#just realised the notes are kinds incoherent but it's too late to fix that now

[demytasse]

[Shizaya] Coping Mechanism — Ch 6

[Previous Chapters | Ao3]

     The thing about running away from your problems is that it's not a solution, it's a coping mechanism. It resolves one issue but replaces it with another; a cowardly deed that re-stations one’s weakness out of sight while it remains in mind for everyone else.

It’s a strategy, running away, and not a very good one. Nothing more than a poor excuse for a sad soul — and a detriment to an unfortunate case put in recess.

    “So you're back to ignoring him?”

Izaya flipped his phone so the screen could meet the table surface; it amplified a vibration or two.

    “Now what would give you that idea?”

A buzz came from Shinra’s coat pocket which interrupted another and a subsequent in queue; he brought it out to hold a foot before Izaya in a seamless flash. Normally some amount of glee would have met the doctor's lips for how he mimicked one of his love’s trademark poses, but flat displeasure won out.

    “I wonder why that could be?”

    “How many times has it been?” The informant skimmed the screen before it was pulled from his purview.

Certain keywords had stuck out from the rest as if bolded; words like, ‘Izaya’ and ‘kill’ were interspersed between phrases, like ‘I swear’ at the beginning, ‘this time’ in the middle, and ‘I won’t’ somewhere near the end. Shizuo's compulsion to clarify his intent was so natural that it may as well have been a confession of murder before it was committed. Maybe that should be reassuring?

    “I don't pay attention past my disappointment to count. It's annoying to assume that the stream of text messages is Celty narrating her day for me only to find that it's your boyfriend—”

    “Ex.” Izaya corrected, a stern look to his eye.

    “—that’s been abusing redial and over-utilising text prediction. Or maybe it’s text-to-speak; sometimes I get incoherent messages that somehow manage to sound more rage filled than if he abused my doorbell instead.”

    “That's not my fault. You could pick up your phone, you know.”

    “So could you!” Shinra threw his hands onto the back support of the couch, not too far from clipping Izaya’s nose while he slammed them down in frustration; upon impact his glasses fell askew, made him more comical than intimidating.

In jest, Izaya pulled back from Shinra’s tired pout and into a shrug. “Now that's silly. Why would I pick up your phone?”

—

    The act of weakness stretched out across a week — less than tolerable for all of Izaya’s friend-like connections, easier to deal with himself as he fled Shizuo’s text message war zone with ease, but those neutral parties forced into the fray dragged him back into the trenches to which he met hell without so much of a helmet to protect him.

    “Why would Shizu-chan assume we're hanging out?”

    “I don't know, ask him when you call him back.” Kadota’s eyes flashed and his crossed arms mimicked a disappointed father.

Izaya was lucky that any attacks weren’t physical just heavily fired with baritone.

    “But you realise, Dotachin, calling him would defeat the purpose of ignoring him.”

    “I'm not even going to act surprised that you’ll admit to ignoring him. For my sake, at least, get him to stop calling me. It’s annoying on its own, but Erika’s demands for the next installment of her real-life soap opera are worse, and I don’t think I can fake that the messages stopped for much longer.”

    “Sounds like trouble in otaku paradise.”

    “Any paradise, if there ever was one, has been lost.”

They shared an easy chuckle. One of the two bookstore loiterers tugged his beanie back into place while the other corrected the lay of fur over his shoulders; they walked each other to the automatic sliding doors without a single glance to confirm they were going the same way.

    “Well, it's been nice catching up with you old chum.” Izaya clapped Kadota on the back as he lead their exit through the doorway. “Maybe next time your gang and us can share cup ramen out of the back of the Mystery Machine.”

With a shocked expression, Kadota felt impressed that any effort was made to schedule time to hang out — faked or not, it was more than Izaya ever tried to in the past.

    “I'll even splurge for you guys and bring the 900¥ kind, my treat!”

And it was that syrupy sarcasm that called the comment for what it was meant to be: a precursor of Izaya committing to nothing, promising nothing. Running from his duty to end Kadota's involvement with the odd-couple’s immature fight.

    “It really is a wonder that Shizuo thinks we hang out.” Kadota sighed as Izaya gave him a cutesy wave goodbye.

—

    It was quickly day seven — the dawn of week one since the incident and Izaya was still avoidant of the simple solution that everyone else seemed to know but him. Rather he knew it, he just didn’t care to put it into practice; and everyone wished he would stop pretending that his bone-bruised ego paralysed him from fixing things with Shizuo. It was psychological warfare at this point, stubbornness to win against his ex’s persistence for closure or resolution.

The whole scenario was pathetic.

      [Ku] Iza-nii, it's weird for Shizu-nii to be texting us and not the other way around.       [Ku] Are you going to text him back already?

      [Mai] Fool.

      [Ku] Exactly! You’re a fool! An idiot brother. We’re not even in high school anymore, but you’re involving us in adolescent drama like we are!!!       [Ku] Gah! You’re like a teenage girl!!

      [Mai] You’re sad.

      [Ku] Tell you what! We’ll send Shizu-nii over to your place so you can just make up and fuck.

      [Ku] Or fuck and make up. Either one.       [Ku] Hahaha.

      [Kanra] If you two interfere I will stop sending my dear sisters loving gifts of extra spending money.

      [Mai] No bother.

      [Ku] Keep the petty change, Nii-nii. We make enough on our own.       [Kanra] Do I even want to know where you get your money from?

      [Mai] …

      [Ku] Huehue, better off only knowing that we make more than you do!       [Ku] Bye-bye, Nii-nii~.       [Ku] We do this out of love!

      [Mai] Die.

Izaya wasn’t positive that their proclamation was legitimate, all things considered he’d act as if it were. Though his line of defense was likely to go against their wanted outcome, they wouldn’t know that fact until it was too late.

    “Too bad your brother can outwit you two twerps.” Upon his schedule, he made a note on to send the obsessed duo on a wild-Yuhei hunt and moved onto better use of his work hours.

Furthermore he ignored a stray text message. Despite the sender’s hopes, the fairy had a fairly low chance to get a conversation going — that scarily passive threat was the type that’d only have an affect on her partner, assuredly not him.

      //I'm tired of you playing this game, Izaya. Shizuo is really messed up this time around...//

Celty could play no head games with him.

—

    Days later Izaya had been made an audience to a concert of metal all afternoon; intentionally raucous and purposely harsh, the crashes, clangs, and slams of kitchenware upset his continued productivity. All musical measures were a tune played out by an ornery employee, these days a willing partner in crime, but her overpaid salary still wasn’t enough to mute her percussion nightmare.

It only stopped when Izaya stopped his keyboard staccato for the day, progress little as it might be.

    “Take it.”

    “Woah there, Namie-san. Didn't know you were into that.”

Izaya addressed her phrasing rather than the food container wrapped in a cloth bag that was extended out to him. Namie’s arm was firm in front of herself, her offer pressed against his chest and demanded that he ‘take it’ or face repercussions.

    “Take your cowardly ass over to your boyfriend's—”

    “Ex.”

    She spoke louder, “—to your boyfriend's apartment and talk things over with the bastard over dinner.”

Although it looked like it was a traditional bento made with love, akin to ‘what mom used to make’, his secretary looked a lioness that threatened an attacker of her pride rather than the human mother of a man-child that she was.

    So thanks to the literal shove through his apartment door, Izaya found himself propped against the front of another. Slunk with his elbows upon his knees, a cloth bag dangled by an ear between his legs. He watched it spin before he directed it to go counterclockwise and around again to meet the same pattern.

Whether it was his misjudgement of time or Shizuo was late, it didn't change the fact that the mystery wasn’t one he could solve with pulled fabric, not like the uncover of what food Namie had made for the unhappy couple. For some reason it felt wrong to peek without the other recipient present as well. Maybe it was bad luck, as if anything that Namie touched could be blessed with good omens. What misfortune awaited him upon Shizuo’s eventual arrival made him refuse to take chances with weak willed boredom, and it itched his fingers to fiddle with the tight knot.

    “No.”

Izaya perked up; he hadn’t noticed an elevator beep nor heavy footsteps — an oddity for the perceptive man.

    “Don’t pretend that you weren’t desperate for my attention all week.”

    “I’m not pretending.” Shizuo stoically defined his scowl.

    “Are you sure? Maybe you were secretly hoping that I would fulfill some psychic booty call.”

    “Fuckin’ hell, just go home! You’re drunk.”     “We both know I’m not.” He muttered, “and that joke was hardly funny the first time, Shizu-chan.”     “Then how else are you here?”     “Easy, I walked.”     “WHY else are you here?”

    The long since hot, now room-temperature meal finally made its cameo. Izaya held up the bag with a dainty flirt, his pinky up on high, “a gift from my secretary.”     Shizuo scowled harder. “Give my compliments to the chef and leave.”

    “There’s dessert.” The emotionally exhausted man grumbled while he kicked his head back, his eyes pinched closed just as he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed with aggression. Shizuo was annoyed that everyone assumed that sugary sweets would automatically sway him. In any other case it would have, but in this particular scenario...it still did, though only to shut Izaya up and get him to stop with the needy pout that he wore as a secondary tactic.

Izaya knew that Shizuo couldn’t make him disappear, he also knew that he couldn’t let him run away of his own volition — he was certain that in a matter of seconds he would invite him in just to stop their passive aggressive squabble performed through pigeon mail.

    “Hm, looks like it’s strawberry shortcake too. She knows you—”

    “For the love of… Just get the fuck in here, fleabag!!”

AN: Needless to say, I had a tad bit fun with this one — what, with a horde of characters all randomly showing up within the same chapter, just to prove how much I love writing dialogue between petulant Izaya and anyone annoying Izaya and Shizuo can be to everyone around them. Feel free to comment or give feedback.

[uselessnocturnal]

Stupid for You

olivarry secret santa 2018 | blind date

summary;; it starts with a blind date and a mistake but slowly becomes so much more.

notes;; This is my Secret Santa gift to @likeaspeedingarrow and I think I managed to combine elements from all the tropes you gave me :) I hope you like it and happy holidays! // special thanks to @temmie-loony and @zealousconnoisseurrebel for helping me out

read the full fic on ao3

—————————————————

Barry has been waiting in Stubbs for twenty-seven minutes now. The waiters have started giving him pitying looks as they serve him yet another glass of tap water – even the lady sitting in the corner of the café shoots him a sympathetic glance over the rim of her mug before returning to an animated conversation with her friends.

Fingers drumming against the marble table, he ducks his head, feeling oddly exposed sitting in the centre of the coffee shop alone at a table for two. His phone lights up and his heart leaps to his throat, having finally been acknowledged.

the best: sorry, barr! i’m going Christmas shopping with eddie

nerd: you only have two days left!

nerd: how have you not bought everything?

the best: i know i know sorryy

the best: rain check?

It takes all of Barry’s self-control not to groan out loud. It’s not the first time Iris has cancelled plans with him for her most recent love interests (in this case it’s Eddie but the difference is that Barry actually likes this guy). He’s not jealous in any way – Iris is practically his sister! – in fact, he’s happy for them; even then, it would have been nice if she’d texted him before he ended up humiliating himself in his sad isolation.

For goodness sake, everyone thought he had been stood up by a blind date! A single half-eaten slice of cheesecake sits temptingly in front of him – a pity gift that the waiters blessed upon him. It would’ve been humiliating if the cake hadn’t tasted so good.

All things considered, though, he couldn’t be too bitter. It’s some twisted sense of tasting his own medicine – especially since he’s definitely left Iris waiting at least an hour and a half before at some convention.

He’s just about to leave when his eyes flicker to the door, its bell still ringing and everything stops.

Oliver Queen walks through the door. Oliver-freaking-Queen.

There’s a surprising lack of reaction amongst the other patrons – either they don’t notice (too distracted by their own conversations) or they don’t recognise him. Heck, Barry’s not even sure if it actually is Oliver Queen; the man is only wearing a thin autumn jacket over a shirt and jeans which is ridiculous considering the sub-zero temperature outside.

Barry is frozen. Every thought in his brain is screaming for him to get a grip and look away or act casual or something – anything is better than blatant staring! Really, who can blame him. Oliver Queen is a god walking the mortal grounds. Everything from his clear but guarded blue-green eyes and his muscles to his confidence and the way he can silence a crowd with a single look. If Oliver Queen claimed the sky was purple, several would probably actually check.

Though not exactly a celebrity, the Queens are relatively well known: especially with Robert Queen getting lost at sea and the consequent plummet of Queen Consolidated. Oliver Queen himself had been a bit of a legend before, having been a well-known billionaire’s playboy son. Now, however, he seems to keep to himself, slowly building his father’s company back up and keeping away from the tabloids. There really isn’t that much Barry knows about him – except that Oliver is very hot.

Barry is still watching at Oliver as the man scans the room. Next thing Barry knows, Oliver has those demanding blue eyes fixed on him and is striding in a clear and direct path to Barry’s table.

He’ll deny it in the future, but he panics.

There are literal seconds before Oliver reaches his table and, in true Barry Allen style, he tears his gaze away and attempts some semblance of nonchalance by jamming his glass to his mouth before realising that it’s empty and now he looks like even more of an idiot.

Whether Oliver doesn’t notice or chooses to spare Barry the humiliation, it’s a true blessing that he decides not to mention anything.

Oliver stops by the empty seat opposite Barry and Barry makes proper eye contact for the first time. There’s a slight tilt in Oliver’s lips – the kind of framed smile that people have as they’re about to make an important business transaction. And yet, Oliver shifts his weight from one foot to another, his eyes slightly uneasy.

He’s nervous, Barry realises, along with something along the lines of whythefuckohmygoshwhat.

“Hi...ah,” Oliver begins his question with a lack of fluency that is uncharacteristic for him, “are you my blind date?”

Now, Barry’s had a lot of shocks today and it seems to be snowballing to become even more chaotic but this? This was ridiculous.

All it takes is a single question to unleash the rambling mess that is Barry Allen.

It’s as though he’s lost his brain to mouth filter and his limbs aren’t even functioning properly and oh gosh is he trying to stand up?

“I’m Barry,” he introduces, scrambling up to shake the other man’s hand, almost knocking over his glass, “I’ve been here for quite a while...not that I’m trying to make you feel bad! I just - uh -”

Oliver takes Barry’s warm hand in his own, skepticism colouring his eyes.

“Right - ah - sorry,” Barry’s head lowers praying that the burning in his cheeks isn’t obvious, “Should we sit down? I think- I think we should sit.”

With all the grace and poise of a CEO in the making, Oliver takes the chair opposite Barry’s, barely drawing any attention to his practically incoherent speech.

“Oliver Queen” he reinforces, smiling slightly in the hope that it’d put the young man at ease, “it’s nice to meet you, Barry.”

There’s almost frantic head bobbing, “Yeah, I know. That you’re Oliver, not the second part,” he winces, suddenly realising how creepy that sounds, “I’m sorry, I tend to go off when I’m nervous, I’ll stop now. It’s nice to meet you too. You can have some of this cheesecake.”

Letting out a less-than-obvious breath, Barry sinks into his chair, watching Oliver carefully poke at the cake with a fork and praying that maybe - just maybe - he’d be able to control his speech

There’s no obvious sign that Oliver’s getting more comfortable but he’s not leaving either so that’s a good sign, Barry decides. And then it hits him: Oliver’s here on a blind date. He thinks I’m his blind date.

Really and truly, Barry has messed up.

“So, Barry, what do you work as?” Oliver starts, somehow composed despite Barry’s apparent humiliation.

Good. Great. This is a question Barry can answer without messing up. “I’m a CSI at CCPD - assistant CSI actually. I’ve been working there for a couple of years now.”

Oliver nods like that makes sense and hey, maybe this conversation isn’t too bad after all!

“There have been the recent cases,” Barry remembers, his eyes lighting up, “they’re so...bizarre.”

Immediately, he launches into the story of a murder involving a banjo and a microwave and Oliver listens in fascination, a small smile on his face as he listens to the brunette speak with such passion.

“Why a CSI?” Oliver asks, leaning forward in his seat.

Barry pauses, the usual lie already sitting on his tongue instead decides to be honest, “Well, my father got framed for my mother’s murder.”

Oliver stills suddenly, hyperaware of the feelings and guilty for stumbling upon a sensitive topic but Barry carries on, trying to veer the conversation away from this sombre tone, “I am learning to accept it...it’s not easy and I’m never going to stop trying to find the real killer but it no longer plagues me at night.”

He offers Oliver a soft and sincere smile, a show of support that someday it will get better.

“Even so,” Barry adds sheepishly, “I’m a bit of a science nerd so I probably would have ended up in a similar situation anyway.”

He doesn’t really give Oliver time to respond, instead plunging into another unique topic of conversation, “Ya know zombies do exist?” before going on to describe zombie ants and they get sucked in to their own bubble of a world which is all hope and light and God, how did Barry get on to talking about penguins.

“They’re the most loving of all animals!” Barry insists, arms flailing, “they huddle and everything!”

Oliver’s arms rest on the table as he laughs. A true laughter that kind of resounds throughout the coffee shop, the sound of the smile in his eyes overflowing into the air.

It’s that moment Barry knows he really is in trouble.

Watching Oliver grin, all-teeth and eyes, hearing his laughter...Barry knows he would do anything to keep that kind of joy on Oliver Queen’s face. Which is ridiculous because he’s crushing on a guy who thinks Barry is his date when he really isn’t.

This is a mess.

It only gets worse when there’s suddenly a mess of blonde hair and scarf appears in the corner of his vision.

“Ah, hi,” she starts, readjusting her glasses and turning to Oliver, “Are you Oliver?”

One glance at his narrowed eyes and she ploughs on, “I’m so sorry – there was this bus and some really bad traffic and I knew I was going to late…but I’m here now!”

A hesitant laugh escapes her and she sticks out a firm hand, “Felicity. Smoak. Laurel Lance set us up I think?”

The bubble doesn’t pop. It freezes and shatters.

There’s a sinking feeling in Barry’s stomach. Oliver’s eyes widen infinitesimally, not-quite hurt rolling off him in waves, as he turns to stare questioningly at Barry who ducks his head, avoiding further eye contact and hopes that the burning shame is not at all obvious.

The woman, Felicity, holds her hands up and gestures vaguely to the two, “Wait. Am I- am I interrupting something?”

Yes. Barry wants to say but how can he when the situation is his fault anyway.

Through his lowered lashes he can see Oliver tilt his head and put on a half-smile.

“No, not at all. Barry and I were just catching up,” he reassures her with all the ease of a CEO.

Barry’s head shoots up, all too willing to go along with the lie, “Ye-yeah, no, don’t worry about it. I was just leaving.

Stumbling to his feet like a deer just learning to walk - all limbs and no coordination - Barry gathers his jacket up and gives Felicity what he hopes is a reassuring smile but could be mistaken for a grimace, painfully aware that his ears are scarlet and refusing to meet Oliver’s eyes.

“Sorrysorrysorry,” he mumbles - both to Felicity for being in her way and to Oliver for...everything, “it was nice - uh -seeing you, Oliver.”

Head lowered, he speed walks (read: scrambles) out of the café where the bitter wind slaps him.

For a moment he stands there, the chill clawing into his bones, absolutely mortified.

What the hell did he just do?

continue reading here

[burnsopale]

Before I sleep, Olivier/Giancarlo and Ralf/Johnny

Title: Before I sleep Pairing: Johnny/Ralf and Olivier/Giancarlo Rating: PG-13 Summary: Olivier knows them well by now, his friends.

Author’s notes: I delight in making Olivier a little manipulative and morally uncentered. It’s partly because of the English dub where he is a bit of a bully, but also because of the Japanese version where he fails to see the potential harm of his actions. He uses his powers for good, though, and that makes him facinating.

This one was started already, but I finished it at 1AM today. I don’t know how much sense it makes, but eh, it’s something. It’s being posted at 9AM because I lost my internet connection as I was about to post last night and was too tired to fix it. So ironically it was not posted “before I slept”.

It wasn’t often they shared hotel rooms, but a mistake had been made somewhere and so Olivier, Giancarlo, Ralf and Johnny found themselves in a midnight-dark hotel room with two luckily sizeable queens and neither the energy nor opportunity to do anything about it until morning. Olivier and Johnny grumbled about it all the way to bed, Johnny mostly because how dare they treat us this way and Olivier because he slept lightly and was probably going to wake every time someone turned over.

Ralf took it stoically, and Giancarlo had won against Ivan today and was in indefatigable good spirits.

“It’s like a slumber party!”

“Oh, fuck off.” Johnny had lost against Yuriy, and was handling it about as well as he usually did.

They stood around awkwardly and brushed their teeth in the cramped bathroom, silently judging each other’s pyjamas.

Olivier studied the four boys in the mirror, and pondered. In addition to their own match today, they had watched the Americans battle the Chinese team, and sat next to the BBA for the duration of it. Everyone had been so open and easy with each other, joking around, feelings on their sleeves, completely unguarded. Well, not Kai, but Kai was more like the Majestics anyway. Down on the floor, the two opposing teams had cheered for each other as much as for their own players. Even the Blitzkrieg Boys were obviously deeply comfortable in each other’s company.

It had made Olivier think of his own team.

He loved his three friends. They were family to him, with all the ups and down that entailed. They were eccentric and high strung and private, but now that they were under each other’s skin they were bound together for life. Olivier knew them well.

He hadn’t really been aware of them until that first European Beyblade championship, when all four of them had burst onto the international scene like debutants at their first ball, but once they had stood on the victors' podium together, he had become insatiably interested in them.

It hadn’t taken him long to make Giancarlo open up to him. After a few months of bumping into each other at parties and Beyblade events, and then a long weekend in Paris, Giancarlo had told Olivier pretty much every secret he owned. He was Olivier’s now, his loyal, contrite pup, so eager to be better. And then sometimes he’d turn around and say something downright insightful and Olivier would be surprised to find himself known in turn. Sometimes he would spend the night in Giancarlo’s arms, and feel comforted and protected in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

In general, Ralf and Olivier were more reserved, Johnny and Giancarlo more emotional. Ralf and Olivier got along well for this reason, but it meant it had taken longer before Ralf had let Olivier get close. Olivier was a patient hunter, though, and after a number of mellow evenings reading in companionable silence, invigorating discussions of art and philosophy, fencing matches and blustery car rides through the French countryside, Ralf had slowly begun to share little bits and pieces of his inner life. His complicated feelings towards his late parents, his sense of not being quite like normal people, and how much he resented the world that demanded he conform. And his confusion at his own growing attachment to Johnny. Olivier could still vividly recall one particular late night confession, hidden behind dark curtains and whispered into a deep glass of wine.

“I want to make him kneel.”

It had suited Olivier just fine that Ralf wanted to take charge of Johnny. Someone had to.

He had tried, of course, to become Johnny’s confidant too. He had invited the boy to France, and it had been a pleasant enough weekend, at the end of which Johnny had walked into the airport with a knowing, jaunty wave and left Olivier feeling like he’d run into a brick wall. Somehow, the click of the lock opening, the moment of thawing, had just never come. At first, he couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong. He tried again, and again, coaxing, pulling gently at threads, making himself agreeable and hospitable and friendly. He had even given up some secrets of his own, and been shaken when it yielded nothing in return. Johnny remained an unassailable fortress, deflecting most of Olivier’s attempts with glee, but growing moody and snappish if pushed too far. He could happily talk Beyblading or sports or music for hours, but it never got personal.

Giancarlo didn’t understand Olivier’s frustrations. “He talks to me about all kinds of things. I don’t know what you’re so upset about, cara. Just give him time.” Olivier had grilled Giancarlo vigorously to discover if Johnny had simply chosen someone else to unburden himself to, but no, they were just a little friendlier with each other than Johnny was with Olivier.

Give him time? No, Johnny was doing it on purpose. It could not stand!

The click, when it came, was not of a lock opening, but of the puzzle pieces falling into place. They had all been gathering at Ralf’s for the weekend, an unusual thing at the time, and since Giancarlo had yet to arrive and Ralf didn’t give rematches, a bored Olivier had suggested to Johnny that they blade.

Johnny had gone pale, then red, said something incoherent about how Olivier wasn’t good enough and anyway Johnny didn’t have his blade with him, neither of which was true. Olivier had shared a look with Ralf, and pretended to let it go.

The next time he was asked to attend a local Beyblade event, he had called Johnny and asked if he wanted to join in.

“It’s a bit of publicity mostly, but it might be fun, and if we end with a match between you and me, we could really inspire the next generation … or, you know, show them they’ll never live up to us.”

He had expected the refusal before it came.

“I’ve … got a thing that day. Can’t make it.”

So there it had been again, but it takes three to make a pattern, so Olivier had tried one more time, when they were all gathered again.

“Hey, Johnny, I keep thinking about how we’ve never bladed.”

Johnny’s back had stiffened. “Hmm? So?”

“So, I want a challenge. Come blade with me. Let’s see who is better. Who knows, maybe I should have been in the finals.”

“In your dreams.”

There was the pattern.

“Do you have a stomach ache or something?” Giancarlo had wondered. “You always want to blade with me.”

Johnny had gone red again. “Fine! I’ll show you your place since you’re so eager.”

Ralf had said nothing, but he had watched every shift in Johnny’s expression.

Olivier would of course have liked to say that he won their match. He didn’t, though he gave Johnny plenty of trouble, at least. Johnny came at him with everything he had from the very beginning and stood his ground even when the entire stadium was shaking under Unicolyon’s hooves. Salamalyon darted in and out between Unicolyon’s legs, clawing at him, spewing fire, and slowly, Olivier felt how he and his sacred beast were being pushed back. In the midst of his frustration, Olivier had been distracted by curiosity. Johnny was doing just fine; he was incredibly strong, had extraordinary control over blade and beast, and Salamalyon was agile, quick and ferocious. So why had he been reluctant to battle Olivier?

Defeat came with a sudden impact that sent his pink Beyblade spinning out of the dish. Olivier felt disappointed, but he was not left empty-handed; Johnny laughed with delight and relief at his victory, and it told Olivier all he needed to know.

On the side-lines, Giancarlo smiled along and said “Try not to let it go to your head, eh, Johnny?”

But Ralf looked like his once-whispered desire was burning in him.

Much had changed since that moment, and some things had not. Johnny was still closed off against Olivier, except now it didn’t matter because Olivier had figured out how to read him; Johnny had taken his loss against Ralf much harder than anyone had known, and he had been frightened of what would happen if he battled Olivier and lost. What if he wasn’t even second, but third best? So he hid his insecurities, refused to battle Olivier, and hovered around Ralf in the hopes that he would change his mind about rematches.

Now Olivier knew all his friends well. He didn’t need more than a glance from Ralf before the lights were turned off to understand his intention. To help out, Olivier grabbed Giancarlo and fell into the nearest bed with him. This effectively left the other bed to Ralf and Johnny.

Johnny came out of the bathroom as the last one, and halted briefly when he realised the situation, but quickly pushed forward, going around to his bed and climbing in next to a seemingly indifferent Ralf.

“You’d better not plan to stay up and read; I want to sleep,” Johnny grumbled as he made himself comfortable, his back to Ralf.

“No, no. No reading,” Ralf promised, turning off the bedside lamp.

Olivier imagined he could hear Johnny’s heart pounding in the half-dark. "Good night," he said, turning off the final bedside lamp and plunging the room into blackness. Only at the edges of the curtains at the window did white city light still peek inside, but it didn't reach the beds.

Beside him, Giancarlo sighed in contentment. Olivier touched his shoulder and urged him to turn around, into Olivier's arms and away from the other two. Giancarlo made a small sound of inquiry, but Olivier put a finger to his lips and shushed him softly, before leaning in and kissing the place his finger had just been. Giancarlo acquiesced, adjusting them so they were lying deep in each other's arms and kissing quietly, but nuzzling up to Olivier's ear to whisper "What are you up to?" on a breath.

Olivier didn't reply, but let Giancarlo feel his smile in their next kiss. Then they settled down. Olivier closed his eyes and waited.

After a few minutes of silence and breathing, he heard the unmistakable sound of a body being pulled across the sheets, and imagined Ralf gathering Johnny into his arms. He heard Johnny’s whispered protest, muffled suddenly, and then the wet sounds of a deep kiss.

Some shuffling and another protest. “The others will hear-mh.”

More kisses, quick inhales between long silences and small moans.

Giancarlo ducked his head against Olivier's shoulder, a little embarrassed maybe, or maybe he had figured out Olivier's simple scheme.

Then the deep, smooth timbre of Ralf’s voice, impressive even as a whisper. “You did well today.”

A brief struggle. Outrage in Johnny’s hissed reply. “Don't patronise me-ah!”

Olivier couldn’t help himself; he peeked over Giancarlo's head and looked with adjusted eyes through the dark.

Ralf had pulled Johnny half on top of him, wrapped him in his arms, and was kissing his neck, hand stroking circles on his back under the covers, probably under his t-shirt.

Johnny's breath had gone shallow.

"Ralf ..." Johnny whispered.

But Johnny could protest all he liked; he belonged to Ralf and he knew it.

"You did well today," Ralf repeated with emphasis, and Johnny took a deep breath and rested his head on Ralf's chest and let the words sink in.

Olivier smiled, satisfied that his friends were happy again, kissed Giancarlo's forehead apologetically and settled in to sleep.

[dovechim]

tsundere (m)

⇢ resident advisor! yoongi x reader, college au

⇢ word count: 11.2k

⇢ summary: according to the rumours, min yoongi is a bad apple- doesn’t take grades seriously, drinks as if he has two livers, a certified bad boy™. when you get paired up with him for a project, you’d never expect that someone like him would have a thing or two to teach you about life itself- and how it should be lived. 

⇢ warnings: angst, smut

🎵 song recommendation: something just like this by coldplay x the chainsmokers

a/n: finally something that isn’t pwp????? :”) 

Panic races through your veins and fills up your airway, causing your breathing to double itself, chest heaving in an attempt to calm yourself down. No, this can’t be happening, you chant to yourself over and over. The clock on your laptop is glaringly bright in the near darkness of your room, and the numbers burn themselves into the back of your eyelids. When you close your eyes, the uncomfortable stinging of your contact lenses makes your eyes water and at this point they might as well be tears of desperation.

It’s not like you’ve never had writer’s block before, you reason with yourself. You just have to start writing and edit along the way. Your own voice of reason is drowned out by the anxiety that echoes all the possible consequences of not acing this paper. It’s nearly 4 am and the essay you have so far in front of you is not enough to get an A, you know it in your bones but you can’t come up with anything better either. You could just submit this as it is, but anything less than an A on this paper would pull you down from the cusp of that ever elusive first class honours. And you can’t afford to graduate with anything less than that. The very thought of it sends a fresh chill of panic that creeps down your spine and jolts your fingers into a typing frenzy, spilling thoughts and ideas onto your screen till you reach the end of the page.

But when you read over what you’ve written, it doesn’t make sense at all, just incoherent rambling sentences strung together into a never ending paragraph. In frustration you shove your laptop away from you and push back your chair, reaching for your keys and phone. Sneaking a peek at your roommate’s still form across the room, you let yourself out of the room silently, feeling your tensed shoulders relax immediately as the cool night air embraces you with open arms.

It’s a little chilly to be out in just a long shirt and sleep shorts, but since there’s no one awake to catch you dressed like this, it’s the least of your concerns for now. The balcony that is attached to your room affords a little privacy, and it’s one of the perks of occupying the corner room on this floor. The tranquillity of the cold, autumn night directly contrasts with the millions of theories and concepts running through your mind, and any attempts at clearing your mind are failing pathetically. The residential halls are eerily silent at this time of the night, and as you glance down over the protective railings, you consider how easy it would be to just climb over, just one leg over and then-

“Late night?” You whirl around at the interruption of a raspy, gruff voice sounding from behind you. Your eyes are met with a figure clothed in an oversized sweatshirt and jeans, but it’s only when you squint in the darkness to survey his face that you realise who he is.

It’s Min Yoongi, resident advisor of your block. You’ve never personally met him before, but you’ve heard rumours of his never ending escapades with girls, and the tales of his rough, indifferent personality has contributed to a pretty bad impression of him in your mind. You let yourself take in his appearance slowly, drinking in the paleness of his alabaster skin that matches the blonde of his hair parted in the middle of his forehead. His skin is luminous in the dead of the night, and his lips are parted in a slight smirk. An awkward silence passes before you realise that you’ve been gawking at him for an inordinate amount of time, and you’re just about to apologize when you make eye contact with him, and realise that he’s been checking you out too.

“Or should I say, morning after?” He teases in a slow drawl that makes your heart skip a beat, even as his eyes linger inappropriately on your bare legs.

“Th-this is a girls only floor!” You sputter at his insinuation, but he isn’t fazed.

“For all I know, maybe you bat for the other team,” he casts a glance at the door of your room, that infuriating smirk once again back on his lips, before his eyes land on you again. Suddenly, you feel very exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, and it’s not the chill of the night that makes you wrap your arms across your waist protectively.

“I’m straight, thanks.” 

“Good to know, dollface.” His nickname for you sets you on edge immediately. The idea of being reduced to one of the many girls he thinks of as playthings rubs you the wrong way, and your defences come up immediately. Min Yoongi is known for being nothing but manipulative and would stop at nothing to get what he wants. And having been caught out of bed after lights out like this, you wouldn’t put it past him to try something as low as blackmail. You glance at your door apprehensively, wondering if it would be childish to make a break for it and lock the door behind you.

Yoongi takes a step closer, and you immediately take one back.

“I was just out for some fresh air, I live here, I swear, these are my keys-” you hold out your hand as proof to show him, but he only raises an eyebrow.

“I know.”

“What? Then why did you-”

“What kind of RA would I be if I didn’t know the faces of all my residents?” He chuckles, and the sound sends butterflies to your stomach. You have no idea why his presence is so unnerving, and the thought of him recognising your face, even committing it to memory, makes you so uncomfortable that you shift on your feet restlessly.  “Do I make you nervous, dollface?”

“No,” you clench your jaw adamantly.

He eyes your body language in amusement, and you know you’ve been caught in your lie.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just be going back to bed now-” You make a move to cross the space between your door and the balcony, making sure to skirt around his figure that stands in the way with plenty of room to spare. But he stops you with an outstretched hand, and even though he doesn’t even come close to touching you, you can feel the imprints of his fingers on your skin, and it sends shivers down your spine.

“You look like you need this.” Glancing down at his outstretched palm, you heart leaps into your throat.

It’s a cigarette.

“Smoking is prohibited in the halls of residence!”

“You sound more like an RA than I do, dollface,” he glances at the shocked expression on your face with amusement. “Don’t worry, I won’t report you. It’ll be our dirty little secret.” 

His double entendre, along with the way his molten, intense gaze pins you in place, makes you feel as if you’ve actually done something with him already.  The thrill of the forbidden blooms in your chest, especially as you study the way his soft lips look when he does that signature smirk of his up close like this. His features are so delicate and soft, unbefitting of his gruff, devil may care personality, and you almost want to laugh at the misfit. He’s close enough for you to feel his breaths stirring your hair, and you’re sure that he can feel your own breaths against his neck as well. 

“No thanks, I don’t smoke,” you smile sweetly at him, turning your key in the lock and letting yourself in in one smooth motion that you congratulate yourself for after you’ve locked the door securely behind you.

You climb into bed and draw the covers up to your chin, eyes still fixed on that sliver of space beneath the door through which you can see his feet still. It seems like an eternity that you watch that space, but his feet remain stationed outside your door until your heavy eyelids finally give in.

But in the morning, when you wake, they’re gone.

*

Pulling yet another all-nighter is beginning to take its toll on you, especially when you almost nod off in your philosophy elective class, and you have to resort to pinching yourself to keep awake, something you’ve never had to do before.

The professor has already switched to his last slide that contains details about your final assignment- a pair work essay. There’s only one question on the slide: ‘What is courage?’ and it’s to be answered in two thousand words or less. You let out a sigh and steel yourself, pasting on a smile and gathering the energy to seek out a partner from the rows of sleepy students around you, but before you can get the attention of the girl in front of you, someone slides into the empty seat beside you. 

Already rolling your eyes at this latecomer- obviously only here because the final project requires a partner- you turn to shoot him an irritated glance, but stop short when you realise it’s Min Yoongi himself. His platinum blonde hair is tucked under a black beanie, but it’s obvious that he was in a rush this morning because his hair sticks out from under it, adorably, you may add. Black, framed glasses perch on the bridge of his nose, and the studious look really suits him, because he looks like a completely different person from the one who’d offered you a cigarette in the middle of the night.

“I didn’t know you were in this class,” you say by way of greeting.

“I didn’t know either, until I got a warning email about attendance,” he says flippantly.

For a moment, you’re at a loss for words, astonished at how someone could take their studies so lightly like this. You stare at his side profile for a moment, noting the way his sharp jawline rests just above his cream turtleneck sweater that looks incredibly soft and compliments his porcelain skin so well. He catches you staring at him- again. 

“Want to pair up, dollface?”

You start to turn to that girl in front of you once again, because you’d rather die than commit to a project with a slacker like Min Yoongi, but unfortunately she’s already chatting with the guy next to her. Cursing his stupid turtleneck and the cute, reddened tips of his ears from the cold air outside, you reluctantly write your number on a scrap piece of paper and shove it in his direction.

“Woah, I didn’t peg you for the type to make the first move,” he tucks the paper between two fingers, giving you a salute and a teasing smile.

“Shut up, it’s for the project.” Your eyes catch onto his hands, the delicate networks of veins that lead to the slender, long fingers of his, currently fiddling with the paper that has your number on it. Why does every single part of him have to be so damn aesthetic?

“You need to learn how to take a joke,” he watches as you gather your things, and having his eyes on your every movement makes a stack of papers slip out of your hands, and you curse internally.

Yoongi reaches and gathers the papers with his slim fingers, seeking to return them back to you, but not before casting a brief glance over it. “You’re an English major?”

In his grip are the pages you were working on yesterday; printed out and ready for a consultation with your academic mentor this afternoon. His eyes are skimming over the content quickly, and suddenly, the thought of him reading your work seems incredibly intimate for some strange reason, and you snatch the papers back from him.

“It’s not really done yet…” You feel the need to make an excuse for the shitty content you know is on there, wishing he could have read one of your many other A+ papers instead of this one.

“Really? Looks pretty done to me,” Yoongi’s gaze follows you as you stand from your seat.

“Are you free to discuss the project tonight?” Your attempt at changing the subject works, thankfully.

“Sure, I’ll text you the deets.”

*

9.07pm [Unknown]: You free now? I’m omw to ur room.

You should have known better than to give him your number without asking for his in return, and having to spend the entire evening waiting for his text was nerve wracking, to say the least. When you realise that Min Yoongi is on his way over to your room at this instant, you immediately rush over to the mirror in your closet, trying to arrange the hair atop your head in a presentable manner.

A knock on the door sounds as you’re in the middle of debating whether you should change out of your sweatpants and oversized jersey shirt, but ultimately decide against it. It’s just a project discussion, and at this time he’d probably be casually dressed as well.

Answering the door, your voice dies in your throat along with any hopes of not gawking at him when you find him dressed in the tightest pair of leather pants you’ve ever seen on a man. His legs are slim yet muscular, and the close fit of the pants, together with its clingy material, enhances the definition of his muscles. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater that should clash with the risqué leather pants he has on, but somehow he pulls it off. His blonde fringe falls upon his forehead in wisps, and right then and there, you decide that he’s the very definition of sin.

“W-why are you so overdressed?” You barely gather your wits to ask him.

“Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“What?” You squeak in surprise. “What about the project? According to my timeline, we have to at least get a draft done today, we need to agree on a general direction of the essay at least-” 

“I said, get dressed. We’re going on a research field trip.”

 Floored by his response, and definitely not at the sight of Min Yoongi leaning against your doorframe, you’re caught tongue tied for a moment. “Yoongi, it’s a school night, I have an 8am lecture tomorrow.”

He rolls his eyes heavenwards to express his frustration. “C’mon dollface, I’m sure skipping just once wouldn’t knock your goody two shoes off. Live a little.”

You cross your arms at him. “I’m not a goody two shoes. I just like to be well rested for my lessons.” Yoongi almost doubles over in laughter, having to support himself by placing a hand on the doorframe as a series of chuckles consume him. “What are you, 80 years old? Wait don’t tell me, you’re an old lady trapped in a smoking hot 21 year old college girl’s body.”

Your cheeks instantly start to heat up at his backhanded compliment, and for a moment you’re caught between feeling flattered and insulted at once. You have no idea how to get out of this situation without proving him right, and with a hefty sigh, you give in reluctantly.

“Alright, get out while I get dressed.”

“That’s it dollface, and wear something sexy.” You close the door in his face in reply, and run through possible wardrobe options in your mind.

Finally, you settle for your go to LBD, and even though you have no idea where Yoongi’s taking you, you have a feeling that your typical jeans and blouse combo would not make the cut at all, judging from Yoongi’s own outfit. The dress is almost skin tight, but still preserves your modesty by cutting off at the knee. Increasingly aware of the sound of his footsteps outside your door, you rush through your makeup routine, cheering internally when you nail your cateye on the first try. Deciding that your hair is beyond rescuing, you wind it up into a messy bun to keep it contained, and slide your feet into a pair platform sandals. Sweeping your essentials for the night into a small clutch, you open the door again, only to be greeted with the sight of his ass in those stupid leather pants as he leans over the balcony.

At the sound of your door opening, he turns around a little sooner than you’d like, and his eyes take you in from head to toe, lingering sinfully at the gentle curve of your hips. 

“Damn, you clean up well, dollface.”

“I have a name, you know,” you turn around and lock your door, fully aware of the view you’re giving him as his eyes skim down your back. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll know when we get there,” Yoongi offers you his outstretched hand again, just like the night before, only now it’s empty. You slide your hand into his, and it’s unexpectedly warm and comforting, the complete opposite of your cold, aloof impression of him.

Yoongi has a cab waiting at the base of your residential hall, and he even opens the door for you, gesturing for you to get in. Even seated in the cab, he doesn’t let go of your hand until you have to make an excuse about sweaty palms to get him to relinquish his grip, to which he only casts an amused glance at you before obliging. Focusing your gaze on the passing streets and alleys outside instead, you try and figure out where he’s taking you based on your surroundings, but the reality is that you have no idea at all. In your past two years of university, you’d spent your life buried in mounds of readings and essays, barely leaving campus apart from summer breaks, so your knowledge of the surrounding area is close to zero.

The taxi rolls to a stop outside a nightclub finally, and you start to feel apprehension in every limb as Yoongi hands some cash to the driver before opening the door. You have no choice but to follow him, and soon you’re standing in front of one of the most popular nightclubs in the city, with a line of people waiting to get in. From outside you can already hear the music as the bass reverberates in your chest. Yoongi grabs your hand again, tugging you toward the where entrance of the club is guarded by two hefty looking bouncers. He gives a nod to them and they part easily, letting him through without a word, and he leads you into the club that is illuminated with strobe lights and flashing laser beams.

Yoongi must have felt your apprehension and anxiety through the grip of your palm, as he turns back to face you, drawing your body closer to his as the two of you are surrounded by dancing bodies. The hand holding yours is pressed to his chest, while his other hand finds its way around your waist, forming a barrier between you and the strangers on the dance floor.

“Relax, dollface, we’re just here to research a form of courage for our project, yeah? A form that I’m particularly fond of,” he has to whisper directly in your ear because of how loud the music is, and the sensation of his lips on the shell of your ear simultaneously calms your fears and sends electricity rushing through every single nerve. 

When you nod in response, he proceeds to weave through the crowd with a practiced ease, navigating his way to the bar and helping you situate yourself on an empty barstool before taking the one next to you.

“Pick your poison, dollface,” he gestures to the bartender who steps up to serve the both of you.

“Uhm, just a water, thanks,” you give the bartender a small smile, but Yoongi interrupts him before he can get your drink.  

“Cute,” he smirks at you. “But no. We’ll have two whiskey on the rocks instead please.”

“Yoongi- I don’t really drink, can’t I just-” 

“Not today doll face, we’re here on a mission, remember?” He gives a nod of thanks to the bartender as your drinks are served, and he raises his glass towards you. “This, dollface, is called liquid courage. Ever heard of it?”

You snort in response, grabbing the other glass, watching the liquid slosh against the sides of the glass. “Of course, how naïve do you think I am?” 

“Naïve enough.”

“Just because I don’t drink and party and sleep around, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to live. I’ve been living perfectly on my own for the last 21 years, thanks.” Yoongi only raises his eyebrows at your defensiveness, but otherwise his expression betrays nothing.

“Really? Cooped up in that room of yours writing essays, not seeing the sun for a week straight, spending 16 hour long study days at the library cramming for finals like there’s no tomorrow? Is that what you call living?”

“Wanting good grades is not a crime.”

Yoongi laughs and raises his glass in defeat. “Touché. Bottoms up, dollface.”

You clink your glass to his before raising it to your lips, wincing at the bitter taste and the burn that it leaves while going down your throat. But it’s not as bad as you expected, and when you set your glass down, you find Yoongi staring at you intently.

“Alright, dollface? Ready for another? Or is that enough for you to ‘live’, as you call it?”

You clench your jaw in defiance at his patronising tone. “Bring it on.”

You gulp down the next drink in record time, finishing even before Yoongi does this time, and a sense of pride wells up in you. The burn isn’t that noticeable this time, and the effects of the alcohol don’t seem to be too bad. You’re still fairly sober, and you’re determined to prove to Yoongi that you’re not as much of a prude as he thinks you are. 

“Let’s do shots,” you declare, and maybe it’s the alcohol talking, giving you that burst of foolish bravado, but once again Yoongi’s expression remains stoic, if not for the arch of his eyebrows that betray his astonishment.

“If you say so,” he gestures toward the bar for some tequila shots, and a tray of six shots are served up immediately.

You reach for one and bring it to your lips, but before you can tip your head back, Yoongi stops you with his slim fingers around your wrist, and you stare, transfixed at his slim digits and for a fleeting moment, a thought so filthy crosses your mind that you physically shudder.

“This is gonna burn, dollface. Have you ever taken a shot before?” He looks a tad bit concerned, but it could be the way your vision is starting to blur just a little, you can’t be sure.

“Of course I have,” you shoot back at him, but it’s a bald-faced lie, and if you’re a bad liar while sober, you’re horrible when drunk. But how hard can it be? It’s just shot glass to lips, tilt head back, and-

The burn is like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and the searing of your chest makes you sputter, and tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for air. You have to rest your head on the surface of the bar from how hard you’re coughing. Yoongi is watching with arms crossed and he looks like he’s about to burst out laughing, which is most definitely not appreciated, considering you’re in a life or death situation here. Just when you consider leaping across the bar to find some ice to quench to roaring fire in your throat, Yoongi slides a hand along the back of your neck, urging you to look up.

“Suck on this, dollface.”

You’re just about to tear into him for such an inappropriate innuendo at a time like this, but when you turn to him, he’s not gesturing to where you thought, but he’s holding a lime wedge between two fingers. Instead of grabbing the lime wedge with your own fingers, you lean forward and encase the citrus fruit between your lips, just shy of brushing his fingertips, and your eyes meet his.

His gaze is like molten lava, smoldering with something you can’t quite name, the liquid quality of them sucking you in and you can’t look away. Have his eyes always been this dark? Something about Yoongi is clearly affecting you somehow, you’re aware of this even in your intoxicated state. Be it the way he stared at your bare legs on the balcony last night, or the meticulous surveyance of your every move in lecture today, and even the way he’s staring at you now like he wants to devour you whole. Every time he looks at you it makes you want to forget everything you’ve ever worked for in your life up to this point, to throw it all away; it screams danger.

Yoongi breaks the spell first by pulling his hand back. He turns his attention to the shot glasses on the table, grabbing one and bringing it to his lips. The tip of his tongue flicks out to collect some of the salt on the rim of the shot glass before tipping its contents into his mouth, and you’re transfixed by the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

Min Yoongi is intoxicating, and he makes you want to take all the risks in the world. 

“Another?” He says with a lime wedge partially in his mouth. “Or too much?” 

“I’m okay,” you’re trying hard not to slur your words, and you reach for another shot the same time as him.

 “Bottoms up.”

 *

 “I want moreeeeeee.”

“No more, princess, you’re wasted as hell,” Yoongi catches you just before you slide off the barstool, and you slump against him in protest. “Fuck, I underestimated how small you are.” 

“I can do it, jussst watch me,” you reach for the nearest glass only to find it already empty, and you whine in disappointment. “I’m a big girl, Yoongiiiiiiii, I’ve got my big girl pantsss on.”

“I’m sure you do,” he chuckles in your ear. “C’mon dollface, we need to get you out of here.”

He slides an arm around your waist and supports most of your weight while simultaneously using his body to pave a way through the crowd of dancing bodies. 

“Yoonggggiii, we didn’t get to dance, we c-can’t leave yet,” you head is buried in his neck, eyes half closed even as you try to move to the music that’s pounding in your ears.

“Next time,” Yoongi’s preoccupied with trying not to notice the way your breasts are pressed against his chest, and instead concentrating on manoeuvring the two of you safely to the exit. Your body feels so soft against his own, and he breathes a sigh of harsh relief when he finally reaches the bouncers, and exits the club into the cool night air. 

But now there’s another challenge that awaits him- trying to get a damn taxi. Maybe the night is still young- the club doesn’t close for a few hours yet and normally he’d still be going strong at this hour. The drivers in this area know well not to expect any passengers till early dawn, which only leaves him one choice.

 “We’re walking home, dollface. Hold tight, I really don’t want to carry you back.” He hoists you up against his side, bearing most of your weight as he takes a few steps down the sidewalk. To your credit, you don’t make much noise and put one foot in front of the other obediently until you reach the entrance of campus when his grip slips and your feet suddenly give out on you, and you tumble onto the soft grass beneath.

 “Fuck, are you okay?” Panic surges in his chest, dropping to his knees beside you to check you over for any injuries. “______?”

 It’s the first time he’s actually called you by your real name, not some nickname or petname, but you’re too drunk to notice.

 “The Victorian era is characterised by an increased interest in science and technology, as people were beginning to doubt the reliability of religion and faith in explaining the human existence…”

 Yoongi collapses back onto his heels, running his hands through his hair as his eyes rest upon your mumbling figure. “______, you need to get up, we can’t get caught here. So near yet so far.”

“D-don’t mark me as absssent, prof, I’ll do extra c-credit, or I’ll do r-resssssearch, anything,” you mumble with eyes half open, reaching to brush his hands away from your waist when he attempts to manhandle you into standing up.

Yoongi swears under his breath. Desperate to get and retain your attention, he grabs your face between his hands, tapping your cheek as he calls your name.

“T-the assignment isn’t due yet… I still h-have one more week… Ow!”

Okay, he may have used a little bit too much force with that last slap, but it seems to have worked, because your eyes fly open and center on his.

“Oh, it’s just you,” your eyes start to close again, and Yoongi can’t have that. He taps your cheek again, and you open your eyes. “It’s just the hot, playboy resssident-t advisorr.”

Yoongi sighs; a deep, regretful sound.

The only reason he knows you’re drunk off your ass is from the carefree quality of your words, how you seem to be saying everything that comes to your mind without filter.

“Y-you think I’m some kind of loser right? Just a loser-“ you manage to fold your knees under you as you look up at him standing in front of you. “Just a loser who can’t do anything but study, and who has no friends.” 

Yoongi kneels down in front of you and for the first time since you’ve met him, you have the nerve to stare him right in the eye without flinching or shying away.  

“Let’s play a game. W-what’s the most illegal thing you’ve ever done? L-loser has to take a shot.” Yoongi opens his mouth to answer, to at least try and appease you, but you cut him off. “Mine is… I shower naked!!!”

You burst out laughing, till you’re out of breath and winded, bending over in half on the ground.

Despite himself, Yoongi can’t help but chuckle a little, but this isn’t getting anywhere, so he reaches and slips his arms under your knees, pulling you in close towards his chest with his other arm around your shoulders.

“I went drinking with the badboy RA in my block on a school night! W-where’s my prize?” Your drunken shouts are crystal clear in the silent, tranquil campus, and Yoongi winces as he tries to speed up his steps towards your block.

“Alright dollface, I’ll give you extra credit if you stay quiet for the next 10 minutes okay?” He whispers furtively as he nears your door. At the mention of extra credit, you quieten down immediately, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

Yoongi reaches into his pocket for the all access key card- RA privileges- and swipes it, nudging your door open with a knee. His eyes immediately scan the room, relieved to find it empty. He sets you down on your bed- your side of the room is easily identifiable with the mess of notes, books and papers scattered everywhere- and considers undressing you, but figures that would be crossing the line. Instead he settles for unbuckling the straps on your platforms, sliding them off your feet and tucking them under the blanket securely. Grabbing a water bottle from the fridge, he sets it on your bedside table before leaving, closing the door gently behind him and locking it with his key card.

*

The morning sun is brutal even through your tightly shut eyelids, and pain shoots through your temples the moment you try to sit up. Rubbing your eyes blearily, you try and get a sense of your surroundings, only to realise that you’re back in your room, and you have no recollection of how you got back here after last night.

Last night. Tequila shots. Min Yoongi. Ugh.

Reality rushes back in, and your heart skips a beat when you check the time on your phone. It’s way past noon, and you’ve missed your morning lecture by hours. You’ve never missed a lecture before, and ruining your perfect attendance might drag your grade in this class down, and-

Panic swells up in your throat in the form of nausea, and you have to lie down before you black out. Fingers shaking, you barely manage to type out an email to your professor citing a reason why you were absent that morning, and offering to make up for it. As you close your eyes and try to fight off your pounding headache, you remember that this is exactly why you don’t drink. 

The culprit of this whole mess is curiously nowhere to be seen, and you hear nothing but radio silence on his end for the next couple of days. Which is completely fine with you, because you’re busy running around like a headless chicken trying to keep up with your schedule and make up for that missed lecture. In fact, it wouldn’t even bother you at all if you never heard from Min Yoongi for the rest of your life, but you still have this project to complete.

5.00pm [You]: Are you free now? We need to discuss the essay. 5.10pm [Min Yoongi]: i’m in the music building. 4th floor, last studio. 5.11pm [Min Yoongi]: it’s next to the dance building, in case u don’t know. 5.12pm [You]: omw. 

The surroundings of the music building are unfamiliar to you, having only been in the Humanities building for your whole university life. You pass by people carrying musical instruments, from violin cases to guitars, and there are even a few students hefting around cellos. These people must be music majors, and Yoongi must be one too. You’ve never really taken the time to wonder about his major before, since the rumours concerning him that circulate around only detail his drunken escapades at parties and his latest conquests. There are a few stories labelling him as an architecture major, and even a few that alleging that he’s undeclared.

You reach the 4th floor, stepping out of the elevator into a narrow hallway. Upon closer inspection, it seems like this floor only houses studios, and each room looks small enough to be a private studio. You wander hesitantly to the end of the hallway, and raise your hand to knock on the last door.

“Come in.” His voice sounds tired and rough, and you poke your head around the door gingerly.

You’re greeted by the sight of Yoongi at his work desk, surrounded by equipment that looks as complicated as it does expensive, and for a second you fear setting foot into the studio lest you destroy anything. His desk bears a large computer screen, and the rest of it is covered with notebooks, scrap paper with illegible handwriting, empty cup noodles and bottles of water. Yoongi glances up when you remain by the door, raising his eyebrows both as a manner of greeting as well as a silent question.

You venture into the small studio, and under the harsh light of the small room, you can see the eye bags under his eyes, and the reddened whites of his eyes behind his black framed glasses perched on his nose bridge. He stretches his legs beneath the desk, and his chair pushes back from it as he rotates to face you, simultaneously stretching his arms above his head in a motion that has you fighting not to glance at the pale strip of skin that’s revealed.

“Sorry. Long night,” he grunts as his joints crack, and he reaches for the back of his neck to massage it.

“Um, it’s okay.” You clutch your laptop to your chest tightly, unsure of what else to say. “You’re um- a- a music major?”

“Composing,” he corrects as he runs his fingers through his messy blonde hair, pushing it back off his forehead to reveal more of his milky skin, and the way he glances at you through those black glasses of his makes the room shrink in size, and you have to avert your gaze.

Something about his messy desk reminds you of your own back in your dorm, and it’s a strange concept, to think that the infamous Min Yoongi is actually passionate about something other than getting drunk and partying. This side of him you’re not used to seeing- the vulnerable, weary look in the bags beneath his eyes, his messy workspace that oddly gives off a sense of intimacy. His work that lies all around him- remnants of late night musings or early morning inspirations, completely unfiltered, absolutely raw, and all him. It reminds you of the essays and poetry you hide away in the depths of an untitled folder on your laptop, safe from prying eyes and the outside world. It feels like his private sanctuary.

“It’s okay to sit down you know. I won’t bite.” He pushes a chair towards you, and you belatedly grab it.

“Th-thanks.” You settle your laptop on your lap. But a burning question settles on the tip of your tongue, and you can’t help your curiosity. “So you write like… songs?” 

“Pretty much. Melodies too, and also some rap.”

You’re staring at a piece of paper nearest to you on his desk, if you squint you can just about make out his handwriting on it. It looks like a verse of a song, and just as you’re trying to decipher his handwriting, he interrupts you by clearing his throat. You jerk your head towards him with widened eyes, an apology at the tip of your tongue for invading his privacy like this, but there’s no scowl on his lips, only a teasing smile.

“If you wanted to hear something, you could have just asked.”

“N-no- I mean, I wouldn’t want to intrude or anything.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Songs are made to be heard, lyrics written to be read. What good is writing them if I just leave them in this dusty studio?”

“But it’s… personal. And we’re not on that level yet, are we?”

He doesn’t deny your first statement, but his knowing gaze pins you in place, searching your features for something. “Aren’t we? I don’t let just anybody in here you know.”

“I guess, if you wanted. I wouldn’t mind,” you say grudgingly, not wanting to seem too eager. Reading someone else’s work always seemed too personal, let alone reading someone else’s work in front of them, but Yoongi seems to have no issue with it as he clicks a few times and types something into his computer, then beckons you closer with an outstretched hand.

“It’s better if you use the headphones,” he explains.

You drag your chair closer to the desk, placing your laptop in front of you before sliding on the headphones. As Yoongi presses a button, a light melody trickles from one side, gradually increasing in volume until you’re immersed in the flowing rhythm. The lyrics paired with the melody are soothing, and it takes you a while to realise that he’s actually singing, and that his voice sounds so different from his usual, gruff, indifference.

 My friends and even my family are getting further away As time goes by I’m becoming more impatient The feeling of being on my own, I am on my own right now I want everything to disappear I want it to disappear like a mirage, want it to disappear, I want my damn self to disappear Like this, the world throws me away In that moment I’m getting farther away from the sky I’m falling

 As the song goes on you forget that he’s even in the room with you until silence jolts you back to awareness with the end of the song. Reluctantly you slip the headphones off and place them back on the table, taking your time to gather your composure and reorganise your emotions.

When you look at him again, it’s as if you’re seeing him through new eyes, and he’s not the Min Yoongi who likes to drink and sleep around, he’s so much more than that. It’s obvious that he’s drowning in his passion for music and composing, and it’s so different from what you initially thought of him; but more than anything else, he is incredibly lonely.

“That good?” His confidence and jokes are just a façade that conceal his loneliness, but you can’t bring yourself to roll your eyes this time. When you don’t respond with your usual barbed comments, he shifts slightly in his seat- a small movement- but it’s enough to reveal his vulnerability and it makes you catch your breath.

And it makes you do something you never thought you would in a million years.

You reach for the collar of his sweatshirt and pull him in towards you, lips crashing onto his in a clash of tongues and teeth. Yoongi goes still for a moment in surprise, but soon his lips move along in tandem with yours, and he reaches for your waist to pull you into his lap. You can barely react in time, drunk with the taste of him, the intoxicating pull of heady desire, and exhilarating rush of recklessness, as your thighs part to straddle him in his chair. He tastes like late nights and early mornings spent slaving away, of the inspiration and desperation that are all too familiar to you, passion and risk all wrapped up into one.

Pulling away with a lick to his bottom lip, you gasp for air.

“Finally. I’ve been wanting to do that since that first night I saw you outside your room.” 

His gruff voice sends reality crashing back in, and you open your eyes to see him staring at you, his glasses askew on his face, probably because of you. All traces of his earlier vulnerability is now gone, and he’s unabashedly studying your every feature. There’s no trademark smirk on his lips, and for the first time you see him with his defences down; you see the Min Yoongi without his wry comments and sarcasm. 

The warmth that blooms in your chest at him opening up like this makes you want to lean in for more, but you stop short just inches away from his lips; at the thought that he might expect you to do the same and open up to him too, let him see you in your most vulnerable light.

That thought sends your heart racing into overdrive, and you brace your hands on his chest, scrambling to get off him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” Your cheeks are ablaze with embarrassment, but it’s the anxiety of letting someone see you like that- the way you just saw him- that makes your hands tremble and your palms sweaty.

“I’m not sorry.” He’s as cool and confident as ever, but he doesn’t make a move to stop you as you gather your things hastily and head for the door, slamming it behind you without sparing a single backward glance.

*

No matter how hard you try not to think about his lyrics, it’s impossible to forget his loneliness etched into his verses, his plea for help disguised in his carefree, soulful melody.

And it’s even harder not to think about how his lips felt against yours, or the way his hands gripped your waist as if they belonged there.

For the sake of your own sanity, you minimise any contact with him, resorting to professional, succinct texts and emails to send him your part of the project so that you can at least work on your own essay in relative peace.

None of your emails or texts even garner any sort of response from him, and at first you chalk it down to him being busy in his studio again. But when the third consecutive day passes without any reply, and a fleeting comment from your roommate that she saw him at the club last night, you decide that you can’t avoid him any longer.

So you knock on his door impatiently, and a part of you is grateful for his reputation that makes it so easy for you to find out where he lives. There’s a shuffle behind the door before it opens, and for a second you fear that you’ve interrupted one of his many one night stands, but then you’re face to face with Min Yoongi himself.

His effortless good looks takes your breath away, even though he looks like he just woke up, in all his bed head glory. He rubs his eyes sleepily with a sweater paw when he registers your presence, and beckons lazily. You’re about to tell him that it’s okay, you can say everything you have to say out here, but then he turns his back and you have no choice but to follow him into his room.

“You’d better have a good reason for being here this early in the morning.” His voice is gruff as always, laced with lethargy.

You gape at him. “It’s 3 in the afternoon.”

“Your point is?”

“I’m um, here about our project.” He glances up at you from his position on the bed, and you try not to glance at the way his sweatpants moulds around his spread thighs, forcing your eyes away from his crotch, which, if you squint, you can make out the shape of his- 

“Oh, what about it dollface?”

“In case you didn’t notice, it’s due in two days. I’ve already done my half of it and sent it to you last week, but I didn’t get a reply so I had to come over here myself.” You fold your arms in what you hope is an intimidating way, staring him down from your height. “My point is; I need your draft by today.” 

Yoongi stares at you without response, and your self-righteousness from a few seconds ago completely vanishes. It feels a little foolish to storm into his room like this and demand a draft from him when he’s staring at you like this, but his lack of a response makes you question if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open.

“I got it babe, don’t worry.” If this is his attempt at reassuring you, his indifference only adds more worry and anxiety to the crease between your brows.

“I’m almost done with my draft, I’ll combine ours into one document and upload it okay?” You detect a tinge of irritation in his voice as he brushes his hair back from his forehead, and he fully opens his eyes to look at you for the first time since you’ve entered this room.

The look on his face is as if to say: what are you still doing here? and you can almost hear his the snarky sarcasm in his voice through a single glance of his. You fumble around for something else to say, not fully convinced, but in the end all you can do is accept his offer with a nod. As soon as you acquiescence, Yoongi lets his eyes fall shut again as he flashes you a gummy smile.

“Sweet, close the door on your way out will you?”

 *

10.24pm [You]: Are you done with the essay yet? 10.30pm [You]: Send it to me so I can proof read and edit. 10.35pm [You]: hello???? 10.40pm [You]: Min. Yoongi. 11.00pm [You]: Min Yoongi, this isn’t funny. 11.20pm [You]: it’s due in literally 40 minutes 11.30pm [You]: pick up ur damn phone

Your nerves are shot to pieces as your glare at your phone screen, considering tearing down his door to confront this irresponsible bastard. You should have known never to pair up with him, even if it means you have to do the project on your own. It’s better than being stuck like this with nothing to submit just half an hour before the deadline, and you’re toying with the idea of just completing the rest of the essay yourself and deleting his name.

11.50pm [Min Yoongi]: relax, dollface. 11.52pm [Min Yoongi]: i said i’d take care of it right? 11.53pm [Min Yoongi]: i always keep my promises ;) 11.54pm [You]: shut up, we don’t have time for this 11.54pm [You]: email me the draft. i need to read it before it’s submitted 11.56pm [Min Yoongi]: you know, u really need to learn how to relax 11.56pm [Min Yoongi]: just live on the edge for once 11.57pm [You]: we can live on the edge another time. 11.57pm [You]: send. the. draft. now.

There’s no reply, and even though you sit and refresh your email inbox multiple times, there’s no new mail. Anxiety is rising up in your chest, and you can feel it in every single nerve ending as the clock ticks closer and closer to 12 midnight, and the online portal’s instructions are clear: the deadline is 2359.

11.59pm [Yoongi]: it’s submitted. 11.59pm [You]: what???? i literally told u to send me the draft befre u submit 11.59pm [You]: lik a million times 12.01am [Yoongi]: oh sorry dollface 12.02am [Yoongi]: I forgot 12.02am [Yoongi]: check ur email babe

You’re trembling in an equal mix of trepidation and false hope when you open his email and click on his attachment, and you actually have to click on the little icon a few times because your hands are shaking so much that you misclick a few times. It takes forever for the document to open, and when it finally does, what you see on the page makes your breath freeze in your lungs.

Q: What is courage?

This.

Fucking Min Yoongi. It’s rage that fuels your steps all the way to his room, and every single pound on his door with your fists betrays your indignation and fury, imagining that his wooden door is his stupid, smirking face instead. The noise that you’re making outside his room attracts the stares from the other residents on the floor, but you can hardly bring yourself to care. Just wait till he opens that damn door, you’re going to tear into him like he’s never had it before; good looks and sex appeal be damned-

The second he opens the door and his blonde head comes into view, you strike him across the cheek so hard that it leaves an imprint in his porcelain skin. 

“What the fuck?” 

You reach to slap him with your other hand, but he’s prepared for it this time and stops you with fingers wound tightly around your wrist. He digs in with a pressure that borders on painful, but you school your features into submission.

“That should be my line, I believe.” Your eyes are ablaze with your anger, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “Why would you do this? Why would you delete my work and submit that without even telling me?”

You can feel the desperation of the situation setting in, and the thought of your grades dropping because of this is so awfully terrifying, having to watch everything you’ve worked for go down the drain because of him, that it sets off a panic attack, and your voice is filled with hysteria.

“Do you know how much this essay is worth? There are no finals for this elective so this is practically worth our entire grade!! I know grades don’t matter to you but they sure as hell do to me, I can’t mess this up or else I won’t graduate with first class honours and-” 

“And what?” Yoongi cuts off your tirade, looking you directly in the eye, and you stop to catch your breath, tears brimming and threatening to spill over onto your cheeks. “So what if you don’t graduate with first class honours?” 

“I- I just…”

“Why are you even in college? Why do you want that first class honours so much? For the prestige? Boasting rights? The right to look down your pretty little nose at everyone else at your convocation ceremony?” His stance is challenging, provoking you.  

“No,” you’re a little taken aback at his accusatory tone, and it prompts you to defend yourself. “I really love what I’m studying, it’s the first time I’ve felt so alive, it’s the only damn thing I’m good at. I love how the same poem can mean two different things to two different people, and how a piece of work comes to represent someone else’s blood, sweat and tears, but you have to work for it, analyse it and extract its meaning.”

“Then why are you doing this? Why are you starving yourself, sacrificing your mental health over something that should be making you happy? If you love literature so much, why are you letting it destroy you like this?” Yoongi takes a step closer so that you can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, alight with a fire that matches the one in your own. “Why can’t you just live in the moment for second and just enjoy doing something you love?”

You give a short bark of a laugh at how naïve he is. “Believe me, I’d love to live exactly like you, not giving a fuck about grades, but that’s not how our society works-”

You’re cut off when Yoongi grabs your wrist and pulls you into him, slamming the door shut behind you, and before you can blink, his lips are on yours.

“Shut up. For God’s sake, for once in your life, just shut up and feel.”

“Fuck you,” you growl, biting down on his lip harshly. His sinful lips quirk up briefly before trailing down your neck, biting and sucking. “I’m not- ahh- going to let someone who spends all-nighters in th-that tiny little studio give me a lecture on how to let go.” 

His stupid tongue on the ridge of your collarbone makes your voice less steely and determined than you’d like it to be, but he only chuckles. “What did I say, dollface? I said shut up.” 

“Make me,” you lean forward to enclose his earlobe and bite down on it, causing him to grunt in pain.

“Oh, I will, dollface.” His hands are sliding up under the hem of your shirt, and emboldened by his attention to your neck and collarbones, you raise your hands above your head for him to slide your shirt over your head to expose your bare chest. “No bra?”

His warm mouth encloses your nipple, causing it to pebble beneath his ministrations as you arch your back into him. The swirls of his tongue sends shockwaves down to your core, and you mutter a curse at how talented his tongue is. Yoongi switches his attention to your other nipple as he spins you around, pushing you back onto his bed and you land in his heap of blankets and pillows, surrounded by his scent as he continues mouthing at your chest.

“Fuck, you look so gorgeous in my bed right now,” he trails kisses down the valley of your cleavage and to the waistband of your shorts. “These shorts are so tiny they barely even cover anything.”

He pauses with fingertips at your waistband. “Can I?”

You can only nod in response, and in one single motion he pulls off your bottoms until they’re at your ankles. The scent of your arousal immediately makes his smirk- that stupid, overconfident jerk. “This wet already? Someone’s desperate.” 

“Shut up and put your mouth where your money is.” His eyes darken immediately, and he grips a thigh, sliding it over his shoulder as he brings his mouth close to your core.

The cool air that hits your soaked slit tells you that you’re practically dripping for him, and the moan that escapes you when his rough tongue attacks your clit is music to his ears. Yoongi plays with your clit in all sorts of ways- teasing strokes with the tip of his tongue, rewarding licks with the broad flat surface area and rough sucks with his entire mouth that have your back arching off his bed. He gives you a break for just a second, and you glance down to catch a glimpse of his cheeks, nose and chin covered in your arousal, and the sight makes your core clench for more.

“Fingers,” you gasp, immediately biting your lip in regret when his gleaming eyes settle on your writhing form. 

“What’s that?”

“Fucking finger me Yoongi,” you grit your teeth in desperation, and he rewards you by stroking your slit gently at first, then sliding a finger till the second knuckle.

His fingers are just as magical as his tongue, as he soon adds another inside you. You clench around him immediately, and the stretch of his fingers alone makes your mind wander to how his cock might feel as it stretches your pussy out, judging from the bulge in his sweatpants earlier. The combination of his fingers and his tongue on your clit has you hurtling towards release embarrassingly quick, but just as your breaths begin to shorten and your hips buck towards his hand, he slides his fingers out of you, spreading them to admire your slick that covers them before he sucks every bit off. 

“Cumming already?” His cool, unaffected tone directly contradicts the noticeable bulge in his sweatpants, and you only smirk in return as you palm him.

He feels firm and warm in your hand, and as you lower your head towards his crotch, you catch a glimpse of desire in his eyes. Maintaining eye contact, you pull down his sweats, letting his length spring free, the head engorged and red with precum. Before he can make some stupid remark about his size, you cover his tip in an open mouthed kiss, lapping up his salty precum before licking a strip on the underside, and he’s rendered speechless. 

His solid length twitches in your grasp, and a sense of power floods you as you enclose your lips around his dick and he throws his head back, exposing his creamy throat in rapture. You smirk in victory as he’s reduced to a mess of moans and grunts above you, and you don’t even mind when your mouth goes down a tad too far and your eyes start to water. Min Yoongi looks as if he’s the kind that prides himself on his self-control during sex, and hearing his deliciously sinful moans is like music to your ears.

You wrap a hand around his base and jerk the part of him that you can’t take into your mouth, continuing to suckle at his tip and running your tongue all over his shaft. He threads his fingers through your hair, tugging lightly at your scalp as he bucks his hips lightly.

“Fuck, you suck dick so well, you look like such a good girl on the outside, who knew you’d be choking on my cock like this huh?”

You relax your throat and let him slide in deeper, fighting off the urge to gag, and he can only groan as he tries to resist bucking his hips into your warm, enticing heat. 

“I think I like you better with your mouth full of my cock, instead of talking back to me.” Yoongi reaches for the back of your head, placing slight pressure there for a few seconds before lifting you off his dick with an audible pop. “AH fuck, your mouth is too good, but I don’t want to come till I’m balls deep in that pretty little pussy of yours.”

Yoongi watches as you wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, taking a few deep, testing breaths. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you’re appreciative of his small shows of concern like this, but right now you’re dripping all over your thighs, and longing to be filled up. “How do you want me?” 

“I’ve always wondered how you’d look naked and panting under me, and filled up with my cock,” Yoongi reaches for your legs and pulls you toward him. “That night after the club you got me so fucking horny, dollface. I had to jerk one off in my fucking bathroom because of your stupid black dress that I wanted to stain with my cum.”

“Ah- Yooongii.” He starts teasing the head of his cock between your puffy lips, catching your clit on every stroke, and you can’t help but lose yourself in the electric sensations. He coats his entire length with your arousal, taking pleasure in seeing how your lips part just to accommodate his length so willingly.

The emptiness of your core makes you angle your hips, hoping to catch him and make him slip inside, but to your disappointment his hips move just out of reach, and you sink back down to the bed with a frustrated moan.

“What’s wrong babe? Use your words, you were so good at it earlier,” Yoongi grabs the base of his cock and taps on your clit lightly- enough to send warmth blooming through your core, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

At this point all your reservations and dignity are out the window- you’re craving the feel of his cock ramming your cunt so hard, filling up every single inch of your pussy. “Yoongiii- I need you.”

“You have me already babe, you need to be more specific.” 

“I need- I need your cock Yoongi please, I want to come so bad, I need it please,” your sobs are almost incoherent as you buck your hips towards him. Just when you think he’s going to prolong this torture, he slides himself in to the hilt, and you’re rewarded with the burning, pleasurable stretch.

“So g-good, oh my god,” you dig your nails into his biceps as your muscles automatically clench around him when he starts to pull out agonizingly slowly.

“Your pussy is fucking drenched… shit, how are you so goddamn tight?” Yoongi can’t bear to leave your warmth for more than a few seconds, so he thrusts himself back into your enveloping heat once more. You’re so wet that every thrust he makes gives out an obscene, squelching sound, and it’s so entirely filthy but you love it, and it makes you squeeze your walls around him.

His hands find their way to the backs of your thighs as he pushes them up, spreading your legs apart so that he can see every inch of his cock sliding into your pussy. Yoongi’s done with letting you adjust, so he leans in to your ear and whispers, “Hold on tight dollface, I’m about to pound this pretty little pussy of yours so damn hard.”

Then with a single, harsh thrust, you travel halfway up the bed, and then his hips are smashing into you repeatedly. The force of his thrusts are making you move so much that he shifts position to kneel over you so that your frame is folded over in half, the backs of your thighs over his shoulders as he sets a punishing pace. 

Every thrust of his results in the head of his cock brushing against that spot, and if not for your trapped position under him, you’d be writhing out of control by now. Your folded in half position makes your cunt even tighter, and his cock feels massive inside of you as he continues to fuck you so hard that you start to see stars beneath your closed lids.

“Ah, Yoongi,” you reach towards his hips, but he stops you with a growl and a nip to your neck. 

“Take it, fucking take my cock like a good girl, I know you can,” Yoongi soothes the bite with a laving tongue, and you whine in response.

But his punishing thrusts let up just a bit, and even though you feel powerless and vulnerable under him like this, you know that Yoongi knows when to stop, you trust him with your whole being, enough to just surrender under him and let him use you as he pleases.

“Yoongi, I’m gonna- I think,” your words leave your mouth in gasps.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” his voice sounds tender, and it’s the most gentle you’ve ever heard him. Yoongi sits up so that he has better access to your clit, and his thumb slides over your nub covered with your juices as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

It only takes a few deep thrusts to unleash the white hot pleasure that makes you sob his name in desperation, and your walls close in around him in the throes of your orgasm. He continues to thrust and help you ride out your high, until he can’t resist the pulsing of your walls anymore.

“______, where can I come?” His voice is gritty and out of breath. Coming down from your high, it doesn’t slip past your notice that he’s calling you by your name, not dollface or any other pet name.

“All over me, cum all over me Yoongi.”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he pulls out and strokes himself to completion, and your eyes are rooted to the head of his cock as streams of hot white cum spurt out to land in streaks on your belly and trickle down to your pussy, soaking his sheets completely. He collapses next to you in a panting heap, and you stay like that for a while.

Before long the stickiness on your belly starts to feel unpleasant, but as you’re contemplating the least awkward way to get out of this situation, Yoongi pushes himself off the bed, heading for his attached bathroom and returning with a damp cloth.

As he reaches to clean you up, you stop him with a hand on the cloth, attempting to take it from him. Now that you’re in your right mind, not clouded with lust, it feels a little too intimate to let him clean you up like this, but he bats your hand away. The cloth feels warm and soft against your skin, and you try to fight back the feeling of insecurity and self-consciousness as he parts your legs and wipes at your folds delicately. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and you close your legs tightly.

“Don’t get all shy on me now, dollface.”

“I’m still mad at you.”

“For what? The essay or for being right in general?” He reaches for the covers with one hand and slides the other around your waist sneakily.

“Both- wait, who said you were were right about me?”

“You’re letting all the cold air in, hurry come under the covers.”

He looks so soft and cuddly with the covers up to his chin, so you grudgingly tuck your legs back in, and he snuggles his head onto your soft chest.

“Who would’ve thought? The great Min Yoongi likes to cuddle.” You smile in spite of yourself and thread your fingers through his silky blonde hair.

“Not just anyone though. I can’t believe we hate fucked over an essay.”

When he puts it like that, you can’t help but burst into giggles, burying your nose into his hair. 

“And all this while I thought you were a robot who wasn’t good at anything but studying,” he murmurs into your chest.

“I do love literature, really, it’s just… somewhere along the way I got caught up in this vicious cycle of obsessing over grades. And it’s hard to get out of it, in fact, I’m not sure if it’s possible even. And with that it sucked all the joy and passion right out of something I used to love with all my heart.”

Yoongi is silent, the only movement of his being the strokes of his thumbs along your skin, and you almost think that he’s fallen asleep, and start to drift off yourself too.

“You will get out of it.”

*

Your neck cracks particularly loudly, drawing a few stares from those around you in the quiet atmosphere of the library.

It’s the last few hours before your submission is due, and even though your paper is already completed, you’ve been scrolling through it for the past few days trying to improve it and obsessively scanning for any mistakes. You blink your eyes wearily when you realise that you’ve been reading the same sentence over and over, and you’re glad for the distraction when your phone vibrates on the table, earning you a few dirty glares.

You grab it quickly and unlock it.

[12.20pm] Yoongi: come over babe [12.20pm] You: Yoongi I cant, I’m trying to finish my paper [12.21pm] Yoongi: I just picked up our philo paper

You shut your laptop immediately and start to pack up your things, immediately feeling your heartbeat in your throat. When you reach Yoongi’s floor, the door to his room is left open, and you peek inside to see him at his desk.

“Isn’t it sad that I have to mention a paper just to see your face?” 

You roll your eyes in return, but there’s no barb behind your actions. “Touché. Who’s the one who locked me out of his studio last week when I tried to visit you?”

“I didn’t lock you out, I just didn’t hear you knock on the door,” he grumbles half-heartedly, and it’s kind of cute. He picks up a piece of paper on his desk, and holds it up, face side down so you can’t see anything. When you reach for it, he holds it just out of your reach, and you raise your eyebrows.

“What do you want now?”

“A bet, sweetheart.”

“What kind of bet?”

“If we get an A+ on this paper, you’ll have to be my girlfriend.”

“And if we fail miserably?”

“Umm… I’ll be your boyfriend?”

You snort. “Nice one Yoongi.”

Yoongi scratches his head and pretends to think for a moment. “I’ll ask for extra credit and do it all myself?” 

“Good boy, you know me so well already,” you grin at him and reach for the piece of paper held between his two fingers, snatching it out of his grip. 

“Ow, you gave me a paper cut there babe-”

A+ with extra credit. Most unique and daring answer I’ve seen so far. You’ve clearly understood the question requirements fully, and utilised the utmost creativity in answering. Excellent work!

For a moment you’re left staring at the piece of paper in shock, reading over the words written in red ink over and over again to make sure that they’re actually there. The red letter A+ stands out, and you can’t believe your eyes.

“So, where should we have our first date? Usually I like to date my girls for a while before fucking them, I’m not that kind of guy, but oh well-” Yoongi oh-so-casually starts to examine his fingernails. 

“You saw the grade first, didn’t you?”

A sly grin spreads over his face, but he only shrugs. “Don’t know what you’re talking about babe.” 

“Min Yoongi-” You stop short, watching as he grins unabashedly at you. “I guess today’s our first day then.”

[nicoismywaifu]

Demand and Supply

Pairing: NicoMaki Summary: Maki has a secret hobby which may or may not involve collecting pictures of Nico.  Notes: This is not what I was meant to be writing, but I wanted to do something for Maki’s birthday. So here we are!  Words:  ~2000

The monitor of Maki’s computer was the only source of light in her dark bedroom, and she couldn’t stifle a yawn from having another late night. A glance at the bottom right of the screen revealed the time: 3:30am. What was such a bright, talented young girl doing awake instead of resting for school that day? The answer was simple.

She was collecting photos of Nico online and saving them to her hard drive.

Meticulously backed up both physically and to cloud storage, Maki’s collection of Nico pics was her secret pride and joy, with an emphasis on secret. It was something she was sure the others would never suspect, and damn did she want to keep it that way.

Tagged by date, location, situation and cuteness rating out of ten (slightly redundant, because Maki never gave a rating less than seven), archiving Nico’s cuteness was a full-time job for Maki. Hence why she found herself up in the middle of the night, trawling through every website and search engine for pictures of Nico that she might have missed.

She had many good pictures (her collection reached petabytes last week), but there was a problem.

‘It's not enough,’ Maki muttered to herself, squinting at the screen unhealthily. ‘I need more Nico-chan.’

Maki had now reached the point where she had collected every picture of her girlfriend that there was on the internet. And scanned every magazine Nico featured in, clipped every newspaper article and recorded every program. She had cleared her backlog of Nico, which meant that the trickle of new photos could no longer satisfy her.

She had reached peak Nico, but she needed more than what was being produced. Her demand for Nico pictures outstripped supply. It was basic economics. So to correct this awful failure of the free market, Maki decided to take action.

Being a Nishikino, and like most other members of the bourgeoisie, Maki knew this was an opportunity to finally put all her money to good use. If demand exceeded supply, all she had to do was increase supply to restore equilibrium!

With that thought in mind, Maki clicked onto the search bar, ignored the auto-fill prompts all containing the words Nico Yazawa and cute and typed in something very different instead.

How to hire paparazzi.

Another afternoon practice session ended. As usual, Nico bounded straight over to Maki and glomped her briefly, before beaming up at her with a smile. Maki knew that this was code for “Hey, let’s spend the rest of the afternoon together, Maki-chan!” and it was something she was all too happy obliging.

Nico might have thought it unusual for Maki of all people to have a smile on her face as they exited the school and began walking to the park together. But it was good to see happy Maki emerge for once, unlike the grumpy or apathetic Maki the world usually saw. So instead of questioning it, Nico smiled as well, slipping her hand into Maki’s and humming contentedly at her girlfriend’s good mood.

Of course, Maki was only smiling at the prospect of gaining more candid Nico pictures for her collection. But Nico didn’t need to know that. As in, she really didn’t need to know that.

But she wouldn’t. All Maki had to do was keep her cool and say ‘gross’ whenever she really meant ‘Nico-chan is so cute I’m about to hyperventilate’ and Nico would never suspect a thing – and certainly never suspect that Maki spent every other waking moment giddily looking at pictures of her. Then as soon as she got back home, Maki would be free to scream incoherently as she got her fix of Nico pictures.

As such, Maki had briefed the photographers she had hired in advance as to the places they usually visited, where would be the best angles to take their pictures and that bonuses would be paid if they caught Nico doing something really cute. Maki had accounted for everything.

So they walked hand-in-hand to the park, stopping as they always did to purchase a crepe from a pop-up stall. All according to keikaku so far.

Also according to plan was watching Nico happily bite into her strawberry crepe. Watching her eyes light up as if she were only enjoying it for the first time, those perfectly white teeth nestled between those soft, pink lips, the kind of things that always made Maki wish ‘Damn, I wish I could take a photo of this without seeming weird.’ But her wishes were now granted (or rather paid for).

Maki’s Nico-related thoughts were then interrupted by Nico. ‘Hey, Maki-chan…’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got this weird feeling…’ Nico glanced around her surroundings with suspicion. ‘That we’re being watched!’

Maki couldn’t even see the photographer she knew was there, but Nico had already grabbed her by the wrist as she began sprinting.

Maki had accounted for everything.

But she hadn’t accounted for Nico.

The Nico who was always prepared to escape from the paparazzi at a moment’s notice.

Oh.

She really should have thought of that, huh?

Even as she ran, Nico didn’t seem especially angry at having her time with Maki interrupted. She wasn’t even annoyed. In fact, she looked almost as if she might have been enjoying herself? ‘I guess everyone wants a piece of Nico-Nii now!’ she said in a sing-song, looking behind herself to grin at Maki. ‘We’ve really made it, Maki-chan!’

Okay, Nico was definitely enjoying herself. Maybe this plan had some unintended benefits, as Maki tried to refrain from smiling herself at seeing Nico look so exhilarated. That would definitely look good in a picture. No, a poster. Or a mural. Or maybe across an entire art gallery. Perhaps it was time to call in her father’s connections?

But whatever Maki was thinking to herself, Nico didn’t seem to notice, instead leading Maki through the dense Akihabara crowds before pulling her into a quiet alleyway, and hiding the both of them behind the side of a dumpster. ‘Made it!’ she gasped, exhausted from running. ‘All my practice finally paid off, huh?’

Maki had even less oxygen, and doubled over with her hands on her knees. If Nico’s idol career didn’t pan out, she could probably make a middle-distance runner or parkour specialist. That was evidenced when Maki looked up from her haunches, seeing a miraculously recovered Nico with a smirk on her face.

‘Get a grip, Maki-chan! Our afternoon isn’t over yet!’

In a flash, Nico retrieved two sets of trusty pink sunglasses and face masks from her bag, handing one of each to Maki as well. And just to add to the effect, Nico brought out her totally not poop looking hat for herself.

It was then that a question hit Maki. ‘Nico-chan, how many disguises do you carry?’

‘One for each member, of course.’

That response only raised more questions. ‘But then how do you fit your schoolwork in such a tiny bag?’

‘That’s a secret,’ Nico replied, winking before she brought the glasses to her face with a flourish.

It was a pity to Maki that Nico’s face was now mostly obscured. But there was something about Nico in incognito (incognico?) which was also cute enough for Maki to stare at and think of how wonderful the world was. Not that she’d ever say that to Nico, of course.

‘I don’t think those people are the kind to give up that easily,’ said Nico.

They’d better not with what I’m paying them, thought Maki.

‘So,’ Nico continued, ‘let’s go someplace else, shall we?’

It was only when they reached halfway that Maki realised “someplace else” meant Nico’s apartment. Not that she minded, it was becoming something of a ritual between them now.

Being on the outskirts of Akihabara, the pedestrian traffic faded steadily as the two made their way on foot. Nico maintained a steady vigil, taking glances around every corner and scanning likely ambush points. Maki couldn’t help but think this was having the opposite effect and making them look even more conspicuous. But that didn’t mean that she would let go of Nico’s hand.

Whatever the case, she had her trusty disguise on, and it was infallible. Sure, only her face and eyes were covered, which mainly left her hair exposed. But surely red-haired girls were common in... oh.

Maki then realised that it was actually pretty obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight that the two conspicuous people were Nico and Maki.

She also realised that going to Nico’s apartment was usual enough to have been marked on the route Maki had supplied. And just when Nico had turned her head again to check the blind spot, there he was.

Out in the open with nowhere to hide, there was no escaping the camera’s lens as it was raised to meet its target.

In that split-second, Maki knew, just knew that Nico was about to do something in response to finally getting caught on film. But seeing Nico scream ‘Love Nico Attack!’ before launching a flying kick at the photographer was not quite what Maki expected.

‘Ow!’ the man yelled in pain, before something more pressing came to mind. ‘My camera!’

Lying on the ground was what once would have been a nice DSLR, now in two separate pieces with a chunk of glass missing from the lens. Maki winced at the sight.

Nico, however, was less empathetic. ‘Serves you right for trying to spy on Nico-Nii,’ she huffed.

‘But she’s the one who hired me in the first place!’ the photographer shouted, pointing squarely at Maki.

Nico looked at the man, then back at Maki with a face of utter bewilderment. ‘What do you-‘

‘Don’t worry,’ Maki intervened between them, ‘I’ll pay for your camera, and a bit extra. Okay?’

‘You’d better,’ grumbled the photographer, before he began to slink away back towards the city. He still got paid, so whatever.

Nico was only left with Maki for an explanation. ‘Maki-chan?’

‘Nico-chan!’ Maki shouted, bowing her head. ‘I’m really sorry!’

As she listened to Maki’s explanations and apologies for creating unnecessary trouble, Nico’s expression gradually turned from bewilderment to a gentle smile, as she placed an arm around Maki’s shoulders. ‘Awww, Maki-chan!’ Nico said, swiftly retrieving her phone from the pocket of her blazer. ‘If you just want pictures of Nico-Nii, all you have to do is ask!’

In the time it took for Nico to strike her pose, the photo was already taken. Sadly, Maki didn’t have quite the same reaction time, only looking at the camera in surprise, her mouth in a perfect “o”. Her disguise outfit still on (in fact, how did Nico whip off her glasses, hat and mask in that time?) meant that Maki looked, well, ridiculous.

Nico spent a solid minute laughing at Maki’s less than photogenic effort before tapping at her phone, sending a copy of the picture to Maki’s. For all her scowling as she looked at her phone, Maki was glad that it was a good photo of Nico at least. Photoshop could take care of the rest.

But that wasn’t enough for Maki to feel that she had gone too far with her plan. She had only wanted cute Nico pictures, not a potential assault case. And however Nico reacted, it was only because Maki set it all up in the first place. ‘I’m really sorry, Nico-chan. I shouldn’t have done what I did.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Nico, grinning in response. ‘It was sort of fun, wasn’t it?’

Maki reflected for a moment before nodding meekly in agreement. Whatever else it might have been, it certainly hadn’t been a boring afternoon.

‘And we finally got some actual practice in evading the press,’ Nico continued. ‘Which might come in handy one day, because Nico-Nii will never leave Maki-chan’s side. Even when she becomes the Number One Idol in the Universe.’

Maki still didn’t agree with Nico’s rationalization, but whatever response she had died from hearing Nico say those words and mean them.

As for Nico, it was now time to return to teasing Maki as she made a generous wink. ‘Also, I’ll be sure to take plenty more pictures of myself if you want them that much.’

‘I-It’s not like…’ Maki began out of habit, before she trailed off completely. Screw it. She had the cutest, most amazing girlfriend in the world. She may as well admit it to herself for once. ‘Alright, then.’ And since she got that invitation, Maki realized that there wasn’t anything to lose by asking another question.

‘Even lewd ones, then?’

‘What?! No!’ Nico yelled, blushing furiously. What was Maki thinking?! But at the look of disappointment Maki made, like a child discovering that Santa isn’t real, Nico found herself sighing.

‘Maybe on your birthday, alright?’