#especially to strangers on the internet who should learn to mind their own fucking business and live their lives

[every-dayiwakeup]

People getting all hot and bothered over:

a fictional character

a fictional canocically DEAD character

a fictional abused teenager

he's literally just a kid I beg y'all he is not nearly as bad as anyone makes him out to be.

Everyone seems to like the asshole until there are reasons behind being prickly.

Not me though, have fun 🤭

[ar3s-r4t-qu33n]

Idfc if he's real or not, he's still worse written than Eddie. Also the problem is in his fans that are making him no guilty, innocent baby and always refering that Coyle/Eddie/Everybody else im outlast are the same. And if you think it'll work, try to compare Walker (with PTSD after war) with Franco (who is just a sicko). Anyway Barbi's simps are way more agressive than any other fans when you say something bad, what's a fact, about a grown ass man. I feel like those people are just little kids who are getting upset after school and shouldn't play the game ;) When I see all those comments with "He'S mY PoOkIE" I'm getting sick... Ya'll should get a brain

Guys look!! I got one!!

You don't deserve a response, because if you were old enough to be playing Outlast, you would be able to figure out that shaming people for (checks notes) liking a fictional character in a horror series? Is plain stupid.

It would also serve you well to maybe do some spell check before you come into my asks like this. I'd take you more seriously if you maybe drafted this one more time, but here we go:

First of all, you don't know me. You can check out my like, five posts and see that only two of em are Franco related and none of them baby him. In fact, I don't think I've seen a post yet by anyone who says "Franco is a sweet, innocent baby who did no wrong" because... That's the point. He's interesting BECAUSE he's done shit wrong. We are playing Outlast. Everyone is complex and awful and interesting. Just because not every post is marked with a little footnote that says "oh by the way everyone, Franco is a bad, bad man 🥺 I don't support his actions, I'm not a Franco defender, I just wanted to draw him being silly 🥺" doesn't mean we're all out here claiming he's a saint. The fact that he's a fucked up lil guy is why we like him. I feel like that's a given with all Outlast characters? But that's just me after being a fan of this franchise for years now, idk, being able to step back and analyse a community to see what they enjoy about something is quite a fun and easy task, I recommend giving it a try instead of coming into "loser nobody who has been on Tumblr for like a week's" asks to complain to me like I can put all the Franco fans in the corner until they learn to interpret characters the way you have decided is objectively correct.

But even if they are "babying" him and apparently ignoring that this is the Outlast series and Franco is a character from Outlast... Oh no! What horror! Someone is misinterpreting a VIDEO GAME CHARACTER what a terrible and unique crime!

Franco "just a sicko" Barbi was abused and neglected by his father, his mother was murdered, and he only ever received affection after he killed someone. But yeah, he was just born fucked up whereas every other Outlast character earned their trauma and the right to kill the player. What a senseless and just untrue take and I'm sure you know that, you just want to complain because that's all you people like to do. You want to feel morally superior over someone because you don't understand why they feel the way they do instead of just moving on and ignoring them like any other sensible adult would. Because who's actually getting hurt if some people think Franco is their lil Pookie? Is it you? Does it cause you psychic damage? Because last I checked, this is the internet. We are responsible for ourselves, so unless somebody is actually hurting anyone...

Block the Franco tag. You are brave enough to type out this whole message to a stranger online and act morally superior because comparing which video game character deserves the right to kill you is THE most mature thing in the world, so you're definitely brave enough to block the tag and move on.

You are responsible for what you see online, but ESPECIALLY on Tumblr, it is so so easy to hide content you don't want to see, and mind your own business. Quite frankly, I don't care if I come across as aggressive here. You came into my asks about a tag/fandom you clearly aren't in trying to act like you're better than the rest of us. That's pretty damn aggressive, wouldn't you say?

This is Outlast. A game about fucked up guys doing fucked up shit, and we love them for it. If that is too much for you, if the mommy issues gangster is too crazy for you but Eddie and Trager and Knoth and Coyle are completely fine, no questions asked? I don't think this series is for you. Sexual horror is a staple of Outlast. Childhood trauma is a staple of Outlast. You can't be shocked when people respond to a new character in a video game they like.

YOU are not better than me because you like Chris Walker and I like Franco Barbi. I can't believe you need to be told this, we are all in the same uncomfortable freakshow cesspit that is The Outlast Fandom, no one is morally good. No one is better than anyone else. You cannot claim moral superiority over any character because at the end of the day, I can point to Wernicke and say with my full chest that he is objectively the worst because he's a literal nazi, and what then? Are you going to tell me that Franco is worse than a nazi? The debate is over, in the list of "who is the worst of these awful people", Wernicke wins hands DOWN. The point is null because EVERYONE SUCKS HERE!!! THAT'S THE POINT!!!!

Is that enough for you? Or are you gonna keep harassing people through your alts or getting your friends to do it? I can go alllllll day, baby, you ain't making me feel bad about my interests in the O U T L A S T fandom, dear GOD, this is ridiculous. Don't fucking condescend me, telling me to "get a brain" you don't KNOW ME, I am a stranger to you, why do you feel comfortable coming onto my blog harassing me about a video game character? That's not a good look for you and now it is immortalised here. Anonymous or not, you still did this. Whoever you are, you typed that out and sent it to a random person you do not know and felt comfortable enough to do so.

That's weird.

[hongism]

give and take - k.ys, j.wy, k.hj 18+

pairing; wooyoung x yeosang x hongjoong genre; angst, smut, 18+, the angst isn’t bad i swear it’s temporary wc; 16.8k summary; watching the two people he has feelings for come together in a relationship that holds some of the greatest moments of intimacy. and sure, yes, yeosang acknowledges that it could be something purely physical for them, but that doesn’t negate the fact that the two people he has feelings for are fucking and have been fucking right under his nose for the last several weeks. warnings; explicit smut, fingering, oral sex: m, dirty talk, praise, lil degradation, slight exhibitionism and voyeurism, explicit smut, multiple orgasms, come sharing, masturbation, handjobs, threesome, sub woo, sub yeo, dom joong, yaknow the works an; happy belated valentine’s day! i hope you all enjoy muahmuah xx also this is grossly unedited im sorry but my internet is gonna go out again at any second and i just wanna post this ;;-;

﹊﹊﹊

It starts, as many things do, with a little bit of jealousy. And honestly, Yeosang could not for the life of him tell you what exactly that jealousy was in the slightest (at least that is what he tries to convince himself on nights where his thoughts all but consume him). He was not the first to notice the sudden dynamic shift between Hongjoong and Wooyoung, and he was positively certain that the others would catch up soon enough. He was the third to detect the shift in their demeanors around each other; Seonghwa obviously being the first since he’s so close with Hongjoong and apparently has to vacate his own bedroom whenever Wooyoung disappears inside. Jongho, the ever-observant and perceptive youngest, was the second to notice, and he is actually the one who prompted Yeosang to take a deeper look into what was going on.

At first, Yeosang thought nothing of it. Hongjoong and Wooyoung had been getting closer, moving past those first fumbling awkward moments they had in the beginning and blossoming into a closer relationship. It seemed only natural for the two of them to spend more time together. Then Jongho pulled him aside one day after Wooyoung quite deliberately turned down the opportunity to play games with San and Yunho. 

“What’s going on with Wooyoung-hyung and Hongjoong-hyung?”

Yeosang had blinked dumbly at the younger and made some sort of dumb noise asking why Jongho would be bringing the question to him of all people, then it sunk in that of course he would bring it to Yeosang. Yeosang is both the one who has known Wooyoung the longest — and is subsequently the closest with the younger brunette — as well as Wooyoung’s roommate, so he spends a considerable amount of time with the man.

“He’s not mentioned anything to me?”

Yeosang cursed himself then for sounding so dumb and unsure, but it was the truth in the very least, and Jongho gave a slight shrug before walking away with a shady ‘maybe you should pay closer attention, hyung’ that left Yeosang glaring at the spot where the youngest just stood. 

Pay closer attention to what?

Yeosang didn’t have any idea what exactly he was supposed to be paying attention to, so he just did what he thought he did best, which was observing from the sidelines. One good thing about being quiet by nature was being able to examine conversations and interactions with greater care, as well as listen in on things that perhaps he should not be listening to but sometimes the others are just too loud for him not to overhear.

After Jongho mentions it to him though, Yeosang truly does start picking up on things. How Hongjoong snaps at Wooyoung in practice only to give him a twisting smirk afterward, how Wooyoung side-eyes the leader before dipping into the bathroom on movie nights, and especially how Hongjoong always waits three minutes and forty-five seconds before getting up to head down the hall proclaiming to need ‘sleep’. Yeosang is positive the two are doing something behind everyone’s backs — well everyone except Seonghwa, because the eldest always stares after Hongjoong’s back as the man departs with a look in his eye that Yeosang is incapable of placing. 

The most important thing is that Wooyoung is spending less and less time with Yeosang, and consequently, Hongjoong too is spending less time with Yeosang. And the visual truly didn’t think there was anything wrong with it at first. He wasn’t bothered or bent out of shape about the increase in their shady encounters or whatever it is they’re up to because he didn’t think it was too out of the ordinary. 

Then Wooyoung asked for a raincheck on their typical Thursday evening ramen stop. Yeosang saw him darting off to the studio moments after, and he didn’t return to their shared room until Hongjoong did. (Yeosang definitely did stay up waiting for either man to return; he didn’t need the confirmation, of course, he could have just assumed, but what’s several hours of lost sleep to him now?)

And after that, Hongjoong canceled one of their producing sessions together saying that he was simply too busy that day to check in on Yeosang’s progress. He had promised to look over his work and listen to his song when they returned to the dorms, but when Yeosang packed his things and left the studio for the day, he saw a very distinctly Wooyoung-shaped figure dipping into Hongjoong’s studio behind him. 

Yeosang thought he wasn’t one to get jealous. He thought he had learned that lesson the painful way when Wooyoung started casting him to the side to spend time with San instead of him, then when Hongjoong and Seonghwa called him out for the behavior, the issue had been resolved and Wooyoung returned to giving him ample amounts of attention. So truly, Yeosang cannot understand why he feels the small stirrings of jealousy in his gut whenever he sees Wooyoung running to Hongjoong. And even worse are the nagging jealousies that come when the leader is the one to seek Wooyoung out. Yeosang cannot for the life of him rectify that one, because why is he jealous of his best friend for simply spending time with Hongjoong?

He cannot admit it out loud, but in the nights where he finds himself staying up late and waiting for Wooyoung to return with Hongjoong, he thinks deeply about those curling tendrils in his gut. 

Yeosang has come to the conclusion that for once in his life, he does not like this because it makes him feel like he is missing out on something. That is a startling realization in and of itself because Yeosang has never been one to care much about those sorts of things — it just isn’t in his character or personality — so at first he denied that possibility and tried to look to other sources. When nothing else could ever make sense in his mind, Yeosang just had to accept that this was a new and growing feeling to work through. And perhaps it has something to do with the other emotions swirling through his gut that he refuses to name.

Which lands him where he is now: outside Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s door with hand raised and ready to knock on the wood. It isn’t Wooyoung and Hongjoong inside though, not at this time of day, but rather Seonghwa, the one who has the most amount of contact with Hongjoong and also the one who vacates the room whenever Wooyoung comes running over. So if anyone is going to be able to cure Yeosang’s illness that is Not Knowing What the Fuck is Going on, it will 100% be Seonghwa. Yeosang dares to bring his knuckles down on the wood and raps against the door several times before he hears Seonghwa make a noise from inside the room. 

“Hey, Woo, he’s not here right — oh, Yeosang!” Seonghwa blinks several times at the man before him as though he cannot believe that it is Yeosang and not his best friend standing in front of the door. “Are you looking for Hongjoong too? I’m afraid he’s still holed up in the studio right now.”

“W-What? No, no, hyung, I was looking for you,” Yeosang says with a quick shake of his head. Seonghwa’s eyes remain wide in surprise as he speaks, but once the words process, the older steps to the side and beckons for Yeosang to enter the room.

“Don’t be a stranger, of course, sit wherever you’d like. I was just reading a bit.”

Yeosang has no earthly idea how long this conversation might take. For all he knows, it could take a whopping two minutes or perhaps thirty minutes that falls into a lecture about jealousy and all that. So he resolves to perch on the edge of Hongjoong’s lower bunk, nudging one of the stray plushies to the side to make room for himself while Seonghwa pulls the chair from the desk to sit across from Yeosang. It already feels like something of an intervention, and Yeosang makes a note to choose his words very carefully to avoid sounding too upset or jealous about the situation. 

“Has Wooyoung mentioned anything to you recently?” He starts, but perhaps that isn’t the best place to start at all, he realizes once the question is already out.

“Is there something he is supposed to have mentioned?” Seonghwa asks, tilting his head further to the side. 

“No, like — that’s not what I mean. Has he said anything—” This is the moment of truth for Yeosang. Either Seonghwa picks up on his jealousy in an instant, or he receives a straightforward answer and moves on with his life with at least a bit of understanding. “—anything about why he’s spending so much time with Hongjoong-hyung these days?”

“Hm?” Seonghwa seems genuinely perplexed by the question for a considerable amount of time, eyes darting down to look at a spot on the floor as he mulls over the question. Then, he shakes his head a few times and draws his lips into a tight purse. “Not to me at all, no. Has something happened between you two? Is he not speaking with you? Did you have a falling out? If something happened the—”

“No, no, hyung, please,” Yeosang interjects in a rush. Seonghwa cuts his thoughts short with a small frown, and Yeosang knows he is going to have to offer more of an explanation than that to ease the older’s worries. There is a bit too much shame burning at his gut presently though, a nagging and lingering feeling of embarrassment as he realizes he will inevitably have to admit that he is jealous of all things. And that is going to be another issue because Seonghwa knows him almost better than Wooyoung does, and the older for sure knows that Yeosang is never one to be jealous. 

“It’s okay if the two of you are having issues, Yeosang. It happens to everyone, especially people who have known each other for as long as you and Wooyoung have. I’m not trying to insinuate anything of course, but I just want you to know that there’s nothing to be ashamed of if that’s the case.”

God, Yeosang wants to crawl into a tiny hole and die more than anything else right now because fuck this feeling.

“I’m just — I’m only asking because h-he turned San down the other night to spend time with Hongjoong. He has never done that. He and San are th-the closest and they never turn down the opportunity to spend time with each other, and it seems so odd that he would deny San so that he could spend time with‌ Hongjoong instead, and that’s just weird. It’s weird, and he doesn’t talk about it with me, he doesn’t mention it or anything like that, then he goes off and forgoes our plans together to be with Hongjoong too. And that’s fine, yeah, like they should spend time with each other, I don’t mind that part. Just… Hongjoong did it too and rain checked one of our producing lessons because he was apparently too busy with his own work and — and...”

Yeosang’s voice dies in his throat when he finally brings his gaze up to look Seonghwa in the eye, and the expression staring back at him is so raw and understanding that Yeosang cannot physically force any words out at that point. A small smile curls at the edges of Seonghwa’s lips, he huffs out a quiet laugh, and then his chin dips closer to his chest as the laugh overwhelms him. Yeosang, on the other hand, feels positively childish and stupid now that the admission is out there.

“I told them people would start noticing,” Seonghwa mutters more to himself than to Yeosang, but the younger picks up on the comment nonetheless. So he does know what’s going on between them. “Listen, Yeosang, yes, Wooyoung and Hongjoong are spending lots more time together. Yes, they are being a bit inconsiderate when it comes to the other members, but they are… at a phase in their relationship with each other where it’s easy to get caught up and spend unearthly amounts of time together. I have talked with both of them before about being a bit less persistent and intense, as well as prioritizing other people before themselves. But I am more than happy to talk with them about it again if it would help satiate your hurt feelings a bit?”

At least Seonghwa didn’t call him out on his jealousy. He should be grateful for that much. Why isn’t he grateful for that much? Oh, because of whatever the fuck Seonghwa’s rant is supposed to mean. ‘At a phase in their relationship with each other where it’s easy to get caught up and spend unearthly amounts of time together?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean? Seonghwa is still smiling like he knows, and Yeosang is fully aware that Seonghwa does truly know because there is that lingering odd emotion behind his eyes again that Yeosang despises so much.

“I — wait, what?” Yeosang’s brain is running on pure fumes at this point. The confusion has mounted into something immense, and he hardly remembers why he was so upset at this point now because of the bewilderment rushing through his system.

“I can talk with them again if you’d like?” Seonghwa repeats his previous offer, eyes wide as he blinks at Yeosang and awaits an answer.

“No, the — the part about their relationship?”

Seonghwa glances off to the side, and he seems to think over what he’s said before his eyes widen a bit in shock.

“A-Ah! Um, no, don’t — I don’t mean anything crude, of course!” Anything crude? Yeosang’s mind certainly wasn’t going down that path before but now that Seonghwa has mentioned that, it is now. And frankly, that throws him off more than anything else because he never would have assumed that that is what was going on behind those closed doors or anything. He has known Wooyoung swings both ways with little care since well before Wooyoung knew himself, and well, Hongjoong told the whole group that he’s pansexual when they chose him to be the leader because of transparency and honesty or some shit like that but... still. Yeosang would expect something like that to happen between Wooyoung and San but with Hongjoong? He can’t even imagine that — not that he wants to imagine it! He would never do that!

Yeosang’s cheeks flush a deep red when he realizes what Seonghwa means, and the older in turn figures out that Yeosang’s mind was indeed not traveling down that path and he has just caused it to. It’s a disaster, truly, and neither of them seem put together enough to even try to recover the situation. All Seonghwa does is push up from his chair and move towards the door. Yeosang doesn’t have time to wonder what the hell he’s doing or if he’s preparing to kick Yeosang out because when Seonghwa opens the door, it’s Wooyoung who stumbles in with a huff.

“Hyung,” he whines through a pout, not even taking notice of Yeosang’s presence on the edge of Hongjoong’s bed. “He sent me back here and said to wait another hour for him to come home. A whole hour!”

Seonghwa bears a strained smile, and he must look over in Yeosang’s direction because only then does Wooyoung shift and take note of the other presence in the room.

“Oh shit, were you guys — do I need to leave?”

“No, Woo, we were just having a chat,” Seonghwa insists, waving the younger man in. Wooyoung regards his best friend with a wary stare that has Yeosang’s stomach turning in knots several times before he swallows the feeling down. “Um, but since you’re here, this is the perfect opportunity to chat! Between the two of you!‌ So why don’t I step out and—”

“No, hyung, it’s okay.” Yeosang is the one to utter the words, and he does so as he pushes to his feet and away from Hongjoong’s bed. This is not what he came here to do, and yes, Seonghwa is right: they should talk, Yeosang should be honest about his feelings, but he also knows Wooyoung. He knows Wooyoung will whine and complain about Yeosang being too clingy or pointless jealousy or roll his eyes and unintentionally make Yeosang feel even worse about how he feels because that is just the way the other man is. It’s not from a bad place or a toxic place, merely Wooyoung’s way of handling issues, and inevitably Wooyoung will come crawling back to Yeosang’s bunk and cuddle him for a week straight before even thinking to hang out with another member. But right now, that isn’t what Yeosang wants. Mostly because he does not want to acknowledge his jealousy or the fact that it isn’t solely directed at Hongjoong spending time with Wooyoung. It is also directed at Wooyoung who is taking away from Yeosang’s time with the leader. Yeosang needs to work out those feelings before even thinking to discuss the issue with either man.

Seonghwa fixes him a startled glance, one that flits back to Wooyoung’s form several times, but Yeosang ignores it in favor of walking towards the door and replacing Wooyoung’s spot in the doorway. The oldest doesn’t seem pleased with his avoidance, as evidenced by the way he clamps a hand down hard around Yeosang’s arm before he can fully step out. 

“I don’t want to have to play the parent and mediate between the two of you here,” he hisses more to Yeosang than to Wooyoung, but the youngest of the trio hears the words nonetheless and blinks over at his best friend with a bewildered expression. It’s then that Yeosang knows with full clarity that he is completely and utterly caught. Even if he tries to escape now, Wooyoung will come running after him and demand an explanation. “If he hears it from you then he’ll be more like to pull his act together and realize that I’m being serious.”

“Is something going on?” Wooyoung inquires at last, voice much fainter than it had been before. Yeosang manages to slip one glare in Seonghwa’s direction before he dares to face Wooyoung head-on. 

“I just came to ask hyung why you seem to be spending so much time with Hongjoong these days.”

And Wooyoung has the nerve, he has the audacity, to actually look startled by that statement. Like he cannot believe that someone has caught on and realized how much time he’s spending with the leader, and he cannot believe Yeosang would go to Seonghwa of all people for answers. When Wooyoung shifts to look at the oldest, Yeosang doesn’t miss the way he sends a panicked expression of ‘what the fuck did you say to him’ and that’s when Yeosang’s mind really spirals.

At this point, he just wants to know what the fuck is going on so he can push his mind away from the gutter, but Wooyoung’s flushed cheeks and nervous glances are doing nothing to deter Yeosang from having the thought that perhaps Hongjoong and Wooyoung are spending their time together in a more intimate manner and he really needs to —

“He’s bothered by the fact that you keep shrugging him off for Hongjoong,” Seonghwa states, bringing Yeosang’s rampant thoughts to a screeching halt in an instant. “Which I told you both about before but you insisted th—”

“Hyung, it’s really okay, I just meant it as a harmless question, I’m not — it isn’t a big deal.” 

“Is this about me rain checking you on Thursday?” Wooyoung asks. He points an accusatory finger in Yeosang’s direction, and the older of the two is certain that he doesn’t mean it in an accusatory way but he feels pinned and cornered by the gesture either way. “Yeo, I’m really sorry about that. I just wasn’t feeling up to going out that day and—”

“But you went to hyung’s studio right after and didn’t come back until Hongjoong-hyung did,” Yeosang counters before he can stop himself. That lingering bitterness returns to his gut as he mentions the memory, along with the subsequent memory of Hongjoong pushing him to the side for time with Wooyoung.

“In the studio?! Are you two out of your minds?!” Seonghwa hisses and reels on Wooyoung, who blinks back like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“It’s — Yeosang is right there, hyung! Can’t you save the lecture for later? Or go chew hyung’s ear off instead of mine? It was his idea!”

“His idea? His idea! Of course it was. Let me guess: he felt bad for pushing me out of the room so much?” Seonghwa scoffs none too quietly. The bigger picture is started to come together, the puzzle pieces are slotting into place, and Yeosang is edging dangerously close to what he believes to be the truth. 

He can’t stand the suffocation that comes in the air a moment later, almost like his own throat is trying to choke him and end him right then and there. So, he does the only logical thing he can think of and slips out of the open bedroom door as Seonghwa snatches Wooyoung’s ear and tugs mercilessly on the cartilage. The content of their argument is no longer important, not with the knowledge Yeosang has gotten so far, and it’s frankly stupid that he is even feeling so… whatever he is feeling right now. He wanted an explanation, he wanted to know what secrets they were hiding behind closed doors, and all the signs are pointing to one thing Yeosang doesn’t want to imagine.

Yeosang unfortunately doesn’t make it even a foot outside the door before he is running face-first into someone, and judging by the height of the person he nearly just clobbered to the floor, it has to be none other than Hongjoong. Yeosang steadies himself on the other’s shoulders to keep them both from tumbling, and he brings a shaky gaze to the person’s features in search of a confirmation.

Sure enough, it’s Hongjoong, alright. Beanie squishing his mop of hair down, thick black-rimmed glasses sitting atop his dainty nose, and a bag slung over his shoulder that must contain his producing equipment. Yeosang says the only thing he can think of, which seems to be a common trend with him today.

“You’re back early.”

Hongjoong regards him with an expression of confusion and bewilderment, then Yeosang realizes that Hongjoong only told Wooyoung that part so he shouldn’t really have that knowledge, but then again, what’s the big deal? Why should it be odd for Wooyoung to tell his best friend something about their leader? Is that a secret for just the two of them to know as well? Or can Seonghwa be included in their little secret circle too?

“Yeah, I — I thought I would be able to focus but I kept getting distracted so I just packed up and came home to work on stuff instead.”

Yeosang dares to ask.

“Can I come by and work with you on some stuff then?”

“A-Ah, maybe in a bit? I’ll text you and let you know. I really need to hunker down on these…” Hongjoong trails off and rubs at the back of his neck. Yeosang doesn’t miss the way the older man glances off towards the door to his and Seonghwa’s bedroom. 

“Yeah, of course, hyung, no worries,” he forces out, adding a tight smile that he hopes will ease Hongjoong’s stress a bit. The older nods as Yeosang steps out of the way, heading into the bedroom without further ado. 

There is no real reason for Yeosang to stick around so he doesn’t; he merely heads for the living room and makes himself at home on the couch, perching on the cushions in a way that gives him a clear view directly down the hall. He has one more lasting curiosity, and he’s determined to get the answer right now rather than waiting god knows how long for the next opportunity. Thus, he waits. Two minutes pass, then ten, along with some slightly raised voices and Yeosang is sure that Seonghwa is chewing them both out in there, but he can’t make out anything of what they’re saying. Then after twenty long minutes, Seonghwa slips out of the room with a huff and a grumble, eyes rolling nearly to the back of his head, and he snaps the door shut behind him. He doesn’t even glance Yeosang’s way as he dips into the kitchen, although that’s probably because he’s covering his eyes with one of his hands and mumbling about always getting a headache because of those two. 

Still, Yeosang waits. Another two minutes meld into ten. Wooyoung still hasn’t left the confines of Hongjoong’s room. It’s odd and peculiar in his mind because Hongjoong insisted that he needed to focus, he needed to work, but Wooyoung has to be — and Yeosang says this as lovingly as possible — the most distracting human being on the face of the planet. 

It is enough to grab Yeosang’s attention by the horns and drive him to push up off the couch. He doesn’t think twice about what he is doing, that twisting and churning in his gut is the only thing on his mind right now, but he doesn’t stop his warpath until he reaches the end of the hallway where Hongjoong’s door sits on the right. A few seconds of precious silence pass, then he leans towards the wood and presses his ear to it. 

For a moment, he feels entirely too foolish because he doesn’t hear a thing other than the quiet clicking and tapping of what must be Hongjoong’s computer. He turns to leave with his chin tucked to his chest in shame at the thought of how certain he was they were doing something… something in there. Then there’s a quiet moan, followed by an airy giggle that can only be Wooyoung, and a sharply hissed ‘stop that’ from Hongjoong.

“But I’m having fun, hyung. Aren’t you having fun?”

“The only thing I’m supposed to be having is you sit still while I work. You promised to be good if I came home early.”

“And you promised to make me see stars with how hard you’d fuck me. That’s not happening right now either, is it? So why don’t we…”

Yeosang’s brain turns to radio noise. Television static. Microwave beeping. All three at once. Or is that an actual microwave beeping? Is Seonghwa cooking something? He has no clue. He can’t see straight either honestly, mind too overwhelmed with what he has just heard, and shaky legs carry him back to his own door before pushing him inside with as much haste as he can muster. 

Fuck me.

Wooyoung said the words with undeniable clarity. Yeosang shakes against the door, hand still clasped tight around the knob as though it will do him any good. 

Fuck. me.

It really shouldn’t be a big deal. Yeosang should not be bothered. It’s only natural and expected for men of their age to have pent-up sexual frustrations, and of course, they have every right to exercise those urges however they want. Given their orientations, they would slot together perfectly too so why, why, why is Yeosang so bothered right now? It’s shameful the way his jealousy twists further in his gut, and he slides down the door until he’s planted firmly on the ground with knees drawn up to his chest.

He feels so fucking foolish. Thinks back to all the times he and Wooyoung have cuddled and been in close proximity over the years. The way he tried to be daring and bridge the gap between them. The lingering curiosity of blossoming emotions in his chest. The moment he realized where he sat on the spectrum when Wooyoung’s laugh sent such intense feelings of pure love through his chest that Yeosang couldn’t look him in the eye for well over a week after. Hands searching for Wooyoung’s in the dark, clasping tight together, and the fleeting sensation of lips dragging over Yeosang’s knuckles. Breathy laughs exchanged in the dark, soft admissions of love that Yeosang refused to amount to anything more than a friendship but secretly — oh so secretly he wished for more. Wooyoung’s touchy affections that came in the form of sloppy kisses on the cheek and teasing bites to the neck and shoulder. Then came San. Wooyoung stealing away from him. Hands finding San’s instead, hugs and cuddles going to the other man as Yeosang fell further and further away without even trying to pull Wooyoung back. He watched him go without putting up a fight.

What did he do then? The only thing he thought was logical: seek out the member he has the most in common with, the one who seems to understand him better than anyone, one of the view who understands and appreciates his need for quiet moments of peace.

Hongjoong.

Late nights in the studios, backs hunched and aching as they bent over a computer and Hongjoong showed him the steps to his artistic process. Compliments shared in amazement and wonder because Yeosang could not fathom how incredible Kim Hongjoong could be, yet still the older managed to exceed any expectations like it was the easiest thing on earth. The pride that would swell in Yeosang’s chest when Hongjoong congratulated him on a job well done, when he would mention the younger on his lives, the excitement in his hyung’s eyes whenever Yeosang would pop his head into the studio late at night. Hongjoong clasping a hand over Yeosang’s own shaky ones as he practiced for a cover. Whispered praises and reassurances when Yeosang would miss a note or slip up. Slow patience that waited for him without fail. Yeosang hates that he was foolish enough to let those feelings of admiration morph into the desire to be close to Hongjoong all the time, to cling to him, kiss him, have him for himself. 

And he especially hates that he was never able to bury those dwindling emotions of love and affection he felt towards Wooyoung, because now? Now it’s like he is living a nightmare. Watching the two people he has feelings for come together in a relationship that holds some of the greatest moments of intimacy. And sure, yes, Yeosang acknowledges that it could be something purely physical for them, but that doesn’t negate the fact that the two people he has feelings for are fucking and have been fucking right under his nose for the last several weeks. He wishes he could be heartbroken or something along those lines because that would be a normal reaction. That would be typical and explainable and easier to manage than the sensation in Yeosang’s gut. In that moment, he gets some clarity that it is, in fact, not jealousy of either party. It’s a desire to be involved, a want to be there with them, and a need to be involved. Did he mistake it for jealousy? Every time he saw one running to the other, he thought it was merely envy that twisted his gut, but now… now Yeosang is coming to realize that it wasn’t envy or anything like that. He just wanted to be another piece in their puzzle because those two are the ones he’s closest to (and effectively has all too real feelings for), and it pains him so much that his eyes burn. 

There are tears on his cheeks now surely, but his body has entered an odd state of numbness that he can’t piece together and cannot bother to piece together either. He doesn’t think twice before pushing himself back up to his feet, hands shaky and unstable as he moves for the dresser and pulls out a fresh set of clothes, dead set on taking the bathroom and washing his feelings away in the shower. What Yeosang doesn’t account for, however, is someone being in the hall at the same time he is, and he runs face-first into a chest.

“Yeosang?”

Fuck, and it just has to be Yunho of all people too. The one who probably won’t let Yeosang get by without drawing all his worries out of him and making sure he’s alright. And no, he’s not alright, and he doesn’t really want to be right now, but Yunho doesn’t need to know that. So Yeosang shrugs off the hands that find a home on his arms and tries to step around Yunho to get to the bathroom that is so so close yet so far away because of the wall standing before him.

“Are you alright? What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, leave it alone, Yun,” Yeosang mutters through his teeth. But apparently, he can’t have a moment’s peace because Seonghwa must have heard the litany of questions and gotten concerned as well, his voice coming up behind Yeosang like a cruel shadow.

“Yeosang? Is something wrong?”

Yeosang doesn’t turn around but he doesn’t need to because Seonghwa closes the distance between them and steals a glance around his shoulder nonetheless. Yunho seems to be in the dark still in the very least, but Seonghwa will most certainly be able to figure out the source of his tears.

“Yeo… this — how bad is it? This is why I wanted you two to settle it then and there!”‌ Seonghwa exhales. His brows draw together to form a tight line that pains Yeosang to look at.

“Settle what?” Yunho inquires, blinking between both men, and his grip on Yeosang’s arms finally relents in that moment of shock. Yeosang takes the moment of freedom like a lifeline and pushes past Yunho to dart into the bathroom without further ado. Neither man behind him can catch him before he snaps the door shut in their faces, twisting the lock and trapping himself in the small room.

“Yeosang!” Seonghwa calls through the door, and he brings his fist down on the wood as though it will do any good.

“Maybe we should give him some space, hyung…” Yunho’s voice fades into the static running through Yeosang’s mind, and he no longer processes their conversation as he cranks the handle of the shower to let the water heat up. The pain in his chest also dulls, but only when he lets hot water run over his bare back, forehead pressed to the tiled wall. 

Things are catching up to him now. Reality is seeping in and he is realizing all the things that have been happening behind their backs for the past several weeks. He blames his own imagination for the flashes that come through his mind as he tries to wash the feelings away. Wooyoung pressed under Hongjoong’s weight, fervent touches and lingering kisses. The same hands that held Yeosang’s dragging over the contours of muscles and skin, filling in the gaps that Yeosang wishes he could have filled. Or perhaps Wooyoung would curl himself into Hongjoong’s lap and hold the leader as close as possible as he so dearly loves to do with the others. 

Perhaps it is more intimate and special with the two of them, however, and maybe Hongjoong fucks up into Wooyoung like that, holds him close while he works in the studio, and maybe that’s what they do when Yeosang is turned away. He bets that Hongjoong praises Wooyoung too as he loves to give all the members a litany of praises whenever they do something well, and Yeosang’s desires turns ugly when he thinks of Wooyoung being praised for being good for Hongjoong, nice and pliant and perfect for him, and fuck Yeosang wants to be part of it so badly it hurts. He wants Wooyoung to stand off to the side and watch, wants his own best friend to see him fall apart under Hongjoong’s touch. Wooyoung is such a brat that he probably acts that way in bed as well, and Yeosang feels nearly light-headed as he imagines himself being the one to receive Hongjoong’s attention and subsequently Wooyoung’s as well like he would be some example for Wooyoung to follow on how to be good. 

Yeosang doesn’t feel disgusted by the thoughts but rather the way his own body responds to the images floating through his mind, the way his member reacts to it, and the temptation to reach down and stroke himself to completion is intoxicating. He cranks the water instead so that it’s nearly icy on his skin to keep his mind from wandering too much into the inappropriate territory even though it’s already there.

The cold is barely enough to stave off Yeosang’s churning gut because the sound of that quiet moan and Wooyoung’s delicate giggle are in his ears again even as he steps out of the shower and wipes the droplets away with a towel. It persists even when he leaves the bathroom, darting into the hall to make a break for his room in case anyone was outside waiting for him, but thankfully this time he has the hallway to himself and can make it to his shared room with Wooyoung without much issue. Yeosang only says ‘much’ because just before he opens the door, a noise carries down the hall and to his ears. One that is unmistakable but most likely only audible to someone like Yeosang who is standing in the hallway. 

Another moan. This one is much more high-pitched and strung out than the last, bordering on the territory of a squeal, and based on the all too loud thud that follows, Yeosang can picture what’s going on with too much clarity.

“Hyung!” Yeosang’s heart surges forward in his chest, and he whips around like someone else has spoken the word, but it’s very clearly Wooyoung’s tone. Nonetheless, Yeosang shoves himself into his bedroom and snaps the door shut behind him as quickly as possible, flipping the lock for good measure because his cock is too hard to be ignored now. Part of him wishes he had more willpower to avoid this, and yet he’s too weak in the end. 

Less than five minutes later, Yeosang finds himself curled under the sheets of his bunk, eyes blown wide open and staring at the ceiling above his head as he drags the flat of his hand over his cock. The friction is delectable at best but still not enough to satiate the arousal blooming in his gut. Arousal that only deepens when his mind recreates the images from earlier. This time he’s with them, imagining himself sitting off to the side as Hongjoong works on‌ Wooyoung’s body.

“Sit still and watch me punish him.”

Curse his imagination for being so potent that he can practically hear Hongjoong’s words on his ears.

“Touch yourself for us, Sangie, you know you want to,” Wooyoung would purr, still giggling even though he’s in trouble and about to be punished. 

Yeosang presses his palm down harder against his cock. He won’t last more than two minutes like this; he’ll probably come like a teenager in less than that if he jerks himself with too much haste. So he forms a tight ring around the base of his cock and squeezes just hard enough to stave off the heady sensation in his veins. He debates going down to grab the small bottle of lube from Wooyoung’s end table. That’s too much effort right now, he needs his release soon, and he frankly doesn’t have enough patience in his body at the moment to finger himself open.

“You’ll be good and come when Wooyoung does, won’t you, Sangie?”

He wants to so badly. He knows he would be so good under Hongjoong’s control, he would take anything given to him because he wants that so badly, he wants someone to take the control from his hands and be at their mercy. He wouldn’t fight it or talk back, he would be so good it hurts, and a weak mewl tumbles from his lips before he can stop it. 

Yeosang flings his free hand up to cover his mouth as though someone is going to hear the quiet noises, and when he presses the butt of his hand down again, more whimpers fall out. He can’t stop the noises nor does he try to any longer. The desire for a release is too overwhelming, mixed voices touching his imagination and seeming too real for Yeosang to handle as he ruts helplessly against his palm for that delicious bit of friction. And when he comes, he comes hard and fast, eyes rolling back in pleasure as his hips continue to cant up into his hand. He moans out Hongjoong’s name as he comes and doesn’t stop to think about quieting the noise this time in his fog of pleasure. Come spills over his palm only to be smeared over his skin when he can’t stop the movements of his hips. If he thought that would end the vision in his head, he was quite wrong, because after the haze covering his thoughts disperses a bit, it comes rushing back.

“I thought you said you’d be good for us, Sangie. You came before me.”

“I told you to come with Wooyoung, baby. Why couldn’t you do that simple task?”

“You always say that you’re going to be good for us, Sangie. Yet you can’t even seem to live up to those words.”

The tears that hit Yeosang’s cheeks next are ones that come from pure overstimulation and eustasy. Heat swarms his skin, a pretty pink blush that causes his whole body to flush, and his hips just don’t stop moving even as his mind cries out for a release from the self-inflicted torture.

“Pl-Please, Woo,” Yeosang whimpers to the air above him. “I’ll — I’ll be good. I’ll be so good, p-please.” It is all too much for him to handle right then because the next thing he knows, he is coming yet again, but it’s a painfully dry orgasm since he didn’t give himself any recovery time. He releases a choked sob that breaks into a strangled moan instead, then his hips finally rest and give his poor leaking member a break. The only thing that can leave his lips for several minutes is a series of gasps and pants, chest heaving desperately as he tries to catch his breath.

When he finally recovers, Yeosang pulls himself down from the bunk and strips once more now that he’s gotten the fresh set of clothes dirty and soiled. It’s as he is pulling a shirt over his head that the door handle jiggles to no avail.

“Sangie? Did you lock the door?”

Fuck. Wooyoung. He won’t have any knowledge of what Yeosang has just done, or that Yeosang knows what he was just doing himself, but the red hot shame burning in Yeosang’s gut. He just jerked off to the thought of his best friend and his hyung including him in their personal business. Yeosang doesn’t even know if either of them would be okay with such a thing, and yet —

“Yeosang? Are you in there or not?”

“S-Shit,” Yeosang exhales to himself, tugging his shirt the rest of the way and rushing to get to the door. He flips the lock and swings the door wide open to greet Wooyoung with wide eyes and mussed hair. Wooyoung’s hair is damp and clinging to his forehead; he looks fresh out of a shower, and Yeosang has no doubt that he and Hongjoong showered together after their… activities. “Yeah, sorry, S-Seonghwa-hyung wouldn’t get the hint that I didn’t wanna talk to him right now.” It’s only a partial lie, enough to cover what Yeosang was actually up to, and Wooyoung seems to buy it by the way he shrugs his shoulders quickly and brushes past Yeosang to get in the room. He doesn’t stay long, however, coming in simply to fetch his phone before darting back out of the room. Yeosang wants to ask where he is going, but at the same time, he can probably guess that it has something to do with San or Hongjoong again.

Yeosang doesn’t stay to watch him go. Instead, he dips back into their shared bedroom and shuts the door, intent to sleep through the rest of the day and push these lingering thoughts out of his mind. It’s only when Wooyoung returns hours later whining to himself about how San never lets him win a game that Yeosang dares to speak. He waits until his friend curls up in bed and gets comfortable, throat lodged with emotion.

“I…”

Wooyoung doesn’t offer even a noise of acknowledgment. Maybe he’s already fallen asleep. Perhaps Yeosang shouldn’t say anything or he should say this for another time, but right now he just wants to see. Test the waters. Gauge his reaction.

“I know about you and Hongjoong-hyung, Woo.” Curse him for stuttering when he did, and curse him for not having the balls to say it outright. How hard should it be for you to say to your best friend “I know you’re fucking our group leader under everyone’s noses”? Saying something cryptic like “I know what you’re doing with hyung” sounded too scary in Yeosang’s mind, but maybe he could have had a better approach. Especially since the bunk under his creaks and the sheets jostle, then a Wooyoung-shaped shadow darts across the room. The door swings open, Wooyoung slips out, then it slams shut, causing way too much noise for the hour.

Yeosang isn’t sure what he was expecting. He knows Wooyoung avoids confrontation. This should have been expected, yet as Yeosang curls onto his side and faces the wall, the tears that slip out his eyes are more painful than before, and he thinks vaguely in the back of his mind that Wooyoung doesn’t want him to have anything to do with the relationship he shares with Hongjoong.

Morning is awkward and stilted. Wooyoung most definitely went to Hongjoong’s room and told him what Yeosang said; Yeosang can see it in the way Hongjoong’s gaze slips between both boys throughout breakfast. He is a bit thankful that Hongjoong doesn’t look towards him with the same amount of fear and shame as Wooyoung did earlier, and there is no disgust or embarrassment in his stare either — only concern. Seonghwa is still worried about Yeosang’s crying in the hallway yesterday, as is Yunho because the dancer got Yeosang coffee and a plate of food, staying by his side all throughout breakfast with a hand placed over Yeosang’s thigh the entire time. The tension is palpable, and there’s no doubt that everyone knows something is wrong in some way.

Seonghwa keeps sending Hongjoong looks across the table, even as San and Yunho try to bring some energy back to the table and dispel the awkwardness. Those glances are probably the thing that prompt the leader to speak. And so, Hongjoong is the one to breach the subject, but he does it in a way that Yeosang could never have expected, and based on the way Seonghwa chokes on his syrupy coffee, the older had no clue this was Hongjoong’s plan either.

“Some of you have noticed that Wooyoung and I are spending a lot more time together these days.” Yeosang dares to look over at his friend, but the man is staring down at the table with cheeks so red and flushed that he’s nearly purple. “It’s because we’re fucking.”

There goes Seonghwa choking on his coffee, Mingi gags around a mouthful of rice, Yunho’s hand squeezes painfully on Yeosang’s thigh, San bites back a laugh and cheeky smile, and Jongho drops his spoon on the edge of the table in shock. Another clatter follows as the same spoon hits the ground, but Jongho doesn’t even move to pick it up and instead stares directly at Hongjoong like the leader like he’s just kicked a dog or something.

“Does anyone have a problem with that?”

Hongjoong’s gaze finds Yeosang immediately. Oh, so the question is targeted at him. Yet even as everyone else at the table denies there being any issue with such a thing, Yeosang can’t bring himself to shake his head or deny it. It’s not that he does have a legitimate issue with it, he merely wishes to slot himself in their space and be part of it. He can’t very well admit that over breakfast with the rest of the group though, especially not with how Wooyoung reacted last night. Hongjoong doesn’t wait for a response.

“Just because we have this relationship now doesn’t mean any of the group dynamics should or have to change. We are by no means exclusive or closed off to just each other. Understood?”

A chorus of affirmations greet Hongjoong, and Yeosang actually joins in this time despite the clench of his heart.

If Hongjoong expected the conversation to fix everything on a whim, then he would be sorely incorrect.

Wooyoung continues to avoid Yeosang. He won’t come into the room at the same time as Yeosang, only comes to sleep if San or Hongjoong kicks him out of their rooms, and is always either sleeping or gone by the time Yeosang gets up. Despite Yeosang constantly looking over at his friend, Wooyoung almost never looks back, and when he does, his expression twinges with something Yeosang would almost call guilt. He tries not to think about that bit too hard or too much.

Hongjoong, on the other hand, actually makes an effort to do things differently. He invites Yeosang to the studio much more often, asks him to accompany him as he picks up food for the rest of the group at least two times a week, and Yeosang finds himself frequenting Hongjoong’s room to work on producing practice a lot more as well.

Yeosang can’t complain because it’s what he wanted and missed so dearly, and he should be content that at least one of his crushes is giving him such devoted attention, but he is loathe to admit that part of his heart is dedicated to Wooyoung and Wooyoung only. That part is shattered in a thousand pieces every time Wooyoung sees him and turns to go in the opposite direction. He doesn’t last longer than a week with Wooyoung’s behavior, and the breaking point is a Saturday evening when Yeosang steps out of his room to see Wooyoung leaving Hongjoong’s with an unreadable expression. Hongjoong steps into the doorway right after, hand chasing Wooyoung’s and catching hold of it before the younger can dip out of his reach.

And now, Yeosang suddenly feels like he’s watching something that he shouldn’t be because Hongjoong places his free hand on Wooyoung’s cheek and leans his forehead against the other man’s, lips moving quickly and quietly as they speak to each other. Wooyoung nods several times before stepping back and turning around. His body tenses a bit as he sees Yeosang standing at the other end of the hall. They regard each other with equally wide eyes and lingering stares for several seconds before Hongjoong prompts Wooyoung to move by slapping the flat of his hand down hard on his ass. Wooyoung releases a startled yelp, cheeks flushing a dark red before he rushes to San and Yunho’s door and enters without even bothering to knock.

Hongjoong finally looks at Yeosang. The younger can’t describe the feeling that swoops through his gut, but Hongjoong is smirking at him and making him feel like that infinite space between their bodies is nonexistent. It’s like the man is standing right before him and cascading warm breath over his lips and neck, then he tilts his head to the side and motions towards his bedroom.

“Did you still wanna get some work done?”

Yeosang responds with a quick nod and dips back into his own room to snatch his phone up off the dresser before fully stepping into the hall to meet Hongjoong by his door.

“No laptop?” The older regards him with a curious stare even as Yeosang shakes his head a bit.

“Just wanna watch you work some, I think. If that’s okay?”

Hongjoong’s lips twist into a gentle smile, and warmth fills his gut.

“Of course, Yeo, come on.”

Yeosang half-expects the room to reek of sex and debauchery, or for the bed to be a wreck, but that’s not the case. Everything is almost too perfect by Hongjoong’s standards, like Seonghwa came through and raided the room before Yeosang stepped in. In fact, he’s almost certain that Hongjoong went the extra mile to change the sheets, but he doesn’t comment on it even as Hongjoong settles down in the bed and pats the empty space next to him. Yeosang climbs up beside him, heart in his throat and threatening to choke him out.

“I think I’ll be able to finish this one either today or tomorrow so I can submit it for the next album,” Hongjoong mutters. Yeosang watches with wide and careful eyes as he tugs his laptop into his lap, pulling the music file up to pick up where he left off. Yeosang is frankly not paying any attention to what’s happening on Hongjoong’s screen. He’s too busy looking at the man’s side profile, the way his brows draw together in concentration. Hoodie drawn over his head with headphones pressed over one ear and the other pressed further back on his hood.

“Hyung…” Yeosang trails off, unsure of how to voice what it is he’s after, and Hongjoong’s lingering stare only makes him more nervous. But then, the older shifts in the bed and presses his back further against his pillows. He lays his laptop to the side, for the time being, throwing his legs out, and Yeosang inhales sharply at the way Hongjoong motions to the space between them. Is he asking Yeosang to —

“Do you wanna lie down?”

Oh. Of course. Why would he think Hongjoong wanted something else when he and Wooyoung have each other for that? Still, Yeosang slips between Hongjoong’s legs and presses his head to the man’s stomach like it’s glass. Once he’s fully situated and comfortable, Hongjoong pulls his laptop back, placing it atop Yeosang’s stomach without missing a beat. The angle is a bit awkward on his neck, but Yeosang doesn’t complain because he gets to be this close to Hongjoong and in his arms like this. It’s practically intoxicating, and Yeosang almost feels light-headed by the time Hongjoong shifts their position to tug Yeosang further up on his chest, letting the younger drop his head into the crook of his shoulder.

Hongjoong doesn’t speak; he merely lets Yeosang rest against him like that with the familiar beat of his track playing faintly through his headset, and Yeosang watches on with less interest than usual as he drags things across the screen and into place. Then, after some unknown amount of time, Hongjoong decides to pipe up.

“When I talked to the group last week about Wooyoung and me, you were the only one not to say you were okay with the arrangement.” He murmurs the words softly, and Yeosang nearly doesn’t pick up on them at all. The moment they process though, he stiffens in Hongjoong’s hold. Although the man isn’t holding him there against his will, Yeosang feels somehow trapped and unable to escape.

“W-Wooyoung — he ran away from me.” Maybe that’s an exaggeration but the man did straight up bolt out of the room when Yeosang brought it up.

“He’s afraid that you hate him.”

That has Yeosang pulling himself forward, knocking Hongjoong’s hands away from where his laptop sits in Yeosang’s lap. Yeosang has enough decency to snap the laptop shut and push it to the foot of the bed before shifting to face Hongjoong. The look in the leader’s eyes is unreadable when they finally look at each other.

“Why would I hate him?”

Hongjoong merely lifts a brow in response. He seems to weigh his next words on his tongue and teases the corner of his lips a few times before deciding to speak.

“Do you not?”

“Of course not,” Yeosang mumbles. “I don’t hate either of you.” He dares to look towards Hongjoong once more, eyes finding the leader’s and searching for any sort of reaction but there isn’t much there. 

“Then why didn’t you come talk to me as well?”

“I figured…” Yeosang doesn’t really have a response for that. He was cowardly more than anything else and afraid of what sort of conversation they might end up having. “I thought you would want the conversation at breakfast to be the last of it.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up for the past week.”

“What?” Yeosang didn’t even have the slightest clue that Hongjoong was wanting to talk about it. Since everything fell back into their usual routine, he simply assumed that meant everything was fine.

“When you told Wooyoung that you knew about us, what were you referring to?”

Yeosang’s cheeks heat up a bit, and he has to drop his gaze to the bed.

“I heard the two of you… I heard — y-yeah.”

“Heard what?” Hongjoong presses again, and this time Yeosang releases an exasperated sigh.

“Christ, hyung, do I need to spell it out? I heard you both moaning a-and it didn’t take much to realize what you were doing!” That pulls a loud laugh from Hongjoong’s lips, and he throws his head back with the sound.

“That’s not what he thought you heard, Yeosang,” Hongjoong says through the laugh. Yeosang swallows hard in response, sitting back a bit more and straightening his back. “He thought you heard what came after that, which is why he’s been so avoidant with you.”

“What came after?” Yeosang echoes, instinctually gripping the sheets in his fists. Hongjoong’s lips stretch a bit further into a smile.  

“He also didn’t hear the noises coming from your room after because he was in the shower.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Yeosang is so fucked. Hongjoong heard that? What all did he hear? Yeosang remembers moaning Hongjoong’s name a bit too loudly, but he also said Wooyoung’s name, so which did he hear? Or did he hear both? How could he not say anything about it for an entire week?

“But frankly, I didn’t hear it either since I was with Wooyoung in the shower.”

Yeosang can hardly breathe at this point, eyes stuck and fixated on some point on the mattress, and that’s not what Hongjoong wants apparently because a single finger curls under the base of his chin. Hongjoong lifts his head until they can look each other in the eye again.

“Seonghwa told me that you had been crying before taking a shower yourself. Then after you came out, he went to check on you but your door was locked, and… he heard you inside moaning my name.”

“I-I can ex-explain. It’s not — it’s not what it looks like and I—”

“And Wooyoung’s.”

“Hyung, I…” Yeosang is fumbling to figure out what he can say to get himself out of this situation. This is probably the worst thing that can happen right now, and if Hongjoong knows, then Wooyoung most likely knows too and maybe that’s the real reason behind his avoidance these days. Maybe he’s so disgusted by what Yeosang did that he doesn’t want to even look at him again. But the look in his eyes has never been disgust — only some odd mixture between guilt and sadness. 

“I didn’t tell Wooyoung that part honestly. I figured… he wouldn’t take my word for it. So I think it would be better to show him, don’t you?”

“Show him what?” Yeosang exhales. Hongjoong presses forward so far that his breath ghosts over the younger’s lips, and Yeosang chokes on thin air.

“That you want him just as much as he wants you.”

“He… he wants me?” The disbelief is palpable, but Hongjoong is patient as always, releasing a small hum and shifting behind Yeosang to grab hold of his laptop and headphones again. 

“The thing he thought you heard that day — I enjoy riling him up maybe a bit too much, and I kept teasing him with the thought of someone walking in and catching us. The only person he wanted to interrupt was you, and he kept saying your name over and over like a prayer, so loud that he thought you heard him. And thus your reaction… or rather your confrontation scared him and made him think that you were disgusted by it.”

Yeosang feels like he’s been thrust underwater, ears ringing and head clogged with a myriad of thoughts that refuse to make any sense whatsoever. He understands the basic gist of what’s going on in the very least. Hongjoong knows he jerked off to the thought of him and Wooyoung, Wooyoung wants him to some degree, and Hongjoong is pressing closer and closer now that he has slid his laptop off the bed and tucked it under the bunk. And while Yeosang certainly doesn’t want him to stop, there is the nagging thought in the back of his mind that while Hongjoong said that Wooyoung wants him to some degree, Hongjoong never said whether he wants Yeosang in the same way or not.

“B-But what — what about you?” He whispers, too scared to raise his voice any further than that. Hongjoong hums as he leans a bit closer, and Yeosang falls back onto his elbows. “Do y-you want me too?”

“I certainly wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t,” Hongjoong says in response. He pauses in his push forward, giving Yeosang precious time to think and breathe easy for a few minutes. “But I won’t do anything that you don’t want to do, and I won’t push you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. Meaning that… if you want this but are uncomfortable with the idea of having an audience, we don’t have to have one.”

Audience? 

When the realization sinks in, Yeosang draws his hands up to cover his face and hide the rampant blush that takes over his cheeks. Hongjoong is quick to respond, hands coming up to join Yeosang’s and gently clasp around his wrists.

“It’s okay, Sangie, baby, you don’t need to hide.”

Baby. Kim Hongjoong is positively trying to kill him on the spot. 

“You’re so pretty, so so pretty especially when you blush like that,” Hongjoong continues. His voice comes out in a soft murmur, coating Yeosang’s ears like honey and dripping down to his gut where the threads of arousal begin to coil. 

“Hyung,” Yeosang exhales in a tone so breathy and whiny that it nearly doesn’t come out at all. 

“I need a firm yes or no on whether you want this before anything else, Yeosang.” Hongjoong begins to pull away, and that is the breaking point for Yeosang’s sanity practically because he lurches forward and snatches Hongjoong by the collar of his hoodie, wrenching him back down to hover mere centimeters over Yeosang’s lips.

“Yes, hyung, the answer is yes, please, for the love of all that is good in this world, please just—” 

Thank god Hongjoong cuts him off or else he would have just kept on babbling for an eternity. Yeosang falls quiet with a startled gasp as Hongjoong plants his lips atop the younger’s, and the arm that holds him up buckles under the sudden weight on his body. The both of them tumble down to the mattress at an awkward angle, Yeosang’s arm trapped behind his back and Hongjoong’s foot tangled in the sheets, but neither of them pay much attention to those issues. The priority seems to be each other’s lips, not that Yeosang is complaining about the way Hongjoong rushes to swipe his tongue over Yeosang’s lower lip. He grants entrance to his mouth with perhaps too much ease. The moment Hongjoong’s tongue breaches his lips and begins to explore his mouth, Yeosang chokes out a wanton moan that reverberates through the older’s mouth and pools heat in his gut. 

It’s only then that Yeosang decides to resituate their position some, and he kicks at the sheets to unravel them from Hongjoong’s feet before pressing up harder against the leader’s body. Hongjoong seems to get the hint and leans back as well, letting Yeosang have a few precious moments of control as he eases Hongjoong back onto the pillows and straddles his hips like this is what he was made to do. Yeosang is already panting and out of breath, cheeks alight with embarrassment still, but he looks an absolute vision in Hongjoong’s eyes with blond hair enveloping his forehead like a halo and lips glistening with spit. He finds a shred of sense left in him to ask one more question before he lets Yeosang dive back in for more.

“Do you want Wooyoung to watch?”

And this admittedly is not a fantasy Yeosang ever pictured or imagined. He figured he would be the one doing the watching, he would sit on the sidelines while the two fawned over each other and fucked, but this? This is something tantalizing indeed, and Yeosang would be damned if he didn’t take this golden opportunity now. Especially with the knowledge that both Hongjoong and Wooyoung have thought about him in the throes of passion.

“Is that what you thought of when you were jerking off, Sangie?” 

Yeosang can only whimper in reply, hands drawing up from where they sit atop Hongjoong’s chest to cover his blazing cheeks again, but Hongjoong is quicker this time. He keeps Yeosang’s hands right where they are by clasping his fingers around the other man’s wrists and watches on with pure admiration as Yeosang writhes a bit atop him.

“Hm? Is it, darling? Does dirty talk make you shy? We don’t have to do that if it makes you too uncomfortable. Give me a safe word as well just in case we need to stop.”

“No! No, no,” Yeosang denies in haste. “I… um, we can u-use red because that’s easy to remember.” Hongjoong offers a hum in approval, and Yeosang has to swallow his nerves before admitting the next bit. “I l-like being embarrassed a bit.”

“Do you, Sangie? Tell me what else you like.” Hongjoong is practically purring the words, and Yeosang thinks it will send him spiraling over the edge. The teasing glint in the older’s eyes is lethal too, turning Yeosang’s insides to mush and his limbs to jello, and he can’t think of anything he wants more right now than for Hongjoong to utterly wreck him on this very bed with Wooyoung watching on. 

“I like — like being good a-and hearing that I’m doing well.” Yeosang slips his hand around Hongjoong’s. He slowly tugs it upwards, guiding the man’s hand to his neck and measuring his reaction the entire time with wary eyes. Hongjoong seems to forget what breathing is for a moment, and when he finally does breathe again, it’s merely a sharp and painful inhale of air because Yeosang is closing Hongjoong’s own fingers around his neck and blinking at him with wide and innocent eyes. “Being choked feels really nice too. And I want Wooyoung to watch… to watch you ruin me.”

Hongjoong’s fingers twitch around his neck, and Yeosang knows that his words have a visceral effect on the man just by that reaction. He also feels the way Hongjoong’s cock twitches in the confines of his pants, right against the curve of Yeosang’s ass, and that brings a swell of pride to his chest.

“Do you want to ruin me, hyung?” He asks, batting his lashes for good measure, and fuck, it’s so worth it. It’s so worth it because Hongjoong growls in response and pushes Yeosang down so that he’s flat on the bed once more. 

“Fucking hell, Yeo, how can you be so — holy fuck, you’re so perfect.” Hongjoong maps a path from the tip of Yeosang’s nose down to the collar of his shirt with his lips, leaving a wet trail behind, and once he reaches the space hidden behind Yeosang’s shirt, he uses two fingers to tug the material down just enough to expose more of the milky skin underneath. Yeosang doesn’t have time to ask what he’s doing despite the confusion rushing through him because Hongjoong latches his lips around the spot, teeth nipping at the skin until red blooms under his touch. And god does it feel euphoric to be marked by Kim Hongjoong, to be claimed by him and wanted by him, and Yeosang is certain that all reason will leave his body before Wooyoung even gets involved. 

Hongjoong chooses that opportune moment to pull back. First, he admires the way Yeosang’s chest heaves, the way sweat beads his brow and causes his hair to cling to the skin there, and the way Yeosang already somehow looks so fucked out and beautiful that it’s unimaginable. He weaves his hands down the expanse of Yeosang’s chest to catch hold of the hem. Ever so slowly, Hongjoong tugs upwards, and it’s so painstakingly prolonged that Yeosang loses his patience before the shirt even reaches his sternum. He yanks the fabric from Hongjoong’s grasp and pulls it up over his head on his own, throwing it off to the side haphazardly without even bothering to check where it falls. He knows how to play Hongjoong so well, just what he needs to do to get under the man’s skin, and he does it with such ease that it’s laughable. Because the second Yeosang leans back to the bed and flutters his lashes up at Hongjoong, the leader is hissing through his teeth so loudly that the air comes out in a whistle. 

Then he grips his hoodie but the hem and tugs it over his head, but he leaves the plain undershirt underneath on for the time being as he twists around and catches hold of his phone. Yeosang’s arousal deepens as he watches Hongjoong tap furiously at the screen. Then he has an idea that is probably far too risky but also far too alluring to pass up on.

“H-Hyung, could you…” Yeosang loses the confidence to finish the question, hand stretched midway to Hongjoong’s. Still, Hongjoong pauses and looks directly at him. His dark eyes are glazed with lust and arousal, and they bear such a seriousness to them that Yeosang has to swallow around nothing to get his next words out. “Send him a picture,” he tries again, pushing more willpower in this time. “With your hand around my neck.”

“You’re unreal.” Hongjoong’s tone bears a quake this time, audible proof that Yeosang is having such an effect on the man, and the younger revels in it as he tugs Hongjoong’s hand down to the column of his throat. 

That’s all the incentive Hongjoong needs to bend over the other, and his hand squeezes a little bit around his throat. Yeosang’s cock twitches between his legs, right where his hyung’s crotch rubs atop his, and the sensation is so heady and thrilling that Yeosang dares to rut against Hongjoong again. He pushes his tongue out just a little bit, catches the tip between his teeth, then shows off the somehow innocent for the camera when Hongjoong angles it above his face. 

“For fuck’s sake, Yeo, I’m not gonna be able to wait for Wooyoung to drag his ass in here if you keep that up.” Hongjoong snaps the picture as quick as he can before tossing his phone off to the side in a huff.

“Keep what up?” Yeosang asks before sinking his teeth into his lower lip. The pair spend about two seconds staring at each other, Yeosang with a playful gleam to his gaze and Hongjoong with a more looming and dangerous one that has Yeosang’s stomach doing small backflips in anticipation. They’re interrupted by the sharp slam of a door somewhere in the dorm, and that’s followed by a skid and another smack of what sounds like a body on the wall. Another three seconds pass before the door to Hongjoong’s bedroom swings wide open, hitting the wall so hard that Seonghwa yells down the hall about disregard for common decency. 

“Can you at least pretend to be civilized, Wooyoung? You don’t need to act like an animal just because you’re about to get boned! And keep it quiet this time!”

The newcomer comes in a blur of dark hair and tossed garments, and Wooyoung doesn’t even wait for the door to be closed completely before he’s stripping down to his underwear.

“I’m here! I’m here, hi, fuck, oh my god, I’m here. Why didn’t you get me sooner, hyung?” Wooyoung hisses as he shuts the door in a rush, flipping the lock before stepping further into the room. 

“I didn’t tell him he’d just be watching,” Hongjoong whispers into the shell of Yeosang’s ear. It draws a blush out of the younger man, one that persists as he and Wooyoung make eye contact. Hongjoong drags the flat of his tongue across Yeosang’s cheek and presses a sweet row of kisses to the same line of skin a moment after. “Why don’t you break the news, darling?” 

“Break the news? The fuck, hyung? Did you invite me just to kick me out?” Wooyoung protests.

“I told you to trust me, you brat,” Hongjoong counters, passing a half-hearted glare towards the younger with a small sigh. “You’re here to watch the show.”

“Well, I’ll do that fucking gladly,” Wooyoung huffs. He makes for the bed, moving to join Hongjoong on top of the mattress, but Hongjoong slings his legs over Yeosang’s body and steps onto the floor to block Wooyoung’s way instead. Yeosang scrambles to push himself up onto his elbows. With wide eyes, he glances between the pair, swallowing around nothing when Wooyoung rakes his eyes over Yeosang’s bare chest leading down to the bulge in his sweats. Hongjoong places a hand over Wooyoung’s chest, and slowly but surely, the leader backs him up until he stumbles back into Seonghwa’s desk chair. “Hyung?”

“I said you get to watch. Not touch.”

“What? Hyung, you can’t seriously—”

“Per Yeosang’s request. Can’t you do it for him, my baby?” 

Wooyoung sucks his lower lip between his teeth and inhales sharply at the small pet name. Yeosang watches on with wide and curious eyes, from the way Hongjoong drags his hands over Wooyoung’s tan skin to the way Wooyoung’s hips tremble in an attempt to stay on the chair.

“Good boy,” Hongjoong hums when the younger doesn’t budge after a few moments. He slips back to the bed, still smiling from ear to ear as he moves, and he greets Yeosang with a wet and sloppy kiss. It’s a mess of teeth and spit, something inherently dirty in the best way possible, and Yeosang can’t hold back the light groan that rumbles through his throat when Hongjoong brings a hand down to palm at his erection. “You still want me to ruin you, darling?”

“Always,” Yeosang exhales against his lips. At that, Hongjoong leaves him with one more chaste kiss then dips lower, not wasting any more time before pulling something out from under his mattress. Yeosang’s body tenses in anticipation at the sight of it, and even more so when Hongjoong curls his fingers around the band of his sweats.

“Be as loud as you wish. Wooyoung is such a sucker for pretty moans,” Hongjoong teases, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Hyung!” Wooyoung protests in an instant, and he nearly bolts up from his chair. Hongjoong levels him with a glare though, the power dynamic slipping through and baring itself to Yeosang’s eyes, and it would taste a lie if he said he doesn’t want Hongjoong to dominate him in such a way as well. 

“Today is all about Yeo, but I’ll be kind enough to let you touch yourself too. But you can only come after he does.”

Wooyoung doesn’t voice his protests, but Yeosang can see the disapproval in his eyes. There is no opportunity to dwell on it for long because cold air suddenly hits his crotch and he feels his cock spring loose without warning. He draws his legs together to hide himself, a sudden bashfulness taking over him within seconds. Hongjoong drops his clothing off to the side, and it hits the floor with a soft thud before Hongjoong is back between his legs and easing his knees apart. 

“Don’t hide yourself, darling,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Yeosang’s knee. “You’re so beautiful for us—” another kiss, this time higher on the inside of his thigh “—so precious and perfect. Next time I’ll let Wooyoung worship every inch of you, I promise.”

Next time. That insinuation has Yeosang preening, hips canting upwards towards Hongjoong’s body, and the older man stills him with a deftly placed palm on his cock.

“A-Ah, hyung,” Yeosang chokes out. The pressure increases a bit, drawing another louder moan from Yeosang’s lips. Hongjoong takes the opportunity to spread his legs once more, although this time he makes sure to press them wider than before, and Yeosang has never felt more exposed in his life. Hongjoong is still kissing a path up his bare leg when he reaches for the bottle of lube. The click of the cap sends a jolt through his nervous system, cock twitching weakly on the vee of his hip. 

“Hm, are you that excited, baby? You’re doing so well already. Wooyoung always complains about how slow I am when we do this.” Yeosang can do nothing but blink down at where Hongjoong is perched between his legs. Wide eyes meet his and maintain a steady sense of eye contact even as he pours some lube onto his fingers. “Am I going too slow for you, Yeosang?”

“A… a little bit,” Yeosang admits, shifting his elbows on the mattress. 

“But you’re doing so well for us, darling. Being so good and patient, hm? What more could you want?” Hongjoong trails a finger from the head of Yeosang’s erect cock down to the base. Even the slight touch has Yeosang whimpering in need, and he tries to rut his hips up into the older’s hand, but Hongjoong doesn’t let him. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll ruin you good and nice, okay?”

“Please,” Yeosang pants. Hongjoong traces down further with his lubed fingers, using his index finger to rub small circles around Yeosang’s hole. With his other hand, he takes hold of Yeosang’s cock, then without warning, he encircles the entirety of his member in the wet heat of his mouth. “Oh m-my god, hyung!” Yeosang throws his head back against the bed. His back arches painfully with the sensation, but Hongjoong doesn’t let up until his nose brushes Yeosang’s crotch. It is vastly impressive but Yeosang is far too engulfed in the feeling of Hongjoong’s mouth around his length to think too much about it. What he does know is that Hongjoong takes him all the way to the back of his throat without gagging in the slightest, and Yeosang wouldn’t call himself small by any means, so if that’s not the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed, he isn’t sure what could top it.

Yeosang squeezes his eyes shut as Hongjoong ravishes his cock, taking in the feeling of the man’s tongue tracing along the underside of his length. Hongjoong certainly sucks dick like it’s his last meal on earth and his only purpose in life. Though the number of blowjobs Yeosang has received are few and far between, he knows this is going to ruin all blowjobs in the future for him unless Wooyoung is the one to give them. Hongjoong keeps circling that index finger around his rim. It’s teasing and prodding, like he’s trying to get Yeosang to cave and beg for it, but Yeosang is too lost in the heat of Hongjoong’s mouth to even think to ask for it. Ironically, it’s Hongjoong who grows impatient as time passes on, and he at last slips one finger past Yeosang’s tight ring and buries the digit two knuckles deep in him.

Yeosang blindly reaches down to grab Hongjoong’s wrist. He desperately tries to push his finger deeper, to prod further and find that elusive spot that feels oh so good, but Hongjoong keeps him from doing so. The leader slips off his cock with a lewd pop, leaving a trail of spit to dangle between his lips and the head of Yeosang’s cock. The effort of having Yeosang so deep for such a long period of time shows on his face: his eyes are a bit puffy and red around the edges, tears glisten in his waterline, and the tip of his nose gleams just a little brighter now. Yeosang could get drunk off the sheer sight of him like this.

“Be patient, darling,” Hongjoong reminds him as he pushes Yeosang’s hand away from his own. “You’re so tight that I wanna spend some extra time prepping you, okay?”

And yes, Yeosang is touched by the gesture in the very least but he’s also quite annoyed because he wants Hongjoong deeper and deeper with each passing second. He only gets part of his wish when Hongjoong descends back on his leaking erection, scooping up the trail of precum and saliva with the flat of his tongue and diving back down on him. Somewhere in the haze of his thoughts, Yeosang thinks that having his dick sucked by Kim Hongjoong is a wholly spiritual experience. 

That point is proved further when Hongjoong pushes a second finger into his hole and gently settles it into his heat without moving for several seconds. Then, he twists his digits to the side and begins to fuck those two fingers in and out of Yeosang’s tight ring as slowly as possible. That has Yeosang’s moan devolving into choked mewls and whimpers, and his thighs tremble under the repetitive double stimulation that never stops even for a second.

Hongjoong has a talent at taking people apart it seems because he does it with Yeosang so easily that the younger is already seeing stars without having come a single time yet. Wooyoung is thoroughly enjoying the scene before him with rapt attention, and for once he actually remains rather quiet as he watches on, aside from the occasional moan and groan. The feeling of Wooyoung’s stare firmly planted on his body, from his face down to where Hongjoong’s face meets his crotch, leaves Yeosang feeling even more light-heated. He’s fairly confident that this with either send him spiraling into unknown territory or he will just straight up pass out after coming once. 

There is no time to worry about those minute details in the coming moments: Hongjoong works a third digit into his hole, and when he does, he pulls off Yeosang’s tortured cock with a lopsided grin. 

“Isn’t he so good and pretty for us, Woo baby?” 

“Y-Yes, hyung,” Wooyoung answers quickly. 

“Are you getting close, angel?” Despite Hongjoong’s stare being directed at Yeosang, the latter is vaguely aware that the question is meant for Wooyoung, but still, he nods a few times for good measure. That draws a laugh from Hongjoong’s chest. The noise resonates in Yeosang’s body, leaving him with a steady thrum of pleasure, and Hongjoong speeds up the pace of his fingers as he pumps them in and out of Yeosang’s hole. “You look so heavenly like this, Yeosang. Panting and mewling as I fuck your hole with just my fingers. You’re so desperate for something bigger, aren’t you?”

Yeosang is losing control over his own inhibitions and slipping into a place he rarely goes. 

“Y-Yes, yes, hyung, I’m — want more. Want more, please, give me more,” he babbles back, too lost to think about piecing full sentences together. Hongjoong is quick to pick up on the shift, especially in the way that Yeosang’s body turns to jello in his touch and becomes fully pliant under him. The leader snakes a hand up Yeosang’s side and finds one of Yeosang’s own hands on the bed. He laces their fingers together, clasping tight at the younger’s hand while offering a sweet and gentle smile. 

“Hyung has you, darling,” he murmurs. “I promise.” It’s the reassurance Yeosang needs to let go, and he lets himself rut down on Hongjoong’s fingers. They find a rhythm like that — with Yeosang’s half-hearted and shaky bounces and Hongjoong’s timely thrusts — and each jab to his prostate has Yeosang crying out for more. He wants to hold off, wants to make it last longer, come while Hongjoong is balls deep inside him, but Hongjoong seems determined to draw at least one orgasm out of him before they go any further. 

And that’s exactly what he does.

Less than three minutes later, Yeosang has his free hand wrapped around his shaft as Hongjoong fucks into his hole with three fingers and a sense of reckless abandon. It’s purely euphoric, and the quick jabs to his prostate are what sends him fully over the edge. Come spills over his hand, coating his knuckles and fingers in the sticky white substance, and Yeosang lets the steady jerks of his arm come to a rest. Hongjoong, however, just continues to pump his fingers in and out of Yeosang’s hole, not waiting for the man to recover before he is back to toying with his prostate. 

“Hyung, t-too much, ah — ah, hyung, I can’t!” It is a delicious bit of overstimulation, and one that leaves Yeosang exhausted and panting for air. Hongjoong stops before it begins to hurt thankfully, slipping his fingers out of the younger before mapping a path with his lips up to Yeosang’s neck.

“Are you with me, darling?” He hums into the crook of his neck. Small love bites enunciate the words, and Hongjoong drags his tongue over each little mark he paints on Yeosang’s skin. 

Yeosang honestly feels like he is floating on a different plane of existence. He doesn’t process any of what Hongjoong said, only the touches and cool sensation of air hitting the path of spit Hongjoong left on his chest. It’s concerning enough to make Hongjoong sit back and look Yeosang directly in the eye.

“Yeosang, baby, are you with me?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes, hyung. I’m — I’m here, yes,” Yeosang replies this time as Hongjoong pulls him out of the state of delirium.

“What’s our color, doll?” Rather than responding, Yeosang preens at the name Hongjoong calls him, a lopsided smile covering his lips.

“I like that, hyung. Can you — can you call me that again please?”

“I need your color first, Yeo. Is it too much? Do we need to stop?” Hongjoong cradles the younger’s face in his hands, caressing the soft skin of his cheeks and trying to make the younger look him in the eye. Even the smallest touch sends Yeosang spiraling, like he’s swimming through dark water and can’t figure out what’s going on around him.

“I don’t want to stop. I’m… I’m okay,” Yeosang insists through a nod. “I just need a few minutes to recover a bit. ‘m still green, I promise. I’m too — t-touch is too much right now.” Hongjoong nods and retracts his hands from the visual’s face, and Yeosang instantly inhales a deep breath of air like he’s been starving for it all this time. 

“Have you come yet, Woo baby?” Hongjoong shifts his focus over to the other man in the room, and Yeosang follows his stare over to land on where Wooyoung sits. Said man shakes his head quickly, fingers loosely wrapped around the base of his cock. “Can you last a little while longer?”

“Y-Yeah, of course, hyung.” 

That has Hongjoong smirking again, and the leader slips off the bed to stand up straight.

“Good because I’ve changed my mind,” he hums, stepping closer to where Wooyoung sits. He steps around the back of the chair. Yeosang makes brief eye contact with the man as he lays his hands down on Wooyoung’s shoulders, eyes glinting a bit under the fluorescent lights. “Yeosangie is going to ride your pretty little cock, and I…” Hongjoong curls his fingers around Wooyoung’s jaw and shifts the younger to look at him. He pushes two digits past Wooyoung’s lips, pressing down so hard on his tongue that Yeosang can hear the way Wooyoung gags around him. “I’m gonna fuck your mouth just the way you like. Understood?”

Wooyoung mumbles around Hongjoong’s fingers, taking them deeper into his mouth without complaint, and that seems to be answer enough with the way Wooyoung blinks up at his hyung through his lashes.

“Good boy,” Hongjoong praises before pushing his fingers further down Wooyoung’s throat. “Yeosang, darling, take your time. There’s no rush, okay? Woo could sit here with my hand in his mouth for hours and be satisfied.”

Yeosang spends the next several minutes just observing the scene before him. It’s oddly euphoric to simply stare at them in this state, Wooyoung still seated in that chair and Hongjoong standing behind him with an arm curled around the front of his body. Wooyoung seems to be working his tongue over Hongjoong’s fingers based on the dripping trail of saliva that pools at the corners of his lips every few minutes. And Hongjoong was correct: Wooyoung seems perfectly content like that, happily lavishing the older’s fingers as Hongjoong cards his other hand through Wooyoung’s dark hair.

By the time Yeosang finally pulls himself to his feet, his legs are somewhat wobbly and shaky, but he drags himself to where Wooyoung is seated with little issue. While his own cock has softened down to a semi-hard state, Wooyoung is still rock hard and twitching between his legs, hands clasped tight around the arms of the chair. Yeosang drops himself to Wooyoung’s lap without warning, and it startles the man so badly that he bites down hard on Hongjoong’s fingers. Hongjoong takes it without complaint, only letting out a soft hiss and yanking Wooyoung’s hair until the younger moans around his hand.

“Are you feeling alright, doll?” Hongjoong leans over Wooyoung’s head to get in Yeosang’s space. The visual greets him with a quick and daring kiss, then places both hands atop where Wooyoung’s sit on the armrests. 

“Perfect as can be.”

Hongjoong smiles into the kiss. He pulls off too soon for Yeosang’s liking, but Yeosang understands why he does so after a moment because the leader slips his fingers out of Wooyoung’s wet mouth and takes to stripping himself of the rest of his clothes like the rest of them. In the break of touching from Hongjoong, Yeosang and Wooyoung finally look at each other — Yeosang with teeth sunk deep into his lower lip, and Wooyoung with eyes glazed in lust.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this,” Wooyoung admits after a second. 

“Well, you don’t have to wait any longer,” Yeosang replies with a smile before taking Wooyoung’s face into his hands. Their lips meet in a shy kiss at first, one that is testing and exploring the waters around them before they let themselves get caught up in the thick air of arousal in the room. Wooyoung shifts his hands to Yeosang’s delicate hips. He presses his thumbs to the pale skin there with enough force to bruise, but the pressure is heady and delicious in Yeosang’s mind. 

Yeosang blindly fumbles around between his legs in search of Wooyoung’s cock, and once he finally has a hold of it, he pushes up on his knees to make space for Wooyoung to slip his cock between the cleft of Yeosang’s ass. They both release a shaky sigh into each other’s mouths, and Yeosang is ready to fully drop his hips on Wooyoung’s cock if not for Hongjoong stopping him at the last second.

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself, darling, you need more lube.” Hongjoong disappears behind his back, and Yeosang doesn’t bother to see what he’s doing until he feels something cool hit his backside. His whole body jolts forward against Wooyoung, hands latching onto the younger’s shoulders as the chilly lube slips lower. That feeling thankfully doesn’t last long because Wooyoung presses back into Yeosang’s hole with much more ease this time. Yeosang sinks down onto his heels once more, taking the younger’s cock deeper and deeper until Wooyoung’s thighs are flush with his ass.

He looks up from Wooyoung’s chest, intent on kissing the man under him, but Hongjoong has occupied his mouth in the meantime. And if Yeosang thought seeing Wooyoung with fingers between his lips was a sight to behold, the image of him with a cock filling his mouth is even better. So good in fact that Yeosang goes a little breathless at the sight. Hongjoong has a hand wrapped around the back of Wooyoung’s head, tilting the younger towards his crotch where Wooyoung slurps messily around his member with no shame. Hongjoong coos soft praises down at the man all the while, and it spurs Yeosang to start moving his hips. He desperately wants to hear that praise as well, he wants them to tell him that he’s doing a good job and being so good for them. He is so needy for it that he works his thighs as hard as he can, bringing a pleasant burn to the muscles. 

Yeosang’s erratic movements have Wooyoung releasing a litany of moans around Hongjoong’s cock, hands fumbling to grasp at his hips so he can buck up into Yeosang’s tight heat with little sense of rhythm. There’s no real point in trying to find a rhythm with Wooyoung, Yeosang learns that quickly because every time he tries to build a steady pace, Wooyoung jerks up with a thrust that throws Yeosang off-balance. So, instead, Yeosang just focuses on his small bounces and grinding his hips down when there’s a break in Wooyoung’s thrusts. Wooyoung loses his control on Hongjoong’s cock soon as well, and his timed bobs turn into letting his jaw go slack so that Hongjoong can simply thrust into his mouth instead. The sounds in the room are purely erotic, too loud between the wet slaps of skin, Yeosang’s mewls, and Wooyoung’s gagged moans around Hongjoong’s member, but Hongjoong manages to be relatively quiet himself with only a few sporadic moans here and there. 

“Look at you, doll.”

Yeosang cracks an eye open, panting through a whimper when he sees the way Hongjoong is currently staring at him. 

“You’re doing so well for us. Look at him, Woo, look how good he is on top of you like this.” Hongjoong stretches his free hand out towards Yeosang. He reaches for the younger’s face, but Yeosang twists his neck at the last second and catches Hongjoong’s thumb between his teeth instead. He maintains a piercing stare with the leader as he sucks the digit into his mouth, effectively muting his noises. Hongjoong’s hips lose their rhythm, and he freezes with cock halfway down Wooyoung’s throat to just stare at Yeosang in absolute wonder for so long that Yeosang thinks he truly broke the man. Wooyoung slips off Hongjoong’s cock.

“Hyung,” he whines, tone so hoarse that Yeosang would be surprised if he could talk at all tomorrow. 

“S-Shit,” Hongjoong exhales, and it’s the first time that Yeosang has seen the man’s composure break in the slightest since this started. That causes his chest to swell with pride, heady arousal filling his veins, and he squeezes hard around Wooyoung’s cock. It’s all the younger needs to come, apparently, because Wooyoung releases a startled yelp that is so loud that Hongjoong has to rush to muffle him with his cock before someone comes rushing to the door. Yeosang isn’t expecting to come as soon as he does, but he is quick to follow Wooyoung in coming, hot spurts of come painting Wooyoung’s stomach and Yeosang’s hands where they rest atop Wooyoung’s sternum. He can’t stop moving, nor does Wooyoung let him with the grip he maintains on Yeosang’s hips, thus the two of them ride out their orgasms together like that until their bodies give out to the pleasure. 

Yeosang collapses forward, smearing the cum between their bodies further as he drops his head to Wooyoung’s right shoulder. Hongjoong is still working hard to come himself, and Wooyoung returns to his senses enough to assist him. Yeosang can only watch on from where he’s perched. Every muscle in his body aches and burns, but the lingering haze of his orgasms leaves him feeling warm and fuzzy inside.

“S-Shit, Woo, gonna come on you like this,” Hongjoong warns, fingers tightening around the man’s hair. Wooyoung pulls off his cock and replaces his mouth with a hand. He splays his tongue out before the head of Hongjoong’s dick, somehow managing to giggle as he strokes his hyung to completion. Hongjoong releases onto Wooyoung’s tongue and face, and Wooyoung takes every last drop until he’s milked Hongjoong dry. 

When he finally lets go of the man’s cock, Wooyoung turns back to Yeosang, twisting a hand through his hair and pulling his face up until they’re eye level, then he plants his lips atop Yeosang’s. The come is still there, sticking to his face and tongue, but Yeosang sinks into the kiss without complaint. Wooyoung thrusts his tongue into the visual’s mouth. Hongjoong’s come is salty and warm, so bitter that Yeosang almost chokes on it, but Wooyoung fares much better, although that’s probably because he has a lot more practice swallowing come than Yeosang does. Yeosang takes it as best he can, swallowing every drop that Wooyoung pushes between his lips, and he even goes so far as to clean the come off Wooyoung’s face between soft kisses. 

“Hyung,” Yeosang exhales, and he looks up to where Hongjoong stands beside them. Hongjoong seems to guess exactly what he wants with little trouble, bending at the waist to give him a sloppy kiss, and Yeosang hums into the touch. 

“What about me?” Wooyoung whines the moment they detach, and Hongjoong has enough mercy to offer a kiss to him as well.

“I’ll give you more in the shower,” he promises after pecking the younger’s forehead. “I’ll go get the water running. You two come join when you’re ready, yeah?”

Hongjoong leaves the two of them there, still seated in that damn chair with Wooyoung’s softened cock deep in Yeosang’s ass. They don’t move right away, and frankly, Yeosang is more than okay with that because his body feels weightless and unreal at the moment. 

“Want me to carry you to the bathroom?” Wooyoung offers through a smile. Yeosang only hums in response and tucks his head further into Wooyoung’s neck.

“I really… Wooyoung, I really like you. More than just sexually,” he admits, watching a bead of sweat trickle down the side of Wooyoung’s face. “You and Hongjoong both.”

“I like you both too, so I don’t see why that would be an issue.”

“Really?” Yeosang murmurs. And maybe it’s just the afterglow of the sex or the pent-up emotions rolling through Yeosang’s chest, but the corners of his eyes prick with unshed tears and his heart clenches in his chest.

“I thought it was obvious this whole time, yeah. And I know… I know Hongjoong feels the same even if he’s not always good at voicing his feelings all the time.” Yeosang squeezes his arms around Wooyoung’s midsection at that. A soft kiss lands on his forehead, then Wooyoung shifts their weight and tucks his hands under Yeosang’s thighs.

“Are you two dolts coming or not? I’m wasting hot water over here, hurry it the fuck up!”

“He loves us!” Wooyoung laughs into the shell of Yeosang’s ear, carrying him off to join Hongjoong in the bathroom before the leader complains again.

“Yeah, I think he does,” Yeosang murmurs more to himself than to anyone else.

﹎﹎﹎

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.14

God’s Will and Fate’s Jokes

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 2900

Summary: Steve is not the only man out of time to be found in New York, Manhattan. And he sure as hell isn’t the only one struggling with what he’s done and lost.

Warnings: mentions of violence, guns and death, swearing, a bit of a talk about religion

A/N: Ah, you want to know how the reunion will turn out? Understandable… So I’m gonna insert a Bucky chapter, with fragments of how he had been. I promise two little cameos from a Netflix TV series in exchange though, so hopefully I can be forgiven.

Story masterlist

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The wind was gradually getting chillier with New York City further diving into autumn. Bucky readjusted his leather jacket to shield himself from it, but it was just a force of a habit. He had been frozen – several times, as he remembered now – and cold didn’t bother him for a while now. This was barely ‘cold’. His boots shuffled on the pavement with each step, a noise that seemed to drown in the busy streets.

The evening was slowly drifting into a night time, but in Manhattan, the streets never really fell into silence, always pulsing with life, sometimes calmer, mostly rapid though.

Bucky shoved his gloved hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighed, stopping in front of the rather tall building – then again, this was New York, tall meant something different here – , his destination.

His mind was preoccupied, for the millionth time lost in the past; for a change, not in his own.

The fact he had been unfrozen during the decades gave him an advantage of being able to keep up with modern times; and there was nothing that couldn’t be found on the Internet, especially when one knew where and how to look, maybe even peak where others couldn’t for the lack of access or ability.

Then again, Captain America’s life story wasn’t exactly a heavily guarded secret and Bucky couldn’t decide whether he couldn’t believe his eyes while reading, or whether he actually wasn’t surprised at all when learning what his former best friend had been up to after he (and the rest of the world, for that matter) thought Bucky was gone.

He had dived a plane which was about to level New York and other great cities of America to the ground. Everyone thought he died, but instead, he was trapped in ice; Bucky prayed Steve had been unconscious the whole time, not feeling the biting cold. Then, the proclaimed war hero was found and been woken up seventy years to the future, throwing himself into a fight as soon as it was needed.

And wasn’t it damn necessary – aliens attacked the Earth. Bucky now remembered seeing a lot of weird inexplicable shit. But still, this? What the hell.

The thing was, despite that, Steve’s life wasn’t all bad. He became a part of a band of superheroes and… the punk finally found his soulmate, the one he could never find before, because she hadn’t been born yet, which was insane enough on its own. However, he seemed happy.

Naturally, it had to nosedive after that; the woman of his heart and soul was dead.

Some nuthead – and to Bucky’s rage, a nuthead Bucky knew, he had been part of Hydra, which he now hoped didn’t exist anymore, because he read about Pierce being locked up along with others – had murdered her in the worst possible way right in front of Steve.

If Bucky ever considered becoming a murder machine again, after everything he knew he had done, it was upon that revelation. He wanted that man’s head. He wanted to tear him limb from limb. He was a villain, sure, that need was natural, but he had hurt Steve on top of that. No one hurt Steve and got away with it.

Apparently, the man didn’t, because he was blown up along with everyone in the building minus Steve.

Still. If Bucky ever questioned whether he still had a heart, he was sure upon that realization; he did have one and it bled for his best friend.

He wished he could be there for him, but he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he could even show up after everything his hands had done, no matter who forced them. He didn’t know if he could mug up Steve’s life even worse.

It was weeks now since he had been freed and his feet led him to a church – the one church where people said goodbye to Steve’s soulmate. Bucky had read about it too, her funeral; a small service for her friends and family, but many others wished to express their condolences, say thank you to the poor soul who lost her life to theirs and their loved ones and they chose this church to do so.

Bucky had figured he could pay his respects as well.

What he didn’t count on was the roller-coaster of emotions hitting him when seeing her picture, her smile radiant and brighter than the candles illuminating her photograph.

She was pretty, there was no denial. The photo printed was from Avengers’ archives, he read as much – Bucky had no doubt that it was Steve who put that bright smile, lighting up her eyes, on her face. He believed Steve had found true happiness with her and it wasn’t just because she was his soulmate or because Bucky watched the video evidence as she faced her death and showed great bravery and kindness or because he saw Steve’s desperation in the very same footage.

Bucky simply knew; the woman seemed to truly love Steve and that was all Steve ever needed. A woman to love him unconditionally.

Life was cruel and fucked-up to take that away from him.

No, Bucky didn’t count on the rage and heartbreak chasing tears into his eyes. Neither did he expect someone to pull him out of his musing.

“Did you know her, son?” an amiable male voice caused him to wince and mentally yell at himself for a dumb lack of awareness of his surroundings. Had it been a Hydra agent, Bucky would have been dead.

He forced himself to calm his sprinting heart, the rush of adrenaline unnecessary when the only person disturbing him was an old priest with nearly bald head and a soft soothing tone of voice.

His breath shuddered.

“No, Father. I didn’t.” I knew her soulmate, Bucky could have added, but he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself; everyone knew who her soulmate was and it would lead to uncomfortable questions. Instead, Bucky’s mind supplied him with an easy lie. “But she had her life ahead of her, all of it. She must have been happy with her soulmate if he made her smile like this.”

The shorter man nodded, removing a candle that burned out from the altar with her picture – Bucky hadn’t noticed before with many others still warming up the space with their tiny flickering flames.

“Indeed. And she surely made him equally happy,” the priest hummed, sorrow darkening his face. His eyes carried a hint of curiosity, watching Bucky inconspicuously. ”It’s a shame for such joy to be stolen by madmen. Her soulmate… I pray for him as much as I do for her soul. Broken heart heals much longer than broken bones.”

No shit. Especially when it comes to supersoldiers with enhanced healing.

“Not wrong there,” Bucky whispered, hesitantly reaching out to the small metal basket with candles and a thin piece of wood to borrow the flame from another.

Bucky didn’t believe in God for almost seventy years now. Still, when the wick caught fire, he sent a silent prayer for both Steve and his gal.

“Still, you seem troubled by more than that,” the priest whispered and made a kind offer. “You could confide me in. It is what I am here for. Perhaps it would ease your sorrow.”

I don’t think so. Neither will it ease the craving after tearing a dead man’s head off.

“I don’t think you could help, Father, no offence. I’ve never been a good Catholic and lately even less so. And you sure don’t want to hear what troubles me.”

Despite a gentle nod of understanding, he nudged Bucky once more. At the very same moment, the soldier could hear the heavy door of the church open a crack and a man walk in with a periodic taping of a thin stick.

“I only wish to help you. If something of what you possibly have done heavies you… I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. I’m not allowed.”

“I believe you, Father. But I’m not sure your own conscience would allow you to keep quiet in my case,” Bucky admitted honestly, shifting under the presence of another man despite the fact he wouldn’t be able to hear them. A periodic tapping the man carried with him was getting to Bucky’s nerve already.

He should leave. Another lost soul seeking the help of a church was a good excuse anyway.

“Trust me, son. Whatever your sins are, I’m certain I have heard worse.”

“No, Father. You haven’t,” Bucky muttered under his breath, aware of the stranger getting closer.

He turned to him, surprised to find a man of such built, carrying a walking stick for blind. His stance and body was one of a fighter, even when cladded in a cheap suit, red-tinted glasses preventing his real thoughts from displaying on his face. He appeared blind but not quite. To Bucky, he was giving an impression of pretence, at least partial.

He could only wonder why; however, he could do so on his way out.

“I’m pretty sure he did,” the newcomer joined their barely audible conversation without permission and a scowl twisted the Father’s face.

The fact that the not-so-blind? man could hear what Bucky was saying had everything in Bucky scream fight or flight.

“Matthew. What brings you here at this hour?”

The suited man shrugged light-heartedly; Bucky didn’t believe him for a second. “I thought I’d stop by. See how you’re doing.”

“Always with the jokes, Matthew. It’s not decent.”

It wasn’t. Except if Bucky was more comfortable at the moment, he would have snorted in amusement. This man was clearly comfortable in his own skin, but the skin was a charade too. Bucky didn’t want to stay to crack the mystery though.

“Forgive me, Father, then.”

“Did you come to confess?” the Father continued and Bucky recognized this was as good opportunity to leave as any, making space for the blind man to approach the priest more easily.

A brief smile passed over the Matthew’s lips. “No. Like I said, only wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The backing out of the soldier was less inconspicuous this time, caught by the priest.

“You don’t need to leave, son. Matthew is a dear friend.” And there’s more to him than it seems, Bucky was certain.

Were his the sins Father had mentioned? This man’s? Bucky wouldn’t be surprised considering the dangerous vibe he was radiating.

“I’m Matt,” the man offered swiftly and held out his hand for Bucky to shake.

Bucky was stupid enough to accept it and really, wasn’t he out of his game to make such an idiotic mistake. “…James.”

“Rather hot for gloves, isn’t it?”

Bucky fought the urge to punch this man for pointing it out and took a deep breath.

“My past injuries can… make people uncomfortable when seen.”

“I won’t see them,” the blind man challenged with the light tone to his voice again, his head tilting to side and Bucky could see the corners of his mouth twitch. It gave him the impression of the man wanting sent him a wolfish grin.

And that was the time to get the fuck out. What was Bucky thinking anyway, showing up in here?

“Matthew… perhaps it would be for the best if we leave James to his prayers and have a talk over a latté, if you’re interested at this hour?” the priest offered in a conciliatory manner, beckoning to the back for Bucky’s benefit – or for Matthew’s too?

How deeply ran the lie, the pretending? Bucky didn’t want to hang around to find out.

“Yes…” Matt hesitated, but nodded. “Perhaps. James.”

“Matt. Father.”

Bucky strode between the two lines of the pews, kind words reaching his sensitive ears.

“My invitation still stands, if you ever feel like talking. If you’re not comfortable confessing the traditional way… there’s always coffee. Same rules apply for me.”

Bucky nodded, definitely not planning on taking him upon the offer. “I appreciate the offer, Father. Goodnight.”

Since fate was a cranky bitch, a night full of horrors of the past had him wandering the streets before the sun even began to rise to the horizon.

The Father didn’t seem overly surprised that Bucky showed up again, at such ungodly hour no less.

“James. Latté?” he asked, unfazed almost.

Bucky wanted to question his decision. But he was an old man, older than the priest himself and he could believe his secret would be kept.

He nodded.

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Opening to someone about the horrors he had lived through and had been a source of was surreal. No, scratch that, it was fucking weird and telling that to a priest was twisted and seriously messed up.

Yet, once Bucky started, he couldn’t stop the verbal vomit, his hands in his hair, tears welling up in his eyes and the hoarseness of his voice that seemed to be impossible to disguise.

And the whole time he talked, the man sitting opposite to him – not touching his latté either – listened intently with compassionate and understanding eyes full of sorrow and offering kind words and his own insights of a person watching the event from a reasonable distance, far enough not to get tangled in the emotional turmoil.

It caused Bucky’s breathing to turn so difficult that he thought he might actually suffocate, but he didn’t. He might be close to choking on his own spit though at priest’s forgiving words several times, words of redemption, a chance on it only proven by a mysterious man building miracles by a flick of a hand.

“You were a victim, James. Just like anybody else,” the Father explained his point of view slowly and with patience battling the one of saints themselves. “These are not your errors to carry with you like a burden. Forgive yourself. And allow your friend the same thing. I’m sure he could benefit from having someone by his side in a time difficult like this.”

Bucky gulped, looking away as he felt awkward burn in his eyes again, a lump in his throat never disappearing.

“I can’t. At least not yet, I’m-“

The sudden change of atmosphere was palpable, the safe environment carefully created by the priest vanishing at instant as Bucky’s instinct screamed about someone else’s presence in the church – someone else’s besides the God’s servants. His senses tingled, hairs rising at the back of his neck.

“Someone’s coming.”

Father Lantom seemed once again rather unfazed, his gaze shifting to his watch.

“Well, it is after six a.m., James.”

“Father-“ the soldier warned him breathlessly, otherwise rising to his feet soundlessly, sneaking to the door, opening them for a crack to glance at the newcomer that made his heart beat out of his chest.

One peek and he swiftly pressed his back to the wall, his head hitting it with a soft thud, eyes falling shut. Even with eyes closed, he could still feel the priest’s worried gaze.

“James?”

Bucky took a deep breath, arguing with his frantic mind and heart to calm the fuck down.

It was alright. He just needed to get the Father to cause diversion and he would sneak out, making no sound. He excelled at disappearing.    

“Go greet him, Father. Don’t tell him a word about having me here. Please.”

The desperate plea was enough to light up a flare of recognition in the priest’s eyes, no matter how hard it made him frown.

He sighed, sounding resigned.

“I cannot do that choice for you, James, even if I wished. I promise to keep quiet.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, beckoning to the other man to move.

The soldier stayed aligned with the wall, waiting for the right moment. It was killing him, freaking him out and yet luring him in, a mess of emotions, memories and possible scenarios of reunion playing out in his head, ranging from a fistfight to a hug even.

He needed to snap out of it.

He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Steven. What a nice surprise,” the priest greeted softly and Bucky barely contained the whine drawn to his lips. His hands curled up into fists and he bounced off of the wall, quickly assessing the most secure escape route. ”Do you require my assistance?”

“Not today, Father Lantom, but thank you.”

It was like a slap to Bucky’s face, a punch to his gut, hearing Steve’s voice; the melancholy in it and the burden he was never supposed to carry only making it worse.

For a second, Bucky wavered, faltering in his steps. His friend – former friend, still, his best friend – was right behind that door, needing someone and hurting and what was Bucky doing? Running away, like a coward?

“Are you alright?” the punk continued, expression concern for the not-exactly-older man and that was it. He caught a scent of something fishy right away.

Bucky’s mind yelled at him to get the hell out. His gaze returned to the door leading to a chamber and bathroom, hoping to find a small window. He crossed the distance in long quick steps.

“Yes, Steven, thank you. I simply have another troubled soul in the back room...”

Bucky slipped through the other door, finding what he wished for – an escape route. As he opened the window, taking care not to make the tiniest sound, Steve’s voice was slowly fading away.

“Don’t let me disturb you then, Father.”

By the time Father Lantom returned to the chamber, James Buchannan Barnes was gone. The priest only sighed in resignation; he more than half-expected it would come to that. He only hoped that the troubled soldier would find his way back eventually.

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Part 15

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So… am I? Forgiven? Please? I prooooomise the Steve/reader reunion will take place in the next chapter and it might actually be worth the wait ;)

Thank you for reading!

[stylesnews]

Harry in Conversation with Steve Lacy for Man About Town Magazine

Steve Lacy is a rare creative talent. Having been nominated for a Grammy in his teens for his work with his genre-defying band The Internet, and on the back of a critical acclaimed album — Apollo XXI — this year, the young star takes time out of his tour to chat with Harry Styles.

HS: Hey Steve!

SL: What’s up, Harry?

HS: I’m good, man. How are you?

SL: I’m good. I’m in bed, in my tour bus.

HS: [Laughs] Oh, yeah? Where are you on the way to?

SL: We’re our way to Boston.

HS: I like Boston! Boston’s like, not trying to be… it’s just… Boston. And it’s great. How’s your tour been so far?

SL: It’s been really good. It’s a big learning experience I guess, doing it by myself. But it’s been sick.

HS: What do you find is the biggest difference for you? I mean obviously being on stage by yourself, or the touring part? Travelling, the off-time…

SL: I think it’s probably just as easy, because as far as travelling and everything, we have the same team. I have the same tour manager and the same techs, so that’s easy. And then being on my stage is super easy, because I didn’t find another band — it’s just a DJ and me. So I kind of treat it like a rapper, who plays an instrument and sings melodies to people. Because I really want it to be as easy as possible, or else I’m just going to cancel. I really didn’t want to leave my house after I came back from the other tour with The Internet [laughs], so my tour had to be at ease for me to leave!

HS: What do you usually do between shows and stuff?

SL: I’m usually sleeping. Or I’m walking around. Like yesterday, I walked around a little bit, and I shopped. I ran into this guy that was a fan — this Korean dude — and I ended up getting food with him [laughs]. Then we went to Balenciaga and played dress up for like an hour. My days off are pretty spontaneous! I might make some music; I write. But yeah, it’s pretty cool to hang out with everyone.

HS: [Laughing] How was the dress up?

SL: It was good! I always throw on at least 8-10 looks in there. Throw on some dresses...it’s real nice.

HS: How do you find you relationship between fashion and music? Do you feel like one usually influences the other, or do you feel like they both end up influencing each other? And how much do you find it to be an important part of performing and being on stage, and being in music in general?

SL: I feel like they flow from the same river. They come from the same place of self-expression. I’ve always admired style, so, yeah, I think I appreciate it just as much. I don’t know if one inspires me more than the other, but I think they come from the same place. They kind of just mesh. But it’s definitely important for me to appear a certain way to perform. I don’t know, I just like to feel… I guess like characters. So I like to separate the stage presence from the person off stage. It’s like a little mind game I play with myself. But it makes me feel more like a... star.

HS: You put your suit on and do your thing, right?

SL: Exactly. And then take it off. I love it. I think it’s good to separate the two.

HS: Yeah, totally. Like Prince. How much are you inspired by him with fashion, with music; does he play a big part? Is it seeing people like him do stuff like that that’s played a part in it, do you think?

SL: I think a little bit, yeah. He inspired me more musically than fashion-wise, I think. He did have a couple of fashion looks that I liked and am yet to explore. But it was a look he did for… do you know the Dirty Mind Tour? Have you ever seen the concert clips from that?

HS: Yeah!

SL: Well he had like, this thong/panty thing. With these long socks that go up to his thigh, like right under where his panties were. With these boots. And a trench-coat. That’s a look I’ve yet to explore, but I’m definitely inspired by that one. And the music inspired me after he died, actually. I didn’t grow up listening to him. But the guy who taught me how to play guitar, some years back — I guess right after Prince died — he asked me [if I] was listening to Prince. And I was like: ‘’No, not really.’’ He was just one of those people that knew was a legend, but I didn’t question why, or try to figure out why. I was just like: ‘’Yeah. He’s a legend’’ [laughs]. He told me to listen to the first album. And then, from there I was like: ‘’Oh shit. Yeah.’’ He just made sense to me, and a lot of things connected. Because, you know, he was a Gemini man, who produced everything, worked on [his first demo] when he was like 15 or 16, something like that. It came out when he 19. So, yeah. It was special to me when I found it.

HS: Growing up, were your family musical, or was it something that you found on your own? When did you realise, “Oh, I want to do that”?

SL: I was kind of desensitized to music from my family. My family sings; I guess I should start there. My whole family sings, from my grandma, to my cousins, to my aunt, to my... you know. Everything. We all sing. So, I didn’t really have thought of creating, it was just like: “Oh yeah, Music is cool, everyone sings. Cool.” I didn’t really get inspired to start making it until I saw people making music, and that was when I was 15 or 16. When I met the band. That’s when I saw music happening, and I though, “Oh cool, I think I can do this”.

HS: You were still in high school when you were nominated for a Grammy. How was it to go back to school and be like: “Sup, I’m kind of doing this now, and I’m, like, good at it”, you know?

SL: [Laughing] It was sick. I was really low key though. I didn’t want people to think I was some celebrity kid, because I didn’t want people to treat me weird. So I just told my closest friend and my teachers. But I didn’t, like, run around school yelling “Hey everybody! I’ve been nominated!”, because I was still in school, you know? Like, no-one really cares. But it was definitely cool. Well I guess not even ‘cool’ is the word, it was... What’s the word I’m looking for... I guess super assuring that I was in the right place, essentially.

HS: With The Internet, the’d obviously put out a couple albums before you joined them. Were you a big fan of them before, or was it just something that you ended up finding yourself being a part of?

SL: I just found myself a part of them. I didn’t hear anything about them, before I joined. They were just complete strangers to me — which is pretty cool. I got to see them as people first, so it was really nice, you know? Just feeling that personal connection, and then making my own way into the music somehow.

HS: Nice. I want to talk about ‘Apollo XXI’, I’m sure you do as well. It’s such a blend of so many things: there’s R&B, and hip-hop, and lots of other stuff. How do you think genre really holds up now, compared to solidly things used to be labelled before? Do you think we’re getting to a time where it’s becoming redundant, and more just 'good music’ and 'bad music’? Because I know a lot of the time, especially with newer stuff, when people are asking me what kind of music I make, I don’t necessarily know how to call it. Do you think the times of ‘you’re this, you’re that’ are going, or do you think it’s still very much the same?

SL: Yeah, I think it’s definitely getting redundant as far as the artist is concerned. I think genre is put there to make the music like a business plan. And that’s the part that I hate about it, and why I might not put out another album for a long time, until it’s figured out. Because I hate looking at music and thinking about songs like a fucking iPhone 5 that I have to sell. And then I have another version, the 5s coming out next week, with a different feature, that’s gonna project ‘this many’ sales. I really hate looking at music like that man, so I’ll be happy when it’s figured out. I guess at the end of the day it is a business that I signed up for, but I think when art and business collide, it’s this weird mushy language that you have to, kind of, dance between. So, yeah, I guess I’m still figuring out what to call it to this day. It was definitely a big learning experience releasing my first album. For me, I put ‘Pop’ on it, because albums like the James Brown shit and the Prince shit — those were all ‘Pop’, right? And the had all types of shit on there. So I did that, because I didn’t see it as being anything else. However, what’s considered ‘Pop’ these days, is far from what my album was, you know? It’s super... I guess I can call it white. If you’re black you’re in, like, R&B, or ‘Urban Contemporary’. You’re not ‘Pop’. So, I kind of wanted to challenge artist and no-one gives a fuck. [Laughs] But, still.

HS: No, they do. I think the waves have changed, coming from people who are just doing it differently. I don’t think that’s necessarily defined on the side of the artist. People like you end up influencing people who love you, and who realise “Oh I want to make shit that sounds like that”. I think it makes a bigger impact than you maybe think it does. With the album, there’s so much of you in it; you’re pouring so much of yourself into it. Is there any point to even making music for you if you’re not just being honest, writing the truth, and being vulnerable and stuff? I know for me, there’s not really anything that appeals to me about just writing songs, just to have them be ‘good’ songs. I need them to mean something to me, you know? SL: Right, one hundred percent.

HS: From the album, I’m assuming you feel the same way? It’s so personal…

SL: Oh yeah, oh yeah. it’s been cool for me, to see it, because I don’t look for acclaim. So when people ask me how the album’s doing, I’m like “I don’t know”; I’ve got to see people react to it for me to know. But the tour’s been showing me that it’s been doing what it’s supposed to be.

HS: You put [architect and designer] Verner Panton’s Living Tower as the cover… What was it that made you go: “I want this to be the cover of my record”?

SL: I think I found his rooms online, and I really loved his builds, and his architecture. How he would do these rooms — the colour palette. Then my friend got me his book for Christmas, and I look at that and was like: “Fuck. I probably can’t find any of these rooms, but i can probably get that chair!” So, we managed to get one, and we shot with it.

HS: Do you still have it?

SL: Yeah, it’s in my house now. It’s in my room, by the window. And it’s really nice.

HS: And why did you want to call it Apollo XXI?

SL: I wanted the number 21 in there, because it was coming out on my 21st birthday. And then I was just thinking of words that could go in front of the 21. I couldn’t just do 21 because, you know, Adele, she already ran that one. So I was just being a little brazen there. I was just thinking of little phrases, something I could just put in front of it. And “Apollo” popped up in my head. Someone told me to look up Apollo, and the Greek god popped up. I connected a lot with that, and I just ran with it. It sounded good together.

HS: In terms of the subject, how — especially being in America right now — does the politics influence you when you’re writing? Do you ever feel like you should be being political, or do you feel completely opposite, that you shouldn’t, or you just don’t want to be political? How does it affect you in terms of what you’re making?

SL: I think there’s different ways to be political.

HS: Yeah, I would have to agree with that.

SL: I don’t think you have to necessarily be an activist to be political. […] I think me being my free self is a political statement.

HS: Yeah. Especially coming out of a collective and then going on your own, I think people then want to know what you think, rather than knowing what a band thought. What are some of the props and cons of moving more into the solo stuff from working on band albums? Obviously the creative process is way different, then the touring is way different. It's almost like a whole different job in a lot of ways. What’s your favourite thing about it, and what’s something you don’t like about it as much?

SL: Um… I think my favourite thing about it is that I’m in full control. I guess I had to ease into that, because I got super used to being the guy in the back, you know? And that was cool — I got used to that. But learning to be a boss is pretty fun, I think [laughs]. When you’re in a band, everyone compromises for whoever, for each other, for everybody. So I guess my favourite part is not having that compromise, and doing all the crazy shit, and funny stuff I want to do. Yeah. I think that’s the best part.

HS:  want to ask you about a couple other people for a second. You’ve got Kari faux and Alima Lee [on tour]; Alima filmed a bunch of stuff with me in the studio.

SL: Oh really!?

HS: Yeah, she’s so great.

SL: Oh shit — that’s crazy! I love her. Wow. Small world. That’s insane.

HS: What about them made you choose them? Did you know them beforehand? How did it come about?

SL: Yeah, I knew them before. Alima’s one of my favourite DJ’s, and I didn’t want a band for this tour. So I asked Alima, like: “Hey, I got a proposal, would you be down?” And then we started rehearsing, and out chemistry was great. She kind of saved the tour, to be honest [laughs]. And then Kari, she’s just one of my best friends. I wanted to bring her with me. It’s been great. We have such a good team, and it feels so good. Everyone’s having a good time, and yeah. It’s a really nice tour, man.

HS: And how was it working with Solange on When I Get Home?

SL: Oh, that was cool. She’s cool. Real big sister vibe. I came in as a stranger, and we spoke about music, and then just found our friendship from there. And yeah, it’s been cool ever since. She’s very nice.

HS: How do you find it working in someone else’s realm? In some ways, does it feel like a band thing, when you’re working on someone else’s thing?

SL: Kind of, yeah. It’s like you’re starting a new band with someone every time. I think that’s how it feels the most comfortable. I was talking to [producer] Raphael Saadiq about that, and he told me a line that he says to people when he’s producing is “I’m in your band now.” He says it helps people feel comfortable. Yeah. I like that one-liner.

HS: That’s a good one. How was working with Ravyn?

SL: Ravyn? Oh, sick! She’s like a little young, fairy goddess when it comes to singing. It’s crazy. I brought her out in Chicago with me, because that’s her hometown. I was like: “Yo, we have to perform these songs here.”

HS: How did you guys meet?

SL: We met on the internet. A couple of people had been telling me to mess with her. And then one day, I went driving, and I played her EP — at the time it was called Midnight Moonlight. I thought: “Holy shit”; her vocal production really flipped me out. And I hit up immediately like: “Hey. We have to do something together.” Initially I wanted to start a dup with her, but her label situation is interesting, so it had to be her project.

HS: Right. What are you listening to right now? What are three things you love?

SL: Okay, I can give you some songs. This song I’ve been loving is “You’re A Runaway” by The Bucketheads. It’s a really nice little house track. “She Live” by Maxo Kream with Megan Thee Stallion [laughs] — that’s a good one. A lot of my new demos I’ve been listening to... Oh! “Terrorize My Heart (Disco Dub)” by 795. That’s a good one. Was that three?

HS: Yeah! And then, a book that you’ve read anytime recently that you would recommend to anyone?

SL: Oh, yes! I left it in the hotel room. It’s a Murakami book, I’m trying to get them to ship it to my next hotel room. I think it’s... A Wild Sheep Chase?

HS: Oh yep. It is! Have you read any more Murakami things?

SL: No, I haven’t. My friends gave it to me before I left.

HS: He’s one of my favourites.

SL: Yeah I’m trying to get into it. My attention span is shorter than my haircut right now.

HS: He did one called What I Talk About When I Talk about Running, which is kind of short and fun — wether you like running or not. It’s just so good. And then Norwegian Wood is my favourite. That was like, the book that got me into reading. That made me enjoy it the most.

SL: Woah. Okay, cool.

HS: Anyway, just to add mate, I love the album. And I listen to it a lot. It’s wonderful to listen to someone doing something so great. Everyone loves it, and it’s really interesting, and dynamic, and deep, and true. It’s amazing art, man. It’s very cool to listen to people just doing what they want to do. And you can tell that you love it, and you’ve obviously put so much into it. So thanks for making it.

SL: Oh, thank you! I appreciate it. I’m glad it got to you, man.

HS: I’m glad to do this, it’s fun. My final question is, what makes a good loafer?

SL: What makes a good loafer?

HS: What makes a good loafer.

SL: Are you saying “loafer”, or “lover”?

HS: Loafer. I mean, you can tell me what makes a good lover as well, but loafer. That’s the question. I always ask this because I know everyone’s answer will be slightly different, and I know you like a loafer.

SL: Loafer…. I think a good loafer is about… the shape. The shape of the loafer, for one. And then I think the sole is very important too. I don’t like a loafer with too thin of a sole. But I like a nice loafer that’s not too sharp at the tip. It’s kinda square, but it’s kinda round, as it’s square.

HS: What about the tassel?

SL: Um. I haven't eased into the tassel. I think that's too much of an uncle zone for me. I'm already an uncle as it is, so I keep the tassel to the other dudes.

HS: I'm not an uncle, and I do the tassel.

SL:  Okay! l love the tassel, but I'm not ready for that.

HS: It's so good, man. It's fun. It's definitely fun. You should try it.

SL: When you're dancing, do you, like, kick out and it moves?

HS: Yeah, it moves. It flaps. It adds a whole new dimension to the shoe.

SL: That’s pretty sick.

HS: Yeah, it is [laughs]. oKAY, SO. A thick sole, squared at the top, not too sharp on the tip. That’s your go-to loafer. You heard it here first: Man About Town.

SL: And the colour too. The colour’s great.

HS: Of course. Thanks, man. Thanks for having me. And I��ll see you.. somewhere down the road. I’ll see you in LA or something.

SL: Yeah! I’ll hit you.

HS: Take care.

[evanescentform]

Taco Chance on Me | Shiloh & Taylor

A date, okay. No matter how many times Shiloh has gone on a date (and she’s not lacking experience), it’s always a little nerve-wracking. But what was the worst that could happen? Taylor seemed like a cool person anyway, so Shiloh wasn’t trying to get too nervous. After all, she’s made plenty of friends after going out for a bit. That was the beauty of being gay. Dating doesn’t work out? You still gain a new friend. Shiloh pulled up in her red Jeep as close to the docks as she could, having sent Taylor a message that she was nearby so she could meet her. Given that not many people were out, it wasn’t difficult to spot Taylor coming. Initial judgement, Taylor is more attractive in person than online. So far so good. She flashed her lights to get her attention, smiling when they met eyes. With no hesitation, she got out of the car. “Hey,” she greeted with a small wave as she walked over to the passenger side to open it up for Taylor. Shiloh’s smile was a little shy, still getting a feel of everything and getting comfortable around the other person.

Taylor felt a bit dirty about all this. She knew exactly what she was doing here. She didn’t have any malicious intent, definitely not, but she was definitely playing the field. Flirting left and right. Going on casual dates with people she barely knew and not making any sort of commitments. Eventually this would all probably catch up to her. But she needed something to take her mind off of Rhonda. So far it was working, but how long would it last? Taylor fixed her hair in her phone camera, not having a single mirror on her boat because what was the point, and then stepped off her houseboat into the dock, spotting the Jeep not far off flashing its lights. Taylor’s face broke into a smile when she got a look at Shiloh’s grin. “Sup?” She seemed excited, which was definitely a good sign. Tone was so hard to read over the Internet. Taylor couldn’t help but chuckle a little as Shiloh opened the passenger door for her, placing a hand on her bicep and squeezing it playfully. “What a gentleman. Do I get a hand kiss too?” she joked as she climbed in.

Taylor’s joke broke the ice between them and Shiloh gave a soft chuckle as she watched Taylor settle in the seat. “You might get more than that if you play your cards right.” Shiloh quipped, promptly shutting the door after, not leaving Taylor a chance to respond. Shiloh wasn’t a stranger to flirting---it was fun and once someone gave Shiloh the okay to flirt with them, she wasn’t going to pull back. Entering the car, she put on her seatbelt and began pulling back to turn around. “Alright, so do you know where to go or should I map it on my phone?” Shiloh glanced over at Taylor, eyes smiling as the car idled, waiting for directions. It’s not like anyone was out here anyway and Shiloh had yet to go onto the road. For good measure though, she looked around to double check, pushing her glasses with the tip of her finger. Nope. Not a soul.

Oh wow, Taylor liked this girl already. Bold words and a shut door to cut her off. She knew how to play the game. And that accent? It had Taylor smiling like an idiot already. As Shiloh climbed into the car, Taylor buckles her seatbelt as well. “It’s just a town over, actually. I’ll give directions.” She usually only had to look at a map once to get the lay of the land. She had an excellent sense of direction. “Pull out here and head towards Main Street, that’ll take us right outta town.” She bit her lip as they started off, stealing glances at Shiloh as she drove. The girl was very pretty. “How long have you been in White Crest?” she asked, just trying to fill the silence.

Shiloh took in the directions, beginning to enter Main Street. “I’ll be honest, I haven’t travelled much out of town. I’ve gone a few times to a nearby lumberyard, but it’s usually with my father driving.” She warned. “But… I trust you’ll be a good co-pilot?” Shiloh glanced over at Taylor, giving a small smirk. Returning her eyes to the road, she pursed her lips, thinking about the question. “I’ve been here for five years? Four. No wait..” She let out a chuckle, eyes squinting in an attempt to figure it out before giving up and shaking her head. “I already feel like I’ve been here forever. It’s great though, my parents are really happy here.” Given the state they were before they moved to White Crest, it has been nothing but a blessing since they moved. “Is it creepy I know you haven’t been here long?” Shiloh asked, looking at Taylor from the corner of her eyes.

Taylor readily returned the smirk as she relaxed into the passenger seat. “Oh I’m an excellent co-pilot and navigator. Don’t you worry.” She smiled at Shiloh’s profile as she turned to look at the road again. “Never gotten lost once in my whole life. That’s a fact.” Taylor listened as Shiloh spoke, leaning her elbow against the door as they headed out of town. “Are you happy here?” she asked a bit abruptly. And at Shiloh’s question, Taylor couldn’t help but chuckle herself. “Am I that obvious? Or do I got myself a cyber stalker?” she teased.

“Never? That’s impressive.” Shiloh complimented, genuinely impressed that she had never gotten lost. Shiloh knew if she drove too far away from White Crest she would undoubtedly get lost. She wasn’t familiar with the area who could blame her. Thank god for gps. Shiloh had to glance over at Taylor, wondering if she was teasing or asking for a real answer. Either way, it made her throat tighten up and she was happy to have the road distract her and keep her eyes away. “Yeah, I’m happy to be with my family.” Shiloh emphasized with a nod. It’s not where she thought she would end up, but she’s always wanted to visit the States so here she was. “I think I would have noticed you earlier if you had been.” Still keeping her eyes on the road, she still smiled. “...And I work with chatty clients who think they’re supposed to keep me company while I work. They like to gossip.” It was then Shiloh looked over and gave an apologetic shrug.

“Never, ever,” Taylor said, bragging just a bit now when she heard the impresses tone in Shiloh’s voice. “Always has an excellent source of direction, and my Dad’s a fisherman. Taught me out to navigate using the stars.” Taylor noted the non-answer she was given. Or at least, that’s what it sounded like to her. That twinge of unfulfillment edging in, but tucked deep down and out of sight. Or maybe Taylor was reading her all wrong. Equally as likely. She liked to inject stories and poetry where there was none. It was a bad habit sometimes. “Well, I’m glad you finally did notice me,” Taylor flirted cheekily, smiling down at her own knees. “Ah, that makes sense. I’ve overheard some people talking about ‘that crazy bitch living on her boat in the dead of winter’, so I’m not surprised I’m getting around town. And fuck, it’s only been like two months now.” Taylor let out a slightly frustrated sigh through her nose. “That’s the thing about small towns man. Everybody all up in your business. Don’t give you a chance to breathe.” She looked over at Shiloh apologetically in turn. “Not that I’m mad at you about it or nothing. I’m just saying.”

“Oh is he? How cool. I know a bit about how to fish. Not much though. Maybe you can show me sometime.” However Shiloh didn’t know how fishing and navigating went but maybe it had to do something with being on a boat. Shiloh realized then that she’s never been on a boat… For a moment Shiloh thought she had gotten Taylor upset and maybe she shouldn’t have said anything, but she was relieved to hear it straight from her mouth that she wasn’t. “I completely understand. I’m sure people said something when we moved in. Especially cause we inherited a distant relative’s company and home. I think people here are just looking for the next exciting thing. That’s why people get so crazy when the sky turns red or it starts raining fish.” Shiloh spoke as she continued on the road, having long left White Crest. “Are we close?” She asked, glancing over at Taylor.

“Oh, I’d love to. I’m always down for teaching someone how to fish. I’ll even stand behind you when I show you how to cast,” Taylor said. Wow, that was a swing and a miss. But she tried to play it off with a chuckle. She used to take awkward attempts like that to heart and let them embarrass her, but she’d since learned how to just let it roll off your shoulders. Well, mostly. “Oh, y’all inherited your place? That’s sick!” She chuckled again. “You’d think things were exciting enough with fish rain, yeah?” Taylor shook her head, honestly surprised when she could say, “Yeah, it’s right down here about a mile,” to Shiloh’s question. Had their conversation really made the time fly like that?

Shiloh let out a laugh at that able to picture it. It was cute and cheesy. Luckily for Taylor, Shiloh liked that. “Sounds like fun.” Shiloh never really went fishing until she moved here and just did it based on what her father knew. It would be nice to do it with someone experienced. “Yeah, we did. We’re really lucky for it too. Things were getting a bit rough at home—Financially.” There wasn’t a need for details. Parents’ business just wasn’t doing well. But she did feel the need to clarify that it was financially and not any other kind of rough. Shiloh had a great relationship with her parents. “Do you wanna eat it inside? I don’t really care about eating in the car. Whatever you’re more comfortable with.” It was nice to be out of White Crest. The worry of falling fish was gone. The sun had set. In all it seemed like a nice night and a shame to spend indoors.

Every little bit of information about Shiloh that Taylor could get, she soaked up like a sponge. She loved learning about people, especially pretty girls. She was a bit weak like that. She didn’t know how much of an open book Shiloh was regularly, but either way whatever she had shared with her, Taylor was honored to hear. “That’s awesome. I’m happy for y’all. Back in Rhode Island it was just me and my Dad. Mom skipped town before I was old enough to remember her.” Now who was being the open book? She was glad arriving at the restaurant gave her an excuse to drop that subject like a bad habit. “Swing around the drive thru. Bet we can find a pretty place to park around here. Lay out on the hood and look up at the stars while we slam some tacos.” Taylor laughed at her suggestion, but she hoped Shiloh took it.

Shiloh wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “So you’re from Rhode Island? Cool. White Crest is the only place in the US that I’ve been in.” Nice way to talk about what she said without mentioning sad stuff. Shiloh entered the drive thru, liking the sound of Taylor’s plan. “I have no clue what to order though.” She said as they pulled up. “Do you mind doing the ordering?” It’d meant she’d have to lean over and maybe Taylor wasn’t willing to do that. As Shiloh pulled up the the speaker went off. “Welcome to Taco Bell.” Shiloh moved back against her seat to give Taylor room to lean over and project her voice.

“Oh yeah, don’t worry I gotchu,” Taylor assured her as Shiloh pulled up to the window. “You a vegetarian or anything?” Shiloh shook her head and Taylor smiled, unbuckling her seatbelt to lean over toward the speaker. Was she leaned over a bit farther than she needed to be so more of her was touching Shiloh? Maybe. Maybe not. “Hey, yeah, we’ll have…” and Taylor went about ordering a downright feast. She wanted Shiloh to try some of the best stuff they had to offer, even if all the food sort of tasted the same. That wasn’t the point. Once she was finished and she insisted on paying for it all at the window, they had bags of food in hand and drinks in the cup holders, and Taylor grinned over at Shiloh. “I say we drive until we find a place. Head back toward town maybe. Gotta be somewhere to pull off on the way.”

Shiloh watched Taylor move closer to her, observing how close she got, feeling a rush of excitement at the closeness. She didn’t even pay attention to what she ordered. Shiloh got back on the street, more or less remembering the path. “You want to go back to White Crest and eat?” Shiloh questioned. She didn’t know what it was but even coming to a nearby town just.. felt different. Strange but she was finding herself preferring to be out here. Maybe she just hadn’t gone out in a while. It could be stifling if you don’t allow yourself a moment to just drive and go somewhere else. She drove, looking for somewhere. She caught sight of a little park up ahead. “What about there?” She glanced over at Taylor, letting her have a say.

“Nah, just some place on the way back. It’s nice to get out of town, especially with good company,” Taylor said, her voice softening as she spoke. She’d noticed the hitch in Shiloh’s breathing when she’d leaned over her. Taylor was nothing if not observant. As Shiloh pointed out a park, Taylor’s face lit up. “Oh hell yeah! Good eye. Look, it has an overlook.” She pointed at the sign as Shiloh turned into the park. “A genuine lovers lane.” Brows raised in Shiloh’s direction, but once again she chuckled it off.

Shiloh snorted giving her head a small shake. What were the odds? She pulled into the park driving up to the overlook. She had never been to one before. It was actually pretty nice. And the view was as one could expect, incredible. For a moment she was stuck watching from her car until she realized she could go outside and see it. Quickly, she opened her car door and got out. She left her door open and walked forward. “It’s really beautiful.” She wondered if a place like this existed in White Crest. She’d be going over there every night. She then noticed the emptiness of her stomach. She turned over to Taylor. “Taco time?”

Taylor was glad her little quip had landed. She always appreciated someone with a sense of humor, and especially someone that could put up with Taylor’s own lame sense of humor. Shiloh pulled up into the overlook and just like her, Taylor was momentarily hypnotized by the beautiful view. It was a small cliff that hung above the town they’d just left, and the twinkling lights were like a circle of life and activity among the darkness of the forest that surrounded it. She wondered what White Crest looked like from this angle. Taylor got out of the car as Shiloh did, grabbing their food and drinks and hopping up onto the Jeep’s hood, patting the spot next to her. “Taco time. Ready for a feast?” She started unloading the bags of food in a small spread, all still wrapped up. “You’ve got stout stand tacos, your nachos, your quesadillas, your burritos,” she said, pointing to each small pile of food. “Pick your poison. Not that it’s actually poison…”

Shiloh looked over at the food, coming up to sit on the hood. If she were someone else, she’d rather you not sit on the hood of the car, but Shiloh wasn’t that crazy over her car. “Wow.” That a lot of food and not food that Shiloh frequently ate. It was mexican food. She reached for one of the tacos, unwrapping it. Grabbing a hot sauce packet she tore it off with her teeth and squeezed some on. It was only then she looked over at Taylor, smiling, kind of excited she’d be trying this for the first time. “Cheers.” She raised the taco up, gave Taylor another smile and took a bite. The hot sauce was really spicy, she felt her mouth burning but it wasn’t too bad. “Taco’s good,” she said after she swallowed and then took another bite.

Taylor herself reached for a burrito, unwrapping it halfway as she watched Shiloh slather her taco with hot sauce. She probably should have warned her about the sauces, but she kept her mouth shut, smiling in return and raising her burrito in silent cheers before biting into it. She watched Shiloh, who seemed to genuinely like the food and wasn’t just humoring Taylor. At least hopefully. “I told you. The perfect late night snack. We’ll have to get drunk and get a bunch sometime. I’ve got a point to prove!” Taylor teased, poking Shiloh’s shoulder playfully before she leaned back against the windshield, gazing up at the sky as she ate. “This is the only good thing about small towns,” she said. “You can actually see the stars. Not just the brightest ones, but all the little ones trying so hard to get noticed, but most of the time they’re drowned out.” She glanced over at Shiloh with a small tip of her head, curious how something so poetic might land with her.

“I can definitely see how this would taste better drunk.” Shiloh chuckled finding the taco enjoyable because she was hungry, but she also probably wouldn’t crave this again until she was drunk. “I have to warn you though, I don’t really get drunk.” It always felt strange to her, to just want to inebriate yourself to the point where you might not even remember what happened. That loss of control was scary to her. But she chose not to think about that at the moment and instead enjoy the nice view and the pleasant date. “I don’t really take the time out to look at the stars. I’ve been so busy with work, I hardly pay attention to anything else.” Shiloh internally cringed--that may not have been a good thing to bring up on a date. That you work too much. “I do remember growing up when I’d visit my mother’s family in Wales---they own a sheep farm and the stars there are incredible. I’d watch them with my cousins on top of this hill right by their home. The sight was really beautiful from what I remember.” Then again she was a child.

“Oh yeah, no biggie. I wouldn’t try and pressure you or nothing,” Taylor clarified. Sometimes she had to be painfully reminded that not everyone partied as much as her. Or more accurately, not everyone was trying to drown their demons in booze like her. “That’s just it, you’ve got to make the time. Working yourself to the bone doesn’t help anyone.” She wondered how true it was. If she was actually a workaholic or just being modest in some way. Taylor grinned at Shiloh’s story and turned her head completely to look at the girls face in profile as she gazed up at the stars. “I can name another sight that’s beautiful,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on Shiloh.

Shiloh took a bite of her taco, listening to Taylor tell her that she had to make time. It was something she had heard before and something she tried to implement, but when there was always work to be done, how could you take time to do anything else. Even when Shiloh wasn’t working, she was doing something. Even now, she wasn’t just lounging around the house, she was out here with Taylor, on a date. There was something about sitting still, doing nothing that unnerved her. She felt like the moment she stopped, something was going to catch up to her--and she didn’t know what. Turning over to Taylor, she caught her next words, not too deep in thought. “Your burrito?” Shiloh teased.

Taylor bit her lip as Shiloh turned onto her side, letting out a little breath of a chuckle at being teased back. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She barely knew this girl. But Taylor was weak when it came to impulses and indulgence. Temptation was her worst enemy, because she was so easy to give in. “You’ve got a little hot sauce, right—here, let me…” She leaned in and wiped the sauce away from Shiloh’s lip with her thumb, before pressing their lips together. Soft and gentle, as the sounds of the crisp night provided them a small chorus. A crescendo. She pulled back faster than she would have liked, licking her lips and instantly regretting it. “Fuck, that sauce is hot,” she chuckled, immediately going for her drink.

Shiloh knew it was coming and she could have pulled back but she didn’t. She let the kiss happen and it was nice (of course it was) but she wasn’t expecting Taylor to pull back so quickly. She thought something had happened but then remembered the hot sauce. She brought her hand to her mouth, both in shock and in trying to keep her laugh in check. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized in between her laughter, hoping Taylor would find it genuine despite the fact that she was snickering. Shiloh wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, setting the taco down. “I should have said something. I didn’t know you were so weak with spice, though.” Shiloh teased, knowing the sauce was spicy even for her but she found it manageable. She could only imagine what it was like to be caught by surprise.

Taylor knew how to make fun of herself. She was in the music business after all. Taking yourself too seriously just led to mental breakdowns the moment you got a speck of criticism. She still didn’t take it well, but always with a grain of salt. “Shush,” Taylor chuckle, pushing Shiloh’s shoulder playfully. “I grew up on bland fish and mashed potatoes. Cut me a little slack.” She set her burrito down too. There was so much food they hadn’t touched and it was getting cold, but Taylor didn’t particularly care. “You wanna...try that again?” she suggested quietly.

Shiloh still felt the heat on her lips and gave them a lick, watching Taylor. She heard her loud and clear and… gave no hesitation. She leaned in this time, bringing her hand up to cradle her neck, her thumb brushing along her cheek as their lips met. It was a deeper kiss, lasting longer than their first one and when Shiloh dropped her hand, she pulled back with a smile. “You taste like Taco Bell.” The smile on her face, however, made it clear she enjoyed it.

Taylor eagerly leaned into the kiss, her hand reaching out to rest on Shiloh’s hip. A loose, forgiving grip. She didn’t want to be too forward, no matter how much her libido was screaming at her. The kiss was intoxicating. The two of them had an undeniable chemistry on a physical level, that was for sure. “I guess we found a better way to taste it than being drunk, huh?” Taylor quipped in a hushed tone, almost breathing the words in a cloud of hot air onto Shiloh’s face. Her smile was adorable. She leaned in to steal another kiss, not able to help herself. “I like a little spice in my life,” she teased as she pulled back again, licking her lips.

“I’ll admit it tastes better like this.” Shiloh looked into Taylor’s eyes, only then finding vulnerability in their closeness. Shutting her eyes she gave Taylor a quick kiss before moving back, creating distance between them once more. While the kiss was nice, it was bringing out a vulnerability she wasn’t ready to share. Yet. Shiloh had gotten tired of heated first dates. While she hoped Taylor wasn’t like this, she’d often get them refusing to talk to her again after they’ve gone too far the first night. She liked this and wanted to make sure it went where she wanted. Grabbing Taylor’s drink she took a sip from it before turning back to look at the sky with a smile.

Taylor is as a bit taken aback by the intensity of Shiloh’s state when their eyes properly met. Taylor’s mouth went dry, and she averted her eyes just as quickly once Shiloh pulled back. Had she gone too far? Shiloh was smiling, so maybe not? The last thing she wanted to do was make someone else uncomfortable. She laid back on the car as well, slipping a flanneled sleeve up under the back of her own head. “Just this, it’s nice,” Taylor finally said, reaching over to rest her hand on Shiloh’s. “Just getting out of town with someone. A little mini adventure.” She kept her eyes glued to the sky though. That eye contact...it almost scared Taylor for some reason. Why?

“Yeah it is nice. Just forget everything for a while.” Shiloh had to agree. She needed to get out of the town more. No falling fish or red skies. Evelyn had been trying to get her out and this just reminded her that she should do that. Taylor seemed like fun so, maybe she could do this more often with her… Shiloh moved her hand underneath Taylor’s turning it up so they could hold hands. She smiled, but felt she might be blushing so she didn’t bother to look over at her and instead kept looking up at the sky.

[finalvalor]

Okay I don’t really know why it’s so hard for people in this community to understand a pretty simple thing... out of the thousands and thousands of people that are in this community, it is rare, but there are a couple that lil old me isn’t too fond of. aka these people make me physically sick with anxiety among other feelings whenever I see them pop up - yes, it would be wonderful and amazing for me to just get over these feelings and feel nothing, as someone with anxiety in general that is The Dream™ but unfortunately it’s not that easy I will however try and be humorous even tho these people get to me pretty fucking bad So being mindful of my own mental health, I will promptly unfollow people who I notice consistently interacting with said people; at the end of the day, if you’re not a friend, we’ve never even spoken and/or literally our only interactions are a like or reblog here and there, I’m sorry but I will put my own well being first. And no, that does not mean I then have to explain to you or give you any details about why/who/what/where either. It’s my business, learn to mind your own. Saying all that, I hold no ill-feelings towards the people I unfollow, it’s never a case of “mE oR tHeM” black&white mentality that this community seems to be so obsessed with applying to every damn situation but saying that, I will always put my feelings and mental health over the demands of strangers on the internet, any healthy adult should.  A lot of people in this community have this weird twisted sense of entitlement, to other peoples characters, their RP, their time, even their friggin personal lives - do you guys act like this towards people you pass on the street? people you go to school with? work colleagues? someone you’ve known for literally 5 minutes? and does seeing what a person posts on their FFXIV blog of all things really count as knowing them?? I really don’t understand how some of you get on in the real world, or you’re just making it painfully obvious that you’re one of the people that think getting on the internet means a free pass to act and behave however the fuck you want without any repercussions or dealing with the responsibility of being a god damn adult. After saying all that, I can hear the feint distant cries of “well if these people upset you so much, why don’t you call them out?? let all the strangers on the internet know just how much these people hurt you??? Justify.” and the answer is simple; because I shouldn’t have to, for multiple reasons. Because you can dislike, or well, even hate somebody’s guts without slapping a label on them, without dragging them through horse shit and at the end of the day I understand that they’re human, just like me, we’re all emotional bastards that fuck up and are constantly growing, learning, changing, hopefully for the better. When it comes to interacting with other people, so many things are out of our control and it’s incredibly easy to point fingers at others, or even yourself, especially when you’re hurting. But imo the best thing I or anybody else in the same situation can do is try your best to be mindful, of what content you see, what people you surround yourself with, what sets off negative feelings, etc. whatever it takes to HEALTHILY try to move on and Get Better.

[1dffexchange]

Warm Blood

To: Eriza @booksncoffee

From: Natasha @wokeuptired​

Summary: This is ridiculous, and Carver knows it.

She doesn’t even know his name, and he’s all she can think about. One kiss at an office Christmas party—an office where she doesn’t even work most of the time—and she can’t get him off her mind. 

It doesn’t help that she’s spending a week working in said office, sitting at a neat freak’s desk and trying not to leave fingerprints behind while looking over her shoulder every five minutes to see if he—Mistletoe Boy—is at the coffee pot. 

She’s beginning to think she dreamed him up.

ONE.

Carver Cantrell is not somebody who makes stupid decisions.

That is the first thing she would want you to know about her: this is not her modus operandus. She is not the kind of girl who buys a plane ticket and jets off to Paris on a whim. She doesn’t purchase expensive articles of clothing without stalking them online for a few weeks first. The wildest evening she has is when she orders something different from the Chinese place on the corner. Nobody would ever call her a wild child.

And she certainly doesn’t kiss boys she’s never met under the mistletoe at the office holiday party just because she feels like it.

Except she just did.

“Wow.”

Carver pulls back, unsure of which of them said that, her or the guy she’s just been locking lips with. Her heart is beating so loud she can hear it in her ears, and she can feel her blood hot in her cheeks. His eyes are bright blue, so blue she can feel them in her toes.

Which is a feeling she’s never felt before. Crazy, because Carver thought, right before this second, that she’d felt them all.

Her emotions have tended towards the severe ever since she was a kid. Imagine six year-old Carver, throwing a fit at the supermarket because her favorite cereal was out of stock, and her helpless mother, standing three feet away with her hands up so that other shoppers wouldn’t assume she was the cause of the tantrum. Skip to middle school, when Carver didn’t eat for two days after she and her best friend—the same Jess whom she roomed with in college, walked beside at graduation, and is currently accompanying to this party—had a fight. Just last month, she watched a Hallmark movie where a woman reunited with her teenage love after twenty-five years, and she sobbed for an hour.

Anger, sadness, happiness—Carver has always felt them all in extremes. She’s learned over the years to take deep breaths until the emotions calm down so she can figure out which ones to listen to before she acts, but they’re still there, nonetheless.

Like two minutes ago, when she turned a corner on her way to the restroom and walked right into the sturdy chest of the guy who currently has his arms wrapped around her. He sparked something in her right away, and the inches they’ve just put between them have done nothing to dampen that flame.

“Sorry,” he says. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips warm. “I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

This is where she should say something like, “Fuck that, do it again!” but her mind draws a blank. Her brain is too busy considering his accent, which is decidedly not California surfer boy like every boy she’s dated since she moved here a year ago, to come up with something witty to fire back at him.

“Hey, Car—”

She looks over my shoulder to see Jess coming around the corner. She has a plate in her hand piled high with Carver’s weakness: angel food cake, the literal food of angels.

“I found this,” she says, holding it out. “And you. And, you’re busy, apparently—who’s this?”

Carver follows her gaze back to the boy in question, who’s pushing a hand through his hair and grinning. His hair looks like it’s straight out of a shampoo commercial. She should’ve touched it during their kiss. What a missed opportunity.

“Sorry, I—I was actually on my way out,” he says. His eyes return to her as he brushes a fingertip across her cheek before stepping back. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she manages before he turns away and disappears around the corner.

Jess grabs her elbow. “What was that? Who was that?”

Carver lets her tug her back into the party. “I have no idea.”

Five minutes later, Carver’s shoveling angel food cake into her mouth and recounting the last hour as Jess rambles on with the office manager, Kayla. Michael Buble’s Christmas album plays in the background, stockings hang on the wall, and a small Christmas tree sits in the corner, but nothing can disguise the fact that this is an office. A well-designed office, but an office nonetheless.

Jess has worked for West & Up for a year, and Carver’s going on month three. West & Up is one of those newer companies that’s popped up as interior design has become accessible to anybody with internet access. It’s part online home goods retailer (think Wayfair but a bit less fashionable), part interior design firm. Jess does web design, and Carver crunch numbers.

They both work in the Century City office, where a bunch of nerds in glasses occupy cubicles in a decidedly less fashionable building right next to the freeway. Carver had never been to the Santa Monica office before tonight, and she’s definitely been missing out, because not only can you smell the ocean from the balcony, cute boys also work here.

One cute boy in particular.

Carver has never felt such an instant connection with someone before, and she can already tell it’s going to consume me. This is how her mind works: it can only focus on one thing at a time, and that one thing nearly always becomes an obsession. That’s why she’s so good at math. Her OCD keeps her doing problems over and over again until she’s sure they’re perfect. And her OCD will no doubt have her going over that kiss incessantly.  

“Carver, it’s going to be so great to have you here in January,” Kayla says. “I’m so happy you said yes.”

Carver swallows a bite of angel food cake and fakes a smile. Truth be told, she’s not looking forward to her temporary reassignment to the Santa Monica office. She hates changes to her routine, and she hates things that aren’t her choice. Kayla says she agreed, but when her supervisor presented it to her, it didn’t really seem like saying no was an option.

“I’m really excited to see how things work around here,” she says, which is about the best answer she can manage without the unrelenting guilt she always feels when she lies. She doesn’t tell Kayla she doesn’t understand why she can’t continue her internal audit of the company from her own cubicle.  

She has a slight suspicion that she’s going to arrive for her first day in January and be instructed to count the pens in the copy room.

TWO.

Kayla Warner is not the kind of person who takes no for an answer.

This is typically something that works in Niall’s favor, because Kayla is the office manager and when she’s on your side, she gets shit done. Niall befriended her on his first day at West & Up, and ever since, she’s been going to war for him. She got him the best cubicle (aka the one furthest from the break room), always makes sure he leaves promptly at five, even if she has to drag him out herself, and never fails to order his favorite brand of pens. Usually Kayla Warner is his hero.

But now that she’s decided to be his matchmaker, he’s moving her decidedly into the “villain” column. Once Kayla has an idea in her head, there’s absolutely no talking her out of it. Which doesn’t mean Niall isn’t going to try.

THIS IS A BAD IDEA.

Niall watches as three little dots appear on his phone, showing that Kayla is responding to his all-caps message. He never should’ve told her about Mistletoe Girl in the first place, but Kayla could tell that something was up when he suddenly appeared way more interested in Kayla’s incessant stream of office gossip than he used to be. Kayla practically sniffed it on him.

“You kissed somebody at the Christmas party, didn’t you?” she demanded, the question mark only there out of politeness. Kayla’s like a bloodhound when it comes to secrets, especially secrets related to the affairs of the heart.

Not that Niall’s heart is involved here. He really doesn’t want it to be, because it shouldn’t be, not after one kiss. Even if it was the most perfect kiss he’s ever experienced in all his years of kissing–barely a decade, so he wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert, but he knows a good kiss when he sees it.

Kayla’s still typing, so Niall navigates away from the text message thread and opens Instagram. He’d scoured the employee profiles a zillion times over the past few weeks searching for Mistletoe Girl, looking at all the Carters and Carolyns and Carlas that work for the company, and he couldn’t find her. But now, thanks to Kayla, he knows her name, her actual name, so he can stalk her on social media.

Carver Cantrell. Her profile is private, so Niall can’t see much beyond her bio and her profile picture (her smiling face pressed up against a puppy’s much smaller one), but it’s gratifying to know that she’s real. It’s a relief to know that he didn’t imagine the whole thing. And it’s nice to know that she loves dogs. Loving dogs is a good sign.

Niall doesn’t blame himself for questioning his sanity. It was like something out of a romance film, wasn’t it? Kayla’s obsessed with those things, “Love Actually” and “27 Dresses” and all that. It’s not every day that you’re on the way back from the bathroom at the dreaded office Christmas party when a cute girl crashes into you right under the mistletoe. And it’s certainly not every day that a kiss with a stranger makes you reexamine the way you look at the world.

Kayla’s reply rolls in, distracting Niall from reading Carver’s bio for the hundredth time.

THIS IS A GREAT IDEA

YOU CAN LEAVE HER CHOCOLATE AND FLIRTY NOTES ON YOUR DESK

I’M A FUCKING GENIUS

The messages arrive one after the other in rapid succession. Kayla texts like she talks: without breathing. It overwhelmed Niall when they first met, the speed at which Kayla thinks and talks and moves, but he’s slightly less intimidated by her now. Slightly.

Sighing, Niall clicks through to the text thread and hits the call button. It only rings once before Kayla picks up.

“You’re not going to be able to talk me out of this,” she says. Something clangs in the background; she’s probably making cookies again.

“It’s a terrible idea in every way,” Niall says. He stands from the couch and goes into the kitchen. Speaking with Kayla always makes him feel like he’s not doing enough. Like he ought to be doing at least 6 things simultaneously while talking to her. “You know I hate people in my workspace. It’s like you’re making us move in together, and we’ve barely even spoken.”

Kayla laughs. “Exactly. This is a great trial run. I’m pretty sure she’s just as much of a neat freak as you are, but if she’s not, you’ll be able to tell, and then you can abort the mission.”

“I want to abort the mission already.” Niall opens the fridge and starts unloading it of containers full of leftovers that should’ve been thrown out weeks ago. “You’re the one who’s not letting me.”

“That’s because I am your best friend and I care about your well-being.”

“But—”

“I’m not hearing it, Niall Horan,” Kayla says. “Now stop pretending to clean your kitchen, hang up the phone, and figure out a plan for tomorrow, will you? I can’t do everything for you.”

“Are you sure you can’t?” Niall asks. “Because you’ve done the rest of this for me. So I think you could just—”

“Don’t be facetious, Niall, it doesn’t suit you,” Kayla says before hanging up.

Sometimes Kayla reminds Niall of his mother, and since she’s far away across the Atlantic Ocean, he doesn’t really mind that.

Except right now. Right now, it’s driving him crazy.

THREE.

On Monday, January 7th, Carver parks her car in the lot outside West & Up’s Santa Monica office. She’s ten minutes early, and she fully intends to use all ten of those minutes to have a panic attack in her car.

There’s a post-it on her dashboard that, at her therapist’s suggestion, reads, “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE,” and she repeats that aloud to herself a few times, but it doesn’t help. She makes a list in her mind of all the things that could go wrong. Maybe her cubicle neighbor will smell like baloney sandwiches. Maybe she will embarrass herself in front of the CEO. Or, maybe, worst of all, she might run into Mistletoe Boy.

She’s done her best over the past couple of weeks to forget about him, but she hasn’t gotten very far. And Jess’s constant mentioning of the kiss hasn’t helped things. She’s scoured the employee profiles on the company website for the guy with the soft lips and the foreign accent that Carver kissed at the Christmas party, and she’s come up empty.

“He must be one of the ones with no photo,” Jess has insisted multiple times.

“Or maybe he doesn’t work at West & Up anymore,” Carver told Jess last night as she was waxing on about how her chances of running into him again were about to increase exponentially. “Or maybe he never did, and he was crashing the party and that’s why he ducked away so fast. Or maybe he’s engaged to one of the girls from HR, or—”

“Or maybe you’re looking for excuses,” Jess said, jabbing an elbow into Carver’s side. They were watching “Set It Up” on Netflix for the zillionth time, and Jess had paused in speaking all the lines along with the actors to remind Carver that she may have watched her chance at one true love walk out the door a few weeks back. “Do not hide in your cubicle for the next week, okay? You need to, like, make yourself visible.”

“How do you suppose I do that?”

“Go to the coffee machine, like, all the time. Introduce yourself to everyone you can.” Jess turned to Carver, her eyes wide, her tone serious. “And, for the love of God, make a fucking move if you see him again.”

Carver tries not to think about that right now, as she squints into the sunlight and curse herself, again, for leaving the house without her sunglasses this morning, as that’s basically a death sentence in Los Angeles.

She reads her post-it again: “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.”

Then she takes a deep breath and opens the car door.

Kayla practically pounces on her when the elevator doors open on the third floor. She checks Carver in and shows her where the restroom is and babbles the entire time about how great her New Year’s was and how she hopes Carver’s was great too and did she watch the ball drop this year?   

“You can use Horan’s desk,” she says, leading Carver through the office. It’s an open plan, desks everywhere, most of them totally cluttered. Paper everywhere, knicknacks, dusty computer screens. But the desk Kayla guides Carver to is wiped clean. “He’s one of our architects. He’s on site all week.”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?” Carver runs her eyes over the spotless desktop. There’s a pothos plant in a terra cotta pot next to a black mug holding six identical black pens, and that’s it. The only bit of personalization she can spot is a dinosaur sticker on the corner of the computer monitor. Horan, whoever he is, clearly values cleanliness over, well, pretty much everything else.

It actually reminds Carver a little bit of her workspace, but at least she’s got more than one plant.

“Oh, yeah,” Kayla says. “He won’t care. He might come by in the evenings, though, so you should be out of here by five if you can, and don’t leave anything lying around. He’s a bit of a neat freak.”

“Right.” Carver pushes the keyboard out of the way and puts her laptop on the desk. “I’ll be out of here by five.”

“You know where I am if you need anything. See you at lunch!” Kayla calls as she disappears around the corner

Carver opens her laptop and clicks through her email to the spreadsheets the company wants her to look through. Luckily she hasn’t been asked to count any pencils yet, but the day is still young.

By lunch time, her fingers hurt and her eyes are dry. Kayla takes her to a salad place across the street, and Carver forces myself to choke down kale topped with assorted vegetables. When she was younger, she believed that she’d magically develop a taste for salad once she reached her twenties, since it’s what twenty-something professionals always ate for lunch on tv shows, but it hasn’t happened yet.

Then she returns to Horan’s immaculate cubicle, puts her earbuds in, and zones into the work. She used to think that she’d have to hate her job in her twenties, just as she’d have to love salads, but the truth is, she loves it. She loves columns of numbers and when there’s a knot in the data she has to untangle. She loves losing herself in it, because in the numbers there is always an answer.

In life, there often aren’t answers, and she’s not a fan of ambiguity.

Before she leaves, she can’t resist opening the top drawer to see if that’s where the owner of this desk hides his mess. But, no, it’s just as organized as the surface. Plastic bins hold pens, paperclips, pencils, and post-its, all in separate sections. There isn’t a thing out of place. She wonders if he uses dinner plates with dividers, too.

Carver snags a bright pink post-it out of the drawer and scrawls a quick note on it before sticking it to the monitor.

Thanks for letting me use your desk. I tried not to leave too many fingerprints. Sorry for snooping through your drawer, but I wanted to find your organizational weakness. Apparently you don’t have any. Congratulations. - Carver

FOUR.

Niall chickened out.

After all that berating last night and a pep talk via text from Kayla this morning, he chickened out. He didn’t leave anything at his desk for Carver, and, to top it off, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Every day at the Wilson project is a busy day, and today was no exception. This morning, two of the guys ripped out the old range and found faulty wiring, which is a remodel nightmare second only to flooding. That should’ve been enough to distract Niall, but it wasn’t. He pulled out a pen to make some notes and wondered what kind of pens Carver likes. He looked at granite samples with the Wilsons and wondered if Carver would think the black countertop would darken the room.

And then he thought about how fucked up it was that he was thinking about what Carver would think, considering he doesn’t even know her. Fucked up and creepy.

But here he is anyway, driving to the office in 5 o’clock traffic to see if Carver’s left any mark on his cuble. A very small, slightly creepy part of him is hoping he’ll be able to catch a trace of her perfume lingering in the air. He doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe scents, but he smelled it on her the night they kissed, and he knows he’ll recognize it instantly if he smells it again.

Kayla’s already left, which means he doesn’t have to face an interrogation when he passes her desk. The entire office is pretty much cleared out, which is how he likes it. Honestly,if he could work from home, he would. Other people are exhausting.

Which is part of the reason he’s afraid, he thinks, of meeting Carver. He’s idealized her so much in his head, but what if when he meets her, really meets her, she’s boring? Or annoying or just plain exhausting? What if spending time with her makes him wish he were spending time alone? The disappointment could crush him.

Which is why it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t care.

As he rounds the corner towards his cubicle, his heartbeat quickens, which is a total betrayal of his attempts to be nonchalant about this whole thing. He takes a deep breath, but it doesn’t help. Then his desk comes to view.

Nothing appears to be amiss. His chair is tucked in just the way he likes it, all of his black pens are still in their black mug, and his dinosaur sticker hasn’t moved. But—

Wait, what is that?

Niall grabs the post-it off the monitor and brings it up to his face. Is this Carver’s handwriting? It’s much neater than he’d expected based on the way her hair was slightly askew at the party. One’s general upkeep, he’s noticed, tends to belay their handwriting, and their handwriting reflects their level of organizational mastery.

Niall’s own hair is always flawless.

He reads the note to himself a couple of times, smiling at the mention of fingerprints. Apparently Carver has a sense of humor. And she might like post-its just as much as he does.

Hmm. Niall takes a seat at his desk, opens the drawer for another post-it, and grabs a pen. Time to come up with something clever to say in response.

FIVE.

In the morning, there’s a new post-it note on the monitor. Carver grins when she first sees it, because she’s always loved the idea of penpals, letters exchanged between strangers. She’s never had one herself, but novels always made it seem like you could tell your friend who lived worlds away things you couldn’t tell your BFF who lived next door.

Carver doesn’t have any such expectations of Niall Horan, of course, but it still makes her a bit giddy to see that he’s written her back.

But that feeling disappears as soon as she reads the note.

Thanks for your note, and thanks for keeping my desk clean. I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I don’t really mind fingerprints. As long as there aren’t too many. And you keep them off the computer screen. You have neat handwriting, though, so I think I can live with you using my desk for the week. - Niall

Carver turns the post-it face-down on the desk. Maybe she was slightly rude in my post-it, but his message is ruder. “I can live with you using my desk for a week”—who talks to a stranger like that? It might be sarcasm, but he should know better than to be sarcastic in a note. There’s no room for nuance in a post-it note, they’re much too small.

What Carver wants to say in response is also much too long for a post-it note, so she yanks open the top drawer in search of notepaper. Her desk back in her cubicle hosts a variety of cute notepads and post-its, but all she can find in Niall’s desk is a small yellow legal pad. Despite its unattractiveness, it’ll have to do.

She does decorate the corner with a giant flower, though, courtesy of one of Niall’s five identical black pens.

Dear Niall,

Thanks for your note. I appreciate that you can live with me using your desk for a week, although I’d like you to know that I’d gladly vacate for another workspace if given the chance, since you seem like an asshole. Is that your weakness? You don’t know how to be nice to strangers on post-it notes? Good luck with that. I hope you enjoy being alone.

Note written—or at least started; Carver thinks she might have more to say later—she shoves it under Niall’s keyboard and opens her laptop. She’ll leave it there for the day, keeping it in the back of her mind, and right before she leaves, she’ll decided whether or not to leave it.

No impulsive decisions, even in anger.

Except maybe she should be impulsive. Maybe she should stand up for herself, even though there may be negative consequences, like an even ruder reply tomorrow, or a chastising by Kayla or even a meeting with HR for inter-office harassment.

Carver goes back and forth about it all morning. She spends a bit of mental energy regretting leaving a note at all yesterday, and then a bit more energy wishing she’d asked Kayla more questions about the owner of the desk. Like, is he a nutcase? Is he obsessed with fingerprints? Because he catalogues them? Because he’s a crazy, stalking, murdering, psychopath?

By lunch time, Carver feels like she’s bursting at the seams. Kayla shows up for lunch, and Carver practically leaps out of her seat. They barely make it out of the building before Carver brings it up.

“Hey, so this Horan guy? What’s he like?”

Kayla looks over her shoulder as she pushes out the front door of the building and into the sunlight. “Why do you ask?”

Carver wrinkles her nose at Kayla’s smile. “He left me a super rude note.”

The smile drops instantly. “What?”

Carver squints into the sunlight and stops to fish her sunglasses out of her purse. “Yeah,” she says to Kayla. “I left him a note last night, thanking him for letting me use his desk and whatnot, and I come in this morning to a note that’s like, don’t leave too many fingerprints and I won’t kill you.”

“What? There’s no way Niall wrote that,” Kayla says.

Carver follows her into the same salad place as yesterday. “I mean, I may’ve exaggerated a little. But that was the gist of it.”

The conversation pauses as Carver orders her food—the same salad as yesterday—but Kayla brings it up again as soon as the two of them are seated. The restaurant isn’t exactly quiet, but Kayla is not the kind of person, Carver’s beginning to realize, who lets a loud space hinder her conversation.

“Niall is not an asshole, I promise,” Kayla says. She extracts a metal straw out of her bag and sticks it in her drink. “He’s just not that good at people.”

“What?”

Kayla shrugs. “Listen, I’ve been friends with him for three years. He doesn’t always make the best first impression. Like, he tries, but it’s hard for him.”

What? Carver thinks the question this time instead of voicing it. She understands being socially awkward, but the best thing about written correspondence is that you can revise it a thousand times before sending it off (or, as it were, leaving it taped to a monitor).

“Like, okay,” Kayla continues. “He probably thought he was being funny. But he’s such a dingbat he doesn’t realize that sarcasm doesn’t translate when it’s written down, or he thought he was making a joke and he didn’t realize that he’s not funny. Like, he’s really not funny.”

Carver tries to think of something to say in response, but she finds herself coming up empty. Kayla’s trying to apologize for Niall, but Carver’s realizing that she really doesn’t want to hear it. Luckily her salad arrives, saving her. She shoves a forkful of lettuce into her mouth and chews as Kayla rambles on.

Finally, Kayla pauses, so Carver asks what she really wants to know. “So, do you think I should write back?”

Kayla’s fork hovers in the air on its way to her mouth. “Do you want to write back?”

Carver blinks. “I don’t know what I want to do.”

“Well, I’m a firm believer that you should do whatever feels right to you,” Kayla says, setting her fork down. “So maybe what you need to do is figure out what it is you want to do.”

Carver nods, repeating that over and over in her head until it starts to make sense.

At least, the words make sense. She still has no idea whether or not she should leave the note.

SIX.

“I wrote her a note.”

“Yeah, I know, you idiot,” Kayla says sharply. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Niall nearly drops his phone. That would be especially bad considering he’s currently squatting over a puddle of water in the middle of the Wilson construction site. He’s downgrading it from kitchen to construction site, since every 10 minutes a new problem arises that requires something else to be ripped out or torn up. The drywall is gone, revealing rotting studs, and when they pulled up the tile this morning, they found mold in the floorboards.

This house isn’t even old. Niall doesn’t understand it.

But he has to deal with it nonetheless.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“She asked me about you,” Kayla says. She’s whispering, like maybe she’s sitting at her desk right now and doesn’t want to be overheard. “Hold on, let me go outside.”

Niall stands up and turns his back on the other guys staring hopelessly into the puddle. He walks into the Wilsons’ backyard, which borders a strip of land known for being a mountain lion hotspot. When he first moved to LA, Niall was fascinated with them, with P-22 and his brave freeway crossings (both the 405 and the 101) and  his adventures around Griffith Park. Experts say that P-22 will probably never leave Griffith Park’s 8 square miles, which is only half a victory. He’ll be safe because he’s the only male mountain lion living there, but he’ll never mate. His line will end with him.

Niall isn’t nearly as pessimistic about his own future, but he does have a few things in common with P-22. In a city surrounded by people, sometimes he feels like he’s living on an island. Anyone who wants to get to him will have to cross treacherous territory.

“Okay, I’m back,” Kayla says in Niall’s ear. “Now tell me what the fuck you were thinking, please.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niall says.

“Your note! You were a total asshole. At lunch today Carver was like, who is this guy and what the heck is his problem? And she’s totally right. What the heck is your problem?”

Right now Niall’s problem is that Kayla doesn’t seem to be planning on letting him get a word in. “Well—”

“Stop talking. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you. You don’t know how to be nice to people because you are afraid of making authentic connections because then someone might get close enough to see that you’re as perfect as you pretend to be.”

“Hey—”

“It’s not your turn, idiot. You need to fix this now, because you haven’t completely ruined your chances, but you’re close, I can tell you that. I tried to tell Carver that you’re just bad at first impressions, but she wasn’t hearing it. Like, she literally zoned out and stopped listening to me.”

Niall feels like doing that right now. He also feels like jumping headfirst into the Wilsons’ pool, or throwing his phone in so the water can drown out Kayla’s voice. Or maybe he should leave his phone here and walk off into the forest and make a new home with P-22. The mountain lion won’t judge him. It might attack him, but it certainly won’t do so while calling him an idiot.

No, Niall can do that himself. He definitely feels stupid right now. He thought he was being witty and maybe even flirty, but clearly none of that came across. Instead he made himself look like an asshole, and he’s probably completely ruined his chances with Carver, who—he can admit this to himself, even if he hasn’t said it out loud—might be the one girl who could save him from a P-22 fate.

“So figure out a plan, Niall, because Carver is probably sitting at your desk right now writing a note to you about how much of a dickhead you’re being, and your deserve it!” Final words voiced, Kayla hangs up.

Niall sighs, allows himself a moment of self-pity, and opens the notes app on his phone to make a list.

Before end of work day:

- Call plumber

- Figure out how to explain further delay to Wilsons

- Call Wilsons, explain, apologize

- File report with office

By tomorrow AM:

- Fix Carver problem

- Refill gas tank

- Sleep?

It’s shaping up to be a busy afternoon.

SEVEN.

Carver wakes up the next morning feeling perfectly normal, and then she remembers what she decided. Before she left the office, she pulled her note out from underneath Niall’s keyboard, signed her name to it with a flourish, and taped it to his monitor.

She sits up in bed, overcome with a wave of nausea. Assuming Niall went to the office last night, which he most likely did because he seems like the kind of person who follows his routines religiously, without exception, there is going to be a note waiting for her, and it’s probably not going to be a nice one.

But when she gets to Niall’s desk, there’s nothing there. Her note is gone, but there isn’t a new one.

Fuck. There are so many things this could mean. Maybe he read her note and was so annoyed by it that he decided she wasn’t worth responding to. Maybe he laughed and crumbled it up into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder as he walked through the parking lot to his car. Or maybe a janitor threw it away and he never even saw it.

Carver pushes it out of her mind, though, because she has work to do. There are numbers to be crunched and data to be sorted and there is plenty to distract her anxious mind.   

But she can’t get the note out of her head. How did he react to her note? Why didn’t he respond? Is she a terrible person for leaving it in the first place?

Just before 11 AM, Kayla pops her head over the edge of the cubicle, a mug of coffee in her hands. “Morning,” she says. “Can you do me a favor?”

Carver minimizes my spreadsheet and grins. “Of course. I need a break anyway.” That isn’t an overstatement. With all the circles her brain has been going in, Carver wonders how she managed to get anything done this morning.

“Great.” Kayla holds out a manila envelope. “Can you take an early lunch and drop this off for Horan at the Wilson house?”

Drop this off for Horan. Oh, shit.

“Of course,” Carver says, but meanwhile her brain is having a heart attack. She hates spur of the moment plans, she hates going to places she’s never been before, and mostly she hates that she might be about to confront Niall in a place she’s never been before, where she can’t control anything.

She can’t say any of that out loud, though, so she takes the envelope from Kayla and puts the address Kayla gives her into Google maps on her phone. She blasts the “Mamma Mia” soundtrack on the drive, but it doesn’t help calm her nerves.

Even though the house isn’t geographically that far away, it takes nearly half an hour to get there, which must be why Kayla told Carver she wouldn’t expect her back before two.  Los Angeles traffic is no exaggeration.

She parks her car at the end of a long driveway and pushes her sunglasses onto her head. She remembered them this morning, but she doesn’t think they’re going to save her from whatever is going to happen at the top of the drive.

The house is the first thing that shocks her. It’s beautiful, and that’s not a term she typically uses to describe architecture. She may work for West & Co., but she’s a math geek. She’s a human computer. She doesn’t have a natural taste for beautiful construction, but this she recognizes. It’s two stories and massive but not obviously so, because the facade has varying heights and it doesn’t look like an imposing box. She can tell, though, that the people who live here are loaded. There are mediterranean stones and slightly tinted window panes and she can just bet that the back of the house is entirely glass to give the residents the best possible view of the hills behind.  

She walks through a beautifully manicured front yard to find that the front door is open, so she goes inside without knocking. The front hall is two stories high, and a living room with mid-century modern furniture is on the right. It looks like it belongs in an Architectural Digest celebrity home tour on youtube. There is no clutter anywhere, like maybe no one lives in this house and it’s actually just used for filming and photoshoots.

Carver follows the sound of hammers through to the kitchen at the back of the house. There are floor to ceiling windows, just like she expected, and even though the kitchen is entirely deconstructed—it looks like custom cabinets are currently being installed—she can already tell it’s going to be beautiful.

“Hey, Horan!”

Shit. Carver follows the direction of the shout and steps further into the kitchen, and that’s when she sees him.

He’s outside, so they’re separated by a massive kitchen and a sliding glass door, but it’s definitely him.

It’s Mistletoe Boy.

It can’t be, though, right? He can’t be Niall. Niall can’t be him. They can’t be the same person.

But then somebody shouts, “Horan!” again and Mistletoe Boy turns and, oh shit, he’s coming this way, and Carver definitely cannot deal with this right now. She backtracks out of the house and grabs a construction worker who’s just coming in.

“Can you give this to Horan?” she asks, holding out the envelope. The guy wrinkles his brow, but he shrugs and takes the envelope. “Thanks,” Carver says, and then she practically runs to her car.

Carver starts the engine as she’s buckling her seatbelt (even though her mother taught her never to do that), and she drives out of the neighborhood with her heart attempting to beat its way out of her chest. She pulls into the first parking lot she sees, shuts off her car, and leans her head on the dashboard.

Of all the things to happen today, it had to be this. She had to find out that Mistletoe Boy and desk asshole Niall Horan are the same person, and that had to happen at his construction sight and it had to be a total surprise, and now she’s sitting in her car in a parking lot outside of a Whole Foods and this is fucking Beverly Hills or something (Carver really doesn’t know where the fuck she is right now) and she’s probably going to get arrested for having a panic attack in her car.

Deep breaths, Carver, her voice of reason tells her, and she leans her head back and tries to listen. Her dashboard post-it tells her that “EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE” but that doesn’t seem realistic right now.

Nonetheless, Carver says it out loud.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells the steering wheel.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells her bitten-down fingernails.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells her purse, haphazardly thrown on the floor on the passenger’s side as she rushed away from the Wilson house.

“Everything will be fine,” she tells herself.

Then someone knocks on her window, causing her to shriek.

Everything is not going to be fine.

EIGHT.

Carver looks up, eyes wide, and Niall regrets this immediately. When he saw Carver rushing to her car looking as though she’d seen a ghost, he knew instantly that she saw him, realized who he was, and panicked. His brain told him that if he let her go now, he might never see her again.

So he followed her out. He jumped in his truck and trailed her car out of the Wilsons’ fancy neighborhood and into the parking lot of a Whole Foods. Whole Foods is a store that he generally tries to avoid because the prices are ridiculous and all of the Prius drivers in the parking lot give him dirty looks when he parks his truck, but none of that matters right now.

What does matter is Carver, and she looks like she would rather cry than talk to him.

Too bad, because for the first time in a long time, Niall doesn’t want to walk away from this problem.

He meets Carver’s eyes and waves. She grimaces, so he tries to smile. Carver closes her eyes, takes a visible deep breath, and reaches for the door handle.

“Shit.” Niall takes a step back, out of her way, and tries not to panic. He didn’t really think this part through. What the hell is he going to say to this girl? This girl of his dreams? The girl who is now standing in front of him, leaning against her closed car door, looking up at him like he’s already broken her heart.

Damn, what a mess. Niall hates messes.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Carver says. She looks exactly as he remembered her: green eyes, blond wavy hair, oversize glasses. Just as cute as she was before Christmas.

He said hi, then she said hi, so it’s his turn again. Unfortunately, his mind is blank.

This was much easier in December, when they were standing in the dark under the mistletoe and Niall didn’t yet know that the kiss they were about to share would haunt him for several weeks following.

“Sorry about the note I left you,” Carver says, saving his ass. “I shouldn’t have written any of that.”

Niall shakes his head. “No, I deserved it. I’m a terrible note writer.”

Carver bites her lip; she’s either holding back a smile or a frown. “You could definitely use some practice.” It’s definitely a smile.

Niall smiles back. “Will you let me try again tomorrow?”

Carver nods.

NINE.

Dear Carver,

This is what I should’ve written in the first note: I knew that you were using my desk, and by that I mean that I remember you from the Christmas party. I’m glad that you’re using my desk, but what I’d like better is if you’d go out on a date with me. I think you’re kind and funny and sweet, and I want to learn more about you.

Best,

Niall

TEN.

Dear Niall,

Yes.

- Carver

[kpopchangedme]

Starboy IV: The Quack Doctor

It’s simply by happenstance that you meet the cutest Resident of Traditional Korean Medicine on campus; Park Jinyoung.

Mini-Masterlist  M A S T E R L I ST

Protagonists: Im Jaebum & you / Park Jinyoung

Word Count: 2.1k

Genre: SFW – University!au – Baseball – Romance – *socially offensive language* – Mini-Series

Lysandre’s note: JINYOUNG IS FINALLY HERE. You’ve been warned. Links are broken to try to beat Tumblr at its own game, but fret not they’re still in my bio so the other parts are easy to find.

Three weeks.

The first one left you feeling like shit, which is weird because you don’t care about Jaebum – not at all. It’s probably just because you hate being yelled at; hate the idea of upsetting anyone. Although, you weren’t really the one who upset him. Thinking back to that night – overthinking – made you realize he was just drunk and mad. Not really at you, but rather at the situation and you were at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or he was just scared...

That’s why you’re so angry at him the second week. Who the fuck does he think he is to yell at you like that when you were just offering help? Over a fucking broken pint of beer?

You hope he bursts his pitching shoulder… Still, by the second Thursday, you surprise yourself by researching the Tommy John Surgery on internet, feeling guilty about the negative energy you’ve been sending Jaebum’s way.

Now, it’s the third week and you realized that you don’t care. You learned a lot through this experience. The next time you’ll need a quick fix, you’ll make sure to choose somebody without anger issues and most importantly... Somebody that nobody ever talks about...

“– amazing season! Their best in 15 years, all the rookies are amazing.”

You take a bite of your sandwich, silently listening to your colleague talk to his friend and feeling like blowing your own head off. Why did you have to get stuck with people obsessed with baseball? Why not hockey or water polo, actual entertaining sports.

“Important MLB teams already want him, but he insists on graduating from here because of his family and studies, isn’t that crazy?” You roll your eyes; yeah sure.

His friend chirps in. “What’s his nickname… It’s something cocky and–”

“Starboy”, you answer morosely, causing both men to stare at you. “Everyone calls him Starboy.” 

“Yeah, exactly!” Your colleague Chansung claps, somehow proud that you know this much. “I didn’t know you followed baseball y/n!” You’re about to say you really, really don’t, but he goes on: “Do you know why? His fastballs are a-ma-zing and he’s just a rookie. He has been recorded at over 95 mph so far! Crazy, right? That’s why they say he’s shooting stars!” You choke on a piece of turkey from your sandwich, but your senior doesn’t stop, simply sliding your glass of water closer.

Hell.

Guess Jaebum’s shoulder is doing damn fine.

“Starboy… Shooting stars. Get it?”

Chansung chuckles, amused and you wonder if you should’ve taken the time to ask Jaebum this at any point. He did cockily proclaim he was the pitcher to know, but you never asked him what the nickname stood for. You just assumed it was because he was the star of the team or something. He was right that night, you really don’t know anything about him.

Wasn’t it the whole point of having sex that way though; no strings, no questions & no small talk? It’s not like you were ever on friendly terms, still...

“Do you guys know... What’s his name?” Chansung’s eyes almost pop out of his head at your random question. “That guy’s full name.”

“Im – Im Jaebum, why?”

“Just…” Im Jaebum, it feels like you should’ve known. “People always call him by that pompous moniker.”

He frowns at your underlying disdain for his favourite player before turning to his friend again. “Wanna hear something even crazier, Taek? He’s a leftie – well, for four-seams at least – I mean, the boy is ambidextrous. He mostly uses his left when he plays, but sometimes pitches with his right too.” You frown, trying to conjure up that night. What hand dropped the pint again? Was it his left hand or his r– A timid knock on the door of the clinic interrupts your train of thoughts, and you jump to your feet, aware it’s for you. Well, kind of. It’s not like Dr. Tran ever made it to the clinic for any of his appointments anymore.

“Hi y/n!” Yugyeom calls, peeking inside just on time. The young batter smiles when he meets your eyes. “Oh no, I’m interrupting your lunch!”

“Hi, don’t worry it’s fine, I was done!” You gladly leave Chansung and his friend Taekwoon alone, opening the way. “Have you been doing your exercises thoroughly?” You guide the patient through the short corridor of the clinic, only noticing another man following when you get inside your boss’ office.

“Yes, I promised I would!” The man-boy answers with an overly serious tone making you smile. “Are you also in charge of my last appointment? I thought I’d be finally dealing with the mythic doctor, but I’m glad it’s you.”

“Yes, he’s out of town again, unfortunately.” You purse your lips at the cover-up lie, getting Yugyeom’s rehabilitation papers, already on the desk.

Dr. Tran, the clinic supervisor, hasn’t been reliable ever since his divorce has been finalized, last year. He’s often drunk in the middle of the day and never picks up the phone. He’s probably still in bed even if it’s the afternoon, you and Chansung have been covering for him for months.

“If I sign your papers, you’ll be good to go, Yugyeom…” You smile, trying to hide your discomfort at his innocent questioning of your boss’ absence and flip his file open. “But you should also keep doing the exercises I gave you. It’ll help to reinforce your wrists and forearms to prevent future injuries.” Nodding, the young player takes his familiar chair across you, on the same side of the desk, and you lean closer to examine his wrist. You don’t spare a look the tall and silent stranger’s way when you address him. You hate being observed by a third-party when you work, especially when you’re covering for someone. “Are you here for a consultation? You should go and meet my senior colleague, Mr. Hwang, to schedule an appointment.”

Yugyeom stiffens as you start toying with his right wrist, but the other man only chuckles at the noticeable coldness in your voice.

“Oh, I don’t do sports!”, he informs although that’s not what you asked, “I’m Gyeom’s babysitter for the day.”

You still don’t look up, feeling the tendons and ligaments with your fingertips to see if the player across you twitches. “Mobility and sensibility look fine.”

“I told him that, but he was still anxious.” You ignore the stranger, concentrating on the patient instead.

“Show me how you did your stretching and strengthening exercises, and you’ll officially be good to go!”

Standing up suddenly, you almost collide with the man who was leaning above you, surveying your movements. You really hate being observed like that.

“You gave him exercises?” He simply chuckles again, backing away. “Are you a Sports Med student?”

At this, you bite the interior of your cheek wondering if he’s one of those; the ones who only believe in doctors. You go sit behind Dr. Tran’ desk this time, for authority, taking your time to answer. Yugyeom is working with a softball, not minding his friend’s odd behaviour. Once you’re sitting, you fully stare back at the intruder, crossing your arms in defiance. He’s about your age and surprisingly good looking, still, it doesn’t change the fact that his presence is annoying.

“No, I have a Bachelor of Science in Kinesiology and I specialize in rehabilitation treatment for my Master's. I’m qualified to recommend treatment for a minor injury.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way.” The man smiles as if especially pleased by your defensive answer. “Yugyeom was right, you’re perfect. I was just making sure he was in good hands.” 

His eyes crinkle as he details your lab coat and dishevelled tied hair. It’s obvious he’s checking you out. You blush, straightening on the chair, embarrassed you didn’t put any care to your presentation this morning. Much like every other day spent at the clinic, you only put BB cream proforma, not even bothering to shower or brush your hair. You aren’t sure what that guy means, aren’t sure if you should feel insulted or complimented.

“I thought you were still a student!” Yugyeom looks up, surprised you already graduated. “You never corrected me!”

“Well, I’m always studying.” You dodge, he probably meant he thought you were way younger. You clear your throat, bringing your attention back to the curious stranger. “So, you are an assistant coach?”

“Oh no. God, no!” The man chuckles for the umpteenth time, although it finally makes you grin back. “I’m Dr. Park Jinyoung.” So that is why he asked about your qualifications. “I’m a Resident of Korean Traditional Medicine.” He adds coolly, straightening his coat and awaiting a reaction from you that never really comes. You’re too busy trying to remain serious – herbalism – and he wondered if you were studying Sports Medicine.

“Jinyoung’s the best at acup– Argh!” He kicks Yugyeom’s shin to shut him up and you hide your smile behind your hand.

“Korean Medicine… Needles and herbs, hum?”

It’s your turn to obviously check him out this time and he bears your scrutiny with disarming confidence. Perfect skin, full round lips, hair as black as coal, unusually round pale brown eyes... It’s obvious he never was an athlete here for a consultation to begin with. The white dress shirt and thick black glasses would’ve been a dead giveaway if you’d looked at him from the start.

“Please… I’m also amazing at moxibustion.” He grins, not shying away or embarrassed the least. “I just got back from Yangsan med campus to complete my Residence here.” Wow. Smooth way of bringing up his impressive background. Busan National University is considered one of the greatest medical faculties in Asia.

Smart and good looking – scratch that; gorgeous.

“You don’t look like the idea I had of a healer...”

Jinyoung winces, “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” You’re surprised he’s not more annoyed or embarrassed by your skepticism. He’s probably really used to it. It’s not like traditional treatment is particularly esteemed in the rehabilitation field. Or any medical field as a matter of fact. “Yugyeom, be honest – aren’t I way too stylish and handsome to be a doctor?”

You can’t help your stupid giggle and the batter looks between you two several times, rendered uncomfortable by the flirtatious atmosphere. Because his friend is trying to woo you, in an obvious and highly flattering manner. You can see it from the glimmer in his stares and hear it in his voice. Clearly, Yugyeom sensed it too.

“I think I’m done, y/n!” He tries, changing subject.

“I believe you are!” You agree, brought back down to earth. You tear your eyes away from the charming quack doctor to smile at Yugyeom. “Your sprain seems completely fine. Let me just sign your papers, I’ll have Dr. Tran review them this week… Do you have any mobility problems when handling the bat?”

“None at all!” Yugyeom grins brightly, glad you’re back to his business. “You know, I’m definitely going to play this Saturday, you should come! You never even saw JB pitch yet. He’ll blow your mind and he’d lo–”

Yugyeom stops in the middle of his sentence, realizing he opened Pandora’s box, totally obvious. Your hand freezes for half a second over his discharge papers in short-lived panic at the mention of the pitcher. Then you resume, remembering Yugyeom’s the one who introduced you two, and that it doesn’t mean your past mistakes aren’t known throughout the entire country.

“You’re lucky the damage to your ligaments was almost nonexistent, Yugyeom.” You smile coolly, acting like nothing happened. “I hope you’ll be a bit more mindful of your warm-ups from now on.” He nods, staring seriously at the paper you’re signing to avoid your gaze.

“Do you know JB?” Jinyoung asks in curiosity, and if he notices how uncomfortable his question makes everyone else in the room feel, he doesn’t let it show.  

“The whole campus knows him: Starboy.” You say this even though you clearly had no idea a few months prior. The hot doctor cannot find out about that. “He’s our brightest star.” Your voice is cold, indifferent and at your avoidance, Yugyeom wiggles on his chair.

“Right!” Jinyoung snorts, entertained. “I bet he rather enjoys celebrity status!”

“You know him?” Finally rising your eyes above your desk, you look at the Resident, curious.

“Jinyoung, I don’t want to be late for practice.” The batter interrupts, probably just eager to stop third-wheeling. You wouldn’t blame him for it. “Thank you for everything y/n, I hope to see you around!” Yugyeom stands up, motioning his friend to leave, but he doesn’t budge.

“Would you wait outside?”, the doctor nods towards the door and your cheeks flare up at the intensity of his gaze, highly nervous. Oh shit, you’re no good at this. The young player still seems to hesitate, frozen between the door and your desk. “We need a moment, Gyeom,” Jinyoung insists, lips curling upwards dangerously.

Mini-Masterlist  M A S T E R L I ST

[yoongiandchiminie]

P R E S S U R E { 1 }

;series;

masterlist

{Part 2} 

Pairing: Reader X Yoongi

Word Count: 6,748

Genre: Romance, Smut, Fluff

Warnings: Smut, daddy kink, cursing Summary: After dating for almost 3 years, the armys and Yoongi’s label have found out about your relationship. Now you have to deal with it in your extraordinarily normal life.

I didn’t mean to start dating Min Yoongi. I’d simply gone into New York City. I had taken the day off from work weeks in advance and gone in with my friends then ran into him at Bryant Park. I’d heard BTS before, but honestly, I had no clue that they were there at that time. I later learned it was for some meeting, but we never really talked about the details of one of our favorite days.

We’d made eye contact. He was in front of the fountain taking pictures of it and himself, and I’d noticed him out of the corner of my eye. When we tell this story, he likes to say that I was staring at him with heart eyes. In reality, I watched him for 10 seconds and within that time he’d notice me and given me a coy smile. Then he jogged back over to Jimin and Namjoon and I shook my head clear of that and back into my friends conversation.

I hadn’t noticed the 3 boys following us across the street into Kinokuniya Bookstore. We simply went across the street to look at the manga, figures, and all of the cute stationary. I was there with my two best friends, Alicia and Julianna. They had wandered off, crying about some manga about stray dogs and I was alone in the basement of the store, looking at the stationary when I felt a heat on the back of my neck. I always got nervous when I was alone, simply because I had some terrible anxiety.

I was the mom friend in the group, so I had to take charge in certain situations. For some reason, inside of flight I choose fight. Boy, was it the right choice. I’d turned around the see who was staring at me and it was him, Him with his blonde hair. Him with his soft face. Him with his all black outfit and snapback, hiding from the world.

Before I got the chance to ask why he was staring at me, he stepped closer and held out his hand.

“Min Yoongi.” he introduced and I shook it.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N). Can I asked why a perfectly good stranger has been watching me like some creep.”

He chuckled. I melted. “Well, I can’t help myself to do anything, but to look at you. You kind of have my full attention and I also thought it was a little creepy. Obviously, you noticed me. So, I thought I would introduce myself.”

“What a gentleman.”

“You know, they have this cute little cafe on the top floor. Wanna come get lunch with me?”

His english was a little broken, but I managed to catch his drift and pick up on what he was saying. The way he spoke was almost rehearsed. Later, I found out that Namjoon helped him learn this little monologue so he could speak to me.

Then it was all a part of history. Our history. The six of us had a lunch together and Yoongi and I hit it off. He was trying so hard to speak my language, even though Namjoon had to help him a bunch. He was so… into me. It was crazy. I’d never had such an instant spark with someone, especially someone so reserved at first. I had always had this weird outgoing, loud guy type.

He was so captivating. He still is. Anyways, that’s how it started. After that lunch, he’d invited us to their concert that night. When I carried on, stressing out about how I had nothing to wear, he just waved me off. My girlfriends laughed at my constant need to worry about the silliest things in the world, just stating “This is how I was.” and that “he’d have to get used to it”. Which he responded with, “I plan on it.”.

On the way out of the store, he grabbed my hand and led me down the avenue. We were both totally aware he had no idea where he was off to, but he’d decided I was going to get a whole new outfit then stay at his hotel. I’d felt like I’d known Min Yoongi for years. His personality just vibed with me and the hotel part didn’t even come across in a creepy way? Then we shopped and went to his show.

Obviously, the next day he was gone. Off to some other city. But he never left me. My days were full of constant texts and calls. My weeks became filled with him flying in whenever he had a day off. My months were made up of stolen kisses and my year ended up in a relationship. It was a secret and we could handle it. The constant separation made keeping this secret from his record label so much easier.

Until 2 years later. 2 years into my bliss, we were caught by one of his fans. He’d flown in for the weekend and one of them had followed the car he got picked up in from the airport all the way to a parking lot of a Mcdonald's where he hopped into my car. We were in for some shit, let me tell you. My mentions were filled and so was my phone. BigHit now owned me in a way, sadly. After signing a bunch of contracts about how I wasn’t playing Yoongi and that I couldn’t run away with his money and I couldn’t reveal more intimate parts of him and if we got married I had none of his BTS assets and all of that dumb shit, I thought it had died down.

The armys didn’t hate me. Well, obviously some did, but the others made me feel welcome. Made me feel less scared about going public with my relationship with my boyfriend of almost 3 years. I was very straight forward with the things I could talk about and did whatever his record label asked me to. At first, it started with an hour long interview, talking about myself and us. Why we kept this all a secret and such. It ended with them surprising me with what I thought was a skype call, but Yoongi ended up being there. After 4 months.

When we were on the skype call, he told me to close my eyes for a moment so he could put on something silly or whatever. Then I smelt him, as weird as it sounds. He wore my favorite cologne and I started crying before he wrapped his arms around me. Within seconds I was buried into his chest, sobbing, as he held his hands on my face. He wiped away my tears for camera effect, but he also made sure to block my face from the limelight. He knew I’d be even more upset if there were suddenly gifs of me hysterical on the internet.

So, blah blah blah, right? Now, I’ll bring us to today. Currently, I was hiding in the fridge at my job at a super market deli. My manager knew I was in here and I was even preparing food in here to go in the showcase. Currently there were a bunch of pre-teen girls standing at the counter, all looking for me. It’d been like this for the past week and my manager Steve happened to feel bad for me today.

A few hours earlier, my twitter started to go crazy. The Big Hit account had decided to use me for some retweets and tweeted out my work address. So now it looked like I was having a fucking meet and greet, so I decided to be trapped in the fridge. Yep.

Steve walked in and kind of chuckled at me as I packed some yams into a dinner container. “I know you’re having a hard time out there, but we could really use you. It’s a little busy out there. It’s your meet and greet after all.” Then he broke into a full on laughter, patting his chest, to make sure he could still breathe at the end of it. I didn’t laugh because it wasn’t funny. Not funny at all. “I’m glad you’re sticking this out, you know, taking one for the team back here.”

In all reality, I wanted to ask to go home. It was starting to get cold and I forgot a jacket, but I needed the money. Not all of us could be K-pop idols and I didn’t want to really want to have to rely on him for money. Well, he sort of ruined my job. And my life. Maybe I could bill him for work interruption. I’ll sue him. That’s it, I’ll sue him. I’m not exactly sure for what yet, but I texted informing him about the lawsuit. He didn’t respond.

He also didn’t respond to my 20 other texts messages freaking out about the armys at my job or about how his record label was trying to sabotage our relationship. He was probably in the middle of overworking himself in whatever country he was in today. I had stopped trying to keep up with each individual one and just knew the basic area of where he was. I think it was Korea. Or maybe Japan. I knew it wasn’t America. That was in half a week.

They had a 2 weeks vacation and he’d decided to spend it with me. Every time he got a break, he tried to waste it all on me. I always bullied him into going home to be with his family or spend time with the band and the last 4 days would be reserved for us. This time he’d convinced me to let him stay with me the whole time. He’d even called my store and requested the two weeks off for me as he planned whatever he was going to do. So, starting Monday I would no longer be trapped here, I guess.

As soon as all of the dinner were packed, I stacked them onto a tray and kicked open the fridge door, subsequently hitting one of the chef's, Mike, with it. “Ahh, she emerges.” he joked, pushing my hat lower over my eyes. “Maybe you should go say hi to them. They’ve been here since your shift started.” He nodded at the 50 girls filling up the coffee lounge outside of the deli. I swished my mouth back and forth, debating the situation. “I’ll go with you, if that’s what you need. I know you want to, nervous nelly.”

I put the dinners down and grabbed my bag on my way back to my tundra. I pulled up the step ladder and took out my makeup bag, deciding now would be a good time to look good. Of course I wanted to go meet the girls. They made my boyfriend happy and support him. They support us. I guess it really did look bad if I hid all day. I was just so anxious about the entire situation. I wasn’t the famous one. I was kind of just riding along with the love of my life who happened to be a bit popular.

I pulled off my hat and took out the ponytail within my hair. I ran my hands through it and of course it was already a bit knotted. Nothing could ever be easy in my life. Whatever, this was for him. For his label. In the back of my mind I couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that everyone out there would jump me for dating him, but they were there. Here to see me. Hell, what do I even do? I work, I’m not even in school, and I sing in a band that purely plays in my friends garage because we can’t get our act together to even have a name.

I stood up and cleared my throat a bunch. When I got nervous my voice seemed to crack and I stepped out of my tomb. “Wish me luck.” I said to the guys I worked with and they just laughed and waved me off.

I pushed open the double doors and heard a few noises come from the direction I was headed in. “H-Hey guys.” I smiled, giving a little wave to the girls as they proceeded to run over to me and surround me. First, it started slow. I thought maybe they’d kind of stare at me from a distance, but oh no. Of course nothing can be civil and easy with me, can it?

They started getting closer to me and snapping selfies all around me, throwing out questions about Yoongi.

“What’s he like in bed?” I can’t discuss that. I legally can’t.

“Is this just a publicity thing? So the armys can feel like they have a chance?” No, I’m in love with him. He’s in love with me.

“You’re so fucking pretty. It makes me feel so shitty.” I’m so sorry. I’m so so so sorry. Please, don’t feel that way. You’re absolutely beautiful.

“Is BTS gonna tour here soon?” I don’t know.

“Why have you been hiding from us? What exactly are you hiding, Y/N?” Nothing. I was so scared. I’m so scared.

I wanted to respond to everything. I wanted to defend myself. I couldn’t get a word out edgewise, everything was trapped in my thoughts. I just smiled for all of the pictures and videos they were taking of and with me. I didn’t start to cry until I heard Steve yell for me behind the deli counter, asking if I was alright. Then I became hysterical. I covered my face and closed my eyes, only to hear him running across the wooden floor. He lightly pushed through the girls and pulled me out of there, back to my safe haven of the deli fridge.

Fuck.

I’d been excused to leave work early after that and Steve told me not to come in the next day either. After a little bit of a fight about it, he told me to start my days off early and that he’d talk to his boss about asking if those can be paid vacation days. I knew he’d say no however. The store manager had been pushing for me to work more because of all of the business I’d been bringing in by simply working there. We were up by around half a grand a day and boy did that make him look good.

When I pulled into my driveway, I unplugged the aux cord from my car and dialed one of the numbers I knew by heart. Yoongi’s international number. I rarely called him without asking, but I knew he had my phone call volume on. Only when it was an emergency I’d phone him right away.

It rang three times. “Mmmm, baby? What’s up?” Oh, he sounded so sleepy. I felt bad for about 5 seconds before I started yelling.

“How could you sleep through all of my messages? Boy, have I had a day.” I unlocked my door and slammed it behind me, only locking the top lock. I threw myself on the couch as I heard him groaning about sitting up to check his phone.

“Facetime.” Then he hung up and face timed me this time. By this point, I was upside down on my couch with a red face and an angry expression. I hit the green button. “You look so grumpy.” He chuckled.

“I am grumpy. Please don’t go on twitter for a few days?”

“So, armys were at your job.” I saw his face sink a little as he leaned against the wall.

I sat upright and fixed my hair in the camera mirror. “I kind of started crying and I got excused from work until after my vacation days. They probably think I’m crazy, Gloongs.”

“You’re calling me Gloongs? Look at you. The new dwarf in Snow White. Mopey.”

“I’m gonna hang--”

“No. Please no. You’re not okay. I’m sorry this is happening. I’ll fix it.” Then he hung up.

The way he went about his life was so weird to me sometimes. Knowing him, he was back asleep already too. Sleeping sounded like a pretty good idea, actually. I knew I could never take a nap, it was something I had learned to deal with. I’d always wished I could just pass out like my boyfriend. He had this uncanny ability to simply close his eyes and be somewhere else.

I stood from the purple couch in my living room and walked the total 10 feet to my bedroom. I swung open the door and fell straight onto my bed. The phone charger I kept next to my bed was gone and then I just let out my anger by screaming. I didn’t give a fuck about my upstairs neighbor in this moment or the 5 open windows in the little apartment my mother and I stayed in.  I was just frustrated.

The plug had fallen on the floor off of my mattress, luckily. Once my phone was charging, I called up my best friend Alicia. She didn’t pick up and I knew she was also asleep. Of course two of the most important people in my life had these weird sleeping habits I couldn’t get myself into. I could barely sleep as it was, let alone throughout the day.

I called her again as fast as I could. Normally after the first phone call, she grabbed her phone to turn off the volume for the second call. I always begged her not to because if there was a second call it was important, but she didn’t give a shit. It was almost crazy to me how my boyfriend and best friend were so alike. I really couldn’t fathom how I could handle two of them let alone one, but I did it. I guess my type had changed.

I must have called fast enough because I was met with a groan and a, “Ugh, what do you need?”

“Hey,” I almost choked up? I wasn’t sad, just stressed. “Can we do something?”

“Guardians 2 just came out, if you can get us tickets.” Usually, I was met with a no and that she was going back to bed. “What’s wrong with you?”

I put my phone on speaker and opened up the Chrome browser, typing in showtimes near us. “Oh, you know. I’m just casually getting stalked.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s karma.”

“For what?!”

“Dating a superstar. A hot, lazy version of me though. Yeah. Karma.” she broke into a fit of chuckles and I heard her get up and start rummaging through her clothes. “Do I have to dress nice? Am I going to get followed by some paparazzi?” I could hear her trying not to laugh.

“I’m wearing jeans and a fucking hoodie. The next show time is in 40 minutes, I got us side seats. I’m coming to pick you up.” Then I hung up, grabbed my keys, and ran out my door.

The movie was amazing, but my phone call with Yoongi later was not. Halfway through the movie, I remembered that he had wanted to see it with me. Boy, I wasn’t ready for the angry rant I was about to get, but I stayed up til 2 am for it anyways.

“Hey, baby.” I could hear the smile in his voice. He was in the arena in whatever place he was in now, getting ready for his show. “How are you, what’d you do after our call last night? Or your day time.”

“I went to the movies with Ali-”

“No you didn’t.” Oh no. He interrupted me. He was onto me, he knew. “Are you kidding me? I planned the tour around us seeing this movie during my vacation days!” He was screaming now. I heard Hoseok in the background asking him to calm down and heard my precious boyfriend slapping him away. “You know what? I’m done.”

“Done? Dude, come on.”

“You’re fucking coming to Korea on the next flight and we’re seeing it together. You’re off from work anyways, I’m not taking no as an answer. Hoseok, please take my card and find her a flight. I’d do it, but she won’t pack anything that she needs if I hang up to look.”

He was right, sadly. For such a put together person I over packed unessential stuff no matter where I was going. Day trips, week trips, I packed my entire room up for those.  “Don’t make him book me a ticket. I can buy my own.”

He broke into a fit of laughter. “Shut up, no you can’t. I got you out of work, so let me compensate by paying. You also can’t argue with me because it’s done. Check your email.”

He was right, I couldn’t. The flight was in about 3 hours and I was an hour away from the airport, so I started to pack. He scolded me about packing 3 times the clothes I needed when it only a four day trip. They had three more shows left to end their tour and would be in the same area for all of them. So I didn’t have to feel guilty about more travel expenses and such like I always did.

Of course I knew he had the money to spend and such, but that was the thing. I didn’t want to be pampered by him at all times just because he could. I liked being able to support myself and not feeling like I was using him for his money. I was so in love with this kid and I had been for the last few years and that was the last thing I wanted him to believe.

Yeah, I was working a part time minimum wage job and he was touring the world, but I didn’t need him for such small expenses. Even though I guess a plane ticket wasn’t small. On the cab ride to JFK airport, I was just enveloped in my thoughts about him that I didn’t even realize when we had arrived. I was forced out of my head by a loud honk and the man in the front seat telling me to get out. I passed up a 50 dollar bill and grabbed my larger than I should have suit case out of the trunk.

I never really began going to airports and flying before Yoongi. It was such a normal thing to him, but to me it was so extravagant. Not even including where you’re going, flying on an airplane was just such a cool concept to me. So I took it all in every time. Even if it fucked me over in the end. Which you already knew it did. I never slept, so my jet lag was extra bad during these. I just watched movie after movie, every time. There was truly nothing else to do for me than take advantage of that. I got too anxious sleeping in front of people, even if they were perfectly good strangers.

Whenever my plane landed in South Korea, I always regretted not paying too much attention when Yoongi tried to teach me the language in depth. I knew some basic terms to get me around, but he had practiced English for so long and so hard for me, that I really did feel guilty for not learning his native tongue. It seemed to always be a lingering thought whenever I was in his homeland, but he made me feel silly for thinking that. Stating that I had no true reason to learn Korean and that he didn’t want me to get good at it so he could always talk shit about me without me truly understanding. As much as I wanted to believe that was a joke, I knew it wasn’t.

After grabbing my luggage, I looked around for one of the security guards I knew would be getting me. I pulled my hood lower on my head and looked for the sign that Yoongi probably wrote. Knowing him it would say something embarrassing.  There it was. Booboo buns. He even drew hearts around it. He was such a dick, even when he wasn’t here.

I gripped my rolling suitcase with a hard fist as I walked over to the burly man and waved. He complimented me with a smile and turned his back on me to follow to the car outside. He attempted to take my suitcase from me and I just responded with, “Aniyo gwaenchanhseubnida.” Meaning no thank you. One of the few terms I made sure to know along with where is the bathroom and a few other phrases.

Once I was in the familiar black van, I finally closed my eyes. I didn’t know how far the hotel was and I didn’t bother to ask. Well, I didn’t know how to ask and I had no service here to even text Yoongi I was on my way. He definitely knew though. For a lazy fuck he was on top of important shit; like getting me around a place where I could easily end up lost. As much as I prided myself on having good direction value.

Of course I didn’t sleep on the way to the hotel when that was purely all I wanted to do. The security guard parked the car in front of the hotel and left the hazards on. He simply walked me inside and I said thank you and he passed me a card with the room number and key. From the lack of people around here, I figured the boys were at their show. It was around 8 pm here now, so it was almost a perfect time for me to sleep.

I power walked to the elevator and once it dinged I went inside up to the 18th floor. I closed my eyes on the way up as I leaned against the mirror on the side of the elevator. I hope I didn’t leave a mark or anything. I was probably all gross from that plane ride. If I had the energy I’d shower, but I just wanted to knock out and I bet that the bed here was super comfortable. Nothing like my mattress on the floor back at home. Ding. I was here. Floor 18, room 22. Of course it was at the end of a long hallway. Of course.

At this point I was almost ready to crawl down the hallway, but instead I jogged. I figured I was alone, but I was wrong. During my sprint, I ran into random man and completely ate shit and fell. He said, “Sorry, sorry.” but continued running in the opposite direction of me. Awesome. Now I was tired and bruised and probably had fucking rug burn, but I was over it.  I stood up and just pushed the thought that I got to see Yoongi when I woke up. I swiped the card through room 22 and saw it. The beautiful, big bed. The door slammed behind me and I kicked off the moccasins I’d been wearing for the past almost 16 hours. A smile loomed over my face as I tiptoed over to the empty bed and stuffed myself into it. Within a minute, I was out like a light.

I was awoken by the light turning on, but the thing that pushed me into being awake was the stench that followed it. I coughed to clear my throat and sat up. I opened my eyes to a smiling Yoongi at the foot of the bed. My eyes were still adjusting to the change, so he was a little blurry to me. “Why didn’t you shower there?” I asked. It totally wasn’t the first thing I wanted to say, but I kind of hurt a bit too much to move or yell.

“I wanted to see my girl.” His smile turned into one of my favorites. The gummy one. Then he crawled over to me, rubbing his fingers across the dimple that lined my face. “You’re so pretty… and bloody?” He chuckled, “Did you fall or something?” He peeled the blanket off of me and I was as confused as the look on his face. “Oh, come on. You fell?”

I couldn’t help but to laugh. There were a bunch of scratches on my arm from the carpet that had torn just enough to bleed. Then I just ignored it, so here we were. “Yeah, I fell. I was super tired and ran into this guy-”

“Someone ran into you?” He pulled me into his smelly arms and squeezed me. “You didn’t yell at him? Shame. I love it when you’re a firecracker.” He kissed at my cheek, towards the corner of my mouth. “Wow, I missed you.”

He continued to leave small kisses around my face and I knew I wasn’t sleeping anytime soon. I turned around so that I was looking at him and he had changed his hair. “Green?” My face lit up, “You did my favorite hair color again?!”

He bit at my nose, “Yeah. I gotta make sure this vacation is perfect for you.” He went back to kissing around my face. Whenever we met up, it always started like this. He missed the physical interaction, but never pushed me into anything, He always started slow.

“How was the show?”

“Amazing, as always, but I was so distracted knowing you were here and laying in my bed without me.” His kisses began to trail down the side of my face to my neck, his second favorite place to be at for a while.

“Can we shower? I don’t want to fuck you- No, that’s a lie. I want to fuck you really bad.”

“Blunt today?” he breathed hot air down my neck as he spoke in a sexy whisper.

“I’m gross and so are you, let’s shower.”

We both walked into the bathroom and started stripping each other. Nothing too sensual at first, until we were both in our undergarments. We both just looked at each other for a minute. Observed each other's flaws and imperfections as if it was the first time seeing each other naked, but boy was it not. Honestly, I think that’s what made us love each other so much. Everything was always the same, but it was always new.

“God, I’ve missed you so much.” Yoongi breathed. He undid the clasp on my bra and as I took that off I felt his long fingers slide down my back to pull down my lacy panties I’d been in for probably the last day. I breathed out a gasped when he touched me. His fingers were cold even though the bathroom was slowly heating up. I pulled on the waistline of Yoongi’s boxers, suggesting for him to take them off. Even if we were caught in a moment, he couldn’t help but to slightly laugh at my little motions. I was never truly the one in charge of these situations, but considering it’s been about 3 months since we’d last seen each other, I was getting a little antsy.

He grabbed onto my hand and led me into the shower. As soon as I turned the shower on he started attacking my neck with little kisses. Nothing too aggressive, but hard enough to leave a faint bruise after each kiss. I turned around to face him. God, he was beautiful. We moved closer to each other and our lips finally connected. The kiss was soft and sweet. Then of course leave it to Yoongi become aggressive. With one swift motion, he lifted me off of the ground and made me wrap my legs around him. He pushed me into the tiled wall and I could feel him against my heat.

“You came all this way for me, I figured I might as well do something for you.” He said.

“That’s fine by me, daddy.” I teased. I could feel him fucking harden against me. It was really hot. I knew it was one of his kinks. He would never admit it to me but whenever I called him that it would almost instantaneously turn him on. Now that I did that, I knew I was in for a world of trouble. Aka, him getting mad if I called him anything other than that or sir. I did it anyways, him being mad was pretty hot in these cases.

“Yeah?” his voice was raspier now.

“Okay, Yoongi.” I smirked, excited for the outcome.

“Don’t you dare call me that now. You started this,” Yoongi growled. He let me sink a little bit again the wall, only to duck his shoulder under my left leg and put it on top. My breathing hitched as he got me into one of his favorite positions. Also because this was dangerous. We could die. Then it would be all my fault and his army would kill me.

I was taken back to the moment as he kitten licked up my slit and pulled away right before he got to my clit. He chuckled at the little gasping noise I made when he stopped and lifted up to touch me, but instead of going where I thought he cupped my chin. He smirked and kissed me so hard that I could almost feel the purple that my lip was going to be. He let go of my chin and began to lazily trail his hand down my body, making sure to go over my most sensitive parts in his little teasing session.

His eyes never left yours as he teased a digit inside, but quickly pulled it out. Before he started anything else he made sure I was secure against the wall and in his left hand. He did the same motion again with his middle finger and I gasped as the loss of touch.

“Please-” I begged, reaching for his wrist.

He slapped my hand away and squinted his eyes at me telling me to stop. This time he put in two fingers and curled them inside of me, my eyes closed from habit.  “I want you to look at me while I touch you, princess.” He scolded. I could literally feel my insides turn to mush with his words as I bit onto my lip. His two fingers slowly moved inside of me while his thumb reached up to rub my clit. He kept curling and uncurling his fingers while rubbing little circles. All I wanted right now was to moan loud and sink to my knees, but I couldn’t lose my voice yet and I was pinned to the shower.

At this point he lowered me onto the ground, still keeping my leg on his shoulder. I gripped the shower handle as he moved his mouth onto my clit, lightly sucking on it while keeping his fingers inside of me. I wrapped my leg over my shoulder. He added a third finger and continued to curl them. I reached my other hand out and ran my fingers through his hair, being careful not to pull the green too hard. I pushed my hips down and mumbled a fuck. He hummed into me as he removed his fingers and licked up me one final time.

He pulled his fingers into his mouth, sucking on them while not breaking eye contact. “Better than ever.” He let my leg down and I still needed some support. I reached my arms up lazily and wrapped them around his neck, kissing him softly. He, however, didn’t want soft. The kiss quickly became intense as he slipped his tongue into my mouth. He ran his hands up and down my back, eventually landing on my ass and gripped it like he was holding on for dear life.

The kissing stopped for a moment. “Are you sure you don’t want me to-” I pulled one arm off of him and brought it toward his hip. He reached out for it with his own, lacing our fingers together. It felt less intense in this moment, as he smiled purely and took his other hand to my cheek.

“Let me take care of you for once. Let me fuck you til you beg me to stop, (Y/N).” He spoke in is normal voice, except a little bit higher. I simply bit my lip in response. Leave it to Yoongi to always know what to say to make me wet.

He lifted my leg back up again and placed himself at my entrance. In typical Yoongi fashion, he rubbed the head up and down my folds, barely dipping inside. “Please.” I begged, barely audible. He just smiled and slowly pushed into me. Within seconds, he picked up speed. He went at a mild tempo at first then as I put my hand onto his shoulder he lifted my leg higher and all you could hear was muffled moans and groans along with the slapping of skin.

He gripped my thigh as he thrusted in and out. He never broke eye contact with me and as much as I wanted to close my eyes, I stared right at him. When I reached my high, he knew. I knew he was close too. “Can I?” his eyes darted down to his cock. I nodded as I was unable to even speak. He fucked me right through my orgasm and my nails scratched through his skin. As soon as I was done, he moaned out my name as he came inside me. He lowered my leg to a more comfortable position and then pulled out.

Before putting me back onto the ground he made sure I was leaning on him and had my hand somewhere else. Fuck, he knew me too well. He hummed into my ear as my back leaned against his bare body. He ran his fingers through my hair and I felt a stinging in my eye. “Yoongi stop!” I yelled, squeezing it shut to try to comfort my pain.

“What’s wrong? Was I being too aggressive? I know it’s been a bit and I know you can barely walk right now but maybe y-”

“No, it’s not that-”

“Then what’s wrong?” He wrapped his arms around me, turning me in towards him.

“You got shampoo in my eye.”

He gulped. “I wasn’t holding the shampoo-”

“Then what’s in my eye?!” I yelled, reaching one hand up to rub it. He started to laugh.

“Babe, I am so sorry.”

For the rest of the shower, I just leaned into him after getting whatever was in my eye out. I missed being with him like this in such a personal way. We didn’t even speak, but we were so in tune with each other when we were together. He took care of me and I took care of him. In this moment, it was his turn. He knew I’d been hurting lately, mentally and now physically thanks to him. It was moments like these I was so grateful for him. I was always grateful for him.

He reached over me to turn off the water and pulled a towel off of the rack outside of it. He twirled it around me and then one around his own waist. He kept one arm around me as he patted some of the water off of himself. “You tired?” He whispered, patting me down a little bit before lifting me bridal style out of the shower.

He laid me onto the bed still wrapped up despite me still being well covered in water. He got in next to me and covered us with the warm blanket, pulling me close to his chest. He liked to sleep while in contact with me, despite what it may be. Tonight his arm was around me, but most nights his hand was on my hip or thigh . Tonight was different, he wanted to closer than usual. We which we already were. Our usual is across the world.

“Hey, Yoongs.” I whispered into his chest. He made a noise signaling he heard me. “I love you. I love you. I’m so in love with you.”

He ruffled my hair. “Shh, go to sleep.”

“Reassure me.” my unnecessary anxiety spoke out.

“I’m so in love with you. I’ve loved you since I’ve known you. You’re the strongest woman I know. You’re my sun and I love you. Darling, am I in love with you.”

Authors Note: Hey! I hope you enjoyed chapter 1 of Pressure! If you guys liked it, I’d appreciate if you let me know! I have lots of plans for this and would love to continue writing it! Thank you guys.

part 2 →

[malachitelibrary]

FAQ Update

Changelog:

Updated questions- gave a little more reasoning behind them.

Addded new questions. 

Added more categories (listed in table of contents)

Added Table of Contents

Updated the following questions:

Why did you stop writing the magic business posts?

If you have worked at least One (1) customer service job then you should have everything you need service skills-wise already. You know, the whole “customer service” voice, “don’t scream at the customer” and all that 101 level stuff.

Additionally, someone with decent business savvy/potential would continue despite obstacles, and that’s the mindset you need if you want to run a business successfully. I cannot give someone the confidence, social skills, guts, critical thinking, and tolerance for criticism that running a business needs.

Also- most of the info I said was Business 101, all of which is easily googleable.

Why don’t you write beginner posts??

I don’t want like writing unoriginal shit that has been regurgitated by everyone else.

They’re literally e v e r y w h e r e, like 99% of magic blogs are beginner oriented/friendly, and if someone complains that they have trouble finding beginner posts then that means they really aren’t looking hard enough

As the about says, this blog is not oriented towards beginners

A lot of beginners are straight up rude (intentionally or not) through actions such as not checking the FAQ, expecting help and throwing a hissy fit when I can’t or don’t want to help them) and I don’t want to deal with that.

A lot of beginners do that thing where they’ll start sucking an experienced person’s dick, and by that I mean they won’t think critically about the information given,and  they’ll stop forming their own opinions, etc.

No matter how much you prod and help beginners, they will never advanced beyond being beginners unless they take it upon themselves to research, form their own opinions, have better critical thinking, etc; you can’t “give” that to someone.

Because of the above, I don’t want to attract beginners to this blog

I don’t fucking want to.

Can I rant/vent to you?

Are you someone that has spoken with me regularly several times over the course of at least a few weeks, and are therefore a friend I have a personal connection with?

>If YES, go ahead.

>If NO, don’t. Why are you trying to rant to a total stranger on the internet????? I am not your friend nor your therapist. It would be far more in your benefit to find a good friend or a therapist to vent to, as they can give you personalized advice that I cannot.

I say this because I have had absolute strangers, minors in particular, come to me out of the blue with extremely personal stuff that I cannot help with in any way, such as depression, mental instability, suicide thoughts, and it’s like dude. Where on my blog did I say I was a licensed therapist?? I am not a therapist nor will I ever be.

Can I still send you an ask if the ask box is closed?

Take a minute to think on what the ask box being closed means. Trust me, the answer is not complex.

This post is too long! Can you put it under a “read more”?

No. It takes only a few seconds to scroll past a long post on mobile and on desktop you can just press “j” to skip a post entirely. Also, if the original post were to be deleted, everything under the ‘read more’ is lost forever because tumblr has shit coding.

Added questions:

How 2 git gud/how to stop being a beginner?

General growth tips:

Critical thinking and magical practice are not inherently diametrically opposed/mutually exclusive.

Try to see arguments/disagreement/criticism as an opportunity to learn more instead of a Personal Offense/Invalidation

Learn to actually argue/debate. Research your basic fallacies and try to avoid them; the biggest 6 I see with magic stuff are the association fallacy, fallacy of composition, hasty generalizations, ad hominem, cherry-picking info, and ignoratio elenchi. But really, research all fallacies because hooo boy are they present a LOT.  

Form your own fucking opinions. Be open minded; consider others’ opinions/experiences but don’t believe in them wholly at face value. Accepting and believing are two different but related things; accept but don’t believe, just yet.

Discernment

Be wary of people who hide behind their years of experience! It's variety of experiences, not length, that matters more. Someone who's only had good experiences for 10 years knows less applicable knowledge than someone with 5 years of experience who’s had both good, bad, and outright ugly experiences, and has used various methods of working rather than the same one the whole time. On top of limited applicable info, the person who has only had good experiences will usually be biased and not able to see multiple viewpoints.

Be wary of people who generalize when talking about a spiritual species instead of investigating more, and believe their very general and shallow info is The Only Truth(™)

#notALL and bofa are your friends

Take everything you read on them with a grain of salt/use your better judgement- /especially/ on tumblr. And be wary of emotionally fueled people trying to make informational posts.

There is rarely if ever an #ALL

Be wary of minors

Be wary of 20-30+ year olds with the emotional maturity of a toddler (unable to take criticism, lack of critical thinking). Double if they think their magic experience gives them an excuse to be immature because ANY criticism of their info is instead a Personal Offense and Invalidates Their Entire Magical Path And Years of Experience  ;;((

Be wary of experienced people who get on their experience high horse. Signs include: I can’t write ANYTHING because it’s all WAY TOO SACRED/ADVANCED (aka I don’t know how to write/word shit but I won’t admit it/I am unable to analyze my experiences to synthesize widely useful or applicable info.”), getting SUPER offended if someone has a different working method/approach than they do

be mature enough to accept that criticizing/analyzing/rationalizing info is not the same as bashing or invalidating it

Being able to tell when people who consider themselves/are considered more experienced than others are full of shit and actually don’t know shit (ex- “you need to be able to astral if you want to work with any spirits”)

Do magic with what you want, do what you want with magic

How long have you been practicing?

I won’t say. It’s better to judge experience level from information given rather than years. I think my posts do a good job at showing my experience.

Added a Table of Contents and more categories

Added a Table of Contents (In order): 

General/Blog-Related

General Info/Critical Thinking

Concerning Readings/Services

Git Gud

Typical Story/”Help me” Questions

Spirit Work, Demon, and Angel Questions

Divination FAQ

Energy Work FAQ

Healing FAQ

Astral FAQ

[rpedia]

[Ask RPedia] Post-Long Time RP Shutdown Advice?

Anonymous asked: Hey, do you have any advice for people who have been in roleplays for 1 year+ that have just closed down? Feeling kind of lost & in a funk now I've lost contact with people I was close to & enjoyed writing with. Not sure if this is the right place to come and ask but figured it was worth a shot

Oh no! Another lost lamb. I see this happening a lot, and boy experiencing it was no happiness either. It’s like finishing a good book and having the world slowly fade in. Everything’s different, and empty, it’s horrible. Unfortunately, no matter how long your RP friends have lasted, sooner or later it starts falling apart. It’s always good to have interests and accounts in other places in case of loss like this, because you’re gonna have to build from scratch one way or another, paralleling it with growth takes away some of the ‘waiting’. Let’s talk about some likely ways to handle this though from the beginning!

You can go to somewhere new. Explore! There’s a whole wide web of sites that want to encourage you to roleplay, from forums to chatrooms. I keep a list here that anyone can reply to and add places to check out, and that I add to whenever I move sites. I haven’t for some time actually, because each new fandom I move to, and each new group has been found and expanded on that very large very open site. (Thanks F-list!). When you join a new site, you can usually find someone, somewhere, willing to chat with you. They may not be the kind of partner you want right that second because they aren’t what you’re used to, but talk to them anyways. Work your way to RP for the sake RP with a new person, and you can find people you didn’t realize you’d be so close to, because you simply were busy with people you already were close to! Offer enough chances, and something will pan out.

Try speed dating. Like the sound of quick semi-meaningless RPs to check for Chemistry? Omegle, Cherubplay, MSPARP, even Chatroulette in an emergency. Just set your standards to how you like, make sure you suggest “roleplay” and your fandom name of choice on Chatroulette and Omegle, and then play out random little abstract tidbits about your characters meeting. You can find really interesting people like this, who might be willing to toss a Tumblr handle or Skype handle your way where you can find each other again and start roleplaying in a bigger way. Many of the users on these sites either don’t have a solid constant flow of RP elsewhere (which means they may be open to a tighter bond with someone) or they’re shopping for neat people to share with others. You can build patter, and teach yourself to be more social through these cold start prompts. It’ll force you to drop some habits you’ve gotten used to with other people, and open your mind to new people.

Try going out and doing other things, or finding new fandoms. Oh look, personal growth! You’re free, instead of lost. You’ve got no roots and therefore can meander into anything you find interesting. Something maybe your past partners were tentatively interested in, or not interested at all so you set it aside. Watch a new series, get addicted, get fresh ideas and try new OCs. Do something you’ve never done before, and you’ll find people who were connected to those things the whole time. When you finally get into those things, you’’ meet people you’ve never met. The RP world is basically a giant net, and everyone is connected via interests, threads, and other people. If you put yourself out there on a thread or in a chatroom and just talk about something new, you’ll be visible to new people, and if you share interests and chemistry with these new people... Well the obvious happens. You’ll end up chatting, possibly making friends, and since you both like RP if you stick to RP sites, you might actually get into another group. Just because your group is dead, doesn’t mean there aren’t living ones looking to suck in someone of interest who used to be busy! Don��t be afraid to approach people just to talk, or to work out a plot.

Hang out on Public Chats/Forums. Be yourself, in front of other people! Related to all of my points a little, if you’ve been in a private chat, or a private Skype, a closed tumblr, or a private forum you haven’t had much time to get out and be seen. You’re basically a stranger to the internet. Someone who hid themselves in the ancient caves to practice their art, unseen for centuries before bursting onto the scene. If you become seen, people will check you out. People who may not approach you at first until they get a nice sense of you. If you’re nice to whoever comes to you, no matter their RP quality, you’ll have people who may be really good, but really shy, find you safe. If they find you safe, they’ll approach you, and you can bond with them. If you play long enough in public, you’ll get regulars, and friends. When you have friends and regulars, they may play with each other in public using you as a jumping off point for why they are interacting. You’ll help them greet people they would never meet on their own. As that gets bigger, this Katamari of Roleplay will build and build until you have your own little niche/clique/community within the larger landscape. All this, just by being visible, and good natured/interesting in public, regularly.

Roleplaying wasn’t hard to get into the first time you did it, I have a feeling. Sure it was big and new and a little intimidating, but you didn’t know what to expect. You wanted to learn, interact. You didn’t have any solid ideas of what was going to happen, or memories of people who were fantastic players you were really close to. Your friends mean something, and they always will. But you’re allowed to have more friends. You’re allowed to open up, socially, and try everything as if it’s brand new again.

Let yourself be hesitant, but don’t be afraid to jump in! Jump into everything! Everywhere! Explore your new characters through writing fanfics or short stories. Work on profiles. Design worlds. Design life. Come up with concepts. Play with yourself, by writing by yourself. Maybe in public. Let yourself do crack-play, or bullshit you wouldn’t do because you have a higher standard now. If it’s fun, it’s fantastic! It doesn’t matter what other people think. You’ll find somewhere, as long as you openly invite interaction in your posts. No hanging out in corners sipping tea, no yawning, no sitting by yourself hoping someone will get curious. 

Name drop, in narration not vocally for your character unless they know the names. Interact with other posts. Someone do something silly? Laugh about it. React to the people around you. Invite them to react back. Allow them to see you want to play with them. As long as you actively seek out other people, and actions instead of trying to lead everything yourself you’ll end up getting the ball rolling on new RP friendships.

Interest can be anything from playing a character that is unique, to playing a character doing something other people haven’t seen a thousand times which has something that they will notice. Be it sound, visual stimuli, smells, emotions, or even sense of touch. Don’t be obnoxious and grab strangers or attack people out of no where. For the love of god, poking will annoy a lot of people. But maybe, sit down and set up a board game. Roll some dice loudly. Start laughing at something on your cellphone, and look around for someone to share it with. People will jump on open interactions like that. Especially if you make a note you’re looking for someone to do so. Glancing around for help, literally calling out, ‘Hey anyone wanna join me?’ shit like that. 

Pretend you’re in public in the real world, in New York. They pretty much ignore things that are wacky and abnormal unless they explicitly involve them in the action. Not by touching, so much because that’s kind of creepy and assault in some cases, but by vocalizing and calling out. “Hey! You!” yelled at the big guy in the corner will get their attention. Emotion and shit, tone of voice. Are you curious, snappish, excited, angry? It brings elements to RP to draw new people in.

And of course, skim their profiles if they have any. OOC sections and ‘likes and dislikes’ and other important ‘Please don’t do this’ things should be known if you are approaching someone new. It takes 15 seconds, and could save you from calling out someone, and demanding a fight, from someone who doesn’t like fight RP. Or who doesn’t want to play anything you find interesting. Everyone’s different, and honestly, it takes a few extra seconds to make things so much easier on everyone else.

I also suggest the tag #RPediaRP for everyone trying to find partners! Look, the tag’s empty right now. But if you use the tag on here, on Omegle, on Twitter, anywhere you can use a tag system? People looking at it because I just advertised it to over 6.5k people, might see you. Say hi! Mention that you’re looking for asks, or replies. Say you’d like to chat about stories. Give a summary of you and your character. See who shows up to the party. #RPediaRP is 100% user generated, not me, but it’ll let people find each other. I get a lot of fucking asks about advertising and finding each other. Using that tag to post open starts, and stuff like that will get that community participation in a smaller area. Ya’ll are good RPers right? GET OUT THERE. GET SEEN!

Advertising a tag to help ya’ll find other RPedia readers who want RP aside, that’s great advice and I’ll repeat it 30 thousand times. Get seen. Make friends. Interact. You got this, it’s all a matter of self advertisement and trying.

Emotionally, I would like to touch upon recovery. You have just experienced a major loss. An RP network is a support network. It’s friendships, and building a world that feels real and unique. Even though it’s fictional, it still has the same value as face-to-face relationships in terms of support, interaction, social ties, and emotion. You still feel love for them, kinship, understanding. You’ve learned their tics, and how they interact with one another. You’ve gotten close to these people, and having those ties severed feels like shit.

Reach out to them, some of them may be feeling the same way and you can continue on your journey with people who already understand you. People who care about you, and don’t want to lose contact. Maybe some of your friends are more healthy by going on their way? But sharing your life with someone you’re used to, and who will remember things can make the loss less sharp. Just don’t hyperfocus on them and force them to be your entire social network, they’ll get tired, resentment will brew. Remember to keep reaching outwards, and never focus all your attention on just one person. It’s unhealthy and ends up making everyone kinda upset in the end.

You still matter, even though you’ve lost things. You’re a person, and roleplaying means something to you. It’s an interest or hobby that can help you grow as a person and really see the world, and meet people. You’ll do things you can never hope to do in real life. So, in a way, roleplay can heal what roleplay has harmed. Don’t abuse it, and make yourself the center of every sad story, but you can hint as losing friends, or missing people and get a little bit of coddling. Here and there, a light dusting of sad spice. It can be cathartic if you’re not heavy handed.

Give yourself time to heal. Rest up, you’ve been through something. It might take you 5 minutes to be fresh as a daisy, or months or years to get over that loss. Everyone’s different. You might go through all the stages of grief, or you might go ‘well.... time to move on’ and find something to distract you entirely. It’s okay, no matter what you choose to do, or well, not choose, but have to experience because your brain is a mean little thing that pushes various chemicals whether you ask it to or not.

You’re going to be fine, experiencing pain and loneliness is normal. It’s normal to feel both loss and grief, and love and sentimental warmth. Look back on it as something amazing, something you loved, and look for new challenges. New purpose, relief, and happiness is in your future. You are not lost for good, you’re just... in-between roleplay partners. You’ll get new ones, the urge to write and tell stories never leaves you entirely. 

Good luck, and happiness on your path to finding this shit. Gooey and lovey-dovey as I sound, and as hard as this feels for some of you? You’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.

[alleys-mitt-blog]

Closer To God

Some things are better left unexplained. People like to draw their own conclusions, especially about strangers, those who don’t belong. Those who aren’t from around here. The locals had already made up their minds about me before I ever climbed up the stairs to the stage. I noticed their stares as soon as I walked through the front doors. As I perched upon an empty stool and waited to order a drink I could hear their drunken whispers. Who’s this guy? Where’d he come from? What’s he doing here? The barkeep shot me a glance and then went back to drying the glass in his hand, a more important task than serving a stranger. Surely, I was only there to cause trouble. I creased a fresh blue hundred lengthwise and sat it upon the bar top. The tender snarled as he sat down the extremely dry glass, slung his towel over his shoulder and finally approached.

“Bourbon on the rocks, any kind will do.” I never drank bourbon, or any liquor for that matter. Truth was I didn’t drink much at all, and when I did I preferred a cold draught to the burning of a higher proof. But this was a special occasion.

Without saying a word, the dubious publican grabbed a familiar, black-labeled bottle with a large No. 7 printed on the front. Since we were a lot closer to Tennessee than Kentucky I felt it wise to not correct him.

“Ice machine’s down.” The bartender filled a shot glass and sat it down in front of me, careful not to flatten the blue tent. Without touching the money, he asked if there was anything else I needed. I flashed him a peace-sign and he filled 2 more jiggers.

“Where you from, friend?” His sarcasm hung off that last word like clothes on a wire.

“California,” I answered, and he gave me an exaggerated aaahh, as if I had given him a lot more than the state of my origin.  I returned to my booze without any further self-revelations.  Some things are better left unexplained.

. .  .

What if Death held a grudge? What if, upon being summoned, Death would not rest until he had amassed the required allotment of souls? And what if you were able to outrun Death, and in doing so would turn Death loose on your family or friends or loved ones? What if Death behaved like a bookie owed a debt by a would-be cardsharp that found it easier to skip town than pay up, so goons were dispatched to break the arms and legs of brothers and cousins and mothers until the degenerate could be found?

When I awoke in the hospital, there were three doctors standing bedside, all of them peering over a folder in the middle doctor’s hands. Pages were flipped back and forth, beards and heads were scratched, brows furrowed. Once they saw that I had regained consciousness their queries came so quickly I could barely keep track of who was asking which question.  They ultimately attributed my survival to some sort of miracle; surely no human body should retain its functionality after ingesting that many pills. Unbeknownst to them, I attributed it to my previous year of cocaine abuse strengthening my tolerance for all narcotics. All of my tests showed normal brain function and after a few hours I was released.

Two days after my failed attempt my grandmother died. Acute myocardial infarction, my dad had said over the phone, between sobs. Grandma had been a beacon of health. She ran the daily bingo games at her local senior center, still bowled in the same alley my dad grew up in, still waited tables at a local pub not because she needed the money but because she got bored of staying home all day and watching her stories. She didn’t want to be the stereotypical old lady. She didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, she ate all her vegetables. She was as vigorous at 80 as she had been at 40, and I had killed her. My body had consumed the deadly mélange like Children’s Tylenol, so instead, Death took Grandma’s heart as collateral.

It had rained the night of my fruitless felo-de-se and continued to rain throughout the next day, a much needed relief from the drought being suffered all throughout Los Angeles. The cab that picked me up at Cedars-Sinai featured a leaky roof, only above the backseat, and came equipped with manual windshield wipers that were operated by the driver’s pulling and releasing of shoe strings tied to the blades.

The next morning, I was roused from sleep by a woodpecker jackhammering away at the tree just outside my window. Pulling back the curtains I was temporarily blinded by the startling sunshine. It must have been very early in the morning, for my east-facing jalousie revealed the sun barely cresting the horizon. The rainclouds had run away in the middle of the night, and I marveled at the beautiful greenery of the landscape.

I pulled the glass louvers shut and closed the curtains, shutting out the sun’s rays and the bird’s trepanning. My cell phone confirmed the sun’s time-telling, and I noticed I had a missed call from my dad. No voicemail, no text message. I returned the call and was given the grim news. After consoling my dad and offering to help him with my grandmother’s final services, I terminated the call and booked the next flight to Atlanta. Surely Death wouldn’t be so cruel as to take down an entire airbus just to get me.

. .  .

The drive from Atlanta to Helen, GA is about two hours. My grandmother was born and raised in Helen, as was my father. He had gone off to college in Atlanta but moved back home the day he graduated. I was a third-generation Helenite, but I’d left for Hollywood the minute I turned 18 and hadn’t been back to the south since. My hometown now appeared foreign.

The sun had set long before I drove into town. Before going to see my dad, I had planned on visiting Grandma’s favorite places, the spots where she felt most at home. Consequently, Tuesday’s Pub was the only establishment still open for business after midnight. I did not need GPS to find Grandma’s final place of employment. Helen was that small of a town.

“That thing work?” I eventually asked my new friend, downing my fifth whiskey and pointing to the karaoke machine shoved in the corner of the otherwise empty stage.

“It does, but you won’t find anyone in here that knows how to work it.”

“Mind if I give it a shot”? I hopped off my wooden perch and headed for the stage, not waiting for permission. I gave the mouse a wiggle, waking the monitor from its slumber, and fired up the karaoke software, the only icon on the desktop besides defaults. I was amazed at the decent strength of their internet connection, and quickly found the song I wanted to sing. I clicked the right-pointing triangle, the universal symbol for Play, and approached the mic stand.  Two taps from my fingertips reverberated loudly from the subwoofers, echoing throughout the tavern and startling the surly patrons, who all turned their unfriendly gazes towards me.

“This song is for you, Grandma.” I hardly recognized my own voice at that amplification.  After all, I played the drums. I was no singer. But this was a special occasion.

As I sang along with Trent, telling the crowd they let me violate and desecrate and penetrate them, I could feel their anger swell. As I crooned for their help, a beer bottle whizzed by my head and shattered against the wall behind me. By the time I was telling the crowd what I wanted to do like an animal, several large, angry locals were quickly approaching the stage, casting aside tables and stools, leaving splintered wood in their wake.

The insults hit the stage before the mob. This faggot wants to fuck his grandma! You ain’t fuckin my grandma, asshole! He’s lucky Carol’s grandsons ain’t here yet, they’d fuck him up! Before making it out of the first chorus I was being carried and drug towards the entrance, fists and fingernails finding my face, steel-toed and high-heeled boots finding my ribcage.

Some things are better left unexplained.

Helen’s Finest had summed me up well before the first shot I took. There was no changing their minds. They wouldn’t be the least bit moved by me telling them how, after my mom ran off to love some man who wasn’t my dad, how Grandma used to drive me to high school. How she used to let me tune the stereo in her station wagon to an alternative rock station, the only other station besides a gospel one and a country western one that we could get clear reception from.  How she used to love when a single by a band called Nine Inch Nails would come on. How she would hum along, not knowing any of the words and not caring to know them. How the FCC was probably always listening and so the songs were all censored, so even if she was trying to learn the lyrics she’d never hear what Mr. Reznor wanted to do like an animal. Know, they could never understand how that song could be attributed to a grandson’s favorite memories of his recently deceased Grandma Carol. How, with their beating and punching and kicking and insulting, they were bringing me closer to God.

It was the bartender who eventually ended the melee. Casting everyone aside until he was the only one standing over me, hands on his hips, staring into my bloody face and toothless grin, looking for a glimpse of someone recognizable.

“Michael?” My name came from his lips in the form of a question, his hand jutted out towards me, offering to help me to my feet. Without any words I accepted his offer, smiling a big bloody toothless grin at him. Some things are better left unexplained.

I brushed myself off, found my shoes and returned them to my feet. The circle of locals had widened at the bartender’s behest. Pushing through the crowd without any words, I ran back into the tavern, jumped onto the stage from the front, foregoing the stairs. I gave the mouse a wiggle, waking the monitor from its slumber, and clicked to replay the last song. I turned up the volume, both for the microphone and the music track.

“This next song is for my Grandma!”