#even just toss stuff in google drive man it's not that hard

[drewsaturday]

i really do think people need to devote a week to archiving their favorite fanworks when they join a new fandom to save the rest of us the insane guilt tripping whenever we decide we want to delete something we made and have the right to toss out

[cloudteawrites]

chapter: six ( 15.5k ) rating: mature (death, past abuse, eventual smut) genre: mystery | romance | hurt/comfort tags: bts x reader | ot7 x reader | hybrid | poly summary: when an estranged uncle leaves you his massive fortune you wonder if the universe is playing a joke on you. when that fortune comes with seven hybrids, you know for sure that it is. << first < previous | next > last >>

what is hybrid marking

8.2 million results. 

While scent mixing (heretofore referred to as ‘scenting’) is temporary and lasts a maximum of twelve hours if left undisturbed, scent marking (‘marking’ in common parlance) is semi-permanent. A ‘mark’ is created when the pheromones present in a hybrid’s bodily fluids are applied directly to their markee’s skin. When said chemical compounds seep below the epidermis and bond to the sweat glands found within the dermal layer of the skin, the target has been officially ‘marked’. Between domesticated hybrids and their human caretakers, this is most commonly done by applying hybrid saliva to the skin of the neck, where a human’s scent tends to be strongest. While the behavior involved in marking resembles some aspects of human foreplay, it is a non-sexual expression of mutual trust and affection. It is important to note that most hybrids of age are able to mitigate the oral secretion of pheromones and cannot mark accidentally-

“How do I look?” 

The sound of Jimin’s voice makes you jump. You fumble with your phone, trying to exit out of the website, shove it in your pocket and look at the leopard hybrid’s outfit at the same time.

“You look great!” You tell him once the device is safely tucked away.

He rolls his eyes at you. “You’ve said that about everything I’ve shown you.”

You had, but only because it was true. No matter what the trio of hybrids tried on, they all looked great. You weren’t sure what it was, but seeing them in something other than neutral sweat suits made them look even better than they already had. You were discovering they all had unique senses of fashion too. Taehyung preferred earth tones, soft fabrics and slouchy cardigans, Yoongi tended toward plaid overshirts and dark denim and Jimin had just come out of the dressing room in his sixth button down and second pair of chelsea boots. 

When the four of you had arrived at the mall that afternoon, you’d told them to go wild and call you when they were ready to check out. There was an entire section of the shopping center that catered specifically to hybrids and you were certain they’d be able to find everything they needed and more. You’d been all set to sequester yourself in a booth in the food court and indulge your hybrid research habit, but Taehyung had fixed you with a forlorn look the moment you tried to part with them and Jimin had insisted that you personally review every piece of clothing he put on. You wouldn’t deny that you were having fun, but surreptitiously trying to google what every little thing they did meant without getting caught was getting harder and harder. 

Jimin breezes past you to the semi-circle of mirrors on the far end of the fitting rooms, brushing his tail against your shins as he passes. That was another thing that had changed. Since the talk you’d had with the boys last night, it seemed like they were always finding some excuse to touch you or brush up against you . You didn’t know if it was a manifestation of their cat genes or them just wanting physical reassurance that you were there, but it seemed like every time you turned around there was a tail curling around your calf or a nose tip against your ear or a shoulder brushing your own. You were practically wreathed in them. Even Yoongi hadn’t seemed to mind when your fingertips had brushed against each other at breakfast when you’d passed him the juice. You didn’t know if you should count that as progress, but you want to. 

You’re not entirely used to physical contact and nearly every time Taehyung rubs his cheek on the top of your head or Jimin reaches out to link your fingers together, you jump. It feels strange, to have people be so blatantly physically affectionate with you. It’s not like you dislike it, exactly, it’ll just take some getting used to. Whatever adjustments you need to make, you know you’ll need to make them quickly. You don’t think the hybrids will give up on friendly hugs just because you never initiate them first.  

“Y/N-ah,”Jimin calls, catching your attention. He’s twisting this way and that on the platform, trying to catch his reflection in every possible angle. He hums in disappointment as he turns back to the front, tail waving behind him. “This collar,” he says, tugging on the offending band of bright green plastic around his neck, “-is ruining my outfit. We’ll need to get real ones today.” 

You feel like a stone has settled in your stomach. Your shoulders sag, but if the leopard hybrid notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Yeah,” you reply. “Yeah, you’re right.” In truth, you’d hoped to put it off for a little while longer. Collaring and leashing a hybrid had always seemed odd to you. After all, weren’t they people too? The law was the law, you knew, but something about publicly and visibly marking someone as property...well, the morality of it was gray at best. The temporary collars had provided you with a stay from the inevitable, but there was no avoiding it any longer, you supposed. They’d have to get collars. 

“I saw a store for them a couple shops down,” Taehyung supplies as he steps out of his dressing room in a white linen shirt and cream drawstring pants. “We could go there?” 

“That works for me...Taehyung, one of your buttons is in the wrong hole.” 

The tiger hybrid squints down at his shirt, feels blindly for the hole he missed, but can’t seem to find it. 

“No,” you tell him. “Not that one, the other- do you just want me to fix it?”

He pauses and looks up at you for a solid three seconds before giving a single, slow nod. 

You come to stand in front of him and start undoing the buttons from the top. There’s only four of them but each one you pop open reveals more and more of his honey brown skin and prominent collar bones. Your fingers brush his skin accidentally and he chuffs happily, one hand resting on your lower back as you start buttoning him up again. Heat starts crawling up your neck unbidden. Even through the fabric of your t-shirt, you can feel the warmth of his palm, how long his fingers are. He presses you closer until your arms are nearly flat against your chest as you try to finish buttoning him up. It’s hard to move squished between the insistent pressure of his hand and the- surprisingly- hard line of his body, but you make do. “There!” You pat him gently on the chest as you finish the last button. “All done.”

He dips forward and rubs his cheek against your forehead, rumbling so deep in his chest that the vibrations pass into you. “Thank you.” He releases you and pulls away, but as he does, his lips brush against your hairline. You try not to read too deep into it. 

The tiger hybrid sidles over to his friend in the mirror, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist and dipping his head into his neck. Jimin reaches back and scratches behind one of his ears and your heart swells in your chest. It was nice to see them be so openly affectionate with each other. They’re so close in a way you can’t even begin to understand. It’s beautiful. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you thumb the screen to life. An incoming call from Mr. Seo. “You guys keep trying stuff on,” you tell the pair, already standing to make your way out of the dressing room. “I’ve gotta take this.”  They both call at you to hurry back and you give them a shout of assent as you rush away. 

The second you’re outside the store, you answer. “Hello?”

“Ms. L/N,” Mr. Seo’s voice crackles on the other end of the line. “I trust you’ve settled in well.” It isn’t a question and the tone of his voice makes it clear that he doesn’t wish to spend what precious time he has exchanging pleasantries with you. 

“Yeah, everything’s okay.” Everything had most certainly not been okay when you’d emergency dialed him two days ago about the tiger on your couch. The text he’d sent you back six hours later had told you to figure it out. You had and you knew you weren’t his responsibility, but him tossing you in the deep end was still a sore spot for you. 

“There’s been a change of plans.” 

You grimace. Straight to it, then. “What’s going on?” 

“Black Mountain Canines- the company your uncle purchased two of the hybrids from- changed their pick-up date. They want you to come get them in person today.”

“Pick-up?” You frown. “No, they were supposed to drop them off.”

“They were,” Mr. Seo confirms, “But it’s apparently no longer profitable for them to drive all the way into Seoul to hand-deliver two of their charges. They also claim they’re incurring additional expenses by feeding and housing two hybrids who’ve already been purchased, but we’ll see about that when we arrive.”

Your anxiety spikes and your fingers wrap tighter around your phone. You’d promised the boys a whole day out. All you’d done so far was get them phones of their own and furniture for their room. There was still so much to do, so much to see. “What about Yoongi and Jimin and Taehyung?” You blurt out.

Mr. Seo sighs and his breath crackles over the receiver. “Those are the cats, I assume? I suggest you let them know sooner rather than later that they’ll have to share their space.” There’s a flurry of movement on his end of the line, the sound of someone calling his name and papers shuffling. “I have to go; they need me to look over some case files.” He tells you. “I’ll be at Haneul Tower to pick you up in three hours. Be downstairs waiting.”And the line clicks off. 

You sigh and hang up. What were you going to tell the boys? Day one of your new friendship and you were already breaking promises. 

“Trouble?” Yoongi’s voice right behind you makes you flinch and whirl on him. His ears press back against his head and he takes a step back at your sudden movements. 

“Sorry!” You tell him, forcing your spine to relax. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there; I thought you were still shopping. ”

“I can tell,” he snarks, but there’s no heat behind it. His eyes trace the line of your shoulders, still tense and flick to the phone in your hand. “I dropped my stuff at the register. What’s going on?”

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, nerves making your stomach ache. “C’mon,” you tell him, walking back into the store. “Let’s pay and grab some lunch. I’ll tell you when we sit down.” He follows after you a few paces behind, trying not to let worry prick in him at the anxious shift in your scent. Something was about to change, he was sure, and not entirely for the better. 

Twenty minutes later, the four of you are sitting in the food court, a mess of shopping bags at your feet and a bowl of tteokbokki between you. Yoongi and Jimin had picked out all the fish cakes first and were bickering good-naturedly over who the last one should go to, but Taehyung seemed content to just gnaw at his rice cakes. You’d hardly touched anything, your eyes flicking back to the time on your phone. 1:20 P.M. Two hours and forty minutes ‘til Mr. Seo would be at your apartment to pick you up and bring you to get two more of the hybrids your uncle had bought. You push a rice cake around on your paper plate with the end of your chopstick. Well, no point delaying the inevitable. 

“Hey, guys?” You call softly. Three pairs of ears swivel toward you immediately. The words die in your throat and your tongue feels like lead as they look at you, all their eyes focused and expectant. You clear your throat and force yourself to continue. “So...you know how I…” You search for the right word, but there’s really no other way to say it. “...inherited you guys from my uncle?” 

Taehyung’s eyes flick toward Jimin and the leopard hybrid brushes his tail against the tiger’s. Silent communication you couldn’t even begin to decipher. “Yeah,” Yoongi says, tossing his chopsticks down and leaning back in his chair. “I told them.”

That was right. What you’d blurted out at Yoongi yesterday on the street you had yet to disclose to his juniors. “Thanks, Yoongi,” You tell him, meaning every word of it. He’d spared you from yet another uncomfortable conversation. 

“...For what it’s worth, we’re glad it’s you,” Taehyung tells you, his tail twining around your ankle under the table. He looks at his hyungs for confirmation and when neither of them deny it, he settles his amber gaze back on you. “We like being here with you, even if you didn’t pick us. It’s...It’s nice.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips at his words. He beams at you, his boxy smile soft despite the sharp incisors poking his bottom lip. “I like having you guys around, too,” you admit, taking the time to meet each of their eyes. Jimin purrs as you look at him, the corners of his mouth curling. When your gaze meets Yoongi’s, his ears twitch but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t blink either, just holds your stare with an intensity that makes heat crawl up your neck. You suddenly remember the warm stretch of his body over your’s, the sensation of his lips against your neck. You snatch your eyes away and cough to cover your lapse in speech.  “It would’ve been scary, I think, if I had to deal with all this alone.” 

You couldn’t even imagine it.That clinically clean apartment with its blank white walls and its imposing emptiness would have driven you down until you couldn’t stand it anymore. You’d always had a little pit of loneliness inside you. You didn’t know how long it’d been there. Maybe it always had been, a seed of something sad and dark at the core of your soul. You’d done well keeping it contained. You felt it in your goshiwon, but your room was small. It couldn’t grow beyond your keeping. In Oliver’s penthouse, it would’ve had endless room to sprawl and with no one to clip it back, you would’ve choked to death on vines of doubt.

“There are others,” you tell them, before you can down spiral into the mire of your own thoughts. “He bought other hybrids before he died. They weren’t supposed to be coming until next week but their company wants me to come get them today.” 

The mood at the table shifts almost immediately. Taehyung’s ears and tail sag, Jimin’s smile goes sharp at the edges and Yoongi’s lip curls. “How many others?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You notice he does that when he’s nervous or uncomfortable. It’s a defense mechanism, no matter how at ease it makes him seem. 

“Four,” you answer and the bobcat hybrid’s ears tilt back in irritation. “Two are coming home today and the other two toward the end of next week.” Jimin doesn’t say anything, but you see the tip of his tail flicking back and forth. He’s annoyed. Taehyung drops a hand onto the smaller hybrid’s back and rubs circles in it, trying to soothe him. 

“Maybe it’ll be okay?” The tiger hybrid offers. He’s trying his best to be diplomatic, but you hear the strain in the deep timbre of his voice. “Having other cats around again might be nice. We used to live with a lot back at the center…”

You wince. “...they’re canines.” Almost immediately, all of their ears go flat against their skulls and they hiss in unison. Yoongi stifles himself the quickest, setting a hand on Jimin’s knee and squeezing to get the leopard hybrid to get a hold of himself. 

“Hybrids of different species don’t play well together,” he explains. “Especially not when our animals are solitary in the wild. The only reason Jimin, Tae and I are able to stand sharing the same territory is because we’ve known each other since we were kids and we’ve had to do it before.”

Before? A question forms in the back of your mind, but now isn’t the time to ask it.

“We don’t like sharing what’s ours,” Jimin continues for his hyung, interlocking his fingers with yours on the plastic table top. “It’s instinctual.”

“I know, I know.” You squeeze his hand lightly, trying to reassure him. “But the apartment is big; can’t you avoid each other starting out?”

All three of them give you a strange look and Jimin’s lips curl in a way that isn’t quite a smile. “...right,” he purrs, a little delayed. “The apartment.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, anxiety sinking its claws into you. “I’m really sorry to spring this on you guys, I know it’s not great, but…” Your shoulders sag. “I don’t want to have promised someone a home and rip the rug out from under them, you know?” You knew what that felt like. You wouldn’t wish that feeling on your worst enemy. “I’m just...I’m worried that they’re not being treated well.”

“They were up for sale,” Yoongi drawls. “They definitely aren’t.” 

The taxi ride back to Haneul Tower is uncomfortably quiet. Jimin still holds your hand and Taehyung still leans on your shoulder, but nobody says a word. You help them carry their bags upstairs and drop them off in the master bedroom. You’d told them they could have separate rooms if they wanted, but they’d insisted on sharing, so you thought it was only fair that they get the largest room in the penthouse. Clothes went onto hangars and into closets and before you knew it, there were only ten minutes until Mr. Seo’s arrival. 

“You don’t have to go,” Taehyung huffs. He’s got you wrapped in a bear- well, you suppose a tiger hug and his cheek is mashed against the top of your head. You don’t even think he’s actively scenting you at this point, just keeping you from leaving. “Send your assistant instead and stay here with us.”

You let out a puff of laughter and pat the hybrid on the back in a way you hope is soothing. “Mr. Seo isn’t my assistant, buddy, he’s my uncle’s attorney.” You give a little tug away from him and he lets you go, albeit with a sad little mrow that makes him sound just like a disappointed cat. “I couldn’t ask him to do that. The only reason he’s coming is because they broke the contract. And I can’t drive.” 

The look Taehyung gives you is so downtrodden that you toy with the idea of calling the whole day off and staying with them- but no. You can’t bail out now, especially not with what you’d put Mr. Seo through when the first group of hybrids were delivered. “I’ll be back before you know it,” You tell him with a steadfast smile. 

“You’d better,” Jimin says, nudging the taller hybrid out of the way. Taehyung gives a half-hearted growl, but settles as Yoongi squeezes his shoulder. “The longer you’re away, the longer you’ll have to sit in the stench of those mutts.”

You frown. “Jimin-”

“Only joking,” He soothes, bringing both of your hands up to his cheeks. You don’t believe him, but you don’t press it. The leopard hybrid nuzzles into your palms, purring happily at the feeling of your skin against his. Your palms nearly burn from how warm he is. You feel a warm puff of air against your fingers and tense as Jimin presses all ten of them against his lips. 

“Jimin.” Yoongi’s voice is hard, but his junior’s lips curl up in a satisfied smile, one of his incisors pricking at the pad of your index finger. 

“Hurry back,” he murmurs. You try not to shiver at the feeling of his plush lips moving against your oversensitive fingertips. 

“I’ll do my best!” You say,  a pained smile tugging your lips apart. He hums in response and drops your hands, his fingers trailing across yours as he lets you go. 

“Hyung,” he calls over his shoulder. “Is there anything you’d like to say to Y/N-ah?”

“Don’t let them scent you.” Is all Yoongi says as he breezes toward the stairs. “You know better now.” 

It’s as much as you were expecting. “I’ll see you guys later,” You tell them as you head out the door. “Finish setting your phones up and text me if you need anything!”

True to his word, Mr. Seo is parked out front at 4 o’clock on the dot. You haven’t seen him in a little over a week and you’d almost forgotten how imposing he was. He cuts a sharp figure against the backdrop of the bustling street, dressed in all black and leaning against a brand new Buick Enclave. The poor valet stationed at the front door looks like he’s been trying to work up the courage to ask to park his car for the past twenty minutes and sags in relief as you start heading over.

The lawyer dips his head in acknowledgement at you and checks his watch. “Miracle of miracles,” he says, popping open the passenger side door for you. “You’re on time.”

“I was late one time,” you huff, sliding past him and into your seat.

“And that was enough,” he snips back, closing your door before you can come up with a retort. You grumble to yourself, but don’t press him. You know he’s right. He’d gone out of his way to help you and you’d put him out. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him as he settles into his seat and reaches for his seatbelt. “It won’t happen again; I know you’ve got other things to do.”

He stills and looks at you over the gold frames of his glasses. For a long moment he holds your gaze, unblinking. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Had you done something wrong? 

Finally Mr. Seo blinks and finishes buckling himself in. “I apologize for staring, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard you correctly.” He push starts his car and pulls away from the curb. “I never thought I’d see the day a L/N would apologize to me.” He edges the car into the steady stream of Seoul traffic and you’re off, zooming toward the freeway.

Silence fills the car again, but as Mr. Seo takes on-ramp, you work up the courage to ask your question. “Did Oliver never apologize to you?”

Mr. Seo snorts and it’s such an undignified sound that you almost can’t believe it comes from him. “You could tell your uncle the sky was blue and he’d argue that it was red until he was. And your grandfather-” He seems to catch himself, reigning back whatever meager bits of his personality had managed to slip through the cracks in his normally flawless veneer. You’re all ears.

Up until a week and a half ago, you hadn’t known you had any family, much less an uncle who owned buildings and bugattis. Now you were finding out that you had a grandfather too. “What about my grandfather?” The word feels strange in your mouth. It’d been years since you’d followed the word ‘my’ up with any type of familial relation. 

Mr. Seo cuts his eyes at you, and flicks them back to the front. “Nothing,” he replies, clearly done talking about him. “I spoke out of turn.” He reaches forward and turns on the radio, the sound of national news filling the silence.

You pout and slouch in your seat, disappointment setting in as the promise of new information slipped out of your grasp.

The rest of the drive is easy. Mr. Seo takes the highway out of Seoul and up into the foothills but you’re asleep before he even finds the exit. You’d slept more in the past two days than you had in the previous three weeks, but it seemed like years of bad habits were catching up to you.

Last night, you’d passed out halfway through the second movie snuggled up between Jimin and Taehyung. They’d been so warm and soft and the quiet thrumming of their heartbeats had lulled you to sleep before you knew what was happening.You’d woken up with them still curled around you and -maybe most surprising of all- Yoongi plating breakfast in the kitchen.

Still, it seemed even twelve hours of the best sleep you’d gotten in years and a peaceful morning devoid of stress -for the most part- hadn’t been enough.

You wake up just as the asphalt transitions into gravel, the sound of it crunching under the tires and the car’s shaking waking you up. You’re bleary-eyed and confused, but a sign up ahead snaps you to wakefulness. Standing like a guardian over a chain link fence topped with barbed wire is a metal sign, imposing as it is tall: Black Mountain K-9s, written in stark font.

“We’re here,” Mr. Seo says, as if it’s not obvious. He kills the engine and without its purring to distract you, you feel nerves starting to boil in your belly. What kind of place was this? You half expect sinister organ music to kick on and lightning to start flashing from black clouds. Neither of those things happen, though. The sky remains startlingly clear and the only things you can pick up are the sounds of whistles being blown, dozens of people doing call and response, and one voice, louder than all the others screaming for people to ‘Run faster! Get those knees up!’

You pop the door and step out of the car before Mr. Seo can open it for you and head around to the nose of the car, taking in the compound. 

“This facility produces some of the highest caliber bodyguards in the country,” He says, coming to stand beside you. The attorney rebuttons his suit jacket and flicks his sleeves up before settling his arms over his chest. “Politicians, celebrities, even a few former presidents all have hybrids from this training center.”

“It looks more like a prison,” You remark, nodding toward the barbed wire. “First big cat hybrids, now this...Why didn’t Oliver just get regular pets if he was lonely? Was he worried someone was after him?” 

“Anything I can tell you would be pure speculation,” He replies, walking away from you and heading for the callbox. “Your uncle very rarely confided in me.”

“But you were his attorney.” 

For just a second, the tight grip Mr. Seo has on his composure slips. His lips press together and his shoulders sag- but just as quickly as it’d lapsed, his mask is in place again. “Yes,” he says after a beat. “I was.” And he presses the button on the call box before you can pester him with any more questions about the dead men he’d known.

The call box crackles to life, speakers squealing with feedback. You flinch and slap your hands over your ears to protect them from the splitting sound. Mr. Seo doesn’t react at all and you’re stunned, wondering how he can stand it.

“Seo Seunghan and Y/N L/N for Lim Hangyeol.” 

The person on the other end doesn’t respond. The speaker cuts and a second later, the metal gate before you starts rolling to the side, pushed by invisible hands. It’s like a curtain going up at the theater. 

Before you lies a wide, dusty yard, devoid of any plant life. The thick-trunked trees and lush grasses of the surrounding mountainside had been stripped down to the roots here. All that remains are a few weeds poking out around the base of the long metal buildings that ring the fence, and even those seem like an intrusion. People are making use of the space in whatever way they can. A group of people with matching cropped black ears and docked tails run past you in four straight lines, all perfectly in step with each other. Over to your right, there’s a pack of teenagers working in pairs to scale a ten-foot tall sheer wooden wall and in the center of the field, twenty kids are running through taekwondo forms, supervised by a widely smiling instructor.

You’re in awe of it all. Every single person is like a cog in a well-oiled machine, all in the same black tactical pants and compression shirt. You’d never seen so many hybrids in one place before and certainly not all of the same breed.

Mr. Seo places a hand in the center of your back, steering you away from staring and toward a squat cement building.You let him lead you.

“When we get inside,” the lawyer begins, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “Let me speak first. If we can get him to admit to breaching the contract right away, it’ll be much easier to get him to agree to a settlement.”

You frown at that. “Why would we settle?” You ask him. “It’s not like I need the money.”

“It’s a matter of principle, Ms. L/N.” He sighs, pulling open the heavy metal door and ushering you into the building. “He did something wrong, and it’s most easy for him to bear the brunt of atonement financially. Without requiring damages be paid for breaches, contract law would collapse.” 

“Can’t you just have him apologize?”

Mr. Seo’s mouth twists up like he’s just tasted something unpleasant. “As you attorney, it is my duty to advise you against accepting restitution in the form of an apology. You’ll get a reputation for being a pushover.” 

You wanted to be anything but. “Alright, alright,” you concede, “Do whatever you think is best.”

The building you’ve ducked into seems to be an office. Along one wall are a set of metal folding chairs doing their best impression of a waiting room. Along the other is a metal door covered in peeling paint and one suspicious dent bearing a plaque that reads ‘DIRECTOR LIM’. Set between you and it is a desk covered in a mess of paperwork. An old desktop stands among it like an island in the ocean and middle aged hybrid woman in coke bottle glasses is hunched before it, tapping away at the keyboard at a mind-boggling speed. One of her ears twitches as the pair of you approach. 

“Take a seat,” she orders in a reedy voice, not bothering to look up from her work. “The Director will be with you shortly.”

“Send them in, Eunjung!” Someone shouts from behind the metal door  just as she’s finished. She doesn’t look up or stop typing or even acknowledge you two again. Mr. Seo takes it upon himself to breeze past her desk and open the door for you. 

The office is militaristically organized, all right angles and bare metal surfaces. There’s a black leather couch that’d seen better days to your left as you enter, a half empty water cooler to your right. Bookshelves lined with trophies and textbooks dominate the western wall. You scan the titles as you pass: Predatory Instinct: The Teaching and Training Canines, The Utility of Force, On Raising Hybrids, The Art of War, all dangerous and daunting as the man they belonged to.

Lim Hangyeol is the most grizzled man you’ve ever seen and the only other human besides yourself and Mr. Seo in the compound, it seems. He looks like a drill sergeant from an old action movie, his salt and pepper hair buzzed short and his face craggy with frown lines. There’s a semicircle of pockmark scars marring the skin of his right cheek and as you get closer, you realize they’re teeth marks. You shoot a concerned look to Mr. Seo, but he’s more focused on giving the director a shallow bow than allaying any of your fears. 

“Director,” He says, straightening back up. “Thank you for having us-”

“Spare me the bullshit,” The older man orders, kicking back his office chair and sinking back into it. “Take a seat. Let’s talk business.” 

A cold smile settles on your attorney’s lips and you see a cord twitching in his jaw, but he merely nods and replies in a breezy voice, “Of course.” 

The two of you do as you told, settling into two metal chairs in front of his desk. These ones are nicer than the folding ones in the waiting room, but no more comfortable. You try to slide yours forward only to find that it’s bolted to the floor. 

“Stops the dogs from throwin’ em when they get bad news,” Director Lim tells you as you uselessly tug at the legs. “Got tired of replacing windows.”

You grimace. If the awards on the bookshelf, what Mr. Seo had told you and the dozens of hybrids running boot camp drills outside were any indication, the man before you must’ve had some idea what he was doing. You didn’t end up providing security for high profile public figures without a smidge of credibility, you knew, but the bite marks on his cheek, the little crack about people throwing chairs at him and the way he’d referred to them as ‘dogs’ didn’t inspire confidence in you. 

This was your first time visiting a place that produced hybrids, you realized. You’d never even been into a shelter before and certainly not a breeding center. Were they all like this? Devoid of anything soft or comforting, rigid with rules and regulations? Had Yoongi, Jimin and Taehyung come from a place like this? You don’t know and you’re not sure you’d like the answer if you did. 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice,” Mr. Seo starts, popping open the hinges on his briefcase and pulling out a few sheaves of paper. “After the sudden cancellation of your company’s contract with Ms. L/N, I was concerned for the state of our business relationship.” He slides one of the packets across the desk to the director. 

“If I remember correctly,” Director Lim says, scanning the lines of ink and unintelligible legalese, “Me and your boss signed for delivery, not me and whoever this little girl is you brought.” 

Your eyes narrow and your lips curl, but before you can give voice to the nasty thing crawling up your throat, Mr. Seo gives a subtle shake of his head and taps you twice on the knee, out of eyeshot of the director. You grumble, but cage it behind your teeth. 

“See?” The man jabs one gnarled finger at the page, right over your late uncle’s flourishing signature. “It says it right there: L/N Oliver. Last I checked, he was dead. I’m not holding on to a dead man’s dogs. ”

That same muscle tenses in Mr. Seo’s jaw. “The contract states that Black Mountain Canines would deliver the hybrids my client purchased to his residence on December the eighteenth and that they would be received by a proxy if he was unavailable. You were made aware of the fact that he was unavailable, as well as the fact that he now has a proxy-

“I’ll pay the goddamn fine!” The Director barks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Christ above, I don’t know why he wanted those two fuck-ups in the first place, but I don’t want them on my property a second longer.” 

You shoot Mr. Seo a look of confusion, but he just watches, blasé, as the Director rifles through his desk drawers. The man finds what he’s looking for and drops two manila folders on top of the contract. “The pair of them are useless. If it weren’t for my reputation, I’d’ve had them both sent to shelters years ago. Or put down, but you know how touchy the law is about that.”

“I don’t.” You say, your voice edging dangerously close to a snarl. It slips out before you can stop it. Mr. Seo shoots you a warning look and you ball your fists up in your sweater sleeves, fingernails biting crescent moons into your palms with the effort of keeping your mouth shut. 

You can’t stand this man, you decide. He’s awful. You should’ve known that from the moment you saw elementary school aged hybrids stumbling through taekwondo drills with their ears taped and bandages on their tails. You’re going to take whatever hybrids Oliver bought, get them the fuck out of there and never look back. 

If Director Lim had heard you growl at him, he gives no sign of it, just flips open the folders. “To be honest, I should be paying you to take them off my hands. They’ve been nothing but a pain in my ass since they aged out of training. I told your uncle he could have his pick of the litter for what he was paying, but he wanted a wide-eyed buffoon and a mutt who’d rip your hand off soon as look at you.” Clipped to the insides are photos of two men, staring back at you in black and white. 

One has the same black and tan cropped ears as every other hybrid you’ve seen thus far. Unlike them, he’s smiling. His eyes are little upturned crescent moons and he beams at you through the photo paper. There’s so much light in his face it’s nearly blinding. 

The other is not nearly as inviting. The photo is taken at an odd angle and it’s blurry at the edges, like whoever took it was much shorter than the subject and had to zoom in to even get the shot. His ears, larger than any of the other hybrids and longer furred, are pinned back against his head. His jaw is clenched and he glowers down into the lens, one eye soot black and the other piercing blue. 

There are stats listed on the pages behind their photos: height, weight, shot records and the like. Among them, you see their call signs, highlighted in yellow: Hope and Monster. 

“I don’t know where I went wrong with him,” the director says, tapping Hope’s photo. “He went through all the training, passed all the tests, but when it comes down to it, he just doesn’t have the instinct.” He gives a single shake of his head, clicks the tip of his tongue against his teeth. “No one wants a guard dog that’d sooner talk an intruder’s ear off than actually guard what he’s supposed to. He’s not good for much but nannying the pups, but he’s too soft on them too.”

A light bulb clicks on and you realize the hybrid in question had been the one instructing the kids outside in the center of the yard, his tail wagging a mile a minute as they completed another form correctly.

“Now this bastard…” the director continues, jamming a finger onto the second photo with so much force, it rattled the cup of pens on his desk. “Is my biggest failure.” He crosses his arms and kicks back in his chair, his dislike of the hybrid in question obvious. “His mother was the cornerstone of this facility for nearly a decade. I sold her pups to assemblymen and actors alike. Centers around the country wanted pups with her genetics. If it weren’t for her, we’d never have grown to this size.” He sounds wistful as he spreads his hands out, gesturing around himself like a king taking in his holdings. “But all good things come to an end,” He sighs. “A pack of wild hybrids settled a little higher up on the mountain.” His face darkens and his lips twist. “Wolves,” he snarls with all the disdain he can muster. 

“All that about them being noble and self-sacrificing? Complete and utter bullshit,” He scoffs. “They’re transient lowlifes who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you. At first I didn’t care. They stayed on their side of the mountain and I stayed on mine, but then they started sneaking down here at night to steal my food and fuck my dogs. By the time I managed to get the cops out here, they’d cleared out and my top breeder had gone with them.”

He let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “I tell you, I thought I was ruined. But wouldn’t you know it, she came stumbling back here six months later, barefoot and howling to be let in and heavy with some wild thing’s pup.” Director Lim snaps both the folders shut and slides them to you across the desk. “The thing about breeding hybrids is, the money’s all in the bloodlines. No one wants a dog with mystery genetics. The only way to solve that problem is to cut it off at the root- but it was already too late by the time she got here.” 

You feel sick to your stomach. You hope he isn’t implying what you think he is- that hybrid children he hadn’t planned out himself were mistakes in need of correction- but you know he is. Deep in your gut you know.

“And she spoiled him. She let him run roughshod over everyone and everybody in this compound. I tried telling her wild hybrids need a firmer hand- he certainly did if we were gonna break that wolf he’s got inside him, but she wouldn’t hear it. I tried to crop him with the other pups his age, he gave me these,” he said, gesturing to the teeth marks in his cheeks. “We keep him shut up away from the others, now, in the back when he can’t bother anyone. He gets his meals delivered but we don’t ever let him out.” The grizzled man shakes his head. “A drain on resources is what he is.”

“And his mother?” You ask, quietly. 

“Eunjung?” he questions. “You met her on the way in.” The director stands and unclips a ring of keys from his belt buckle, making his way around the desk and gesturing for you and Mr. Seo to follow. “I’ve got her doing desk work now. Gotta keep her close so she doesn’t cause any more trouble.” He pushes open the door to his office, barks something at his secretary and steps outside, not looking back to see if you two are following. 

You shoot Mr. Seo a look before you stand and he meets it, evenly. “We’ll discuss this in the car,” he says, stuffing papers back into his briefcase and flicking the clasps shut. Oh, you most certainly will discuss ‘it’ in the car. 

You don’t really know what it is or where to even begin. The kids with bandaged ears? The fact that Director Lim seemingly decided who was allowed to see the sun and who wasn’t? You think back to the conversation you’d had with Jimin, Taehyung and Yoongi last night. Right now, it seems years away, in some unreachable, idyllic past before you knew how breeding centers worked and how security hybrids were made. You feel foolish. Who were you to try to get them to let go of their pain and their hurt? If what they’d been through was even a little like what was going on here, they wouldn’t be able to for a long time. You’re angry. You’re disgusted. You are unquantifiably fucking sad. 

You pass Eunjung on your way out. In your time in the director’s office, she’s pulled her ash brown hair into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Peeking out of the collar of her sweatshirt you can see a faded scar in the shape of a ring, little puncture marks pale and glossy. It looked similar to the one on the director’s cheek, but this one was a complete circle and not ragged at all, like she’d stayed completely still while it was given. Teeth marks. 

You swallow. You want to do something, to give her some words of encouragement, but you have no idea what to say. You still don’t as you slow to a stop beside her desk, but you open your mouth to speak anyway. “I’m sorry,” You tell her, with all the sincerity in your heart. 

She doesn’t answer, but one cropped ear flicks toward you and her fingers slow in their incessant race across her keyboard. 

You turn to go. Mr. Seo was holding the door open for you and you can hear the director barking orders at a group of trainees to run an obstacle course faster. Just as you set foot over the threshold, she speaks. Her voice is so quiet, you have to strain to hear her over the steady clack-click-clack of her nails on the keys. 

“He likes green things,” she says, not looking up from her work. “And old books.” 

You look over your shoulder at her. Her face is a mask of neutrality, her eyes clear and her mouth set in a relaxed line. She looks fine, but there’s an ocean of meaning behind her words. You see her, just for a moment, as she’d been all those years ago, barefoot in the snow and begging for shelter, her stomach full with one of the moon’s own children. You commit the sight of her to memory. Then you turn and you go.

The director is waiting outside, shielding his eyes from the sun and regaling Mr. Seo with some long-winded explanation on the best way to treat hip dysplasia in Doberman hybrids. “Where to?” you ask, effectively cutting him off mid-sentence. 

The man gives you a disgruntled look but despite the anxiety you feel spiking in your belly, you meet it evenly. Once upon a time, anyone in a position of authority looking at you the way he was would’ve sent you into a tailspin of self-doubt and nerves, leaving you shivering as your heartbeat thrummed in your ears, warning you of non-existent danger. If you were honest, it still did- but you didn’t have the luxury of running away and hiding anymore, not when there were people who needed you. 

“Hope’s bags are in the barracks. He just needs to grab them, and he can be on his merry way,” The direction grunts. “Monster’s still locked up, so I’ll-”

“I’ll go.” You can feel Mr. Seo stiffen beside you. 

“Ms. Y/N-”

“If he’s really that aggressive,” you start, your eyes not leaving the director’s for a moment. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to meet him now instead of when we’re packed into a car on a two hour car ride?” Director Lim narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t falter. You hold your hand out for the key. Your boldness surprises you. He drops the key ring into your open palm and you wrap your fingers around it, stuffing it in your pocket before he can snatch them back. You turn on your heels and march off in the direction he tilts his head in, nothing but a hiss of your name from Mr. Seo’s lips to accompany you. 

You walk quickly, eyes straight and willing your legs to go faster with every stride. It’s a long way across the compound but the less time you spend walking, the less time you have to stew in anxiety. None of the hybrids training in little packs spread across the yard pay you any mind- except for Hope. 

Your path takes you directly behind the group of kids he’s working with. You give them a wide berth, not wanting to disturb them, but you get a little distracted. Your steps slow for just a moment as you drink him in. He’s tall- the same height as Taehyung, if you’re judging it right, but there’s an ease about him the tiger hybrid hasn’t yet mastered. Everything about Taehyung is pulled in. He’s always coiled tight, like he’s preparing to spring forward at any moment, all his energy drawn into the center of his being. Even last night, when you’d been cuddled up with him on the couch, he’d pulled you tight against his side, shifting and rearranging himself til you both fit on one cushion. He’d held you tight through both films, his tail curled around the both of you and his spine tight, like if he let himself relax for a moment, you’d both turn to dust on the wind. 

Hope has no such fear. Everything about him is spread wide open, from the heart-shaped smile on his lips to his arms as he demonstrates a series of punches to his little pack of students. They all watch him with rapt attention, ears perked up and bandaged tails wagging. One of them asks him a question and he laughs, ruffles their hair. He laughs in a way you’ve never seen before, shoulders shaking like he can’t contain the force of it alone. It makes your heart flip. 

His ears twitch, picking up the change in the cadence of your footsteps. He looks up and your eyes meet for the first time. He looks surprised to see you, for a moment, face blank- but then it melts into a soft smile, brimming with affection you’ve done nothing to earn. You snatch your gaze away and fix it to the dirt in front of you, embarrassed at being caught. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him cock his head to the side in confusion, but he doesn’t go after you. All the better, you’re all but running away from him now. 

You shuffle across the compound in a blur of scuffed sneakers and frayed nerves. You barely give yourself time to look up at the small cinder block building before you, shoving the key in the padlock before you can lose what unearned confidence you have left. You twist it, yank the rusted thing open, take a deep breath and enter.

You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but it’s certainly not what you find. The way Director Lim had spoken about him and this place, you’d been expecting cobwebs on the ceiling, blood spatters on the wall and rusty nails on the floor. What’s before you is almost entirely the opposite.

The room is a veritable Eden. 

There are vines climbing every available wall, wrapping around structural posts and digging their way between concrete blocks. Every surface is crammed full of flowering plants in makeshift pots: lilies in old water jugs, violets in a worn out boot, black-eyed susans dripping orange petals from an upturned helmet. The floor is in a similar state, ferns and foxgloves turning what little space around his bed there is into a meadow. It’s beautiful. 

“He likes green things,” you marvel, stepping into the room and pushing the door shut behind you. It seemed every living thing that’d been uprooted to expand the compound had found a second life here, sheltered from the Director’s violence. Maybe the hybrid who lived here had too. 

A plant different from all the others catches your eye. It’s set up on the cardboard box serving as his bedside table and it’s the only one in a real pot from what you can tell. It looks just like a miniature tree, complete with knobs on it’s trunk and tiny leaves. You let out a little sound of wonder and crouch in front of it, your fingers reaching out on their own to trail across the delicate branches-

A massive hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you cold. “Don’t touch that.” 

You hadn’t heard him approach, but now you knew he was there. You could feel his presence behind you, heavy and warm. He’s looming over you. You swallow and make your arm go limp in his grip. No need to give him a reason. “I won’t,” You tell him. “Will you please let go of my wrist?”

He drops your arm without protest and relief floods your body. You weren’t sure if there was a hybrid version of lockjaw and you certainly weren’t itching to find out. You sit back on your heels and struggle to your feet, still hyper aware of the person behind you, his eyes boring holes into the back of your head. By the time you turn around, he’s back where he came from, standing in the entrance for a bathroom you hadn’t seen, half hidden behind a curtain of vines. 

He looks different than the others. You’d been expecting that, but the full-length fluffy tail held stiffly behind his back and the long-furred ears pointed away from you are still a surprise. His fur, instead of being in rigid black and tan points, is marked by whorls of black, brown and gray. Instead of the lean musculature all the other hybrids had -all trim waists and narrow ankles- he’s sturdier, his shoulders broad and the veins in his forearms popping as he clenches his fists. He’s looking at you with that mismatched glare, his chin tilted toward his chest and his eyes shining aquamarine and obsidian. 

“If you’re new,” he starts, voice raspy. “They should’ve told you: you’re supposed to knock before you come in.”

“No, I’m not-”

“You can leave the food over there.” He nods toward a little plastic folding table jammed into one corner. It’s the one surface in his room that’s devoid of plants and there’s nothing on it besides a metal cafeteria tray, licked clean. “I won’t move when your back is turned.”

“I’m not here to deliver your food.”

He frowns, brows drawing together as his shoulders tense. “Then why are you…?”

You ball your hands up in your sweater sleeves and turn to face him full on. “I’m here to take you home with me.” You tell him. “They didn’t tell you?”

He laughs, but it’s a cold sound, devoid of joy. “Nobody tells me anything.”

Based on the short conversation you’d had with Director Lim, his sudden cancellation of contracts and the way he seemed ready to bulldoze over anything and everyone that didn’t fit his agenda, he didn’t seem the sharing type. Still it was hard to believe he hadn’t told him he’d be leaving the compound that’s been his home for over twenty years. 

“You don’t have to come with me,” you add, softly. “If you don’t want to. I know I’m a stranger. But you can leave-”

“I can’t go anywhere.” He taps the collar around his neck. At first, you’d thought it was the same as the ones every other hybrid had been wearing. You can see now that it isn’t. Theirs had all been leather with thin silver buckles holding them in place. His was leather too, but the band was broader and double-layered. There’s a little box on the side with hinges and a small drawing of a lighting bolt. A shock collar. 

Your stomach turns. 

You take a slow step toward him, but the second you do, his ears go flat against his head and he pulls his lips back, revealing sharp teeth. You freeze, hands held up and the keys dangling from your thumb. “I have the keys,” you say, extending them toward him. 

His eyes flick from your face, to the keys in your hand and back again, like he doesn’t believe what’s happening, like he can’t believe you’d actually want him free. The silence drags out into a little eternity before he speaks again. “If I try to unlock it, it’ll shock me.”

You blink up at him and risk another slow step forward, hoping you’ve caught his meaning correctly. This time, he doesn’t growl but his ears stay pinned back as he watches you through narrowed eyes. You close the distance between the two of you. 

When you were six, your mom scraped together enough money to take you to Busan for your birthday. You’d spent the day down at the beach, building sand castles with sea shell windows and wading through tide pools. After the sun had set, someone had set off fireworks and you’d watched them cuddled up in your mom’s arms, eyes wide and filled with a riot of colors you had no name for. It’s strange, you know. The ocean is miles away, but that’s what he smells like: the sea and the sand, and the last curls of smoke from homemade bottle rockets. He smells like that day. 

You lift your hands to the clasp on his neck and slide the key home. You twist it and the collar falls to the ground, a monster that can’t hurt him anymore. His skin is warm under your fingers, but puckered with scar tissue. There’s a ring of it around his neck, branching with whatever current had run through him in different directions. There’s no way this was legal, no way anyone with half a heart could treat another person like this. Your fingers trail one of the splits over his adam’s apple and he swallows beneath your touch, snatching your wrist again. 

“Dont.” His voice is cold. You blink, shaking off whatever spell you’d been under and shuffle back quickly, eager to give him space. He cradles his throat with one long-fingered hand, massaging the skin. He rolls his neck and you look away. You shouldn’t stare; the last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable. “I’ll go with you,” he rasps, answering the question before you can ask it again.

You gape for a second. You really hadn’t expected it to be that easy. “Really?” You can’t stop a note of relief from creeping into your voice.

“Anywhere’s better than here.” He answers back. So, you were a means to an end. It doesn’t bother you. You’ll be whatever you need to be to get him away from this place and that man who seemed to only want to drive him down. 

“Do you need time to pack, or-?”

He gives a firm shake of his head. “There’s nothing from this place I want to keep.” And that’s the end of it. You push open the door and stride back out into the cold mountain air, trying your best to exude the confidence you know you lack. The hybrid slinks behind you, head hunched between his shoulders and every step stiff. He hesitates at the threshold and looks up at you, uncertainty written in the rigid line of his spine. He’s nervous. He has every right to be. 

How long had he spent in that little cinderblock room, shut away from every living thing? How long had he spent being told that he was a monster? You didn’t believe it, not for one second. No one who was as violent as the director had painted him out to be could’ve raised that garden. 

He leans out of the door frame, sniffs the air and lurches forward, out of the shadow of his room, His shoulders bunch up even higher around his head and he goes stiff like he’s waiting for a shock or a shot or a shout- but none comes. The sun is still shining and he’s barefoot in the sand, standing for the first time in years under the open sky. He exhales in a short puff and it looks like he’s going to walk beside you- but he turns on his heels on goes back inside. 

You make a little noise of distress in the back of your throat. Had he changed his mind? Did he not want to come with you anymore? You go to call his name out of concern- but realize you don’t know it. All you have is the call sign he’d been given and you sure as fuck aren’t calling him ‘Monster’. You don’t have to flounder for long. He comes back out two seconds later, cradling the bonsai that’d caught your attention to his chest. 

“I’ll take this,” he mutters, shuffling into place behind you. You can’t smother the smile that starts tugging at your lips. Yeah, no one hateful would hold a little tree with as much tenderness as an infant. 

You give him a little nod. “There’s a terrace where I live,” you tell him, starting your trek across the yard once again. “It’s got a garden and a little greenhouse on it. It’s not very big, and it’s not as pretty as your’s, but you could grow new things there, if you wanted.”

His ears twitch in response, but he keeps his glower firmly focused on the plant in his arms as he shuffles along beside you. It’s then you notice he’s barefoot. “Do you wanna go back and get your shoes?” You ask, trying to make the question sound as innocuous as possible.

“Don’t have any,” he grumbles back. “Don’t need them; I never go outside.” 

Alright, that was understandable. Your first stop when you got back into the city would be a shoe store to get him a pair to wear- or maybe not with the way he kept flinching every time a whistle blew and his ears were swivelling like satellites at each new sound that reached them. You chew the inside of your lip. You don’t want to ask, but you know you should. Better to rip the bandaid off now, than get surprised later. “How long were you shut in for?”

“Fourteen.” He bites out. 

“...weeks?” You venture. There's a hopeful uptick at the end of your words. Even that would’ve been horrible, even that would be worthy of the litany of profanity you’re mentally lobbing at Director Lim- but it’s still better than the truth. 

The hybrid cuts a flat look at you out of the corner of his eyes. “Years.” 

A wall of your scent hits him like a freight train, vacillating between the thick, cloying odor of sadness and the burn of anger. His nose wrinkles at it, brows drawing together in confusion. 

However little you might’ve known about hybrids, however limited your view of them was, you knew they weren’t supposed to be locked up. Domesticated hybrids like hamsters and cats might’ve been fine inside a house all day, assuming they still had regular interaction with people- but dogs weren’t. And he was half wolf. Wild, he’d have had dozens of square miles to roam over, and he’d been limited to a four-by-four yard room for fourteen years. Your goshiwon was a similar size, but it hadn’t been your whole world. All he’d had was one tiny window and what narrow view he’d managed to glimpse in the doorway when his meals were delivered. 

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’re cut off by a scream of delight and a snarl keying up in the hybrid next to you’s chest. Your jaw snaps shut with a click. 

A few yards ahead, there’s a group of kids wrestling in a massive pile. They’re all giggling and rolling over each other, tails wagging a mile a minute as they play bite and make grabs for the person at the center of their puppy pile. A head of black hair and a pair of cropped ears pop up and you see that it’s Hope, smiling bright as the sun as his students try to pin him. 

“You can’t leave!” One particularly determined kid yips, adamantly pushing his shoulder back to the sand. “Who’s gonna teach us?”

Hope just laughs.”Lisa is gonna teach you with the older kids-“

A chorus of disappointed barks and howls breaks out. “Ms. Lisa’s classes are too hard!” A little girl complains.

“Yeah!” Someone else chimes in. “And she’s strict!” 

The hybrid ruffles both kid’s hair affectionately, careful of their bandaged ears. “Just because she won’t let you get away with skipping night practice doesn’t mean she’s strict,” he laughs. He’s only met with more grumbles and complaints. 

It warms your heart to see. Even if these kids were at the mercy of their director -for now, at least- it was good that they had him to rely on. Your eyes meet and the sheer force of light in his face makes your own heat up. You look away, but he’s spotted you. He disentangles himself from the mess of kids and draws himself up to his full height. He’s in the same uniform he was in before, albeit with a black tactical bag now strapped to his back. He takes a step toward you and the wolfdog hybrid's ears go flat against his skull. He’s not deterred. “Joonie?”  It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to the hybrid next to you. “Kim Namjoon, is that you?” Hope takes one step forward and the hybrid - Namjoon - takes a step back to counter him. Hope looks like he’s going to advance again, but a small pair of hands wrapped around one of his own stops him. 

A little girl is holding on to him. She can’t be more than six years old. Her tail is still long and her ears are still floppy and she looks so small in her child-sized boots and cargo pants. “Mr. Hobi,” she whines, her head craned back to look up at him. “Please don’t go.”

He falters. His eyes flick from the pair of you back down to her, then he crouches, holds both of her hands in his. “I have to, Sowon-ah,” he says softly. 

She sniffles pitifully and juts out her lower lip.”But why?” 

It’s a fair question. You’re about to tell him that he doesn’t have to come with you if he  doesn’t want to, but he beats you to the punch. “Because it’s my job, sweetheart,” he tells her, smiling softly.

“Y-your job is to teach us,” she hiccups back, face growing blotchy as tears well up in her eyes. Hope swipes one of them away with his thumbs. 

“I teach you so you can grow up well and protect your person, right?” She nods, little hands balling the fabric of her cargo pants up in her fists. “Right. Well this,” he continues, turning and looking at you with a soft smile. “Is my person. And I’ve gotta go make sure she stays safe.” 

You feel your heart jump into your throat. He’s looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky and you don’t deserve it. You’ve done nothing to warrant that much unearned loyalty. Sowon rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands and Hope pulls her into a tight hug. 

“Ah, don’t cry, Sowon! You’ve gotta make sure you get stronger so someone takes you home, okay? You don’t wanna get old and still be here like me, right?” He squeezes her and goes to stand, but gets mobbed by his students again, all wanting their own hugs and making him swear to write them letters. It takes another five minutes of tearful goodbyes and Director Lim approaching for them to turn him loose.

“Get back to your training, all of you!” He barks, stomping out of the office and slamming the door, Mr. Seo on his heels. The kids scatter to the four winds almost instantly, not wanting to be underfoot for whatever scolding the director was about to deal out. Hope’s face remains the same but you catch his ears droop just a little as his students leave him. The wolfdog hybrid- Namjoon, you remind yourself- on the other hand has his ears flat against his skull. A growl bubbles up in his chest and rips past his lips. It’s a dark, full bodied thing that has you taking a step back and Hope shrinking with a whine. 

“Joonie-” he pleads. 

“Don’t fucking call me that.” All the fur on Namjoon’s body is standing on end, from the points of his ears to the tip of his tail. Even his hair has fluffed out. His mismatched eyes are narrowed, lips pulled back in a snarl that reveals his incisors and all that fury, all that rage, is leveled on Director Lim. 

To his credit, the grizzled man doesn’t shrink back an inch before the enraged hybrid. His lips twist and he yanks a little remote out of his pocket, mashing a red button in the center. Namjoon flinches, his hands fly to his neck- but nothing happens. The shock collar is gone and the director has no power over him anymore. 

The man in question’s eyes widen, flicking between the remote to the column of Namjoon’s throat, now devoid of his one element of control. “Where’s his collar?” He demands. “How the hell did you get your collar off?” He advances on the tall hybrid, his hand in the air and though he doesn’t stop snarling, Namjoon ducks his head, anticipating the blow. 

You don’t know what moves you. Maybe it’s Hope pleading for it all to ‘stop, just stop!’. Maybit’s how Namjoon knows exactly how to move when he’s about to get hit. Maybe it’s your own lack of self-preservation. Whatever it is, you blink and you’re in front of Namjoon, your hand up and clutching the director’s forearm, stopping him from striking the hybrid behind you. You’re not strong enough to stop him, not fully. Your elbow buckles in and you stumble back, your back pressing into the wolfdog hybrid’s chest.

The director yells something at you, red flooding his face. You can’t hear him over the rushing of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart. You force a dry swallow down your throat, put on your bravest face and glare up at him. “Don’t hurt him anymore.”

He reaches out with his free hand to tug you out of the way, but before he can touch you, Hope is there. He presses close to your side and holds the director’s wrist firm, his eyes on the sand and his shoulders hunched up by his ears.

Director Lim looks angry enough to spit. “Hell of a time for you to grow a backbone,” he snarls at Hope, making the doberman hybrid flinch. “I want all four of you off my property now.” He snatched his arms free and you don’t miss the nasty glare he casts at Namjoon. “And if this mutt ever shows his face around here again, I’ll-”

“Director Lim,” Mr. Seo cuts in, his voice cool. “You’ve made yourself clear; we’ll leave. You needn’t make threats.” There’s an underlying warning in the attorney’s voice. The director locks his jaw.

“Get out.” He breathes. Hope ducks around him, his head low and his docked tail pressed close to his back. If he could tuck it, you think he would. You follow after him, eyes fixed straight ahead and your back ramrod straight. He might’ve scared the shit out of you, but you weren’t going to let him see that. Mr. Seo fixes you with a hard look and the second you’re within arms reach, he presses a hand to your back and ushers you toward the gate. The only one who remains is Namjoon.

He looks like his anger has rooted him to the spot. His ears are still flat against his head, his lip still curled. 

“Do it, boy,” the director taunts. “Give me a reason-”

“Namjoon.” At the sound of his name, his ears prick up and you turn around. It’d come not from Hope- which you’d expected, seeing as he seemed to be the only one who actually knew his fellow hybrid’s name- but from the open door of the office building where Eunjung stood. She looks at him, her expression unreadable and he stares back. All the tension in his body has shifted and for a moment, you think he’s going to spring toward her and fall into her arms- but she gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head and his face hardens. His arms tighten around his bonsai. You think you know, now, why it was the only plant in his room that had a pot. 

“Go,” she says and all the tension leaves him. His shoulders curve in and he drags himself past the director, out from the fence and toward Mr. Seo’s car. There’s something final about the way the gate rolls shut after him. If you hadn’t known better, you’d’ve sworn you heard him whine as it locked. 

The car ride down the mountain is...interesting to say the least. Hope insists that the seating arrangements inside the Buick be done to his specifications,( “You’ve gotta sit in the middle,” he tells you, pointing to the narrow center seat. “And Joonie and I will sit on either side of you to protect you in case we crash!” His tail is wagging a mile a minute behind him. You’re surprised it can move that much, given how short it is. Mr. Seo looks affronted at the unintentional jab at his driving and Namjoon just looks irritated. “I told you to stop calling me that.”) and he keeps throwing an arm across your middle everytime the car hits a bump. You’re going down the side of a mountain. There are a lot of bumps. He also keeps pressing his nose against the glass of his window, ears pricked up and trying to take in every tree that passes by. Namjoon, on the other hand, slouches back in his seat, his body curved around his plant and ever so slightly away from you. He still watches the world pass by, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of you or speak- which would be fine if anyone else would. Hope seems to be doing his best to appear stoic and alert every time you look at him and Mr. Seo seems comfortable with the quiet. So, you’re left to ride the two hours back to Seoul in silence. 

You almost cry with relief when your phone buzzes with an incoming text. You fish the device out of your pocket, thumb it to life and scan your notifications.

Unknown Sender [7:13 PM] where are you

You frown. Very few people had your number or any reason to text you. You’re about to chalk it up to a wrong number when the second text rolls in.

Unknown Sender [7:14 PM] it’s yoongi

Now that’s a surprise. When you’d hurriedly told the boys to text you, you’d been expecting Jimin to urge you to hurry or for Taehyung to ask for updates, not for their hyung to check your progress. A little smile pricks at your lips as you rush to reply

You [7:14 PM] We’re on the way back now!

Unknown Sender has been changed to Yoongi 

Yoongi [7:14 PM] can i call

You bite the inside of your lip, suddenly nervous. You know there’s no reason to be. After all, you tell yourself, what’s scary about a pair of roommates talking on the phone? You give him the go ahead and not three seconds after the delivered notification pops up, you get a call. You answer it on speaker.

“...Hello?”

“Did you just start driving?” Yoongi’s voice is thick with sleep, like he’s just woken up. It’s different than normal, his usual smooth drawl gone gravelly. 

“Y-yeah,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Hope is watching you out of the corner of his eyes and Namjoon’s ears have swiveled back toward you. “It’s gonna be awhile, still. Are Taehyung and Jimin-”

“They’re fine; They ate dinner earlier and they’ll be asleep til you get back.” He yawns and you picture him slouched on the couch, his hair mashed up on one side and his face puffy.  “Why do you sound nervous?”

“I’m not,” you counter. It’s a blatant lie and he knows it. He hums in doubt, but doesn’t press you.

“I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Do you want me to text you when we’re close?” It’s an innocuous question. There’s no reason you can see for him to pause as long as he does. For a second you think you’ve lost him- after all, mountains aren’t known for having great reception- but then you hear his breath fan over the receiver. 

“...Yeah.” 

You give a little nod you know he can’t see. “Okay.” He makes a little noise of assent and then his line clicks off. You hang up. Just as you do, another text comes through. 

Yoongi [7:16 PM] don’t let them scent you

“Who was that?” Hope asks in a small voice, pulling you away from your phone screen and Yoongi’s insistence that you remain scent-free. His tone is open, but you can tell by the way his knee is bouncing that he really, really wants to know. “Is that your husband?”

The bark of laughter that rips past your lips is out before you can think to stop it. Namjoon flinches and you wince at him in apology, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. Hope is frowning at you in confusion, his head cocked slightly to the side. You force yourself to calm and answer him. “No, Yoongi is not my husband.” You weren’t sure if you even really qualified as friends at this point. “He’s another hybrid that lives with me.”

Hope perks up in his seat. “You have another hybrid? Director Lim always told us that once we left the center, we’d be alone.” Your expression sours at the mention of the ill-tempered man and you shake your head. 

“No, there’s a lot of hybrids in Seoul,” you tell him, eager to dispel some of his misconceptions. “The three that live with me are named Yoongi, Jimin and Taehyung. Yoongi’s around your age, I think. Jimin and Taehyung are younger.” The doberman hybrid sits at rapt attention, soaking up every bit of information you give him and waiting eagerly for more. What else could you tell him about them? You remember the boys’ reaction that morning when you told them you’d be bringing dog hybrids home. “...They’re all felines,” you say, slowly, trying to gauge their reactions. 

“So that’s why you smell like that.” It’s the first words Namjoon’s spoken since you all piled into the car. You turn to him, but he’s not looking at you.

“What do you-?”

“You smell like other hybrids,” Hope says, covering for him. “But I’ve never smelled any that weren’t other dogs before.” He leans closer, his seatbelt stretching. You tense and lean away from him, but he’s not deterred. The tip of his nose brushes your neck and you have to fight off a shiver as he breathes you in. “They smell the same…” he starts, his breath fanning over your throat. “...but different? And one of them isn’t as strong as the others-” He presses closer, trying to catch the scent that’s eluding him. You make a noise of mild distress and lean further back, pressing into the solid wall that is Namjoon. 

“Hoseok, let it go .” Hoseok. That was his real name then. To your surprise, the dog hybrid pulls back as instructed, settling back into his seat without so much as a whine.

“I’ve never met a cat before,” he muses, turning his attention back to the window. “I hope they’re nice.”

You think about the chorus of hisses you’d been met with when you told the boys they’d have to share their space. You hope so too.

It’s 9:30 by the time Mr. Seo drops you off back in front of your building. He wishes you a good night and promises to call later in the week to discuss Black Mountain Canines. You’re not sure if there’s anyone to report him to or anything you can do, but you want to try. What you’d seen at the compound was wrong any way you looked at it. It made you sick to leave anyone there knowing how the director treated Namjoon and Hoseok. No one was useless. No one deserved to be locked away for years at a time for the sheer crime of existing. You’d make them see that. 

The moment you step out of the car, Hoseok is all wide smiles and exclamations. “Woah, you live here?” he asks, tilting his head back to take in all fifty-one floors of Haneul Tower in their sparkling, glass-paned glory.

“Yeah,” you tell him, handing him his bag. In his excitement to get out of the car, he’d abandoned it and Mr. Seo had nearly driven away with it. “But I just moved in a couple days ago, so it’s still pretty empty.”

Hoseok nods, scanning the windows like he’ll be able to pick out which one’s your’s. Behind you, Namjoon is lingering on the sidewalk.

He’s still got his bonsai clutched close to his chest and he’s hunched down around it like he’s trying to stop unseen hands from picking at it. His shoulders are bunched up by his ears, and he flinches with every car horn, every siren that comes to you on the wind. He’d grown up in the mountains and spent the better part of his life indoors. It only made sense that he’d be sensitive to the sounds of the city. 

“Is there a security system?” Hoseok asks, still enamored with the building. “How many entrances does your apartment have?”

“Just one second,” you tell him, forehead wrinkling as you take in Namjoon. You slide slowly toward the wolfdog, not wanting to startle him. “Namjoon?” He flinches when you call his name, head whipping toward you. “Do you wanna go inside? I know it’s new, but it’ll be quieter, I think.”

His mismatched eyes flick from you, to Hoseok, to the building and back to you before settling firmly on the concrete at his feet. He seems different than he had in the mountains. He’s smaller, quieter, less sure of himself. Was it because this is all new territory for him? Or had the snarling hybrid in the mountains just been a roll he was forced to play, the mythic monster to the director’s tyrant king. 

“You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to,” you tell him, in a voice you hope is reassuring. “We can wait, if you need to.”

“I’ll wait with you, Joonie,” Hope chimes in, giving the larger hybrid the same soft smile he’d given his students earlier. 

He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “It...it’s fine,” he mutters, “We can go in, I just…” He takes a few hesitant steps forward and huddles closer to you. There’s still an inch between you, but it’s closer than you’d thought he’d come. 

You peer up at him. “Okay?” You ask. He gives a single nod and your little group moves through the double doors and into the lobby. 

It’s quieter at this time of night. You don’t recognize the woman standing behind the reception desk. There’s no one really around except one man, pacing the width of the lobby looking thoroughly put out. You can’t really see his face, but there’s something familiar about the slant of his body. He whirls around as the glass doors click shut and you catch sight of a fringe of gray hair, pointed ears, narrowed yellow eyes and an all too familiar pout. 

Yoongi. 

“Fuck.” You’d completely forgotten to text him. Judging by the look on his face as he stalks toward you, he wasn’t happy about it. To his credit, Hoseok does his best to guard you, sliding in front of you and pushing you behind him. You can’t see Yoongi’s ears beneath the hat he’s wearing but if his curled lip and narrowed eyes are any indicator, they’re pinned straight back. 

“Move.” He snarls at the doberman hybrid. Hoseok is taller than he is, but the closer Yoongi gets to him, the smaller he seems to shrink. There’s fire in the bobcat hybrid’s eyes. Hope whimpers and slinks out of his way, ears low. 

You wince. “Heeeeey, Yoongi. I’m sorry I forg-“ before you can even finish the sentence, he tugs you toward him by the shoulders. His face roves your neck, sniffing in earnest as he tries to pick up the scent of the other hybrids on you. All is well until he reaches the right side of your throat and grazes over the exact spot Hoseok had nosed earlier. He pulls away slowly, his shoulders tight. His head turns slowly to the doberman hybrid, mechanical. 

“You.” He hisses at the other hybrid with so much virulence it makes your blood run cold. He takes one step toward him, teeth bared in a snarl, but Namjoon slides in front of him bumping him back. A growl bubbles in the bobcat hybrid’s chest and the wolfdog matches it, both their ears pinned flat against their skulls. 

“Hey-” If either of them hear you, they don’t react. They’re too focused on having a staring contest. “Hey!” You push between them, a hand on either of their chests. Namjoon snarls as you touch him and Yoongi looks ready to skin him alive for that alone. He pushes against your hand, trying to get closer to the taller hybrid. You ball your hand up in the fabric of his shirt. “Stop it!” The receptionist already has the lobby phone in her hand. She’s whispering earnestly into it and you’re sure security will be on the way any second. You exhale and squeeze your eyes shut. “Everybody, elevator.” 

Yoongi hurls an accusatory finger in Hoseok’s direction. “These fucking-”

“Yoongi, please,” you plead. That gets him to stop. His arm falls to his side and he glowers down at you for a few seconds before stalking over to the elevators and slamming the up button. “I’m sorry,” you murmur to Hoseok and Namjoon. The smaller of the two hybrids is still hunched in on himself and the taller has Yoongi fixed in his mismatched gaze, his lips curled in anger. 

This was not the way you wanted this to go. You’d wanted them to have time to settle before you discussed next steps and gave them the same talk you’d given the felines, but it didn’t look like that was in the cards. You don’t know what’s gotten into Yoongi. You’d thought the bobcat hybrid was calm, cool and collected, completely unflappable in the face of anything. Apparently not. He seemed upset that some of Hoseok’s scent had gotten on you, but there’d been no way to help that. You’d been packed in a car with him and Namjoon for two hours. It was inevitable, wasn’t it?

“It’s not okay,” you tell them, wanting them to know you didn’t condone the way Yoongi had acted. “I don’t...I don’t know why he’s acting like this; he doesn’t normally. Do you wanna go up separately?”

It’s Hoseok who answers. “No, we’ll go up together,” he assures you with a small nod. “If...maybe if we get used to each other, it’ll be okay?” 

You’re not optimistic, but you give him a pained smile you hope is reassuring. “Yeah, maybe?” You cast a look back over your shoulders. Yoongi is waiting by the elevators, his arms crossed over his chest and his tail flicking in irritation. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Well, there was no avoiding it. “Come on,” you tell them. “Just...keep to the other side, for now. I’ll stand between you and him.” 

The four of you pile into the elevator, all tucked into your own corners. It’s strange, you think. It’s never seemed small until now. Hoseok keeps casting worried looks over at you, Namjoon keeps subtly shifting closer and Yoongi is still glowering at the both of them, angry for a reason you can’t quantify. 

“If it helps,” Hoseok starts softly, his voice an intrusion in the awkward silence. “I really didn’t mean to, honestly-”

“Don’t apologize.” Namjoon counters. “If it bothers him that much, he can speak up” 

You don’t know what they’re talking about. It’s too late that you realize the canines aren’t addressing you. Suddenly, Yoongi’s fingers are hooked through one of your belt loops. He yanks you backwards and you stumble, falling against the length of his body. “My bad,” You shoot out, before the hybrid can hiss at you. “I just lost my bala-” The words die on your tongue as Yoongi fixes his mouth to the soft skin of your throat. The elevator goes quiet.

The canine hybrids avert their eyes almost instantaneously, instinct telling them they’re witnessing something they shouldn’t be. Yoongi keeps them fixed firmly in his sights, a dark growl bubbling in his throat. 

Your fingers flex uselessly at your sides, hands clenching unclenching as the hybrid works over the sensitive skin of your neck with his teeth and tongue. ‘Don’t make a noise,’ you plead with yourself. ‘This isn’t what it feels like. Don’t make a noise, don’t make a noise, don’t make a noise-’ Yoongi’s incisors graze over a vein and a little whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it. The grip he has on your hips becomes bruising. You feel your legs turning to jelly beneath you. Any more of what he was doing, and they’d have to mop you up off the elevator floor. You force your throat to swallow. “Y-Yoongi, I think that’s enough-” You don’t know if he hears you over the noise he’s making, so you lace your fingers through his and untangle them from your hips. He releases you with a wet pop and you slap a hand over the skin he’d marked. Heat floods your face and a smirk spreads across Yoongi’s, his teeth flashing at the canines. He leans in again to rub his nose against the mark he’d made- but a hand on his chest stops him. 

“Can you stop?” You ask in a small voice. Honestly, you’re embarrassed. Regardless of what the articles said about mark-making being platonic, it doesn’t feel friendly. It feels possessive and mean and you don’t like it. “I’m sorry I didn’t text you like you asked, but what is with you today?” Yoongi’s expression changes from smug satisfaction to confusion and then surprise, like he hadn’t expected you to protest. “I know what I said about you being ready but…” You rub a hand over the mark, wiping away saliva and your sweat. The bobcat hybrid visibly deflates. The elevator chimes for the fiftieth floor and the doors roll open slowly. You rush out before any of them can and start punching the code in your door with shaky fingers. You don’t know what to say. You’re tired and stressed and you don’t know what’s going on. Was this about the apartment? You knew the felines wouldn’t be happy about sharing their space, but why had Yoongi gone this far?

“Y/N…” He trails after you, his ears drooping. You shake your head, You can’t talk to him right now. 

“In the morning,” you tell him as the door swings open. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.” You can’t deal with everything that’s happened today, and Yoongi flipping out and getting the canines settled. You weren’t that good at juggling. 

By the grace of all that’s merciful, Taehyung and Jimin are still asleep when you walk in. You’d need to have an extended meet and greet tomorrow, you decide. Maybe do some icebreakers or team building exercises. If they reacted anything like their hyung did, you were in for one hell of an adjustment period. 

Hoseok and Namjoon trail you into the penthouse warily, sniffing the air. You want to give them time to explore and get their bearings, they deserve that, but with the way Yoongi still seems agitated when they venture anywhere but exactly in your steps, that’ll need to be saved until tomorrow morning too. You give them the most spartan tour you can muster up and show them each to a guest room, promising to order them furniture and get them the things they need tomorrow. 

By the time you collapse into your own bed, it’s damn near 11. You groan and drag a pillow over your face as you ask the universe for the thousandth time why it had decided to continuously kick your ass. Having three hybrids had been hard enough. Having five of all different species was likely to prove impossible and having seven was going to be a sisyphean task you’d had no training for. You groan and kick your feet in the air, allowing yourself the brief respite of a temper tantrum before crawling under your covers and flicking the lamp off. Maybe in your dreams there’d be no stress and no snarling hybrids with behavior you couldn’t explain.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 301: All My Todorokis

Previously on BnHA: We learned that when a bunch of superpowered villains are suddenly set loose with nobody around to stop them, things get fucked pretty quickly. Old Man Samurai and a bunch of other useless people decided to make “I pretend I do not see it” their new mantra, and resigned. Endeavor had a moment of despair on account of being crushed by the guilt of having ruined the lives of himself, his family, and basically everyone else in the entire world. For various reasons the heretical notion of “person who has done bad things feels sorry for doing them” sent fandom spiraling into a meltdown, so that was fun. The chapter ended with the entire Todoroki clan descending upon Enji’s hospital room to have a dramatic chat about Touya and All That General Fuckery.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi is all “here’s the story of how Baby Touya slowly went insane trying to win his father’s love.” It’s a tale full of subverted expectations and heartbreaking inevitability, and also like twenty panels of the cutest fucking kids who ever existed on planet earth, who are so fucking cute that I can’t stop thinking about their cuteness even with all of the horrifying family tragedy unfolding around them. It is absolutely ridiculous how cute they are. Touya is out here pushing his tiny body past its limits because he inherited the same obsession as his dad and neither of them can put it aside even though it’s destroying them, and yet all I can think about is Baby Shouto’s (。･o･｡) face. Anyways what a chapter.

so I have to confess that even though I managed to avoid being caught off-guard by the early leaks, the number of people reblogging my Endeavor posts from earlier this week and using the tag “bnha 301” kind of gave me an inkling that this chapter will include more Tododrama lol. that said, I don’t know anything else about it, so we’re still good spoiler-wise

AHHHHH FLAHSBAKC AHHHH. omg I know I typoed the shit out of that, but I’m just going to leave it lol I think it’s fitting

holy shit holy fuck. so this is Rei and Enji’s first meeting, then??

yepppp, oh shit

so wait, I know this is not even the slightest bit important, but are they meeting at Enji’s home or Rei’s? because I always figured that Enji was the one with the super-Japanese aesthetic, but maybe that was Rei’s side of the family all along

(ETA: from what I found during my very brief google search, omiai meetings are often held at fancy hotels or restaurants, so maybe that’s what this is.)

there’s such a period drama feel to this setting. like it’s so outrageously formal fff how can anyone stand this kind of atmosphere though seriously

OH THANK GOD

I mean they’re still stiff af but at least they’re not rigidly sitting in seiza and staring at each other unblinkingly anymore lol. Enji’s actually got his hands in his pockets now. why is this somehow almost cute

oh damn it’s the flowers

Rei seems so subdued and it’s so hard to get any idea of what she’s actually thinking. I want to see her side of this dammit

but anyway, so at least from Enji’s perspective it seems like even though the marriage was arranged and he picked her because of her quirk, he still loved his wife and wanted to do right by her. the fact that he was watching her and noticed that she liked the flowers, and remembered that detail for all these years -- there’s a reason why Horikoshi’s showing us this. we know what’s going to happen later on; we know how much fear and violence and breaking of trust is coming up ahead, and while it may seem like this scene is serving to soften Enji’s character further -- which to be fair it is -- it also helps drive home the full impact of his abuse. that it’s so terrible not only because of the trauma of the abuse itself, but also because of the way it retroactively destroys all of the good things as well. this could have potentially been such a sweet scene, but it’s inescapably tainted by the knowledge of what’s to come, at least for me. and that’s just brutal

anyways, shit. is the whole chapter going to be like this?? feel free to toss in something I can actually make a joke about sometime, Horikoshi

oop, back to the present

omfg lol

“are you all right” “NO I’M NOT ALL RIGHT WHAT THE FUCK.” “oh, right, because of all the stuff that’s happened with me abusing you and you having a mental breakdown and being hospitalized for ten years and then our son coming back to life and killing thirty people, right, right. I almost forgot.” whoops

omfg you guys I’m loving this new and improved steely-eyed Rei. I’m loving her a lot

and what do you mean “part one” fkjds how long is this going to be. TOO MUCH DRAMA FOR ONE CHAPTER TO HANDLE

oh, hello

yeah I’ll say you did. didn’t seem to bother you much at the time, though

HMMMMMMMMMMMM

Dabi Is A Noumu intensifies even further. anyways though would you fucking look at this boy lounging on this moth-eaten couch doing his best DRAW ME LIKE YOUR FRENCH GIRLS impression wtf

Dabi what if you actually had killed him??? what would you feel?? satisfaction?? regret?? anything at all?? tell me your secrets goddammit

who are you talking to buddy

Fuyumi-chan, Natsu-kun (is it common for brothers to address each other as -kun?? can’t recall seeing that in many other anime, but hey), and “dot dot dot,,,,,, SHOUTO” lol thank you so much for this bountiful heaping of Tododrama Horikoshi we are blessed

AH, WHAT DID I SAY THE OTHER DAY

ULTIMATE MELODRAMATIC THEATER CHILD. “I’M JUST GOING TO LIE ON THIS COUCH SHIRTLESS AND ALONE AND MAKE SPEECHES TO MY FAMILY MEMBERS WHO AREN’T THERE AND SAY THINGS LIKE ‘WATCH ME IN THE PITS OF HELL’ WITH A STRAIGHT FACE BECAUSE NO ONE’S THERE TO JUDGE ME.” WELL JOKE’S ON YOU MISTER CHATTERBOX BECAUSE I AM IN FACT JUDGING THE SHIT OUT OF YOU LOL

(ETA: and on a more serious note, it’s interesting to see that “look at me”/”watch me” theme being used again though, because we see that same sentiment uttered repeatedly by the younger Touya in the flashback. well kid, you definitely got your wish at last. don’t know what else to say.)

OKAY HORIKOSHI HAS DECIDED THAT’S ENOUGH FUN, TIME FOR MORE FLASHBACKS

oh my sweet precious lord

just as cute as we left him. giving us a child this cute when we all know full well what’s going to happen to him is just unspeakably cruel though

HOMG

I’m fucking speechless. you broke me, congratulations. what am I even supposed to do with this

I can’t get over this. moving forward my life will be split into two distinct parts, B.P. (Before the Pout) and A.P. (After the Pout)

and meanwhile there’s ALL THIS BACKGROUND ANGST BUILDING UP, AND I CAN’T EVEN FOCUS ON IT. Touya’s arm and cheek are covered in bandages (I’m guessing this is shortly after that “ouch!” panel we got some chapters back), and Enji is deliberately avoiding training with him because he doesn’t want him to hurt himself further. I can’t fucking get over the irony that all this time everyone thought Touya had died because Enji pushed him too far in his training, and it turns out that it’s the opposite -- the tragedy ultimately happened because he didn’t want to push him. but I’m jumping ahead of myself though I guess

by the way,

remember this?? just wanted to remind you that it exists just in case you forgot

so now someone is talking and basically saying that Touya is the exact opposite of what Enji was hoping for when he decided to start playing with quirk genetics

-- okay hold up

...lol no, never mind. for a second I thought “holy shit he looks kind of familiar WHAT IF IT’S UJIKO OMG” before I remembered that Enji would have recognized him during the hospital capture mission if that was the case. so NEVER MIND, PROCEED

IMAGINE THAT, ENJI DOESN’T QUITE SEEM SATISFIED WITH THIS SUGGESTION OF QUITTING NOW

(ETA: how the fuck did this man go around saving 62 towns in a single day what even is All Might.)

[clicks tongue several times] trouble a’brewin’

MEANWHILE BABY TOUYA HAS UNFORTUNATELY INHERITED HIS DAD’S STUBBORN STREAK

KLDIHWOEIJFL:KSDJ

!!!!!!!!!!!

oh my god. oh my god. what is this chapter. WHAT IS IT

so now Touya is all “YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND MY MANLY DESIRE TO BURN MYSELF ALIVE” well you got her there champ

THEY’RE TOO CUTE. OH MY GOD. HIS FURIOUS LITTLE TEARS. HER CHUBBY LIL FACE. HIS STUBBY LIL FISTS. SOMEONE HELP ME

also are they just home alone lol or what. “hey Touya, you’re what, like six now?? do us a favor and look after your baby sister for a couple hours for us would you? make sure not to set yourself on fire or anything.” WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG!!

now it’s nighttime and Enji and Rei are arguing, presumably about his decision not to train Touya anymore

whew. okay. so, a couple of things here

1. first of all I think this conclusively shows that Enji really was trying to do the best he could for Touya. he stopped training him as soon as he realized it was hurting him, but Touya was still determined so he tried to make it work anyway, and even visited doctors to try and figure out if there was anything they could do. then, once they were absolutely sure that it wasn’t going to work, he tried multiple times to explain to Touya why they had to stop. he didn’t just abandon him out of the blue, which is really important to note. “no matter how much I tried telling him...”

so yeah, that debunks another common fandom accusation. so by the time he finally makes this decision, which we all know is going to turn out horribly, it’s basically because he’s already tried everything else he could think of. which, by the way, still doesn’t mean he handled this right. but at the very least he was taking Touya’s feelings into account and he was trying, and he didn’t just abruptly toss his son aside (at least not yet)

2. buuuut, then there’s this panel right below all that

which is the other side of it. if he’d just quit like the doctor person advised him to, that would have been the end of it. Touya would still have been upset, but he would have eventually gotten over it and the family would have moved on and possibly even been happy. but what happens next happens because Enji can’t let go. he still has this maddening urge to surpass All Might, and so he and Rei keep having more children, and then Shouto is born, and Enji finally has a kid he can start projecting all of his hysterical ambitions onto once again, and everything starts spiraling out of control soon after

though p.s. none of that is Shouto’s fault though!! he’s one of the few good things to come out of this whole mess and I’m very happy that he exists. the tragedy is that his dad fucking lost his mind over his quirk and fucked everything up. but that’s on him, not Touya or Shouto

anyways, SLKFJLSHGLKJL

I CAN’T FUCKING TAKE THIS YOU GUYS??? LOOK AT THAT LIL BUTTON OF A NOSE??? I’M LOSING IT HERE???

AND TOUYA JUST SEEMS DEVASTATED OMG

because children aren’t stupid, after all. he understands that his dad is still looking to surpass All Might. and so he feels like a failure, and feels like his dad is trying to replace him because he wasn’t good enough. and even now, isn’t that what the adult Touya is trying to prove?? that he was good enough after all?? “I’ll show you what happens when you give up on me, dad”?? “I’ll show you what I can do”?? fuck my life fuck everything

AND YOU CAN SEE THE TOLL THAT IT’S ALL TAKING ON REI GETTING WORSE AND WORSE AS WELL OH GOD

really nice touch here with the panel outlines becoming all shimmery from the heat of Endeavor’s flames (and/or becoming more unstable as the family gets closer and closer to their breaking point). but man, Horikoshi I can’t handle this, please show us more cute kids or something I can’t

GKELKWFJLDKSHFLKL

WITTLE BABE. BEEB. BUBS. SMOL. lkj; oh ouch a piece of my heart just detached and latched onto him huh look at that

TODOROKI “I’M SO SMALL AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT’S GOING ON AND I DIDN’T ASK TO BE HERE” SHOUTO AHHHHH

crazy how they all just seem to know right off the bat lol. kid doesn’t even have object permanence yet, let alone a quirk. but do they care?? IT’S THE HAIR, RIGHT. WE’RE ALL THINKING IT, I’M JUST GONNA COME OUT AND SAY IT. they knew the minute they looked at him lol

AND MEANWHILE TOUYA IS OFF HAVING UNSUPERVISED TRAINING/CRYING SESSIONS IN THE MOUNTAINS OR WHATEVER, AND, UH OH

are those blue flames yet?? they seem pretty close

(ETA: this is one of the few cases where the manga being in black and white is infuriating lol.)

OH MY GOD AND STILL

so it’s not like he was so disinterested that he didn’t notice what was happening, and he was still trying to stop it and get through to him. trying to reassure him that it wasn’t the end of the world and there were other things he could do with his life, but this one particular thing just wasn’t going to happen

fucking hell. it’s agonizing seeing how close they actually were to fixing it. if he’d only said the right words, or if he’d realized at this point how destructive his obsession could be to his kids, and backed off from putting that same pressure on Shouto. we came so close to possibly having a happy ending

AND ALSO THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING BUT PLEASE LOOK AT HOW TOUYA IS LIKE THREE AND A HALF FEET TALL AND HIS DAD IS LIKE NINE AND A HALF FEET. Touya barely comes past his knees flkjlkg. the Todoroki household must have been so filled with like plastic stepstools to reach the bathroom sink and all the little baby toothbrushes, and baby gates to keep the kiddos out of the important grown-up rooms and stuff. and also days-old half-empty cups of water and stale crackers and hot wheels and my little ponies strewn everywhere

“BUT EVERYONE AT SCHOOL SAYS THEY’RE GONNA BE HEROES” a wild Deku parallel appears?? how bout that

I know this is like a pivotal moment in the Todo Tragedy and all, but fucking look at this lil dumpling

“sup bro, it’s me, the manifestation of your fears of inadequacy and lack of fatherly affections. a GAAA. ba-baAA-baa [gurgling baby sounds]”

OHHHHH IT’S THE SOUND OF MY HEART BREAKING OH NO

HE WANTS TO BE LIKE YOU ENJI. good lord somebody please just get this family some therapy

“DAD YOU IGNITED IT IN ME” flkjslkj nope, nope. not ready for this pain here

baby Shouto, would you like to weigh in on this affair? “DA!! ba-ga-daaa, [pacifier chewing noises]” oh my, you don’t say. so insightful for one so young

OH MY GODDDDDD

IT’S SO DRAMATIC BUT ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT ARE THE SHOUNEN WOOSH LINES SURROUNDING FOUR-MONTH-OLD SHOUTO LOL HE WAS LIKE THIS FROM BIRTH OH MY GOD I AM DYING HELP

SHOUTO YOU’RE RUINING THIS ENTIRE CHAPTER!?!?!

“yo, the fuck kind of family was I fucking born into” oh, son. if you only knew. IF YOU ONLY KNEW!!

(ETA: lmao I got so distracted by the ridiculous cuteness that I glossed over the fact that Baby Touya seems to possibly be aiming at him?? it’s hard to tell because he’s also super out of it from heatstroke and may just be losing control in his attempt to show off his upgrade.)

ANYWAY THAT’S THE END EXCEPT WHAT’S THIS LAST LINE OMG

ffffff. and we’re in for ANOTHER chapter of this next week?? MORE drama?? MORE BABIES?? MORE OF EIGHT-YEAR-OLD TOUYA’S SLOW DESCENT INTO MADNESS. MY HEART CAN’T TAKE IT, BUT ALSO YES PLEASE SIGN ME UP

[luminary-gremlin]

Magnum’s Escape Room

           “Ay, ye ain’t a REAL adventurer if ye can’t git through some silly escape room fer little ones!”

           “Oh yeah? Well then I’d like to see you go through it tough guy. Tell you what. I’ll wager with you, even though I’ll win. We’ll race. If you win, you can have my entire treasury from all my adventures over the years. If I win, which I will, I get to have the Googles set your new feet to 10 for a whole day and you have to do what I say, or else~”

           Illinois grinned confidently. He swung in a makeshift hammock out of the Captain’s sail. They were talking about their tales throughout their adventures and the treasures they found and how one has it so hard than the other, playfully mocking that the others isn’t so bad.

           The moment Magnum heard treasure his fist slammed down, effectively and accidentally breaking a barrel of mead. “Deal! And no cheatin’! Oh, and add that if I win, you’ll be me little prize for the day with the boys!”

           “Yeah, yeah no cheating.” Illinois rolled his eyes and shook his hand, crossing his fingers behind his back.

           Magnum stroked his beard happily and made his way to get changed, peeling off layers and layers of coats to reveal the beefy man. Illinois sat by his escape room, inspecting his nails for dirt when Magnum barreled through.

           “Glad to see you pops. You’re looking mighty fine all exposed. Wonder how you’d look when you see that I beat you.”

           Magnum sputtered with a growl, “Ye well I wonder what ye face will look like when you see that I beat ye!”

           “Sure pops, here I’ll make it even fairer for you.” Illinois stripped off his shirt to reveal them pecs and abs and rolled up his pants above his knees. He even grabbed some rope and tied his hands behind his back.

           They stood at their escape rooms, conveniently right next to each other. They got into their starting positions.

           “Ready, set, go!”

           Magnum barreled in with a yell and entered his large room. It was as if he was at sea again, the air smelt crisp. The sun felt warm on his skin. He thought about sailing without his jacket after that. Maybe rough around with his crew more. Magnum walked around deck for a bit, dipping his feet in the ocean, mewling at the chilly water and giggling when the fish thought his toes were bait.

           But that enjoyment was soon over. The sun began to go away, hiding behind the darkest of clouds, a harsh wave crashed the boat causing Magnum to fall off. Thankfully he grabbed onto the boat. With most of his body in the water, more fish came by to nibble at him. They were everywhere! The fish nibbled his feet, his thighs and knees, his hips, one tiny one fell into the crater that was his navel. So much nibbling was driving the Captain mad, especially since he hasn’t adjusted to his new feet. Eventually he felt something wrap around his ankle. He looked over to see a gigantic eye ball next to him.

           Magnum managed to pull himself up and brushed the fish and the tentacle off his ankle. His heart dropped when he realized what his test was.

           “The Kraken…”

           The Kraken slowly began to grab onto the ship, clinging and squeezing it to try and break it apart. With a shriek, it attached itself to the boat, the waves being too harsh for the Kraken to swim through.

           Magnum had trained himself for a day like this. He grabbed harpoons, which in this case were incredibly dulled down to be like toys. Magnum got too work and grabbed too anchors, licking his finger to find the direction of the wind and throwing the anchors in the wind’s direction. He began to take down the sails, as by now the storm was way too rough to sail in, along with a cranky kraken could throw the ship off. Magnum knew what he would have to do.

           Defeat the Kraken.

           “I’ll crush ye barnacles, savvy?!”

           The pirate cried out. He started bonking the harpoons on the tentacles and the kraken would react as if it was stabbed. Magnum was doing pretty well until a tentacle wacked him, causing him to drop most harpoons into the great sea. Magnum gasped and charged after the Kraken, another tentacle picking him up by the harpoon and trying to shake him off. Magnum held on like his life depended on it.

           That is, until the first tentacle made his way at him. It wrapped around him and Magnum thought it was the end until…

           “W-waHA? H-Hehehehey! Q-quihihihit it ye fihihihish brehehehath!”

           The tentacle traced his belly teasingly, the Kraken letting out a fond coo. Yes you see this was a tickle monster Kraken! The Kraken cooed and continuously tried to shake Magnum off, and when he wouldn’t the tentacle traced his outstretched underarms. On top of the tracing, the suction cups gave his belly and underarms mini kisses and giggles.

           Poor Magnum simply couldn’t hold on and let go to protect the hidden pits. Usually his coat was so thick that it made him invulnerable and because of that, his pits were rather tender. The Kraken tossed the spear away into the sea and gurgled pleasantly.

           It threw Magnum in the air and caught him by his ankles, effectively holding him upside down. Magnum sighed defeatedly, that is until he saw one final harpoon on the ship. He kept his eye on it as he tried to figure out a way to get to it.

           Of course Magnum didn’t see the Kraken touch his sole, uttering a squeak out of the man and he covered his mouth embarrassingly. He’d giggle as it would trace up and down his large soles but he had to focus! He grabbed a net and wrapped it around the support beam of the ship, slowly pulling himself towards the deck.

           The Kraken gasped and began to increase the intensity for its playmate. Using its suction cups to kiss the balls of his feet.

           Magnum stumbled a bit but kept headstrong. Slowly and surely he was making his way to the harpoon, his body stretching considerably as he reached for it. The Kraken noticed his stretched out form and used it for an advantage. A tentacle slid into Magnum’s undershirt and teased his large belly and waist evilly.

           Magnum let out a hearty laugh, the hardest he’s laughed in ages. On one hand he just wanted to succumb to the laughter, but then he remembered his wager with Illinois and there was no way he was gonna let Illinois get away with winning!

           The harpoon was inches from his hand. Magnum could taste victory and he was starving for it. Until a tentacle teased his underarms, wiggling as fast as possible. The tentacles at his feet stretched out his toes and teased the tender undersides. Not to mention the evillist tendril wormed its way and teased the base of the man’s outstretched bellybutton. Magnum had broke and curled up. The final harpoon being tossed away.

           The Kraken had positioned him in a hogtie position, forcing his back to arch. Its tendrils working between his toes as the Kraken delivered raspberries on his hips. Magnum fell into laughter, becoming one with his mirth. Wait, mirth. That’s the answer! This whole time Magnum has been fighting with his tickle monster when really he needs to show it love!

           Just as the Kraken went in to deliver another raspberry, Magnum stopped it with a kiss. The tickle monster froze and blushed with a gurgle. Letting Magnum go. Magnum lied on the deck, recovering from the tingles. The exit had opened. Magnum was about to enter but stopped and turned around.

           “Ye, are a beaut. I’m sorry about the rude things ah said befor. I promise I’ll be back. I really needed a good laugh today.”

           The Kraken blushed and waved a tentacle that said “Oh stop it you.” And Magnum left the escape room with a grin.

           That grin was quickly wiped off when he saw Illinois resting on a makeshift hammock, not a hair out of place.

           “Oh hey pops! Did you have fun? I could hear you squealing in there. Now come on, let’s go see Google and finish this bet!”

           “How did you get out with nothing on you? No blush? No markings. Nothing? Not even a spec of dust or water?”

           “Ah well, not everyone can be as talented as me.” Illinois shrugged and got off his hammock, making his way. “You on the other hand, might wanna stay where you are. Wouldn’t want Harold joining me with getting you after tracking water everywhere.”

           “I’ll have ye know I was on a ship in the sea facing a Kraken! What was yours about?”

           Illinois paused for a moment, thinking on the spot. “Ah you know, adventuring, traps, and…stuff.”

           Magnum let it set in for a moment, noticing Illinois walk pattern is different and that’s when it hit him.

           “YOU DIDN’T DO IT AT ALL! YOU CHEATED!”

           At that, Illinois booked it and ran.

           “GET BACK HERE YE LANDLUBBER COWARD!”

[uchihacore]

newton’s third law

PAIRING: keishin ukai x reader SUMMARY: every action has an equal and opposite reaction WARNINGS: nsfw, pegging, blowjobs

You frown at your reflection in the tiny rearview mirror, rubbing at the edge of a purple mark peeking out of your shirt collar. You hadn’t noticed it last night, but then again, you hadn’t really noticed much outside of Keishin calling you ‘Princess’ as he sat you in his lap and pressed a vibrator between your legs. And really, can you fault yourself for that?

Lucky for you (or rather for lucky for Keishin), you always carry a tube concealer in your purse, just for these types of situations. You pull out the tube and dab some concealer onto your tender neck, gently patting away the cream until it blends with the rest of your skin.

“Sorry 'bout that,” Keishin says from the passenger seat. You can see him from the corner of your eye, and he’s grinning like an idiot, which makes sense because he is an idiot.

“No, you aren’t,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. You need to get him out of your car before he makes you late for work, or worse, a student sees you with him. You pack the tube away, pulling out your lipgloss as Keishin shrugs unapologetically.

“Nope, not even a little bit. But really,” he says, leaning in closer until you can feel his breath on your ear, “can you blame me? Seeing you all marked up, having to hide my hickeys at school, it’s so hot.”

“Nice to know you’re turning into a caveman, Keishin,” you say. And blush because the heater is on and not because of how close he is, the bruise on your neck tingling, “but not everyone gets the luxury of working for our mommy. Some of us have real jobs.”

(Which, admittedly, is a low blow. Especially considering he coaches the boys’ volleyball team for practically nothing, and gives Karasuno students discounts on like half his inventory.) You purse your lips together to rub in the lipgloss, fighting back an apology.

“And yet, here you are,” Keishin notes, seemingly unruffled. “Hiding my artful love-bites under a layer of makeup. Real job and all.”

“Get lost, Keishin,” you say, rolling your eyes. You toss your lipgloss into your makeup bag and turn to him. “I have classes to teach.”

“Of course you do. Have a good day at work, Princess.” he says, and the ballsy bastard actually kisses you before getting out of your car. You give him your best-unimpressed glare, and his smile widens when he turns and sees your expression before heading into the store.

And okay, yeah, maybe you a part of you is blushing and giggling on the inside like some idiot schoolgirl, but only because you’ve been treated like many things in your lifetime, from bitch to queen to child, but no one had ever made you feel like the Keishin does, like an actual, honest to God, princess.

But the other part is trying to figure out when he got so cocky, and how you’d allowed that to happen. Before you can contemplate further, a group of third-year students passes your car, and you put the car back into drive. Suddenly self-aware of how strange you must look mooning after the Sakanoshita Store guy, of all people.

You ponder it on the walk to your classroom, your sex life, or whatever it’s called, with Keishin Ukai is excellent, you’ll be the first to admit. He’s the first man ever to make your voice hoarse from moaning. But the last thing you want is for him to get a big head over it. He’s annoying enough as it is, thanks.

No, you need to get Keishin back down to Earth, somehow. He needs to be taught a lesson, taken down a peg.

And just like that, it hits you. Throwing a glance at your class, who are all too busy with morning pleasantries to notice, you pull out your phone and do a quick google search, you find the article you’re looking for and skim it. You’ll need to do some after-school shopping, but you’ll gladly sacrifice that cute skirt from H&M for this. You put your phone away and neatly write a line of notes about the kinematics on the chalkboard, drawing a smug little smiley face in the corner. Oh, this is going to be fun.

Your next 'meeting’ (because what the fuck else are you supposed to call it?) with Keishin is on Friday, and today is Tuesday. If you stop at the sex shop tonight and get the supplies, you’ll have two nights to figure them out. Which is essential because the last thing you want is to be unskilled in front of Keishin. He’d never shut up about it.

The school day passes by in a blur. You faintly remember scolding Nishinoya for using Tanaka as a springboard and a brief conversation with Hinata about the ‘epic highs and lows of high school volleyball’. Also, the concept of mitochondrial DNA had been clunking around your headspace for most of the day which was odd because you don’t even teach biology. Still, mostly you were just focused on the tantalizing idea of giving Keishin a taste of his own medicine.

You drive to the sex shop two towns over, as opposed to the one just off the highway, partly because it’s cleaner, but mostly because there’s less of a risk of seeing someone you know. You’d hate to have a student catching you buying a strap-on. Oh, the rumors.

The salesperson is a heavily tattooed girl with electric blue hair and a black heart stamped on each freckled cheekbone. She’s really helpful, though. She takes her time explaining just how all the buckles work, and which dildo to buy to fit into which harness, so do your best not to judge her too harshly. She also recommends buying silicone-based lube over water-based lube, because apparently it lasts longer and isn’t harmful in anal sex the way it is in vaginal sex.

So you give her a five-dollar tip for her troubles, to which she responds by giving you the toothiest smile you’ve seen in your entire life and telling you your boyfriend has no idea how lucky he is.

Which you give her another three dollars for because she’s completely right.

(About Keishin not knowing how lucky he is to have you. Not about him being your boyfriend, because he’s fucking not, okay?)

You bring your goodies home, feeling like you always feel after shopping: like you’ve just gotten a load of Christmas presents, and they’re waiting to be unwrapped. You have the presence of mind to hide the black and red bag in your oversized purse before entering your building. Just in case you happen to share the elevator with one of the old ladies on your floor.

Once you get into your apartment, you lock your door and layout your purchases on your dining room table, immediately picking up the dildo to test its weight. You’d picked a sparkly ribbed one, not because you particularly like it, but because you can’t wait to see Keishin’s face when he saw it. You’re pretty sure it’ll end up somewhere between shock, reproach, and begrudging amusement.

It’s the same abrasive yellow as Keishin’s bleached hair, average-sized, chosen more for entertainment value than anything else. You slot it into place then give the shaft an experimental tug to see just how well the metal ring in the harness holds it in place. Satisfied with the result, you examine the nubby, double-pronged vibrator on the opposite end of the harness. It’s supposed to go inside you when everything’s in place, so you get something out of it while you fuck Keishin senseless.

Though you’re reasonably sure that the very act itself of fucking Keishin senseless would have you curling your toes, you’re not about to deny yourself some extra stimulation.

You test the silicone lube between your fingertips. It feels weird, like the silicone-based face primer you’d used in high school, though this was less powdery and more expensive. You test on the skin above your knee, curious to see how long it takes to dry off.

While you wait, you take all of your clothes off, hanging up your blazer and throwing the rest in the hamper. You examine the harness, it’s an intimidating contraption of black nylon and silvery buckles, but that doesn’t deter you. You’re a high school science teacher, thank you very much. You explain physics to teenagers all day. This is nothing compared to that.

And actually, when you fit it onto your hips, it’s not too bad. A strap goes around each thigh, like a bikini, and one loops around your waist. You tighten the straps and peer down at the yellow, glittery penis now hanging heavily at the apex of your thighs. Huh. So this is what penises are like?

You grip the base and stroke up, grimacing at the sensation of your hand skidding over the rubber. Oh. Lube. Right. You squeeze some lube onto the dildo and start stroking again, much smoother this time. You hate how good the angle is; no wonder guys get so picky about handjobs. You fist it for a few minutes, feeling the vibrator bump against your clit. Which, considering its not even on, has no right to feel that good.

Once you get used to the way the dildo moves within its ring and how to compensate for the way the straps shift on your hips, you take the strap-on off and clean the dildo of lube. The stuff is way better than water-based lube, and you can’t wait to see it in action. You pack the strap-on and the lube back into the bag and leave it in your bedroom. Then you take a seat at your dining room table, pulling out a stack of ungraded papers instead. Time to spend some quality time with Marie Curie.

The next two days are validating, if nothing else. Keishin’s decided to go full little shit and keeps sexting you in the middle of your lectures like you’re supposed to just be able to explain oxygen theory of combustion after receiving a text detailing just how hard his cock is. You’d given him your best glare and sent a lengthy email telling him to fuck off, but to no avail. Plus, yesterday, he showed up at your office hours after practice, covered in sweat, and looking ridiculously hot, “just to say hi.” You won’t let it bother you, though. He’ll get what he deserves soon enough.

By Friday afternoon, you’re a mass of nerves and vindictive anticipation. Keishin’s been shooting you heated smirks all day. At lunch, he purposefully spills a packet soy sauce all over his hand just to seductively lick it off each of his fingers. You think it really speaks to your libido that, under the righteous indignation, you were actually pretty turned on by that. Stupid fucking Keishin, getting you hot and bothered with convenience store dumplings, of all things.

You’re practically vibrating when you open the door to your apartment at seven sharp, tamping down on your anxiety. You give Keishin your most relaxed, most expectant smile, and he responds by giving you that stupid(ly sexy) smirk and thrusting a bottle of cheap wine your way.

“Hey, Princess,” he says, bending down to peck you on the cheek. “How was your week?”

“Um,” you blink at him owlishly, thrown, “fine?”

“Really?” Keishin asks, stepping into your apartment and closing the door behind himself. As soon as the lock clicks into place, he’s on you like a starfish, head tucked into your neck. “Because mine’s been torture. All I can think about is how gorgeous you look under me. Over me. Everywhere. God, you drive me nuts.”

You feel something heavy in your chest. You bring your hands up to card through his hair. “I know the feeling.” Because all jokes and exasperation aside, Keishin’s under your skin in a big way, pumping you full of something that tastes like burnt, thick sugar and smells like Valentine’s Day chocolates. You’re drowning in Keishin Ukai, and you fucking love it.

“Do you now?” Keishin stills, then his hands change directions on your back, one scooping down to you ass and the other up into your hair. “And how does it feel, Princess?”

Oh, and there’s the smarmy little imp that’s been harassing you in school. Your lips curl into a devilish smile, out of Keishin’s line of sight, and you lean your weight into his hold. “Oh, I’m not sure I can even explain it, Keishin,” you sigh woefully. “Maybe I should just show you instead.”

“I think I could get behind that,” he agrees, pulling back. “Maybe even literally.” He leers down at you, eyes dancing with mirth.

“Classy, Ukai.” You snort despite yourself. “Remind me why I ever agreed to have sex with you?”

“Is that a request or an invitation?” His hands fall to your hips, thumbs rubbing lazy circles into your hipbones, “I accept both.”

You purse your lips, whether to fight a grin or a scowl, you’re unsure. “Let’s take this to the bedroom,” you suggest. “I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Keishin grins. “Lead the way.”

You set the wine bottle on the table and lead him by the hand to your room, hips swaying, nerves were forgotten. This is going to be so much fun. You open the door to your room, watching Keishin leap onto the bed. “Close your eyes and take off your clothes,” you order, unbuttoning your blouse. Keishin inhales sharply, eyes falling shut as he peels off his shirts and wiggles free from his pants. He’s already half-hard, boxers just beginning to tent.

“Can I open my eyes yet?”

“Not yet, no,” you replied, opening the drawer and pulling out your bag of tricks. you slid the strap-on into place, tightening the buckles with confident, practiced accuracy. “I thought we’d try something different today. Just the thought of it has kept me wet all week.”

Keishin twitches in his boxers, fists clenching on the edge of the bed. “Now, I’ve got to know. ”

“Open your eyes.”

Keishin blinks them open, freezing when they land on the dildo. You stroke it slowly, delighting in the way a ruddy blush works up his toned chest.

“Oh,” he says, sounding faintly disappointed. “I thought….”

“You thought you could tease me all week at school and get away with it,” you supply, baring your teeth when he flinches. “Newsflash asshole, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. So, what do you think of my cock, Keishin? I picked it out special, just for you.”

Keishin shudders, bowing his head in supplication. “Tell me what to do,” he says, voice gone hoarse.

“Answer the question.”

“It’s, uh,” Keishin stammers, glancing up at it, “it’s very… pretty?”

“Damn straight, it is,” you growl, striding toward the bed in long, slow steps. “What are you going to do with such a pretty cock, Keishin?” And wow, where is this coming from? You’re just supposed to fuck him and get it over with. This aggression is all-new, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel good. And, judging by how hard Keishin is, you assume the feeling is mutual.

“Can I suck it?” he asks meekly, eyes pointedly not meeting yours. A total display of submission. You approve. You move to stand in front of him, positioning the cock at his lips, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Keishin groans, reaching out to suck the head into his mouth. He bobs his head, working deeper down your shaft each time. You bite your lip, feeling a hot wave of arousal work down your spine. He’s beautiful like this, cheeks hollowed around the length of yellow, sparkly rubber. Your hand leaves the base to cup the back of his head, and his hand takes its place. He pulls back to suckle at the head, eyes looking up at you heatedly.

Fuck.

“So pretty,” you sigh, hand petting the dark hair on the nape of his neck. “I can see why guys like this so much.” Keishin’s eyes flutter shut, lashes long against his cheekbones. “What do you think, Keishin? Do you like sucking cock?”

Keishin moans, sucking as deep as he can go. When his eyes meet yours again, they’re desperate. His free hand moves to his own cock, pulling it out of the gape of his underwear.

You freeze, pulling his head back by the grip in his hair. ���Did I say you could touch yourself?” Keishin shoots you a pleading look, but you’re already pulling out of his mouth, dildo shiny with spit. “Take them off, get on the bed. Hands and knees.”

He stumbles to do your bidding, cock dark red and angry-looking. You pick up the lube from where you’d placed it on the nightstand and kneel behind him. The lube opens with a wet click that makes Keishin jerk in surprise. You spread the lube liberally on your fingers, reaching out to trace one over his hole, teasing. Keishin mewls and pushes back, eagerly. You feel another gush of heat between your legs, pushing the finger in slowly. You work the finger in and out, curling it down to find his prostate. You find it on the fourth try, judging by the way he keens and clenches around you.

The second finger is met with a little resistance, and Keishin takes in a deep breath to relax his muscles. You kiss the small of his back in praise, scissoring the fingers once you’re able. This is a lot more intimate than you’d expected it to be, working Keishin open like this. It fills you with a strange sense of responsibility, you want to do this right, you want to make it good for him.

“Just relax, Keishin,” you whisper, as he whines and clenches around your third finger, “you can do this. We can stop anytime you want.”

Keishin heaves a great, shivering breath, but he relaxes. You work as slowly as you can, pushing against his rim more than thrusting in until he’s loose enough to take you. You squirt more lube onto your fingers, pushing them slowly into him until he takes them all the way to the knuckle. You make sure to graze his prostate every few thrusts, only content when he’s moving back to meet you thrust-for-thrust.

“M'ready,” he whispers, sounding wrecked. You pressed a kiss his hipbone in sympathy. “Want you.”

“Okay,” you say softly, pulling your lube-slick fingers out of him. You lube up your cock quickly, pressing the tip to his rim. “You sure?”

“Do it, Princess,” he says, wriggling his hips, “or I’ll start bringing bananas for lunch.”

You huff out a laugh, rolling your eyes. “Idiot.” You hold the cock firmly in one hand, pressing it carefully into him. His breath hitches and stops, and he leans into the intrusion. You press a wet kiss to the back of his neck when the head slides in. “How’s that?” You ask, moving slowly until the base of the dildo is pressed against his ass.

“Gimme a minute,” he manages, shoulders locked with tension. You hold your position, rubbing soothingly over his back and down his flanks. After a minute, he moves, shoulders relaxing. “Go slow, okay?”

You murmur an “okay” and pull out an inch. You move back in, starting a rhythm of tiny thrusts. You only lengthen them when he grows impatient and flails a hand at you. You pull out almost all the way, then shove back in, gasping when the vibrator buzzes to life over your clit.

You begin moving in earnest, grinding into him to feel the vibrator flutter against your clit. God, it felt good. You shift to the right a little, and Keishin moans, all high and whimpery and divine. You move to hit that spot again, grinning when he chokes out another moan. You angle yourself so that all of your thrusts will meet that spot, draping yourself over his back to work a hand on his cock. He’s hard as a rock and dripping pre-cum as he twitches under your touch.

Keishin makes a broken sound and works his hips, thrusting back onto your fake cock and forward into your fist. You feel the world spin around you; this was by far the hottest thing you ever done with anyone.

And you think Keishin might agree because thirty seconds later he starts babbling:“ fuck, I’m gonna cum. Shit, feel so perfect inside me, please, let me cum, tell me I can cum, please. I need you to say yes, please.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth. He wants you to give him permission? Oh, fuck, yes. “Cum for me, Keishin, wanna see you cum around my cock,” you command, voice deeper than you’d ever heard it. Keishin whimpers, and he’s cumming, hips spasming. You watch his hole clench around your cock and feel yet another gush of heat, this one dripping down your thighs. You continue to move inside him until he gasps and pulls away. You pull out slowly, groaning at the way his skin tugs around the length of you.

He flips onto his back as soon as he’s free, fingers racing to undo the buckles of your harness. “You didn’t come.” He huffs, tugging at the straps, “I wanna make you come. Please let me.”

You shove the strap-on away, throwing it half-way across the room. “How do you want me, Keishin?”

Keishin collapses, rubbery, on the bed. “Sit on my face, Princess.”

Fuck. You can do that. You move up until your knees bracket his head and hold yourself over his face. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers, kissing the dampness from your thighs, working up to your center.

He licks into you delicately, mopping up all of your juices. You’re hypersensitive already and gasp into his teasing touches. Keishin slides his tongue inside you, curling it upwards. You keen, grinding down onto his mouth before you can stop yourself. You move to pull off to apologize, but Keishin holds your hips down, face more blissful than you’ve ever seen it. You run your fingers through his hair, swiveling your hips over his mouth.

“Need you on my clit,” you gasp and Keishin hums (which, okay, wow) and sucks your clit between his lips, sliding two thick fingers into you. He licks and sucks at you, pushing you farther and farther closer to the edge, but it’s the gentle nibble that finally pushes you over it. You scream soundlessly, fingers scrambling for purchase on the bed. His hands keep you from falling off his mouth as he licks you down from your orgasm. When you mewl in discomfort, he presses one last kiss to you clit before pulling away.

You collapse next to him, thighs sore and blissed out.

“Learn your lesson?” you asked him sleepily, eyes closing.

“No wonder none of the boys are failing physics. You’re quite the teacher,” Keishin nods, still panting slightly. “Though, I think you may have to go over it again sometime.”

You laugh and turn to look at him. He’s smiling back at you, eyes soft and happy. The heavy feeling in your chest returns, and you feel like you can’t breathe. You lean in and kiss him, ignoring the way he tastes like you. His own flavor was much sweeter. “I think we can manage that,” you whisper against his glistening lips.

He lazily tangles his hand in yours and brings it up to kiss you knuckles. “Good.”

When you wake the next morning with muscular forearms wrapped around you, you panic for a moment before remembering who it is and relax into Keishin’s embrace.

[khuns]

who else is there to love but you; a khunbaam au

He tastes like Baam has always thought of and more, lips slotting into Baam’s the way he has slotted himself into the space between Baam’s heartbeats, and Baam isn’t sure if he ever wants Khun to pull away.

“Come on, Baam, it’s our graduation. It’s the last time any of us are gonna have time to travel before we settle into jobs and fall victim to the monotony of everyday li-“

A snort crackles through the speaker, and Hatz’s voice rings clear, “Speak for yourself, Isu. Some of us still can’t find jobs-“

A jostle over the phone, then: “-anyway, as I was saying, it’s just one last hurrah before we officially start adulting. Please just say yes, Baam, nearly everyone else has agreed-“

Baam sighs and sets down his pencil. It’s literally the week of finals; every time he rubs his eyes he sees syntax trees tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. How does Isu expect him to make big decisions when his entire brain is clouded with theta roles?

He opens his mouth, about to ask Isu to please just ask him when he gets back to their dorm room because his brain really can’t handle thinking about budgeting and accommodations, but Isu’s sly voice beats him to the punch. “Khun’s coming.”

Baam lets his head drop into his hands and groans.

Damn Shibisu.

-

The first time Baam meets Khun, Baam is splayed out on his stomach on Hatz’s kitchen floor, honey dripping from his hair.

The laughter on his tongue dies out; Isu stops flinging flour at where Hatz is crouched, taking cover.

Baam watches in dismay as the most beautiful man he’s ever seen in his life stands at Hatz’s doorway, mouth pressed into a thin line and eyes as hard as flint. The man’s fingers are still curled around the door handle as he surveys the mess before a clipped, “Hatz.”

He feels Hatz tensing up from where he’s knelt beside Baam, hands braced against the fine dusting of flour on the floor.

“I’ll make sure the kitchen is spotless,” Hatz bites out, tone frosty.

Baam’s eyes meet the man’s through a slow tangle of honey, and he can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. Even backlit and haloed in the artificial hallway light, he reminds Baam of someone royal, hair pulled away from cheekbones high and regal and bangs barely covering eyes cool as glass.

An eternity stretches before the man breaks eye contact with him and makes out a curt nod, “Make sure you do.”

And then he’s gone, door locking behind him with a neat click.

Isu is the first to break the silence- “Fuck, Hatz, when you called to tell me your new roommate was an ass you didn’t say he was a beautiful one-“

“Shut the fuck up, he’s a royal pain in the ass, that’s why I called you to come over- “

“His eyes, Hatz, did you see them-“

“I hardly feel the need to look into the eyes of someone who pisses me off from day one-“

“You ask me to come over and make cookies for you, but you just neglect to mention how beautiful-“

“You saw for yourself, he’s so fucking pretentious - look, Isu, if you’ve done quite enough salivating over my arse of a roommate, do you mind helping your poor roommate up?”

Isu squeaks and slides through the flour to Baam’s side, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Baam says. “Yeah, no, I’m alright.”

As Isu helps Baam pick himself off the floor and sends him into the bathroom to rinse out his hair, all Baam can think about is the man’s cool blue eyes and the way the image keeps sending his heart back up his throat.

-

It’s ten in the morning after his last final and Baam barely has time to stuff his duffel in the trunk when Rak calls shotgun.

It sets off a squabble between Hatz and Isu about who should drive and devolves into an argument over whether Rak can navigate (he cannot) and when Isu will even let anyone else drive his precious car (never).

There is a soft huff of amusement from where Khun is leaning on the side of the car, hands fiddling through what looks like a GPS, and Khun looks up at Baam, grinning. “We’ll never set off at this rate.”

“We’ll have to spend the first night back in our dorms and leave tomorrow instead,” Baam returns, biting back a smile. Khun laughs at that, his eyes sparkling through his bangs and curved into crescent moons, and Baam has to tamp down a familiar flare in his chest.

Keep it under control, he tells himself. It’s just a weeklong road trip, after which Khun will move somewhere in the big city for a job at his father’s company and Baam will move back home, despairing over what little job prospects a linguistics major brings. Useless crushes are just that, useless.

He watches as Khun pushes off from the side of the car and tosses the GPS to Isu. “Keyed in a place for lunch,” Khun grins as Isu squawks and fumbles to catch it, “Now you won’t need either of those two idiots up front.”

Hatz splutters indignantly and the rest of them just laugh, scrambling to get into the car so they can finally, finally get on their way and maybe get a decent cup of coffee.

(Rak, much to his disgruntlement, is relegated to the backseat, sandwiched between Khun and Baam.)

-

The second time Baam meets Khun, Baam neither is on the floor nor has any sticky substance in his hair (thankfully).

He knocks on Hatz’s door, ready to deliver Hatz’s notebook from where Hatz left it in Baam and Isu’s dorm room during an earlier study session.

(A ‘study session’, Baam has learnt, is just an excuse for Isu to bother his best friend into coming over to their room so they can talk about everything other than homework. Not that Baam minds, of course - conversations between Hatz and Isu flow like water, stories from their shared childhood spilling out as they try their best to embarrass each other in front of Baam.)

There’s a click as the door unlocks and Baam’s mouth opens, ready to remind Hatz that even though they only live just a few floors above him, it’s best not to leave his Physics notes behind ever again for Isu to doodle senselessly on, but when the door swings open, it’s Blue Eyes.

Oh.

“Looking for Hatz?” The man prompts, after a beat of silence. “He’s in the shower.”

Baam flushes and makes the conscious effort to shut his jaw. He holds Hatz’s notes out to Blue Eyes, “Hatz left this in my room earlier, could I leave this with you please?”

Blue Eyes raises an eyebrow at the dick drawn in Sharpie on Hatz’s notebook cover. He looks back up at Baam.

“It wasn’t me,” Baam blurts, suddenly anxious to inform Blue Eyes that no, he wasn’t the one childish enough to draw dicks onto other people’s notes. “My roommate and Hatz, they’re pretty close, I guess it’s their thing-“

He’s not sure why words are just tumbling out of his mouth, but Blue Eyes just snorts, corner of his mouth turning up in amusement. He takes the notebook from Baam and nods, “I’ll leave it on his desk.”

“Thank you...” Baam trails off, because for the life of him he absolutely cannot remember what Hatz has called his roommate other than ‘The Royal Ass’ and ‘That Fucking Asshole’. Neither of which, Baam is sure, Blue Eyes would like to be called.

“Thank you,” he manages, and turns to hightail it out of there before he embarrasses himself for the third time in a night.

“Hold on,” Blue Eyes says, and he waits until Baam fully turns back around to meet his gaze. “Who should I say left this for him?”

“I’m Baam.” Baam pauses, then tacks on, “From the twenty-fifth floor.”

“Alright, Baam-from-the-twenty-fifth-floor,” Blue Eyes says, and grins. “I’m Khun.”

Khun, Baam repeats all the way back up to his room, Khun. He tucks the name into the pocket of his cheek the way a child savours hard candy - Khun. Khun, Khun, Khun.

(Baam makes it all the way to the lift lobby before he realises that Khun has in fact cracked a dad joke, and when he tells Isu this Isu can’t seem to stop cackling.)

-

They stop for lunch at a cute diner at the edge of the city. The lights are dim and the booth seats are cracked, stuffing leaking out from where legs have over the years worn the leather down, but the food is warm and the coffee is strong and that’s all that matters.

“More coffee?” The sole waiter nudges Isu’s coffee cup with the jug.

Isu nods. Might as well, if he’s going to be driving for the rest of the day.

He takes a sip and leans back. Rak and Khun are arguing over routes, phones opened to Google Maps and fingers jabbing at the highways. Baam is listening intently to the road talk, slowly pulling the pickles out from his sandwich and setting them in a pile on the edge of his plate, ready for Khun to pick at later.

Isu smiles softly to himself as Rak leans over him to holler at Hatz. He’s glad they cobbled together this trip - it seems the perfect way to end four years of living together before they disperse and are only able to meet on weekends, or worse, every couple of months.

He’ll miss them, of course - if there’s one thing the university did right, it was their random roommate pairings freshman year. Isu’s heard horror stories of roommates going out partying and coming back to puke on rugs, but Baam clicked with him on all sorts of levels, from cleanliness to sleep schedules to taste in films, and it was only natural they applied to continue living together all four years.

And Hatz, despite his deep loathing of Khun during their first month rooming together, quickly warmed up to him too; they were both quiet and studious, were complete night owls and were quite alright with Isu coming to blabber their ears off every once in a while.

(Hatz also strenuously denies this, but after The Physics Lab Incident halfway through the first semester freshman year, Isu is pretty sure Hatz would follow Khun to the ends of the earth and back. And Hatz’s loyalty is hard-earned; he would know.)

Rak was a lucky happenstance in their second year, a constantly sexiled sophomore from across the hallway who more often than not ended up sleeping on their couch. When Isu found out Rak could make a mean beef stew, well? Isu adopted him into their little family straight away.

“What do you guys think?” Khun turns to his left, spearing a pickle off of Baam’s plate. Baam hums his approval and Isu shrugs. He hasn’t really been listening, but he trusts that Khun’s come up with a good route. If anything was weird, Rak and Baam would have pointed it out anyway.

“Doesn’t matter to me where we go,” Hatz says around a full mouth of fries, “As long as we make it to the hotel tonight.”

“Alright then,” Isu says, brushing crumbs off his shirt, “Where has the Great Rak and Khun planned to bring us next?”

“The Museum of Turtles.”

Rak is grinning so broadly Isu can’t help himself - he laughs.

-

The third time Baam meets Khun, it’s for dinner with Hatz and Isu.

They’re crowded around a table heavy with pizza Hatz must have grabbed on the way back from class. It’s somewhat towards the middle of their first semester - Khun and Hatz must be getting pretty close if Hatz has invited him to eat with them. So much for Hatz’s obstinate declaration that he’d never be friends with someone “that stuck-up”.

“-completely winded because as I said, I fell on my fucking back, and the crazy girl goes, “Oh my god, you’re looking up my skirt!” Like, I’m the one you knocked over literally half a second ago and you’re accusing me of looking at your ugly ass?! How fucking ridiculous is that?” Hatz waves his slice of pizza in the air, pepperoni somehow clinging to the cheese by sheer force of will.

Baam winces in sympathy. He’s not sure what he would have done in Hatz’s place. Maybe die.

“Then Khun - bless Khun - leans over from his bench and says- oh man, I think you better tell this part-“

Khun huffs and wipes his mouth. He sets his half-eaten slice back down, eyes sparkling with mirth, and continues, “So I’m quietly working on this stupid Physics lab sheet when I hear this idiot fall flat on his ass behind me and when I turn around to laugh at him-“

There’s something that resembles a protest from Hatz but it’s covered by Isu’s guffaw.

“-his lab partner looks like she’s about to scream bloody murder to the whole class so I lean over and - see, ordinarily I’d just laugh at Hatz and turn back but this was the girl who looks down on Hatz because she saw that his textbook was second-hand, and more importantly, she insulted my earrings once-“

“Your earrings! How dare she!” Isu is cackling even louder.

“Right?” Khun smirks, and Baam thinks his heart skips a beat, “Anyway, I lean over and I go, “Oh, sweetheart, you’ve fallen again,” and Hatz is on the floor looking at me like I’m some kind of fool instead of his damn roommate trying to get him out of trouble, so I have to tack on, “Sorry, my boyfriend is such a klutz, he’s always bumping into things. And don’t worry about him looking anywhere at you, he’s not interested.” The look on both their faces, priceless-“

“Boyfriend!” Isu howls, pounding the table, “Straight-as-an-arrow Hatz! Boyfriend!”

Hatz grins, “Whatever, you idiot, you missed the best part - then Khun says to her, “Not that there’s much to see anyway!” Oh man, her face must have been some seven shades of purple-” This sets all of them off and as their laughter dies down Baam is pretty sure if he laughs anymore his cheeks might just split in half.

But through his bangs he sees Khun looking, looking at him, and he instantly flushes. He reaches for another slice of pizza, just for his hands to have something to do, but he brushes against something cool and sees Khun retracting his own hand. Khun gestures for him to go ahead, eyes fixed on him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, then as an afterthought, “Thanks.”

Khun’s smile is absolutely blinding.

-

Baam hums happily, flicking through photos from the museum exhibit. They were nearly kicked out for being completely obnoxious, yes, but he got the absolute best photos and he knows Isu has more.

“We’re nearly there,” Rak says from where he’s finally wrangled shotgun. Sure enough, Isu turns into the gravel driveway of a small hotel.

Hatz is the first to tumble out of the car, stretching and nearly knocking Baam in the face. It’s been quite a ride from the museum to the hotel, including a boisterous karaoke session, and Baam can’t wait to check in and dump their stuff so they can grab dinner.

“Bad news, y’all,” Isu says, not even ten minutes later. “They have two rooms, but they’re all big beds instead of those individual ones. Hatz and I can take one - we shared beds during sleepovers - but two of y’all have to take a bed and someone has to take the cot.”

Rak, of course, lays claim on the cot instantly. “I kick in my sleep,” he points out, and everyone groans. He does.

Baam nods, but realises with a sinking feeling-

“That leaves Baam with Khun, then,” Isu says, satisfied. He shoots Baam a barely-veiled triumphant look as he hands him a key card and Baam can’t help but flush. This is a terrible, terrible idea, and Isu is a terrible, terrible friend.

He nearly groans in despair when they finally head to the rooms - even with the bed taking up most of the space, it looks barely big enough for two.

Khun clears his throat.

“I can take the floor,” Baam blurts. He doesn’t want to make Khun uncomfortable. With his luck, there’d be some sort of accident in the night and... he’d rather just take the floor and nap in the car tomorrow.

Khun glances sharply at him. “Don’t be silly, you’re going to ache all over tomorrow. We’ll just, you know, set boundaries.”

Baam thinks about the photo Isu once took of him starfishing all over his own bed and clinging to his pillow like a lifeline. Boundaries. “Um,” he says. “Um.”

“Fantastic.” Khun says, already dropping his duffel on one side of the bed.

Fantastic.

--

Khun eventually loses track of the number of times he meets Baam. It seems like he’s always there whenever Isu comes downstairs to go bother Hatz, or whenever Hatz pulls them all outside for dinner.

(Not that Khun minds, of course - Baam is... interesting. Khun refuses to explore why.)

He ends up seeing Baam outside of the dorm too, sometimes waving to each other across the street between classes. It’s not until Hatz pulls all their schedules together to find a time to go cake-shopping for Isu’s birthday that Khun realises they share a lunch time most days.

Baam volunteers to get the cake the day before Isu’s birthday, since Hatz has classes until late. Which doesn’t quite make sense to Khun, since they agreed on hiding the cake from Isu in Hatz’s and Khun’s room anyway, so he makes an executive decision to join him.

He leans against the wall, picking at his nails, until he hears shuffling from inside the classroom. A few minutes later, Baam emerges from his Phonology class,  scarf tucked messily around his neck.

He raises his hand in a half-wave, and waits for Baam to make his way over.

“Heard from Hatz you’re going to pick Isu’s cake out and thought I’d come with,” Khun says in lieu of greeting, and Baam beams at him.

“Great! We can put it in your fridge right after.”

“Exactly why I came,” Khun returns easily, but it seems like the wrong thing to say - the light in Baam’s eyes shutters a little, but before Khun can think about what he said, Baam’s hitched his backpack a little higher and takes the lead out of the linguistics building, waving goodbye at the security guard.

Huh.

He scrambles to catch up, long legs bringing him back up to speed with Baam easily. “I’m thinking chocolate?”

“Isu only ever eats chocolate cake,” Baam informs him, and flashes him a smile. “The only time I ever get to eat a full slice is when I get strawberry or some other fruit flavour.”

“Strawberry? Good taste,” Khun offers, and Baam’s beam returns.

If Khun waits by the exit of Baam’s phonology class the next week just to see that beam again, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

-

Time melts into months, and Khun and Baam’s weekly lunches melt into nearly daily lunches.

Sometimes Khun stops by the linguistics building to wait for Baam to end class; sometimes Baam finds himself waiting outside their agreed-upon dining hall before Khun shows up, waving goodbye to one friend or another.

Khun’s relatively popular, Baam thinks, until Khun corrects him one day with a, “No, it’s just that business majors have to network a lot. I expect we’ll either end up being employed by each other or buying up each other’s businesses ten years down the road.” He laughs at the mildly terrified look on Baam’s face.

Baam tells Khun about the calculus class he’s been forced to take for his math requirement, and Khun gripes about having to take a Physics class to fulfill his science requirements even though he’s a business major. Conversation flows easier than Baam expects, and the more he talks to Khun the smoother it flows.

He learns about how Khun is a business major because he’s expected to take over the family business. He learns about how Khun is interested in a Computer Science minor because he’s convinced the future of the world lies in tech, and Khun learns how Baam might be taking a Psychology minor because he just wants to learn more about the people around him.

Baam learns how Khun talks with his hands, long fingers swirling and jabbing as he maunders around his point. He learns how Khun’s laughs runs from derisive chuckles to laughter as bright as moonlight on icicles. He learns how Khun would rather carry around a hair tie than have to go to the barber’s every two months, and Khun learns, after an incident where his hair tie snaps and he can’t lean forward without getting hair in his soup, that Baam has taken to carrying a spare one around for him.

Baam learns how Khun takes his iced coffee with milk but no sugar, and Khun learns about how Baam’s favourite boba order is lychee green tea. Baam learns about the way Khun doesn’t really believe in dating for fun, not since he watched his sister run away from home with a boy and come back, badly bruised and begging to be loved again as though her family would have ever given up on her the same way that boy did. And Khun learns Baam is a hopeless romantic, and laughs at the way Baam flushes while admitting he believes in love at first sight.

They talk and talk, and as November melts away and Khun introduces Baam to someone as his best friend, Baam grins and feels as though he’s known Khun all his life.

(“It seems as though,” Isu remarks to Hatz one day, “instead of Khun-and-Hatz and Isu-and-Baam, we’ve become Isu-and-Hatz and Khun-and-Baam.”

Hatz throws a pen at his head. “We’ve always been Hatz-and-Isu, you fool. Ever since I saved you on the playground-“

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you swapped the order of our names, you bitch!“)

-

They’re settling in for the night, Hatz and Isu on the bed and Rak on the fold-out cot.

Rak is tapping away on his phone, setting his multitude of alarms for the next morning, but Hatz doesn’t bother. He’s sure Isu will shake him awake somehow.

He wrestles a good amount of blanket away from Isu’s octopus grasp, and gets ready to close his eyes when Isu suddenly says, “We really need an intervention.”

Hatz frowns. Did he take too much blanket?

“About Khun and Baam.”

Oh. Isu kicks all the covers off in his sleep anyway.

“Khun prides himself on how perceptive he is,” Isu is saying, “But it’s really stupid how he hasn’t cottoned on about Baam.”

Rak bursts out laughing. “We’ve has this conversation before, yes.”

“It’s so slow burn it feels like one of those frog-in-hot-water kind of stories, you know? One of them makes a move, but the other thinks it’s just bros being bros, one of them slips up but the other blames it on fucking Mercury in retrograde or whatever-“

Hatz snorts, “Pretty sure neither of them believe in astrology-“

“Point is, they practically orbit around each other and everyone, everyone, sees that but them. I mean, have you seen the way Baam picks food he doesn’t like off of his meals and Khun just straight up swipes it off of his plate, no questions? Who does that? Every time I swipe food from Rak he threatens to kill me-“

“It’s because you swipe the food I like, you stupid turtle-“

“Anyway, I pointed it out to Baam once and you know what he said? You know what he said?” Isu rubs his hand across his face. “He blinked and said he didn’t even notice! He doesn’t even remember when they started doing it! Khun does the exact same thing and you know how he hates people touching his food! I tried picking carrots off of Khun’s plate last month because I know he always sets his carrots aside and he fucking hit me so hard with his fork I bruised!”

Hatz hears the slight whine in Isu’s voice and finds himself suddenly unable to hold bubbles of laughter in. It’s ridiculous, it really is, four years of Khun being the absolute softest for Baam and Baam not noticing, and he hears Rak’s low rumble of laughter from Isu’s other side.

“The worst thing,” Isu says over their laughter, “is that you know Khun’s the type of person to not do anything if it might put his friendships in danger. Bet you he thinks Baam doesn’t like him like that.” That sobers them up pretty quickly.

“And you know what the absolute kicker is?” Isu’s voice is quieter now, as Hatz’s and Rak’s laughter die down. “Baam won’t do anything about it because - and I know this for a fact - the fool thinks the same.”

Rak groans and rolls over. “We really need to do something before everyone moves home, huh.”

“Damn right we do.”

(They don’t manage to figure out any sort of concrete plan before Rak drops asleep, but Hatz and Isu agree in the vaguest sort of way that Something Must Be Done, Even If We Don’t Know What.)

-

When their very first set of finals are over, Isu insists on dragging everyone out for drinks.

They find themselves in a small, dimly-lit pub a short walk away from their dorm, teeming with college students temporarily freed from the shackles and chains of higher education. It’s loud and it feels like there are too many people than there should be on a snowy weekday night, but Isu snags them a table and leaves them there to guard it while he goes to grab their first round.

Khun leans across the table, “How were your finals?”

“Glad they’re over,” Hatz says, unwinding his scarf. “I never want to see a physics formula again. How were yours?”

Khun shrugs. “Same about that physics requirement, I suppose. But we’re taking statistics together next semester, right?”

Baam looks up. “Which professor? I’m taking statistics too.” He’d like to take a class with friends, he thinks, and a small flame blooms in his chest at the thought. Friends.

Cheesy as it is, he’s glad he’s come out of his freshman semester with a group of friends to call his own.

“-Yoo, I think,” Hatz is saying, “The Monday and Wednesday morning one.”

“Neat,” Baam grins. “The three of us can study together then?”

“I leave to get drinks and you’re already plotting to take a class without me?” Isu plops a tray down on their table, sounding more amused than affronted.

“You’re the engineering major,” Hatz points out, but Isu waves him away.

“Enough school talk,” Isu says, and raises an eyebrow. “Let’s talk about more fun things.”

Isu’s idea of fun things, apparently, includes a list of get-to-know-you questions, and he grills each and every one of them as if he’s about to have a final on the details of his friends’ lives.

“-past relationships in three words, go.”

Hatz winces, “She… wanted… fencer?“ Isu groans at Hatz’s poor summary, then gestures for Baam.

“Um,” Baam says. “She… wanted better.” Not technically true, he thinks, but that’s as clean as he can get to describing Rachel without prying open a can of worms he had trouble closing in the first place.

Isu pats his hand in sympathy, “One of those, huh? One of my exes dumped me because he had his sights on something higher too. I’ll go for the other one then… his gay experiment.”

Hatz hisses at that, and drains the rest of his beer. “Deserved every last punch I gave him.”

Isu laughs, light and hollow and carefully wiped of emotion, and the sound, emptier than the thud of Hatz’s glass on the table, rings in Baam’s ears. He’s glad Hatz was there to dole out the hits all those years ago, because tipsy on three whole glasses of beers, he’s ready to go out and start a new fight himself.

Isu gestures for Khun’s turn, but Khun’s eyes are on Baam. His gaze has a sort of scrutinising air, as though he’s trying to figure something out, and Baam feels his scowl disappear and a tremble run under his skin.

“I don’t believe in dating,” Khun says, after a measure of silence, and Baam’s heart gives a soft thud from where it has sunk somewhere near the floor.

He isn’t sure why he’s disappointed; he’s known about it ever since Khun told him about his sister, of course, and he’s not even sure what he’s hoping for - they’re great friends and it’s already more than Baam could ask for. Khun is kind and smart and pays attention to the people around him and he has a sort of determined dedication that Baam has never quite figured out how to instil in himself. And even if Khun was up for dating, Baam thinks, he’d be too many leagues above Baam; just in the time they’ve been sat down, there have been countless looks thrown at their table, soft giggles about the boy with the messy blue ponytail and eyes like sapphires, quiet and not-so-quiet whispers daring each other to go up and talk to him.

None of them have, though. It’s just something about the way Khun’s eyes have never wandered from their table that has kept everyone away.

“-couldn’t press charges against him,” Khun is saying. The napkin between his fingers has been torn to shreds, and Baam wants nothing more than to be able to curl his hand around Khun’s in comfort without the tug in his heart begging for more.

He keeps his hands to himself.

“Well, I thought I was the most miserable story, but fuck,” Isu says, and stands up. “I’m going to get another round.”

He comes back with a tray full of soju bottles, and they end up drinking all the way through Isu’s list of silly questions.

They learn that Hatz would name his hypothetical bunny General McHoppers, and that Khun would rather fight a duck-sized horse than a horse-sized duck. Baam can’t remember if they decided on hot dogs being tacos or sandwiches on their way out of the pub, but somewhere along the way his gloves have been fumbled onto his hands and his beanie jammed onto his head.

Isu has his arm around Hatz, talking a mile a minute about how the flat earth theory could theoretically be true while Hatz is struggling to support his weight. Baam could laugh at the way Isu’s stumbling, but come to think of it, he isn’t so sure about the structural integrity of his own legs.

He feels an arm slide around his waist and a laugh, low and breathy in his ear. He shivers at the sound and the way it feels so achingly close he could just turn and- he decides to blame it on the wind chill.

“You’re a lightweight,” Khun accuses. There’s a ribbon of a laugh in his voice and Baam mutters out a stubborn, “I’m not,” that goes unheeded.

“So when are you coming back?” Khun asks, voice light and conversational. “We can probably do something together before winter break is over and the next semester starts.”

Baam squints at him, as though it will make Khun’s voice amplify through the cotton wool of his brain. “Mm not leaving for break,” he says carefully. “Staying here.”

Maybe taking phonology was a good idea, Baam thinks. Makes his enunciation clearer and all that. Maybe Khun will stop thinking he’s drunk and unhand him.

Khun just snorts, and if anything, his hold on Baam gets tighter. His voice is tinged with amusement as he leans closer, lips brushing Baam’s ear. “You are drunk,” Khun informs him, “and you’re saying all your thoughts out loud.”

Baam flushes and immediately clams up. That’s enough thinking and thoughts for tonight, he decides, and is rewarded with a silver peal of Khun’s laughter.

-

Khun tosses and turns.

There’s no reason why he can’t sleep - the curtains are drawn and Baam’s breathing is even and quiet. He can only imagine the storm coming from Rak just next door.

Khun groans quietly. This is the worst time for his insomnia to act up - they’re planning to go to an amusement park tomorrow and damn if he’s going to be tired through all the fun.

He gropes blindly about until he finds his phone. Isu and Baam sent photos from the museum earlier; he might as well use this time to go through them and save them.

He thumbs through them quickly. Most of them are shots of Rak staring open-mouthed at the exhibits, but there are some silly shots of them looking absolutely ridiculous.

There’s a mirror shot with all of them crouching in front of four huge turtle shells, with Rak standing in the middle, cackling his head off about them finally being “turtles”. Isu’s holding the phone and yelling at them to stop squirming and to please align themselves so they all show up at the correct angle in the mirror or god so help me, my arms are gonna fucking fall off. The photo is slightly blurry with his efforts and Khun can almost hear Hatz’s helpless giggles ringing through the photo.

His thumb stills.

Picture-Baam’s arm is half-raised, fingers coming up to brush away his bangs, and picture-Khun’s arm is slung over his shoulders. PIcture-Baam’s eyes are crinkled up, mid-laugh, smile bright and golden as sunflowers and not quite as radiant as Khun knows it is in real life, but radiant all the same.

And picture-Khun is looking at him, smile soft and head slightly bowed, eyes brimming an emotion Khun does not yet know how to describe.

His thumb swipes to save the photo before he realises it, and there is a flash of an idea about setting it as his wallpaper before he is distracted by a sleepy snuffle. By the light of his phone he sees Baam spread out on his side of the bed, face-down on his pillow.

Khun frowns. There’s no way that’s good for respiration.

He reaches over and gently tugs on the pillow, enough so that Baam has to shifts his head to accommodate for the change but not enough that it wakes him up. He waits until Baam resettles, head tilted and eyelashes brushing his cheek. His mouth is slightly open, lips soft and parted, and Khun is dimly aware of the urge to brush Baam’s hair away from where it is falling across his face.

Beautiful.

The word springs, unbidden, to his mind and he freezes.

Baam. Baam, with the biggest heart of anyone he knows. Baam, with his thoughtful smile and easy laugh and the quiet way in which he lights up the room.

Baam, with the way he finishes Khun’s sentences and laughs at all of Khun’s stupid puns, with the way he understands Khun without either of them having to exchange a word, with the way his loyalty to his friends is fierce and burns with the heat of a thousand suns. Baam, with the way he fits, just right, into Khun’s side, like two hands made to hold.

Baam, with all his kindness and his constancy and his optimism and all of his warmth.

Baam, his best friend.

Khun breathes out shakily, puts his phone down, knots his fingers together, and wills himself to go to sleep.

--

Baam yanks his chair out from his desk. He’s sopping wet and his bangs keep dripping in his eyes and his goddamn bag is soaked and he feels that awful discomfort of clothes sticking to his skin and really, all he wants to do is take a warm shower and curl into his bed and forget this day ever happened.

“Your mood,” Isu remarks from his bed, “seems to be absolutely foul.”

“You think?” Baam snarls.

Isu blinks, then shuts his laptop. “Wanna talk about it?”

Got caught in the rain, he wants to say. Got called out in class to answer a question about the reading I didn’t do. Got leered at by some creep on the street. But everything is stuck on the top of his tongue, dwarfed by a bigger truth threatening to slip out.

Got stood up for lunch by Khun again.

“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here to listen,” Isu says, voice soft and gaze even softer.

Just like that, Baam feels the angry knot in his chest loosen, gently unwound by the unquestioning kindness in Isu’s voice. He lets his backpack tumble to his chair, then sinks, wet clothes and all, onto the floor.

He opens his mouth, intending to apologise for snapping at Isu, but all that slips out is a sob.

Immediately Isu is on his knees, hugging him tight and cradling Baam’s head. Baam tries to bat him off, tries to say through a nose full of snot, I’m getting your clothes drenched with rainwater, but Isu just swipes Baam’s bangs away from his forehead and hugs him again.

“Go take a warm shower,” Isu says, “I’ll make tea, and you can tell me what happened.”

Baam nods, and Isu herds him off the floor and into their bathroom.

He tries to get his shit together in the shower, and emerges ten minutes later, red-eyed and sniffly-nosed, to Isu’s promised cup of tea. It takes five minutes for him to gloss through the shit-show that was class, then another five for him to meander around the topic of Khun.

Isu leans back, finally. “You were meant to meet Khun for lunch, but he stood you up and you’re upset because it’s the second time this week he’s done it without warning.”

“I mean... yes, but now that you put it like that, it sounds like such a stupid reason to be upset, I sound so stupidly clingy-“ Baam falters.

“Do you know why he didn’t show up?”

Baam looks down at the chip in his mug. It fits the shape of his fingernail exactly, almost as if he could have, at one point, dug his fingernails in so deep he chipped the mug himself.

“Yeah,” Baam says at last, “He was meeting his partner for their marketing project.”

“The marketing genius? The one he’s been nattering on about for the past two weeks?”

Baam swallows the bitter taste in his mouth that really has no reason to be there. There’s an uncomfortable knot in his throat, and he sighs. “The first time, I waited twenty minutes before I called and he picked up and apologised for losing track of time because he was talking to her. Which is fine, you know, we all do it.”

“And this time?”

“Called a couple times but he didn’t even pick up the phone. And it was raining, so I thought he might have been trying to wait out the rain and lost battery or something, or maybe something important popped up, so I ran through the rain to the business building to look for him, but he was just standing in the lobby of the building talking to his project partner and laughing with her and-“ Suddenly there’s a lump in his throat that he can’t speak around, and he falls silent.

It’s so stupid, he thinks. He’s acting like a spoilt child, crying because he doesn’t have someone’s undivided attention. It’s so, so stupid that he thought he had a monopoly on Khun’s time, that he thought he was so important that-

“It sounds,” Isu says carefully, “like you’re upset that he didn’t respect your time, and that he temporarily held time with his project partner in higher regard than time with you. Combined with the rest of your day, it’s understandable that it’d be a last straw.” He’s squinting at Baam, as though he doesn’t expect to be right, as though he expects there to be something more but can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

Baam nods at him anyway, but there’s an unsavoury, wiggling feeling at the bottom of his stomach that laughs at that.

If it wasn’t Khun, you wouldn’t have minded as much, it taunts him. If it was Hatz, you’d have just brushed it off as his scatterbrain and just waited out the rain. But it was something about seeing Khun with that girl that made you so upset you had to run home in the rain, wasn’t it? I think you’re-

“You’re jealous,” Isu says, slight incredulity colouring his tone as he arrives as the same conclusion. He rocks back in his chair slightly, and repeats, “My god, you’re jealous.”

Baam chokes. He briefly considers denying Isu’s scarily accurate mind-reading, but his head is so, so heavy, and there’s a tiny bloom of relief now that the nasty knot in his throat has finally been given a name.

He lets his head hit the table, and his question comes out more like a smothered whine. “How do I make it stop?”

He feels Isu’s fingers tap along the table as he works out the answer to Baam’s question.

“You’re acting like you’ve just got your heart broken,” Isu says, after a while. “I think that should tell you something.”

“I’m not in love with him,” Baam says, protest dulled and muffled. “I’m not.”

Isu remains silent.

“I’m not,” Baam insists. “He’s my best friend.”

He waits for the familiar bloom of pride he gets whenever Khun introduces him to someone as his best friend, but the words ‘best friend’ no longer taste like they used to.

“He’s my best friend,” he says again. As the words leave his mouth, Baam no longer quite knows who it is that he’s insisting to.

(Khun knocks on his door that night to apologise. Baam takes a deep breath and they both ignore his red eyes and pretend nothing ever happened.)

-

Baam shifts. It’s warm under the blanket and really, if someone could turn that fucking alarm off and let him sleep a couple more minutes, it’d be great.

There’s a slight shift behind him, and a small whine comes from the crook of his neck.

Baam freezes, suddenly more awake. There’s a heavy, warm sort of weight around his waist and a cool press against his calves. He doesn’t dare open his eyes to see what they might be.

This can’t be happening, he tells himself, then nearly laughs aloud. Of course it’s a dream, Baam thinks. His unconscious must have lifted something out of all the things he’s never allowed himself to consider, much less daydream about, and stuffed them all into a dream-

Lips brush the back of his neck and Baam’s mind stops working.

He’s sure his heart is thumping loud enough to wake Khun up, but Khun just mumbles against his neck again, whispers of a breath making Baam’s hair stand on end. “The alarm-“

He feels Khun still. Stars burn and burst and civilisations rise and fall in the spaces between Baam’s heartbeats. He can almost hear the cogs in Khun’s brain turning, and he’s so busy trying to keep his heart still and his breathing even that he thinks he imagines the barest press of lips on the back of his neck before Khun pulls away.

He nearly whimpers at the loss of contact, but Khun has already shut off the infernal alarm and is shaking him awake, hand warm against his shoulder.

Khun’s voice is rough with sleep and something else as he tells Baam to get up and get dressed for breakfast. Baam tries not to think about it.

-

Isu is convinced Baam just needs to go out more and meet people that don’t live with him and are not Khun.

Baam disagrees.

He doesn’t understand why Isu is squeezed onto his bed next to him, flicking through Tinder and showing him faces that frankly, look nothing close to Khun’s. “I’m not interested in dating anyone,” Baam mutters for the fourth time.

“You’re not interested in dating anyone that isn’t Khun,” Isu corrects. He swipes left a couple times, then frowns. “How about this one?”

Baam groans, and shoves him lightly. “Get off my bed, Isu, your bed is literally three feet away.”

“You can’t see faces on this screen from three feet away-“

“I don’t want to-“

“Listen, Baam, you want to get over Khun? Go on some dates. Seven billion people on this earth and you think that blue shrimp is The One?”

“I don’t think he’s anything, he’s just my best friend-“ Baam falters under Isu’s withering look. He has to admit that even to himself, his repeated denials have sounded particularly pathetic as of late.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Isu says finally, setting his phone down. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, and frankly? It reminds me of the way I used to look at Hatz.”

Baam’s eyes widen. “Hatz?! But-“

Isu waves him away. “Briefly thought I fancied him way back in ninth grade. Had a whole dramatic little crisis about pining after my straight best friend too, it was a nightmare for my mum.”

“And then what happened?” Baam’s voice is smaller than he intends.

Isu snorts, tipping his head back and letting it hit the wall, “Then I went on a date with someone else and realised that I was an absolute fool and Hatz wasn’t all that great, that’s what happened. My mum’s theory is that since there wasn’t anyone else in the picture, my brain went for the only one who would show me affection. Which was really stupid, because something in me already knew that even if Hatz and I were soulmates, we’re in no way relationship material, you know? It just took me a little nudge to better figure out what I wanted in a relationship and realise that Hatz wasn’t it.” He chances a look at Baam, and exhales a shaky laugh, looking back up at the ceiling. “Don’t tell him, though, don’t want to get his ego to get more inflated than it already is.”

Baam looks up at him. He sees how Isu’s biting his lip and avoiding his gaze, and he sees how Isu’s sharing a part of himself that he’s never told anyone, how Isu’s just really and sincerely trying to help. “I’d never.”

And so he agrees. He agrees to let Isu set him up on dates and he agrees to sit down and figure out what it is he wants. Because it can’t be -  and it shouldn’t be - Khun. It can’t be Khun and his smart quips and his messy bangs and the way he smiles at Baam like Baam’s the only thing in his world and the way that makes Baam’s heart skip a beat every time.

(Khun catches him, one day, stumbling out the dorm, running late to a date with some girl named Endorsi? Androssi? “Where you headed? Wanna get dinner?”

“Maybe later,” Baam mumbles, distracted and looking at everywhere else but Khun, “I’m late to a… to a date.”

Then he slips away, like sand between Khun’s fingers, and Khun tells himself for the rest of the day that the hollow feeling in his chest is because his professor only gave him an A- on that marketing project that he and Yuri slaved away over.)

-

“If I have to go on another rollercoaster, I’m going to throw up,” Isu warns the group. He’s bent over heaving, hands on his knees, and his glare just makes Hatz laugh even harder.

Khun chuckles and takes pity on him. “You all go on ahead, I’ll take this one and get us snacks. We’ll meet you at the exit of the next coaster.”

It takes all of two seconds for Hatz and Rak to cheer and haul Baam off to the next one.

“You didn’t want to get on another one too, huh?” Isu whispers conspiratorially, bumping his shoulder against Khun’s.

Khun snorts, “I can handle a couple more-“

“Liar!” Isu sings, and winds his arm around Khun’s shoulders. Khun bats him off, laughing, and they head over to the nearest concession stand.

Isu orders them hotdogs, but the churros in the display case catches Khun’s eye. A vague memory of Baam mentioning churros flashes in Khun’s mind and he makes a quick decision.

“And a churro,” Khun tacks on, then fishes out his wallet.

Isu eyes him. “Hungry?”

Khun shakes his head. “Baam likes churros, he hasn’t had them in a while.”

Isu just looks at him strangely, then turns to collect their orders from the operator.

Khun frowns. Should he have gotten all of them churros? Hatz doesn’t like sugary things, though-

As they walk back, foil-wrapped hotdogs and churro in hand, he hears Isu whistle quietly. He bumps his hip against Khun’s, and nods over to their right. “Look at that guy.”

Khun glances up, trying to keep the mini hotdog-churro mountain in his hand from toppling. The guy in question has short silver hair barely covered by a backwards cap and eyes red as a snake’s. The flimsy white tank top he has on leaves little to the imagination, and from the way he looks positively sculpted, Khun can see why Isu singled him out.

“Right Baam’s type, isn’t he?” Isu says, and Khun nearly drops the churro.

“Baam-“ he splutters, trying to salvage the churro from where it’s clamped in the turn of his wrist. “Baam’s type?”

“Yeah. You think he’s Baam’s type?”

“I don’t know, he’s only ever dated girls-“

“You’re his best friend and you never once asked? Also, he’s only had one girlfriend, but I set him up with all genders-“

“You set him up?!”

“For the whole of freshman spring, you fool, did you never catch on?”

“He’s never mentioned it-“

“That’s because he wasn’t interested in any of them, and I tried my best, mind you-“

“And that’s Baam’s type?” Khun twists slightly to look back at the man.

Isu bites his lip, grinning, and Khun has a strange feeling Isu’s just making it up in his head.

“He isn’t, is he?” Khun says, and ignores the way his heart lifts slightly.

“You’ll just have to ask,” Isu sings, and Khun groans.

Before he can think too much about why he even wants to find out in the first place, they see a brown blur barrelling towards them, and Khun has to take a step back to avoid being ran over by Rak.

Hatz and Baam are slower to head towards them, still talking about the animatronics in their last ride. Isu hands Hatz his hotdog, and Khun is about to tell Baam that hey, the concession stand was selling churros and I remember you mentioned a while ago-

“The animatronics were really cool, Khun, you should have seen it. You would have liked them.” Baam’s eyes are shining, soft muted gold, and Khun finds himself smiling softly back.

“I’ll go with you next time,” Khun promises, and is rewarded with Baam’s breathless beam.

(“Gross,” Hatz mutters, mouth full of mustard. Isu isn’t sure if he’s talking about the way Khun and Baam can’t stop looking at each other or if it’s the obscene amount of mustard he slathered onto Hatz’s hotdog as a joke.)

-

As it turns out, Baam gets along with all the people Isu sets him up with like a house on fire.

Not in the way Isu expects, of course. Baam finds out that Wangnan was forced to do it by his friends too, and they spend an hour commiserating over meddling friends with good intentions before realising they share their sociolinguistics class and move on to commiserating over that too. Ehwa is slightly clumsy with her words, but is completely endearing, and when she admits to Baam that she’s not really looking for a relationship because she’s still hung up over an ex, Baam finds himself equal parts relieved and sympathetic. Urek confesses that his main motive for downloading the app is to convince people to join his school’s flailing LGBTQ club, but it backfires when they realise they attend different colleges. Baam laughs and agrees to attend some of Urek’s club events anyway.

He ends up great friends with all of them, and with the flow and ebb of the semester, ends up spending less time in his dorm than usual.

“Getting popular, huh,” Khun says one day, as Baam taps out a reply to Ehwa that absolutely yes, he‘d love to hear about the new boy she’s been seeing. Baam hums distractedly in response, and sets his phone down when Khun sighs.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time out of the dorm,” Khun tries again.

Baam blinks. “Some of my friends living in different residence halls.”

“You’ve been spending less time with us,” Khun clarifies. Baam wishes he could see Khun’s eyes to figure out what he’s thinking, but Khun’s frowning down at his nails.

“You jealous?” The words slip out of his mouth before he can help it, and he nearly laughs at their irony.

Khun glances sharply at him, full force of a blue stare wiping away Baam’s smile. He’s looking straight at Baam with a seriousness that they’ve never shared in their nearly-two semesters of friendship, and there follows a moment of silence so loud that it echoes in Baam’s ears and with each beat of his heart Baam knows that Isu is wrong, Isu is wrong, Isu is wrong and that there will never be anyone for him but Khun.

Suddenly Khun blinks and he’s pouting, lower lip jutting out in petulance. “So what if I am?”

(When Hatz walks in, he says Baam laughed so loudly he could hear him all the way from the lift.)

-

Rak eyes Baam’s hotdog. He’s long since finished his, but Baam’s been stuck, starry-eyed, on the churro Khun bought for him, and Rak grumbles to himself that if Baam doesn’t get started on that hotdog soon he’ll rip it out of Baam’s hands and inhale it himself.

“Baam? Is that you?”

An unfamiliar man is standing behind them, head cocked to the side and unzipped hoodie barely clinging onto his biceps. Rak winces as Isu grabs his shoulder and whispers, “It’s him!”

Before Rak can ask Isu what he’s talking about, Baam has burst into a smile - “Urek!”

“Baam, baby, I knew it was you!”

Rak blinks. Baby?

He wants to ask Isu about this strange man with silver hair, but everyone’s mouth hangs open as Urek envelopes Baam in a bone-crushing hug and lifts him off the ground.

“Thought I wasn’t going to see you again, not with my club leaving for our trip two days before your finals ended, but I’m so glad to see you, babe-“

Isu issues a faint squeak as Urek plants a loud smack on Baam’s forehead, and clutches Rak’s shoulder even tighter.

Rak turns to Isu. “Explain,” he demands, under his breath.

“I thought he looked familiar when I saw him just now, fuck- I set up him with Baam ages ago, back in freshman spring, I thought nothing came of it since Baam talks about him like he’s just a friend but-“

“But babe?” Rak hisses. Khun isn’t going to like this, he thinks. He’s going to go into one of his infamous sulks and Baam’s going to be the only one who can pull him out of it, and good fucking luck to whoever gets the job of explaining to Baam why Khun was sulking in the first place.

“So you gonna introduce me to your friends, Baam?” The man says, slinging his arm around Baam and smiling genially at everyone. Baam’s smile is so wide it nearly cracks his face in half, and Rak wonders faintly how Khun is faring.

“Everyone, this is Urek, he goes to the college uptown. Urek, these are my best friends Hatz, Isu, Rak and... where’s Khun?”

Rak pauses as everyone turns to look around. He swears Khun was right beside Hatz half a second ago, but there’s absolutely no trace of him now. Half of Rak is relieved that he’s not on the other end of one of Khun’s patented glares, but the other half of him knows Khun well enough that he can smell the Brood building just right round the corner.

He sighs, and gently disentangles Isu’s arm from his. “He mentioned something about needing to run to the washroom, I’ll go see if he’s there.”

Rak waves a friendly goodbye at Urek, and as he walks away to search for a flash of blue hair, he hears a sly, “Oh, Khun? Your Khun?” and Baam’s flustered spluttering.

Ah.

He spots a messy blue flash a little ways down from them, and hurries over before Khun can see him.

“So,” Rak says by way of greeting. He clamps a hand on Khun’s shoulder as Khun turns, blue eyes flashing in surprise, “Our mighty Khun has run away.”

“I’m not running from anything,” Khun mutters, turning away again, “I just... saw this really interesting... thing and came over to look at it.”

“Terribly fascinating, these... uh,” Rak follows Khu’s gaze, “these trash cans.”

“They... they might talk.”

“Talking trash cans.” Rak is unimpressed, and he makes sure to let it into his tone.

He crosses his arms and lets Khun avoid his gaze for a few more seconds. Khun’ll start talking soon, Rak knows - he hates awkwardness, especially when they’re centred around him.

“He’s… he does seem close to Baam, isn’t he?” Khun says, eventually. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off the trash cans, and Rak briefly considers tossing Khun into one.

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re his best best friend.”

There’s a flash of a wince before Khun’s cool mask is back. “He hasn’t told me anything about that guy.”

Rak waits.

“He’d… he’d tell me if they were dating, wouldn’t he?” Khun’s eyebrows are furrowed. “Why hasn’t he said anything about being someone’s… someone’s babe?”

Khun spits out the last word with so much disgust that Rak nearly laughs. “You’re an idiot,” Rak chooses to say instead.

He waits for Khun to look up before continuing, “You’re an idiot and lest you forget, you're his best friend-“

“Just his best friend-“

“-and what that means is that if he hasn’t told you anything about this guy giving him pet names, it probably isn’t significant enough to him and he hasn’t feel the need to mention it. To you or to any of us. Whoever Urek is, he doesn’t mean anything to Baam other than a friend, and you, of all people, shouldn’t worry that Baam is keeping anything from us. He’s your best friend, Khun. Trust him.”

Khun lowers his head, worrying a fingernail between his teeth. They remain silent for a moment, until Rak finally processes what Khun has said.

“Just his best friend?” Rak tries not to smile too widely. “You looking to be something more, then?”

Khun freezes slightly, then lets out a laugh that is far too cheery. “Course not.”

Rak isn’t as smart or perceptive as Isu is, he knows, but he likes to think that after more than two years of friendship, he can read Khun pretty well too. He kicks lightly at the trash cans, and offers quietly, “I know his friendship is valuable to you - I know all of our friendships are - but I don’t know if you see the way Baam looks at you sometimes. There’s… there’s something different there. There’s something there that Hatz doesn’t have with Isu. And I know you’re afraid of losing him, and you’re afraid taking the chance that one day he might leave you behind but… for what my opinion is worth, I think Baam might be a chance worth taking.”

He watches Khun take one breath, two, three. Khun’s hands are balled up into fists and Rak can see the cogs turning as Khun processes and reprocesses what Rak is presenting to him.

When Khun speaks, his voice is small. “The way Baam looks at me?”

“You’ve been walking around him with your eyes closed, haven’t you - he looks at you the same way you look at him.”

Khun’s mouth opens, as if in denial, and Rak huffs. “He looks at you like if you were to hypothetically be more than best friends with him… he looks at you as if he might like that.”

Khun shuts his mouth. He stays lost in thought for a while, and Rak feels an itch on the back of his neck like someone is watching him. He suddenly remembers the way they have left Baam and Hatz and Isu standing, waiting for them, and curses. “Come on, they’re looking for you. Should I tell them you were jealous that someone called Baam baby or should I tell them you were entranced by talking trash cans?”

Khun flushes and turns to walk away from said trash cans, tossing Rak two fingers.

Rak just cackles.

--

The first snow of sophomore year falls on a Tuesday.

Baam wakes up to a flurry of white outside his window, and as he trudges through the ankle-high slush and the snowflakes that threaten to glue his eyelashes together, he realises he forgot to bring gloves.

Ah, well. He’ll just suffer, then.

His phone buzzes with non-stop texts from Hatz and Isu all throughout his second lecture of the day, and he fumbles to set it on Do Not Disturb when his TA starts glancing over at him.

Best Roommate Ever: snowing!!!! Fencing Champion: snowball fight in the park, 2pm Best Roommate Ever: bring it on bro I’m not scared of you Fencing Champion: yeah, not scared of me keeping my winning streak alive  Alligator Overlord: get ready to get SMUSHED, cowards, the Great Rak is coming Khun: good lord, y’all couldn’t wait until classes were over?

Baam bites back a grin, heart oddly warm, and he finds himself unable to sit still for the remainder of the lecture. He ends up counting down the minutes to the end of class, and as soon as it hits 1.45pm he tosses his notes into his bag and his scarf around his neck.

He is the first one out of the building, and nearly blows by the person leaning by the entrance. The person reaches forward and tugs on his backpack, and Baam turns around, startled, only to come face to face with Khun.

“Woah there,” Khun laughs, arms reaching out to steady him. “In a rush?”

Baam grins in response. “Left my gloves at the dorm, thought I’d go grab them before meeting everyone for the snowball fight. Wanna come with?”

Khun raises an eyebrow, and produces Baam’s gloves from his own pocket and holds them up to Baam.

“Absolute hero,” Baam beams, and he tries to tamp down the wonderful sort of warmth curling out from his heart all the way down to his toes. “How’d you know?”

Khun shrugs. “You always forget your gloves. Thought I’d just let myself in and check if you did.”

He hands Baam his gloves, and wait for him to put them on before they begin the cold and slippery trek to the park.

Isu and Hatz are already there, wrapped in beanies and scarves and long winter coats.

“Get ready to get wrecked, losers!” Isu calls out, waving to them.

“Where’s Rak?”

“Rak’s here,” comes Rak’s voice, somewhere near Baam’s feet. He’s lying on his back, limbs spread out and tongue sticking out. “Mm trying to catch snowflakes.”

Baam just laughs, and helps him up. There are already multiple groups spread across the grass, flinging snowballs at each other with peals of laughter carrying in the wind.

“We’re thinking a three versus two game,” Isu offers, now that Rak is back on his feet. “How do we want to split?”

They decide on rock, paper, scissors, and by some feat of magic (“Manipulation,” Hatz insists), Khun emerges on top.

“You get first pick,” Hatz tells him, “but the other side gets the third person.”

Khun twists to look at Baam. “How’s your aim?”

“Terrible,” Baam answers honestly, and Khun grins with far too much delight.

“Great. I want Baam.”

“No cheating,” Hatz warns. “Just the both of you.”

Khun bumps his shoulder against Baam’s and grins at him, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Always been us, hasn’t it?”

And when Baam laughs, full and delighted, Khun swings, hidden snowball hitting Hatz right between the eyes.

(Baam dreams about us sometimes. He dreams of an us, a universe in which Khun is ice and he is fire, and they burn together in an endless firework instead of melting into a tepid puddle.

He dreams of a Khun that hurtles through space and time, and of a Baam that will rip rifts into the fabric of the universe if it means he can follow wherever Khun goes.

He dreams of a Baam that spins illusions out of thin air in a circus for those without a home, and a Khun that tells the future and flips cards and is the flip side of his card, the way people are in the best sort of love stories.

He dreams of a Khun that wraps his hand around Baam’s and tips their foreheads together in soft moonlight, and of a Baam that is brave enough to rest his head against Khun’s heart, finally brave enough to dance with him to the quiet song that is three o’clock.

He dreams of a Baam that charges into battle, cloaked in red, sword drawn and burning with the rage of a thousand souls, and of a Khun that grits his teeth and charges in right behind him.

He tells Isu about the latest of his strange dreams one day, and Isu just laughs.

“Of course he would,” Isu says, picking up his book again. “Khun looks at you as if he’d follow you around anywhere.”)

-

“Come on, eat faster, we’re gonna miss good spots for the fireworks!”

“What good spots?” Khun snorts. “In case you forget, fireworks are in the sky. Anywhere’s a good spot.”

Rak levels Khun a glare, and brandishes a fry in his face. “Not if the only place left is under an awning and all our views are blocked. Remember junior year?”

Everyone groans at the memory and starts eating slightly faster - they waited for the fireworks to signal the end of the pride parade, but when the fireworks started and they finally clambered outside of the coffee shop they were waiting in, all they could see was the red underbelly of an awning that desperately needed a clean.

“So,” Baam says, “Urek asks if we want to meet his club for lunch tomorrow.”

There is instant reaction around the table - Rak drops a fry on the ground and squawks, and Isu chokes on his soda. Hatz has to thump him hard on the back before Isu inhales, red-faced. He flashes a grin at Baam, “Why don’t you ask Khun?”

Khun looks up from where he is staring daggers at the table, and frowns. Why me? He wants to ask, but Baam has already turned to him, eyes hopeful and fingers poised over his keyboard.

He swallows hard. As much as he doesn’t like Urek (Which doesn’t make sense, by the way, a small voice in his head tells him primly. Urek’s been nothing but friendly to you.) he doesn’t want to be the one to deny Baam anything. “If you want to, sure.”

Hatz huffs in annoyance, and Khun shoots him a look. What’s with all his friends today, he wants to demand. First with Isu joking about Baam’s type, then Rak being uncharacteristically insightful about things Khun doesn’t want to think about, and now Hatz? But he sees an opening to get answers, and he goes in for the kill.

He turns to Baam, and slaps on a smirk. “So he’s your type, huh?”

Baam’s mouth hangs open, a faint blush painting his cheeks. “He’s- what- he-” Baam flaps his hands in Khun’s direction. “What made you think that?”

Khun affects a casual shrug. “Looked like you were pretty pleased to see him.”

“He’s a friend from uptown,” Baam says. “Nothing like my type.”

“And what would that be?” Khun says, then makes the mistake of looking into Baam’s eyes. Like honey, he thinks, dazed, the kind that is sweet and sticky and impossible to ever escape once you’ve fallen in.

He nearly misses Baam’s nonchalant answer, delivered as if he’d rehearsed in his mind a thousand times before. “You know, kind, smart, resourceful. Takes the time to get to know me. Same sense of humour. Always knows what to say. Remembers the small details about me, stuff like that.”

There’s a snort from the other end of the table that sounds suspiciously like sounds a lot like Khun, but the tips of Baam’s ears are red as he breaks eye contact with Khun and he’s pouting so fiercely at Isu that Khun’s mind nearly goes blank at how… how cute it is.

But Rak is growling at them about how if they don’t finish eating in five minutes he’s going to head out to see the fireworks without them, and so Khun’s mind shuts up pretty quickly.

(They manage to find a good spot, of course. Not many awnings in amusement parks.)

The first firework to go up is red, and the crowd oohs and aahs as their video cameras capture the peony bursting into a thousand tiny stars. The next one is a yellow brocade, and as the golden stars fade away, Khun can’t help but think that it doesn’t quite match the golden of Baam’s eyes.

Baam.

He turns to his side, shoulder brushing Baam’s, and is stunned to see Baam already looking at him.

Baam blinks rapidly at having been caught, and Khun can see a small flush making its way up his face in the dim light. Khun’s eyes unconsciously trail down, a small part of his mind wondering, wandering-

Khun finds himself leaning in, and his eyes dart back up to Baam’s, suddenly closer than they’ve ever been. They are full of… hesitance, Khun thinks. Hesitance and a quiet sort of yearning and something that resembles hopefulness that makes Khun’s heart flip in a peculiar sort of way.

He opens his mouth, but under the bursts of the fireworks and the thunder of his own heartbeat, he finds that for the first time in his life he cannot think of anything to say to his best friend.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like this, encased in all the things Khun doesn’t know how to put into words, a frozen bubble of their own, but all too soon the lights are flickering back on in the park and everyone is cheering for the fireworks display. There is a resigned sort of smile on Baam’s face as he raises his hands to join the applause, and Khun notices too late that Baam never pulled away.

“They were beautiful, weren’t they, Khun!” Hatz is saying, and Khun snaps away, shoulders jolting away from Baam’s and mouth fumbling through a yes, of course, of course.

-

When Khun is five, his sister tells him about her first boyfriend. What kind of person do you want to date in ten years, Khun? Khun thinks about it, and tells her, with all the gravity a five-year-old can muster, someone who eats all my carrots so I don’t have to. His sister bursts out laughing, then hauls him onto her lap. My boyfriend is tall and smart and handsome, she says, tickling his sides. Will you be tall and smart and handsome too? But he’s wriggling around too much to answer, answering shrieks of laughter echoing down the hallway.

When Khun is eight, he comes back from school with a backpack full of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, and when his mother laughs and asks him who he got them all from, he shrugs. Here and there, he tells her, and he hands her the stack of letters he gets along with them for her perusal. You didn’t open any of them, she says, but he has already wandered off. He ends up stuffing some chocolate into his sister’s jacket pocket, and when she disappears that night he wonders if she ever finds them.

When Khun is ten, his sister comes back home, bruised and empty. She sometimes forgets the motions she needs to go through to love herself again, Khun’s mother tells him, so he needs to love her extra until she remembers. He hears - he can still hear - the quiet, trembling way she tries to rebuild herself and when he climbs into her bed to hug her and pepper her forehead with kisses the same way their mum does, he tells her it’s okay to cry, and he tells himself that he will never let someone consume him the way that monster has consumed her, because even at the age of ten Khun has come to learn that sometimes the wounds that hurt the most are the ones that don’t show scars.

When Khun is fourteen, Novick gets a crush for the first time. He tells Khun all about her after school one day, and Khun nods politely in all the right places while trying to solve a rubix cube. How do you know? Khun asks, hands fiddling with his cube. How do you know you like her? Novick flops over onto his bed and sighs. Can’t get her out of my mind, Novick says. I can’t stop wanting to make her smile.

When Khun is seventeen, Dan applies to the same college his partner does. You’ll regret it, Khun and Novick tell him. Think about what college is best for your education, not who’s going to go there, but Dan just laughs. It’s a reach school anyway, he says. He might not make it in. But he’s test-savvy, and he does, and when it comes down to the decision between Khun’s school and theirs, Dan chooses them. Don’t sacrifice your future for someone you might not even remember down the road, it doesn’t make sense, Novick tells him, and tosses a pen at his head. Love isn’t supposed to make sense anyway, Dan grins, and that’s that.

When Khun is eighteen, he comes back to Dan and Novick for the summer with one name on his tongue. He tells them all about Baam and the way Baam’s eyes sparkle when he’s excited and the way he hates pickles and the way he laughs at all the bad jokes everyone else groans at. He talks about Baam until Novick swipes him on the head and laughs. You talk about him so much it’s insane. You in love, bro? And Khun remembers the flames that burned his sister, the way love ate and ate and ate away at her until she had to build herself again, and he bites his tongue and shakes his head, insistent. I’m not.

When Khun is twenty two, alone in a hotel room crowded with his own thoughts at two am while his best friend lingers outside, he calls Dan and Novick. They hear the worry of fingernail between his teeth, and they ask him what’s wrong, Khun, what’s wrong, and joke about how they’ll help him hide the body. He takes a deep breath, and whispers, I think I’m in love with him.

And just like that, the dam breaks.

He tells them about the way he cannot stop thinking about Baam - the way he has never stopped thinking about Baam since the day they met - and the way he’d do anything to make Baam smile. He tells them about the way Baam’s eyes shine a soft, subdued gold when he’s thoughtful and a fierce, flashing gold when he gets worked up, and the way Khun has tried his best but has never quite figured out if it’s the gold of dusk or dawn. He tells them about the way something inside him aches when Baam looks away, the way Khun’s hands itch to hold his every time they touch.

He tells them about the way Baam eats his carrots (Novick laughs) and the way Baam has a stupid sweet tooth that can only be satisfied with copious amounts of chocolate and the way he walked forty blocks once just to find the sort of chocolate Baam likes because he knew that Baam’s beam at the end of it would be worth it. He tells them about the way Baam looked, under the dim light of the fireworks, the way Baam looked at him, hopeful and yearning and sad all at once, and the way Khun wanted nothing more than to kiss him in that moment. He tells them about what Rak said, about the way Baam looks at him, and the way he looks at Baam and how the past few years suddenly clicked and made sense.

He tells them about the way he’s discovered that Baam has dismantled him, piece by piece, and has diffused through him so thoroughly that everywhere he looks, it just echoes Baam, Baam, Baam, and as a tear rolls down his cheek he tells them about the way it doesn’t make sense, because he’s told himself that nobody is supposed to cut through him like this.

Love isn’t supposed to make sense, Dan says. Now go, go and tell him.

-

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Baam looks up. He watches as Khun emerges from the shadows, hair almost pearlescent in the sharp moonlight. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he looks almost nervous waiting for Baam to allow him to sit.

Baam shifts, and he settles down next to where Baam is sitting on the curb, hugging his legs and chin on his knees. The curb is narrow, and Khun is nearly totally pressed up against Baam by the time he’s fully sat down, adopting the same pose Baam is.

Baam swallows. He feels the warmth of Khun’s leg through his own jeans, and the dangerous brush of Khun’s hand on his.

“Nice night.” Khun comments.

Baam hums in response. It is - the stars have all come out in this dark distance between them and the city, and the only things Baam can hear is the song of the cicadas and the low buzz from the neon sign outside the hotel.

“What brings you outside at 3am?”

Everything, Baam thinks. You. Me. What I want us to be but daren’t ask for.

The way I keep replaying that moment under the fireworks in my head. The way that when I close my eyes, I keep seeing the way you looked at me, keep feeling the brush of your shoulder against mine, but knowing it doesn’t mean the same thing to you as it does to me. The way that even if it did, you’d never act on it, and oh, the way I wish you would.

“Too stuffy,” Baam says instead.

“Me too,” Khun says, and his voice is so close, so close to Baam’s ear that he’s sure if he just turns his head a fraction Khun’s lips will be there. “Too many thoughts for one small room, you know?”

Baam swallows again, and stays still.

“Baam,” Khun murmurs. His voice sounds slightly strangled and all sorts of breathless, and it takes everything in Baam not to shiver in response.

“Baam, look at me, please.”  

And so Baam does, because he never can resist when it is Khun asking. He turns, and he sees the way the moonlight dances between Khun’s eyelashes, the way it brushes Khun’s cheeks and makes him glow, makes him look so ethereal that it makes Baam’s chest hurt.

He sees the way Khun’s eyes are soft and open and willing Baam to understand, but fierce and determined and brilliant all at once. They shine, and Baam’s breath stutters.

He wants to look away, wants to pry himself away from the trainwreck of a memory he knows he’s going to form, the memory he knows will replay in his mind’s eye over and over again when he lays down to sleep at night.

But Khun is beautiful, and Baam cannot take his eyes off of him.

Beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

And suddenly Khun is leaning over, hand warm on Baam’s jaw, eyes questioning, pleading, and Baam feels himself melt into Khun, carried by the ache of want he has hauling around by himself the past four years.

Khun tastes like iced coffee, like sunlight glinting off of fresh snow. He tastes like the crackle of lightning, like a multitude of city lights, like the sound of snowballs skimming across a frozen pond. He tastes like Baam has always thought of and more, lips slotting into Baam’s the way he has slotted himself into the space between Baam’s heartbeats, and Baam isn’t sure if he ever wants Khun to pull away.

And when they do break apart, it is with the feeling that everything in the world has snapped into place, brighter, clearer, right.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long,” Khun murmurs. “But I’m here now, and I don’t think I ever want to leave.”

====

anyway i just graduated and now i miss my friends and i don’t know what to do with my life what’s up with y’all 

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Captain Syverson- Chapter 7: Non-Productive Time

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: On a slow afternoon, Shane remembers a couple of fun evenings with Sy, and can’t help but start texting him…he turns out to be a bad influence.

Don’t want spoilers? Click me first to catch up!

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings:  Language, mature themes, a steamy scene that bumps up against the line of smut/not smut…it looks like smuttish is, in fact, a thing, (see what I did there? Toss a high five to your fic writer for the paraphrased Witcher quote in these here notes! lol! Sorry, i’m tired...and in a weird mood tonight...) so, anyway, using that. I love it. 

Author’s Note: This chapter was about half done before I even started SI1 and SI2! So that’s why it’s come along so quickly in the wake of them. It could also mean that there are some continuity issues…I found a couple during the re-write of the first part, and more when I was proofing, so it should be good, but…fair warning, one or more could have escaped me! Also, let me know if the text convo is hard to follow. I’ll try to reconfigure it to be more clear. It seemed to me like context was enough, and they’d had text convos before, and no one said anything…this one’s longer by about 300%, though, so…feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome and appreciated!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags: 

@onlyhenrys

@cavillryarchive

@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

@agniavateira

@oddsnendsfanfics

@omgkatinka

@thisismysecretthirstblog

@misslaland

@speakerforthedead0@tumblnewby

@suavechops

Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

Time seemed to pass slowly when Shane wasn’t with Sy. When they weren’t having dinner together, or doing their typical date thing. She thought about their second date. One of the bars in town, chosen for its above average bar food but mostly, it’s pool tables. The warning he’d given her via text had made her laugh:

We’re goin’ to Cade’s for apps and pool, if that's okay. As gorgeous as you looked in that blue dress you wore last night, I recommend jeans and a T-shirt for tonight, okay?

She took his suggestion. A simple black tee, because she was a food klutz from hell, layered over a red camisole, and her favorite jeans. It showed off her dainty arrow necklace well.

While they played, they drank beer and talked about life, getting deeper into things than they could at therapy sessions.

“Dad split when I was about ten, I guess. Mom did her best with her only son, but she sent me to my grandpa’s a lot when she was working or just…needing her own time. He’d been an army man. Fought in Korea. His dad was in World War II. It felt like…I don’t know, this pull, like I was meant to join up.”

“Destiny?” She asked. A dreamy tone overtook him when he talked about his family and his now former career.

“I guess. Never though too much of all that before.”

They smiled at one another. Knowing.

“What was he like? Your grandpa?”

“Oh, Pap was the best. He was a mechanic in the service and so he could get anything hummin, ya know? We fixed up and built motors for all kinds a’ shit. My first car was a ‘67 Shelby Mustang with the fast back all because when I was about 14, he found most of one at a salvage yard and basically rescued it from the crusher. Got it for about nothin’. For two years we collected parts and did body work on that thing. And by the time I turned sixteen, it was the most beautiful, show-ready Kerry green machine you ever seen.”

“One of my favorite cars! I’d love to see pictures!”

“I’ve still got ‘er.” He grinned. “When Pap died, it got…hard for me to drive her, ya know? So…special occasions only now. And he left me his truck, which he’d just bought brand new while I was on my first tour. That F150 crew cab we came here in, with all the bells 'n whistles. I couldn’t let such a fine automobile go to waste.” He grinned.

“You’re such a gear head.” She chuckled.

“Hey, you may be glad about that when you need somebody to get your own motor humming.” He teased back at her, bending over the table to take his shot and sinking it deftly. He said they would only play for fun, but he was still winning this round…which she didn’t think was that fun.

“Okay, I deserved that.”

“The shot, or the innuendo?” He asked to clarify.

“Yes.” They laughed. He eventually did miss, making it her turn.

"Ya know, I'm disappointed in this date, Shane." He baited.

"How come?" she asked, a bit hurt.

"A guy only asks a girl to play pool with him so he can show her how to shoot…and you already know."

It was true. She'd played a lot growing up and even a bit as she got older. She and her siblings loved billiards. Her whole family, really. And although she was no professional, she wasn't half bad for an amateur.

"What do you mean?" she asked innocently, sizing up the table for her next shot, but knowing with a fair amount of certainty what he was implying.

"You know. I wanted to get all close to ya. Show ya how to grip that cue in your hand. How to stand, bent at the hip, where to eyeball your shot from." he smiled. "All that shit ya see in movies that makes the girl all nervous and excited that the guy's touchin' on her. Pressed up against her."

Shane grinned, picked up the small, blue cube of chalk and rolled the concave side over the tip of her cue…she had no need to do so, most people didn't, really…but she made herself look really sexy doing it and asked Sy, "Is that right? Well, I guess you'll have to find another way to get your cheap thrills, because this girl has been known to run a table." She bent over the green felt seductively, the angle at which she did so displaying her décolletage in his direction just enough to tantalize him into licking his lips. She took her shot at the 10 ball, but sunk the 8 instead, losing her the game…damn. She shouldn't have gotten cocky.

"Run it where, sunshine? Into the ground? Off a cliff?" he laughed as she stomped over and began to poke him mercilessly in the ribs.

"Come on, Minnesota Fats. Let's pay the tab and find something a little cozier to do."

"Oka--wait, did you just call me fat?" he was incredulous. She laughed.

"Oh my God, you thought YOU were gonna teach ME about billiards…Minnesota Fats is like the most famous pool player of ever. I am not calling you fat."

"You messin' with me?" he squinted.

"Sy, google it. I promise. I would never call you fat. You're… my sexy man bear."

"Technically a bear is a fat animal." he sulked.

"Why don't you tell that to one when it's chasing you down to make a meal of ya!" Shane laughed. "Come on. Remember? I think I mentioned something about… finding another way for you to get cheap thrills. Lets explore that, shall we?" she whispered into his ear. He dropped some bills on their table nearby to more than cover their food and beer, and they hauled ass into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They had definitely been exploring. In the two weeks since they'd been given the green light to see each other outside of therapy--the day Sy basically handed Shane's boss her own ass--they'd spent most evenings with each other, unless Shane had a particularly late evening at work or an early day the next day. A few nights, they had been together so late, that just staying over seemed the most reasonable option. But they had both agreed to take things slowly with the physical stuff. It had been a long time since either of them had been in a relationship, and given their patient/therapist situation, waiting a while for the sex had seemed like a good idea…on paper. On the sofa had been a different story.

One day last week, she'd had to make an early night of things, and stood up from his couch, but was pulled back down to straddle his lap.

"Hold on a minute, sunshine. Why don't you gimme a proper goodbye before ya go, hmm?" he held her so close to him at every curve of their bodies, like the pieces of a puzzle snapping flush together. His kisses were deep and agonizing, his beard gently brushing her mouth, teasing her with its uncommon softness. She returned the ardor, squeezing him in every way she could.

She couldn't contain the desire pooling at her center, especially when he clearly couldn't contain his, either, straining against his shorts, pressing against her so deliciously, right where she needed him. She didn't hold back. And he was nothing if not encouraging to her endeavor.

"That feels so good, baby. You're so warm. Mmm." he whispered as he nipped at her ear and bit at her neck. She hadn't intended to, but she felt herself slipping over the edge, into pure euphoria and gripped at his hair, still rather short, though growing out from the mandated buzz. The length made him even more sensitive and when she ran her hands up his neck and over the back of his head, the result was like an electric current straight to his manhood. His body tensed as his release followed hers seconds later.

"Fuck." he said. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" she was truly confused.

"For losin' it like a teenager." he sighed and laid his head against the back of his couch in surrender…an unfamiliar sight, Shane was certain.

"Don't worry about it. I mean…it's not quite how I pictured our first time, but--"

"Oh, hell no. This doesn't count as a TIME, sunshine. This is batting practice. A warm up.”

"Ooh, you and your baseball references again. I told you, I need to leave, Sy. You can't get me worked up with that kinda dirty talk." she kissed his cheek, and stood. "Walk me out?"

He did. And they stood holding one another in the dark, leaned up against her Explorer, Sy's back against the door, Shane's cheek on his bare, hairy chest, and the turning of the earth all but forgotten.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She had to stop thinking about him. About their dates and the time they'd spent together. But her schedule had fallen apart for the day due to a nasty storm that had blown in, she had no more education to work on for now, and she could only clean and organize her treatment room and desk so thoroughly.

She guessed…the secretaries knew she was available if need be…and she was salaried…what was the harm in texting Sy? She'd stayed late and came in early and overworked herself in general so much for this clinic. She could justify a bit of downtime.

Hey! Whatcha doin?

Just did some exercises that my super hot PT gave me! *winky face emoji*

Uh-Oh, should I be jealous?

Mmm, hard to say, sunshine. I guess it'll depend on which one of you sleeps with me first. *devil emoji*

Smart money is on the one who’s already let you get to second base…and basically third, even though…does it count if it’s basically because of a dare. Induced by Jack Daniels?

I think it counts if you came…*smirk emoji*

Damn those skilled fingers and Tennessee whiskey.

What can I say. I told ya I knew how to get a motor humming. *cool guy emoji*

You certainly do. No doubt about that.

So how's your day goin', sunshine?

Eh, everyone's cancelled on me. I have no one until 4:00, and I have nothing to do until then. I've decided to see it as a blessing and text my favorite fella.

And when he didn't respond, you resorted to me? *smirk emoji*

Hey you know that you have no competition for my affection other than like, my dad…and Chris Evans. Lol

Your dad, I'm sure I couldn't compete with if I tried, from what you've told me. Chris…well, I'm a REAL captain, not some guy jumpin' around in tights.

Mmmm, shame. I bet you'd look good in a getup like that. *heart eyes emoji*

You think so?

Yup! *American flag emoji*

You wanna be my Black Widow?

I mean…I've already basically got a costume…*embarrassed monkey emoji*

*several lines of big eye emojis*

Yeah, a few Halloweens ago…I was Romanoff. Now you know. I'm a total nerd.

I'm a nerd, too, sunshine. Serious nerd.

How am I just finding out about this? There's next to no merch at your place, and you never wear typical nerd shirts…*skeptical face emoji*

You haven't seen my whole place…*wink emoji*

What, are you telling me you have Batman bedsheets? *lol emoji*

Oh, it's much…much worse than that. The bedroom is pretty neutral, but…I have a…kind of rec room in the basement that is basically nerd central.

Oh. Em. Gee. I can't WAIT to see that, Sy!!! And how dare you hold out on me!!!

Well, I mean, I didn't wanna lay out all my cards right off the bat. I'm playing the long game.

Ah, so, when do I get to see this nerd trap?

Come on over, sunshine. *smiley face*

I said, I've got a patient at 4:00.

Everyone's cancelled on you. Can't you cancel on them for once?

Not unless I'm violently ill do I ever have any patients cancelled on my behalf.

So…say you're violently ill and come see me. *shrugging man emoji*

I dunno, Sy…

I got stuff to make that soup you like…

She had made it clear to him how much she loved soup, especially a good creamy potato soup, and on one of their dates, he'd had her over and there was a big pot of the stuff on his stove, made from scratch. She'd never had better, and he almost got lucky that night…and I mean…he still got a little lucky. He cooked for her AND cleaned up, AND let her pick the movie that night. She still picked an action movie, because she wasn't really a romance movie type, overall. Even so. Could she leave him hanging?

She opened her thread with Heather in her messenger app on her laptop.

Heather, is there anyone who could take my last patient, Mr. Lopez?

Looks like Cheri has a cancel around that time. Need me to move him?

If you could. I'm not feeling well.

Are you pregnant?

Omg, every fucking time. Why when anything is amiss in a woman's life must it be pregnancy?! And why is it okay to ask that question?! Ugh! She loved Heather like a sister, and it probably was just a joke, but uuuuuugh!

Yes…yes I am. *eye roll emoji* I've got a killer headache that's making me queasy. I'll email Susan. Thanks.

You bet. Tell Sy I said hi. *wink emoji*

Shut up.

After a quick and concise email to her boss, she picked her phone back up. One unread message.

You there, sunshine?

She simply replied,

Get that soup ready, Captain, I'm on my way.

Up Next: Chapter Eight: Heat/Ice

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[falseroar]

Dog Days Part 24: Three Shots Fired

((Marvin provides a distraction so Abe and Jackie can get into the studio undetected, Abe to find Wilford, Jackie to find his friends. This plan turns out to be terrible on every level.

Warning: Shooting/someone shown getting shot, no gore/details. I promise this warning will only show up one more time in this series. This is also probably the longest part in the series so far.

And here are links to the masterlist for the series and to Part 23.))

Any hopes Abe had of getting any answers out of Marvin or this other guy in the red hoodie on the drive to the studio were crushed, because once the magician was sure he knew where to go, he didn’t have another word to say to the hunter. In fact, as Abe pulled out onto the street and started driving, he asked again, “How do you two know Wilford? And why do you think he’s at this TV studio?” only to be met with silence.

Abe slowed at the red light and glanced in the rearview mirror, where he saw the two of them clearly talking in the backseat, but in the driver’s seat he couldn’t hear a single word of it. Apparently, they couldn’t hear him either, or were too busy arguing to notice.

Great. As if this whole situation wasn’t suspicious enough. Marvin might as well have held up a giant sign saying they were keeping something from him, and knowing that the magician could throw the whole “hired to stalk one of his friends for a shady client” thing back into his face didn’t make it any better.

“Why are we taking him?” Jackie asked, his eyes darting toward the hunter in the front seat. “Wasn’t the whole plan to keep him away from Y/N until we figured out what his deal is?”

“I think his deal is that he’s just an idiot,” Marvin answered. He had tossed up the silence spell as soon as the car started moving, because he suspected Jackie wouldn’t be able to keep from saying something. “And we need to get there as fast as we can, without drawing too much attention. We don’t know what we’re walking into, here.”

“Which is why we shouldn’t be bringing him! I can get there faster on my own, and don’t you have some kind of teleportation spell?”

“Sure, and we can set off every alarm in the place and never make it inside to find the others. You think a place like that doesn’t have security of their own?” Marvin asked. “Why isn’t Chase picking up his phone?!”

“I don’t know, it just keeps going straight to voicemail, and JJ’s not answering any of my texts either,” Jackie said, glancing down at his phone again. “I thought going to the studio was supposed to be safe!”

“How were we supposed to know the Colonel would be there?” Marvin rubbed his eyes, causing his shades to rise up before falling back into place on his nose. “I should have brought my mask, I just didn’t think…But if they’re stuck on a tour, then maybe they haven’t had a chance to run into him yet, if he even is there. From the way the hunter talks, it’s not like he hangs around anywhere for very long.”

“Even if we do get them out before they run into the Colonel, we still have to deal with him,” Jackie said, tilting his head in the direction of the front of the car. “I don’t trust him, and a public building where we already know one murderer might be walking around isn’t exactly the place I want to find out whether I’m right or not. He doesn’t know about Y/N, does he?”

“Of course not! But it’s not like we can hide them from him if he’s…hm.” Marvin paused, and despite his covered eyes, Jackie could see the gears turning in his mind before he said. “Then again, maybe he can be useful.”

Marvin heard Jackie’s noise at the suggestion and turned toward him as he continued, “No, listen. We can’t just go in there, guns blazing, but I also don’t think we’re going to get anywhere at the front desk without just being told to wait for the tour to end. I can give you two an opening to get in, and something to help you track down the others.”

Marvin reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a gold coin, before a twist of his fingers revealed him to be holding two coins.

“One for you, one for the hunter. I enchant them both with basic location spells, but while yours leads you to the others, his is focused on the Colonel, on Wilford. You can get them out of there, while he can have it out with Wilford like he wants without ever knowing Y/N’s there.”

And if he happened to take care of one of the men responsible for what happened to you in the process, then Marvin was completely fine with that.

“And if they’re all in the same place?” Jackie asked.

Marvin shrugged. “Then it’s already a disaster and you’ll just have to do the best you can until I can follow behind. Teleporting out will be a lot easier than getting in. Either way, we’re not going to have a repeat of what happened to Y/N the last time those two were together. Deal?”

Jackie hesitated and then nodded, determination settling in as he said, “Deal.”

Marvin snapped his fingers, dispelling the silence before he said, “Abe.”

“Oh, am I allowed to join in now?” Abe asked sarcastically. “Or are you just checking in to make sure your driver hasn’t made a wrong turn?”

Marvin chose to ignore that and explained to Abe about the coins, or at least what the one he was going to get would do.

“It’ll be kind of like a hot or cold thing,” Marvin said. “Coin gets warmer the closer you are to the person you’re looking for, as long as you’re focused on them. Not very sophisticated and doesn’t work when they’re too far away, but it’s fast to create and should work for this.”

“And what will you be doing?” Abe asked as he took the next turn. They were getting close to the studio now, and he still had no reason to trust either of these guys. “While I’m playing hot or cold with a chocolate coin?”

“This isn’t—” Marvin paused to sniff the coin to be sure and continued, “It’s not chocolate! And I’ll be providing the distraction, while Jackie will be…Look, we have friends in there we’d rather keep safe. You do your thing, and we’ll take care of ours. Deal?”

Abe frowned. One hell of a coincidence, their friends being in the studio where Wilford supposedly might be. Then again, Marvin had seemed genuinely surprised to learn the Colonel and Wilford were one and the same person, and the truth spell back in the coffee shop made it feel like that kind of thing would be hard to fake.

“Wait, the truth spell,” Abe said, glancing over his shoulder at the magician. “Did you get rid of that before we left?”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Marvin said quickly, and slowly breathed out when the car returned to its lane before he answered, “It wasn’t designed to last long. Should be fine, as long as no troubled couples got into the booth right after we left…Nothing that a little therapy couldn’t work out, anyways. And if you don’t want to do this, that’s fine. Just drop us off outside the studio and keep driving.”

It would certainly make things easier, to the point Marvin was almost a little disappointed when Abe shook his head and said, “No, if there’s even a chance that man’s there, then I’m going in. You two do whatever you need to, and we’ll stay out of each other’s way.”

Marvin nodded and settled back into his seat, where he focused his attention on the two coins that he held in either palm. It was a simple spell, but he did need to concentrate if he wanted to have them ready by the time they reached the studio.

Still driving, Abe could feel the stare of the other man on the back of his head, and when he glanced into the mirror, he could see Jackie’s icy glare, his mouth turned down as if watching someone who just kicked a dog winding up to push a little old lady over in the middle of the street. Who was this guy, and why was he looking at Abe like that? Usually, the hunter could figure out what he had done or said to get that kind of hate directed his way, but as far as he knew the two of them hadn’t so much as shared a word yet. He would have blamed it on whatever Marvin told them about their conversation behind that spell of his, but he was pretty sure Jackie had been ready to throw hands the second he stepped out of the coffee shop.

Except there was that red hoodie of his, and with a sinking sensation Abe remembered the photos he showed Google, accusing him of being the red blur just barely caught on film. A blur that showed up outside of the clinic, very much like the man wearing red Abe thought he saw when he was talking to Jackson. Add in that the magician had thought he was responsible for what happened to the Host, and the doctor knowing he was being watched, and…

Marvin’s idea to split up was looking better and better by the second.

Abe found a parking spot on the street and heard, as he got out of the car, Jackie murmur to Marvin, “There’s his car. They’re still here.”

The magician nodded, looking grimly determined as he tossed Abe and Jackie their coins. “Keep these in your hand, and once you’re in the building, just focus on who you’re looking for. It works best if you have a clear image of one person in mind, which shouldn’t be a problem for you, hunter. Jackie, you’ll probably want to focus on Chase since you’ve known him the longest.”

Abe glanced down at the coin, taking in the ornate carving and what looked like an eye on one side and a bird of some kind on the other. “What kind of coin is this?”

Marvin shrugged. “Fairy gold, I think? The cheap kind that’s given to mortals to get rid of them and disappears after an hour or two.”

He paused at their expressions and added, “You know, get rid of in a general sense. Not, like, specifically, in this case.”

Jackie looked at his coin again and said, “This kind of looks like a doubloon, you know, the kind you’d find in pirates’ treasure?”

“Could be that too. You meet all kinds in the Other Realms, and they all kind of suck at cards, which…” Marvin patted himself down, muttering under his breath about everyone telling him to leave his working stuff at home and make a good impression, until he pulled out a pack of cards. “Right! Let me go in first, looks like there’s just a receptionist, so once she’s distracted you two can slip right in to the elevators.”

“Oh god,” Jackie murmured, realization dawning as he recognized the cards. “You’re not going to try to do that trick again, are you?”

“…The pick my card one, or the one that involves the flash powder?” Marvin asked.

“They’re both terrible! You can use real magic, why do you—”

“Shush, and watch a professional,” Marvin said, pressing a finger to Jackie’s lips before turning and walking through the glass doors of the studio.

“Oh no,” Jackie muttered again as the magician sauntered up to the front desk and leaned casually against it, flipping his hair out of his face before he started talking. From here, they could only see the young woman’s surprise turn into a bemused smile as Marvin began laying out the cards on the counter. “He’s flirting.”

“Is he that bad at it?” Abe asked.

“I don’t know, it just makes it that much sadder when he—” Jackie stopped with a sigh as the entire deck of cards scattered up into the air and began slowly drifting down, only for the first card to hit the floor with a flash and a bang that made the poor receptionist shriek, not helped when Marvin pulled her under the desk as the rest of the cards began to go off as they hit the ground. “Come on, before security gets here!”

Jackie grabbed Abe’s arm and ran inside, easily dodging the drifting cards but leaving the hunter to try and keep up on his own. By the time they reached the elevators, out of sight of the front desk, Abe was swearing and beating out a small flame on one of his sleeves.

“What the hell kind of distraction was that? Is he trying to let the whole building know we’re here?” Abe asked, but Jackie wasn’t listening.

“Still got your coin? Great, you can take one of the elevators, I’ll take the stairs,” Jackie said, pushing him inside of the opening doors after having already hit the call button.

“Wait, how am I supposed to use the coin in here?” Abe asked. “I don’t know which floor—”

But this was the perfect opportunity to ditch the hunter, and Jackie’s answer was to reach inside and run a hand over the buttons, lighting up as many as he could in one go before stepping out of the way of the closing doors. “Focus, and get out when the coin turns warm. From there it’s on you, so good luck with that, hunter.”

Jackie had to admit, it felt good to see the indignation on Abe’s face before the doors slid shut, but he didn’t have a lot of time to enjoy it. From the sound of it, the last of the cards were drifting down, and when he darted into the stairwell, he looked back in time to see Marvin backing toward the front doors, his hands held up in defense as his apologies were drowned out by the receptionist’s review of his performance.

He locked eyes with the magician and raised his phone, Marvin giving a subtle nod of understanding before Jackie began running up the stairs. On his side, Marvin had the phones he had retrieved from the bin behind the desk while the receptionist had been distracted, both of which he recognized as Chase’s and Jameson’s. Said receptionist who was now pulling off her shoe in a way that suggested he should probably go now.

Once outside and with maybe a block or two between him and the very angry young lady, Marvin could stop and take a breath before considering how he would get himself into the building if they needed an out.

“Should’ve brought the mask,” he muttered, already aware of the cracks forming in his shades as the spells built into them began to wear thin. Once those were gone, any hope of being “subtle” about this (not that there was much of one to begin with) went out the window. “Or the dagger, or the marbles, or the wind-up mouse, but no, it might look bad, Marvin.”

But the “I told you so” would have to wait until later, when he had the right audience for it. For now, Marvin made his way back toward the studio, careful to keep his distance as he watched the security guards trying to calm down the receptionist.

As he watched, they leaned over the counter and pulled up something on the computer. Marvin hissed, realizing that they must have cameras around here, just as one of the guards picked up a nearby phone and called someone before nodding to the other guard who went in the direction of the elevators.

Great. Hopefully Jackie and Abe were still moving, but Marvin couldn’t exactly wait around for a call. He squinted, and had to move closer to get the details from the guard standing at the desk, but once he was sure he reached up and rubbed the charm hanging from his left ear between his thumb and index finger until the illusion spell in it took hold.

Marvin opened the lobby door and walked in, passing by the receptionist and guard without slowing down or making eye contact. The guard glanced at him and then turned his attention back to the receptionist, who was saying something about how “that thing” creeped her out, sure in his own mind that he had just seen one of the other guards walk by. Not enough to answer if someone asked who exactly he had seen, just someone in the right kind of uniform with a face more or less like someone he had seen around probably.

The point was to act confident and keep moving, not to give anyone the chance to think about him twice or ask him any questions. To look like he knew where he was going, although when Marvin stepped into the elevator, he knew that couldn’t be farther from the truth. As soon as the doors closed, he pulled out his phone and sent a message to Jackie, hoping that he had managed to get somewhere in those few minutes.

Only to freeze when he heard the sound of gunshots somewhere in the building above.

Jackie had moved quickly, only pausing at the door of each floor to give enough time to make sure the coin hadn’t grown any warmer before running up the next flight of stairs. Keeping his focus on Chase was a lot harder than he expected it to be, with everything else going on, and he was starting to wonder if he was doing this right when he felt the heat start to spread out from the coin. He ran up to the next floor to be sure, only for the coin to immediately grow colder once he was just five steps away.

Jackie went back down and pushed open the door, listening for any sound or sign of anyone else, but the hallways were empty. He had lost count of the floors a while ago, but a sign across from the elevator proclaimed this floor to be part of Studio 5, whatever that meant. He glanced back at the elevator as it dinged open, but there was no sign of the hunter inside before it continued its way up, so it looked like Abe had either found where Wilford was hiding at or had been caught.

Either option worked for Jackie, really, and he trained his focus back on Chase as he kept close to the walls. By the time he reached the room with the recording light lit up above it and the glass window that looked into the small studio, the coin was practically burning in his hand, but the second he looked in and his concentration broke, it went as cold as the chill at the back of his mind.

Jameson and Chase were sitting at a table, arguing with two identical twins with a set of microphones between them, but there was no sign of you or anyone else in the room, not even when he leaned to get a better look at the corner near the door. Desperately, he knocked on the window, too thick for them to hear even when he shouted their names, and then yanked open the door.

Ignoring the protests of the other two men, Jackie asked, “Where’s Y/N?” and the coin in his hand became freezing cold.

---

When Abe stepped out of the elevator, a large sign pointed him in the direction of Studio 3, but the coin in his hand led him in the opposite direction until he finally found himself standing outside of a door with a star on it. The paint used to write the name “Wilford Warfstache” on it still looked fresh.

The hunter pocketed the hot coin and pulled out his gun. Still loaded with the five silver bullets, he turned off the safety and took a breath before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” came an all too familiar singsong voice inside.

It was all the invitation Abe needed.

He slammed the door open and raised his gun as he said, “Don’t move!”

“Hm? Well, I wasn’t really planning on it, but now I kind of want to,” answered the man sprawled out on a couch on the opposite side of a room that was such an eyesore of colors that Abe thought he could be forgiven for not immediately being able to pick Wilford out of the madness. The couch itself was a vibrant pink to match his mustache, as was the dressing table and mirror and the low end table between the two of them, the walls a bright cheery yellow, and the round rug that covered most of the floor was a spiral of pink and yellow. In the corner there was a yellow wardrobe with a carefully painted pink mustache on its front. Did this room used to belong to a clown or something?”

“Oh, the decorations? Do you like them? I picked them out myself,” Wilford said, leaning forward only to tilt his head when Abe made an incoherent shout. “You sure are jumpy, uh…Hold on, I know this one, it’s…Dave?”

Wilford pointed at Abe, his eyebrows raised and waiting for some kind of confirmation that didn’t come.

“Okay, not Dave. It’s never Dave, is it? Bim? No, Bim’s the other guy, the fluffy one…Steve? Dave?”

Wilford rattled off names, but Abe could only stare at him in disbelief before he had to shut him up.

“You know who I am! You shot me in the chest!”

“Now, that could be quite a lot of people,” Wilford said.

“You killed my partner, you killed my friend, you—” Abe sputtered, not sure why he was even doing this even as he exclaimed, “You killed so many people!”

“Well, yes, but you see—” Wilford bounced up onto his feet, only to pause and halfway raise his hands when Abe raised his gun again. Something about seeing the hunter ready to pull the trigger must have stirred something in his memory, because his eyes suddenly lit up and he said, “Abe! Abe. How have you been? I was just talking about you earlier with…who was it?”

“How have I—How do you think I’ve been?!” Abe moved into the room, using the heel of his foot to slam the door behind him. Not that it mattered, because he had no intention of letting anyone stop him now. “I’ve been looking for you, ever since that party. Ever since you…Ever since you destroyed everything!”

“Now, that seems like a bit of an exaggeration,” Wilford protested.

“An exaggeration? You killed your best friend, because of you the woman you loved and her brother, your other best friend, are both dead too, you tried to kill me, you killed Y/N—and then you think you can just walk away from all that, like nothing even happened?!” Abe’s grip was tightening on the gun, his finger close to pulling the trigger as tears began to sting the corner of his eyes, but he wanted to hear him say it, wanted to hear him admit to what he had done after all these years. Even if Abe was the only one to hear it, he needed this.

“I’m not sure you have the full story here,” Wilford started, only to pause when Abe pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

“That was just a warning,” Abe muttered as he pulled back the hammer on the gun. Internally though, he was cursing the luck that the one chamber that was empty happened to be the first one when he had a perfect shot lined up. “You really should stop talking.”

“Well, which is it that you want, for me to stop talking or to answer you? I’m getting some mixed signals here! And while it’s true that, in a sense, I may have done some terrible things, I never actually—”

Wilford ducked and pulled out his own gun when the hunter’s second attempt missed, but he just gestured wildly with it as he said, “Yes, I have one of those too, but if you would just listen to me, I think you might want to hear what I have to say!”

His eyes darted to the left as he considered his words and added, “Possibly. I’m starting to think you might just want to shoot me.”

“Really? What would you give that idea?” Abe asked sarcastically as he cocked the hammer again and aimed at Wilford’s face, determined that he wouldn’t waste this third chance. “You’re right. I don’t want excuses. I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I just want you dead.”

He pulled the trigger, but at the last possible second someone grabbed his wrist and threw off his aim. Abe hadn’t heard the door open behind him, partially because firing a gun in this small a space had temporarily wrecked his hearing, but he did hear his name being shouted as the last person he ever expected to see again stepped between him and Wilford.

“Abe! Stop! Just stop!”

“…Y/N?”

You were out of breath, but he sounded as breathless as you as the forgotten gun slipped out of his hand and hit the ground. At the noise, he suddenly realized how very close he came to shooting you when you did that. When you stopped the hunter from shooting him, but why? How could you do something so stupid, so reckless, so, so—

“What…? How…?” Abe struggled for words, his anger and concern fighting it out with confusion taking a chair to both of them, but you just shook your head.

“You need to hide, Google—” You froze, aware of the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and after a quick look around the room pushed Abe into a nearby wardrobe and shut the door on him, hissing, “Keep quiet!”

Abe started to protest, but he heard you turn and lean up against the wardrobe door just as the door to the dressing room opened and a voice he recognized spoke.

“Gunshots have been fired in this room,” Google said, staring around before focusing on you in the corner, and then turning back to Wilford when he shrugged and answered.

“It happens. Why, just earlier I—” Wilford gestured with his gun and Abe had to bite his fist to keep from crying out when he heard the shot and the silence before he said, “Sorry about that, Googs.”

“It’s…fine,” Google said, although his tone suggested otherwise. Outside the wardrobe, you and Wilford watched as the magitek unit wiped the splash left by the wax bullet off of his cheek with a noise of disgust before he said, “I am looking for unauthorized intruders in the building. One is currently unidentified, while the other matches my files for a hunter by the name of Abe Lincoln.”

That made Abe pause. Why would a TV studio have a record on him? Wasn’t like he had ever been here before, and from the little he knew of DE Studios they were more likely to hire the monster than a hunter. He wanted nothing more than to push open the wardrobe door just a crack, just enough to see what color shirt this Google unit was wearing, but you were leaning so hard against it that he couldn’t even hope for some fresh air to counter the smell of mothballs in Wilford’s catastrophe of a closet. What was the large fuzzy thing against his leg? It didn’t just move, did it?”

“Good for you,” Wilford answered cheerfully. “It’s good to have a hobby.”

“Looking for intruders is not…” Google paused and then decided to ask you instead, “Have you seen either of these men? They must be dealt with using the full extent of my abilities to handle such pests.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you pointed out.

“…But it is the ideal option, and therefore the most logical one to take,” Google answered, making you wonder what was included in his definition of “ideal.” “I will repeat the question, have you seen these men?”

“Sorry, Google, I think you’ll have to look somewhere else.”

Google considered you for a moment before saying, “Based on my records, this would be the ideal location to find the intruder, although it is possible that he managed to get himself lost. Humans have a tendency to need…direction.”

“Nah, getting lost is half the fun, Google,” Wilford said. “You should try it some time. Right now, even.”

“I am incapable of getting lost, and such distractions are unnecessary at this time,” Google answered. “I am going to continue my search now.”

“Good luck,” Wilford called after him before he shut the door and remarked to you, “You know, sometimes I think that guy is a little—”

He paused as Abe fell out of the wardrobe, wildly kicking back what turned out to be, in the light, a large, pink afro. The hunter froze, unable to explain why that had seemed so much scarier in the wardrobe, but then he had more important things to worry about than his pride when his eyes refocused on you and the questions he just couldn’t begin to wrap his mind around yet.

“Y/N. You’re…”

Here. Alive. Real.

And shaking, your arms wrapped around your chest but not quite able to hide the tremors running up and down your body.

“Are you okay?” Abe asked, his mind immediately jumping to the worst. When he fired before, he hadn’t…? But there’d be a sign, they couldn’t hide it if the bullet had…For a moment, Abe thought he was going to be sick himself.

“There’s too much…Just, just give me a second,” you said, taking a step back and clenching your eyes shut. If you could just shut it all out for a second, just have a chance to catch your breath for once in what felt like forever, but you couldn’t do it. After seeing what had become of Damien and Celine, of having all of that rage and anger turn into fear and adrenaline as you raced down the stairs, following the sounds of gunshots while being terrified what you might find, running in to find Abe and Wilford with guns drawn, reliving the worst moment of your life again even if it didn’t turn out like that, it was no wonder you felt like your chest was trying to cave in along with the rest of the world. The corners of your eyes were burning, but more terrifying was the feeling that at any second…Why was it so hard to even breathe?

Abe stared, but then it wasn’t like he could take his eyes off of you. He could see the lines of your face, your shoulders and spine, shifting back and forth like you were trying to hold yourself in place. Like you were trying not to transform right here and now. More than that, you looked—afraid? Sad?

Alone.

Abe became aware of Wilford wildly gesturing to get his attention before making a gesture, and the hunter felt a brief surge of the same rage that had taken him just minutes before. What the hell did he think he was doing? Wilford shook his head and gestured again, before finally resorting to mouthing the words as large as possible without making a sound. Even then, Abe hesitated, unsure if it was because he didn’t want to take that kind of advice from him, or because he wanted so much to do it that it was almost terrifying.

Either way, it didn’t take long to give in and move closer to you.

You flinched backwards out of reflex, but Abe said, “It’s just me, Y/N. It’s just…”

He struggled for what to say before just pulling you into a hug. Something he’d never got the chance to do before it all went wrong. You pressed your face into his chest, focusing on the smell you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d miss in that life. Holding you, Abe could feel you slowly relax, the tension not quite disappearing but fading enough that you could sigh and speak again.

“I missed you, Abe.”

“I missed you too, Partner.”

“Oh, this is just lovely, isn’t it?” Wilford said, and Abe rocked back on his heels as he joined in the hug, his arms wrapping around the both of you. “Look at us, together again!”

“Where’s my gun?” Abe growled, already looking down to see where he had dropped it.

“Don’t,” you said, and Abe could hear the exhaustion in your voice. “Please, Abe, not now. You need to know what really happened that weekend, and I promise I’ll try to…”

You sighed, head already hurting at the idea of trying to explain everything that happened. Your chest ached again, but you could feel the strength leaving your body like it had the night before last when you changed back, as if staying human was too much of an effort on top of everything else.

But you just had to make it a little longer, that’s all.

“But we need to get out of here,” you continued. Google was still roaming the halls, and Dark… You grimaced at the thought and felt the fangs in your mouth for a moment before they receded back into your regular teeth. “Please.”

Abe hesitated. Wilford was right here, he could end this all right now, but you were clearly not okay. His mind went back to when he left you in that hallway, told you to leave while he went running after the Colonel. He had often thought about that moment, remembered the look on your face, your grief at losing your friend combined with the confusion and the pain from your own injuries, and what he would have done differently if he had been given the chance.

He just didn’t think it would be this hard, to say, “Okay. We’ll go.” To pick up his gun and holster it, to keep an arm around you for support. To walk away and leave Wilford there, smiling and waving as though seeing off a couple of old friends.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep Googs busy for you,” Wilford said, and Abe felt the back of his neck itch with the desire to turn around and finish what he started. “I’ll make sure your name is added to the guest list, Abe, so feel free to come back any time!”

Abe made a noise at that but tried to hold back what he wanted to say for your sake. He had every intention of coming back here and settling this, once he was sure you were safe this time.

Wilford watched the two of you make your way down the hall, still waving until he stopped as if just noticing something was wrong. He rolled his shoulder back and then prodded it, his fingers finding the small hole in his shirt and then, with a bit of work, pulling out a used silver bullet.

“Huh.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had a vague thought that, if you hadn’t intervened and this bullet had hit where Abe had been aiming, it would have been very bad. There was also something familiar about that whole business, an old face reappearing in his dressing room…But that thought quickly passed and he tossed the misshapen piece of silver over his shoulder with a shrug before turning his mind back to what he was supposed to be doing.

Or he would have, if that little distraction hadn’t made him forget. All thought of you and the hunter had disappeared as soon as the two of you were out of sight, so he swayed on his feet for a moment in the hallway, mind blank. If it were really important, he was sure it would figure itself out on its own without him. Most things usually did.

“Wilford Motherloving Warfstache! What have I told you about shooting in the building?!”

Right. Kathryn, his producer. His very angry producer, judging by the look on her face. Wilford inhaled, an excuse ready on his lips, before he dove back into his dressing room and shut the door with the faint hope that maybe she’d just keep walking on. Maybe she was yelling at someone else who also just happened to be named Wilford Motherloving Warfstache too, in which case, rude, Wilford was pretty sure he had this name first.

Either way, keeping Google busy was something that would only occur to him days later, when he would decide the best way to do that was spill a martini down Google’s pants. Not exactly helpful to you, but the Jims would have a field day catching that moment on film.

For now, Abe walked you to the elevators and pressed the down arrow, although he wasn’t sure what the plan would be once you reached the lobby. Just walk out and hope no one was too worried about people getting out of here, although if they had already spotted him on the cameras…

“No, we need to go up,” you protested, pushing the up arrow. “To Studio…5, I think?”

You rubbed your eyes, trying to push back the headache forming behind them, and shook your head when Abe said, “No, we don’t. We need to get out of here, remember?”

“My friends—” you started, only for the stair well door to crash open as Jackie, followed closely by Jameson and Chase, came spilling out and froze at the sight of you and Abe. “Have really good timing? Jackie, what are you—”

You were cut off as Jameson pulled you into a hug and then stepped back to look you up and down before signing, “Are you okay? We heard shooting!”

“Wait, you know them?” Abe asked.

“We came as fast as we could,” Jackie said to you, but he was glaring at Abe, who could already tell this guy was going to be a problem. “What the hell happened?”

“You didn’t actually shoot anyone, did you?” Chase asked, eyeing the gun at Abe’s side.

“No,” Abe answered, probably sounding a little more defensive than he meant to.

“Long story,” you muttered. “But we should get out of here first.”

“Security’s looking for us,” Abe added. Well, him in particular, but Jackie had also been caught on camera even if they hadn’t IDed him yet. “They checked the cameras fast, too fast for one person they know walked back out again. Probably because the magician’s distraction was a little…”

“Much, yeah,” Jackie admitted. That card trick of Marvin’s had given them the space to get in, but something forgettable like asking the receptionist for directions would have also done the trick without alerting every security guard in the building. “Something to work on for next time, but how do we get out of here?”

“Well, the three of us have guest passes,” Chase pointed out. “It’s just the two of you we have to worry about.”

Jackie had a suggestion ready for that, and Abe saw it coming, but he was interrupted by the elevator doors finally sliding open to reveal it was already occupied. At first most of the group tensed, thinking it was one of the security guards until he spoke.

“Oh, hi,” Marvin said, looking around and taking them all in with a quick count. “Well, this is easier than I thought it would be. Get in, we can’t just hang around here all day.”

Abe exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing into a glare that Jackie matched, and Marvin rolled his eyes as they all got in.

“Not my fault someone decided to start shooting,” Marvin remarked as he pressed the doors close button on the elevator over and over again until they slid shut. “Everyone is going to be swarming up here any second thanks to you, which should actually make it a little easier to walk out.”

Jackie said, “For you, maybe. Hunter and I don’t exactly have badges or illusions to help us blend in.”

“Like I was going to say, that’s easy,” Chase said. “They just saw you on the cameras, right? At a distance, probably not that great quality video, so all they’re working on is ‘guy in a hoodie’ and ‘bald guy with a black jacket.’ Just take those off, let us hold them, and JJ, let the angry guy borrow your hat. We keep our heads down on the way out and run if we have to.”

Jackie and Abe both hesitated, but Jameson shrugged and pulled off his hat. “He has a point.”

But you shook your head, eyes shut tight as you leaned against the elevator wall and wished it didn’t shake so much, that there was a window or some kind of vent or fresh air of any kind with this many people around you.

“Google said he had a file on Abe, so they know what his face looks like.”

Jackie gave the hunter an accusing stare as he asked, “There a reason this place has a file on you? Maybe something you should have told us before we came in here?”

“How should I know?!” Abe asked, before the realization hit. “Wait, this Google, what color is his shirt?”

“It’s…blue,” Chase answered, with an agreeing nod from Jameson. “But why does that matter?”

Because if it was the red one, then at least Abe would know why they knew him. It would make things a whole lot simpler, if he knew someone here was behind that loose end.

“They have a file on Abe for the same reason Wilford’s here and I’m on the guest list,” you answered, shaking the VIP badge hanging around your neck. “The studio manager, the one in charge of everything here, is Damien and Celine, or whatever’s left of them.”

Marvin slammed his hand on the emergency stop button, causing the elevator to immediately halt and everyone to stumble and catch themselves and each other while an alarm overhead began to go off.

“What are you doing?!” Abe said, his hand on your arm while Jameson was steadying you on the other side. “What happened to just walking out?!”

“New plan,” Marvin answered as he dropped to his hand and knees with a piece of chalk in hand. He drew a large symbol in the center of the elevator floor before scuttling around to draw a circle within the space the elevator provided, which meant pushing each of them out of the way in turn. “We are not taking any more chances, so teleport spell. Easier when we’re not moving. Now get in the circle, all of you, and try not to step on the chalk.”

“Didn’t you say this place would have something to stop people from doing this?” Jackie asked.

“To stop people from teleporting in, probably. Getting out though, why would anyone care about that?” Marvin looked at you, and when you met his stare through his sunglasses he asked, “Do you really think they’d let us leave?”

You sighed. After your talk with Dark, you weren’t sure of anything, and the scream of the alarm wasn’t making it any easier to think. “I don’t know.”

Marvin glanced at Jackie, who reluctantly nodded. Better not to risk it, if they could, not after what the twins did to you last time.

Once he was sure they were all in, Marvin stepped into the center of the circle and focused his energy. Around them, the chalk lit up with a brilliant blue light, reflecting off of the shiny walls of the elevator and giving them all a sickly color. To you, it was just a bright, colorless light that suddenly changed at the same second you heard Marvin’s breath catch.

The light in the elevator turned red before the circle suddenly drew in around the magician, whose head went back before he collapsed on the ground, flashes of red running up and down his body before they disappeared, taking the teleportation circle he had drawn with them.

“Marvin!”

The shout came from all sides, Jameson dropping to his knees first to look the magician over before looking up at the rest of you.

“He’s still breathing. I don’t know what he’s trying to say, though.”

There was a steady stream of words flowing from the magician’s mouth which to everyone else may have sounded like another one of his spells. You on the other hand could clearly hear that it sounded like every swear word Marvin knew, spoken as fast as possible under his breath, although you could only guess that was the case considering he had left English behind a while ago for German and had taken a detour into what now sounded like Gaelic. He was clearly in pain, but also not too injured from whatever just happened.

Jackie knelt to check his vitals, only to have to steady Jameson as the elevator floor suddenly jolted. The alarm stopped, and you all became aware of the elevator moving downward again just before the doors slid open to reveal the hallway to the lobby, along with Google and three armed guards who were all aiming into the elevator.

There was a moment of silence before Google said, “Intruders located. Lethal force suggested.”

His eyes changed as he stepped forward toward Abe or Marvin and Jackie on the ground you weren’t sure, and you could feel the hum of his machinery whirring up to do something before you blocked his path.

“Back off,” you growled, and it was a literal growl as you could feel the wolf taking over, as your features started to blur and shift. You felt the metal under his skin as you pushed him back out of the elevator, could smell the fear on the three all too human guards, could hear the others behind you holding their breath in shock as the fur began to show, as your teeth and claws came out. “You—”

Whatever you were about to say was cut off as one of the guards panicked and fired his gun, the blast of noise hurting far more than the punch of it hitting your stomach. It knocked the breath out of you, and for a moment everything seemed to slow.

Abe.

Out of reflex or instinct, your hand reached back and grabbed Abe’s wrist, stopping him before he could grab his gun and make himself a target. Your grip was too tight at first, and you tried to relax, to give him and the others behind you some signal that you were okay, even as underneath the ringing you could hear Jackie leaping to his feet and the panic of the others. Your mind felt like it was running too fast and too slow at the same time, but you felt strangely calm.

It was just a regular bullet, after all.

None of them managed to move faster than Google though, who without hesitation reached over and twisted the guard’s wrist with a sickening sound that was followed by his gun hitting the ground and a whimper of pain.

“Shooting VIPs is strictly forbidden,” Google said.

VIPs. The adrenaline racing through your system hit that word and stumbled across an idea that was completely ridiculous and stupid, mostly because you had a faint hope it might actually work.

“Google,” you said, drawing the magitek unit’s attention to you. It hurt, talking, each word a reminder of the sting in your stomach that was too slowly fading. “VIPs are allowed to bring guests, right? Is there a limit on how many I can have?”

Google considered the question while the other two guards just stared and exchanged looks, both very aware of their coworker lying in pain on the ground and the problem of this clearly non-human person who was still talking despite being doubled over a gunshot wound. “No, there is currently no limit in the policy. A concerning oversight that should be corrected.”

“But until then, there isn’t one. Which means—” You stopped to hiss slightly, your grip tightening on Abe’s wrist until the next surge of pain dimmed a little to continue, “—that as of now, everyone in that elevator is a guest of mine, understand? And if they’re guests, then that means they can’t be intruders.”

You could feel the fur start to settle and disappear, the claws and fangs slowly begin to retract. Too late to undo what they had all seen, but you couldn’t think about that right now. Even if a small part of you was wondering why Abe hadn’t pulled away yet, or if that flash of anger and what you could be would be enough to change how the others looked at you.

“Your logic appears to be…correct,” Google said, but his expression said he was still trying to find the hole in it. “But they do not have visitor passes.”

You hesitated, but Chase stepped forward and said, “That’s right, which you told us means they should be escorted out of the building, right? And since we’re already on our way out…”

“Understood,” Google said, sounding almost disappointed that he wasn’t able to break a few more bones. “Follow me.”

One of the security guards stepped forward and said, “Hold on, you can’t just—”

He paused, his eyes going to somewhere in the elevator behind you, and he swallowed and looked back at the other guard still standing who muttered back, “I’m not paid enough for this.”

Besides, it would be easier to blame Google than try to get involved at this point, or that seemed to be the guards’ point of view as they helped their third comrade up to his feet and out of the way.

Jackie picked up Marvin, who protested in a slurred voice, and you let go of Abe’s wrist only to find the hunter slipping his arm around you, his hand enveloping yours over the wound underneath.

“Lean on me,” he murmured under his breath as Jameson moved to support you on your other side.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, even though that was an absolute lie. “It wasn’t silver.”

It was Abe’s turn for his grip to tighten, holding you closer as the strange group followed the magitek unit across the lobby floor. He didn’t want to think about what he had just seen, the shot that was an echo of what his imagination brought to mind every time it went back to that night.

“At least until they’re not watching,” Abe pleaded, aware of the guards still in the lobby, the receptionist behind her desk. Aware that they had already seen you in your in between state, the fur and the fangs and something else he hadn’t really seen in you before now: anger.

You leaned against him, too tired to argue, in too much pain to pretend you weren’t, and asked, “Does it really matter anymore?”

Abe glanced over your head at Jameson, whose expression reflected what he was already thinking. You could hear Chase somewhere behind you, apologizing in a low voice to the guards before Jackie hissed at him to hurry up, just as you could hear the ticking of Jameson’s pocket watch that felt slightly out of sync with the steady noise coming from Google as he stopped at the glass doors of the studio and turned back to face your group.

“I am required to thank you for your time here at Dark Entertainment Studios,” he said, his eyes running over the six of you before focusing on you in particular. “I have also been asked to issue you your permanent VIP card for future visits, as well as a message from the studio manager.”

You stared at him in silence before taking the laminated card and the folded piece of paper, unable to think of anything to say before Abe and Jameson walked you out with the other three just behind.

Outside, you blinked in the sunlight and found it did nothing to get rid of the spots appearing on the edges of your vision, and let Abe and Jameson lead you in the direction of the parking lot while your aching, weary mind could only focus on the note Google had handed you.

Think about what I said, Y/N. And know that you’re always welcome here.

No training required.

-Dark

You recognized the handwriting, which made it sting that much more as you remembered notes in Damien’s handwriting, passed to you in crowded lecture halls or left on your desk at work early in the morning or after a rough full moon. A fresh little reminder that the man you thought you knew, that man…

You wanted to be furious, angry, to let all those feelings he left you with come spilling out of your head so they would just leave you alone, but as you stared at the note you just felt so tired, so done with it all. You just wanted to close your eyes and forget it all, for a little while at least…

Abe pulled your hand down, his concerned face swimming in your vision as his mouth moved, saying words that seemed out of sync with what you heard before it disappeared entirely with the rest of the world.

Abe had been arguing with Jackie about which car to take you to when he felt the shudder run up and down your body. Jameson stopped on your other side and looked at Abe, his eyes filled with panic, but neither of them could say or do anything to get through to you in time to keep you conscious or to stop you from crashing to the sidewalk in the shape of the wolf.

((End of Part 24. Thank you for reading. I’m sorry to end it there, and I had hoped to have the next part ready soon, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. So just to be clear in the mean time, the turning back into the wolf thing isn’t going to be nearly as long-lasting as it was in the beginning, and Marvin is (mostly) fine. He just really, really sucks at flirting and rescue operations, so that’s something for him to work on before the end of the story.

I may try to get the rest of the story written before I start posting again, but we’ll see. Technically, we’re getting near the end, but there’s a lot left to happen and I haven’t exactly been very good at sticking to an outline, even if I like where the detours have gone (this whole studio section was supposed to be completely different, for example). For now though, it’s going to be another break until the next part is posted.

Scratch that, Part 25: Catching Up is now up.

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @skyewardlight @withjust-a-bite @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl @lilalovesinternet-l @thepoolofthedead @a-bit-dapper @randomartdudette @geekymushroom @cactipresident @hotcocoachia @purple-anxiety-blog @shyinspiredartist @avispate @missksketch @autumnrambles @authorracheljoy @liafoxyfox @hidinginmybochard ))

[btsslowburnfic]

Born to Be Yours-Chapter 2

Series Summary:  For Namjoon, the moment he set his sights on being the #1 rapper, he pushed the symbol to the side and hated it. Love should be chosen, not forced on you. He didn’t believe in fate and this mark on his wrist was a big “fuck you” to all that.

Chapter Summary: A second meeting and an awkward car ride

Find Chapter one here

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

About an hour later the men were all dressed and headed to the conference room to meet with the production team they would be working with for the next few days. Jin Walked over to Namjoon, “I hear you got some exciting news this morning.”

“It’s not exciting for me. Please don’t bring it up.” Namjoon said grumpily.

“You won’t hold out for long,” Jin grins, “Soon you’ll be like me.”

“Whatever,”

“Is your arm ok?” Jimin had been walking on Namjoon’s other side and noticed him holding his left wrist.

“It’s just a little sore. I probably hurt it when I shut the door too hard earlier.”

They arrived in the lobby looking for their Producer to introduce them to the Production Unit for this city.

“Excuse me, sir?” the hotel concierge called over.

They all looked over as the man walked towards them, “You sir, the one who came sprinting through earlier?”

Namjoon blushed and he could hear the other guys laughing at him, “Yes, that’s me.”

“A young woman dropped these off for you,” he handed him the pens he had dropped earlier in the day with a note attached. He was tempted to just toss it in the trash but instead, he held his breath as he opened it away from the prying eyes of his teammates.

TO MY SOULMATE (A haiku) You are an asshole.

You broke my wrist, you asshole

Here are your dumb pens.

---[Y/N]

Namjoon blushed furiously

“Is that from her? What does it say?” JHope appeared from nowhere over his shoulder.

“She says I’m an asshole,” Namjoon folded up the note and stuck it in his pocket and put the pens in his bag.

JHope cackles and claps his hands. “I love her. Seriously. If you don’t want her, I’ll take her.”

Namjoon glares at him, “No dating my soulmate. No dating anybody.”

“Guys, knock it off,” they hear Jin say as they see their Producer walking in with the on-site unit.

“Oh God. Jin, stand in front of me,” Namjoon tries badly to hide behind the other tall man.

Jin looks perplexed as Namjoon acts like a crazy person.

The Big Hit Producer walks over, “Gentlemen, this is our production team here. We have our principal director, choreographer, assistant director, and videographer,” he gestures to the team of four he is standing with.

“Gina Roman,” the Principal director introduces herself. “Clearly Rafael is our videographer,” the guy holding the camera gives a small wave. “Xavier is our main choreographer and [Y/N] is the Assistant Director.”  You and Xavier wave, a smirk crosses your face as you see the floppy hair and pouty lips of the asshole who knocked you down this morning. He is actually still trying to hide from you and is doing a terrible job. It is almost adorable. Almost. You were still very irritated and had told Xavier all about your fucked up morning. Huh. So your soulmate is in this band from another country. Interesting.

“Namjoon? Translate for us please.” Jimin politely requests. BTS usually had one with them, but they wouldn’t be arriving until after lunch. Namjoon pretended like he didn’t hear him. Jin shoved Namjoon out from behind him, “Translate you idiot”

Namjoon made eye contact with [Y/N], his cheeks flushing bright red. “Of course, sorry.” He translated the greeting for the team, “Let’s head to the conference room.”

“Why are you being so weird?” Suga asked on the walk to the conference room.

“It’s been a weird day, ok. It’s not every day you meet your soulmate.”

“And attack them. And run away from them.” Suga adds.

Namjoon sighs. Can he go back to this morning and wake up from this?

The two teams enter the conference room. Your cellphone rings, “Gina, it’s Robert, I’ll be in in just a minute.” you answer the phone and shut the  door behind you.

“We are so excited to have you here!” Gina begins speaking. “Would you like us to wait on the translator?”

“No thank you, I don’t mind,” Namjoon replies instantly calmer now that you have left. His wrist is still very achy and he finds himself holding it.

"There's been a bit of a problem with the practice space we were supposed to use but we are working on sorting that out now."

"Oh?” The Big Hit producer makes a concerned sound. “We can’t practice in the performance space?”

“Not until tomorrow unfortunately. It turns out the venue was already double booked. The others are bigger names, no offence. We are working on getting a new space worked out for you. We took the backup dancers there this morning to see if it would work for them.”

The guys were very concerned at not being able to practice where they would be performing.

“Why did they fly us out here if they didn’t even have the practice space ready?” Yoongi asks flatly

“We’ll just have to make the most of it I guess.” Jimin says.

At this moment, you enter the room. Namjoon instantly notices you are wearing a wrist splint on your left hand. You take your phone and place it on the table.

“Alright. The backup dancers were good to go. Robert says we can use his studio all day today and tomorrow night.”  you say, pleased that the back up plan has come through. “Also, the translator is here early. I asked him to wait just outside.”

“Excellent work, [y/n].” Gina compliments you. “And the space already blocked?”

“Yes, I walked it this morning. They just need Xavier and the guys to go over and check everything. After that we will get you guys all blocked and then we can rehearse. If you want, we can break for lunch and then head over there. Xavier and I should go and run it a few times before you guys get there,” you say.

“So to review the schedules: we are rehearsing at Robert’s tonight with just the group. I will run through it with back ups tomorrow while they do their press interviews. Then we will run it with them and backup dancers tomorrow night. We will have access to the awards venue Saturday at noon. Our practice time is 1-2 and then we can have them delivered to hair and make-up by 2:30 saturday.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Gina says, “Does this work for you all?”

Namjoon takes a minute to summarize what’s going on. “Yes,” Namjoon responds for the group. “I’d like to head on over there as well.”

“Great,  I’ll grab the translator.  [Y/N] and Xavier please take RM over there with you”

Namjoon’s face grows pale as he realizes what he has inadvertently signed himself up for. Fuck. He can’t say anything now or he’ll seem unprofessional.

You are borderline irritated and also feeling almost sorry for this poor jackass who clearly wants to get the hell away from you and also do his job well.

“Great, let’s go,” you pick your phone up off the table, Xavier follows you and Namjoon brings up the rear.

Ride to the studio

“I’m driving.” Xavier declares as you all walk out to the parking garage.”RM right?” He asks.

“Yes sir, nice to meet you.”

“I love your guys’ music and dance moves. They are seriously amazing. I was so excited when I found out I was learning your choreography and getting to work with you. Thank you for this opportunity.” He gushes to RM.

 You had done a basic amount of research on the group, but honestly you worked with so many music groups they started to run together for you. Some were well known, others less so. It was your job to coordinate on site back-up dancers, the choreographer, the venue, and make sure everything was where it was supposed to be when it was supposed to be. You quickly google “RM” on your cellphone for a quick overview and find “RM aka Kim Namjoon” and scan the info.

“[Y/N] I owe you big for picking me for this project.” Xavier smiles at you. “What’s wrong babe?”

You look up and sigh, there is no way you are telling him that this is the guy who literally ran into you this morning and caused you to sprain your wrist and who ran away from you. Xavier was super pissed on your behalf just an hour earlier. Now he was unknowingly smitten with the guy. You would wait and tell him after the show.  

“I’m just tired and my wrist hurts,” you respond, holding up the splint. Namjoon looks away, is he blushing? “You can take the front seat,” you offer to him as you throw your bag and body into the back of the Prius.

“Are you sure that’s all? You are never tired. ” Xavier responds as he buckles his seatbelt.

“Yeah, I was up at 4 to try and negotiate the space with Robert, blocked the room at 5. Taught Pilates at 6 and 7. Ran the videography and sound check at 8:30 with Rafael. Went for a jog. Got my wrist smashed. Went to the clinic to get a splint, and then met you guys..” You finally breathe after listing out what a fucking day you’ve had. “And It’s only noon. Stop and get coffee on the way please,” you tell Xavier.

“Damn girl. I still can’t believe you literally ran into your soulmate and he ran away from you.” Xavier remarked with a grin on his face. Holy shit, things were about to get really awkward. Part of you wanted to see your soulmate uncomfortable. Acting like he was too cool for all this stuff. You still weren’t sure what his deal was. “It is kind of hilarious though,” he starts laughing.

“Is my life a joke to you?” you respond dramatically. Namjoon awkwardly chokes on his own spit.

“Oh please. I’m sure you’ll find him again. Was he hot?”

“Meh, he was ok looking,” you lie. This guy was super hot. “I mean, from what I could tell. He had a hat on and of course, it was very blurry as he was sprinting away from me.”

Xavier cackles.”Only you babe. When I met Joe it was like a romantic movie. Seriously. Yours is more of a romantic comedy.”

“No. I think it’s more a dark comedy or action movie based on this morning. Maybe a documentary on a dumpster fire” you respond, searching RM’s face. He has giant sunglasses on and is looking out the window pretending to not be listening.

“Sorry. This is super unprofessional. I apologize,” he directs this at RM. “[Y/N] and I have been working together for five years, I honestly don’t even think about what’s coming out of my mouth when I’m with her and she’s had a bananas day. Haven’t you honey? She met her soulmate this morning and he literally ran into her and then ran away.”

“Yeah. It’s been a rough day;" you indulge Xavier,"I mean, what kind of person shoves their soulmate to the ground and then sprints away?” you ask the car. Silence hangs in the air. You are having your desired effect.  

Xavier says to you in spanish that he thinks you two are making RM uncomfortable and you should switch back to work. As much as you hate it, you agree. You two are technically at work. You switch back to English.

“How did you manage to snag the studio from Robert? Don’t they usually hold classes all day?” Xavier asks you.

“Two things: he and his wife take ballroom dance at our studio on Wednesday nights.”

“You don’t teach ballroom,” Xavier interrupts.

“No, but I do check on the clients to make sure their classes are going well. They are very happy with Clarissa.”

“Look at you, you little networker. Going for Gina’s job?” God Xavier was such a gossip.

“Nope. And don’t interrupt me you brat,” you jokingly fluff his hair from behind,  “Part 2 his daughter is a huge fan. I told him they could stop by during rehearsal as long as they left their phones at the front desk.” you smile triumphantly.

“I think you accidentally already took Gina’s job but didn’t tell her and didn’t take the pay raise,” Xavier turns into the coffee shop parking lot. You shrug your shoulders. “I like my job. I have way more flexibility to still teach classes. GIna’s job is 9-5 AND hopefully we will get a tour bid this summer,”

“True true.” he parks. You hand him the company card,

“Grab me a fruit cup and the usual, iced. What would you like?” you ask Namjoon.

“Just some water is fine,”

“You got it,” Xavier takes the card and runs inside.

Namjoon sits stiffly trying to ignore the fact that he has been left in the car with his soulmate. He takes off his sunglasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I was being serious earlier. What kind of person does the shit you did this morning?” you lean forward from the backseat.

“You already know. I’m an asshole.” he turns and gives you a cold glare. Damn.

“Huh. Ok. Awesome.” you respond. You really weren’t expecting that.  You get back to your phone. “By the way you owe me like $900 asshole.”

“Pardon?” he responds.

“$200 for the clinic and $700 for the classes I’m having to sub out because you broke my fucking arm.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “You are dramatic. Nice poem by the way.”

“Thank you. It came so effortlessly as I was inspired by my muse,”

Namoon turns around irritated. “I just wanted to go out and buy pens!”

“I just wanted to go out for a jog. And by the way, I made sure you got those pens mister! Because I am NOT an asshole,”

Namjoon opened his mouth to respond but didn’t have anything to say to that because you were right. The car was silent for a few minutes. “Thanks for the pens.” he said quietly.

“Your wrist hurts.” you say, observing him cradling his left arm.

“It does. I shut a door too hard this morning,”

You click your tongue, “Is that why you think it hurts? Man you are deep in denial darling. Your wrist hurts because you hurt my wrist. That’s part of how this whole thing works.”

“What are you talking about?” He asks, irritated.

“....are you serious right now? I googled you real quick and you’re supposed to be the smart one.” you scoff.

“Who’s the asshole now?” he retorts.

“Fair enough. That was a little mean. But, now that we have met, we are going to experience each other’s pain. Whenever Xavier is sick, Joe gets sick. When Xavier is sad, Joe can tell. Even when they’re not  together. Were your parents soulmates?”

“Yes.” Namjoon thinks about this. He hadn’t asked his parents about any of this stuff because he didn’t care, but now that he thought about it, it made sense. “Shit.”

“Yeah. So I mean I’m glad your wrist hurts because Karma, but I just thought you should know. Please be careful with your body. I teach fitness classes as my main income and I need my job.”

Namjoon sits there for a minute taking all of this in. He had worked so hard for this to not happen. Dammit. He didn’t want anything like this.

Xavier came back to the car and distributed coffee and water. The rest of the ride to the studio was mostly silent other than Xavier randomly asking RM questions about the other band members. Apparently he was a huge fan. RM was super nice and friendly to Xavier, much to your annoyance. What had you done to deserve the asshole version? I mean, you had written him a mean haiku, but that was after he was rude to you. You sulk in the back seat while answering emails one handed. NEXT CHAPTER

[ubemango]

commission 4: slow burn/best friends/college au w/  jin

(+or: we’re best friends and you’re literally So Great and i suck at knowing what i want but anyway i’m starting to think i like you ??????? au)

note 1: For my very very sweet and understanding friend @yeuj​ who helped me out when I needed it most .... I hope you enjoy 🥺🥺💕!!!!!! And thank you to Micah + Clove for helping me with my questions—thank you for your thoughtfulness, insight, and love!!!!! 🌷🌷🌷

note 2: I tried to make ramen-making as unboring as possible but it really is just....water and spice. If you’re confused about eating ramen at convenience stores please search that up on Youtube, I’ve exhausted my link resource skills (except for when I want you to listen to songs.) Also, the songs I mention are titanic/the end by cehryl and Subside by Eloise. I actually listened to Sweet Night on repeat while writing this so if u wanna listen to that... ;_;

note 3: everything about this story is in medias res. I realized I had no proper beginning or conclusion and I didn’t wanna change the flow of the story by concretely adding one or the other... so if the story feels incomplete/fragmented then please understand that this was a conscious and intentional decision done on my part :,) It’s slow burn!!!! I Love you ha ha!!

(i)

The library is open twenty four hours. The convenience store in the student centre is not.

“Please use your car,” you assert.

Seokjin huffs. “Then pay for my gas.”

It’s an empty threat. He’s got no business driving hard bargains when he has capital in the form of a rich CEO dad. He ignores your glaring, calmly closing his laptop, shoving it into his bag. Closing up shop after a derivative crisis you’d called him up for because he lives on campus, plus he never sleeps early. You appreciate that he gives into you so easily.

“Fine.”

So you go, searching for a convenience store that has those instant noodles you suddenly came up with a craving for this late at night. Seokjin’s used to it by now. You get things done when you want to, even if it means making a home of the pillowy chairs in the library you’d claimed for studying purposes.

The mathematical theory of chaos. You don’t want to think about it, and you click your seatbelt with a yell, throw your bag in the backseat with as much strength your anger allows for. “I hate school!”

“Please don’t scream in the car.”

“I hate it!”

Seokjin slots the key in. “Can you look up where the convenience store is?”

He tosses you his phone to unlock. You jab at the screen with more grumbling and colourful cursing, pulling up whatever Google Maps says is the nearest store open.

“Plug in the AUX cord,” Seokjin urges next. He merges into traffic, which is really only one car and the late night bus. A quiet night for your suffering.

“Can I play my—“

“Nope.” You sneer. Tapping open his playlists, you pass under orange lamp post after orange lamp post and scroll in silence before Seokjin groans. “I made a new playlist, pick that one.”

“What’s it called?”

You can see that he’s stiffened up. You don’t comment. “The one with the three heart emojis.”

Simple enough. You don’t care to sift through the songs, and the first one plays with one more indulgent tap of the screen.

Why don’t you tell her? I think you should. You know how you’re feeling, you can’t fight the truth…

Google interrupts the soft voice with the indication of the next right. Seokjin eases on the gas pedal. You watch him nod his head to the softness of the stereo. “I can’t pay for your gas.”

“I know you can’t.”

“I can pay for your ramen,” you suggest. Seokjin makes a quiet noise, like he’s amused by your generosity, or maybe he just thinks you’re dumb. You think it’s the latter.

“I don’t want you to pay for my ramen.”

“Then what do you want?”

The lamp post light striking Seokjin’s face gives way to the harsh red of the stoplight. In the stillness, he sends you a hard look. It makes you feel weirdly vulnerable, like he’s stripped you bare.

To make things worse, Seokjin says:

“Nothing you don’t want to give me.”

He doesn’t heed your confusion because he presses on the gas, looks straight ahead. You do too, and you try not to contemplate the cool brevity of his attention you suddenly want back. You push your uncertainty aside.

(He has a handsome face, you think.)

Seokjin interrupts, “So why’d you wait till now to study?”

“You know me.” Procrastination. The complete and utter mistake of underestimating the allotted time needed to get a successful grasp of concepts for your midterm. In not so convoluted terms, this class sucks ass.

“Yeah but that was—a lot of notes.”

It was. You probably pushed five weeks of material in the span of three hours. You can feel the very tips of your nervous system frying up as you pass through gas station-lit intersections. But there’s a real answer to his question, and you have the intense need to curl in on yourself in this leather seat.

“Well I would have started yesterday, but I was busy,” you counter.

“With what?”

“So you know Hyukjae from Psych?”

Seokjin pauses to listen to Google’s instructions, and immediately makes a left onto another main intersection. “Sure.”

“We went out yesterday,” you admit.

He hums a tight sound, tapping on the wheel. “Hm. How’d it go?”

It wasn’t bad. You shared butter tarts and laughed at his anecdotes and Hyukjae-from-Psych paid for your Uber home. He gave you a very weak hug before you slipped into the car. It was in that seat you’d decided you wouldn’t be sending him an I had fun! text that night.

“It was okay. Like, nice to me and stuff. But nothing…”

“…Worth revisiting.”

“Sure,” you mimic, and you wonder why he’s right.

“The guy’s okay,” he says. Almost like it’s with relief. “It’s—not to sound rude, but. Uh. I think it’s, uh—good. That you weren’t… interested.”

You think he’s gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. “Why?”

“Can’t trust guys with bad handshakes.” Seokjin chances a glance at you, and laughs at the confused scrunch of your eyebrows. “I met him during that networking conference in third year. Limp-wristed me. Like a chump.”

“Ew.” You can’t say he’s wrong. That hug Hyukjae gave you really was weak. The dude has noodles for arms. “But yeah, I guess you’re right. Wasn’t really my type.”

“Hm,” is all Seokjin comes up with. You watch him pass right through the turn Google tells him to take. “Oh shit. Sorry. I’m just. Thinking. About… limp… men.”

You snort. “What?”

“Like a man. A limp man. Hyukjae. Not me,” he clarifies fast—proudly— “just. Anyway! Back to you saying what your type was.”

“I wasn’t,” you accuse.

“Yeah well now I’m asking because I don’t wanna think about limp men. Your type, please.”

He sounds weirdly inquisitive. Demanding, almost. You chalk it up to the near-delirium of being awake past 1AM.

“I—don’t know,” you start. Somehow you feel like you’re messing something up. “He was kind, I like… kind. And soft. Sweet. You know Kim Taehyung? From Neuro? Like, almost big shoulders but not really. I like big shoulders. Yeah. Guys like Kim Taehyung-ish.”

Seokjin just hums again. There’s another song playing, and you don’t know how many you’ve rotated through in this playlist. You didn’t think it’d take this long to get to the store.

Google says it’s just two minutes away now. Seokjin says, “Cool,” and then sings along to the stereo.

You got me losing sleep over you… I usually sit still but now I can’t help but move… When I see you, I don’t know what to do…

(ii)

“Spicy or not spicy?”

“Whatever keeps my stomach lining intact,” Seokjin says.

You don’t say anything more and grab two of whatever ramen packaging isn’t scarily red. The convenience store is void of any customers, and the cashier rings you up with a very sour face for interrupting the show he’s got playing on his phone. His face shrivels up even more because all you can pay with is coins. Seokjin laughs behind you when you apologize for clattering the dimes too harshly on the counter.

“Enjoy,” the cashier announces, and he doesn’t mean it one bit.

The hot water machine at the back is a very intimidating thing next to the tiny display of cookies.  Too many buttons and knobs you don’t understand, so Seokjin takes on the chivalric role and prepares everything for you. He rips the plastic open with gentle hands. Dumps the powder with too much conviction.

You both watch the water stream hot into the noodles. “Do you like macadamia nuts in your cookies?”

“I guess,” you say.

“Wanna split a cookie?” He hands you chopsticks to stir the ramen with, gestures at the cookie display with a jut of his chin.

“Are you paying?”

“Can you imagine if I made you pay after I asked to split,” Seokjin spits at you. “Yes I’m paying.”

“Then I want chocolate chip.”

He freezes, then jabs smartly at his noodles for a tense ten seconds.

“You make me mad,” he finally answers. “Should we eat in the car?”

“The bowl is too hot to hold.”

The counter at the window it is. You’re sad that you didn’t buy pickled radish, but your coin purse has weeped all its coinage out. Seokjin leaves you as Noodle Guard, going off to pay for that bonus cookie with a crumpled five. In the next second you contemplate the evaporation of ramen soup, the cookie is duly dumped right next to you, and Seokjin takes a huge bite of what still appears to be extremely hot noodles.

He promptly chokes, and makes sputtering noises.

“Holy shit,” Seokjin cries.

You take a much, much slower bite. “You’ll be fine.”

“I thought I could be cool for you,” he cries some more.

“You don’t need to be cool for me. Who eats ramen in a cool way?”

Seokjin nods his approval, that tear of theatrics sliding down his cheekbone. He eats carefully. A noisy car roils on outside, and passes quickly outside your periphery.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you remember to say.

“I love standing at counters and eating things hot,” Seokjin retorts. He dodges the fist you aim at his abdomen with swift ease. “It’s no problem.”

“I—“ You don’t really know why but you need to talk. “You know—you’re really, um, kind.”

Foolery. Absolute foolery that sentence was, and the cashier probably heard that foolery, and Seokjin definitely heard that absolute foolery, and he’s laughing. Like really laughing, caught with the noodles dangling from in-between his teeth. That’s all you had to say? The guy drove you out to get cup noodles out of his own volition. That’s kindness maxed out, and he deserves better than you fumbling between your teeth. Your nerves have fried up so bad, you guess.

Seokjin’s giggles dwindle down. “Thanks,” he says, smiling small.

You blame the heat of your cheeks from the heat of your soup.

Neither of you are desperate to get to that last quarter of noodles to broth ratio. The knots of your shoulders loosen with the sound of your slurping combined, and silently you are reminded of Seokjin’s warmth, standing so close to you.

The easiest path to a nice ending involves a happy belly and Seokjin driving you home with nothing more than a goodbye and a thank-you as you slam the car door shut. This is not unknown to you, because you and Hyukjae-from-Psych took that easy path yesterday.

You just don’t do this often, contemplating all the routes of romance. When is it appropriate to laugh at a joke, to wipe your mouth on the napkin? To smile and peel at your heart and grant that person access to all your inner workings? You belatedly notice that Seokjin did not bring napkins.

(The moment in the car—nothing you don’t want to give me—you want to laugh at his jokes, and smile, peel and peel and peel at your heart, but slowly. Slowly, you put your chopsticks down.)

How funny it is to come to very sound conclusions within a split second, because all you know is that it feels good, being with him like this.

Seokjin, in your quiet realization, takes it upon himself to decide the cookie-eating rights.

“Want the first bite?” He asks, propping the chopsticks horizontally on his bowl.

You nod. Desperately you try not to look at him because you might make more realizations, and you don’t think you’re ready for any more unleashed and unknown emotions. “Please.”

He gives it to you. The right side decidedly has more chocolate chips, and  it’s a very nice explosion on your tongue. So nice you groan into it. “Oh that’s really good.”

He snatches the cookie away before you can take another bite. “I get bigger bites because I paid for it.”

“That—? Uh, that’s not how sharing works.”

“Yes it does,” Seokjin argues. But he just takes as normal a bite as ever. You can’t say you don’t focus on his mouth for too long, though—

—And you immediately seize up at the thought. Horrified, you shriek: “Actually just—have the rest of it!”

He looks alarmed. “O…kay?”

“You’ve got a nice mouth,” you blurt out next.

An absolutely awful feeling settles heavy in your stomach. Because almost immediately you realize that this is a kind and soft boy with nice anecdotes that have yet to be uncovered this night (he likes telling you stories) and he’s got wider shoulders than Kim Taehyung and you’re not sharing butter tarts but you’re sharing a cookie with him.

Another realization: does Seokjin have limp arms?

He puts the cookie down. (His arm looks very strong, doing that.) “I—thanks?”

“I think I’m losing my mind,” you note.

He watches you slump over the counter. Purposefully burying your face in your elbows to muffle your betraying mouth. “It’s late,” is all he says.

“Did that make you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all.” You don’t think you’re breathing. Your lungs have evaporated, like those steamy ramen noodles you just ate. Seokjin probably notices you’ve stopped moving, so he says, “Really.”

“Okay.”

“Did it—did it make you uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” you say.

“Cool. Do you wanna go—“

You stand up straight, grab all your garbage before he finishes. You don’t look at him. “Yep, yep, please.”

(iii)

He puts the key in the ignition, and doesn’t budge.

“Somehow I feel like you wanna say something else,” Seokjin says.

You curl your hands into fists. “It’s late.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’m—I’m sorry.” You are acutely aware of how garbled you must sound. It’s starting to get on your nerves, how flimsy you’re being. “I’m not… thinking.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re being pretty articulate for someone with an empty brain.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Seokjin sighs.

The seat squeaks where you tense up. “I don’t want to think about your mouth.”

“Do you wanna know what I think?” You nod. Jesus. You’ll just let him do the talking from now on because your tongue can’t be trusted this early in delirium, late in the hour. “I—I…”

Seokjin struggles some more, then deflates. He starts laughing.

“I… don’t drive just anyone out to convenience stores at two in the morning for ramen. You have to know that.” He clears his throat. His eyes are shiny with the harsh glare of neon signs. “I guess I just—wanna know… what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking…” Your lips part. Searching for words feels like a physical thing—your stomach is swimming with what feels like a billion thoughts but nothing comes up for air. “I’m thinking I—don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

Seokjin turns to look at you. “I won’t make fun,” he whispers.

“I think. I think, you look—um—really… Good. Um. R-Really… good, right now.”

“Thanks.” He looks up like he wants to say something but his eyes harden where he gazes, locking in on the dust motes of the windshield. Your lungs swell small in the quietude. “I think you really look good, too.”

If baser compliments already have you burning then you don’t know what you’d do if he tried anything more romantically complex. Some people are meant for loud love stories and grand gestures and you—all you can do is think too much and you want to say more but Seokjin understands. He understands your silence, your ineptitude.

In a fit of controlled passion, you reach over the console, grasping at his knuckles till he flips his palm right into yours.

“Feels… ”

You wait for something to come to mind. A phrase, a proper thought to give utterance to, all the failures and successes of the night. Faithfully, nothing comes.

It just feels.

And Seokjin seems to agree. He holds tight between the grooves of your fingers.

“You’re very pretty and it hurts,” he says, and he doesn’t try to meet your gaze, and one feeling comes resolute: it feels right.

[avengerscompound]

The Tower: Unexpected, 13

The Tower: Unexpected An Avengers Fanfic

Series Masterlist Previous //

Pairing:  Avengers x ofc, Bruce Banner x Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton x Wanda Maximoff x Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff x Tony Stark x Thor x Sam Wilson x OFC (Elly Cooper)

Word Count: 1910

Warnings:  smut (orgy, oral sex, vaginal sex), pregnancy

Synopsis: A little over 2 years after moving into the Avengers Tower, Elly finds herself pregnant against the odds.  While some are excited, others are terrified, and pregnancy that none expected to happen causes rifts through the group and threatens to end the relationship.  

Author’s Note:  Written with my little dumpling @fanficwriter013

Chapter 13: Shopping for Twins

The plans were put in place to move.  Tony bought land up in Esopus that sat right on the Hudson.  We saw it via google maps but he was pretty determined that we weren’t allowed to see it in person until it was done.  What we did know was that there was going to be a new state of the art facility for the Avengers.  It would have hangers and landing pads for the jets, labs and offices, gyms and rooms for weapons and combat training.  As well as conference rooms, living quarters and all the other trappings for what was essentially a privately run military installation.  We would be getting a house a little off from it, surrounded by trees and right by the water.

It was exciting to think we were all going to live together like an actual family and not just a bunch of people who were dating and happened to live in the same building.  It was going to be a big change and one that would take some getting used to but I was ready for it.

Now that the house was under construction, I was no longer worried about not having a place for the babies to go.  Things were more certain and I felt more ready for them and what having them meant for us as a group.

Except for the fact that we weren’t at all ready for them.  We had no baby clothes.  No furniture.  No diapers or bottles or wraps.  I was 26 weeks pregnant and we weren’t prepared to actually have babies at home with us in any way, shape or form.

So Tony took Wanda and I to Maddison Avenue to shop for baby supplies.  We wandered through the cribs when I stopped at two that seemed to clip together to form a sort of double crib.  It was a light, cream, stained timber and I ran my fingers over the sleighed ends.

“Twin cribs?  I didn't know these were a thing.”

Wanda came up beside me and picked up the card that described it.  “You didn’t?  They have lots of things for twins.”

I smiled and wrapped my arm around her waist and leaned my cheek on her head.  Of course, my little lost twin would know all about what was available for twins these days.  She’d probably been researching since she found out I was pregnant with twins.  “Do we get one of these?”  I asked.  “They're so big.”

“We could always have one built,”  Tony said.  “Design it how we want.  But this will fit in the nursery just fine.”

“What if they don’t like sleeping next to each other?”   I asked.

“It splits apart,”  Wanda said, moving to the side of it. “See there are, clips here and here.  Then it’s just two cribs.” 

“Yeah, that could work.  So this one then?”  I asked.

“Yep, and if it doesn’t work.  I’ll just make something.”  Tony said grabbing the price ticket from it.

“Of course you could,”  I said nudging him.  I took my list out and my eyes flicked over them.  “Okay, so change table next to match this.  The question is, are we getting one with the bath built-in?”

Tony shook his head.  “No, I’m designing the room to have a deep sink installed.  Easier that way.”

We went over to where the change tables were and selected one that was long and had lots of drawers and had that similar rough-looking washed paint look.  Tony also grabbed the ticket for the most expensive cot mattresses.  On the way to look at the bassinets, I stopped at the rockers and sat in a gorgeous winged backed one.  “I didn’t even consider something like this.  I want this.”

Tony chuckled.  “If you’d let the designer do this you wouldn’t need to consider everything.  It would all be there ready for you.”

I wrinkled my nose.  “Tony.”

“Yeah, Tony.”  Wanda agreed which made Tony break down into laughter.

“Alright, rocker.  Ottoman.  Which fabric?”  He said tossing the swatches in my lap.  I picked a vintage rose color that I thought would match the style of the chair.  We then moved on to the bassinets and Wanda let out a squeak almost immediately.

“Elly!  Can we get the one that looks like a basket!”  She said, almost skipping over to it.  “It has so many colors for the fabric.  We can get pink and blue.  Or white with pink stripes and white with blue stripes.  And they have wheels so we can wheel them into the room with us if they are being hard to settle.”

She was so excited and looked so happy there was no way I could say no to her.  Tony grabbed the ticket for those too and we moved on to the strollers.

I looked over the different types they had for twins.  There were ones that were side-by-side and ones that stacked them one on top of the other.  There were classic ones with four wheels and jogging ones with three.

“Okay.  Here's the question, is it better to stack them and be streamlined or have them side-by-side and take up the whole sidewalk?”  I asked.

“Side-by-side,”  Tony said with no hesitation at all.

“Jogging one I guess,”  I said, thinking about all the runners in our family.  I chuckled thinking about Steve zooming past Sam while he was pushing the twins.  “You think they go fast enough for Steve and Buck?”

Tony thought about it for a moment.  “I'll have to make one. Or special wheels.”

“So don't even buy a stroller?  Or buy one and you alter it?”  I asked.

Tony nodded as he came to a decision.  “I should probably just make it.  They'll need bug guards.”

“Okay.  Let's do it that way.”  I said with a laugh, before looking at my list.  “Diaper Genie, car seats, slings, diapers, wraps, wipes, bottles.  Those are the things that just the best thing is what we want.  Then it's basically clothes and toys.”

We each grabbed a shopping cart and started just putting the best of the medium items in.  Tony getting car seats and bottles.  Wanda baby slings and the cutest and prettiest muslin wraps she could find.  Me grabbing everything else.  We met back in the center of the store.  “Just clothes and toys now and this place has none of that.”

“Okay, I’ll pay and organize this to be delivered and we can drive up Maddison until we find something else.  A little Ralph Lauren for kids.”  Tony said.

We went to the counter and waited as Tony organized and paid for everything.  When he was done we went back out to the Lotus that Tony had parked out front.  I let Wanda into the back and then got in.  “We’re going to need to need to get a minivan or something,”  I said.

Tony looked at me in shock.  “You shut your dirty mouth.  Never say that word again.”

“Minivan?”  I asked.

“Elly!  That’s blasphemy!”

Wanda and I broke down into giggles while Tony glared at us and pulled the sportscar out.  He drove a little way down the street and pulled up at the front of a boutique childrenswear shop.  We all got out and went in.  I grabbed Wanda by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.  “Now the fun stuff,”  I said shaking her.

“Cute little outfits?”  She squealed.

“Yes and toys,”  I said, grinning.  “Let's see if they have little Armani suits to match Tony.”

“Not here,”  Tony said.

“Somewhere?  They exist?”  I asked.

“Of course, but not here.   We’ll get him one.”

“Nice.  You know what they do have?”  I asked him.

“Here?”  He asked.

“That was rhetorical because the answer is …”  I moved down the rack beside Tony and held up an Iron Man onesie.  He frowned at me.  “No?  Cap instead?”  I asked holding up a little Captain America one.

“Those aren't authorized.”  He said furrowing his brow and coming over to me.

I took a look at the label.  “Really?”

“I'm pretty sure,”  Tony said taking it off me and looking at the label.  “Yeah, these aren’t ours.  That’s going to be a problem.”  He took a photo of the label and texted it to someone before putting it back.  “Don’t be buying Avengers’ shit anyway.  We have it in the gift-shop.”

“Fine,”  I huffed.

“Elly.  Little shoes!”  Wanda said poking me which made me perk right back up again.

“Oh, yes.  Shall we?”  I said, and Wanda nodded.  “Alright.  I’m gonna go this way.  You go that way.  Call me,”  I said tapping my head.  “When you find something extra cute and hold it up and I’ll do the same.”

“Okay, let’s do it,”  Wanda said.

We all separated, grabbing baskets and throwing things into them.  Tony wandered the racks, occasionally taking something off and hanging it over his arm as he watched us go completely crazy buying baby clothes and toys.  I’d look at him sometimes and he looked so content.  It was funny to think that just a month ago he’d been hiding from this completely.  I think part of it wasn’t just the babies either.  I think he liked that I was finally just letting him buy stuff, which was easier for me here because it wasn’t for me.

By the time we were done, we had around six baskets full of plush toys, stacking rings, baby mobiles, onesies, little dresses, outfits, and tiny shoes.  “This should do until they're 21 right?”

“Maybe for a year.”  Wanda teased.

“I guess that's pretty good,”  I said and leaned against Tony.  “Alright.  Let's pay. I need to get off my feet.  This was fun but holy crap does carrying two babies hurt your back.”

“Okay, checking out,”  Tony said, taking things off us.  “Why don’t you go wait in the car?”

“You sure?”  I asked.

He waved me off and I kissed his cheek before heading out to the car with Wanda.  She once again had to be let in the back and by the time I was in my seat I sighed in relief.  “You happy?”  I asked.

“Of course.”

I hummed.  “Me too.  I don't know why but... Feels really real now we have things.  I can't wait to have the nursery set up.”

She giggled.  “It still has to be built yet.”

“I know I know,”  I said.  “Did you see how small that stuff was? They're gonna be preemie too.  So teeny tiny.”

Wanda sat up like she’d been shocked.  “Did we get the preemie diapers?”

“Yes,”  I said giggling.  I looked at my stomach and caressed my hand over it.  “That's what I grabbed and then some just regular ones in case these guys are super soldiers and just come out normal-sized.”

“Okay, good. Good to be prepared.”  Wanda said, relaxing again.

“Yeah.”  I agreed.  “What if only one is and one is tiny and the other is huge?”

“Well, we'll take care of them equally.”

“What if one is Bruce's and it hulks out of its diapers?”

“We'll deal with it.”

I giggled.  “So calm about everything.”

She shrugged.  “I have to be.”

I turned in my seat as best I could and looked back at her.  “Why?”

“I want them.”  She said and rubbed my arm.  “We've done the shopping, we've had the appointments. We're doing everything right. There's going to be nothing that can stop us.”

// NEXT

[winchester-with-wings]

Thief at Sea

Pairing: Newt Scamander x Witch!Reader

@yaviel-writes​ requested (a long time ago lol): Niffler steals stuff from the reader, who is also a witch

A/N: This is an older request that I finished a long time ago but never posted. You might notice a Titanic reference here or there hehehe Hope ya'll like it!

Word Count: 2700ish 

This was posted a long time ago on my Patreon! Wanna get previews, early access and make exclusive requests? Become a Patron! You can follow my Patreon for free too!  Can’t become a patron? please consider a donation to my Ko-Fi (Tips are appreciated, especially in this uncertain time)

Mobile Masterlist / Ko-Fi

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*gif found on google*

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Newt Scamander figured the likelihood of there being other witches and wizards on a ship bound for New York City was quite possible. Statistically, there must’ve been at least a few wizards amongst the hundreds of muggles aboard. But just as he kept to himself, so must they.

Three to four people were bunked in some of the boat’s rooms. Newt had been fortunate enough to afford a small but private room for him and his suitcase. He wasn’t about to risk the chance of a curious muggle opening his case when he wasn’t looking. Some wizards might not have been so lucky.

Still...Newt found the middle of the North Atlantic ocean to be quite a lonely place. He explored as much of the ship as was permitted, all the while carrying his suitcase with him. His creatures were restless as well. Though they had plenty of living space, they must’ve sensed the change in geography.

Newt visited them when he could, daring to enter his suitcase only when he was in his quarters with the door locked. His longing for land and sun was satiated by Frank’s enclosure. Caring for his young Occamys kept him busy and the Mooncalves needed feeding. And one morning, he checked on the Bowtruckles and found that Pickett had a cold. The small creature was now tucked into his coat pocket for body heat.

The niffler seemed especially susceptible to the world outside the suitcase. He could sense all of the worldly treasures people were travelling with. And if Newt had to guess, it was his niffler who kept popping the latch on his case and attempting to escape. Newt would just have to remain vigilant.

--

There was a multitude of fascinating people aboard this boat. You filled your days observing them all and basking on the sundeck. As a novelist, you had been looking forward to your ride to America, as much as the trip itself. The crowds and the opportunities for isolation were the perfect conditions to work on your characters and stories.

There were a few people you'd become quite infatuated with too.

A small girl with a pretty dress, large sun hat, and a doll. You'd imagined her to being an energetic little thing, an only child, perhaps a bit spoiled, the kind of girl who had tugged on her mum's hand until she'd relented and bought the hat.

A hearty bloke, rough around the edges, well-worn clothes and a scar here or there on his exposed arms. You would write him as a working man, a former soldier perhaps, in search of a woman and a better life in America.

A young couple with extravagant taste in clothing. The dark haired man looked happier than the red haired woman. You wrote them as arranged, betrothed for wealth and only one of them was happy about it. You imagined her to have a strong spirit and wandering eye. She'd exchanged looks with with a strapping lad, below her class. You hoped they fell in love and defied all the odds.

Another man who caught your attention seemed quite preoccupied with a suitcase. He was lovely to look at with tousled fiery hair and fair skin that had been speckled by sun exposure. He dressed well but they were worn. He looked like a traveller and the way he clutched that suitcase, he must live out of it.

What would drive a man to be so protective of his personal items? Wealth? Perhaps, but you had trusted your cabin to store all of your items. What could he possibly have to protect?

However, you had charmed your personal effects. No muggle...or wizard...could access them. Perhaps this man was a muggle? It was hard to tell. But surely there were other witches and wizards aboard.

The man with the suitcase took a stroll around the ship at the same time every day. At some point, he'd sit at a bench and rest the case on his lap. One of the latches popped open now and then but you never saw what was inside.

What if it was treasure? That was an intriguing thought. You wore your treasures (a locket and an opal ring) around your neck and on your finger, except for your grandmother's ruby ring. That was locked away, with a charm for good measure. No one would get their hands on it.

At least that's what you thought.

--

You were sharing cabin with a few other women. They seemed pleasant enough. Private yet hopeful for what awaited them in New York.

One of them called New York home and you revelled in every detail and recommendation she could offer you. Another was travelling with her family but they couldn't all fit in one cabin. She enjoyed the company of you and the other young ladies. The third was a girl with a sweet voice and tightly curled hair. She longed for the life of a New York girl; couldn't wait to attend parties wearing glitter and lipstick. She aspired to be an actress and you found her to be quite talented.

They didn't ask too much about you, which you preferred. You didn't want to elaborate on “Grew up outside of London and went to boarding school.” These girls were definitely muggles and they had no business knowing about Hogwarts.

One night, as the ship embarked ever closer to New York, there was a rustling in the cabin. One girl squealed and awoke you and the others.

“Rat!! Don't you hear it? Scurrying about?!”

The cabin remained dark as no one risked touching the floor and encountering the animal. You could hear it and if it was a rat, you weren't too concerned. Rats were common pets at Hogwarts. Yet you played the part of a frightened girl, sitting up in bed and curling your knees to your chest. One of the girls on the top bunk, tossed a shoe at the floor in an attempt to scare off the animal and she must've succeeded because the animal left the room, leaving you all wondering how it got in in the first place.

--

It was fortunate that you were the one who learned of the creature's true identity the next day. A muggle would've reacted differently.

The sun was bright today, beating down upon you in your several layers of clothing, which had served you well in London.

You took a respite in your cabin around noon. No one else was there as you changed outfits. But as you rifled through your own suitcase, you came to realize something was missing. Try as you might, your grandmother's ring was gone!

You searched the cabin high and low for the ring. It couldn't have left the room! And still you couldn’t find it. Hopeless and upset, you laid upon your bed, burying your face in your pillow.

At some point, you fell asleep. You’re not sure when you did but when you woke, there was a weight on your chest. It reminded you of your cat from Hogwarts and how he used to sleep on you. You thought it was just a dream but there was a tugging sensation at your neck that awoke you.

It happened so quickly, the way you startled as you realized that there was, in fact, something on top of you. You have the chance to either flail or freeze. You chose the latter. You opened your eyes slowly, straining your eyes to look down. It’s not as large as a cat but it’s alarming no matter what. At first glance, you’ve never seen anything like it.

You figured that the creature sitting on your chest--tugging at the locket around your neck--is not from the Muggle world. However, he did slightly resemble a platypus. He didn’t seem malicious but how were you to really know? Why did he have his little webbed paws clasped around your necklace? You tried to sit up slowly, a test to see if he could be scared off or if he’d stay in place. While he did slide down your body, the creature stayed put as best he could. The expression in his sparkling eyes was defiant as he yanked at your necklace.

“Give it to me!” he seemed to be communicating with each tug. You pried his little paws off of the gold pendant and chain and when that tether had been released, you set him down and jumped to your feet.

“You’re the little blighter that was in here last night, aren’t you?” you accused him--not that you expected him to answer. He only looked ashamed for half a second before something shiny caught his eye from across the room. He scurried off the bed towards your cabin mates’ belongings. “Bloody hell! Oh no you don’t!”

Like an uncoordinated cat after a mouse, you chased the creature around the cabin, not once coming close. As he stole a piece of jewelry and some money from one girl’s trunk, you pulled out your wand. He scurried across the room and before you could mutter a single word, the creature squeezed himself through the miniscule crack under the door.

If you doubted whether the creature was magical or not, that certainly answered your question.

“No!” You ran after him, throwing the door open and hoping for an empty hallway. He couldn’t go far on a ship in the middle of the ocean but still you couldn’t have him wandering around and stealing from people. How did he even get here?

As you rounded the corner of the narrow hallway, you risked whipping out your wand once more.

“Accio!” you hissed, exasperated. The creature was caught in your line of sight, susceptible to your charm. He surged into the air and then floated over to you where you suspended him for inspection. You watched as he slipped a coin into an invisible belly pouch. It was then that you realized what this creature was. “Ohhh, you…” you squinted at him, “where did you come from? Of all places to find you…”

The niffler tilted his head and just blinked at you. The corner of your mouth tilted up. He was rather cute, in an odd sort of way. With a flick of your wand, you pulled him closer to you, taking him into your embrace.

“Let’s get you back to my cabin, shall we? Don’t want any muggles to see you.” The niffler nuzzled into you, once again taking hold of your necklace. “If you stole my ring, I’m going to need that back,” you warned him.

The sound of shoes scuffing the floors brought you to the realization that someone else was in the corridor near your cabin. You glanced up to see the red-haired man you’d observed on the upper decks. He was on his hands and knees peeking around other cabin doors. He pulled that brown suitcase along with him as if he needed it nearby when he found what he’s looking for.

You’re about to turn around and hide the niffler when the man’s face lifted to look at you. Your back is to him.

“Oh um...excuse me…” he muttered quietly, getting to his feet. “I must be in your way. I’m terribly sorry. I was just…” He swatted at his coat and finally his gaze met yours as you turned around. “...looking for something…” his voice trailed off. His green eyes trained on the niffler.

“Does this little bugger belong to you?” You approached the man, coming closer to your own cabin.

“Erm, yes that’s my niff--”

“A niffler, yes.” The wizard breathed a sigh of relief at discovering you were a witch. “Were you smuggling this creature into the country?” you accused him, holding fast to the animal. The red-haired man, who’d yet to introduce himself, seemed shifty and unwilling to make eye contact.

“N--no no, absolutely not. I mean, technically, yes. But he was to accompany me on my travels. Never for sale,” he reassured you. “My name is Newt Scamander.” He introduced himself, extending a hand. You took it but not as a handshake.

“We should leave the corridor in case any muggles come by,” you suggested. You pulled Newt towards your cabin and checked to make sure that it was still empty before pushing him into the small space. You locked the door behind you. “Does he have a name?” you asked, holding up the creature that was snuggling into your neck.

“Erm...no...he’s--uh--just niffler.”

“Oh, well that’s boring,” you giggled. “Do you have several nifflers?” Mr. Scamander shook his head. “Well then, if he’s one of a kind in your collection, I should think he should have a name.”

“Y-yes, one of kind indeed,” he scowled at the creature. “And what about you? Surely someone like you must have a one of a kind name, as well?” Newt ventured to say and you thought it almost sounded like a compliment.

“Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N. Nice to meet you.” You shook his hand for real this time. “I was starting to think that if he was just a stowaway and no one was to claim him that I would take on the honor of naming your niffler.”

“What would you call him?”

“I’m thinking...Richard.”

Newt seemed to snort and scoff at the same time. His smile was a crooked one, tilting up on one side when he looked at you with those green eyes.

“I’m--I’m sorry. Richard? Why, might I ask?”

“Well, for several reasons. One: Richard is a very dignified name. Second: Richie the Pickpocket has a nice ring to it and third...well stealing priceless heirlooms from people is a bit of a dick move. Don’t ya think?” you asked as you tried to hold up the niffler and put him on display. Newt grinned.

“I suppose. Though, I see he hasn’t taken your necklace. Not for lack of trying,” he admitted. He started to detach the animal from your necklace and take him into his own arms. The platypus looking creature squirmed.

“Yes, well he did take my grandmother's ruby ring and that’s a problem. Do you know how to get it back?”

“Yes, unfortunately I have too much experience with that.” Newt took the niffler but the foot and hung him upside down. You squeaked, out of concern, but Newt smiled at you for reassurance. With his deft fingers, he started to tickle the creature’s tummy.

Countless items started to fall out of his invisible pouch! All things shiny! Jewelry and coin currency mostly. You imagined he’d be quite the desired tool for criminals looking to make money. Newt didn’t seem surprised, nor interested in the money. Still holding onto his creature under his arm, Newt searched through the pile of treasures until he found the only ruby ring.

“I’ve found it!” he boasts, kneeling before you on one knee. He presents the ring to you and for a moment, the scene before you is eerily similar to a proposal.

You accept your heirloom.

“Thank you so much! I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost it forever.”

Newt put the niffler on the ground but still had a hold of him by the tail. He kept control of the animal while the niffler cleaned up the mess of shiny objects which had spilled like a golden waterfall. He stashed it all away in that pouch again and you couldn't think of an unethical reason for why he couldn’t do so. The little thief probably always had a stash.

Once Richie, the pickpocketing niffler, had cleaned up his mess, Newt brandished his large, old, leather suitcase. He opened it up and shoved the niffler inside, locking it quickly.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Scamander?” you asked as the two of you left your cabin for the main deck.

“Oh, well uh, I study magical creatures. I’m writing a guide on how to care for them.” There’s a twinkle of passion in his eyes.

“Of course you are,” you grin. “I imagine there’s to be an entire chapter on your niffler?” you teased.

“Yes, you are quite right.”

“I’d love to learn more. If you’d happen to be available during our passage to New York, perhaps we could further discuss it?”

“Oh, yes. There’s much I can tell you. And maybe even show you?”

Your eyes drifted to his suitcase. There must’ve been more than one magical creature stowed away on this trip to America.

[nikkalia]

Storytime with Auntie Dragon: Betrayal edition

Gather round, children, it’s time once again for “Storytime with Auntie Dragon.” Today’s episode: NYC & Betrayal, a tale of adventure, excitement, and how a certain actor is seemingly easily impressed with modern technology. Hey, it’s pretty snazzy stuff…

We begin our tale at the dawn of November. Your dear Auntie D had just purchased a house, and because closing fell in such a way that I had no housing payment in November, there was some spare cash to be had. A friend of mine who lives in the UK (@mrshiddleston-uk) had been talking about her upcoming trip to the states to see our beloved Mr. Hiddleston in his Broadway debut, and after careful scouring of countless calendars, I decided that the Boychild could miss a day of school to make the trip and decided to go. Another friend ( @silverink-goldenlies) came along for the ride and the trip was set. 

THE TRIP: Bloody hell, why is it every time I drive north, roads are torn up? I mean seriously. I spent more time on the brakes because of construction than I did with the cruise control engaged. For 698 miles! I did not, for those who may be curious, drive up I-95. Oh, the hells to the NO. I have driven that stretch of disaster quite enough to know that it’s a toss-up as to whether you get Hell on earth or a multi-lane, multi-hour parking lot. And that’s just around Richmond. D.C. is worse. Much. Worse. But I digress…

I-78 is (mostly) a beautiful drive. Lots of mountains, rolling hills, farmland, all that. From southern Virginia up through parts of New Jersey, there are lots of farms. LOTS of farms. With cows. And steers. And horses. And even an alpaca - dude had a long neck. Somewhere along the way, every time we passed a farm with cows, @silverink-goldenlies would just blurt out “cows.” In the middle of a conversation, “cows”.  Passing silence for miles and suddenly, “cows.”

And occasionally, “cows. And horses.” The boy child would even chime in now and again. 

THE ARRIVAL: We made it to NYC around sunset. When we were 25 miles or so out, I spied the city skyline and told @silverink-goldenlies to look out the window. Poor thing was so excited I think she almost cried. We took the Lincoln Tunnel into the city because I missed an exit. Which reminds me, Google Maps, get your turn-by-turn shit together. I spent more time on the road than necessary due to a lack of “in 500 feet, turn here.” Waze doesn’t treat me like that. It just crashes. And Waze has Cookie Monster voice. Anyway…Lincoln Tunnel. That was fun, kinda. I kept having flashbacks of Independence Day with the fireball coming up the tunnel following the alien attack. Not cute.  

We emerged in the city and I very quickly learned that upstate NY driving is totally different than NYC driving. I lived in Albany for a couple of years, and in upstate, you can use your signal and mostly expect someone to let you in, or at least get out of the way. Not NYC. Nope nope nope. You signal, insert the front fender of your car and hope the person you’re essentially cutting off is paying attention. It only took one missed turn (thanks Google) for me to learn the ways of the natives and navigate correctly through the city. Which I did successfully. At rush hour. Praise Asphaltia, Goddess of the Road. 

Cows.

NYC: After a night of bullshit sleep thanks to the rock-solid beds of the LaQuinta - Queens, our party was up and in the city by 9:30 am. I’ve always had this mental image of NYC being small because of how tightly packed everything is. My friends, that is absolutely not the case. The city is M A S S I V E in both size and scope. I was totally a tourist, videoing everything in Times Square and looking up like I expected the sky to fall. I learned something I never knew, and never really thought about: they leave the big crystal ball on top of the building after New Year’s. It’s sitting up there, pretty as you please, changing colors all year long. Who knew?

We hit the highlights of Manhattan like my son speed runs through Dark Souls. Times Square, Hard Rock New York, the M&Ms store (3 floors…3 FLOORS of chocolatey goodness), one of two Lego stores, and Rockefeller Plaza. The tree is up, but not on display. I need them to slow down on the trimming it back. There won’t be any tree left, and it’s looking a little scrawny, to begin with. Ice skating was in full effect, but we didn’t go. I knew I had a show and another 10-hour drive back to NC to get through, and doing it on a seriously bruised ass would not have been a good look.

Noon hits and we head back towards the Jacobs theatre. By the time we got there, the box office was open and there was already a line. Thank the gods for online purchases. Easy in, easy out. Around 1 pm, we met up with the lovely @mrshiddleston-uk and attempted to get lunch at some Irish pub. @mrshiddleston-uk briefed us on all things stage door and helped to craft a plan of attack to get the best spots for meeting the cast. The line to get into the theatre was already formed and growing by the time we decided to bail on the never appearing food. 

THE JACOBS THEATRE: This is a gorgeous space. The theatre is on the small side, but I genuinely believe that there isn’t a bad seat in the house. We were in the balcony house left and could see every bit of the stage. Beautiful architecture, comfy seats - if not a little (LOT) short on the legroom - and a pretty chandelier made the place feel cozy and warm. The staff was wonderful as well. I’d totally see another show in this space. 

BETRAYAL: So here’s the part you all came for, right? Right. Cows. To be honest, I’d never heard of Harold Pinter before Tom Hiddleston took the role in the London production, much less read any of his work. I didn’t know what to expect except for what I’d heard from @mrshiddleston-uk after her viewings of the London show. The concept of the show is intriguing enough - following a love triangle in reverse order with a minimalist set and lighting design. I’m a tech nerd anyway, so I was excited to see how well this would work. 

Oh. My. Goddess. This show was AMAZING. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been to a show that totally sucked me in to the point that I was actually invested in the story. Betrayal did just that. From the moment the curtain rose (more on that in a sec) until the stage went black, I was sucked into the world of Robert and Emma and Jerry and how the affair went from disintegration to conception. I have absolutely no sympathy for any of these characters at the end of the day. They are all seriously flawed and have caused themselves the pain that they experience in this story. But, that’s what makes good drama, right?

The sheer lack of set made it easier to pay attention to the actors and the script, which is a huge perk in this game of verbal tennis. The characters go from normal speech patterns to the famed Pinter pauses to this back and forth without missing a beat (or a syllable) that will make your head spin. The boychild told me later he found it a little hard to follow, which is understandable if you’re not used to hearing it in an English accent. 

There was a lot of play with light and shadow in this show. It’s no secret that all three actors are on stage for the duration of the play, with the “odd man out” lurking somewhere in the shadows. It was thrilling to see, to be honest, because you catch yourself looking around to see what the odd man is doing while the two in focus characters are speaking. Robert standing against the back wall facing the wings; Emma curled up on the floor eating an apple; Jerry sitting off the side with his back against the back wall. All making little gestures or motions that hint at what that character is experiencing in that moment in time. 

Even the shadows themselves told a part of the story. The sharper focused shadows cast by Robert and Emma when she confesses the affair created a tension that doesn’t exist when Robert is lurking in the background of scenes involving Jerry and Emma or Emma hiding almost when Robert and Jerry are in the forefront. I found myself watching the shadows in this scene more than the actors themselves. It’s that intense. 

One other tech geek note: the back wall moved. Now, I’ve seen plenty of moving sets. Hells, I’ve moved a few in my time. But this simple change had a tremendous impact. When the wall moved forward, it cuts the surface area of the stage down to 1/8th of what it was at the beginning. It puts the confession right in your face. You can’t get away from it, just as the characters can’t. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. They, and you, just have to deal with it. Absolutely brilliant on the part of the designers. Enough about the sets, or lack thereof. Cows. I could go on all day. 

THE CAST: We’ll start with Zawe Ashton. She’s a perfectly lovely woman, all smiles and bubbly at the stage door, very sweet. I don’t know that I like her as an actress. Or maybe I don’t like her character, Emma. I haven’t really decided yet. But, if there was a downside to this show, she was it. Her laughter was fake to the point of cringy, and there was something noticeably self-absorbed about her on stage. The other thing I noticed is that she was never standing or sitting straight. She was always twisted, curled up, or otherwise contorted in some fashion, and that gave me a twitch. An acting choice? Maybe. It would stand to reason that this was some subconscious outward expression of Emma’s mental/emotional state. She struck me as whiny, and maybe a little “woe is me” to boot. My thought throughout the play was, bitch, you got yourself into this. Suck it up.

Charlie Cox as Jerry. Great guy at stage door, seemed to be enjoying the fans. Again, I haven’t read the play so I’m not 100% on what Jerry is supposed to be, but Charlie was giving some serious lovesick puppy vibes for this show. And that’s all I got from him. Maybe bits of remorse here and there, but not much. Some great comedic moments, but otherwise, he really didn’t stand out for me. 

Tom Hiddleston as Robert. We’ll discuss stage door in a minute. I’ve worked in the arts and journalism long enough to know that you often hear about how someone “is” but that’s not really who they really are. They pretend to have a presence that doesn’t exist, or they’re not as talented as they, or their agent, would have you believe. And sometimes that “wonderful” actor is really just a prick in real life. Children, I am here to tell you that Thomas William Hiddleston is EVERYTHING he’d cracked up to be.  

When the curtain goes up at the show open, Robert is sitting in a chair, and all you see of him is legs. The man has legs for days…digressing again. Cows. Tom has such a presence that you know exactly where he is. When Charlie and Zawe are sharing their scenes, your eyes can dart straight to Tom. I remember actively looking for Charlie and Emma in scenes they weren’t involved in, just to see what they were doing. Never, ever had to do that with Tom. He was always there, always on the edge of the shadows. 

His performance as Robert is an emotional roller coaster. I watched him run the gamut and back again several times over the course of 90 minutes, and really wonder how the hells he does it every day (and has been since June). No wonder he looks exhausted. He was giving that trademarked smile in some scenes, growling with anger in others (your Loki is showing), and on the verge of tears in still others. I looked down at him during the confession scene and his eyes were brimming, reflecting the bright white light that was shining on him. That one hurt my heart.  Dude can do anything, and I need someone to give him more meaty roles on film. And for the love of the Gods, cast him in a romcom, comedy, something! He’s proven time and again he can act - let him have something besides Loki. 

Disclaimer: I love Loki, don’t get me wrong, but I hate to see talented performers pigeonholed into one role. Tom is so much better than that, as most of them are. 

STAGE DOOR: The show ends, the lights come up, and I can’t get the damn Hard Rock Cafe bag out from between the seats. So this is how it’s gonna go down, eh? WRONG. ANSWER. I get downstairs in record time only to be blocked by old people who can’t decide if they need to pee or not, then distracted by Tom speaking on stage about the fundraiser the theatre is doing. That voice, those long assed legs, and holy hells is the end of the stage right fucking there??? 

FOCUS WOMAN! Cows. Eldery folks having determined that yes, in fact, a stop by the loo is in order, I’m out the door, still struggling with the bag and my coat and not being run over by those who are sprinting to the barricades set up to queue for stage door.  Sprinting. Really? It’s like, 300, 400 feet maybe, from the entrance to the stage door. I wanna have 0.5 seconds in front of Tom too, but damn y’all. It ain’t that serious. 

Secure in our spot upfront and personal by the lovely @mrshiddleston-uk, I got myself squared away and place the Facebook group chat video call. We all agreed that since @firithariel, @igotloki, and @mischeviousbellarina couldn’t be there in person, we’d bring them along digitally. For once, my phone behaved. Did I remember to put them on speaker? That would be a no. 

So, Zawe comes out first, signs programs and chats with fans. She really is adorable. Charlie comes out next and follows the same route, and then the man of the hour (and really the whole point of this trip) emerges in the “uniform”, looking a little frazzled. But, he makes the rounds of autographs, even going so far as to sign a Thanos Funko. 

Really? REALLY? Thanos? How you gonna do my boy wrong like that? Grrrr….. Amusing thing was that Tom really didn’t even acknowledge it, but he looked annoyed by it. 

That’s when Tom got to our merry little band. @silverink-goldenlies showed him the tattoo done by her husband of a Loki helmet with runes surrounded by flowers. He seemed thoroughly impressed with it. I’m next, with our video chat going strong. I asked him to say hi to the girls, and he got a weird look on his face until he saw the phone. He did a double-take, “There are four people on the screen! How did you do that?” We told him about Facebook group chat and where the girls were located. There’s a video floating around Instagram/Twitter of his reaction. It’s entirely too cute. He leaned in and smiled, said hi to them, showed them an autographed program, and handed them to me. He looked me right in the eye for about a second and a half then moved on. I can still see it in my mind, and it makes me smile every time. 

Tom finished the autographs and came back around for selfies. Mine is blurry AF, because of course, it is. It’s the only one I have of him. Maybe I’ll try to fix it in Photoshop. A fucking photographer can’t take a damned selfie. SMH Oh well, you can tell it’s him. @mrshiddleston-uk got some great shots, and I’ll always know I was there, that we spoke, however briefly. 

I’ll spare you the details of the trip home because, well…traffic. And cows. 

And so ends the tale of the very long too short awesome weekend in NYC where I got to meet Tom Hiddleston. 

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

[passiontaee]

love language | r

pairing: yoongi x jeongguk 

genre: slice of life, camboy au

ratings: r

warnings: smutty smoot in here ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), masks, rough sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, oversensitivity

word count: 8580

summary: camboy!au—college student jeongguk can't speak korean. yoongi can't speak english. this doesn't interfere with them having sex though. or yoongi is a twitter pornstar and jeongguk, a big fan, flies all the way from america to get dicked to mars by his favorite hyung

a/n: inspired by love language by kehlani and seegasm on twitter, the best korean pornstar who taught me everything I know and inspired this fic :)

ft. google translate korean so it’s probably not even accurate :’))

↬ s. 

He groans as he releases, hand slowing down on his cock as he paints his hand and lower abdomen white. On screen, Suga cums seconds later, slowing down inside of his partner, named simply Soccer Player from a Local University in the description but Jeongguk doesn’t care. He’s insignificant to the task at hand. Has nothing to do with Jeongguk rubbing one out while watching his favorite porn star. In fact, the male that Suga had been fucking was simply a place holder—Jeongguk had plastered his own face onto the male’s masked face, having it stuck in his head that Suga was fucking him and not the smaller, blonde male on the screen. He doesn’t understand the words exchanged between the two after, hearing the soft, breathy rumble of the bottom’s voice paired with the husky, lowness of Suga’s voice. For a porn star who wore a mask on screen, he didn’t try to mask his voice. But Jeongguk doesn’t care. Said voice was a nice voice—assisted quite well when it came to these late night sessions or even the random moments when he’d get aroused and need to jerk off in the shower or something. 

In the aftermath of his release, timed quite well to be honest, there’s a banging on his door. 

“Jeongguk! Jeongguk open up!”

Hoseok’s voice startles him to the point where he drops his phone, earphones falling out of his ear and landing on the floor with it as the video officially ends. He panics, hoping that Hoseok hadn’t heard him viciously jacking off and probably moaning like a bitch in heat while imagining he’d been in the soccer player’s place. Pesky soccer player, he grumbles in his mind as he hurries to grab a nearby shirt and clean himself up a bit. Grimacing at the mess but it’s good enough. He’s unsure why Hoseok is so urgently banging on his door, but he dares not question it. Once he’s decent and wearing a clean shirt, he heads to the door. Unlocking it and opening it, seeing Hoseok sporting a bright grin, Taehyung on the couch munching on potato chips as he watches the latest episode of an anime they’d found together. Hoseok sniffs around, then stares at Jeongguk knowingly. Judging him. Jeongguk feels like kicking him in the shins. 

“What?” he asks, leaning his head against the door frame. Hoping to not look as fucked up as he truly was. 

“Are you done beating your meat to Suga?” he asks, as if Jeongguk was naked with his hand down his sweats fapping right in his face. This doesn’t make Jeongguk less embarrassed though, and he simply nods stupidly. “Good. Now, me and Taehyung are going out to grab something to eat. You coming with?” he steps away to reveal Taehyung, who’s still on the couch. But he looks over at them and smiles, nodding. 

“I’m in the mood for Taco Bell. What about you Guk?” he shouts, as if Jeongguk can’t hear from where he is. He can hear quite well, as a matter of fact. But Jeongguk’s stomach agrees with Taehyung—Taco Bell sounds delicious right now. 

“Yeah, Taco Bell is fine,” he agrees. Hoseok claps his hands. “Good! Who’s driving?”

Jeongguk nearly tears into his gordita, groaning in satisfaction at the flavor that pours into his mouth. Taco Bell was far too delicious for it to be fake meat. He doesn’t care at the moment, and neither does Taehyung or Hoseok for that matter. Hunger wasn’t enough to describe the feeling he had driving him to eat as quick as he was. 

“Thanks Hobi,” Taehyung grins at the brunette beside him, who’d paid for everything. He simply hums, giving him a thumbs up and then petting Taehyung’s head. Jeongguk rolls his eyes. Hoseok nearly babies Taehyung when he’s the youngest. Hoseok babies him too, but not as often as Taehyung. 

“Considering I just got paid, I figured I treat you guys,”

“Wow, you really sound like a sugar daddy,” Jeongguk snorts, reaching for his soda. Hoseok winks at him suggestively as he says this, causing Jeongguk to choke on his drink. 

“Nah, I’m not the suga daddy you really want,”

“Oh my God, not here please,” Jeongguk begs, hoping Hoseok would shut his whore mouth about him obsessing over Suga. 

“It’s so weird man,” Taehyung interrupts, taking a break from his burrito in order to join in on the fun. “I’m the one who introduced him to you, and now you’re like, obsessed with his dick or something,” 

Jeongguk’s cheeks redden as the two men continue talking, like he’s not there. 

“Wait, he’s Korean right? Jeongguk, I didn’t know you understood Korean,” Hoseok sounds amazed, considering out of the three, Jeongguk is the most American one between them. Even compared to Taehyung, who’s parents had been born in the states. They didn’t even speak Korean. Hoseok’s the only one, of the three of them, actually born in Korea.  

“Nah, he doesn’t. His parents speak it to him and he just stares at them like he’s stupid. It’s kind of funny really,” Taehyung snorts, laughing over his drink. Hoseok joins in, and Jeongguk just huffs. 

“It’s not my fault, they never taught it to me. Besides! I know some words!” He defends hotly. Hoseok leans over, smug expression on his face. 

“Oh yeah? Speak Korean to me then.”

Jeongguk stiffens at this, but he’s not about to back down from this. So he thinks of something basic—the extent of his knowledge—and opens his mouth. 

“Annyeonghaseyo cheoneun uli chingu geulub maknae Jeon Jeongguk-ibnida.”

Taehyung and Hoseok stop, stare at each other, and snort out laughter. Hoseok slapping the table and Taehyung wheezing so hard he chokes. Jeongguk doesn’t see anything funny about what he just said and just stares at them confusedly. 

“What?”

“Is this how you plan to seduce Suga? With your cringey ass Korean? No, no this ain’t it,” Taehyung manages, trying to settle down. Hoseok gets up to toss his trash, already done eating. Taehyung reaches down, resting his hand on Jeongguk’s thigh. 

“You’re not going to survive when we go visit my family next month.” he says, gravely. Jeongguk had forgotten Taehyung’s aunts had invited him to come to his family’s hometown to visit for the summer. And of course, Hoseok and Jeongguk were invited to. All expenses paid. Jeongguk’s anxiety decides to sky rocket at Taehyung’s statement, but then Taehyung slaps his thigh, grinning again. 

“Just use with Google Translate.”

여러분 안녕하세요!  

여기 스가. 당신은 모두 잘 먹고 내 비디오를 즐기기를 바랍니다! 다음 주에 새로운 파트너를 만나게됨에 따라 앞으로 몇 주 안에 새로운 콘텐츠를 준비하십시오. 그는 꽤 인기가있다. 하하. 너 모두 그를 많이 사랑하는 것 같다.  

Jeongguk squints as he presses the Google Translate button to translate Suga’s tweet, 

Hello all!

Suga here. Hope you’re all eating well and enjoying my videos! Prepare for new content in the coming weeks, as I’ve gotten a new partner who’s returning next week. He’s pretty popular haha, you all seem to love him a lot.

Impulse kicks in as he hits the retweet with comment button, furiously typing. Then remembering that Suga can’t speak English very well—he’d tweeted about it before and Jeongguk of course remembers—and for convenience sake, he translates it before sending it. 

그는 스가 형을 만나기 위해 운 좋은 놈이다. 나는 그와 함께 밤을 보낼 것이다.

he’s a lucky bastard to get to meet suga-hyung, i’d love a night with him.

Of course, he knew to use proper syntax and call him hyung. Hoseok had taught him that word. He double checks to make sure it’s his NSFW account that he’s posting it to, and posts it. Hoseok would be very proud of his Google Translate skills. 

“Jeongguk! Are you done packing!” Taehyung peeks his head in, sunglasses on his face. Jeongguk looks up from his phone, jumping as if he’d been up to no good—of course he has—and stares at Taehyung for a moment, processing what he’d just asked him, and then looks over at the two suitcases on his bed and his carry on bag, then turns back to Taehyung and nods. 

“Cool. Okay, Hoseok is downstairs waiting on us to load up, so hurry please?”

“Yeah, yeah coming,” He says, pocketing his phone and moving to grab his things. His phone charger he stuffs in his carry on bag, and then he gathers other last minute things he needs. He then moves to grab his luggage, and follows Taehyung out the door and down to Hoseok, who’s gotten them an Uber to load their things in. 

“You guys ready for Daegu?” He says, excitedly. Dressed quite comfortably. Taehyung’s probably the only one who’s actually seemingly dressed up, even in loose fitting pants. Jeongguk has some concerns. 

“Hell yeah man, finally I’m meeting my fucking family. Mom and dad said they might tag along at some point, but honestly I doubt it,” Taehyung shrugs, tossing his things in the trunk. Jeongguk follows, but smiles and nods. 

“I’m kind of excited to see what Korea looks like to be honest,” he then playfully shoves at Taehyung. “Bonus points I don’t have to really pay for anything,”

“Hey, are you telling me you’re only my best friend because I’m rich?” 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Oh, Jeonggukie. You wound me so,” He dramatically whines, then flops into the car. Hoseok and Jeongguk follow, Hoseok trying not to laugh at their dramatic display as the three of them pile into the backseat. The Uber driver seems nice, greeting them and asking them where they’re going. Hoseok, who’d bought the Uber, explains their situation—overshares more like it—and the woman and him converse the entire time. Taehyung’s on the phone with what sounds like a family member, speaking in dialect as he responds in Korean, very rarely using English. With his two friends occupied, Jeongguk pulls out his phone to check his NSFW account, hoping neither of them looks over and sees it’s a stan account. He sees he has a new direct message, but then freezes. 

Oh man, holy shit. 

He blinks, looks up and tries to buffer, then looks down at his phone again. 

It’s still there. 

It’s real?

Is he seeing things? Is this a prank?

No, because he knows, deep in his soul, that this is @_suugaa and he knows that he’s fucked.

“Guk you okay? You look pale, man.” Taehyung waves his hand in front of his face. Jeongguk blinks, then looks over at his best friend. On the other side, Hoseok is snoring away. Napping during their long flight, but he hopes its not that long. South Korea isn’t that far from Southern California. 

“Huh? Yeah. I’m good,” He’s not good, and will probably never be good again. How can he, when his favorite porn star had not only liked his tweet, but had messaged him. Messaged him. Slid into his DMs. Jeongguk doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly being blessed and what he’d done to be blessed. Maybe it was actually a curse in disguise. Or maybe, it was an accident? He hadn’t even clicked on the message—he hadn’t even read it. Unsure how, when he’d seen the preview was in Korean and he really didn’t want to make a damn fool of himself. 

Why had Suga messaged him?

“You sure? We can get you some water if you need it. You’ve never been on a plane before, right? Maybe you’re getting turbulence sickness or something,” Jeongguk feels bad that Taehyung seems genuinely worried about his well-being, but knows that if he tells him he’s about to cry because Suga messaged him, Taehyung would be on his ass trying to interact with Suga as well. He wasn’t that big of a fan anymore, but he still sometimes jacked off to him too. Jeongguk had heard him a few times. 

“Yeah. I’m good. How much time do we have left before we land?” He asks, hoping that dropping the subject and acting natural would help. He really didn’t want Taehyung to know what just went down. Taehyung looks at his watch, humming. 

“Probably about three or four more hours. It’s getting dark,” he points to the window Jeongguk is sitting near, and sure enough the sky was darkening. That jet lag paired with the time jump is about to be a bitch and a half, he knows it. Taehyung gets up then, quickly. Jeongguk looks at him quizzically. 

“Gotta pee. Be right back,” he pats Jeongguk on the head, squeezing from between his seat and the one in front of him, then walks down the aisle briskly to get to the bathroom. Jeongguk watches him for a few moments, then looks over at Hoseok who’s still sleeping. Suddenly bored. 

Suddenly wanting to read the message. 

It wouldn’t hurt, right? Nothing painful about reading. Nothing at all. Besides, he had Google Translate on his hands. Thank God for the internet. 

So, he makes the leap—the jump to open the message. He pulls his phone out and unlocks it with his face, then ventures back to Twitter, and to the cursed message. Hesitating as his thumb hovers it, but he takes in a deep breath. Don’t be a pussy, Jeon. He taps the screen, seeing the characters that Suga had sent him. 

suugaa: 안녕하세요! 너 팬 이라구?

He stares at the message, understanding the greeting but hurriedly copies the sentence and switches to Google Translate. 

suugaa: Hello! I see you’re a fan?

I beat my dick to you nearly every night, I hope that qualifies, is what he says in his mind, but it doesn’t see the light of day as a response so he keeps it generic. 

jjk97: haha yeah, I watch you all the time. 

He translates it then returns to the app, pasting it verbatum. 

jjk97: 하하, 나는 너를 항상 지켜보고있다. 

If Suga suspects he’s using Google Translate, he says nothing of it. He watches, nearly sweating as he waits for the read to pop up. If it’s night there, he should be up. yeah? He’d mentioned being a bit of an insomniac in a tweet once. 

suugaa: 오? 내 비디오를 보는 걸 좋아해? 

His response comes a few moments later, just as Taehyung returns, elbowing his arm and stretching with a yawn. Jeongguk hurriedly switches tabs. 

“I’m kinda tired. You should sleep too, Guk,” Taehyung advises, but Jeongguk doesn’t think that’s a good idea. 

“If it’s night in Daegu right now, should we really be sleeping? It’s gonna fuck up our sleep schedule,” he insists. Taehyung shrugs.

 “Yeah, but then we can be up to go to a club or something. They’ve got karaoke places and stuff. Noraebangs. You’d enjoy those,” Taehyung mumbles, adjusting to get comfortable. Reaching for his bag between Jeongguk’s legs for his eye mask and neck pillow. Jeongguk mulls over the word Taehyung had presented to him in his mind, hoping he remembers it. And making a mental note to visit said karaoke places one night. They’d be there for a few weeks, so it should be fine.But Taehyung seems to be getting ready for a nap, a short one probably, and Jeongguk ceases his protests. 

“Wake me up when we land, if you don’t fall asleep,” He asks, pulling the eye mask over his eyes and placing the neck pillow behind him. Jeongguk nods, though he can’t see him. 

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks man.” 

suugaa: oh? so you enjoy watching my videos, huh?

Laying in bed, he stares at the message. Panting, sweaty after seeing Suga’s latest video. Not the blonde from last time, but a taller male this time. Vocal too. Hot Teaching Assistant Neighbor was his title. His mask was bright red—matching the color of his cock as Suga edged him. Matching his lips from Suga kissing him. Jeongguk honestly hadn’t expected Suga to fuck someone of the Hot Teaching Assistant Neighbor’s caliber—model-esque—but he had and had done it so well Jeongguk came twice. Taehyung’s in the shower and Hoseok had left to pick up food for them. Taehyung’s family had gotten them an AirBnB for their stay, and Jeongguk had shamelessly christened his room. But he could hear Suga saying this in his head as he’d watched it, oddly in English. And oddly, Jeongguk came a lot more than normal. He can hear Taehyung loudly singing some song in Korean from the shower, since his door was open, and sighs to himself as he tries to clean himself up a little. Knowing his shower was next and he really needs it. 

suugaa: 최신의 것을 보았 니? 

The notification of a new direct message comes up with this as the message, and Jeongguk twitches. Hurrying to copy it and paste it into Google Translate. 

suugaa: did you see the latest one?

He can answer this well, but uses Google Translate again.

jjk97: 예, 정말 좋았어요. 

yeah, it was really good

The next response comes a little faster than anticipated, which startles him. 

suugaa: was it? did you get off from it?

Suddenly, he needs Taehyung. Or an adult. Wait, he’s an adult. Shit. He lays there, staring at the message, before trying to fathom a response. Going back to translate it and sends it. 

jjk: 네

yes.

jjk:실제로 두 번

twice, actually.

Suga replies quickly, yet again. 

suugaa: 네

yeah? 

suugaa: 당신은 트위터에서 나와 개인 세션을 갖는 것에 대해 언급했습니다.

you mentioned getting a private session with me in your tweet.

suugaa:  한국에 살고 있니?

do you live in korea?

So, routinely, he returns to Google Translate, before throwing his phone across the room, sitting up and screaming bloody murder. Prompting the shower to stop and Taehyung to run into the room, soaking wet and towel clumsily wrapped around his hips. A shoe in his hand. 

“Guk! Guk are you okay?” He yells, eyes wild. Looking around frantically with a murderous look on his face before he settles on Jeongguk’s shell shocked form. Sitting up in just his boxers, staring at the wall. Eyes wide and lips parted. Taehyung sighs, relaxing, but walks over to Jeongguk carefully. Jeongguk says nothing and doesn’t even react. He starts to mumble under his breath though, unintelligible. Taehyung doesn’t understand it, but he does smack the younger on the cheek, once softly then harder the second time until a hand reaches up and tightens around his wrist. Jeongguk swallows, jaw setting. Slowly, he turns to look up at Taehyung, eyes blank. 

“Suga wants to fuck me.”

suugaa: 나를 Line에 추가해주세요.

feel free to add me on Line then

suugaa: myg1993

Jeongguk stares at the piece of information he’d been entrusted with, knowing that he will forever cherish this moment, this conversation. This time in his life when the Suga is interested in his ass. Glory, glory hallelujah. He switches over from Twitter to Line, quickly adding said man to his friends list. The icon is quite sexual; a picture of his hands, hiding what appears to be his dick. Bless the Lord above. Jeongguk is being fed and nothing had even happened from this just yet.

jeonbunny: hi

jeonbunny: it’s jjk97 from twitter

jeonbunny: is this suga?

He’s reminded of the fact that Line has automatic translation when Suga responds after a few moments.

myg1993: oh hello

myg1993: oh nice username haha

myg: very cute

He’s not blushing. He refuses. Him, Hoseok, and Taehyung are out shopping and he refuses to give away that he’s texting Suga. Last night was hard enough, as Taehyung relayed the events of the night to Hoseok when he’d gotten back, and the eldest had choked on his noodles from laughing. Jeongguk found nothing funny, but his not-so-secret secret was out. Which is why they were out shopping. 

“Listen, Guk, thank goodness you’ve got me and Taehyung. We can’t let you meet Suga looking like you do,” Hoseok says but doesn’t even look at him. Jeongguk is moderately offended—they’re always talking about how he dresses but he has the ability to wear nice things other than his hoodies and sweats. Or large shirts and skin tight pants. He sees Taehyung pull out a pair of leather pants, holding them over to Jeongguk’s hips to check them, then to his own. Him and Taehyung do wear each other’s clothes sometimes. 

“These will flaunt your thighs nicely. And after, you can wear them clubbing and pick someone up,” Taehyung grins, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Speaking of that, I saw a club on my way back last night. We’ve got to check it out,” Hoseok points out, holding a silk shirt. Jeongguk can tell he’s going to buy it. 

“A club?” Taehyung’s eyes sparkle. Jeongguk takes this moment to pull his phone out, seeing he had forgotten to answer Suga back, and while Hoseok and Taehyung discuss clubs and hotspots, he secures his dick appointment—if one could even call it that. 

jeonbunny: haha thanks

jeonbunny: also, sorry for not responding, out with friends

jeonbunny: and no, I’m not from korea. i’m here with friends on a vacation

He then checks Twitter, exiting from the direct message page, then sees his parents texted him. He answers them telling them he’d made it fine and was enjoying himself. Perhaps enjoying himself too much, but that’s none of their business. It’s not like he’s doing anything illegal. To his knowledge. 

myg1993: so you’re a foreigner?

jeonbunny: yes and no, my parents are korean but I was born in america

He hopes that Suga finds that attractive. He;s screwed a few men of varying ethnicities so he hopes that him being American isn’t a turn off. Truly, it would be an honor to be denied by him even, but he;s sure Suga is interested because if he wasn’t, would he have really given him his Line information? And from what he knew about usernames—which wasn’t a lot but that’s fine—this was a personal account. He might be reading too far into this, but why give him a personal Line account to contact? Unless, this wasn’t his personal? Jeongguk is confused. 

The rest of the day is uneventful; more shopping and more gossiping. More embarrassing Jeongguk about scoring a hookup as soon as he got to Korea and more jerking off in his bedroom while the others did their own thing. The day turned to a week, and their first week had quickly passed in the city. By this time as well. Suga and Jeongguk were working out meeting times. Confirming that yes, Suga wanted to sleep with him and film it. Jeongguk wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but it was Suga. Automatic free pass. 

myg1993: are you with your friends right now?

jeonbunny: one is sleeping, one is meeting with his family

myg1993: how about tonight then?

Jeongguk spits out his milkshake, but his fingers are frantic in their typing. It’d been a week, yeah, and he was a bit more comfortable with this. So he assumes it’s fine. 

jeonbunny: will my identity be protected?

Considering the fact that Suga seems to take great care in protecting identities—even though the masks they wear are half masks—he was sure this question was a little stupid. Suga doesn’t make a comment about it though. 

myg1993: yeah, you’re fine

myg1993: I even have the perfect mask for you

Had he really picked out a mask for him already? Had he been planning this? Jeongguk’s really curious, but he’s been sharing kinks with Suga in the week they’ve been chatting, as the other had asked and Jeongguk was either stupid enough for eloquent enough to share them. 

"Have you packed everything you’d need?”

Taehyung helping him pack for the “appointment” with Suga reminds him of a parent sending their child off for school. He’s got a backpack in his lap—Jeongguk’s—and carefully adds things to it. A toothbrush, lube. Condoms. Toothpaste. There’s an extra change of clothes in there, then another outfit for tomorrow. Jeongguk doesn’t find that part necessary, but whatever. He might need half the stuff Taehyung’s throwing in his back anyway. 

“Yeah, I think so,”

“Also, make sure to keep your phone charged. You’re in a foreign country and you don’t know anyone here. Other than me and Hoseok. Don’t call an Uber, call us. We’ll get there faster than an Uber,” he says, and Jeongguk believes him. Hoseok is a great driver, but will drive like a bat out of hell if he needs to. 

“Gee thanks mom.” Jeongguk snorts, but Taehyung ignores him. 

“Did you prep yourself?” Jeongguk drops his phone and whips his head around at Taehyung as if he’d slapped him. 

“Why are you asking me—”

“You and I both know you’re a bottom and Suga is very much a top, so it’s kind of important that you’re a little prepared for this so that he doesn’t have to spend 84 years stretching your ass open,” Taehyung deadpans. Jeongguk squats to retrieve his phone, bucking and feigning throwing it at Taehyung who’s look of deadpan morphs into an innocent smile. Jeongguk doesn’t like Taehyung right now. 

“Well, it’s settled! You’re all set then, come on I’ll drop you off.”

He knocks on the door when he arrives, a little nervous all of a sudden. The apartment complex isn’t far from their AirBnB, and Taehyung had lingered a bit, asking if he needed to follow and make sure that he got in safely. Jeongguk insisted he didn’t need that, so Taehyung had bid him farewell, once again reminding him to keep his phone charged in case he needed rescuing. Jeongguk really doubted he’d need it, but promised him he would. 

The door opens a few moments later, and Jeongguk isn’t expecting the face he sees at the door. 

Well, maybe a little since he’s seen half the man’s face before, but isn’t aware of how attractive he is until now. He’s always been attractive, but wow. 

“Oh, hello,” He greets. The man—Suga—stares at him a little weirdly, causing Jeongguk to stare back. Confused as to why he wasn’t responding. He thinks for a moment, before realizing something. 

“Oh! uh, annyeonghaseyo,” his parents had at least taught him this, which he adds a bow to. Ducking his head politely but not bend at a 90 degree angle or anything. 

“Annyeonghaseyo. Jeonbunny?” The way he pronounces his Line username makes his stomach all gooey. It’s kind of cute, and he almost doesn’t answer. 

“Jeonbunny,” he points to himself, affirming the statement. Suga seems pleased with this, stepping aside to allow him inside. 

He steps out of his shoes, leaving them at the door. Suddenly a bit nervous because he doesn’t speak Korean. It’s honestly broken and poorly worded, and he’s sure at some point he’ll say something completely wrong. The man walks ahead of him, starting to talk but Jeongguk is lost and doesn’t understand a thing. Suddenly this wasn’t a good idea. He feels like he’s catfishing the porn star.

“Uh, Suga?” he calls, already whipping his phone out. Suga turns to look at him, curiously. He then points to his phone, typing something up in Google Translate, and allows it to translate for him. 

“Naneun hangug-eoleul jal moshabnida.”

Suga looks a little surprised at this, but then laughs, nodding his head. He points to Jeongguk’s phone. 

“I speak. . .little English? Not much,” he comments. Jeongguk’s ready to drop to his knees and give thanks that he can at least speak a little. That’s manageable. “Might need this,” he points to the phone again. A lot more understanding that Jeongguk had anticipated. He honestly anticipated having to call Taehyung and explain that he’d catfished a porn star and that Suga was no longer interested. But clearly, this wasn’t the case.

“That’s fine, here,” he hands the phone off to him, and Suga takes it. But doesn’t immediately go to use it. 

“How is your Korean?”

“Minimal.” Jeongguk answers. Suga looks a little perplexed by this. 

“Minimal?”

“A little. I’m not very good speaking it,” he explains. Suga nods again, then decides to use the phone to type his next phrase. 

“You’re very good looking.”

The flush in Jeongguk’s cheeks is very noticeable. “Ah, gomawo?” This earns a smile from Suga, who simply says “cute” and turns to walk away, beckoning Jeongguk to follow behind him. Typing away on his phone. 

“Are you excited?”

“Yeah,”

“Good. Me too,” he speaks that part, and a shiver runs down Jeongguk’s spine. What the fuck. “Your name?”

“Oh! Jeongguk. Sorry,” he apologizes. Suga points for him to sit on the bed, which he does as the shorter man moves to get everything set up. 

“I’m Yoongi. Call me that, not on camera,” he warns. Jeongguk is honestly a little taken aback at how casual and considerate he’s being—not that he didn’t expect it, but it’s not what he’d had in mind. For some reason, he expected to be ambushed at the door. Not greeted and spoken to. Not a conversation. 

“Nervous?” Yoongi asks again, coming over with a camera on a stand. It’s smaller, they both are, and he figures this is going on the bed. 

“A little. My first time on camera,” Yoongi hums at this, clucking his tongue. 

“Not bad. Your looks are really good for it,” he compliments. Jeongguk wants to crawl into the mattress and hide. 

There’s silence for a few more moments as Yoongi gets set up, Jeongguk looking around the room and examining it. It looks like a room he’s seen in a few of Suga—Yoongi’s—videos. It’s almost surreal he’s sitting in the same room, in the same bed that Yoongi has had raunchy sex in with a multitude of people. Every inch of this apartment, in Jeongguk’s mind, is sacred. This place is truly a holy place. He feels dirty just sitting on the bed. Unworthy. While he’s processing the situation, Yoongi returns, sliding in front of him and pressing a mask against his face. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything as Yoongi fixes the mask on him, snapping it lightly behind his head to secure it. Wearing a mask of his own. Then leans in, pressing a long, searing kiss to Jeongguk’s lips, causing the boy to stiffen. 

“Relax.” he mumbles against his lips, pressing into him. Pushing him backwards to lay flat on the bed, straddling his lap. He reaches for Jeongguk’s phone, typing furiously into it. 

“Don’t bother trying to use Korean. My English is decent enough and I want you to be comfortable. Just tell me to stop if something gets too much and try not to say my name and I won’t say yours, okay?” it’s not Yoongi’s voice, but rather Google’s, and it’s not sexy but the care Yoongi is showing for him overrides the weirdness of Google’s voice. 

“Okay?” Yoongi quirks an eyebrow, waiting for an answer. Jeongguk nods.

“Okay.”

Yoongi seems satisfied with his answer, then proceeds to lean down and press his lips against this again. He knows the video will be edited, posted in clips on Twitter and full length on Yoongi’s personal site, so he hopes to look appealing at least for it. Which isn’t hard, because Yoongi is a great kisser, and Jeongguk feel himself relaxing the longer it goes on and progresses into a heated tangle of tongue and teeth—him getting a little bit too eager to shove his own tongue down Yoongi’s throat. But he allows it, chuckling huskily into Jeongguk’s mouth at the show he’d given. Moving his hips to grind down against the growing erection he’s already beginning to sport. But really, who could blame him when he’s got a lap full of the Suga? 

“You’re hard? So quick,” it sounds a little like a taunt, but it’s mostly a breathless observation as the lips on his mouth move to his cheek, to the angle of his jaw, and down his neck. Lips and teeth, careful yet calculated sucks. Yoongi’s being careful which he’s thankful for, knowing he didn’t want to pop up around Taehyung’s folks covered in hickeys and love bites from a random hookup. The mask shielding the top half of his face is a little sticky as it’s made of a latex material it seems, and not very breathable. He’s sure he’s going to be covered in sweat by the time they finish. 

Not that he’s complaining. 

Hands move to slither up underneath his shirt. Cold, slightly calloused hands. One runs over his nipple and his back arches on instinct. Begrudgingly, he must admit, he’d found the sensitivity in his nipples and seems to fixate himself on that for a moment. Moving back so that he can help Jeongguk get out of his shirt, then tosses it away and returns to planting kisses over the expanse of his pretty neck. Paying close attention to how Jeongguk sounds when he brushes a finger against one of his pink nubs. How he struggles to hold his sounds in even with Yoongi’s careful, barely there touches. Jeongguk, meanwhile, is torn over if he wants him to stop or keep going. Momentarily hating this curse but also relishing in it. 

Particularly when Yoongi’s lips wrap around a nipple, wet tongue lathing over it. Flicking and providing a gentle suction, before he gets a little hungrier, mouth matching the hand giving attention to the other nipple. Jeongguk can’t resist the moans that bubble out of him, nor can he resist bucking his hips up in desire. It’s pitiful—they’ve just started and he’s already aroused just from having his nipples played with. Yoongi pulls off with a wet pop, moving to the other nipple and using his hand on the wettened one, twisting and tugging at it with fluctuation between his teeth and lips, hands and fingers. Jeongguk is in heaven and it shows. 

“Like that?”

“Y-yeah, a lot,” he answers truthfully, lips parting in a silent moan at one particular, coordinated flick. His back bows a little as he squirms beneath Yoongi. 

“Cute. So cute,” he praises as he pulls back again, removing his own shirt. He’s careful with the mask, as he had been with Jeongguk. It’s escalating moderately quickly, but he knows it never lasts long, the videos. Never longer than an hour, but he hopes they do this more than once. Yoongi moves then, climbing off Jeongguk briefly to readjust the cameras, then slithers back onto him, this time moving his legs apart so that he was between them. Hands ghosting up the younger’s thighs and admiring them in the leather pants. Mentally undressing him. Jeongguk feels a little vulnerable, though knows if he wants to he can easily maneuver himself to be the supposed dominant, but resists. It’s not his place right now. 

The hands on his thighs move up to his torso, over the definition of his abdomen. A little soft from the frequent Taco Bell visits and lack of motivation to hit the gym, but Yoongi says nothing of that. Just stares in wonder at his abs. Reveling in them. He mutters something in Korean that Jeongguk doesn’t catch, but then he’s starting to undo his pants, leaning up to steal a few quick kisses from Jeongguk’s mouth, palming at the tent forming in his pants as he starts to fully undress him. 

“O-oh God, oh my God,” he heaves, gasping and looking down. Watching how Yoongi bobs his head down the length of his cock. Rapidly, roughly. He can hear the gagging noises as he goes too deep, but says nothing. Yoongi just pulls off, regains his breath, and goes back down. Jeongguk feels like he’s reaching nirvana. He’s close, so close, but then Yoongi pulls off, and replaces his mouth with his hand. Lazily jerking him off while licking the precum off his lips. Staring down at Jeongguk with hazy, dark eyes. He can see them through the black mask, seeing that Yoongi is hungry for him. 

It makes him feel like a caged animal. 

“Gonna cum?” he asks, thumb brushing over the slit at the head of his cock. Jeongguk rapidly nods, whimpering as he feels his orgasm getting closer and closer, but before he can release, Yoongi’s hand tightens over the base of his dick. But this doesn’t stop the way Jeongguk’s body jerks, twitching as a frustrated noise comes from him. 

“Not yet,” Yoongi cooes, voice saccharine. Jeongguk is not used to orgasm denial and can’t say he likes it, but he does like how Yoongi moves to grab a bottle of lube, then removes his hand. Motioning for him to turn over and get on his stomach, which he does a little slowly. Mind and body not cooperating at the moment. 

“Hy-hyung that’s mean,” he complains, earning a slap on the ass from Yoongi’s hand. It’s unexpected and startling and makes his heart nearly leap out of his chest. But he likes it. He soothes the angry skin after the smack, shaking his head. 

“Be quiet,” he knows a command when he hears one, and shuts his mouth quickly. Moving around a little and grabbing a pillow to lay under his head. Getting up on his knees and spreading them apart a little for better leverage. Arching his back and waiting expectantly. But when he looks back, all he can see is Yoongi admiring the sight with his eyes. Followed by the cool jelly of the lube. He hisses from it, wishing he’d had some form of warning, but Yoongi quickly follows up with his fingers, brushing one against Jeongguk’s hole experimentally. Only ghosting the rim; not pressing in. Jeongguk’s hands fist as he struggles not to rock back into Yoongi’s hands, seeking to feel good again like before. But Yoongi leisurely rubs against his pucker, pressing his thumb against, only to withdraw when Jeongguk’s hole tries to suck it in. 

“Greedy. How greedy,” he chastises, smacking at the opposite cheek from before before spreading his ass apart with a hand on each cheek.Sighing in delight at the sight. 

“Greedy for hyung, yeah? Want hyung’s cock?”

“Yes,” he pleads, almost exasperatedly. 

“Yes?”

“Yes hyung.”

“Good boy,” the praise makes Jeongguk feel warm inside and he probably won’t admit it, knowing he doesn’t have a praise kink. It just feels good—that’s all. Feels even better when he finally does let Jeongguk enjoy a finger. Just a finger at first, but Jeongguk’s huffing. I can handle more, he wants to say, knowing he had in fact stretched himself out prior to coming here, but wasn’t about to blurt it out. Though deep down, he wanted to get spanked again. 

Another finger is added, causing Jeongguk’s arch to increase a little, and causing him to rock back against the two fingers Yoongi begins to work in and out of him. Pressing against his and scissoring as they fuck him open a little more. Really, he should be annoyed at how he’s acting, but he can’t help it. Especially when Yoongi finds his prostate, basing it on the octave of Jeongguk’s moans, and how he reacts. It’s not hard to find, and easy to abuse—Yoongi finds this out as he presses both fingers to it. Withdrawing them a little and thrusting them back into the fullness of his ass. Rocking them, scissoring them. Jeongguk is weakly fucking back on them at this point. The orgasm from before is creeping up on him so fast he can taste it.

But then Yoongi withdraws his fingers. 

Jeongguk really whines then, tempted to throw a childish tantrum, but another swat at his ass cheeks shuts him up momentarily, and he feels something prodding at his hole. It slides in easily, filling him up and causing him to stiffen out of instinct, but once Yoongi’s fully sheathed inside of him,he stops. Briefly just rocking into him. Rolling his hips and kissing along his spine and the back of his neck. Muttering against his skin, but Jeongguk has no idea what he’s saying. Out of instinct he glances over at one of the cameras, but there’s a hand in his hair that pulls at his head, then shoves it into the pillow underneath him. Yoongi seems pleased with this new development, satisfied that Jeongguk wasn’t staring into the camera so blatantly, and pulls out a little, only to shove back in roughly. Groaning and pulling a rough noise from Jeongguk that’s muffled by the pillow. He does it again, this time rolling his hips against the plushness of Jeongguk’s ass when he thrusts in, settling there for a little. A smug expression on his face. 

“You feel so good, tokki,” he cooes. Jeongguk knows exactly what he’d just said—his grandmother called him tokki sometimes because he apparently resembled a rabbit—but it had never been used in a sexual setting. Until now, that is. He grasps the pillow and sighs into it, rocking back when Yoongi’s hips meet his ass again, but then he’s yanked by his hair to sit up, Yoongi still inside him and starting to speed up his hips. Less slow less sporatic. It’s a little rough and unexpected, but he doesn’t complain. Doesn’t complain either when Yoongi brings his face up to his ear—Yoongi’s a bit shorter and slimmer than him but in that moment Jeongguk feels smaller—and groans filth into his ear. He may only know a little English, but it seems he knows enough dirty English. Some things Jeongguk himself haven’t even heard; he’s absolutely filthy and Jeongguk loves it a little more than he’d like to admit. 

“So good, so good, fuck,” a hand slithers down to grasp at his cock, still stiff from earlier and still sensitive. It ghosts over it, but Yoongi doesn’t do much. He seems to be wanting to drag this out a little, but Jeongguk kind of wants to cum at least once.

He fucks him like this for a bit, spurred on by Jeongguk’s noises of pleasure. Feeling his body shaking with each thrust, hearing how he begs for him. He figures he can grant him a little something, and wraps his hand around his cock for him. Other hand in his hair to hold him up still as he shows little mercy. Jeongguk really thought Yoongi would be sweet despite knowing Yoongi is always a little rough with his partners, but the kindness from earlier had really thrown him. Despite the hand in his hair, Jeongguk starts to lean forward a little, Struggling to stay up, struggling to either buck into Yoongi’s grip or rock his hips back to fuck back on him. His brain is confused, he is confused, and doesn’t quite know how he should do this. Should he ask or more? 

Yoongi surprises him by pulling out, rather quickly. Slapping his thigh gently and loosening his grip in his hair. Jeongguk flops forward when the hand wrapped around him moves too, face hitting the pillow. He can hear what sounds like Yoongi laughing lightly, but then hands are at his waist. At first admiring it, but then guiding him onto his back. Which he does, rolling over and staring up at Yoongi’s face. Not expecting to make eye contact, but he does. 

“You’re good?” He asks, checking on him. Jeongguk appreciates it though. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” he nods, assuring him he’s fine. Yoongi nods at this, and moves between his legs again. Grasping his own dick and sliding it back inside with a grunt. Holding Jeongguk’s legs open and starts up the same rhythm from before. Jeongguk throws his head back and curses loudly, gut twitching from the pleasure of this new position, finding he likes it better than the first. 

“H-harder! Harder please!” Jeongguk’s reduced to shameless begging. Yoongi’s holding himself up on his forearms, hovering over Jeongguk, who’s struggling to not be a loud mess underneath him. Eyes closed as he enjoys how Yoongi seems to use him selfishly. Said man smirks down at him, leaning down for a quick kiss, though his hips keep moving. Jeongguk tries not to tighten his legs around the elder’s waist too much but it’s hard. He’s close, Yoongi’s kissing him open and sloppy, and he’s pretty sure that Yoongi’s not going to deny him this time. It feels like they’ve been fucking for hours, but it’s probably only been maybe 45 minutes since they started. Neither of them seems to mind this though. 

“Harder? You want it harder?”

Jeongguk nods, but Yoongi doesn’t seem to act initially. Instead, he pulls back, adjusting again but doesn’t pull out. He sits between Jeongguk’s legs, spreading his out underneath Jeongguk’s

“I think you want to cum too?” Yoongi’s voice drawls out lowly. Leaning back on one hand while the other is used to hold one of Jeongguk’s legs open. Honestly, Jeongguk wasn’t sure how Yoongi managed this long without cumming, considering Jeongguk had been close many times during this. Maybe Yoongi has better stamina than he does. 

“N-no,” he complains. If he cums, he knows it’s over. This doesn’t appear to be the answer Yoongi had expected, and he rolls his eyes. 

“You wanted to before? Why not now? You lying to hyung?”

Jeongguk has never shook his head so fast in his life. But he’s not lying, yet doesn’t know how to convey that he doesn’t want this to end, so he doesn’t want to cum. Not yet. 

“So you want to cum?”

Jeongguk simply whines in frustration, but doesn’t say anything. Yoongi takes this as a yes, and nearly laughs at the sight before him. Jeongguk, sweaty and obviously wound up. Obviously he wants a release, right? Yoongi believes so. 

“Okay,” he says simply. The way he says it alarms Jeongguk, dread filling him as he feels Yoongi grow a little lazier with his thrusting from this position, but his hand wraps around his cock yet again, making up for the lack of speed in his ass by pumping him a little roughly. Knowing that it’s what he’d wanted all along. Jeongguk squirms, lips parting as he moans loudly. Unable to hold back. Simply laying there, struggling to come to terms with what was happening and mentally cursing Yoongi’s existence, though Yoongi seems none the wiser. Watching him as he brings him closer and closer to his release, but this time he doesn’t clench around the base of his cock when he does start to spurt cum all over Yoongi’s hand. His chest heaves, back bowing as it gushes out. Legs trembling as it dribbles all over Yoongi’s hand, all over his lower abdomen. The thrusts inside of him stop as well, matching the way Yoongi strokes it all out of him. Seemingly satisfied. When he’s done, he lets go, watching as Jeongguk’s flaccid cock flops into the puddle of his own spunk. Yoongi doesn’t try to clean his hand at all and instead, as Jeongguk manages to lean his head up, pulls out of Jeongguk’s ass and uses his cum as slick to get himself off. 

Oh. That’s hot. 

Yoongi’s hand flies over his own erection, Jeongguk getting a good look at it and silently admiring it in person—he should’ve sucked him off earlier, pity—and jerks a little when Yoongi does cum. It doesn’t take long for him to do so, surprisingly, but he aims at Jeongguk’s abused hole. Panting as he paints it with his release. He softens, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing the head of his dick into Jeongguk’s hole, getting out the rest of his release and watching it ooze out of the younger. Transfixed and hating he had pulled out. Well, next time he wouldn’t. 

“Pretty International Bunny Bottom? Damn Jeongguk,” Taehyung whistles, staring at the latest posts on Yoongi’s page. “Wait, how many videos did you make with him?!”

“Like three I think. We hooked up a lot, honestly. Sometimes we didn’t even record.” Jeongguk admits, feeling that this was probably common knowledge. They’re on the plane back, and he’s curled up beside Taehyung. Head on his shoulder as he stares at Taehyung’s phone, watching him scroll through the porn star’s page. Jeongguk was wrong—there were four compilations of him on Yoongi’s face. Something that didn’t happen, considering they were back to back as if Yoongi hadn’t slept with anybody else other than him or given anyone else other than him the time of day during the month that they were in Daegu. It was kind of weird to think about, and Jeongguk is a professional over thinker so it makes sense, but he doesn’t want to think too deeply into it. He probably liked Jeongguk’s ass. His own phone buzzed, causing him to pull it out and look at the notification.

myg1993: videos are up

myg1993: too bad you had to leave :(

It makes him sad too that he had to go back home, considering when they weren’t having sex, Jeongguk really did enjoy just hanging out with him too. Weird, but true. Yoongi was just a cool person, overall. No questions asked. He unlocked his phone to reply, frowning a little. 

jeonbunny: i’m watching them right now with a friend

jeonbunny: yeah i know :(

Taehyung side eyes him, growing curious. “Who’s that?” 

Jeongguk jumps, but locks his phone. “Oh, uh I met someone while we were in Daegu,” it’s not a lie, but not the whole truth. It’s all he needs to know, but he regrets it when Taehyung waggles his eyebrow. 

“Oh? Jeon you sly dog,” he playfully punches him in the arm. “I see you, I see you,” he leans back into his seat, cackling as he continues to scroll through on his phone. Jeongguk pouts, glancing over at Hoseok, who’s chatting with some guy named Namjoon that he’d met at the airport on their way back. Hoseok had made a friend, why couldn’t Taehyung make a friend too? 

“I need to pee,” he announces moments later, moving to get up and heads towards the bathroom. Too quick for Taehyung to say anything. When he gets there though, it’s occupied. Causing him to sigh, leaning over on the other side, against the wall. Yoongi seems to have read his message, but hasn’t responded. Which Jeongguk thinks nothing of, honestly. He figures that he’s probably sleeping or editing or doing something else.

"Sorry,” he hears when the door across from him opens and a person emerges, nearly bumping into him. He opens his mouth to apologize, but then his eyes go wide when he recognizes the person. 

“Yoongi?”

Yoongi turns, looking at him and blinks. Then laughs.

“Wow, hey Jeongguk,” he says, casually. But pats his arm. Jeongguk’s mouth is dry.

“I didn’t know you were coming to America?” he says, stupidly. Suddenly, he no longer has to use the bathroom. 

“Oh, ah. My family live in California. I’m visiting,” he thinks about his words then says them, and Jeongguk knows this, but also knows that he’s a lucky bastard that Yoongi’s family lives in California. He has no idea where in California, but apparently they’re in California and he’s in California and Yoongi’s in California—

“You wanna go out sometime?”

He can’t believe he’d blurted that out. 

“A date?” The question has Jeongguk going beet red. Taehyung, Hoseok, somebody save him. “A date, sure,” he finishes, then turns and walks in the opposite direction. 

“See you!” he hears, then makes his way into the bathroom. Locking the door and deciding to sit there on the toilet. Staring into space again.

A date with Suga. 

He’s going on a date. 

What are the odds?

↬ x.

[ part two ]

[ masterlist ] | [ previous chapter ] | [ next chapter ]

[harryandmolly]

like the back of my hand - 2020-2021 (final)

Summary: a relationship within a collection of moments

Warnings: language, NSFW, light BDSM

Word count: a hefty 12k

January 7th, 2020

“C’mon, if I don’t get pics of the boy, I at least want pics of the car,” she whines, shivering a little when she feels Shawn’s hand brush over her inner thigh. He’s looking down at her skin fondly, tracing her stretch marks. She reaches up and tangles her fingers in the back of his hair, making him smile wistfully.

“Google BMW i8. It’s white,” Lauren responds with a nervous giggle.

She takes her hand back from Shawn’s hair with a mumble of protest from him. She obeys Lauren’s instructions and gasps into the phone. Shawn glances over and does the same.

“This is his fucking car?!” Shawn whines.

“Yo, dude, is he loaded?!” Lilly cries.

“I know, it’s crazy, people like, wave when he drives around in it.”

“That is the sexiest car I’ve ever seen,” Shawn declares, squinting at it on the screen, “Does it have gull wing doors?”

“Yep,” Lauren confirms. Shawn’s grip tightens on Lilly’s thigh. She exhales sharply and looks down. He tilts his glance up to her devilishly. She watches his face as his fingers dance closer to the apex of her thighs. Her breathing shudders. She lifts the phone away from her mouth, but it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t know what Lauren is saying anyways.

“He asked me to be his girlfriend,” Lauren giggles. Lilly does hear that, managing to look away from Shawn as he runs his middle finger down the center of her thin Hershey’s Kisses boxers.

“Oh, Lo, yay! We have a boyfriend!” Lilly squeals, smiling up at Shawn. He nods placatingly, focusing on the task at hand. He traces the trail of skin above her boxers, dipping just his fingertips underneath.

Suddenly, he rolls on top of her, his body covering her legs. She slaps a hand over her mouth, listening carefully as Lauren tells the story of her new boyfriend’s family barbeque. Meanwhile, Shawn busies himself by tugging at the waistband of her shorts until she lifts her hips obediently. He pulls them off and kisses a jagged, wet line up the inside of her right leg until his face is above her underwear. She’s breathing heavy again and running a hand through her hair.

“Lo, babe, I’m sorry, I gotta call you back later. Shawn’s face is literally between my legs and I can’t concentrate. Ok. Bye.”

She hangs up as Shawn’s surprised laugh bubbles up from deep in his chest. “I can’t believe you just told her that.”

She shrugs, “You know how we are. Plus, you started this, bucko. You got turned on by a car.”

He nods, lowering his lips to her center that has partially soaked through her pink and white striped panties. “Fair.”

++++++++++

January 18th, 2020

She holds Shawn’s hand tighter as they round the corner and he knows it’s more for her than it is for him. Her other hand is separating some hair out over the front of her shoulder and tightening the line of her lipstick around her mouth. He snickers.

“Stop primping,” he orders, widening his eyes at her playfully.

“I just want to make a good impression on your friend,” she teases, bumping his upper thigh with her hip. He shakes his head and lets go of her hand in favor of swinging an arm around her shoulders. He tells himself it’s not possessive.

Niall is standing toward the back of the green room with a Stella in one hand and gesturing animatedly with the other. Lilly thinks it feels Irish in here, but maybe it’s just because she likes the idea of that. Childish Gambino is playing from the speakers but is only barely audible above the rowdy room. Since it’s LA, the guest list is larger than usual and there are more friends around. Lilly is prepared to wait her turn to talk to the Irish prince, but Shawn, ever so politely, moves them up to walk right into Niall’s story as he finishes telling it.

He’s shorter than she imagines, probably because she’s used to toting around Shawn the jolly green giant. His hair is done for the show and he’s in smartly tailored grey trousers and a navy short-sleeved button up. His attention falls to them immediately. Lilly’s heart smashes against her ribs when his big blue eyes turn on her.

“Ay!” he chirps, looking up from her face to Shawn’s. Shawn releases her to complete the bro hug transaction before holding Lilly out as an offering.

“This is Lilly, my girlfriend. You probably guessed that,” Shawn chuckles awkwardly, unsure how this interaction is supposed to go. Niall puts his fan face on and reaches out for a hug.

“Nice to meet ya, thanks for comin’, love.”

“Thanks for having us,” she says, managing to keep her voice level. His eyes are so blue. She suddenly has an unwelcome flash of her history of stanning Niall from her carrot days shrieking at their cover of “Use Somebody” on the Up All Night tour to imagining him sweeping her off her feet while she backpacked across Europe after graduating college.

“So you’re “Her,”” Niall giggles, tilting his head at Shawn with a dare in his eyes. Shawn laughs.

“I am she,” she confirms, face going red.

“’S a great album. Or, what I’ve heard of it. I’m so stoked to do the song. Have you heard it yet?” he asks her. Another flash of a video she has on her phone of him doing the famous crotch grab during “Heart Attack” in Boston.

“She hasn’t heard any of it,” Shawn pipes up, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as it got stuck in her bright pink lipstick. Niall’s eyebrows shoot up, interested.

“Because I want to be surprised. I want to hear it all when it’s done. I want to sit down with my man and a bottle of wine and cry through the whole thing,” she laughs, reaching up to lace her fingers with Shawn’s on her shoulder.

“You’re not even going to listen to the singles when they drop?”

She shakes her head, looking back at Niall with a giggle in her throat.

“Wow, that’s… actually really romantic,” Niall admits with a bob of his head, tugging back a sip of beer, “So Shawn tells me you’re a Directioner.”

Shawn grins, ready for “let’s embarrass Lilly” time. Lilly huffs a sigh, nibbling her lower lip before she remembers the pigment she doesn’t want on her teeth while meeting one of her heroes.

“I… dabbled,” she jokes hopelessly, unable to sell it, “Huge fan. Crazy fan. I mean, I never stalked you at airports and stuff but, y’know…”

Shawn’s shaking his head, his chest rumbling behind her. She’s making it worse than he imagined. Niall’s used to it and pleased to hear it at a normal volume and from a pretty girl.

“We’ll get back in the saddle again, I promise you.” He nudges her arm and she swears she’s on fire.

He offers them drinks and she’s surprised by how much attention they’re getting given how many other people probably came to see him. Niall asks about DC, about college, about LA. He asks a couple curious questions about how she felt about the album morphing into a concept album about their relationship. She doesn’t give her usual PC answer.

“It’s a little scary. I’ve told him this. God forbid we break up and there’s just this… ode to me hanging over his head for the rest of his career.”

Niall nods. “’S brave. Also a good reason not to break up.”

She looks over her shoulder to Shawn who is enjoying seeing her like this. She blows him a kiss. He winks at her.

“Not worried about it right now,” she admits, cocking her head at Niall and laughing to herself. If her 16-year-old self could see her now…

“You two are adorable,” Niall murmurs a little wistfully. Lilly blushes hard, nodding.

“I’m the luckiest woman alive.” She says it with a sincerity that rocks her own boat a little. She’s sort of glad Shawn’s engaged in conversation elsewhere.

The pre-party gets the wrap-up signal from Niall’s tour manager. As people are saying their last goodbyes, Shawn reaches out for Niall’s arm. “Hey man, can we take a picture?”

Niall agrees quickly and they nudge Lilly in between them. Shawn hands his phone off and they take a few.

“God, I hope my face isn’t beet red, my heart is pounding. Fuck, my inner teenager is having a fit,” she admits, ducking her head in shame at Niall. He bursts out laughing at her honesty and brings her into his arms. He rocks her gently as she covers her face. Shawn takes more pictures.

“Thanks again for comin’, enjoy the show. I’ll see ya soon. We should go out when we record the song, yeah?”

Lilly nods eagerly, waving at him as he’s swept away for pre-show rituals. She turns back to Shawn, shaken and taking deep breaths.

“You did pretty good, I’ve definitely seen worse,” he teases, pulling her in for a kiss. It’s quick and gentle because they’re still around people. She swipes the color off his lower lip as he makes a face.

“Bad choice of lip color, sorry,” she murmurs.

“Had to look good to meet your mans,” he shoots back, looking smug instead of threatened.

“I can’t believe I just met him, I could cry,” she squeaks, pressing her face into his chest, “I’m going to feel the aftershocks of this star-strike for weeks.”

Shawn laughs and leads her toward the group of green room-goers that are being led to their VIP section. They spend the concert in each other’s arms and he forgets for a while how big her crush on Niall is until Niall spots them in the crowd and waves. She tightens up against him and almost actually swoons. Later that night, she sucks him off and he comes so hard he tears up.

+++++++++

March 22nd, 2020

Shawn’s been gone for two weeks doing album press so when he gets home, Lilly wants to show him a good time. She’s been dreaming about making him squirm underneath her, willing him to submit even though he’s got over a foot of height and at least 40 pounds of muscle on her. She doesn’t know if he’d be into it but her dreams are hers and they make her miss him even more.

When he walks in the door to his condo, she’s waiting for him at the top of the stairs. She doesn’t get a word out before he’s swinging her up over his shoulder and racing for the bedroom.

“Guess what I finished reading on the plane?” he pants, tossing her roughly on the mattress. Her eyes blow wide open.

“The Windflower?”

He nods, a look of sleepy lust on his face as he starts tugging at the buttons of his shirt. She makes a low whining noise and sits up to start at his belt buckle. He removes her hands gently but purposefully. She looks up and audibly gasps at the simmer in his eyes.

“No, my little windflower, tonight you’re mine to ravish.”

On anyone else’s lips, the words would sound cheesy and hollow. Maybe she just missed him too much. But when he says it, her head falls back a little, overwhelmed.

“Oh my god, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she purrs. When she musters the strength to look back up, he’s shedding his jeans and staring at her like a starving man. She whimpers.

He reaches for her feet and pulls her down the bed to him. He drops one leg to the mattress and she’s so in shock that she bounces a little, boneless and all too willing for him. He lifts her delicate foot to his lips, pressing his mouth to the tattoo on her cool skin. She closes her eyes, relishing the feeling of his detailed attentions, giggling when his teeth graze the soft flesh under her knee cap. When she opens her eyes again, he’s there hovering over her, hands planted on either side of her head.

“You’d make a very sexy pirate lord,” she comments, embarrassed by her ragged breath. He gives her a lopsided grin.

“Thank you, milady.” With that, he lowers his body onto hers and gets to work, making her feel every inch the lady she is.

Later that afternoon, when the sun is hot even through the curtains and they’ve abandoned the sheets in favor of lying naked together above the blankets, she looks up at him. He’s lying there looking like the goddamn statue of David, all curls and bone structure and hard-earned muscle. She runs a finger down his thigh to get his attention. He looks up from his study of the pillow under his arm and smiles placidly at her.

“What do you like, Shawn?”

He looks surprised. “Hmm?”

“We’ve spent months exploring my sexuality. And I realize now I don’t think I’ve really asked you what you like.”

He swallows, going just a shade pink. “I dunno. I like you.”

She breathes a laugh against her resting place on his stomach and watches the muscles contract deliciously.

He chews on the inside of his lip. It’s true, their crusade had been pretty centered around her. She was entirely in control of every situation, guiding him to please her as she became ready, unfurling in his hands like soft ribbon. He had never been a part of something like that before, that careful exploration, simplified and broken down to such innocence that kind of took his breath away. He was happy to be there for her that way, but he found something in himself he didn’t know was there.

He liked being at her disposal. He liked her using his body and his love to find herself. In fact, as she found herself, he did the opposite. He got lost in it and that clouded lack of focus somehow brought him clarity. He didn’t have to do anything other than be there and watch – he didn’t have to make decisions or voice opinions. This process of theirs wasn’t meant to be for him, but it served him, nonetheless.

“I like… being there for you. I like—” he stops to take a deep, shuddering breath, “I really like being under your control.”

The words stop her in her tracks. She keeps her eyes down on the plane of his chest, tracing her fingers up the inside of his arm to watch the muscles twitch. She blinks. She likes it, too.

“Has that been something you’ve tried before?” she asks, rolling her head so her chin is propped up on his sternum. He brushes his fingertips through the hair at her crown.

“No. I mean, a little. There were… maybe two one night stands where I took a back seat. But nothing like what we’ve been doing. I… really like what we’ve been doing.”

She lets her eyes graze over the large, gorgeous man underneath her, feeling him shiver under the weight of her gaze. When she reaches his face, he’s vulnerable and honest and she wants to swim in it.

“Do you want me to take care of you, Shawn?” she asks him quietly, feeling her heart race against his stomach. His breath catches. He nods.

She carefully lifts herself off his torso, tracing the rosy pattern her weight leaves against his skin. He lies there still, waiting for her. She’s deciding how to proceed when he clears his throat.

“Do you… I mean, would you want to tie up my hands?”

Her eyes snap up to his. The same vulnerability has multiplied. His heart is resting in her hands. She nods eagerly.

“Is that ok?” she whispers.

“Yes, please.”

She pushes herself off the bed on both hands. He goes to sit up and stops when her hard blue eyes meet his. “Stay there.”

He swallows and lies back down. She wanders naked into his closet where she’s left some things over the last few months. She pulls a short black satin robe off the hanger and slides it on, flipping her waist-length hair out from under the sheer lace back. She pads back out and finds him where she left him. She bites her lip, a little drunk on the power.

As she meanders back to the bed, slowly to make him sweat a little, she starts tugging on the black satin sash that tickles her legs until it releases from the rope’s loops and rests in her hands.

“This ok?” she asks him. He croaks something in assent, feeling the blush percolate under his skin when she reaches the edge of the bed. She climbs up on her knees and he admires the taut skin over well-worked muscle of her thick thighs. He finds his hand brushing up against the outside of her leg. She quirks a grin.

“Touch me now, babe, because you won’t be able to for a while.”

His heart stomps against his ribs. He giggles shyly and takes his hand back, lifting his arms over his head before she has to ask him. She looks pleased with his willingness. She scoots up the bed to cross his wrists over one another, looping the soft fabric around a couple times before she begins fastening the ends to the wooden headboard. He tilts his head back to watch, growing even a little harder at the sight of himself in restraints. He wonders if she’s wet yet and realizes with a short groan that he won’t know until she wants him to.

She leaves the robe on and climbs over him, straddling his hips, watching his body heave with the effort of his labored breath. She starts with her curious fingers, tracing patterns around his hairline, down his temples, massaging gently. His eyes shut and his lips part. He feels her nails graze over the end of his nose, making him smile until her fingers dance over his lips. Instinctively, he opens his mouth and her ring and middle finger drop in to the knuckle. He lavishes them with his tongue, opening his eyes to see her shocked and a little shaky with arousal as she perches over him.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles weakly, eyebrows pulling together at the sight of him like this, all pink and breathy and willing and sucking on her fingers. She lets him for as long as she can stand it, taking her hand back and shifting her legs down his lap. His cock is hard and waiting for her on his stomach, but she has a long way to go and a lot to admire before she’ll get there.

She drags her wet lips down from his temple to his jaw, hearing him pant in her ear while she traces the throbbing vein in his neck to where it disappears under his collarbone.

“Can I mark you up?” she whimpers. His eyes slam shut, brow wrinkling at the tone of her voice.

“Uh huh.”

She lets her whims guide her, leaving rosy ovular shapes wherever she feels like it – on his left shoulder, the inside of his right bicep, the ridge of muscle where his pectoral meets his ribcage. She leaves no inch of skin unloved, but now he thinks she’s completely lost in him and he has to start begging her or he’s gonna lose it.

“Baby, please,” he moans, shuddering when her fingers again bypass his aching length as they venture up his inner thigh to his belly button. The darkness of her eyes when her gaze snaps up to his makes him realize she was not lost, not at all. She was careful and calculated and he should’ve known. He knows her meticulous nature as well as his own.

She does get curious, though, and runs a fingertip so lightly down the underside of his cock that, if he wasn’t so absolutely fucked for her, he might not even feel it. As it is, the air whistles out his nose. He looks down to watch her sink her teeth into his inner thigh, sliding her tongue against the skin. He cries out, rutting up hard into nothing. She plants her hands on his hips and shoves down, pinning him.

“It’s ok, baby, I’ve got you,” she assures him, her voice secure and level. His head falls back and he stares up at his wrists, bound for her.

She leaves soft, plucking kisses over his intercostal muscles while her hand whispers down over his hot skin to wrap around the base of his dick. He gasps at the contact and bucks up into her hand a little. She raises an eyebrow at him, her lips pursed.

“Sorry,” he croaks, shaking his head a little, “Sorry.”

She runs the pad of her thumb up the same trail she took before, shifting her hand to grip the head and squeeze. He turns his face into his arm and mumbles unintelligible profanities.

Suddenly, her hand is gone and she’s holding his shoulders for leverage as she repositions her body up over him. He’s blinking, wondering if he could really be so lucky as to—

The thought cuts off hard and cold in his brain when she lowers herself so her core, soaked and ready for him, rests on his cock.

“Oh, Lil,” he moans helplessly, feeling his toes curl.

She flicks her hips so her wetness swipes up and back down again, too quickly for any real relief. He’s gasping air desperately and she’s got her hands planted on his chest for support as she watches herself tease him. He’s being so good, keeping his hips on the bed even though she can see him straining for release.

“Are you ok?” she whispers, tilting her head at him. His wide eyes, all pupil now, look up into hers. He nods gently, assuring her it’s not too much, that he trusts her, that he wants this.

After a few more teasing strokes, Lilly getting the stimulation she craves from grinding her clit on his length, she knows she can’t stop herself anymore. She sits up on her knees and takes him by the base again, positioning him at her entrance.

They both watch, entranced, as her body accepts the tip of his cock. As she inhales, he exhales. She clenches around the head experimentally.

“Oh my fucking god,” he hisses, body tensing. She slides down another inch and does the same. By the same he’s fully sheathed in her, he’s hiccupping swears into his arm.

She takes what she needs from him, sliding up and down slowly at first, getting used to him filling her out as beautifully as he does.

“God, Shawn, you feel amazing.”

He whimpers in return, still so obedient, putty in her hands. She thrusts faster, digging her knees into his mattress and throwing her head back. He watches her hair soar, catching the light and throwing gold strands over her arms. It doesn’t last, though, because she’s lurching forward to change angles and press her chest to his as she fucks him and her hair falls forward again to tickle his stomach, adding to the overwhelming litany of sensations.

“Lilly, Lil, please, I’m gonna come.”

She moans at the raspy growl his words take on. She lifts her face from the crook of his neck and that devilish look from before is back and better than ever.

“Not before me, you’re not.”

She swings down on him with purpose, racing for the finish line. He’s immersed in watching her until she stills her hips, mouth falling open as her eyes snap shut.

“Oh, oh Shawn!”

He’s reeling from her pleasure and isn’t ready when the wave of his orgasm knocks him down under her. He screams and it’s like nothing she’s ever heard. He’s out of control now, hips bucking wildly up against her until she loses her balance on his chest and flattens on top of him. As he roils beneath her, she hastens to untie him, unable to stand the absence of his hands anymore. As soon as he’s loose, he rips his hands from the constraints and holds her fast against him. The storm has passed but he’s twitching and sputtering breath and she’s soothing him as much as she can with soft pecks against his neck and warm caresses down his arms.

He falls silent and she lifts herself away, smiling at the noise of discontent they both automatically make at the loss of contact. She stumbles into the bathroom for a damp washcloth, cleaning herself up and making her way back to him to do the same.

He’s never felt more satiated in his life as he lies there limp, watching her wipe him up. She tosses the washcloth away, making a “swish” sound when it lands in his hamper. He barely has the energy to chuckle.

She’s perched next to him, cross-legged and flushed from head to toe, eyes sparkling.

“Was that too much?” she asks, resting a hand on his chest. He flinches a little and her eyes dart to his.

“That was so perfect,” he promises, “Thank you. Thank you for… doing that for me.”

“I really enjoyed that, if you couldn’t tell,” she chuckles, folding herself down beside him and resting her head inside his arm.

“I have a question,” he murmurs after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

“Shoot.”

“Do you still have your Catholic school uniform?”

++++++++++

May 16th, 2020

She’s plucking curiously at his 1959 Taylor, sitting on the edge of the air mattress, the only thing left in her room. He’s leaning on the mantle of her fireplace looking around at the naked walls and clean floors. He sighs and slides his phone back in his pocket, pitching himself off the wall to climb onto the bed behind her. He cradles her between his legs and smiles at the memory of the first time they sat like this and the electricity he felt positioning her fingers to play his song.

He hears what’s supposed to be “Surface,” one of her favorites that didn’t make the cut for his upcoming album. It doesn’t sound the same because she doesn’t know the notes and can’t play the instrument. He likes watching her anyway. When she exhales and goes to move the guitar out of her lap, he latches onto it, trapping her between himself and the instrument. He sits up straighter and slides an arm around her hips to drag her flush against his chest. He starts playing around her, feeling her laugh as the guitar’s vibrations sing through her torso.

She tilts her head back onto his shoulder and watches his face as he mouths the words and head bobs his way through the melody he worked so hard on. When the last note fades out, she noses at his jaw for attention and greedily accepts the kiss he offers.

“Last night in your house,” he whispers, his eyes wandering the room again.

She’s quiet for a minute. “Is it ok that I’m sad?”

He nods. “You get sad when the landscapers cut the coconuts off the palm trees by the pool. I’m surprised you’re not sobbing into my chest.”

She half-smiles wistfully. “Everything happened here. I took a little tiny life in Virginia and brought it out here and it grew and grew into something… something I know that I could tell my 13-year-old self about and she’d be so fuckin’ proud of me.”

He moves the guitar off her thighs and cuddles her close.

“She’s not the only one,” he murmurs into her neck, kissing a fading mark he left there days ago.

They make love on the air mattress that night and Lilly cries a little as he snuggles her to sleep. They wake up, make one last batch of coffee in the French press she’s broken half a dozen times and he sits downstairs and finishes packing her suitcase while she shares an emotional goodbye with her roommates of the last two years. Sammi will be by to help unpack tomorrow with her new boyfriend that Lilly and Shawn haven’t gotten to grill yet. The others will be women she knows she won’t see again soon.

They pack up the last few Goodwill bags and leave her key inside. He drops her suitcase in her trunk and walks back up to find her staring at the empty pool, clutching the wing of the gold dragon in her hand, looking studious. He notes the slice of thin plastic superglued to a hole in the wing she repaired on the day of the 4th of July party.

“That was a good patch, it held for two years,” he points out. She nods listlessly.

“I love this pool,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

“I know.”

“This pool brought me you.” She covers her mouth as the tears gather heavy in her eyes. He stands beside her at the edge and threads a hand in the back of her hair. He rubs her scalp gently as she tries to compose herself.

“Hey, I have an idea.”

She looks over at him as he shuffles his phone out of his pocket and opens the camera app.

“Let’s take a selfie in front of the pool, where it all started.”

Her heart swells. She nods and steps in next to him as he decides on the best angle. After some muttering and shifting, he pulls her into his chest by her shoulders, arm wrapped over her hair securely. He holds the phone high to catch as much of the pool in the background as possible. They smile and though she complains her eyes are red with tears, they agree it’s cute. He posts it on Instagram with the caption: this pool’s been good to us. Peace out, Burbank!

He decides to wait until they’re at their new house in Hollywood to tell her he’s already inflated the replica of the golden dragon he ordered. It’s waiting for them in their new pool.

++++++++++

Rolling Stone Magazine, June 2020

My first thought upon entering the warm and comfortable, but still sprawling Hollywood Hills home is this: Shawn Mendes has got it made.

At 21-years-old, he has four multiplatinum records under his belt and has played for over 120,000 people at once in festivals thousands of miles away from his hometown of Pickering, Ontario. It’s a far cry from his start covering artists like Ed Sheeran and John Mayer on the now-defunct 6-second video app, Vine.

But what he’s really enthusiastic about right now is this house. He greets me at the door in his now signature second skin-like black jeans and a Maple Leafs t-shirt. He’s built and beautiful, his face cherubic in its innocent perfection, and it’s easy to see why he leaves a mob of shrieking girls in his wake wherever he goes.

He gives me the grand tour and it is stunning. I comment on how remarkably put together it looks, considering how recently he and his girlfriend moved in. He’s proud of that and offers little anecdotes about hanging art and moving furniture as we make our way through the 6 bedroom home. I might’ve expected something more outrageous for a 21-year-old pop star, a la Justin Bieber, but knowing Shawn for five minutes gives me enough context to understand he wouldn’t go for that.

I see hints of her, one of the main reasons I’m here, throughout the house – a tiny pair of gold flip flops by the pool, family photos of a smiley strawberry blonde in Disney World, a box of nail polish on a coffee table. She is conspicuously absent as Mendes’s team warned me she would be. When I asked him about it, he doesn’t hesitate to explain.

“She’s busy, she works a real job with real hours,” he laughs, settling into a very comfortable but expensive looking sofa overlooking their pool deck. He sets a gorgeous acoustic guitar in his lap and fiddles with it, “She also doesn’t feel the need to be a big part of the press for all this. She doesn’t want to become a personality for the sake of the album.”

Titled “Her,” it’s a 24-track concept album in chronological order according to the events of their relationship, separated into acts by locations: Burbank, Barcelona and Malibu. Simplified, the album weaves a tale of a slow-burn romance. He met her at a 4thof July party at her house and was swept off his feet immediately. She shut him down, politely and sweetly, he promises, and their friendship blossomed. Eventually, inevitably, it became something more.

When asked about the acts as told by locations, he smiles.

“That was her idea, actually. I wanted a way to sort of map things out and I liked the idea of dividing the relationship on the album into meeting, friendship and love. She pointed out that certain significant things for us have happened in certain places. She was living in Burbank when we met and I didn’t have a place in LA so when I was in town, I was usually hanging out with her there. Then she visited me on tour in Barcelona, which is when we got together. And Malibu, Malibu was the tough one because early on in our friendship, we drove out there to the beach and had this, like, perfect day. And we kept going back every chance we got. So Malibu representing the current state of our relationship feels right because that’s our favorite place.”

This album is the ultimate love letter from Mendes to his girlfriend, Lilly Parker, 26, a native of Northern Virginia who transplanted to Los Angeles only weeks before meeting Mendes. Heart-rending without being lovesick or melodramatic, he says this album challenged his storytelling skills in a way that pays homage to her.

“She’s a writer, too, actually. A lot of short stories and a few screenplays.” He says it with a proud, if smitten, smile.

Like his last album, “Her” embraces a mix of genres, touching on Sheeran-y love ballads, blazing rock anthems and funky R&B. His beating heart is emblazoned in song (on CD and vinyl and, of course, your digital retailers) with unapologetically honest lyrics about falling in love with his best friend. I asked him what her reaction was when he admitted to writing more than an album’s worth of songs about her when they weren’t even an item yet.

“It was scary. I didn’t want her to feel guilty about it. She knew from the beginning of our friendship that all she had to do was say the word and that would be it, I’d be all in. It was kind of a weird power imbalance that I know bummed her out. But she was ok with it [the album]. I could tell she was curious about what the tone of it was, if it was broody and tortured, but she didn’t really ask. She just said she looked forward to hearing it.”

Mendes has been a sex symbol for the One Direction set since 2016 but this album has made him a romantic hero. Beyond the ins and outs of their relationship, every song gives us a piece of Parker to the point where Mendes’ fans, the self-appointed Mendes Army, feel like they know her as well as they know him. If he is their king, she is their queen, greeting her subjects through the medium of Instagram Stories that range from her babbling about breaking her beloved French press to thanking them whole-heartedly for supporting her boyfriend’s career. Having waded through dozens of these saved into compilation videos on YouTube, she is clearly as genuine as he is.

Their other window into her life, of course, is through Mendes. He writes about her earnestly and in a way that isn’t entirely through a love-drunk lens. He writes about her own insecurities, specifically her challenges with an eating disorder, in a way that is both respectful and completely selfless.

“Her” plays like a romantic movie with an ending that will break the hearts of all Mendes’ young female fans because he is very much off the market. He’s downright domestic at this point. She calls him as we’re wrapping up the first meeting of our interview to ask what he wants to order for dinner. He looks as enchanted as the day they first met and tells her he was just talking about her. I get the sense he tells her that pretty often.

+

When I return to the Mendes-Parker home, she’s there to answer the door. Barefoot and bare-faced, she’s as likeable as she seems without an ounce of falseness. We chat easily as she leads me to the pool deck where Shawn is on a patio chair strumming a battered acoustic. She has lemonade and lunch ready – her Italian father’s lasagna recipe – and I ask her if her hospitality is a result of her southern upbringing.

“Oh, no, not at all. I don’t consider myself southern. No, this came out of the Reese Witherspoon playbook. Doing stuff like this makes me feel like a grown-up, which appeals to me now that we have a house and everything,” she responds, gesturing to her cheat sheet, a hardback copy of “Whiskey in a Tea Cup,” Witherspoon’s 2018 lifestyle release.

“We tried to throw a grown-up dinner party last week, too,” Mendes says with a chuckle. She laughs at the memory and plants herself on the armrest of his chair. They graciously let me in on their inside joke.

“It started out very adult-y. We had wine in decanters and appetizers and stuff. And then it devolved into a drunken pool party,” Parker explains with an eye-roll.

Their shared childlike exuberance over getting to play house is very endearing. Despite their age difference, they rest on the same plane of emotional maturity that, with the exception of their use of words like “grown-up” and “adult-y” is beyond their respective years.

Parker, to her credit, seems exceedingly normal in a very stable, raised-well-on-the-East-Coast sort of way. She’s not around a lot during my time with Mendes because she works a steady job as an assistant in film production. She lends backing vocals on “In Her Skin” and even boasts writing credits on “Purple” but when she says she has no musical ambition at all, you believe her. She drives a 2016 Jetta, wears Vans and is so polite you assume upon meeting her she must be Canadian, too. It’s not hard to see why they’re compatible.

While we eat our delicious homemade lunch, I ask about their routines. Predictably, they explain that it depends heavily on his schedule. When he’s away, she has a tight-knit group of friends to call on so the house doesn’t feel quite so large and empty. When he’s in town, they are homebodies. They admit to venturing to hip new restaurants on occasion (she’s a lifelong foodie and converting him) but rarely hit up bars or clubs. Their favorite activity is roadtripping out to Malibu where they have their favorite spots and beaches and no, they won’t tell me where.

Looking around, I can see why they don’t leave the house often. It’s in a quiet, not-too-flashy neighborhood. It’s private without being completely withdrawn.

“I sit out here and write all the time,” Mendes says, gesturing around him to their tastefully elegant pool deck.

“We both do,” Parker pipes up. She nods to a set of chairs on the other end of the deck. “He’s there with the guitar, I’m here with the laptop and we ignore each other.”

Mendes laughs and agrees.

Parker excuses herself after lunch. She offers me a warm hug and explains her best friend is flying into LAX and she’s off to pick her up. She leaves Mendes with a peck on the cheek and a lingering look of affection that stirs something even in my old, cold heart. Below is the rest of my interview with Mendes.

Writer: So why a concept album?

Mendes: There are plenty of other things I could’ve written about. I have a ton of songs I have written that aren’t about her, or us. And for a while, that was the plan. I was going to write another album of mixed ideas and talk about stuff like touring and running around with my best friends, or about the anxiety that comes with all of this sometimes, kind of more in the same vein of my previous albums. But the songs about her were just… better. I tried to ignore it for a while. It felt like a bad idea at first.

Writer: Because it might not last forever?

Mendes: Partly, yeah. It is something that, god forbid if we ever broke up, it would be this big piece of my music that I couldn’t just shove under a rug and never play anymore. And that could be really painful, to keep playing it and keep revisiting this part of my life. But also because I was worried it might not be that relatable. That’s the thing about making an album with lots of different tones and stories – there can be something for everyone. But when you’re using an album to tell one story, and many sides of that story, about one relationship, I worried people might not get that and might not be into that.

Writer: What made you decide to go for it?

Mendes: Once I had all the songs written and a rough idea of the way the album would work, like with the three acts and the chronology of it, I played it for people. I played it for Camila [Cabello] and Ed [Sheeran] and Niall [Horan] and they all agreed it was the album I needed to release at that time. I told them my concerns and they reminded me that a good story speaks for itself and I shouldn’t question that.

Writer: Another thing that drew a lot of attention to this album was your music video for “In Her Skin.” Whose idea was it to include her in that?

Mendes: The director pitched the treatment and I said no pretty quickly. I didn’t think she’d have any interest in doing that. I was surprised when she said she was up for it.

Writer: Why did she say yes?

Mendes: Well, she also liked the treatment. She saw the vision. She knew it was going to be sexy and beautiful and tasteful and really commemorate us in a nice way.

Writer: What was it like to shoot?

Mendes: Tense at first. It was weird. We were supposed to just be us in bed but on camera. We both had a hard time with it. But Angela, the director, she just dragged us out of our own heads and made us feel really comfortable. I feel like, watching it now, it was exactly what we wanted it to be. It’s really beautiful, she did an amazing job. And now Lil and I have that forever, which is cool.

Writer: You have a tradition of getting a new tattoo to mark the release of each of your albums. Have you gotten your “Her” tattoo yet?”

Mendes: I haven’t, no. I have it planned, though. And before you ask, it’s a surprise, so I won’t tell you.

Writer: Does Lilly know?

Mendes: She doesn’t, no. She wants to be surprised, too. I love surprising her.

++++++++++

July 3rd, 2020

“This stuff smells really good,” she mumbles, rhythmically thumping her heels against his bathroom cabinets as she sits atop the counter. He stands next to her at the sink washing his face. She’s staring at the container in her hand when he emerges from a towel to look at her.

“That’s one of the reasons I like it,” he confirms, taking the container from her.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, narrowing her eyes at him. He stares back at her.

“Can I do your hair?” she giggles, grabbing his arm and guiding him stumbling in between her legs. He holds onto her thighs to right himself, rubbing his thumbs into her sore quads.

“I dunno, Lil, it’s a scientific process and you haven’t had practice.”

“I’ve seen you do it a thousand times. Plus, you don’t have that much hair, it can’t be that hard. C’mere, show me how much of this stuff you use.”

He knows he can’t resist her flights of fancy and he’s about to leave for tour again so having some time dedicated to her running her little hands through his hair doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Shaking his head with a smirk, he drops the container of hair paste in her waiting palms.

“Here,” he offers, dipping his middle finger into the tub and spreading the paste in her palm, “Rub your hands together. Then… just do what I do.”

She follows his instruction and hooks her legs around his waist to pull him in tighter so she has more control. His groin juts into her lower stomach, making her smile and him inhale sharply. He watches her face as she distributes the paste through his curls. She’s making a study of it, starting at the front of his head and running her hands backwards toward his neck. He’s impressed by how closely her movements mirror his – she must watch him more attentively than he realizes. The thought makes him blush. She sees it start on his bare chest and work its way up to his rosy cheeks. Her heart leaps in her chest at the notion that she can still have this effect on him. She decides to take advantage of it.

She slowly leans in toward him, cupping her sticky hands behind his neck and exerting control. His lips part expectantly as she brushes over them. Before he can gain any traction, she’s trailing her mouth up his cheek bone, kissing his closed eyelid. She maps out a route to his eyebrow, up to a little childhood scar at his hairline, down to his left ear, circling back down toward his jawline and hovering over his lips. He releases a shuddering breath like a chuckle, quirking up the corner of his mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers. She closes her eyes and lets the thought infuse her. The tour will be long and she’ll need those words in that voice with this feeling of him here under her hands, at her will.

“I love you more,” she says, the smile evident in her voice, though his eyes are still blissfully shut.

He makes a disapproving noise and hooks his hands under her thighs, lifting her to head back to the bed they just left. She knows she should remind him of their pre-tour to-do list. But now he’s doing that thing on her earlobe with his tongue that makes her forget her own name and definitely makes her forget that he has to do that last load of laundry to finish packing. She sighs, raking at the curls at the back of his neck as he lays her down on their bedspread and she feels so loved and cared for and cherished that it makes some emotion bubble up in her throat. She chokes out a breath and he lifts his attention from her soft ear.

“You ok?” he pants gently, tucking a hand under her neck and smoothing his thumb down her throat.

“’m ok,” she sniffs, “I just… love you. It hurts sometimes. Like it’s trying to bust out of me and I can’t hold it in. I think I only get like this when you’re about to leave again.”

His eyes drop to her necklace and he licks his lips. She doesn’t complain much about his leaving (if you could even call this complaining) because she can see instantly where it goes in his head. He tucks it away and lets it prick at him when he needs it the least. She feels a responsibility to shield him from her pain most of the time. It’s not a big hardship usually, it’s really the beginning and end of tour when it’s hardest. She tries to focus on their resilience when they’re four months into a six month romp and sometimes he can only shoot her one text in the middle of her nighttime and she doesn’t hear his voice for three days but she’s ok and she’s not falling apart. That strength, wherever it comes from, doesn’t come to her right away and it slips through her hands at the end.

Now it’s their last morning waking up together before he’s alone in a bunk or on a private plane, wondering if she’s sleeping in her shirts or his. He presses a tender kiss to her sternum, feeling soft skin over solid bone, reminding him that even though she feels perfectly sturdy and stable beneath him, having him gone for so long is as hard on her as it is on him. He mouths at her chest lovingly, deciding to leave her some marks to make her smile in the mirror over the next few days. She sighs and her hands are back in his hair and he’s pulling at the boxers she’s wearing, smiling until his face hurts when she kicks them off impatiently.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers earnestly into the skin above her belly button. Her abs contract as he noses his way lower, dragging his fingertips inward from her knees down to her quickly spreading inner thighs. He lifts one innocently probing finger to her folds and inhales as she hisses.

He slides further down the bed until he feels his knees fall off the mattress. He’s sitting cross-legged and focused, scooting her down to meet him by pulling on her calves. She giggles a little but is quickly hushed when he brings her level with his face and suddenly all she can feel and think about is his hot breath. She gnaws on her lower lip with anticipation. He takes inventory of what he notices about her like this, this perfect limbo moment between emotional pleasure and sensation. When he’s ready, and can hear her breathing start to break down from excitement, he separates her lips with his tongue and is ready to hold her jumping thighs down. He blinks in surprise when she makes that little “ooh!” sound she does.

He feels his cock stir in his boxers, but it’s a secondary concern. He takes her inner lips into his mouth, suckling gently, moaning a little at the taste of her. She’s quiet, apart from labored breathing, which isn’t unusual for her. When he’s done lavishing her inner labia for the moment, he swipes up around her clit, feeling her tense beneath him again.

“Oh,” she almost cries. He takes another lap around the same circuit, watching her fingers scrunch their sheets in her hand.

He makes his way around once more, adding a sharp flick over her clit. She practically purrs and it stokes his fire. He notices she’s starting to grind into the mattress, so he tucks a thick finger inside her and watches her double back the other direction, back arching off the bed.

“Oh, Shawn,” she moans like it’s the only word she knows. He wants her to hold on but by the looks of it, she’s so close and he doesn’t really want to play with her right now. He just wants whatever she wants. He slides another welcome finger inside and curls them toward her stomach, humming around her clit, which gets it done every time. She’s thrashing and whimpering and he’s watching her like the ending of his favorite movie.

She’s boneless and affectionate when he crawls back onto the bed and over her body, shedding his underwear on his way. She brings him crashing down onto her with a strong hand to his lower back. He makes a hmphf noise into her neck and chuckles, knowing she feels secure with his weight resting on her. He eases off enough to meet her needy lips, relishing the warmth of her tongue and its familiarity. She’s still a little shaky from the power of her orgasm and he’s happy to nibble on her collarbone until she’s ready. In the meantime, he nestles between her legs and brings eager fingers up to toy with her nipples.

She’s sure she’s the luckiest woman on earth. He’s clinging to her like she’s life itself, still not ready to stop pleasuring her in between stellar orgasms. She stares over his shoulder down the firm, hilly plane of his back. She lifts her heels and digs them into his ass. He laughs into her tender, throbbing skin, which will be all shades of bruised in the morning, and brings himself up to kiss her hard. She loops her arms under his and clutches his shoulders as he guides himself into her, swearing when he bottoms out. She wiggles underneath him teasingly as he’s getting ready to start moving. Propped up by his big, beautiful hands, he shoots her a look and she giggles, she actually giggles, and fuck, there’s nothing like being inside a woman when she’s laughing.

She laughs harder at the look of stunned pleasure on his face from the sensation. He latches onto her right leg and hitches it around his hip, driving in hard. She grunts with him, eyes slamming shut, not so cocky now. He grins, giving her another good thrust like he knows she likes. She tips her head, eyes rolling back as her jaw drops. He whimpers innocently at her expression, committing it to memory.

“God, baby, you’re perfect,” he promises her, smacking a wet kiss on her neck as he starts in earnest, letting the sound of sweaty skin meeting skin overtake them.

She’s never been particularly vocal in bed, so he swallows every utterance like a starving man. She’s meeting him thrust for thrust, gripping his shoulders. He knows she knows she’s leaving marks on his back. She likes that. He decides to up the ante, lowering himself onto his elbows so he’s driving his pubic bone into her clit with every stroke. Her head falls back again, this time with a keening whine. He’s so enthralled, he hardly notices himself peel one of her clawing hands off his back and pin it to the bed above her head, his fingers laced with hers. The intimacy draws her back from a plane of solely physical pleasure. It only intensifies her feelings of desire and overwhelming love. His eyelashes are fluttering on his ruddy cheeks. His lips are at her ear so she can hear everything he’s feeling.

“Shawn, I’m close,” she announces. He hears a reluctance in her voice, a tinge of sadness from the notion that this will be one of the last times they get to do this for a while (but, hell, they do have the whole day). He picks up pace and soon, sooner than he’d like because he swears he could go forever for her, she’s bursting like a ripe berry in his arms and he’s soaking her in. Her clenching, stuttering walls milk him for all he’s worth. A few strong swings and he’s stilling his hips against hers, crying out shamelessly into her shoulder.

A few moments after the strongest orgasm he’s had in a while, he feels her stroking through his hair again.

“I totally fucked your hair up.”

++++++++++

May 16th, 2021

“I just think we’re idiots if we don’t tarp it. I’d say if we were here all the time, we would just check the water levels and don’t worry about it but we’re not. It’s fine, ok? They make those easy retractable tarps and they don’t look too awful.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, the other hand on the wheel. “That’s fine, babe. I just don’t want to worry about replacing those filters every few months.”

“Agreed,” she hums, settling into her seat and looking out the window as they wind down the tight mountain lane from their new weekend home in Malibu.

It’s early, just past 6am on a Saturday morning. They’re both a little hungover from the night before, having met their friends at their new house off Kanen Rd. for more than a few drinks. She woke him up puttering around their master bedroom searching for her wetsuit in one of the dozens of boxes that surrounded the bed.

He lured her back to bed with a cup of coffee and his assurance that her wetsuit was definitely in that bigger box in the kitchen labeled, rather unhelpfully, “STUFF.” When the coffee was drained, he persuaded her to stay a little longer, digging through her nightstand with one hand while she sucked relentlessly at his pulse point. When he came up with a close replica of that little purple vibrator they once got to know very well, she laughed. He shut her up quickly by flipping it easily into the base of his palm, turning it on with his thumb and pressing it between her legs.

They’re pulling up on the side of the road beside a handful of other cars. He helps her maneuver her longboard down off the Land Rover and argues with her briefly as she determines she can make it down the stairs by herself, of course she can, because he has to get his guitar and the beach bag. He rolls his eyes from the trunk when he hears her bump into a railing and swear. He gathers the beach bag and guitar successfully with one arm and hurries down the cascading concrete steps to hold up the other end of her board, which she acknowledges with a sheepish smile.

“It would be easier if my legs weren’t still shaking from the four orgasms you gave me this morning,” she snickers, glancing over her shoulder at his smug face.

“Orgasms are good for hangovers. It’s science.” She chuckles but doesn’t argue, realizing her head doesn’t hurt much at all anymore.

“You can’t be serious about shipping this thing to Hawai’i,” he comments as they reach the beach and smile at the half dozen or so other people catching surf this early in the morning.

She rolls her eyes and slides the wet suit up over her arms, holding her hair away as she yanks at the zipper. He plants himself on the beach towel he’s spread out and reaches for the bag with his water bottle.

“Buying this board was half the reason we decided to go to Hawai’i this year,” she reminds him, lifting the front end of it into her arms in preparation to head to the water.

“I know, I know,” he sighs placatingly.

“Plus, Mr. “I travel with 14 guitars everywhere I go,” you have no room to complain about my oversized baggage.”

He tips his head back and laughs. “Go get ‘em, Blue Crush.”

She grins at the reference and winks over her shoulder as she marches toward the crashing waves. “Call me if you need inspiration!”

She looks comical rushing out to the water with the longboard taller than she is trailing behind her. She bought it for herself as a “push present,” as she labeled it, for finishing her latest screenplay which is in development talks with a production company in West Hollywood.

He watches with a casual smile as she paddles out looking like something out of a Roxy catalog-inspired wet dream. He reaches for the guitar case and takes out the Martin, plucking aimlessly at it as something nebulously like a song starts forming in his head. He doesn’t bother to tell her as she’s headed for the surf that he doesn’t need her sitting there next to him to be inspired by her, that pretty much just comes with the territory of being her boyfriend. He winces when she takes a dive off the side of the board and feels a rolling sensation in his stomach until she pops back up safely, looking annoyed.

They’re miles from their old favorite haven, Zuma Beach. It wasn’t as good for surfing and word had started to get out that Lilly and Shawn haunted that place like ghosts every opportunity they got. They still go back sometimes either early morning like this or after midnight when they can walk in silence, hold hands and think. She prefers this little cove a guy at the Malibu Surf Shack entrusted her with the location of. It’s surrounded by craggy cliffs, making the descent to the actual beach tricky with any surfboard, much less the mint green vintage longboard she’s been fond of toting around lately. He likes the spot, too, though. It’s quiet and no one seems to mind that he’s always got his guitar. He’s got a whole host of songs ready for the next album, the heavily-anticipated follow-up to “Her.”

He smiles to himself when he considers it may be more of the same if he keeps sitting here staring at her while she frolics in the waves. Writing about her feels like a privilege and he takes every opportunity to do it when the mood strikes.

He turns back to the guitar and starts singing, knowing she can’t hear him from how far out she is, but she’s watching him all the same. He’s looking down at the strings but can feel her gaze as she bobs over the surf, waiting for her wave. She’s got a smile on her face -- he can feel that, too.

After a couple hours, she paddles back in, grinning as he wiggles into his own wet suit to join her. He reaches the water before she’s fully out of it and he helps haul her board back to their spot.

“You looked good out there,” he tells her, knowing he wouldn’t know the difference if she didn’t.

“I’m dying to get you on a surfboard, Shawn,” she sighs, throwing her salty hair over her shoulders and grabbing his hands. She’s pulling him back toward the cold spring Pacific looking mischievous.

“Not gonna happen, babe.”

She huffs and turns away from him, diving under an oncoming wave. He winces at the water temperature and follows her like a drunken sailor after a mermaid. They pop back up on the other side. He’s able to stand but she’s a little over her head. He pulls her in by her arms and wraps her limbs around him. She kisses his cheek and hangs there for a minute while he steadies them against the waves.

When she pulls away from his neck to look at him, they both smile goofily. He lifts a finger to those freckles he still loves on the bridge of her nose, tracing their constellations gently under his callouses. She says nothing and continues running her fingers through his sea-soaked curls, thinking absently he looks like a Beach Boys song.

“I love you,” she reminds him, kissing the pad of his thumb as it rests on her lips.

He grins. “I love you too, Lil.”

+

The real reason they bought this particular house over by Walnut Canyon is because of the tub.

A glamorous jacuzzi tub was not on the list they confirmed with their realtor as “priorities” for the properties they were looking at. It was merely a bonus that came with a house that matched their other, more grown-up requirements -- a three-car garage, a view of the ocean, and Lilly’s various kitchen specifications since she’s begun to fancy herself a Giada De Laurentiis wannabe. But when Shawn saw that tub on the tour of the home, he was a goner. She couldn’t argue with him, really, since he was the one making the actual purchase and she liked the house too, but his effervescent excitement about this tub stumped her.

Now, though, when they stumble in from the beach sometime after lunch at one of the beachside cafes, she’s so grateful for it.

Shawn curls an arm around her waist and kisses her hair, sticky with saltwater and sunscreen runoff. “Can I wash your hair, baby?” he whispers in her ear.

She closes her eyes, smiles and nods. It’s becoming a bit of a routine. They spend hours at the beach mostly away with their thoughts and return home for Shawn to run a bath while Lilly peels out of her wetsuit.

This afternoon, she strolls naked into the bathroom, attempting to brush through her almost waist length hair and struggling. He smiles at her from inside the bath, his chest and cheeks pink from the heat of the water he usually runs a little too hot. 

“Stop, I’ll do that,” he assures her, nodding at her to join him. She hands him the comb and joins him slowly, easing her sore limbs into the water to sit in front of him. He gently tugs at her hips, eager to pull her back against his chest for a few minutes while they acclimate to the heat.

Her eyes flutter as he kisses her neck, nosing at a mark he left a few days ago during their make-up sex after an argument they had about whether or not to attend an event Shawn was too tired for. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and she feels safe closed in against him.

It’s been a long time since she squirmed under his touch with anything but intense arousal. It’s only a memory now, the way she felt that night he got back from tour. Now she knows his body almost as well as her own. This idea occurs to her suddenly, the far away-ness of that time in her life. She turns her head to press a kiss to his jaw.

“D’you remember the day we met?”

He frowns a little, unsure why she’s asking. “Yeah, your 4th of July party. Why?”

She giggles and the water ripples around their interconnected bodies. He motions for her to sit up and she does. He straightens up behind her and starts lathering shampoo in his hands.

“I can't believe I didn’t know who you were,” she whispers with a smile into her knees that are tucked into her chest.

He grins and starts massaging shampoo into the crown of her head. She mewls gently, so easily satisfied by his hands on her scalp.

“If I had, do you think we still would’ve ended up like this?” she asks, turning her head as he reaches the base of her skull.

He shrugs. “I like to think so. Why are you thinking about this now?”

“Just... with what we were talking about the other day. I've been thinking about how far we’ve come since 2018.”

Shawn tries not to physically tighten at her words. One night last weekend when they were at the Malibu house on the couch stretched out, drinking wine and watching The Fast and the Furious for some reason, he mumbled something under his breath about being the one to pick the movies when they get married.

It wasn’t the first time one of them had made some kind of casual comment about their future in their three years together. But Shawn had followed it up rather than kicking it at her and running away, which was their usual pattern.

He looked at her, bleary-eyed and beautiful, and said, “When do you want to get married?”

She flinched visibly and he retreated back into the couch, face going red. She raced after him, yanking at his arm and desperately trying to pull him back out of his embarrassed hole.

“Stop, stop stop!” she whined, shaking her head rapidly and squeezing his arm, “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. Do... do you actually want to talk about this?”

He stared at her for almost a minute before his face cleared up inauthentically and he shook his head as though she'd just asked him if he wanted an extra order of french fries at In-n-Out. “Nope, that’s ok.”

They were weird until they fell asleep that night on opposite sides of the bed but woke up as though nothing odd had happened at all. Now, a week later, she’s bringing it up again.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out,” he murmurs, holding her weight as he dips her hair back into the water to rinse the shampoo. She stares up at his reverted face, still beautiful upside down.

“You really didn’t freak me out. You just... surprised me. I mean, this is a thing we should talk about,” she reasons, nodding to herself as he scratches at her scalp. He snickers.

“Very convincing,” he mumbles.

“Theoretically, we could have as long an engagement as we want. So it’s really a matter of when we actually want to get married, right?” she continues.

He stops with her head in his hands above his lap. He cocks his head down at her. “So... if I asked you now, you’d say yes?”

Lilly blinks at him, her eyebrows pulling together slightly. “Well... yeah?”

Shawn almost drops her head in the water but manages to pull her back up and start with the conditioner.

“I... uhm... ok. Good to know,” he stumbles, clearing his throat as he works the pasty strawberry scent through the ends of her hair.

“Just don’t do it weird,” she says after a moment.

“Do what weird?”

“The proposal. Don’t... like... oh god, please don’t ask me on stage. God, I’d die. I’d actually fall over and die. No public engagements, please, for the love of god.”

He tugs at her hair, tilting her head back to look at him. “Are you telling me how I am and am not allowed to propose to you?”

She beams. “No. I’m telling you under what circumstances I will say yes.”

He barks a laugh and pulls her back against his chest, her hair half conditioned and smearing on his stomach. She clamps her hands around his forearm as it straps across her sternum. They’re quiet for a second and Shawn smiles.

“What?” she giggles.

“I already know how I’m proposing to you.”

“What?” she asks again, no longer giggling.

He smirks. “I’ve had it worked out for months.”

She’s flabbergasted. “And?”

“And it’s a fucking surprise, Lil, I can’t tell you,” he chuckles, rocking her back and forth in his arms.

“But--”

“No.”

She huffs and leans her head back on his shoulder, eyeing him. He looks placidly determined.

“Fine. I think you should ask me next year, then.”

“Ok,” he agrees with a nod like that falls right into his plan.

“Ok?” she parrots.

“Ok.”

They’re quiet again. He pushes her out from his chest and finishes conditioning her hair, rinsing it under the faucet while he finger combs through it and she starts falling asleep in his hands. Ever so gently, he brushes a wet thumb over her cheek to wake her up, signaling it’s time to get out.

They stand up and dry off without another word, separating to their respective closets to change. They regroup on the bed for a midday nap with Shawn pulling at her drying clumps of hair and humming his favorite from the “Her” album, “Barcelona” under his breath. She passes out on his chest and it’s dreamless and perfect because he’s there and he always will be.

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