#instead of agreeing with the little voice in his head constantly telling him he's Bad and needs to kill himself

[finalgirlsamwinchester]

one of the great tragedies of sam and dean to me is. sam's violent pit of self-loathing and desire for purity/perfection always pushing him to the brink of destruction. dean loving him so painfully, to the point of obssession - his brother's saviour yet frightened by his brother - doesn't know how to save sam from himself. his worst obstacle to loving and keeping sam safe is sam. so dean blames him for it! and in doing so just keeps feeding the monster living in sam's head telling him he's bad and rotten beyond saving. cue sam_marytrdom.exe

[scekrex]

I know there's a fandom thing going around that Adam doesn't like eating women out but.... bro I need to see trans! male! reader sitting on Adams face and getting eaten out... like..

I mean reader doesn't count cause he's a guy?? right?? it's not the same guys.. (I mean this in like Adams POV)

I also think it'd be silly if Adam WAS inexperienced in that.. category. Like, bro I want to humiliate him SO BAD!! I love his big ass ego but that makes me want to do it more.. So maybe the reader degrading him or talking Abt how inexperienced he is just to get on Adams nerves while he's eating him out?? I think it'd be silly.. Adam would fold if he was ever degraded or something by the reader, I mean he was constantly praised for being the first man, and was given a lot of special treatment so for the reader to make it CLEAR that he won't be the same way?? YES!! anyway I'm a little hungry for Adam guys sorry <3

Tbh I haven't heard of that headcanon yet but while I agree that Adam would not eat a woman out, he'd definitely suck dick and eat out trans dudes idc what everyone else says. To Adam it's just sometimes different to pleasure a dude with his mouth and I stand by that.

Suck it up, big boy

pairing: Adam x trans!male!reader

warnings: language, oral sex, no use of female privates though (it's briefly implied that reader has a biological female body though)

note: not beta read bc fuck you I don't have beta readers

He tried to play it cool, tried to kill the voices in his head that were trying to tell him to pull away and tell you no. He was aware he could stop this at any given point, that you would not give him shit for doing so but he wanted to prove a point. He had bragged a little too much about knowing all the right ways to make you cum, he had dug his own grave when you had brought up that he could simply eat you out then and he had confidently responded with a cocky, ‘Yeah, no fucking problem’.

So when you lowered your hips until you sat on his face and Adam’s mind went completely blank, he wanted to fucking die again - for good this time though. He wanted to melt into the mattress and never come back. Fuck, why did you have to bring up the one thing he had just done once before and back then he had not fucking enjoyed it at all. Maybe that had been due to his partner being quite insensitive about him being inexperienced - you were different in any way and he knew that. It was also an entire different deal to eat a dude out, right? That was not comparable to eating out a woman despite you and his former female partners sharing the same sexual organs. Eating you out would be different, you were not a woman, you were a dude after all, just like Adam himself. Slowly the heavy fog that had clouded his mind lifted and he opened his mouth to let his tongue lick over your front entrance, a quiet moan fell from your lips and that encouraged Adam to keep going.

You were not able to hide the grin that had curled around your lips in victory. You had known it from the start, Adam had not the slightest idea what he was doing down there and for the first time ever since the both of you had started dating, your roles were reversed. For the first time it was Adam who had to learn how to please you instead of the other way around and you had to admit that you liked the thought of it a lot. And despite having no experience, he was trying his best - not that you’d let it slide that easily though. “I fucking knew you were all talk,” you hummed as you grinded your hips down against his face, your body tried to swallow his tongue but it seemed that Adam had other plans since he kept withdrawing it. Either he had other plans or he had no idea what he was supposed to do with himself. You were quick to notice the flinch that went through his body at your comment - the first man was used to a lot of your shit by now, degradation was not one of them. You felt how he wanted to pull back to argue and decided it was for the best to not let him, if he would need a serious break he’d let you know. “Don’t fucking talk about how good you are with your dirty mouth, Adam, show me instead,” you explained as you held his head in place by grabbing a fistful of his brown hair tightly, a needy moan rolled over Adam’s tongue and was sent right through your body.

The brunette’s tongue kept circling your entrance and you impatiently yanked on his hair as you growled, “Just fucking use your oh so magical tongue, dickmaster.” The nickname that usually sounded like a praise coming from your lips now sounded taunting and Adam was overwhelmed by the realization that he in fact liked it. His body reacted by bucking his hips up into thin air. Your free hand slapped his hip bone harshly before you pressed it against the mattress, “Behave, whore, you won’t cum until I taught you how to eat a man out properly.” And your words that sounded like a promise and a threat at the same time made his body shiver in excitement and another moan - this one was a little lower - fell from his lips.

With a shift of your hips your body was finally able to swallow Adam’s tongue and the choking noise that the brunette made at the sudden shift was music to your ears. “For your bragging about how good you are at this you’re pretty fucking weak, hun,” oh and you loved the way his body reacted to your mean sounding comments, the way his hips pressed up against the palm pinning it down, the way his hands - which were loosely holding your hips to keep them busy - would clench, nails digging into your skin to keep himself grounded. His golden eyes were open the entire time, scanning your body and its very move. “You’ve never done that before and it fucking shows,” you moaned as you kept grinding your hips against his face, trying to get is tongue to touch all the right areas, without him knowing where those are that turned out to be more tricky than you would have thought though. “Really thought I wouldn’t notice that you’re basically still a virgin when it comes to eating someone out, huh?” And that word - virgin - made Adam’s walls crumble, never in his entire life had someone called him that, let alone told him that he fucks like one. A high pitched whine left his throat and that sound you liked even more than the choking noise he had made earlier. “And someone like you dares to call himself dickmaster,” you huffed as the hand that had been busy with pinning his hips against the mattress teasingly ghosted over Adam’s erection, the brunette was quick to try and lean into your offering touch instantly. A muffled, “Fuck,” came from the man underneath you - well, at lest that was what Adam tried to say, the sound that actually left his lips sounded a little different. Not that either of you cared, no not really.

“Move your tongue to the right- no the other right, boo- oh fuck,” instructions he could definitely take and execute quite well despite the fact that he had been in a leading position his entire afterlife - he was the leader of the exorcists after all, not a really a position that would teach a person to execute orders well. Yet Adam did what you told him to do and earned himself a throaty moan of yours in return. “Look at the inexperienced bitch finally learning how to eat- oh dear God~” your degrading little comment was cut off by Adam thrusting his tongue all the way inside of you, licking down the inside of your walls and swallowing the liquid your body produced due to the lust flowing through your veins. Fuck, he surely had caught on quickly, huh? You felt the shiteating grin that you were sitting on and you did not like it - well, that was only partly true. You did like it that he seemed to grow more confident in his task, you did not like the control that took from you so the fist of yours that was still buried in his hair tightened in a warning manner. Adam’s hands grabbed a proper hold of your hips and slightly lifted them off his face to respond to your lust filled cry of Father’s name, “Not quite, but I’ll let it slide.” The fist in his hair tightened even more, then you yanked on the sweaty mess on his head firmly, drawing a beautiful sounding moan from your lover as you yanked his face closer to your privates again.

“Shut the fuck up and swallow, bitch,” you bit back a little harsher than you had intented to, but you knew Adam would not take that personally at all - if anything he would comment on it later how hot it was. His eyes locked onto yours as he continued to eat you out, the tongue of the first man was moving so skillfully by now, like it was his second nature, like he had been practicing this ever since he had been created. You knew better than anyone that wasn’t the case though. Moan after moan fell from your lips and the brunette underneath you drowned in the sounds you made for him, drowned in the thought of your body craving his just as much as his body was craving yours. Why was he so fucking good at this? He surely had no right to be, not when he was oh so inexperienced. You wanted to keep the dirty talk and therefore the degradation up but you had not enough air inside your lungs to do so, not when Adam kept drawing those beautiful sounds from you.

[bonny-kookoo]

Hello!

So I couldn't get Break Me out of my mind and had to read it again and I have a request for a first date or a snippet of what happens after the end...? If it's possible obviously 💜

Sure!

You should technically know what you got yourself into when you agreed to 'trying it out' with Jungkook that night you both finally broke. You've seen that man naked more often than you could ever count, and god only knows all the acts that had transpired in your respective bedrooms together. In a way, you should know him, right?

Wrong. It feels like you know absolutely nothing more about him than the size of his dick and the fact that he loves grabbing your tits while you ride him. It's a little sad, really.

Because he's so much more than that, and you're only now just realizing that on the little weekend trip you joined him on.

He's currently humming to the tune of music from his phone, playfully moving his hips, such a light sense of relaxed happiness in his entire being ever since starting the trip, and it infects you like a virus, making you giggle while you watch him dance all silly to the random spotify track that's filling the hotel room. He laughs back, smiles so bright that the outside of his eyes wrinkle a little, dimples showing.

He holds out his hands. You roll your eyes.

"Come on now babe, dance with me!" He laughs. You're not sure where that almost childish happiness comes from with him. He's not even remotely drunk, only a single can of beer currently flowing in his veins from the dinner you both had earlier.

You eventually take his hands, and they're a lot larger than yours, though not threatening. They hold yours with a certain confidence you've never noticed outside any bedroom activities- and even the close proximity to him still dressed and in no way entangled in the sheets makes you feel a little uneasy. He smells nice. His body is warm. His voice sounds a lot deeper than you ever really noticed.

Suddenly you realize what that awkwardness is that's constantly interrupting your thoughts.

It's guilt.

"What're you thinking about, huh?" He asks, moving your hands to lay over his shoulder around his neck, his own holding your waist, before he instead wraps his arms around you to hold you close.

"You." You tell him, and he grins again, has to lean his head back probably so you don't notice how ridiculously shy it makes him when you say that. "I feel bad."

That makes him look at you again, eyes worried and all round.

"Why?" He wonders, clearly confused. One of your hands find his face, thumb running over the two piercings on his bottom lip.

"I guess.. I mean, I pretty much just used you-" You start, and he tilts his head before he sighs, a small growling sound accompanying it.

"Aish, I told you we're good." He says, looking at you with reassurance. arms continuing to hold you close. "Just let me try and make you happy." He chuckles, and you stare at him for a moment, before your eyes tear up, a hand of his gently pushing your head against his chest. "You worry so much."

"I do." You admit. "I don't wanna fuck this up." You tell him, and he laughs.

"Then let me handle it." He offers. "That way it'll be my fault if we screw up." He jokes.

"I don't want that." You shake your head, when he suddenly leans down and picks you up, catching you off guard as he rather clumsily lets you fall onto the hotel bed, before he crawls over your body, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

"Nothing's gonna hurt you baby~" He sings fairly well towards you as he leans down to peck your lips. "As long as you're with me you'll be just fine~" He laughs towards the end of the sentence, clearly a bit embarrassed-

but the fact that he made you smile again makes it all worth it.

And maybe the song's title could be more than just that, you think, as you decide that maybe trusting him isn't such a bad idea after all. If he loves you to such a degree that he can forgive you all the hurt you caused-

then the least you can do, is let yourself love him back just as much.

[tired-biscuit]

Happy Birthday

Pairing: Kiba Inuzuka/fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ mdni // modern au, intoxication, unhealthy amount of tension, edging. reader is naruto uzumaki's younger sister.

Word count: 11.5k

Summary: Kiba invites you to his 22nd birthday party. Stuff happens.

a/n: nobody asked for this, but here i am; posting this one-shot in honour of the birthday boy.

HAD this all been a mistake?

As you feel the bitter burn of yet another consumed shot seep its way down your throat, you can't say for sure.

Placing the tiny glass back upon the kitchen counter, your expression twists into one of pure disgust when the heat settles into the pit of your stomach.

You've forgotten just how bad vodka tastes on its own, lacking the sweet tang of Red Bull or juice. The reminder is semi-welcomed, you suppose.

The broad palm to land upon your shoulder blade in that moment is warm as it pats you encouragingly one, two; three times.

You suck in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, swallowing the runny saliva that's only there because of the damn vodka, before a bright red solo cup is shoved right into your hands.

Your eyes narrow as you look up at the tall, handsome brunet which you've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing ever since you were little.

Unbeknownst to many, Kiba has been terrorizing your life for as long as you can remember. Adorning nearly every picture in your family photo album with that tan, freckled face of his, the ebullient Inuzuka had met your big brother on his first day of preschool, and stuck by his side from that moment onward.

Since Kiba is Naruto's best friend, it's no wonder how most of the memories you have of your childhood include him.

Only two years younger than the two boys, you grew up alongside both Naruto and Kiba; building sandcastles on the beach together whenever you went on vacation, playing hide and seek, as well as every other game you could possibly come up with off the top of your tiny heads and which made you constantly end up in trouble together.

Kiba - always the rather boisterous and rowdy kid, much like your big brother - had been more or less invariably nice to you throughout all those years.

Until he abruptly wasn't.

After all, as soon as the Inuzuka turned eight, he had started getting mean; towards you, specifically. Constantly tugging on your pigtails and taunting you for how you acted and spoke, Kiba had made you cry and tell on him to your mother on several occasions.

Crying big, fat tears, you never quite understood why she only chuckled at your childish complaints back then. Why Tsume, Kiba's own mother, had had the exact same reaction, too. Why Naruto agreed with everything he said like the traitorous older brother he was, and got fussy all of a sudden if you wanted to play with them like you always did.

You stopped trying to fit in amongst the two rowdy boys at some point, and instead focused on your own hobbies.

So, years passed. You grew up into a sweet girl, who eventually found friends of her own, and forgot all about stupid, idiotic Kiba who teased you until you cried, despite that he swung by nearly every other day.

That is, until he went to visit his dad one summer when you were thirteen. That year, Kiba came back tall and lean; with his limbs almost comically long, as well as accompanied with a deep voice that made you burst out with laughter whenever it cracked into a higher pitch mid-sentence.

You still quarelled in the same way you used to when you were little, but this time without your tearful complaints to your mother.

He told you all about how his summer went, how his dad was pretty okay whenever he wished to be, and how his older sister Hana had stepped on a sea urchin and had to be rushed to the hospital, where he laughed his ass off as she groaned with every pluck of the doctor's tweezers.

But then that summer came to an end, as all things do, and Kiba started high school along with Naruto, and you were forgotten once again because of other, new friends and experiences that interested him as a proper teenager, and that certainly had nothing to do with thirteen-year-old you. 

By the time you became a freshman yourself, he was already seventeen and a junior. Much to your beffudlement, Kiba had started acting weird around you at that age, mostly turning an ignorant eye towards your direction and barely speaking to you at all, which had most definitely been way out of his usually outgoing personality.

He stared at you only when you weren't looking. Asked Naruto about how you were doing, but never once voiced the question directly to you. The entire ordeal only made you grow further apart.

You never questioned him about it; well at least not truly, anyway. It wasn't like you actually cared about what someone as silly as Kiba thought of you, after all.

And then all of a sudden said boy was a senior finishing high school, getting ready to begin living yet another chapter of his life. He got a sports scholarship and left town for college without ever saying goodbye, much like your own brother. He left you behind, just like that. They both did.

It seemed that university life was a blast for an open, untamed person like Kiba, at least judging from the pictures he posted on his Instagram. From eighteen to twenty-one, you mostly saw him transfigure from a boy to a man over the screen of your phone - barely interacting with him at all, if it weren't for the rare exception whenever he liked the selfie you occasionally posted, was asking for Naruto, or if he dropped by the house to say hi to your parents during the summer.

So, to say that you were absolutely flabbergasted when you received a random text from him one night, inviting you to his 22nd birthday party would be an understatement.

Even Naruto seemed surprised when you asked if Kiba had possibly made a mistake. Had turned slightly suspicious, too, as you skipped down the stairs way more dolled up than usual on the night of the party, staring up at him with slightly anxious eyes.

"It's just Kiba," your brother tells you, eyeing the pretty skirt and top you've decided on tonight, "so, why are you all dressed up?"

"Who said it was for him?" you reply with an eye roll, despite that there's an inexplicable bounce to your step as you leave the house.

And that was that, as well as the reason how you find yourself staring at a freshly turned twenty-two-year-old Kiba, the golden amber within his irises recoiling whenever your gazes meet inside his dimly-lit kitchen.

You have no idea how he has managed to hunt you down amongst the mass of people to fill every room of his house, but the honey-like shade nearly glows with overt amusement when he smiles down at you after he's successfully persuaded you into sharing a third round of double shots with him.

Let's be honest, it's not like it took him a lot of effort. It's his birthday, after all. And the birthday boy gets what he wants!

Meanwhile, Kiba, who is feverishly determined and drunk just enough to finally shoot his shot with the girl that's been off limits to him for fucking aeons, is putting his best effort in making that statement true.

He knows what he's attempting to do is supposedly wrong as he keeps poking and prodding at you to see how you play - knows it darn well, but after literal years of loyalty and restraint, he's allowed to go behind his best friend's back just this once, right?

Sure, Naruto will unleash hell and fury upon him if he finds out, but...

I mean, come on! You're old enough to make your own decisions in life. He's tired of only liking your cute selfies and never sliding into your DMs, because Naruto gets upset everytime he sees him double-tap the damn posts. It's his birthday, for crying out loud!

And it's not just any birthday. This year, Kiba has finally allowed himself to wish for you; hence why you're here in the first place. 

So, it's the fact that it's just you and him inside the little kitchen that matters most to him, no matter that you're surrounded by other individuals who he can't bring himself to care about in that moment. Honestly, with so many people around, Kiba is slightly surprised that he's the only one you seem to endure the company of tonight.

After all, he had waited for an hour or so before leaving his friends to go look for you instead, giving you plenty of time to mingle. When he at long last found you behind the kitchen counter, mixing yourself a drink, completely alone and not talking to anybody, it was like yet another birthday present amongst many.

The realization that you're actually standing in front of him and he's seeing you properly after years of nothing is making his heart feel all kinds of weird. He's been crushing on you ever since he was a little kid, but that's long gone. 

He's a man now - a man that's still undeniably crushing on you, but still...

All he has left to do as an infatuated man, now; is to score. It's a parlous task, however Kiba is willing to take the risk. 

He's thought long and hard about this. Has taken safety precautions. The people he invited have no fucking clue who you are, or are far too intoxicated and high to remember whose baby sister exactly he's beginning to hit on. The sister, mind you, whose annoyingly protective older brother is nowhere to be seen, because Kiba had made sure to invite his friend Hinata from college, so that she'd keep the damn cockblocker busy while he kicks up the charm.

But you don't know anything about his wicked plan. You just see his smile, and assume he's being nice to you because a circuit inside that little, male brain of his must have glitched, or whatever.

He's telling you something, but you can barely hear him over the booming music and equally as loud chatter. The brown-haired Inuzuka seems to own an entire army of friends, however is that really a surprise, considering how damn affable he is?

His mouth moves in the most peculiar way when he grins, upper lip pink and plump as it pulls back on his teeth; as well as slightly glossy from the shot he's just finished. The two incisors he owns are way sharper than whatever you've seen on any other human. They glint in the dim light, causing your pulse to quicken.

"Hey," you hear him drawl seemingly from miles away, "you doin' okay there?"

You feel your nose scrunch up when he snaps his fingers in front of your face all of a sudden. Catching gazes with the fierce amber, you feel like the silliest of fools.

You've successfully zoned out, thinking about his stupid mouth, and Kiba is staring at you now; studying you like you're a goddamn enigma he seems surprisingly eager to solve.

His eyes are enticing just like his mouth. The realization that you've been caught ogling at his lovely smile makes heat radiate through your chest. You swear that you can feel your heart hurting from the sheer and utter embarrassment.

Jittery nerves propel your adrenaline levels, your grip around the cup which you're still holding in your hand, tightening in response.

The tips of your fingers feel somewhat numb from all the alcohol you've indulged yourself in. You're not entirely sure if that's a good thing or not.

"y/n," he says your name, waving a hand in front of your face again.

"Wha-... Sorry, what?" you manage lamely.

The second heatwave of humiliation to hit you in that moment isn't exactly helping in sobering you up, but that's not the plan anyway. It's just annoying that you can't seem to focus.

Kiba snickers at your obvious discomfort, just like he did when he was a kid. "Somebody can't handle their booze?"

The frown you portray is subtle and pouty. "I'm just tired."

"Mhmmm," he hums exaggeratedly, nodding, "of course you are."

You can't believe you used to have a crush on a taunting prick like him. The sigh you loose is exasperated as you point to the solo cup he's just handed you. "What's in this?"

"What?" He quirks one dark brow before leaning in slightly so that he can hear you better.

His cologne invades your nose in an instant. Kiba smells like rain and cedarwood; heavy, balsamic notes that remind you of a forest that's wrapped in a blanket of thick fog and moss, all of it coated in a layer of cool morning dew.

The pleasant scent titillates your senses to the point where it makes you want to cling onto the white t-shirt he's wearing, so that you'd be able to bury your face into the crook of his neck. 

Pause. It's Kiba we're talking about here. Idiot Kiba, who forgot to tie his shoes before he went on a roller coaster when he was nine, and sent them flying away in the middle of the ride.

Kiba, who chugged milk straight from the carton and laughed so hard it spurted out his nose when you told him how gross he was. Kiba, who kept picking up spiders and other nasty bugs, and then ran after you, threatening you he'll drop them into your hair as you squealed and cried.

The thought of sin that had crossed your mind nearly makes you cringe away from him at the other memories to otherwise flood your brain as if in argument. How embarrassing for you!

Blinking, you instantly hang blame upon the alcohol that's coursing your veins, and obviously clouding your better judgement. He's your brother's best friend, after all - one who you've known since diapers and that's been seen as nothing but a menace in your eyes ever since.

It'd be gross to think like that about Kiba of all people, wouldn't it?

... Wouldn't it?

Partially satisfied with your reasoning, you grumble and curl your fingers around the unbuttoned front of the flannel he's wearing over the white t-shirt, so that you can pull him closer.

He's compliant as he leans in, but what you fail to notice, however, is that his hand rests against the kitchen counter at the tug; trapping you in-between the cool marble and his body. Caging you right in.

The sleeves of his flannel are rolled up to his elbows. You can't help but glance at the defined knuckles and flexible digits. His forearm is tan and covered in dark hair, but you can still see a small fraction of the thin, white scar he's acquired when he fell off his skateboard when he was seven, and that's now hiding underneath the rather familiar forest green, vowen bracelet he's been wearing since forever.

Back then, it would have been either a sprained wrist, or a head-on collision with you when you had swerved in front of him on your little, bright pink rollerblades just as he had picked up speed on the damned board.

Luckily for you; Kiba had chosen the former.

Come to think of it, he always chose you over his own well-being. He fussed about it, of course, but he nonetheless picked your safety first.

You're not entirely sure why you even remember such a thing; even less why it makes your heart flutter. But you're not one to dwell on it.

Stepping onto the tips of your toes, your mouth is right next to his ear as you raise your voice and repeat the question, "I was asking what's in the cup?"

"It's just soda, pipsqueak," Kiba says, the rasp of his voice laced with laughter as he adds, "it'll help in getting rid of the taste of booze that you can't seem to endure."

Both of your brows shoot up in mild astonishment at the blatant taunt. "Excuse me?"

He smiles down at you once more. "What?"

Your eyes dip to his smile again. There you go, staring at his mouth for a second time in the mere span of five minutes. Making him notice. Stupid, stupid, stupid! 

Your voice shakes slightly as you utter, "Don't you think you're a bit too old to keep teasing me, Kiba?"

"Hmm?" His eyes glimmer with profound mischief when he says, "I always thought you'd be the kind of girl that'd enjoy a little bit of teasing."

Heat creeps up your neck at the hint. He's obviously drunk, but so are you, because now you're smirking as you reply, "It completely depends on the occasion."

"Yeah?" He seems completely invested, impatient fingers tapping against the marble of the counter as he towers over you. "What kind of occasion, exactly?"

You can't resist an eye roll. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Oh, I'd like to know, all right. Very much so."

The giggle you weave into the tease is innocently cute, "Sorry, but I don't kiss and tell." It's all fun and games, right? No harm done.

He's quick to turn it into his favour. "Mind making an exception for me?"

"For which one, exactly," you quip in an instant, "the kiss, or the tell part?"

"Why, you little-... Hah." His lips part, revealing the perfect, straight row of teeth again as he laughs quietly at your jab.

The beam itself is crooked and appealing, and it's in that exact moment that you realize how close he actually is as he stands next to you. How his gaze burns like a forge as it focuses solely on you, and how anyone walking past could take it the wrong way as you push back against the counter and he leans in even further, like it's his fucking instinct to follow after you.

Wait. Are you actually flirting with him right now?

You pray to every God you know that Naruto doesn't come searching for you. If he were to find you like this, your brother might just tear you to shreds for messing with his best friend of all people. Might rip Kiba apart for allowing it in the first place, too.

But in all seriousness; are you just messing around with him? Or do you actually want to initiate something with your brother's best friend, who, at long last, is giving you the attention you've wished for ever since you were thirteen? Or perhaps it is just the booze taking control of your actions?

The edge of the counter bites into the small of your back with the movement as you pull back. Kiba's digits tap against the marble again. He trails his eyes all over you - up and down. Like a proper bastard.

His arm is so close to your side that you can feel his body heat pour into you, even though you're not making any sort of physical contact ever since your hand had left his flannel. The feeling is overwhelming, to say the least. You can't believe you're actually growing flustered around an idiot like Kiba, for fuck's sake.

The daze you feel is the reason why the best you can do is stare at his chest now, which is so wide that you're wondering how big his goddamn ribcage must be. His heart definitely beats like a war drum; you're sure of it.

Before you can hesitate, the curiosity you feel makes you press your palm against the middle of his chest. Not a moment passes, and there it is - the strong, steady heartbeat you've expected to feel; grazing your finger pads, and making your own pulse skyrocket. 

"Anyways," you pat his firm chest, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible while placing the cup of soda onto the counter, "I can handle it just fine, Kib."

"Sweetheart," Kiba utters, the grin on his face growing even wider, "I'm not entirely sure you can."

Your gaze lifts as you look at him underneath your eyelashes. His face owns a reddish tint to it now; both cheeks blooming with heat which you're guessing is there because of the alcohol.

His eyes seem glossy, the stare heavy-lidded and complacent, but most importantly - unmoving from your own.

Your nerves are firing up all at once at the intense eye contact. Pressure climbs up your throat, making your chest tighten with blazing-hot tension. Your mind is running all over the place, turning you incapable of concentrating. 

The suspense makes you falter as you peel your eyes away from him. It turns you into a coward, because now you're completely changing the subject, "Nice bracelet."

Kiba on the other hand, seems to be holding his ground. His voice is smooth as velvet as he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and says, "As far as I remember, you've bought it for me at the beach years ago."

Hyper-awareness flashes throughout you at his touch, making you tongue-tangled with the jumble of words you let out, "Yeah, 'cause you wouldn't stop bitching about how I lost your stupid Spider-Man towel, and I had to make it up to you somehow."

"First of all, it wasn't stupid. And second," he chuckles as he curls the same strand of hair around his finger and tugs it lightly to provoke you further, "it was an Iron Man one. Please educate yourself before you come for me, cutie."

Your pulse is racing now. "Cutie?"

Kiba blinks. His knuckle brushes your cheekbone and it's like a tingling, nearly electrical jolt that surges through him at the accidental touch in that exact moment.

He pulls back, leaving the part of skin he touched burning in his wake. "I'm sorry. I didn't-... I didn't mean it like that. Fuck, hah."

His laughter is somewhat nervous now, and to be honest, you've never seen him act this hesitant before. The Kiba you know had always been nothing but smug in every single aspect, but at the same time, you barely know the current Kiba.

You haven't talked in years, after all - not properly, at least, which is why this entire interaction is so freaking odd in the first place. You wish you had some sort of power to know what on earth is going on inside that pretty head of his.

Based from experience gained from spending so many years in his company, you're guessing not much is happening inside that thick skull, but you'd kill to know the reason as to why he's invited you to his birthday party at all.

What has changed? Why was he searching the house for you, specifically, pretty much ignoring all the people he had invited, and why has he decided to spend the rest of the night in your presence, instead of anyone else's?

It seems that no matter how simple his mind may be, Kiba is - much to your dismay - the true enigma here.

Great.

"Ugh, I'm sorry," he repeats when you don't say anything in return, running a frustrated hand through his chestnut hair, "I think I'm just really wasted and saying shit I don't mean, 'cause of it."

In truth, he just wants to see if you'll bite into the bait he's setting up for you. If you'll play, and allow him to yank you right into his greedy hands.

You must be wasted, too, because now you're looking him right in the eye, saying, "It's all right, Kib. I liked it."

You just can't help yourself. Tonight is the first time in your life that you're seeing him this defenseless. That you're able to tug and pull on his strings, and play with him like he's a shiny, new toy that you can't wait to mess with. The opportunity is simply too good to miss out on.

If only you knew.

The atmosphere changes yet again at the words you've just spoken out loud, God have mercy on your soul. Something sticky and morally questionable settles right between you.

The tension is making your mouth dry. You're both circling now; unsure and waiting to see who is willing to take the first step towards the reason behind your uncertainty.

"You liked it," he mumbles at long last, unable to look at you properly, "the pet name?"

"Mhmm, I think it's cute." The smile you offer him is as cunning as one of a fox - pure vixen. Kiba doesn't understand why, but something about your face brightening up and the way the sheen of your lip gloss catches light tempts him; makes him tilt his head to the side and take you in unashamedly this time around.

He's outright leering at you now, studying you from head to toe, and taking in the pretty skirt and tight top, without trying to hide his interest like he's been doing for the past hour and a half.

You might own the smile of a fox, being an Uzumaki and all that, but when his amber eyes darken with shadows you can't quite read, you realize that he's the hound that's just about ready to start hunting you down.

His bottom lip is tucked underneath the same teeth that are now chewing the tender flesh from deeply pondering a thought which you'll never get the pleasure of knowing.

Kiba steps from one foot to another, loosing a huffed chuckle before he looks you in the eye again; seemingly satisfied with his conclusion.

Time to go all-in.

"You know," he says, voice wary, "I've got loads of other stuff from way back when we were kids, saved in a box upstairs, if you wanna check it out?"

He pauses for a second as his head whips to the side. He looks over his shoulder, and you can see him scan the room quickly; searching for something, or rather someone, before he turns back towards you and adds, "It's, uh... It's up in my room."

You quirk a brow at the suggestion. "You want to take me up to your room?"

Is he seriously asking what you think he is?

"Yeah," he says a bit more confidently now, scratching the back of his neck. His face is red as he mutters, "But only if you want to, of course."

"Hmm." You spend two or three seconds pretending that you're thinking it over just to see him fidget and squirm a bit more, before you at long last give him a slow nod of your head, "Sure, I guess."

Kiba seems relieved, until: "Though, I should probably go tell Naruto, so that he knows where I am."

Pushing from the counter, you dust off the imaginary lint from your cute skirt, however before you can even look up at him, his hand is back to pressing against the marble; blocking your path.

It seems that you aren't going anywhere.

Kiba's eyes are dark and glazed, the iridescent flecks of gold lazily swirling inside the liquid amber whenever the light catches the irises just right. He's looking down at you with a furrowed brow and an expression that's pretty bitter, unlike his honey eyes, but you only realize that he can't stop staring at your mouth when he says, "Maybe we shouldn't tell Naruto about where we're goin', sweetheart."

You aren't stupid. You know that the words have a deeper meaning. And now, you have yet another reason for your hunch to be proven right on why he doesn't want your brother to find out where you're going with him. Still, you push his limit, feeling him out, "And why is that?"

"He's probably busy." His voice is firm as he looks down at you when you flutter your eyelashes up at him. Perhaps it even owns a certain edge of frustration to it.

You sound like a bimbo when you reply, "Ah, I see."

You stare at each other as you feel the buzz of tension to sear your skin in mind-numbing waves. They're hitting against you both like you're cliffs that are constantly being kissed by the rowdy sea.

You can almost taste the anticipation of what's to come. Meanwhile, Kiba can nearly taste your saliva mixing with his own.

All he wants to do is kiss you. Kiss you, until you won't be able to feel your mouth anymore from how hot his tongue is to stroke yours and scorch you.

He's been imagining how it'd be like to kiss that pouty mouth ever since he was fourteen. And now - at twenty-two - he wants to know just as bad.

"Well?" he utters, impatience peeking through the mask he's put on ever since you've shown up at his front door.

"Chill, you idiot," you giggle finally, nodding again, "I won't tell Naruto if you don't want me to."

It'll be our little secret.

Relief washes over him yet again. He smirks as he moves at your compliance, offering you his hand like those cocky gentlemen in the films you're an absolute sucker for. "Well, shall we, then?"

The action is so cheesy and sweet, that you don't even hesitate to place your palm upon his own, not realizing the consequences of your decision in that moment. 

His grip is tight and possessive in all the right ways. You can't remember the last time you've held hands with him, but it certainly didn't feel like this.

"Lead the way, Kib."

And so, Kiba does.

---

"Christ, I haven't been up here in forever."

"And yet, you seem to have made yourself quite at home."

You turn to look at him from your spot on his bed you've just plopped down and made yourself comfortable on. His childhood bedroom is a bit different than what you saw the last time you were here, but what exactly has changed?

The bed is certainly bigger, as well as the wardrobe that stands in one corner opposite from where you're currently sitting. All of the furniture is made out of rich oak, exactly like most of the house; as well as the desk that's covered in random clutter, mostly consisting of notebooks, bright highlighters and sticky notes, which he must have brought home from college.

The movie posters to adorn the walls are still there, and somehow compliment the cosy aesthetic of his space. You spot the fluffy-looking dog bed that's set-up right next to his desk. It's empty.

"Is Akamaru with your mom?"

"Yeah, they won't be back until tomorrow evening," Kiba replies, closing the door, "now stop snooping through my stuff, will ya?"

"Uh, it's called looking around? Who said I was snooping?" The scoff you let out in answer is nothing short from derisive as you say, "And besides, it's not like there'd be anything new to find... Not much has changed; seeing that your room is still as messy as it was when you were ten."

"It ain't that messy," he retaliates, fingers wrapping around the key that's secured in the lock. He stands next to the door for a couple of seconds, making you stare at his back in puzzlement.

His voice is surprisingly quiet and soft when he speaks again, though thankfully you can still hear him over the muffled noise of music that's still being blasted downstairs, "By the way, uh... Do you mind if I lock the door?"

Oh?

The smirk which insists on curling the corners of your gloss-coated lips upwards is hard to hide. "Why would you lock it?"

He pauses again, body going still. You just know the gears within his head are turning at the speed of light. You can't help but wonder if it hurts him to think this much; this hard, when he says, "I don't want people getting the wrong idea."

Your reply is as swift as an arrow: "Don't you think locking the door would give them that exact idea in the first place, Kiba?"

For fuck's sake, you're too clever and witty for your own good; always have been. It's infuriating, but Kiba tames the tone of his voice into something sweeter by swallowing hard. "Let's hope not."

Before you can quip anything back at him, the lock clicks into place. Click! - your fate is sealed with his decision. God help you.

"Wow," you snort, shaking your head, "thanks for having the decency to at least ask me if I wanted the door locked, I suppose."

Kiba flashes you a playful, closed-eyed smile when he turns around and makes his way towards the wardrobe. You try to your best ability to not ogle at the way the flannel tightens around his broad shoulders and back when he raises his arms to pick up the box he's been telling you about.

Still, no matter how hard you try to look away, it seems to be literally impossible for you to quit glancing in his direction whenever the rippling muscle shifts underneath the cotton with every minuscule movement he makes.

The sports scholarship must have done him good, because he's fit and fucking fine as hell.

Though, not in the tall and lean way kind of fit, like he's been during most of his teenage years. No, as a proper adult, Kiba is appealingly vigorous and buff; owning strength you can't quite possibly imagine being unleashed upon your smaller frame.

He'd be able to crush you into a pulp if he ever wished to do so. To squeeze your throat until you'd be fighting against him, so that he'd allow air into your lungs. To hold you up without any sort of trouble as he'd fuck you against the goddamn wall.

You're not entirely sure if the knowledge of that last one thrills you, or instead frightens you right to the bone which he'd be able to break right in half anyway. Still, possibly scared or not, you might just start drooling at the sight of him.

You're looking at him like he's a piece of meat you'd like to chew on. How pathetic of you to be this shallow.

And how pathetic of him to be doing the exact same thing.

"Okay," he mumbles as he brings the box over and plops down onto the bed right next to you, "let's see what's in here."

Kiba flicks the lid off, the tiniest of smiles creeping up on his lips at the audible gasp you let out as soon as the items come into view.

The box is filled with seemingly completely random clutter, but after taking a closer look, you recognize the tiny sea-shells, the movie tickets, as well as all the postcards you've sent him. It's more than ten years of life - stuffed into a cardboard shoebox.

You spend the next half hour going through the box with him, reminiscing about memories that are both equally as sweet as they are nostalgic, sharing laughs and teasing each other as they bring you closer together; sewing up that gap of unfamiliarity between you with every passing second and exchanged relic.

Kiba's heart is fluttering with every drunken, tinkling giggle you're letting out, as well as the way your entire expression brightens because of him.

And he - the smitten, poor man that he is - just can't stop looking at you, because he's missed this. Talking to you, bringing those beaming smiles forth everytime he makes you laugh; just being in your warm presence, overall. Truth be told, he's missed all of it.

He's missed you.

"Can't believe you've kept all of this, Kib," you utter softly, reading the postcard you've sent him nearly nine years ago, "most of these literally make no sense. I'm just blabbering about my vacation, but in writing."

"I know. I suppose you could call me sentimental, eh?" He laughs quietly as he leans in and trails the tip of his finger over the scribbles you've written down when you were eleven. "But I always liked the lil' hearts you drew for me on every one."

"The hearts?"

"Yeah, look," he says as he pushes even closer to you, pointing to the corner of the postcard, "here's one. And... Another one."

His index finger brushes against your thumb when he points to the second doodle of a heart on the postcard you're still holding. He's sprawled on his side, supporting himself with one elbow and reclining so close to you, that you can smell his cologne all over again.

The scent clouds your mind for a second time that night. You're right back inside that rainy forest again; wishing to lie down onto the damp, moss-covered ground and just be fucking overtaken by the fog, until you'd feel the chill of its kiss on your neck.

The thought makes you drop the postcard somewhat absent-mindedly as you turn to look at him. He's much closer than you've realized, because as soon as you make eye contact; your faces are mere inches apart, the tips of your noses almost touching.

You can see all of his freckles this up-close, as well as the dimple in his cheek which shows up when one corner of his mouth tugs to the side. Something within you begins to glow when he looks at you so very warmly with those big, fierce amber eyes of his.

He makes you feel special with just one look alone. Unique. One of a kind.

"What is it, cutie?" His voice is barely above a whisper now.

"Nothing, I just," you mumble as heat sears your face at the pet name, "I think I must be very drunk right now, because I actually think you look super pretty up-close."

"Oh?" Kiba snickers at what you admit. "Why, thank you. Wish I could say the same for you, but you're kind of blurry for me right now."

"Ha ha, funny." You roll your eyes at him, shoving him away by pressing your palm against his chest. However, before you can even fully extend your arm to use more force, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist; tugging you closer in one swift movement.

He yanks you towards himself, until you're practically hovering above his face with your own. You're so close that you're sharing your breaths, staring into each other's eyes - both of your pupils dilating at the intimate closeness.

"I-I'm very drunk right now, Kiba," you repeat, cursing yourself internally for the stutter.

"As am I," he replies quietly, pushing your hand firmer against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat right underneath the tips of your fingers again. The rhythmic sensation makes you gather up the cotton of his crisp, white t-shirt between your own digits as you clutch it tightly.

Your forehead presses against his own. You're almost breathless already, and he hasn't even kissed you. "This... This might not be a good idea."

"We haven't done anything," he utters in a hushed whisper, the hand that was just holding your wrist snaking up to caress your cheek. He trails the tip of his finger over your cheekbone, eyes glued to your mouth, "And we don't have to either, if that's not something you want."

The alcohol is pushing you to tell the truth. It's promising you that you'll feel better if you admit your feelings that have been there for ages. That the fear you feel is nothing compared to the relief that's to come.

"The problem is that I, uh... I do." You sigh, inching closer and closer, "I do want to."

Oh, god. Kiba's heart is just about ready to burst from joy at your answer. He feels nauseous from how overwhelmed all the feelings are making him. He just has to feel everything so strongly, doesn't he? It's amazing how he hasn't burned out yet, but he has to keep it together. Has to keep himself in check for you.

"Yeah?" His chuckle is dark in humour as he cups your cheek tighter, "You want me to kiss you?"

"Ye-... Yeah."

Kiba doesn't need anything else. His lips latch to your own as soon as you get the approval out, and the moment your mouths connect in panting, careful kisses that become hotter and hotter with passion with each one that follows after the other, it's everything you could have possibly wished for.

Kissing him is better than whatever you've imagined for all these years. He tugs on your bottom lip, spoils the upper one with affection, warms them both with his gentle sigh. You can't believe it took you this long to actually get to feel that plush mouth of his pressing against your own this softly, this tenderly.

Better late than never, you suppose.

He pulls back after a while, taking a deep, shaky breath. You're both chuckling quietly now, avoiding each other's eyes and not saying anything; too stunned to speak from the kiss you've just shared. His face is gaining the colour of a red tomato. He just likes you so much.

"Fuck, that was..." He's quiet for a moment, shaking his head with a grin that owns the power to bring you to your knees as he says, "Can I, uh... Can I kiss you again, maybe?"

"Yes," you barely let out, before his mouth is back upon your own.

His warm tongue strokes your bottom lip, silently asking for entrance. As soon as your lips part with a content sigh, he's pushing against you, tasting and gliding over every crevice within your sweet mouth, as well as the roof of it - tasting you for the very first time, and relishing you thoroughly because of it.

You can feel him forcing you into the mattress as the kisses flow between you and the tension you feel spreads through your entire body like a wildfire; until you're lying down on your side, and he's hovering above you exactly like you've done just a minute prior. 

He's more eager now; overtaking your mouth with his tongue and the quick, slightly painful prickles which burn whenever he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip. A small moan manages to slip past your mouth at the sensation when he tugs on your swollen lip that's long since lost all the gloss from how harsh your kissing is turning.

The sound of your mewl is so appealing that it makes him lazily part his eyelids, which are so heavy and hooded that he's barely keeping them open. Kiba watches you completely melt into the kiss he's been waiting to happen for literal ages. You look so sweet that he can barely control himself.

His chest feels like it's going to explode, and not from the lack of air, but from all the emotions he's feeling all at once again.

Your hands are running through his chestnut hair; entire body squirming and writhing when he trails his own palm down your side. He stops at the hem of your skirt, eager fingers twitching from anticipation as he asks, "Want me to touch you, too?"

Your voice is breathless as you whine, "Please."

"Look at you, asking so nicely." He snickers quietly, the smirk on his mouth tricksy, "Didn't know you had it in you."

And before you can even come up with a witty reply to his teasing, he's kissing you yet again, his warm hand grasping and squeezing the plush flesh of your thigh. His touch is greedy and possessive. It makes your core burn even hotter with wildish need.

His hand squeezes your thigh so harshly that it burns. You're gasping into his mouth in response to the ache, before he inches higher up to the inner part. The noises you're making as you're parting your legs to help him gain better access are adorable, and are also the reason why his dick keeps twitching inside his pants. He can feel the surge of warmth rushing to his groin. You're making him hard just by sound alone.

He keeps circling the spot where you need him most as he plays with you; testing your patience. He's so close but yet so far, making the tension within you build up to the point where you can feel your skin tightening over your bones because of it. 

"Kiba," you whisper, tugging on his hair to bring him closer, "st-stop messing around."

"Here?" His voice is nearly a gentle coo as he at long last rubs a digit over the damp spot of arousal on your pretty panties, completely disregarding your empty warning, "You want me to touch you here, cutie?"

"Mhmmm," you hum, dazed already from the sensation.

He taps the lace with a single rough fingertip, nearly making you purr from the way he's pressing against your clit over the fabric. "Take these off for me, then, pretty please?"

You don't have to be told twice. His request is so sweet that you're eager as ever as you reach underneath your skirt, hook your fingers around the waistband and tug the delicate lace down your legs.  

Kiba's hand finds you the second your panties hit the floor of his room. Your eyelids flutter at the contact, but you somehow force them to stay open, so that you can watch his smug smile as he trails a fingertip over your soaking pussy; gathering the arousal you've been trying to hide from him the entire night.

His voice is a rough whisper as he traces lazy circles over your throbbing clit, "So wet for me, huh? It seems like you haven't been touched in a while."

"It's been a lonely couple of months, yeah."

"That silly boyfriend of yours ain't around anymore, hmm?"

"We br-broke up."

"Good. I was growing tired of seeing his stupid face on your Insta all the time."

All you can do is nod as you stare up at him, your bottom lip tucked underneath your teeth. With one side of his face splashed in the soft glow of the light coming from the desk lamp that's positioned on the other end of the room, Kiba looks absolutely stunning.

His amber eyes shine golden when your leg hooks around his hip, so that you can give more space to that big hand of his as he pleasures you.

He keeps toying with you, rubbing your clit in soft circles that give you just enough friction to make your legs shake, and for your pussy to clench around nothing. The desire to be filled up by him is making you foam at the mouth. You're on the verge of going completely feral.

"Kiba, c'mooon," you whine, "I thought I've told you to stop mes- Fuck...! Oh, god."

"Hm? What was that?" His words are a lazy drawl as he now starts to pump two fingers inside you, stroking your hot, sensitive walls, "Did you say something, sweetheart?"

You're tugging on his hair so harshly that it makes him hiss as you try to fuck yourself on his fingers, "Holy shit, that feels so good."

"Needy," he mumbles quietly, his thumb still stroking your clit. He curls his fingers and forces himself even deeper inside you, until you can feel the brush of knuckles against your walls. Despite your hushed pleas to go faster, he keeps the languorous pace; sending your mind into absolute overdrive. 

Your hands are clumsy as they slide down his chest and dip to his belt buckle. You're growing frustrated from being such a klutz, until you at long last hear that satisfying click! as you unbuckle his belt on your third attempt. Quickly undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, you're eager to finally slip your hand into his black boxer briefs.

You stroke him over the fabric first. He pushes against you in an instant; chasing that extra friction as you try to cup and fondle as much as you can. You could have sworn that you feel him twitch as his breathing picks up its speed.

You're both looking down now, staring at your hands that are exploring each other's bodies.

The groan to leave the back of his throat makes you feel absolutely primal as you use one hand to tug the boxers down just enough for his cock to push free from the tight confines of his clothes, and the other to stroke him properly this time around.

The gasp to leave your lips is as astonished as your gawking. You've been wondering how he looked like underneath all those layers ever since you were fifteen and had gotten that first wave of hormones flooding your brain.

And as you're ogling at him so blatantly now, eyeing his throbbing cock and the pre-cum that's leaking out the tip, you realize that his size could best be described as nerve-wracking.

Your fingers are hesitant to wrap around him properly because of how tiny your hand looks compared to his dick, and yet you still do it anyway. Kiba's hand clamps around your own the moment you make contact, forcing you to tighten your grip and start pumping.

"Fuck," he whispers, eyes dark and murky at the touch, "that feels so good."

He's copied you word for word.

"Aha," you utter nervously, feeling him pick up his pace, "so, so good, Kib."

He feels big in your hand, the surge of blood making his dick so hard and throbbing that you're worried how on earth you'll make him fit if things actually escalate in that direction. If he doesn't calm down, he might just tear you apart with his cock.

The handjob you're giving him is as sloppy as the kisses you're sharing while he fingers you. It's so intimate and overwhelming; the way you're pushing against one another, writhing on his bed so much that you're both starting to sweat. 

"Wanna fuck you," he groans into your mouth at some point, his words nearly incoherent from the way you're gliding your tongue along his front teeth, "wanna fuck you so bad, cutie."

"Do it," you gasp when he applies more pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes you squirm against him. The need you feel comes first before the nervosity. You'll deal with your wrecked insides after he fucks you silly.

"Yeah?" he murmurs softly, kissing your jawline when your head tips back from the pleasure, "You'll let me fill up that cute pussy of yours?"

Heat crawls up your neck at his question and your answer, "Yeah."

He quickens his pace. "Pound it, too?"

"Yes...!"

Kiba lets out a short, huffed laugh at your enthusiasm before he presses a messy smooch right against your panting mouth. The sound echoes throughout the bedroom, making you giggle in reply. His face is so red. You doubt that it's from the alcohol now.

Thick fingers leave you slowly, rubbing the sweet arousal all over your inner-thighs and clit as he says, "Turn around for me."

You're worse than an obedient slut, or a feral bitch in heat from how happily you follow his orders. As soon as your back is turned towards him, your gaze falls upon the mirror of the wardrobe that's right opposite you.

The sight of your body as it twists and recoils on top of the bed sheets is a pitiful one, but it's quickly obscured by the fluttering of your eyelashes as soon as you feel him rub his cock over your dripping heat.

His mouth is right next to your ear when he whispers, "You on the pill?"

"Mhmm."

"Okay," he says, kissing your neck lovingly. You can feel the graze of his sharp canines slide across your pulse point when he adds, "gonna fuck you raw, then. Nice and slow, to really savour the feeling of that lil' cunt."

You're arching your back in response, pushing your ass towards his hips while your spine is pressing flush against his heaving chest.

Kiba slowly aligns himself with your sopping, tight hole. Now, your whimper is more of a cry than a moan as he begins to stretch you out with every inch he's leisurely pushing into your warmth. Even he's surprised that he's patient enough to be this gentle, but he just cares for you so much.

Your upper lip quivers as tears brim your eyes from the burn to sear through you. His forearm flexes as it tightens around your middle to keep you from outright running away from him. The shifting of muscles you see in the mirror as his grip turns tenacious is a welcome distraction.

"You're taking it so well, cutie," he encourages you delicately, using every chance to push himself in deeper, "you gonna keep taking my cock, right? Gonna keep being good for me?"

You can't form words, so you only nod as he keeps forcing himself further and further between your walls, sighing at the friction and the tight, wet warmth to surround him. You're on the cusp of crying by the time he at long last bottoms out within you, groaning at the sensation of being balls deep inside your soaking cunt.

"Fuck," he curses, breathing quick, "I've wanted to do that since I was seventeen."

"Kiba," you whine his name out, arching your back again, "it-it's too much...!"

It really is. He's taking over your entire capacity, and you feel like you're about to burst.

"Nu-uh," he smirks, not taking no for an answer as he kisses your temple, "you just need a lil' time to get used to it. Imma stretch you out real nice, sweetheart. We're gonna have so much fun."

Your fingers tighten their grip on the bed sheet, until you're literally clawing at it when he pulls his hips back and slams them right back into you with a lewd squelching noise and a smack!

"Oh, god!" Your eyes are sent rolling into the back of your head when he does it again. And again.

"No god here, 's just me," he laughs quietly, gaining a steady rhythm when it comes to destroying your insides. You're leaking milky arousal right down to the hilt of his dick as he keeps slamming home into you, making you cry out profanities every two seconds or so.

The noises you're both making mix with your heavy breathing and the sound of muffled music that's still thundering downstairs without stop. You're both so invested into each other that neither you nor him can recognize the song that's playing in that exact moment. All that matters are his grunts and your soft moans. As well as the friction. Holy fuck, the friction.

"You're a sucker for this, aren't you?" He pants into your ear, ramming himself into you with even more force, "You love the way my cock fills up your cute cunt, and how it hurts when I make you take it; all of it."

"I do," you sob out, face contorting from the intense pleasure, "I lo-love it so much...!"

"Fuck yeah, you do, cutie," he grits out, teeth clenched, "fuck yeah, you do."

You can't see his face in the mirror, but just the sight of his big, rough hands roaming your front; greedily lifting your top until your bra is exposed, and groping at your tits without any kind of respect is enough to make you want to scream his name until the entire house could hear.

Luckily for you, he chokes you before you can do it, though the desire is still there. He's making you feel that good.

So good, in fact, that the heat in the pit of your stomach is becoming unbearable. You're on the verge of erupting into pure bliss from the mind-shattering orgasm that's coming up; lingering just around the corner. There'll be nothing left of you if he keeps this up. He'll make you blaze, until you're nothing but ash.

"S-So close," you manage through shallow breaths because he's barely allowing you to breathe while you're rolling your hips against his own for that extra push, "please, please, fucking please."

"Already?" He laughs at your fucked out state as his expert digits hook around your thigh. Lifting your leg without warning, the pressure within your core swells and grows bigger and bigger. His fingers dig into the back of the plush flesh before he trails them upwards; aiming them for your clit again.

"Kiba," you gasp his name once more, feeling his grip around your throat tighten in response as he pulls you even closer to his chest, "fuck, please, I-... Need it...! Need to cum so bad."

"I thought you said you liked to be teased a little?" 

"Just do it, god fucking damn!"

"All right, all right!" He chuckles lowly, "So impatient, damn... Keep your leg up for me."

The moment his rough finger pads make contact with your demanding clit, your entire body spasms in his tight hold, fire licking at your skin with ferocious hunger. You can see it all in the mirror, the way the veins atop his tan skin protrude as he applies the pressure you need to become undone in the end.

"Ri-Right there. Fuck, yes...!" Your whispers are a trembling jumble of moans and whimpers. Kiba is chuckling quietly, his smile pressing against the back of your head as he keeps fucking you; keeps slamming you into goddamn oblivion. You're delicate like glass, but he sure as hell isn't going to handle you that way.

"Yeah?" He drawls tiredly, blushing at the lewd, wet sounds your lovemaking is producing. You're so wet that he's mesmerized in a way. Never before had a girl been this excited to have him. It's like a present. "Like this, baby?"

"Mhmm, like that."

"Gonna cum for me?"

"Wanna, yeah. So bad."

His laughter warms your very soul. "You're such a slu-"

"Kiba!" The sudden knock to come from the door makes you both stiffen, bodies turning rigid at the suspense of what's going to happen next. Your heart is pounding inside your ribcage, because the voice you've just heard sounds familiar. Especially when it says: "Yo, Kiba! You in there?"

Naruto.

The hushed exclamation of panic to leave you is quickly stifled by Kiba's palm that covers your mouth in a movement that's faster than lightning. He's panting now, leaning into your ear, going, "Shh, shh, shh. Keep quiet."

All you do to reply is make a muffled noise, fingers curling around his arm that's still keeping busy between your legs. He's never stopped fucking you; even whilst your brother is standing right on the other side of the door.

You're lucky Kiba had decided to lock it, because now you can hear the sound of the handle as Naruto tries it.

"Kiba," your sibling repeats, knocking again, "hellooo?"

The irritation to lace Kiba's voice is so profound that it sets your teeth on edge as he shouts, "What? I'm busy, man!"

"Busy? With what?"

"Fucking your sister."

Holy fucking hell.

Your eyes widen in shock, another muffled noise escaping your lips as you twist and turn to fight back against the tight grip he holds you in, but Kiba refuses to let you go. He fights right back, using his weight to press you flush against the mattress as he makes you roll onto your stomach.

His hands wrap around your wrists, shoving them both into the pillow to keep you from thrashing on top of his bed.

The moment he pushes his cock all the way into your warmth again, you go completely still. The new, deeper angle makes your breath stagger in the back of your throat. It takes all you have within you to not moan as loudly as you can as you try to crawl towards the headboard of the bed to pull yourself up.

He just can't stop fucking you, unable to release you from the cage his body has created around you. He's been waiting for too long; daydreamed and fantasized about this exact moment far too much to just allow Naruto to cockblock him yet again. He wants to see this entire thing to its end. Wants to see you cream on his dick, and to kiss you right after.

"You idiot," you cry out into the pillow, "why'd you tell him that?"

"Stop squirmin' around," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, "you wouldn't want your big brother to hear us, now would you? And besides, it's not like that moron is ever gonna take it seriously."

"Ha, wow, you're so funny!" Naruto snorts in that exact moment, his voice the epitome of intoxication and proving Kiba right, "Speaking of y/n: do you know where she is? It's been a while since I've last seen her."

"I dunno, I think she left early to go hang out with her friend, or some shit," Kiba replies, eyeing your writhing body underneath him with a smirk as he keeps pushing, and pushing, and pushing until it hurts, "now quit nagging me, will ya? You're annoying as fuck, and I don't really care where your sister is."

He's a good liar, at least. And a mean one, too.

When you whip your head to the side to look up at him, he's shaking his own head no, leaning in quickly to kiss your cheek.

"Didn't mean any of that," he whispers into your ear, peppering soft kisses to the corner of your jaw, "don't be angry with me."

All you do is roll your eyes and lift your ass up higher into the air by arching your back. Kiba chuckles at the sinful portrayal of truce between you, biting back a groan when he burrows himself so deep inside you that he's kissing your cervix with every thrust.

You're so close that your toes are curling in on themselves. As he picks up his pace again, trying to make it as silent as he can, you're biting into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut from the euphoria to start overtaking you.

Kiba can feel your walls clenching around him; can feel them spasming and pulsating around his cock as your pretty cunt tries to milk him dry - tries to force the cum right out of him. 

You look fucking beautiful like this; panting and drooling on his pillowcase as you attempt to stay quiet. It just makes him torture you even more. Especially when his fingers find your clit again.

You're clenching around him so hard that it nearly hurts as he strokes, pinches and spoils your sensitivity with his rough touch. He's completely dazzled from how well you're taking him. And as for you: all you can feel is his hand as it covers your mouth again just to be safe the moment before you're finally pushed over the edge.

And then, you're falling. Falling into true, utter bliss that only some good, ferocious pounding can bring.

He fucks you like an animal throughout your entire high, never once stopping in slamming home and torturing that sweet, sensitive spot deep within you - not even as your entire body shakes when you gush milky slick all over his cock and make it drip onto the bed sheet. It spurts and stains your inner-thighs; makes it even easier for him to abuse your cute pussy from how slick it is now.

"Ki-Kiba."

"Holy fuck, cutie," Kiba whispers, caressing your cheek lovingly as he keeps pounding; drilling into you, "you're so hot."

"Kiba!" Naruto shouts in that moment.

"What?!"

"Christ, man... Don't gotta be so grumpy all the time." He sighs, "Did she tell you which friend she was going with?"

Kiba looks down at you again, trying not to pay mind to just how fucking gorgeous you look with your skirt hiked up around your waist and sweat glimmering on your skin as you keep bouncing on top of the mattress everytime he pounds into you. His tongue flicks over the side of your neck as he murmurs, "Sweetheart?"

Your pupils are dilating inside your glazed irises when you look up at him. You're completely dazed from the high you've just experienced. Goddamn, he fucks like other men can only dream about fucking. He's worse than a beast. More insatiable than Greed itself. "Mm, Tenten... Tell him it's Tenten. She'll cover for me."

He grins at the lie before he calls out, "I think it was some chick called Tenten."

Naruto's reply is quick. "Ah, okay! That fits."

"Go away now, stupid!"

"Yeah, yeah! Going away now, you fuckin' grouch!"

You're both silent for a couple of seconds as you wait for Naruto to leave you alone before you finally allow yourself to giggle quietly.

Kiba joins in a moment later, snickering against your shoulder. He rests his forehead upon it and sighs. You can feel the layer of sweat sticking to his skin. He's completely drenched in salt, and so are you. Must be the clothes you were both far too impatient to take off.

"Fuckin' hell," he mutters quietly as you flip onto your back and wrap your legs around his waist with a sheepish grin, "he's always trying to cockblock me when it comes to you, I swear. Even without knowing it."

Your brow quirks in wicked amusement. "Oh? You've tried to hit on me before?"

Colour blooms on his tan face when he looks down at you and leans in to kiss you again. His arms are on both sides of your head as he looms above you. He's so big and bulky that he overtakes you completely. It makes you feel safe, instead of threatened.

There's just something peculiar seeing this completely new, unexplored side of him after knowing him for years. It's thrilling.

"I've wanted to text you and ask you out so many times," he mumbles, unsure if it's the alcohol talking or his heart, "I've been crushin' on you since I was a kid, but, uh... I was Naruto's friend first, ya know...? I didn't wanna make it weird between us."

"I get it, Kib." The tips of your noses are touching before he tilts his head to the side and kisses you again - this time deeply, slowly; sensually. The way he moves now is intimate and it means something deeper than it did before. You're both rocking alongside each other, trying to match each other's pleasantly laggard pace.

"Do you," he mumbles, staring down at you through hooded, heavy eyelids, "get it?"

"Yeah," you sigh, your own eyelids fluttering at the pleasant sensation of being so full, "I've been crushing on you for years, too."

"Ha, knew it."

"Don't laugh, now."

"Okay, okay."

The deep, raspy grunts to leave his mouth mix with your breathless gasps and quiet whimpers. Especially when he lifts your leg and places it on top of his shoulder, so that he can brand your fucking soul with his mark.

You're clawing at his damp t-shirt, trying to gain hold of him as much as you possibly can, so that you can keep him as close as he lets you. 

"You're so fuckin' pretty, y/n."

"You're pretty, too."

"Can't call me handsome?"

"No."

The bashful chuckles to leave both of your mouths fade into silence when you kiss again, tongues tangling into something more gentle and sincere. He's so close to you that all you can breathe in is him. He makes you glow from within yet again; like your heart is being submerged in liquid sunshine.

You've missed him so much. He's been the one for all this time, after all.

"Fuck, that's it."

"Mm, yeah... So good."

"Gonna-... Gonna cum soon."

The headboard of the bed starts to slam against the wall as Kiba picks up his pace, every thrust becoming quick and hard when he at long last allows himself to reach his finish. His brow furrows when your panting mouth latches to his own hungrily, swallowing the groan he lets out as the heat to build up within his lower stomach finally spills right into your goddamn womb in the form of thick, warm ropes of cum that paint your walls entirely white.

His entire body feels like it's on fire. The release is as heavenly as was the build-up.

You follow a fraction of a second later, writhing underneath him in your own high as you cling onto him, leaking a mixture of your own juices of pleasure and his seed. It's messy, and hot, and so fucking overwhelming that you both feel slightly dizzy as you try to breathe in as much air as possible.

You're both soaked in sweat, but he still holds you so tightly that it hurts while you're both losing yourselves in each other, and you don't mind at all that your bones are nearly breaking in half as he keeps whispering sweet praises into your ear; telling you how good it feels, how goddamn proud he is of you.

"Such a good girl," he murmurs as he kisses you again and again, "such a pretty, clever girl."

You're still absolutely dazed, cunt clenching around him in attempt to gather every last drop of his warm cum, head tipped back in complete ecstasy as he's kissing your jaw. 

You can't move. He's fucked you stupid, so it's no wonder that your only, rather brainless, response is:

"Happy birthday, Kiba."

[bonebabbles]

Reunion scene analysis

This scene in DOTC is fucking fascinating and such an interesting example of how the writer ableism gets in the way of their storytelling.

So this is right after the forest fire in Thunder Rising, when Proto-SkyClan is taking refuge in Proto-WindClan after they saved the aggressive forest group's lives. Bumble has already been exiled and Jagged Peak's only action during the entire ordeal was to agree that she was fat and useless.

Now, Clear Sky is buttering up to Thunder, seeing that he can hunt and has value as an able-bodied person and possible recruit. It's causing tension between Gray Wing and Thunder, though it's worth noting that the narration only uses "father" to refer to Clear Sky.

They have a tense meal where Proto-SkyClan sits at their little separate lunch tables and glares at their hosts. There's a Quiet Rainkin family reunion here-- Jagged Peak is hovering on the side working up the strength to talk to the brother that exiled him, Clear Sky compliments Thunder and then,

Clear Sky spotted his younger brother, too, and whipped around to face him. Jagged Peak jumped, startled. “And you? What have you done to prove yourself?” Clear Sky demanded, scorn in his voice and eyes. “Well,” he added sneeringly, “you survived. That’s as much as you can do, now.” Jagged Peak’s shoulder fur bristled. “Actually,” he began, “I was responsible for looking after the camp and the cats who—” “So you stayed behind, where it was safe,” Clear Sky interrupted. Gray Wing couldn’t ignore that. He sprang to his paws and padded up to the group. “Jagged Peak is being really useful,” he mewed sharply. “Injured leg or no injured leg. He protected the cats who stayed in the hollow, and in case you didn’t notice, he did an excellent job of welcoming your cats into our camp. We need him, Clear Sky.”

...he's not. DOTC can never refute this point, because it's constantly defining cats based on their ability to contribute, up until its very last book. Bumble was exiled for exactly this, sent back to an abuser, for the idea that she wouldn't be able to hunt and would be 'another hungry mouth.'

Jagged Peak can't do what he used to. He can't heroically lunge into a forest fire like his nephew Thunder. He is disabled. But the writer here DOES believe that everyone must do work for the Clan at large

And they express that by putting it into Gray Wing's mouth. "No no no! He IS helpful we swear! He... protected the cats who weren't in danger! He welcomed you into camp! We need him, really, promise"

It's hollow, and that makes this whole scene uncomfortable. Gray Wing does not actually refute Clear Sky's philosophy. He does fundamentally agree with it, he's only correcting Clear Sky on technicalities.

"It IS bad to not contribute, but actually, Jagged Peak does justify his existence."

So... what if he couldn't?

Turning toward Jagged Peak, Clear Sky gave him a long look from intense blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told the young cat. “I take back what I said.” But Jagged Peak’s gaze was still full of pain and anger. “It’s too late!” he spat, “You clearly think I’m a waste of space. Why else would you have thrown me out of the forest? And now that I’m beginning to prove myself, you need Gray Wing to tell you what I’ve done.” He shook his head. “Will I ever be good enough?”

What the scene is trying to get at is that Jagged Peak feels disrespected, and that his recovery isn't being acknowledged. That his self-esteem was destroyed by being exiled. But, instead, it reads like to me like Clear Sky very callously popped a comfortable bubble that Jagged Peak was living in

Jagged Peak ISN'T contributing like his Clanmates and THAT SHOULD BE OKAY. He is LOVED, He HAS innate worth, and that's the POINT of having a society in the first place.

Instead of challenging the notion of value being tied to contribution, this is about Clear Sky accepting Gray Wing's flimsy argument that Jagged Peak has 'proven' himself, and that he isn't acknowledging that 'progress.'

But why are we here? Why does Jagged Peak need to "prove" his life is worth living? Take note of this framing, and what sorts of values are treated as a given.

“I told you I’m sorry . . . ,” Clear Sky began. But Jagged Peak wasn’t listening. Turning his back on Clear Sky, he limped away to join Rainswept Flower. Clear Sky let out a sigh as he watched him, then turned to meet Gray Wing’s gaze. “I didn’t mean . . .” His voice trailed off. Gray Wing twitched his whiskers in exasperation. “You never do mean anything, do you, Clear Sky?” “I’m just trying to do my best for every cat!” Clear Sky protested, instantly defensive. “By humiliating your brother?” Thunder was watching the two of them, drinking in every word. Gray Wing couldn’t help feeling glad that the young cat was seeing firsthand that Clear Sky wasn’t perfect. But even thinking that made Gray Wing squirm with discomfort. Why do I care so much? Why shouldn’t Thunder be happily reunited with his father? “Well, I can’t help it!” Clear Sky snapped, his neck fur beginning to rise. “It’s not my fault Jagged Peak fell out of that tree. Every cat has to contribute, and weak cats just don’t count.” He gave a single lash of his tail. “It’s about survival!"

I drop the phrase, "Clear Sky's redemption arc was a mistake" a lot. What I mean by that is, the entire arc is built around the struggle for Clear Sky's family to help him become a better person. Instead of refuting what Clear Sky represents as a character, DOTC is stuck in a tar pit that can only focus on him as a person.

He doesn't mean to hurt anyone. He doesn't have any malice. Noo, he was a fundamentally good person the whole time, and Gray Wing is right to always always see The Good in him and fight against any nasty instincts to keep his family away from the eugenicist ghoul

But fuck, this arc could have been FANTASTIC if it didn't bother with trying to keep this character redeemable. If it was about toxic family, cutting off people that hurt you and continue to hurt you, recognizing and challenging the deep assumptions that you end up believing as a result of loving someone like this, breaking cycles of abuse and accepting that some people don't change no matter how hard you try...

But YOU can.

But instead, it's just the same trend we see every time that a male character hurts someone for a self-absorbed reason.

Sandgorse was a hero, actually, and that's why you should remember him uncritically Talltail.

Stormtail just wasn't present, Bluefur, but that's no big deal since he's here for you now.

Ashfur just loved your mom too much, Jayfeather, so him trying to murder you wasn't Hell-worthy

Bramblestar was just worried about ThunderClan, Squirrelflight, and you shouldn't have spoken over him at that meeting

Clear Sky actually loved his Clan all along and everything was hard choices, for survival and because he was so afraid, so you have to accept his apology (even though he never actually changes.)

[miracleonice87]

Matthew Tkachuk and his partner as the perfect couple and babysitters 🙈🙈 like maybe they have slightly older friends or the older couples on the team just know they'd be the perfect parents together but they're not ready so they do a lot of babysitting and are both great with kids!

(okay I honestly know nothing about anyone else on the Panthers roster except the Staal brothers, which.. 😬🫠🥴 no thank u.. so pardon my inclusion of Johnny Hockey and Keith “Ironman / SONK” Yandle instead 😇)

also, cw: slight breeding kink simply bc of who I am as a person

I feel like the switch would’ve flipped for Matthew when they were still back in Calgary and Meredith Gaudreau got pregnant. he watched you stroll through Target picking out clothes, toy, and other gifts for their baby, calling out to him in the aisles and holding them up with the sweetest, softest, frowny look on your face as he chuckled and shook his head. he watched you plan her baby shower and decorate your house in a neutral-toned Noah’s Ark (get it?) theme, watched you dote on her when she arrived and made sure she was comfortable, fed, hydrated. he watched you touch her growing belly (with permission, of course) with the gentlest of hands and “ooh” and “ahh” over the baby kicks you felt from the inside out.

and all the while he was trying to hide the fact that there was a weird, new gnawing in his gut that he just couldn’t ignore.

then, obviously, the deals happened, and both you and the Gaudreaus went your separate ways physically. that provided a welcome distraction from the baby fever for Matthew…

at least for a while. then, baby Gaudreau was born, and you were constantly showing Matthew photos and FaceTime screenshots of the tiniest, sweetest, softest, snuggliest, loviest little girl and fuckkkk that gnawing feeling was back. one day, when you had settled in Sunrise and he was on the golf course with old Tkachuk family friend Keith Yandle, you texted him a screenshot of you making a kissy face at Noa and her grinning back at you on the screen, and he literally groaned. Keith was driving the golf cart and glanced down to figure out the culprit. it took one look at Matthew’s phone to figure it out.

“uh oh… I thought she might’ve sent you a sexy pic but that’s even worse,” he said with a knowing chuckle. “you got it bad, huh?”

Matthew nodded. “and it’s only gotten worse. we have so much time, and we’re not even married yet, but… I dunno man, something about it…”

Keith nodded, too. “I get it. it’s tempting. birth control no longer needed, they’re lookin’ all hot when they’re pregnant, you get a cute little smushy baby. but it’s a lifelong commitment, man.”

Matthew sighs. he knows.

“tell ya what,” Keith suggests. “I got some kids you can babysit. how about you guys come over tonight and you start there?”

Matthew’s heart leaps at the idea, and he texts you to confirm before he enthusiastically agrees.

and in his head, babysitting was supposed to soothe the sting, to pacify (for lack of a better term) the need he couldn’t seem to escape. but watching you do cartwheels across the backyard with Lola and Mila, French braid their hair, film TikTok dances with them, and read them a few chapters of Harry Potter before they fell asleep… melted him. Matthew honestly couldn’t take it anymore.

as soon as you closed the door to the girls’ room after tucking them in for the night, Matthew wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and pulled you flush against his torso, kissing at your neck and jaw, making you giggle at the unexpected embrace. you were about to ask what he was up to when you heard his voice, soft but gravelly in your ear…

“I love watching you with kids. lemme put a baby in you.”

you stopped in your tracks and suddenly, nothing was funny anymore. you turned to face him and could tell that he was absolutely, deathly serious. and Matthew didn’t know exactly how you’d respond to that, but he definitely couldn’t have anticipated the next word out of your mouth to be…

“okay.”

you watched his blue eyes light up like fireworks and relaxed into him as he kissed you fiercely. suddenly you found you were walking backwards, being angled into the nearby guest bedroom where you’d be staying the night so that Keith and Kristyn could stay out late. as he swung the door shut with one foot, lips still covering yours, you realized…

“mm.. mm-mm, mm-mm, no, Matty. you’re not getting me pregnant in Keith’s guest room…”

😉

[sunsetbullets]

religious trauma & the good omens 2 finale

! ! ! spoilers ahead and also a very confusing rant bc this finale made me think about my religious trauma and how it stills affects me ! ! !

i'm a firm believer that azi just made the most terrible decision ever seen on earth instead that the fuckass metraton drugged his coffe or miracled a change in his heart . . . because religious trauma can just get into your head in a way that really fucks u up . . .

like what comming from and being in the "good" side does to aziraphale is pretty well developed and showed across the episodes from both seasons. even that now he's together with crowley in their own side, he stills firmly believes in heaven = good, hell = bad.

and because of this belief that is deeply rooted into him, he can't help but associate all the things that made him love crowley to little remaining pieces of heaven inside her. for aziraphale, what makes crowley stand apart from other fallen angles angels is that she saw the flaws in the great plan and choose to fight it.

but i don't think that aziraphale believes that it was crowley's free will to go against the great plan, but the remaining bits of heaven inside her fighting the bad demonic side and making her fight for the right things, the way god planned it all.

he mistook crowley's kindness and goodness with humanity because he's blinded by the perception that all good things and influences belong to god and to heaven.

the heaven that aziraphale chose to return stills the same heaven that hunted him and almost burned him to non-existence simply because he did what his heart told him to do, because he saw the flaws in the great plan and choose to fight it, even if his morals constantly made him think that he was doing wrong by being against god's wishes.

and we can't deny that he tricks himself away from guilt by believing that's all part of a bigger god's plan, that all he did was right and god proudly agrees with it even if the entirety of heaven does not to.

when this is the aziraphale we know, is not hard to believe that the metraton would not have much work to do in convincing him to going back to heaven.

and the metraton is said to be the voice of god herself ... this is such an important detail to remember, because aziraphale can deal with being rejected by heaven by reling in the omnipotent & silent presence of god silently telling him that he did no wrong. but when the voice of god speaks, how can he not hear it ??

like,, do you guys have the slightest ideia of how many times church people say the most evil and hurtfull things in the name of god, just like the metraton, to manipulate and trick people into staying into religion ???

and one of the main points of churches that make people stay, is the feeling of belonging, even that they are saying things that hurt you deeply inside using god's voice, they also make you feel loved and seem.

even after being kicked out of heaven to their own side, aziraphale stills deeply believes that heaven is the only right choice, in his heart he knows that he is a good being, and so is crowley . . . he feels that they belong to heaven, like all good things.

he can recognize all heavens wrongs such as killing job's kids for a fun bet or drowning everybody else but noah's family and some pair of animals, or to end the entire world just for a war between heaven and hell. and he desaproves it all, to the point of going against it because he choses the good side and all goodness belongs to god (even if god's wishes for all this harm to happen anyway)

and you guys realize how tempting it is to go back to the good and right side but also to a position that offers you the power of changing all the institutional failures of heaven ?? not only that but also allows him to still being by crowley's side ??

his angelic brain got corrupted to the point that he can't see that all heaven (him included) do is to hurt people but geting away with it by using god's name and goodness.

he can't see that being back in heaven would hurt crowley more than leaving him behind. because he believes that she deserves forgiveness and deserves heaven.

he got heartbroken after she refused his proposal but he didn't run back to her (even if crowley stayed there and waited and hoped for it to happen) because aziraphale is certain about his beliefs and if he cannot change heaven with crowley, he can change heaven for her.

that's why aziraphale smiles in that lift ride.

he thinks he will comeback to get crowley to heaven and finally be able to be toghether with the love of his life after he changes heaven for even better . . .

[statticscribbles]

Serenade

Summary: Eddie Munson/Reader- Soulmate AU where you can hear whatever music your soulmate is listening to

Song is: I just called to say I love you- Stevie Wonder You’d grown up hearing your parent’s humming songs in secret. Your mother’s voice streaming upbeat pop music and opera ballads; while your father hissed along with the alt-rock and the country drawl he heard in his head. They didn’t need to tell you they weren’t soulmate’s; the music did that for them. They assured you that while they did love each other, and wanted to meet their soulmate’s, sometimes the world was too big, and the funds too short to get them out of the small town they called home. You worried constantly that Hawkins would trap you the same way it had them; not truly miserable, but never happy enough. They put you in singing and piano lessons when you’re five, you drop the piano in exchanged for ballet and keep the singing until your parents decided not to drive you to the next town over for lessons; you join the cheerleading squad instead. You’re soulmate absolutely drowns everything they do in rock music; anything that screams they seem to fixate on. You settle into a mixture of Pop and Dance music that only grows as you join the cheer squad. You enjoy singing; although you try your best to limit it to hours you know both you and your soulmate are awake. Usually they start listening to music around the time you start school, you try not to listen before then, although morning practices usually leave you humming whatever song Chrissy decided to have you all dance to. The music your soulmate listens to seems to constantly stream throughout the day, wherever he goes to school either allows music constantly or he’s sneaking it. Chrissy  laughs when you hum under your breath whatever song your soulmate is listening to. “So your soulmate is into Metal then? How much do you wanna bet he’s one of the DnD club? Bet Eddie would know him; he knows everyone who’s into metal.” Chrissy grins; genuinely trying to be helpful. “Well I haven’t met him have I?” You laugh when Jason wrinkles his nose at the song you’ve stopped humming.

——————————————————————————— “Eddie you alright?”

“Mhm; soulmate is listening to some pop shit again.” He laughs a little his soulmates taste in music had grown on him; and he knew they wouldn’t be a bad match; not when he’d tentatively heard a familiar rock song in his head one day, something he had been listening to in middle school.

“Chrissy seriously stop trying to bring Eddie back into the group.” Jason playfully shoves her and she scowls. You watch Eddie walking away and smile at the patch on his jacket.

“He’s our friend Jason!”

“He listens to fucking screaming and calls it music!”

“So does my soulmate.” You comment and Jason glares.

“Y/N you don’t count; Eddie got into DnD ; that cult shit.” “Have you ever played; I don’t think it’s a cult; we should all go! Show our support.” You smile at Jason, hoping he doesn’t see through your excuse to see Eddie more; you aren’t sure what music he listens to but if you can match up a song it’ll prove the theory you have. ——————————————————————————- It’s just your luck you managed to catch a weeklong flu when Chrisyy and Jason agree to go play DnD with Eddie. You trudge in still half sick but coherent enough for your parents to deem you fit to return to school. You wonder how pissed your soulmate is, you’d been marathoning every cheesy  movie and every musical you could find while you coughed your lungs up at home. You’re half humming a song from one of them when Chrissy pulls you into a hug. “Hey no, I’m still kinda sick so I don’t-“ “You really think we care Y/N? You’ve been gone for the most exciting week ever! You were right; Jason loves DnD now; he’s fighting with Eddie to run the next campaign.” “I will I just have to check about practice this week; do you have-”

“Sorry.” You smile as you bump into someone. “I’m Y/N, you are?” “Eddie Munson; you’re the one who missed last session; you’ll have to come to the next one; since Jason’s going to run it. How much you wanna bet he fails.” He winks and you grin at him. You pause wrinkling your nose when your soulmate starts blasting some new song. “You okay?” “Yeah my soulmate decided to crank it up to like fifty on the volume apparently. That’s probably what I get considering he had to listen to the cheesy love soundtracks and musical roster all last week.” he laughs along with you.

“Are you alright?” You watch Eddie slump a little when Chrissy leaves. “Yeah; just; my soulmate has been avoiding me… they always have; guess they hate me as much as my music taste… If I don’t graduate this year; I’m worried I’ll miss out on meeting them.” “Oh god that must be horrible, can you not talk to them about trying to help you?” “Well if I knew who they were...” “Oh, well if they’re here it shouldn’t be too hard to wrangle them to at least say hello right?” “You’re just as hopeful as Chrissy; guess your soulmate is the same.” He laughs a little, bitter sounding.

“I haven’t met him yet. Not properly.”

“Well we can look together? How do we do that?” “Well pick out a song for your soulmate and just blast it 24/7, either someone picks it up and realizes they’re your soulmate; or they get so annoyed they find you to complain!!”

“That’s genius! I know just the song! You’re the best Y/N.” Chrissy grins at Eddie who shrugs. “You’ve just met me.” “And now you’re the best!”

“I heard Y/N solved your soulmate problem?” Chrissy leans over the DnD table and Eddie scowls, tucking his notes away.

“It’s not a problem, we haven’t met and we can avoid each other until she’s ready to meet.” He scowls.

“Eddie, just try it! All you have to do is pick a song and just blast it to her! Then she’ll either get so annoyed she’ll find you, or we’ll hear her singing it too!”

“So you want me to piss my soulmate off before I meet her?”

“No, pick a song she likes!”

“Wow, yeah hang on let me ask what her favourite song is!” He snaps and you can’t help but laugh.

“Well then pick your favourite? Or something that reminds you of her?” You ask him and he nods.

“Okay fine, I’ll start tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Well yeah after the game meeting so everyone can be on the lookout.” Dustin  beams nodding.

“I’m glad I could help then.” You smile at Eddie and try not to blush when he smiles back.

Chrissy arches an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything as you bid them goodbye.

You’re sitting in the cafeteria after practice trying to not pass out before Chrissy meets you to discuss a new routine.

You’ve only heard your soulmate actually singing about four times, but it’s one of the things that made you fall in love with him. Of course the comfort of his voice is the last thing you need while trying not to fall asleep. You struggle, trying your best to focus on the actual words; you swallow shocked at the song that he’s singing.

You feel dumb for not thinking about how he caught on to your music habits as much as you have for him. You sit still and enjoy the private concert. You wonder if he picked it up from how often you’d sing it; or if it was the time that you would sing and listen to it.

–But what it is, though old, so new To fill your heart like no three words could ever do I just called to say I love you- You hum faintly, careful to not let the sound too far past your lips, you don’t think you want your soulmate meeting you like this, exhausted and caked in sweat and grime.

————————————————————————————

The song has been playing on repeat for days, anytime your soulmate seems to switch to another song he cuts himself off restarting the song once more.

“Hey Dustin, you said you needed help with the sound check?” You watch as Dustin sinks into a chair in the theatre, you smile at Chrissy and Jason, the rest of the DnD gang lounging around, as well as Steve and his friends.

“Can you sing?” Chrissy asks and you nod.

“I’ve been taking singing lessons since I was five, so I like to think I can.” You smile.

“Besides I don’t need to sing for a basic sound check.” Dustin coughs slightly.

“So I do need to sing?”

“Please,  just pick something, and sing into the mic.” You nod gripping the mic and letting your soulmate start the song for you.

“ No harvest moon to light one tender August night No autumn breeze, no falling leaves Not even time for birds to fly to southern skies“ You’ve never heard someone harmoinze with you before but the way the voice from your head blends with yours settles the anxiety in your chest.

“I just called to say I love you I just called to say how much I care, I do” You pause when Dustin  holds up his hand.

“That’s great.” He nods and you swing off the stage, Chrissy and Jason track your movements and you make your way over to them when they wave.

“What?”

“Your soulmate was singing that wasn’t he.”

“Yeah.”

“You want to meet him?”

“You know him?” Your face lights up and they falter.

“You want to meet him?”

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well; he’s a a little weird.” Jason cuts in and you frown at him.

“Do you think I care? Wait, does he not want me?” You cant help the ice that shoots through your chest, already planning  break-up songs to blast when you get home.

“What no, he’s just nervous. About everything.”

“Why would he be nervous we’re soulmates. I’ll love him no matter what.”

“You mean that?” You nod at Jason.

“Uhh okay dinner at six?” Jason rushes out nodding to you and you nod back confused, as Chrissy almost shoves you to cheer practice with her. You miss the way the rest of the DnD group enter through the side door, Eddie scanning the crowd.

You’d been able to go home early with Chrissy, she’d explained to your parents you were planning on meeting your soulmate and they’d practically shoved both of you upstairs to get ready.

“Do my parents  really not trust me to find an outfit to wear?”

“Well you’re meeting your soulmate, you have to look nice.”

“If he’s my soulmate he won’t care what I wear.”

“It’s not about that, imagine you meet him and he’s nothing like what you expect him to be.”

“Chrissy I’ve been listening to his music taste be the same thing since middle school! There’s barely been any change! It took me years to even figure out he was in Hawkins and not some town halfway around the world!!!” Chrissy nods as you throw your hands up.

“You know Jason and I are soulmates right? I had to listen to hours of all the basket ball teams music they train to! So I know a little about that, everyone does.”

“My parents don’t. They couldn’t, they can’t afford to visit to look for their soulmates.” Chrissy pulls you into a hug.

“That’s not you, you have the chance to meet him; why wouldn’t you. Seems even him being a DnD nerd won’t dissuade you.”

“You know him.” Chrissy nods.

“Yes, it’s how we know to meet you.” She smiles and your eyes widen.

“You know him.” You repeat and she nods laughing.

“Come on, don’t want to be late.” She nudges you as you come up to the mall’s doors.

You step through the doors and Jason blocks your view; holding out a blindfold.

“Don’t say anything we’re going to take them off at the same time; it’ll be cute.” You sigh letting him tie the fabric around your eyes and walk you to a booth in the food court, you have no clue who’s sitting in it, it was the only booth away from all of the windows, probably planned by them.

“Okay sit down and in three, two, one.” Chrissy  beams and you blink adjusting to the light.

“Thanks for the advice by the way. It really helped.” You look across to see Eddie Munson sitting smiling at you.

“Glad the advice could be of use then.” You try your best not to move your hands aware they’re shaking. You can tell Eddie picks up on his eyebrow quirking.

“My uh, my parents never met their soulmates, so this is a bit of a big deal for me. Oh my god I didn’t tell them, they’re gonna kill me.” You look up to see Eddie  laughing.

“What? This is serious!” He shakes his head.

“It’s not like we don’t; we live in a tiny ass town; besides we go to school, I share the only class I’m taking with you. We’re not going to part ways and never see each other. Besides, I’d like to get to know you, before I go meet your parents.”

“There’s not much to know.” Eddie Munson smirks.

“That my dear soulmate is where I beg to differ. You’re my other half. I want to know everything about you.”

“Where do I start?”

“Well what’s your favourite song?” You can’t help but join in his laughter.

Support My Writing?

[oliverwolfboy]

I feel like the song eight by sleeping at last, would perfectly describe Yuichiro's character arc if it was him who lived instead of Muichiro

He grew up to fast, both of his parents died the same night, and then it was only him and his little twin, so like in the song but for a different reason (for now) he put his armor on, so he could protect his little brother from the world, so his little brother could stay naive and kind, so he didn't have to fight. But then the demon came and instead of Yuichiro running infront of Muichiro to protect him, he froze up he sat there and watched as his precious sweet little brother who was so much kinder and so much stronger then him get his sides ripped up and just like Muichiro in canon this enrages him so he grabbed his meat cleaver and sliced the demon to bit, but of course it was to late Muichiro was barely hanging on to consciousness and the last words he says to him are his last words in canon as he begs for him to survive, when he wakes up alive and unlike Muichiro in canon, with his memories, he doesn't think himself worthy of saving anyone, how could he possibly save anyone when he couldn't even save his own brother? but still after a little convincing from the ubuyashiki family, in honour of his late brother and as revenge against the things that took his brother he picks up a sword and fights. He still has that armor on but now like in the song instead of it being there to protect his brother now it is there to protect himself from being more hurt, letting more people in just for them to die on him again, but that armor that shield that is keeping others out is also his keeping his own hurt in, all that grief and hatred at the world for taking his brother, at his father because how could he be so stupid and leave them here alone, but mainly at himself because he couldn't protect his brother, because he couldn't stop their father going out in a storm to find herbs, because he is couldn't protect the people that he loves the most, because he doesn't hate the world nor does he hate his dad, not really no he hates himself, this boy is a pit of so much self loathing, and he can't tell Muichiro how he really feels because he has to protect him so he can't afford to show weakness so all that hurt and self hatred that manifests into anger that he takes out on the people around him, and it just so happens that the only person around him is Muichiro, so he hates himself even more for this, Yuichiro is a self destructive mess. And then Muichiro dies and Yuichiro is left with nothing to protect and even more self loathing on his plate, and still he has no to talk to not that he would if there was.

TW suicidal thoughts, self harm

So Yuichiro begins training rigorously even more so then Muichiro, because while Muichiro had a lot of anger he couldn't remember why nor did he have as much as Yuichiro would. So he trains and trains and trains, and fights and fights and fights, and he becomes a hashira, tho to be honest i don't think he would be a mist breather, because while mist breathing is calm swift striks and obscure, confusing movements, Yuichiro is violent Wild but precise cuts, quick movements, he is relentless and he is anger agree or disagree, I don't care. Now let's dive a little into his mental state during this time beware of warnings. So Yuichiro is anger, he is anger at himself as statted above, but now it is really bad because he thinks it should have been him that died, he was the bad one, he was the one who was constantly having outbursts, he was the one that couldn't protect them. He is living with this constant pain inside of him and he just wants it to stop, sometimes he wants to stop mid fight and just let the demon kill him, sometimes he wants to plunge his sword into his chest where that constant ache is, wants that voice in his head that keeps telling him how worthless he is to shut up, he wants to see his family again, but he can't because he may be useless but he will be even more useless dead and then what because surely someone like him would go to hell, but that doesn't stop him from hurting himself from time to time, for everytime he hurt those who he was supposed to protect. He throws himself into fight after fight to dull that ache, to immerse himself in rage and use it against someone else, still after every fight that voice in his head tells him how much of a terrible person he is, he tells himself they deserve it because they are demons but the voice asks if that is really what matters to him, he doesn’t answer. To the other hashira he is very rude and distant, he throws rude and snappy remarks at them if they try to approach or ask him anything doesn't let anyone near him, and flinched the one time someone grabbed his arm because they felt like he was crossing a line, over all not the best opinion but some of them do give him some slack since he is a kid, but still. Over all he is miserable, hates himself to extreme levels and is very self destructive, doesn’t let others in, in fear of not being able to protect them but also because he thinks he will hurt them and they will hate him, because who wouldn't who wouldn't hate him?

And then tanjiro came, a boy that was able to protect his little sister from execution, a boy who is kind even to demons, a boy who beat an upper rank, a boy who is strong, kind, and can protect those he loves and doesn’t hurt them instead, a boy who is everything Yuichiro isn't, but instead is everything Muichiro could have been, at least he thinks, and Yuichiro avoids him like the plague, he says it's because he disgusts him by protecting a demon but really it's because he fears what he would do if he did go near him, would he hurt him to? And then the swordsmith village arc comes. Now as for the reason why Yuichiro would be there? Well with how much he fights he breaks his blades quite often, whether that be from fight demons so often or from breaking all the training doll and trees and big rocks in his estate and surrounding area depends. So the swordsmen got tired and he had to come there in person, and when he got his new blade he was quite frustrated because now he has nothing to keep him occupied from his thoughts and the ache in his chest, so now he has to do something to relief those thoughts, and because he is very self destructive and hates himself he obviously had to choose his worst coping mechanism, and by the end of the waiting time he is so frustrated that he yells at the swordsman that gives him his sword, so now he is even more mad at himself and he hears about this training doll and he needs to get some of this anger out, so he goes to the woods confronts Kotetsu about the key, and then Tanjiro comes and grabs Yuichiro's arm right where there is a still healing wound, so now Yuichiro is bleeding through his bandages and Tanjiro can smell blood so he is quick to let go of his arm and apologize, but Yuichiro who has been trying to avoid him is quick to run away leaving poor Tanjiro confused and worried and wondering what could have possibly wounded a hashira and Kotetsu is happy that Tanjiro scared Yuichiro away, so now Yuichiro REALLY needs something or someone to hit or he will hit himself, so he just kind of begins to cut through trees and rocks, but of course Tanjiro hears him and recognizes his scent as the boy he meet earlier and tries to stop him from cutting down all the trees while also asking him if he is okay, and now Yuichiro he's had a really bad week or so and his anger is at a boiling point so he just snaps and at Tanjiro for his stupid ideas, and generally just being an ass, so Tanjiro can smell all the anger coming of this guy but he's also a little mad at being yelled at by a stranger for his morals of all things, so Tanjiro yells back to defend his morals and Yuichiro kinda just knocks him out and gets the key from Kotetsu and then just does what Muichiro does in canon and breaks his sword, but instead of Tanjiro smelling no malice he smells the pit of self loathing that is Yuichiro, so Tanjiro is understandably worried for this guy because he has so much sympathy, and he just walked past a person with a wound on his arm, that smells like he hates himself, but Kotetsu keeps him occupied so he can’t go searching for him so what happens in canon during that week happens and now that Tanjiro is free he goes searching for the very worrisome guy he met earlier, so it isn’t Yuichiro that finds Tanjiro it’s Tanjiro that finds Yuichiro, because did you honestly think Tanjiro would meet someone like that and not try to help them? So Tanjiro finds Yuichiro, Yuichiro is very obviously surprised to see Tanjiro and tries to make him go away with a rude comment, this doesn’t work, Tanjiro is ademant about finding out why this guy hates himself so much and help him, Yuichiro really doesn’t want to talk about it so he tries to make Tanjiro go away again, it doesn’t work, and Yuichiro is again at a boiling point so he explodes on Tanjiro telling him some of his problems through his anger telling him about his dad and muichiro, he phases it like it's his dad and demons he hates but Tanjiro can literally smell the self loathing coming of him(oh and Yuichiro doesn’t cry tho he is very close to) part one

[cassurrjoybell-30]

Bonding with the Enemy - Chapter 12

*Warning Adult Content*

A New Development

"Do not leave my sight," Sophie ordered as they got out of the car.

Darren shrugged half heartedly.

"Pretty sure we agreed that that would be a bad idea at this point."

After breakfast, Darren had to wander around town with Sophie, similar to how he had to do so with Jasper.

This was the downside to being a rogue.

Pack rules required that any visiting rogues be constantly monitored by a trusted pack member to make sure they didn't cause any trouble.

It made sense, to a degree. 

As if running around shopping wasn't bad enough though, he was also forced to do all the carrying, then was immediately dragged over to the park where three of the missing kids were last seen.

The park itself was a flat field of grass with a soccer goal, a swing set, a jungle gym and a small rock climbing wall.

There were a few picnic tables under the nearby trees and a jogging trail that ran through the woods.

If Darren had to guess, whoever took the kids had probably hidden out in the trees away from those paths so they wouldn't be spotted.

A sudden squeal followed by crying drew Darren's eye to a toddler who had just fallen off the swings.

The boy's mother quickly scooped him up and started inspecting his head, though it didn't look like it was too serious of an injury.

The swing wasn't very high off the ground after all.

"Well?" Sophie asked, looking around the park.

Instead of replying, Darren started wandering closer to the trees in case there were any spirits lurking out of sight.

Sophie followed close behind as she continued to scan their surroundings.

At first, Darren wondered if she was still trying to spot ghosts herself but then figured she was more likely searching for overlooked evidence that the police may have missed.

After a brief search, he determined there were none in the woods.

"Nothing. I've only spotted two ghosts in this entire town. What the heck happened to them all?" Darren thought out loud as he returned to the playground.

Sophie tilted her head.

"What do you mean? Were there more before?"

"Yeah. At least, it felt like there were," Darren said, scratching the back of his neck in thought.

He had been pestered by spirits every month when he was younger.

He had grown accustomed to one particular spirit, a man in an old fedora, who used to stand around the bus stop quietly.

He never looked up or said a word.

The spirit had creeped Darren out at first but after a while he became like a permanent fixture that never moved from that one spot.

The rogue briefly wondered if the man's spirit was still lingering there.

"Is that Jasper?"

Sophie froze in her tracks, as did Darren when he heard that name slip from her lips.

Instantly he scanned the park for confirmation.

After last night, he wanted to distance himself as much as possible from the Alpha.

So far he was able to stave off his heat by focusing on the investigation but there was no telling how long that would be enough.

Luckily the bastard stopped trying to call out to him through the bond.

Darren's eyes eventually found their target.

Jasper was currently standing by his Nissan in the parking lot.

The man looked... well, he looked normal to say the least.

The rogue had hoped the Alpha would be out of it for at least a week.

Guess shock didn't last that long when it was caused by supernatural forces.

Huffing, Darren decidedly ignored Jaspers sudden appearance and started heading for Sophie's car.

He figured the man was here on Alpha business anyways.

"I weft it ovew hewe," came the voice of a young child.

The adorable accent had the rogue turning his head to find a chubby little girl by the swing set.

She was possibly only five or six and digging through the wood chips.

A man then walked up behind her and began doing likewise.

"Sweetheart, I think someone may have walked off with it by now," he cooed to the little girl.

The child pouted and tossed a handful of woodchips at the nearby swing.

"Nuh uh," she argued on the verge of a fit.

That was when Darren finally found his ghost.

She was an elderly woman in a hospital gown, standing near the rock climbing wall and pointing at the ground.

Her transparent figure hovered a few feet away as she stared the child down, hoping to be seen somehow.

Veering from his original course, Darren approached the spirit and looked where she was pointing.

There, half buried in the wood chips, was a silver heart shaped pendant.

Without a word, he picked it up and called over to the two.

"Hey. Is this yours?"

The father looked up and saw the chain hanging from the rogues hand.

Relief washed over his face as the little girl squealed.

Before the man could stop her, she ran over to Darren, arms outstretched.

Her adorable efforts to reach the piece of jewelry drew a giggle from Darren as he handed the necklace over.

She clutched it in her chubby little hands and smiled up at him.

Her adorable efforts to reach the piece of jewelry drew a giggle from Darren as he handed the necklace over.

She clutched it in her chubby little hands and smiled up at him.

"Thank you," the father said as he caught up.

"That was her grandmother's pendant. I didn't know she snuck it out of the house. I'm so glad it wasn't lost."

"No problem," Darren noticed that the old woman was smiling fondly down at the little girl.

Out of nowhere, the rogue was caught off guard by the child's sudden display of affection as she wrapped her arms around his knees.

Darren's eyes shot up to the father and he held his hands up harmlessly.

As a rogue, it was not appropriate for him to address a pack members child in any way.

The father smiled in understanding.

"Come on Darla. We gotta get back home before mommy wonders where we are," he said, patting his daughter's head.

"Say thank you to the nice man."

"Thank yew," she said, waving goodbye and leaving the park.

Darren waited till they were out of earshot before turning to the ghost.

"Hey," he greeted her.

"Do you know anything about the kids that have been going missing around town?"

The old lady stared at him, trying to register what was happening.

"Are you speaking to me?" she asked.

"Yeah. I'm trying to help find the kids and thought that since no one living knows what's happening, maybe you would? I mean, if someone is taking them then I'd assume they wouldn't know how to sneak around ghosts."

She smiled sadly.

"No young man. I haven't seen anything. I only stay by my granddaughter's side."

That sounded about right.

If a ghost is haunting a person, then the person they were haunting would have to have been near a victim when they were abducted for the ghost to have seen anything themselves.

"Right. Okay. Well, if you do see anything, can you let me know?"

"I can do that," she agreed, then her form started to vanish as the man and daughter pulled out of the parking lot.

"Thank you young man."

Once she was gone, Darren turned to find not Sophie but Jasper standing directly behind him.

He yelped in surprise and put a hand over his racing heart.

"DO NOT DO THAT. Do you know how unpleasant it is to be startled by a face like yours?"

Jasper didn't say anything and instead kept looking down at the rogue, observing him.

Darren waited a few seconds before waving his hands in the man's face.

"Hello? Earth to Asshole? What's your problem?"

The Alpha seemed to snap out of it quite suddenly and proceeded like everything was normal. 

"I need to talk to you."

"I'd rather not," Darren snorted and began trudging towards Sophie's car.

Sophie hurriedly caught up with him.

"Darren," she called.

"Wait. It might be about the kids."

The rogue stopped and glared back at Jasper questioningly.

"Is it?"

"Yes and no. I need to talk to you alone."

Darren wanted to snap at him again but if he was going to get anywhere with the missing kids, he knew he'd have to suck it up.

So, he nodded towards Sophie who stepped back and let the two have some space.

"Okay, now what?"

Jasper sighed, unhappy with Darren's less than respectable tone but not quite irritated.

"We got the results of your background check this morning," he began.

"You have a tendency to get in trouble a lot, you know that? You've reportedly found several other bodies before. You also helped uncover a pedophile three years back, caught two murderers, saved an assault victim last year and... well the list goes on but your record says you're just a construction worker with a GED."

"You do realize that dealing with the dead tends to involve a lot of dead people, right?" Darren all but rolled his eyes.

"Or just bad people. After all, ghosts who died peacefully don't usually have unfinished business."

Jasper seemed to look at Darren in a new light.

Somewhat appreciatively and that was when the rogue realized it wasn't himself he was appreciating but his ability, which was what he feared when he first revealed his powers.

Subconsciously he rubbed the collar around his neck and backed away.

"Was that all you wanted to say?"

"No. I also wanted to talk about yesterday."

"I'm not apologizing," Darren immediately snapped.

"I don't want you to, because I'm pretty sure it's true," Jasper admitted.

The rogue couldn't help the dumb look on his face as he stared at his old abuser.

Jasper noticed his expression and shook his head.

"Look, I know I was an ass in school. You know that better than I do apparently. I didn't think what I was doing was that bad..."

"Seriously?" Darren interrupted.

"What makes you believe it wasn't serious? We just dealt with a case of abuse through emotional manipulation and you're telling me that making classmates act like your literal slave in exchange for friends is not the same?"

Another look of shock crossed the Alpha's face but this time it was only brief as he turned away.

He seemed lost for words at first but once he collected himself he turned back around with determination.

"This is why I need your help."

That wasn't the response that Darren was expecting at all.

"Excuse me?" 

"I need your help," Jasper repeated, looking Darren square in the eye. "After you mentioned that I might have...."

His expression went manic for a second but he shook his head to clear his thoughts and continued.

"After what you said, I realized it might be true but no one else was willing to talk about it. All they said was that you were wrong but... but I don't think you are."

"You're just now figuring that out?"

Jasper sucked in a breath.

"She's blocking me on purpose. It's not because she's shy. She's angry. I can sense it. And what you said was the only explanation that makes sense. Actually, a lot of what you say makes sense. No one else is willing to tell me things the way you do. And after seeing your background, I don't think you're the kind of person I pegged you for at first, so I'm sorry I treated you like shit earlier."

Darren shook his head.

"Just for earlier? What about the hell you put me through in high school?"

"I'm sorry for that too," Jasper breathed out slowly, maintaining eye contact.

The asshole actually looked somewhat sincere.

"I think... I could learn a thing or two if we worked together."

"Fat chance," Darren snorted.

He had no interest in accepting anything the guy was saying.

It was too sudden and he had a feeling the guy was only doing it to impress his mystery mate, not knowing it was actually Darren.

If that was the case, the guy couldn't possibly be sincere.

"Since I'm cleared of your suspicions, I'd rather investigate independently."

"About that," Jasper said, shaking his head.

"We also got the autopsy back on the body we found in the woods."

"Hunting accident?" Darren more stated than asked.

That was his initial suspicion.

The guys body had probably been dragged into the shrubs by an animal trying to store it for later.

The Alpha shook his head.

"That's what the coroner believes but the pack doctor did their own examination. Based on his injuries and the animal hairs on the body, he says it looks like a werewolf attack."

[erodasfishtacos]

*CHICAGO*

i write for free - so if you would like to support my work, you can donate here. (plus my bday is today!!!!!!! 🎂)

if you liked please reblog, recommended, like, and come talk to me about it!

——

The public didn’t know that some of the pictures that are posted of Harry that are tagged and credited to the on tour photographers were actually taken by his wife.

For example, after Chicago, the picture of Harry in the tub - completely bare and worn down from his show, you actually think the photographer took that?

No, that was snapped with YN’s iPhone, like some of the other pictures he’s posted.

Just like the one where he’s asleep on the hotel bed in a robe in Paris with all of his stuff splayed around him - allegedly taken by helene. ***

But no, it had been his wife, they had just taken a shower together and she had stayed in for a bit longer to shave her legs - when she had come out and seen him passed out.

She had to tug a bit at the robe so he wasn’t exposed and make it x-rated, then she pulled out her phone and snapped the picture - sending it to Jeff with a teasing caption.

yn: It’s exhausting being a popstar

And just like that, it appears on his Instagram for fans to go crazy over.

Or what about the snapshot of his tank that had his famous slogan embroidered into the side of the white fabric. ***

His wedding band reflecting in the flash of the light, a subtle glance at his rippled muscle below the attire as they work on his hair.

“Mm, I’m gonna save this for a lonely night,” YN jokes as she tucks her phone away.

Harry’s hand comes to cup her jaw, looking down at her where she’s sat on the floor, “Y’so fuckin’ pretty, y’know that?”

YN’s eyelids flutter a bit as she glances away from his intense gazes - he still gives her butterflies.

“Don’t get shy on me, baby. Can I not tell m’wife how gorgeous she is?” He asks, bring her hand up to kiss the back of it, “Look s’good with tha’ ring on.”

And the one that made fans go crazy.

On a warm evening, in a hotel room between venues in Italy, where they had been lounging around all day.

YN in just a thin gauzy dress that accentuated the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra and Harry just in the trousers he’d worn to get them coffee earlier that morning.

“You just took a picture of me! It’s my turn,” YN giggles, getting on her knees on the old squeaky couch and snatching the camera off of him.

“I took a picture because y’tits look nice in tha’ dress. I can see y’nipples and it’s turnin’ me on,” Harry defends, holding up his book as she snaps it.

“H, c’mon,” She pouts but squeaks when Harry tugs her into him, dropping the book and the camera as he adjusts her on his lap.

“Gonna let me take a picture of y’all nice and fucked out, darling?” He rasps, ignoring her pout and hiking her dress up her hips.

And it’s happened throughout the years, so many pictures that were littered over the internet where just uncredited snapshots from YN.

Just like the one from 2013, they were on tour, and Harry was supposed to be recording for the next album after soundcheck and before the concert. ***

Instead, after soundcheck, Harry and YN had snuck off to a little meadow and lake to have a swim. He had shimmied down to his briefs and waded in.

YN stood back, snapping a picture of him and his friend as the complained about how freezing cold it was.

“Baby, c’mon. Come get in!” Harry had shouted back to his girlfriend on the dry land, “I need some warmth, s’freezing!”

YN grimaces, just in Harry’s shirt and a pair of yoga shorts, dipping her toe in and shaking her head - “I’ll enjoy from here!”

“Please, bug,” He pouts, motioning for her to come in.

She does after a moment, squealing at the temperature before quickly finding her way into Harry’s arms.

“Only have fun on tour when y’with me,” He had murmured into her ear before he dunked her underwater and they play fought until their stomachs hurt from laughing.

And then came the notorious picture that had gotten a million likes in thirteen minutes, oh, the chicago ice bath.

Harry had been achey since tour had begun, constantly complaining about his back and ankles from the shows.

“Baby, just rub m’back a lil’ longer please?” He had whimpered the night before, the tour bus bed did not help him much at all.

When his trainer had recommended an ice bath immediately after the show - YN had made sure to arrange it despite his protests.

After exiting the stage in his black and lilac outfit, he’d been lured into the bathroom with a promise of sex but instead was a steel tub filled with ice water.

Jeff, Lambert, Tommy - everyone was watching on in amusement as he adamantly tried to deny that it would help and the peer pressure wasn’t make him anymore convinced.

“Alright, everyone out,” YN had finally tittered, shooing out the circus before closing the door for privacy.

She helps strip her husband out of his close as he looks at her reproachfully, “You promised me sex.”

“After,” YN assures him, kissing his puffy lips and asking softly, “Just try it, if it doesn’t work - you don’t have to do it again.”

He grumbles a bit, muttering, “Don’t look at m’bits, they’re gonna shrivel up.”

YN giggles, “As if I haven’t seen your bits in every shape and form.”

As he slips in, YN has to snap a picture of his eyes wide and lips pursed at the shock of the freezing water cooling down his hot, sticky skin.

“Holy fucking shit,” Harry hisses, lowering self until he’s sat - his nipples instantly hardening and he’s breathing roughly out of his nose.

“Five minutes, I’ll set the timer,” YN says, setting it on her phone before sitting down next to the tub as he tries to relax.

“Baby, fuck. Reminds me of that really cold lake in Boston, ‘member?” He squeezes his eyes shut and reaches until YN intertwines their hands.

“Yeah, that wasn’t as cold as that one time you convince me to skinny dip with you on the coast of france.”

“Oh yeah, that one was really fucking cold too,” Harry murmurs, keeping his eyes closed and steadying his breathing.

(During WWA tour - ***)

“Harry, are you insane? Anyone could see us? Paul could walk out or the boys. I’m not-“

She’s cut off when Harry shucks off his swimsuit bottoms, his skin’s glowing in the moonlight and the light waves lapping at the shore are soothing.

YN swallows harshly, tries not to stare at how handsome and overwhelming beautiful he is as he turns to step towards the water.

She looks over her shoulder nervously before stepping out of her one-piece, he waits for her at the shoreline.

“Y’so so stunnin’,” Harry tells her, thumbing at the soft curve of her breast and leaning in for a soft kiss when he feed her shake.

“You could have anyone,” YN whispers against his lips, “Every girl on this earth wants you like this. I’m just some girl from before all this,” she motions to the extravagant bungalow they’re staying at.

“I don’t know why y’think tha’s bad. I want t’experience all this with you, m’first love and m’only love. I’m going to marry y’soon, you know tha’?” He replies, lips tracing the curve of her neck.

“You better,” She giggles, hands going to his shoulder as he sucks a mark into the thin skin.

He pulls back with a frown, “M’not jokin’, I don’t care that we’re young - M’gonna do it.”

“I can’t wait,” YN kisses his jutted out lip, squealing when he tugs her into the water and the chilled waves crash against her hips, “H, it’s so cold.”

“M’gonna keep y’warm, hush up,” He titters, pulling her into his chest until her breasts are smushed against his strong pecs and his arms are around her shoulder, “Love experiencing this w’you, everythin’ w’you.”

-

YN is brought back from her daydream by her husband wiping his finger under her eyelid, “Darling, wha’ is it?”

She hadn’t realized she had teared up thinking of the fond memory, “I want to go back to that bungalow. We had such a good time. I…I just love you.”

His wife chuckles like she’s pathetic for crying about it but he leans out of the tub, cupping her jaw and pulling her in for a hard kiss.

“Don’t be embarrassed, flower,” There was no teasing in his voice, it was sincere, “If anyone should be embarrassed - I’m the one who travels around the world t’sing love songs ‘bout you.”

Their lips join again, his tongue finding its way into her mouth when Jeff, Lambert, and Tommy barge through the door.

“Jesus Christ, only you could be trying to get some while sat in an ice bath,” Jeff scoffs with a smile but instantly knows they’ve fucked up.

“Get out, the fuck?” Harry sits up, “Don’t interrupt me and m’wife. Get out!”

They stumble out and just then the alarm goes off.

YN helps him out, tucking him into a towel and helping him dry off - his head tucked into her neck and hand on her belly - massaging.

“Do you feel any better?” She hums while getting some stray droplets on the nape of his neck as he nuzzles into her warm skin.

“Mm,” He agrees drowsily, hand slipping under her shirt for more heat and she jumps at his icey touch, “Want t’sleep.”

And when they get to the hotel, YN logs onto his Instagram and uploads the ice bath pictures with nobody knowing the story behind it.

-

Hope you enjoyed!

[purple-babygirl]

Oh oh what about Bucky's little staying over at Steve's for the weekend cause Bucky is busy. She's being a brat but whenever Steve calls Bucky to show him she's a Angel. So Bucky sneaks by unexpected & sees her being a brat

Word Count: 2,901 (i tried to cut it short, i tried, but i'm hopeless when it comes to soft stuff)

Warnings: ddlg dynamics, and angst i think? the rest is fluff

A/N: Nonnie, thank you so much for sending this and sharing your idea with me. i hope i didn't take too long and i hope i didn't disappoint?:" please enjoy xx.

Alternative ending

~

bratty angel

“Give her the phone, would you? I missed her,” Bucky requested, desperate to hear the little one's voice.

“Quick question while I still have you though,” Steve scratched the back of his head, not sure if he should tell Bucky.

“Yeah?”

“What do you usually do with her if she's being a little.. troublesome?” Steve didn't want to get her punished; he just wanted a way to deal with her behavior.

Steve obviously knew he could punish her the small punishments, like no screen time for a day or a timeout, but he didn't want to. She already seemed to dislike him enough, he wasn't about to make it worse. He didn't want to punish her but he also couldn't take all the brattiness and backtalk.

He was a kind uncle and he actually enjoyed being around her. But her behavior has been driving him crazy this time and it needed to stop. He knew she didn't want Bucky to leave this time and was most likely punishing Steve for telling him he could take care of her while he was gone. She probably thought Bucky would've stayed if there was no one to tend to her during his absence, and she had Steve to blame for it.

“Being what? What did she do?” Bucky's angry voice asked from the other side of the phone, and Steve could picture him narrowing his eyes.

“It's nothing major, Buck-”

“What did she do, Steve?”

“Well, uh, for starters she says no to almost everything even if she's eventually gonna do it anyway. She knocks stuff over when I don't do what she wants and pretends it was an accident,” Steve stopped and sighed, “she's giving me a hard time and it all goes away when you call!” Steve almost whined.

He sighed again when Bucky went silent, knowing she'd really get it now but she didn't exactly leave him much of a choice.

“I'm gonna handle it. I'm sorry, Steve,” Bucky said, sounding pissed.

“Hey, it's all good. Hold on, I'll give her the phone.”

“Yeah, please do.” Bucky wasn't as excited to talk to her anymore.

He could hear Steve softly calling out for her to come talk to Daddy and her feet hitting the wooden floor as she came to the phone. What he didn't hear though was a thank you to Steve.

“Dada!” Her happy voice spoke and Bucky couldn't help but smile a little.

“Hey, doll! How've you been?”

“Been good, dada. Missed you,” she sighed, pouting.

“I missed you too, baby. Are you behaving for Uncle Steve?”

“Yes, daddy,” she lied all too quickly and Bucky clenched his jaw.

“Good girl.”

~

“Sweetheart, please get in your skirt,” Steve sighed again, holding the item of clothing low for her to step into.

“No.” Her naked leg kicked the mini skirt from Steve's hands before she crossed her legs and leaned on her bed.

“Don't make this hard now!” Steve rubbed his face in frustration.

“I'll do what I want. You're not my daddy,” she said stubbornly before snatching the skirt off the floor and slipping it up her legs to her waist. If she looked messy, she didn't care.

When she turned around to leave the unorganized room, Bucky was standing there with the biggest scowl on his face. Her heart stopped and her world froze. How come they didn't know he was arriving today? How come they didn't hear him come in?

“Dada,” she whispered in mixed fear and shame, making Steve look up, a look of utter relief washing over him when he saw his best friend.

Everything was about to get better now that Bucky was here, including her temper.

“Is that what I taught you, little one?” Bucky's tone dripped of disappointment.

“Dada.” Tears quickly came to her eyes as she saw the letdown look in Bucky's.

“And here I was thinking you were my good girl, returning home early to see you.” Bucky shook his head at her.

“Dada, I am your good girl. I am,” she begged, walking closer to him, but Bucky didn't reciprocate.

“Dada, I missed you.” She went to hug Bucky but he stepped away. She tried to hold his hand and he slipped his fingers out of her grab.

“You don't get to welcome daddy home after you've disrespected Uncle Steve like that, little girl,” Bucky told her, his frown not disappearing, only deepening.

“Dada, I'm sorry.” Her lower lip trembled.

She’s missed Bucky so much. She was touch-starved because she hadn't given Steve a chance to come anywhere near her all weekend. She refused to let him hug her, kiss her, or carry her. She was distant and bratty and rude. She needed Bucky's warm touch but he was far too mad at her.

“I'm not the one you should be apologizing to.” Bucky crossed his arms, looking at Steve behind her.

“Uncle Steve, I'm s-sorry,” she mumbled quickly, without even looking at the blond man, moving to hug Bucky again but he still wouldn't let her.

“Dada,” she called, tears leaving her eyes.

“You have to mean it, little one.”

“Daddy, I mean it,” she whined. It frustrated her little heart that Bucky kept calling her little one. He only did that when he was mad at her; too angry to use a pet name.

“Enough lying already!” Bucky raised his voice and she flinched.

“I'm not going to talk to you or touch you until you've made it up to Uncle Steve. Until then I'm gonna pretend I haven't come home and saw what I just saw.” Bucky left her room, walking over to his and slamming the door behind him.

He didn't normally choose to be hard on her; she was his baby doll, but what she did with Steve was just unacceptable. Bucky couldn't let her get away with disrespecting anyone, especially Steve, not after witnessing it all himself.

He'd thought it over on his way home. If he spanked her or took her favourite things away, she'd dislike Steve even more, if not hate him. Bucky couldn't give her more things to blame Steve for or more reasons to refuse him.

~

“Sweetheart,” Steve called, feeling bad after Bucky left and she stood by the door frame and started crying.

He didn't really want Bucky to punish her; he just wanted to know how to deal with her bratty behavior. He just wanted a way to communicate better. Steve never intended on making her cry. Bucky surprised him with that punishment.

“'S all because of you. I hate you!” She cried harder, throwing herself on her bed to hide her face in the mattress as she sobbed.

Her words broke Steve's heart to tiny pieces and he felt even worse now that Bucky was here. His mouth opened but no words came to him so he closed it again. He gathered her clothes from the floor and hung them back in her closet before leaving her to cry it out, giving her some time.

~

“I'm so sorry, Steve.” Bucky shook his head, embarrassed by her behavior towards his best friend.

“Hey, it's alright. I know she's a good girl; she just missed you.”

“You know I missed her too but she can't just get away with such stuff,” Bucky sighed, taking another sip from his beer.

“I know.”

“Dada.” She entered the room after a good crying session, rubbing her puffy eyes.

True to his previous words, Bucky didn't answer her, swallowing the lump in his throat with his beer. He couldn't give in.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Steve responded instead, not wanting to leave her hanging, which made her pout in annoyance.

Like him and Bucky had agreed, if she wanted anything she'd have to go to Uncle Steve for it and relearn to use her manners.

“Dada,” she called again and got the same reaction. Bucky pretended he wasn't there.

Tears gathered in her eyes again and she hid her face in her hands and began crying. The sound shook Bucky's heart and he almost broke and forgave her.

“Hey, hey, no, it's alright,” Steve cooed, immediately coming to her side.

He hated this. Once he got her to stop crying he was going to talk to Bucky about calling it off. He didn't care if she was bratty or bad-mannered, he just wanted her happy again.

Steve led her back to her room and sat down on the bed beside her.

“Daddy's never gonna speak to me again!” She sobbed and Steve's heart ached for her.

“Sweetheart, please don't cry.” He gently patted her back.

“Can't you just tell him I said sorry and I mean it?” A pair of teary eyes implored Steve's blue ones.

“I will, but no more tears, okay?” Steve quickly agreed, wanting her to calm down.

“You will?” She wiped at her cheeks and Steve nodded with half a smile, his thumb catching her new tears.

“You'd lie to daddy for me?” Her red eyes widened.

“I'd do lots of stuff for you.” Steve chuckled.

“Like what?” She mumbled, sniffing and wiping her nose before Steve grabbed her a tissue off the bedside table.

“Like let you pour your milk on me and pretend it was an accident.” Steve smiled fondly, dabbing the tissue on her wet cheeks and under her nose.

In that moment as she looked up at the man with tear-filled eyes, her little mind seemed to recall all the ways she'd tortured him all week. She'd disobeyed nearly everything he'd told her and he still didn't hurt her or even raise his voice at her. She'd 'accidently' dumped all the salt in the salt shaker on his dinner. She'd dropped his phone on the kitchen counter multiple times after talking to Bucky, adding to the cracks on its screen. She'd wet him and got soap in his eyes during shower time. She'd constantly knocked stuff out of his hands whenever he held them out for her. She's been a real demon. If it was Bucky he would've punished her in every way in the book. But Steve didn't. He didn't make her pay for any of it and he was ready to lie to Bucky to save her bratty, ungrateful ass from having to endure his silent treatment.

“And then you leave?” She wondered.

She saw Steve's face fall at her question. She really did hate him, didn't she?

“And then I leave.” He still nodded with a kind smile.

“But could you not though?” She whispered, playing with the ends of her mini skirt.

“What?” Steve looked at her in surprise; he must've heard her wrong.

“Don't leave,” she told him, clearer this time, awkwardly extending her hand to touch his.

“Sweetheart-”

“I'm sorry, Uncle Steve,” she started tearing up again in regret, “I didn't mean to be so bad.” She shook her head and cried.

“Aw, sweetheart, it's okay.” Steve hugged her to his side, smoothing a hand on her head.

That was all he needed to hear.

“You know I like you, right?” She asked, sniffing in his shirt and Steve chuckled.

“Yeah?” He asked cheekily and she nodded, silently crying.

“Yeah, you make the best cookies, but don't tell daddy,” she said and Steve chuckled, “I'm sorry.” She cried more.

“I like you too, darling. Don't cry now, we're good.” He assured her, holding her closer to him and gently patting her back.

“So you’ll stay?”

“If that's what you want.” Steve's thumb wiped her tears away as she nodded again.

She wanted to make things up to Uncle Steve like Daddy wanted and Uncle Steve deserved. She wanted to show him she truly was a good girl.

“On one condition though,” Steve said playfully, slipping her hair behind her ear.

She looked up at him, waiting for his next words.

“You let me take care of you like I was supposed to.” Steve's face was serious. It was all he wanted all weekend.

“Okay.” She nodded, smiling tearfully.

How kind was Uncle Steve and how blind was she to not see it!

Steve kissed her forehead and smiled down at her, wiping the rest of her tears away. He adjusted her skirt before they walked back out hand in hand and he sat her down on the couch beside Bucky, who on his turn pretended she wasn't there.

Was Bucky curious about what happened in there? Yeah, he was. But he wasn't about to ask her. He was just glad Steve has got her to stop crying because nothing hurt more than seeing her pretty face all sad and teary.

Steve prepared her snack and came back. He lifted her on his lap and handed her the plate before grabbing the remote to turn on her favourite afternoon show.

“Thank you, Uncle Steve,” she whispered shyly, kissing the man's cheek.

Steve smiled and kissed her temple, rubbing her back as he encouraged her to eat, even feeding her a couple of times and she let him, thanking him every time.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at the scene unfolding beside him but still held back from interfering or interacting with her. He was still mad and she needed to prove herself good again. He bit back a smile, pressing the beer bottle to his lips instead.

~

As the day came to an end and Steve put her to bed, she was keeping her 'please' and 'thank you's up, using her manners just right and Bucky would secretly, proudly grin every time she did.

“Would you please tell daddy I said goodnight?” She asked Steve, trying not to cry again before bed. She'd wished he'd forgive her by bedtime but he clearly didn't.

“I will, sweetheart. And I'm sure he wishes you a good night too,” Steve pecked her forehead and she smiled.

“Goodnight, Uncle Steve.” She pecked his cheek before resting back, pulling the covers to her chin.

If Bucky was listening, he made no effort to let any of them know.

~

The next morning Bucky was the same, still giving her a taste of her own medicine. She wanted to cry again but didn't, focusing on fixing things with Uncle Steve, whom she'd been awful to.

“Uncle Steve, please come with me?” She held onto Steve's wrist while he stood with Bucky in the kitchen.

Steve mumbled a 'sure', tilting his head in confusion as he followed the shorter girl.

She sat him on her bed and stood on her tiptoes till she reached her pink piggy bank on the upper shelf on her wall.

She walked to Steve and put the small safe in his lap, “I thought all morning long,”

“What's this, sweetheart?” Steve eyed the object before looking at her.

She smiled sheepishly before shaking the safe left and right in his lap, “to fix Uncle Steve's phone.”

Steve's heart soared in his chest and he remained speechless. She waited for him to take the money but he didn't.

“'S a lot of money. Dada gave me some to keep with piggy every day,” she assured Steve, taking his big hands and wrapping them around the pink safe, wanting him to accept it.

“Sweetheart,” Steve mumbled, setting the piggy bank on the bed before holding her to his chest.

She let herself be squished in his embrace as she stood between his legs, not really understanding what was happening, but at least he wasn't mad at her.

“You don't have to do that.” Steve shook his head before kissing her head.

“But I wanna make it up to you, Uncle Steve. I can't take away the salt in your food or the soap in your eyes or the milk on your pants-” She stopped and pulled back and her smaller hand cupped Steve's cheek, “do you wamme to wash your pants?”

Oh, how precious! She spent her morning thinking about ways to fix what she'd done to him. And she wanted to give him all of her savings to fix his phone. She was even ready to try and clean his pants. She was such a kind little one.

He’d done it. She finally likes him. Steve was beside himself at the progress. This kind of connection with her was all he ever wanted and it made him forget about whatever evil things she'd done during that weekend.

And on the other side of the wall stood a very pleased Bucky.

~

When they walked back out to the living room, Steve was beaming as he helped her up on his lap. Her body was facing Bucky’s as she leaned onto Steve’s chest. She looked at Bucky and when he looked back she cast her eyes down in shame.

“Come here, doll.” Bucky beckoned, opening his arms for her.

She grinned happily, jumping into them as he lifted her to straddle him. She wrapped her arms around Bucky's neck, burying her face in his shoulders and smelling his scent. Steve smiled, satisfied with their reunion.

Bucky wrapped her up tightly in his arms, pressing a longing kiss to the side of her head, “I missed you too, doll. I missed you so bad.”

“I’m sorry, dada,” she sniffled, clutching Bucky’s shirt.

“I know, doll.” Bucky pressed his lips to her forehead and let the kiss linger there.

In each others' arms, now both, her and Bucky, were really home.

[leviiattacks]

May I request a Levi x Reader angst fic? Just barely any fluff, mostly angst going on lol. The reader is a traitor, formaly working for Marley, but betraying them in secret and putting their loyalty on Paradis. The reader is also a shifter and married to Levi for a couple of years. That love and care however is gone once readers identity is found. He truly despises them, insults them, maybe a bit violent with them, and outright tells them that they mean nothing to him anymore and hate them to bits. Readers punishment is to hand over her titan to Erwin, and they agree instantly, broken over everything, believing its all their fault. Once Erwin inherits Readers titan, he breaks down and screams, crying, because Reader was innocent the whole time. They never betrayed Paradis. Never killed anyone, never harmed anyone. They finaly know why they betrayed Marley, the abuse being to much for them, enough to just leave them behind for Paradis. Just... loving and caring as they all saw them. But now the damage is done. They wont come back, they're dead, believing that they died, hated and despised, with no one to mourn their death. Everyone regrets everything.

author note :: i was thinking of leaving this in my drafts but i already wrote it and may as well post it. it didn’t end up going the way i hoped but yeah i hope it’s ok anon. anyways ANGST. ANGST, ANGST. as always i love feed back :-) ⟹ all of the headings with the years are just meant to mean it’s a different moment from that year so those moments don’t happen right after each other i hope that makes sense!! word count :: 7.2k warnings :: canon typical violence, death

845, i.

Everything is falling in place when it shouldn't.

Sun never makes itself known in Liberio yet here it is shining down onto the bustling streets. You half expect for it to crash down and burn into the hundreds of civilians going about their daily business yet nothing of the sort happens. It's typical sunlight and you curse yourself silently for your sinister thoughts.

Secretly the voice at the back of your mind still whispers frantically but you don't wish to hear what it has to say. Instead you choose to drown it out with the sound of Zeke's voice. Finally deciding to pay attention to what it is he's been droning on about for the past ten minutes.

"Soon, soon, soon." He sighs dreamily looking a little delirious.

"Soon?"

Your question catches him off guard, he lightly shoves you with his elbow scoffing in annoyance.

"Did you sit here to not even listen to me?" He turns to take a sip of whisky and the hearty gulp he chugs shows his mild irritation. You assume he's been rambling on about Marley's plan to infiltrate Paradis. You have to admit that the idea of destroying those demons from the inside is amazingly well thought out. However it's all he's been able to discuss for the entire week now and frankly you're getting a little exhausted of it.

"I zoned out..." Quietly placing your glass back down onto the wooden counter you sigh closing your eyes. It's too early to be drinking and you don't trust Zeke enough to slip into ignorance and leave yourself vulnerable. Men are to not be trusted, especially Eldian men. The thought of Eldians triggers your flight of fight response, you want to shrivel up into a cocoon and never come out until the world is rid of the monsters. The lowest of the low, the dirt in between the crevices of Marleyan soldier's boots. That is what Eldian's are.

It's ironic coming from you, your entire family labelled as undesirable Eldians yourself but you, you know you're different. An honorary Marleyan is what you will become. What you are. The treacherous imps who are but an ocean away are the true evil.

Eyes flicking to Zeke he's lighting a cigar. Old habits die hard and he's yet to quit this self destructive custom of his. You couldn't care less if he chooses to cut his lifespan short by ten years, it's his own choice to make. A disgusting cowardly choice but it's a choice fit for an untamed man like him.

The Island Devils are said to be the bad apples but you can't help but stare at your fellow citizens from time to time and wonder what it is they could be hiding. If a demon slipped through the cracks you wouldn't be surprised. Sly in nature, persuasive in tone, that is how devils go about their daily lives alone The hymns they drilled into you all the way through elementary school echo and rebound in your mind.

Locking your bitter thoughts away you have to push yourself to not punt Zeke in the mouth when he teasingly blows a puff of hot smoke into your face.

Fingertips grazing with his he freezes at the sudden contact giving you the perfect opportunity to slip his cigar away and take it in between your lips. You allow for it to linger there but you aren't foolish enough to inhale its contents.

"Zeke, my dear friend. We shall soon be met with the fruits of our own labour but I assure you that discussing Marley's plan constantly will be of no benefit for you nor I."

The day you and Zeke had met had been at warrior training camp. Zeke was a miserable, unmotivated oaf. Always tripping and falling behind the rest of the warrior cadets. You felt rather bad for him, if you were born as unskilled as him you don't know what you would have made of yourself. Zeke, the only child of his parents ironically only ever ended up rising through the ranks after handing them over to the Marleyan government. His father and mother had been conspiring an escape plan but were executed immediately alongside their fellow team members once Zeke had outted them. Unexpectedly he was spared, the fact he turned on his own parents showed where his loyalties were. To his surprise, he was even allowed to continue his training with the other warriors - only this time everyone kept an increased distance away from him. The warriors weren't informed of what he had actually done but everyone had a gut feeling. Everyone apart from you stuck with that feeling. You thought strategically, If he were to become an enemy in the future you knew being close would come at your advantage.

The day you and Zeke had met your mother died, his mother passed away the same day. At least that's what he had told you.

The two of you bonded over the little things, told each other stories about your life at home. Reminisced about what it was you missed.

Then it all came crashing down the day Zeke confessed. The day he told you he killed his mother and father by handing them over to Marley. Your knees buckled underneath you, crashing the floor he tried to grab at you but you thrashed around in retaliation kicking and screaming not understanding why he did what he did. Yes, they were traitors but they were his parents and if the monster had the nerve to turn on the people who gave birth to him who's to say he wouldn't do the same to you or to Marley.

Zeke doesn't know it but ever since then you take the opportunity to sneak the occasional glance at him. Every single time you narrow your eyes in malice. If there's a man in Liberio who you don't trust in the slightest it's him, he must think the feud between the two of you from childhood has been put at rest but it hasn't.

Zeke takes another swig of his alcohol. On this occasion he downs it entirely slamming the glass down with vigour.

"ONE MORE GLASS BARTENDER!"

846, i.

Another day of extensive training is about to end, your back is layered in uncomfortable layers of sweat and the same can be said for your forehead. Kneeling down in the under layer of the forest you're hidden waiting to strike. Going up against the elites is nerve-wracking but you're sure you can pull it off so long as you stay calm during this game of hunters against prey.

It's simple enough if you can conceal yourself and stay out of sight. The robust trees that surround you act as decent enough camouflage and your green cape paired with them lets you veil yourself, keeping you further into the foreground, blending into the environment.

No one will be able to catch you if they can't see you.

All of a sudden your previous thoughts are thrown away when you sense something in the atmosphere has changed, the hissing of the wind behind you isn't natural.

Turning to your side you don't bother to cover up the sound of leaves rustling and branches cracking, your priority is slipping away fast enough to hide again, a tug can be felt at your cloak and your reaction time barely covers for you, your gear fastens itself to a low enough tree branch and the descent is mind numbing. Your breakfast churns in your stomach but you ignore the uneasy feeling, leaping and diving wherever you find a small enough gap. You believe you can outrun your huntsman.

That is until you sneak a glance back and your muscles nearly tense up in pure astonishment, you've been kicked in the teeth just by the man's presence. Captain, Levi slinks behind you weaving through the gaps with increasing speed, he's gaining momentum and all the while his face stays relaxed, this isn't even his full effort.

Terrified you dart upwards and then left, a corner comes into view - Levi should assume you've turned into it and so you rashly choose to dart back down. Much to your hard luck you find that his senses are well adapted, the direction of the wind is enough for him to trace your whereabouts.

The pursuit resumes, and he stays disturbingly relentless.

Arm shooting to the right you think perhaps making it look like you're aiming to fly somewhere else again will completely catch him off guard, he can't expect for you to pull the same trick twice.

Setting your plan into motion your finger pulls at the trigger but you startle when the cable doesn't come out, it's jammed. Panic seeps into you and to make matters worse your gas is running out.

Without warning you're thrust into the body of a nearby tree, the bark scrapes against you and scratches begin to form anywhere you've made contact with the jagged surface, you want to admit defeat but the warrior inside of you denies Levi the pleasure of seeing you beg. In its place you deliver a harsh kick to his thigh, you're aware he's injured it and you're certain there are no rules to say you can't play dirty. Your boots hammer against leg hard enough for him to give out and let go of your body, but then you realize you lost this game from the very moment your grapple hooks broke, you have nowhere to hold onto.

Before you can even let out a shriek of horror Levi's shot back to you, he frantically accelerates and by a miracle humanity's strongest is able to grab a hold of you again. This time you don't dig your heels into his leg and you allow for him to clutch you by the torso.

Within a minute the two of you descend towards the forest floor and Levi throws you into the dirt furiously.

"You could have died. Being foolhardy will only lead to an early death." He barks as he directs his blade towards your neck.

"Am I dead yet?" Whispering back your gaze isn't trained on the blade but right up at him.

His nostrils flare up, his hair sticks to his forehead haphazardly and the knuckles that hold his pointed blades are white in tangled dissatisfaction.

Grabbing you by the hips he flings you over his shoulder choosing to not continue with the confrontation.

"I know what you're up to." His voice is still rugged from the pursuit and it takes you a split second to register what he's said.

Your eyes widen and your breath hitches in your throat, no way, there's no way in hell he knows. He's sharp but he's not a mind reader.

Your position means he can't read your face seeing as you're facing his back, instantly steeling your features you let out a breathy laugh.

"And what may that be?" Silently you pray he's worded himself ambiguously to catch a slip up.

"Being gutsy, you think that makes you a good soldier. It doesn't."

Relief floods you. He doesn't know.

"Soldiers need to be brave." Your retort makes him grumble.

"If  you die with no meaning by being reckless what's the purpose of being a soldier?" His question has you stopping and thinking on what the correct answer is.

Unable to think of an answer you ask another question.

"Are you saying your previous comrades died without meaning?"

"No. Their deaths fueled me slay more titans."

"So if I died back there who wou-" He swiftly cuts you off showing no inclination of wanting to hear what it is you have to say.

"I'll cut your tongue off if it's stupid." He clearly isn't serious about the threat but he does mean it when he warns you to not overstep.

Despite the consequences you say what's on your mind. "I just wanted to ask who would give my life meaning if I ever died. I don't have siblings and my parents died long ago."

Silence follows and the crunch of his boots against the muddy leaves tells you he probably doesn't wish to answer your question.

"Sorry-"

"I would. I would give meaning to your life." He says it with such ease you almost want to admire the enemy but you know he's said it because he feels he has to.

"You barely know me but I hope one day you can stop thinking everyone has to rely on you." You say it with taunting understanding.

Another bout of silence follows. Only this time the two of you feel warmly comforted, he doesn't understand how you've seen through his facade but it's easy for you to spot another liar.

846, ii.

Brows drawn back you observe your surroundings attempting to mask your scrutiny. The place is running amok with uncontrollable Eldian folk. The stench of unadulterated sin makes itself known but you seem to be the only person able to smell it. Eren bumps against the table you're sat at and your face twitches a little but you say nothing. You're yet to get used to these people's lack of manners.

At least that's how you force yourself to think. To be truthful, you don't quite understand what it is these people have done wrong. Ever since you've arrived you've been nitpicking at every single minor inconvenience or possible issue. A girl stole a potato and broke it into uneven pieces to share and you attempted to twist the story in your head to make her look like an unfair, greedy voracious demon but... you found yourself finding very little to actually be angry at. These people are essentially normal in every way of the word, they aren't demons and you can't help but feel yourself slip away from everything you once knew as reality. You're finding it difficult to believe what years of Marleyan education taught you, the hymns that were once drilled into your brain permanently are but a vague memory.

You feel disgustingly under-dressed and out of place, you don't belong here not when you're meant to hate these people, not when you're meant to despise them. You should be fighting the urge to shove their heads onto pitchforks or to skin them alive and feed them to pigs. Everyone back in Marley told you to control your impulses but now you're here and you've settled down even having the opportunity to converse with these individuals, share their pain, share their loss, share their suffering, you wonder why you have no impulses to control. Have they brainwashed you? Or is it that you're the real demon in this situation?

Fingers mingling with each other on your lap you sit hopelessly alone. Interacting with the so called enemy is much harder than you expect. Worry consistently bubbles in the pit of your stomach and every night is spent tossing and turning evaluating then reevaluating who the bad guy really is. At first the task of daily interaction isn't a big deal, you find it easy enough to approach members of the team and fake interest in their lives until the original plan falls through. You do become invested in your team members lives and stories that it comes to the point where you don't have to force yourself to smile at their jokes or to sympathize with their tales of grief. You become one of them and you swear you're meant to feel like a traitor but eerily you feel like you belong.

Nevertheless you try your best to stick with what you know. You're nothing like Zeke, you're loyal, capable, faithful and trustworthy. Never will you turn your back on Marley.

Rising to excuse yourself from dinner you think you've just about made it and escaped finally able to hide away in the confines of your bedroom but your lips form into a straight uncomfortable line at the feeling of someone's hand latching at your wrist. You're halfway down the hallway just a few more steps away from your bedroom. You hope it's one of the rookies.

"Oi, come here."

Head shooting backwards your eyes land on Levi, his dark curtains fall in front of his eyes - you note that he hasn't trimmed them as he usually does. Despite his size his grip is firm and your wrist squirms around a little trying to manoeuvre out of his bruising grasp. He seems to notice he's underestimated his strength once again and loosens his hold on you. Narrowed eyes analyse your anxious form, they're grey and in this lighting almost glow appearing silver. For a brief second your mouth is left ajar by the delicate but rough manner of his face.

"Everything Okay?" He doesn't typically seem to care very much about anyone, the question activates your senses and you're on full alert but the eye contact you make with him seconds later slows down the gears in your mind, they only whir and hum in anticipation completely coming to a halt.

"Yes, yes everything is okay." You're playing around with the hem of your shirt and you silently question when you were ever this nervous around anyone. You're a Marleyan soldier for heaven's sake not an unrestrained, unsupervised child left to play in a park.

Despite your clear inability to cushion and shield yourself from your Levi's stabbing gaze you attempt to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"I'll be going I just feel a little —" At first you had thought to fake you were ill but at the feeling of a sudden strike of pain you hold onto your stomach, the ache burns into your abdomen and without permission it travels higher up towards your ribs. "A little unwell." You manage to wheeze out. Hand placed onto a nearby cement wall your thought process is hasty speeding up by the second. Have they figured you out and had you poisoned? No, you barely ate anything today.

You hunch over feeling the bile crawl up your throat, on reflex you clamp your eyes shut not wishing to anger a superior by acting insolent and disposing of your dinner in the hallway. Shaky palms reach hesitantly for your lips and you force yourself to keep it in. Levi would commit a murder if you heaved and gagged letting it all out in front of him.

You motion towards the door trying to emphasize that you can handle yourself in the privacy of your room. Tears bite at the sides of your eyes and your vision is so blurred you can only make out the faint outline of the man who was just in front of you.

"Relax. I'll clean it." Your hair is brushed away from your face securely held back and you can't hold it in any longer, the acrid storm surges through your throat, you retch at the harsh sting it leaves behind. Breathing heavy, perturbed and anxious you gasp in all the air you can get.

"I knew you looked ill." His hands hold your jaw gently, the pads of his fingers are calloused but his touch remains soft. A tissue dabs at your mouth wiping away the excess untouched sick.

Just like the sick which surged through you less than a minute ago you feel something else entirely tear into you. You can't put a finger on it but it's dangerous for you to not feel contempt.

847, i.

Your heart accepts what your mind has been ignoring for months on end when Levi looks you square in the eyes after a heart wrenching expedition. The vacant look on his face is enough for the guilt to consume you whole but he doesn't know that. He doesn't know of your sins.

The wagon of corpses reeks of death and desperation. It's rotten and the smell is sickening. Forcibly you  stop yourself from feeling any more grief. The despair isn't yours to go through.

Your first ever personal loss outside of the walls and you've learnt Paradis is not home to demons. Cheeks burning in mortification you can't formulate any thoughts on your own accord, instead they continuously emerge in bursts and finally a single thought sticks out from the rest - Are you aiding in the destruction of innocent human life?

The both of you are sat on guard duty with the corpses, half of the team has been wiped out in one sweep. Your trembling hands don't seem to want to steady any time soon and you sit there with your guilty conscience strangling you slowly, your airflow is getting shallower. Shorter, quicker breaths leave you. The imaginary gash in your chest is bottomless, and your lungs push and pull in a power struggle.

Levi's coarse hands abruptly hold onto yours and the floodgates open again, he doesn't know what you've done to him, done to his soldiers, done to his people. If he knew who you really were, would things be different?

"This was out of your control."

Do you tell him?

The question sits in your mind for a while until you shake your head. He takes it the wrong way and think you're responding to him.

"This was not your fault." For the first time in months you've heard his voice crack under pressure.

"Pe- Petra she- I could have taken one for the team and died instead of her." All that remains of your dear friend is her blood soaked cloak. Her body was one of the few that had to be hauled away earlier to decrease the carriage's load.

The fabric still smells of Petra, smells of honey and chamomile and the simple soap offered at the base, but it still smells of her.

Firm hands grab your shoulders and Levi's fingers dig sorely into your flesh.

"Don't."

"But I- I didn't contribute as much as her and she has family who are alive." Hiccuping you try to bare with the fact that you'll wake up tomorrow and not see her preparing breakfast for everyone else. You know you could have propelled her out of the way just in time if you hadn't been so taken aback by the entire situation.

"You were her comrade. She made the choice to die for you."

You want to reach out, sob into his chest and yell that you regret it all, scream and tell him about the secret you've been hiding. A sorry excuse of a comrade you are to let her die on the battlefield not knowing your true identity. The tears roll down your cheeks and Levi feels his heart constrict and squeeze as he comprehends the lack of regard you have for your life. "It should have been me." Is repeated over and over again, your eyes are raw and bloodshot, the vicious wind sinks its teeth into you.

"Then die."

"If you're willing for her life to have no meaning. Die." The words he spits out are as cutting as the bitter wind. He feels cheated and you're finally able to come to your senses.

He's faired much worse but you doubt he's ever acted out the way you have in front of another person. In this never-ending void of darkness locking away the dull ache caused by deafening loss is the best choice for everyone.

Much like the night you had been sick he takes a grip of your jaw and directs your face towards his, this time he's not as gentle as before but you conclude that it's because he's drained, completely exhausted from the battle. The eyes are the windows to the soul but Levi's window panes are shattered, completely crushed by the weight of the constant burden he has to carry.

"I'm sorry." You croak out the apology. He grits his teeth because he doesn't want you to apologize but he doesn't voice out his opinion. As a substitute he presses his arms against you, the terribly raw panic is murdering you. Levi's gruff voice is a mixture of faux irritation but mutual understanding.

"Cry." He allows for your head to loll against his shoulder.

As the dark envelopes both you and him the scent of the dead only becomes more and more pungent, recalling fond memories of Petra and the others you know your heart settles on a decision before your mind does. You're a two timing back stabbing traitor for this. What you hated Zeke for you have become yourself.

Disloyal, unfaithful and fickle.

That day you place your loyalties with Paradis.

847, ii.

Levi's wiping down one of the kitchen tables, you're kneeled on the floor scrubbing vigorously. The others have already given up, panting they've left using the excuse of fetching water from a nearby well. Your back aches but you find cleaning reassuring and somewhat of a decent distraction.

"Why do you like to clean?" You're used to Levi asking you abrupt questions by now, after all the two of you have been acquainted for well over a year now. Through that year he's learnt about you and you about him. When in the midst of what looks to be humanity's final year's, twelve simple months is enough to form a bond worth a decade.

"I'm not good at a lot but I am good at cleaning."

"You know that's not true idiot." The tone of his voice indicates that your answer doesn't please him.

"But I do think I'm good at cleaning? Maybe not as good as you but I am half decent."

"Not that. You're good at much more than half the people I've ever met." He sneers, his footsteps edge towards you. "Purely being a good person is a talent these days."

You suppress a flinch because you aren't a good person at all. Neither are you that middle ground between good and bad. Rough around the edges and uneven, you're shards of glass ready to slash and hack away at him if Marley somehow lures you back.

The confession, if you could even call it that catches you by surprise and anger fills you. You almost want for him to not trust you and call out your bluff. It's a little unnatural how badly you want for him to realize the truth.

Your head turns up to stare at the man who's a few steps away from you. "Or am I just good at acting genuine?"

You don't even mean to snap at him and you don't even realize you have until you see his eyes widen and mouth part in imperceptible surprise. Biting your tongue your attention is diverted back to the wooden floor. Driving your washcloth into the crevices and dips of the floorboards you ignore Levi's leather shoes which now stand right in front of you.

"Are you questioning my judgement of character?"

Be born in Marley, That's what you had done, trained to destroy people you thought to be devilish entities, foolishly chose to grow attached to the so called enemy. Your mind lingers onto a specific thought and you're deathly afraid to be thinking it in the first place but there's no more avoiding it.

Falling deeply in love with Levi is your worst mistake to date.

"What I did. It was out of my control." you reply, voice hard.

"Not disclosing what it was?" He asks.

Your silence is his answer. Kneeling down to where you are he disarms you, the washcloth is taken out of your hands and he places it onto a table.

"You are a good person." His voice is brusque and he states it like it's a fact, something you should know. Hot tears threaten to spill over, he's stupidly naive for not rethinking that opinion of his. Lips thinned and eyes watering you don't know how to feel.

"Levi. I'm sure you'd like to think that but I am not."

"You love the members of the corps unconditionally I can see it in the way you look at them."

"Sometimes you look a little sad when you stare." The last sentence he adds in has your pulse racing. He's right, you often feel miserable thinking about how everyone would react knowing who you really are.

"I'm not interested in bad people." He sounds distant saying such warm words and it takes a moment for them to actually sink in. You don't quite believe you've heard him correctly. The dread sinks to the bottom of your stomach and the feelings you've buried at the back of your mind hit you like a tsunami. The thought of him feeling the same way for you, is agonizing.

"Stop being ridiculous." The uncertainty is killing the both of you.

"Loving you is not ridiculous, if you don't feel the same way you can say that and I'll step away. We'll be back to normal."

"No, no, no. You don't get it. You're just saying that." Your voice quivers and the intensity of this new revelation is too large for you to cope with.

"Why would, you," He begins, voice just above a whisper, "ever think that way?"

"Why would you even look twice at me?" You reply.

"Because I worry for you."

"You worry for everyone."

"I worry for you the most."

Instead of letting you respond to him this time he carries on speaking.

"We both know we feel the same."

You already knew you were in love with Levi, you didn’t need for him to tell you. You knew you were in love when you tried to memorize his facial features, you knew you were in love when his laughter was the cause of your laughter, you knew you were in love when you threw yourself in front of that abnormal for him.

That's when you begin to understand what all his signals meant. You now knew why he'd let you stare so intently, you now knew why he laughed particularly hard when it was you who had made a joke, you now knew why he scolded you and nearly broke down at the sight of your injured arm after that specific expedition.

You know it. He knows it. You both know what this will lead to.

But you still lunge onto his lap, you still press your wobbly lips against his. You still choose to surrender yourself to him and he still reacts by taking a hold of your shaky hands which lay on his chest. He envelopes them in his warm grasp. Slowly but gradually the ice thaws and dissolves. Heartbreak, anguish and suffering when one of you loses the other will be the end of your romance, you're sure of it. Hell, the both of you are in the middle of a war but your heart flames up thinking of all of the possibilities.

Perhaps it'll play out the one way you wish for it not to.

Could your ending be in betrayal?

848, i.

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded hus-"

"Cut the crap and kiss me." Levi's crude interruption isn't appreciated by Erwin but everyone knows Levi doesn't care all that much for formalities and hates being in the spotlight for too long.

Gripping him by the collar of his suit your lips are a centimetre away, he stops you tightening the hold he has on your waist. His lips gently press against your collarbone and his breath meanders towards the shell of your ear.

"Swear you won't die on me."

Gulping you look away apprehensively. You know you can't promise that.

“Oi, I’m expecting an answer.” His voice flickers slightly.

Forefinger holding your chin up you see your soon to be husband close to tears, he valiantly blinks them away. Levi has never been one to make his pain public and your heart twists in your chest as you realize just how much of a hold his feelings for you have over him.

"I can't promise that, you know it'll only hurt more." The strange bitter taste in your mouth won't let you comply with his request and by measuring his reaction you see his eyes cloud in an unidentifiable emotion, you're sure it's nothing positive.

"We may not have a happy ending Levi but we'll always have a happy middle."

Levi scoffs in derision, he has to think your attempt at being meaningful is ridiculous.

You lean into him and it's all so heart-wrenchingly familiar yet foreign. His body sags comprehending that not everything will go the way he wants it to. One of you is guaranteed to leave first.

Hands finding purchase in the cloth of his white dress shirt Levi doesn't cringe at you creasing the fabric as he usually does. He allows for you to call the shots this time, your lips brush faintly against his before you nosedive into him. No resistance is felt and he replies almost immediately. Everyone applauds as his fingertips press into the back of your skull and you find that this is all incredibly hideous. The innate disloyalty you feel, you throwing your entire life away for this man but you find yourself not caring. To hell with that miserable life crammed with sin.

Levi smiles against your mouth, you assume you're meant to magically smile back but you can't make yourself. It's uncomfortable relishing in the undeserved happiness knowing it won't last forever.

The world you live in isn't ideal nor is it forgiving.

Momentary joy is all an antagonist can hope for.

849, i.

Jean can’t take his eyes off the newly weds.

You’re cooing into your Levi’s ear gently, his cheeks flush scarlet at the feeling of your hot breath against his skin and he scolds you for having the gall to rile him up in public.

Jean sniggers finding some sort of odd delight from the interaction - he’s never seen the Captain this content and at ease.

849, ii.

You don't know why you've dragged yourself out of bed just to stare at your husband's face but you have, despite the toll life has had on him he seems sound for once. His breathing peaceful yours is anything but that. When it's dark the weight becomes heavier, your skin tingles and your throat burns aching for release.

Eyes blurring your hands shake reaching out for him but you can't find the courage to make contact. Nothing will ever warrant plaguing him even more with your existence.

The memories become increasingly bitter.

"If we make it out of this alive we'll have children and they'll look just like you."

"I want them to look like you." had been your reply.

Levi winced not seeming to like the idea.

"No, I want them to look like you. You're beautiful."

How wrong he was for thinking that.

You, beautiful? He'd stab himself ten times over if he knew just who exactly he had said those words to.

850, i.

Zeke had betrayed you after finding out who you were to Levi but you half expected that he would tell him the truth at some point regardless of that fact.

Tear stains travel through the mud and grime on your face, Levi's eyes are indifferent as he twists his wedding ring off his finger flinging it into the surrounding rubble.

Without your permission he yanks your arm forwards intending to take your matching ring away but you hold on digging your heels into the dirt beneath you.

"You disgusting bitch. Give me it."

You scream, high and awful, he continues jerking at your arm the muscle throbs crying out for him to stop but he doesn't and no one steps in to put a halt to any of it. Levi having had enough grabs at your neck ruthlessly. In any other circumstance he'd be labelled callous or cruel but everyone on the battle field shares a similar empathy for their Captain. Neither they or Levi had expected your disloyalty.

"I said give me the ring if you know what's good for you." His fingers slide around your neck, his seemingly low words cling onto the little respect he has left for you.

"No." Your defiance has his eyes hardening in and posture tensing. "I'm not handing it over."

Levi says nothing, he only holds onto your throat tighter, if he really keeps at  it your windpipe will be crushed in no time. You know he's holding out on purpose, he's still giving you a chance. He expects for you to stand your ground, say you never deceived Paradis, say something, anything to make him let go of you.  

"Marrying you... It just happened somehow. I know it was selfish of me." He squeezes harder. "I know it was. I'm sorry Levi." Gasping and breathless you clench and unclench your fists finding it too difficult to explain.

Your mouth opens, you want to tell him you haven't seduced him like he thinks you have, tell him you dropped that plan of yours long ago but then you falter at the last second.  It's typically hard to tell when Erwin's infuriated but it's painfully obvious when you make eye contact with him over Levi's trembling shoulders. It's enough to tell you to give up. Enough to tell you that you're beyond redemption, you've ran and hid long enough.

"Hand over your titan." Levi says nothing to Erwin's proposition, the hold he has on your neck loosens but his silence is sickening. It means he agrees.

This is fate's idea of a cruel joke.

But you agree, on the basis of one condition.

"Fine but-"

Levi cuts in, all regard for you devoid from his system.

"You're in no place to be making demands." He snarls, his patience quickly running thin.

However Erwin urges you to continue speaking taking you aback.

"If it's not too much maybe we can accommodate your final wish." Erwin had always been thoughtful in nature and you thank him for even bothering to show you a sliver of benevolence.

Everyone's looking, all eyes are on you. Some are blinking away tears, others are disgusted unable to stare at you for more than a few seconds at a time. Levi falls into the latter.

Brazen with not an ounce of shame you mention the ring again. "Let me keep it." Your left hand covers your right and underneath the flesh is the last symbol left of your union with Levi.

Whispers and murmurs orbit you, none of them are kind and Levi loses it.

His reflexes are paralyzing, he's back at it clawing your neck mercilessly but you don't scream or shriek as you did previously. You take it, you let him unload his frustration.

"Levi. Let it go for the sake of humanity." Erwin says pointedly. Irritation pricks him, he wants this over and done with and your rebelliousness doesn't look as if it'll be tamed any time soon unless you're given what you want.

Levi's face is crimson, the fresh blood from the expedition still steaming. "Y/N, I'll saw your arm off if I have to." But, you know he's already given into Erwin's orders when he throws you to the ground letting you crash and wheeze for breath.

850, ii.

Levi's been appointed to guard you for your final night alive. The room feels wistful as you think back wondering if the life you lived was respectable.

"Why did you stare at me when I slept? Did you think of killing me?" Half commanding and half pleading his voice cracks. He coughs attempting to cover it up.

You jolt not expecting the interaction at all and you're not the slightest bit surprised that he had seen you all those nights staring so deeply. He'd always been a light sleeper. You turn your head up hoping he's looking at you.

He isn't.

"I wanted our children to look like you. I think you're beautiful."

It's now his turn to recoil, only he does so in repulsion remembering the familiarity of those words. They had left his own lips not too long ago.

"I'd never have children with the likes of you." He sounds tense then.

You understand. No one would want to have children with someone as hated and as despicable as you.

"I know." You whisper faintly.

850, iii.

When Erwin's eyes glaze over unable to focus on anything in particular Levi assumes it's him growing used to the titan powers. What he doesn't expect is for his Commander to bang his head against the floor unrelenting screaming your name.

Pairs of hands move to stop him but he thrusts them aside wailing. Levi stresses trying to figure out what it is you could have done in the wake of your death.

But Erwin Smith. Courageous, brave Erwin Smith, who never cracked at loss of life for the sake of humanity, who always eloquently spoke to everyone around him at all times, finds himself slumping down to his knees and weeping for you.

The warm blood from his self inflicted assault still trickles down his nose, a tremor shakes through his entire body when he thinks of breaking the news to Levi.

The edge in Erwin’s voice grows dangerous.

"We made the wrong choice."

Erwin can't word it any better than that.

But Levi understands right away, he wishes he didn’t, he wishes he was ignorant enough not to.

Hange sticks an arm out aiming for his shoulder but he stumbles away nearly falling back into the floor not wanting to be touched by anyone.

He finds that he is not human enough to cry. It’s that or he’s not human at all without your presence.

854, i.

Levi has grown old without you, lived to see months and new seasons without you by his side. Over time his eyelids have become heavier, the corners of his mouth naturally droop and he remains perpetually somber.

Sometimes you visit him in his dreams, each time you make a silly comment about how his grey eye bags make him look like he’s been punched in the face. “Levi Ackerman, I swear if you don’t sleep soon!” You cushion the blow by whispering sweet nothings, reassuring him that you still think he’s beautiful. 

Occasionally you add in that you don’t blame him for the past, but those conversations only last for a few seconds at a time.

“I don’t blame you.” It always starts off with the exact same phrase. 

“I should have listened to you.” Levi’s tone is stern and uncompromising .

“Lev, I was never going to tell you to spare my life. You tried to listen to me, I could tell you wanted me to deny it.”

Levi refuses to answer you, he still thinks he’s at fault.

Not a day goes by where he doesn’t think of that ring. He regrets throwing it away recklessly into the rubble.

Some day he’ll return to Shiganshina to find it. The idea sounds laughable but he has to find a reason to smile as he fights for his life.

That is what Levi thinks as two set’s of jaws snap shut onto his legs, a flurry of red surrounds him. His throat constricts at the feeling of his thighs being ripped away from the rest of him.

“I tried.” He whimpers to no one in particular, eyes blank and losing meaning.

“I know Levi, I know.” The same voice from his dreams soothes him.

“Do not despair. Find me again in another world.” The biting wind adds in.

Levi’s eyelids flutter shut unable to do much else.

He’s unsure if he has the courage to face you again in another lifetime.

[snackhobi]

this is my part of the rockin’ around the christmas tropes collab with @yeojaa, @underthejoon @ladyartemesia, @ppersonna, @untaemedqueen, @xjoonchildx ✨ MERRY (early) CHRISTMAS Y’ALL

summary: yoongi is your favourite regular. he’s patient, polite, and predictable, a-large-black-coffee-to-go-please, no cream, no sugar, thank you. rinse and repeat. the seasons might change, but yoongi’s order stays the same.

and then one fateful day in winter, yoongi asks about the weekly specials, orders a cup of christmas and sugary sweetness, and everything starts changing.

pairing: yoongi x barista f!reader / word count: 14.8k / genre: coffeeshop!au, fluff, dash of smut (NSFW)

warnings: slow burn, terrible drink concoctions, pining, miscommunication (kind of/reader comes to incorrect conclusions based on literally nothing), the tiniest bit of swearing, heated makeouts, oral (m receiving), I think that’s it

a/n: I have a lot of people to thank: thank you to my loveliest most beautiful wife @yeojaa for the beautiful banner 🥺💖 thank you to @morndas for helping me name this fic and suggesting some of the awful weekly specials featured within 🥰 thank you to @yeoldontknow for letting me have multiple meltdowns at her and for letting me pick her brain about working in the music industry, and for helping me with plot points I wasn’t sure about!! 💕

also thank you to @hobi-gif for helping me brainstorm the original fic idea with her; she hasn’t beta’ed this fic because I am TERRIBLE and literally finished this like an hour before posting. that’s on me and not her. I am a shambles without her indomitable proof reading skills; any mistakes are down to me, and I apologise for that. I’ve only read this through like once, sorry in advance, I’m literally formatting this while I should be getting ready for work

Being a barista isn’t all bad.

Like, okay, you’re on your feet for hours at a time, the pay isn’t exactly the highest in the world, and coffee beans have a tendency to end up in the weirdest places (how did you get the light roast in your bra?)—but it’s not entirely terrible.

Here’s a (totally not comprehensive) list of good things about working at the Paradise coffee shop:

The free drinks (y’know, for taste testing purposes)

The free food (you probably eat more than you’re actually allowed, but who’s telling?)

Your coworkers (like Taehyung, who is—yep—currently shoving a whole mini panettone in his mouth)

Most of the customers are pretty nice, too (you have some lovely regulars)

(If you had to be more specific, there’s one regular in particular that you really, really like—)

(Yoongi appears like clockwork every week. Just after the Tuesday lunch rush, the bell above the door will sing out its greeting as he steps inside, ordering the same drink each and every time he’s here—a large Americano, to go, plain and simple and unadorned, no room for cream or milk, no added sugar or sweetener.)

(Yoongi really is the perfect customer. He has been from the very beginning, a point of quiet in a churning sea of hot, sweaty people all begging for frappés and milkshakes, the hottest point at the very peak of summer. The queue had been growing longer and longer, out of the doors as the blenders whirred their way through a neverending cascade of sugary, iced blends; the counters were a mess and all the baristas were running around and everything was chaos and in had walked this guy, all dark hair and dark eyes and dark clothes, even in the height of summer—you were ready for death at this point, hands sticky with syrup and apron streaked with flecks from almost every drink from the summer menu, and you’d braced yourself for some terse words, impatience and passive aggressive comments on the long wait—)

(—and this intimidating man had just patiently asked for an iced Americano, calm and quiet and polite.)

(You’d fallen a little in love, then and there. Fallen in love with that simple order, quick and easy to make, and fallen a little in love with the dichotomy of the man who looked like nothing but sharp edges being the softest customer you’d had all day. There was nothing rushed about his motions, no desperate need to get his drink and get away, no anger at having waited for so long.)

(He’d been ready to pay, too, no fumbling with his wallet or money; he’d tapped his card, easy and breezy and all lemon squeezy, but he’d left a tip in change, dropped almost thoughtlessly into the jar. He’d collected his cup with the smallest upturn to his lips, a tilt of his head, and then he’d left, other customers parting before him like the Red Sea.)

(The only thing that’s changed over the months is that the iced coffees of summer have changed into hot Americanos for the cooler months, autumn and now almost-winter, warding off the chill in the air. Everything else is the same; his dark eyes and low voice and patient smile, small but ever present, pressed lightly into the surprisingly soft line of his mouth.)

(So, yeah. Yoongi is your favourite customer. Even if you’ve barely spoken, really, the two of you dancing through the same short script each time he comes in—the longest conversation you’ve had so far is the one where you’d tentatively asked if he’d like a rewards card, and after a moment of contemplation, he’d quietly agreed.)

(You like to think that you’re Yoongi’s favourite server, too. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but—)

(Taehyung had been stunned into speechlessness, because, to quote his words exactly: “I tried getting him to sign up for a card last time and I swear he just pretended he couldn’t hear me? He just straight up didn’t respond? What?”)

(—you know Yoongi likes you at least a little bit.)

Anyway. You’re getting off the point. Paradise is a decent place to work, the people are nice, and the building is pretty and airy and welcoming and warm, toasty and cosy in the upcoming cold of winter. It’s one of the things that keeps people coming back, that lovely atmosphere.

Another thing that people apparently love about Paradise is the constantly changing menu. It’s not enough to have seasonal menus, no—you need to have weekly specials, apparently, to keep people interested.  It’s like a gachapon, but instead of cute little capsule toys, it’s a random mix of concoctions that are hit or miss.

“Well, I liked the Peachy Keen Jelly Bean,” Taehyung says, around a mouthful of sweet bread, still chewing his way through the panettone.

“You’d be the only one,” you reply, swiping a cloth over the counters and crinkling your nose  at the pile of coffee grounds you gather. “Iced peach tea with blackberry and vanilla and cherry and watermelon syrup has got to be one of the worst things we’ve ever served.”

That had definitely been one of the misses. This week’s special, though, is far more palatable, if incredibly sweet—Crystal Snow, a white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar, and a crystallised sugar stick to stir in. Sugar on sugar on sugar, basically. (Your teeth ache just thinking about it.) 

But there’s always something so fun about making the winter specials, no matter how sugary they are; the smell of the sticky syrups, the swirl of cream to top off the cup, the dusting of cocoa or cinnamon, everything mulled in the sweet warmth of winter. Even if the drink you’re making is questionable, you get so excited about it, genuinely enthusiastic when you recommend them to customers, carrying everyone into the spirit of the upcoming holidays. You’d hardly describe making coffee a billion times a day fun—it’s pretty exhausting, actually—but you’ve always had a weird affection for the winter menu and the weekly specials alongside it.

You don’t upsell the drinks because you have to. You do it because you want to.

(You’re pretty good at it too. Not a flex: just a fact. Your customer service is on point.)

The only person you’ve never tried to persuade into trying something new is Yoongi. He might not be rude or short tempered, but he clearly knows what he wants, and you hate the idea of ruining the easy flow of his visits. You’re not about to embarrass yourself by asking Mr No-Cream-Or-Sugar if he’d like a drink that's nothing but cream and sugar. Asking about the rewards card had been nerve-wracking enough, even if it had been worth it for the genuinely-unintentional-but-definitely-not-unpleasant brushing of your fingers when you’d handed the card over to him.

(Okay. Look. Yoongi is patient and pleasant and polite and cute. You never thought that you’d crush on a customer, but here you are. He just… oozes masculinity in an understated, self-assured way that has you internally swooning. He looks intimidating and serious but when he smiles his eyes go soft-soft-soft, his voice a low rumble as he gives you his gentle thank you, and everything about him is just so… attractive. Even the way he holds his coffee is hot, fingers loose around the lid as he makes his way out of the café, your eyes tracing every motion as he goes. Like. Come on. Of course you’re crushing on him.)

(Just a little bit, though. Just a little bit. It’s just an itty bitty crush. A teeny weeny crush.) 

The bell above the door chimes. Your kneejerk reaction is to snap your head over to see who it is—but you hold it together, instead letting your head turn at a normal, natural pace. It’s just an unfamiliar woman, rearranging the tassels of her long scarf with one hand and holding her phone with the other as the door swings shut, and you deflate.

(... It’s a small crush, you swear. It’s not like this is around the normal time Yoongi appears and you’d thought it was going to be him. Nope. Definitely not that.)

As the woman lingers near the counter, eyes flicking between her phone and the chalkboard menu on the wall above your head, Taehyung finishes licking the panettone crumbs off his fingers.

“It’s Tuesday,” he states solemnly.

“I know?”

“It’s just past two o’clock,” he continues.

“I know,” you repeat, glancing at him quizzically. “You told me what the time was less than five minutes ago.”

“I did.”

The bell chimes again. This time, a gaggle of giggling girls come bubbling into the café, cutting you off before you can ask what Taehyung is trying to say. You go to flick your cloth at him before thinking better of it, not wanting to rain dark roast everywhere.

“Go wash your hands,” you say, just as the scarfed woman approaches the counter, ready to order. A bright smile splits your face, voice rising into its usual peppy Customer Service tone. “Hi, welcome to Paradise! How can I help you today?”

She barely glances up from her phone as she orders, asking for a latte macchiato and croissant, a distracted ‘no thanks’ when you ask if she’s interested in this week’s special. Oh well. The girls behind her, though, all seem incredibly excited when they catch wind of it; they all eagerly listen as you describe what a Crystal Snow is, your eyes lighting up as you mime piping the cream and dusting the sugar on top, laughing when they ask if they can buy extra sugar sticks to take home, because of course they can, you’d be happy to do that for them, would they like those in to-go bags? Yes, the bags are cute, aren’t they, the snowflakes are lovely, you agree.

Taehyung’s just finished wiping the steam wand when you give him the next order. You see the way his face crumples before his brows lift and his lips purse, pleading as he looks at you with big eyes, and you just roll your own eyes affectionately.

“Yes, yes, I’ll make them even though you’re meant to be on the bar, it’s fine,” you say, and Taehyung’s whole face lights up.

You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough by now to know that it takes him until at least Wednesday to memorise how to make whatever that week’s special is. And there’s not a queue, so you don’t mind taking over, pulling espresso shots and steaming milk and pouring everything together, puffing air in Taehyung’s face when he peers at your cream swirling technique. (No matter how many times you’ve tried to teach him, he’s never been able to get it right, usually just farting a mess of cream out of the nozzle and hoping for the best. Results are… mixed.) Maybe the flourish you put into dusting the sugar on top is unnecessary, but, hey. It’s fun. You smile to yourself as you give a small flick of the wrist over each drink, powdered sugar floating down like snow, and, done.

You don’t like to toot your own horn but the drinks come out Instagram perfect, each latte glass set on a tiny napkin on a saucer, sugar stick on one side, and you take a moment to admire your work.

“They’re so pretty,” Taehyung says, and your smile grows wider.

The girls all agree, cooing over the drinks in a way that only makes your smile grow even more, wide on your face. You watch as they squirrel themselves away in a corner, talking and laughing and nibbling their food and sipping at their drinks, pleased at the way their eyes widen at the first taste.

Yeah, it’s the small things that makes your time here good. Being a barista is a thankless job most of the time, as relaxed as Paradise usually is, so you try to appreciate the small things. Like having fun when you make a drink, for example. Making nice customers happy. (Having cute regulars that you can quietly ogle.)

Actually, on the note of cute regulars—

“Your 2:15 appointment is here.”

You tear your attention away from the table of girls at the sound of Taehyung’s voice. “My what—?”

There’s someone in front of the glass display, hunched as they slowly and quietly peruse the selection of pastries and food inside—and you realise with a jolt that it’s Yoongi. You have no idea how long he’s been there, so distracted with patting yourself on the back for making a few nice drinks; oh, God, what if Yoongi had seen your pleased expression? Do you look smug? You probably look smug. Great, now he probably thinks that you’re a self-obsessed clown, honking your nose like some sort of narcissist. 

“You’re spiralling,” Taehyung points out mildly, voice low enough that Yoongi doesn't hear.

His surprisingly perceptive comment snaps you out of aforementioned spiralling, and after shaking yourself off, you glance over at him. “Why didn’t you serve him?”

He shrugs. “He didn’t seem like he wanted to be served so I just left him to it.”

To be fair to Taehyung, he’s not wrong. Yoongi is staring intently at a slice of carrot cake—even if he’s never ordered any before—and it’s not until you move to your usual spot behind the till that his attention finally rises, meeting your gaze with his deep, dark eyes.

Your inner schoolgirl feels like she needs to sit down. Your entire stomach and chest is a looping mess of frantic butterflies after making eye contact with the cute boy who you’re crushing on, but you’ve got a great poker face; you’ve worked as a barista long enough that you’re good at shoving your real feelings down, none of your internal turmoil playing across your face as you smile. Customer service mode activate.

“Hi, and welcome back to Paradise. What can I get for you today? The usual? Large Americano, to go, for Yoongi?”

You’re a little softer than you would be with other customers, a little more subdued, dialing down how upbeat you normally are to match Yoongi’s level. His lips lift almost imperceptibly, the faintest smile playing across his mouth, and it takes all your strength for your knees to not immediately buckle. 

“Hi,” he says. His voice is soft and low, faintest drawl at the end of his words, and yep, just your weekly reminder that you’re enamoured with him. Cool. “Yes, please, that would be great.”

He already has his card ready, you know he does. He always does; card to pay, loyalty card to swipe, tip to drop in the jar, quick and smooth and easy. This is normally where you’d rattle off the price—as if he doesn’t already know what it is—but you pause, thinking about how intent he’d been on the pastry display, as uncharacteristic as that is.

“Did you… want something to eat, too? I couldn’t, um, help noticing that you were eyeing up the carrot cake?”

Yoongi blinks, wispy lashes fluttering. You can see the muted surprise that flashes across his face, and you wonder if you’ve misstepped, thrown off the usual rhythm of his visit. It’s an unusual step away from your regular script, an ad-lib that he wasn’t expecting.

“Uh, no, thank you,” he says. “Maybe… next time.”

He’s polite as ever, thankfully. You’re not surprised at his answer but you do have to wonder why he was looking at the cake so closely if he hadn’t planned on getting anything; you know he likes getting served by you the most, if the evidence over the months means anything at all, but you don’t think he’d stare at cake just so he would avoid Taehyung. You’re making assumptions based on the fact he just drinks black coffee and literally nothing else, but you’ve guessed he doesn’t have a sweet tooth. (The only time he’s ever ordered food had been two months prior when he’d asked for a single croissant, and nothing since. Taehyung still talks about the croissant sometimes.) 

Well, it doesn't really matter. If he doesn't want cake, you're not going to force it on him, and the rest of the transaction goes as normal. Yoongi hands over his rewards card, fingers long and knuckles knobbly and altogether lovely, pays for his Americano—made by Taehyung, cup wrapped in the sleeve that you’ve written Yoongi’s name on, black sharpie bleeding into the cardboard—and smiles at you both when Taehyung hands it to him across the smooth wood of the counter.

“Thanks.” He gives you that slight tilt of his head that he always does, and you smile helplessly back. 

He’s a gentleman, through and through, even if he looks as distant as ever; dressed in all black, his ripped jeans the only splash of lightness in his dark outfit. Maybe you’re biased, but no matter what he wears, he looks stylish, somehow. It’s something in his aura. All cool understated elegance and power. 

And here you are, in your cream jumper under the dark mulberry apron of your uniform, a flower blooming next to the name on your badge. All chirpy customer service, smiling broad and wide as you go through the same motions over and over with each new person that comes in. Sometimes you wonder what Yoongi thinks of you, as different as you are to him, but at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter—because he keeps coming back, doesn’t he?

“Have a nice day,” you say as he turns to go, and when he glances over his shoulder and says you too, smile soft and eyes softer, you know he really means it. 

(And if your eyes always trail after him once his back has turned, who’s telling?)

“You’re staring.” Taehyung’s telling, apparently.

You tear your eyes away from Yoongi, bell tinkling as the door swings shut behind him. “He’s my favourite customer,” you say. As if that explains why you were staring.

“You’ve barely spoken to him.”

“He’s my favourite customer,” you say again, emphatically. “He comes in, he gets the world’s simplest drink to make, is always polite, always leaves a tip, and he goes. Literally the perfect customer.”

 “Alright, true,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered that before now. “Cute, too.”

You sigh. A little wistful. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, he is.”

Taehyung opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something else when someone spills their drink on their floor with an unholy clattering sound, even if nothing breaks; without saying anything, both you and Taehyung raise your hands, eyes narrowing at each other.

"Rock, paper, scissors," you chant. Taehyung promptly loses, and the pout that forms on his lips doesn't disappear until he's finished mopping everything up.

(“Why do I always end up having to clean spillages?”

“Because you never win rock-paper-scissors. You always choose scissors, Taehyung. You literally always choose scissors.”)

The tradition of the weekly specials at Paradise is a weird one, truth be told. Each Monday whoever’s on the opening shift will enter the coffee shop and find that the board on the wall has been updated, the recipe typed up and laminated, waiting on the counter for the baristas. You all assume it’s the mysterious owner, who no one has ever seen, and no one even knows the name of, apparently.

“Someone has to know their name,” you’d said, once, back when you’d first started, only to receive a shrugs from everyone.

“I heard one of the old baristas say the owner’s name was Jackson,” Taehyung had said, and you’d just blinked at him.

“Huh?” you’d said, but Jimin had rolled his eyes and told you to ignore him, so you had.

This week’s drink is the Marshmallow World. As always, when you and Taehyung start your shift together, you read the recipe and follow it step by step to learn how to make it. Warmed milk, vanilla syrup, topped off with marshmallow fluff instead of whipped cream—not bad in theory, if you like sweet things, although it does pose one significant problem.

“It’s clogged my hole,” Taehyung says sadly.

You sputter on your own drink, desperately hacking your lungs out as you try to stop milk from going down your windpipe. “I’m-sorry-it’s-what,” you wheeze all at once, struggling for air.

Taehyung tilts his takeaway cup at you, gesturing at the lid. (All the mugs are still out back or on a rinse cycle so laziness had forced you to make do.) “My drink hole. It’s blocked,” he explains. “The fluff is getting in the way.”

So, yeah. It clogs people’s holes, apparently. But other than that, you have to admit it’s pretty nice, and if you drink it in the café (and thus out of a mug) then you’re fine. You just get into the habit of warning the customers if they order it to go and laugh about it with them and it’s all fine and dandy and everyone is happy.

It’s starting to get busier, now. The nights are getting longer and the days are getting colder and everyone’s starting to think about Christmas, which feels both close and far away, all at once. Close, because you still have presents to buy and there’s never enough time for it; and far, because the lights have yet to go up and Christmas songs aren’t dominating the radio yet and you have yet to experience the real winter rush. Students home for the holidays and families out to see Father Christmas and workers grabbing Secret Santa gifts, everyone desperate for something warm and soothing, hot and comforting in the face of the snow which has yet to fall. 

But there’s something in the air, that cool hush that lets you know it’s nearly here—the changing of the seasons, the burnt sunset colours of autumn melting into the iced blues and greys of winter. No matter if you prefer hot or cold weather, there’s something about the beauty of wintertime that’s undeniable.

And it’s a lot easier to sell something like the Marshmallow World on a day like this, the nip in the air almost solid, biting cold into the apples of your cheeks, nibbling at fingers that are so cold they feel frost-bitten. Once again, your genuine enthusiasm shines through, persuading people to give the drink a go, happy to add a shot of espresso for whoever needs it, desperate for caffeine to buoy them up through the day.

You’ve just finished laughing with a lovely old couple, wearing matching scarves and hats—awwww—waving them goodbye as they go to sit down, when you come face to face with Yoongi, blindsided by his sudden appearance. You’d been so caught up, once again, too busy giggling your way through the conversation with your other customers, able to persuade them to try one special to share alongside everything else they’ve ordered. 

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” you say. Your hand is still by your face after you’d given the couple a cute wave, and when you realise, you freeze. Flustered. Behind you, Taehyung is struggling to spoon the marshmallow fluff neatly on the vanilla steamer, making small noises of distress, but you’re too caught up in your own distress to really notice.

Once again, you have no idea how long Yoongi’s been there. You’re slipping. You’re normally aware of him as soon as he steps into the coffee shop. (You know, because you’re always aware of when a new customer steps in. Like any good barista would be.) Had he witnessed you enthusiastically waving your hands and talking about marshmallows and s'mores? Seen the way you'd grinned and laughed as you'd gotten excited over the weekly special, yet again?

Well, if he had, he doesn't seem perturbed at all. His usual smile is on his face, though you would swear it seems a little softer around the edges, almost fond. 

“Hi,” he says, and… that’s it. 

There’s no addition of his usual that would be great, and that’s when you realise you haven’t asked about his coffee. In fact, your fingers are still curled near your chin, almost like a claw. You clear your throat and let your arm fall to your side, fiddling with the tie of your apron. 

“Hi,” you repeat. Flounder for a second. Try to remember your usual line. “Large Americano?”

“Y/n.” Taehyung whines your name from the bar, loud enough that it catches your attention. “The marshmallow isn’t staying. Why do you keep recommending Marshmallow World? Why must I suffer through this torture? Every day I wake up and I make coffee—”

“Sorry, sir, one second,” you say, face scrunching in apology at Yoongi. 

“It's just Yoongi,” he replies, gentle, and your heart thuds in your chest. "You don't have to call me sir."

Your face feels warm. "Um, okay, Yoongi." You've said his name before, of course, said it dozens of times to confirm his order, but never like this—by invitation from the man himself, an acknowledgement of familiarity.

Taehyung makes another noise. Yoongi's expression turns into one of faint amusement, eyes drifting over your shoulder to your friend; when you turn around, you can see why.

The other barista’s managed to get marshmallow fluff all over the edge of the glass, on the handle of the cup, all the way up the spoon, on his fingers—everywhere except on the drink itself. It’s funny, in a sad sort of way.

“Wow.” You have no idea how he managed it, but you’re here to help. “Alright, go wash your hands, Tae. I’ve got this.”

The cup is a goner.  There’s no way you’ll be able to wipe off the sticky marshmallow. You’re acutely aware of Yoongi at the counter, able to watch your every move, but then you get distracted as you salvage Taehyung's attempt at a Marshmallow World. You just feel grateful that it’s a steamer so you can pour it into a new glass, not having to worry about layers of coffee and milk and foam; it’s a pretty easy fix. Good. (You don’t want to keep Yoongi waiting, as patient as he may be.)

It doesn’t take long to spoon the marshmallow on, whipped peaks in the sticky white, and by the time Taehyung returns you’re ready to present him with the picture perfect drink, not a single lick of fluff anywhere it shouldn’t be. You've got your hands on your hips as you survey your work proudly, and Taehyung sticks his tongue out at you.

“Witchcraft,” he says, and you laugh.

“You’re welcome,” you say. “Alright, shoo, go take this over to the table before they start wondering where it is.”

When you turn back, Yoongi’s watching you. Contemplative. You tamp down the flush that threatens to spill onto your cheeks, face burning, but before you can say anything, he speaks.

“Was that the weekly special?”

You blink. Blindsided. Yoongi’s never asked about the special before, never commented on the A-frame outside, the sign on the wall that sits next to the regular menu. No surprise there—why would someone who only drinks Americanos want to drink ninety-nine percent of the weekly specials you offer? “Um, yeah,” you say. “We’ve got the Marshmallow World this week.”

“Would you recommend it?”

You can’t help it. You light up. You love when customers ask for recommendations, and the fact that it’s Yoongi—whose blood must be made of coffee at this point—who’s asking about it? Americano Yoongi, asking about something without caffeine? Black coffee Yoongi, asking about a weekly special that’s nothing but sugar and sweetness? Something inside you switches on, a Christmas tree, all flashing lights and shimmering tinsel and excitement.

“Oh, if you like sweeter drinks, absolutely! It’s great for a cold day like today,” you gush. Maybe you should reel it in, far more exuberant than you usually are with Yoongi, but. You can’t stop. “It’s warm milk and vanilla, so it’s a lovely comfort drink, and we can add a shot of espresso too if you were wanting a little pick-me-up. And then you’ve got marshmallow fluff on top for some extra self-indulgence. We were meant to, uh, toast the top, actually, but we don’t have the necessary health and safety clearance for blowtorches. I guess you could do that at home if you really wanted to. Everyone likes toasted marshmallows, right?”

Yoongi hums, and you wonder if you’ve maybe gotten ahead of yourself. Oversold it. Maybe he was asking out of curiosity. Just because he’s asking about it doesn’t mean that he wants one—

“Can I get a Marshmallow World, please? Large, to go?”

—or maybe Yoongi is an official convert to the world of sweet drinks, changing after a lifetime of drinking unadorned, unadulterated black coffee. Holy shit. Holy shit? Holy—

“And a large Americano to go, too, please.”

(Record scratch. Freeze frame.  

Yoongi of-the-black-coffee is ordering his usual drink, and another. Both large. Too much for one person to reasonably drink before one of them got cold. He’s not ordering for one person; he’s ordering for two people. Of course Yoongi wouldn’t order something as heart-stopping as the Marshmallow World—not for himself, anyway. 

Mental maths. Two plus two is four, four plus four is eight; one large Americano and one Marshmallow World is two people. Yoongi and one other person is two people, a couple of people, a couple—

Oh, God.

A couple.

You’ve been crushing on a taken man.

You know how they say your life flashes before your eyes before you die? It’s sort of like that, but rather than remembering your life, you immediately recall every moment over the months where you’ve looked at him or thought about him with even the smallest iota of longing and you want to crawl under the counter and never come out. 

You feel weirdly guilty. Like… like you’re some sort of unintentional homewrecker. Even though, you know, you thought Yoongi was single and you haven’t made a single move on him and nor had you had any plans to. The guilt bubbles up inside you anyway.

All at once, you feel immensely, incredibly embarrassed. Of course he’s taken. There’s no way he wouldn’t be, as attractive and nice as he is, and you’ve just been sat here crushing on him like a big dumb idiot. 

You are the worst.)

You manage to squeeze this internal breakdown into the span of a few seconds. You’re grateful that you have your customer service face locked on, giving nothing away—from the outside the smile looks just like that, a smile, rather than the rictus of deathly mortification it actually is, burning through you like a wildfire. 

Yoongi seems none the wiser, just patiently waiting for some sort of acknowledgement of his order. Most of your brain power is still taken up with the mish-mash of humiliation and guilt that’s roiling through you. Luckily, though, the part of your brain that’s still in the moment (trying to drag you back to the real world, shame-faced as you are) forces you to move before things get weird.

“One large Americano, one large Marshmallow World, both to go.” You tap the drinks into the till on auto-pilot, dimly noting that Taehyung’s been pulled into conversation with the old couple at their table, having delivered their drinks and food to them. It’s just you behind the counter, no one else to man the coffee machines. “Let me get those started for you.”

Luckily, making the drinks means you can turn your back to Yoongi, oscillating through the five stages of grief as you fiddle with hot milk and coffee grounds and paper cups. You always take pride in your work—especially when it comes to Yoongi—and you take even more pride now, determined to make these drinks as lovely as they can be. His Americano is fairly simple, but the Marshmallow World requires a bit more finesse, and you lavish attention on the fluff, swirling it beautifully, even though you know it’ll stick to the lid anyway. 

(Okay, listen. Whoever this person Yoongi is seeing must be as nice as he is. They both deserve nice drinks.)

There’s something sweet about it, actually. Before the lids go on, you spent a second staring down at the drinks and the juxtaposition between them; black coffee and white marshmallow, bitter and sweet, night and day. It’s lovely, really, these two opposing things coming together. You wonder what Yoongi’s partner is like. Exuberant and bright, rather than his subdued warmth? A balance, yin and yang, opposite but complementary. 

(Isn’t that a nice thing to think about? Finding someone who’s different to you but matches you so well?)

You firmly press the lids into place, making sure they’re secure. The protective cardboard sleeve of Yoongi’s Americano has his name—the name you’ve memorised, written out countless times—while the Marshmallow World has a scrawled happy face, and an enjoy! on it, for this mysterious person who likes sweet drinks. You do sincerely hope they enjoy it. You really do.

“The fluff blocks the hole,” you warn, sliding the cardboard tray for both drinks carefully across the counter. “It’s probably a better idea to just take the lid off.”

Something flickers across Yoongi’s face, too fast for you to identify. But then he nods, lifting the tray up with equally careful hands. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. 

He’s always polite to everyone, Taehyung and the other baristas, but he seems to smile at you the most. He’s smiling at you now, curling at the corners of his lips, and you smile back, fighting through ten layers of embarrassment and self-inflicted shame to do so. Just because he smiles at you the most doesn’t mean anything. You can smile at people and not have it be weird; it doesn’t mean you return their ill-fated attraction.

Why, oh why, oh why.

By the time Taehyung returns to the counter, having escaped the chatty, kind clutches of the elderly couple, Yoongi is long gone. Your fellow barista finds you crouched down in front one of the cupboards with your head in your hands.

“Y/n?” He sounds incredibly concerned. “Are you okay? Do you have a headache? Are you sick?”

You let out a quiet noise, a mix between a whale dying and a hippo trying to swallow porridge, muffled into your palms. “I’m such a doughnut,” you say. “Just an absolute doughnut.”

Taehyung crouches beside you. “A glazed doughnut or a jam doughnut?”

Your hands drop away from your face as you think. “Plain,” you say, eventually. “Unglazed. No toppings or fillings.” A little sad and disappointing. It seems fitting. 

Taehyung puts a hand on your shoulder, warm and comforting. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You feel embarrassed all over again, thinking about admitting your (now-squashed) crush to your friend. It was stupid in the first place, crushing on a customer, especially as you’d barely spoken to him; Yoongi might be cute, and nice, but your crush was silly and dumb and you’d been silly and dumb not to think that he was already in a relationship.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just going through it. And by ‘it’ I mean life generally, you know?”

Taehyung makes a noise of understanding, patting your shoulder. “Big mood,” he says sombrely. He always knows what to say, empathetic to a fault.

“Uh,” a customer says, craning over the counter to see the two of you. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I get a refill on my coffee, please?”

That effectively kills the conversation, which is good. Keep yourself busy and distracted. By the time you see Yoongi next week, this crush will be dead and gone and you’ll be fine. Just fine. Absolutely fine.

He’s dyed his hair.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon, the café is full of people, and Yoongi has dyed his hair.

You’d spent all of last Tuesday alternating between all-consuming guilt and embarrassment, Taehyung catching you with your head in your hands in one moment and furiously cleaning the steam wand the next, channeling your tumult of emotions into anything that will distract you. 

It had worked. Mostly. You’ve had a week’s worth of time since, to get over this month’s long crush, your brain consistently reminding you that Yoongi is in a relationship, with someone who’s probably lovely and attractive and all around just wonderful (just like him). You remind yourself about this every time you find coffee grounds under your nails, or notice milk flecked on your apron, soured and off-white after a day of work; your life isn’t a meet-cute, and you’re not the cute barista who falls in love with the cute regular. You’re the tired barista who makes more cups of coffee in a day than most people probably drink in a year, and Yoongi is the cute regular who’s already in a long term relationship and comes to Paradise just because he likes the dark roast you use. That’s as far as it will go, because this is real life, and not a romance film or novel. (Even if you wished that it was.)

You’ve come to terms with it. Really, you have. But then he has to step into the coffee shop looking like that, his hair bleached so blond it almost looks white, silver hoops in his ears, and he’s still dressed in dark clothes but he’s wearing glasses, no, this isn’t a drill, Yoongi’s dyed his hair, he’s all light and dark, soft and sharp, and you want to crouch behind the counter again. Because he looks so good and of course he’s in a relationship because he’s hot, and you feel dumb for not having realised it sooner.

You can’t hide behind the counter, though. There’s a queue of people, all waiting for your attention and your time, and it’s still just you and Taehyung; none of your usual Christmas temps are back yet, still away at uni, hence the we’re hiring! posters that are up for all the customers to see (and mostly ignore). The seasons are changing and the weeks are passing and the really eager people are starting to think about Christmas shopping; you swear you don’t even need a calendar, able to trace how close you are to Christmas just based on the amount of foot traffic the coffee shop gets. You’re definitely hitting peak.

But it’s fine. You have this down to a fine art. You and Taehyung are both good on the till and scarily efficient at making drinks and plating food, dancing past each other with an ease that only comes with time spent working together and friendship alongside.

People aren’t ordering the weekly special as much, either, not today. You can’t blame them. Candy Cane Dreams is a white hot chocolate, flavoured with mint and coloured green, topped with whipped cream and sprinkles of candy cane bark and red and green drizzle too; it’s… pretty overwhelming. So it means you don’t have to take over for Taehyung from the bar, focusing on smiling at customers and soothing them after their wait, taking their orders and shuffling them along as quickly as you can. You keep a smile plastered on your face as Taehyung pulls espresso shots and grabs tea bags and heats milk, routine and familiar.

When Yoongi steps up to the counter, you’ve barely had time to mentally prepare yourself, so focused on serving everyone else in the queue; it feels like a slap to the face, a kick to the knees, but then you take one deep breath and exhale. Long, deep, slow, forcing air out of your lungs and thoughts out of your mind, and you smile.

You’ve been so careful up until this point, wanting to keep Yoongi happy, wary of misstepping—but he’s just a regular customer. You feel more confident, now, less worried about breaking this tenuous thing you thought you’d had; less worried about what you’re doing being construed as some weird, roundabout way of flirting, because. You know. He’s in a relationship, so it doesn’t matter either way. He’s definitely not interested. You can talk to him like you would anyone else. 

So you say: “You dyed your hair.”

And, just like you suspected, Yoongi doesn’t seem bothered that you’ve broken your usual script. “Oh, yeah.” He reaches up, touches his head, as if he’d forgotten. “I did.”

“It looks nice,” you continue, because it does.

He’s smiling back at you. He looks pleased; maybe a little bashful, even, as surprising as that is. “Thanks,” he says, warm and genuine. (The tiny gremlin of a crush that’s still lurking in your soul lets out a wistful sigh.) “Can I get a large Americano and a—” he squints at the board— “large Candy Cane Dream, please?”

(One plus one is two, Yoongi and his other half, the sugar to his coffee.)

“Sure!” Your voice is bright. “I’m guessing the Marshmallow World went over well?”

There’s a brief beat of silence, but you don’t notice, too focused on typing Yoongi’s order into the till.

“Yeah, it was great,” he says after that moment of quiet, and you smile. Good. You’re glad they enjoyed it. 

“I’m really happy to hear that,” you say, genuine and bright. 

“What’s actually in the, ah, Candy Cane Dreams?” Yoongi asks, and you laugh, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“It’s horrendous,” you say in a low voice, as if you’re sharing a secret. “Have you ever seen green hot chocolate before?”

You’ve never spoken to Yoongi like this, easy and light, and it’s… nice. He gives no indication of surprise at your sudden friendliness after months of barely talking. If anything he looks pleased, and at one point he even gives you a smile you’ve never seen before, wide and wonderful, flashing his teeth and gums. (The crush gremlin rattles at your ribcage like prison bars, trying desperately to escape, but you don’t give it a chance.)

“Alright, let me just swap with the other barista, he’s still not gotten the Candy Cane Dreams recipe down.”

You hear a suspicious crunch as you make your way over to Taehyung. He turns to you with a guilty smile, edged with sugar, munching on shards of candy cane while his back is to the customers.

“You’re terrible,” you say affectionately. “Go take over on the till, I have a special to make.”

Taehyung glances over, sees Yoongi making his way down to the collection point. “Huh. Alright.”

The Candy Cane Dreams recipe might be a questionable one, but it’s definitely fun to make (watching the white hot chocolate turn green makes you feel like a kid all over again, mixing shampoos together in your bathroom and calling them potions), and maybe you’re overly generous with the candy cane bark, giving Yoongi’s beau more to nibble on and enjoy. It’s not Christmas yet but you’re already in a giving mood, so sue you. 

“Here you go.” You slide the drinks towards him, the man busy reading one of the vacancy fliers, eyes flicking away from the poster when you appear. Your lips quirk up. “Looking for a job?”

You’re expecting a huff of a laugh, a small shake of the head, but he answers you seriously. “Not me, but I have a friend who is,” he says, reaching to take the tray.

You realise your hands are still curled around the cardboard; you quickly pull away so that there’s no chance your hands will brush. (You might have shoved your crush down as far as it will go, but you have to be careful with your weak, gooey heart.) 

“We could do with any help, honestly. Your friend is more than welcome to apply.” You glance over at the queue, which is small but ever present, and you know it’ll only get worse as time goes on. “And, hey, if you ever decide for a change of pace from whatever it is you do, we’d be glad to have you, too.”

This gets a laugh from him, a warm burst of sound. (The gremlin points out that this is the first time you’ve heard him laugh, really laugh, a little raspy and a little quiet and altogether lovely; you beat the gremlin back with a stick.) “I’m better at drinking coffee than I am at making it,” Yoongi says, eyes soft with lingering amusement. “I’ll leave that to the experts.”

You might have gone off script, but the nod he gives you is his usual one, that familiar tilt of the head. “See you next week?” His eyes are dark, dark and deep, and it’s so hard not to fall into them, to fall all over again.

“See you next week,” you echo, hoping the smile you plaster on your face doesn’t look as forced as it feels, as you struggle once more. Yoongi is just nice, okay? He's just being nice, but still. He needs to let a girl breathe.

(He needs to let the gremlin of her crush wither away, instead of making it threaten to come back as strong as before, fuelled by his smile and his eyes and his everything.)

(... maybe you’re not as over this crush as you thought you were.)

It seems like the we’re hiring! posters actually worked.

“I’m Jungkook,” says the new starter, all crooked smiles and warm eyes and thighs so thick they threaten to split the trousers of the café’s uniform, ties of his apron emphasising his small waist.

(“Good lord,” Taehyung says faintly.)

It’s the last week of November and even though Jungkook is still learning the ropes, he’s a massive help, and you know he’ll be a lifesaver over Christmas. He’s eager, learns quickly, and gets stuck right in, material of his shirt straining across his shoulder blades when he rips a bag of coffee beans open with his bare hands, rather than having to use scissors like you or Taehyung. 

Taehyung watches with stars in his eyes as Jungkook pours the beans into the grinder. You cover your smile by sipping at one of the espresso shots Jungkook has pulled—full-bodied and dark, rich in your mouth. 

“This is really good, Jungkook,” you say. He looks over, eyes squeezing into a smile.

“Thought it would be,” he says, and you can’t help but huff a laugh into the tiny espresso cup. He’s cocky and competitive, telling you that he’d never made coffee before but he was going to do a better job than any of the other baristas here. He’s too endearing to come across as arrogant, though, and you have to admit that the coffee is good. (Not as good as yours or Taehyung’s, of course, but still. Pretty good.)

Taehyung coos at him and reaches out to shamelessly squeeze his bicep. “Jungkookie is a natural barista.”

Jungkook’s cocky smile turns equal parts pleased and flustered. You continue to sip at the espresso as Taehyung moons over him, then the bell above the door rings, and the mooning temporarily is put on hold. (Temporarily, because Taehyung continues to moon over him for the rest of the shift, insisting on doing the bulk of his training, which is fine by you.)

It’s the 1st of December tomorrow, so not only do you have to clean after the café is locked up, you have to put out all the Christmas decorations, too. But it’s more fun that it is work, the three of you dragging the tree out of the storage room and decorating it with a menagerie of tinsel and baubles; Jungkook lifts Taehyung so he can get the star on the tree, wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s waist and hoisting him up effortlessly, leaving your friend with a pleased smile on his face.

Jungkook is new, only on his second shift, but he’s slotted in so easily. He laughs at Taehyung when he wiggles his butt along to the Christmas songs you've put on to play, and he helps steady the stepladder as you string garlands of snowflakes on the ceiling, even if he doesn’t really need to. 

He absently readjusts the reindeer headband Taehyung had unearthed from the storage room and proudly placed on his head. “Yoongi-hyung talks a lot about this place,” Jungkook comments, offhand.

If you’d heard this a few weeks ago, you probably would have fallen off the stepladder, inner gremlin grabbing your heart with both hands and squeezing tight-tight-tight. As it is you only pause for a moment, one of the larger snowflakes cradled in your palm, before you go back to your job of hanging them up. 

“So you’re the friend he mentioned that needed a job,” you say. 

“That’s me.” Jungkook grins, boyish and bright, and you laugh. “He really, really likes this café. Wouldn’t shut up about it, even before he told me that you were hiring.”

You can’t imagine Yoongi gushing about a café to his friends, but then again, he clearly is passionate about his coffee. Jungkook will know him better than you, having a real friendship rather than this patron-and-customer back-and-forth that you’ve had, so who are you to imagine what’s normal for Yoongi and what isn’t? You didn’t even know he was in a relationship, after all. You don’t know anything about the guy, really. 

“Well, we appreciate his custom,” you say. “I know Yoongi is the one who actually comes in, but you can thank his other half, too, and I hope they enjoy their drinks as well.”

You’re too busy hanging the garland to see the way Jungkook’s face twists. 

“Huh?”

“You know. Yoongi always comes in for his Americano and the weekly special for his partner,” you say.

You’re focused on stepping down the ladder without falling to see the expression on Jungkook’s face, nose scrunched and lips pursed, like there’s something he’s smelled that he really doesn’t like.

“Did he say that to you? That it was for someone else?”

“Hm?” You pause in grabbing another string of snowflakes, glancing up. “Oh, no, I just worked it out, you know? Yoongi is a religious coffee drinker, why else would he order something that’s basically hot sugar water? I think it’s cute,” you add, belatedly. “That he always comes in to grab something for them, too.” 

(You wish you had someone to do that for you.)

There’s a beat of silence. Jungkook’s holding the stepladder, ready to move it, staring at you in a way that’s weirdly intense. “I see,” he says, like that isn’t weird or mysterious at all.

Then he drags the stepladder’s rubber feet across the floor with such a loud noise that Taehyung startles, bauble falling out of his hand and shattering. Jungkook, of course, profusely apologises and insists on cleaning it up—but not before making sure Taehyung is okay, of course, grabbing his hands and looking over them, as if the bauble had broken in his palms and not the floor. 

Taehyung looks immensely pleased. You just smile quietly to yourself, roll your eyes lightly, and go back to hanging snowflakes as Jungkook speaks to Taehyung, soft and low.

You think your favourite thing about training a new starter is witnessing their reaction to the weekly special.

“So,” Jungkook says, slowly. “You put in the whole gingerbread man—gumdrops and icing and all—and just blend it?

“Yep.” Taehyung’s reply is cheery. “Straight in and whizz it all up.”

This week, it’s You Can’t Catch Me, I’m the Gingerbread Frappé which is a) probably the longest name known to mankind and b) probably the most questionable name known to mankind and c) who orders a frappé in December?

These thoughts are clearly playing across Jungkook’s face as Taehyung coaxes him to drop the gingerbread man into the blender, and you’re too busy enjoying the consternation on Jungkook’s face to notice someone stepping up to the counter—until they clear their throat, that is, and you all turn. 

“Hi,” Yoongi says.

“Oh! Hi,” Taehyung says.

“Hyung! Look!” Jungkook says.

“Jungkook, wait—” you say.

“Whirr,” the lidless blender says.

It’s chaos. Frappé ends up everywhere, splattered over the counter and the floor, splashed across the wine-red aprons of both of your fellow baristas, as close to the blender as they were—saving you from any of the sugary fallout, unwitting human shields.

There’s a beat of silence, where you all stare at each other—

And then Yoongi laughs.

You’ve never seen Yoongi laugh this loudly, eyes squeezed so hard you wonder if he can even see, almost cackling as he laughs at Jungkook’s expression, joyful and loud and free. It’s another dimension to him, another new part you witness as Jungkook wipes gingerbread and ice off his face and Taehyung stares at the mess spattered across his hands and arms.

It makes you think of a paper crane. Yoongi is this unfinished thing in your mind, each new thing you learn about him another fold that you add, a flat sheet of paper turned into something entirely and wholly new. You wish that it weren’t so alluring, watching it come together, finding out more and more about this man you’ve technically known for months, but only recently started to get to know.

(You wish that it wasn’t so easy to keep falling for him.)

Once the counter is cleaned, both Jungkook and Taehyung retreat to replace their aprons, leaving you—once again—alone with Yoongi. He’d stopped laughing to tease Jungkook, to gently rib him, but you can see the smile that’s etched on his face, the echoes of mirth written across all his features.

“We usually train the baristas to keep the lid on, I swear,” you say, and Yoongi’s face splits into another smile.

“I was going to say that it’s an unorthodox blending technique,” and you can’t help but smile back at this, even if you’ve been trying not to laugh. Professionalism barely wins out, your lips trembling as you try to hold your giggling back, but Yoongi spots it anyway, looking pleased, like he’s accomplished something by getting you to (nearly) laugh.

You’re not laughing when you have to make one of the special frappés, though. You stare at the gingerbread man as you hold him above the blender, at his cheery iced face and his cute little buttons (not the gumdrop buttons), and brace yourself to drop him.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, and let him go, before quickly slamming the lid on top and turning the blender on so you don’t have to look at the betrayal you’ve just committed. 

When you turn, Yoongi has an expression of sympathy on his face; for you or the gingerbread man, you can’t tell, but his face smooths the second he notices you looking at him, blinking innocently, as if there’s nothing unusual going on. It’s disarming, seeing that expression on his face, when you’d gotten used to seeing him act more reserved, but it’s cute.

(It is cute, whether you’re crushing on him or not. It’s just a statement of fact, okay? It’s nothing more than that. Even if that tiny gremlin of a crush still lives in your chest, scuffing its feet against your heart, reminding you of its presence when you least need it.)

(It digs its heels in when you put the frappé and Americano side by side, nestled snug in their cardboard tray. You slide it towards Yoongi and you’re a little too slow, fingers brushing his when he reaches for them; you’re surprised by how quickly he moves, how eager he seems to be reaching for his order, fingertips dragging across the back of your knuckles, and the gremlin kicks your heart, pulse rising just at that glancing touch. Even if you know it’s fruitless, useless, you can’t help but like Yoongi anyway.)

(“See you next week,” he says, and you can’t do anything but smile helplessly back.)

You normally love snow. You love waking up to the sight of it, pure and pristine white, adding another dimension to your familiar world—you love snowball fights and snowmen and snow angels, even if it all leaves you feeling cold, chilled right to the bone, nose running and hands freezing. The best part about winter is getting warm again, the season of throw blankets and hot water bottles, knitwear and scarves, tea and hot cocoa, all cosy and lovely and wonderful.

It’s a bit different when you have to work all day, though. You watch as the snow on the streets outside is threatened by the spray of salt and a thousand spinning car wheels and busy feet, ice turned to slush water; for now the snow is winning, though, and judging from the weather forecast, you think that’ll be the case for the rest of the day. You hope it lasts through to tomorrow, too; by the time you get home you’ll be too tired and it’ll be too dark to play in the snow, and it leaves you feeling disappointed and sad. 

(Winter is lovely but it can be a hollow season, too, something about the leafless trees and fogged windows making everything feel like an empty dream.)

At least Paradise is warm, even if you’re cooped up inside, safe from the still-falling snow that keeps trying to turn the world into an untouched, frozen wonderland. It’s quiet in the coffee shop today. Only the bravest of people have ventured out into the not-a-blizzard-but-basically-a-blizzard, plastered against radiators and putting drinks to their faces, letting hot steam heat their cold cheeks.

It’s why you’re both surprised and unsurprised when Yoongi appears, bell chiming above his head as the door swings shut and he stamps his feet on the front mat, knocking snow off his boots. He somehow looks disgruntled and soft all at the same time, a royal blue beanie on his head forcing his fringe down to sit messily over his eyes, bundled up warm even if his face is scrunched up and his cheeks are red from the cold.

“I hate cold weather,” he tells you once he reaches the counter, gloves peeled off his fingers so he can reach for his wallet, his nose tinged pink as he sniffs.

You proffer him a box of tissues. “You look like you need it,” you say gently, and he smiles at you, a warm hearth in the cold winter.

“Thank you.” His voice is equally as gentle as yours, and something aches in your chest.

It’s just you behind the counter right now, so you take Yoongi’s order and make the drinks too—one large Americano and one large Latteggnog (a basic latte made with eggnog instead of milk, rich and thick and creamy), this week’s special: everyone’s favourite Christmas drink, but with a twist of coffee. 

The quiet gives you time to think. Jungkook and Taehyung are out back, the older barista coming up with the most ridiculous excuses to take them away from the counter; you don’t mind that they’re taking the time ‘counting the coffee beans’, as deserted as the café is. 

The café is practically empty and Yoongi hates the cold but here he is, venturing into the ice and snow to get this person he cares about the drink they want, because they’re that special to him. (You hope they realise how lucky they are.)

You’re normally okay being single. Don’t really think about it. But there’s something about today, this moment, that has you reflecting; Taehyung has this budding thing with Jungkook, Yoongi has this steady thing with his love, and here you are, by yourself, alone. It’s hard to summon up your usual energy, going through the motions as you make the drinks. You tilt your head forward, dusting nutmeg on the eggnog latte, watching the way the sprinkle of spice settles delicately and softly in the foam. No flourish, no flick of the wrist, not today.

(There’s two cups in front of you now, but later, when you’re home, there’s just going to be one. Yours. Yours, and no one else’s.)

(When you get home, you’re going to do what any self-respecting single person would do: order too much takeaway, rewatch The Good Place, get emotional over Eleanor and Chidi’s relationship—they’re so different but they’re so perfect for each other, why can’t you have that?—mope for a bit, rewatch The Princess Bride, get emotional over Westley and Buttercup—where’s your cute farmboy who saves you from an evil prince?—mope a bit more, before finally climbing into bed and hugging a pillow to your chest in the space of having someone else there. You know. Perfectly normal single person things.)

When you turn to Yoongi, drinks ready and raring to go, you’ve forced a Customer Service Smile onto your face. They say that just the act of smiling makes you happier, right? Maybe if you smile hard enough, you’ll cheer up, chasing away this sudden sadness that lingers in the back of your throat, scratching at your lungs like black ice.

“Here you go!” Your voice seems too loud for the quiet hush of the café, but you roll with it anyway. “Enjoy your drinks!”

Yoongi takes them from you, hands carefully cupped around the tray, but his eyes don’t leave your face. He doesn’t return your smile, as convincing as it should be (even Taehyung struggles to tell between your real smile and your work smile, sometimes); he stands for a moment, looking at you.

You think he’s about to say something when he clearly thinks better of it. He tilts his head, like he always does, but you’d swear his expression is tinged with concern. “Thanks,” he says. Pauses. “The roads are really icy. Get home safe, okay Y/n?”

Blink, blink. Your eyelashes flutter. You suddenly realise that he’s never said your name out loud, never had a need to, even if he must have known it all along from the badge on your chest. It sounds so good in his mouth, soft and safe.

 “Oh,” you say, slow with surprise. “Thank you. I will. You, too.”

Yoongi nods again, as if to himself, before he turns to go.

He stops one more time before he goes. He stands at the open door, glances over his shoulder before he steps out, dark eyes meeting yours, as if checking that you’re still there, still tethered to the ground. Seems satisfied when he finds that you are. He gives you one last smile, all soft around the edges—that’s something you know intimately about Yoongi, that he’s soft through and through, even if he can look sharp, as cold as the ice outside—and then he goes, back into the falling snow to deliver a steaming sip of warmth into the hands of the person he loves.

(Your heart aches.)

It’s the week before Christmas. The whole world has that feeling it always does at this time of year—excited and bright, if a little frantic, the hanging lights in the city a backdrop to people’s last minute shopping, their breaths pluming out into the air as they rush around in the cold. The whole world feels full of life, that final push towards the end of the year; the hearth fire of Christmas before that weird in between before the new year, that held breath of potential, before the clock ticks over and the world is thrown into the next year.

Paradise has been busy. It’s like summer, only instead of sundresses and shorts, everyone is in knitwear and scarves, shivering as they wait to be served, desperate for a drink to warm them up, something to eat to fill their bellies. You spend more time in the coffee shop than you do at home, pulling overtime shifts to help your fellow baristas out—everyone thinks Christmas is a time of relaxation and coming together, but it doesn’t feel like that when you work in a customer facing job, oh no. It’s just non-stop busyness and being rushed off your feet.

(You’d barely had a chance to speak to Yoongi, café full when he’d stepped in, your pace frenetic as you’d danced around behind the counter with Taehyung and Jungkook; you’d slid his drinks towards him, his Americano and the special, and maybe your smile had looked more harrowed than you thought because he’d caught your hand and squeezed it.

“I hope you get a chance to rest over Christmas,” he’d said, concerned and sincere, as you’d stood in stunned silence, not expecting that almost-intimate touch, gentle against your skin.

“I will,” you’d said eventually. Yoongi had seemed to suddenly realise he was still touching you, fingers clasped around yours, and he’d withdrawn quickly, giving you a smile that felt like a whispered secret, before leaving you to deal with the ever-growing queue.)

Suffice to say, it’s been a long week, and you’re tired, and your feet hurt after all the running around you’ve been doing, and you just want to go home. You just need to finish the close, need to finish setting everything up for the open tomorrow, need to finish cleaning everything, and then you can get some sleep.

At least, that’s what you thought. Instead, you’re standing across from Jungkook and staring at him incredulously. You can feel a headache coming on.

“Wait.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “What do you mean, we need to deliver some coffee?”

You don’t know if Jungkook is being deliberately obtuse, but he just stares at you as if you’re the one talking nonsense right now, and not him. “We have a customer order to deliver,” he says.

“Yes, I gathered that,” you say. “I just mean, why did no one tell me sooner?”

Paradise doesn’t do deliveries, as such. You cater for events, and you technically do deliveries then, but it’s less ‘one coffee to go’ and more ‘enough sandwiches and pastries and bagels and coffee to feed an entire office’. It’s not that you can’t bring someone their order directly, it’s more that you just… don’t.

“Taehyung took the order,” Jungkook says, as if that explains everything.

You pinch the bridge of your nose again. You can’t ask Tae about it, the other man having had to leave just as you’d been about to flip the sign to closed (‘Jimin says Tannie peed in his shoes again! I have to go clean it up! I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll cover a close for each of you next time!’), so it’s just you, and Jungkook, and the slip of paper on the counter between you. You’ve worked with Taehyung long enough to trust his judgement and his decisions, as inexplicable as they might seem sometimes, but you do think it’s weird that he’s taken this delivery on board.

“It’s not too far from here,” Jungkook adds, peering at the address on the paper. “It won’t take long.”

“We have to finish closing, Jungkook,” you say. 

He shrugs casually, carelessly. “I’ll do it, I don’t mind. You can just do the delivery and then go home straight after, it’s whatever.”

“It’s not whatever,” you mumble. “Why can’t you deliver it?”

“You’re the senior barista, you’re a better representative of the brand,” he says, and you have no idea where he pulled that from. (You blame Jimin. You know they’ve had shifts together, and Jimin is too smooth-talking for his own good.)

As much as you want to argue, you can’t help but cave, because the prospect of getting home early is one that you’re not about to sniff at. (You’d worry that Jungkook would get home late, what with the amount of prep he still needs to do for tomorrow, but you half suspect that Taehyung will reappear at some point, anyway.) You’re too tired to want to argue. “I just want to say this is a one off, and normally we cater for events, we’re not really a delivery service, okay?”

“Duly noted.”

It’s a simple enough order, anyway—it’s just two drinks. The first is a large quad shot latte with caramel and toffee syrup, extra whipped cream and cinnamon on top (something you’d definitely order, you think, indulgent and milky and with enough caffeine to kick you up the ass). Jungkook dutifully cleans as you start the second drink. The special this week is far, far less sweet than normal; a Rudolph the Red-eyed Reindeer: a simple red eye with a pinch of holiday spice, coffee with an extra espresso shot and topped with cinnamon and nutmeg. You take in a deep breath, swallowing down the warm smell and letting it flow through you before you double check the details on the note.

It takes you a second as you squint at the address, wondering why it looks familiar—and then you pause. This is Yoongi’s office, you think to yourself, and it feels a little like there’s an apricot pit sitting heavy in your stomach, heavy and hard. Paradise had catered a breakfast for them last week, and it hadn’t been on your shift and so you hadn’t gone, but—you’d heard enough about it from Jimin, the type who gets to know everyone and everything the second he walks in the door. You’d heard about the team that Yoongi manages, found out that Yoongi works in music, in artist and repertoire, and when you’d had the chance to Google exactly what that meant, you’d been bowled over. He has such a complex, high skilled job, and here you are, struggling to get a job with your degree, hence the barista thing. (Thanks, economy.)

You hastily shuffle past the address, trying to ward off your sudden sense of inadequacy, focusing on the name instead. What sort of name is Suga? you think to yourself, and then shrug. Probably one of the workers had enjoyed the breakfast the other week and was still hanging around before going on holiday for Christmas, or something.

“Alright, I’m off.” You’re ready to advance into the cold outside: coat on, scarf looped around your neck and hat secure on your head, cardboard tray of drinks clutched in your hands. “If you need help closing, just call me and I’ll come back, okay?”

“I won’t, but, thanks,” Jungkook says, equal parts self-assured and reassuring. “Don’t fall on your ass!”

It is icy outside, the entire world a winter wonderland, beautiful but cold and daylight long gone; snow drifts slowly from the sky above, dusting your shoulders and the top of your hat, flakes caught so softly by the weave of your clothes. It’s the kind of day that’s perfect spent indoors, curled up with the people you love, warmed through and through—and here you are, picking your way across the pavement slush to deliver a coffee to someone. (You’re not even getting paid for this.)

At least it’s not too far, really, just a few blocks away. The building is small, which is a plus, because it means you won’t have multitudes of rooms and offices to trawl past to get to your destination. The receptionist is more than helpful, too, when you say that you have a delivery for Suga; she gives you exactly directions and then she smiles at you, pleasant and pretty and lovely, and that gremlin that’s still clinging desperately onto your feelings for Yoongi whispers: what if this is Yoongi’s girlfriend? She’s beautiful.

Shut up, you think, before smiling back and thanking her, and heading on your way.

This close to Christmas you’d think that the building would be almost empty, but you’d be wrong. It’s not a buzzing hive of activity but there are still people walking around, speaking behind closed doors or laughing through open ones, decorations and tinsel hanging from the ceiling. Up ahead you see a someone come out of a room, shutting the door behind them before they walk in your direction. It’s a man who looks like he’s just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine and as you pass in the corridor he pauses, raising his eyebrows at you. Not suspicious, just surprised.

“Uh, I have a coffee for Suga,” you say without prompting, as if he was about to accuse you of some sort of nefarious scheme and your coffee delivery is the only thing saving you from that.

“Oh,” mister-model-handsome says, suddenly smiling widely, like this is all perfectly normal and not weird at all. He’s got some of the poutiest lips you’ve ever seen. “You’re nearly there, he’s just down the corridor and on the right. Have fun!”

“Uh, you too?” you reply. (Is he Yoongi’s boyfriend? He’s tall and broad shouldered and incredibly attractive, with the type of smile that makes people’s hearts race, and Yoongi definitely deserves someone like that.)

Your destination seems to be the office the (probably) model just came out of. You look around the corridor, which seems to be deserted now, the hubbub of people elsewhere in the building. You knock quietly, not wanting to disturb the hush that’s filled the air around you.

A beat. Then: “Come in,” someone says, voice muffled through the door.

It swings open easily at your touch. You stand on the threshold, mouth open around the announcement of your delivery when the words die on your lips.

Yoongi’s there, sitting behind a desk and his head bowed as he scribbles something in a notebook. He doesn’t look up. “Shut the door,” he says. Dumbstruck, you do just that, and it’s not until the door’s quietly clicked shut that he starts to raise his head. “Hyung, I already said that I don’t need to eat—”

And then he spots you standing there.

He stops mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes widening. He looks as shocked as you feel, utterly taken aback and agog, and even now you can’t help but notice how good he looks. He’s in a black button up, sleeves rolled to the elbow and top button undone, revealing the pale skin of his collarbones. It’s another juxtaposition, the Yoongi that you’re familiar with (an aura of effortless authority and attractiveness) in a place you don’t know at all, completely professional, his desk neat and the entire space put together. There’s a tastefully decorated tree in the corner but it doesn’t throw off the balance of the room at all. 

“Uh.” You cough lightly. “I have… a delivery… for Suga?”

Yoongi stares at you.

“Is this… not the right room? I can go,” you mumble, gesturing over your shoulder with a thumb.

This seems to snap Yoongi out of whatever thoughts he was having as he shakes his head. “No, this is… Suga’s office,” he says. “I just didn’t order any coffee.”

You open your mouth. Shut your mouth. You don’t have an Americano on the tray, but he’d probably like the red eye, coffee with extra coffee, no sugar or cream. Just a little pinch of spice. 

“Maybe it was a surprise, or something? Couples get each other gifts all the time.”

Yoongi’s lips quirk up. “I’m not really the type that gets surprised with gifts.”

Something about this strikes a discordant note in you. He’s always delivering gifts of coffee—he deserves those expressions of love returned to him. You can’t help but say as such.

“You’re always giving gifts, though,” you say. “Those weekly specials. I wouldn’t be surprised if your other half is returning the favour.”

Blink, blink. He looks perplexed. “I don’t have an other half?”

Your mouth opens again. “Uh,” you say eloquently. “What?”

“I… don’t have an other half? I’m… single?”

“You’re…” Your face scrunches up, wrinkled in confusion. What? He’s… what? “But you always buy two drinks?”

Silence. Then: “I… the Americano is for me,” he says. “I usually just pour the special away. I only started ordering them because you got so excited talking about them and making them. I never planned on drinking them.”

Your mouth falls open, soft around a quiet breath, a soft oh. “You—wait. You ordered them because I got excited about them?”

Yoongi’s eyes are so dark, so gentle; melted chocolate, warm. “You started to talk to me more, after the first time I did,” he says, and you know you had. Because you thought it was safer to talk to him, though you were secure in the knowledge he wasn’t single—but he is single. “So I kept doing it, because I wanted to talk more to you. I thought you knew? And that’s why you started having real conversations with me.”

You’re frozen in place, eyes as big as dinner plates. Min Yoongi, your futile crush, who looks as sharp as a knife but is as sweet as spun candyfloss, has been coming back week after week—for you. He’s not in a relationship, and he’s been flirting with you.

Or at least he thought he had been. You, however, hadn’t even realised.

“I was going to ask you on a date after Christmas,” he continues, calm and steady, as if your brain isn’t melting. He’s still sitting behind his desk, and there’s something about his tousled hair and bared lower arms—watch on one wrist and a few bracelets on the other—that has your heart pounding, that casual air somehow not at odds at the weight of the surroundings. Because the world is a backdrop to Yoongi, and he makes it work.

“What the fuck,” you say. You realise you’ve never sworn in front of him when something flickers in his eyes; not a bad flicker, no. Definitely not. “I thought you were taken.”

“I’m very single,” he says lightly, belying the weight behind the words. And then his eyes drop to your hands. “You said you have a coffee for me?”

Which leads to this: Yoongi, in his chair, you, leaning against his desk. He’s taken the red eye (of course) while you sip at the latte, relishing the punch of espresso, the flavour of the syrups.

You’re both staring at each other as you drink, air in the room growing thicker by the moment, when Yoongi breaks the silence. “This is probably the only weekly special I’d actually want to drink.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Black coffee with more espresso? That’s you all over,” you say. “The other specials aren’t so bad, though. I think you just need to give sweet drinks a chance.”

You’re speaking without thinking, but the second those words leave your mouth, the air turns electric. Yoongi’s still staring at you, unwavering and intent, and everything inside you is melting, leaving you flushed and hot. The smile hasn’t left his face, which had been warm but it’s changed, evolved, edged with something sharper.

“If you say so,” he says. His eyes are on your lips. “Let me try?”

His fingers are so gentle on your face, hands cupping your jaw as he tilts your head down. All your thoughts leave you. There’s nothing in your mind but Yoongi, his warm hands and dark eyes, the heat of his body so close to yours, his mouth; you can’t help but look down, tracing the shape of his lips with your gaze, a small soft pout that’s so at odds with the weight of his intensity. 

When he kisses you, it’s featherlight. Barely the softest of pressures, the potential of something more—and then he pulls you in deeper, and there it is, that heat flickering in your stomach jumping into a full fire. The kiss turns hot and wet as he licks the flavour of caramel and toffee syrup out of your mouth, and he tastes like coffee, dark and bitter; you make a noise against his lips and he swallows it down, pulls you closer.

You’re straddling his knees, a little awkward and cramped in his office chair, but you don’t care. You’ve been wanting to kiss Yoongi for so long, even when you felt like you shouldn’t, thought about his dark eyes and pink mouth, the curve of his lips, the paleness of his hands; a steadying presence around your waist, holding you in place.

When you pull apart, Yoongi’s lips are flushed, kiss swollen. It looks good on him. Really good on him.

“I’ve thought about that more than I’d like to admit,” he says, and you can’t help but feel warmed by it, the realisation that you’ve wanted to kiss him but he’s wanted to kiss you, too.

“This really isn’t comfortable,” you say, wriggling a little—your ass is starting to go numb, sat on Yoongi’s knees—and Yoongi sucks in a quick breath at the way you’re all but squirming in his lap, even if he doesn’t say anything.

Oh, you think. 

When you move away, he lets you go without protest, hands sliding off your waist. It’s not until you fall to your knees that Yoongi realises what you’re doing, his eyes widening.

“Y/n,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—”

“Please, Yoongi, I’ve wanted to do this for months,” you say. Maybe it was a little crass to start with, wanting to get on your knees for a man you barely knew just because he was hot and polite to you, but now you know he wants you back. You’re not about to let this opportunity pass you by, staring up at him between his knees, hands braced on his thighs. “But if you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

He looks torn, just for a second, eyes darting away from your face and to the door. It’s shut, but it’s not locked, and though the building is quiet there’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk in at any second.

Without thinking, you lick your lips. Yoongi’s eyes flicker back at the motion, watching how your tongue moves, and you can see how he crumbles.

“I don’t want you to stop,” he says, and you dig your nails into his trousers, electricity shooting through you.

“You’ll have to keep your voice down,” you warn, and reach for his zipper.

It’s a struggle for him, you can tell. He’s already biting his lip by the time you’ve tugged his trousers and boxers down, hardening under your grasp, and you knew his dick would be as pretty as the rest of him. You don’t have the luxury of worshipping him the way you want to, acutely aware of the fact you’re in his office, but it doesn’t mean you’re not going to make Yoongi feel good. It’s dirty and messy, the way you suck his cock into your mouth lewd and wet, lavishing attention on the most sensitive parts; his hips jump as you circle the head with your tongue and jerk the rest of his length with a hand. 

Everything’s sloppy with spit and precum and Yoongi’s biting off curses, hand tightening in your hair as you take in as much of him as you can, relaxing your throat and swallowing him down, down, down. When you look up at him through your lashes he looks wrecked, the paleness of his skin flushed pink, and you can’t wait to see that all over. Can’t wait to see Yoongi entirely bare in front of you, when you have the luxury of time and pleasure.

But there’s something about this, too, that has your heart racing, cunt throbbing. You’re running your spit slick lips down the side of his shaft, tonguing the throb of the vein there, when you hear footsteps nearby, muffled through the door. It doesn’t sound like they’re coming in this direction and Yoongi seems almost entirely lost to the feeling of your mouth on him, but you flick your tongue across the spot where the head of his cock meets the shaft and he bows forward, swallowing down the noise that threatened to spill from his lips. He’s so fucking hot like this, falling apart under your hands and mouth, and you know he’ll give as good as he gets.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps. You smile up at him before taking his cock back into your mouth, jerking him off hard and fast as you lick and suck—and when he cums it’s with a noisy exhale of breath, a muffled groan, and even as you’re swallowing down his cum and mouthing at him until he winces with oversensitivity, you’re imagining what he sounds like when he doesn’t have to be quiet.

He’s not shy, either. You’ve barely tucked him back in when he’s reaching for you, kissing you. There’s no taste of coffee any more and you shiver, molten and boneless at the way his tongue presses into your mouth.

“Still want to take me on a date?” 

You’re being cheeky, voice light as you joke, but Yoongi’s responding look is equal parts serious and affectionate. He sweeps a thumb over your cheekbone and you relax into his hands, feeling like a cat that got the cream. Here you are, on your knees in his office, the glittering lights of his Christmas tree thrown across your hair and skin, warmed by the touch of a man you’ve wanted for months but never thought you would get.

“Of course,” he murmurs, gentle-gentle-gentle, as if you hadn’t just sucked his soul through his dick—and you love that about him, love his inherent soft core, his big heart. You might not know him as well as you’d like—not yet—but you already know that much about him. “I owe you a present, too.”

Your face scrunches. “What, because I gave you a blowjob?”

At this he laughs, mouth split wide and gums on show as his whole body shakes with the intensity of it. “No, because you brought me a coffee,” he says. He still has your cheek cupped in his hand, palm warm against your skin. “But if you want to say it’s because of the blowjob as well, then sure.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.” You smile at him, gentle expression at odds with the meaning behind the words and your position—still on your knees.

You don’t know if they ache when you stand, because Yoongi is kissing you again, distracting you. And it’s easy, this back and forth you have, comfortable as you finish the (now lukewarm) coffees and get ready to go, because Yoongi insists on walking you home. Because he’s a gentleman, your gentleman, and he even holds the door open for you.

You’re not sure if you can reach for his hand, if that would be too forward in his place of work, if he doesn’t want to when this thing between you is so tentative and new. But you’re barely halfway down the corridor when he stops you with a gentle hand on your arm; when you look over, he’s smiling at you, and then tilts his chin up.

“Oh!” You stare at the huge bundle of mistletoe above you, tied with red ribbon and messily taped to the ceiling. It brings a smile to your face. “Oh, how cute.”

The hand on your arm shifts down. Yoongi weaves his fingers with yours.

“You know about the tradition, right?” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, and it’s not just from the lights from the ceiling above, turning his dark eyes into warm chocolate, deep brown. “Kissing under the mistletoe?”

You can’t help but blink, surprised at his sweetness, his forwardness. There’s nothing to say that someone couldn’t walk by right now, to see the two of you hand in hand under the mistletoe, but Yoongi doesn’t care at all. He’s staring at you like you’re the only other person in the world, and you feel like a fountain of champagne is bubbling inside you, heady and sparkling and light.

“I think I’ve heard of it,” you say, and he’s still smiling, a small thing, just for you. “Do you think you can show me?”

And he does, with his hand in yours, your lips against his, and up above, the mistletoe sparkles.

(Your phone rings. Caller ID says it’s Taehyung, but when you pick up, he’s not the one who speaks.

“So.” Jungkook sounds knowing, his voice bordering on smug. “How did the delivery go?”

In the background you can hear someone crowding close, put it on speaker, Kookie, I want to hear too, and you can’t help but smile at Taehyung’s eagerness.

“Good,” you say. Yoongi’s palm is warm against yours and you swing your joint hands together, looking at him, entranced by the way the snowflakes dust his eyelashes. The sky above is dark and the wind around you is cold, but the man beside is so bright and warm. You feel wrapped up in it. “Yoongi says he’s going to kill you, by the way.”

“He won’t,” Jungkook says cheerfully, loud enough that Yoongi can hear. He looks fond.

“Well, tell Taehyung I’m going to kick his ass for lying about Tannie peeing on Jimin’s shoes,” you say.

“You won’t,” Taehyung says, equally as cheerful, and you can’t help but smile.

“No, I won’t,” you say. 

You think about the seasons. You think about the man walking beside you; the man who says he hates cold weather, but has kept his gloves off so he can feel your hand against his. The man who came out in the snow to order a drink, just to make you smile. The man who looks like winter but feels like spring, something cold bursting into potential, new life.

In the depth of winter, under the snow and twinkling Christmas lights above, Yoongi squeezes your hand.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​ @vensulove

[robininthelabyrinth]

Hi! This is for the prompts: LWJ and WWX get together at Cloud Recesses but it’s a secret. When it does come out tho, probably due to WWX mischief some how. JC comes to the conclusion that LWJ has managed to ‘defile WWXs honor’ and now JC has no choice but to fight on behalf of his big brother, who clearly has been wronged.

Honor, Defended - ao3

Untamed

1

“What are they doing,” Jiang Cheng said, voice strangled, eyes staring.

Nie Huaisang stood up on his toes and squinted over his new friend’s shoulder. “Fighting?”

It looked like fighting.

“No.”

Not fighting? In that case, at least by Nie sect standards, that meant –

“Flirting?”

Jiang Cheng growled, which meant Nie Huaisang’s guess was right. “I’m going to kill the rotten bastard in white! I bet he waited until Wei Wuxian was alone just for this. How dare he take advantage of my – of Wei Wuxian!”

“I mean, I don’t know about that? They seem about tied,” Nie Huaisang said, making a mental note – not that many people could match up against Lan Wangji, especially when he was in a you-are-breaking-the-rules sort of snit. “Each one’s giving as good as the other gets, if you know what I mean…I’m talking about fighting!” He added hastily, seeing Jiang Cheng’s expression. “Just the fighting! And hey, maybe the Lan sect doesn’t flirt through fighting?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jiang Cheng said. “All cultivation sects flirt through fighting.”

Damnit, Nie Huaisang thought to himself with a sigh. That means I’m going to have to train with saber after all if I’m going to get somewhere here, doesn’t it? Well, at least da-ge will be pleased…

“Are you going to interrupt?” he asked, hiding his face behind his fan. “If fighting is flirting…”

As expected, Jiang Cheng choked. “Not all fighting is flirting!” he hissed. “But that most certainly is!”

Nie Huaisang didn’t understand fighting, so he just shrugged.

“Why don’t you confront him later?” he suggested, but Jiang Cheng shook his head, his features already settling into a mulish expression that had no right to look as attractive as it was. “All right, I see I can’t convince you. Good luck defending your brother’s honor, then?”

-

2

“If Lan Wangji doesn’t stop flirting with Wei Wuxian in class, I’m going to do something violent,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Okay, now I know you’re delusional,” Nie Huaisang said. “But still very pretty. Oh, I’m torn…actually no, I think I’m fine. I mean, what cultivator do I know that isn’t a bit delusional?”

“Can you stop talking nonsense and focus on how we’re going to split them up?” Jiang Cheng demanded irritably. Really, it was no wonder that Nie Huaisang’s best attempts at flirting were going nowhere. Jiang Cheng was thick.

In many appealing ways. Mm.

Damn his bad taste.

“Well, I think first you have to start by reversing your statement until it resembles the truth a bit more,” Nie Huaisang said, trying to be practical. “It’s Wei-xiong that’s flirting with Lan-er-gongzi, not the other way around.”

“He’s just like that!”

“A giant flirt, you mean?”

“Sociable,” Jiang Cheng insisted with the sort of blindly loyal stubbornness that was sadly very, very appealing to those surnamed Nie. Mouthwatering, even.

“Right,” Nie Huaisang said, dabbing at his mouth with his sleeve to make sure he wasn’t drooling. “I see. All right, I’ll help you. I’ll even promise to find a way to break them up for good, guaranteed – but first you have to meet one condition.”

Jiang Cheng arched his eyebrows, looking unwillingly intrigued. “Name it.”

“You have to come up with one way in which Lan-er-gongzi has been flirting with Wei Wuxian that isn’t ‘he existed being pretty in his general direction’.”

Jiang Cheng opened his mouth.

Nie Huaisang waited.

“…maybe he should consider being less pretty,” Jiang Cheng grumbled.

Nie Huaisang patted him on the shoulder, then left his hand on his shoulder because why not.

“We’ve all thought that about him over the years,” he said. “Better luck next time.”

3

“You’re supposed to be helping me preserve my brother’s honor!” Jiang Cheng hissed at Nie Huaisang, who had made absolutely no promises of that sort without giant loopholes that he could walk right out of. “Not – encouragingthis!”

“I didn’t! I just helped Wei-gongzi play a tiny little prank –”

“With pornography!”

“Tasteful erotic art,” Nie Huaisang corrected.

“With cutsleeve pornography!”

“Cutsleeve tasteful erotic art.”

“Nie Huaisang! You’re missing the point!”

“Am I?” Nie Huaisang asked thoughtfully, tapping his fan against his lips. “I don’t know, I’m not sure I am. Can you explain what the point is again?”

Jiang Cheng threw his hands up into the air. “Listen, it was bad enough when Wei Wuxian got thrown out of Teacher Lan’s classes and had to go copy rules in the Library Pavilion for a month; that’s disgraceful and loses face for our sect, but at least his personal honor was preserved –”

Bad scholarship was, in fact, not an impediment to having personal honor. Nie Huaisang knew this fact forwards, backwards, and intimately.

“But then Teacher Lan fell for Lan Wangji’s tricks and decided to assign him to supervise copying –”

“Lan-er-gongzi has tricks? That’s news to me.”

“…well, either way, they got cooped up there in that room, together, alone, for – for weeks!”

“Hasn’t Lan-er-gongzi been using the muting spell on Wei-xiong most of that time?”

“No, eventually Wei Wuxian learned his lesson and now he shuts himself up whenever he sees him starting up the spell, he complains to me and shijie about it constantly every night,” Jiang Cheng said, grumbling. “Stop interrupting me!”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Anyway, if that wasn’t enough, you’re now encouragingthis debacle by setting up a prank that involves Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and cutsleeve pornography.”

“I did,” Nie Huaisang agreed. “And it’s tasteful erotic art, Jiang-xiong.”

“Why do you keep insisting on that?” Jiang Cheng snapped. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said patiently. “Because I also have pornography, and it’s a lot less tasteful.”

Jiang Cheng stopped, utterly distracted from his previous rant. “...you do?”

“Mm. Want to see?”

-

4

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, wait for me, I want to talk to you – I need you! See, for whatever reason, I can’t find Jiang Cheng anywhere. Can you help me look –”

Nie Huaisang shut his window before Jiang Cheng could overhear and get distracted.

They were busy.

-

5

“All right,” Nie Huaisang said. “I admit it, you’re right.”

Jiang Cheng looked at him. “…you do?”

“I do.”

“Right about…what?”

“About the flirting, and Lan Wangji having tricks,” Nie Huaisang said, nodding wisely. “See, the Lan sect take their rules about their forehead ribbons very seriously. It’s parents, children, and lovers only. So if you ran into Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji entangled on the path near the back mountain, both of them soaking wet, with Lan Wangji’s forehead ribbon wrapped around their wrists…why, that’s practically an elopement!”

Jiang Cheng, predictably, turned purple. “He eloped with my – I’m going to kill him!”

“Have fun with that,” Nie Huaisang said happily, and watched as Jiang Cheng drew his sword and charged, shouting something.

Wei Wuxian attempted to defend their conduct, except apparently their conduct involved finding the ghost of a Lan sect ancestor –

“Did you bow?” Nie Huaisang asked, very unhelpfully. “Both of you? So you’d say you’ve made your bows to the older generation? Have you bowed to heaven and earth yet, too?”

Lan Wangji gave him a death glare, but maybe he should have thought of that before writing to Nie Huaisang’s brother disclosing details about Nie Huaisang’s love life.

“I’m going to kill you!” Jiang Cheng roared.

Nie Huaisang smiled over his fan at Lan Wangji and gave a jaunty little wave.

-

+1

A few days earlier

“Wait, so, you’re actually together?” Nie Huaisang asked, and Lan Wangji nodded. They were having tea together the way they always did at the middle of the week, a tradition started long ago when their brothers were visiting and being utterly intolerable. Even their long-standing fight with each other would be put aside for mid-week tea. “Well done!”

Lan Wangji’s ears turned a little red. “Mm.” After a few moments, he added, “Mm.”

“No, no, I don’t think you need to worry,” Nie Huaisang said. “He may seem flighty, but he’s very loyal…the Jiang sect might object, though. They can be a bit tetchy about these things.”

Arched eyebrows.

“What do you mean, how would I know? Have you somehow missedthat I’ve been trying to snag Jiang Cheng all summer? There are more things in this world than Wei Wuxian’s waistline, shapely as it may be.”

Eyes narrowing.

“…don’t you dare tell my brother!”

A smirk, not that anyone else – excluding Lan Xichen – would know.

“I don’t care about your ‘appropriate conduct’! If you tell my brother that I’m dating instead of studying, I’ll find a way to make your life miserable, too! Just you wait!”

[marky4l]

ploys and plays / jjh

pairing: Jung Jaehyun x Reader

When you signed up for theatre club in your second year of college, you thought you'd be writing scripts and painting sets. Instead you're constantly fighting your costar, and the feelings you have for him, too.

word count: 17.4k

genre: college au, enemies to lovers, fake dating au, fluff, angst (a little bit), smut, handjob (f receiving), overuse of pet names, kissing, drinking, cliche truth or dare scene, very strong bond between reader and her group of friends that i enjoyed writing very much

notes: reader's gang is composed of renjun, hyuck, and ryujin!

hi!!! this is something I genuinely enjoyed writing. I hope you enjoy reading the dynamic between the reader and jaehyun, and the reader and her friends :)

✷

“The truth is, I think I’m starting to love you.”

You stare into his eyes, full of curiosity and amusement. Despite the serious moment, where everything and you mean everything around you is silent, he smiles, as if to tell you that it’s okay. That it’ll all be okay. As long as he loves you. That’s how he is—damn him and that kilowatt smile. It has the same effect, even if it’s just playing at his lips as he stares at you, his eyes twinkling. Mentally, you slap yourself out of your reverie. It’s all in your head. Deeming the tense silence long enough, you pry your mouth open to respond.

Across you, he scoffs and his face falls flat. “Cut it, hold on. She took too long, Doie.”

You stare down at your script, where, in typewritten letters, you read: allow a tense, long silence. Prepped with your evidence, you open your mouth again, but your director, Doyoung, ushers himself by your side with, no doubt, another prepared speech about arts and sportsmanship and preparedness.

“I didn’t take too long,” you say, frustrated. Your gaze travels upward again, landing on your costar’s amused face, fanning himself with his own script. Nice one, he mouths before averting his attention to his upcoming lines.

Onstage, after the scene is called, Jaehyun Jung is a saint. He’s charming, deadly handsome, and an extremely talented actor. One could even argue he was born to be onstage, wowing audiences with his booming voice and intimidating aura. Despite yourself, even you could begrudgingly attest to that.

Yet for some absurd reason, once you volunteered to join for one play—one!—to boost your extracurriculars after winter break, every good thing you had picked up about Jaehyun rotted instantly. He wasn’t rude to anybody else, but he’d take the latte you ordered, tease you onstage, and rat out your clock-in forgeries to your director, Doyoung.

When you fade back into your current moment, Doie is just finishing up his speech about equity and justice. You nod blankly, having just tuned out everything else that left his mouth. “Trust me, you two, one more round of this scene and you can get to your homes. You”—he points to you, startling you slightly—“shorter silence. Jae, less teasing.”

Jaehyun nods with a chuckle, and then Doyoung calls go. All of a sudden, Jaehyun turns into the protagonist with soft eyes and an even softer smile, the rockstar bad boy with a change of heart (you honestly didn’t know and didn’t care less which hopeless romantic freshman wrote this.)

Routinely, you go first. “You’re insane. This is pure—it’s pure lunacy, goddamn it.” Mentally, you note that really, it is. You had joined the theatre club knowing it brought extracurriculars up rapidly and brought you exposure. Really, your passion lay in writing, but you figured theatre was a stone’s throw away. Now, reciting cheesy lines in front of someone you just want to punch, you realize how wrong you were.

—

“I don’t know how long I’m going to put up with this inane problem of yours,” your friend Renjun says across you, popping a fry into his mouth.

Beside you, another voice pipes up. “Agreed. Hate him, fuck him. Like him, fuck him. The key to feelings is venting them out through copulation. My quote. Patented—Ryujin Shin.”

“Haechan would agree, too,” Renjun adds, “though I myself don’t support the copulation bit.”

You roll your eyes at your two friends, shaking your head. “You don’t get it. You’re outsiders. You’re seeing this from a very convenient point of view. It’s—he’s different. He’s deliberately trying to get under my skin for whatever reason.” You take a swig of beer, leaving the table open for feedback.

Ryujin shrugs beside you, taking a bite of her hamburger. “Well…I call slut.”

Renjun bursts into laughter and you allow your jaw to drop open incredulously. Like a miracle, Haechan decides it’s the perfect time to arrive late post-soccer practice and he catches on instantly. “My, my,” he says once he’s seated beside Renjun, “calling slut, Ryu? Something dire has happened. Something unforgivable.”

“We never call slut unless—” you’re cut off by Haechan tutting you into silence, coercing Ryujin into a sheepish explanation.

“Look,” she begins, holding her arms up in surrender. “It’s true. I never call slut. Each of us has three call slut opportunities, and this is my first. We’ve been friends for two years now, so I think it’s perfectly justified. I’m sorry, but the problem you’ve been droning on and on to us for the past month and a half is easily solvable. You, my darling”—she jabs a finger into your arm—“are just waiting for us to greenlight your silent sex plea.”

A loud passing of agreement translates throughout your booth. “Silent sex plea—you’ve really made something of yourself, Shin,” Haechan comments, marveled.

“You’re all a bunch of losers,” you say pointedly. “I can’t believe you wasted your first I call slut card on me when Haechan quite literally whores himself out to every girl on and off campus.”

“It’s actually a bit amazing. Haechan sees no age”—Haechan corrects it to except minors—“no race, no social class, no hobby. Anyone and everyone,” Renjun comments, “which is why if we all decided to use the slut card on him, we’d have run out within the first month. You’re a special case.”

“Special case?! I barely even know the guy in my dilemma.”

“And yet,” drones Ryujin, “you have the nerve to talk about him for an hour minimum every time we meet up at this bar. Dude, NYU is huge. You fixating on one guy for more than a week is beneath you. Therefore, I endearingly call slut.” Ignoring the expression of rancid disgust on your face, she persists. “It’s an I feel for you slut call. I’m here for you. If you’re that sex deprived, I’ll even let you sleep with Haechan.”

“Yes!” he exclaims jokingly, getting up and dancing (poorly.)

“Okay, huge no to that, and also, I am not sex deprived,” you say lightly, laughing.

You’re met with disagreeable silence. Your jaw drops for the second time as you exclaim, “You guys think I’m sex deprived?!”

Haechan comes to your aid first with a gross patter about how he would smell a sex deprived person from a mile away (“it comes naturally,” he’d said, much to your disgust, and evidently, Ryujin and Renjun’s too.) Renjun covers it up with a sympathetic fib about how they’re all noticing how you never bring guys home from parties anymore.

“Guys, we’re busy being sophomores in college. Not everyone is Haechan. Some people have other duties to attend to,” you say, steadfast in your opinion that your celibacy is a choice. Haechan protests for a second before shrugging in half-hearted agreement.

“Dude, you balance all your extra curriculars and you have time to come here and have a beer, plus the occasional weekend party. What’s the harm in a one night stand? None. Morality isn’t the problem—you just have no boy toys,” Renjun says. You fumble for a response.

“Morality is the problem,” you say instead. “I’d be fucking someone 24/7, 365 if I loved him.”

“Gross,” Ryujin says. “And we all know that’s a lie. You hate commitment. That’s okay. We all do! But just admit it. And when you do, that’s when you’ll have the balls to fuck that junior in theatre club. Case closed.”

She says the words with so much finality that you find yourself believing her, but you shake your head quickly and grumble in disagreement before chugging the rest of your beer. Damn your friends.

—

“Channel your trauma into this. Bring all that forth. You want to see good results? I want to see raw emotion. Take your sadness and bring it up your esophagus into your mouth, out your lips. That is the essence of the line. Channeling. Manifesting. Emotions.”

Dryly, you respond. “To be clear, Doyoung, all this feedback is because I ‘said Hello too flatly’? Verbatim.”

He looks exasperated with you, and if you’re honest, it’s kind of entertaining. You’d never even truly wanted this stint, anyway. You’d expected to be working backstage, maybe proofreading scripts or painting sets. Instead Doyoung had whisked you off as a fresh face for the spring play, which approximately 70 people watched. (Compared to the entire student body, it was a grain.)

“Doie, I understand you,” comes a voice from behind you, and your entire body tenses up. You have barely any time to react before it continues. “I’m sorry I’m an hour late. But back to the real problem at hand. I totally get how we’re supposed to master our emotional control.”

Doyoung sighs dreamily. “Jaehyun, you’re my apprentice. Of course you would get it. You know your stuff!” Jaehyun smiles, walks over in front of you and takes the script out of his bag, winking at you while Doyoung’s attention is elsewhere.

Fuck you, you mouth back, making sure it’s enunciated so he sees it.

“Okay, I need a coffee. You two, rehearse. Five minutes tops,” Doyoung says, rushing out of the auditorium. “Channel the trauma!”

“Into my ‘hello’,” you murmur, annoyed. “Okay, big guy. Let’s go.” You look up to find Jaehyun already staring at you, amused.

“Let’s go,” you repeat. “I really can’t afford to digest another hipster speech about sexism and trauma because I fucked up a line.”

“Why should I? Not to toot my own horn”—your face twists into one of confusion and disgust at these words—“but I’d say I’m pretty good already. I don’t, well…need you.”

“You’re an entitled prick,” you shoot back. “Ever heard of doing something out of kindness? Let’s go, come on. Hit me with your best shot.”

“I could hit you with something else, somewhere else,” he says, nearing you. Your heartbeat quickens, but you conceal your nerves with a squeak. “Please. Not only are you egotistical, but you’re also a freaky nympho!”

He throws his head back in deep, raucous laughter. You catch yourself liking the sound for a bit. “Listen,” he says when he’s done laughing, and he nears you again. “I don’t know if you’ve caught on, but I don’t like you.”

“Oh, I have,” you sneer, “and don’t worry. It’s mutual. Very.”

“Good, because I can’t stand you as a costar. You’re not even passionate about it, but you’re…good. And despite Doyoung hating you, I can tell he sees potential and he’s going to try to keep you here. I’m serious about this. I want to pursue it one day. And I can’t stand watching you treat it like it’s some lame hobby.”

“I’m not one to disrespect the arts,” you retort, “but if you’re going to be a competitive piece of shit, maybe I’ll give it my all. Doyoung will love me, keep me here, and I will stay and become a theatre major out of spite.” It’s all a bluff, but the malice in your voice makes it sound real.

His face falters, then he laughs humorlessly. “Okay. I’d like to see you try. You’re all talk…” he lets his hand ghost over your waist, “I wonder what’ll get you to be at least a little obedient.”

You clear your throat and part from him. “Nothing, you sicko.”

—

“Slut!” Haechan calls, garnering a few dirty looks from neighboring tables. You smile and shake your head towards them meekly before glaring in his direction, though your awful eyesight and forgotten eyeglasses don’t do you justice.

He sits across you, a sandwich half unwrapped in his grip. “I don’t know if you’re glaring at me or if you’re squinting at the sunlight from the window five feet away.”

“Oh, shut up. I forgot my glasses, it’s a human mistake.”

“A rookie mistake,” he corrects you, chewing on his sandwich. “Listen, I need your help. Your spring musical? There’s an afterparty being organized, I hear. And it’s going to be lit! Up top,” he says, raising his hand in a silent high five invitation.

“I am not high fiving you for saying the word lit. Go on.”

“You suck,” he says, but lowers his hand anyway. “I was saying, your costar, Jaehyun’s friend—the senior, in Doyoung’s year—you know him. Johnny. Yeah, he and his friend, Kun, and their friend, Ten, are organizing this huge spring party—it’s one of many to celebrate their last year here. Thing is, because Jaehyun is so horny for theatre, they’re making sure the spring musical is a prerequisite for the party.”

You scoff. “So, what? They’ll be quizzing all the partygoers on the plot of the play? The play, by the way, it’s not a musical.”

Haechan shrugs. “I don’t know, but that’s what Johnny says, which means that even if people get in by cheating or whatever, your viewership is still going to go up by a lot. And that’s why I need your help. On the day of the play, if Johnny asks, say I went.”

“You could just go to the play and avoid all the dishonesty, Haech,” you say, taking a sip from your Caprisun.

“That’s not fun! I would want to get buzzed before it. Please? For me?”

“Try to watch, Haech,” you half plead. “Please? For me.”

“God,” he grumbles. “Okay, fine, I’ll try. I’d love to see your sluttiness in action. For all I know, the sluttiness is warrant—”

Before Haechan can finish making his sardonic remark, an arm slides across your shoulder and you jump a little, turning to meet Jaehyun’s eyes, amused and teasing as ever. “Hey,” he says, nodding in Haechan’s direction. He turns back to you. “Listen, I was thinking we could practice tonight. Or tomorrow night. In my apartment.”

“We get enough practice in the auditorium,” you insist. “I’d hate to burden you. Also, I’d hate to be alone with you.” You say it sweetly, and Jaehyun smiles, his face nearing yours.

“It’s no burden, baby. Just text me if you’re up for it.”

He walks away, and your face burns, your eyes following him move through the room before finally exiting.

When you see Haechan’s face again, it’s the textbook definition of smug. “The gang does not hear about this,” you press.

“Buy me a coffee and it’s a deal,” he says, but it’s overpowered by his laughter.

—

“The sluttiness is warranted!” Haechan spills immediately when Ryujin finally sits down beside Renjun, beer in hand. You swat him, and hide your warming face in your hands, attempting to avoid the inevitable questioning that would follow.

“Of course it is. I have a sixth sense for sluts. It’s because I’m around one so much,” says Ryujin, her gaze lingering on Haechan’s laughing figure. “But do tell. I’m curious about the tales of the slut of the group.”

You raise your middle finger in silent protest. Haechan tsks. “In all fairness, it seems as though the man she’s slutting herself out to is a bit of a slut himself. He basically eyefucked her earlier during lunch, at the table. In front of my virginal gaze.”

“Your gaze is anything but virginal,” Renjun says with an eyeroll. “But really? Jaehyun flirted? You know you’d never have been called a slut if you just slept with him already. Your provoking him is the sluttiness of it all.”

You protest instantly. “No! He’s just provoking me, trying to get me under my skin so I’m not in a good headspace for rehearsals. He revealed everything to me, you dumbasses. He hates me because he’s envious of my talent.”

Silence. Eerily, the same silence you had received after remarking you weren’t sex deprived.

“You think I’m bad at acting,” you gasp. “Guys! I’m not the best, but Jaehyun said he thinks of me as competition—I’m not lying, I swear.”

Haechan hugs you close as if to reassure you, and you thrash in his grip so you can kick him in the shin. “Watch me, guys,” you say. “I will go practice with him and prove to you there is no air of sexual tension between us. I am vying to prove the slut card wrong. I am not a slut. Nothing wrong with sluts, but it’s not me. Also, I will prove that I can act!”

“Okay,” whistles Ryujin, “if you want to go to Jaehyun’s apartment, just say that.”

“Shut—no, it’s not like that. You guys are so insistent on the slut card, but I’ll prove you wrong. Jaehyun and I are not at all interested in each other that way, which revokes the slut card in itself. You need proof? You’ll get it. Challenge accepted.”

“Nobody challenged you. Now you sound lame, like Haechan,” drones Renjun.

—

You have a plan.

The main point of it was to prove your friends wrong with the whole slut card fiasco. The steps involved coolly accepting Jaehyun’s offer, withholding sex, and acing the practice. Thing is, that was two weeks ago, and each time you had tried to begin accepting the offer, the conversation instead tapered off into a nasty argument about line distribution and competition and talent between the two of you. The day would commence in an admission of defeat to your friends before you had renewed vigor and tried again.

So, no. Scratch that. You had a plan. It’s long gone now. Failed. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

“You hate theatre! I don’t know why you’re going to such great lengths to spite me!”

“Such great lengths,” you mock. “I don’t know why you talk like a hipster 26-year-old!”

“It’s called being intelligent.”

“No—it’s called being a kiss-ass, you two faced so—”

A tangible piece of evidence that it had failed is currently entering the auditorium. For a college senior, Doyoung Kim dresses like Sikowitz from Victorious, save for the coconut (replaced instead with a cup of iced matcha from that obnoxiously pricey cafe on 79th.) For the two weeks you and Jaehyun had been arguing your butts off, he had been awfully (suspiciously) patient with the two of you, mostly Jaehyun, but your point remained.

He’s quiet, walking into the room and effectively shutting up the ongoing argument between the both of you. You note, absently, that there’s a pair of two other students—freshmen, by the looks of it—in tow. They look awfully shy.

“Doie,” you say, “I’m sorry you had to hear that.” Hear you calling Jaehyun a two faced son of a bitch, yes.

He tuts dismissively, smiling. “Ah, it’s okay. Actually, Yuna and Kai are here, anyway. Two recruits!” He gestures to the two (freakishly tall) freshmen behind him, who wave awkwardly at you and Jaehyun.

“Freshmen are getting taller,” comments Jaehyun. “These are our understudies?”

“Your replacements, actually.”

A wave of shock pulses through you as you gape at Doyoung’s blank expression, his weird mesh cardigan hanging off his body. Jaehyun beats you to it: “Replacements? For the play?”

“Yep. I figured a week and a half ago I needed actors who didn’t spend half the rehearsal trying to bite each other’s heads off. Your acting won’t matter if your real feelings for each other shine through. And I’m sorry, but it’s really obvious that you hate each other. You have a scene where you’re madly in love, but the gaze is cold and unforgiving. A scene where you’re fighting is where you’re at your best. Unfortunately, this play has none of that nature. No hard feelings, but just…no more play. You”—he points to you—“find another extracurricular. Jaehyun, I’m demoting you to set painter. Third year in a row!”

You scoff. “So instead of encouraging conflict resolution, you bring two trees to the auditorium to replace us? Plus giving me barely enough time to build up a rapport with a new extracurricular?!”

“It’s not my job to make you guys best friends. It’s called duty, responsibility. It was your duty to make sure you could set aside the feelings of spite for a scene. Instead, you were bothering everyone else in this artistic space.”

Filled with contempt at the senior in front of you, you mumble a suit yourself under your breath and pick up your bag, leaving immediately, not even paying a lick of attention to anybody else in the room.

—

“And that’s why you saw me signing up for film club earlier,” you finish, chugging your beer to down the sorrow in your body. You weren’t sad, per se—you were just, well, undeniably bummed that the opportunity was taken so brazenly from you earlier today.

Deep down, you were worried for Jaehyun, too, but you spoke nothing of it.

“It’s okay,” Renjun says, “we’ll have a lot of fun. You’ll get to exercise your writing skills, and on the plus side, since I’m one of the secretaries, I can make you look even better on paper.”

“Nepotism,” remarks Ryujin, “but I guess you’re right, Jun. Getting kicked out sucked, but this is your silver lining!”

“I know,” you grumble. “I guess it happened so suddenly that I didn’t have the chance to savor it. Not gonna lie, minus Jaehyun, the whole thing wasn’t so bad.”

“Minus Jaehyun, minus Jaehyun,” Haechan muses, sliding into the booth with two beers. He slides one over to you. “We all know you’re going to miss him, too. No more lust-filled stares, sexual tension…”

“You’re disgusting,” Renjun says. “I’m alarmed we still hang out with you, honestly. And this is a serious moment. Don’t ruin it.”

“Didn’t you say Jaehyun is a theatre kid, though?” Ryujin asks. “He must be taking this pretty hard, then.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way before. Mainly, you just hadn’t thought of how Jaehyun would be taking the whole situation. “You’re actually right,” you mumble. “This was his first stint as a lead, too.”

“A love story brews,” Haechan says melodramatically, earning him a tossed fry from Ryujin.

The conversation flows into how everyone else’s day went, and although you contribute to the ribbing and the general talking, your mind finds itself stuck on Jaehyun. You do not like him, and you’re so sure the feeling is mutual, but a part of you still feels for the guy. You’d known about him and his passion for theatre since your first year, and witnessing it first hand would’ve been amazing, if not for his rancid attitude towards you. You couldn’t help but admit that you feel bad for him.

But it’s none of your business.

“You should text him,” suggests Renjun. His eyes are on you, so you snap out of your thoughts and hum.

“What?”

“Text Jaehyun. You’re staring into the beer bottle like it holds the secrets of the universe—you’re obviously thinking of Jaehyun.”

“Wh—I am not!”

Ryujin speaks next. “It’s okay if you are—”

“—slut!” coughs Haechan.

“Ignore him. Listen, it’d be no surprise if Jaehyun is all emo over this. It’s human decency to check up on someone.”

“It comes off as hey are you okay, no?, okay let’s get laid,” Haechan interjects. “Let the man grieve.”

“Grieve? It’s Friday night, he’s probably partying and forgetting all this,” Renjun says, “if you text him, it’ll just be a passing thought.”

“Are you kidding? Checking up on someone you hate is just a glorified booty call. Take it from me,” Haechan says coolly.

“Er, no one is taking anything from you, not even solicited advice,” Ryujin asserts with a roll of her eyes. She turns to you. “Do what you want, but remember your two smarter friends at this table are telling you it’s okay to text and your idiotic man whore of a friend is saying don’t.”

“Man whore?! Idiotic? Ryujin Shin, I—”

“Haechan, don’t be so lou—”

“C’mon, try me.” spits Ryujin with a smile. “Try me right now!”

“Can you guys shut up?! Jaehyun—he texted me!”

The effect is instantaneous. Haechan and Ryujin shut up and join Renjun in turning their heads curiously in your direction as you read over the text for what feels like the hundredth time.

It’s Jae. Can we talk? U know where my apartment is.

“He wants to talk,” you say quietly, turning your phone to show them the text. “I guess I should. No protests. I think this is actually important.” Slowly, they all nod, giving their own shares of advice and the usual condom-thrown-into-your-bag from Haechan. You depart just as a new debate sparks between them about the best brand of beer.

Ok, you type before pocketing your phone and heading out the door.

—

You get to Jaehyun’s off-campus apartment in ten minutes. You offhandedly wonder how he can afford such a place—off campus near university. Despite the old building, you’re aware a place like this sells out fast, and for a lot. You sigh and take the stairs up anyway, having attended a party here before.

Before long, you’re fumbling for a greeting as you stare at his door number, which, after just five seconds, is pulled open by Jaehyun himself.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” he says, ushering you in. “It’s about theatre.”

“When is it not?” you remark dryly, seating yourself on his ratty couch. “Do you live alone?”

“Never. And I have two roommates, Johnny and Jungwoo.” He takes a seat on the peculiarly shaped loveseat.

You nod in understanding, silently giving him the go to start talking again. “I talked to Doyoung after you left. He said he’s not that confident in the freshmen’s abilities, so he’s giving us a second chance.”

The news is shocking. You’d left the auditorium earlier today thinking it was pointless to even try again. You’d completely resigned yourself to the idea of having to join the dreaded film club, full of ostentatious indie movie connoisseurs (excluding, thankfully, Renjun.) So now, hearing Jaehyun tell you that the chance of trying again is wholly feasible, you get your hopes up.

“You’re serious?” you ask, anticipation in your voice.

“Yeah, um, there’s a little catch, though.”

You’re fully intrigued now, sitting up a little. “What is it?” A nude scene? More than one kissing scene? Nothing I can’t do…nude scenes are a little out of pocket, but… you trail your thoughts off, focusing again on Jaehyun.

He looks apprehensive and jittery. “What’s the catch?” You repeat, raising a brow.

“I might have just… I told Doyoung we’re dating.”

You act fast, standing up immediately, an expression of fury on your face.

“What?!” you cry, “are you fucking kidding me, Jaehyun?! You lied to keep—no, no, you lied in general and you involved me in your lie too? Now I have to prance around pretending to enjoy your company? No, scratch that. I can’t even pretend to enjoy your company. You’re a lowlife and a liar, and a competitive asshole, and you were willing to drag me into your nonsensical—ugh! You’re insane!”

“I know,” he begins, but you don’t let him have it.

“I will support anybody with a passion, is the thing. And I know you have a knack for this thing. But you’re so threatened by me, it’s funny how you feel so entitled to think that you can just drag me into your lies just so you can secure a role. Where are your morals?! You’re so annoying!”

“I know, okay?” He gets up and places his hands on your shoulders. “I know. It was a mistake. And that’s why I’m telling you now. I did it…all of that, on a whim. I didn’t know Doyoung would actually believe me, but you know he has a soft spot for weird romance. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. But I know you know you’re getting something out of this. No need to go sign up for a new club. You’ll be good in theatre. And…I really want this. Need this. It’s my third year as a fucking set painter when you know I can do well onstage. I just…I can’t let this slip.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m sticking to your plan,” you snap.

“I know. But we only need to fake it for Doyoung and the people in theatre. No need to tell your friends, and I won’t tell mine. It’ll only be for theatre people. And for the play. Doyoung will think our fights are just lovers’ problems. Listen. I’ve thought this through, and it’s low risk, high reward.”

“No,” you say. “I am not doing anything to make you happy.”

“This isn’t even about me! I wouldn’t have lied if I knew it wouldn’t benefit you, too!”

“Oh, please. I was definitely the last thing on your mind.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you want something else out of this? You can hate me as much as you want. Don’t worry, I still hate you.”

“You’re real confident, rolling your eyes and saying all that to your lifeline to theatre.”

“Okay,” he purses his lips, breathing steadily, “just…think about it, and get back to me.”

You near him and jab a finger into his chest. “Don’t even try to expect anything remotely affirmative.”

—

“We’re dating!” You say with a smile, holding up your hand, interlocked with Jaehyun’s.

Renjun, Haechan, and Ryujin are huddled across you, their faces displaying all kinds of embittered confusion. It’s silent for a while, and then Ryujin takes a swig of her beer before saying it. “If you cared this much about being branded a slut, I’ll withdraw it. No longer calling slut.”

“Wait, what?” Jaehyun asks, and you shush him with a laugh. “Guys, we’re really…a thing! We went over it over the week and we want to see where this goes.”

“So this”—Haechan points at the two of you—“all started when he texted you to come over last week?”

At your nod, he continues. “So you’re knocked up, huh?”

“Wait, what?” Jaehyun asks, and you profusely say it’s his humor before Renjun, ever so sensibly, swoops in to shut him up.

“We’re so…we’re so happy for you both,” he says slowly. “But if this is all a ploy, I assure you, we’ll churn through the lie in ten seconds. You can tell us.”

You clench Jaehyun’s hand. “It’s no lie,” you say sweetly. “I like Jaehyun, and I want you guys to like him, too.”

“Right. Uh, Jaehyun,” Ryujin begins with a smile, “what’s she majoring in?”

“Who?” he asks dumbly.

“Your girlfriend,” she responds, an edge in her voice.

“Oh. Journalism.”

She seems fairly impressed with his answer and the table’s open again to interrogation. It’s Haechan who goes next, a teasing smile on his features. “Jaehyun, Jaehyun. Where did your girlfriend grow up?”

“New York, born and raised,” he says simply.

“And he was born and raised in Korea,” you tack on for compensation. The rest of the table nods, a murmur of agreement passing throughout, and you sigh in relief at the possibility that somehow, your friends saw through your fabricated story.

“So, beer, anyone?” Jaehyun asks warmly.

“Oh m—just admit it’s fake,” Renjun says loudly. “Do it! I can’t stand here trying to decide. We won’t judge you either way! Just admit it!”

“Renjun!” you whisper-shout, at the same time Jaehyun says, “Yes, it’s fake.”

A chorus of cheers break out across the three of them and you spot bills being passed around. Jaehyun laughs a little before getting up to order beer. “You guys bet on this?!” you exclaim, snatching the ten dollar bill Ryujin had just received from Haechan. They all shrug nonchalantly. “It’s no big deal,” Ryujin says, “I mean, unless you two have real feelings, which…”

“We don’t,” you say scornfully, burying your face in your hands. “We were practicing the lie so we don’t mess up in front of Doyoung next time we see him. I can’t believe you turned this into some way to make money. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“Oh, shut up,” Haechan says. “You’d do it, too. Now, back to the problem at hand. Are you and Jaehyun seriously doing this?”

“Right—are you?” Renjun asks, a hint of judgement in his voice. “Nothing against the whole fake dating thing, but I’m getting romcom vibes, and this never ends well. You’re going to fall in love and get hurt.”

“Why are you guys taking this so seriously?” you ask, just as Jaehyun sits himself beside you again. This time, there’s considerable space between the both of you, which goes relatively unnoticed by your friends.

“Agreed,” Jaehyun says. “I don’t know you guys well, but I assure you I have no interest in falling in love with her.” He says the last word disdainfully, which elicits a scoff out of you.

“I invite you here to my bar to meet my friends and you still find the audacity to ridicule me in front of them?! Get out.”

“I am not getting ou—”

“Out, I said out—!”

“Yeah, you guys can’t keep this up,” says Ryujin deliberately. “Renjun, no need to worry about them falling in love. They can’t sustain a conversation without arguing.”

“Like an old married couple,” swoons Haechan, his tone wistful.

You turn to them swiftly. “Shut up. And this is why we needed practice,” you say, fed up. “But Jaehyun is the worst fake boyfriend. Ever.”

“Oh, and you’re so perfect, baby,” Jaehyun fake coos, which you take as an open invitation for you to slap his face lightly. “Hey, ow! That hurt!”

“Boohoo,” you mock before turning to your beer and taking deep swallows. “Now get out.”

—

Had you told yourself a year before, two months before, or even a week before tonight that you would be on a FaceTime call with Jaehyun Jung, you would have laughed and brushed it off as a silly lie. Yet here you are, sprawled on your bed, taking advantage of your roommate’s absence and having your fourth round of Kahoot with Jaehyun. “You have three dogs?!” He asks with a laugh, and you nod, reviewing his wrong answers.

“I made this Kahoot so you could ace it, not get the same question wrong thrice,” you grumble. “I aced yours on the first try, because I actually studied the reviewer. Also, yes, three dogs, in my parents’ house.”

Needless to say, your study session is a little unconventional: you two had suffered endless teasing from your friends, and you had gotten ribbed by Jaehyun’s roommates too. All because you knew nothing about each other. Ever since finally agreeing to his offer, you had made little to no effort to get to know him, and he had made the same mistake, thus subjecting the both of you to bouts of perpetual teasing. The only plausible solution to this was to make sure you knew nearly everything about the other.

Instead of getting to know each other, like any sane pair would, you instead made Kahoots.

“Score!” Jaehyun yowls. “I knew you were a One Direction stan.”

“Were, to be clear,” you say. “Also, if you read the reviewer and didn’t just wing it, you’d have gone through this Kahoot once.”

“You’re a debate champ?!” he asks inquisitively, to which you just grumble a if you read the fucking reviewer you would know, asshat. “In high school,” you add.

“And you can play piano?!”

“Jaehyun, shut up and fucking answer, please. Your lack of knowledge is embarrassing.”

“Would you play me a song, baby?” He coos again. It’s becoming a running joke that you don’t find funny at all, him calling you endearing pet names despite the spite in his gaze.

If you were in a movie, it would’ve been hot. But you’re not. It’s just plain annoying.

“You’re disgusting. Now please answer it. Three questions left and you’re going again.”

“Again?!”

“Only when you get it perfectly will we stop. Next question. What are my dogs’ names?”

“Elton, John, and Stevie…Stevie, Elton, Nicks…Fleetwood, Elton—these names are so weird!”

“Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and Stevie Nicks are anything but weird,” you retaliate sharply. “Can you please just try to answer already?”

“Okay, okay,” he says, “I’ll give it a shot and say”—he clicks on the fourth option, which you had put for the hell of it—“RIP, That, and Pussy.”

You can’t help but laugh, peals of giggles escaping your mouth at the way Jaehyun says the words so formally. “I hate you,” you say in between laughs, “you can never take shit seriously!”

He’s laughing, too, and you hide your face from view, watching his smile stretch slowly over his face, deep laughter escaping him. His hoodie is thrown over his head, and you beam a little at the way he laughs, but you clear your throat.

“‘Kay, finish it,” you grumble. “If we’re gonna ace this dating thing, we can’t fuck anything up.”

—

“You’re fucking everything up,” grumbles Jaehyun, running a hand through his hair.

From your place seated on his kitchen counter, you sigh. “I’m sorry,” you bite, “it’s just…it’s a weird scene. I’m getting jitters.” You flip through the script again, biting your lip anxiously.

Your practice had gone off without a hitch—not even an argument began since you stepped foot, for the second time, into Jaehyun’s apartment. You had successfully exhausted through the first half of the play, reciting both your lines so well you were sure Doyoung would’ve teared up.

Now, nearing the climax of the play, your scenes are getting more and more intimate. You’re beginning to notice that the dreaded kiss scene is just a three page flips away, and that if you and Jaehyun were going to work at this pace, you’d arrive there by tonight. In approximately five minutes.

“Are you stalling?” He asks, a hint of a smile rippling on his lips. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie.

“No,” you say tartly, shaking your head. “God, let’s just…let’s take it from this line.” You point at an earlier line to buy yourself more time.

“Alright, uh…” his voice changes as he slips into character. “Lucy, are you that clueless?”

“I’m not,” you say, making sure to follow Doyoung’s notes that read SAY MEEKLY. You absentmindedly think of how Lucy sounds like a total dumbass.

“Are you sure? Because right now, there’s only one thing I want to do.” You simultaneously flip the page, and your heart races.

“What is it, Matt? Tell me. Tell me, now. Because I’ve loved you since I first met you. I know you inside out. But you’re breaking my heart.”

“I’d hate to do that, Luce. You mean so much to me. And what I want to do…”

“Nevermind. Don’t. You might just end up hurting me.” God, this Lucy is a total lady boner killer. Boner killer in general.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Look at me.”

You glance up at him, and he’s looking at you. He takes another glimpse at his script and picks up where he left off. “Lucy, I…you’re so beautiful.”

“Matt…”

“Let me…please, Luce. Let me kiss you.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” you say quietly, and then it’s silent.

KISS HERE is written in Doyoung’s penmanship. You gaze at it a little too long, fumbling with the corner of your script. “So, I guess we’re supposed to—”

“—kiss,” he says. He takes a step closer to you, his hand landing beside your thigh. “Better now than never.”

“It’s better late, actually,” you breathe. “Better late than never.”

“You never shut up, do you?” he chuckles, his face inches apart from yours. His gaze drops to your lips and a chorus of butterflies shoot up your stomach.

“No,” you say, and the air in the room is so quiet you swear you could just kiss him and nobody would ever know. You kind of want to…test it out. You want to test it out, not kiss him.

“I’ll shut you up just fine,” he says in a low voice. He’s so close now, and you’re beginning to observe his face from this angle—his nice, growing black hair, his thick eyebrows, the crinkle in his eyes. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip, his stare unrelenting as you fumble for an additional response. The way he looks at you elicits no coherent thought from you and you find yourself nodding, lost in the moment. He nods back before leaning forward, and then

“No!” You yelp, placing your hands on his shoulders. It happens so fast. “Stop, just—ah, I can’t, um.”

The moment essentially gone, Jaehyun sighs. He shakes his head with a laugh, pulling away. “Oh, my God. Why are you so worked up? W—oh, my god. Was that going to be your first kiss?”

“Jaehyun, no! It’s possible that I just don’t want to kiss you, you know.” Your cheeks are warm despite the words that leave your mouth

“You’re going to have to kiss me, you know that, right?”

“I know, let’s…can we just skip it?” You grumble, pushing him even further and skipping past the kiss scene.

—

“Dating…” Doyoung says, a hint of suspicion in his tone. “Don’t think I didn’t pick up on how you broke this news to me right after I stripped you of your creative suits and bodies.”

What the fuck? you mouth to Jaehyun, who hides a laugh behind his fist. He clears his throat and replies. “Doie, it was news we were nervous to talk about, y’know? We’re both really happy. A few squabbles shouldn’t get in the way of that.” Dramatically, he takes your hand and you interlock your fingers.

“I’ve seen Jaehyun work onstage,” you say, and you distractedly note how there’s a hint of honesty in what you’re saying, “and he’s immensely talented. He wows me. And seeing him get…what was it? Yes, stripped of his creative suit and body brought me pain. So I’m here pleading for a second chance for him. For us.”

You’ve luckily appealed to Doyoung’s romantic heart, judging by the way he swoons at your words and leans in towards both of you to wrap you in a makeshift group hug. “I love this. Vivacious energy! Seriously! Rehearse, five minutes tops.”

“A college senior possessed by middle aged drama teacher,” you comment, and Jaehyun laughs as he pulls out his script, untangling your hands. Gulping air, you reach for yours and take a seat beside him on the floor as you begin to rehearse again.

Midway through the practice, Jaehyun’s phone dings, and he whips it out.

“Doie texted, said he’s gonna be late. Also sent me a scanned flyer for this soiree the Columbia theatre organization is holding in two weeks.” He angles his phone so you can see the decked out poster and the details, nodding in understanding.

“We should go,” he says.

“You should, yeah, I’m sure lots of theatre execs are going to show up.”

“I said we,” he repeats. “We should go, together.”

Your heart begins to race, your mouth opening to form a coherent response. “I, um, theatre.”

“Huh?” He looks up at you, his brow quirked.

“I—why, I mean. I’ll see if I can, I guess.” Nice save, you say to yourself.

She looks like a fool, Jaehyun thinks, getting up to stretch. “Let’s start practicing standing up, yeah?”

“Cool, cool,” you nod, following suit, still reeling over your awesome save.

—

“Oh, my God, just fuck him!” whisper-yells Ryujin. “You sound like a desperate animal. I hear enough of this from Haech. Honestly.”

“Enough of what?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, the mindless, nonsensical whining about how you hate him so bad but are terribly aroused by him,” spouts Renjun as he takes a seat beside you, sliding three beers across the table. “Come on, have we really lapsed all the way back to square one? Just fuck the guy, damn.”

“Okay, no. Also, I—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll give you my input,” Haechan says proudly, evoking groans out of everyone else, “and my input, which is always superior, actually…agrees. Just hit it and leave. I do that a lot and trust me, it saves you all the gooey feelings. Plus, sex is awesome!”

“Haechan, stop before I projectile vomit all over our booth,” you counter.

“At this point, I’m going to puke all over this booth from how dense you sound. Idiot,” Ryujin mutters. “I mean, I’m serious when I say your problem, which has been clouding your brain for weeks now, is so easy, and it’s just getting easier to solve. Now, you’re fake dating. You’re going to have a kiss scene. I mean, is it really that hard?”

“Hard,” snickers Haechan, earning him a slap from Renjun.

“Why do you guys think I want to fuck him so bad?” You take a swig of your beer. “He’s hot, I’ll give you that, and funny. Cute, and talented. But no to fucking him. Haven’t you guys witnessed the bullying I go through?”

“Okay, bullying is a stretch,” Renjun retorts, “and also, it’s very clear in your nonverbal actions that you want to hit it. Real good.”

“Hit it and quit it,” Ryujin adds.

“Oh, sure,” you quip, nodding mockingly. “Sure! I’ll totally fuck him because that’s what sane people do. Fuck people they’re awfully annoyed by.”

“Okay, case closed!” Haechan yells, “Now can we focus on my problem?”

“We talked about that for a solid 45 minut—”

He cuts Renjun off with a melodramatic sigh. “Why won’t Aria sleep with me? I’m not being creepy, and I’ve hit on her just once. Y’know, there’s this guy I know from class who had this Psychology paper and fell in love with his partner. It was so sweet, you guys. It makes me think about how deserving I am of love. Right?”

“I have so many questions,” says Ryujin, tongue-tied.

“Then ask away, amigos!”

—

“And that’s a wrap, lovebirds. In two days I’ll hope to see the wondrous kiss scene, and the soiree is coming up soon, too! Have a good three day break, you guys.” Doyoung remarks with a smile, ushering you and Jaehyun out of the auditorium. “Now get out of my sight.”

The door shuts heavily behind you, leaving you alone with Jaehyun for what seems like the millionth time. “Ended rehearsals early again today,” he whistles lowly. “Wanna practice at my place?”

Glorified booty call… Haechan’s voice rings in your head. You’ve already accepted too much of these offers. You probably look like a fool.

“No, I’m, uh, I gotta go do stuff. Errands. I’m glad it ended early, so.” A forced chuckle escapes your lips.

“Right, okay. I’ll see you.”

He’s curt and polite and sharp when he wants to be, a jarring contrast to the flirt you’d spent so much time having to tolerate. He walks away quickly, leaving you all alone. Sighing, you figure you haven’t had much time to yourself anyway and begin the walk to your dorm. On the way, you decide it doesn’t hurt to get coffee and enter a cafe you haven’t tried out yet.

“I’m Chan, how may I serve you today,” the Aussie barista says, his tone awfully bored despite his smile. “Could I interest you in our newest pastries?”

“Just, uh, give me whatever. And a cold brew.”

“A cold brew and whatever, coming right up.”

“Thanks. I’ve had a shit day. Sorry.”

“Let me guess, you’ve got a huge crush on your enemy,” he jokes, and your heart freezes at the slight (not slight at all) accuracy of his comment. When he notices the lack of response, he quirks a brow. “I was kidding.”

“I know, but it’s a little accurate,” you say offhandedly. Half true.

“Really? ‘Cause a couple months ago, a girl here would always tell me about how much she hated this guy, and…well, they’re dating.” He slides your order in front of you casually and beeps on the register. “But, eh. That’ll be $15.99.”

“$15.99 for this tiny croissant,” you say dryly.

“Capitalism rules,” he says. “Tip jar?”

You drop a wad of dollars and leave, walking back in the direction of your dorm and letting your thoughts run loose. There are definitely things to get straight in your head, but you save them for a time where you’re actually capable of dealing with them. Still, thoughts concerning Jaehyun race through your mind.

You’re so engrossed in the series of thoughts that you don’t think twice to swing your door open and

“—oh my God, we agreed the dorm’s off limits on Tuesdays for me and Fridays for you!” Your very obviously busy roommate yells and you shut the door immediately. “Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, Karina! I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry!”

“It’s—it’s fine,” she mutters loudly from inside. “I was—hold on.” There’s shuffling and then she opens the door herself, wrapped in a blanket. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

You rack your head. Ryujin, in New Jersey visiting her dad. Haechan, big Econ presentation. Renjun, at a weird film club gathering. Not close enough to Yangyang or Mark. Too much weird tension with Giselle. Lucas?…is my literal ex. Motel? Too shady. Hotel? Too pricey. Ask the rich freshman Chenle? No, we shared a blunt one time, not close enough.

“Yes! Totally! I just needed…my cute bra.”

Karina’s face morphs into one of giddy understanding. “You’re getting laid. Finally!”

You ignore the finally and smile sheepishly as she lets you in, trying to ignore the sentient huddle of blanket on what is very obviously your bed. You fish out the first bra you find, your black lace, and Karina digs into her drawers and pushes a bundle of cloth into your grip. “Works like a charm,” she winks. “Good luck. Tell me all about it!”

You let yourself out with a feeble smile, stuffing the useless clothing into your bag. You call up the most dreaded person on your contact list, having already considered every other option. It’s either a hotel (bad), a public place (worse), or your parents’ house (not even a question.)

“Jaehyun,” you mutter when the line clicks open, “listen, can you do me a favor?”

—

“You’re lucky Johnny and Jungwoo are out,” is the first thing you hear when the door opens. Behind Jaehyun is an obvious setup of a makeshift bed on his sofa and a beer bottle on the coffee table.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, frustrated. “I walked in on intercourse today and I can’t get the image out of my head. All I need to do is just crash and leave in the morning.”

“Ouch,” he says, mocking hurt and cupping his chest. “I open my humble lodgings to a pretty girl I hate and all I get is oh, shut up.”

A flutter of nerves surge through you at his nonchalant remark, but you groan and shake your head anyway, picking up the beer. “Thank you for the free beer, but I’m really just interested in kicking the two days off I have from school. Not to say that this is an ideal way to spend it, in your apartment, but…”

“It suffices,” he says. “I get it. Get some sleep.”

“Woah, what? It’s 7PM, dude. I sleep at midnight the earliest.”

“And I’m supposed to, what…? Entertain you before that?”

“Well,” you stumble over your words, “no, but at least, I dunno—cook me popcorn?”

He laughs mirthlessly. “Good luck. The popcorn timer on our microwave is broken.”

“How can a button be broken? And why can’t you just do it manually?”

“Why don’t you shut up and try,” he grumbles, walking over the few steps to the small kitchen, pulling a cabinet open and tossing a packet of buttered popcorn to you.

“Okay,” you say confidently, walking to the elevated microwave and plugging it in. Ripping the plastic off, you pop the packet in and press the Popcorn button once before waiting.

“Are you—” Jaehyun cuts himself off and begins to double over in laughter, much to your confusion. “Are you kidding?! What kind of dweeb forgets to double press the timer button?!”

“What.” You deadpan.

“You press it twice,” he says. “Duh.”

“You press it once,” you say sharply. “You’ve been cooking your popcorn for six minutes. Duh.”

“That’s exactly how long it should be,” he says, confused.

“Have you never made popcorn before, little Jaehyun? Do you need written instructions? Or are you just a natural at burning popcorn?”

“Shut up,” he protests. “I…Johnny told me it works that way.”

“Idiot. So agreed—never listen to Johnny again?” The popcorn timer dings and a delicious bag is extracted and torn open by you.

He nods with a raucous laugh. “Yeah, that checks. Let me get a beer.”

In just fifteen minutes you find yourself sprawled cross-legged on the floor, a bowl of popcorn and not just beer, but the bottle of vodka Jaehyun had set between the two of you. “I am not drinking, especially not that kind of alcohol, and especially not around you,” you say in between chews of popcorn.

“Mm, suit yourself. I’m just glad I can finally sleep in tomorrow.”

“Eh, you seem like the type to oversleep everyday,” you say with a small smile.

“I’ll have you know I get up at 7 to go to the gym. Is this you trying to get a peek at my flaming hot bod?”

“Please, never say the words flaming hot bod in my presence ever again,” you say contemptuously, taking a swig and then opening your phone. “Aw, shit, it’s just 7:20? Yeah, definitely not drinking vodka.”

“Just drink,” he grumbles, pouring himself a shot. “And let’s play a game, baby.”

Baby baby baby baby pretty girl pretty girl pre “You need to learn how to shut up.”

And yet, by some twist of fate, you end up taking a few shots yourself—four, to be exact, while the amused guy across you opts to just take two. And by an even weirder twist of fate, you’re finding yourself smack dab in the middle of a truth or dare game that involves a plethora of giggling, groaning, and Jaehyun, shut ups—more than you can handle tonight. But, and maybe you would only admit this to yourself when 100% sober, you were having a lot of fun.

“It’s quiet,” you say suddenly, “Jaehyun, play music.” He nods in agreement and heaves himself up to connect his phone to his Alexa, and in a matter of minutes the living room is filling with the sounds of

“Do not play Hamilton, Jaehyun! Seriously, who even plays Hamilton? Are you white?”

“It’s a good play with good songs with good bars,” he argues, starting to sing along. “How does a ragtag volunteer army in need of a shower, somehow defeat a global superpow..”

“Please, for the love of God, change the song, Jae,” you groan, “after the wave of Lin Manuel Miranda memes that surfaced last year, this is the last thing I need.”

He mutters disagreeably but a few seconds pass before you hear something you can’t quite recognize flow through the speaker, and you deem it good enough. (As long as it doesn’t have a collection of raps about founding fathers, you’re good.) He takes a seat across you again, reaching over to pour his third shot.

“Oh, I know this song,” you say begrudgingly. “This was playing in the background when I fought with Jaemin Na over a blunt. The party ceased the entire truth or dare game just because we were getting loud.”

“Trauma to 2 Chainz much,” Jaehyun teases. “And speaking of truth or dare, it’s your turn. Truth or dare, go.”

“Dare,” you say, “for America!”

“Okay, miss patriotic. Bag raid!” he jeers, stretching his arm out to claim your tote bag, which lay haphazardly on the floor next to you. Three rounds prior, you had raided his bag, which he fetched from his room, and your haul was extensive. You had fished out gym clothes, cologne, pens, a Biology textbook (“you’re a business major, Jaehyun.” “I like branching out.”) and, most notably of all, three XL condoms.

(“Aww, three XL condoms, little Jaehyun, wrong size?”

“Er…yeah, totally.”

“It’s okay.”)

“Hit me. There’s nothing at all incriminating in there. Study stuff. My script. My glasses case, and my spare clip,” you rack your head for your inventory, knowing one of your greatest prides is your organized bag that is full of the same things, always.

“Oh, and my eye contact solution. My AirPods, my phone charger, I didn’t bring my Mac today, so—”

“So you could make space for these, huh?”

Your gaze snaps up fast, and already your body is welling up with anticipation. It quickly sizzles out into humiliation and dread when you see him holding, in one hand, your black lace bra, and on the other, a mortifyingly short plaid skirt, that you now realize was handed to you by Karina. The skirt is so short, it leaves essentially nothing to the imagination, and you’re getting flustered yourself just looking at the articles of clothing.

Very incriminating clothing.

“Give those back,” you say once your thoughts are done running their course. “Those aren’t mine!”

“Aww, is someone shy?” Jaehyun laughs, examining them in further detail. “A Victoria’s Secret tag—did you get this on sale? Are you a regular?”

“Jaehyun,” you whine, before gaining resolve and concocting a plan. You sit up straighter. “Fine. Hold onto those all you want. Truth or dare?”

“I feel like I should be saying truth…so dare!”

“Great. Easy as pie. Put on the bra.”

His face following your words is one you wish you could take a snapshot of and cherish forever. The horror, the shock—you’re not ashamed to admit you take pleasure in it. A smile spreads across your face as he splutters over a possible response.

“Go ahead, go,” you say. “Scared you won’t look good? Scared you’ll lose your macho?”

“Wait, what—no! I look damn good in skimpy clothing,” he says. “I’m scared it’s going to break. Or worse, you’re going to make me go out in nothing but the bra. And bottoms.”

“It won’t break,” you say, “you’re a twig, kind of.”

“Well, yeah, but, no.” he mutters. “Well, here goes nothing.” He plants his hands on the back of his shirt and he tugs it forward before you can even protest. Your mouth opens to form your dissent, but your words catch in your throat, your eyes fixated on his bare torso, him in nothing but his gray sweatpants, his chain dangling as he moves to get the bra.

He is no twig, kind of.

“Stupid clasp,” he says, pulling the bra on and poorly attempting to clasp it at the back.

“Clasp in fr—um, you can clasp it in front and then, um, bring it back,” you stammer, ripping your gaze away from his body.

“Cat got your tongue?” He teases, and looks away instantly to follow your tip, thankfully saving him the sight of your flustered face. You witness his struggle to clasp the loosest hook (“I can barely see these damn hooks”) but eventually you have at least thirty demeaning pictures of him on your phone and he takes the bra off, though not without at least fifteen exclamations of Be careful, Jaehyun!

He does not put his shirt back on, instead choosing to pour himself another shot. You feel like downing at least ten more.

“Truth or dare,” he says after he swallows the shot, raising a brow at you. You suddenly feel small, a little more bashful in his presence, so you try to let go of your anxieties and inhibitions and shake your head to get it straight.

“Er, dare, I guess.”

“We haven’t picked truth since the first round,” laments Jaehyun.

“Because when I picked truth you asked me a super weird hypothetical question and I’m traumatized! Also, people who pick truth all the time are boring.”

“Touche,” he muses. “Skirt.”

“Hmm?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from his torso for the millionth time. “What?”

“Skirt. Wear it. That’s your dare.” He picks up the tiny piece of clothing and tosses it, making sure it hits you right in the face. Your body floods with embarrassment at the possibility of him seeing you in such a compromised outfit, but you deem your sweater large enough to make it lean more towards cute on the cute/slutty scale.

“Okay,” you whistle, taking a shot. “Can I at least change somewhere else?”

“Bathroom’s over there,” Jaehyun says smugly, pointing to a corner in between the living room and the kitchen. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“I’d love to do just that,” you retort bitingly before walking over to the bathroom, swinging it open and leaning yourself against it.

You barely know what time it is—probably still early, maybe 9 or 10—but you’re pleasantly buzzed, and the fact that Jaehyun never bothered to turn all the lights on is making you all hot and bothered.

“Fuck,” you mumble, pulling your jeans down, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” You mumble the incoherent blasphemy all the way until you’re finally zipping up the back of the skirt. There’s no full length mirror, and you really can’t be bothered to climb onto the toilet and try to get a good view of your ass, so you leave it to fate to decide if you look a.) cute, b.) slutty, or c.) just weird.

You’re answered immediately when you step outside and Jaehyun turns to you, his mouth open, probably readily forming a witty observation. His eyes rake over you slowly and you try your best to come up with a sarcastic remark before he can. Your mouth is suddenly dry just looking at him looking at you.

“You look cute,” is what he manages to come up with, standing up and nearing you.

“Cute? I look like a fool,” you groan. “You asked me to put this on. Probably to satiate your freaky nympho fantasies.”

You’re confident in your derisive comments, but he weakens you immediately.

“You want me to fantasize about you so bad,” he teases, and it’s sarcastic but you can’t help the throb of arousal that courses through you.

“Shut up, Jaehyun,” you breathe instead, letting him walk over to you several steps until your back collides with the kitchen counter.

“I’m just having fun, baby,” he says, his face inches apart from yours. “You’re having fun, right? You want this?”

“S—so bad,” you whisper. What? What the fuck? Was that the best you could come up with?

“You’re so cute,” he murmurs, his breath sending heatwaves across your skin. His hand appears on your waist, hiking up your sweater. “You’re so quiet now, hmm?”

“Jaehyun,” you murmur, trailing your hand up to grasp his chain, “please.”

“Thought you loved riling me up,” he chuckles, leaning in until his lips are pressed against your neck, pulling your sweater down to expose more of it. “Where’d all that fight go?” You whimper at the kisses on your neck, your hands going from his chain to his hair. You tug at it until his attention is on you.

“‘M…I want a kiss,” you whine, and God if you don’t sound like an absolute weirdo.

“A kiss?” He coos, a smirk spreading across his lips. “You want a kiss?” You nod feverishly, tugging on his hair again and making him hiss. He leans in again, closer this time, and impatient as ever, you’re the one who closes the gap, kissing him softly. He deepens it, though, his hand hiking up your sweater fully so he can touch you all over underneath it.

He brings it back down to lift you up and sit you fully on the counter, trailing his touch lower.

A choked whimper escapes you and you break the kiss, meeting Jaehyun’s amused gaze with your pleading one. “Do you like this?” He asks, his thumb grazing over your clothed core. “I know you do. ‘M sorry. I couldn’t help myself, you’re so cute, this little number is driving me crazy.”

“I—” you take in a sharp breath, letting your actions speak for themselves. The strained mewl that leaves your mouth and your incessant, slow nodding is enough to let Jaehyun know that yes, you like it. He trails his touch higher, and you part your thighs, emitting a laugh from him. “That’s a good girl,” he murmurs quietly.

The anticipation in your body crackles as he pushes your underwear aside and swipes up your entrance, your hands moving from his hair to his broad shoulders in a feeble attempt to gain leverage. And sanity.

“Ah, ah,” you choke out at the teasing, the slow, drawn-out mocking of your state of arousal. He abruptly pushes two fingers into you, eliciting a whimper from your lips as you dig your fingers into his shoulders.

Your mouth hung open, your sweater too hot, you try clawing it off to get some cool air. You’re cut off by him pushing his fingers in and out, chuckling at your predicament.

“Come on, provoke me,” he quips. “Pretty girl can’t fight back now that she’s got some fingers stuffed up her pussy, hmm?”

“J—Jaehyun!” you wail, gripping his arm.

“What do you want? Greedy little girl,” he muses against your hair. You let out a splutter and fumble for a new place to grip, finding his arm and holding it tightly to keep yourself grounded. “F—faster, Jaehyun, please.”

At your plea, Jaehyun doesn’t hold back in fucking you, quickening his pace until your toes are curling, your thighs trembling at the force of his ministrations. Gasps leave you intermittently as you scramble for a way to voice your pleasure, pulling him close to kiss him again only to moan brokenly against his lips. You let out a broken whimper, your head rolling forward to lean against his shoulder. “Come on, I know you like this, angel,” he grins wickedly, “come for me, I know you want to. You look so cute falling apart on my fingers, makes me want to split you open.”

“Do it,” you whine.

“Yeah?” he nods, “Wanna get split open on my cock, don’t you?” That does it for you, your entire body seizing up as your grip returns to the back of his neck, pulling at the hair there and drawing a hiss out of Jaehyun. Your body experiences an entire overload of senses as you twitch, coming down from your high and back to reality. You feebly register Jaehyun slipping his fingers into your mouth and you suck instantly, tasting your own arousal; your cheeks heat up in shame of how wet they are.

“You okay?” he asks, and you nod once, breathing slowly. You suddenly feel stuffy, like you did something incredibly insanely stupid. And then—oh God. You just did something incredibly insanely stupid.

“No need to return the favor,” he chuckles, “I…let me get you a pair of, um. Sweats, okay?”

“O—okay,” you pant, “I want to, though.”

“Really? I—”

Your already short-lived conversation is cut off by the abrupt ringing of Jaehyun’s phone, startling you both. He jogs over to where it rests on his couch and you hop off the counter, hissing at the numbness in your legs and tugging your sweater back down to regain a semblance of dignity.

“Yeah, I’m—what?” Jaehyun’s expression morphs into one of confusion, and then mild panic. “Jungwoo, you okay? Hello? Oh. I thought you were sleeping at Giselle’s tonight. Yeah, no, I…fuck. I’m home, yeah. Okay. I’ll see you both.” He hangs up, pocketing his phone and looking back at you. “Listen, um, Johnny and Jungwoo are going to sleep here, I dunno why they abandoned their original plan. But it’s okay! You can sleep here still, on the couch. I’m going to go get your sweats and I’ll be back.”

He leaves you there for a moment, and you take a minute to drink it in: your disheveled hair, flimsy skirt and uncomfortably damp underwear, shaky legs, bleary head, and the fact on top of it all that you had allowed Jaehyun Jung, annoying guy/fake boyfriend, to finger-fuck you on his kitchen counter.

Like clockwork, the playlist switches and as an accompaniment to your embarrassed, aroused feeling, My Shot from the Hamilton soundtrack begins to play.

—

“Hamilton? Hamilton was your moment of shame background music? This is gold!” Haechan’s flippant voice rings throughout your ears, snapping you out of your reverie. You roll your eyes and take a shameful swig of beer. “Let me guess the song. Was it Schuyler Sisters?”

“It was M—”

“Let me guess!” He persists. “It was Guns and Ships, wasn’t it? It was a rap song. More than one person sang on it. I know far too much about Hamilton,” he sighs. “Was it…Ten Duel Commandm—”

“Haechan, it was My Shot,” you groan. At that, both Ryujin and Renjun, who had previously attempted to hold in their own laughs to the point of being redfaced, join Haechan and let out guffaws of laughter, much to your disappointment. “A solo song?!” Renjun jeers, “imagine that! Oh wait—you don’t have to!”

“Oh, ha ha,” you snap. “You’re acting like this is way funnier than it is.”

“Because it is,” Ryujin says, her voice overridden by laughter. “But, okay, pause on that. What are you now? Like—with you and Jaehyun. I mean, there was that fake relationship, right? But you dislike his guts, right…?”

“Right,” you say, way too quickly. “But nothing’s awkward between us. So I couldn’t return the favor. It’s fine! It’s just…we’re just—no. We’re not even pretending like nothing happened. Only lame people do that, haha. We’re just going back into the normal swing of things—practice, et cetera, fake it in front of people from theatre club, blah, blah. It’s all very standard, really.”

“You’re leaving him with blue balls,” Haechan protests. “I feel for the guy.”

“You’re totally pretending nothing happened,” Ryujin says, swatting Haechan in the arm. “I mean, this whole handjob thing happened last week when I was up at NJ and every time you meet us at the bar, you never mention that you guys ever talked about it. Pretending, pretending.”

“I prefer the term actively choosing to move on,” you say smartly.

“Yeah, total bullshit, dude,” Renjun says over a swig. “I’m sorry, but Ryu’s right. You’re stalling, both of you, because it’ll add too much awkwardness to your already complicated relationship. Acknowledging the handjob means you’re inviting feelings to be felt. So you’re leaving it in the air so you can just pretend it never happened.”

“That is so not true! Very fake,” you complain, knowing it’s very true and not at all fake.

Thing is, you were very aware that you were actively ignoring what happened. You had instigated the ignoring. The morning after the whole skirt fiasco, you had woken up at 8:30 to Johnny and Jungwoo having a dance battle in front of you and scarring you for life—before Jaehyun quickly pulled you away to give you an Advil and a “talk.” It was obvious that he wanted to converse about what would become of the two of you after what you both pulled last night, but in your bleary stupor, you were scared and shut him up by saying “It’s all good, I don’t think we should talk about it yet.”

Stupid.

“You know we trust you to talk to him about it before someone gets hurt,” Ryujin says calmly, and you roll your eyes dismissively.

“Gets hurt? What is this, a committed relationship?” You scoff. “Jaehyun and I knew what we were getting into. A simple setback isn’t going to affect us in any way. It’s just a setback. Simple, minor setback. No need to talk.”

“Just a need to fuck. A need to fuck, a need to fuck,” Haechan attempts to begin a chant, but Renjun only hurls the cap of his beer bottle toward him and Ryujin chucks half an onion ring.

“Okay, okay, shut up. Guys, the soiree thing is tomorrow, so Ryu, I need your help to prepare an outfit. Jaehyun is picking me up, and we are going to have a great time.”

“Where is this mysterious, enigmatic creature now?” Haechan questions, adapting an awfully botched British accent for literally no reason at all. You roll your eyes before quietly telling them the answer.

“Where?” Renjun asks, brows furrowing. “You’re being so damn quiet.”

“Um, he’s going to come here.”

“Here, here?” Ryujin asks.

“Yes. Like, now.”

“Now, now?” Haechan asks, a giddy grin forming on his face. “I’m going to get to meet my fellow Hamilton-natic! Jaehyun is joining this gang! I wonder who gets his call slut card first. My bet, Renjun.”

“Woah, woah,” Ryujin coughs, “absolutely n—wait, why is he coming here?”

“He wanted to come see me”—you fumble for a save, knowing it sounds too sweet—“interact with you guys. He wanted to come see me interact with you guys. Yup. He thinks you guys are a real hoot, so he wanted to, um, buy us all beers and fries and play around—joke around with us. With you. With me—with us. With you.”

Silence.

“He misses you, doesn’t he?” Haechan teases, his eyebrows wiggling. “Well, I don’t mind. Free booze, huh? Am I right? Up top. Down low. Anybody?”

“Nobody is high fiving you,” deadpans Ryujin before turning to you. “He’s coming here now because he wants to see you, doesn’t he?”

You shake your head feverishly, making up some fib about how Jaehyun is enamored by your group of friends, but before you can delve in any further, you spot him at the entrance and wave him over. “Be good. Ryujin, turn down the bitch notch. Renjun, you’re cool already. Haechan…don’t talk.”

“I won’t talk, I’ll hurrah,” he says quickly before shutting himself up, politely shaking Jaehyun’s hand. “Jaehyun, Jae, Hyun—what’s your preferred nickname?”

A flood of embarrassment courses through you as you attempt to subtly kick Haechan’s shin. When Renjun doubles over in pain, you apologize quietly and try again, tuning out the inane conversation the entire time. “You can call me Jae, if you’d like,” the elder says with a forced laugh, which Haechan takes as an open admission of bro-ship.

“Jae. You can call me Haech. Hell, you can call me bro.”

“Okay, bro,” Jaehyun says, sliding next to you. Haechan takes a spare chair and positions it at the middle of the table, his full attention on your fake boyfriend. “I heard from a little birdie that you are a Hamilfan, and hell, so am I! I love the thing! Could I get you a beer?”

“Actually, the next round’s on me,” offers Jaehyun with a small smile. Haechan nearly tears up, stumbling over his words of thanks and taking the bills from Jaehyun’s grip before jogging to the counter to order. Jaehyun turns to you again after a second, pulling something out of his bag that you quickly register as—

“Oh my God, you actually went and bought it? The White Album by Joan Didion. I love this book.” You place your hands on the book and in your mild excitement, you can’t register that your hands are atop his: lately, you guys have been partaking in a lot of physical affection.

“I know, that’s why I got it,” he quips excitedly. “It’s really good so far. You owe me a list of recommendations.”

“Okay, fine,” you grumble half-heartedly, a small smile playing on your lips. “I didn’t think you’d actually go and read it.”

“You seemed really giddy about it, so I gave it a try.”

“Okay. Idiot.”

“Ehem, lovebirds!” Comes a choked cry from across you. Quickly, you rip your hands away and clear your throat to face the cunning faces of your sensible friends. “Ryujin Shin,” she says, stretching her hand for shaking, which Jaehyun gingerly accepts. “I’m studying to become a criminal defense attorney. Which means that I am a glorified cop. That’s supposed to instil fear in you.”

“Fear instilled,” Jaehyun says with a forced laugh that actually sounds scared. Renjun goes next, introducing himself quietly. “I’m a film major, which means I’m going to go broke unless I decide to take a life-draining corporate route or work at somewhere like BuzzFeed, which, when you think about it, is the same thing.”

“I’m new to this, but I’m guessing your dynamic is sensible”—he points to the three of you—“and deranged?” He finishes by pointing to Haechan, to which all of you nod quickly. “Haechan is a great friend, don’t get me wrong. Don’t get us wrong. But he can be a little…”

“He’s an elusive man-whore,” you comment. “But if you’re sad, he’s the first one at your door.”

“A loud bully,” Renjun adds, “but buys the most thoughtful Christmas presents.”

“An airhead,” Ryujin muses. “But is always at the top of his Econ classes.”

Jaehyun nods, clearly impacted by your brief soliloquy. “So he’s everything and nothing? Woah, that got deep.”

“And yet, you’re right. Hey, how about get the right beer next time, you nympho?!” Ryujin hollers when Haechan finally shows up brandishing five bottles of beer. He merely rolls his eyes and Ryujin allows it, scoffing while she takes a swig. “So, the big soiree tomorrow,” she asks with a suggestively raised brow.

“Yep, and that’s where we’re leaving that subject,” you say with a stuffy giggle, knowing that if it continues, it might—worst case scenario—spiral into a conversation about the dreaded skirt-handjob catastrophe that happened a week earlier. Ryujin waves you off and begins talking about theatre, after which Jaehyun perks up.

“I’m a business major, so theatre wasn’t necessarily in my plan. I knew I wanted to make something out of myself in the business world like my dad did, which meant joining his company.” Daddy issues much, Haechan mouths in your direction. “I know it sounds really convenient, but I felt stuck in my first year, and that’s when I started becoming a set painter. I’m no good at art, but I can sing pretty well, so I started getting understudy roles and building myself up until I got minor roles and then a lead in an off-Broadway indie play that got no viewers. This spring play is my biggest stint yet, and if it goes well, I might actually start making a career out of this. Which, and, well—not to say that business is, like, sucking the life out of me. If I’ll have to, I will join my dad’s co…”

And then a weird thing happens. Something so weird but something you know all too well as you tune out everyone else in the room and focus only on him. You barely know him. But the fake dating thing wasn’t such a bust. But it’s just a crush. Well, nobody’s calling it that yet. But he’s so handsome when he’s talking about his passion. Well, it’s not a goddamn crush.

“Right?” Jaehyun asks. You blink, and suddenly everyone’s looking at you expectantly for some type of response.

“Um, yes.” You stammer dumbly, and they all nod knowingly, a murmur of agreement passing through the table. You smile to support your “yes”, although you don’t know jackshit about what you’re supposed to be supporting. (Later, Ryujin tells you Jaehyun said something dumb about semantics. You were half sure we was just testing out if you were distracted or not. Which, well. You were.)

—

“Ahhh, my hair, Renjun—please, stay at least a meter away from me.”

“A meter? Sorry, I’ve been conditioned to the non-metric system.”

“Ugh, and I don’t know anything about it! Just. Stay far,” you grumble, shooing him away and paying attention to your hair again. All around you, your room is in a chaotic mess: your six dress choices, three shoe choices, your flat iron, your vast array of makeup, and your three best friends, who all happen to be tipsy despite it being a literal Wednesday night. Originally, the plan was for Karina and Ryujin to help you, but when Karina texted a sheepish Overtime at the chem lab!! :P I’m so sorry! you had only Ryujin. Said Ryujin then made a lame excuse about “needing reinforcements and booze” and then proceeded to invite Haechan and Renjun into your dorm room to get sloshed.

“You’re all useless,” you groan, clasping your earring on. “It’s 7:30. Jaehyun’s due to pick me up soon, and I can’t have him showing up to this mother of messes.”

“Don’t vorry,” Haechan says, now using a nonsensical Russian accent. “I gauht it,” he continues, picking up clothes around the room (surprisingly) efficiently while Renjun and Ryujin stand idly behind you, throwing weird compliments at your face.

“Nice shoe strap,” Ryujin slurs. “I will sit down, now.” Both her and Renjun flop onto Karina’s bed.

“Ugh, Karina’s getting home soon, too. Fuck, drunk Ryujin is a mess,” you grumble, “actually, drunk three of you is a mess. Please get yourselves together.” You hike up your dark green dress, hissing in frustration as you jab your heeled foot into Renjun’s shin. “Jun, my most sensible friend, please sober up and help Haechan clean up.”

“Mmmmffffff,” he responds.

“Renjun!” You retort, kicking him repeatedly until he finally groans inwardly and gets up, nodding. “Okay, okay, I got it, I got it, Ryujin, get up, we have to be decent friends.” He heaves himself up. “You look amazing, by the way.”

“Aww, thanks, drunkard,” you muse faux-sweetly, ready to combat him again but cut off by the knock on the door.

“Shit, that’s Jaehyun,” you cuss, having a very mild, not at all melodramatic panic attack in the mirror. Ryujin gets up from her tipsy daze to help fix your dress and hair, and by the time Haechan pulls the door open, your dorm room is thankfully relatively clean. And of course, on the other side waiting for you is—

“You look gorgeous,” Jaehyun murmurs, his eyes on you. You absently notice that the way his gaze is trained on you isn’t the same one from the skirt fiasco, but instead something a little more real, and you gulp, refusing to look him in the eye. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” you say quietly, taking his hand and not looking back in fear that you’ll witness what seems like, from your peripheral vision, Haechan and Renjun imitating an explicit sexual position.

Once you’re seated in Jaehyun’s car (which he claimed was his for a solid ten minutes before caving and admitting he borrowed it from his friend’s roommate’s friend), a comfortable yet awkward silence settles over the two of you. “Where is this thing?” You ask, fiddling with the strap of your dress. Anything to distract yourself from looking at him driving.

“Er, Columbia. I was—I thought we’d take the subway, but I thought, might as well go all out for this fancy-ass soiree.”

“Who even calls things soirees anymore? Gala would’ve sounded better.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he says, laughing, and you smile for a bit, pursing your lips before he can catch you laughing, too. “Let’s have some fun, yeah?”

You nod, watching New York traffic whiz by (slowly) and passing time by asking each other about your days. “Oh, by the way, I was thinking,” you begin, “I guess we’ll have to be faking us the entire time, right? Because a lot of people know Doie there, and…yeah, I don’t know. We can’t really jeopardize this. There’s a couple weeks-ish before opening night, so.”

“I agree, baby,” he says, and then the air is excruciating again. Evidently, both of you are remembering what happened a week ago. “Anyway, are you excited about anything in particular?” You cough out, fumbling for something else to say.

He hums. “Mini quiches?”

“Right. Champagne for me.”

“You’re a borderline alcoholic,” he jokes. “Fancy shmancy pretentious snooty dinner parties are just your turf. Which is good, because we’re here.” The awkwardness sizzles out as the valet knocks on the car window, and you watch Jaehyun get out before opening your car door. A beat of warmth courses through you at his actions, allowing yourself to smile before taking his arm and walking the steps up to the entrance.

Inside, the large ballroom is chock-full of the city’s finest theatre majors and executives, making it increasingly clear to you that Columbia doesn’t pull punches when it comes to events. Well-lit and flowing with good music, you find yourself basking in the company of other creatives, even spotting your longtime idol, the New York Times crossword editor, Will Shortz.

“OMG. Jaehyun, it’s WillShortztheNewYorkTimescrosswordeditor!”

“You’re freaking out over a crossword editor…?”

You grip his arm tightly, to the point where he sucks in a sharp breath of pain. “Do you want a picture with him?” He says, strained, and you shake your head. “No, I can’t. Never meet your heroes, they say.” He snorts at your remark and the both of you move inward, searching the place for any other familiar face. You’re in no way part of the theatre community, but you can tell—solely by the way his eyes are twinkling and his mouth is spread into a perpetual smile—that Jaehyun is.

“Doie!” You wail quietly when you see him, and he quickly excuses himself from his current conversation to jog over to the two of you. “Really decked out,” you comment, eliciting a flattered laugh from him. And really, he is: for once, he’s not in a big tee and cardigan, but instead in a form-fitting suit.

“How are you lovebirds finding the soiree?”

“Just amazing,” Jaehyun hums, moving his arm from around yours to circling your waist, causing shivers to go up your spine. He pulls you close and you smile to go along with it, much to Doyoung’s pleasure. “You two are so cute. You must be shitting me with how cute you both are. But how about you”—he points to you—“get some mini quiches while I whisk Jaehyun off to meet some high ranking theatre people.”

“Gladly,” you assert, letting Jaehyun loosen his grip around your waist. What you don’t expect, though, is for him to grip your hand and squeeze it once. “See you,” he says with a smile, and Doyoung swoons. (So do you, but.) You quickly excuse yourself to explore the rest of the room, which isn’t hard given its sheer size and all the obscure decorations on the walls. You take a champagne from a walking tray—something you’ve always wanted to do, admittedly—and walk slowly to the large, wide windows and stare out into the city.

The time alone—as alone as you can get, surrounded by people but relatively alone—gives you ample opportunity to think about everything that’s been going on in your life lately. Not just with school, but your internships and your friends, and above all, your entire plight with Jaehyun. Not only had you partaken in a fake relationship with somebody who you annoyed, but you also received a handjob from him and you were pretty sure your stupid heart was turning it into something serious.

Definitely food for thought. Food for thought that requires a lot of champagne to digest. “Ah, fuck,” you mumble. “Bastard.”

“Who, me?” A sly voice asks behind you, a pair of hands creeping around your waist. At the back of your head, you make a grating realization that Jaehyun is acting like this despite the lack of people around you. You lean into his touch anyway, indulging in it while you can, before you retrieve your sane thoughts and pull away, which happens two embarrassingly long minutes later. You turn, champagne glass empty, and offer a smile. “How was the whole meeting Doyoung’s friends thing?”

“I learned that high-class snooty rich people in theatre are no different from high-class snooty rich people in business.”

“You’re talking like your dad isn’t fairly wealthy,” you protest weakly, to which he nods with a laugh. “I know, it’s ironic, blah, blah. Can we sit down?” He gestures to the bench in front of the window, and you nod, letting him lead you there and taking a seat shortly after. “I’m having fun,” you say, “I mean, for somebody who’s not at all involved in this community, it’s not half bad.”

“Agreed,” he says, his eyes perusing the room before stopping on the far left, just a few feet away from you. From where you sit beside him, you can see the nature of his gaze change—from curious and inviting, to one that’s flooded with something unreadable, a little worried. It happens fast after that: his arm goes from slung casually over your shoulder to around your waist again, his movements a little more frantic and overwrought.

“Are you okay?” You ask, but before you can answer, somebody steps in front of you. You look up to see a beautiful girl, blonde hair tied up into a bun and black dress complimenting her figure. She looks stunning, and part of you wishes you’d never seen her tonight. Her gaze is warm and a little unsettling (intimidating, really) but you suck it up and offer a friendly smile, anyway.

She’s standing a bit awkwardly, her left hand curled around her silver clutch. “Um, hi,” she starts, “I’m Stella. Stella Davis. Really weird, stereotypical name, I know,” she laughs, forced. You reach your hand our politely, and she shakes it. “Hello,” you chirp, introducing yourself, “do you and Jaehyun…know each other?”

“Oh, yes. We go way back,” she giggles. “We’re actually…well, we…” Her eyes land on Jaehyun, and you watch him smile, and then he presses an artificial kiss on your forehead.

Oh, no. God, it can’t be.

“…used to…”

It probably is. Judging by the way Jaehyun’s grin gets faker and his grip tighter—the gears click. Oh, God no.

“…date, for a year.”

You freeze in place, your entire body tensing up, your senses and emotions at an ugly war with each other. Suddenly Jaehyun’s grip is more suffocating than comforting, his smile fostering an ugly feeling and not happiness. Suddenly Stella’s gaze is colder, and suddenly, you just want to rip your dress off and chug the entire tray of champagne.

Champagne. Jaehyun, Stella. This entire fucking plan only went on because Jaehyun wanted this girl jealous. This beautiful girl who, for the life of you, wouldn’t ever be jealous because she looks so kind, but you’re fed up and stuffy and you need to rid yourself of every memory you’ve had with Jaehyun Jung before you explode.

“I need to go, to the ladies’ voom. Room,” you stutter, getting up. Hell, you don’t even know where the ladies’ room is. All you know is that you had somehow fooled yourself into thinking something nice was developing between the two of you, but the way he had seized up and acted like a saint when Stella showed up told you essentially all you needed to know. That this was a ploy to make her jealous, take him back, maybe. Who knows? Who knew? You weren’t even sure if it reached that extent. But you knew Jaehyun lied to you.

You get to the balcony, and thankfully this one has steps leading to the entrance, which will eventually lead you back to the safety of your dorm. You don’t need anything right now, and you especially don’t need any tangible reminders of what happened tonight. What you need is to, goddamn it, get out of this fucking dress, and get rid of your hairstyle, and get rid of your heels and your clutch and anything that will remind you of anything remotely related to—

“Don’t go,” Jaehyun says, surfacing behind you. You spare him no glance, taking this as a cue from the universe to turn around and leave. You find the nearest dingy cab, get yourself into the filthy backseat, and mutter the first address in your head to the driver.

When you get home two hours later, post-ranting to your best friends in Renjun’s apartment, stumbling into your room and waking Karina, you will yourself to not cry, attempting to untie the strappy twirls of your dress. There’s only one thing on your mind, and you’re wondering where he is.

—

“Don’t go,” pleads Jaehyun, but he watches you turn anyway. He can’t even catch a slight glimpse of your face, and his heart falls a little, watching you leave.

God, he feels like Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You. (He hates that that’s what he compares it to in his head, but alas.) He’s still watching when you get into a cab, and he’s still watching when the cab speeds off. He takes a seat on the first step, loosening his tie and letting out a deep sigh.

“You weren’t dating at all, weren’t you,” comes an impassive voice from behind him, and Jaehyun braces himself for the incoming scolding when he nods. Instead, the voice takes a seat beside him, sighs, and then speaks again. “Tell me what happened.”

“It was—it was this plan to get our roles back after we got them taken. And then it just escalated, because we couldn’t just break up, hypothetically, at least. And then we got to know each other.

Do you know, she’s got three dogs—Elton, John, and Stevie—and that she was born and raised just in the city? I mean, she’s really…she’s a really interesting person. And I loved getting to know her, becoming her friend, ah, that whole thing. I even bought a book that she told me she liked, one time—anyway. And then I bring her to this gala thing. Soiree, sorry. And then all of a sudden, I see Stella, this girl I dated in my first year, who…well, she…it just ended. Not so amicably.”

“So. You still love Stella?”

“No, absolutely not, no question about it. But I wanted to make her…feel how I felt when we broke up, when she…yeah. It’s…I don’t wanna…she cheated on me. Oh well. And you know, you’ll always get that urge to make a nasty ex jealous.”

“No, actually. You sound like an asshole. Not even getting cheated on can justify how you treated your, well, fake girlfriend. You sounded like you really liked her, and if you did, she probably really liked you, too. Be honest. Was this deal based off making Stella jealous?”

“No—it was just a good opportunity to take, y’know?”

“If you think your fake girlfriend is going to be just some opportunity, you need to reevaluate that. And apologize.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you too, Doie.”

Doyoung laughs and claps him on the back, nodding. “You know I’m right, yeah? Well, go do what you have to do. As soon as possible. Because right now, you’re on the verge of fucking everything up.”

—

The party is packed when you get there, as it always is with Johnny-thrown parties. Although you’d agreed to let Haechan drag you here, you still found yourself nervous all over at the possibility of meeting Jaehyun again. You hadn’t seen him since the dreaded soiree just two nights ago, and putting your hindsight glasses on didn’t make it any better. Sure, he acted like an ass, but in hindsight, you kind of overreacted. In hindsight, you should’ve talked to him.

In hindsight, you think as you accept a blunt from Chenle, you shouldn’t have let yourself get so affected.

The only reason you were was because you liked him so much. Here again, in the place where your feelings culminated in a frenzied, heated makeout session, you feel a vile deja vu course through you, clawing desperately at your insides until you can’t handle it. Haechan is off doing God knows what, so you’re basically left to your own devices.

You wait until Chenle’s not looking and then you take the blunt, duck out of the couch, and shimmy into the fire escape at the end of the hall. It’s drizzling outside, a weird moment for spring, but you find a shadier spot that manages to get just your feet and the hem of your jeans wet. You take a long drag.

You feel weird. The only person you want to talk to this about, save for your three best friends who have honestly heard the story too much in just two days, is Jaehyun.

He’d probably laugh and say this Jaehyun guy sounds like a real Jaeckass.

“I’m sorry I was a jackass,” comes a voice from just next to you, eliciting a shriek from your lips. You face him fully, nearly dropping your blunt, your eyes trained fully on him. He’s wearing a black shirt and black jeans, and it sucks because really, you just want to kiss him.

He speaks before you can. “It’s—please listen to me. I…I’m not going to be even more of an ass and tell you it wasn’t like that. It was like that. That night, I was thinking—I’m completely over Stella, but what’s the harm in provoking her a little? I hate her, you should know that. Absolutely, I do. It didn’t even matter to me that she was there. I’m sorry,” he says in one go, before breathing and continuing again.

“I didn’t like you when I met you, and it extended for a while. I’m sure you know that, because it was a mutual feeling. And I’m sorry—I’m so sorry for all the emotional up and down—but I like you. God, I like you. And if I stay too close to you, I feel like kissing you, because I like you. I used to dislike you, yeah. But now, I…God, if you only knew how much I turn myself inside out liking you. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything to show you I am. You’re…so cool, and you make me want to get to know you more.”

You stare at him for a while. “Anything?”

“Anything, I swear.”

“If it’s anything, then Jae, please. Leave me alone. I need to think.” You sit up, climbing back inside and leaving him leaning against the fire escape, a sorrowful sigh escaping his lips.

—

It’s dress rehearsal night, and you feel out of place. It’s your first time in theatre, and while it was fun, you don’t really think of doing this long term. The only reason you got this role was because all the other female members of the club were absent that day, anyway. You’ve felt out of place for the past weeks, because now, you have no friend to rely on.

Friend. Jaehyun Jung had really made a friend of himself in your life, and you were surprised your brain automatically referred to him as that. Ever since you’d left him on the fire escape, you’d had a lot of time to yourself to take a step back and think about it.

Too much time, you think bitterly. You’d wanted him to come talk to you for a while now, but he had maintained a professional, polite exterior during rehearsals, mirroring yours.

“Nervous? Couple big school officers are in the crowd, plus spectators,” one of the set painters says to you, taking a seat. “But you’re a natural. I know you’re not planning on trying theatre, but it’s always open to you.”

“Oh, thanks,” you sigh, “but I’m really…well, it was a good experience, but frankly, I’m ready to get out of it. It was hellish, if I’m being totally honest.”

“Yeah, I can tell. First week, I couldn’t build a set without hearing you two bicker, then all of a sudden you were dating, and now you’re not. He must’ve done something bad, and I hope he got what he deserved. But y’know, we can’t control what happens to us. We can only control how we react to them, and if we’ll let them eat us up.”

“Are you a Psych major?” You ask dumbly.

“Hah, no. I’m just…trying to talk some sense into the leading lady.”

“Well, you did. Thanks…?”

“Don’t mention it. I’m Jennie.”

She gets up then, a warm smile on her face, and you sigh, leaning back onto your chair. Damn these weird seniors and their unsolicited advice, you think, trying to ignore the fact that what Jennie told you was right. You’ve got a crowd to impress, and you can’t lapse into a train of thought now. Maybe later.

An hour and five false “full runs” later, you find yourself onstage, opposite Jaehyun, who’s clad in a leather jacket and tight jeans. He’s got a fake tattoo scribbled onto his neck and he’s been having this same scripted monologue for thirty uninterrupted seconds. You lose yourself in his gaze, trying to decipher it under the fluorescent lights. And that’s when you notice it: his going off-script.

“—and I don’t know if you’ll ever know how sorry I am, so isn’t now a good time to tell you? I’m, well. I’m sorry. I hurt you. I don’t want you to feel like you didn’t mean anything to me. You do. I’ve given you some space, and I hope when you can, you can tell me how you feel. Because truly, you mean so much to me. We’ve only known each other, what? Four months. And I hated you at first. But after our fake dating stint”—he goes way off plot here, and you can hear a confused mumbling in the audience—“I don’t know, I’ve just always wanted to sit down with you and read Didion all the time. Engage in debates with you. Read history books with you, watch Europe travel guides with you, dogsit random pets with you. Because God…”

You take a step closer, nodding slightly, signaling him to keep going.

“The truth is, I think I’m starting to love you.”

✶ A LITTLE WAYS DOWN THE ROAD.

“Okay, okay, listen. We’re seniors now, and this guy’s basically an adult,” Ryujin says, pointing towards Jaehyun. “We’re all mature. And we’re all going to understand if Jaehyun decides to do it, right?” Haechan nods feverishly in agreement, slapping Jaehyun’s arm.

Your fingers interlocked, you give your boyfriend’s hand a squeeze.

“I’ll understand,” you say pensively. The air at the table is tense, building thickly with anticipation as you all lean closer to gauge Jaehyun’s solemn expression. He nods once, raptly. “I’m an adult. I’m working now, and I have to do what’s responsible. For me. For you and me,” he proclaims, looking at you.

“I support you, Jae,” you say, smiling. “We all have your back.”

“I don’t merely support you, bro,” Haechan says poignantly. “I want this to happen, 100%. I’d be lying if I said I’d be okay if you didn’t go through with this.”

“Haech,” snaps Ryujin. “Let him decide. He’s a mature man.”

“I feel like what’s a better time to do this than now, right? Call me crazy, but tonight, yes: this very November night, I feel like I was planted here to do just this. I’ve had this privilege for a while now, and I feel like it’s finally time to put it to use. I can’t keep being a prude about it. Who knows what the future holds?”

“Exactly,” whispers Ryujin. “You’re doing so great. This whole monologue, working wonders.”

“Agreed. Go for it, Jae,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“And I will. Tonight, I’ll do it. Tonight, I, Jaehyun Jung…” He turns to Renjun, the subject of scrutiny for the entire night. Jaehyun has a pragmatic look on his face, like he’s the wisest at the table; a stark contrast from Renjun’s relatively panic-stricken features. The rest of you lean in, expectations raising bit by bit at finally witnessing Jaehyun’s unofficial official initiation into your gang.

“…call slut.”

—

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