigh. “And I’m doing the best I can to try and help. But do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust that you’ll know more when you’re older. And by then, you’ll understand. It’ll all make sense to you someday,” you promise. As you’re speaking, an idea suddenly hits you. “If you want, I can get you a picture. Would that be a good compromise?” you ask.

That suggestion makes Jack perk up a bit. “Yes, please,” he requests with the barest hint of a smile coming back to him. You give him what you know is a sad smile of your own before pushing yourself off the bed and making your way to the dresser in your own bedroom.

Even though you hadn’t seen this picture in several months, you knew exactly where it was. You tended to only get it out on the anniversary of the day you left, the one day of the year you allowed yourself to mourn. Other than that, you tried to think of him as little as you could, though it proves harder as Jack looks more and more like him every day.

You brush a bit of dust off the frame and give yourself a moment to stare at it. It had been the day you’d started dating him, and had wanted a picture the press couldn’t have. Both of you were happy in this frozen image, not knowing about the heartbreak that would come several months later.

You hug the picture to yourself before taking it back to Jack. Taking yet another deep breath, you hand him the picture, and his deep blue eyes immediately take it in.

“Oh, wow,” he whispers. Looking at both of them, it was more obvious than ever how much Jack resembled his father. And that constant pang in your heart that his father wasn’t here with you grew even stronger. Your son was nothing short of a miracle. His father would have loved him. And it was due to horrible circumstances that you couldn’t fix that were keeping both of them from each other.

“Can I keep this?” Jack asks, breaking a bit of your melancholy. You blink once to bring yourself back to the present moment.

“Yeah, of course,” you answer before you pull him into a tight hug. You loved this kid with your whole heart. Everything you did now was for him.

It’s several minutes before you let each other go. “I think I’m gonna go shoot some hoops at the park,” he decides, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes. You pretend you don’t see as you smile and nod.

“Okay. Be back before five,” you tell him, giving him one last kiss on the top of his head. He grabs his basketball, places the photo carefully on top of his dresser, and heads out of the apartment.

It’s only when the door shuts that you allow the tears you’ve been holding back to spill over, mourning the love you once had.

#fanfiction #onceler fanfiction #onceler x reader #the lorax #the onceler #also on ao3 #onceler

10 notes · View notes

rudolphsb9 · 2 years

Text

So I recently had a chance to revisit The Little Vampire (2000) (as you may know, or maybe not...) and the more I think about it, the more I'm realizing....

Gregory had the best arc and was the most compelling character.

See, where Tony becomes a worse person at least toward humans, and Rudolph enables this (though his "I've only known Tony for a day and a half but if anything happens to him I'll kill everyone in this room and then myself" attitude is adorable and appropriately extra for the vampires in this movie), Gregory is basically off to the side grappling with his relationship to his father, to vampirism... At one point he's even seen reacting with shock to the news his missing uncle might still be alive.

And here's the thing. One of his big scenes is having a huge fight with his father over biting the caretaker (who was, and I cannot emphasize this enough, live bait for the vampire hunter). He talks a lot in this fight about how they should come out of hiding and fight back and so on and so forth. But he doesn't seem to actually believe that, which is shown by the other big thing he does: calling all the vampires in the area to the local cliff for the big ritual where they get their humanity back. (Freda even says Gregory stole the amulet from his father for this purpose because "that treachery is beyond him" i.e. he's not gonna actually go through with his bluster because he does genuinely believe in their cause.)

I can't recall if I ever had a crush on Gregory as a kid but I've now reached the age where he just reads like a bean? Dude has a lil stress toy for God's sake.

Bean.

And there's one thing I've been picking up on lately that I don't think became a factor in my earlier Little Vampire fanfiction: Gregory is the eldest son, and when the family was turned several centuries prior (certainly long enough ago to get thoroughly sick of it by the movie's prologue), that was a big stonkin deal. He was his father's heir, and Frederick is certainly the kind of man to apply intense pressure about that sort of thing. And I think they felt the aftereffects of that well into their time as vampires, if it ever really went away.

But, contrary to Gregory's assertion that his father "feels nothing", Frederick genuinely loves his family and significant chunks of his screentime (hell, almost all of it) protecting his family from the machinations of the vampire hunter (fucking valid honestly because Rookery is a pure evil individual, no matter what thin veneer he paints over it). See above about the caretaker.

So near the end after Frederick and Freda reach the cliffs and Frederick thanks Gregory for summoning the clan and they smile at each other (and Gregory is noticeably taken aback) and then Gregory swings the amulet faster, it warms my soul and waters my crops.

Also Frederick tops the list of good, competent dads in media and has probably set the bar (god knows my own IRL dad isn't).

#the little vampire #gregory sackville bagg #frederick sackville bagg

104 notes · View notes

thesunshineriptide · 2 years

Note

If you're still asking for overblot characters I was curious about Jack and Epel.

Overblot Epel

First of all he overblots because of Vil. I’d imagine that his overblot would happen due to extremely foreseen circumstances of being berated over and over again

This isn’t new, it’s just his life, but it’s adding up and eating at him. He’s trying, okay, can’t you see that? He’s doing his best to be prissy and high brow and suppress the instinct to bite someone every time they misgender him or call him pretty and whatnot.

He’s another case of just overusing his magic on accident in combination with the mental anguish. It’s not a mental breakdown, persay, and it’s not him snapping, it’s a slow burning fire that simply had more kindling added to it

The day isn’t anything spectacular. There isn’t a major event coming up, there isn’t a big fight, there’s no failing tests or stress beyond normal. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t wear him down.

He takes his dance classes. He does pretty well in them, which only serves to frustrate him since he hates ballet, it’s uncomfortable and it hurts, he hasn’t trained for this. He aces his potionology tests with Rook’s help, which is great except that now Vil’s looking at him smugly, and tells him he expects this of him all the time.

It’s time for their daily duel. It probably shouldn’t be daily, but it is because Epel simply can’t keep himself from telling Vil to shove off.

This is what causes it. Epel fights with all his might, trying not to hurt Vil but still attempting to win. And, of course, he loses.

Then he gets up. When Vil has his back turned, he blasts him with an elemental attack, seething.

“Again.” He demands, “I want to go again.”

“Spudling,” Vil says tiredly, “You’ve lost once. Do you want that to happen again?”

Epel nods, and Vil sighs before readying himself.

Epel loses again, but his control is waning.

“Again.” He says, glaring, “I’ll win this time.”

“Epel.” Vil says firmly.

He stops, though, because Epel isn’t asking anymore. He’s already slinging spells his way, no care for how harmful they might be. Vil is on the defense, doing his best to dodge and block. He hadn’t expected this, though he probably should have, and he’s somehow both impressed and pissed.

Epel is exhausting himself at this point. His magestone is nearly completely black, and Vil can see.

“Stop.” He says, “Epel, stop.”

“No!” He cries, and flings a fireball at him.

Ink begins pooling down from his hairline, covering his face in a delicate black mask. His hands shake and his lip quivers, and he continues shooting it at him, “No! I’m going to win! I’m going to win!”

He’s consumed with blot, and Vil reels back at the realization. He understands, now, that he went too far. He should have kept his comments gentler, or stopped Epel from going again and again

Epel looks both delicate and strong at once. His blot phantom is a prince, decked in red and blue and gold, glaring down at Vil

Epel himself wears intricately designed armor, like a knight, but worse. He looks down empty tears in his eyes, the look in them dead.

He’s a little difficult to take down. Fighting him doesn’t help, he doesn’t have restraint and honestly nobody even wants to fight him. No, what it takes is Vil calling in some help from the spelldrive team to just. Calm him down.

Leona takes charge, tugging Epel close despite the danger and telling him to stop acting like this, nobody questions his strength, and if he doesn’t he’s off the spelldrive team.

It should piss him off more. It should make him go harder, but instead he sags in Leona’s grip, sobbing as the beastman holds him up. There’s an unspoken understanding between them that Leona does care, and that Epel idolizes him more than anyone else in NRC.

“You’re alright, herbivore.” He says to Epel, patting his head, “Let’s get you somethin’ to drink.”

There’s nothing to be said. His overblot was an accident, it was never meant to happen. Nobody apologizes, but the behaviors change anyway. Vil loosens the leash a little, Leona takes up some of the slack and makes sure Epel is alright from time to time, and Epel does his best to not let things get to him so badly

Overblot Jack

Jack is a tough nut to crack considering everything. He’s a dependable hard worker who keeps his nose clean and never cuts corners. He’s excellent in most skills, he’s strong, he tries his best in class, and he rarely gets into fights.

What, on earth, could cause this guy to overblot?

Werewolves: the monsters that wolf-beastmen are said to turn into when possessed by the power of the full moon. People often tell young kids not to stay up too late or they’ll turn into them

Jack is dependable. He gets to sleep at 10 pm, he wakes up early to do his runs, he studies hard to memorize things and do well. So when he begins to slip in these areas, staying up later, sleeping in longer, going as far as to growl at Crewel, it’s evident something is wrong with him.

It started as a prank, really! Ace and Deuce were having a little fun, started settling Jack’s water jugs outside and turning them into moon water. In the sun, it doesn’t look different, though in the nighttime it lights up a lovely pale blue color and shimmers with energy.

They begin to realize their mistake soon enough. Jack’s been accidentally snapping handles off doors, he accidentally injured Epel in practice. His hair looks sharper, puffier, and so does his tail. And he looks to be in a very, very bad mood.

At lunchtime he rips and tears at his food, hunched over it. He eats with his hands, too, which is worrisome. He’s glaring when Ace reaches over to steal a fry off his plate, and-

He bites him.

Ace reels back, screaming. Jack looks indifferent.

It’s a week of this before someone intervenes. Jack’s gone pretty much mute, but he still manages to do schoolwork most of the time. The only people he’ll listen to are the dorm heads, and even then it’s risky.

He begins to grow fur. It’s soft white, like his beast form, but it seems…matted. It makes him look somewhat terrifying.

What makes him overblot is the final intervention. All of the dorm leaders have cornered him, blocking all exits. Leona’s crouched, ready to tackle him if he gets violent. Riddle’s already got his pen out, poised to off his head. Azul, Idia (in person, yes) and Kalim stand mostly as bodies to prevent escape while Vil and Malleus block the other exits. He’s completely cornered.

It’s late at night, which only makes him more agitated. He growls and snaps wildly at those he would normally deem to be his friends, eyes glowing yellow. Moonlight leaks in through the atrium of the botanical gardens, and he begins to shift.

Bones crack and reappoint themselves, he’s growling a deep rumble, and he looks distinctly not human, not even close to himself. He’s somewhere between wolf and man, but closer to animal as he howls.

This is his overblot.

There’s ink designed in tendrils crawling up his arms and legs, splotches of it painting his ears, and behind him is his phantom, another wolf. It sits proudly, silently, stoically, but it doesn’t move to attack at all. It seems this one has more presence of mind than Jack

He runs at Leona, who dodges and grabs him by the scruff, forcing him to the ground. Riddle casts his signature spell, snapping the collar around Jack’s neck quickly. It interrupts something, leaving Jack whining with wide eyes on the floor, looking up pitifully.

The phantom stands and moves closer, carefully avoiding Leona but doing much the same as him. One massive paw sits in the middle of Jack’s back.

Riddle crouches down, gently petting Jack’s ears. “I believe my freshman have done this to you. Let me help fix this, it’s the least I can do.”

Everyone is silent as they watch Jack’s labored breathing and dog-like whines. He slowly gets up, ears flicking and swiveling as he tries to orient himself. He can’t speak - he knows he should be able to. He thinks he recognizes these people, but his mind is scrambled.

The phantom disappears quickly, and it’s Leona who’s left to keep him under control. Jack stops putting up a fight, but he doesn’t exactly submit either, growling and snapping when Leona gets close.

It takes Riddle, again, to calm him. He’s tugging the beastman along toward the alchemy room, talking on the phone with his mother and father, asking what they know. The strong dormleaders flank them, because having a werewolf loose in the school can’t be good.

Azul and Idia get to work studying in books while Riddle takes notes from his parents. Everyone else is on dog sitting duty, though it’s hard when Jack keeps trying to escape from Leona.

Eventually, near sunrise, they finally have a cure. Riddle removes his collar just as Jack begins to drink it, causing a dissonant moment where the beastman looks ready to attack again and seems to be calming down.

Eventually the day is saved and Jack turns out to be okay, much to the relief of everyone. He has to take a few days off school to recover (and shed) but all’s well that ends well

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland headcanons #epel felmier #twst epel #pomefiore #twst jack #jack howl #savanaclaw #savannaclaw

75 notes · View notes

builder051 · 1 year

Text

No black cats allowed

(Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise)

This is the We fit like an Enfit ‘verse (tube ‘verse)—HOWEVER, it is completely removed from the currently published timeline. I always mean to fill in the cracks, but I never get to it, so here’s what you should know. The story runs like this: Steve and Bucky were high school sweethearts, then Bucky went overseas with the Army, had terrible experiences, got hurt, and got shipped back home. He tried getting back with Steve when he first made it stateside, but things were a little rocky, and eventually they broke up. It’s then, post-break up, that Steve starts having his own health problems and winds up getting tubed. He tries relying on coworkers to help him, but his issues continue, and he desperately needs a caretaker, or at least someone who can spend time with him and drive him to appointments. He reaches out to Bucky again, and after a little getting used to each other again, they move in together (and with Bucky’s cat), and they’re back to their previous relationship situation.

This story takes place in the “right back home” period, when Bucky has returned from Iraq and is still dating Steve. It’ll make sense as a stand-alone story, but placing it in context might be tricky.

This fic has a lot of stuff regarding war, mental health, PTSD, panic, therapy, hospitals, gore al la blood and vomit, some truly disgusting food talk, superstition, a nod to the existence of sex. It’s the usual mixed bag; there’s a huge amount of backstory, then story, then a tiny wrap-up with an open ending.

_____________________________

He probably shouldn’t have stacked the appointments. Looking back through the lense of hindsight, that’s exactly when things went wrong. It lies some three weeks previously, when he’d taken the return call from scheduling and neglected to note the dates and times in his planner. Bucky should’ve known the system would bite him in the ass. Again.

As much as Bucky hates to admit it, he’s probably the one responsible for the ass-biting. He shouldn’t take calls during his lunch hour. He tries, since that’s the only time he can slip outside the echoing warehouse. The stacks of cardboard and wood pallets do nothing to absorb the noise of crashing boxes and the temperamental swamp cooler. Signal’s always shitty, too, even on the outdoor loading deck. The building’s sad excuse for WiFi lies beyond possibility for the connection necessary for web calls. Regardless of means, the voice on the other end is crunchy and segmented. Bucky’s lucky to hear every third word or so. There’s just enough static to blur words out of meaning. Bucky isn’t quick enough to pack potential consonant blends into their respective gaps, and that’s his fault. His lapse in speech therapy practice. It’s his anxiety getting in the way of fulfilling every carefully noted point on his daily schedule.

Bucky didn’t used to have anxiety. Sure, he’d grown up with all the ups and downs of adolescence. He doesn’t like to think about the shameful day he’d ditched two final exams and barricaded himself in a janitor’s closet, puking up the previous night’s samplings of whiskey, edibles, and potato chips. But that happened to everyone, right? Through the rest of his time spent in secondary school, community college, basic training, Bucky remembers others laughing through self deprecating stories of the same.

It was just a universal thing, he’d thought. It had to be. Stress, probably. He’d had a lot going on during his seventeenth and eighteenth years. Football had him in two grueling practices a day, and the gods of senior year must’ve found his list of trespasses. Whether they were punishing him for his academic faults or general life choices, Bucky knew not. He had a feeling it was both; and he’s still sent reeling from time to time when a bad memory strikes. He leaves the room if anybody pops a bag of anything sour cream and onion.

Bucky had wanted to rush to the nearest exit when his VA appointed counselor gifted him the distastefully pink and quote-filled planner book. The dumpster out back would be a good place to stash it. Then he could hide out with an angry cigarette or two until he was calm enough to drive home. Therapy wasn’t for him, he’d decided, all in the same flustered moment. He’d just stop coming to his regularly scheduled appointments.

Halfway to the nearest gas station, though, Bucky had remembered his driver’s license was over a year out of date. The only valid ID on him was his base pass. It sometimes invited awkward conversations where people thanked him for his service. Truth be told, he’d rather have his arm back than any 20% discount. And the more he’d thought about it, the more he was sure that smoking tobacco would be a bad idea. It would probably have him honking up his breakfast before he could even inhale. He’d been forced to quit cold turkey somewhere in the Afghan desert. Taliban guards hadn’t been generous with their stashes of candy and drugs and diet soda. The same had been true for the nurses in any hospital he’s visited since. He should stick with weed. Edibles could certainly be obtained online these days.

That brought up the question of his ID again, though. Would some text bot in central Colorado rat on him for buying gum drops laced with delta 9? It would have to, if there was a subpoena. That’s stupid, Bucky told himself. It didn’t help much. When he arrived at his apartment, he was just keyed up enough to have the shakes and visual sparks that so often heralded migraines and bad memories. Once he shut the front door, Bucky grabbed an oxytocin from the bathroom cabinet and collapsed onto his bed. His jeans and boots didn’t matter. With any luck, he’d soon be having solely out-of-body experiences.

Bucky gets four hours of relief, no matter what he tries. Chemically negotiated sleep, alcohol-induced giddiness, a couple of chess games with Steve— his outlets, healthy and non, never bring him completely down. He’s never felt satisfied, never fully charged. His year in the desert stole more than just his body and mind; Bucky feels eternally depleted, like he can’t breathe in enough oxygen or drink enough water, despite his esophagus and lungs taking only minimal damage. The blisters from caustic smoke inhalation were completely healed, medical staff in Kandahar had informed him. Apparently mouths and throats and other wet, mucousy areas of the body have superior healing powers. None of it has convinced him to make an appointment with an ENT, an allergist, or a dentist, but Bucky makes a concerted effort not to discount the experts. At least not too much.

Bucky usually catches himself before he does anything too rash. Sometimes his excuses aren’t great, such as the time he used a hammer to smash open a jar of tomato sauce after an hour of fruitless one-handed twisting. The wrist ache and stubborn desire to put a cooked dinner on the table pushed him a little far, he’ll admit. But as far as he knows, Steve is still oblivious to the fact that he’d eaten pasta that was carefully strained to remove bits of shattered glass.

Bucky’s dissected the entire experience with his counselor over multiple sessions, and they’ve pretty much organized his breakdowns into different categorical reactions preceded by similar warning signs. Those urges to run, hide, throw rocks at the pigeons on his balcony— they should cue him to do something grounding. Looking at his planner would be an optimal choice. Breathing deeply and focusing on the pastel watercolors that border each page’s scheduling block. That might encourage him to reap more benefits of the fat spiral-bound book. If he wanted, Bucky could schedule his life from 6AM to midnight every day of every month of every year. Apparently the planner comes from a curated luxury brand, and a trip to its website could enable him to order complementary stickers and expander pages. The counselor cheerfully joked that he could go broke, the array of pastel and neon and vegan leather office supplies were so tempting. Bucky supposes it’s a success, then, that he’s never pulled up the site, let alone sit and browse with his wallet open.

Bucky likes planning his days more organically. He wakes up a solid four hours before he leaves for work, so there’s plenty of time to dress and shovel down some breakfast and call Steve’s office phone and plant an endearing message in voice mail box. They don’t live together anymore, technically, but their pair bond hasn’t completely disappeared. Bucky would lose his subsidized apartment if he put his name on a lease somewhere else. The rule runs the other way too, preventing anyone but Bucky’s solitary disabled veteran of a self occupied the blank-walled studio. It doesn’t keep them from meeting up from time to time. The times do seem to be falling a little less frequently as time stretches on, but thinks he knows why.

It’s Bucky’s fault, again. This time for falling into the greedy trap of bonus pay for work hours outside his regular shifts. He doesn’t want to buy anything with the extra cash, but the rotating schedule does give him something to jot down in his planner. Maybe he’ll get some outrageous stickers after all. Something loud and especially obnoxious, like glittery rainbows. He’d use them to mark special occasions. A dinner date with Steve, perhaps. At one of those nice-but-not-fancy places, like the diner that lights up the end of the block with its 24-hour incandescent window lights and perpetually flashing ‘fresh coffee’ sign. That could easily pin them down together for the four-hour stretch between the end of work and the beginning of Jack Hanna’s Wild Countdown at 11pm. Bucky has begun to recognize the reruns of the reruns, but he’s not in it for the fun facts. It’s the camaraderie he likes. His friend Jack keeping him from other, less savory companions like Jack and Coke.

The VA’s phone tree and call waiting systems haven't changed in the five years Bucky’s been subjected to them. The whole communication setup seems stuck in Windows 98. Bucky’s seen the telltale screensaver bouncing around on his rehabilitation doctor’s desktop. He’s fairly sure the hospital could afford to upgrade, though the staff probably hadn’t realized that patients glimpsing a monitor here and there could trigger memories of young recruits sitting in a sweltering tent and logging into the heavily filtered .gov email system on an ancient Macintosh. Sometimes a loved one sent a sweet message and a picture of a cat, which was always appreciated, even though the hard coded regulations reset the text to all caps interspersed with phrases like ‘censored’ and ‘jpeg not displayed.’ Just as often, though, a buddy with a satellite connection would dash off a succinct report of lives recently lost in the latest (redacted) mission. Harsh as they were, Bucky appreciated those notes just as much. His higher-ups rarely passed down accurate weather reports, let alone information about their brothers in other companies. Demoralizing content was cut more and more as the conflict in the desert stretched on. They said it would detract from the bravery of the young, impressionable troops. Bucky laughs now to keep himself from grinding his teeth. The policy won’t fall out of fashion any time soon, no matter where the army continues to send him.

If Bucky uses his morning free time to call any of the hospital’s departments, the nurse at the desk invariably tells him that they’ll take a note and pass it onto the next in the chain of command. An MA, an intern, some kid doing work study to earn his mess hall rations… As responsible as any of them may be, the note never makes it further than the trash can behind the reception desk. That’s what Bucky assumes, since he hasn’t received any communication back.

The same is true for his evenings; Bucky gets off work around 4:00 most days, and he’s lucky to be put on hold while the desk person searches down for someone with authority. The system shuts down promptly at 5:00, and the tinny classical medley of the hold music dies and gives him a dial tone instead. Some days Bucky steels himself and leaves his name and predicament with the voicemail, trying hard not to sound too angry or annoyed. He’s pondered on the idea of letting his emotions seep into his speech along with some heavy sighs, but he doesn’t want to risk it. The last thing he needs is for his counselor to find out and refer him to anger management.

What he’d needed, badly, was a follow up with audiology. The kind practitioner in plainclothes carefully helped him through the process of a complete ear health and hearing examination. The tiny booth for the beep and button test had given him pause, but, as with everything else so far, he’d survived. After the audiologist collected her data, she’d tried to interest him in filling out the form for his hearing aid order. The diagnosis of partial deafness had come as no surprise, but Bucky had declined to participate. “Whatever brand, whatever color. I don’t care,” he’d told her. Stress had been mounting, and the audiologist had let him escape the office with a fleeting, “See you later. We’ll call when you can come pick them up.”

The call had come, much to Bucky’s surprise. He’d felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket as he was pushing a refrigerator box across the warehouse. A quick glance at the screen had shown an unknown number with a local prefix, and he’d figured he should pick up. Maybe it was the front desk at Steve’s office. The community college puzzling over his student loan and GI bill. The local police, perhaps, trying to cite him for abuse of pigeons.

Surprisingly, though, it was the VA. “Hold on, hold on, I have to get somewhere I can hear you,” he’d barked over the rest of the caller’s sentence. Bucky had quickly ducked into the windowless closet they used as a break room before saying, “Ok, go.”

The quality of the call had been especially terrible. “Hearing aids”, Bucky was able to decipher. Then, “Schedule pickup.”

“In the morning,” he’d replied. “I work weird hours.”

“The thirteenth?” The caller had offered.

“What, like, tomorrow?”

“Next month.”

Bucky’d pushed his hair back off his forehead, wondering if he could pin down his work times that far in advance. “I’ll try to make it work.” That was the best he could offer.

“And PT?”

“What was that now?”

“Physical therapy,” the caller had clarified.

Bucky could’ve sworn he’d already graduated from the program. He’d been relieved when he’d stopped going. The humiliation of pedaling an arm bike with only one arm regularly took a chunk of his self esteem.

“No-show last session,” Bucky had managed to understand. “Reschedule.”

“Um…” He could’ve explained his understanding of the situation, but he’d already been eager to get off the phone. If anything, he could pretend to go to PT and really just use it as an opportunity to tell his therapist face-to-face that he was quitting. “Sure,” Bucky had sighed. The rush of air had reverberated through the call and caught him back like a waterpik to his eardrum. Hard of hearing, he was. Not hard of feeling. “Ugh, sorry.”

The caller had paid it no mind. “Nine o’clock for audiology and 9:30 for PT?’”

“Sure.” Now Bucky was cringing at the sound of his own voice. “Thanks.” Then he’d hung up, not waiting to hear a goodbye.

He’d meant to jot the appointments down in his planner. He’d amused himself with the thought that the thing might finally serve a helpful purpose. Bucky’s good mood had carried on through the afternoon. He was even inspired to pick up a box of donuts and drive over to Steve’s office, where he’d sat on the hood of Steve’s car and helped himself to a chocolate glazed. Steve had come out the door shouting at Bucky for defacing his vehicle. But then he’d eaten a sugar dusted lemon creme and inticed Bucky to lick the sweet powder from his fingers. The trip back to Steve’s place was a given. It wasn't the first time he’d given Bucky a lift to pick up his car in the morning.

The next few weeks had passed uneventfully. It was back to the mundane work/rest/tv cycle that drove Bucky’s life. He and Steve were a little tense again. He was living on cereal again. Bucky figured he’d work it out with his counselor at the next appointment. Until then, he’d cope. He hadn’t counted, but he knew there weren’t that many days left in the week.

Friday dawns grey and cloudy. Bucky’s scheduled to work a swing shift, so he doesn’t have to leave his apartment until the afternoon. He gathers the box of cornflakes and the milk carton, then sits at the kitchen table in his bathrobe. He intends to let his cereal marinate for a moment while he browses social media, but he doesn’t get that far. Bucky feels a jolt in his gut as squints at the expiration date stamped on the side of the milk. The thirteenth. Today, he realizes. Friday the fucking thirteenth. He should just go back to bed now.

But no, he has work later, and he rarely sleeps during daylight hours without the help of some chemical or other. Getting high would be nice, though. He could call in sick. The thought of the dishonesty hardens into a lump in Bucky’s stomach, though. On the other hand, he does feel a little sick. He doesn’t particularly want to slog his balding car tires through slick streets and mud puddles. No, he can’t do that. He’d run the risk of becoming the butt of somebody’s joke about being scarce on the unlucky day. Anxiety pits itself against anxiety, and the discomfort moves upward into Bucky’s chest.

Something else isn’t right. Bucky stands and grabs his planner from the top of a stack of phone books in the kitchen corner. The poorly bound yellow and white pages usually serve the purpose of sound damper when he has to resort to a screwdriver or hammer to bust open packaging. Otherwise, they’re a convenient shelf for stuff he likes to keep handy, which is really just a flimsy excuse for not tidying up.

Bucky flips the leaves of the planner. He’d left it open to some date last week, and, though he hasn’t written anything in the schedule blocks, he’s starting to feel positive that he’s missed something important.

Important. Bucky whispers the word under his breath until it slurs into something unintelligible. Appointment, Bucky realizes as he lands on the page for today. “Don’t let the rain spoil the sunshine” the inscription reads. It’s in a curly novelty font, and Bucky can swear he feels the eye strain crystallizing into a headache. Friday the fucking thirteenth indeed.

Bucky can’t remember the time he’s scheduled to arrive at the VA, so he books it, just in case. If he’s late, someone will cancel the appointments. Usually some front desk person, a scheduler or a receptionist, who seems to lavish in other people’s distress. If he’s early, well, he’ll sit and suffer in the waiting area, listening to the front desk person ruin other people’s day.

Bucky leaves his pajama top and hustles into jeans, then grabs his wallet and phone. He stuffs his feet into some clogs. Even slip-ons that require a manual heel adjustment are too much for him today. He’s almost out the door when he spots the milk and dry cereal still sitting on the kitchen table. Bucky falters in an anxious pause, then decides it’s not worth the effort to put them away. The milk is scheduled to expire today anyway.

Bucky pauses again outside the front door when he remembers that he needs keys. They live on a hook next to the door, so he only needs to open it as wide as his arm. He scrabbles at the wall with his fingernails, and the keys fall on the floor. “Fuck,” Bucky mumbles as he bends to retrieve them. The change in position kicks up a wave of vertigo, and he has to lean on the wall for a moment to stop his visual field from spinning.

Now flustered, Bucky races across the parking lot and jumps into his car. He backs up without turning his head, hoping Friday the thirteenth doesn’t bless him with a dent in his bumper. Luck wins, and he speeds toward the main road. He breathes deeply before turning at the stop sign. Getting out of his parking space must’ve been a false positive. He steels himself for whatever terror the hospital has for him today.

When he slides into the hospital lot, Bucky knows he’s pulled in crooked. He cracks the door, and once he sees that his tires are only a centimeter or so across the line, he calls it good enough. He slams the door, but when he goes to lock it, he realizes he’s left the keys in the ignition. Bucky begs the car not to auto lock, but it does anyway. The beep is barely within his range of hearing, but the high, tinny sound makes him squeeze his eyes shut. He has his phone on his body, so he can at least call roadside assistance when it’s time to leave.

“Fuck.” Bucky curses himself again before starting to hold his breath in preparation for the VA’s revolving door. If he’ll ever get stuck in it, it will be today. The door grinds and scrapes over waterproof carpet, but Bucky manages to shove it into working order. It spits him out in the middle of the overly lit entrance hall. Blast fluorescent lightbulbs. Bucky’s head gives a good throb, and he remembers to exhale. His heart’s going a mile a minute. He needs to calm down before some staff member sees him and decides to give him a piss test to make sure he isn’t misusing his amphetamines.

Lo and behold, a woman in scrubs crosses the hall right in front of him. She has her head down and her thumbs moving madly as she types on her phone. She pays him no mind, and Bucky’s glad for it. He hopes she doesn’t run into something, it being Friday the thirteenth and all. After a glance in both directions, Bucky heads to the audiology clinic. With the lights above reflecting in shiny puddles across the floor, he hopes he doesn’t run into something either.

When Bucky reaches the front desk, the elderly man behind the counter glares. “You’re a few minutes late,” he announces.

“Sorry,” Bucky gasps. He swallows and tries to get his diaphragm and lungs back into alignment. “I’m sorry. Uh, traffic, you know…”

The man nods. He knows. He probably thinks he knows everything. He might be a retired general or something; Bucky’s only seen this degree of hatred coming from the eyes of a higher ranking officer who’s dead set on stomping anthills.

“You’re late,” the man repeats. “I’ll have to call your practitioner.”

Bucky averts his eyes as the man picks up a landline and peruses the list of extensions on an index card taped to the side of a computer monitor.

“I can just go,” Bucky offers. Better to leave on his own volition rather than take the demerit and perseverate on it on the drive back to his apartment. No, rather when he loiters back in the parking lot waiting on a tow truck.

“It’s fine.” The doctor in plainclothes appears in the doorway adjacent to the reception desk. Today she wears a t-shirt bearing a stylized painting of a cochlear implant. “You’re picking up, right?” She glances at the back of the desk man’s head. “Appointments like that don’t take much time. You’re good to come back.”

Bucky’s relieved to avoid the tense session of waiting room sitting; he steps quickly through the door the audiologist holds open for him. Her office is the first door down the hall. Blessedly it’s carpeted, and the chairs for patients have real cushions on their seats. Bucky starts to sit, but the audiologist stops him.

“Here.” She grabs a small box off her desk and hands it over. “Just pop them in.”

Bucky takes it and does as he’s told. The box hinges open, and there are the aids. His aids, now. The part that sits behind his ear is metallic grey with a few bright, silver, and overly technical looking buttons. Dark red tubes secure to the slim side of the aids to navy blue molds, which Bucky assumes are custom cut and fabricated from the uncomfortable gel impressions he’d suffered through at his first appointment.

“Alright…” Bucky takes one and pushes the earmold deeply in his left canal. The soft silicone squishes slightly, but maintains its shape. It feels as if he’s shoving a bouncy ball into his ear. Once the aid is positioned, it completely blocks his sense of hearing. He’s reminded uncomfortably of the compressed foam earplugs he’d worn when he was training on the firing range. “Is it supposed to be quiet?” Bucky asks. He points at his ear, and, unable to hear his own voice, hopes he isn’t shouting.

“I’ll turn them on and tweak the programming once you have both in.” The audiologist speaks at what Bucky assumes is a regular volume, but she moves her lips in an exaggerated fashion. God, will he be happy to get rid of that problem. He isn’t good at lip reading. He can if he has to, but just looking someone in the face spikes his anxiety.

Bucky puts in the other aid. He’s disconcerted by the further silence, even though he’d known it was coming. He gives the audiologist a thumbs up. He’s willing to do anything to speed up the process.

The audiologist returns the gesture, then turns to her computer and clicks through multiple drop down menus. The aids suddenly spring to life, making Bucky cringe. The change from silence to sound is more abrupt than he’d expected. It’s as if he’s in the middle of the ocean, but without crashing waves to see and feel to ground him in the experience. Bucky wonders if the walls are moving, the painted cinderblocks rumbling against each other as the room closes in from all sides. The discomfort of his headache moves down to his sinuses and his jawline. No, not now. The last thing he needs is creeping nausea.

“How do they sound?” The audiologist’s voice rings out loud and clear.

Bucky can’t quite reason whether the aids are doing their job or if she’s still just speaking loudly. “Um.” Bucky swallows. “I hear you.”

“Good.” The audiologist moves her mouse and clicks a few more buttons, then presses a few keys.

Bucky hears the sound of her typing. Is it normal for typing to make such a clatter? The whole computer setup is as ancient as anything else in the hospital with a towering processor and large cube-shaped monitor. Old keyboards make a lot of noise, Bucky knows. And the audiologist has long fingernails.

She looks up at him, eyes full of pleasurable excitement. “How do they sound?”

“How am I supposed to know?” The words are out of Bucky’s mouth before he realizes he’s probably sounding rude. “I mean,” he tries to backtrack. “I think they’re ok?”

The audiologist nods, unperturbed. “Both sides sounding the same?

“Um.” Bucky tries focusing his attention to only hid sense of hearing. It’s a difficult feat, though. Nausea flares again, and his head gives an almighty throb. “I…yeah? I guess?”

“It’s challenging at first.”

Bucky wishes the audiologist had led with that. It gives him a granule of comfort, though his discomfort stays at the same level.

“The volume buttons are there.” She turns her head and points midway down her ear. “Definitely play with that. And if something feels off with the sound or the fit of the ear molds, just swing by. I do walk-ins.”

Bucky forces a smile. He knows he won’t visit again. He doesn’t want to know what the desk sergeant would say if he came into the clinic unscheduled.

“Yeah, ok.” Bucky nods, then regrets it. He becomes all the more aware of the tension in the back of his neck.

“Alright.” The audiologist stands and walks toward the door.

Bucky follows, highly aware of his clogs scraping the aged fuzzy carpet. “Bye,” Bucky says as he steps over the threshold into the hallway.

“Yeah, see you. Come in any time.”

Bucky makes no response. He hears her voice; the words come in clearly and sound clipped with precision, even though he’s already turned his back. It’s definitely an improvement, but he’s anticipating a learning curve.

With this potentially difficult done with, Bucky should feel encouraged. He’s done a thing; it was successful. His counselor and DBT workbook would want him to evaluate, then non-judgementally file it for safekeeping. He did something hard. Therefore, the next hard thing should be easier. He can’t quite feel the vibe, though. It might be the headache spreading its domination over more and more territory in his brain. He imagines double-masted ships bumping into the coastlines of North America and Africa, then spitting out little red-coated troops to run inland and raise the British flag. It could just as easily be a C-130 dropping off a fleet of Army-colored Jeeps in the desert, Bucky and his buddies lined up to sprint into the cargo bay and jump in the drivers’ seats to back them down the incline.

Great, that’s just great. Bucky grits his teeth. The stupid war that cost him his stupid arm and grounded him out of a career. And now he’s meant to live out the rest of his stupid life, full of stupid appointments and therapy, which keep jumping onto the stupid calendar whether he wants them or not. The sound of moving air in his ears is replaced with a cringe-worthy grind. Bucky stops in the middle of the hallway and looks around before realizing it’s his own clenching jaw. He brings his hand up to massage his mastoids. The pressure in his head and face rearranges itself again. Maybe he could just go home and leave a message with PT. He’d apologize for the last minute cancellation and say he got sick. It wouldn’t even be that much of a lie. Doubt raises its voice in dissent, though. Someone would probably recognize his car… For which he’ll have to call roadside before he can go anywhere.

For a moment, Bucky entertains calling Steve. He hates to look weak and dependent. He hates asking for things. Steve’s boyfriend had gone to Iraq, and this idiot with long hair and one arm came back. Bucky wants to slide back into place as the protective one, not the one needing protection. He can’t make up for the deficit with boxes of donuts, at least not all the time. Bothering Steve during work, for which he’s savagely underpaid and actually seems to enjoy… Bucky slogs on toward the therapy office. He’ll be a lone wolf today. Hopefully his position as the lame one far behind the pack won’t get him eaten by a polar bear or something. The PTs and their wall posters of bisected humans made of red muscle would be bad enough. They probably knew very well how to butcher him and roast his meat on a spit.

Bucky searches in his head for a thought that isn’t nauseating. His stomach feels knotted and lifted into his rib cage. Had he eaten this morning? Had coffee? Bucky doesn’t remember, nor can he figure which situation is worse.

The moment he reaches the waiting area in front of PT, the woman behind the desk tells him to go ahead into the exercise room. Bucky nods. Ordinarily he’d feel a little wary of the familiarity; he doesn’t care for situations when someone he barely knows has all his information. Some days he can’t recite his own social security number. On a day like Friday the thirteenth, he hopes he doesn’t have to sign any forms. He isn’t sure he’d be able to spell or even remember his full name.

Those thoughts disperse immediately when he walks through the door to the exercise room. He’s used to it smelling like rubber gloves and past its prime gym equipment. Today, though, the scent of potato chips is overwhelming. Just plain, salted, greasy chips. Bucky tells himself he actually likes regular chips. It’s kitschy flavors and toppings that set him off. He has to try willing away his disgust. It has to be the headache. Bucky likes food, at least better than the reflux of tube feeding formula. Even military hospital food outweighed the NG. Other people eat. He isn’t offended. He just doesn’t feel well. It’s completely his own problem.

Bucky looks around from the threshold of the exercise room, expecting to see his usual therapist. Natasha is unmistakable with her high red ponytail and chiseled musculature. She makes black scrubs look high fashion. Bucky hasn’t dated a girl since 8th grade, but he’s open minded. About friendships and things. He’s a little jealous of Natasha, when he gets down to it. Had he not been injured, he too might’ve maintained his shape and strength and social life. She’s alluring, but also intimidating. It seems as if every time Bucky comes in, he’s forced to remember how different things could’ve been. She’s successful and he isn’t, and that’s the way things will stay. He’s very set on his decision to quit. Then he might improve at talk therapy with the removal of Natasha as a trigger.

There seems to be no Natasha today, though. Two male therapists sit facing each other, one sitting on a desk and the other perched backward on the seat of a stationary bike. The one on the desk has the crinkling, yellow bag of Lay’s.

“Hey, sorry.” The man on the desk chews and swallows quickly before crunching the bag into a ball and shooting it into a trash bin. “My kids have me hooked on snack time.”

“Hm.” Bucky inclines his head and makes a sound of acknowledgment, trying not to react to the angry sound of the chip bag hitting the rim of the bin.

“Yeah, well.” The man on the bike stands up in one fluid motion. “Client’s here. Gotta pretend to go back to work.”

“M, yeah, I guess.” The one on the desk wipes his hands on his knees, chip crumbs and grease prints now adhering to his pants. He hefts a file folder. “Data entry. Super fun.”

The man now off the bike gives Bucky a wave. “I know you belong to Nat,” he says. “But they’ve got her running a training in Baltimore today.” He pauses a second, then asks, “I’m Sam. You mind working with me?”

“Um,” Bucky wavers. “I was, er, going to turn in my papers?” He’s met with silence, so Bucky goes on. “Like, telling you all I don’t want any more appointments?”

“Oh, sure.” Sam nods. “Yeah, we don’t have to reschedule you. I think you’re on the list of recurring clients.” Then he addresses the man at the desk. “Hey, Clint, while you’re entering data, can you put his name on call-to-schedule?” Sam looks to Bucky. “It’s James, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. There’s no need to explain how he goes by his middle name, but also not really.

“Sure…” Clint squints at his monitor and scrolls slowly. “Yep, there you are. And done.”

“Thanks.” Bucky shuffles his feet. He wants to turn and run, but adding any kind of bounce to his gait will surely stir up his gut in the worst of ways. Maybe he can inch backward first to initiate a smoother exit.

“Do you want to do anything today?” Sam offers. “Legs or abs or soft tissue?”

“Uh.” Bucky feels called out. He still has every right to leave, but now there’s pressure. He hates not delivering. He hates giving up a challenge, knowing it contributes to his air of disability. Statistically, a lot of vets get caught up in PTSD and alcohol and drugs and wind up hibernating until they’re arrested or dead. Shirking commitments is a primary sign, and with Bucky’s awareness of his want to ingest substances and get horizontal… He has to remind himself that even trained therapists can’t read his thoughts. “I don’t know…” Maybe he should offer an excuse? “I really have a headache and I have to call to get my car towed…” he trails off, feeling much more lame than he had when he’d started.

“You’ve done soft tissue work with Natasha, right?” Sam points to the door of one of the small private rooms coming off the main. Bucky knows there are massage tables and rolling stools inside. He has done soft tissue work with Natasha, and it has alleviated his back and neck aches before. It’s overly personal, though, and awkward. Bucky’s never sure if he’s supposed to keep his eyes open or closed.

Honesty takes control, and Bucky answers with “Yeah, I have.”

“Might bring down the headache. I’m no magician, but I do know pressure points.” Sam grins at him. “I went through all this when I came back, too. PT saved my basketball game.”

Bucky knows he’s being kind, but he can’t help thinking of his unbalanced body trying to dribble and shoot lay-ups. He’d look worse than the last kid in gym class.

“Or you can just lie down for a while.” Sam laughs. “I don’t disclose what happens in there. HIPPA, and all that.”

And there, without even trying, they’ve formed such a close friendship that now they’re in the territory of dirty jokes. It’s stranger intrusion, one thousand percent, and even though it makes the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up, he no longer has the choice to leave. Bucky wonders if this guy’s a master of manipulation, whether he knows he’s contorting the inner threads of Bucky’s brain and removing all traces of his own volition.

“Um, I guess.” Bucky’s voice is so loud in his own ears that it makes his head throb. Once the pain has reverberated to his stomach and back, he continues, “I guess we can try.”

“Cool.” Sam reaches for a clipboard and pen, but stops before picking them up. “No notes today, right? It’s your sunset session.”

“Right.” Maybe lying down would do Bucky some good. The sickness that’s been building in him is edging toward physical sensation. It’s no longer confined to his mentality, and any hope of thinking it away is far gone. Bucky walks toward the private room. He’d better not look as terrible as he feels. He doesn’t think he can take any comments of sympathy.

“Face up, ok?” Sam closes the door behind them and plants on a stool.

Bucky obliges and sits on the edge of the massage table. One of his shoes falls off as he’s lifting up his legs. He jumps at the sound of the clunk and quickly apologizes. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s cool. Probably more comfortable to take them off.” The wheels on the bottom of the stool squeak slightly. Bucky both hears and feels Sam coming closer. His spine tingles and an ache starts up between his shoulder blades. There’s nothing like anxiety throwing spears at his body. Wholistic approach to medicine aside, Bucky swears his brain and body are egging each other on.

Once Bucky’s flat on his back, he combs his fingers through his bangs to keep the hair from sticking to clammy sweat. Sam will probably be grossed out before even touching him. He’s infinitesimally glad to see the therapist putting on exam gloves.

“Alright.” The stool squeaks again, and Bucky feels Sam slide his fingers beneath the arch of his neck. “We’ll start right here at the top of the spine.”

Two thumbs plant on either side, just below Bucky’s occipital lobe. The pressure brings with it a feeling of pain that’s just short of pleasure. If he didn’t have vertigo, Bucky might’ve thanked Sam for spotting a problematic area on his first go.

“Ok. And here…” Sam’s fingers rest lightly on the jaw muscles stretching under his chin and down his neck. He adds force to the pressure points behind Bucky’s head. His touch is light, and his fingertips stay still and professional. Natasha’s work on his tense muscles had been just fine. Maybe Sam had more advanced training? Or was he pushing a fallacious invitation of intimacy that comes when people mistake shared backgrounds for real empathy. The first and last time Bucky had tried attending a support group, someone who’d last fought in Vietnam had tried to give him a hug.

Sam slides his touch outward toward Bucky’s ears, and a horrific scraping noise resounds in the hearing aids, which seem to have barely escaped disturbance. “Turn your head to the side.”

Sam hasn’t stated a direction, so Bucky falters, and the weight of his head wavers to the right before he commits to turning left. Vertigo swells over all other sensation, and Bucky holds his eyes wide open, looking for a substitute horizon. There are subtle lines between the painted white painted cinder blocks of the wall. Bucky tries to choose one to lock his vision upon. He daren’t blink. The overhead light sears into his peripheral vision, though, and dark and light spots start to gather on both sides.

“Alright.” Sam puts his palm against Bucky’s jawline and directs his fingers to the tight muscle running lengthwise from his ear to his shoulder. “You comfortable?”

“Um.” Bucky can only stutter before he has to gulp down something horrible and sour. His thoughts run frantically. He hadn’t consumed the spoiled milk this morning; he remembers that for sure. It was probably treating his tiny apartment to dank odor of curdling dairy. The first day of his deployment, Bucky had learned not to leave a cup of yogurt outside in the sun. He’d opened it when he sat down at the outdoor table, then obviously misjudged how long it would take him to finish the rest of his meal. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before it had developed a thick skin and gave off a smell of sweet rot.

“James?” Sam lifts his hand. The imprints of where his fingers had been develop a sensation of negative pressure. Bucky can’t remember which line he’d chosen on the wall. He blinks, and he’s disoriented even more. Bucky’s stomach races upward ahead of his heartbeat and turns liquid somewhere inside his esophagus.

“You ok?”

“I—actually—uh—“ Bucky’s entire body trembles, and it seems gravity has loosened its hold on him. He can barely feel the floor under his stocking feet when he pushes himself up on his arm and turns. “I’m going to throw up.”

“Sure, man.” Sam pulls his stool backward with the shove of one sneaker, then turns back to Bucky and proffers a small trash bin. “Here.”

Bucky holds down a retch long enough to get the bottom of the bin between his knees. The next heave is huge and convulsive. Bucky instinctively breathes in, then chokes when the air hits liquid resistance in his mouth and nose. He coughs hard to clear his airway. His vision swims and brings on another wave of sickness. Bucky doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until his sternum aches from pressing against the bin’s hard metal rim.

It’s all Sam’s work keeping him stable, Bucky realizes. His mind would fall into weakness and stupidity if his body wasn’t already robbing every bit of his attention. It’s just his luck, just his Friday the thirteenth, pushing him into such a compromising position. What had he been doing, thinking about spoiled milk? Bucky’s mental image quickly replaces the milk with a rumpled chip bag. He’s never eating a potato again, whether it’s a chip or a fry or a baked potato with sour cream and chives…

“Ugh.” Bucky hacks again, feeling ropes of mucous and saliva sticking to his lip. He squeezes his eyes shut, and unintended tears roll down his face. They get caught in the scruff of his beard before passing his cheeks. Bucky wonders how soiled his mustache will be. And the hair on his chin. But those are small potatoes compared to his rushing thoughts of food. Fuck potatoes. Fuck cereal. Fuck donuts and starches and sugar.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam’s voice is uncomfortably close. Bucky assumes Sam’s leaning forward too, trying to bump their heads together or something. When he peels his eyes open, though, Sam’s still at a reasonable distance. His hands and knees hold the bin while his back remains straight and tall.

“I’m—fuck.” Bile runs down his tongue, and Bucky’s unsure whether he wants to spit or swallow. He tries the swallow, but his epiglottis refuses to close, and he winds up letting more liquid sick flow into the bin. “Sorry,” Bucky gasps. He wants to rake his hair back again, but he’s afraid he’ll fall over if he doesn’t keep his hand grounded on the massage table beside his hip.

“Hey, no big.” Bucky isn’t sure how Sam’s able to maintain such composure. Maybe he has kids? A loved one with cancer? Steve takes good care of Bucky when he’s exceptionally down, but there’s always a nervous jumpiness weighing in on the situation. It’s just Steve, Bucky thinks, who has a nervous jumpiness about everything. He stresses over other people’s stress, constantly puttering and hovering. It’s probably why he still looks like a skinny teenager; he burns so many calories with his perpetual motion.

“It’s ok,” Sam says. “Humans are messy sometimes.” He must’ve absorbed the entire DBT book, Bucky decides. Wise and observant and unemotional. He could be one of those kids unnaturally excited for Anatomy and Physiology Lab. Blood and guts might turn him on. He could be a CSI on the side. Or maybe a serial killer.

“I’m—god, I’m sorry,” Bucky apologizes again. He lifts his head an inch and catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, trying to reset his flighty sense of judgement. Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, Bucky says inside his head. Calm. Observe. Bucky shakes his head a little from side to side, but the world shifts on him again, and he wraps his arm around his abdomen. It does nothing to help steady him; his organs are still shoved up in his chest.

Bucky dry heaves. A rancid tasting belch pops in the back of his throat, but it brings nothing up with it. Good, maybe? He’s done? Bucky’s sure he’s empty now, at least.

“No, you’re good.” Sam pauses a moment. “I mean, I can’t imagine you feel good, but don’t rush. Try not to stress. It’ll make you tense up. Then you’ll have to come back to visit PT.”

Bucky’s never stepping foot in this office again. Not into the VA at all, if he can help it. He can push his meetings with his counselor back to Telehealth. He’ll figure out his hearing aids by himself. There has to be a website or something.

Now that he’s thinking about them, Bucky recognizes the swirling water sound coming in. It’s amplified enough to shake his eardrums. Bucky presses the balls of his feet into the floor and lets his arm free to pull the aids out of his ears. They make a high-pitched squeal as he holds them together in his palm, but Bucky depresses the off button on one, then the other. Bucky enjoys the blessed silence, but then Sam says something again, and Bucky’s right back with his original deficit.

“Those new?” Sam nods toward the aids in Bucky’s hand.

“These?” Bucky checks. “Yeah. This morning, actually.” He swallows a couple of times, hoping to kick the chafing and hoarseness out of his throat.

“Ah.” Sam gives a half smile. “I wouldn’t advise ophthalmology right after breakfast, either. Or load up on Zofran. You got a script for that?”

“One of the boxes on the bathroom counter, I think.” Bucky thinks he has a pack of the foil-coated pills. Or was that Xanax? No, Xanax comes in a regular prescription bottle. Either way, Bucky should probably carry both on his person at all times. He’s turning into a stereotypical civilian. Though jeans and shirts are severely lacking in pockets when compared to Army duds.

“If I had any, I’d give you a hit.” Sam’s smile turns mysterious. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that. No secret chat with someone at the pharmacy counter.”

“Naw, I’m good.” Bucky waits a tick, then says, “You’re not going to tell on me for this, are you?” He glances into the bin, then lifts his gaze quickly. “I don’t want to be called in for a flu test or anything.”

“No worries.” Sam looks toward the bin as well. “Done with this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms. “Definitely done.”

“How’s the headache?” Sam asks before setting the bin on the floor out of Bucky’s line of sight.

Bucky wonders if Sam’s reading his mind again. But Bucky had fed him that intel, he remembers. And he’d spilled the beans about his car. He really couldn’t be caught any worse. “Eh.” Bucky shrugs. “It’s a pretty constant thing. On and off, I mean.” Everyone who’s read his chart notes knows everything about his TBI and its physical symptoms it causes. Most of the world could probably guess, too. The scar along his hairline is as good as poof. The crabby looking guy with a battle mark— his look is enough to turn people away.

Sam remains quietly engaged. He really could be a sociopath. No, Sam’s probably the normal person. Bucky might be the sociopath. He hasn’t really come to terms with the man who came home from the desert, despite Bucky’s inability to retain the identity he had before shipping out.

Normal people ask questions back when chatting with others, Bucky remembers. He should do that. “You, uh, you said you’d served?” Bucky thinks he remembers that too.

“Yeah. Air Force. Two tours,” Sam says with little emotion. “I thought being a PJ was all about jumping out of airplanes.” He averts his eyes momentarily before looking Bucky in the face again. “But it’s way more putting in IVs in the back of an H-60. Talk about turbulence. Had to grow an iron stomach for that.”

So that’s where he gets it. He got to load the wounded and dying into the bright yellow cage lift. Bucky hadn’t been conscious through his own medevac, so he has no triggers regarding bungee cords and helicopters, thank god. He wonders how Sam had managed to make it back stateside, but Bucky knows he isn’t allowed to ask. Bucky tries looking at things from Sam’s end, dredging through red blood and orange sand, looking for skin sticking out of singed uniforms. He probably hates Army green now. And maybe bright yellow bags of chips.

Bucky’s pondering has allowed the conversation to trail off again. Another fail on his part.

Sam seems not to mind, though, and as soon as Bucky’s mentally checked in again, he asks, “You ever been in a helicopter? In the seat, I mean?”

“Uh…” Bucky struggles to recall. “I think we did an aerial tour of the map once before I got assigned to a camp.” The memory comes back as he verbalises it. “I had the jump seat, and they didn’t give me any headphones. I think I looked at a bunch of piles of sand.”

“I wish I’d had a pleasure tour,” Sam replies. “I usually didn’t know where we were going until we were ready to repel. I guess it didn’t matter so much. Helped keep us focused, maybe? I honestly couldn’t point to all the places I’ve been if you gave me a map. I was just along for the ride, you know?”

“Every ride in a tank is just as long and bumpy,” Bucky tells him. “And hoping I didn’t draw the short straw and have to sit backwards.”

“Oh, yeah. Flight school, it’s a big thing.” Sam laughs. “Tank school, though? Drivers’ ed?”

“I never went.” Bucky puts up his hand to mark his innocence. “I can only speak for myself, though.”

“I feel you.” Sam takes the pause to switch subjects. “You said your car wasn’t working, right? Do you need a ride?”

“Oh, well.” Bucky bites his lip. “I locked the keys inside,” he admits. “It’s Friday the thirteenth. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Friday the thirteenth,” Sam repeats. “I actually had no idea. You’ve had a day, though, man. And it’s only…” He glances at his watch. “9:37 in the morning.”

“I better call the insurance. Can I come back in here if it’s raining?”

“Sure. Or we can walk together across the parking lot. I have an umbrella. And leather seats.” Sam rises to his feet.

“I should just bite it.” Bucky picks up his hearing aids and stands as well. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and slips the aids inside. “I mean, I should call someone. My boyfriend has a car…” As soon as he says it, Bucky knows he’s slipped. He’s stuck in non action again. It won’t be a big deal unless he makes it a big deal, and then there will be full-on tension.

“Can he come get you?” Sam asks, nonplussed.

“He works for a travel blog, actually,” Bucky says, hoping he isn’t disgracing Steve by talking about him and his work. “They’re in this old newspaper office. It’s kind of a cool place.”

“Sounds neat. Old places are nice. Unless they’re here,” Sam says with a laugh. “I’ll probably be old and grey before they give this place a facelift.”

“Oh, I agree.” Bucky laughs too, then averts his attention back to his phone.

“You still have more than twenty minutes of appointment time,” Sam says. “And I have a break before I’ll be needed here again. You sure you couldn’t use a lift? I don’t want you getting tripped up over a sidewalk crack and fall into a mirror or anything. Step in front of a black cat, probably get all hissed and scratched at.”

“I’ve been thinking of getting a cat,”Bucky says, somewhat seriously. Then, “It really won’t be a bother? I’d hate to give you and your car any of my bad luck.”

“Seriously,” Sam assures. “I’ve got to go do a weather check. Take out the trash, all that stuff.” He’s already bending to remove the trash bag from the bin. As he speaks.

“Oh, I can—“ Bucky starts.

“No, I’m good.” Sam twists the top of the bag and ties it off. The bag is a frosted clear color, so its contents are not immediately apparent. It has a liquid sag visually, though. Bucky feels an edge of sick guilt, so he engages in putting his phone into his pocket. It bunches up on top of his hearing aids, but he’s determined not to be caught picking at his ass and losing his last shred of dignity.

Bucky and Sam exit the private PT room side by side. “Here, we’ll go out the back door,” Sam says, pointing.

“You bringing back Starbucks?” Clint, still at his computer, raises his eyebrows.

“No,” Sam says blankly.

“Where you going, then?”

“Going to take out the trash and take this brother for a drive.” Everything Sam says is plain and glib, and his tone could’nt be mistaken for anything but the honest truth.

“Can you take my trash out?” Clint points to the bin behind the desk, which is overflowing with wadded balls of paper.

“No,” Sam tells him again.

“Come on.”

“I’m not catching the blame for putting sensitive material in the dumpster.”

“It’s not sensitive. It’s trash,” Clint tries to explain.

“I don’t make the rules.” Sam waves him off. “Check your calendar, though, I think you’re scheduled to have a bad day.”

“What?” Clint shoves a pile of folders to the side so he can scrutinize the desk blotter. He squints and looks closer, and the top folder slides onto the floor, absenting itself of all the paper within. “Fuck. Really?” Clint gives the mess a dirty look. “You really should pick me up a Starbucks.”

“It’s probably raining and the drive through’s closed.” Bucky laughs as Sam blatantly bull shits.

“Huh?” Clint seems to know he’s been insulted, but can’t see exactly where. “You haven’t done a weather check.”

“I’ll text you,” Sam offers. He turns the knob of the exit door and ushers Bucky to follow. “There’s an emoji for that, right? Happy cat for sun and crying cat for rain?”

“Yeah, text me.” Clint gives Sam a final unsure glance before returning to his calendar.”

“Roger,” Sam says as he steps out the door. As soon as Bucky is out as well, he says, “The dumpster’s just behind this wall, and my car is there.” He points to a shiny red BMW. A fine layer of miniature raindrops coat the hood and windshield. The air itself feels cold, yet muggy. Bucky feels slightly choked, and he’s glad he’s already emptied his stomach. With the weather and the remaining headache, it’d just be his luck to ruin some new friend’s upholstery.

Sam clicks the remote to unlock his car. Bucky doesn’t hear the beep, but the solid click of the two front doors alerts do the job to alert him that it’s time to open the passenger door. There are indeed leather seats. And it still smells like new car.

“One second.” Sam picks up his pace and disappears behind the edge of a grey and weather stained wall. There’s a moment of silence, but them Bucky hears Sam’s voice again, shouting, “Oh, shit, man, you’ve got to come see this.”

Bucky shuts the car door, wondering if he should be concerned. He follows Sam’s route around the wall, then laughs at what he sees. Two green dumpsters sit side by side, accumulated rain dripping down to the pavement. Sam must’ve already thrown the trash, and he’s pointing at an old wooden ladder leaned against the face of the far dumpster. Its bottom step is busted, missing a good amount of wood between the jagged ends.

“I’m not touching that,” Sam cackles.

“I can see why they left it,” Bucky offers, pushing down his own mirth. “You’d have to hold it over your head to toss it.”

“Yeah, I’ll be leaving that right there.” Sam walks toward Bucky, and they return to his parking space. “I’ll make Clint take his trash out later. I wonder, is there a ladder emoji?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky opens the front passenger door again. “But which cat are you going to use for cloudy as fuck?”

“I don’t know that either.” Sam slams his door and puts his key into the ignition. “Maybe somewhere there’s a black cat? Past the smiley faces and in the animal section?”

“That makes good sense.” Bucky takes his phone from his pocket again. He recalls his aids being in the pocket as well, and he takes the opportunity to get ahold of them before he winds up throwing them into the washing machine. The car is quiet, so Bucky cautiously turns them on and snugs the earmolds into his ears.

“Testing the waters again?” Sam asks, glancing Bucky’s way.

“Yeah.” Bucky ruminates on the sound of his own voice for a second. “No harsh lights. And your engine runs really quiet.”

“I really hope they run better for you.” Sam comes to a smooth stop and turns out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, I hear a difference already. Bucky catches his phone as it’s about to slide off his knee. “I would look up an emoji for you,” he offers, “But I don’t want to risk any consequences.”

“I trust your judgement.” Sam laughs and slowly brings the car up to speed.

“I—“ Bucky goes to say something else, but his breath catches in his throat. There’s something in the road several feet in front of them. It looks to be moving across the lane. “There’s a—“ Bucky hopes it’s not a cat.

“It’s a plastic bag,” Sam assures him. The object moves again and turns in a 180 as it enters the next lane. The huge, red Target logo stands out boldly on the other side.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, relieved. “Those damn sneaky plastic bags…”

They stop at a light, and Sam says, “Just tell me where to turn.”

Bucky realizes he hasn’t given him a hit of a direction. He supposes he’d thought Sam already knew, with the ease of their bond and all.

“It’s up a little ways. On Sandersville.” Bucky pronounces the street name a little awkwardly. He finds it displeasing, since it doesn’t lead to a village or a sand pit.

“Oh, yeah, I know what’s around there. I’ve had a few buddies who’ve lived in the buildings.” Sam nods. “I’ll get you home nice and safe. And, here��“ Sam pops the center console and pulls out a business card. “It’s probably too formal, but it’s got my number. The work line and my cell.” He points out the bottom line as he hands the card to Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky replies. “I’ll text you when I’m all settled? Then you’ll have my number, too.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Sam offers him a smile. “Call me if you get on the wrong side of any more plastic bags.”

“Steve works till six, so I guess I do have a lot of bad day left.” Bucky recalls his former plan to get toasted and lie on the couch. It still appeals, but maybe he’ll do something a little productive first. He’ll download a user guide for his hearing aids. Maybe see what the cable channels play Jack Hanna during the daytime. And he’ll call for his car, when he’s up for it.

“You take it easy, now.” Sam looks at him again. “It’s good to get to know you, James.”

“I, um. I go by Bucky,” Bucky says, embarrassed. It’s a perfectly natural thing to tell a new friend, he reminds himself. Sam hasn’t had a reason to call him by his name yet, anyway. “It’s short for my middle name,” he says, hoping it’s a good enough explanation.

“Well, good to know you then, Bucky,” Sam replies without missing a beat. “Let me know when you’re all good. What do you think, the grinning cat with its eyes closed? To sound the all-clear?”

“Perfect.” It may be the worst possible day, but now that Bucky’s sealed the deal with a new friend and a secret handshake. “I’ll have to explain the cat thing to Steve, though. I don’t want him getting jealous or anything. I don’t think he’s a great fan of cats.”

“No worries,” Sam says. “Maybe you can introduce us later. Something casual, you know. Like at Starbucks. I do like coffee, and we don’t have to talk about cats.”

“We like our coffee, too,” Bucky laughs. “It would be fun to meet up later. On a nicer, luckier day.”

“Sure.” Sam reaches the light for Sandersville. “That is such an odd name for a street, especially for one all full of vets’ houses. Did they call it Sand Ville when you were over there?”

“Yup,” Bucky says. “My thoughts exactly.”

Sam brings the car to a halt when they reach the edge of the first building. “This you?” He asks.

“Yeah, right there.” Bucky points to his front door. He undoes his seatbelt and tells Sam, “Bye.”

“Yeah, text me.” Sam waves as Bucky steps out onto the curb. “I still have my med kit and my EMT license, if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

“Back at you, man.” Sam waves again and does a U-turn in the street and heads off it the other direction.

It’s still cold and wet, but the rain seems to have stopped, at least long enough for Bucky to get back to his apartment. He stops dead at his front stoop, though. His keys are back in the car. At the VA.

“God fucking dammit.” He’ll call Steve. The upturn of the day has collapsed in on itself. He listens to the low sound of the wind for a moment. Everything sounds more balanced now. The hospital must just produce its own woeful environment. Bucky tries to reign his breath and focus on the principles of his DBT. He feels the weight of his phone in his hand. It’s hard and smooth, until he passes his thumb over the edge of the business card, which is a slightly different quality of hard and smooth. Bucky decides he can buy himself a few more minutes to think while he sends a text. He awakens his phone and dials Sam’s cell number into the top of a new message.

Hi, it’s Bucky, he types. No emojis. He presses send.

Barely a second later, the same number sends him a reply. Hi Bucky. Another second, and there’s a third message.

Are you locked out? Occurred to me when I got back to the corner.

Bucky feels his face flush with embarrassment. He backspaces through a few quivers typos before he manages to send back his undignified yes.

Bucky still has his eyes on his screen as it populates with another text.

Turning around.

Thank you.

Bucky’s day has reached uncertainty yet again. He feels like he has better odds now, though. If nothing else, he’ll live it out with his friend.

8 notes · View notes

scribbleseas · 2 years

Text

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XI: The Liberated Smile

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: none!

Author’s Note: I did say this would come out last night, I’m sorry! I got extremely sick and my immune system said: give me everything. But even on my sickbed, I wrote 5k of fluff, basically.

Happy Reading!

- Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

MASTERLIST

. . .

MARCH 20TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

The delicate cardstock invitation placed on Ciel’s breakfast setting taunted him. It was in the way of his breakfast. It was a summons for him to waste his time, nothing but a hindrance, like the princess sitting to his right, at the head of the table, as if she owned his estate.

Lord Ciel Phantomhive,

‘Please join us in honor of The Hon'ble Beatrice Amelia Constance Moore’s 6th Birthday Celebration. To Take Place March the 25th, at 7 PM. Crystal Palace Park Lake ‘Do bring your ice skates!’

Sincerely, the Viscount and Viscountess Moore.

Ciel frowned at the invitation and set it aside. How he despised any form of exercise, particularly skating on ice. Balancing precariously in the biting cold was simply a waste of time, even if it was for a celebration hosted by the Moore family. The thought of them sent a chill down his spine, cold and painful as if someone was slowly impaling him with an icicle.

“Sebastian, send my regrets to Lord Moore,” Ciel ordered, setting the invitation aside. He had no such time to waste, trifling about in skates like a child. He had a business to run, a runaway to catch, and a princess to guard. Time was an inexpensive luxury he wouldn’t presume to give away to a six-year-old’s birthday party.

“My Lord, forgive me, but this winter season is coming to a close in a matter of days. You have been notably absent from the social calendar for the season,” the butler responded, filling Her Highness’s glass of hot chocolate, recently brewed. She offered a distracted hum in acknowledgment, scanning a newspaper from her home country. Ciel’s German wasn’t quite fluent yet, but he caught a few words from the front page’s headline.

“Send my regrets, Sebastian,” Ciel repeated irritably, although he knew better to presume his butler would drop the subject. “And a teddy bear. Or something.” Whatever it was a six-year-old child liked.

“My Lord,” the demon said, holding Ciel’s gaze unwaveringly. “This is Viscount Moore’s firstborn. Are you certain?” Matthew Moore inherited his title after his father’s unfortunate passing six years prior. His mother, the Dowager Viscountess, hadn't been seen at social events until the birth of her granddaughter, Miss Beatrice. The previous Viscount was well-liked and, to this day, well missed.

Along with the previous Viscount’s passing, the Moore family’s significance came from their dealings in fine ceramics; if Ciel were a betting man, he would be confident that if he turned his plate over, it would have the Moore family crest stamped on it.

Beyond that shallow nonsense, Ciel knew the family rather well. Vaguely, he recalled his mother cheerfully comparing pregnancy war stories with the Viscountess, deliberating who should become the then unborn Miss Beatrice's betrothed. His mother and Viscountess Moore… Aunt Bridget, Ciel thought wistfully, were relatively close friends. There was no blood relation, but they were too close for Rachel’s child to refer to the Viscountess per her title.

“Fine,” Ciel snapped, “I’ll go.” He hated ice skating; he detested children. The outing would just be a lovely time, he thought sourly.

“Let me come as well,” Her Highness said, closing her newspaper. Her wounded arm seemed to move better, a higher range of movement without her wincing. Sebastian’s stitches improved, and there was visibly less swelling and blue bruising around the site. Relief caused some of the tension to tumble out of his shoulders.

“I’ve been looking to escape the manor,” she explained.

It wasn’t easy to argue with her, not only because she was a royal but due to the anticipatory way she stared. The princess wanted to go; therefore, she expected to go.

Ciel pursed his lips, struggling to keep himself from rolling his eyes. Much like arguing with Sebastian, it was a losing battle. Besides, with Her Highness, perhaps the event won’t be so excruciating.

. . .

If his manor were princess-free, Ciel would have long pulled out his shotgun, aimed it between Cooper Finley’s eyebrows, and pulled the trigger. Or much worse, for the trouble (and the money) the rapacious businessman was causing him.

Ciel wasn’t sure how Cooper Finley inherited his trivially large fleet of American steamships. He was the third-born in his family, and Ciel much preferred his older brother, James, the brother previously at the head of the company. For reasons unknown to Ciel, James relinquished his control in May 1891, and shortly after, Cooper and his ridiculous fees replaced him.

What previously kept Cooper alive was his iron grip on most trans-Atlantic steamships. Now, Ciel desired nothing but to get rid of the arrogant leech. He was hardly worthy of being a leech. Doing business with someone so illogical was a tarnishment to both the company and the Phantomhive name.

“You’re attempting to request yet another increase of me?” Ciel asked, allowing the incredibly in his voice to reach Finley, loud and clear. He inhaled sharply, “you had requested an additional 100£ per month until December-- when you begged for 500£ as a holiday bonus. Just the first of this month, you collected 8,400£!” Ciel admonished, numbers memorized from the hours he spent staring at his records in rage. The additional costs were supposedly for charges for expenses such as repair, staffing, provisions for staff, and more. At this point, the most expensive charge was Cooper Finley’s greed.

Finley dared look sheepish, despite his solid platinum Bulova watch winking in soft lighting in Ciel’s office.

“You know these mechanics. One little fix and I’m 1,000£ in the hole. Skill, labor, materials….” Finley ventured.

Ciel’s fist clenched, suffocating the pen in his hand. His family ring urged him to cleanly punch Finley across the face and leave an imprint of the crest on the man’s cheekbone. But he refrained, more than aware that any attention he attracted to himself, his business, and his home, was attention drawn to the princess. She couldn’t be hurt under his care again. It was a disgrace that Ciel put her in a position to defend herself in the first place. Not to mention, he had a demon for a butler! It shouldn’t have been an issue.

“You’re ridiculous. Surely you know that,” Ciel said coldly, “the next time you come to my office begging for another increase, you will not find me so forgiving.”

“No, of course not. Thank you for your generosity Mr…” Finley hesitated before correcting himself, “Lord Phantomhive.” He nearly tipped his chair over in his haste to leave as if he knew Ciel had locked and loaded a shotgun in his desk drawer. The waiting bullet had Cooper’s name on it.

. . .

Ciel must have frowned harder than he meant to. He rarely had lunch with the princess, normally occupied with meetings and other midday affairs, but as of late, he found himself allowing the girl to consume a decent fraction of his time. After all, Ciel felt better about keeping a direct watch over Her Highness, even if he trusted his servants as private soldiers before their domestic roles.

“These shipping meetings of yours always leave you in the sourest of moods,” Her Highness commented, “and you’re typically quite unpleasant, to begin with.” She assessed him, her intelligent yet neutral gaze prying into his soul. When Samuel Johnson penned the words irksome and disarming, he must’ve considered the future Princess Marie of Schleswig-Holstein, Germany, to pen their definitions.

Ciel didn’t bother hiding his contempt with her commentary. He quickly realized that Her Highness found amusement, or her version of joy, when she goaded him. When they sparred, he would gladly oblige if she liked to trade witticisms, never one to maintain a facade when it was unnecessary. Ciel suspected she saw through him when he tried anyway. She read him like one of her children’s tales.

“You’re no optimist either, Your Highness,” he answered smoothly, refusing to look up his records. Tanaka meticulously itemized them into lists with his microscopic script. Despite the small print, the numbers were still obscenely large, the sum of money Funtom has invested in selling in America.

“Are you able to tell me about the meeting, or are you too proud?” she asked, surprising him. The princess never spoke of his business or even his position as her grandmother’s Guard Dog. There was always an aloof air around her like she knew she was under no obligation to pay anyone else to mind. “That man seems quite troublesome. I can tell.” She huffed as if she had made a joke.

Ciel was unsure when she could have laid eyes on Cooper Finley, but he didn’t bother asking. “He is a nuisance,” he found himself admitting before he could think, idly stirring his tea, “he’s essentially robbing me blind in exchange for getting my products across the Atlantic. A ridiculously greedy little-” Ciel paused to keep himself from a horribly uncouth utterance in royalty’s presence, not that she would pay it any mind. “American businessman. A bloody steamship monopolist,” he settled on.

Her eyebrows knit together, mirroring the terse purse she pulled her lips into. “If you dislike the man, you should not be in business,” the princess stated as if the sentiment had never occurred to Ciel.

He fought the desire to roll his eyes. “I have no other options. Finley owns most eligible Trans-Atlantic steamships for cargo.”

“There are always more options,” the princess’s confused look melted away, replaced with a sly grin. As she closed her book and put it to the side, Ciel could see her running options as if she were the business owner. She was clever; he’d long accepted that.

She scoffed. Whether the arrogant noise aimed at Ciel or Cooper Finley was beyond him. “Listen. You tell Sebastian to find all the information of every minor Trans-Atlantic shipping company. We buy their shares of the companies, their stock, you know, small companies sell shares for practically….”

“Nothing,” they said, almost in perfect unison, her voice self-assured and robust, while Ciel’s was small, nearly disbelieving.

“Why must your shipping belong to a centralized company anyway?” She questioned.

There was no reason, Ciel supposed. He also concluded…he was taking business advice from a princess.

Within the hour, they transferred the lunch table to that of an elongated version of Ciel’s desk. Sebastian left piles of records from minor shipping companies in London with small fleets capable of making trips over the Atlantic; the information took three minutes for the demon to compile. The princess barely acknowledged Sebastian’s inhuman speed.

“Brown and Jones. 50£ per share, practically half of their company, is available,” she read, turning the paper in her hands for Ciel to look at. They never stood this close; in their proximity, he could smell lavender essential oil. And mint. “With half the company, you have control over 14 steamships.”

That’s 14 ships out of Cooper’s control and free for Funtom to use, save for genuine maintenance, staffing, and supply fees.

They worked well beyond sunset. The princess sorted through different companies and enterprises, novice steamship manufacturers looking for funding in exchange for fair use of their fleets, and dying businesses with newly free ships for sale as a last-ditch effort to find revenue. Meanwhile, Ciel drafted letters to the respective heads of business he needed to get in contact with to make the purchases Her Highness suggested.

When the princess focused on something, she was an unstoppable force. Ciel knew her mind was uncompromising, but watching her at their table like an experienced stock broker, Ciel was impressed. Grudgingly, of course. For a pampered princess, she was incredibly efficient.

“If you take the 51% this company is offering, you officially outsource Cooper Finley’s fleet,” Her Highness said, smirking impertinently. The playful look made her look younger than her age. As if she were pulling a complicated prank on Cooper rather than building Ciel a trans-Atlantic shipping monopoly to bankrupt Cooper out of spite. Her eyes lit up, and Ciel forced himself to look away.

“That’s-...well,” Ciel cleared his throat, unsure how to respond or thank her. Instead, he settled for matching her nefarious grin, fixing it on the half-written letter in front of him. She saw it. That much was unmistakable, given her soft laugh.

“You are quite welcome, Lord Phantomhive,” she said, handing him his undone bow tie. He wasn’t sure when he’d taken it off and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’m starved. Where is our supper tonight?” She gestured to the dining table, a minefield of documents, freshly written letters, and her notes. There was no room for a meal.

Her Highness was disheveled as well; her bare hands ink-stained, heavy diamond necklace in a twisted clump at the end of the table. Her hair was out of its usual twisted bun, disorderly out of its braids. Under her soft makeup, Ciel could see the faint scar across her cheekbone, first noticed when she knocked his tea out of his hand the other night. For every bit, Ciel looked ungentlemanly; the princess looked decidedly unroyal.

“Presumably, the foyer,” Ciel managed to find his words at the sight of her pointed gaze. She noticed his staring. He looked away.

. . .

MARCH 25TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

Considering Her Highness’s native country was naturally frigid, her ice skating left much to desire.

Most noble children, Miss Beatrice’s young relatives, and friends skated around the well-decorated lake, whereas Her Highness and Ciel struggled to coast to the middle to meet the adult guests. In contrast to their children, most stood idle by the tall tables, chattering and enjoying champagne while butlers supervised their skating heirs.

The princess waved away Sebastian’s steadying arm stubbornly. She moved unsteadily, hands out to balance easier or break her fall- Ciel was unsure.

“Have you not been ice skating your entire life? You live in Germany,” he said dubiously, more than aware of the royal family’s love of ice skating. Most of Her Majesty’s family grew up wearing ice skates; Ciel expected the princess to be no different, gloating as she skated circles around him. However, they both struggled, making wobbling efforts out of skating toward the party.

Unsurprisingly, only Sebastian was having any luck. Per Ciel’s orders, he glided gracefully on Her Highness’s other side.

“It’s been quite a while,” Her Highness responded, no doubt regarding Ciel’s lack of ice skating ability. “Besides, I’m not seeing you mastering this particular skill either, Lord Phantomhive!” She tried to get ahead, only to lose her balance and trip, falling face-forward on the ice.

Sebastian could have caught her before she fell. The butler always seemed entirely too reluctant to come to the royal’s aid. Ciel sent him a withering look, seething with disapproval. Did he not order him to ensure the princess’s safety?

“My apologies, Your Highness,” the butler was not apologetic in the least, and yet he bowed his head, gracefully coming to a stop. He didn’t presume to offer his hand as a servant, far from a gentleman with the right to do so.

Her Highness sighed, pulling herself to her knees. Besides appearing slightly red from the cold, she seemed unharmed. Ciel extended his hand, although he was just as poised to fall over. “Allow me to help you,” he sent a wary glance over his shoulder to the party. Thankfully, they were far enough so as not to make an embarrassing scene.

“You distracted me,” Her Highness insisted, slowly turning over to sit on her backside.

“Allow me,” he said. In response, the princess sighed at the hand Ciel offered her, no doubt noting that he appeared as stable as she was on ice skates. Her fingers grasped Ciel’s tightly, a grip that might have ended his fingers’ circulation if he didn’t sport thick gloves. However, instead of using Ciel’s hesitant hand as leverage to stand up again, the princess tugged it down towards her with all of her strength.

“Wait, just what--!” Ciel hurriedly asked in his panic, but it was no use. In seconds, the princess broke his balance. He crumbled to the ground next to her on the solid, gelid ice. He had to be bruised to some degree.

They sat in silence for a moment that felt longer than it was. Her Highness’s shoulders shook with the effort it took for her to restrain her laughter, but when he met her eyes, she couldn’t maintain her composure. As if a dam broke, she laughed, the jovial sound turning the world more colorful, as if Monet had finally deigned to grace his brush over Ciel’s line of vision. Her eyes watered, cheeks and faint scar alike lit with a blush from the stinging cold and her amusement.

“You must see your face!” The princess managed between bouts of soft laughs, finally releasing Ciel’s hand to wipe her cheeks. He hadn’t noticed any tears, but she seemed insistent on ensuring so. “You must!”

Surely, Ciel looked like some sort of loon. His cheeks stung, unused to smiling so truthfully for such an extent of time. He hadn’t noticed he was making such an expression in the first place, grinning like a mad man who had long relinquished his sanity.

“I meant to help you to your feet,” Ciel put every bit of his willpower into killing the stupid look on his face, but his lips betrayed him. He wanted to give the princess his irked look, which suggested she was as troublesome as a rowdy child, but no matter how he attempted to purse his lips, they wanted to turn upwards at the end. “Rather cruel of you, Your Highness, as now the both of us are freezing,” Ciel’s reprimand wasn’t convincing to his own ears.

“Are you not a gentleman? A gentleman would know it is impolite to stand in the presence of sitting royalty.”

“I would refer to you as fallen royalty.”

“Fallen?” The princess repeated indignantly, face aghast with a feigned offense.

What sobered Ciel’s expression was Sebastian’s interruption. In fact, he had the order for the demon to go away sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“Come, my Lord, Your Highness. We mustn’t make more of a scene,” the demon muttered, hurriedly pulling Ciel and the princess to their skates. Now that Ciel’s attention was off their childish nonsense, he noticed that more of the party’s guests became onlookers in their private moment than he would have liked. It was common knowledge that he was a stoic man engaged to Elizabeth Midford. It would be easy to misinterpret the scene that had just unfolded, the two laughing like unhinged drunks in a tavern.

“Right, sure,” Ciel mumbled, pointedly watching the ice under his skates. The combination of frequent skating and pre-spring warmth had the lake’s icy surface well carved with interlacing tracks. Vaguely, he wondered if it was even safe to be skating so late into the season. Sebastian would say something; he reminded himself.

“Ciel Phantomhive!” A woman’s voice beckoned him closer to the main tent. Aunt Bridget- of course, she watched them from the moment they stepped on the ice. “My son, oh, you’ve gotten so tall!” His aunt grunted as she hugged him, her deceptively strong arms tight around him. She smelled like his mother. They always used the same floral perfume, a scent made in France that his mother adored when Bridget returned wearing it. They had matching monthly shipments.

Ciel didn’t see the Moore family so often. Whether it was out of business or unhealed grief, he was unsure. Whatever the case, Ciel preferred to keep them (along with everyone else in his life) at arm’s length. He was content to see them on a handful of occasions per year.

“Lovely to see you, Aunt Bridget,” Ciel grunted once the woman released him. He sighed as if she restricted the airflow to his lungs. “I have with me here, Her Highness, Princess Marie-Louise of Schleswig-Holstein,” he said, cautiously taking a step back on the ice to give the women a better view of each other. “Her Majesty requested me to watch over her stay in London for the next several months.”

“Of course, she has. There is no one quite as dedicated to the Crown’s service as you are,” Bridget said, likely seeing his father in him. She made no effort to comment on the comparison, to his relief. There were too many craning necks around, curiously eyeing the German princess-- both interested adults and astonished children alike.

“It’s an honor and a pleasure, Your Highness,” Aunt Bridget bowed her head, wisely opting to forgo the customary curtsy, given they were on skates. “Please, enjoy the party. No one should bother you here,” she said, casting warning looks at the friends and family who overheard their exchange.

“I appreciate it, Viscountess,” the princess responded cordially, stiff with custom. She made a mistake; now he could see what the curtain that separated Marie and Her Highness of Schleswig-Holstein looked like. Letting him peer under that curtain meant he could never unsee it under the facade she practiced.

“And Ciel, please do say hello to Beatrice. She’s been asking for you,” Aunt Bridget gestured to the small girl within the fray of skating guests. Her curly red hair matched her mother’s, tied into two buns behind her head. Baby tendrils of hair fell out from either side, but she couldn’t care at six.

Beatrice played with her father, Ciel’s Uncle Matthew, and a young boy, Theodore Ambrose Augustus Granard. The next Earl of Granard. He was perhaps a year older, effortlessly chasing his fiancee at his future father-in-law’s side.

“Come here, Bee! Come here!” Theodore yelled after her, arms extended.

“No!” came Beatrice’s giggled response. “You’re ‘it’!”

“Yes, of course.” Ciel affirmed, allowing his aunt to return to the guests she was previously entertaining. Meanwhile, Her Highness picked a table towards the front of the open tent, away from the crowd but close enough to be adequately social. As Aunt Bridget promised, no one dared approach them. Instead, they watched the party silently, nursing twin hot chocolates.

“I used to hate functions like these,” the princess mumbled, a little wistfully as if she’s been away from her royal life for longer than a couple of months. Ciel raised a questioning eyebrow. He would have missed her statement if he hadn’t been focusing on her so intently, watching how the sunset illuminated her skin. Through the open tent, the light shone on her and refracted well in the diamonds she sported, making her navy gown look all the more dignified. Almost angelic if he hadn’t seen her endearingly nefarious smirk days prior.

“Then you would be in a better place than I, seeing as I still dislike these events,” Ciel responded, considering how the noble ton abused him. How they tried to influence him, presuming he was weak because of his young age or trauma. Everyone had their own agenda to fulfill. Even at a little noble girl’s insignificant birthday party, Ciel could see it. He doubted there would be much turnout for any other girl’s birthday, but Beatrice’s parents were a special case. That was why he bothered making an appearance, anyway.

“Too many pretenses,” Her Highness said, reading his mind. “My parents would host birthday parties such as these for my sister and me as representatives of the crown,” she explained. He understood that these parties didn’t truly celebrate a birthday but celebrated the continuation of an institution, like the monarchy, or in this case, a business— an earldom and porcelain handling company.

“You likely know I inherited the Phantomhive name a mere four years ago,” Ciel wasn’t sure why he mentioned his ascension to head of the Phantomhive family. Though he supposed he couldn’t be much of a head when the rest strangers murdered the rest. “I was 13. The only one left alive,” now he matched her oddly wistful tone.

“I’ve hosted and attended these sorts of affairs. And throughout them, people have attempted to take advantage of my status,” he explained, still speaking beyond his better judgment. “I understand pretenses, Your Highness.”

. . .

Miss Beatrice skated over before Ciel could adequately greet her. She was a blur of deep, royal purple skirts, fiery red hair in her haste. However, when he went to say hello (for the second time that evening), she brought her finger to her lips and insistently shushed him.

“Shhh. Be quiet, Ciel,” Beatrice quietly demanded, hiding behind the tall table Ciel and the princess claimed. The tablecloth was long enough to reach the icy ground, completely obscuring any young heir’s view of his betrothed. “My Teddy is looking for me,” she whispered, “he’s ‘it.’”

“Alright,” he agreed gruffly, knowing better than to refute a six-year-old at her celebration.

Upon noticing Her Highness, Beatrice seemed to forget her declaration, opting to squeal, likely taken by the sheer regality that surrounded the princess…when you didn’t know her well. When you couldn’t interpret her well enough to notice that she was beginning to tire, Ciel could see it. She relied too much on the tall table for balance, the skates tight and uncomfortable after standing stationary for so long.

But Beatrice would only notice her elegant navy dress, the expensive black lace that cascaded down either side of the petticoat and each long sleeve. She saw the large sapphire and diamond necklace between Her Highness’s collarbones. That piece of jewelry alone could likely pay for two extravagant parties like this.

“Mummy said there would be a special princess here tonight. Is it you, Miss?” Beatrice asked, eyes wide as she tried to take every aspect of the princess she could. She didn’t realize that Her Highness wasn’t the sort of person you could inspect so easily.

“Was she not referring to you?” the princess asked without missing a beat, reflecting Beatrice’s astonished grin. The reverence in her eyes convinced Ciel that she would curtsy to the small girl in front of her if they weren’t on the ice. Her Highness didn’t seem like someone who would enjoy playing into a child’s fantasy, but she smiled like it was nothing. “It is your birthday, after all.

“Well- yes, it is, but--” Beatrice blushed, “you just look so pretty, like you’re from a storybook. And I love your ring,” she added giddily, staring at the sparkling diamond ring on the royal’s pointer finger. It caught so much sunset that it appeared white, set in solid gold. Her Highness wore it opposite her emerald family ring. Although the green didn’t match, she seldom removed it.

“This ring?” the princess regarded the diamond briefly before removing it from her gloved finger. “You should watch over it for me, then,” she insisted, guiding the child’s open palm to hold the ring and enclosing her tiny fingers around it.

Ciel had never seen a child smile so widely.

“Thank you so much, Princess….” Beatrice squealed, pausing as she tried to remember the princess’s name as if someone dared say it to begin with.

“Marie.”

“Princess Marie,” Beatrice repeated, slipping the costly ring into her pocket. She lunged into a fierce hug, mostly wrapping her arms around the princess’s extensive petticoats because of their height difference, but the attempt was laudable. At the very least, Her Highness seemed mildly amused, but she made no effort to wrap her arms around the girl in response. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Princess Beatrice.”

“Bee! I’m coming for you!” Theodore bellowed. A quick look behind Ciel told him that the girl’s betrothed had spotted her, and he was wasting no time in charging over.

Now delighted from more than Her Highness’s generous gift, Beatrice released the actual princess. Laughing, she gave Theodore one look before racing away, sending a short spray of ice in her strong push-off.

“That ring won’t fit her finger for years,” Ciel commented offhandedly, watching Theodore successfully tag Beatrice. “Do allow me to have a new one custom-made for you.”

“I have plenty of diamonds,” the princess shrugged indifferently, but her expression was more serious. Her Highness’s gaze looked far away, like she recalled a distant memory. “Beatrice deserved something special, what with all the pretenses surrounding her life. She’s too young to begin to understand the life ahead of her.”

And she wasn’t wrong. Although once Ciel would have doubted what sort of hardship a princess could face, now he couldn’t allow himself to be so sure. With her, there was no certainty, and perhaps… that was what made her so endearing. There was no telling where she might take him next, nor did he long to know beyond that sentiment.

“Very well, Your Highness.”

. . .

Tags:

#ciel phantomhive x reader #ciel x reader #ciel x you #black butler #black butler fanfiction #black butler fanfic #Black Butler Fandom #black butler x you #anime fanfic #anime fanfiction #sebastian michaelis #historical fiction #strangers to lovers #historical romance #victorian era #victorian romance #the liberated grin #the indignant pawn #chapter 11

24 notes · View notes

killer--instinct · 1 year

Text

fully fully inspired by luminous-starry-eyes, i have sOo many tubbur headcanons and i think they deserve to be heard by my audience of 0

general dead dove warning, read at your own risk

wilbur's always been kinda hot and pretty to. everyone. and tubbo is no exception! seeing him in uniform, commanding his army didn't do anything to assuage those feelings, but there was other shit to worry about, so of course tubbo relegated his thoughts to the dead of night when tommy was knocked out in the bunk across from him and he could get off to the thought of wilbur using that commanding voice for tubbo's ears only...

it all Really took off in pogtopia.

he preened at the praise he got from wilbur at every bit of information he passed on, feeding more and more and maybe getting a little clumsy because of it

now wilbur had always made note of his soldiers, but tubbo got some special attention. how could he not -- he was brave and strong and competent; he was everything a young soldier should be, including the shiny obedience. wilbur could never in a million years deny that he liked his partners submissive with a bite, and tubbo fit the bill perfectly. of course, this was a distant appreciation and nothing else. his morals were sound; tubbo was too many years younger than him and was his little brother's best friend, it would be incredibly weird!... well, he could get off to the thought just this once...

anyway, pogtopia!wilbur was on the decline, strung out and frustrated and desperate and maybe a little lonely, so when sweet, precious tubbo comes to him in the dead of night with information, he can't help but sit him on a table, squished into his side, conversation flowing easily between the two of them as wilbur's eyes focus on tubbo's lips.

if wilbur's hand wanders from shoulder to waist to hip, tubbo doesn't mention it. and if wilbur notices tubbo's face turning redder as time passes, he doesn't mention it either.

it doesn't escalate beyond that during that night -- schlatt, or rather, quackity was expecting tubbo early that morning, so he had to go and get some sleep.

neither can erase the encounter from their minds, but the world falls apart around them before anything can happen.

tubbo becomes president and has to make hard decisions, take miserable responsibilities onto his shoulders, all before he's really an adult. he's stressed and he's scared and he wants to do better than the people that came before him, so he does what he thinks is best, and maybe it's fucked up, but all the while, he wishes wilbur was here, that he could guide tubbo, even if it was away from the mistakes he'd made during the building of l'manberg. he wishes that wilbur's voice would echo through the office, his jokes and his singing soothing tubbo's nerves, his hands strumming delicately at a guitar, or clasped in tubbo's own hands--

tubbo finds himself a husband, and he's happy. they find their child, and he's happier. he's building defenses, he's making sure their home is safe, he's having an alright time! sure, occasionally he'll be in his workshop late at night and the light will hit the walls just so and he'll think back to that night, to the warmth of wilbur's hands in the cold of the ravine, to the way he stared...

when he sees wilbur again, the wall he's built around himself crumbles. the streak of white in his hair, the way his limbs hang miserably off a terribly skinny frame, the dark circles under his eyes and the hastily-sewn gash in his sweater-- it all pulls at tubbo's chest more than he'd ever expected. he's young, he's never wanted someone the way he wants wilbur, even though he's married with a child and perfectly content with this life. so when wilbur turns up at his door, cold and hungry and miserable, tubbo pulls him in, thanking the gods that ranboo and michael are off visiting techno and phil. he feeds the man, chattering nervously because he's Here and he's Alive and tubbo might be dreaming because despite the way death has treated him and how it still clings to him now, wilbur looks breathtaking.

they talk, and tubbo notices how different wilbur is, and he chalks it up to being revived and having a new perspective on life. the man comments on his house, the coat that's far too large for tubbo's stocky, short frame, the baby toys littering the living room. tubbo is excited to talk about his family, but there's also something like... shame beneath it. like he's done something wrong.

"and does he treat you right," wilbur asks, a tone lacing his voice into something sharp. tubbo swallows hard, unable to focus with that commanding, dangerous voice directed at him.

"h-how do you mean?"

"i mean," and wilbur leans in, far closer than he needs to in the silence of the house, "does he take care of you? your body? your insides?"

it's embarrassing, the way wilbur talks about it, and maybe a little strange to tubbo's inexperienced mind, but it sets him on fire.

"he's not-- he's-- he has a lot to do, usually," he settles on. wilbur coos pityingly, and tubbo grows warmer, the fire turning into an inferno.

"poor thing. you must be feeling so neglected." tubbo finds himself nodded before he can stop himself, his hands drifting to grip the seat between his legs.

"don't worry, sweet boy, i'll take care of you."

#am i insane? maybe!#but god almighty i love this duo #i also think that ranboo doesn't get the concept of cheating because endermen mate in groups within their haunting #so he was really just waiting for someone else in his haunting to show interest #also tubbo trans #its not explicitly stated but tubbo trans he/him/it and wilbur genderqueer he/she #because fuck your binary i want them to be genderfucky

3 notes · View notes

lovemesomesurveys · 2 years

Text

Think of the last dream you had. What was it about? I don’t remember. I rarely remember my dreams. What stresses you out? Currently, my health is my biggest stressor. What's one song that you can listen to that can make you fall asleep? There isn’t a song, but ASMR can help. Do you tend to trip over air often? I tend to bump into things or hit my hand or elbow on something. Have you ever gone on a cruise? No.

Have you ever watched the sunrise? Yes. What about the sunset? Yes. Name a band that you think is beyond overrated: *shrug* When was the last time it snowed in your area? It doesn’t snow here. Summer or Winter? Why? Winter, hands down. I don’t do well with the heat and it gets miserably hot here. Our summers also feel like they go on forever. We’re in mid October and it’s still been in the 90s. Spring or Autumn? Why? Autumn. I love the weather, the holidays, the smells, the colors, and just the coziness. What season were you born in? Ugh, in the summer. Do you like to play in the rain? No. I love when it rains, though. Do you think that by doing so, you may catch a cold? It’s possible. Who is the last person you said goodbye to? My brother yesterday when he went to work. What are you currently sitting on right now? My bed. Are you listening to music? No. Is there anyone you know who always looks like a smug bastard? No. Who can you not live without? My mom. What's your favorite instrument? The piano and guitar. Do you have anything planned for your next birthday? My birthday isn’t until July, I have plenty of time to figure something out. I do hope to do something fun since this year I had to spend it in the hospital. How tall are you? About 5′4. Do you wish to be any taller or shorter? I wish I was taller. Have you ever submitted anything to Fmylife.com? No. Are you currently working on finishing a book? No. Do you have a blog? If so, care to leave a link to it? You’re lookin’ at it. Is your hair naturally curly, straight or in-between? It’s wavy. What's your favorite sea creature? Otters and sea lions are cute. What's your favorite acoustic song? The acoustic version of Everlong by Foo Fighters. Do you know anyone that's pregnant? Yes. Top bunk or bottom bunk? Bottom cause I wouldn’t be able to get up and down on my own. What's your favorite Pok�mon? Jigglypuff. What's your favorite font? Verdana and Tahoma. What happens when a sword that can pierce anything tries to pierce a shield that cannot be pierced? Nothing?

What's your favorite riddle? Why is a raven like a writing desk? Do you use the dish washer or prefer washing dishes by hand? We rinse them off before putting them in the dishwasher. Have you ever been inside a castle? No. Do you know anyone who backwashes? DD: Everyone does. I don’t share drinks with anyone, so it’s not an issue for me. What do you think happens after we pass? I believe in heaven and hell. ^ Is it different from what you'd like to happen? No. How do you feel about people self-diagnosing themselves with disorders? I mean, you can research a disorder and identify with one, but you should see a doctor to be sure. You could end up thinking you have something that you don’t and possibly do something harmful or misdiagnose and have something go left untreated. It can be helpful for you to research beforehand, though, so you can take your information to your doctor and think about what questions you may have. Also helpful to know what symptoms you may be experiencing. Tell me a random fact. Around 430 this morning I ate a Reese’s. lol. Name one unusual habit that you have. I break apart my food when eating. Like, if I’m eating pizza I tear pieces off to eat instead of just biting it. Did today treat you well? It’s only 6:11AM, but I’ve been up since like 4 so that sucks. Do you enjoy calling out trolls/people who shouldn't be on the interbutts? No. What would you say if I said that I love you? Uh, you don’t even know me. Let's get married either way? No.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

2 notes · View notes

inavagrant-a · 2 years

Text

@bushiido said:

❛ you’re not a very convincing liar. ❜ (drag him kazuha)

"And you shit out ridiculous prose for words, what's your point?" Is he getting defensive right off the bat? No (Yes). Tetsuya doesn't need anybody to tell him that, he knows that much. The wanderer does not fancy lies after all, he never did, and less now than before given certain things that have come to light. Even then he does acknowledge that there is a place and a time to lie, though to him those specific times and places are quite limited, he excels in those occasions however. "Who asked for your opinion anyway, haiku with legs." He mumbles more so to himself. Why did Niwa's descendant have to be quite the piece of work. Truly and actually recently Tetsuya's come to discover that the little weasel has weaseled himself closer and closer. The truth is that he allowed such a thing but that's only because its in his plans to tell Kazuha everything. At this time it is just... he simply has not found the right words or way to tell him. Most of the times they do end up spending time together it isn't appropriate and then when there is a small window for some reason Tetsuya finds himself tongue tied, overwhelmed even. It isn't so much because he doesn't want to tell him, it's because the wanderer doesn't know where to begin in telling him, especially with Irminsul in the mix of all of this mess.

Should he start from the very beginning? Should he start from the moment he took on the name Kunikuzushi? Or should he start in the moment that he ceased his rampart wrath? Though the details are scarce and he knows not how the downfall of the Kaedehara clan happened, he knows that it was a slow turbulent downfall into their decline. It wasn't something that happened instantly, it didn't happen quickly, it dragged, it happened slowly over the years, over the passing of time. So slow to the point where one can soak up all of the anguish, the stress, the pain, and suffering until officially there wasn't anything left of them. Well... that's not true, Kazuha is here. A piece of Niwa is here and in the deepest parts of his subconscious Tetsuya cherishes that in theory only, of course. Of Kazuha he does not know much, only rumors he's so famously known for, but beyond that Niwa's shadow casts over the young swordsman and Tetsuya hasn't made the conscious effort of making that shadow go away, not quite yet. Niwa is gone, Tetsuya isn't as delusional as Scaramouche was to make himself go off the end, but the fact that he can see Niwa in Kazuha unnerves him tremendously and he wonders if perhaps that's it. That's the why. The why he's having trouble telling him anything, telling him something. He doesn't see Kazuha yet, he sees Niwa staring back though they are two very different people and Niwa is nothing but a long past ancestor. Why, Tetsuya will bet Kazuha doesn't even know about him, at least not that well.

"..." That's it isn't it? Because the one staring back at him is Niwa not Kazuha. At least, in his head it isn't Kazuha. That's why he doesn't like to be around him, at least not fully yet even though he wants that to settle so that he can properly talk to him. He has to know and honestly depending and tossing the weight of telling those he doomed over to the traveler wasn't his brightest idea. It isn't so much that he has no trust in the traveler telling them (surprising I know), it's more so because the weight of them knowing that truth should be on him and not some messenger. "You need to learn to talk a little less." He adds as if that's supposed to be taken as some sort of dis, but the bite in those words lack their fangs. Maybe, just maybe him being a little too chatty doesn't bother him as it usually would.

#bushiido #inquiries.#in character.#act iii: wanderer.#hE REALLY CALLED HIM A HAIKU WITH LEGS HEL P #AWRAXAWRAXA #he just doesn't like getting called ou t awraxawraxa #oh i am so stupi d everything makes me laug h

1 note · View note

tdcloud · 2 years

Text

2022 Retrospective and a Look Ahead to 2023 (blog#12)

And now it’s December, and we’ve reached the final blog post for the year. Somehow I managed to keep this up for a full twelve months! I’m as shocked as you are, though I have to confess it took me a while to decide on a topic for this last installment for 2022. There are so many things I could and will talk about, but what tripped me up was the notion that this entry needed to be special, something different. I wanted to reward us all for reaching this milestone. It took some time to figure out what would work for that, but just like December hitting us full force with terrible Christmas music and present-buying anxiety, it came to me in the end, so here we are, and here we go.

The topic du jour this month is 2022 and 2023. It’s both a look back at what I’ve done this year as well as a sneak peek ahead at my goals and writing schedule for the next year. Now, anyone who knows me knows I’m not good at praising myself. I’ve written all these books, published and unpublished, and yet nothing ever feels like an accomplishment. It’s been my New Year’s resolution so many years in a row, and it’s one I consistently fail to address because… well, I just don’t know how to fix that. I went to Yougei asking him what I should write for this, and he immediately said “Do a reflection on all you’ve done this year.” I then responded, “All that would be is me complaining about not doing enough.” It’s a problem, that sort of mentality. I’m recognizing it here, and despite my knee jerk reaction that a topic like that wouldn’t be worth doing, I’ve decided to do it anyway. Because I have made strides! I have accomplished things! Let’s talk about them!

I think most obvious and present in my mind when it comes to accomplishments right now is Carnival, my October novella event winner. It’s done, it’s posted, and by and large, it seems to have been a success. I always stress over these events specifically because it’s… you know, a pretty huge undertaking. I have so many people who ask me if I do NaNoWriMo and I just stare at them like… first, I don’t need a month to write a novel, I do it on the regular, and second… That’s literally what October is for me every year. I bite off a lot to make this event happen for my patrons. The story may only be 5-6 chapters, but they average these days anywhere between 70-90 pages. I’ve stopped trying to write them all piecemeal in October—when I only wrote them to be around 4-5 chapters, that was more doable, but anymore, I need some extra time to prepare, plan, and get a head start if I want the end product to be the best it can possibly be given the circumstances under which it was written. I don’t tend to feel proud of myself when I finish writing something, but I do feel satisfied when these projects come to an end. It’s me testing myself on my flexibility, creativity, and perseverance. If I come out with time to spare, it’s a huge win, and this year, I managed to do just that with Carnival. A lot of the time, I’m still writing into October.

But beyond the obvious and most recent thing, what else have I accomplished this year? Well, I’m unreasonably negative towards myself when I fail to publish something. I’ve got so many things active and ready for it, but I can’t always get my way when it comes to finding an artist with time to spare, or if my editor is bogged down with their own projects. A lot of things conspired to throw a wrench in my plans this year, but I did manage to prepare two stories for publication—all I’m waiting for is art. When I’ve got that locked and loaded, all I have to do is send out for proofs and hit publish. I managed this year to prep so much content. Even if nothing managed to come to fruition for 2022, I’ll be able to hit the ground running in 2023. We’ll have a few rapid-fire releases that way, and I’ll be in a great position to finish some high-profile projects and get ahead for once in my never-ending schedule.

Given how much I work and put on my own plate, I’m not always in the best position to help out other people with their own projects. I was able to help Sun, one of my dearest and most valued friends, with her new A Little Rain Oracle Deck, and honestly, that’s probably the accomplishment I’m most proud of. She asked for help during my busiest month (September, when I’m in the deepest of hell-deadlines for the October novella), and I managed to completely rewrite and revise her guidebook with time to spare for her own deadlines. She’s announced and ended her pre-order, but there’s still time to check out this beautiful deck and see how to grab a copy for yourself. Help support Sun by checking out her website: https://ambisunart.com/shop/

Beyond all of that, I’ve made great strides in my ongoing projects. My Patreon serial, my monthly novella rotations, and all the other projects I’m working on in the background have progressed on schedule. I’m not behind in anything beyond Hiraeth (more on that later), and I’m actually finishing up the last few chapters of Apotheosis this month so I can get a head start on my next serial early, thus allowing myself even more time in the future for things not on my monthly rotation list. It’s hard to do double-chapters for large projects each month, but I’m trying to view it as an investment in future-me. The more I can churn through now when I’ve got some holiday downtime, the more I’ll be able to take my time in the future when I need to take my time. If I prep and stockpile chapters now, I’ll be in a better position when I inevitably get sick, go to conventions, or have a bad productivity month later on.

And I do plan on doing more conventions. This year saw me attending and tabling at my first long-distance convention. I flew to Minnesota and tabled with my lovely friend Jack, something I never thought I’d be able to do given the logistics of transporting heavy books via airplane. I made it happen, and it worked! I reached an entirely new audience who hadn’t been privy to my work, and I intend to do it again in the future. I’ve reached new horizons and tested the boundaries of what I thought was possible when selling my work in person. It’s an accomplishment for sure, even if it’s not an obvious one in terms of publication or writing. What I do is considered a small business. I’m not just the talent—I’m the salesperson, the marketer, the graphic designer, the agent. Pushing the boundaries of where I take my business is so important, and while Covid is still very much a thing (y’all better still be masking!) conventions are reaching a state of equilibrium again. I’m excited to try my hand at new conventions I’ve never been to before. Hopefully, I’ll get to meet more of you while I do it!

But what about next year? I know I’ve teased a lot of future projects over this past year, but I haven’t been able to give too many concrete dates or time frames for a lot of them. Most of you don’t really know how I schedule or plan out my projects when it comes to publication timelines. I’m very organized, as you can imagine (sarcasm) and I have it all on a sticky notes app on my desktop.

This is sort of my tally chart on how projects are progressing, how much more is left on them, and it gives me general goalposts to aim for as I move forward. I also have a sticky note just for my monthly commitments as well.

This is more a to-do list that gets deleted as I check things off the list, and then the chapter tally is updated on the main screenshot from before. I’ve also got an actual paper schedule notebook where I schedule out my weeks in terms of what project gets worked on when, and when stories conclude, when they go on pause (like in the case of October, every project tends to stop updating except for the novella event offering), and when new stories get to begin.

Of course, I’m always running behind. In an ideal world, I’d keep to my schedule exactly and finish everything in the least amount of time necessary, but I get sick sometimes, or a family member gets sick, or my convention schedule gets hectic and I lose entire weeks to prepping and traveling and recovery, or holidays happen and my family monopolizes me, or any other numerous setbacks that happen when you live your life. In an ideal world, I’d publish 2-3 times a year. In 2022 alone, I wanted to publish Infaust, Ossuary, and even if there was time, one of the vigilante books. Unfortunately, this year was a busy, hectic year. My usual artists can’t drop everything for me, and I wouldn’t expect or ask them to. When you work independently like this, you just have to get used to having your self-imposed deadlines break.

But when I’m in a lean year like this, I don’t stop working towards publication. If anything, I do even more so that when I do have covers ready, I can hit the ground running. I do all the formatting. I pre-make promotional material. I spend money I would’ve earmarked for cover art on commissioned character art to generate interest, and I dedicate time I would’ve lost in publication hell towards other projects. Do you see how many things I’ve got in my Edit Block up there? I’ve been able to finish and stockpile so many completed manuscripts over the course of 2022. My editor, NIL, has already recreationally read at least half of these offerings. We’ll be able to start 2023 in a great position when it comes to the vigilante series since we’ve both spent so much time poking around on the documents as it is, and Nil’s has already been able to give me a head start on my personal edits for Lambent and Carnival as well, so when we get around to working on those titles seriously, a lot of the bigger issues will already be taken care of.

So, what does that mean in terms of what to expect in 2023? Well, the delightful and supremely skilled AmbiSun (illustrator and graphic designer behind The Tempest Series) will be returning to make Ossuary, the cursebreaker witch/elder vampire erotic horror novella, a reality! She’ll be sending me thumbnails this month and we should have a completed cover before we hit March. Expect a spring release on that title, and more information and teasers around then!

I know I’ve been teasing Infaust over the past few months, and this book is just a good representation of how my intense work schedule doesn’t always translate well for others. I’ve got an insanely talented artist on board for this Pied Piper inspired dark romance, but working around our schedules and fitting things into our busy lives has proved challenging. I’d wanted to release this book back in June, but it’s looking now like it’ll be a 2023 release, perhaps before Ossuary, but maybe after it. We’re playing it by ear, and that’s fine. I will tell you guys that I do have some fun publication plans for this book when it does drop! I really want to do more for pre-orders, and I’m working right now on making a pre-order book release bundle that will hopefully become the norm when I release full books (not novellas, though we may do something fun for compilations like the vigilante trio.) The goal is to have a cute themed box of goodies to go along with the new book. This will likely involve some character manjuu, a sticker sheet, mini prints, and perhaps even acrylic standees or charms! All of the merch will be available for individual purchase after the book drops, but we may have some exclusives just for early birds.

Here’s where we get a little indulgent and pretend that I can concretely deliver on three releases in one year. Following these two books, my publication team and I are planning on going all in when it comes to the vigilante novella trio. If you haven’t read my vigilante teaser blog, go do that now so you know what you’re waiting for! Like I said in that blog, I’ll be working with @skelefarts (or Skeletal Creature, as I think Linden told me she wanted to be known as for the book credentials) over on Twitter when it comes to art. The current plan is to focus on editing all three novellas, starting with Pride/Stray (still using the working titles for ease of the team). Once NIL and I are done editing it and have it all formatted, Linden will do her art while we set in on the next manuscript, leap-frogging it like that so we’re always editing, drawing, and publishing until we’re through with all three novellas. Usually, I have to stop everything when I’m working on late-stage publication, but we’ve all spent enough time with these novellas that it shouldn’t take too much focus to get them out. If we’re lucky, expect Pride/Stray in late 2023 and the other two in early-to-mid 2024. A merch box for all three titles may follow the final publication, but that’ll be dependent on how the Infaust box does.

I would say this is all you can expect currently when it comes to physical releases, but that’s not all you have to look out for. My Patreon is always chock-full of so many ongoing digital releases to tide you over in between physical publications. My current Patreon serialized novel Apotheosis, the prequel to Letifer and the second installment in my Dark Vagaries vampire series, will end by April of 2023. It’ll likely be a 2024 release and be given high priority since it’s part of my main ongoing series. I don’t expect its publication deadline to move around much, barring some major life event occurring or my DVerse artist, Y. Dan (Yougei) needing more time to get the cover out. Either way, you can read it on Patreon right now for just $5 a month. In fact, you can read literally all of these stories right now on Patreon if you’re too impatient to wait for physical releases XD Their first drafts are up, and while they may be missing a chapter or two here, they’re still good representations of what you have to look forward to as my team works on publication.

Since Apotheosis ends in April, May will start off the next serialized work, a rewrite of Aubade, a Norse fantasy story. I wrote up a blog post about this story a couple months back, so if you want a teaser on what to expect from it, I highly suggest checking that out. The current goal right now is to finish writing Apotheosis before New Year’s so I can spend January-May churning through my rewrite portions of Aubade (the first eight or so chapters). The following 4-5 new, additional chapters will be written monthly, thus allowing me to schedule most of the book to auto-release on Patreon while I dedicate my time to finishing other projects I normally wouldn’t have time for while balancing a monthly serial like this. I’m also excited to announce here that a really talented artist will be working with me for this Patreon release! He’s asked to be kept anonymous, but I’ll tell you that he’s a huge fan of Aubade, has been for a long time now, even though I really don’t like the fic version much these days. He’s been champing at the bit in hopes of me picking the story back up and, as a show of his diehard love of the story, has offered to make illustrations for every chapter of the Patreon release, as well as a Patreon cover for the story, too. It’s going to make for a very immersive, very thoughtful exploration of this book, and I really can’t wait for January to come so we can begin our collaborative rewrite of this emotionally challenging story.

I also do a monthly patron pick poll on Patreon, one where I keep up a monthly rotation of several different short story/novella concepts that update based on my patrons’ tastes. We’ve currently got three on rotation, a Gladiatrix/Noblewoman lesbian romcom that will end after one more chapter, a spiritual sequel/tie-in to a previous novella poll option currently titled The Raven King involving courtship through mutual story telling and folkloric creatures beyond our ken, and one with the working title Courtly Love, another romcom set in a pseudo-Arthurian setting with a romantic, hesitant troubadour and the inexperienced prince determined to get this guy to make a move before it’s too late for either of them to act on the flirtations they’ve been exchanging for close to a decade. The latter two won’t begin until next year—everyone has really been feeling these sweaty Roman lesbians—and a third option will likely be added then too, since I like having three on rotation. I haven’t yet decided what I’ll add to the poll just yet, but it’s always a banger and always a ton of fun.

Similar to the patron poll options, my October Novella Event for 2023 will come as it always does, and voting on the story will begin around May or June, just to give me some extra time to plan and get a head start on things. As of right now, the poll options for that event will include the two losers from this year, a sequel to Ossuary named Reliquary that is pretty dead dove XD and another, final installment in the vigilante-verse involving a milfy they/them ditz of a villain and a young, yandere-in-the-making hero who enjoys being held hostage a little too much, a sort of pseudo-horror romance involving the ringleader of a carnival of the dead and a denizen of Limbo who refuses to fall victim to his whims (kinda Corpse Bride-meets-Mushishi flavored, if that gives you some vibes to consider), and something else I haven’t come up with yet. I’m sure I’ll do more teaser blogs about these and other works once I get closer to actually working on them. Just fun stuff to keep in mind, and hopefully you’ll be enticed enough to join us in October for the big reveal!

And finally, the last project I want to discuss is the one I keep getting grilled on: Hiraeth. The final installment of The Tempest Series has been a thorn in my side for several years now, and I’ve offered about as many excuses as I can on why it still isn’t done yet. I just want to reiterate that I WILL finish this story. It will not be scrapped or canceled. It’s going to be published. As you can see in my sticky notes, it is on my radar and always, always, ALWAYS on my mind. The issues I’m having are namely of my own making, but as I said before, I’m always running behind, and with Patreon rotations that have to be published on a schedule, I’m forced to prioritize some projects at the detriment of others. Earlier this year I managed to squeeze in a chapter of Hiraeth into my monthly rotation, but as soon as I had to begin working on my October novella on top of that, something had to give. My goal is to keep Hiraeth on my schedule until it’s done or I’m forced to, once again, let something slide so I’m able to meet my monthly commitments. Given I’m so close to the end of this book, I think the former is more likely than the latter. The SECOND this story is done, it is going to supersede anything else my editor is working on for me. We’re going to beat it into shape and get it ready for publication, but when it’ll be published… I can’t say just yet. It’s going to depend on Sun’s availability, as always, but please know that this book will become my top priority the moment the draft is done. Until then, it’s always going to be the thing I push to the back burner because I have a monetary commitment to prioritize my Patreon offerings first, and while I did toy with the idea of making Hiraeth a serial on there, I opted to not since it’s too wrapped up in lore, previous installments, and context to work as a standalone for anyone on there who hasn’t read the whole series yet.

Please keep in mind I work a full time job and update roughly 50-60 pages a month publicly and another 30-40 that you don’t see. I’m not annoyed or frustrated that I keep getting questions about Hiraeth—to be honest, I’m just psyched that people care and are that excited to finally get to read it. I’m more frustrated at myself for taking this long on something that should’ve been done back in like, 2019. I’m going to do it, though. My Aubade rewrite sprint at the beginning of 2023 will free me up significantly, and I intend to use that time wisely by prioritizing this book again as much as I’m able to. I don’t think I’ll be able to publish in 2023, but my ultimate goal for this work is to give you guys a release date for 2024, or at the very least, confirm that the book is done and that all we’re waiting on is clearance for art before we announce when to expect it.

But that’s enough on that. You guys probably look at all these ongoing and future projects and think I’m insane, but honestly, this is how I work, this is how I update, and I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t give myself unrealistic standards and deadlines. I like having a full plate, and when I have lots of ideas, I don’t always like waiting years for their turn to come. Sometime I’ll show you guys more of my monthly planning strategies and maybe even show you guys how I format my physical schedule. To me, this is all very manageable so long as I don’t fall behind. It’s when I get sick or miss a weekend that things get stressful. Maybe that’ll be my next resolution for 2023—give myself even more padding for when things inevitably do happen to me, because even with all of these stockpiling tricks I’m pulling, it’s still likely to happen regardless.

Let’s turn to some questions now and see what else people are excited about for 2023. Questions come from Instagram and Twitter this time!

How do you do prior research and gather references to make your work more “real”?

More writing questions! Fun fun. Well, I mean, I read books and look for articles on the topics. It really depends on the sort of research you’re doing. If it’s something in a historical setting, you should be researching the fuck out of things—if that’s something you feel is important. There are plenty of people writing “historical” fiction where it’s just a setting, not anything more. Do you care about being accurate? If so, then read everything you can find about the time period itself. Find diaries, since those are great for actually hearing how people lived their day-to-day lives, and look for resources that can add flavor to your worldbuilding, like historical cookbooks or books/articles targeted towards taking you through the day of whatever class or group of people you’re writing about. You want to get boots on the ground, essentially, because just reading a history book won’t tell you how a person lived, just what they lived through.

If you’ve got access to JSTOR, you’re a lucky bastard. Use it and download as many articles as you can. If you don’t, hit up your local library. There are reference librarians who can find articles and books for you via WORLDCAT or interlibrary loan, and I’d recommend being pretty upfront with them when it comes to what you’re trying to write. My mother is a librarian and you’d be shocked what sorts of goldmines they’re able to uncover once they get going. Also, when I was in college, I asked my professors LOTS of questions when I was writing stories set in their areas of focus. If you’ve got access to an expert in the field, use them. I’ve served as a historical consultant before for comic authors—though I’d hazard to call myself an “expert.” Just… don’t be too shy to tell someone like that what you’re trying to do. You don’t have to tell your Medieval History professor “Hey, I’m writing a gay erotica about a viking and volva, can you tell me more about things that pertain to that?” Have some tact, if you think they’ll care or whatever, but just tell them you’re working on a personal project and could use more context. They’ll tell you everything they know, or be a great resource when it comes to pointing you towards other resources instead.

I’d also suggest setting your story in a place you’re familiar with, if you’re basing it in a real world place. That’s not always possible though—and God knows I’ve never been to France XD—but if you don’t have real world experience in the location you’re setting a story in, you’re going to have to do even more research to level the playing field, because a reader who DOES know about that location will drag your ass for inconsistencies—I’ve got a European reader who corrected me for having two French characters drink tea with milk in it. Find someone who lives there or has a lot of experience being there to read over your work and tweak it for issues, interview people about their own experiences, and like, Google Earth is a thing. You can literally take a walk down a Parisian street to see what a character sees. I can’t tell you how many walking tours I watched on Youtube to get a feel for the public portions of the Catacombs as well. The more you know and have seen of your setting, the more authentic your descriptions will be and feel.

Finally, while I don’t believe in only “writing what you know,” I still suggest you write within your wheelhouse. If you know nothing about the Industrial Revolution and you don’t really care to learn about it beforehand, maybe don’t set your story during that time if the setting itself is a big area of focus in the story. There’s no shame in giving your fantasy a historical bend to it. It gives you a lot more wiggle room and more grace in terms of the finicky little details that may give you away. I guess… just identify what your goal is in telling the story. Are you trying to make it accurate? Do you want people to come out of reading it learning new things? If so, put in the work. If not, then don’t sweat it, but also don’t sell it as accurate historical fiction.

Ultimately, what makes a story feel “real” can come from the setting, but largely, it’ll come from how realistic and authentic you make your characters feel. The more you demonstrate this person is a well rounded character with thoughts, feelings, and goals of their own, the more the reader will feel immersed and find the story believable. Don’t just write a character—write a person. The set dressing will help us understand them, but I’d ignore the presence of a tomato in 14th century Europe a lot easier if the character I’m reading about feels tangible.

Is there any trope in fiction that you love but might not have written yet?

Hmm well I’m pretty good about writing things that I like or want to try exploring, clearly XD But off the top of my head, I really want to do some noir inspired works sometime, as well as more detective stories. One of my favorite type of stories to read are locked door mysteries, the sort of mystery where someone is murdered in a locked room and you have to try to figure out who did it and how—sort of like Clue meets Agatha Christie.

I’m also a fan of arranged marriages/political marriage tropes, and while I’m sort of satisfying some of those requirements with Apotheosis, I haven’t gotten to truly explore that trope just yet. I’ve also got a divisive relationship with isekai type stories, but I lowkey have plans I want to explore for a story involving alternate realities and a character being brought into a world that seems familiar but has a few marked differences. I’m toying with some story notes as we speak but I don’t have anything concrete enough planned for any sort of formal write-up or teaser just yet.

What conventions are you going to next year?

Great question! I do try to keep my Events tab on my website up-to-date as I make plans and get into alleys, but as of right now, I’ll be at Anime Crossroads in February (Indianapolis), Anime Minneapolis in May (Minneapolis), Colossalcon in June (Sandusky), and Youmacon in November (Detroit). I’ll be for-sure tabling at the first three (Colossalcon likely just the traditional Thursday), with Youma still being a TBA. I’ve also applied for Matsuricon, ACEN, and will be trying for JAFAX, Anime Iowa, and perhaps a few other smaller Michigan conventions as well. One of my goals for 2023 is to try applying to more conventions outside my normal rotation. Wish me luck on all these lotteries and juries!

It’s been a great year, now that I’m reading over all of this. I’ve made new friends, worked with new people, explored new topics, and set myself up for some really great launches next year. I’m entering a new era of my business and creative life as I attempt new things and try different dynamics within my fiction, and I’m really excited to start offering more merch in new and fun ways.

I hope you guys had a good 2022 despite, y’know, everything bad that’s done it’s best to stain it for everyone. We’re not living in easy times. We’re actively challenged every single day to get out of bed and keep our heads high, to move forward with what makes us happy while life around us conspires to drag us down. Fiction is an escape and always has been. It can be hard to get the words on paper some days with the news beating down on the back of my head, but it’s an escape for you guys, and for me as well. It’s… important. Silly little stories are important. If I’ve been able to give any of you some levity in darkness, I’m glad. It makes it all worth it, and I hope you’ll stick by me for another year as we continue to laugh and cry and shout at these stupid characters as they fall in love again and again and again.

Thank you for 2022. Let’s say hello again in 2023, and make it a good year, even if we have to do it ourselves by any means possible.

Until next time,

T.D. Cloud

#author blog #blog #2022 recap

1 note · View note

beauleifu · 2 years

Note

Hi hi !! I love your writing so much, it’s always pleasant to read them, especially the mayor ones💖 I was wondering if you could do headcanons or a one shot (whatever makes you feel comfortable :D) of Mayor and a s/o who will always be loyal to him no matter what happens, hurt/comfort if that’s okay🤍 take your time with it :D Have a great day/night !!

Awww, this idea sounds super sweet, I hope you like what I've thrown together! Roughly 2k oneshot <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MAYOR X READER

Lego Monkie Kid

Context: The Mayor definitely has his days where he returns late - but he'd always alert you beforehand. Sometimes he's gone for days. But this time it's different, and it's late, and you're already worried about him. Something is wrong.

TW: Language, reference to the murder, somewhat depressive episode (comes in all shapes and sizes, don't it)

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It's late.

You sit impatiently on the couch, one leg bouncing from the anxiety in your chest. Lips pressed tightly together, you glance at the clock positioned on the counter for the fiftieth time. 4 A.M.

The Mayor rarely ever stays out past midnight.

At first, you thought nothing of it, preparing dinner at around ten - due to the fact that you both always made your meals together. This time around, however, the bone demon's presence is lacking, and you'd scrapped together a simple sandwich with a heavy heart.

So it happens to everyone.

You can't expect the Mayor to maintain a perfect schedule. But as time ticked on, and your idiot still hadn't come home . . . well, you'd began to stress.

Your stomach churns from the nerves, and you're wishing you hadn't eaten.

4:20 A.M.

Where is he??

You stand up, starting to pace around the room. Biting your knuckles and hugging yourself as you circle the table, the couch - then you approach the cabinets for a glass and fill it with water. You don't drink it, instead placing the cup by the sink. Then, you simply dump the water out, watching it swirl around a few moments before finally vanishing down the drain.

Footsteps suddenly reach your ears.

Aha!

Fucking finally, you think, spinning around and striding to the front door. How you managed to hear the figure approaching the door is beyond you, but the door is opened and the Mayor is standing outside.

"Hi!" You beam, keeping your voice down as to not alert any outside entities.

The bone demon blinks down at you, perhaps surprised at the fact that you're awake. But that familiar smile is plastered on his face nonetheless, permanent and wide as ever. You fail to notice something off about his behavior, side stepping him to allow him passage into the room.

All you feel is relief, and that is what blinds you.

He hums in response, slowly stepping across the threshold. "Sweetheart, you should be asleep . . ."

"Someone had to open the door for you."

You expect the Mayor to fire back a smooth retort, but he merely hums again, turning to face you. He won't meet your gaze, however, as you close the door. Somewhat awkwardly, he glances around, as though taking everything in for the first time.

"Uh . . . Hello? You good?" You ask, peering at him.

The Mayor blinks, turns, and heads into the kitchen without replying. His hands, which had been behind his back, move to his front, fingers lacing together in a telltale sign of anxiety.

You don't notice just yet.

Following him at a slower pace, you peer into the kitchen, content to just observe the Mayor as he retrieves a mug and faces the fridge to get some water. His movements are jerky, dripping with anxiety and . . . fear? The tense posture and eyes that won't meet yours suddenly raise suspicion. A small frown lights your features, and you tilt your head.

Something's wrong.

He won't look at you, won't even send you a smile, not a word. Just takes a long sip of water.

You stare at his free hand, the fingers tapping his thigh nervously.

"How was your day?" You venture at last.

"Fine, my dear. Thank you," the Mayor returns simply, and although his tone is light, his reply is short. There's a lot to unpack in those words, and it makes your gut twist with worry.

". . . You sure?"

Silence.

The Mayor finishes his drink, then goes to hold the cup with both hands, his grip very tight. His head is hung low, blank white eyes glued to the object in his grasp, dull and half-lidded. For a second, his permanent smile flickers.

Your brow furrows.

His smile.

It's twisted, forced in a way that confirms your suspicion.

He's putting on a façade, a wall to ease you of your worries, and there's something so awful about that because of how pained the poor man looks.

"What's wrong?"

The Mayor stiffens; you can visibly see it when his shoulders hunch slightly. That's not normal.

Something must be very wrong for him to act so out of place.

You approach him slowly as to not upset him, hands going to rest on his arm. Nervously, you peer up at him, scanning his features for any signs of distress. There is something there . . . it feels like misery. Like self loathing. Like heartache.

He's suffering.

"Hey, hey what's the matter?" You breathe, eyes wide.

Your voice seems to drag him back into reality, and he blinks, suddenly smiling. What disappoints you is how he doesn't meet your gaze. "Nothing! Why do you suspect so?"

The Mayor gently pulls away from you, voice and features strained. You see right through it.

"Did something happen-"

"No."

"Then why do you look so sad?" You whisper, lowering your arms.

Suddenly, your act of defeat is halted. The Mayor's hands close around your wrists, gently holding them close to his chest. He still won't look at you, eyes merely observing the way your fingers lace neatly through his. It's as though your presence is an anchor - and yet, something he feels he doesn't deserve.

You wait patiently, features pulled tight with worry. With your hands, you give him a reassuring squeeze.

"(Y/N), have you . . . "

"Hm?"

". . . Have you ever killed someone?"

Wha- Huh?

Blinking in surprise, you regard the bone demon with newfound wonder. What brought this up? "Um . . . no, I haven't. I-I know that you, uh . . ." You stop right there.

You're well aware that the Mayor's hands are far from clean.

They're stained with the blood of innocents he'd murdered. To confirm this fact right now feels wrong, though.

"Do you know what it feels like?" The Mayor asks quietly, voice deep and full of something that takes a moment to register. Remorse. It floods his voice like a toxic gas would a chamber. "Do you know what it does to you?"

"No . . ."

You look up.

The bone demon's smile is gone.

With eyes full of self loathing, the Mayor releases your wrists to run a hand through his hair - unkept, you finally notice. "Someone as malignant as I. . . . will never change. Won't ever deserve-"

He cuts himself off.

You stare. "W-What are you talking about?"

A beat.

The Mayor's expression twists into something more agitated. He takes a step back, more to keep you safe from him than him being uncomfortable with the close proximity. It's a small gesture that's so wrong on a number of levels. Why is he acting like this??

"These voices, sweetheart-" With wide, haunted eyes that won't look at you, the Mayor grabs a fistful of his hair, his smile strained. "What do you think they tell me?"

No.

Oh, no.

Dread washes over you, matching the worry you feel for him.

"They tell me . . . they tell me I'm unworthy. A genocidal monster. Destructive. Puppet. Slave. They tell me . . ." With that, the Mayor looks away.

"I don't deserve you."

Your eyes close. "Please don't believe that."

He's drowning.

Suffocating from the voices in his head, the voices of those he'd slaughtered without a care in the world. A puppet does as his master wishes, all strings attached. You know the Mayor believes every word the voices tell him.

For how long, though?

Taking a deep breath, you open your eyes and reach out. Hands gently cupping his face, you tilt his head down and breathe; "I love you. I don't care what you've done."

The bone demon's eyes are downcast. "I would never forgive myself if I hurt you."

You know what he's trying to say.

That maybe it's better for you both to part ways. To listen to the imaginary voices in the Mayor's mind, to give up on this.

He's afraid he'll lash out, lose control, and inflict irreversible damage upon you. It would set his worst fear to life, giving way to a new type of violence if you'd died to his wrath. His hands are too bloodied, too tainted with lives he'd ended. But you know better. You know he'd never hurt you, that he's changed from the man he once was. Why can't he see that, too?

Why . . .

Tears flood your vision. "Just don't. Leave."

A heavy silence.

Your lover's eyes close, a small shiver running up his spine at the feel of your hands.

His own are shaking. Dull eyes lock with yours, and his fa��ade is finally given up. "The things I've done . . . I'm not proud of. I'll never . . ." He trails off, a hint of desperation in his tone.

He'll never be able to atone for his mistakes.

Oh.

Finally, you understand.

Holding his gaze, you frown firmly. "You can't change the past. You can't go back in time and stop yourself from doing all those things, try as you might. Your past is your own, and people either own up to theirs or drown. Those mistakes . . . they were done by someone else, not the man I know. You've changed. I know you're better than your past self, but you don't have to live with the shadow of that. Just . . . please. Please, try and see what I see."

The Mayor stares, eyes wide and full of longing. He wants to believe you. "Perhaps I . . . well . . ."

You offer a reassuring smile, thumb brushing fondly along his jawline. "Look. I get that there's no making up for the things you've done. But you can't let it consume you. There are other ways to redeem yourself."

With that, you stand on your toes and give him a quick kiss.

His hands raise to grip your arms - gently, as though you were made of glass -, and his eyes close.

When you lean back, you continue; "I love you, ya big goof. I don't care what you've done or who you are, all right? Doesn't that mean anything?"

The Mayor's eyes stay shut. "It means . . . everything."

Now that sends a shiver up your spine.

"Then start from there. I'll help you whenever I can. There's no way I'm leaving you anytime soon," you say delicately, searching his face for any trace of doubt. You find none. The demon seems content to listen to your voice. "I'll be here whenever you need me. I promise."

"That's a heavy promise to keep, my love," the Mayor murmurs, voice laced with fondness and a bit of sorrow.

He wants to believe you. He'll try to believe you.

That counts for something, at least.

You watch as he angles his head, pressing his lips to the palm of your left hand affectionately. The gesture fills you with warmth, and you don't even try to hide the way your cheeks heat up.

"Well, I intend to keep it."

He looks up. ". . . Thank you. Had you not knocked the sense into me . . ."

"I get it. You would've sat on the floor for an hour and cried," you joke, lowering your hands. With a small smile, you tilt your head. "So you feel a bit better, then?"

"Yes," he replies softly. "Now . . . why don't you head to bed?"

You frown. "Sure, but . . ."

"But?"

"Well, there's enough room on the couch, I dunno, but if you want to sleep there we could watch a movie or something-"

The Mayor's smile is back, full of warmth. "I'd love that."

96 notes · View notes

neonlights92 · 3 years

Text

Night Changes: PART TWO

Jeon Jungkook has spent the last twenty years alone. Single. Solo.

And that’s just the way he likes it. That is, until he meets the supposed love of his life. Suddenly he’s falling over himself at the chance of a real relationship with someone.

The only thing getting in his way? You.

genre: fuckboy!jungkookie, college!jungkookie, romcom, e2l (kinda)

AN: I am so fuckin soft for college Kook you wouldn’t even belieeeeeve

Within days of their ‘truce’, Jungkook realises what a huge dickhead he truly is for not remembering Y/N’s name.

She shares his timetable almost entirely.

“I’m the worst.” He bemoans after a particularly stressful lecture on American poetry, “You weren’t kidding when you said you were in all my classes.”

“Almost all your classes.” She laughs a little at the look on his face and shrugs, “I did tell you.”

“It makes perfect sense now why you hate me.”

Y/N nudges him playfully and shakes her head, “I don’t hate you.” “Yes you do.” He sniffles dramatically, “And you should. I’m an asshole.”

She pulls a face, “Now what am I meant to do here? Tell you that you’re not an asshole? That would be lying.” Jungkook reaches for his heart theatrically and frowns.

“I deserve that.”

She scoffs playfully, “Shut up, Jungkook.”

It’s been exactly four days since Jungkook and Y/N began to hatch their plan to try and get their respective soulmates to fall in love with them.

And though Y/N’s original idea was to host some kind of movie night at her apartment Jungkook has been slowly persuading her into throwing a full blown party. Park Jimin is an absolute animal, Jungkook promises her (that’s a huge stretch, but what college student doesn’t like alcohol and loud music?) and throwing a party is a surefire way to get him to agree to coming.

But Y/N isn’t so easily swayed.

“I’m going to make it up to you,” Jungkook tells her confidently, “I’m going to make sure that you and Jimin get together, and then when you have beautiful babies together you’ll be thanking me. And we’ll forget all about the incredibly unfortunate way we met each other.” Y/N’s smile is soft, but Jungkook sees it.

“I know you will,” She says, “I have faith in your matchmaking abilities, Jeon Jungkook.”

“Which reminds me….Did you think about what I said, Y/N?”

Jungkook has to admit - he really likes having her around. Try as he might at first to have seen the worst in her, he has to admit Y/N’s not half bad.

“About the party?”

He winks, “Bingo!”

“It’s a bad idea.”

“Oh my god-”

“No, because I’m such a wallflower,” She insists, shaking her head firmly, “Jimin will just think I’m boring.”

“I’ll help you come out of your shell. I’ve told you that already. It will be like a life lesson for you - a chance to shine in the spotlight.”

“I don’t shine,” Y/N is whining now, “It’s stupid to even try.”

“No it’s not,” Jungkook insists, “Everybody shines. In their own way. Everybody.” He feels kind of awful for her.

How can she even think that way about herself?

“You don’t - it’s not. C’mon Jungkook I can’t-”

“What about the night we met?” Jungkook interrupts, as the two round the corner of Jungkook’s street, “You were partying then, weren’t you? You were shining then?” She flushes, “That’s different.”

“How?” She shuts her eyes for a moment. Jungkook worries he might have pushed her too far. He slips his bottom lip between his teeth and just as he opens his mouth to apologise she sighs heavily.

“It’s stupid.”

He brushes a hand over her shoulder, “It’s not.”

Her eyes open and he’s taken aback by the softness there.

He wants to reach out and maybe pat her cheek but he decides against it. Fuckboy or not, Jungkook is not the kind of guy to do that. Is he? No. He isn’t.

Besides. Soomi.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll throw the damn party. But you’re helping me with everything, okay?”

Jungkook feels something like electricity shoot up his ass. (He won’t ever tell anyone else he thought that.)

“Yes! This is going to be perfect Y/N I swear. Jimin will love it. So will you,” He grins like he’s hit the jackpot, “It’s the last day of semester in three weeks time. We’ll use that as a reason okay? And we’ll plan everything together. It will be amazing.” Y/N’s eyes dart across Jungkook’s face nervously.

She seems to be looking for something - what he’s not sure - but after a moment she nods.

“Fine. Okay. End of semester,” Her lips fall into a small smile, “Do you think this will work?”

They stop at the entrance of Jungkook’s building.

“It’s perfect Y/N. I swear. Just perfect.”

When her smile widens Jungkook thinks he’s never seen her look better.

“I’m trusting you Jungkook.” She narrows her eyes playfully, “Don’t fuck it up.”

He crosses his index finger across his chest and nods determinedly.

“Trust me, Y/N. We’ll have Park Jimin eating out of your hand before you know it.”

And he really believes it, too.

The next day Jungkook runs into Y/N at lunchtime. He hasn’t seen her in any of his classes today and when he texts her to tell her this, she reminds him that Friday is the only day they don’t share a timetable.

He has to admit he’s kind of bummed.

So when he finds himself wandering into the campus garden with Hoseok trailing less than enthusiastically behind him, his eyes zero in on her immediately.

She’s eating some kind of burrito - probably extra spicy as she’s told him that’s the only way to eat Mexican food - and reading a book. Of course she’s reading a book.

Nerd.

“Hey Hobi let’s go sit over there.” He points her out to his friend and Hoseok raises a brow.

“Who’s that?” “Y/N.”

“Y/N?” His brow raises even higher if possible, “Y/N as in the girl you slept with who’s name you can’t remember and who’s roommate you are in love with? And who you’ve promised to help set up with Park Jimin? That Y/N.” Jungkook frowns, “Well when you say it like that…” He rolls his eyes, “Shut up. Let’s just go.” Hoseok shrugs and follows his friend - what good will it do him to argue anyway? - and when Jungkook reaches his destination he clears his throat noisily. Y/N looks up and Jungkook notices she’s wearing a pair of thick-framed glasses. He has to admit… She looks kind of adorable in them.

The moment recognition dawns on her face, Y/N’s lips lift.

“Hi.” Jungkook’s smile widens when she grins up at him.

“Hi.” She shifts slightly, “What are you uh - doing here?” “Stalking you obviously,” Jungkook takes a seat beside her on the blanket she’s set up to eat on, and gestures for Hoseok to do the same, “This is my friend Hoseok. The one I said dances with your boyfriend.” She wrinkles her nose and flushes, “Jungkook! He’s not my boyfriend.” She turns to Hoseok and smiles softly, “Hi.”

Hoseok - to his credit - doesn’t seem to mind the Jimin comment. He smiles back at her.

“Hi Y/N.”

Jungkook unwraps the dismal lunch he’s made himself - a sweetcorn and tuna salad - and gestures to the book sitting in Y/N’s lap.

“What’s that?”

She looks down and then up, “Oh. It’s uh - god. It’s stupid.” Jungkook quirks a brow, “C’mon tell me. What is it.” She hesitates for a second and then rolls her eyes, seemingly accepting her fate.

Jungkook almost wants to remind her that they’re friends - she shouldn’t be embarrassed in front of him - but he stays quiet.

She lifts the book to show him the cover.

“It’s a book on gaining confidence.” Her shoulders shrug, “I thought it might help. Y’know… With the whole…” Her eyes flit over to Hoseok briefly, “Jimin thing.”

Hoseok chuckles and it catches Jungkook off guard.

He’d almost forgotten his friend was there.

“That’s adorable,” Hoseok comments, “Man if a girl did that for me I’d be beyond flattered.” Y/N’s cheeks flush and she shakes her head, “No - I mean. I don’t know. It’s not just for him…”

“Still.” She bites her bottom lip and shrugs, “I mean I guess. Yeah. He should be flattered.” Hoseok laughs again and Jungkook has a sneaking suspicion his friend might be flirting.

He doesn’t like that.

Y/N is not for Hoseok. Not at all.

“Well she’s not reading the book for you,” Jungkook tells him, trying to control his anger, “She’s reading it for Jimin.” Hoseok raises a brow. He takes a moment and then smiles again.

“I gathered.”

Jungkook spends the rest of the lunch break trying to stop whatever weird energy Hoseok and Y/N have going on.

There is absolutely no way in hell that Jung Hoseok thinks he can just swoop in and ruin all his plans, right? Y/N needs to fall in love with Jimin. Park Jimin needs to be the one laughing with her and smiling at her and flirting with her.

He’s absolutely livid by the time Y/N scurries off to class.

“What the fuck was that?” Hoseok pulls a face, “What?”

“That. That… Flirting. What was that?” Jungkook has barely even touched his lunch (and it’s got nothing to do with the absolute miserable state of it, he swears.)

Hoseok seems confused for only a moment later. Then his face opens up.

“Oh, right.” He shakes his head, “I wasn’t flirting, Jungkook.” Jungkook hates the look on his friend’s face. Like he knows something Jungkook doesn’t.

“What’s that look for Hoseok?” Hobi chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing Jungkook. Absolutely nothing.” Jungkook spends the rest of the day thinking about that godforsaken look.

Jungkook wakes up the next morning (which thank god happens to be a Saturday,) to a text message from Y/N. He’s been trying to convince her to use more emojis - but she refuses.

Secretly, he finds her texting kind of cute.

But he’ll never tell her that.

Y/N: Are you free today?

Jungkook: as a bird. what did you have in mind?? :)

Y/N: It’s my birthday. Soomi is taking me out bowling. Wanna come?

Jungkook feels his heart swim all the way up to his throat.

Soomi? And wait what - it’s Y/N’s birthday? He’s sort of offended she only brought it up now.

Jungkook: uhhh… what?? happy fuckin birthday y/n!!! ur naughty!!! birthday ??? why didnt you tell me yesterday???

Y/N: You’re an English Lit student. Use proper vocabulary and grammar please. And I don’t know I didn’t think it was a big deal.

Jungkook: u cant change me boo… u just text like a granny. its your birthday stupid ofc its a big deal. mind if i invite some of my friends??

It’s a few minutes before Y/N finally replies.

Y/N: Yeah. Sure. Meet us at Blue Pins in an hour?

Jungkook: c u there… birthday girl!!!!!

Y/N: Ugh.

Jungkook smiles at the way she still acts like she hates him even though he knows she doesn’t really.

It really is the start of a beautiful friendship.

An hour later Jungkook finds himself sat in a booth with Hoseok, Taehyung and Namjoon, nervously tapping his fingers against the surface of the table.

Hoseok clicks his tongue loudly and grabs his friend's hand from across the booth. His eyes are narrowed a little.

“Will you calm down?” “Are you kidding?” Jungkook’s eyes are as wide as a pair of saucers, “I’m about to meet the woman I’m going to marry.”

Hoseok scoffs at that and Taehyung scrolls through his phone, bored as always.

After a moment, Taehyung clears his throat, “He said yes.”

Jungkook feels like his heart has just fallen out of his asshole.

“What?”

“Jimin said yes,” Taehyung rolls his eyes, almost as if he’s annoyed at this spectacular outcome, “He’ll come to Y/N’s party at the end of the semester..”

“Oh fuck YES!” Jungkook fist pumps the air in joy as Hoseok chuckles in delight.

“You’re overreacting,” Namjoon tells his friend seriously, “Jimin coming does not equal Jimin falling in love with Y/N.”

“It gets me one step closer though,” Jungkook feels lighter already, “And one step closer to that means one step closer to Soomi falling in love with me.”

Namjoon snorts out a laugh, “Stop it.”

“What?” Jungkook takes a swig from the cappuccino he insisted on ordering as soon as they arrived, “It’s true.”

“You’re not seriously thinking you’re in love with this girl Jungkook?” Hoseok’s eyes dance with mirth, “I know you man.”

“What do you mean?”

Hoseok raises a dubious brow, “You’re the ultimate fuckboy.”

“I am not.”

“Yes. You are.” Taehyung tacks on helpfully, “Notoriously so, actually.”

“Shut up.”

Jungkook doesn’t want to admit it but he knows his friends are kind of right. Sue him - he’s young and handsome and he’s in college. Everybody fucks around in college.

“And anyway I don’t actively pursue girls unless I have the intention of taking it somewhere.” Jungkook crosses his arms, “A fuckboy I may be, but a dickhead I am not.”

“Says the guy who forgot Y/N’s name after a vigorous night of lovemaking.” Namjoon grins like the cat who got the cream and Jungkook wants to smack him.

“You can thank your dear friend Kim Taehyung for that.” Jungkook replies sharply, narrowing his eyes at his so-called childhood best friend.

Taehyung gasps like he can’t believe what Jungkook’s just said.

“Seven tequilas on an empty stomach is never a good idea Tae,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “You kept insisting.”

Taehyung answers with a flippant wave of his hand, eyes finally moving away from his phone, “Whatever. You’re an adult, right? You could’ve said no.”

“Not when free alcohol is involved.” “Anyway Kookie, the point is you can’t be in love.” Hoseok leans back like he’s just discovered the meaning to life. Always so smug.

Jungkook can’t help but find it a little annoying.

“And how, oh wise one, are you coming to this conclusion?” Jungkook’s tone is dripping with sarcasm. He raises a brow at his friend and gives him the most pointed look he can manage.

It’s still Hoseok and Jungkook has to admit he respects his opinion the most.

“Because you’re you. And you barely know this girl.” Hoseok rolls his eyes, “That’s how.”

“I find that offensive,” Jungkook retorts, “People are allowed to change and grow. Now I’ve met Soomi I’m different.”

Namjoon shakes his head, “There’s no point, Hobi. We all tried, believe me. But he’s decided that he’s in love with her. Just get on board with it.”

Jungkook sends Hoseok a toothy grin once he swallows the last of the cappuccino and nods emphatically.

He knows what his friends think of him.

That he’s slutty and careless. That commitment scares the shit out of him. That he’s incapable of monogamy. A combination of all of the above.

But Jungkook knows the truth. He didn’t want a girlfriend before this because he hadn’t met someone that made sense to him.

And what’s the point of being with someone unless you’re all in?

“Anyway when you’re guests at our wedding it’ll all make sense,” Jungkook pushes his empty coffee cup to the side, “We’re meant to be.”

Taehyung laughs at this - despite himself - and Hoseok and Namjoon chuckle too.

“Jungkook?” The sound of someone calling his name causes him to turn quickly, eyes widening when he sees who it is. Y/N. She’s smiling at him of course - but that’s not what causes Jungkook to almost go into cardiac arrest.

No. Of course not.

It’s the beautiful angel standing beside Y/N that causes him to almost forget how to breathe.

“Hi,” He squeezes out despite himself, eyes riveted to Soomi’s beautiful face, “Hi.”

Soomi smiles and Jungkook is immediately breathless.

“Jungkook right? Y/N’s… Friend.” The suggestive tone annoys Jungkook - he can’t have Soomi thinking he belongs to anyone else but her - and he nods.

“Yeah.” “But just a friend now,” Y/N pipes up helpfully, “We… Uh… Worked through our differences. And now we’re friends. Just friends. Totally platonic.” Jungkook thinks she’s kind of overkilling the whole thing but he doesn’t say anything. Instead he smiles at Soomi and watches as her face puts two and two together.

Yes. Yes.

Jungkook wants her - no he needs her to know that he’s single.

Really single.

Totally single and available and hers.

Namjoon clears his throat somewhere from Jungkook’s left. He turns to his friends and nods quickly.

“Right. Yes of course. My friends - these are my friends. Taehyung and Namjoon, and Y/N you’ve already met Hoseok.” The two share a small wave. Jungkook ignores the stab of annoyance that sends to his gut.

“Hi,” Soomi smiles in a way Jungkook is sure is almost too heavenly to be real, “I’m Soomi.” God. He really is a goner.

Jungkook doesn’t want to brag, but he is pretty good at bowling.

Okay. Who’s he kidding?

He totally wants to brag.

The moment Y/N splits them up into two teams - Soomi, Jungkook and her versus Namjoon, Hoseok and Taehyung - he’s determined to win.

He has to win.

He has to show Soomi one of his many, many, many talents.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Soomi remarks as he throws his first strike, “Or is that just beginner’s luck?”

Jungkook shakes his head and shrugs, “I’d say I’m pretty good.”

Her giggle is music to his ears.

“That’s impressive. What kind of girl doesn’t want a man who can throw a strike?”

Jungkook smirks, “That’s what I always say.” Her eyes crinkle at the side when she smiles and though it's not quite as adorable as Y/N’s - he’ll never admit this out loud - she still looks so sweet his heart constricts almost painfully in his chest. He forgets for a moment where he is, laying on the charm thick.

“Is that how you seduce poor unsuspecting women then? With your bowling skills?”

He winks in that way that usually works and his smirk widens, “You know it!”

Soomi giggles again and Jungkook is surprised at how smoothly this all seems to be going - when the sound of somebody throwing a gutter grabs his attention.

His eyes lift - thinking it has to be the other team - and he furrows his brow when he sees Y/N standing at the very top of the bowling lane, staring at the full set of pins in front of her.

Holy shit.

Jungkook momentarily forgets about Soomi - his competitive nature kicked into overdrive - as he shoots up from his seat and rushes towards Y/N.

“Oh my god,” He’s right beside her in an instant, “Was that you?”

Y/N looks up at him - cheeks flushed - and nods, “Yeah. I’m terrible at bowling.”

“So why would you choose to come here? On your birthday?”

Jungkook is somewhere between disbelief and pure horror. But he has to admit, the look on her face is sort of funny. She’s mortified.

“Soomi suggested it. She said it might be fun,” She looks away for a moment, “For her maybe.”

The sound of someone scoring a strike blares to Jungkook’s left and when he sees Taehyung performing some kind of ridiculous victory dance, he decides enough is enough.

“No. No.” Jungkook sets his jaw, “I’m going to help you.”

Y/N’s brow lifts, “What?” “I’m going to help you. You’re going to score a strike.”

She snorts out a laugh.

“I don’t think you realise how truly terrible I am at this.”

“And I don’t think you realise how truly competitive I am,” He gestures to the balls, “Grab the lime green. That’s the lightest.”

Y/N watches him for a moment longer. She looks behind him and moves her hand in the general direction of Soomi.

“What about Soomi?” He flares his nostrils, “She’ll still be there after I finish helping you.”

Y/N stares at him, and when Jungkook cocks his head towards the row of balls lining the back of the bowling alley, she shrugs and follows his command.

Jungkook takes this as a moment to teach Y/N how to shine.

After all, what better way to fell good about yourself than being good at something you always thought you sucked at?

When Y/N comes back with the lime green ball, he grabs her free arm and positions her to stand with her back to his chest, wordlessly.

“Woah.” Y/N breathes, “What are you doing?”

Jungkook’s mouth is right beside her ear, “Just follow me okay? I’m helping you, I swear.”

He slides his hand down to the ball and grips her fingers carefully.

“Don’t hold too much tension in your wrist,” He tells her sternly, “You’re too tense. You’re always too tense. Relax.” Something strange passes between them. Y/N takes a long, deep breath, and Jungkook tries to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Now slowly, slowly, bring the ball back,” Y/N follows Jungkook’s movements, “And… Release.”

He helps her flick it onto the lane, and they watch in suspense as the ball spins towards the pins. There is almost a moment where everything is suspended in time - before the ball crashes with the pins and nine of them fall down.

Y/N squeals in happiness and turns around sharply, throwing her arm around Jungkook’s neck and pressing herself against him in a hug.

“Thank you Jungkook!” She is smiling so widely, his heart turns, “You’re the best.”

“You’re welcome.” Jungkook finds he’s grinning too, “You deserve it. Happy birthday Y/N.” He pushes some hair out of her face - practical purposes of course, it was getting in her eyes - and she seems to catch her breath at the gesture. They stare at each other for a moment, before someone clears their throat from behind them and they break apart. Soomi is standing between them, holding a bubble gum pink bowling ball.

Jungkook wonders almost flippantly if she only picked it up for it’s colour.

“It’s my turn, right?” She turns her smile on Jungkook and he melts.

God.

She’s beautiful.

“Right.” Jungkook smiles back, “Your turn.”

When he turns to move back to their booth he notices Y/N watching their interaction carefully. Her eyes flit away the moment she’s caught, but Jungkook knows what he saw.

Strange.

Very strange indeed.

Later on that evening, after they’ve all shared a pizza, and Jungkook has spent the rest of the night watching Soomi with hearts in his eyes, Hoseok clears his throat with purpose.

They’re sat in their living room - Hoseok has decided to crash over because, why not? - and playing a midnight mario kart match, when Jungkook’s friend seems to have something to say.

Jungkook pauses the game. He turns to Hoseok.

“Yes?” There is a brief moment of silence. Taehyung is forever scrolling through his phone, and Namjoon has long ago gone to bed. Hoseok clicks his tongue.

“Are you sure you like Soomi?”

The question completely throws Jungkook off.

He raises a questioning brow, “What?”

“I’m just - asking. I’m just…” Hoseok turns to Taehyung for support. When his friend doesn’t notice, he smacks him across the shoulder, “Tae.”

“What?”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, “Have you guys talked about this?” Taehyung seems to realise where the conversation has just come from. He actually locks his phone and sets it to one side.

“Yeah.” Taehyung answers honestly, “We have.” “I’ve told you guys a million times. I know I barely know her but -” “That’s not it.” Hoseok licks his bottom lip, “I mean it’s crazy you think you fell in love at first sight but… Stranger things have happened.” Jungkook scoffs, “So? Why have you asked then?” Another beat.

Taehyung sighed heavily, “Because we think you like Y/N.”

“What the fuck?” Jungkook snorts out a laugh because really - what else can he do?, “Why the fuck would you think that?” His friends share another look and Jungkook hates that.

He hates that they think they know him better than he knows himself.

Hoseok shakes his head, “Just a feeling.” “A feeling that’s wrong.” Jungkook states firmly, “Dead wrong.” Taehyung nods and picks up his phone, “Fine. Alright. We’re wrong then.” Hoseok seems like he wants to say more but he doesn’t opting instead for something that sounds sort of like a grunt.

Jungkook watches his friends for a moment longer.

“Yeah. So wrong.”

That night, when Jungkook’s just about to go to bed he receives a text message. He opens his phone, expecting Y/N and finding, instead, an unrecognised number staring back at him.

Soomi: hiiiii jungkook :) it's soomi… y/n gave me ur number. hope u dont mind.

Jungkook pushes his friends’s ridiculous theory to the back of his head, and focuses instead on the fact that Soomi has just texted him. His thumbs move to answer her but he pauses, moving instead to open Y/N’s chat history.

Jungkook: hey. happy bday again champ. u da bomb!! also thanks for giving soomi my number. u a real one for that, chief!!! :) :) :)

Y/N’s reply comes only a few minutes later.

Y/N: Thank you Jungkook. I appreciate it. And no worries… She seemed to really be into you after tonight. So well done, yeah? :)

Jungkook smiles at the emoji that he imagines Y/N forced herself to add, and almost misses the part when she says Soomi was into him.

Right. Yeah. Perfect.

He opens up Soomi’s chat and starts to write out a reply.

This is exactly what he wanted.

TAGLIST: @cuddleboo @veronawrites @minluvly @severetimetravelnerd @moonchild1 @bunnyjeonjk @multicolourunicorn @somewhereinthestarss @jwlmnbt @jojo-suga @zera10 @ggukkieland @thesugatoyourtae @dxlbts @wxndi

#bts #college!jungkook #fuckboy!jungkook #fanfic #fanfiction #bangtan #jeon jungkook #smut #angst #romcom #imagine

685 notes · View notes