#i hope this is coherent pls...

[cidandy]

OK DELTARUNE CHAPTER 3 SPOILERS but i'm already coming up with uh..i guess it's a headcanon? ANYWAYS proceed with caution.

OK SO obviously, tenna & spamton do know each other in some capacity for sure. i still have no clue how but for some reason, spamton specifically (& i guess seam kind of too?) knows people from various other dark worlds.

from the vibes i get, i think they totally worked together during spamton's "big shot" era. & they were probably quite close (haven't decided if i like to think of it as a yaoiful thing or like. tenna being an older brother figure or something.) i imagine that tenna has a lot more experience with "fame" or whatever, especially in the past since CRTs like tenna are quite old, an idea that is addressed in game.

also, this is backed up by tenna saying someone (i assume spamton based on context) was going to teach him how newer technology works & he cried about not understanding emails LOL

BUT LIKE. taking all this into consideration, my personal headcanon (which i think is super cute :^)) is that tenna met spamton...somehow when he first started making it big & they sort of worked together! tenna would do the regular TV programs & shows & then spamton would appear in like...the TV ads :^) & i think tenna would probably have to teach spamton how to present on television & things like that since he's new to it &, in return, i think spamton promised to teach tenna about the newer tech in the cyber world. but tenna feels betrayed because spamton just sort of...disappeared. from his perspective, he probably had no idea about spamton being evicted & forced to live in the dumpster. so now tenna feels abandoned & confused by the sudden loss of his business partner. & i think he personifies his fear of abandonment as spamton because of this (like the "my biggest hater" thing in the susiezilla game.)

from spamton's point of view, he might feel betrayed (as we see from the way he talks about tenna in the sweepstakes) because tenna- much like the addisons- didn't really bother to help or look for spamton when he disappeared. he lost everyone all at once. tenna was one of the last people he had left since the addisons stopped talking to spamton when he first became successful. it explains the way he talks about mike too. (omg. this wasn't an original part of the theory but what if spamton feel like mike replaced him or he feels jealous of his dynamic with tenna or something :^O??? just an extra angsty cherry on top.) despite how irrational it is, since spamton never really made it clear what was going on with him & his "helper" on the phone, he still wishes somebody would've noticed & cared enough to help him out. maybe just subconsciously. i think he hides his feelings about it though anger & an unforgiving attitude towards the people he thought he could trust. ogufhfh

there's not a whole lot of merit to this, but a detail i noticed almost immediately was the tenna's suit has the same colors as spamton's during his big shot era! (as seen in this piece of fangamer merch, he is wearing a red suit with a yellow tie.) & i think this supports the idea that they were a duo at some point & i bet tenna (since he likes to live in the past) never changed his outfit. but omg imagine if they matched suits when they were working together ISN'T THAT SO CUUUUTE??? sorry i'm really normal about this.

i think that's all i have right now. feel free to add on or correct anything :^)

[ofeliaxoxo]

what gets me is that Carlos Sr didn't have any obligation to do that. His son is not on that team anymore, they were quite apart on the grid positions also. Yet, yet, he was there clasping hands with him. now, why would he go out of his way to do that, if charles was never lando in the sense of being so close to the point of being known to be in their family events. he never did this with any other carlos teammate but lando. this is why i'm putting my tinfoil hat on and larrifying them, they leave me no other choice

Re this

When it comes to the actual implications of this hug I was rotating it in my mind so much like Waow. Because it’s not even a brief handshake it’s like Hello You.

This one killed me as well especially because the Sainz family aspect is something that interests me so much in charlos. Both men have a huge personal mythos built up around Family, but with Carlos it’s more…structural? Historical? These are not the right words but what I mean is like.

Charles and The Family is largely an extremely personal human story (which I won’t go into, people may have noticed I do not acknowledge certain things about Charles’s life and backstory and this is simply because I think it’s too genuinely serious, his life is perfect and easy but he’s still a human being and the loss of a parent goes beyond what I feel is appropriate for me to talk about a stranger especially as I do rpf.) Charles and his family is a very heightened story of personal and universal human emotion.

Whereas Carlos and his family is not. All f1 drivers and their families occupy a very specific niche, and there is not a single one that I ever manage to forget who and what they are. I love to have fun being a fan but my beliefs on this matter are too strong for me not to remember the money and the politics at all times. However with Carlos it is literally written across his face in red marker. You cannot forget. And it’s not just money it’s almost overtly political. With someone like Lando, who comes from obscene wealth which is in and of itself inevitably and inarguably political, the Norris family are still able to present this veneer of ohh hee hee look how lovely and sweet I am I’m in a cardigan I’m a lovely woman I’m just Lando’s mum ohhh I’m just Adam there’s nothing to see here:)

The Sainzes cannot and furthermore will not be doing that. Carlos comes from something highly specific.

Which I am not going to discuss in real world terms here but what does fascinate me in the rpf way is how this would inevitably massively impact any relationship Charles would have with them. And I feel that in a getting together meet the family situation, whatever about the Leclercs’ personal feelings on Carlos the guy, as a family they clearly revolve around Charles and also there are no structural reasons that they would have a massive issue with the relationship. So it’s like you have Charles as main Leclerc, and any personal dislike of Carlos or level of homophobia is kind of not…a hard enough barrier? Whereas with the Sainzes they do not revolve around Carlos in my view, despite his relative fame and time/money spent on him from childhood to now. I think that the difference between them is that it’s Charles AND His Family whereas it’s Carlos IN His Family. On one side the main entity is Charles and on the other side the main entity is The Sainzes and particularly Sr. So when Carlos is being introduced to the Leclerc family as boyfriend I think Charles would be feeling a lot and there would be a lot of stake for him emotionally, but it would ultimately go relatively smoothly. Whereas for Carlos the stakes would be higher. That’s why in my fics I always emphasise homophobia much more so on Carlos’s end than Charles.

I always envision Carlos being introduced as a partner to Charles’s family much sooner than vice versa. And when the reverse does happen it takes much longer for things to thaw.

So that ENTIRE rant to say, in my own charlos universe, this hug happening is MAJOR. Like a genuine milestone of acceptance for Charles and the strained relationship with his boyfriend’s family.

[firefly-suite]

the way 'leola's fall' and 'leola's last wish' are two pieces about the same moment and are so very different

like the absolute contrast between retelling this moment in season six and seven respectively absolutely sends me because not once do we actually see anything from leola's perspective UNTIL her last wish is revealed and then when we do it's beautiful

and you can hear this in the music

so, 'leola's last wish' is, by name, about her last wish

I wish that even in the dark Sad Afraid Alone that every child should know… You Are Loved

and it's this beautiful lyrical melody (that makes me cry every time i listen to it)

this melody is new, we've never heard it before and it's a solo violin with strings because yes, she's alone but she is loved

(begging for arc three because if we don't get a callback to this I will cry - think about the potential, miyana to her children, rayllum with any future kids etc.)

the music reflects her wish, for in the end, her last moments were of her father reaching out to her, of her father who loved her, loves her even, and telling her so

and her, as a child, only wished the same for others

and it is beautiful and so so full of love

and the piece and scene itself is the last of season seven - revealing a secret barely mentioned beforehand, but it's interesting with aaravos' themes of truth and history - that he never had the full truth - as we've spent a season or so discovering his plans and motivations but despite it all, all he has said, truths and half truths are only his. for all he doesn't lie, he doesn't tell, doesn't even know the truth about her and that's what this piece is and it's just so GOOD the way it contrasts to aaravos' perspective and consequent themes

to leola, her death and wish is full of love; in the dark, her dad told her that he loved her and always would

but in 'leola's fall' it's dark and tragic and desperate because no matter what aaravos tries, leola is going to die

this is aaravos' perspective of her death - being punished for helping, for giving magic out of kindness - and when recalling this moment, he can't see past his grief and anger and then his 'wish' is to have the cosmic council and order suffer for his daughter's death

(side note, there is something to be said about how even in this 'court' aaravos doesn't seem to like the council much anyway, and frowns when they mention the cosmic order. also at the start of this scene you can hear bell tones, like in a funeral - leola's death is a tragedy to him, and due to his grief he can't celebrate how she lived and what she did, only mourn her death. what she did - giving magic to humans - only becomes an instrument upon which he can hurt the cosmic order by twisting what she did. corrupt over compromise, indeed.)

so the piece starts; dark, sad and tragic - the strings make me think of funeral music and is reminiscent of 'the last sunset' from season one:

both pieces are string heavy with the cello as the main melody, the cello which is played by three times on screen by corvus - one of those being 'a song of love and loss' - something that could reflect leola's last wish and death

but then around 2.00, you get this shift to something far darker and angrier and at the end of 'leola's fall' you hear aaravos' theme come back - 'i see you' from season two - solidifying this moment as the root of his motivation + plans against the cosmic council and order

this theme is on the piano, almost as a solo part and the instrumentation of this really contrasts the string section from earlier and then again, earlier from 'i see you'

the piece begins with love played by the cello, a tragic love, but love nonetheless. and then at the end when 'i see you' is heard again, this is the loss, now played on the piano

this is furthered later, on the cello this time, when in 'why are you doing this?' the piece that plays when aaravos tells claudia the full truth, remembering again leola's death and expanding on his hate against the cosmic council/order. in this the strings take a backseat on the melodies which are played with other solo instruments and voice, and to me, this shows that like claudia, aaravos insists that he's the same, that he's done all of this for leola and in her name but even when the strings come back, the cello plays the 'i see you' motif and with an even darker tone to it and now his motivations have gone past his love for her and it's now his hate for the council

but back to 'leola's fall',

the piece itself is of aaravos telling claudia about leola in an effort to further her into freeing him, starting with emphasis on how much he loves his daughter but by the end there are hints to something darker, no longer driven by love instead hate, but he doesn't tell claudia this - terry is right, that even in the music it starts off as a story of love and then became one of hate

the piece starts off with love and then by the end we have his solo theme showing him as alone (wHICH i think is really interesting and @raayllum made a really interesting meta yonks ago about tdp's antagonistic isolationism which is the coolest phrase i've ever heard -also this meta is super cool check it out!!)

in the music, we can hear how leola's death is the moment aaravos was left alone to become corrupted by grief and corrupt leola's gift of magic with his own and then twisting it into his mission to destroy/hurt the cosmic council and order

i think its a semi well established fact, or at the very least within the fandom, that leola gives humans primal/deep magic (me personal opinion is that she gives them deep magic and aaravos was developing primal magic idk lol aNYWAY) but aaravos gives them dark magic and then manipulates those mages to him by promising knowledge and wordly things that are pratically child's play to him

this is slightly more plot related than the score but as he says 'it's only fiting that I deliver their fear' - aaravos wants the cosmic order and council to suffer, notably not with the magic they were afraid of, to show to them leola didn't have to die because he could break the order himself

the contrast between the two made me think of that african proverb 'the child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth' and i feel like that's what 'leola's fall' is to 'leola's last wish' which is like the light in the dark

two sides of a coin: the sun-fire if you will

(also similar to stars)

frederik wiedmann when i catch you-

[uber-dawn]

chat i'm having random thoughts about eos post-game and eevee protagonist. it's no secret that eevee is a popular pick for this game and imo no matter what you choose to evolve them into there's a very poetic explanation for each (though i'm not sure how well i can articulate my thoughts lol). like,

- Flareon: coming from a world of darkness and sharp hostility, the hero chooses to become a soft and fluffy fire type. the hero is so smitten by the sun in the past (and so horrified by the lack of it in the future) that they become a fire type to bring that warmth and light wherever they go! (plus flareon's my favorite :])

- Jolteon: similar to flareon, wanting to bring light to the people of the past. there's also something to be said about the fact electric type are immune to paralysis, as well as the idea that hero was gone for months after defeating dialga, then once they come back they're alive! they want to run, and jump, and celebrate that they're here!

- Vaporeon: the fact that Grovyle and hero were seperated in a storm, that they met partner for the first time on a beach, that the hidden land is across the ocean, (smth smth manaphy, ive never played that far), that water doesnt flow in the future, eeeeverything about chapter 5, and that the partner found comfort in the krabby's bubbles. water in eos is important when it comes to partings and reunions.

- Umbreon: they're a dark type. do i need to explain.

okayifyouinsist, hero comes from a world of darkness!! even if they don't remember it, that darkness affected them on such a deep level that their body never forgot! as well, umbreons and dusknoirs have lots of golden rings on their bodies, and umbreons have a type advantage against dusknoirs your partner still loves you in your new form, but everytime they look at you they can't help but remember Him, and shudder. it's about being forced to reckon with the fact you placed your trust in Dusknoir, and he took advantage of it and betrayed you.

- Espeon: right this wasnt just about umbreon. espeon and umbreon were made to be parallels; where umbreon has high defenses, espeon has a high special attack (+ dark type is immune to psychic). where umbreon has a type advantage on Dusknoir, espeon has a weakness. an umbreon hero will never trust Him again; and espeon hero chooses to believe in second chances.

- Leafeon: GROVYLEEE, it's about choosing to change your very dna so that you never forget your friend! in the short time you know him, you fully understand why your past self stood by his side! there's sorrow in that without your memories you'll never fully understand your relationship with him, but your soul remembers, and you still love your friend. deep down, a leafeon hero is ashamed they ever considered Grovyle a criminal, and wishes they could have had more time with him, in less dire circumstances. last note, the fact that the world of the future was so barren and lifeless without the sun, and the fact you become a leafeon to reflect how the future is alive. :)

- Glaceon: the fact that the hero comes from a world that was frozen, and still becomes an ice type, the future was cold, but a hero glaceon still found beauty in it. it's about remaining hopeful and that with or without fixing the future, you still need to survive in this world. it's about understanding your situation and making peace with it, while still striving to make it better.

- Sylveon: i remember that when fairy type came out, people were trying to justify why it was strong against dragon, and my favorite explanation for it was that in "fairy" tales, the hero slays the dragon. the sylveon hero did it! they slew the dragon, and their story has finally come to an end! as well, it's about wanting to give off a cheery look. it's about saying "don't look at the violence and darkness, look at me, smile! i'm here to help you!" (we'll have Explorers DX someday, trust 🙏. )

[mdverse]

md's fun silly little top 10(ish) arts of 2024!*

*pretend once again that there's a fun cute doodled banner here (i forgor about it again)

been dealing with major creative burnout for like. half of this year lmao so i have not been drawing anywhere near as much as i wish i had but! perhaps that is all the more reason to look back at the hits i managed so it's time for a top 10 15 best (.... or faves.... this is subjective and i may be biased....) drawings of the year!

15: self-portrait if we're being really honest and vulnerable tonight i actually. don't really like how this drawing looks anymore. it's here purely for sentimental reasons

14: heatstroke!britt... uhhh. yknow. she just. yeah

13: tbosas!sebklaine? i don't actually love the final result tbh but. it's fine i think? bella likes it so that's the most important thing

12: primary colours furtana <3 i'm so biased towards them that i almost ranked this wayyyy higher ngl (it's at like. #8 to me personally)

11: collette jones the loml <3333 non-glee art on this blog??? isn't that wild lol (she momentarily broke me out of art block and also i am deeply in love with her so. that's why she's here)

10: elphie!santana :) i am actively chomping at the bit to make more glozverse art u have no idea it'll be so fun if that actually happens

9: good game <33 i'm actually such a slut for a vibe piece did u guys know that? putting one song on loop and then going wild with the lighting >>>>>

8: mermay brittana! arguably this should be much higher bc those wide water shots came out surprisingly good considering i haven't really drawn water in a hot minute but. i'm bad at ranking my own art lol

7: uht in suits!!! i mean. i think this is self-explanatory. u guys get it (i've seen all ur tags)

6: mistletoe kiss <3 the agony of leaving this out of the top 5... maybe it's just recency bias but i think it's sooo pretty i've missed drawing them

5: furtana my trio of all time <3 this one gets a top 5 placement for being a banger despite also being a big style experiment. i would die for those kids

4: after a long day... so. this one inexplicably became a hit post. and like i kinda get bc it's cute and whatever but also?? how did that happen lmao of all the posts to blow up i was Not expecting it to be a vb au thing (i am v grateful that it did tho. they deserve it <3) (at least one more vb au comic will appear eventually)

3: go for it, santana!! thank god i redid it bc the original wip really wasn't giving lol but. it ended up looking so good. put my whole mdussy into that

2: vb au brittana (wedding edition) ougfjghjf i'm actually still insane over this one.... vb au wedding save me fr... alexa blast lovelight by abba on loop pls and thanku

1: vb au brittana (but the pride month edition) <333 can we just. can we take a moment. not to suddenly gas myself up bc obviously this isn't a flawless drawing but like.... the background and all the little details and the poses?? all the lil easter eggs i snuck in there for fun? this is like. objectively my best drawing of the year. i love them so so much

[heartsformars]

STAR GLITTER (mars little space)

═══════════════════.❀~✿ .═ 

Hello, and welcome to my strange place! What would you like to see?

Although…

I'm getting ahead of myself

Better introduce us! My name is Marie, however you can call me Mari, Mars, Mariboo, I don't really care, you can call me whatever you want (although around here I usually refer to myself as Mars).

I'm a writer! In short, I can make any fantasy of yours come true!

Relatively

And within my limits

I belong to several fandoms (CRAZY lol) so you can find a bit of everything on my account, but if you're in doubt about any series you can ask me and I'll be happy to answer!

I currently write for these fandom(s)

Ramshackle (a series in which a trio of fools exist) The amazing digital circus! (A very cute series in which a group of humans are trapped against their will without the chance to get out) -Undertale (a dumb kid falls… yeah, that's it) - Hazbin hotel & Helluva boss (Cute horny demons trying to be redeemed or trying to kill humans with drama in the process) Scott pilgrim (The anime) (Seven spiteful exes, the anime) Murder drones (Series of cute drones murdering each other for reasons…)

spooky month. (OOGA BOOGA)

And more!

What I will definitely write

Fluff Angst (I will try) Platonic Any romantic trope (as long as it's legal). And anything else you can think of! I LOVE experimenting when writing so you can get creative with themes.

What I do NOT plan to write

-Smut (I'm not comfortable writing it, may change in the future) Age gaps abusive relationships yandere stuff And anything that I don't feel comfortable writing.

Request are open! (So I'll wait for you here before I turn into stardust)

[nightcxty]

o yea btw no big deal i went to a HEALTH concert and met my idol. cool cool cool

[idk-my-aesthetic]

It’s hard to explain how fatphobia is a systemic cultural issue to people who view it as an issue of individual self acceptance

That’s kinda part of the issue with how the body positivity movement turned into something just focused on boosting everyone’s individual self confidence

Like yes that’s important but when fat people are talking about fatphobia we’re talking about cultural ways fat people are shamed and made to feel disgusting for living in their own bodies

It’s like the difference between feeling ugly and everyone around you treating you like you’re ugly. One is an individual issue and the other is a social issue

It's honestly such a shame that we've made such a huge thing out of swimming and swimsuits and looking good in swimsuits and fat people not looking good in swimsuits. Swimming is actually the perfect exercise for fat people because it puts zero pressure on the joints, which is a much bigger concern for us than it is for skinny people, and lets you exercise basically every muscle group without straining too much and risking injury. Yet somehow this is one of the least accessible exercises to fat people due to nothing more than a culture of body shaming. The work to unlearn all the shame to be comfortable in a bathing suit in front of strangers is huge even for conventionally attractive people, but I could probably count on one hand the number of fat people I've met who were confident enough to get in a bathing suit and go swimming in public.

And what is the exercise that somehow everyone thinks they should do instead? Jogging. It's more accessible, sure, it's easy and costs nothing to go outside and run. But I need you to understand telling a fat person to go running is basically telling them to go destroy their knees. Not to mention it's probably one of the most physically uncomfortable exercises to do when you have a body that jiggles even with compression garments.

Imagine a world where everyone had the ability and equal access to whatever exercise fit them best and helped them be happy and healthiest. Imagine a world where fat people go swimming.

[notlongtolove]

like a lover

he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t even look at you again. he just shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. by the time you follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answer to whatever’s boiling inside him. fine. If he wants to ice you out, two can play that game.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: hurt comfort

content: student!reader gets drunk after a brutal final and spencer is beyond mad. very brief mention of abduction. lowkey spencer is in the right bc #safety but he made reader cry n for that he is found #guilty!!!

word count: 3.1k

note: based off this ask! random fact the last line of this fic was the inspiration for empty my soul but idk why i just couldnt fit it in there, anyways i hope you guys like it! (pls tell me if u do i was struggling with a resolution for this)

a line: Spencer thinks, for a split second, that he’d rather die than ever have to see you cry like that again.

I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. It promises light like the careful undressing of love. Here. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. - carol ann duffy

You probably should’ve stopped five drinks ago—maybe four if you were feeling merciful. That last Vodka cran? A spectacularly bad idea. But whatever. You earned this. You’re young, you’re fun, you look good, and for the first time in weeks, you have no deadlines clawing at you. The final had been a nightmare. You knew your fate was sealed the second you flipped to question three. What the hell is textual and symbolic environmentalisation? But it’s over now. That’s all that matters.

The wind bites at your bare legs as you stand by the curb, aimlessly kicking a pebble. You hug your arms close, fighting off the chill. Maybe you should’ve brought a jacket. Spencer had suggested it, but you’d waved him off. He’s usually right.

You frown, glancing up at the street sign. He said he’d be here. Right? Your phone’s dying battery blinks at you in its final moments, mocking you before shutting off completely. Definitely should’ve taken his offer of a portable charger, too. You sigh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

A man stumbles by, reeking of booze. You don’t need to look to know.

"Hey," he calls out, voice slurred and gravelly.

You keep your eyes down, pretending not to hear.

“Hey,” he says again, louder this time.

Where the hell is Spencer?

"D’you know when the bus starts running again?"

You hesitate, half-relieved that he’s asking something semi-coherent. "I—I’m sorry, I’m not sure."

He nods to himself, swaying on his feet. 

"I told you to wait by the bodega on 3rd," a familiar voice mutters. Spencer’s hand closes around your arm, already steering you away.

"Oh, hey," you say softly, relief washing over you. "Is this not—" You glance at the street sign overhead—4 Maple Drive. Shit. "I—sorry, I thought—"

"It’s fine," he says, but the sharp edge in his voice tells you it’s not.

The car ride is suffocatingly silent. When he pulls open the passenger door for you, there’s no trace of his usual warmth. No soft smile, no gentle tease about your perpetually dead phone. Just a click of the door and the quiet thud of it shutting behind you.

You hate this. Hate the tension humming between you, the way his jaw is set tight as he drives. He was so different this afternoon, greeting you after your final with those cupcakes he knows you love from the bakery on the other side of town, his lips brushing yours in endless, giddy kisses. This Spencer is nothing like that. 

"They played ‘Dancing Queen’ tonight," you venture, voice tentative. He knows it’s your favourite. Knows it always pulls you to the dance floor, no matter how tired or tipsy you are. "It was so funny—some guy bought us a round of shots—"

"And you drank it?"

The question lands heavy. His first words to you since he’d started driving. 

"Well... yeah?"

"What else did you drink?"

"Not a lot," you say quickly, tripping over your words. "Just vodka, tequila, a bit of wine—"

"You mixed?" 

The way he says it makes you bristle. There’s a hint of disbelief, maybe even disappointment. 

"Spence," you say softly. "I’m not that drunk, I promise."

Nothing.

His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel. The silence in the air is almost tangible, a crackling, oppressive thing. When he pulls into the driveway and kills the engine, he doesn’t move to open your door. He always does that. But not tonight. 

You’re pretty sure he’s mad at you, though you’re not entirely sure why. It’s not like you go out that often, and you can’t even remember the last time you let yourself get this drunk. Tonight was an exception, a celebration. He understands, doesn’t he?

You follow him inside, trailing behind like a shadow. He doesn’t head to the kitchen like he does after you get back from a night out—no tea, no toast, no quiet ritual of making sure you’re okay. Instead, he walks straight into the study, his back to you. Yeah, he’s definitely mad. 

"You’re mad at me," you say, standing in the doorway.

He doesn’t answer. His hands grip the back of his chair, his head bowed like he’s trying to gather himself. You’re not one to push, usually giving him the space he needs when he gets all broody like this, but the alcohol that’s running through your system is making it hard to practice patience. 

"Why are you mad at me?"

Still nothing. 

When he finally moves, it’s only to brush past you, heading for the bedroom without so much as a glance. "We’ll talk about this tomorrow," he says, his tone flat, clipped. "I can’t talk to you when you’re like this."

This. The word hits like a slap, sharp and dismissive. It irks you. 

"If you didn’t want to come, then you shouldn’t have come," you mutter under your breath, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I could’ve gotten a ride—"

"You were slurring on the phone." He stops in the hallway, turning just enough for you to see the tight set of his jaw. 

"Yeah, no shit, Spencer. People slur when they drink," you fire back a little too harshly, the alcohol fueling your irritation as you cross your arms defensively.

"Don’t," he warns, his voice low, dangerous in a way that makes your chest tighten.

​​You glare at him, heat rising in your cheeks. "Don’t what? Don’t point out how ridiculous you’re being right now?"

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at you again. He just shakes his head and walks into the bedroom. By the time you follow him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it holds the answer to whatever’s boiling inside him. Fine. If he wants to ice you out, two can play that game.

You head to the bathroom without a word, your movements jerky as you swipe at the remnants of your makeup. You grab your moisturizer, fingers fumbling with the cap. A sharp tug and it goes flying out of your hands, clattering to the floor. 

"Fuck," you mutter, bracing yourself for a bout of instability as you bend down to retrieve it.

Before you can grab it, Spencer moves. He scoops it up, straightening with an ease that feels almost mocking. When you meet his eyes, they’re unfamiliar. It’s not the Spencer you know. Not the Spencer who covers your eyes during scary movies or kisses your forehead when you’re half-asleep. No, this Spencer feels distant, cold. 

"And I’m supposed to believe you’re not that drunk," he says flatly. Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat as heat flushes your face. He offers a hand as you steady yourself, trying to rise to your feet, but you brush him off, snatching the bottle from his grip with a bitterness you don’t try to mask. 

"What the hell is your problem?" you snap.

"My problem?" he repeats, incredulous. "I’m not the one blackout drunk on a Wednesday night."

"I’m not—"

"Would you—would you just stop!" he barks, the words sharp enough to make you flinch. "You’re slurring your words. You got the streets wrong. You couldn’t even get the damn moisturizer open," he snaps, gesturing toward you harshly with a mixture of frustration and exasperation.

Your knuckles whiten as you cling to the edge of the sink, unsure if you’re holding on for balance or just to keep from breaking. You spin back toward the mirror willing yourself not to cry. The frustration, the confusion, the ache in your chest—everything wells up at once.

"God, you’re being so—"

"So what?" he interrupts, his voice rising as he steps closer. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to say it. "So concerned? So worried? So—"

"So fucking mean!"

The silence that follows deafening. For a moment, he freezes, the hard edges of his expression softening into something else—shock, regret, guilt—but it’s fleeting.

"So what if I’m drunk?" Your voice cracks as the words tumble out, your frustration too overwhelming to contain. "And yeah, maybe—" You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat as you glare at him, "Maybe I’m slurring a little but forgive me for wanting a drink after the final I’ve been stressing over all fucking month."

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. "It’s not about you having a drink. It’s about you not knowing your limits—"

"Oh, for fucks sake," you interrupt, throwing your hands up. The movement makes you sway slightly, and you hate how it only seems to prove his point. "Newsflash, Spencer, I’m a university student. Sometimes we get drunk. You don’t get to make me feel like shit just because you don’t drink.”

You push past him, your shoulder grazing his as you move to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under your weight, and you grip the edge, willing the room to stop spinning.

"You were being reckless," he bites back, the word hanging heavy in the air. "You don’t see what I see. You’re out alone, you don’t—"

"I wasn’t alone," you say, your voice rising to meet his. "I had friends—"

"Yeah, friends who left you alone on a curb at 3am," he shoots back, cutting you off. The words land with precision, a calculated jab, but you refuse to flinch.

"Because you said you were on the way!" you fire back.

His voice is cold now, practically seething. "And what do you think would’ve happened if I hadn’t reached you just as that guy was coming on to you?"

"He was asking for the bus!" you shoot back, the words ringing out louder than you intended. You hate everything about this fight. You hate how unfamiliar he feels, hate the part of you that wonders if you’re the one who brought this out of him. "Nothing would’ve—"

Spencer’s expression darkens, his gaze narrowing. "Nothing?" He scoffs. "Tell that to Nina Radha. To Caroline Wrenley. To Mindy Denver. They were all ‘just waiting for a ride home’ last week. And now? All abducted. All dead." 

The room goes silent. Your chest tightens, and the fight drains out of you as his meaning sinks in. 

"You’re being cruel," your words are barely audible, trembling on the edge of your lips. The tears come faster now, streaking your face, but you don’t bother wiping them away. "Why—" you whisper, weak and watery, "Why are you being like this?" 

When Spencer finally turns to look at you, the sight of your tears stops him cold. They streak your face in uneven paths, and he feels something inside him splinter. Spencer never likes seeing you cry—he hates it, actually. It’s not just discomfort or unease; it’s a literal, physical ache. But knowing he’s the reason for your tears tonight? That’s pain in its most visceral form. It’s failure in its purest state.

"I—" he starts, his voice faltering. It cracks mid-sentence, and he stops, swallowing hard. His breath shudders as he exhales, trying to find the words, but all that comes out is a quiet, broken, "I was scared." 

Your tears have momentarily slowed, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. The anger in his voice has faded, replaced by something softer, something raw—fear, tangled with guilt, with regret. He takes a tentative step closer, then hesitates, unsure of what to do. 

"I thought that… something could’ve happened to you, and I—I didn’t know how to handle it." 

After a moment, he lowers himself to your level, crouching in front of you. He lifts his hand, reaching out to wipe away the tears that stain your face. But the instant his fingers near you, you flinch, turning your head to avoid his touch. The movement is small, but Spencer’s heart shatters at the rejection all the same. He hates that he’s made you cry, hates that you won’t let him near you, hates that you won’t even look at him.

"I’m sorry," he says, the words low and weighted with sincerity. He knows it’s not enough, but it’s all he has left to give. 

Your tears fall, dripping onto your hands that rest limply in your lap. You shake your head, your shoulders tense, refusing to meet his eyes. The rejection stings, sharper than he expected, but he doesn’t blame you. He knows he deserves this. The room is still except for the sound of your quiet sniffles. 

Spencer tries again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "I just—" His breath catches as he exhales, his hand running through his hair in agitation, the movement more to calm himself than anything else. "When I saw you standing there alone—alone and with that man, I got scared. And I lashed out. I shouldn’t have. You didn’t— you didn’t deserve that."

The silence that follows is thick, but finally, you break it. Your voice is quiet, bitter. 

"I’m not them."

You’re still not meeting his eyes, still keeping that distance, but at least it’s something. 

"Those girls… I’m not them, Spencer."

"I know, I know. I was—", his voice is low, the regret weighing heavily on every syllable.

​​"That case was tough on you, I know it was," you interrupt, "And what happened to those girls, it was horrible. But I'm not them, Spence. I'm not…" Spencer watches helplessly as you furiously wipe away a tear from your cheek. 

"I'm not dead. I'm here."

“I was projecting, I—” His voice catches, “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you,” he admits quietly. You nod, grimly. Another single, heavy tear slips down your cheek and Spencer feels his heart break all over again. 

"I know you’re scared. How do you think I feel every time you go out into the field?" You take a deep breath, and say bitterly, "I get it." 

Each word is a struggle, but you say it with conviction. He can see how much you’re holding in, the effort it takes for you to keep your voice from cracking. 

You pause, swallowing hard as you steady yourself, "But you—You don’t get to talk to me like that." When your eyes meet his, they flash with both anger and sadness. "You don’t get to take that out on me." 

"I know, I—That was—I was being horrible, I was an ass," Spencer admits, his voice small. "You didn’t deserve that, honey. God, I’m just—I’m so, so, sorry." 

You look at him for a long moment, searching for any sign that he’s being sincere. All you see is regret, raw and heavy. And something else, something softer. Love. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away. Just getting to touch you is a brief, bittersweet, blinding relief. Spencer lets his fingers graze your cheek as he wipes away your tears gently, his thumb brushing over the wet path they’ve left behind. 

A soft, almost bitter laugh escapes you. "An ass is putting it lightly." 

Spencer’s chest tightens, a small breath of relief escaping him, though it’s quickly replaced with guilt. "M’so sorry sweetheart," he breathes out, comforted by the familiar bite in your tone. It lightens the air between you, just a little.

He shifts to sit next to you on the bed. "I didn’t—I really didn’t mean to," he says quietly. You rest your head on his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh, the fight slowly draining out of you. Spencer gently takes your hands, cradling them in his. 

"I—I never want to hurt you, never want to make you cry. Ever." Spencer's voice cracks slightly as he talks, fingers tracing your palm. "You know that, right?"

You nod, your voice small but steady. "I know."

Shifting, you tuck your legs beneath you, turning to face him fully. Your hands lift to cup his face gently, your thumbs brushing against the faint stubble on his jaw. The touch is tender, almost protective, as you guide his face to meet yours. His eyes can’t hold your gaze for long, shame clearly written across them.

"I was just—I was—" He stumbles over his words.

"Scared," you finish softly, filling the silence for him. 

"I—I’m sorry," Spencer’s voice falters, "I’m really sorry honey, I should’ve never—That was—"

Your hands guide his face back toward yours, coaxing him to meet your eyes. This time, he doesn’t resist, his breath shaky as he clings to the comfort you offer. "S’okay, baby. M’not mad anymore," you murmur.

"Sad?" he asks, his voice barely audible, like he’s afraid of what you’ll say.

"No," you smile faintly, shaking your head, "Not sad, baby," you whisper, leaning closer. Your thumb traces the curve of his cheek in silent reassurance. His shoulders relax just a little. "I just—" you sigh as you let out one last, quiet sniffle, "I really hate fighting." 

Carefully, he coaxes you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you. "Me too, honey," he says, his voice thick with emotion as he shifts closer. You don’t resist, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck, your breath warm against his skin.

"S’not nice," you murmur against him, your words muffled.

"I know, I know," Spencer whispers, his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your back. You let out a shaky sigh, sinking further into his embrace. “Was awful, wasn’t it?” he says, quietly.

"Mhm," you mumble quietly, your voice soft but pointed as you lean into his touch. "Made me cry," you say, looking at him through wet lashes to prove your point. Spencer thinks, for a split second, that he’d rather die than ever have to see you cry like that again. After a beat of quiet, he tilts his head just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. 

"I love you, you know that?" 

You hum softly, nuzzling your face into his neck with a contented sigh, "Love you too."

"Love you so much, sweet girl," he says again, quieter this time, like it’s a truth meant only for you.

"Sap," you tease, lifting your head just enough to meet his gaze, the faintest hint of a smile on your lips.

Spencer grins, soft and boyish. "Always for you," he mumbles fondly, and before you can respond, he leans forward, pressing a playful kiss to the tip of your nose.

You stick your tongue out at him in mock protest, but he’s already chasing the moment. A kiss lands on your cheek. Then another on the other side. Each one dripping with easy affection. 

"Spence—" you laugh, the sound bubbling up. It spreads a warmth through Spencer’s chest. 

"My sweet girl," he says quietly, almost to himself. 

His smile only grows as he drinks in the sound of your giggles, tears long gone. He presses a fluttering series of kisses across your form until you’re laughing into his lips, each kiss softer than the last. 

One on your cheek, two on your shoulder, a thousand on your lips.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: false god by taylor swift moon river by frank ocean

[miyadollie]

R/CRUSHES : HOW DO I TALK TO MY OFFICE CRUSH ? sillyguy0813 says : dude just borrow a stapler

★ STARRING office worker lee jeno x fem reader ( ft. best friend jaemin ) ★ WORD COUNT 2.6k + 3OO bonus ★ CONTAINS co-workers to dating, fluff !! lee jeno being a cutie, jaemin is a menace to society, workplace romance, ★ MIYA SAYS 💗 this is my first time TRYING to write a long fic :3 pls give me any constructive criticism and feedback thank uu 🧘🏼‍♀️ . update : wow i absolutely dislike my writing here but its been rotting in drafts too long and i gave up on fixing this TT

it starts with a stapler.

one you’re not even sure belongs to you. maybe you bought it once during a sale, or someone left it at your desk during a particularly chaotic week, and it stayed. quietly claimed as yours.

the moment wasn't love at first sight, no grand declaration of love with bouquets or fireworks. just a quiet tuesday morning, your inbox overflowing, the boss increasing your headache by preponing your deadlines, the coffee machine on its last breath and the fluorescent lights above flickering slightly like they, too, were tired of this job. and then there’s him.

lee jeno. clean-cut. soft-spoken. the kind of guy who always says “excuse me” when passing behind you, even when there’s plenty of space. always dressed a little too well for your casual office. not flashy—never that—but tidy, crisp. thoughtful. one cubicle down, diagonal from yours. he’s been here a while. a familiar face in the sea of semi-familiar ones. you’ve never really talked but only ever exchanged the kind of polite nods reserved for coworkers who share nothing but recycled air and a breakroom.

until today. “could you pass the stapler?” you look up, startled slightly by the voice.

he’s leaning just slightly over the low partition separating your desks, eyes trained on the corner of your workspace where your lonely black stapler sits. he gives you a smile. not flashy. not flirtatious. just—nice. warm. gentle. you blink once. then reach for it. “thanks,” he says. you nod. he returns to his screen. that’s it. except… it isn’t. because the next day, he borrows a pen. the day after that, post-its. then tape. then scissors. always returning everything. always smiling. always saying thank you like he means it. and now you’re wondering. is this flirting? some kind of extremely office-safe, hr-friendly version of it? or are you just painfully, embarrassingly overthinking it? or maybe did you have an unspoken crush on him? not that you can be blamed. - lee jeno is attractive. undeniably so. you’ve seen him once—just once—rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down in the middle of summer, and you swear you forgot how to form a coherent sentence for ten straight minutes. defined forearms. slim but strong hands. that razor-sharp jawline, often tilted thoughtfully while reading something on his screen. dark lashes. deep voice. a gym guy, apparently—you overheard it once when he mentioned it to jaemin (you weren’t eavesdropping, you just… have really good ears). you haven’t initiated anything. neither has he. but those tiny moments? the ones that make your heart skip? they’re adding up

────

FRIDAY | 4:30 PM

“soo… still down to try that new restaurant?” jaemin asks one afternoon, casually leaning on your desk during lunch with a fresh iced americano in hand—probably his fifth for the day. “obviously,” you reply, eyes lighting up. “people have been absolutely glazing it online. thanks for getting us a table!” he grins. “see you at 9 then.” just as he turns, he spins back around like a cartoon character. “oh, also—jeno’s coming. hope that’s cool?” you freeze. your face says i’m fine, but your body language screams mayday. “y-yeah. sure. totally chill,” you manage. “coolcoolcoolcool,” you say, immediately turning your head towards your computer, and then you see your reflection on the blank empty screen. you were blushing. hard. jaemin smirks knowingly as he walks off. of course he knows. he always knows. after all, he’s the mastermind who told jeno to borrow your stapler in the first place. ────

8:55 PM

the restaurant is low-lit and warm, the kind of place where the wood-paneled walls muffle outside noise, and everything feels just a little more intimate than it should. you arrive five minutes early. out of habit, mostly. or nerves. you’re not sure which. jaemin’s already there, somehow sipping an iced americano even here, scrolling through his phone while pretending not to notice your presence with a dramatic sigh. “i told you 9:00,” he says, without looking up. “it’s 8:55.” “still early.” he glances at you now, then raises an eyebrow. “cute top.” you ignore his antics, he’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. typical jaemin. your heart is already thudding too loudly, because jeno walks in right after. black shirt, sleeves rolled up. clean slacks. a bit of cologne, subtle but warm. his hair’s tousled slightly, and his eyes light up just a little when they land on you. “hey,” he says, with that soft smile. you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just smile back, scooting over so he can sit across from you. the conversation is light, easy. mostly thanks to jaemin, who fills every awkward silence with a joke, a story, an embarrassing anecdote about your office. jaemin and jeno were friends in school, you get to know that night, they were benchmates. jaemin always chose jeno as his partner for every game, every lab, and jeno just liked his company, so he stood with him always. jaemin talks about you to jeno too—how you both were first day interns and hit it off over a conversation about which seventeen album is truly the best. but every now and then, you catch jeno looking at you. not staring. not even for long. just—looking. like he’s seeing something he's trying very hard not to see too obviously. “so,” jaemin says mid-way through dessert, smirking at you over his spoon, “funny how you two never end up talking at work.” you nearly choke. jeno shifts in his seat. “like, what’s with all the stapler borrowing, huh? no small talk?” you glare at him. he grins. “i’m just saying. feels like there’s some unspoken office tension.” jeno lets out a quiet laugh. and then, after a beat—he looks at you. “i guess i just… wanted a reason to talk,” he says, voice soft. and your breath catches. your heart is thudding again. you manage a smile, small and shy. trying not to mess up words or blabber out something nonsensical. “i noticed,” you reply. the space between you feels full, suddenly. full of every little interaction. every thank-you. every passing smile. jaemin stretches obnoxiously. “well, look at the time! i’ve got a meeting with my bed in ten.” you roll your eyes. “you’re so obvious.” he shrugs. “you’re welcome.” and just like that, he’s gone with the wind. leaving you and jeno, two half-finished desserts, and a quiet restaurant glowing gold in the late-night hush. “i can walk you home,” he says, gently. not pushing. just offering. and something in you says yes. to the walk. to this night. to the maybe that’s been building between you both. ────

10:45 PM

the night is cool, with a breeze just strong enough to lift the corners of your coat and make you tuck your hands into your sleeves. the restaurant’s warm glow fades behind you, replaced by the hush of quiet streets and dimly lit sidewalks. jeno walks beside you, hands in his pockets, his steps matching yours. neither of you says anything at first. the silence isn’t awkward. it’s... full. full of unspoken things. of nerves and glances and the way your arms brush every few seconds and both of you pretend not to notice. “jaemin talks too much,” jeno says eventually, voice low. you laugh softly. “it’s his specialty.” he hums in agreement, then adds, “he wasn’t wrong, though.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours and then away again, like he’s testing the water, like he’s afraid of saying too much too fast. “i... didn’t really need the stapler that day.” your breath catches. “oh,” you manage, and you’re smiling now. you can’t help it. “i just... i guess i liked the idea of you looking at me. talking to me.” he pauses. “even if it was just a stapler.” you stop walking, just for a moment. jeno turns, realizing you’re no longer beside him. there’s a streetlight above him, casting shadows across his face and soft highlights in his hair. “you could’ve just said hi,” you whisper. he steps closer. barely. but enough to make the air between you buzz. “i know,” he murmurs. “i wanted to. every day. but you always looked so focused. and i didn’t want to ruin that.” your heart is a mess of drumbeats and warmth. “you wouldn’t have.” silence again. then he says, barely audible, “could i maybe get your number... just for office related stuff, of course.” you nod, because your voice has already betrayed you too many times tonight. a soft smile tugs at his lips. the quiet kind. the kind you know he saves for only a few people. he walks you all the way to your apartment. and when he says goodbye, it’s not a hug. not a kiss. just a quiet “goodnight” and a look that lingers longer than it should. but your heart knows. it knows everything. ────

SATURDAY | 9:00 AM

the next day, the office is just waking up. it always feels colder in the morning—half because of the ac blasting too early, half because everyone’s too busy chasing caffeine to talk. desks are still half-empty. monitors glow. the printer sputters. someone sneezes. a mug clinks. you step in, trying to hide the stupid smile that’s been stuck to your face since last night. your coat is too warm for indoors but your hands are cold, so you hold your coffee tighter. and then you see it. your desk. something’s different. sitting neatly on top of your keyboard is a brand-new stapler. blue, shiny, absolutely unnecessary. you freeze. right beside it, a yellow post-it. his handwriting. neat. almost too neat. “thought you could use one that wasn’t cursed.     —jeno :)” you almost laugh. it’s such a him thing to do—dry humor disguised as helpfulness. but your heart? it’s fluttering like it’s stuck in a romcom scene, an angelic choir singing along in tandem. you reach out and pick up the stapler.you didn’t even need one nor were you going to use one. but you want to keep this one forever. cherish it. maybe even pass it on as an heirloom.

just then, you hear someone clear their throat. “new office romance i should know about?” you don’t even need to turn around. jaemin. of course. loud, nosy, iced-americano jaemin. “shut up,” you say instantly, trying to sound bored. your cheeks are already heating up. but he walks past you, grinning like the devil, a bounce in his step like he’s in on the joke you’re still figuring out. and then—your gaze drifts. to the cubicle across. there he is. jeno. typing. or pretending to. his posture is the same—back straight, eyes on the screen—but his fingers are still on the home row keys, just gliding about. and when he feels your eyes, he glances up. It's brief, barely a second. but he smiles. like last night wasn’t just dinner. like it meant something.

a few hours later, a message pops up.

jeno lee “did the new one pass inspection?”

you “it’s still under review by the council. but i think they approve ;)”

jeno lee “let me know if it jams. i’ll personally fix it.”

you smile. a full smile this time. the kind that makes you reach for your coffee, lean back in your chair, and breathe in like something in your world has shifted.

jeno 💗 “what’s your go-to coffee order?”

you “anything except that poison jaemin drinks every day. ‘i like my coffee as dark as my soul’ ahh guy.”

jeno 💗 “haha.” “noted.”

the next morning there’s a cup of coffee on your desk, with yet another post-it note. “it’s the new specialty at a cafe near my place. i thought you’d like it :)”

that was truly the best coffee you had ever tasted. and maybe he started getting it for you every day. ────

WEDNESDAY | 9:00 PM

it's another day at the office. rain taps gently on the windows, a soft drumbeat to the silence of overworked employees and abandoned coffee mugs. you’re still at your desk & so is he. the fluorescent lights overhead are dimmer than usual, humming low like they’re tired too. you stretch your back, glancing at the clock. 9:04 pm. “still here?” comes his voice. you look up to see jeno leaning on the edge of his cubicle wall, sleeves rolled up, tie a little loosened. “so are you,” you shoot back. he smiles. “want company for the walk back?” you nod before your brain catches up.

the streetlights blur against the wet pavement, reflecting like oil paint smudged across the road. jeno’s shoulder brushes yours every few seconds—neither of you move away. he talks about the weird way jaemin eats ramen. you laugh. you tell him about your favorite childhood cartoon. he says he watched it too, and suddenly it’s three blocks later and you’re still talking. at a red light, you both stop. he glances down at you. you glance up. it’s a pause so charged you swear the rain quiets. “...you looked really pretty today,” he says suddenly. his voice isn’t confident or smooth—he says it like a secret. you don’t respond right away. just tuck your hair behind your ear, your face heating. he notices. the light turns green and you simply walk on. on reaching your apartment building you stop at the steps. he’s still holding the umbrella. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either. there’s that moment again—that pause like the world might tilt if either of you moves. “i’m really glad you came to dinner that night,” he finally says, voice quieter than before. “been wanting to talk to you properly for months.” you blink. “...really?” jeno chuckles. “you had the office’s only decent stapler. of course i had to make a move.” you laugh—nervous and shy and full of everything you’ve been holding back. he takes a step closer. just one. not too much. “but also,” he adds, and this time his voice is a little more sure, “i like you. not just the lunch break, passing-notes kind. the kind where i want to sit and mindlessly watch silly romcoms with you, the kind where i want to walk you home every day and make sure you had dinner. the kind where - " he goes on. but words fall on deaf ears. you feel your heart clench, sweet and sharp. you’re about to respond when— “...so, if you’re okay with it,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck, “can i officially take you out sometime? like, not just coffee machine and post-it flirting. a real date.” you blink. once. twice. your face is warm. your chest feels like it’s glowing. “...yes.” you don’t even hesitate. his smile is soft. wide. genuine. and when he hands you the umbrella and waves goodnight, walking back with his hands in his pockets and a quiet bounce in his step. you think, maybe this started with a stapler. but it’s gonna end with something a lot more permanent. ──── BONUS : FEW WEEKS LATER | 2:00 PM

you, jeno, and jaemin were perched on the edge of the rooftop, paper lunchboxes balanced on your laps, chinese takeout - courtesy of jeno. the breeze is nice, the sky a little overcast, and jaemin's halfway through an enthusiastic rant about the company’s new vending machine layout.

“and like .. why did they move the green tea to the bottom row? what kind of criminal.. oh, thanks man.” he says as jeno hands him a napkin mid-rant, like muscle memory.

you say while giggling, “you guys are like an old married couple.”

jeno chokes on his rice. you pat his back helpfullly , still giggling.

jaemin just shrugs. “what can i say? i raised him well.”

jeno glares at him. mouthing ' stop. talking.' he knew jaemin could slip up any moment. for he always did.

jaemin does not stop talking.

“i mean, not to brag, but if it weren’t for me, he’d still be hovering awkwardly near your desk pretending he needed your stapler.”

you blink. “wait. what?”

jeno drops his chopsticks.

jaemin freezes. realizes.

“oh..." he mutters.

your jaw drops. “waitwaitwait. you told him to borrow my stapler?”

“in my defense,” jaemin says, holding up both hands, “i was just trying to save him from dying of heart failure every time you walked past. it was either that or fake a paper jam crisis.”

jeno is silent. fully hiding behind his lunchbox now.

you slowly turn to him. “is this true?”

“…maybe,” he mumbles.

you snort, trying to hold in your laughter. “oh my god. so all this time..”

“don’t act like it wasn’t genius!” jaemin interrupts. “you’re welcome, by the way. this whole slow-burn coffee shop romcom office love story? all me.”

jeno groans. “can i push him off the roof.”

you lean into jeno’s shoulder, grinning. “you should’ve just said hi.”

he sighs. “i wanted to. but every time i tried, you were always typing so fast. and glaring at your screen like it personally insulted your ancestors.”

you snort. “fair.”

jaemin raises his water bottle. “to true love, born from borrowing office supplies.”

jeno snatches it from him and takes a sip without asking. you think that’s revenge enough. read more ❤︎ please like, reblog and let me know your reviews (๑>◡<๑) this work is a piece of fiction and is not intended to reflect the real personalities, actions, or beliefs of the individuals portrayed. the idols mentioned are used purely as fictional characters for storytelling purposes. no harm, disrespect, or objectification is intended. everything written here is entirely imaginative and not based on real-life events or relationships.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 9.9k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: UEUEUE I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S FINALLY DONE!! thank you so much to everyone who has been here and read this — whether you were here when i just had the masterlist up or if you only read part one/two five minutes ago, i appreciate all of you and your sweet comments + support more than you know!! this series was definitely an experiment for me so being met with so much positivity has been so 🥹💖 that said i hope you all enjoy how things wrap up here and maybe i will see you again on another story / shitpost of mine!!

Where once the sounds of the sea had sung you to sleep, now it was Mydeimos’s rattling breaths which were your lullaby. He never allowed you to protest, frowning and telling you that it was wrong to argue with the wishes of a dying man before extending his arms and pulling you against him, caging you there until you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to his heartbeat. His chest would rise and fall, unsteady with his lungs’ impending failure, but the promenade of his heart remained strong and true, for he was after all a warrior, and warriors were not so easily put down.

“It burns,” he whispered to you one day, when you were on that hazy brink of unconsciousness where you knew what he was saying but did not have the means to respond to it. “Y/N, it burns.”

“Hm,” you said, though in your mind you were frantic, clawing back to wakefulness. Your grip on him tightened; it would’ve been imperceptible to anyone else, the way the sling of your arms tensed around his waist, but he was always so keen, and keener still when it came to you, so he exhaled.

“Every time you leave, it is as though I am set alight,” he admitted. “I have never felt it before, this fire, which is not doused until you return to my side. I am mad from it — if your husband does not kill me first, I am sure it will spell my end. ”

“Then shall I never leave you?” you mumbled, your words barely coherent but insistent, pleading. 

“If I had my way,” he said, and then he chuckled. It was a sad, resigned sound, though you were sure he did not mean for it to be, and, as if in apology, he stroked the back of his hand along the column of your neck. “If this were Kremnos, you certainly wouldn’t.”

You still dreamt, but now, instead of those memories of the end of your existence as Y/N L/N playing on loop, you saw visions of a different life, the one you had been denied, the one where you were the princess of Kremnos instead of the lady of this empire. In these dreams, the sky was blue and your father sent you fond letters from the sea, tucked in green envelopes that smelled of salt when you opened them, so that you did not miss it too terribly. You played with Verax, who followed you around as faithfully as a puppy, nudging you with his trunk to gain your attention and then lifting his head, pretending like he had no idea what you were referring to when you chided him through your laughter. You spoke your mind against anyone and everyone, teasing the great lords when their ideas were foolish and then suggesting better, kinder methods of approaching the spirited people, tempering the fire of their many victories with the sweetness of the sea’s peace.

In all of these scenes, there was one constant: Mydeimos, always Mydeimos. He remained at your side no matter how mundane the situation, and yet you never really grew accustomed to the quality of his presence, so that every time your gaze flicked to him, you lost your voice — but you did not hate it so much when it was him, when it was done of your own volition.

He was so beautiful, his leg unmarred from the chains which crossed over it, his voice steady and painless, his hair lively in the wind, his face smooth and free of shadows. He smiled more, too, finding great amusement in everything you said, and each time was like a sunrise, just as bright, just as warm. You loved him, the Mydeimos of your dreams, who would, on the rarest occasions, touch his lips to yours and then hold you in a different way, a way you could not ask the prince himself to in your waking moments.

“Is there medicine I can bring you?” you asked him another night, one of the few where you had convinced him that he needed the rest far more desperately than you did. He lay between your legs, coughing and coughing until you became frightened that red would dribble from his lips and stain the hem of your nightgown. Petting up and down his back in a vain attempt to soothe him, you tried to focus on anything but how suddenly fragile he seemed, how delicate his sturdy frame was growing. 

“Only when I am free of this place will I be well,” he said, his voice hoarse as he caught his breath. “It is this darkness, this air. Medicine will alleviate it only momentarily, but nothing barring freedom will cure me, and that—”

He broke off into another fit of coughs, and you redoubled your efforts, massaging at his muscles, squeezing his hands, cradling his head. All he could do was groan, adjusting himself so that he was sitting up straight and could muffle it in his hands. His face and ears were pink; at first you thought it was from exertion, but then you realized he was ashamed, shying away from you.

“That is the only thing you cannot give me,” he completed. “I am sorry.”

“Why do you apologize?” you said. “Of all the people, why must you apologize?”

You wiped at the corners of his mouth with your thumb, and then you leaned your forehead against his, the most affection either of you permitted. How could you allow anything more to burst forth in the confines of this jail? This was the safest option, the only option, or at least the only one which might save you both from the spiral of grief your destinies seemed headed for.

“Perhaps it will come for me soon,” he said. “The death your husband hopes for.”

“Don’t say that,” you said.

“It will be easy,” he said. “I think that I will just go to sleep one day and never wake back up.”

“Mydeimos,” you said. “Please.”

“Can I ask one thing of you? You can deny me if you’d like, but please consider it to be my final request, and take that into account when you do,” he said.

“No,” you said. “No, you will make so many incessant demands of me that I will grow tired of them — but never of you, I will never grow tired of you—”

“Listen to me,” he said.

“Why do you speak as if you are already dead?” you said, your voice bordering on hysterical. “Why are you calling it your final request?”

“You can hear me,” he tried. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You don’t know!” you said. “You don’t know that, so don’t act as if it’s certain!”

“Y/N,” he said, and then he was dabbing at your eyes, which was the most unfair part, because why between the two of you were you the one who wept? “It is certain. If I do not succumb to the conditions of this cellar, then do you really think your husband will simply ignore my existence? I am the prince of Kremnos. I am his greatest enemy. I cannot be allowed to live.”

“You are Mydeimos,” you said, nervous tremors wracking through your body. “You are mine. I want you to live. Tell me you’ll live.”

“I can’t,” he said. “Don’t ask me to lie to you.”

“Then I will make you,” you said. “You have to. I say you will, so you will.”

His breath was warm and sweet and heady, and he was so close, only a hair’s breadth away from you but still keeping that agreed-upon distance. For a while he allowed your words to hang in the air between you, and then he let out a sigh that made you dizzy and lightheaded with longing.

“This isn’t the Southern Sea,” he said. “You cannot command me, beloved princess. Nor is it Kremnos, where I could order you around; I recognize this, and so all I can do is beg you to take heed.”

“What is it, then?” you said, your teeth clenched in the hopes that the scratching in your throat would abate. “Your request.”

“If I should come to my end in this cellar—” You whimpered, and he shushed you, his index finger resting against the seam of your lips. “Y/N. If I should come to my end in this cellar, then I wish for you to be there. Let the last thing I see be so beautiful. Let there be light to guide me on my way. I know it is selfish of me to ask you to keep vigil over my corpse as it cools, just so that I may have one more moment of warmth, but that is all I can fathom wanting.”

You thought of rebuking him. You thought of telling him to never ask something like that of you again, but then you imagined him curling into himself the way Verax had, left alone in the dark, shuddering as death descended upon him as swift as nightfall, and all you could do was cling to him, stuttering out promises as your knuckles stamped divots into his shoulders: I will, I will, my dear Mydeimos, I will stay with you until the very last. You needn’t beg me anymore; I will stay with you. No matter when or how it must happen, I won’t let you leave this empire alone. 

There were times when neither of you could find sleep, and then you both would entertain one another with stories. He would tell you of his youth, of his love for the flush of dianthuses in the spring and the tart sweetness of pomegranates in autumn, how his people adored him for his unprecedented magnanimity, especially towards the children, who flocked towards him in droves when he strolled the streets of Castrum Kremnos.

“Such dear little things,” he said while you brushed his hair, the most care you could lavish upon him without a hint of dissent on his part. “How can anyone be cruel to them? I don’t understand it. They are so guileless.”

“Not everyone has your patience,” you said, for that was what it really was. How strange, how contrary you would’ve found it just one year ago, the mere thought of saying that. Mydeimos, the beast from Kremnos — who in their right mind would call him patient? Yet what other word was there for the boy who had slept every night in an elephant’s stable? What other word was there for the prince who knelt so that the children of the streets could tie flowers into his hair when he passed? It was patience, there was no doubt about it, pure and enduring as it was. “If only they did.”

You could not tell him of your past, not when you were so bound, so instead you made up fantastical tales and told them with great animation, waving your hands about for emphasis and to make up for the fact that you could not show your heart to him the way he had to you. He did not complain, and after every story he would cock his head before nodding, always too clever for his own good.

“So,” he said. “This jellyfish princess, who nobody loved because of their fear…what became of her?”

“She spent the rest of her life floating about in the depths of the sea,” you said. “She thought she might be lost for good, but then she met the prince of dolphins, and instead of shying away from her, he smiled and told her that she was beautiful, that he knew who she was beneath those stinging moon-tendrils. And you know what the strangest thing is, Mydeimos?”

“What is it?” he said. You traced the mark underneath his right eye, the one which meant clarity — of vision, of mind, of heart. He blinked but did not cower away, instead remaining very, very still.

“She was never venomous in the first place,” you said. “They were frightened because they thought she might kill them, but she didn’t even have that capability, let alone the desire.”

“I see,” he said. “How horrible it is, to be thought of as a monster when you are anything but.

“Yes,” you said. “I should hope that anyone who is in such a predicament may find at least one person who looks at them as if they are something beautiful. Something more than what they are called by the rest of the world.”

“Well, my lady of dolphins,” he said, covering your hand with his own, keeping it held against his face. “At least I am so lucky.”

As rumors of a Kremnoan counterattack solidified into genuine intelligence, your husband and his cousin both grew more and more involved with their generals and their advisors, leaving you alone more often than you were not. You did not dare visit Mydeimos in the daytime, for his warning that the army-men often came to mock him rang in the back of your mind, but now you did not wait for midnight, instead fleeing to the cellar at dusk, as soon as your obligations to appear at dinner were fulfilled. He welcomed you, of course he did, though he was always more careful than you were, telling you that you had to return before the bakers awoke to make the day’s bread.

The days stretched on, and your will to return to the world of the palace faded until it was nothing but a weak, flickering candle-flame, wont to be extinguished at the slightest breeze. Let me die here, too. If I can be with you for a little longer, then I will gladly accept it. You never said it to him, but you thought it, every time he ushered you out of the cellar with the reminder that you might be caught. Let them find me, Mydeimos. Let them kill me if they will, but let them know that I was never their perfect empress. Even in the throes of docility, I was still Y/N L/N, the princess of the Southern Sea, who lay with the prince she was meant to hate.

“Dear lady!” 

The banging on your door at such an hour was out of the ordinary, but even more alarming was your husband’s cousin’s voice, frantic yet shot through with something like ecstasy. Outside, the sun had not yet risen, though there was a watery gathering of light on the horizon that said there were only a couple more hours until dawn, and although you had already had slept as much as you would, back in the cellar you had just returned from, you were still confounded for a moment by the repetitive knocking, your voice coming out groggy and dazed.

“Whatever is the matter?” you said with a yawn, rubbing your eyes and flinging the door open with no small amount of irritation. “Why have you — ah!”

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you after him with a cackle of glee. “My dear lady, the time has finally come!”

“What are you talking about?” you said, almost tripping as you attempted to keep up with his sprint. He paused, whirling to face you, and you furrowed your brow when you saw that his eyes were glittering. “Why do you keep calling me that? ‘Dear lady,’ I mean. What mood are you in?”

“The Southern Sea has refused to cooperate,” he said. “The king says that they will not join in the war against Kremnos until the ruler of this empire is of the blood of the tides. That is after all what was promised in the treaty of our alliance, though I believe we all imagined he would not be so stubborn as to genuinely withhold aid from us when his own daughter is the empress.”

“Why are you happy about this?” you said, despite your own joy, which flowered with abandon at the news of your father remaining as stubborn as ever, uncompromising through sadness and sickness alike.

“Wars are costly, and without the aid of the Southern Sea, our empire will surely feel the effects of another conflict,” he said. “But the Kremnoans are coming to us, whether we want them to or not, and with my brother’s latest actions, they will only come sooner. We will lose…or, that is, he will lose. All that our family has built will crumble to nothingness at the hands of those barbaric, uncivilized warriors. It is known — by delaying the execution for as long as he has, he essentially set his fate in stone — but his fate needn’t be mine. No, indeed. Once I deliver the Southern Sea to the people of this empire, I will depose my dear brother, and then, with the combined might of both kingdoms behind me, I will defeat the Kremnoans for good.”

“You mean to overthrow my husband?” you said, and you should’ve felt surprised, but it made so much sense that it was more of a relief than anything, an explanation for every bewildering move he had made thus far.

“The life of a second son is spent ever waiting, ever watching, pliant until the moment to strike becomes evident,” he said. “You must know it’s not a coincidence that I have ingratiated myself with the soldiers and the councilmen alike — I am sure if it comes to it, they will support me over him, who they all but detest for his peacocking, his pointlessly grandiose gestures. They would follow me anywhere, and those who might protest, who might cling to the old regime, will fall in line when faced with the wealth of the Southern Sea, which is so vast as to be incomprehensible to those of us who have lived our entire lives here.”

“You speak of the sea, but how do you expect to win it when even my husband could not? You are gambling so much on something that is not even assured,” you said. “The king is not so easily swayed, this I can promise. If he has refused this empire once, he will surely do it again and again, for what does it matter who is asking? Why should he give you any different of an answer than he would my husband?”

“For a while, my plan was longer, more gradual,” he said, and then the two of you were walking again, although this time with consideration for your pace, which was about half of his, and with his arm heavy over your shoulders, companionable and careless, like you both were old friends out for a stroll. “The first thing I had to do was arrange for the course of your thoughts to turn my way. I thought this would be the most difficult, for my brother is after all such a charming, handsome man, but he neglected you to the point that it was an invitation, really! He made it so you would have loved anyone who showed your desperate, starving self any shreds of affection, and from there it was simple on my part. The seeds of infidelity were sown by my brother himself; all I did was water them, and is that such a sin? 

“You would’ve taken me into your bed eventually. It is why I made such a crude suggestion all those days ago, though of course I never meant for you to genuinely allow a stableboy to father your heirs. All along I spoke of myself, who you — and therefore the Southern Sea — would then be bound to, even after the death of your husband rendered you free of your obligations to this empire,” he said.

“Why are you telling me this?” you said, for you were unsure of what else to say, unsure of what else to feel besides a discomfort at the fact that he had been toying with you. Even this, however, was mild, because who in this empire was not playing with your life? Since the day you had come here and sworn yourself to that statue, the people in this palace had treated you as little more than a vapid, sickly woman who brought nothing with her but senseless tears and parsimonious promises from a family that had sold her to save themselves. For your husband’s cousin to reveal himself in such a way was a foregone conclusion, and perhaps it should’ve hurt you, but all you could muster was a detached sort of acceptance. 

“Things have changed,” he said. “He is distracted at present, and so, in this brief moment while the world’s eyes are averted, I can tell you this: today, your husband is signing the order for his own death. The palace will be thrown into turmoil, and without the protection of your marriage to him, you will find that once the Kremnoans come, you will be the first to fall. Who would defend the princess of a kingdom that refused to come to our assistance? But it needn’t be that way. Escape this fate with me, dear lady. Promise you will marry me, and when all is said and done, I will even let you go home.”

“Home?” you said, and he nodded, maneuvering you so that you were tucked away in an alcove where he could cup your face in his hands without fear of discovery.

“Yes,” he said. “Once this war is won and our heir is born, relations between the empire and the sea will be established. I will have no further use for you here, so why should I not allow you to return to where you came from? Certainly your father will not mind, sentimental old fool as he is.”

You swallowed back a lump in your throat before nodding, taking the insult to your father quietly, not wanting to upset him when this was the first glimpse at freedom you had been given. Home. He was promising to let you go home. You would marry anyone if they gave you that assurance, and something behind your eyes prickled the longer you thought about it.

They would welcome you so grandly, wouldn’t they? The palace would be covered in pearls, and the sea would be so blue, and the whales might even sing again in jubilation at your return. Your father would be there, his face lined and gaunt but alive and happy, so happy it’d carve a hole in your intestines, the kind of hole borne from an incapability to handle that much delight.

“Come with me, then,” he said. “We must run from this palace and make ourselves scarce for the moment, in order to gather our forces. This opportunity may not present itself once again, so we have to take advantage of it while we can.”

“Wait,” you said. “You have mentioned only vaguely what my husband is doing at present. What can possibly demand so much of his attention and also be such a fatal mistake?”

“Mydeimos,” he said. “Your husband has finally deemed it time for him to meet the lord of death, and so he is utterly preoccupied with that, but with the Kremnoans so close, this is nothing but folly. He is making a martyr out of the very man they adore so much; rather than cowing them, this will only fuel their efforts further. If we can escape during the execution, we can mobilize the army to cut them off, turning us into the indisputable heroes of the empire. It will be difficult, but it can be done, and with both him and the prince taken care of, there will be nothing standing in our way.”

“No,” you said immediately, ice shooting through your veins, the rest of his explanation blurring together as you elbowed him off of you with an unprecedented vigor, earning a yelp out of him. “No, Mydeimos is mine. He’s mine, he’s mine, he can’t die without my permission! He can’t, and I haven’t given it yet, so that means he won’t!”

“I was sent to fetch you for the event,” he said, dusting himself off and giving you an odd look. “Don’t throw a tantrum. They await us in the throne room, though you know he is impatient. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just kills him to end the waiting, which is all the better for — where are you going?”

You were already running in the direction of the throne room, smacking his hands away when he tried to reach for you. He hissed in dismay before yanking on your sleeve, holding you securely in place and scowling at you. The expression was so reminiscent of your husband that you actually recoiled, an nagging voice in the back of your mind reminding you of what you had sworn: duty, obedience, docility. 

“If you leave now, then everything will be lost. He will know by your presence what I plan to do, and I will be seized,” he warned as you fought back the instincts that demanded you go limp in his grasp. “Do you understand? You will die here, and for what? Your own possessiveness? Your childish greed? How spoiled you are! To think that you would throw away everything, all because someone touched your favorite toy! I had heard the whispers that you were such a brat in your home, allowed to run unchecked by your father as you were, but this is unprecedented. Think for once, won’t you? If you do this, you will never go home again.”

Never go home again. Never go home again. Never go home again.

“I don’t care,” you said, and near tears though you were, reluctant though you were, you pulled away from him. “How many times must I say it before all of you listen? He is mine. I will never, ever leave him.”

That was the last thing he had asked of you, the only thing he had ever asked of you. If I should come to my end in this cellar, then I wish for you to be there. And you had sworn you would be, so how could you break that promise? Not for anything. You would not break it for anything, not if it meant your husband’s ruin, not if it meant you could go home again, not if it meant your father would embrace you for the rest of your life. You would give up all of these things if you had to, but you would not leave him to die alone.

The throne room was as cavernous as the last time you had been in it, empty and hollow like the stomach of a titan. In the center, the statue of your husband loomed, as unfeeling as the day you had wed it, and in the back, upon his raised throne, was your husband himself, staring down at you imperiously.

“Where is he?” you said, your voice meek, yet somehow stronger for its trembling, for the proof that you could not ask such a thing and yet were doing it anyways. “My lord. Where is he? Where — is — Mydeimos?”

By the end of it, you were gasping the words out, and you glared at him as well as you could, the most rebellion you were allowed. He did not say anything about it, but you knew he saw, for the faintest hints of humor flickered in his cold eyes, as if you were a jester he had hired, a clown instead of a wife.

“Why are you so worried? Haven’t you been telling me to kill him since the day I brought him here?” he said before laughing in earnest. “I should be asking you where that treacherous cousin of mine is, but I know the answer to that all too well. Did he ask for you to come with him? He has always been so insatiable. Everything that is mine, he longs for. Such is the nature of second sons, though that’s not something I’d expect either of you to understand.”

There he was, chained to the base of the statue in the same fashion he had once been bound to the wall of the cellar, his left leg heavy with gold but the rest of his limbs free: Mydeimos, his tether shorter now, but still loose enough that he could shift to watch you as you took one step and another, trudging towards the inexorable pull of the throne, of your husband, who regarded you with a careful disdain.

“You can stop there,” he said. “I know you want to remain at his side, so you needn’t force yourself to go any further.”

You halted immediately, just close enough to Mydeimos that if you were to reach out, you could grasp at his arm, just close enough that you could almost feel the warmth he always emanated, like he was your very own furnace — but also far enough that there was still a sharp pang in your lungs with every breath you took, far enough that your heart still ached from the distance. You wanted to embrace him, to run your palms up and down his shoulders, to ask him if he was alright while you tended to every wound that had never been inflicted upon him but which he still stung from, anyways. Yet in front of your husband, the most you could do was hold your breath, keeping the scent of him in your lungs for safekeeping.

“The prince of Kremnos and the princess of the Southern Sea…what a collection of delegates I’ve gathered here,” your husband said. Both you and Mydeimos had to crane your necks to look up at him from the dais his throne rested upon, and you knew he found some satisfaction in that, in the simple reminder that he was above you in every way that mattered. What was a prince or a princess compared to an emperor? Your titles were more of mockeries than anything, reminders of what you had once been but what you never would be again, now that you were so soiled by this place — a prince-turned-prisoner and a princess-turned-wife.

“You can’t kill him,” you said, taking yourself aback with the boldness of it, the urgency of the request. “My lord, I will do anything, I will bear your children without complaint, I will beg my father to give you the Southern Sea, but please — please let him live, please — I will take responsibility for him, I will drag him around by his chains until we both die if that’s what I must, but don’t kill him today, please, I will have nothing to my name if you take him, too—”

“My pretty wife,” he interrupted you. “Your fretting is endearing, but it is unnecessary. I do not intend to execute him just yet. There is still something I need from him, and he can hardly accomplish it if he is dead, after all.”

“Is that why you have brought me here? Whatever it is, I won’t do it. I have no interest in being your accomplice,” Mydeimos said. His words were still thick with drowsiness, and you realized with a start that they must’ve poured a sleeping draught down his throat in order to bring him to the throne room from the cellar. You shivered, and once again you wished you could hold him against your breast, could defend him from the tribulations of this empire, of this place and these people that found such particular and cruel pleasure in beating him down, over and over and over until he was ground to nothing but dust.

“I think you’ll find that this is a mutually beneficial deal,” he said. “You see, I’m in a bit of a dilemma at the moment. My own cousin, set to betray me; my father-in-law, refusing to support me; the Kremnoan army, marching towards my city.”

“None of these are my problem,” Mydeimos replied. 

“No, of course not,” your husband said. “But your captivity is, right? You have been locked away in a cellar, kept from the sun until you have been reduced to this waifish state. Don’t you wish to be freed?”

“You mean to free him?” you said. Your husband raised a placating hand, silencing you immediately with the casual gesture.

“He must free himself. Even I cannot break thrice-blessed chains until their condition is fulfilled,” he said. “But you can say I have a...vested interest in the completion of this specific condition.”

“What is it?” Mydeimos said warily. All three of you knew that this was a trap being laid out for him; after all, this was your husband, who was known above all else for his tricks and cheats, for being a serpent instead of a lion, a man with nothing resembling honor to his name. Yet already the two of you were ensnared, and so your only choice was playing out his script until the end, following his plans until they came to fruition, no matter how unwillingly.

“You know already,” your husband said. “That’s the thing about thrice-blessed chains: as much as they long to bind their target, once they have accomplished that, they wish most avidly to be destroyed, and so they whisper to their prisoner the methods of their undoing. After all, such immortal power is not meant to remain on this earth for very long.”

“I haven’t the faintest clue what you refer to,” Mydeimos said. “Tell me plainly; I have no interest in these games of yours, snake-emperor. I have played one too many already, and I don’t have the patience for any more.”

“Indulge me this final time,” your husband said. “I am sure you have some idea as to what I’m talking about. The thing which you desire above all else, which quells that remarkable fire that has blazed within you since your capture…oh, you really are lost. What a comical surprise! The prince of Kremnos is an idiot!”

“My lord,” you said softly. “Don’t torture him like this. Haven’t you done enough already?”

Perhaps you should’ve been more careful, but you did not want to mind your words more than you already did, and anyways, you had a sense that hiding anything from him was futile at this point. He could see through you as certainly as if you were made from glass, and he did so with impunity, with the same beguiling set to his mouth as ever. His eyes, unclouded and bright, rested on you for a while, and then he snorted, nodding like he was indulging in the whims of a child making some impossible demand.

“Fine, then,” he said. “It’s not such a difficult thing, anyways. In fact, it’s simple, especially for a man such as he. Mydeimos, prince of Kremnos, heed my words: if you wish to be freed, you must kill your master.”

“Easy enough,” Mydeimos said immediately, any traces of lethargy long gone with this news, even the false sleep bolting in face of his vehemence. “I can feel it in my bindings that you are telling the truth. Well, come down here, then, coward! I have wished to destroy you from the moment I heard your name. Shall I tear out your throat? Your heart? Don’t just sit there and stare at me, emperor. If this is your wish, then challenge me as a man would —  as you refused to at our last meeting!”

“You can do that, if you’d like,” your husband said, his voice lilting and musical. “My heart and my throat, with your nails or with your teeth, whichever you prefer. I’m sure you’d even enjoy it, filthy brute as you are…but no matter how you go about it, it’s inconsequential. My death will not release you.”

“What?” Mydeimos said. “Why not?”

“Because,” your husband said, and then he glanced at you and you swore, you swore his pupils were slitted, his teeth sharp like fangs, the corners of his mouth blue with venom, “I am not your master. She is.”

“I’ll kill you,” Mydeimos said, baring his teeth, a snarl in his voice when he shoved you behind him, standing between you and the throne. “You lying mongrel, I’ll kill you—”

“I’m not lying,” your husband said. “What, did you think I just gave you to her for no reason? As soon as I summoned the chains and became aware of the condition, my plan began, and her stewardship over you was only one of my contingencies. You can tell I’m being truthful, can’t you? The chains are affirming it. You’re drawn to her. You want to be near her. You want to kill her.”

“That’s not why,” Mydeimos said, and then he was turning to you, his eyes wild with pleading. “Y/N, that’s not why, that’s not—”

“Don’t tell me,” your husband said with a chuckle. “All this time…you actually thought you loved her? No, you don’t. You don’t even have that capacity, prince of terrors. It’s the chains. It has always been the chains.”

“Why?” you said, and it came out as it always did: demure, gentle, when all you wanted to do was scream and throttle him. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand it. Why do you want me to die?”

“In truth, this confrontation is the most desperate option,” he said. “I was hoping he would’ve killed you long ago. That’s why I had you go to the cellar, after all.”

“You…?” you said.

“The prince of Kremnos,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “He calls for you. With the blessings of the messenger lord, it was not so difficult to fool you, dear lady, especially when you have the kind of sweetness that all but begs to be manipulated.”

“You made her this way,” Mydeimos said. “Don’t you dare put her down for something you did to her. It is your fault.”

“You may be right, at that,” your husband said. “Well, anyways, does it matter who did it? Regardless, she is such an amenable woman, so easily led astray, straight to the cellar which should’ve spelled her doom. What a story to tell your father, don’t you think? His most beloved daughter, slaughtered by the savage prince Mydeimos. The Southern Sea and Kremnos would bleed one another dry in their fury, and thus there would be no resistance left to oppose us when we came en masse to conquer them both.”

“But he didn’t kill me,” you said. “He never even tried to.”

“Yes,” your husband said. “This has always confounded me. That morning, when I came to see the state of you, to raise the alarms that my wife had been murdered in cold blood, I found you sleeping peacefully in your bed, without a trace of worry in your lovely expression. Then I thought you might awaken and bawl to me of your near-escape from death, but to my everlasting shock, you were entirely unaffected; furthermore, that night, you returned to his side, and with food in your hands, to boot!”

“Y/N,” Mydeimos whispered fervently. “Y/N, you must believe me, I would never — I know I said I considered it, but I would never hurt you, I would not, I love—”

“Oh, but you will,” your husband said, cutting him off. “Or else you will spend the rest of your short, miserable life as a prisoner of this empire. Kill her, and then kill me if you want. My cousin is far from this place, thinking that he is taking advantage of me, and through him, my blood will remain on the throne; it is the only reason I have not dissuaded his attempts at a coup, which were so clumsy that even a child could see through them. Forever and always, he will remain my heir, and I suppose there is some irony in that.”

“This will not work the way you think it will,” Mydeimos said. “I will tell the king of the sea what you did to her. With the support of the Southern Sea, Kremnos will demolish you. Perhaps we are not so wealthy, but our army is infinitely stronger, and with the south at our side, you will never be able to defeat us.”

“Who will he believe, I wonder? The one who married his daughter, or the one who killed her?” your husband said. “Because you will not be able to lie about that, Mydeimos, and you do not know the old king as I do. The circumstances are irrelevant — the mere fact that you killed his darling will be enough to turn his mind to darkness. He will never stand with Kremnos, and the sea itself will never welcome the rabid prince that murdered its most beloved.”

“What if I give him to you?” you said, interrupting their argument, which strangely enough was being held over your fate. “If he is yours, then you will be his master. He will kill you, and then he will be free.”

Your husband did not falter. “Yes.”

“You are not frightened of this outcome, although it is contrary to everything you have planned for,” you said. “Why is that?”

“Did you think I would not account for such a simple escape?” he said. “Oh, my dear lady. Come here.”

You were moving before you knew it, moving until you stood at the foot of his throne in wait. He did not say anything for a while, and you realized he was looking at Mydeimos, who was staring at you in abject horror. This was the first time he was seeing the extent of it, the first time even you yourself were experiencing the full strength of your devotion, and the expression on his face clawed at your throat even as your husband caressed your hair. He was grieving you already, you thought, that wise, tender prince — he knew what your husband did not, he knew that you were little more than a marionette, already killed long ago by the very man who pet you now as if you were his lapdog.

“Duty, obedience, docility,” he recited. “Go on, then, my wife. Try and give him to me. Your prince, your prisoner…give him to me.”

“Mydeimos,” you said. “I—I—”

Your words dissolved into a flurry of coughs, and you hunched over from the violence of it, pressing your forehead against your husband’s knees as the entirety of your chest collapsed in on itself. There was an invisible fist barging past your lips, imaginary ropes binding your tongue to the roof of your mouth, and so every time you tried to form those words, you were left with nothing but a weak series of inhales and exhales, body rejecting the mere thought of such a betrayal.

“You swore to me, too,” you choked out. “Didn’t you? How can you do this to me when you swore you wouldn’t?”

“Trust,” he said. “And so I trust that your death will bring me what I need. Favor; and so I am favoring you with the honor of sacrificing for the empire. Companionship; and so I will not leave you to die alone. Surely I will chase you into the afterlife, and then we can be together for the rest of eternity.”

“Let go of her,” Mydeimos said. “If it is promises that we speak of, then let me make one to you as well, you asinine half-wit: whatever becomes of you, I promise you that today will be the last time you ever place your hands on her. Don’t you presume that you will get to touch her again. Don’t even think that you will get to lay eyes on her.”

“How passionate, prince of terrors,” your husband said. “But you would do well to remember that she is my wife. You can make no declarations as to her outcome — the only claim you have regarding her is your persistent desire to kill her, and even that is borne from your bindings. If not for the condition of the chains, you would not think of her.”

“And if it weren’t for the Southern Sea, you wouldn’t think of her, either,” Mydeimos said. “But I would. I don’t care for her father’s wealth or the fact that she can free me. I don’t care for the food she gave me or the sleep she brought me. I don’t care for any of it. I would love her if she were nothing more than the princess of seals and whale-song, because she is mine. Yes, it is so; I may belong to her, but she is mine in a way you can never understand.”

“Then take her,” your husband said, nudging you, which was all the permission you needed to scrabble backwards, stumbling over your feet as you retreated to the safety of the shadow cast over Mydeimos by the statue. “Take her and kill her and desecrate your body when you are done with it, if that is what you please.”

“You—”

“Mydeimos,” you said, cutting him off before he could hurl back some insult at your husband. “He’s telling the truth, right?”

His eyes were beseeching when he took your hands in his own, holding them against his heart so you could feel in the vascular pounding the reluctant and yet unquestionable verity of it. Your husband was many things, but this time, he was not a liar. This time, when you wanted him most to be baiting you, he was whole in his honesty. Mydeimos, if he ever wished to be free again, would have to kill you.

“I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t. I don’t care what he says or what he plots or if it’s the truth. I won’t kill you.”

He was being earnest. He who was so abrasive and harsh, the hostile man you had found in the cellar and come to love, the man who had not killed you yet despite everything which told him to — even now he would not. He would remain in chains for the rest of his days, but he would not kill you. It was your father all over again, your father who would’ve lost the sea if you bade it, who would’ve fought such a pointless fight to save you from the empire, and so you found yourself shaking your head. Just as then, you would not allow yourself to be saved. Just as then, you would not be the reason why he fell.

“You must,” you said, your fingers soothing over the red designs running up his neck and over his shoulders. “Mydeimos, you cannot allow yourself to be swayed by something which doesn’t exist. You heard him. You don’t care for me; it is the chains which cause you to feel this way. How can you give up your life for a falsehood? You must kill me. Kill me and be free, my prince, kill me and run to my home as fast you can. Ignore the words of others, who know nothing of our ways; I swear the sea will welcome you, it will welcome you and love you as surely as I did. Run to my home and tell my father everything, tell him that I sent you — I by my name, I by the title you bestowed upon me. He will believe you. The whales will sing at your arrival, and he will believe you.”

“What is my life?” he said. “What is my freedom? I cannot have either if they must be tainted by your death, brought about by my own hands. I can hardly bear to kill my enemies. Don’t beg of me to do such a thing to you, to you who I have loved so well since I heard your name for the very first time…”

“Do you think that you will be the one to kill me?” you said. “I have been dead for so long. You are not slaying me in some vicious or cruel manner; you are only dealing the final blow and freeing us both from this torment.”

“No,” he said. “I am not one for eloquence, so I cannot say it more elegantly, but I refuse, I refuse, I won’t be the victim of his schemes again, and I won’t let you be, either. Take my chains in your hands and walk me as if I am your hound, jerk me when I am disobedient and allow me enough slack to kill those who stand before us, but do not die.”

“Think of your kingdom,” you entreated. “What will Kremnos do without you? What will become of them if they fall to the empire? And what of my home? My people? I have died one death for them, when I swore fealty to that husband of mine. I cannot bear their suffering, I will die so many times if I can relieve them of it, and do you not remember what I said to my father all those many days ago? I will find love in it. I will find happiness. Even in this loveless place, I found you; so, too, in death will I find escape. Kill me now — if it is you, I should not mind so much, I think.”

“Why must you be so trapped?” he said. “Why can I not free you in any other way? Why is death the only end to your bondage?”

“That is the nature of it,” you said. “Only by his death or mine will this marriage end. Only by his death or mine will I be saved. But he knows this, and so he remains ever out of your reach. Mark my words, he will not allow you to kill him until it is convenient for him. There is no way to outsmart a man whose power we do not even understand, a man who is so loved by divinity itself.”

Your husband was silent, observing the argument with the self-satisfaction of one whose prey was within the reach of his jaws. All three of you knew that Mydeimos could not win; the desires set upon him by the chains combined with your persistent appeals would sway his convictions until he turned his mouth upon your heart and tore it out with his canines, sinking his incisors into your chest for lack of a better weapon with which to do the deed, lapping at the rivulets of blood until your own body resembled his own, covered in streaks of irate crimson that wrote out your accursed predestination.

“The next time we meet,” Mydeimos said, closing his eyes and thumping his forehead against yours in resignation. “The next time I find you, I will steal you from him. I will come to your wedding before you can swear your vows, and I will take you away. Such a beast, they will say, such a brute, snatching a bride from her groom, who awaits her most eagerly upon the altar. But then again, to the world, that is just the way of Kremnos, and next time, I will prove them right. Next time, I will make you the queen of my horrible kingdom, and you can scream and slap at me if you’d like, but you will be mine in full, mine and not at all his, so even if you hate me, I will accept it.”

“The altar,” you repeated, and then, in the back of your mind, you thought of such a faint, silly thing that it almost did not bear vocalizing. Yet what other choice did you have but to say it? Even if it was imprudent and rash, even if it would come to nothing, you had to tell him, in whatever way you could manage. “Mydeimos, listen to me.”

“Hm?” he said as you grabbed his jaw, holding it firmly so that he could not flinch away, keeping him steady and facing you. “Y/N?”

“Everything I have ever wanted to say to you, you have heard. You told me that, once,” you said. 

“Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing. You brushed his hair back, pushing it off of his forehead, marveling at how his wellbeing was already so improved. You doubted he had been back in the sun for more than an hour or so, but the color was returning to his skin, and there was genuine vitality to him. His breaths came steadily, evenly, and his eyes were like gemstones set in his strong, handsome face, which was flushed with a despondent sort of verve.

“My marriage,” you said. “Do you remember what I said of it? I cannot repeat it now, I am not able, but you must recall what I told you. The day of my wedding, everything I said…it is desperate and slim, but there is a chance. You must remember, please, you can forget everything else, but remember that. What did I tell you?”

“What are you talking about?” your husband said, and for the first time, he stood, alarm creeping into his tone. “Dear lady, what lies are you espousing? Kill her now, prince of terrors, before she can deceive you further! Kill her and free yourself!”

Staring into the churning gold of Mydeimos’s irises, praying to the sea that your own spoke everything you could not, you ignored your husband. There was not much time, and so much was left unsaid; all you could do was trust in the prince, trust that he knew you and thus knew what you were trying to convey.

“The gods of this empire are not on your side, but I am,” you said, and as his eyes widened, you tilted his chin towards the statue. “No matter what, I always will be.”

Ramming his shoulder into you, knocking you to the ground by the foot of the throne, Mydeimos gathered the drooping chains that lay on the ground. Pushing yourself up, you clambered backwards, away from the vengeful figure who, in that moment, was a god unto himself, one who did not request the help of any other deities but commanded it, who ordered their assistance as easily as a general might.

“What is he doing?” your husband said, the collar of your dress tearing as he used it to haul you to your feet. “Kill her, you idiot, what business do you have with that statue?”

“He is not the idiot,” you murmured. “You are, my lord.”

Mydeimos swung the chains around the neck of the statue, and then, with the strength of three squadrons of soldiers, his braid gleaming bright with the unwilling blessings of the gods you had invoked that day in the cellar, he yanked it taut, causing dark cracks to form in the marble.

“Mydeimos!” your husband roared, but Mydeimos did not stall, the muscles in his arms straining, sweat pouring off his forehead as he continued to tug on the metal, slicing into the stone with his own effort, the unbreakable chains digging into the white expanse. “Cease your actions immediately!”

With a great crash, the head of the statue shattered against the ground, bursting into a thousand pieces that sprayed into the air, forming clouds of dust and debris that filled the throne room. As the one you had sworn your vows to died a miserable death, its weight lifted from your shoulders, and so, gasping for breath — not from the muddied air but from your regained sovereignty — you seized your husband by the front of his shirt.

“Imbecile,” you hissed, ignoring the wounds he clawed into your forearms as he fought off your grip. “I never did give you a wedding gift, did I? My apologies for the delay, but you’ll find that this present is entirely worth the wait. The finest of plunders for the finest of husbands: the prince of Kremnos himself!"

“You can’t,” he said.

“I can,” you said. “And know this, you foul worm: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs are conducted in your backwards empire, but where I am from, it is not so.”

You pushed him towards the waiting Mydeimos with all the strength you had. The prince descended with a swiftness, not even allowing him to stand before catching him, snapping his neck as easily as a butcher might snap a pig’s, tossing him aside and then lifting his gaze towards you, both of you frozen with anticipation.

The chains melted into sunbeams, sparkling against him for a moment longer before vanishing entirely, the braid in his hair coming undone as he raced towards you on unsteady feet. You met him halfway, and when his legs gave way, you were there to catch him, kissing the crown of his head over and over as he sank into your arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had some ideas of coming to greet you so bravely, and here I am, in such a state.”

“Don’t say sorry,” you said. “Don’t say sorry to me, Mydeimos, you have done something that ought to be impossible, and with it you have freed me. There is no one braver. You must never say sorry.”

“I killed him,” he said, like he could not quite believe it himself.

“Yes,” you said, and then you were crying into his hair, shuddering with the ache and exhaustion of everything that had just transpired, the scratches gouged into you by your late husband’s dying efforts biting from the touch of the open air. “You killed him. That putrid, dastardly coward…you killed him.”

“We mustn’t delay,” Mydeimos said. “They will come looking for the emperor soon, and at present, we cannot fight off an entire army. We have to flee while we still have the chance and that cousin of his is still too focused on saving himself to realize that there is nothing left for him to be safe from — or nothing of this empire, anyways.”

“Where should we go? Kremnos?” you said.

“No,” he said, using your bicep to balance himself as he drew himself back to his full height. “The Southern Sea.”

“The Southern Sea?” you said, your voice catching. He smiled at you slightly.

“The wars and the fighting can wait. The empire has been weakened enough that they will bide their time before making any decisive moves, and the Kremnoans have survived thus far, so what is a little longer? Before I return to the strife and violence of battle, I will take you home. After everything, that is the least you deserve,” he said, taking your arm and dabbing at the droplets of blood which welled where the skin had broken, a frown etched on his features at the sight. “Come. A few elephant keepers will pose no difficulty to me, even like this; let us fetch Verax and use his might to escape this empire.”

“Wait,” you said. “There is something I must do first.”

As Mydeimos watched, you strode over to your husband’s limp, cold body. Drawing your leg back, you kicked it, over and over until his features were all but unrecognizable, mangled and swollen as they were. Then, gathering saliva in your mouth, delighting in the barbarism, which felt sickeningly appropriate despite how uncharacteristic it was of your typical refinement, you spat on him.

It splashed against its cheek, the frothing bubbles washing away the salty tracks of his dried tears, and only then did you turn, rejoining Mydeimos so that the two of you could leave the empire behind for good.

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[bambisnc]

      MEETING GAMER BF IRL?! (GONE WRONG)   wherein % you realize your actions have consequences . .

            ST✮RRING───N.RK 🎮 826 && WR. kisses ˖ ✧

[ 陰 ♡ ] : hi ...... this is for instagram / blr user calabaeri cb to me pls ... ♡ briar baef's gamer bf hee made me think ab this heh >< along w/ ifeye's song irl !

                        𝖢𝘓𝗂𝖢𝖪     🖇. 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝙁𝗶𝗟𝗘 ᰈ̠ 𝖭𝘈𝖵𝗂

calling nishimura riki your boyfriend would be an overstatement.

he was more “boy you met in a discord server one day and bonded with over similar music tastes and roblox horror games.” with whom you also occasionally flirted.

it was over a quick round of one such game that he’d proposed meeting each other face to face. because like, who even cares about cyber security, really.

not like he’d given you any reason not to trust him, after all. before you knew it—you’d met at a cafe. and very subsequently agreed to go over to his place. he’d gotten a new game over the weekend, ni-ki had told you over coffee, would you like to test it out with him? you had agreed. 

so why was it that what was only supposed to be a quick gaming session has long extended into you seated over his lap, with him kissing you like a man starved? 

it was safe to say that neither of you had really been paying attention to the game from the start. ni-ki was the one who’d brought it up first. 

“you keep looking at me like that,” eyes still trained on the controller as his fingers worked with it deftly, “and i might start thinking you want something from me.”

with great haste you had torn your own gaze off his figure, hoping to wave off the implication of his words with some kind of a joke. fine, sure, maybe you were a little distracted. 

“and what if do want something?” wait, fuck, you had not meant to say that.

ni-ki’s head lowered, and for a moment you cheered internally. you’d managed to make him flustered?! you could taste the satisfaction. this was like revenge for all the times he’d tried to pull one over on you—deep voice through your headset doing the absolute most to make you lose your cool and let your in-game character die in lieu.

“you okay there, baby?” you can swear that the nickname, born after one too many sleepless nights spent talking to the other on voice chat, was only meant to be slightly patronizing in the situation. 

a pause. you could practically hear your heartbeat and hoped against hope that he couldn’t. the barely there proximity between your figures was probably not helping either. you have half a mind to get up right there and hide away in his bathroom when you almost gasp at his thigh brushing against yours.

you remember flinching slightly when, upon looking at ni-ki again, you realized his focus was completely on you. “yeah. ” glancing up through his lashes, a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “just wondering when you’ll tell me exactly what it is that you want.”

he set down his controller then, before lazily taking yours out of your hand as well. “and be quick about it—preferably before i start guessing.”

you didn’t say anything. couldn’t, would be more apt.

because ni-ki had leaned in just close enough for you to be able to see the reflection of the neon video game credits rolling out on the screen in front of you.

game over.

“hm? not gonna tell me?” 

and suddenly you find yourself regretting spending the entire day being a tease. the casual touches, the playful comments—you should’ve known better.

should’ve known that if you were going to start this game, it was only natural ni-ki would end up finishing it.

his hand brushing back a lock of hair behind your ear brings you crashing back to reality. back to the moment.

you swallow. “i thought you said you’d guess.”

that was all it had taken.

ni-ki’s lips crashed into yours before you could even process it. and god, the only half coherent thought still left in your brain was how you wanted more.

he kissed you like he had a point to prove. you could feel it in the way he smirked into the movement, like he’d known this would happen from the very beginning. 

you’re not sure if you were the one who moved first or if it was his hand that now rests deliciously heavy on your waist which had pulled you to sit perched over his lap. 

ni-ki doesn’t seem to care though. not with how he keeps diving back in with murmurs of jus’ one more. you have to push him away with a palm covering his lips, having been left in desperate need of air.

“you’re a menace.” you finally manage to complain. 

he agrees. well you assume he does from how he licks at your hand with that shit eating grin. “took you long enough to figure that out, baby.” 

and that’s the last of the talking that happens for a while as he pulls you impossibly closer, fingers once again angling your face to meet his own. 

you don’t really find it in you to complain about that, though.

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[@bambisnc] 2k25

[frostedfragments]

exclusive tutorial drabble: mc is ovulating and decides to visit her bf at work warnings: semi-public sex, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, desk sex, zayne manages not to cum in his pants this time! claps for zayne!! note: i have no other explaination other than i am ovulating...and i remember someone on ao3 or on here wanted to see et!zayne react to a blow job so here u go! also i wrote this on my phone at 3am so pls if there are errors....ignore

Zayne knows from the moment you slink into his office that you’re up to something. You’re looking at him with bright, dilated eyes and a flush in your face that he knows far better than he ever thought he would. 

His hand lifts off the mouse as you close the door behind you, a soft click signalling to him that you’ve no intention of leaving soon. 

“Hey, you okay, beautiful?” 

He’s working late, again, and he hates that you’ve had to come all the way into the city, to the hospital to see him. He feels like he hasn’t seen you properly in days between your work schedule and his. The last time he spent a night with you was when the two of you watched a sad movie about a dog and you cried into his chest for an hour afterward, a hot water bottle clutched to your stomach. 

Now, this is a side to his girlfriend he knows very well, but he is uber aware of the fact it’s only five PM and he has a surgery scheduled in thirty minutes. 

“No, I missed you,” You reply as you round the desk, stopping by his chair. His instinct is to reach out and take your hand, so he does, kissing your palm in apology for not being home to see you more this week.

You smile, but there’s something that flares in your gaze, something that has Zayne’s stomach warming dangerously. 

“_____ -“

“I’m ovulating,” 

He blinks, lips parting at the frankness of your tone, and he frowns a little, “Oh, I see,”

He’s a doctor, and also not an idiot, he knows exactly what you’re telling him. What he doesn’t know is how he’s gonna take care of your problem while he’s in his office, minutes from going into a surgery that won’t have him home for hours.

“I’m working, my love,” He says softly, hoping it’ll soften the blow, “you know I’d love nothing more than to carry you home to bed myself but I only have thirty minutes -“

“That’s fine,” You say, plopping your bag on the table before moving his chair so he is facing you properly. He is about to protest when you drop to your knees in front of him, “I only need ten,”

All coherent thought and the entire catalogue of speech trickles from his mind and out of his ears as he gazes down at you kneeling between his legs. Your hands are already on his belt, tugging and pulling it free, and he can’t hide the erection that stiffens down one side of his slacks, hot along his thigh. 

His hand reaches out to grip your wrist, stilling the movements, and he briefly hesitates, a reluctance to stop you gripping him in a weak hand. You’ve never done this, never had your mouth on his cock for longer than a few seconds, and by the flinty determination in your eyes as you stare up at him, you have no intention of letting Zayne move you away this time.

“____,” He sighs, hardly sounding convincing to his own ears, his hand is already loosening its grip on you, and you tilt your head coyly.

“You don’t want me to suck it?” 

If he wasn’t hard before, he certainly is now. He swallows hard, glancing at the door as your wrist falls from his grip and you quickly resume your work of undoing his slacks and slipping into the waistband of his briefs. He’s a weak little man, so desperate for every inch of you. He’s had you in more ways than he can count in the few months the two of you have been dating officially, and Zayne isn’t sure it’ll ever be enough. To cross this final line, to have your pretty red lips wrapped around him, he’s not sure he’ll survive it.

Your hand is firm, gripping his cock and pumping it a couple of times, a ragged sigh falling from Zayne’s lips. He’s never fucked in his office before, but the image before him is more familiar than he would like to admit. He can’t quite believe one of his most sordid and frequent dreams is coming true.

Your hot breath lingers for barely a moment before your warm, wet mouth is on him, tongue laving at his slit. His eyes roll back as his body becomes boneless in the desk chair, hands white-knuckled on the plastic arms. 

“Jesus…fuck, baby - just like that -“ His voice sounds reedy and breathless, cock twitching in your grip as your hand pumps the couple inches you can’t quite reach. For your first time, this is unreal, and Zayne is slowly losing his mind with the way you bob your head in his lap like you’re as hungry for him as he is for you.

He’s constantly on the verge of coming when you’re touching him, or under him, sometimes even when you look at him. Most times you only have to glance at him across his apartment with heat in your eyes before he’s got you bent over the dining table within a few minutes. 

You’re moaning, enjoying him just as much as he enjoys you, your thighs spread wide on the carpet, a hand snaking beneath your skirt. He knows the moment you slip your fingers against your clit by the way your lashes flutter, eyes flicking up to gaze at him. You remind him of a succubus, like in one of the weird, animated porn videos his friends used to show him in college - eyes heavy-lidded, long lashes fanning over your cheekbones as your plush lips surround his dick. You look at him as if you’re about to suck out his soul through his cock, and he doesn’t have to think twice about whether or not he would let you if it was possible.

“I wanna come inside you -“ He pants, already knowing he’s too close, far too close, and he’s thankful that you’re touching yourself so he can lose himself in you. He’s not sure he has the time to get you wet and ready for him, and he has a feeling he won’t have to. You grunt in protest when he pulls you off him, his slacks falling to his knees when he stands to drag you up and push you down so you’re bent over, sprawled on his desk like every fantasy he’s ever had come to life. He tugs to your skirt, tugging your thong down to your knees, your round ass bare for his hands to wander. If he had the time he would enjoy the view before him a little longer, explore every sweet inch of you. He’s blessed by the sight of your damp pussy, pink and ready for him, and he slips in a finger if only to hear you sigh. 

“So good at sucking my cock, beautiful girl,” His voice is nothing but a rasp against your ear, digging deep until you moan, a needy, keening sound that has him glancing up at the door again. Your wetness is already leaking out around his digit, his fingers slick as they noisily pump in and out. Zayne can’t help but wrap his hand around his dick, feeling it pulse in his palm. He thinks fast, covering your lips with his palm as another groan builds in your throat, “Who does this cock belong to, huh?”

“Me,” Is your muffled reply, and he huffs out a laugh, pulling his fingers from your tight, wet entrance.

He positions himself against you, his shirt nearly soaked through with sweat as his hand trembles against your hip, “That’s fucking right. It’s yours. All yours,” and he slides home. You groan against his palm, hands sliding on the glass surface as Zayne begins to drill into you, a quick, steady pace that has the photos of the two of you beginning to jostle on the desk..

He glances up at the door again, the frosted glass showing nothing to the corridor outside, and yet a sick thrill rushes down his spine as he silently hopes someone knows that you walked your beautiful ass in here simply to spread your legs for him, and that he’s the one getting to fuck you over his desk. Nobody else. 

He manages a few more hard thrusts before you tense, a garbled moan against his palm before you tighten up on him like a dream. The clench of your pussy sets off his own orgasm, one that leaves his thighs trembling. He’s panting, laying over your back and softening inside you when his pager beeps - time for his surgery.

He’s not even sure he can walk, never mind stand for the next six hours.

You wiggle under him, glancing over your shoulder before he drops a wet kiss on your neck.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Dr Zayne,” You giggle, and Zayne smiles as he presses another kiss into your hair.

[zephyrchama]

Make barbatos fanfics pls

The memory of your recent mishap kept playing in your mind. It was a complete mistake - you hadn't intended to drench Barbatos in tea. Despite him being more than capable of protecting himself, you foolishly attempted to shield him from whatever toxic concoction Solomon was cooking up. One thing led to another, a massive pot fell over, there was an ear-deafening clang, and Barbatos was on the ground. Sopping wet.

He wasted no time in excusing himself to clean off, leaving you to bear the weight of your sins. Anyone could have easily cleaned the mess with magic, but Barbatos instead opted for a shower for some peace and quiet to calm down. Solomon was left to scrub the floor by hand since he started this issue in the first place.

As all of the castle's linens had been conveniently gathered in the laundry room to be inventoried, you took it upon yourself to grab a clean towel and deliver it to Barbatos.

You could hear the water running from down the hall. It was so loud, you weren't sure Barbatos could hear you. Wisps of steam escaped from the cracks around the bathroom door. You knocked. There was no answer.

"Barbatos?" you called, knocking again. There was no answer. Only the running of water. He was probably already in the shower. You could take this opportunity to grab his soiled uniform and clean it before the stains permanently set in.

With that plan of action, you opened the door. Barbatos was not in the shower, despite the running faucet. In fact, Barbatos was stark naked in the middle of the room. A washcloth in his hand indicated he had already obtained his own towels. He had his back to the door, as if he was just about to enter the tub. He made eye contact with you over his shoulder, eyes wide.

That one second felt like an hour.

His posture was superb. A mix of tea and condensation from the muggy bathroom air trailed down the curve of his spine, fine enough to be in a medical textbook. Your eyes followed, down to the base of his tail and the derriere behind it. Two fabulous, firm full moons. A sight rarer than anything else in all the three realms.

"Did you need something?"

Barbatos' usual polite tone was punctuated with umbrage. He placed a hand on his chest, as though shielding his visage.

"I'm sorry!" were the first words you spat out, on reflex. Coherent thinking failed you in the face of such art. Sentences started falling out of your mouth and you hoped they made sense. "I thought you might need a towel, so I got one from the laundry and came to give it to you. I knocked! I did, I knocked, but you didn't answer so I came in to leave this."

You held the towel forward with both hands as an offering. "And I was gonna collect your clothes so I could wash them. As an apology for, ah, that other thing I did. Sorry."

You stared at the ground. Even Barbatos' ankles were pristine. A little bony, tapering down at the sides that led to his slender feet. You watched his weight shift as his tail curled closer to his body.

"How thoughtful. I'd appreciate if you could hang it on the towel bar. I will handle my clothes myself, later."

"Right, of course." You swiveled and diligently hung the towel up. The dirty clothes in question were on the ground, still soaking wet, neatly folded in a square. You looked from them back to Barbatos. He was rooted in place, not budging in the slightest. One wrong move, and who knew how much you'd see?

More than the current eyeful, that's for sure. More than the slope of his shoulders. More than the rise and fall of his upper body with each fresh breath. More than the sight of his wet hair clinging to the curve of his jawbone and the tenseness in his arm when his painted fingernails wrapped around the tiny washcloth.

"Do you need anything else?" he asked. An obvious cue for you to leave.

"I'm good," you said. It was hard not to ogle at the size of his waist fully unobscured by clothing, and its ratio to his hips. "Do you... need any help?"

"I am fine. I will be taking my shower now." His voice echoed around the bathroom as you finally left. It echoed around your head, too, when he said, "be good and wait for me."

[cinnaminsvga]

Harana | Jungkook

harana (n.): the act of wooing someone by serenading them

→ summary:

Unwilling to settle down with you after five years of dating, Jeon Jungkook decides to break up to chase after his dreams. In the aftermath, you leave your hometown, desperate to forget your past and relearn what it means to be on your own. Two years later while on your way to work, you pass by a familiar voice singing songs about a girl he had left behind.

{or alternatively: Jungkook still sings the love songs that he wrote for you. He still means them, too.}

→ genre: busker!au, exes to lovers, angst, humor → warnings: jimin is insane and kinda crude (he has some issues going on), jungkook is a pathetic wet bunny but he's trying his best, oc has So Many Problems, so much arguing and yearning, ambiguous ending??? but my god there is hope!! the humanity of it all!! → words: 16.1K → a/n: HOLY SHIT IM BACK (kinda) and happy new year!! yeah ok its march but im relearning how to form coherent sentences so be patient ;w; this is the first installment of my hfoh series that i teased a LONG time ago... i made it a resolution to complete this series by the end of the year before i kms (Keep Myself Safe) so here's to a brand new year :D (oh god @ universe pls be kind)

part of the “heart full of hugot” series

Two days before the incident, your shower nozzle decides to explode.

Okay, you have to admit that statement is a little misleading. Shower nozzles, in all its nonsentience, do not randomly decide to explode no matter how much you try to defend yourself to your landlord. Maybe your grip had been a little too harsh that morning, or maybe hanging 5 pounds of hair products on the handle had been a bit too much for the old sport to handle. Or maybe, just maybe, the universe was warning you about the incident.

Whatever it was, it doesn’t erase the fact that your shower would be out of commission for the next week or so (though your landlord seems adamant about prolonging your suffering as long as possible). Until then, you’re going to have to find some other ways to keep the grease and grime from building on you. Heavens know that you already have a thriving ecosystem living in the back of your couch—you don’t need another one growing under your armpits. 

Lucky for you, you have friends. More importantly, you have friends who have showers. There is one problem though—all your friends live on the other side of the country. 

It’s been two years since you moved to the Big City™️, but you have done little to grow your social network. Call it introversion or depression, either way, you have no more contacts on your phone than you did when you left your hometown. Well, except for one person, if you could even consider him one. Frankly, you didn’t have a choice.

“Welcome to my humble abode, stinky,” Jimin greets you as you enter his house. Your nose is instantly assaulted by the smell of Bath & Body Works® Sweet Pea, reminding you once more why you didn’t consider him a friend. 

“Hey,” you reply gruffly, shucking your ratty shoes near his entrance. Your shoes look incredibly out of place amidst the sea of designer Chelsea boots and a singular pair of thigh-high heels. You take a glance at his living room, already feeling worse about yourself tenfold.

You had met Park Jimin by complete accident, much like how his mother probably felt when she first saw him too. You had never known anyone quite as… interesting as him, to put it lightly. 

When you got your job as a hostess for a luxury bar and restaurant, you figured you wouldn’t make many friends with your coworkers. Everyone was so… pretty, but in the shiny, untouchable sort of way. Almost all of the servers were as gorgeous as the models you’d see in magazines. You hadn’t known that the owners only hired a certain “demographic” of people for their restaurant, and you were equal parts flattered and disgusted that you’d somehow made it (though you suppose your bullshitting skills were all to thank). 

Unsurprisingly, even the bartenders were gorgeous, including one Park Jimin. He did have an aura to him that screamed “I’m a cut above the rest and I know it,” but that could just be the gold chains dripping down his neck. You almost mistook him as one of the patrons who mistakenly made his way behind the bar, and knowing the sort of clientele you’ve had to deal with so far, you wouldn’t have been surprised. It took a couple of weeks before you finally found out who he was (and what his fucking problem was).

Jimin was a part-time bartender with a full-time job as a bitch a self-made entrepreneur. Which is to say, he sold… tasteful photos of himself on the internet. You had nothing against his line of work. In fact, you would go far as to say you didn’t give a shit what he did outside of your shared workspace. But if there’s one thing Jimin is, it’s that he hates being ignored. 

So when you were adamant about not oohing and aahing at everything that makes Park Jimin perfect, he made it his self-appointed mission to befriend you. Or at least that’s what he claims, but given how he treats you lesser than the shit that cakes his cheeks, you have a lot of doubts. Perhaps he’s never made an effort to make a friend, hence his inexperience with being a decent human being. Or perhaps he’s just an asshole, but who is to say? The point is: he’s the only person you knew in this godforsaken city who would likely allow you to use his shower without being awkward about it and that’s that. 

The worst part about being an acquaintance with Park Jimin was that he lived in the richest area of Downtown but he wasn’t old money, that’s for sure. His entire essence screamed overconsumption, and his myriad of little trinkets littered across his apartment confirmed your previous assessment. You wouldn’t be surprised if you opened his freezer and found ten types of ice sorted assorted by color and shape like the extra bitch that he was. 

He made his money through sheer force, and it would have impressed you if he wasn’t, you know. Him.

“Bathroom is over there. I placed a towel and other shower amenities that you can borrow,” he says pointing to a door with a large “FART ZONE: ENTER WITH CAUTION” sign taped to it. You don’t ask.

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You wait patiently for his out-of-pocket comment. 

Like clockwork, Jimin smirks. “Sure thing. I gave you the super heavy-duty stuff. Figured you’d burn a hole through my expensive towels with how stinky you are, with your yeasty cu—”

“Aaaand I’ll be done in a few minutes. Thanks again Jimin,” you interrupt, making your way to the bathroom and slamming the door with as much force as you can muster. You hear something fall as the door shuts, and you vaguely hear Jimin mutter something about his “fart zone” signage. 

You begin to prepare your shower routine, humming lowly as you go about your business. You try to ignore the suffocating scent of ten million diffusers entering your nostrils, wondering for the umpteenth time if Jimin is suffering from long-term olfactory dysfunction. 

“Focus, Y/N. The quicker you shower, the quicker you can get the fuck out of here,” you whisper to yourself. However, in your haste, you knock over Jimin’s towel by accident. When the towel falls, a sheet of sandpaper slips out from underneath it, and you stare bemusedly until it finally hits you.

“YOU ARE SUCH A LITTLE BITCH!” 

From behind the door, you can hear Jimin’s infamous cackle. “Did you find the loofah? I got it just for you, darling!” he shouts back through his laughter, and you just grumble back in response. How on earth no one has strangled him to death, you have no idea.

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower now! Go beat off or whatever the fuck you do in your spare time,” you grouse, stripping as quickly as possible.

When the first droplets of water hit your body, you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. You had both anticipated and dreaded going to Jimin’s house, but you desperately needed the shower. So you go through your routine, trying to find some semblance of relaxation throughout the process. However, it seems that Jimin was yearning for a little bit of attention as he chose to recline on the other side of the door and chat your ear off. Peace was never an option, it seems.

“Hey, Y/N! So why haven’t I seen you at work recently?” Jimin hollers from his living room. Despite the wall separating you, his voice manages to retain its volume.

You squirt a large glob of Jimin’s (expensive) conditioner onto your hands. “What do you mean? I go to work every day. You were the one who hasn’t been clocking in.”

You can hear Jimin scoff. “Um, correction! I went to work last Friday, which so happened to be your day off. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed you were avoiding me.”

And right you are, you think. But instead, you say, “Yeah, what a coincidence. I’ll be back to my regular schedule on Monday, though.”

“So that means you didn’t see the Justin Bieber wannabe stationed outside the restaurant then?” Jimin asks, voice miffed. “The guy suddenly sat down by the entrance window and a whole damn crowd started to appear! The absolute nerve of these people—don’t they know Park Jimin was just past the doors?” 

This provokes Jimin to go on his long epic soliloquy, which you’ve learned to drown out over the past two years. He could go on hour-long tirades if he wanted, and any interruption from you would just bounce off his nonfunctioning ears. And so, you allow his voice to fall to the back of your mind, similar to white noise if it wasn’t so grating.

However, this was likely your greatest mistake. If you hadn’t been so exhausted, or if Park Jimin hadn’t been so damn annoying all the time, or if the stars had aligned just right… Maybe you would have been forewarned about the incident. It’s as if the universe was screaming at you to pay attention, but alas… You were standing on the proverbial highway, unbeknownst to the incoming traffic because you had your metaphorical AirPods on.

So there you are, completely showered but none the wiser to your impending doom, naively looking to the future with unsuspecting eyes. Even if you had known of what was to come, would avoiding it even be possible? In hindsight, you suppose not, but you still kick yourself for being so blind. If only you’d steeled your heart, then maybe you wouldn’t have felt like vomiting in front of a crowd of innocent bystanders the very next day.

xxx

Monday comes and your shower still isn’t fixed. Jimin makes the benevolent gesture of allowing you to use his shower in the meantime, though you’ll only partake in his offer as minimally as possible. He does mention that he’ll need at least an hour’s notice, warning you about “accidental voyeurism.” You shudder to think of what sort of horror you might find if you did visit him without warning, and you pray for the continued well-being of your retinas.

On your way to work, you’re too busy watching cute videos of animals to notice the unusual flock of people idling close to your workplace. When you get closer, however, the growing commotion is enough to rip your gaze away from your phone, and the sight of the large crowd makes you stop in your tracks. 

It is 4 pm and the usual line of waiting patrons should not start piling up for another three hours, so this confuses you more than anything. You shuffle closer, squinting at the crowd until you notice that they aren’t lined up at all; instead, they have congregated into a large circle, but you are too far to see what they are surrounding. 

An accident? You worry, wondering if something terrible happened. You tiptoe above the heads of people, subtly moving forward to take a better look. Curse you and your curiosity. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself to see something grotesque or astonishing, but instead…

It’s worse.

Inching closer, you can begin to hear a soft thrumming of a guitar and a gentle singing voice that causes alarm bells to ring in your ears. The warm melody digs up old memories of a time long past: of ballads sung outside your childhood bedroom window, of promises whispered under Spiderman sheets, of tender caresses tucking stray hairs behind your ears… They flood your senses, but all you can feel is dread.

It can’t be who you think it is. You accidentally elbow a guy on your way to get closer, unsteadying his grip on his phone. 

“Hey, watch it! I’m filming a totally not-staged TikTok over here!” He yells, but you can hardly pay attention to him when you feel unnaturally drawn to come closer, still. 

You’re nearly at the front, with just a couple of teenagers standing between you and the (not-so) mysterious street performer. But the distance is enough, and your breath catches. You can see him—

Black hair partially hidden under a bucket hat. Boots bigger than Pangaea and a pair of eyes equally as large. Dark ink snaking down his arms, peeking out from under oversized sleeves. Piercings that could rival Park Jimin on a good day. He isn’t facing you, but you can still see his big doe eyes, gentle sloping nose, and pretty lips stretched into a handsome smile.

Your heart is thundering in your chest. This can’t be happening, you panic. After two whole years of rebuilding and reshaping yourself, relearning how to be yourself and not… not just his girlfriend.

Jeon Jungkook stands before you, busking in front of your workplace of all locations. The universe could not have been any crueler to you.

You—you had been known as nothing more than Jeon Jungkook’s high school sweetheart. Buried memories of snide comments from jealous teen girls fill your mind, reminding you of the time when you were coined a simple side piece to the main attraction. Decor, as they would call you. Nothing more than a girl who happened to snag Jungkook before people realized he was going to turn… hot. A hot guy who could sing. An inevitable chic magnet, as they would call him. 

And now, years later after much therapy and soul searching, your worst nightmare is standing in front of you in the flesh. This is what you will eventually dub the incident. 

At that moment, however, there is little to no time to dwell on naming this ongoing core memory. All you can feel is the adrenaline pumping through your veins, as well as the nausea rising up your throat. You stumble backward, blatantly shoving onlookers away as you struggle to find some air to breathe. In hindsight, you probably should have backed away as subtly as possible, but you hope that your dyed hair might be different enough that Jungkook wouldn’t know it was you if he had glanced your way. 

Even when you stagger towards your work establishment, the walls cannot perfectly muffle his soothing singing. You can’t make out the lyrics to his song too well, but his unmistakable voice is hard to ignore. Working as a hostess, your station is also coincidentally as close to the door as possible for maximum torture. 

This can’t get any worse, you think as your mind races with conflicting emotions. You thought you had moved on, thought you were past the pain and the memories, but seeing Jungkook again, unexpectedly, stirs up a storm of feelings you thought were buried deep. Anger, hurt, betrayal—all rush to the surface, threatening to overwhelm you.

But there is no time to unpack all that baggage right now. Time will continue to march on, and your job is still on the line. How can you have the time to have a mental breakdown when you were still living paycheck to paycheck?

But even as you try to push Jungkook out of your mind, his voice echoes in your ears, his image burned into your memory. It's as if the universe is laughing at your misery, reminding you that despite all your supposed growth, you are still just you. 

Painfully and pathetically you.

As you struggle to pull yourself together, a familiarly loud voice rings outside the edge of your consciousness. “Hey, Y/N! Fancy seeing you here…” Jimin greets you, his usual jovial demeanor halting midway when he sees your panicked expression. He clears his throat, perplexed. “Umm… Are you alright there, girl? You’re looking a little pale.”

You do not even have the mental capacity to wonder why Park Jimin was miraculously early to his shift, nor why he seems genuinely worried for you. Rather, all you can do is wave him off and use what little time you have before the restaurant opens to steel yourself for hours of melodious torture. 

“I’m fine, Park. You should get to work,” you grit out, wiping your sweaty palms on your uniform. Normally, Jimin would have teased you about the obvious wrinkles on your skirt. 

“You’re not the boss of me,” Jimin huffs, always the contrarian. He thinks better of it, however, and softens his tone. “Are you feeling sick or something? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

You freeze, perhaps giving yourself away a little. “I’m fine,” you repeat. 

“You know, if you refuse to elaborate, I’m going to have to retract your shower privileges,” Jimin taunts with a smirk. 

You feel a migraine growing by your temple, making you wince. God, why must men be the source of all your problems?

“I’m just… a little annoyed by the busker outside the restaurant,” you eventually admit, trying to be vague. Unfortunately for you, Jimin hates beating around the bush and would never take your crap if he knows something is up.

Unable to withstand the weight of his unimpressed stare, you clarify, “He was someone I used to know, that’s all.” You aren’t going to be any more specific than that, though you imagine Jimin gets the picture. You zip your lips, hoping to whoever is causing you pain that Jimin would somehow let the matter drop and leave you to your misery.

You brace yourself for his onslaught of questioning to come, and… it doesn’t happen. Instead, when you glance at Jimin, he is mysteriously stone faced. You wait for him to speak for what feels like a few minutes, but he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to tease or ridicule you. He simply watches you with a pensive expression. You can barely stop yourself from staring back at him, slack-jawed at his silence. 

Of course, you aren’t just going to question your luck, or what little you have at least. So, you stay silent back and fidget uncomfortably.

Finally, Jimin seems to snap out of his strange reverie. He fixes you with a bizarrely sympathetic grin, patting you affectionately on the back. “I see… Well, if you ever need a drink tonight, head over to the bar for a little sip. I got you covered,” is all he says in response before sashaying away. 

That was so fucking weird. You want to chase after him, perhaps beat the truth out of him. Jimin is nothing but a scheming dick, and you aren’t about to let him roam free with such sensitive information about yourself. Just as you’re about to stomp his ass (perhaps to relieve some of the building tension from your weary soul), your manager pops his head from his office door. 

“Y/N! Make sure you’re logged into the booking system. There’s going to be a party of 20 coming in about an hour,” he reminds you, shooting you an apologetic look. You nod back with a sigh, swiping the booking tablet from the hostess desk and scrolling through the logs. Sure enough, it is going to be a busy night despite being a Monday evening. Perhaps a little busier than usual, in fact.

Whatever. You will use whatever distraction you can get, and perhaps the approaching noise from the restaurant patrons will be enough to drown out the sound of his voice. 

You aren’t religious by any means, but you pray to whatever higher power exists that Jeon Jungkook doesn’t somehow decide to enter the restaurant. Stay outside, you plead. Outside the restaurant and your life, if possible.

Throughout the evening, you do your best to push aside the memories that threaten to resurface. You greet customers with a smile, lead them to their tables, and ensure their dining experience is pleasant despite the anxiety poisoning your insides. It's a routine you've perfected over time, a shield against the chaos of your emotions.

As the night wears on, you can feel Jimin's eyes on you from across the restaurant. You sneak glances back at him, and you blanch at his pitying gaze. If the restaurant had been slightly less crowded, you would have flipped him off. 

He’s probably enjoying my suffering, you think darkly. Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, you straighten up and do your best to appear more unaffected. Just as you do so, you can hear Jungkook perfectly hitting a soulful high note. 

“I’m so sorry for thinking I was strong,” you whisper to the universe. “Forgive me for my insolence.” You clench your fist in anguish, ignoring the confused looks from the customers in front of you. 

By the time your shift comes to a close, you are completely and utterly drained. You feel like a snail that has been continuously salted over the past eight hours, and you cannot help but cheer in relief when the clock finally strikes two in the morning. You have to wait for the last few diners to make their leave, but otherwise you are ready to let your bed swallow you whole. 

You stand by your hostess desk, leaning your head against it with a defeated sigh. Jungkook’s voice had died down only a few minutes ago, and you hope that by this point he has mercifully left the premises. You want to take a peek to make sure, but just as you’re about to make your way to the door, you feel a hand on your shoulder stop you in your tracks.

“‘Sup, bitch.” Jimin still has that weird, pitying gaze pointed at you, though his words don’t match it. “Are you okay to go home alone tonight? I can bring your dumb ass home if you want.”

You shove his hand away, ready to bite his head off when you think better of it. If Jimin drives you home, then that lowers the chances of seeing Jungkook down to pretty much zero. 

“You know what? Thanks,” you grouse. Jimin smiles at you winningly, and the image of it brings a shiver down your spine. You hit him, creeped out. “Hey. Stop that, will you? You’re being really weird?”

Jimin scoffs, crossing his arms. “Me? Weird? At least I don’t look like a damn firework ready to explode just because my cringelord ex-boyfriend is singing sappy love songs outside—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you seethe, stomping on his foot. He yelps in pain and slaps your shoulder in retaliation. 

“Ouch! Watch your ogre feet! My shoes are worth twice your monthly rent I’ll have you know,” he bristles. He breathes deeply, likely finding his inner calm (which you doubt exists). “But because I’m so nice, I’ll ignore your earlier transgression and blame it on your underdeveloped amygdala.”

You don’t know what’s more surprising: the fact that Jimin knew what an amygdala was or that he was forgiving you in the first place. “Whatever. Let’s finish closing up and then head out. I’m exhausted.”

You make quick work of your task and when you’re ready to head out, Jimin is already waiting by the backdoor. He’s twirling his car keys with a finger and gestures for you to follow him. As you make your way to his car in the back parking lot, you catch sight of a lone figure standing next to a beat-up pickup truck. He’s leaning against it, his hands busy tuning a battered guitar.

Your breath hitches, and you immediately feel nauseous. Of course the incident has yet to end. The night is young, after all.

Jimin accidentally slams the backdoor closed, and the noise wrenches Jungkook’s attention away from his ministrations. Immediately, his eyes lock with Jimin before finally turning to you. 

Your heart skips a beat as he gazes at you, your mind racing with a hurricane of emotions. You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon, especially not after the tumultuous encounter earlier in the day. What did you say earlier? That “the chances of seeing Jungkook was down to pretty much zero”? 

The chances of seeing Jungkook is low, but never zero, your mind unhelpfully supplies.

There is a long period of awkward silence. Jungkook has his mouth slightly agape, his hand subconsciously lowering his guitar to rest against his truck. To your left, Jimin’s breathing quickens slightly. You, on the other hand, are trying your best not to projectile vomit in this damned parking lot. 

Jungkook is the one who decides to break the delicate silence. “Is that you…?” he calls out hesitantly. 

Don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my name don’t say my—

“Y/N,” Jimin interjects. His gaze is steel cold, uncharacteristic of the carefree boy. He slings an arm around your shoulders, gently nudging you towards his car. With your view still fixed on Jungkook, you miss the way Jimin shoots the other boy with a playful smirk. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go home.”

His words startle both you and Jungkook. “Wha—? Jimin?” you splutter, flushing at his flirtatious undertone. You want to curse him out for his strange behavior, but all the shock has left you mute. 

Jimin all but shoves you into the passenger seat. But just as he’s about to slam the car door, you hear Jungkook call out your name. It’s fleeting and quiet, but you heard him crystal clear.

It breaks your spirit to hear him say your name. For a moment, you feel as though you are floating.

When was the last time he called your name? And so softly, too? If you could replay that moment over and over, would you be able to catch some signs of tenderness in his voice? When you close your eyes later that night, would your dreams show you that he had been gazing at you with yearning? Was any of it true?

As Jimin starts the car and pulls away from the curb, you steal one last glance out the window, only to find Jungkook staring at you with an arm outstretched. You continue to watch him until his figure disappears into the night. 

You are quietly immersed in your own thoughts, the whirlwind of emotions intensifying your persistent migraine. Unaccustomed to silence, Jimin decides to give his unsolicited two cents, as per usual.

“Geez. Didn’t know you were into the whole starving artist type. If I’d known, then maybe I’d stop trying to brag about my fortune to you,” Jimin scoffs. “If loser buskers like him impress you, then maybe I should—”

“Would you shut the fuck up for once in your fucking life!” You explode, whirling to face him with a glare. Jimin has the audacity to flinch, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. 

“What the fuck? Why the hell are you mad at me?” 

“What the hell was that back there? ‘C’mon babe.’” You mimic his voice with a sneer. “Why on earth would you do that? Now he thinks that we…”

“Why do you care what he thinks? He’s your ex, remember?” Jimin cuts you off, but you can’t even refute him. He continues, “Figured as much. And judging by how spooked you’ve looked all day, I have to assume that he was an asshole, right? Why else would you accept my offer for a ride home if you really wanted to avoid seeing him?”

You shrink under his accurate assumptions. Damn, were you really that easy to read? “I… I mean, yeah but…” You clear your throat, still feeling wronged by him. “You didn’t have to act like a weird prick in front of him!”

Without warning, the floodgates burst forth. You begin to ramble, the thoughts that have been weighing you down pouring out of you in waves. “Jungkook was my ex, yeah. But he wasn’t an asshole. On the contrary, he was really sweet. The nicest guy in my school, at least. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, that sort of person. I dated him all throughout high school and he was a great partner.”

Jimin hums skeptically. “Then why the messy break-up?”

“It wasn’t messy!” You retort defensively. 

“Could’ve fooled me!” Jimin snorts. “I also frequently act like a trembling kitten when I see my exes,” he says sarcastically. 

You ignore him. “The reason we broke it off was because he wanted to pursue his dreams to become a singer after high school and I wanted to do other things. It was a mutual break-up! Honestly, I’m glad that we did. Too many girls wanted him and all the unwanted attention was getting on my nerves. I was glad to find a reason to end it all,” you explain, hoping you didn’t sound as shaky as you felt. What you said was mostly true, though you left out the important bits to yourself. Mostly to save some of your dignity intact. (Truthfully, you just didn’t want to admit things you weren’t ready to face.)

“Then if you’re so glad, why do you look like you wanted to shit yourself? It ain’t adding up,” Jimin fires back.

“It’s just—” you stammer, trying to find a reason why you were so bent out of shape after seeing him. “I-I was caught off guard, I guess. I knew he was pursuing his dreams to sing and all, so I expected him to leave the country. I wasn’t expecting to see him outside where I work, of all places,” you mutter lamely. You have your head bowed, biting your lips from the nerves. Again, you weren’t totally lying. 

Jimin is silent for a moment, contemplating your admission. When he looks so calm like this, it’s hard to get a read on what he’s thinking. As Jimin speeds down the highway, the street lights illuminate his face in a strange way, and for once, he looks like a stranger. His steely expression makes you nervous, for some reason. 

Eventually, he asks you a question you would never have expected. “And he just let you go?”

You pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Jimin huffs, irritated. “He just up and left without a fight? If I were him, I would have…” he trails off, his jaw clenching. 

You don’t know where this Jimin came from. Under the moonlight, Jimin looks livid, but that can’t be right. Jimin, mad for you? Sure, you’ve seen his anger directed towards you, but this? Everything’s gotten so complicated, and you are just about ready to succumb to sleep and hope to wake from this nightmare.

The rest of the drive to your house is silent, save for the sounds coming from passing cars. Jimin pulls up to your apartment complex, his mysterious anger finally subsiding. 

Just as you’re about to reach for the car door handle, Jimin places a hand on your shoulder. “Listen, Y/N. I’ll talk to management tomorrow morning. I know the manager well enough that I can probably convince him to do something about that ex of yours. He’s busking on private property, so it should be easy to get rid of him,” Jimin says, tone serious. He swallows, and for a moment you think he looks a little nervous. “If that’s what you want, I guess.”

His kindness scares you. You want to tease him, ask him where Mr. Bitchy and his $2000 Chelsea boots had gone. Anything to make this air of severe sincerity to abate. This new Jimin feels suffocating. But instead, you nod your head stiffly. 

Jimin makes a pained expression for a moment, but it’s quickly replaced by his usual playful smirk. He slaps you upside the head, laughing heartily at your stunned face. 

“Get some rest, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he chuckles, reaching over to open the door for you. You scramble out into the cold city air, taking one last look back at him through his window.

He rolls it down, leaning forward to flash a toothy grin at you. “Hey, stop with all the angst, pookie. Wouldn’t want my favorite toy to get sick from overthinking. Who else would I bother at work if not you?”

You snort, both endeared and irritated in equal measure. He’s right. Everything was going back to normal tomorrow, you’re sure of it. You flip him off with a cheeky grin before making your way to your apartment.

Everything is going to be okay. Jimin says he’ll do something about it, and for whatever reason, you feel like you can trust him on this. Surely good fortune was soon to be upon you. 

xxx

Jimin had texted you while you were still sleeping:

Spoke to Manager Jeong about your little problem. He said he’ll deal with him.

You breathe a sigh of relief, your body feeling significantly lighter. Your sleep last night had been tumultuous and restless. You feel more tired than you did when you went to bed, but all your weariness fades once you read Jimin’s text. 

Once you make it to work, you find that management has gotten rid of Jungkook somehow. Added with the fact that your landlord has promised to look into repairing your shower (no guarantees, but you want to stay optimistic), today has been significantly better compared to yesterday. You even catch yourself humming as you set up your workstation, a small smile gracing your lips.

Jimin has a later shift this evening, and you find that you are somewhat disappointed for once. Your overwhelming gratitude is surely the only reason, otherwise you would never admit to wanting to see him at any given time. 

You are in the midst of texting Jimin about all the good news when your manager passes by your desk. You are quick to pocket your phone away from his prying eyes, ready to defend that you aren’t slacking off… but his demeanor does not reveal any ire. In fact, he looks rather pleased for once.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeong. What’s up?” you ask, suspicious. You instinctively fold your hands behind your back; it is a subconscious effort on your part to keep your distance from him. Something about your manager always gives you a bad feeling when he looks a little too happy. 

He grins widely. “Everything is going splendidly, Ms. Y/N. In fact, I think today might just be our lucky day!”

Never during your time working here has his and your luck ever coincided. “Our lucky day?” you echo.

“Why, yes! I spoke with your lovely friend and coworker Jimin this morning,” he starts, and immediately your alarm bells ring. You don’t even bother correcting him about the ‘friend’ part like you normally would. He continues, “He gave me a brilliant idea about the busker who had been performing in front of the restaurant the past two days.”

You nod slowly, not quite understanding. “Yes… The busker has been quite… the spectacle,” you say carefully. Somehow, you know calling Jungkook a ‘nuisance’ would have been the wrong choice in this instance.

Manager Jeong beams. “Exactly! You must have noticed the amount of people we served yesterday despite being a Monday. Additionally, almost all of those new customers requested outdoor seating no less!”

You feel the world tilt on its axis. What is he on abou—?

“What are you talking about?” you exhale.

“Don’t you think it would be even better for business if we got that busker to perform inside the restaurant? Why, it’s a brilliant idea and I don’t know why I didn’t think of it first! Our live band has always been missing something special, and perhaps a vocal accompaniment is the exact answer to our problem! Think about it, the atmosphere would be…”

Manager Jeong continues to prattle animatedly about his plans to your unhearing ears. There must be static or cotton plugging your head because you cannot possibly understand anything he is saying. Jungkook? Inside? Performing at your restaurant? But Jimin said he had spoken to the manager about getting Jungkook away from you! None of this makes sense. 

“That makes no sense,” you verbalize, unknowingly cutting Manager Jeong from his monologue. He halts in surprise, as if now just realizing you were standing there (much less capable of interrupting or disagreeing with him). When he snaps out of it, you sense that familiarly sinister aura emerging from him in waves. You belatedly realize he must have mistaken your outburst as antagonistic.

“Well, Ms. Y/N. Whether it makes sense or not, we have hired Mr. Jeon to perform live at the bar stage for the next four weeknights. If, for some unknowable reason, I am incorrect,” he pauses to emphasize his words, “then his services will be promptly terminated. However, judging by his popularity from simply standing out in the cold and singing silly love songs, I am sure that worry is unwarranted.”

Behind you, the telltale sound of the main door swinging open catches you even more off guard. You do not even have the chance to turn to face the newcomer, only managing to register the gust of cold wind that accompanies their entry.

And so, you hear him before you see him. 

“Hello?” Jeon Jungkook greets quietly.

Even without turning, you can imagine how he looks, how he stands, how he feels, how he tastes—

Manager Jeong claps his hands gleefully. “Splendid timing! Speak of the devil…” The older man nearly skips towards Jungkook like a youthful school girl, accompanied by his uncharacteristic squeals of excitement. 

You can feel his gaze on you, almost tangibly. With nothing but your shreds of dignity left intact, you force yourself to face him. 

He’s still so tall, is all your mind can helpfully supply as you stand feet away from your high school sweetheart for the first time in two years. He’s still wearing the same bucket hat from the night before, semi-shielding him from view. Despite that, you catch a small flash of white graze his bottom lip as he chews the soft flesh nervously.

“Hi, Y/N.” He addresses you directly, completely overlooking your manager without a single glance. Despite his hat, he still has his eyes lasered on you, as if not quite believing you were there. You hate how his attention makes you shiver all the same. 

Even though he ignored your manager (which would have been a major dispute had you done the same), Jungkook still receives a friendly handshake in return. “Mr. Jeon! I’m surprised you know Ms. Y/N, though I’m sure you must have spoken with her when she was escorting guests to the outdoor seating the other day.”

You had actually gotten your co-hostess to seat all the outdoor seatings yesterday, but you weren’t going to mention that.

Manager Jeong claps him on the back, inadvertently causing Jungkook to stumble forward closer to you. He looks up at you then, eyes bugging out of their sockets like a rabbit caught in a bear trap. You stagger backwards in turn, barely concealing the anxiety on your face. Oh fucking hell.

Your manager is none the wiser, of course. “Well, this makes my job much easier! Since you’re both acquainted, I’ll let Y/N show you the ropes. The band doesn’t start their set until later in the evening, but you’re free to take a look at the stage and other parts of our facility in the meantime,” he says, chuffed. Meanwhile, Jungkook looks like he’s been shot by a freeze ray. 

Then, your manager points a sharper gaze at you. “Ms. Y/N, treat our super star well. I know you won’t disappoint me.”

Fucking superstar… You can only nod in defeat. “Y-Yes, sir…” you whisper, clenching your uniform with your fists. It is the only way to keep them from shaking like a leaf. You watch as his figure disappears behind his office door, leaving you to fend for yourself. Powerless, you train your gaze to the floor, unwilling to meet Jungkook’s eyes. 

But the nerves are taking control of your body, screaming at you to eject, eject, eject!

“Sorry, I have to go to the toilet,” you splutter quickly, almost tripping over yourself on the way to the restroom. You dimly wonder if Jungkook is going to think you’re leaving to throw up, but you can’t find any self-respect left to care. All you need is air and space to breathe—preferably away from him. 

You slam open the stall, hardly checking to see if anyone else is around before locking the door shut. You sit on the toilet, plant your face between your knees, and scream. 

Should you go home and use sickness as an excuse? But even if you did, you still had shifts every weeknight. You would have to see him eventually. You can pray all you want that Jungkook will be fired by the end of the week, but even your delusional mind can never fathom the idea that anyone would willingly want to send Jeon Jungkook away. Plus, you remember that the regular band that plays at the restaurant has been wanting to get a singer to accompany them for ages, and you know just how damn affable he can be. They are going to love him, and you hate him for that.

It is clear to you that there is no other option:

You pull out your phone to quickly open up Indeed on your browser, frantically hunting for any openings that might fit your measly qualifications. However, you have to pause in your search to deliberate. Wouldn’t it be better to move out of the country? You had been so naive to think that moving cities was enough distance between you and Jungkook—going across the ocean is the obvious answer. Should you start up your Duolingo lessons again and hope that you can somehow survive in a different continent with only a few dollars to your name? 

You shut your phone in despair. Whether or not your plans of escape are feasible or not, in the short term, you are stuck with having to suck it up and just learn to ignore your ex-boyfriend’s presence. Surely you can force out a fake smile or two, especially with how much practice you’ve gotten after working with unbearably entitled customers. 

Taking a step outside of the restroom stall, you head to the sink to splash some cold on your face. You stare at the mirror, confronted by a girl who looks two seconds away from having a Netflix Original-esque meltdown. You rake your fingers through your hair, doing your best to look like you aren’t about to rush into incoming traffic. To no one's surprise, it doesn't work.

“Okay, I got this. Just pretend like he’s just some guy, because at the end of the day, he is just some guy,” you mutter to your reflection. She looks back at you unconvinced. “He may have broken my heart into little bite size pieces, but who cares! HE’S JUST A GUY!” You repeat the phrase over and over again like a lunatic, in a desperate attempt to cognitively alter your brain chemistry.

At that moment, one of the other stalls in the restroom creaks open, and a girl you recognize who works as one of the dishwashers walks out. You both have a silent eye conversation as she quietly studies your crazed expression and crumpled work uniform. 

Eventually, she awkwardly clears her throat, pointing to the only sink in the restroom. “Uh, sorry to hear about your, uh, guy problem. Could I use the sink please?” 

You hastily back away, allowing her to take your spot. You don’t even have the energy to apologize for your spectacle, just bowing sheepishly to her before making your way back to the main hall. If she rats you out to the rest of your coworkers, then that gives you another reason to move out of the country. Maybe you should consider a name change while you’re at it.

When you exit the restroom, you half expect Jungkook to be waiting for you by the door, but find that he isn’t anywhere nearby. He isn’t by your hostess station either, and you thank your lucky stars for once. Even if your manager had asked you to show him around, you’re sure that Jungkook can find his way around just fine. Plus, the stage is at the corner of the restaurant and is sufficiently far enough that you wouldn’t have to make eye contact with him if you were careful. 

You don’t know which greater entity has been messing with your sanity these past few days, but you hope that they can show you mercy just once—a brief reprieve, if anything. 

You clasp your hands in prayer. I’ll eat more vegetables, I’ll remember to floss, I’ll call my parents from time to time… Just please let me survive tonight. 

“Remember, Y/N… He’s just some guy,” you reiterate through gritted teeth. If a passing coworker happens to overhear your demented chanting, then you pay them no mind.

You walk towards the entrance, flipping the sign to open. You feel like a video game character when you glance at the clock, which signals the start of your shift. You can imagine the red bold text hovering above your head: 8 more hours until freedom. 

This is just like playing Five Nights at Freddy’s, except you’ve only watched the movie and you suspect your life is probably worse than whatever Josh Hutcherson had to survive through. 

You take a couple heaving breaths to brace yourself for what will be the longest eight hours of your life. You’ll show Jungkook just how well-adjusted and mature you’ve become. You are a professional, and not even a boy with angelic vocals will make you crumble. After all, what’s the worst he can do? 

xxx

He could, in fact, do a lot worse than you thought. 

“I have many regrets being born at all,” you mutter bleakly, three hours into your shift. 

Jungkook had started singing only an hour ago, so you had been filled with false confidence at first when the restaurant was filled with nothing but ambient chatter and soothing jazz music. You felt more and more confident as the minutes ticked by and your anxiety slowly melted away. You even forgot that he was somewhere in the back, likely warming up or whatever it is that singers did before a performance. 

However, your brief moment of courage shatters almost immediately when Jungkook finally takes the stage. 

At first, you did your best to tune out his voice, but it’s especially hard when whoever was in charge of the sound system decided to crank his volume to an excruciating level. You wanted desperately to grab some napkins and shove them in your ears, but you suspected that your customers (and manager) would be unappreciative of that gesture. And so there you lay, forced to wallow in Jungkook’s melodious singing like a criminal strapped to an electric chair.

But how much more pleasant an electric chair would be! Why on earth was Jungkook so adamant to sing sad love songs the entire time? Why couldn’t he be like his other singing contemporaries, who loved to write songs about getting bitches and making money? At the very least, even if he wasn’t quite a platinum selling artist just yet, surely he was constantly sharing beds with anyone he pleases? Couldn’t he sing about that?!

(In the back of your mind, you wonder if it would be less painful to learn that Jungkook has slept with multiple people… Because then, it would mean that he had moved on while you stood alone on your island, stranded and yearning.)

You didn’t want to think too deeply about his lyrics. However, you're only human. So when your mind barrier failed and you caught snippets of his singing, you noticed a pattern. There was always a girl in his songs. She was omnipresent, and Jungkook was always pleading for her. Begging and aching and wanting. But most all… he was always repenting. In every song, he always whispered a pious apology. 

You feared what would happen if you turned around in those moments of weakness. You were terrified of admitting something, of letting words spill that had been trapped in your throat for the better part of two years. 

Lucky for you, salvation comes in the form of one Park Jimin. Though, can you even count him as your savior when he had also inadvertently caused your demise?

Jimin doesn’t even have a shift today, so you’re more than surprised when his bright blonde head stumbles through the restaurant doors. His expensive coat is askew and his signature designer shades are nowhere to be found. He is panic incarnate—an expression you have never seen on his face before.

“Holy fuck,” he greets, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath. His profanity startles the elderly couple waiting to be seated, their glares menacingly sharp. To his credit, Jimin doesn’t even seem phased.

In lieu of an answer, you gesture vaguely behind you. You can imagine how dejected you must look. “Holy fuck indeed,” you sigh.

It takes a moment for Jimin to regain his bearings. He straightens up and pats down his coat, but his hair is still tousled by the wind. If not for the fact that he has a car, you might have thought he had run all the way here. 

“I am so sorry. I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he starts, genuinely remorseful. “I texted Manager Jeong this morning and he said he’d get your ex to leave, but I didn’t think he’d offer the damn bastard a job!”

“Mind your language, Park. I’m still at work,” you scold. You try your best to ignore the scrutinizing gaze of the elderly couple. You lower your voice. “And don’t apologize. I know you’re an asshole, but I doubt you’d actually prey on my downfall like this. I know you’re not into public humiliation.”

Jimin brightens slightly at your joke, but he still looks like a guilty puppy who'd been caught shitting on the carpet. “Yeah, well. I happen to enjoy tormenting you and I won’t let some upstart Charlie Puth wannabe ruin your life. That’s my job.”

You smile wryly at him. “Well, that’s too bad. Jungkook’s been singing for a few hours now and I’m pretty sure Manager Jeong is going to keep him long-term. He might have broken my heart, but damn does he have vocals. I'm sure you'll have plenty competition when it comes to 'who can make Y/N's life feel like hell.'”

Jimin doesn't smile back, but instead studies your face for a moment. Then:

“Do you think if I offer to suck Manager Jeong off, he’ll fire him?”

“What the fuck?” You nearly yell out in surprise, your jaw dropping to the floor. Judging by his serious scowl, you know he's actually considering it. By now, the elderly couple waiting to be seated have left the premises.

Jimin continues, unperturbed. “I know he secretly wants me, based on how his wife seems to have a personal vendetta against me. He definitely wants a taste of my bus—.”

“Stop, I get it!” You wave your hands to make him shut up, heat rising up your cheeks. “Never say that string of words to me ever again. You have just inflicted ten years of suffering onto my poor brain.”

“Hey, I’m just offering solutions here!” Jimin pouts. 

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Save it. You tried solving my problems already, so let’s just accept the fact that there’s nothing else for me to do but to suck it up. It’s time for me to put on my big girl pants for a change.”

“I mean, I could do all the sucking instead, but you’re being a little bitch about it,” Jimin mumbles. He’s lucky you didn’t hear him this time, lest you give him something to really whine about.

“Anyway, I guess this is my life now. Nothing to do except hope that he never tries to interact with me or I can find another job,” you shrug. 

Over your shoulder, Jimin fixes Jungkook with an icy glare that is cold enough to give you the shivers. For the first time that entire night, you hazard a glance back at the stage, finding that Jungkook is already looking back at you.

You whip your head back forward, perspiration forming down your back. For fuck’s sake, this guy.

“Well, let me know if he tries anything. I’ll beat that little freak into the floor if he tries so much as breathing the same air as you.” Jimin huffs, puffing up his chest with false bravado. You can’t help but laugh at his empty threat, knowing that Jungkook could probably bench press Jimin without breaking a sweat. Jimin's muscles are only for aesthetics, after all.

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t actually spoken to me actually. He can keep singing his sad little love songs, I really don’t mind,” you say, like a liar. Jimin snorts, wholly unconvinced.

“Well, if you need me, I’m heading to the bar to grab a drink so I can stare at your ex uncomfortably until he leaves. See you!” Jimin bids you farewell with a cheery grin as he skips a little too happily inside the restaurant.

Why'd you have to befriend the largest lunatic in the city? You massage your forehead with a groan, willing away your growing headache. 

The rest of the night trickles away like molasses. Jungkook continues to sing his heart out, save for an hour intermission where he presumably takes a short break. In his absence, you hear Jimin guffaw loudly, his laughter too sharp to be considered happy. You faintly hear Jungkook shy stutters in response, and you momentarily consider running in to interrupt.

Why? Did you want to save Jungkook from Jimin’s unnecessary harassment? It’s not like Jimin is doing it out nowhere, he was just trying to be… a good friend?

You pause to ponder. As much as you hate to admit it, you know why you want to help Jungkook. But Jimin on the other hand? Why did he want to help you? Questions begin flowing through your head like a whirlwind, and your nausea increases. God, when was your next therapy appointment again?

You save those questions for another day. As you look at your watch, there are only thirty minutes left until two in the morning. You tap your foot impatiently, smiling curtly at departing customers as the restaurant slowly emptied. As they left, you overhear some of your regulars giggling amongst themselves, whispering about the cute new singer and his charming demeanor. 

The last nail on your coffin has been hammered. Yeah, Jungkook isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

With the restaurant closing soon, it sounds like Jungkook is ready to end his set as well. 

Throughout the night, Jungkook rarely made a point to speak. The only time he didn’t sing was when he quietly introduced the title of his next song and the band swiftly began the first opening notes. For his last song, however, Jungkook decided to give a little more backstory for his final song. 

“Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for listening to me for the night,” Jungkook says with a soft voice, his tone awfully shy despite his powerful belting throughout the evening. The few customers left give him a warm round of applause, and you hear the familiar sound of his timid giggles spill from the restaurant speakers. 

“This will be my final song for the night. Most of the songs I sang today were covers, but this one is an original. I…” He hesitates for a moment, and something pulls you to turn despite the alarm bells ringing in your ears. You face him, and just like earlier in the evening, he is already looking back at you.

This time, you don’t look away; he does. His eyes flit to the ceiling, and he licks his lips from nerves. “I… I wrote this song a long while ago. I’ve never sang it in public before and I never thought it would ever see the light of day. Until, well…”

He stops again. This time, he gestures to the guitarist in the band, silently asking to borrow it. With a guitar in hand, he smiles a little more confidently at the small crowd of people. He begins strumming the first few notes, and your heart stops. “I hope everyone had a pleasant evening. Get home safe and have a great rest of your week. My name is Jungkook, and this last song is called…”

Before he can sing the first line of his song, you make a break for it.

You slam the restaurant doors open, and the stinging cold air immediately pierces their fangs into your skin. Your coat is still inside, but you can’t bring yourself to reenter. You take a long breath, the chill barely registering in your mind with how loudly your heart is pounding in your ears.

Hearing the opening to that song was enough to bring you back in time, three years ago:

You are in his childhood bedroom, his walls littered with concert posters and his floor a mess with unfolded laundry and guitar picks. The afternoon sun is streaming through his windows, bathing him in gold. You have an exam the next day and he has cram school to go to, but you’ve both chucked your books somewhere on his desk, left forgotten. 

He has his eyes closed, concentrated. You’re both on his small twin bed, squished together side by side and thighs touching. You have your head on his shoulder and he has his hands on his guitar. He strums a few chords experimentally and sings a melody that only the two of you know.

(Not anymore.)

“Are you writing a new song?” you ask, voice a little scratchy. Neither of you had spoken for the past few hours, just basking in the setting sun and Jungkook’s indistinct strumming. But now, his chords sound more sure, more certain of something.

“Yeah, I just thought of it,” he hums. He opens his eyes a smidge, a smitten smile on his lips. You mirror him. 

“What’s it about this time?”

His brows furrow. “I’ve been trying to write about other stuff, you know? Namjoon-hyung tells me it’s important that songs have meaning and impact.” He pauses in his strumming, looking a little conflicted. “And I get what he means. Art is all about saying something, but… I can’t help that there’s only one thing I ever want to talk about. Is that so wrong?”

You chuckle, understanding what he means. You nudge your head against his cheek, grinning from ear to ear. The fluttering in your chest has become routine to you at this point, but he somehow always knows how to increase it tenfold. “God, you’re such a sweet talker. Really, Koo. There’s no need to serenade with love songs—I’m already yours.”

He looks back at you, brimming with tender affection. “I know,” he responds. Then, he takes a pen from his bedside table, and begins writing.

During those years of dating him, you always thought that If he was a waterfall, then you were a teaspoon. You desperately tried to be enough for him, but you’re barely able to fathom the depth of his devotion. Everything about him was excessive, and you could seldom understand how he managed to contain himself. He was born to share himself, to tear bits of his soul so that the world may understand him, love him. His songs were a testament that he was trying to do that, and you always felt so lucky to be able to receive him, wholly and fully.

How cruel was it that Jungkook uses that same song to rip open the barely healed scab on your heart, leaving you bare and stinging and raw all over again.

You have no idea how long you've stood there in the cold. It must have been barely a few minutes when Jimin finds his way to you. He wordlessly shrugs his coat off and places it on your shoulders, but you make no move to acknowledge him. 

You hope your silence is enough for Jimin to infer that you are not in a conversational mood, but he’s nothing if not impatient. He forcibly pulls you to face him, his hands warm even through your clothing.

“Hey, you good? Did something happen?” He asks with barely concealed irritation, but it’s not directed at you. Still, you flinch at his scathing tone, shrinking in on yourself. In your daze, you vaguely notice his resemblance to an angry baby chick. 

“It’s nothing. Go back inside, I’ll be right there,” you mumble lamely, weakly pushing him back towards the restaurant. Jimin does not budge, instead leveling you with a hard stare. This time, you’re sure his irritation is for you.

“You idiot, you literally ran out like someone was out to get you. Of course it’s not nothing,” he grouses. 

You sigh tiredly, shaking your head at him. “We can talk later. It’s almost closing time and I just want to go home and sleep.”

Before Jimin can argue further, the door to the restaurant opens once more, but it isn’t a leaving customer. 

“What the fuck? What are you doing out here?” Jimin all but shouts at Jungkook. He holds up an accusatory finger at him and uses his other hand to nudge you behind him as if to shield you. 

Jungkook winces, instinctively stepping back. Despite being a few inches taller than Jimin, Jungkook’s timidness makes him look smaller. “I… I was just worried about her—”

“Don’t you have a song to finish in there? Talk about professional,” Jimin spits out. Jimin maneuvers you so that Jungkook can’t see you, but you manage to catch sight of how his gaze follows you unfailingly.

“I finished up my set. It’s closing time.” Jungkook responds coolly. He’s still a little quiet, but you can sense some of his natural composure rising to the surface. When he needs to be, Jungkook has been known to stand his ground—usually when it comes to matters involving you.

At this time of the night and after hours of mental torture, the last thing you need is to watch your two worst nightmares duke it out in front of your work establishment. You are beyond exhausted, and you hardly have the fortitude to withstand another minute of their voices ringing in your ears. 

Your eyes well up with tears of frustration, causing the two boys to freeze up in panic. You don’t give them the chance to fuss over you; instead, you haphazardly wipe your cheeks before roughly pushing them back towards the restaurant. 

“Get back to work, you idiots.” Your voice sounds warbled even to your own ears, but you push past your overwhelming emotions in favor of getting back inside to close up. Hell, you might even call in sick tomorrow, just so you can cry pathetically into your bowl of cereal in solitude.

“I’m not even on the clock today!” Jimin complains faintly, but you only push him harder. 

When you all reenter, you walk back to your desk and pointedly ignore the two of them until they awkwardly float away from your orbit. Despite the distance they give you, their gazes are still fixed plainly on you and they feel like knives digging into your back. 

Eventually, all the final customers of the day take their leave, and your remaining coworkers start dimming the lights and bidding their goodbyes. From the corner of your eye, you see Jungkook bowing respectfully to the band, who were giving him friendly pats on the back for a job well done. Jimin walks toward you, his car keys dangling from his left pinky. 

“No thanks. I’ll take the bus home today,” you declare before he can offer a ride. Jimin opens his mouth like a goldfish, flapping his lips dumbly as he stares at you in shock. You have no idea why he’s so surprised, given how you’ve been making it obvious that you need some space.

He looks like he wants to argue again, but thinks better of it. A singular moment of restraint from Park Jimin, which is an act you once thought impossible. Maybe he does care about you more than you thought. 

He stiffly nods at you, shoving his hands and keys into his pockets. He still has a frown on his face when he tells you to text him when you get home. You flip him off with a shaky smirk in response, a feeble attempt to bring some levity back to your now tense relationship. It works a little, and Jimin brightens up significantly. How simple-minded of him.

With a flippant wave, you leave work and head towards your bus stop. At this hour of the night, the streets are mostly dim, save for some street lamps and bars that stay open longer than your restaurant. There are always some people milling about, enough that you never feel too on edge about how late it is. Still, your bus stop is often empty, leaving you to mull over your thoughts in peace.

You are in the midst of jamming your earbuds into your ear when a presence makes itself known beside you.

Is it possible to go through the five stages of grief in under a second? You suppose not, but it’s hard to tell what sort of emotions swim through you when you come face to face with Jeon Jungkook again.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you mutter under your breath. You pause the song playing on your phone to glare at him with as much venom as you can muster. 

Jungkook holds up his hands in surrender, doe eyes wide like prey. “I-I’m heading home too! I’m not following you, I swear!”

You groan internally. Figures that you and Jungkook take the same bus home. But hold on— “Don’t you have a car? I remember you were parked near the restaurant the other night,” you note, squinting at him.

Jungkook looks sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah. That car was my hyung’s. He lets me borrow it sometimes, but he needed it tonight.”

“Sure…” You level him with a skeptical frown. You remember his hyung, but don’t recall him ever owning a car. You aren’t even sure that his Namjoon-hyung is allowed by the country to drive a car, much less own one. 

He could be lying, but you don’t want to give him an excuse to continue any conversation. So, you busy yourself with your phone and keep your head bowed away from him.

When the bus arrives, Jungkook makes it a point to sit a few rows behind you. Thankfully, he has a better understanding of social cues than a certain Park that you know. He leaves you alone, but your entire body still feels like a rope pulled taut. You have to convince yourself not to look behind you, your morbid curiosity scratching your insides raw.

You are in the home stretch now, and it’ll only be a few more minutes before you get to your stop and make your way to your safe haven. Hell resumes the next day and the next, but at the very least you’ll have your home to yourself. No one could take that away from you.

Again, this is where you learn that tempting fate is never a good idea.

When you exit the bus at your stop, you can hear his footsteps following you. It’s hard not to notice, especially when his large and distracting boots make such a distinct racket that makes him so Jungkook. 

You hasten your pace towards your apartment complex, your shoulders hunched and hands shoved into your coat pockets in an attempt to hinder the bile rising from your stomach. He had promised that he wasn’t following you, but that proclamation seems to be standing on feeble legs with how long he’s been on your tail now.

Your street is filled with rows of low-rise apartment buildings, so you hope that if anything happens, you can yell as loud as you can and alert some compassionate neighbor to come to your aid. (Not that you think he would ever physically harm you, but… You can’t say the same about your mental state.)

Your home is just two buildings away from where you are, but Jungkook still seems determined to follow you to the end. You all but skip the remaining feet to your apartment entrance, your breath coming out in puffs as you finally muster up the courage to face your supposed stalker and give him a piece of your mind. 

“If this is some convoluted way for you to find out where I live, then you aren’t being very subtle about it,” you say, your chin held up high despite the growing urge to vomit pathetically in front of your ex-boyfriend. You have your hand rested on the doorknob, just a moment’s notice away from bolting into your house if the need for a quick getaway arises.

To your surprise, Jungkook wasn’t following you as closely as you expected. He had stopped trailing you about two buildings down, his own hand poised on the door with a look of genuine shock.

You both stand there, staring at each other as mutual understanding dawns on the two of you. 

Everyday, the universe learns of more creative ways to be cruel.

“Oh…” Jungkook’s voice falters. He looks simultaneously frightened and amazed, as if he too finds this entire situation unbelievably harsh. He swallows thickly, looking at you and back to his door in quick succession. “Well… This is a strange coincidence,” he murmurs. 

You want to believe that this was his entire fault, that Jungkook had somehow managed to track you down to haunt you for the rest of your days. You want to believe that he’s a crazed stalker who is willing to find where you work and live so that every hour of your wretched life is filled with nothing but reminders of what-could-have-beens. You just want someone to blame instead of just the cosmos—you want someone tangible to hate so that your suffering can be given some sort of identity. You want to give your mourning and hurt a name so that you can learn how to heal.

You want to believe all of that, but it’s hard to do so when Jungkook looks so incredibly uncomfortable, as if he’d rather melt into the shadows and never be seen again. 

In all your memories, you have never seen Jungkook look so small.

You heave a big sigh, your fingers grasping the door knob so tightly that you half-expect it to be dented from the force. You linger for a moment, your mouth opening but nothing spills out. 

What is there to say? What do you say to an ex-boyfriend that you haven’t seen in two years, who is suddenly so deeply entwined in your life once more? Do you tell him goodnight? Tell him to stay away? Tell him to come home with you?

Jungkook looks equally as conflicted. His lips are pursed tight with words left unsaid. You aren’t sure whether you want to punch the confession out of his mouth or seal them up forever. It feels like eons before he finally breaks the silence with a mirthless laugh.

“I… I just wanted to say—back at the restaurant. When I sang that last song,” Jungkook begins, and his voice feels loud because of how empty the streets are. For a moment, you are reminded of a cathedral you once visited during a vacation, how sacred silence can be. The world holds its breath, waiting for him to speak.

“I meant it all. Every word. Every lyric. I never stopped…”

He trails off, shrugging his shoulders. He stares at you helplessly, but you don’t know what to say. You don’t want to listen any more, but your feet are planted to the ground. You’re frozen like a deer in headlights, forced to brace against him as he crashes into you. 

He continues, “And when we broke up back then… I never wanted that to happen. You broke it off before we could even try something—and I hated how I didn’t fight for you harder. I let you misunderstand me because I was afraid you wouldn’t want to stick around if I didn’t succeed. I convinced myself that I was holding you down, but I never gave you—us—a chance. I never stopped regretting it since.”

“Me? Break up with you?” You echo incredulously. That statement is enough to break you from your trance, the telltale signs of indignation rising up your chest. “How dare you suggest—Me? You were the one who broke up with me, asshole! You were the one who broke my heart and decided to up and leave to god knows where! Only to miraculously respawn right next to me, groveling at my feet with sad love songs as if that’s enough for me to forgive and forget? Fucking entitled bastard,” you seethe.

Somehow, Jungkook manages to shrink more, like a bunny with his tail tucked between his legs. “Yes, you’re right that I broke your heart but… When I told you I was moving away to try and become a singer, it was always with the intention of staying together. I know it would have been difficult, but I wanted you to be with me through thick and thin. But when you misunderstood and took it as a break up, I let you go because, well… I was scared that it would happen eventually. Who wants to date a broke busking fool anyway?”

He laughs, but it sounds watery. He sniffles, and you hope it's only because of the cold. “I tried looking for you, but you blocked me everywhere and no one from back home seemed to know where you went. So I just accepted that we’d never see each other again… Until a few days ago, that is.”

A misunderstanding? Is that what everything boils down to? Years of trying to build yourself back up again, relearning what it means to be happy—all the fallen domino pieces in your life trailing back to a single moment in time? All because Jungkook was scared that you didn't love him enough?

You’ve never felt angrier in your life. You fear what you might say if you continue to stand outside there, face to face with the singular person strong enough to whittle you down to the bone. Jeon Jungkook is all soft smiles and sweet songs, but how come he’s always able to knock you off your axis? Few people on this earth can stitch you up and break you down in equal measure, but somehow, Jungkook manages to do all that and more.

Then, comes the guilt. Had it been all your fault? That you hadn't returned his love in equal measure? Had you secretly given up on the hope of being on his level? Always looking down on yourself: unable to move past your insecurities. Were you terrified of being his side piece, his girlfriend, forever?

Who are you, even? And where do you stand?

(Beside him, is what you want to answer. You don't know if that's the right choice.)

You can’t bear to look at him, least of all answer him. Without another word, you shove your house key into the door before slamming it shut despite the late hour. If you awaken any neighbors, you’ll apologize later. For now, all you require is sleep and hope that this has been all a terrible nightmare.

xxx

Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

Jeon Jungkook continues to sing at the restaurant, and after only two days of repeat stellar performances, your manager decides to promote him as the official vocalist for the band. It hurts to admit that you're not the least bit surprised; you might have a hard time looking at him, but you can never deny his talent. 

His song list has added a larger variety of genres ever since his first performance. That is to say, he isn’t always singing about lost loves and tragic couples every night. Perhaps it is due to some requests from customers or his other bandmates, but it doesn’t stop him from sprinkling one or two love songs into the mix. 

He doesn’t sing any original songs ever again. That, at least, is a small mercy. He doesn’t make any moves to speak with you either, despite the daily awkward trips back home after the end of your shifts. Whether that’s because he’s given up on you (again), or he’s waiting for you to make the first move, you don’t know. Frankly, you don’t think you have the energy (nor courage) to do anything about it.

It’s a few weeks after Jungkook’s first performance at the restaurant, and closing time is approaching. You appreciate Friday nights the most because it means you’ll have two consecutive days to relax and avoid your problems. It’s also the busiest night of the week, when white-collar workers decide to drink and eat for as long as the night allows them. Busier nights mean more distractions, and you’re willing to deal with twenty Karens over one Jungkook.

During nights like these, your manager occasionally asks you to fulfill some waitress duties when there aren’t enough hands on deck. Normally you’d hate it, but earning the extra tips is enough to keep your grumbling to a minimum To this day, your landlord has yet to do anything about your broken shower, and you’ve finally conceded to the fact that you’ll have to be the one to do something about it. 

As you inform the customers in your area that the last call for orders is approaching, you sneak a glance at the bar to see Jimin dutifully performing his job. That is to say, he’s flirting up a storm, getting women and men alike to blush from head to toe as he serves their drinks with a salacious smirk.

What a swindler, you think to yourself, snorting when he makes eye contact with you. He gives you a cheeky salute, mouthing something as he gestures to the back door.

Despite the semi-fight the two of you had all those weeks ago, Jimin was never one to argue about the same topic two days in a row. When you saw him the next day after your confrontation with Jungkook, Jimin was back to all smiles. You still catch him sending death glares towards Jungkook on most nights, but he doesn’t bring up the matter with you anymore. For that reason, you’ve gratefully settled back into your weird, banterful friendship with him. Even if there’s still a lingering tension between the two of you that you refuse to acknowledge.

You nod thankfully back at him, excited to go to his house and take a much needed shower. At this point, going to his house has become second nature to you, and it gives you an excuse to not see Jungkook at your regular bus stop every day. You have half a mind to never fix your shower for that reason, but of course there is still the problem of having to deal with Jimin every time you need to bathe. You hardly consider yourself an impatient person, but Jimin likes to toe the line far more often than necessary.

You’re down to your last two tables before you can close up shop when your manager suddenly barrels right into your path. You nearly drop your tray of dirty dishes to the floor, holding in a loud yelp as your suspiciously stern-faced manager halts you in place.

“Ms. Y/N, may I have a word with you for a moment? It’s regarding your paycheck for the month,” he barks, lips downturned. He appears disgruntled about something, and it sends a worried shiver down your spine. And here you thought Fridays are meant to be fun. He doesn’t wait for you to reply before he stalks back to his office, an unspoken command for you to follow. 

You unload your dishes in the kitchen before making your way to his office. The small, dark room is cramped with overflowing file folders and coupons from multiple take-out places. You accidentally step on a stack of papers, and upon further inspection, seem to be a pile of applications for new hires. You distinctly remember complaining to him months prior about being understaffed and him replying that no inquiries were coming in.

As you approach, your manager shuffles through your coworkers pay stubs, and you notice yours and Jungkook’s on top of the piles. 

Manager Jeong clears his throat. “Well, Y/N. It seems to be your lucky day. As you know, we split the tips based on your hours and what sort of duties you fulfill. With the new hire we have as our in-house singer, we’ve had to split it one way more to accommodate his arrival. However, he has recently requested to me that his portion be reallocated… to you, Ms. Y/N.”

Your jaw drops immediately. “I-I don’t understand, Manager Jeong,” you sputter. 

Manager Jeong snorts, bemused by your reaction. “Don’t understand? Well, I suppose you’ll have to ask Mr. Jeon if you want his reasoning. Regardless, since we normally deposit your salary straight to your bank account, would it be alright if I hand you his tips in cash for now? He only informed me about his request an hour ago, and the accountant has already clocked out for the week.”

All you can do is nod dumbly back at him. With a huff, your manager presses a white envelope into your hands before promptly ushering you out of his office. “Well, that's settled. Out you go! Have a good weekend, Ms. Y/N. Don’t forget to lock the register before you leave!” He calls out before slamming his door in your face.

It takes you a moment to reanimate back to life. You stare at the white envelope for a long while, unable to fathom the scribbled out name of Jeon Jungkook replaced with your own name. Then, you crumple it into your fist before stomping over to where Jungkook and the rest of the band are in the middle of packing it up for the night.

Jungkook looks up from his guitar case when he senses you fast approaching. For a fleeting second, a smile graces his handsome face before it’s smacked away by your crumpled envelope. 

“Keep your fucking cash, Jungkook. What the hell is your problem?” You fume, cheeks heating from agitation. Jungkook splutters for a moment, prying the envelope away from his face and looking at it in bewilderment. When he sees it clearly, recognition dawns on his face, followed by guilt.

“It’s just… my way of saying sorry, I guess.” He answers you meekly, neck flushing red in embarrassment. Behind him, the rest of the band grow silent at the scene before them, and you debate on telling them to mind their own business when they quicken their pace to leave.

“Well, keep your apology to yourself. There’s nothing to apologize for,” you correct him with a frown. To offer an apology is to offer accountability. You aren’t sure if you’re ready to hear him say that. 

“No, it’s a sorry for… using you, I suppose.”

“Using me?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “For what?”

Jungkook smiles wryly back at you. “For inspiration?” he clarifies. For being the reason I can sing? He leaves that part unsaid, but you can almost imagine him saying it. 

You feel heat rising to your cheeks again, but this time you aren’t quite sure if it’s from embarrassment, anger… or something else.

Unable to conjure up a response to his simple confession, you stomp away from him with a pounding heart and shaking hands. You continue the rest of your closing shift routine instinctually, your body moving on autopilot as Jungkook’s words continue to ring inside your head. When all is said and done, Jimin makes his way to your station with a questioning stare, but you wave him off in favor of stomping ahead of him to the parking lot.

In his car, Jimin rattles off about his latest exploits and purchases, his grating voice a comfort for once. You hum noncommittally during his stories when appropriate, but you suppose your usual indifference feels different, even to Jimin's untrained ears. 

At his house, you drift to his bathroom immediately. You already have a shirt button undone by the time you get a handle on the door when Jimin’s hand stops you in place. You can feel his warmth emanating against your back as he slowly pulls the bathroom door close. With a tired sigh, you reluctantly turn to face him and find him standing closer than you expected.

He has an arm resting above your head, effectively caging you. You feel your shoulders sag. Damn, here comes another confrontation. Why can’t everyone just leave you alone?!

“Talk to me,” he says. No, he demands.

You push him away weakly, but he hardly budges. “Nothing to talk about,” you lie. Had you no filter, you’d be word vomiting all over the place ages ago.

Jimin groans, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enough with the emotional constipation. I’m here to listen, alright? No teasing or anything, I’m all ears and maybe a shoulder to cry on. Just don’t stain my Chanel top too bad,” he jokes.

You puff out a short breath—a sorry excuse for a laugh. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to talk about it, and that’s that.”

“It’ll make you feel a lot better, though,” he offers.

You scoff. “What makes you think that? What if I just want to ignore all my problems forever and never grow from it? Is that so bad?”

Jimin pushes himself away from you, raising his hands in mock defeat. “You’re so fucking annoying. Can you stop running away from your problems and talk to me? Hell, talk to Jungkook for all I care! Just stop being a doormat and speak your mind for once in your damn life!”

“What are you, my therapist?” You brush past him, shower all but forgotten. You begin toeing your shoes back on, ready to head home tired and smelly. At the very least, you won’t have to deal with this stupid annoying asshole any longer. 

Jimin strides back towards you, but for once he doesn’t do anything to forcibly stop you. Jimin has always been gruff with you, not afraid to push and pull you in any which direction. It’s part of the reason why you can’t take him seriously, even though you’ve recently realized why he was always being such a prick towards you—

“Yeah, I’m not your therapist. But for better or for worse, I’m your friend and I—I fucking care about you, alright? And it sucks seeing that good-for-nothing stick his nose in your business and act like he can do anything without any repercussions.”

Is Jimin being for real right now? “With how often you look at yourself in the mirror, you’d think you’d be better at introspection,” is all you say to that. You shove your feet into your shoes, not caring that you’ve probably put them on wrong. Maybe it’s because it’s Friday and the fatigue from the week has finally settled deep in your bones, but you can’t help but leave one last scathing remark to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“You know, if you were a little nicer to me, maybe I would talk to you. Hell, maybe I’d like you back. But no, just keep being your domineering, asshole self and I’ll keep being the same fucking doormat bitch you know and love,” you spit, turning towards the door and away from his face. You’re not even curious to see how he reacts. “I don’t need protection, alright? When I tell you to stay out of my business, you stay out of it. So don’t try and pretend to be my knight in shining armor.”

There’s an ocean of silence, enough to hear a pin drop. The urge to apologize surges to the surface, but you stamp it down. He’s petty all the time, so now it’s your turn.

Okay, maybe that’s a little too mean on your part, but you’re exhausted. Perhaps it is true when they say you should never act on your anger when it’s past midnight. But can anyone blame you? You’re only a girl, and girls need to snap too. 

When he responds, his voice sounds weak. Park Jimin, weak? It's almost unthinkable. "Why don't you trust me?"

Isn't it obvious? you want to say. But some mercy remains within you. You'll pick up the pieces another time. Instead, you rasp out, “Good night, Park. I’ll see you on Monday.”

The walk of shame back to your house is long and arduous. Your phone dings thrice, likely signaling texts from Jimin, but you turn it off without checking for sure. For once, the weight on your shoulders is slightly lighter. You huff out a dry laugh, realizing belatedly that maybe Jimin is right—maybe speaking your mind has its benefits.

There’s a small park in your neighborhood that you always pass by. You don’t remember the last time you spared it a second glance, but this time you notice a lone figure swinging back and forth, arching dangerously higher than what you would consider safe. From a distance, all you can make out are the person’s comically bright boots, and you have a sinking suspicion you know who it is without seeing their face.

Cosmos, or whoever it is that controls my life, why must you braid our strings of fate so tightly? You ask, but as always, it refuses to reply.

Against your better judgment, your feet bring you closer towards him. He has his back towards you, his feet pumping him higher and higher and you half expect him to swing in a perfect arc like a gymnast on parallel bars. You have to keep your distance a bit, lest you get the wind knocked out of you by his signature stompers. 

You clear your throat, and the boy stops mid-swing and nearly catapults himself into the spongey, playground floor. Hunched over and wheezing, Jungkook directs his shocked eyes at you with a comical stare. 

You raise a hand in greeting. A peace offering, maybe. “Hello—”

“I swear I’m not stalking you!” Jungkook interrupts as he scrambles to his feet. He bows deeply in remorse, the action so endearingly him. “S-sorry, I’ll make my way home now…”

“I don’t own the park, Jungkook. I was just saying hello…” You snort, wringing your hands uncomfortably. You grind your shoes into the ground, the sound of crunching leaves breaking the still air. “A-and… to say sorry, for earlier.”

“Sorry?” Jungkook repeats, confused. When he realizes what you mean, he waves his hands frantically. “No, no! Don’t be sorry! It was my fault for being so inconsiderate. I understand how you might misconstrue my actions, and I made things more awkward. I’ll consider your feelings more in the future…”

In the future… You cough, unwilling to meet his bright and honest gaze. If you stare too long, you fear you might go blind. 

“I come here to the park often, when I feel too cramped inside my apartment,” Jungkook explains, frantic energy radiating off him in waves. He’s gesticulating too much, a clear sign that he’s trying to hide his nerves. You remember how he would do the same thing in high school, whenever he had to present his projects in front of the class. 

You hold a hand up, a weak attempt to get him to calm down. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I just wanted to…” What is it that you wanted to do?

The two of you just stand awkwardly like that, similar to a few weeks ago when you discovered you were neighbors. You’re grasping at straws in your head, both conflicted for wanting to tell him something and running away. Even if you were to talk to him, what would you say? There’s a reason you told Jimin you didn’t want to talk—frankly, it’s mostly because you have no idea what to say or feel. 

But you do know, the universe responds. 

I ask you questions all the time, and this is how you respond? 

Either that, or you’re going insane, the universe remarks.

Jungkook pulls out his phone, his fingers fumbling as he unlocks it. He takes a furtive step towards you, but thinks better of it. There’s a few feet of distance between you, but it feels like worlds apart. Close and yet so far. You recall how you’d easily pull him towards you in the past, how being together felt as natural as breathing. 

“I know you absolutely hated it the last time I played my original song at the restaurant, so I refrained from performing any ever since that night. But that didn’t stop me from writing them. I was fine with keeping them locked in a vault forever, but…” He hesitates, searching you for any signs of discomfort. When he sees the carefully blank look on your face, he continues with trepidation. 

“Can I try a song for you? You don’t have to say yes, and you’re free to tell me to fuck off and I’ll never even look at you ever again. Just…” He flails one last time, a choked sob making its escape from his throat. 

Are you hopeless for wanting to say yes? Or were you reverting back to your old self who relied on him and believed in him so heavily? If you wanted him out of your life for good, you would have quit your job at the first sight of him. Maybe you were masochistic. Or maybe were you hopeful for a new start, a chance to rekindle a relationship that you’ve secretly always wanted to repair.

You have so much life ahead of you. Many more mistakes will be made and maybe they’ll haunt you when you’re older. But would it really be such a terrible gamble to take one more chance? 

You nod, and seal your fate.

He presses play, and the soft strumming of a guitar fills the empty playground air. 

Not for the first time, you wonder how it can be so easy for Jungkook to be so… honest. He spills his heart in every song that he writes, and you know he’s never been a great liar. He can’t help it, being genuine is in his DNA. This crashing waterfall, this boy with overflowing emotions—he sings what he thinks but feels terrified because of it. You might not understand his honesty, but you know that fear. You know it all too well.

He beholds himself to you—raw and unfiltered. A little battered and bruised, but still Jungkook. Behind everything, still the boy you’ve been yearning for.

Maybe this song is what will give you enough confidence to admit everything to him, too. As you stand there, listening to his mellow voice sing confessions to no one but you and the stars, you think you grow a little more courageous that day.

Maybe you won’t be able to tell him tonight. Maybe not tomorrow, nor next week either. But as you gaze back at his hopeful eyes, you know deep in your heart that you’ll find the words you’ve been looking for.

“I’ll keep waiting for you, if you let me.” Jungkook’s voice floats gently to you, and settles in your open palms. This time, you don’t let go

xxx

Months later, Jungkook stops working at the restaurant when an offer from a major record company arrives in his mail. Apparently, a big shot from the local radio station had pitched him to an employee at that company and they were all pleasantly surprised to find a hidden gem at a random bar and restaurant.  

In your apartment, you stare outside your window and to where his home is—well, where it was. You wonder if he finished packing his things, ready to make the big move tomorrow. You stand up with a stretch, sparing a glance at your still broken shower. It would be nice to have one more shower at his place… And after that? Maybe you should start looking for a nicer apartment; somewhere far away might be nice.

Your phone rings, and you see his contact photo light up your screen. With a smile, you answer.

“Come over, if you want. I won’t make you,” Jungkook assures you. 

You laugh lightly, already halfway out the door. 

[crescenthistory]

21. (During a passionate session, A accidentally draws blood while gripping B’s back (A apologizes over and over while tending to B, who just has a shit-eating grin the whole time)) with barty n reader pls

(may I be 🪳 anon?)

hi lovely 🪳 anon, finally i got around to your request<33 i made them have an established relationship because i craved bf!barty, hope it still scratches your itch hihi. enjoy your daily dose of barty!

Prompt: 21. During a passionate session, A accidentally draws blood while gripping B’s back (A apologizes over and over while tending to B, who just has a shit-eating grin the whole time) from this list

Words: 2.3k

Warnings: not proofread, smut (mdni), vaguely described smut, fem!reader, sexual jokes, aftercare, accidental blood kink, scratching, established relationship, praise kink, multiple orgasms, soft!barty, barty is a masochist, reader almost cries, cursing, reader is (jokingly) mean to him and he loves it, the l word is said a lot

If there was one way to describe your relationship with one Barty Crouch Junior, it is all encompassing.

Intoxicating, larger than life, obsessive.

He was not one to act half-heartedly in any regard, to both your chagrin and infatuation. It was not half-hearted when he more or less picked you out of the crowd in your first year, claiming you as his best friend without giving you time to react, dragging you by the hand into the whirlwind of his life. It was not half-hearted when he chased off any romantic prospect for you because they were not good enough for you, baby, even landing some in the infirmary if they dared hurt your feelings. It was not half-hearted when he finally crumbled under the weight of his own feelings, consequences be damned, and brought his lips to yours in the abandoned Slytherin common room late at night.

And it certainly was not half-hearted how he claimed you, body and soul, ever since whenever ample opportunity arose. 

You had no complaints about that aspect of it.

Which is how your skin was shimmery with a light layer of sweat with Barty’s lazy, toothy kisses lathered all over your neck as he worked into you in the solitude of his dorm. Evenings when you could stay over, the other boys were quickly kicked out by Barty, though to no significant inconvenience for them, as Regulus was more than happy to sneak away with James and Evan was in the middle of pursuing some hot heated Ravenclaw. In their absence, Barty’s presence easily dominated the room, hands roving all over your body as his whispers of worship filled your ears and anything other than him became completely erased from your mind.

Your legs trembled where they had him in a death grip as his skillful ministrations and attentive thumb brought you towards your fourth climax of the night. His name spilled over your lips along with a string of curses as your eyes clamped shut. You could feel his smile through his kisses as he worked beautiful marks onto your shoulders – just far enough down to be shielded from view in your uniform, your shared little secret.

“Fuck, such beautiful sounds from my best girl,” Barty’s voice was hoarse from the past hours, which somehow just drove you crazier for him. “Are you gonna come for me, gorgeous? Let go for me?”

No coherent thoughts could be strung together, your mind going blank with just Barty coursing through it. Instead you moaned prettily in a way that made Barty groan and pick up his speed, determined to coax more from you, just a little more.

Your hands had been clinging to his flexing bicep and tugging at his hair, but as your body came undone beneath him, you resorted to clutching onto his shoulders and back instead. Your nails, that you always kept long enough to satisfyingly scratch Barty’s hair and arms, dug into his skin for leverage, and you half-registered the moans of pleasure he gave into the skin of your neck. As your body shook both from your climax and the movements of him against you, your fingers dragged slowly down his back.

“Oh, gods– Barty–” was all you managed to get out as you clambered onto him, seeing stars. You needed him closer, just a little closer, more.

“Love it when you say my name, baby,” he whispered into you as his hips stuttered, finally reaching his own high with a groan. “S’good for me, s’perfect.”

You shakily kiss his shoulder, palms moving to smooth over his back you had just been clawing at, the movement instinctual and dripping with affection. Calming him down, gearing him through his own earth-shattering orgasm.

His movements slowed down, dragging the seconds out, before he finally stilled against you, collapsing with his weight onto you in that way he knew you loved. His hands that had been consuming every piece of flesh, every curve of your body, became almost painfully light now, brushing up your sides, over your arms, a silent thank you. You could read this man without needing to open your eyes or ears.

For a minute you laid there, regaining your breath while also revelling in the smell of him mixed with the haze of sex that filled the room. 

Then, Barty laughed breathily into your shoulder before retreating from his cocoon to look at you with lovesick eyes, propping his weight up onto his elbows.

“That was one for the history books.” His grin was lopsided, sweat still over his eyebrow.

You laughed in turn, giving him a slight roll of your eyes, but you couldn’t disagree. The longer you were together, the more you learned of each other, the more passionate your frequent trysts became. You didn’t think you could love him more.

Still – “You’re deranged, Junior,” you said through a laugh – you couldn’t let the opportunity to tease him slide.

Unfazed, Barty leaned down to press a lazy kiss to your lips and despite your teasing you had no inhibition with kissing him back, passionate and slow. “Maybe,” he said between kisses. “But you love me all the more for it. And I love you too.”

You mumbled an I love you, silly against his lips and you could feel him grin against you. 

All too soon, Barty pulled back and away from you, rolling off your body to reach for his wand on the bedside table to clean the both of you – and the sheets – up. You gazed after him with a look you knew your friends would never let you live down if they were here to see it, studying his features as he laid on his stomach, stretching his arm out. One of his legs were still tangled with yours, as if he couldn’t stand being completely without your touch. The muscles in his bicep flexed deliciously, as did the ripples across his shoulders and back, and –

“Merlin’s tits, Barty, your back!” you exclaimed, instantly snapping out of your daze.

It was normal for you both to be quite marked up after being with each other, especially on nights like this where you could truly take your time. Your hips often had some beautiful bruises grazing its sides, hickies covering your chest and collarbone, sometimes your neck if Barty felt particularly possessive. In turn, you loved giving him your own love bites and his shoulders and biceps often had small indents from your nails digging into them.

But this– Your eyes roved over Barty’s back, the usual pink streaks of teased skin that you left there were now bright red and razor thin, blood piping out at random places. There were many of them, trailing over and around each other, a bloody, angry constellation of your desperation from mere minutes ago.

At your outburst, Barty looked at you over his shoulder with a smug smirk, fingers finally curling around his wand. “What of my back?”

“I– it’s–” you sputtered, one hand wildly gesturing towards him, the other half-covering your mouth as you sat up to get a better view. “You’re bleeding, darling I’m so sorry.”

Barty sat up to match you, grabbing you by your thighs to drag you closer to him. A stupid grin was still plastered over his face. 

“Oh, I know,” he smiled. “It was so fucking hot.”

His words didn’t register with you as you kept fussing over him, attempting to sit at his side so you could see his wounds and his face all at the same time. His hand on your thigh squeezed as he continued to laugh silently.

“You’re bleeding.” You repeated, letting your finger ghost over the skin right beside a particularly bloody scratch. "Gods, I'm so sorry." Your eyes began to sting as they flitted all over his back, and at that Barty seemed to snap out of his humour.

“Hey, no, baby, hey.” He grabbed your hands with his, forcing you to look at him. “It’s fine, love, don’t worry. It’s more than fine actually, I liked it – loved it even. You should really make me bleed more often.”

You stared at him incredulously, as if he was being particularly stupid, eyes still slightly glossy with tears. “What?”

He laughed even more at your confusion, which almost shifted the apologies on the tip of your tongue into scolding. 

“As I said, it was hot. I knew you were drawing blood as you were doing it – didn’t you hear how much I loved it?” His tone was teasing, mischief evident on his face.

You opened and closed your mouth at that, trying to make your post-orgasm brain keep up with the conversation. “I actually didn’t hear anything by that point,” you mumbled, looking between your hands clutched with his and his face, which now looked impossibly more smug.

“Right, that’s on me then,” he teased. You pretended to lightly shove him, but he used your movement against you, trapping you in his arms and dragging you closer to his body.

“You’re so stupid, you know that?” 

“Was I stupid when I made you come once on my fingers, once on my tongue and twice on my–”

You pinched him, making him yelp in a voice so light it made the both of you laugh. You squeezed him in your arms, careful not to let your hands touch his still bleeding back.

“I still wanna say sorry.” You pulled back to look at him. The threat of tears were gone, but your lower lip jutted out ever so slightly, enough that he simply had to kiss it better. So he did, lips softly brushing yours in a way that calmed you down every time.

“Well, don’t,” he murmured against your lips. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, darling. I actually give you blanket consent to please make me bleed again next time. However you want.” He winked at you and you lightly swatted at his arm, though you couldn’t ignore how your blood warmed at his words.

“Shut up,” you mumbled before kissing him again. Your tone made it clear to Barty that he won that conversation.

“As much as I’d love to keep kissing you.” Barty pulled his lips away from yours, holding your face in between his palms. “Can I please clean us up like I wanted, now?”

You simply nodded, leaning back onto your elbows beside him as he quickly flicked his wand over your bodies and the bed. A sigh escaped your lips at the warm feeling across your thighs and stomach, as if somebody had carefully dragged a warm towel over you and immediately dried you off. Barty smiled at you softly when he heard your sounds of comfort.

You reached out to take the wand from his hands and moved to point it towards his back when he snapped out of staring at you and caught the tip of the wand with his hand before you had the time to use it. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You looked at him confused. “Cleaning you up?”

“I already did that,” he retorted. 

“I meant the cuts, Barty.”

He immediately shook his head at that, prying the wand from your fingers – his wand, that wouldn’t even have been as effective when you used it – and giving you an almost offended look. “Nope. They’re staying, if I wanted them gone I would have healed them.”

“Barty–” you began to chide, but he cut you off.

“I want to keep them. Little reminder of you. We don’t heal the hickies I give you, hm?” His voice was equal parts teasing and affectionate now, as if your scratches was something precious to him.

“My hickies aren’t painful and bleeding.” You deadpanned at him. He just shrugged, as if your point was entirely irrelevant. 

“You’ll stain the sheets with your blood,” you tried then. 

“How unfortunate that I’m not a wizard who can remove blood stains without any effort.” He tauntingly waved the wand in your face then before leaning over to place it back on his nightstand.

You just groaned at him, hoping he knew that it meant you are insufferable and impossible. He did, and it warmed his heart.

“C’mon, darling,” he drawled as he snuck back up beside you, pulling the duvet around the two of you, creating your own perfect cocoon. “You should be flattered, if anything.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but still pulled him further into your arms, limbs entangling and bare chests pressed against each other. A relaxed sigh escaped you, indicating that you were in no way actually indignant. 

“Just don’t want you to be in pain, B.” Your hand moved up to play with his hair, culprits lightly scratching at the nape of his neck.

Barty’s eyes softened at that and he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “‘S not painful, love, I’m good. I’m all good.” His words were whispered against your skin. You closed your eyes at the sensation, the safety of it all.

“You sure?”

“I swear it.”

You hummed, relenting, and finally buried your face in his neck as he pulled you closer. Sporadic kisses were pressed into your hair, your shoulder, as you continued with your soft conversation filled with praises and small declarations of love. You didn’t notice you were beginning to slip away before your breath slowed against Barty’s skin and he glanced down, smiling when he saw your sleeping form. His fingers drawing patterns on your back spelled out I love you as he kissed your forehead, lips lingering on your skin.

“Goodnight, my love.”