#so seeing people care all of a sudden or offer him or them praise and empathy they don't afford the other Hells was like... oh okay lol

[astralleywright]

d'ya think maybe people are mad about the bh characters this aggressively because it's really fucking hard to make fluffy domestic aus of this campaign or use basic character tropes with them or

OKAY HI ANON YEAH. YEAH I THINK THAT'S PART OF IT. you kind of mention two things in your question; the fluffy aspect and the tropes - and I think both are part of it.

The fluff thing is like, I DO think you can make easy fluffy domestic aus with these characters, because that's what many of these characters ultimately want! The material is there, in baking and craft nights and burlesque shows! But I think people take the fact that the Hells' health/relationships/status are not following a straight upwards progression the way VM and M9's (apparently?) did to mean that the Hells are Doomed to Fail, because in no story have things gotten worse before they got better, culminating in a lowest point before rising to victory. And a lot of people attribute this far too heavily to some personal, inherent failings of the Hells as opposed to their position in this story, because the Fundamental Attribution Error is always getting people's asses.

Which folds into the part abt tropes, because I don't want to say the Hells are, on the whole, more complicated characters than VM or the M9, because I don't believe that's true. But they're definitely more difficult to break down into simple archetypes or fanfic tags, and even if you could, they're not widely appealing ones; they're NPC descriptions. Or the ease of understanding implied by them being tropes is constantly challenged by the story itself; the Hells love each other, are meaningful to each other like a Found Family, but they're still fraught with conflict. Imogen is both Refusing the Call and Accepting the Call and just trying to listen in on it, from a distance. Imodna are Slow Burn Best Friends to Lovers, but its not happily ever after when they get together. Ashton is a Jerk With A Heart Of Gold, but its often their heart of gold that compels them to act like a jerk in the first place. So if someone is trying to (or wants to be able to) rely on tropes to understand most of the Hells, it is probably leaving them in a lurch, and people love to get mad at things they don't understand. (Especially when that thing they don't understand keeps fucking up and doing bad shit).

[cheapshrimpysheep]

5 Love Languages

SUMMARY: A person doesn't just have one love language, but these are the ones I think would be the most predominant in each of them. In Ortho's case, at least, this is platonic.

CHARACTERS: All NRC Students

TAGS: Fluf; List

COMMENTS: I already knew this concept, but recently I saw it again and this post crossed my mind. This is just my opinion of course, I'm no expert. I hope you enjoy ;)

CONTEXT: According to Dr. Gary Chapman there are 5 Love Languages:

Acts of Service: For these people, actions speak louder than words. These are nice things you do for your partner that make them feel loved and appreciated.

Giving Gifts: For some people, receiving/giving a heartfelt gift is what makes them feel most loved. Gift-giving indicates love and affection. They treasure not only the gift itself but also the time and effort the gift-giver put into it.

Quality Time: This language is all about giving the other person your undivided attention. They feel loved if you are present and focused on them when you are together.

Words of Affirmation: This language uses words to affirm other people. It’s about expressing affection through spoken words, praise, or appreciation.

Physical Touch: To this person, nothing speaks more deeply than appropriate physical touch. They feel love through physical affection.

Riddle Rosehearts - We even have confirmation of that with what happened to Trey in book 2, for example. He will take care of the people that are important to him.

Deuce Spade - I see him as a guy that would do anything for you. He himself says he's not very smart, so he believes the best he can do is being useful and helpful.

Ruggie Bucchi - He knows he's good at this. I think he's the type of person who would want to be taken care of and that's why he takes care of the people he cares about.

Ortho Shroud - We can see that with his brother Idia. He likes to help the people he likes, both in a good way like helping with something, or mean way like forcing a shut-it to go touch grass.

Trey Clover -  One of the examples of this language is offering a home-made sweet. And I see him cook your favourite foods and sweets just to see your appreciative smile.

Azul Ashengrotto - I see him as the kind that spoils his loved one. He knows the value of money and hard work. And what better investment than your happiness?

Kalim Al-Asim - I mean, we kinda already saw this multiple times. He is the kind of giving his loved one everything they ask for, or even what they didn't ask for.

Cater Diamond - He is the terminally online type, let's face it. His phone is part of his Body Renders. So getting offline time with you and for you, that's something special!

Jack Howl - He has already said that he is the “lone wolf” type. So wanting to spend time with someone instead of being alone shows that you are special.

Jamil Viper - He is a busy and stressed person. So making time for you in his rare moments of rest shows effort. And wanting to spend time with you rather than alone shows how much he likes you.

Vil Schoenheit - From book 6: spending so much time talking to Rook without paying attention to the rest. He shows love by taking the time to give you as much attention as you deserve.

Idia Shroud - We can see this with Ortho. He's an introvert shut-it that doesn't like people. So wanting to be with you despite all of it and even play together? You are the exception to his rules.

Malleus Draconia - We can see this. He likes to be with you, talk to you, know from you. He miss you. Any time he has available that he can spend with you, giving you attention, he will.

Silver - We know how hard it is for him not to fall asleep all of a sudden. Taking all that effort just to spend time with you and give you attention shows effort.

Jade Leech - He is a man of words. It's true that he likes to use them to deceive and manipulate others. But he's the completely opposite of someone who would fake an "I love you".

Epel Felmier - I think his acts of service would be more connected to his pride. His words on the other hand, especially when they show appreciation for you, that's how he shows he really likes you.

Rook Hunt - Do I need to explain? We can see this ALL THE TIME! He already said that he never lies about this kind of thing. If he loves you, he'll scream to the world how wonderful you are.

Sebek Zigvolt - We see this with Malleus. His words of admiration are not for everyone. The more he likes someone the more he'll praise them and the louder he will say it.

Ace Trappola - He prefer to use his words to tease you. He could also do acts of service, but I think being comfortable with physical affection is his ultimate act of love.

Leona Kingscholar - He's too lazy for anything else. It's not just anyone who pets his ears and lives to tell about it. Just like is not just anyone he wants to be so close to.

Floyd Leech - He's a man of acts, but not the service ones. We know he likes to squeeze people. Usually in a bad way. But for a loved one, squeezes would be loving hugs with some kisses.

Lilia Vanrouge - He can be good with words. But I think his ultimate show of affection would be hugs and more then that kisses. I think he's the type to do that, but only with special people.

If you would like to read more from me, you can find it in my pinned post: INDEX

[dipendenteconad]

Some LiuHan/BiKang headcanons for MY soul (SFW) pt. 1/?

From some chats I had with a friend

So, for instance, I'm well aware of Bi-Han's nasty attitude towards everyone, and I'll try my best not to write something ooc. Tho I can't help but see him more like the bratty type more than the dominant one (or better, a brat who pretends to be a dom iykyk); he wants to appear mighty, but he's not as cold as he presents himself to be. In fact, I think he might warm up under the right attentions, but they have to be from the RIGHT PERSON and them ONLY. He actually looks for someone who can keep up with him, either because they're on the same page as him or because they can predict his moves;

I think Liu Kang is perfect for him because they're so different, yet they can understand each other to some extent (opposites attract each other type of trope). I'm pretty much disappointed by Bi-Han's writing in MK1 because it gives too little explanation to his actions in story mode, this way I don't have much to work with and I have to let my delusions take the lead. But I can say that imo both Liu and Bi-Han are lonely souls who are looking for someone to fill that gap in their hearts. Liu would find amusement in trying to tame a beast like Bi-Han, and the latter would come to appreciate being taken care of;

Liu Kang can be very sweet and caring, but he's not afraid to impose himself, and I imagine Bihan to find enjoyment in messing with him, just to see for how long Liu Kang is willing to put up with him (spoiler: for eternity). Not used to affection, Bi-Han tends to destroy his relationships before they can hurt him: this way, he shields himself from eventual disappointment (see the outcome it had with his family, for example). Liu Kang knows what he's trying to do, and he promised himself not to let Bi-Han win this easily;

At first, Bi-Han would find Liu Kang's love annoying (even if he's hungry for it, he just doesn't know it yet). Whatever he does or says, Liu Kang has the right answer and the right solution for it, and no matter the situation he'd always try to understand Bi-Han so that he can be on his same side and support him. This would initially send Bi-Han on fire (eh) because he somehow came to think that he doesn't deserve/need any of that trust. He'd swear to hate Liu Kang due to his forgiving nature and his gentle approach towards everyone, but later he'd realize that what Liu Kang is offering him personally is way more than that: it is not courtesy, rather unconditional love;

So, the more Bi-Han tries to build a wall between them, the more force Liu Kang uses to demolish it;

People like Bi-Han, with such complex feelings, tend to contradict themselves: Liu Kang's presence morphed, with time, into a source of comfort. At last, he tried to focus more on enjoying what him and Liu Kang were having rather than destroying it before it had the chance to grow. Easily his best ever decision, because Liu Kang spoils and worships him in unimaginable ways;

Ever since he became a Titan and he lost his Kitana, Liu had been by himself. And I imagine him as someone who has so much love to give. Do you think he would really lose the opportunity to drow Bi-Han in it? Absolutely not;

Bi-Han would rather die than act all romantic, but fortunately for him, Liu Kang is enough for the both of them: each night Liu has the chance to have Bi-Han in his bed, he cuddles him and caresses his cold skin with warm hands, also enjoying the feeling of Bi-Han's body trembling under his touch at the sudden change of temperature. He would cover him in praise between each kiss, which can sound a bit cheesy for someone external but for Liu this is their moment and he wants to to make the most out of it; he also isn't shy when it comes to praise because he means every word of it (he would never say empty words to Bi-Han, he wants to gain the man's trust after all);

He compliments his body, his skill, his character, and Bi-Han doesn't really know how to react because he had never heard someone say such things to him before. One part of him wants to cringe, but the other wants to hug Liu tighter. Also, knowing that Liu Kang believes every word excites him even more;

So imagine Liu Kang's surprise when, after months of them being together, Bi-Han finally gives a compliment back. Maybe even a simple phrase said awkwardly, but still sincere and genuinely loving. He would cry, if those bioluminescent eyes of his were capable of such a thing (can they, actually?).

So what I like for this ship is a touch-starved Bi-Han with way too little relationship experience and an overly romantic Liu Kang who would do anything for him to make him feel loved again, even close an eye to more than one red flag.

Additions to this are very welcome

[prettyboypistol]

I love ur mercs x male reader stuff sm!! Don't know if you still do request but if you do, can I ask for the mercs reacting to being courted/flirted on by a male reader?

TF2 x Male Reader- Reacting to Being Hit On!

Scout

Flustered AF, thinks you're joking/insulting him at first

You call him pretty boy, he fucking dies.

Red faced, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, can't meet your eyes, etc. Etc.

"Hey!"

"Hello there, sexy."

"ASKFHTJFKRK SHUT UP"

Tries to hit on you back, but as soon as you open your mouth he melts

"Whoa whoa, slow down prettyboy! What's the rush?" You hummed as Jeremy dashed past you. Almost immediately, the loud and ear-piercing skid of sneaker sole on tile rang through the hall. His arms locked up where they were.

"You talkin to me?" Scout shouts, a hell of a lot louder than he intended. You make a noise of agreement. He turned around to see you, leaned on a wall with a satisfied smile. A snicker could barely be heard as Sniper passed by made Jeremy squeak as his face flushed red.

"What's wrong Jeremy, are you shy?"

Unfortunately, he ran away faster after that, his face red and his body shaking.

Demoman

He'd be caught MAJORLY off guard

He assumes you're drunk

matches your energy bc it's funny

next morning he teases you about it, but you start doubling down

"So, you remember all those nasty things you said last night?"

"Yeah I do, and I remember a certain someone promising me them."

OH SHIT

OH SHIT OH FUCK

"Hey there handsome, you busy?" You asked as you sit beside Tavish. He laughed in turn, his head rocked back as the mug's content sloshed haphazardly.

"Well, if you're here, absolutely not!" He replied in a heartbeat with a mirrored smile.

You two spent the night drinking and had a friendly, fun time together. The morning after however, Tavish strolled up and quoted a particularly suggestive comment you made, to which you winked.

oh. Oh shit.

"Well, you gonna take me up on my offer or not?"

You could nearly see his heart pop out of his chest as he fumbled over a way to respond.

Soldier

doesn't get it

you have to grab that mf by the face and say "I FIND YOU ATTRACTIVE" for him to get the hint

even then he probably thinks its a compliment

RIP, good luck

Medic

He laughs and brushes you off

It's a joke to him- either if you are playing or if you would really hit on him

Medic is one of those people to say "alright, that's enough now" with a smile to you saying "rail me daddy"

He's always brushing you off, unless you're praising him. Then he's hanging off your every word with a prideful smirk and the most puffed chest he's ever had.

Medic will give you extra good care when you're injured, something more tender is there now.

Nobody ever sees that little glint in his eyes as he double checks that you are okay with a glance.

Medic never understood why you made his heart squeeze. Maybe it was a new type of heart burn? A type of non-lethal heart attack? It all eluded him. Then he caught your eye, and the fun really began.

"Helloooo Doctor!" You said, you intentionally dropped your voice as he walked by. He stopped in his tracks before quickly turning on his heel to see you again. Your eyes locked before you clicked your tongue and winked.

"That's quite enough now. I'm a very busy man, you know." Medic responded as he gently smacked your head. You seized the sudden opportunity to grasp his wrist with a sly smile.

"Oh, you must be so stressed then! Won't you let me help with that?"

"I- what? I'm starting to think you're not joking anymore."

Heavy

He deadass can't understand you.

Like, at all.

So, you learn a few Russian pick up lines and try your luck.

"Hey! Heavy! Vy horosho vygladite!"

Heavy thinks you are trying to make conversation but horribly failed.

Well, now you know a bit of Russian and a lot of pickup lines, but not much luck in your actual goal.

You two start hanging out casually and turns out he's not only hot but also surprisingly a cool guy.

You finally get the courage to say the obvious damned words to him, no matter how much your voice clams up at the thought of ruining your friendship.

"Hey Heavy! You were great out there!"

"Thank you!"

"Я тебя люблю!"

Heavy lets his head fall back in laughter. Obviously you were joking, right? Right?! He gently explained the meaning, but that didn't deter you.

"Я тебя люблю!"

Finally, finally! The man showed a kind of reception. His face flushed the slightest bit of pink.

Sniper

He'd probably insult you on reflex

This however, makes you live rent free in his head for days on end.

As soon as he finally evicts you from his mind, you do it again.

He wants to kill you, really, he does.

However, the more he thinks about you and your disgustingly stupid face, the more he turns red and chokes up in his head.

You already know he's not going to face you. Accept it.

Mundy avoids you like the repressed bisexual man he is.

After literally eating himself alive with nerves, he eventually flirts back in a mumble you can barely understand before walking away.

Mundy physically cannot function, let alone able to leave his camper after the stunt you pulled (AKA saying 'hello' in a slightly more sincere way than usual) for at least a week, which caused a lot of trouble for your supervisors and generals. You were avoided, glared at, and were obsessed over by the Aussie for longer than you could fathom.

Still, you persisted. Your subtle lip bites, your prolonged eye contact, you knew what you were doing and loved every second of it.

Finally though, he showed back up and gave you a charming wink and smile. You could have kissed that bitchy little man.

Pyro

homie good luck

you speak fluent pyro as you watch them interact with the world and the other mercs.

They mean well, but just... somewhere else, like a person in wonderland.

You desperately want to join them in their wonderland.

through little gifts and kindness, you try to let the door open, but nothing seems to work. the only thing you haven't done is tell them outright that you love them.

So, fuck it, why not try!

"Pyro, there's something I want to tell you.."

You tell them everything, especially the wonderland allegory.

Pyro just sits there and listens to you go on. You make a tad bit of an ass of yourself as you fidget and fluster yourself with nerves. Eventually though the torture of talking is over, and you wait for their response. They stand up and leave.

You nearly cry before they return with a little teacup.

Spy

Oh he makes you blush like a virgin all over again if he even caught you thinking about hitting on him.

He is a little off guard and amused at your actual attempt.

The response of Spy pinning you against the wall and murmuring the downright dirtiest of things into your ear that leaves you stunned and gay.

Spy suddenly is the recipient of many gifts over the next few weeks. Flowers. Chocolates. Unfettered access to high-powered people when he's on an espionage mission.

Spy returns the favor with looks of flirtatious intent that are meant for you only.

You finally wrack up the courage to give him a gift in-person. It started as a note slid under his door to meet his admirer behind the barracks at 11 PM. Well, he shows up looking too gorgeous to have been incidental.

The blush that overtakes your cheeks refuses to let you look him in the eye as you thrust the bouquet of flowers towards him.

"Mon espion, tu as assassiné mon coeur..." you barely squeak out, cursing yourself for every incorrect inflection on the strange grammar. Spy simply looks you up and down with an amused chuckle.

"Votre français est horrible, petit fleur."

Engineer

You remind him so much of younger him when he was courting a girl back in his schooldays.

Down to the foot fidgeting and sweating profusely as you tried to say the most basic of things, it was downright endearing.

Dell had never considered himself gay, he'd never even thought about another man romantically!

He gently lets you down, but in a way that leaves things horribly ambiguous.

"I'm flattered- really! I just never thought I'd be the one asked to go steady!"

"So- you want me too stop?" You ask.

Dell doesn't answer with anything but a shy smile.

Well, after a few more weeks of old-fashioned flirting and a gentlemanly air, Dell finally gives you an answer.

"Gee, you really are serious, aren't you? I mean, I guess I wouldn't mind- but could we keep it quiet? At least for a while?"

You of course agree.

"Can I hold your hand sometimes?"

Dell's face flares a scarlet.

[manicrouge]

Episode Four: New Beginnings

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 12/02/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Money is rolling in, as are the enemies. Price makes a purchase in an attempt to apologise and cover his tracks.

[𝙲𝚠]: religious mentions, suggestive content, mentions of PTSD, suicidal ideation, threats of violence, blood, gore.

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 10.5k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so deeply sorry this took so long to come out... I hope this is enough of an apology for my absence !! There may be typos because this is admittedly very long although I have done my best to read through it. This is now the longest part... whoops.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

She was as unforgiving as the harsh tide in the sea.

Whenever she has her mind set to something, he knows she will not change. Not for him- not for anyone. So, the night after, when Kyle was safe in his bed with no more threats coming his way, he felt little shock as she walks through the door of his office. He offers her a look and nothing else, turning his eyes towards the book settled in front of him. 

His cigar hangs out of his mouth, grey smoke filling the air as he runs his eyes over the figures they have made. Surprisingly, he notes the sudden increase in just today- the blessing of the horse and Fisher’s death has proven to be beneficial in one regard.

‘I can’t believe you,’ Kate begins, closing the door behind her. ‘The detective is here for the guns.’ 

‘I know,’ John affirms, keeping his eyes turned down towards the page, ‘heard everythin’ Kyle said; I was in the room when he said it.’

A scoff escapes her as a bullet does from the chamber of a gun. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tugs at the string of her silky blue nightgown, approaching his desk. Pulling his eyes from the page, he takes the cigar from between his lips and sighs. 

‘I know I’ve messed up—’

‘You’re lying to them,’ Kate states sharply, ‘he looked up at you with a swollen, bloody fucking face, and you lied, John,’ she sharply says. ‘That detective is going to figure out just exactly who has the guns if you don’t fix this mess.’ 

John leans further back into his chair, tipping his head up towards the direction of the ceiling. It’s bruising, of course it is. To have looked into the eyes of one of his practical brothers and know that it’s his fuck up that got them all there in the first place. 

But, that's the business.

‘We… I can’t get rid of the guns now,’ he confesses shortly. 

Her grip on the back of the chair in front of her tightens as she clutches it. Part of him wonders if she’s dreaming of that chair being his neck. It’s a stupid thing to wonder; of course it is. Her fury is written all over his face, he sees it. Sucking on her teeth, she lowers down as her shoulders bunch up, and when she opens her mouth, he notes that she’s clenching her jaw. 

In response, he brings his cigar back to his lips for another favourable puff of nicotine. 

‘You’re getting rid of the guns.’

‘Not with Fisher’s men doing the rounds. They almost killed you this morning,’ he says, being sure to maintain a low tone as he addresses her. 

‘I don’t care about Fisher’s men, John,’ Kate snaps, ‘I care about our own. Kyle is lucky he only got away with a broken nose- but what if that isn’t the end of it? What if they get Simon or Johnny- or me?’ 

‘They won’t,’ he says, ‘I’d kill them before I left anything like that happen—'

‘It already has happened!’ Kate exclaims, throwing her hands in the air, ‘Kyle got caught out and he got hurt bad. And all for what? A shipment of guns you were doing fine without until you got your hands on them? You don’t need those, you’re capable enough as it is.’

Her words are far from praise. 

‘If you keep going like this, John, people are going to get hurt.’

‘Fisher’s men want me dead,’ he says, ‘you know, when I got out of the trenches, I thought I’d seen the end of all this shit,’ he confesses, ‘I thought, when I got home, things would go back to normal. There would be none of this ‘cause everyone realised how bad things can really get- I thought they’d appreciate the fact that they got to come home.’

Clenching his fist, he rolled his neck. 

‘But everything we fought for, every man we lost, it’s just the same fuckin’ cycle. Someone thinks they know better- someone thinks that they should be top dog and then a fight breaks out. You weren’t there Kate,’ he says, ‘you know the racing business like the back of your hand, but you don’t know war.’ 

She stares at him, her hands finding the top of the chair again. 

‘But I know you, John,’ she says, all the frustration in her mind coming out in a pitiful plea to be listened to. ‘I know you.’

All the fight in her is gone in the end, he notes the disappointment in her eyes as she lets go of the chair she has been holding onto so tightly and retracts her hands, moving them to fall against her side.

There’s a bitterness in the air, but there is nothing that reeks of ill-will. She offers him one more look before she turns sharply on her heel and heads towards the door of his office. 

He knows better than to call out her name, he knows better than to attempt to apologise; in the end, is he really sorry for something he is willingly doing? Or are his apologise simply that of connivence> Had he truly been remorseful, the last thing he would have wanted would be to sit alone in the silence of the room listening to the door shut with click. 

Yet, this is where he is and he doesn’t make any effort to move. Instead, he turns his focus back to the book of figures, retrieving the pen he settled down at the side of it. And in her absence, he finds himself reaching for the bottle of whiskey perched at the edge of his desk.

—

In the loneliness of the night, he finds that it is the prime time for the thought of sin to sneak in. Like an insatiable itch that can never be scratched. Every night has been the same. He strips of his clothing when he retires from his duties for the night and retreats to his shabby little bedroom.

Never one for luxury, only ever caring for money's advantage, not what it can buy him.

In his room he's left exposed, his underwear being the only thing protecting his decency from whatever is watching him. It's difficult to describe so he never really talks about it; whether he likes it or not, he is still the same old Captain he was when he was sleeping in the muddy trenches.

Before he sleeps, he lays in bed and smokes a cigar.

Whatever is in it helps ease his weary brain, the faults of the day he has just experienced being forgotten in a brief kiss from nicotine. She lingers in his mouth for a while, even when the stench of his cigar is gone.

Today has been particularly draining so he keeps his cigar in his mouth for a little longer than usual.

The thought of the barmaid is difficult to escape, even though he runs from it as fast as he can inwardly. Inners mean nothing; unless he acts upon this sudden feeling, there's nothing that can be traced back to him. No evidence, no criminal- and he is familiar with that. But, he can't help himself while alone with only himself to think of the flustered expression on your face earlier today. It's different from the mischievous glint he has seen in your eyes, and he's quite sure the pout on your lips is enough to challenge the fires that await him in the depths of hell.

He's melting at the thought, his body feels like water and his pores exude sweat as he attempts to quench his appetite with a kiss of nicotine- the very same thing that has kept him from formidable thoughts in the past.

Yet, you don't feel formidable to him. Much rather permanent.

It's your flattering purity, he's sure of it, and the dishevelment of someone who is clearly unfamiliar with how brutal his line of work with has his heart pounding against his chest. He feels like he's a teenager again, shamefully, unable to escape the emotions running through his veins.

His jaw is clenched as his mind persists on the thought of you- he's hardly seen you and he's thinking of you in ways that would even make Lucifer seem like a committed apostle.

It's not him either, typically, he knows better than to indulge in women; they only ever really cause issues. No one ever wants to commit to him for him either, it's always in terms of status and he's unsure if he's even selfish enough to indulge in desire all to put the life of a pretty lady at risk. And whether he likes it or not, giving his name to someone who isn't prepared nor deserving of the repercussions is not something he's particularly fond of.

He's done it to himself, he know he has. Even then, without the status, without the money, without his name, he's unsure whether anyone would want to stay with him.

He's a fool for even daring to think you would be any different; he's hardly spoken to you, he doesn't know anything about you. All it is is the help you gave Kyle and the panicked expression on your face this morning. Your bravery is admirable and your heart is grand- that much he knows.

Perhaps even too big to fit inside of your chest.

This is the whiskey talking.

Tipping his head back, he rests it against the wall behind his bed, allowing a grey cloud of smoke to spill past his lips, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His free hand rests across his stomach, and while lying against the mattress, he finds his hand taking the skin on the side between his fingers and pinching at it.

The sting is delightful- the tasteful sensation of living.

The delightful sensation of having some form of humanity.

Accompanied with the taste of nicotine and he dare might confess that it's the best he has felt in a long time. But he doesn't speak, keeping to pinching himself every couple of seconds as his eyes grow heavy. The mixture is deadly with the thought of you nestling firmly in his mind. His body is hot at the thought and he knows his thoughts are crude.

You're a stranger. You hardly know each other. Yet, the thought of how his hands fit around your waist and your defiance towards him has his saliva caught in his throat and his mouth dry. Despite such thoughts, he fights against them, using the same old discipline he had used on his troops in the war, telling himself that it's enough.

You know better than to fall into this shit.

So, he relents with the blooming thought in his mind all to find some source of peace in order to drift off and forget he ever thought of you in such a way in the first place. Moving further down his bed, he keeps the covers off of him, his body still beaming with heat. His tongue trails his bottom lip, the saliva drying down with a satisfactory cooling sensation as his eyes slowly grow heavy before they're shut.

His breaths are loud, primarily through his nose. His fingers twitch against his side, maintaining a pattern of allowing himself to drift off before pinching his side just to make sure that he's still very much where he believes he is.

And it's working.

Until he hears it.

It's faint at first, but he hears it.

It's as though a starving dog is located on the other side of the wall as there's this sound. It's slow at first, perhaps his brain is slowing due to his exhaustion or perhaps they're growing tired of the same act that has been following him around since the trenches. It starts from the top of his head, and slowly, it trails downwards, the sound similar to the clinking of a shovel being dragged across gravel.

Then, they get impatient and it's as though they have a spurt of energy when he finally succumbs to the temptation of resting for the night; they know if he did have the energy, he would have gotten rid of them a long time ago. There's someone there, that's what his mind is telling him anyway.

And as he falling into sleep with the image of you standing beside a bloody Kyle, he finds that he isn't overly concerned if he never opens his eyes again after that moment; he caused both the damage to Kyle and the look of distress on your face.

He'd deserve it.

—

There was blood on his hands again. It was there, staining his skin, the feeling of shredded flesh settled beneath his palms as he writhes and fights against the urge to pull away; he's the Captain. He is supposed to know everything- he is their leader and if he falls, then it will be he who punishes the rest of his brigade for their weakness.

There was a stewing anger in his veins as he blocked out the calls from an artificial accent over his shoulder. He swallowed the urge to tell them to leave him alone- to let him handle things; he didn't need a yank telling him what to do. He hadn't for the long four years of the war before they joined in, and he sure as shit wasn't going to fold there.

'Move, you're gonna kill him. You don't know what you're doing,' a brooding voice demanded, grabbing him by the shoulder.

John didn't budge, he stayed and look at the weeping man lying on the ground in front of him, keeping his hand against the bullet would in his knee and thigh as he huffs out a short breath. How could he be expected to do something so careless?

'Captain—'

'Shut it,' he snapped sharply, 'I don't need you telling me what to do, yeah? Do me a favour and go and find out where Garrick is,' he firmly stated, not bothering to look at the man standing behind him as he shrugs his shoulder.

There's a huff, he catches it through the howling guns shots and the sniffles of the man lying on the ground in front of him. His brow is wet with sweat and his hands are soaked with blood as it poured out of the wound. Fortunately, he heard the wet squelch of mud and the calling for a name, allowing him to look back at the man on the ground.

'You're almost outta here, Blake,' he said firmly, 'just have to wait this out and then you'll never have to think of coming to the trenches ever again- you have my word, my promise.'

Despite the snotty, muddy state that the man in front of him has gotten himself into, he offered Price a shaky smile as he reaches his hand forward, placing it on top of Price's red hands. He squeezed his hand tightly, remaining curt with the shake of his head.

'Thank you for everythin', Cap'n.'

—

Over the passing days he gets an idea in his head which sprouts whenever he’s in the Hindsight. It’s a difficult idea to address, even when he has a glass of whiskey in front of him, and most of the time, he finds himself trying to come to terms why he has even conjured up such an idea.

Kyle is slowly getting better, he’s been sure to see to it while keeping his eyes out for the detective, the knowledge that the man is looking for the guns only worsening his mood as he attempts to find some for of way to keep the guns from the grubby little hands of that yank. He has half the mind to blind the bastard and toss him into the docks for injuring his own brother in such a terrible manner.

But he doesn’t.

Rather, he remains reserved and cool knowing better than to make anymore enemies during this time; truthfully, the threat of the Fisher’s is frightening. Fisher’s business spans the entire country and with the attack on Kate, their silence afterwards has been treated with caution. 

Of course, he knows his men are the furthest thing from stupid- it’s him who they want. But, he knows better than to make the assumption that they’ll stop at him because, in reality, he knows anyone marked with the hat of a Blinder will be treated as though they are John Price and there’s nothing he can do to fight against that. The framing of the murder is unfortunate, and the longer he and the others have sat with it, the more he’s grown convinced that it’s the work of another group- more specifically the Adams’. 

It arrived just after the betting business saw an increase in it’s profits- after news spread that Johnny was going to bless the horse. They might be bigger than their business, yet, that means jackshit and he knows it does. The big guys can squash the small competition when they please- he’s seen it before and he doubts it will be something that will stop. However, the big guys dislike getting their hands dirty, so, instead of doing it directly, they send their little lapdogs to do the dirty work. 

In the Adams’ case it was killing Fisher and leaving a razor blade at the scene of the crime- tying the Blinders directly to it. 

He’s unable to quite process why the workers would think he’s responsible for such a crime; while he has done some abhorrent things in his life, the last thing he would do is put a deal to risk. The deal they had was something he absolutely wouldn’t ever want to risk and by killing Fisher, it made life harder, not easier. His life is on the line and there’s virtually nothing he can do to make the situation any better… unless he can find the perpetrator of the crime and prove his innocence- but what type of criminal would ever care enough to do that? 

And as he’s sitting in the pub, watching as you pour the drinks for the group, he looks around and takes notes of all the money sitting in his back pocket. He’s a rich man- too rich. If he’s to die to one of the men looking to seek some form of sick revenge, the last thing he wants to do is leave the boys without something to fall back on. His death will most likely result in the death of his business. Besides, why would he sit in a place he didn’t own?

‘We should buy this place,’ he says, picking up his glass. 

Johnny raises an eyebrow in his direction. 

‘What?’ he asks, 

‘Well, we have the money, don’t we? Why are we drinkin’ in a pub that we don’t own?’ he says, looking around the place. ‘It’ll be another stream of income- keep the money coming in even if something bad happens to the betting business, ey?’

Despite the mask covering Simon’s face, he notes a glint in the man’s eyes. It’s a rarity, that much he knows. He reads it as excitement before the man even opens his mouth. 

‘You really think Kate would say it’s a good idea?’ Kyle says, ‘you know what she’s like with money- and if this purchase doesn’t benefit the business then I don’t see her sayin’ yes to such a big purchase.’ 

Price pauses for a moment, taking time to reflect on such a possibility. As much as he does respect Kate, he finds he has little care for her input concerning this purchase- and if anything- he’s sure she’ll be more than happy to endorse a payment which will put more money in their pockets. So, he brings his drink up to his mouth, taking a sip from it. 

‘Don’t see the harm in doing it; we’re making more than enough money to justify spending it to buy this place,’ he says, turning to the bar where you’re standing idly. 

You look tired, standing awkward as you hold a glass in one hand and a cloth in the other. Clearly, you’re supposed to be cleaning them, yet, you’re standing their in a mind of your own, not moving an inch, too busy in that head of yours.

As he observes you, he wonders what you’re thinking of, perhaps something of important or maybe you’re just daydreaming about something random. A part of him wants to know, although, as his brain treads such territory he turns his attention away and takes another sip from his drink. 

‘The more money the better,’ Simon agrees, ‘sure James would take a decent deal for this place; he doesn’t really have a choice.’

Price grins. 

‘He doesn’t.’ 

—

It's in the middle of the afternoon and ordered in the pub has been maintained following the absence of James. It's been a few days since the attack against Price's boy and you're more than sure Graves has a death wish. Upon listening to their conversation from behind the door, the only thing you discovered was who was behind the attack. Nothing else of value escaped their lips- other than the fact that they know the detective in town is adamant on finding the guns.

It's difficult to know what exactly Price's reaction was following Kyle's confession and the proposal that they should help the police in finding the guns, only, you know there was some form of disagreement as you heard Kyle's back go up as he addressed an angry sentiment towards Price. Perhaps he simply provided him with a sneer or something along the same lines of such as even Kate seemed confused by whatever he was doing.

Either way, you kept the conversation to yourself, not even planning on sharing it with Graves when you next intend to meet; it seems so minuscule, you're confused why you have even been debating on whether or not you should tell the man. He doesn't need to know everything happening with the gang- only if they have the guns. He's sure they have got them, although now, as you cleaning a glass, you're feeling an uneasy churning sensation in your stomach as you're considering the fact that they might not have the guns and you're been following the stupid fucking trail Graves has persuaded you to stick to.

Truthfully, the lingering sent you caught on to in Mr. Churchill's office is beginning to fade and you're becoming worried that you might have chasing your tail all because of some stupid yank.

Setting the glass in your hand down against the counter behind the bar, you let out a heavy breath, placing the cloth in your hand beside it. Planting your hands flat against the counter, you look down at the ground at you black shoes, taking a deep breath. Being confined to the pub surely isn't helping your nerves; for all you know, Graves could be causing more harm than good and you're standing her serving drunks.

Your heart is beginning to grow fickle at the thought.

The door opens, creaking as it does so. Your back tenses at the sound and a dull ache pulses through you skull. You almost can't bring your head up to address the customer. Yet, when you hear the drunken rambling stopping and a shallow gasp from one of the women, your head shoots up at the possibility that you could be disrespecting Mr. Price.

When you look at the man approaching the bar, your struck with the realisation that he does have a similar head of hair to the man, however, it is not John Price who is approaching you. His smart attire is telling of the fact that he's belonged to a much wealthier part of the country than the place you currently find yourself in. His suit is well tailored, a thick black tie hanging around his neck as he offers you a grin when he catches your eyes.

Taking a seat at the bar, he rests his forearm against it and brushes his thick fingers through his hair. His build is grand- unlike anything you've seen really. All you can liken it to are depictions of Greek Gods you've seen in books during your time in eduction. His forearms are notable in the fabric of the blazer and he has the eyes of a siren as he drags them down your body.

His not subtle in the slightest, and when he grins, he shows you gleaming teeth. He's like one of the stars you've seen in the paper from States.

'What can I get for you, sir?' you chime, managing to find a spare smile somewhere in yourself, offering it to the alluring man.

A strand of brown hair falls from atop his head, resting against his forehead as he tilts his head to the side to get a better look at you. His upper lip is marked with a thick moustache- though it's nowhere near the moustache Mr. Price has. His finger draws a pattern on the dark oak of the bar as he clears his throat.

'What's the dearest bottle you have, lamb?' he asks, his words horrifically smooth as he addresses you. The nickname drips from his tongue with ease- you're no fool, of course you're not the only one he's addressed with the sorts.

'Uhm,' you begin, looking over your shoulder at the array of drinks, 'we have expensive whiskey but─'

'It's reserved for John Price,' he finishes.

You still at the mention of his name, slowly turning your head in the direction of the man as you slowly nod your head. You expect to see a look of frustration etched on his face, however, you find he's smiling at you. It's gentle, yet, you would prefer a scowl to the look on his face right now.

'I'll have a glass of whatever other whiskey I'm allowed to have then, lovely,' he shrugs, pulling out a wad of cash from the inside of blazer, placing a few notes down onto the table with a sly grin. 'Get something for yourself too,' he offers kindly.

To refuse a man who is oozing such a coldness surely isn't the smartest thing you can do in that moment, so, you take the notes he's pushed onto the table and put them into your apron. Grabbing two glasses, you pour yourself a glass of whiskey alongside him one too. Turning around, you set the glass down onto the table and he takes it in his hand.

He almost swallows the glass whole with the grip he has on it and you can only really see any of it because of the small gaps in his fingers. Bringing it to is mouth, he sips the drink before setting the glass down onto the table. You copy him- not meaning to, only realising as you place your glass down onto the counter just as he does.

'Would you mind if I pick your brain for a little while?' he asks. You narrow your eyes in the direction of the man, wrapping an arm around yourself. He chuckles as you do such, shaking his head. 'It's nothing to be afraid of, little lamb, just some questions.'

'About what?' you ask, taking a breath before continuing, 'who are you?'

'Well, if you must know, my name is Caleb Adams,' he begins, 'I'm the owner of one of the biggest race courses in the country.'

'So... you're here about Mr. Price?' you ask.

Smiling, he offers you such a sweet look you feel inclined to reach for his tie and force his head against the counter. But you don't, you play the role of the quaint, cute barmaid as you sweetly nod at the man.

'Smart girl,' he praises, 'have you ever thought of working elsewhere?' he asks, 'I have a feeling you'd be better suited anywhere but here,' he admits.

Oddly enough, he is right, you don't belong here.

'I like working here,' you shrug, to which he nods.

'I'm sure you do,' he says promptly, sucking in a breath, 'what's your relationship with Mr. Price?' he asks with a furrowed brow, 'would you say you're friends?'

'No,' you answer, 'I'm the barmaid at the pub he comes to- there's nothing more to it.'

There's something in the way he looks at you that shows apprehension- almost as though he's fighting against his better judgement to refuse to believe the truth you're telling him. You're not friends with him, you've hardly spoken to one another during your time in the pub.

'Are you here to get dirt on him?' you frankly say, not caring for the attempt of subtlety; it's nothing you've ever really been fond throughout the course of your life, and despite your mind warning you of the repercussions of annoying a man who appears so wealthy, you can't help but let your true character seep into the conversation.

Your comment is something that stops him for a moment. It's unlike him, you're aware of that; he has been forward during the entirety of your conversation, and here he is rendered speechless from your words.

Grabbing the glass you placed down, you swirl the remaining whiskey around in your cup on a baited breath. Despite your nerves, however, you do not look away from him.

'Why does it matter to you?' he asks, ‘if you’re nothing but a barmaid, the my enquiry should mean nothing to you,’ he says, narrowing his eyes, ‘are you telling me the full truth about your association.’

There’s a bubbling rage in the pit of your stomach the longer you entertain this fool. You’re accustomed to all of the games men like him like to play; you’ve built your entire fucking career around being treading like some dumb girl. Still, you fight to maintain the act, to keep your composure. 

‘Keep smiling,’ a voice calls. ‘Cause, if you frown at the wrong man… well, it very well might be your last day.’ 

So, you insist on you act, persist with your calmness and bite back the urge to throw the drink he bought you in his face. 

'I have no reason to lie to you,' you respond frankly, 'I don't even know who you are- my assumption about you wanting to get dirt on him is wholly based on how eager you were to ask me questions.'

It's stale and brooding the look his gives you in the midst of your small rant is a tad unsettling, but you can't help yourself. He's sitting right in front of you, accusing you of lying about something you have no involvement is. There's a sour air between the pair of you now and you busy yourself with finishing your drink, looking past the man at the door to the pub as it opens once again.

A small sigh escapes you at the very thought of having another customer to serve to get you away from this uptight asshole. Yet, with your saviour in sight, you startle as you see both Kyle and Mr. Price walking through the door together. Kyle looks somewhat better, one of his eyes is still slightly swollen from the blow he was dealt and his nose is a tad to the left. Only, he can stand on his own and walks with only a small wince with every step.

Any pain is easily masked with the grin plastered on his face and Mr. Price walks with his nose in the air, all for his head to drop at the sight of the man sitting opposite to you. Caleb picks up on your gaze and chooses to turn his head to peer over his shoulder. No one in the pub dares to speak, opting to keep their mouths shut as Price's brow furrows.

'John Price, I thought you'd never show up,' he says, grabbing the glass of whiskey you poured him, holding it out to the man as though to cheers.

'What do you want?' Kyle asks, not giving the man beside him a chance to speak.

'I came all the way out to congratulate you,' Caleb begins, pushing himself up off of the stool he was sitting on with a bright grin. 'I never considered you nor the rest of the Blinders to be a true threat until I opened the newspaper and saw that you were responsible for Fisher's death.'

'It had nothin' to do with us,' John firmly says.

'Sure it doesn't,' you hear the man scoff and imagine him rolling his eyes at his words. You note how Caleb keeps his eyes on Kyle. 'Everyone in the racing community are quite disgruntled at the death of Fisher, you know? There are a lot of people who have invested a lot of money into his company, and none of those below him are good enough to lead it.'

You look at Price with a furrowed brow, tilting your head to the side slightly. Kyle offers you a look similar to yours, his eyes falling to the empty glass in your eyes.

'Real big man you are, yeah?' Kyle asks, 'comin' to our pub and asking our barmaid about us?’

His sudden shift in tone startles you and you're unable to really put together his use of 'our'. Maybe it was just something to make it seem like he has come to the wrong place, or maybe he truly meant every word of it. Besides, the longer you stand and think in the pregnant silence between the men, you're more than aware that James has never really been the owner of the Hindsight.

'Your barmaid?' he asks, looking back at you.

'That's right,' Price affirms, slowly stalking up to the man. ‘And if you ever think of steppin' foot into this pub again- if you ever think of talkin' to her again- I will cut you up, make sure you have no eyes to see her with.’

It's unlike anything you've seen as of you, although, it is everything you've heard. While he is an admittedly large man, the floor barely creaks as he stalks up to Caleb. Tilting his head to the side, he holds the brim of his hat between his fingers. His features are shadowed by the man standing in front of you, although, you don't miss the low chuckle that escapes him.

His voice is low, almost a whisper as he says so to the man. You find all the hairs on your arms stand up as you idly stand by and simply watch.

'I assure you I meant no harm in coming here.’

'You know the business,' John calmly says, 'you know what it means to walk into a place you have no claim to, and while I know me and you haven't talked to each other before, I'm not a idiot.'

Caleb slowly nods his head, holding his hands either side of him as he steps to the side of John, shuffling away from him. He laughs as he does so, looking back at you while you stand behind the bar, holding the empty glass of whiskey he bought you in your hand. Your chest burns as you turn your head away and look at John who offers you a small smile.

'If you continue to treat people like this, Mr. Price, then I assure you you will have a lot of bad people after you,' he warns, his brows furrowing, 'and right now, I assure you that is the last thing that you want to happen.'

John tugs at the hat atop his head, shaking his head at his words, 'get out,' he says frankly, 'if you want to discuss something concerning me, Adams, you talk to me, not the girl, yeah?'

Caleb tilts his head to the side, mustering out a deep sigh. Tugging at the cuffs of his blazer, his fingers curl around the fabric and you watch as he nods his head as though he's agreeing to something.

'Mr. Price,' he says, sucking in a breath, 'as I said, I meant no harm by coming here, I was simply... asking questions; Fisher has been a pain for myself and my family for many years and you got rid of him. Quite frankly, I wanted to strike a deal with you.'

'We don't need anything of yours, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're the one who got Fisher. Y'u just didn't wanna deal with the fall out of it so you blame me and my boys,' he says.

Mr. Price doesn't care for whatever sweetness he is being shown in that moment, instead, he has his back up like a feral cat. Of course, you don't need his protection- in fact, if Graves had been there with you, you know for a fact that such a fact most definitely would have been relayed to you.

Still, there's a little part of you that takes a slither of sinful pride, relishing in the way Price so effortlessly defended you in the eyes of a threat. Really, you know nothing of the man who has just bought you a drink and the way he looked at you made you feel so uneasy that you simply find comfort under the watchful eyes of the men who you do know well.

'Well, Mr. Price,' Caleb says briefly, brushing his clothes with his hands as he swallows harshly, a short breath escaping him. You imagine that his formalities are beginning to wear thin. 'I assure you that I have heard you loud and clear... but before I go, I must tell you that you are making a fatal mistake.'

Instead of offering him any form of response, Price moves past the man, settling in the seat he has just been sitting in, keeping his back to him as Kyle also pulls a seat beside him, sitting down. Caleb turns around to look at you again.

'A very big mistake—'

Your temperament seems to dissipate in the brattiness of the posh man, the fire in your stomach raising to flood your throat before you have the chance to fan the flames.

'Did you not hear him?' you ask sharply, narrowing your eyes. 'You're not welcome here. Get out.'

You expect him to want to get the final word in, to allow the patience he has harboured since Mr. Price stepped through the door to melt. Yet, much to your surprise, he simply nods his head without saying another word to you, and with that he heads towards the exit of the pub without a word more.

You almost deflate as you see the door behind him close, placing both your hands on the counter behind the bar, taking a moment to catch your breath.

‘If he comes back in here, don't serve him,’ Mr. Price firmly instructs.

'I'll let James know,' you say, nodding your head.

'Nonsense,' Mr. price says with a smile, 'he's not comin' back here, love; he doesn't own the place anymore.'

Your eyebrows raise as you slowly turn to Kyle who offers you a bright grin. Still, as you're looking at him, you struggle to see him with his healing injuries. It's something that strikes you with guilt for all you see in front of you right now is the bloody and beaten down man who you had helped a few days ago.

'What do you mean?' you slowly ask.

'We own it now,' Kyle confirms, 'John bought it off of James.'

You stare at the man as though he's grown a third head unable to quite understand what exactly he has said to you. For a moment, you take time to process what this means. You're not stupid, of course you understand that you're now working in an establishment owned by the Blinders- John Price is your boss now. Although, you can't help but question what exactly this means in terms of your position.

He seemed pretty sure that I was his barmaid, I doubt he fire me.

'Why didn't he tell me?' you ask, almost offended that the man you have been working under disappeared without even offering his hard-working barmaid something as small as a 'goodbye'.

Decency was never his forte, you suppose, so, you settle by chewing on the corner of your mouth, balling your fists as you tilt your head to the side.

'Busy man,' he simply says, 'he wanted to get out of the city while he still had the chance to, 'thinks things are getting worse. As selfish as it sounds, he was only really thinking of himself,' he explains.

You slowly nod your head, chewing on your tongue as you manage to let out a short breath. You're right in the lions den at this point and while you dislike the fact that you're the one who has to fan the flames, you try and find some form of faith in Graves; he is your partner after all. Besides, you are in the lions den.

You.

'Are you gonna fire me?' you ask.

John laughs.

'Why would I fire you, love?' he asks, 'you're decent at your job and you keep everyone here happy enough not to rip the heads off of each other, yeah? I'd be an idiot to get rid of you.'

They have no idea of your intent and you have slid in so easily you can't help but allow yourself to smile at the thought, your core beaming with excitement as you address both of the men once again by discarding of the glass sitting in front of Mr. Price and grabbing two new glasses from behind you.

'Well, how about a drink to celebrate, hey?' you chirp brightly, noting the smile of Mr. Price's face as you pour a drink of whiskey into his glass. They both take the glasses in their hands and you pour yourself a fresh glass, copying them after Price motions to you to lift your glass up.

'To new beginnings,' he says firmly with a smile as he looks at you. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, your face growing warm under his eyes as both yourself and Kyle nod.

'To new beginnings.'

—

The sun manages to peak through the clouds, a streak soaking him as he walks down the street with his head held high. Sometimes, it's difficult to find the will to smile; his mind has been destroyed. It's no different to the shrapnel discarded from a soldiers wound: plucked free from where trouble reins, all to cut the fingers of those who handle it.

Still, he smiles and takes a moment to inhale the thick air of the city, pulling his hat off of his head. Rubbing his bald head, he firmly plants his hat back onto it, hoping the light action would chase off the demons which left his mind a muddled mess. One could dream, he supposes. At the very least, he is doing something to fix all the issues going on inside.

He does a lot more than some people do and he knows that.

A true family man at heart is Blake, one who works so hard that he never really knows when to give it a break, only really caring to take a seat when he is forced to and not when the old wound in his leg tells him to; that's not what his Captain would want from him and he has been loyal to him since they first met on the battlefield, and even outside the war, he vows to keep his promise to him.

So, he walks with a slight hobble after his shift at the shipyard keeping his head high as he approaches the home of the Blinders with a few minutes to spare before his shift starts there.

It's typical to see the coppers around and on the street during his walk and he's not afraid of them for he knows they'll do very little to him because they truly have no reason to accuse him of anything. Even then, as he's walking, he spots a swell of tall hats gathering at the top of the street. They're similar to a swarm of wasps in the manner that they move, all of them remaining together as the push past the stray people on the street.

From the centre of them emerges as man with light brown hair- he's the only one without a hat. The Queen Bee. He walks with a face like a slapped ass, brooding and commanding as he calls out orders. He stops in his tracks as soon as the man opens his mouth- anyone would think he'd heard news of his arrest as he listens to the man bark like a feral dog.

His face pales as his heart thuds in his ears, and that wretched buzzing in his head returns in the blink of an eye. It's strange, how normalcy can be stripped away from him in such a quick fashion. In a moment, he goes from standing in the street on the way to the Price's house all the way back in time to the trenches.

The road isn't covered in gravel, rather, he feels as though he's sinking into the ground, similar to the thick, gooey mud which caused him to stagger and stumble during his time at war. And then, the police were no longer the saviours, rather, enemy soldiers coming towards him with the intent of killing him.

In a matter of seconds, he sprinting away from the group of men, his eyes trained on the Hindsight with a pounding in his head. The Captain would be in there, he's sure- he needs to warn them that they're back- that the betraying scum are back and they're searching for him. So, he breaks into a sprint, he can’t stop the thoughts once they’ve started and a clear mind is miles away from him. 

He runs as though the group of officers are chasing after him, all the while his mind is wrecked with the sounds of gunshots and the fire from the iron works is something he accustoms to the scent of war. It’s everywhere, the enemies are everywhere. It’s impossible to explain how his mind functions during these moments; even he’s unsure why his mind chooses to punish him. When he got out of the war, he thought it was over. Yet, here he is, standing in his home still plagued by the memories of the very thing that ruined him. 

A startled breath escapes him as he collides with something and through foggy eyes, he spies an enemy. His words are muffled in his ears, his shouts are something of a threat and he's unable to quite make out what is being said to him. All he knows is that this man is a threat. He's going to do something bad and the aggression in his tone is preemptive to how he is going to hurt him- how he is going to hurt other people.

Blake refuses to back off, not hearing the man's demands to get away from the front of his business. His mind clears momentarily, long enough to see the shining silver in the man's hand, and in a state of terror, he's quick to grab the item and without a second thought, he shoves it into the man's stomach.

A wretch escapes him, and as a wetness soaks his hand, he's back on earth. Back home.

Gasps catch his ears and as he slowly blinks himself back to reality, he's horrified at the sight of the grunting man in front of him. Letting go of the end of the pocket knife he has driven into the man's stomach, he backs away with bloodstained hands, looking around himself at the surrounding civilians who saw what he has done. And then his eyes fall back to the sign located about his head.

Costello's Cures.

A panicked breath escapes him and in the matter of seconds, he sprinting in the opposite direction of the Hindsight, rushing towards home without stopping as people call out for him to return to the scene of the crime.

—

When John hears about the news, his displeasure is imminent, and that night, he's quick to be at Blake's home. It's cold, the night air nipping at his ears as he walks with a stern look etched on his face, all to find the address of the man.

Johnny had sheepishly wandered in his office with the confirmation of who exactly Blake had injured during his episode, and as he sat and listened to the account Johnny had heard, he found his chest tightening the more he continued.

Nothing can ever be easy and it seems as though he's been cursed with bad luck ever since he was sent home and striped of his title.

Standing on the man's doorstep, despite his anger, he was sure to knock lightly before shoving his hands into his pockets, shifting on his feet as he stands idly and waits. There's a creak beyond the door, the sound of heavy footsteps on wood, and before long, the door is pulled open.

Light is situated behind the man at the door, his bulky frame blocking most of it out, the strong smell of lingering dinner filling Price's nose as he stands and observes the man, his lips forming a thin line/

'Cap'n I—'

'Where's your missus and the little one?' he calmly asks, narrowing his eyes.

'Uhm, Esme's sleepin' an' Maggie's making supper for the pair of us,' he explains, toying with his hands, 'do you wanna come in and join us? I'm sure we have enough.'

'You know why I'm here,' Price says, 'close the door.'

Blake looks at him with a glint in his eyes as he slowly steps from out of his house, pulling it shut. It closes with a small click and Price steps away from the doorstep with a short breath.

'Cap'n I'm sorry,' blurts the man, 'I- I swear I didn't mean to kill him.'

'Do you have any fuckin' idea what you've done?' Price snaps, looking at the man. It hurts his heart when he sees the man flinch at the harshness in his tone, although, he isn't discouraged. 'Out of everyone you could've done it to, you did it to one of the fuckin' Costello's.'

'H- He wasn't a part of the family.'

'That doesn't matter, Blake,' Price says, 'blood bounds are forever and you know what they're like- they're always lookin' for a reason to start shit between us. Just because Joey is in London doesn't mean anything.'

'I- I—'

'What started it this time, ey?' he asks, 'cause the more you do this, the more I'm convinced there's nothing I can do to help you.'

'I heard that new detectives voice,' he confesses, 'he sounds familiar.'

'All the yanks sound the same,' Price states.

Blake simply stares at him. It' s a look which renders him unsure as there's a teary glint in the man's eye. It's telling that, despite his wounded mind, he knows something.

'I swear 'ave heard his voice before Cap'n, back in the trenches,' he warns.

Price only nods his head.

'Meet me at the boat yard tomorrow,' he simply says, narrowing his eyes. 'Half seven.'

He could tell him why he is wanted, but the gulp that sounds from the man is enough to tell him that he knows exactly why he is wanted there. With that, Price turns away from the man and proceeds to head down the street, his breath fogging in the wind. Despite Blake's adamance, he finds the words they shared together of very little importance as he heads down the street, his mind far too clogged with the issues awaiting him in the morning.

His head aches and as he exits the street and catches sight of the Hindsight with the lights still glowing inside, he's quick to make a change in his journey, opting to head in the direction of the pub rather than the direction of home.

—

In the lateness of the night, you find yourself growing bored of the same tasks you have been committed to for the past few weeks. Your shoulders are stiff and you're growing tired of the smell of tobacco and booze.

John walks through the door of the pub and you're more than happy to grab a glass as he approaches the bar. Despite his high held head and the smile on his face, you're far too aware that there is something else in his eyes. His eyelids droop slightly, highlighted by the slight greyness under his eyes. It subtle, just as he is- you suppose- but you don't miss it.

'Is everything okay?' you ask.

'Just need a drink,' he answers, 'scotch please, love.'

You offer him a short nod as you. turn your back to him and grab a glass from behind you along with the scotch per his request. As you turn back to him, you notice his eyes on you and a distracted air about him. Still, in a state of assumed misery, he appears wise. It's quite striking, hitting your heart like cupids arrow.

'Before James left, he mentioned you used to sing in the pub you worked at,' he says as you pour his drink into the glass.

'I did,' you confirm, 'helped settle people's minds, you know? Everyone needed something uplifting- something to make them forget about everything happening during the war,' you explain.

He offers a short hum, picking the glass up from off of the counter, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip from it. He has little reaction to it, although, you're not surprised counting on the fact that that is all he drinks. Still, you observe him in the hope of seeing his face change.

'We used to sing in the trenches,' he admits, 'nothing special, don't have the voice on me to sing.'

A smile forms on his face as he trails his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb., wiping away the residue of scotch. 'Distract from the gun fire and explosions. Haven't sung since- don't think I ever will.'

His sudden openness with you is somewhat frightening. He addresses you as though you're good friends, not just owner and barmaid, and part of you finds yourself falling into the conversation, the hardened image of John Price melting with the warmth of his body stationed right before you. And how strange it is to address a criminal as a human being- almost inhumane knowing all he has done and why you are there in the first place. 

Yet, the heat welling in your stomach with each glance he offers you burns hot enough to melt down the bars of his prison cell and set him free from persecution. Such a fact is something you’re ashamed of even thinking. Truth of the matter is, no matter how terrible of a human he was, he was just like you, a human being. 

‘I’ve sung a few times here,’ you confess, ‘nothing special.’ 

A pass time if nothing else. Something to break up the day and something fun. Besides, your ego absolutely isn’t beyond being fed by the drunken praises of clientele at the Hindsight. In fact, during your time here, you have grown to appreciate it. 

‘How come I’ve never heard you sing?’

‘James said you don’t like songs,’ you say, ‘I didn’t want to purposefully upset you if that’s the case.’

He shortly nods, letting out a short breath as rubbing his mouth. 

‘It reminds me of the war,’ he explains, ‘I never thought I even think of missing that place, but sometimes I do; at the very least, amidst the chaos, there was still some form of order you know? You shoot a gun without repercussions there, whereas here? Nothin’s the same.’  

You perk your ears up at his confession, your eyebrows knitting together. 

‘You miss the war?’ you ask.

‘Parts of it,’ he says simply, ‘know I’m probably the one who feels sentimental about the early days, but it’s the truth whether I like it or not.’ 

He seems to be weighed down by something as he speaks and after finishing, he’s quick to finish off the last of his scotch in his glass before holding it out to you for a refill. You nod your head, happily pouring more into his glass, inwardly hoping that the more he drinks, the more open he’ll be to tell you more. Perhaps even going as far as slipping up. 

‘It’s a unique sentiment,’ you confirm, nodding your head. 

‘Military has been in my life since I was a teenage,’ he confesses, ‘I served in the war as temporary Captain; had enough experience to get into the position- had been promised by the general that if I made it out alive, I’d be promoted,’ he says. 

‘Then how come you’re here?’ 

He looks at you with a weary look on his face, drinking more liquor from his glass as he stifles out a short laugh. ‘Got caught doin’ somethin’ I shouldn’t have been doin’ and they got rid of me. Lead a brigade which had a hand in winning us the war, but as soon as they’re made aware of one mistake, they threw me to the fuckin’ wolves.’

Anger is present in his tone, and despite your curiosity, you choose not to pry him for answers. So, you simply hum and nod your head, ensuring to maintain politeness. It's the only thing you know for a fact you can do.

'Enough of that,' he says, 'what about you, doll? I hardly know anything about you.'

Unashamedly, you talk into the night with John and the entire time it's as though you're talking with an old friend who you have just only been reunited with. Conversation comes easily to the pair of you and you find yourself being honest for a change. You tell him of your childhood in London, about your position as a barmaid during the war- most things that you know won't cause him to raise any eyebrows.

In return, he tells you of most of the stuff you have read on his file: his rebellious streak during his early years, how long he served in the army, alongside about the boy's in his brigade. During which he speaks how you imagine a proud father would talk about his children. Oddly, you find your heart warming as he speaks about them.

The pair of you talk into the night and it's only when you look past John during a conversation that you've realised the last drunkard has returned home and it's just you and him remaining in the pub. Immediately, your cheeks flush red.

'I- I'm sorry, I didn't realise the time,' you confess, breaking out of the conversation.

John turns to look over his shoulder, acknowledging the empty pub. Despite the conversation the pair of you have shared, you find yourself awaiting some sort of regret to be on his face; he's a busy man, of course.

'It's fine, love,' he reassures, 'c'mon, let me walk you home,' he offers, 'i's too late for you walk home alone.'

—

Rain pours as you step outside of the pub with the man, your gloved hand rooting in the bag across your frame to ensure you haven't forgotten anything inside. You hear his breath fogging in the winter air as he keeps his eyes trained on you, not daring to look away. It's oddly comforting to feel his eyes on you and you feel as though you're safe from any possible threat from the world the pair of you reside in.

A man like him could chase away a cold. Probably be better than any cure from the chemist.

Turning away from him, you hold the keys to the pub in your hands, pulling the golden handle of the open door. Pulling it closed, your eyebrows furrow upon catching the sound of a metallic scraping against the door. Taking a step backwards from the doors of the pub, you knock into John who is standing behind you. Your mouth falls open as you disregard whatever made the sound, finding yourself all too concerned with you misstep.

'I'm sorry- I didn't mean to─'

His fingers dig into the fabric of your red dress as he gently moves you to stand to the side of him. Moving past you, he approaches the door, his hands grabbing whatever was making that noise. It's difficult to see whatever is in his hand as his broad back shelters you from the very thing that has him letting out a short breath. It's easy to hear in the quiet night, although, even if he had been quiet his attempt of secrecy would have been betrayed by the cold weather.

'What is it?' you ask, 'have someone broken the handle?' you proceed, taking a step closer to the man. Resting your hand against his shoulder, you look to see a leather strap in his hand. Your eyes move downwards to see the metal chain of a dog lead. A small laugh escapes you, 'can you believe how stupid people are? Like, why would they─' you quickly shut up when your eyes meet the end of the leash.

Instead of seeing the end as you expect, it curls upwards. The part of the lead which is supposed to be attached to a dogs collar is clipped to form a noose. You swallow thickly, looking to John for some form of answer. There's nothing on his face from what you can decipher through the shadows- he's void of emotion.

Despite not understanding the very basis of why something like this is left outside the pub, you feel your stomach twisting as your brain fights to come up with some form of satisfactory answer. Had James not been half way out of the city right now, you're sure you'd be more than happy to make the assumption that someone has made a mistake by leaving the lead there.

Although, with Price's money in his pocket and the Hindsight being under new ownership, you're more than sure that this being left here is not some silly mistake. It's as intentional as a violent blow to the stomach of an enemy.

He clenches his fist around the leather strap of the leash, gritting his teeth as he nods to himself silently. You expect him to say something, perhaps a choppy one liner to ease the tension swelling in your stomach, yet, there's nothing. Just that look on his face.

'John?' you quietly ask, grabbing his forearm.

Lifting his head from the sight of the noose hanging in the wind, he looks to you and small smile forms on his face. Chewing on the inside of his mouth, he shifted on his feet as he nods to himself.

'How would you like t' come the races, love?'

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla @guiltgoreglory @corpsebasil @ferns-fics @racheldoyle

[l0serloki]

Following Orders

Yakuza!Yoru x Reader

Summary : You grew up in the Yakuza and can't escape. But maybe it's not a bad thing..

CW : SMUT, f!reader, sir kink, mean yoru, dumbification & degrading, creampie, praising, dirty nasty desk sex

masterlist

Your job wasn’t exactly a safe one. It wasn’t your choice in the first place to join, your mother had been poor and the Yakuza were the only ones who had offered to take her in. Under one condition - that she would work as their escort. 

You had respected all that she had done for you but now you faced the dilemma that she forced upon you. When she died they had come searching for you, offering you two options. Become their errand girl and work on organizing tasks or take up your mothers job. You were obviously smart enough to know there wasn’t room to negotiate with these people so you gave in. And that is how you were currently working under one of the strongest members of the Yakuza. 

Yoru.

He was a tough boss and you didn’t see him very often. You sat in his office as he took care of people and money. He was very picky about how his things were to be set up but once you got in the swing of things he was actually quite generous. You also didn’t have to worry about other men trying to feel up on you as Yoru’s reputation was quite well known. Or so you thought.

Today was a day that you got to see him. Which meant you also had to calm your heart. It was unfair having such a handsome face and body and being so unlikeable. 

“Y/N where did my report go for the recent mission?” Yoru’s voice piped up, your eyes meeting his as you dusted the shelves.

“It’s on the bottom container sir.” You watched as he rolled his eyes and yanked out the paper.

“When I’m here just leave it on the desk.” His voice was demanding and you could feel agitation rising within you.

“With all due respect sir I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” You mumbled out as you tried to hide your scowl. You could hear his annoyed grunt as he peered up at you.

“Don’t fucking give me attitude.” His words pierced through you and you turned around to continue dusting. Your anger only mounting up more as you felt hot tears prick your eyes. You wanted to walk out, to say you were done, but you knew better. And as much as he was an asshole, you didn’t think anywhere else would pay as well as he did.

“Y/N.” Yoru’s hand slapped the table, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Sir.” You mumbled out, not bothering to turn around as you leaned over to continue cleaning.

“Has Haru talked to you?” He sounded almost mad, but you brushed it off as his usual personality.

“No? Was he supposed to?” You raised an eyebrow to him and he frowned.

“No. If he comes up to you, tell him to leave you alone.” He stood up quickly, taking his papers with him. “I am going into a meeting. I will be done in an hour. Be in here when I am done.” He sauntered out of the room, not leaving much option to say no.

What had he wanted you to stay for? And why was he suddenly so worried about some grunt who works the backrooms?

–

You waited for a while before the office door opened and Yoru came stomping in. By the look on his face the meeting did not go as planned and he threw the papers onto his desk. His eyes snapped to you, something dark running within them.

“Sir?” You whispered out as he leaned back and motioned you towards him.

“Don’t make me tell you what to do. Come here.” He pats the seat directly in front of him. You slowly sit down and look up at his form.

“I leave for a week and then all of a sudden I hear rumors about Haru and you fucking. Are you going around and being a whore? Do you know how that looks on me? Having my secretary fuck some nobody?” 

Your eyes widened at the accusations. Your heart felt like it was about to explode as you began to shake your head wildly. 

“That’s not true sir! I would never do that. I have only talked to him once.” Yoru’s hand comes to grip your jaw as he gets closer to you.

“And how would I know you’re telling the truth?” His voice was deep and you felt yourself grow hotter at his rough touch. 

“I am sir! I promise. I’ll do anything to prove it.” You whispered out, trying to come to terms if you were scared, horny, or both.

“And what if I gave you an opportunity to prove it? What if I made you my personal whore instead? Made everyone listen as I fucked you right now?” His hand pulled you to stand up as the other gripped at your hip. You let out a moan as his usual glare turned into a smirk. You couldn’t deny that he was attractive and maybe it wouldn’t be bad to just give in. After all it was your job to help him out. Right?

“Okay.” You whisper out and Yoru immediately gets into gear. His hands ripped at your shirt, throwing it across the floor, pushing you against his desk. He smacked your thighs apart as he slid in between.

“Good girl. You are stubborn but you know when to listen.” He gave you a sarcastic smile as he slid off your bra.

Your body twitched as his eyes roamed over you, suddenly feeling nervous. He didn’t leave much time for that though. His fingers moved to roll one of your nipples as his mouth sucked at the other. Your head fell back against the desk as he continued his ministrations. 

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve wanted to do this since you joined. My little slut.” His words sent heat against your core as you all but moaned. You needed him.

“Yoru-” You started and he slapped your thigh. 

“It’s sir. And don’t worry princess, I’ll fuck you.” His hands moved down as he yanked away at your pants and underwear, his eyes taking in the sight of your wet cunt.

“You’re so wet. You love me bending you over this desk? Or is it the thought of everyone hearing you take my cock?” He grunts as his hands make haste with his zipper and underwear, pulling out his hard-on.

Your mouth watered at the sight. His tip was an angry red, pearls of precum beading up out of it. You wanted nothing more than to lean down and lick it off.

“Answer me when I talk to you. Do you like me fucking you over the desk?” Yoru smacked at your ass as he turned you around. You let out a strangled sounding ‘yes’ as his cock rubbed against your folds. 

“Beg for it then. If you like it so much.” He teased his tip against your wet hole and you felt your eyes water. 

“Please sir. I’ll be good! Just fuck me!” 

Yoru must’ve liked your answer because all at once he shoved himself into you, not giving you time to adjust. A scream ripped from your throat as you body tried to adjust to the intrusion. His hands caged you against the desk as he gave you a few tester thrusts.

“Fuck. You’ve got to stop squeezing me like that or I’ll cum in you.” 

The thought alone of his seed inside you made you clench harder. You could practically hear his smirk as he felt you.

“Dirty bitch. You’d like my cum dripping out of your slutty hole. I don’t know why I should be surprised.” He whispered into your ear as he began his harsh pace. It didn’t take long for you to feel the knot in your stomach building up. 

“Sir..” You moan out and your mouth is met with a sudden intrusion as he shoves his fingers into your mouth.

“I know, baby. I’m almost there too. Gonna fill you up and let everyone know who you belong to.” His hand ran down to your clit, his thumb nudging against it as your body shook.

“Sir!” Your voice screamed as you finally reached your high. You clenched against him hard, his hand slamming down next to your head as his thrusts faltered. His cum seeped into you, filling you full. His body deflated against yours as he rested for a moment. He slowly moved back and pulled out, watching as his seed dripped down your thighs.

“Fuck. I’m going to have to do this to you everytime I come back. Hear me?” Yoru swiped at the mess and plugged it back into your hole. Your head fell to the side with a moan from the overstimulation. 

“Yes sir.” You whisper out and he only hummed.

“Good girl.”

[jesslockwood]

Detecting the Haunted Masterlist 

Chapter Three

Word Count: 3.2k

Pairing(s): Anthony Lockwood x Detective!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

A/n: hello friends! I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever!!! its going to be a busy summer for me as its my last year in my acting program, and I have professional Shakespeare shows coming up (auditions and rehearsals) soon. I really hope to be active but im not sure how active I will be but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Add yourself to the Taglist

In all of Anthony’s life, he wanted people to love him. He wasn’t sure why but the praise of others and the showering of adoration towards him just gave him the feeling of being loved. Maybe it was because that’s what his life was missing, love. 

The current problem with wanting to be even just admired, was that you wouldn’t speak to him, unless absolutely necessary or with someone else in the room. He couldn’t pin point what had changed, but it put him in a grouchy mood. 

He had even snapped at George and Lucy at one point, because of it, which he felt bad about.

He just couldn’t understand why you would all of a sudden you just seem to loathe the mere presence of him. 

That was until he saw you having a conversation with none other than Quill Kipps in the library. That made Lockwood want to explode. He did his best to keep his composure, but how could he? Especially when someone he cared for was talking to his rival. 

You had laughed at something he said, before Anthony made his way over. 

“Tony! I see you have a new agent in training on your hands.” Kipps seemingly tries to antagonize him, “I thought you had enough troubles trying to keep your agency afloat, Being such a small and insignificant one.” 

Lockwood grits his teeth, and his fist goes into a ball, clenching it so tightly. 

“Anyway, my offer still stands.” He says directed towards Y/n in a overly confident tone before making his leave.

Anthony tightens his jaw even more if that was even possible to do so.

You shake your head while smiling, as Kipps leaves and Anthony notices. 

“When’d you get so chummy with Kipps?” He asks with an intensity that you can only describe as uncomfortable.

You ignore his prompted stare down, and shift over a book, and open it to start your next reading.

He keeps staring waiting for you answer.

“When did you get so controlling with who I talk to? Last time I checked you were my boss, not my boyfriend.” You say not even meeting his gaze, ignoring the way saying boyfriend made your body tingle.

He looks genuinely shocked, and hurt, when you spew the words with venom at him, wth a fiery anger, but you had to hate him, or else you’d hate everyone else around you. The problem was that hating everyone wasn't an option you wanted to explore, so your anger had to be directed towards Anthony Lockwood. That was or else it would consume you.

George walks towards the two, carefully, as if he could be the detonator to explode one of the two colleges of his on each other.

“I uh, found the paper in the archives we were looking for, Y/n.” He says before carefully setting it down on the table the two of you were working at.

George had noticed the tension in the house between Lockwood and Y/n, he knew Lucy could feel it too, as she kept trying to get Lockwood and Y/n to avoid each other as much as possible as she tried to figure out what triggered all this, for lack of a better term, teenage angst in the house. 

Well it felt like more than just teenage angst. It felt like a rage radiating off of the two directed towards each other, as if they were two old miserable manifestations bickering like an old couple while trying to murder everyone in the way that ticked them off.

Yeah that was more of the level of tension that was going on, especially when Lucy or himself got caught in the crossfire of the two. He actually didn’t hate Y/n, he had gotten to tolerate her during their times in the archives, but he couldn’t get a good reading of why she acted the way she did towards them, but mostly Lockwood. He was so curious of what was making her tick, or ticked off, pun intended.

Even Lockwood was making things feel off. He had been pissed almost every single day these past couple of weeks, and had even bursted with anger towards himself and Lucy.

George started to think of all the ways he could figure out what was wrong, and deiced to let Lucy in on his plot when he got home, to figure out what the hell these two had tasted to be so bitter to everyone.

George had come out of dreamland to find Y/n and Lockwood bickering.

“At least I talked to someone who wasn’t a stuck up prick for once!” Y/n almost yells.

“I think you’ve got it all wrong, love, you did talk to the stuck up prick, he just left with what’s left of his dignity, from the last time he was here!” Lockwood raises her one.

“Guys, Guys!” Lucy comes rushing In to break it up, “Maybe let’s try to not get kicked out of the archives? Y/n let’s uh, go get lunch, there’s this place I've been meaning to take you to.” 

Y/n gives Anthony one last glare before, picking up her jacket and heading out with Lucy.

“Well, that was awkward…” George mumbles faintly, before giving Lockwood a disappointed look before getting back to work.

“Urgh! He such a pompous ass!” You rant to Lucy, in between shoving pizza in your mouth. 

“Lockwood can be… selfish. But it’s really more because he wants the us and the whole agency to benefit… trust me I know it all too well.” She tries to console you, and you can see the genuine hurt in her eyes from it. 

If he could hurt Lucy, and get others hurt, even killed… who knows what the guy could do to you. Maybe the Job Kipps offered you wasn’t such a bad idea. 

It especially felt good to know it would make Lockwood infuriated. Maybe this was a chance to get a back at Lockwood a bit. Not to the degree you wanted, but it was something.

You make small talk with Lucy while eating, coming up with a plan in your head of how to piss him off the most.

To say Lockwood was pissed was a total understatement. He was enraged.

George and Lucy even seemed to tiptoed around Lockwood as of recently, and Lockwood felt nothing but isolated, and that led him to be able to sit and stew in his anger even longer. 

The both of you seemed to avoid each other physically, which made Lockwood all the more furious. The only time you’d see each other was for training, which George and Lucy had taken over most of that, and cases.

Today you had to train with your rapier again, and that was the main thing Lockwood oversaw.

“C’mon again!” He yells, as you missed one of the practice targets. 

You glare daggers into his direction, as he seemly does the same. 

“I would be a lot better if I didn’t have the constant screaming in my ear.” You mumble sarcastically.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that? Maybe you could actually try this time?” He says before smirking and leaning back to where he was sitting seeming satisfied with ticking you off.

“I’d like to see you do better.” You taunt stalking towards him, “The best I’ve seen in action was the Fittes team at a case I was working.”

He clenches his jaw, looking at you with an intense fire behind his eyes. 

“You’re more show than skill.” You smirk as his face turns even more sour. He gets up and moves right into your personal space. 

“Really? If you think I’m all show, then lets put it to the test, Love.” He pulls his rapier out and backs you into the wall.

You visibly gulp, not because of his challenge, but the sheer proximity of how close his face was to yours. 

He stares into your eyes, with his full of an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint. He had a anger but there was something else behind it. 

He shakes his head and scoffs, turning around walking away.

That made your whole body burn with fury. You knew he was one of the best from stories you had heard, but boy did that make you want to try harder to be better. 

“Like I said, all show.” You mumble loud enough for him to hear. 

He stops on the spot, turning around about to say something, and before he can Lucy is running down the stairs with a small stack of letters in her hand. 

“Hey, Y/n You’ve got mail.” 

You give Lockwood a victory smirk, and he gives you a glare saying ‘this isn’t over’.

“Thanks, Lucy.” You take the mail form her, before looking it over, until stopping on one letter in particular. 

“Crap…” you mumble to yourself, opening it quickly. 

Lockwood and Lucy seem intrigued to know what had gotten the rise out of you.

You skim over the letter, or well, the invitation. Your grandparents wanted to see you, and you knew that they rarely did unless it had to do with their agenda. 

You started to feel ill, hoping it was you actually getting sick to get out of it, instead of the idea of visiting them. 

“What is it?” Lockwood asks slightly worried as you lean to grab the wall. 

You want to throw the letter out, but you hand it to Lucy, “You can read it amongst yourselves, if you wish, Especially since I think I’m going to need you to accompany me.”

They give each other a look, as you head upstairs and They both follow you up quickly, if not seconds later. 

George seems intrigued to what is going on, and comes out of the sitting room area, with his usual cleaning gear on, and duster in his hand. 

Lucy starts reading aloud, “Y/n Y/l/n and Lockwood & co, You are formally invited to The Saunders Ball, this Friday. Please wear formal wear and please arrive early to meet and dine with The Saunders.”

“How in the bloody hell do you know the Saunders?!” Lockwood almost yells.

George pipes up, “And why would one of the oldest of richest families in London want dinner with with us?”

“Blood Relation, to me, unfortunately.” You say, wishing this wasn’t their reaction. 

Lucy and Lockwood sit there with their mouths ajar, while George looks like he’s going through every probability in his mind.

“Look, there’s no need to come. I can face my grandparents myself-“

“There’s no way were passing this up. It’s an opportunity for the company to find more clients.” Lockwood pipes up.

Your jaw clenches as try you to smile to pretend to be pleased that he wants to come. 

“Great. does everyone have formal wear? Or do we have to go shopping?”

Lucy shakes her head no, and you give a light smile, before grabbing her hand.

“Let’s go then, my treat.” You say before running out the door with Lucy. 

Lockwood gives one last glance at the door, before standing up.

“C’mon George, Lets go find out all we can about the Saunders.”

Lockwood wouldn’t try to dive into your history if he could help it, but he needed to know anything he could about who’s doors he was about to step into and how to best be prepared to gain new clients. 

Lucy had told you a bit about her past life, how she didn’t come from much, and her old employer, and briefly what happened to her best friend Norrie.

“Hey Lu?” You grab her attention with the nickname you called her in your nightly talks, “Im sorry.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, looking directly at you as you walked down the street of the shops. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all this. It’s something my Mum left in the past when she left home from my grandparents. I’ve never really lived rich my mother just came from money.” You sigh as you continue to explain, “We really lived off of my Dad’s pay, and my mother worked part time in a flower shop. It- it’s not really important what they did. But my grandparents- well they only ever summon me if they want something.”

Lucy gives a sympathetic look, with almost an understanding. 

“My grandparents hated my dad, because the took their only daughter away, to live a ‘life of poverty’ and my dad, ‘he couldn’t provide’. Ah, it’s so messed up! Then my parents had me, and all they ever wanted was me to become their ‘Perfect grandchild of the Saunders’ but I never was that, or could be that.” You ramble it all out.

“I’m sorry y/n” she replies, “For all that family rubbish. I- I know the struggle of family too well.” She mentions with an understanding you’ve never felt. 

You felt so heard. You felt so seen even though your pasts couldn’t have been more different. It was so touching.

“Thank you. For being my friend.” You blurt out, as she gives you a genuine smile. 

“C’mon let's check out this shop!” You say while dragging her in and you both giggle. 

Lockwood was tapping his fingers against the table. He was getting George to pull article after article about your grandparents. After Fairfax, Lockwood couldn’t just walk into this blindly, especially at the reaction that Y/n had at the mere invitation of dinner with them. 

The archives seemed to have little to no information so far, other than that they were old money for being a huge lavender supply over the years and that they had a similar social circle to Fairfax; rich and socialites. Their only link to each other was Marissa Fittes and Penelope Fittes.

Lockwood sighed, as he hoped this wouldn’t turn into another Fairfax situation. At this point in time, he didn’t think he could really trust y/n anymore. 

But maybe that was the problem between himself and y/n, that she couldn’t trust him. He never had thought about it that way. He had told Lucy and George about his past, but not y/n, so maybe that’s why she didn’t share much about herself. 

Maybe it was time Lockwood let himself go of this rampant disease of the feeling of resentment. At least to a small degree, just so they all could survive dinner and the ball with one of London's most powerful and influential families. 

It was finally the day to head to dinner and the ball with your grandparents, and you were just pretending to have it all together, but underneath you were an earthquake of nerves waiting to start to rumble. 

You were curling Lucy’s hair with an curling iron, trying to distract yourself from the whole situation. 

“That’s a beautiful necklace you have on.” You mention breaking the almost silence as the record player played a soft tune in the back of the room.

She grabs it, fiddling with it, “Thanks, Lockwood gave it to me, for the Fittes ball.” You freeze for a second, trying to hold your face still in the same way it was. 

You were partly shocked she even mentioned it, because that was the night your father had died at the hands of him.  You were Devastated but wasn’t the only emotion you were feeling, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest when she said Lockwood gave it to her. You hated yourself even more for falling into this trap of his charms. 

You were trying to hold a small smile, ads you finished Lucy’s hair. Your eyes started to water slightly, and as you tried to hold your tears in, there was a knock at the door. 

“Luce, Y/n, are you two ready yet?” Lockwood asks from the other side.

“You’re done Lu.” You say before turning around before the tears started to come out and started to go get your dress on. 

“I’m coming out, Y/n just has to put her dress on.” Lucy explains.

“Okay.” He repsonds.

Lucy slips out, and you here her shoes click against the stairs as she walks down. 

You wipe away your tears and start to pull your dress on before hearing your name being called.

 “Y/n?” 

“Yes Lockwood?” You reply.

You start to struggled with he zipper on your dress, as Lockwood starts to speak, “I just wanted to say that I’m- Y/n/n are you okay?” He asks as you made a loud sound as you crashed into the vanity. 

“Uh yeah I just can’t- I can’t get this stupid zipper.” You sigh in defeat, “Can you come in and help me?”

“Yeah, of course.” He says as he opens the door. His breath is taken away as If his lungs were ghost touched. You were leaning against the vanity, with a beautiful red dress on. 

“I know it’s pathetic but that the last case we had this week hurt my shoulder, so you don’t have to say it.” You mention looking away, before meeting his gaze. 

Was he… admiring you? You couldn’t tell for the few seconds he looked at you, before his expression changed as he moved towards you.

“It was my fault, on that case. I should have prepared you more so don’t worry about it. I’m just glad the dresser that hit you in the shoulder didn’t hurt you more.” He said, “That was quick moving, your getting out of the way before it squashed you.“ 

That was almost a compliment and an admittance of fault. What was going on with him? He motions for you to turn around and you do. As he moves your hair out of the way, a shiver runs down your spine, and goose bumps arise on your skin. 

You try to distract yourself at the feeling of his close proximity to you by cracking a joke, “Yeah well, now I can’t zip myself up, or get out of this stupid gown. Thank you Grandma and Grandpa for this choice of attire I truly adore feeling trapped.” 

He laughs a small almost silent laugh, as he grabs the zipper and slowly zips it up. It was agonizingly slow. You couldn’t tell if he was doing this to spite you, or because he was feeling the same weird feelings that you were. 

You shook off the second thought, it had to be to make you uncomfortable. You couldn’t have second thoughts on this no matter how warm it made your body feel. 

You swear you heard him take a shaky breath in before he finished and you turned to face him. You were really close to his face, and you could see the way his eyes looked almost puppy dog like. His eyes trailed your whole face for a few seconds before he took a small step back.

“Shall we?” He extended his arm, before you both descended the stairs, heading out to the car to take you to the infamous Saunders ball. You only hoped that your grandparents didn’t pull some bullshit like they usually did with you. 

You had no idea what was in store for you and your team, and that’s what was killing you. The not knowing.

Taglist:

@waitingforthesunrise @sleep-i-ness @rinisfruity14 @uku-lelevillain

[ijustwanttoreadfanfiction]

Here Comes The Sun

Billy Hargrove x AFAB! Reader

I didn't intend for the Billy one-shots I've posted so far to link up, I just really enjoyed the juxtaposition of the 'Sunshine' reader to his (let's be honest with ourselves) less than stellar personality. But evidently I'm hashing them into a series with a random timeline. Presenting the night you and Billy met.

Warnings: Mentions of domestic violence, mentions of abusive parent, explicit language, sex references, under-age drinking (under 21), smoking.

_______________________________________________

Billy is wasted.

It had been his sole purpose for the evening, spurred into self-destruct mode by yet another fight with his father, face stinging with the reminder of respect and responsibility.

He knew there was a party going on, gunning his Camaro through the winding, backwater, shithole roads of Hawkins, pulling up with a skidding flair to a boarded up building called ‘Benny’s Burgers’. The steady thumping bass emanating from inside was literal music to his ears, no plan except get drunk, maybe get his dick wet and forget about his shit life for a few hours.

Beer, vodka, tequila, it was all the same, burning his throat and stomach with numbing relief. Sweat poured off of him, chain smoking until he felt light-headed, some girl was sucking on his neck but she was faceless, nameless, he didn’t care, didn’t want to know.

He did a keg-stand, the cheers and shouts around him meant nothing, he didn’t need the praise of slack-jawed hicks. He staggered and lurched outside, away from the crowds, dizzy from the kegger. Get some air Billy, you fucking pussy he snarled at himself, punching his chest. 

He drops heavily to sit on the damp grass, trying to light another cigarette but the lighter keeps drifting away from where he needs it to be.

“Piece of shit.” He mumbles, throwing the zippo away, letting himself fall backwards to lay flat, chest heaving. 

_______________________________________________

He doesn’t remember passing out, dazedly brought round by something, no, someone tapping his face lightly.

“Hey - you ok?” The voice is soft, gentle.

Billy opens his eyes, vision bleary and hazed around the edges, your face floats in front of him, you seem concerned.

“‘Mfine.” He slurs, blinking rapidly trying to bring everything into focus.

“You sure about that?” You ask disbelievingly, cocking an eyebrow at his current state. He somehow pushes himself up into a sitting position, you’re kneeling down next to him not seeming to mind the wet grass on your bare legs.

“Heeyy - you’re cute, name’s Billy.” Billy smiles, trying to turn on the charm, thinking about the part of the evening where he could get his dick wet.

“Y/n, and you are very drunk.” You laugh, the sound echoing off the trees.

“I’m not as d-drunk as the other people.” He gestures haphazardly to the building, which now he really looked, seemed oddly quiet and empty.

“Uh - pretty much everyone has gone home, it’s like 4am, you must have been passed out for a while.” You place a delicate hand on his knee, patting it sympathetically, a small smile playing about your lips.

“Fu-ck.” Billy hiccups, he hauls himself up on bandy legs stumbling immediately, you step forward on instinct wrapping an arm about his waist to steady him, his muscular frame heavy. “S’ why’re you still here?” He asks, not remembering seeing you at the party, because he definitely would have remembered you.

“My friend called me to pick her up.” You sigh, pointing towards your car, he can see a blonde girl slumped in the rear passenger seat. “Can I give you a ride home?” You offer gently.

Billy shakes his head, the momentum throwing him into a dizzy lurch again, you press your other hand to his chest bracing him securely.

“No - I can’t go home.” He mumbles

“Well I’m certainly not letting you drive anywhere.” You insist, steering him towards your vehicle.

“My dad’ll kill me.” He sighs with a mirthless laugh, ignoring the sudden burn in his eyes and the hiss of ‘fucking cry-baby’ in his head.

You chuckle, helping him to perch on the bonnet of your car, hands hovering in case he slips.

“You’re just a little drunk I'm sure your dad wo-”

“No - no you don’t understand - he’ll k-kill me.” Billy says seriously, but the words still sound a little mashed together, he notices your concerned frown again and it makes his heart feel tight.

“Ok not home, but I’m not leaving you out here by yourself either.” You say firmly, hands on your hips, foot tapping against the gravel of the parking lot. “You gonna murder me in my sleep if I take you home with me?” You ask, eyes narrowed, finger pointing at his chest accusingly but there’s the hint of a smile playing about your pretty lips.

“Murder y-? Y/n, I don’t think I could find my dick to take a piss right now.” Billy says honestly, and you let out a bell-like laugh.

“I’m holding you to that Billy.” You warned teasingly. “Get in, I need to drop Sleeping Beauty home first.” You say nodding towards your friend who is snoring heavily, face smushed up against the rear window.

_______________________________________________

Billy drifts in and out of a doze as you drive, the window rolled down just in case, cold night air feeling nice on his hot face, you were singing along under your breath to some tape but he wasn’t really registering the words, maybe something about an octopus or some shit. 

“Billy, I’m gonna take Cassidy inside ok?” You say gently, tapping him on the shoulder, jerking him back to the present, he nods sleepily, sinking further into the seat. Despite his drunken state, he still watches you carefully as you half carry your wasted friend up the steps and into her house, he probably should have gone to help but he definitely would be more of a hindrance in his condition. 

He jolts at the sound of the car door opening, and the engine starting, having drifted off again.

“She ‘k?” He asks, rubbing at his eyes.

“Who? Cass? Yeah she’ll be fine, apart from the hangover.” You laugh. “We’ll be home in like ten minutes, I live just a little off of Brantford, you?”

“Cherry.”

You both lapse into a comfortable silence, Billy is close to nodding off again when the volume of music increases slightly, rousing him once more.

“Sorry,” You say, smiling sheepishly, withdrawing your hand from the dial “it’s my favourite.”

‘-Little darlin’, it’s been a long, cold lonely winter

Little darlin’, it feels like years since it’s been here -’

Something stirs in Billy’s sluggish memory as you carry on singing softly, it’s The Beatles, the tape you’re listening to, he knows that now but there’s something else.

“Mom -.” He breathes, the word escaping his mouth before he can stop it, you glance at him curiously as he sits up straighter cranking the volume up again to listen properly.

‘-Little darlin’, it seems like years since it’s been here

Here comes the sun

Here come the sun-’

“- and I say, it’s alright…” You both finish off the lyric together, Billy blinking hard, willing the tears away.

“Wouldn’t have you pegged as a Beatles fan.” You say gently.

“This was my mom’s favourite song - I’d forgotten.” Billy says roughly, sniffing hard, memories of distant sunlit days, the sound of her shimmering laughter and the cresting of the ocean against the sandy shore crashing down over him like he was caught in a swell.

“Where is she? Your Mom?” You ask cautiously.

“Away from all the shit.” Billy says simply, effectively ending the conversation.

“You want me to turn it off?” You reach for the dial, but Billy catches your hand.

“Leave it on - please.” The please is whispered, the word moving unfamiliarly in his mouth, you give a small nod, neither of you dropping the hand of the other.

You pull in front of a modest house, not unlike his own as the song comes to a close, shutting off the engine, sending him a slightly nervous smile.

“Still good on the not murdering me front?” You ask, and he laughs, feeling a little bereft when you drop his hand to get out of the car.

“Scouts honour.” He hums, following you up the path on slightly steadier feet.

“I highly doubt that you were ever in the scouts.” You laugh.

“Looks can be deceiving sunshine.” 

He notices the way you flush slightly and how your fingers fumble with your key in the lock, in response to the nickname, and decides he likes it a lot. 

“My parents are pretty heavy sleepers, we just need to be careful on the stairs, they creak a bit” You whisper, toeing off your sneakers, taking Billy’s hand once more and leading him up the stairs, both of you stifling giggles when the tenth step groans and the snores of presumably your father kick up a notch.

You point Billy in the direction of the bathroom, and then wordlessly step into your room leaving the door open for him.

Clearly your parents have an en-suite as this obviously serves as your bathroom, soft, sweet peach like perfume hanging in the air, makeup littering the counter, he chuckles at the Aquanet perched on the sink. Billy takes a much needed piss, sighing in relief, he notes he must like you because he’s bothered to wipe the seat across knowing his aim is still dogshit from the alcohol. Washing his hands at the sink, the unforgiving bathroom light and mirror lays it all bare, bloodshot eyes, the curls of his forehead damp with sweat, the shiner on his cheek courtesy of Neil blooming purple. He splashes cool water over his face and neck in an attempt to wash some of the clamminess away, jumping slightly at the soft knock on the door. You’re on the other side when he opens it, in an oversized Mickey Mouse nightie that rests just above your knees, you look fucking adorable and he feels his heart tighten again.

“Hi, I just wanna brush my teeth.” You say softly.

“Uh - sure, yeah - go ahead.” He murmurs, skin feeling electrified when your arms brush as you move past.

“I won’t be long, make yourself comfortable.” You whisper. 

Your room is softly lit by a small pink shaded lamp, the walls a lilac with green ivy leaves around the border, they almost look hand painted and Billy wonders if you did it yourself. He takes in the general clutter with a smile, a battered but very loved looking Snoopy stuffie sat on a wicker basket chair, polaroid photos of you and your friends over the years stuck to the wall above your bed in the shape of a heart.

“You could have got in the bed you know, can’t sleep standing up, well, unless you’re a Zebra.” Your voice cuts through the silence, carefully closing the door, smiling softly at Billy. 

“I didn’t know which side you preferred.” He says awkwardly, internally wondering when he became a fourteen year old boy again.

You breeze past unbothered, settling on the left side, pulling the comforter down for him on the right. This is weird right? Sharing a bed with a literal stranger, not that he’s never done that before, but this feels different, intimate. 

“I can take the floor you know, you don’t have to -”

“Billy, would you just get in please, so we can go to sleep.” You press, turning the light off with one last expectant glance in his direction. Billy takes his jeans off as they’re still damp from the wet grass, before sliding under the covers, body taut and on alert keeping himself to the furthest edge of the bed.

“Do I smell?” You ask quietly but he can tell you’re teasing, he feels you shift onto your side so you’re facing him. “Billy, I know we only met like an hour ago, but if you ever need a place to stay - away from the shit - you only need to ask.” Voice completely sincere.

He rolls over to face you in the dark, hand searching for yours in unspoken thanks, he expects you to pull away but you only return his grip, thumb tracing along his own.

“Goodnight Billy.” You whisper.

“Goodnight sunshine.”

[sweetfirebird]

Pink and White Berries

Okay! The first of the charity prompts to be posted here! (I am still working on them but am slowing down. My body said I had to. ugh)

This is for @sdlibrarian who asked for Zelli and Tahlen and a winter holiday.

Content tags: I shamelessly stole mistletoe it's fine. Some public teasing. Pining. Some drinking. Spoilers for A Suitable Bodyguard.

Pink and White Berries

When there were no remaining signs of autumn, and morning frosts lingered into the afternoons or never left, but before the weather changed into months of driving, endless rain, villagers in the valley of the Tialttyrin held Winter Fairs. There were three at various points along the valley, set up in the larger villages to draw visitors from the smaller ones for one last opportunity to trade, share news, and have some fun before the winter rains made travel too difficult for anything short of an emergency.

One of them was held ever year in the village at the base of the hill below the Tialttyrin fortress, which was currently bustling with the influx of people despite the snow visible on the distant mountains and the chilly air that had Zelli bundled up in layers upon layers.

He was there to fulfill duties that his grandmother had planned to do, but the day’s sudden, even more intense cold had made her joints ache. He would have come down anyway for a chance to ride Lemon Blossom, and stretch his legs outside of the holding’s walls, and listen to gossip from around the valley that he probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

He had always liked the fair and the chance to see people from farther away, even if usually not all that much farther, especially with the fighting in nearby territories that thankfully had so far not spilled into their own.

He usually wandered around, and traded politely for or bought one or two things, being friendly and treated well in return but reminded all the same that he was not of them. Zelli was a Tialttyrin even to the villagers who seemed to like him. He was noble, and not entirely human, and so best kept at a distance. It was unspoken but clear in the space always left between him and villagers who were careful to never get too friendly, and who made sure their children did the same.

Zelli was used to it, and would smile without lingering too long at any of the stalls.

Although this time, he had to in order to praise and spend the coin Grandmother had insisted he spend both to please the villagers and in case Zelli found something he needed.

There wouldn’t be anything, Zelli knew from experience, not that he needed. And the rest, things he wanted, tended to be hot drinks or sweet, once-a-year treats. He planned to hand out most of the coin to the musicians and had even offered some to Tahlen to spend, since Tahlen of course was the guard to ride down with him even though Zelli had insisted he didn’t need to bother; no invading force was on the way, and no one was going to get close to Zelli at the fair, not even to harm him. Not that anyone would have anyway. The villagers might be wary of Tialttyrins with their fae blood, but they adored Grandmother.

Tahlen, stone-faced and disapproving, had actually frowned at Zelli for the offer. Zelli had quickly withdrawn it and apologized. They had not exchanged a word since except for when Tahlen had stiffly informed Zelli of where he would be waiting and watching and then paused, as if expecting Zelli to insist Tahlen stay with him. Grandmother might have done it, and Tahlen would have been happy to stay with her. Zelli hadn’t been about to force Tahlen to suffer with his presence no matter what he wanted and gave Tahlen the same polite smile he gave each and every trader before assuring Tahlen he could rest while Zelli took care of things.

Tahlen’s frown had disappeared, his face going blank again. Zelli had quickly turned away so he wouldn’t upset Tahlen further, and Tahlen had gone to where he’d said he would to wait.

Zelli shivered by a stall of full of ribbons and buttons, not glancing over across the small square to where Tahlen was being approached for dances by nearly everyone his age… and some considerably past it, in Zelli’s estimation. Tahlen wasn’t dancing, but that didn’t seem to be deterring anyone. It might have been because they had gotten him to accept a drink, something which made Zelli grimace and then quickly smile in apology to the confused vendor.

If Zelli had tried to push a drink on Tahlen, Tahlen would have not-scowled—and yet somehow made his disapproval known—before reminding Zelli sternly that he was on duty.

Some of those around Tahlen were very pretty. Nearly as pretty as Tahlen was. Perhaps that was enough to make Tahlen forget his duty.

Zelli was not especially pretty, but especially not so today. He tried not to think of it and bought five buttons he didn’t need but perhaps Nia would like. Then he thanked the vendor without asking them about their home village as he had meant to and hurried to the next stall.

He crossed his arms so he could put his gloved hands in his armpits to warm them and not because he was sulking. He had no reason to sulk. It wasn’t as if a nose red from frozen air and his winter pallor set against a backdrop of frost and a hint of ice on the ground had been going to make Tahlen inclined to think warmly of him. Likewise, the nicer clothes Zelli had changed into for the fair were now hidden beneath the thick cloak Tahlen had insisted—silently, with steady, unrelenting looks—that Zelli wear. Zelli’s hair was currently too full of life—wisps going in all directions because of drier air. That couldn’t have helped matters.

It wasn’t as if he could hide his hair either. The colors that had begun to shift from red to red and orange, to red, orange, and several yellows, were unfortunately very noticeable even in summertime when some flowers might have given them some competition.

Zelli stopped in front of a table full of bracelets and necklaces made of shell and polished stones and examined them appreciatively. Already pretty Tahlen would look lovely with some of that pearl-like shell worn in his hair. Zelli considered that, and how he would never be able to give such a thing to Tahlen but he could dream of it, and how Grandmother had wanted him to be free with his money here, so he bought it, immediately feeling guilty once it was done.

He left too much coin on the table behind him, making at least one person happy today, and shoved the tiny decorative comb into his cloak before anyone could see it. Before Tahlen could see it. Not that Tahlen was looking at Zelli. Not beyond a glance or two to ensure Zelli hadn’t been attacked, or stumbled into an icy puddle, or had too much to drink, or whatever scrape Tahlen thought him capable of falling into.

Zelli was of age. Not a child. Simply because he wasn’t as experienced as Tahlen didn’t mean he was completely ridiculous. Even Grandmother thought so. Yes, she was trying to protect him, she claimed, with her talk of finding him a good alliance that would take him out of their valley, but she still had to believe Zelli would do the Tialttyrin some good there. Zelli was capable. He thought he was at least that.

He reached up to grip the rowan tree charm at his neck but resisted the urge to wish, even silently. The fae could be near at any time, but would very likely be around a Tialttyrin village on a fair day. They’d be drawn to the crowds who had journeyed here to tell stories and enjoy rare treats and music and dancing, and to carry on little traditions and rituals no one remembered the origin of anymore, not even the oldest Tialttyrin.

Rushlights and candles and oil lamps would keep the fair lively even at night. Boughs of greenery decorated doorways and windows. Nuts and dried fruit appeared in nearly every cake and pie. Oranges and pomegranates were plentiful. Songs of winter and winter loves filled the air. Dances were performed for the Winter Fair that were never danced at other times of the year. And faeberry bouquets were pushed into the hands of unsuspecting individuals by matchmaking or mischievous friends.

Zelli spied some bouquets tucked into sashes or belts, one worn boldly in someone’s generously displayed cleavage. The bouquets, more posies really, were just a few springs of faeberry leaves with perhaps a small bunch of the vividly dark pink and white berries in the middle, tied together with string or strips of old fabric.

Wearing the bouquets could mean the wearers had already kissed whoever they had been intended to kiss when they’d been given the berries. Or it might mean they just wanted their hands free. But if they found someone they wanted to kiss, then they simply had to hold the berries up—over the other person’s head, although that would never be possible for someone as short as Zelli—and then a kiss had to be granted.

That kiss might be a peck on the cheek or the top of the head, the way some kissed their children or relatives, but granted it would be. It wasn’t forbidden to refuse, but Zelli had never seen anyone do it.

He stopped at the window of a building set up as a temporary food stall and paid for a cider. The seller smiled at him but didn’t meet his eyes. Zelli wondered what color his eyes were at the moment to cause that. Not a human color, very likely. Zelli thanked them anyway, was again generous with his grandmother’s coin, and turned to look for another stall or table that wouldn’t take him near the dancers, and Tahlen, and Tahlen’s admirers.

He spotted two of the fortress’ other guards, clearly off duty, heading into the village’s pub hand in hand, and quickly hid his face, and his eyes, behind his large cup of cider as he finished it. Since that meant he could also practically feel Tahlen’s attention sharpen on him, he spun around rather desperately for one more thing he could do that might for once make Tahlen think well of him before he drifted back toward where Tahlen was waiting.

There was nothing. Zelli took one step closer to the space set aside for dancing, then shivered and turned around so fast he wobbled over a small icy patch.

The sensation of being watched, of not just by Tahlen but by everyone else and especially Tahlen, made the back of his neck warm.

He nonetheless went to return his empty cup, checking carefully for ice in his path first, but the seller took it only to hand him another full one. Zelli could hardly refuse it.

He resolved not to drink at least, as he picked his way reluctantly to the square and the dancers.

And Tahlen.

Always Tahlen. It wasn’t fair.

Tahlen’s gaze was fierce at the moment, no matter how still the rest of him was. Zelli met that gaze quite bravely, he thought, although it created a new pool of warmth in his chest that quickly went lower when Tahlen didn’t look away.

He wouldn’t, Zelli knew, and took a sip of cider just to wet his dry mouth and coincidentally give him a reason to break the stare. He could look forever, but didn’t think Tahlen would enjoy that or whatever Zelli’s eyes were doing. Zelli kept meaning to check for himself in a mirror but had yet to do it. He suspected his eyes did something special when he thought of or looked at Tahlen, and perhaps it was better than he not know what that was.

The musicians to one side of the dancing nodded a greeting to him when he turned that way. Zelli nodded back gratefully before reaching for the coin pouch at his belt.

A tiny hand stopped him. Or rather, the sight of a tiny hand holding out an oversized bouquet of faeberries stopped him.

The posy was in Zelli’s hand a moment later, though Zelli couldn’t remember reaching for it. It was tied with dark pink ribbon, although he couldn’t imagine who would waste a fine ribbon on such a thing. The bouquet itself was so heavy with pink and white that some of the berries spilled onto the ground at his feet. Zelli stared at them in stunned amazement for far too long and when he raised his head, the child who had pressed the bouquet into his hand was gone.

Zelli swept a look over the fair and the stalls behind him without a glimpse of any mischievous giggling figures darting away, or any children at all that seemed even the slightest bit interested in him. The giver would have had to have been a child; no one else would have been so foolish or daring. Even now, the villagers nearest to Zelli were stepping back or looking away, very probably hoping Zelli wouldn’t hold the berries over their heads to demand a kiss.

Because Zelli was not pretty enough or, equally likely, he was too fae and they would not risk it.

But he couldn’t drop the gift. That would be rude, and he wouldn’t hurt the child’s feelings if they happened to see. If others couldn’t refuse a kiss, the one given the berries couldn’t simply toss the posy away either.

He stared at it in consternation while the warmth in his chest turned to painful cold. It was an exceptionally beautiful posy, and it was meant to offer color and cheer and affection before the bleak winter months really began, and Zelli had nowhere to use it. Nowhere he could, and nowhere he wanted to, except…

He didn’t mean to look up. He truly didn’t.

Tahlen stood on the other side of the square, tall and beautiful and alone even when surrounded by others. Hints of pink and white at the edges of Zelli’s vision said some of the dancers and some of Tahlen’s admirers had faeberries of their own. He wondered if they’d asked to kiss Tahlen, and if they had, and wasn’t sure if he was grateful that Tahlen had done it in moments Zelli hadn’t seen. No one had pressed a bouquet into Tahlen’s hands, perhaps perfectly aware that Tahlen did not need any help or prompting to get kisses. He was as exceptionally beautiful as the posy in Zelli’s hand.

His braid rested over one shoulder, his shining brown hair unadorned even for the Winter Fair. If the cold air reddened his cheeks and nose, it wasn’t noticeable. His gloves probably kept his hands very warm. Surely his ears must be raw in the cold, since he wore no scarf around his neck and kept his cloak hood down. Cuffs and decoration would not suit him. Zelli could comfort himself with that thought; no one would else would be allowed to gift Tahlen combs or jewelry either, but it did not feel a comfort now.

Tahlen’s lovely mouth was pressed into a flat line, as though he was displeased, and it was that which made Zelli look quickly away from Tahlen’s rosy lips only to get caught in the fire of his gaze. Zelli was warmed and couldn’t stop shivering as though he’d just come in from the cold.

He moved, he wasn’t certain in what direction, but he took a step and thought Tahlen did the same, as if there were no dancers between them. As if only a few steps would bring them together. And if they were close, oh if they were close, Zelli would do something reckless.

Tahlen’s lips grew soft again, the lower one plump and pink as the ripest faeberry, and Zelli thought of it between his teeth and continued to shiver helplessly while he wondered faintly what that thought might do to his eyes. What Tahlen might see.

The music ended. People turned toward Zelli. He was standing on the edge of the dancers. Maybe they thought he wanted to join them or to say something. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw them, the musicians and dancers and the rest of the crowd, and finally tore his gaze from Tahlen to see smiles and grins on too many faces.

Tahlen wouldn’t like that. Zelli being obvious inside the fortress was one thing. Zelli mooning over Tahlen where the entire village could see would lead to teasing. Not to Zelli, they wouldn’t dare. But Tahlen would more than likely suffer through some.

Zelli cringed to imagine it.

“Lovely music,” he said quickly, although he didn’t know if he was supposed to address the crowd. He tried to smooth the tremor from his voice. “Don’t stop because I am here. Please.” He remembered the cup in his other hand and downed its contents so as not to offer any possible additional insults. He did not look at Tahlen. “Thank you for the gift,” he told everyone with his head down. “A truly beautiful posy. But I think it was meant for someone else.”

He left the sprig, with his empty cup and coins enough to buy many more drinks for everyone gathered nearby, on the end of the bench the musicians sat on, then turned and made his way over icy patches to the other side of the village square.

When Tahlen came for him not long after, Zelli was halfway back up to the fortress on Lemon Blossom.

“You can return to the fair if you like,” Zelli told him without risking a look to see if Tahlen was frowning again.

Tahlen rode with him all the way back into the fortress and didn’t say a word.  

~~

Zelli was not avoiding going to the Winter Fair. Grandmother once again did not feel up to a long visit, although they were readying space for her in the pub for tomorrow, the second day of the fair. She would sit before a cozy fire to ease her pains, and traders and craftspeople would have to carry their ware into her. Today, however, Grandmother expected Zelli to go in her stead again, and Zelli had smiled and nodded and ducked from the room without agreeing.

Which had not fooled her of course, or Tahlen, who had regarded Zelli with questions in his eyes last night and had nearly asked one of them this morning before the other guards had thankfully called him away on some business.

Zelli should go to this year’s Winter Fair. He had every reason to attend and only one reason not to, and that reason was foolish indeed now that he and Tahlen were… now that they were lovers.

More than lovers, to most people. Well beyond courting, according to Grandmother. Hand-fasted in all but deed, according to Fy and his smirks, who insisted he would like to be invited to that event when it did happen. Tahlen was Zelli’s, according to Tahlen, and that should have been enough to make Zelli forget his embarrassment of the year before.

One would even think Zelli would be used to embarrassment by now. He certainly had worse things to blush over.

But one mention of the fair and his stomach had churned. Then he listened to the new guards ask about it and watched them grow flustered and excited over the thought of a posy of faeberries, and he’d thought as he hadn’t let himself then, that someone had given him that posy of berries to be cruel. Anyone in the village had to know how Zelli felt about Tahlen, he’d made it clear enough over the years, and they had slipped him the berries so they could make a joke at his expense.

That was when Zelli realized he could not bear going there again.

He was in his room, their room if Zelli had his way, struggling to find a good excuse not to go that wouldn’t alarm Tahlen or anyone else, when Tahlen returned, his winter cloak and boots on, some color in his cheeks. His short hair was held back with a simple clasp, which only reminded Zelli of the shell comb, buried and forgotten somewhere in one of his jewelry boxes, like the rest of Zelli’s shame at the memory.

“You’re hiding,” Tahlen said bluntly, stopping just in front of the chair by the fire where Zelli was curled into a ball, not even pretending to read the household accounts on the table next to him.

“I’ll go,” Zelli assured him without looking up. “No one needs to worry.” Maybe later in the evening, when it would be darker and everyone would be more interested in their drinks than Zelli.

Tahlen did not seem assured. “I thought you liked the Winter Fair. The cider and treats. The music. Talking to all the people. You always seemed to enjoy yourself, except for possibly last year’s.”

Zelli didn’t let himself twitch. “Are the newer guards yearning to go? Everyone gets a day off to attend, some might just have to wait. At least they’ve been properly warned how to behave if any berries should end up in their hands… or over their heads.” He tried to smile. “Fy will enjoy that either way. Is Esrin going to try to catch Vint? I don’t understand him, but I suppose you do.”

As a distraction, it didn’t work. Tahlen grunted, then said merely, “Vint is a fool, but that is his problem.”

And Esrin’s, Zelli thought, with some sympathy for her. 

“Is it the berries that concern you today?” Tahlen went on, too sharp for Zelli. “You used to enjoy that tradition.”

“Yes. Well.” Zelli crossed his arms. “They are not always harmless, are they? Just… give me some time and I’ll be ready to go. I’m being silly.”

“Is the Mountain Wolf scared of some posies?” Tahlen inquired evenly.

Zelli scoffed to himself. “Tahlen,” he complained softly a moment later, “I expect people to avoid me, or fear me, or simply not like me. But last year….”

“I thought you were going to ask me for a kiss.” Tahlen’s voice held something stirring and warm.

Zelli shivered despite his mood, then frowned. “I was going to. I nearly couldn’t help myself. It was only the stares of others that brought me to my senses.”

Of course, as he said it, he remembered that Tahlen had asked to court him only a few months after that, so, in that moment, he might have wanted Zelli to bring the posy to him. 

He raised his head.

In one hand, Tahlen held a small posy of faeberries tied with a strip of undyed linen.

“Who gave you that?” Zelli demanded instantly with no time to think better of it.  

Tahlen met and held Zelli’s stare. “I asked for one.”

“You rode all the way down to the village this morning just to ask for faeberries?” Zelli asked blankly.

Tahlen heaved the deepest of sighs and then held out his arm, and the berries.

Zelli slowly looked up at the posy above his head, then back at Tahlen. “You rode all the way down to the village this morning to ask for faeberries so you could kiss me?” He blinked. “You can kiss me whenever you like, Tahly.”

At the nickname, Tahlen’s mouth curved with a hint of a smile. “I rode all the way down to the village this morning to ask for faeberries so I could kiss you as we did not kiss last year, and you could wear this when you visit the fair. So they would know,” he added when Zelli only stared. “So you would,” he went on, frowning for not even half a moment. “I wanted you to ask me last year, Zelli.”

“I should have,” Zelli admitted quietly with some shame, this time for his cowardice. “I didn’t because…”

“I know why you didn’t,” Tahlen cut him off. “I didn’t then, but I do now. Although you should know they weren’t laughing at you. Not… not like that. Not meanly. That’s how they always look when they are teasing,” Tahlen made a pained sound, a sign of his own embarrassment, before continuing, “young couples. Moreso when they give one of them the posy so they can watch them squirm.”

Zelli scowled reflexively at the idea, then raised his head even higher to consider his posy once again. He should be used to how Tahlen could do or say things to make him warm inside and out, but he wasn’t yet and hoped he never would be.

“Would you grant me a kiss, Zelli?” Tahlen asked gravely, as though the matter was serious indeed. But his faint smile returned as Zelli reached for the sprig and then pulled it close to his chest.

“Oh, at least one,” Zelli agreed breathlessly, and fought to stay still when Tahlen bent down to get the kiss he’d asked for.

[natesgreattakes]

natesgreattakes' nate take #2

we're so back boys!! anyway, today's ted nate talk:

i think nate's "redemption arc" would've gone over a lot better if we got to see some physical evidence of what he was feeling. i keep seeing people (mostly on reddit, i fucking hate reddit.) saying that he had no reason to be like that, that he's just a "nice guy," that ted was wrong to bring him back. and i think that last one is the exact opposite of the point they were trying to make. but even more than that i feel like the people who say he has no reason to be fragile (for lack of a better word) haven't experienced anything even similar to what he did. 

the show (or at least the conversation with his dad) implies that he was a "gifted kid;" he was the smartest person he knew growing up, but it wasn't ever good enough. he becomes an adult, and gets a job as what is essentially a glorified janitor. in his head, he has failed. 

then ted comes around, and he is thrust into a position of power. that's where the problem starts. he doesn't get any time to adjust, or to learn from those who were already coaching. hell, he walks in and sees a new kitman; for all he knows, he's been sacked without warning. i cannot stress this enough: he had no adjustment period. he didn't work his way up--he was at the bottom of an impossible ravine when all of a sudden he was lifted up to the top of a mountain. 

of course he's going to misuse his power. he was stepped on and harassed, seemingly for years, and he finally gets the chance for revenge. i know if i was him i would have a real fucking difficult time restraining my anger.

he, inevitably, misuses his power, just like we all knew he would, and everyone but ted starts to turn against him, and he's grasping at the cliffside but his palms are sweaty and bleeding from the fall. he's losing control. then the wunderkind incident happens, and the people who spent so long hurting him, along with his "replacement," have pried his hands from the rock and he is back where he started. enter rupert. praising him, giving him everything he never got as a kid and everything he lost when richmond "betrayed" him. rupert has dropped a rope into the ravine out of a goddamned helicopter, and nate sees the light at the end of the tunnel. he meets jade. he is on top of the world, bathing in that light... until rupert trues to convince him to cheat. the illusion is shattered. he does not fall--he is left stranded.

this part is going to sound cliche, but it's what happened: he was saved by love. more importantly, the love around him put him on the path to loving himself. jade and his niece. his father, post apology. the boys coming to retrieve him. beard. the people who are most important to him (and the people who hurt him and he hurt in return) are showing him love, and he's not only reflecting it back at them but also, for the first time, beginning to absorb it. 

nate is not done healing by the end of the show. that's why he becomes a kitman again: he is able to recognize what went wrong. he knows that he's hurt people. he is beginning his penance.

maybe everyone forgives him too easily. but that's the point of the show. forgiveness. ted has not forgotten what nate did--no one has, especially not nate himself. but ted can offer him a clean slate, just like he did for beard decades ago. it is in his nature to forgive. and let us not forget that he genuinely cares about nate. he still has that photo in his house. nate hurt him, but he still loves him. people are more than one-dimensional, and if any piece of media gets that, it's ted lasso.

[penofdamocles]

> Give a Gift (a week ago).

In a flash of green light, an overburdened angel appears in Season's Harbor in the motion of opening his mouth in a sharp but short scream and taking a step backward, away from a horror that's no longer present. Staring instead at the contents of his own, safe, puppet-less bedroom, Madison Aurel hugs the large soft object already in his arms in self soothing, focusing slow breaths to interrupt the moment of panic. He has absolutely no desire to know what the fuck the /moving teddy bear/ was about, or to ever visit that shop again, really, no offense meant to its disoncerting and concerning owner, whom he really hopes doesn't /always/ look like that.

Soft footsteps sound from the hall outside, audible only because of their hurried approach, and there's a light, careful knock on the purple bedroom door. Taking 1 last deep breath, Mads puts the massive green plush dragon he carries down on his wide, soft bed, before adjusting his sunglasses, approaching the door, and tugging it partially open.

“Hey, kiddo.”

A small befreckled human looks up at him through the gap with wide green eyes, lit with concern despite their unphased expression. “Uncle Mads Aurel, you screamed, are you in active danger or crisis?”

“No, uh, don't worry, I'm fine, just got freaked out for a second before I teleported back, but I'm safe and fine now so it's all cool. I have a surprise for you though, a positive 1, do you want it now?”

Andy relaxes at Mads' assurance, but perk up in a less tense fashion to stare at him in excitement. “A surprise? I have no reason to postpone obtaining such a gift if it is already prepared. Is there a specific purpose, event, or rewarded behavior corresponding to this sudden generosity?”

Mads can't help but grin a little at their response, always a rewarding part of getting people unexpected presents. ”Nothing in particular, I saw an open opportunity to easily help get you something you actively, specifically wanted but couldn't pay for yourself. I mean, what kind of angel uncle passes up a gifting chance that golden?“

The hint's not terribly subtle to a teen this clever, and their hands rise in front of them in giddy realization, their feet bouncing as they almost hop in place with joy.

“Rose created it already? How impressive, at the estimated measurements of material in this timeframe that must have taken dedication unexpected from a commission I was unable to offer down payment on.”

Andy's droning assessment doesn't express how excited they had initially been at the opportunity, how tempered that had been by the assessment of required work to pay for it, or the deep disappointment when it became clear that their currency was nearly worthless to the toymaker, even if she finished the commission and they did as much work as they could. They'd sadly written it off, already attempting to move on, but Mads has successfully relit a snuffed hope; he can tell, and he's proud of it.

”She did work super fast, yeah, but she seemed really, uh..happy, with the results.“ Or whatever that was. ”Want to see slash have it?“ Mads offers, opening the door further and taking a step back.

Andy is already nodding before the question is fully stated, they'd be happy just to see it but to have it for themselves, also? Despite the angel obtaining it of his own efforts? Praise Madison Aurel, they've been bestowed a great blessing. They rush into the angel's bedroom, a space they've long since been welcome in, and immediately fixate on the contents of the bed.

”The dragon…they are so large,“ the warlock assesses in quiet awe, observing the sheer size of their new friend. Their fingers touch their chin and their eyes are literally sparkling with some variety of revealing magic as they examine it on other levels, following a deep curiosity to Know everything about it, of course. Andy steps closer, reaching out to learn more via touch, and Mads leans on the door watching while they pet every patch of fabric, play with every fin and claw, squeeze its limbs and tail, finally kneeling at the base of the bed to stare the stuffed dragon intensely in the sewn-on eyes. They're having a moment, trying to Understand this new and important addition to their life, and Know their True Name.

The angel doesn't question or judge their process, it's far too endearing to him, drawing a soft and steady smile from his tired face. He may not understand their thought process, but he knows how important this is to the little human, no longer of any conscious relation to someone he hates to think of; Andy's established plenty of their own associations by now. The nickname helps. They just remind him so much of his ward in behavior, it's easier to ignore the way their stare, fixed on him intently, sometimes makes his strings feel a little tighter around him. But they're happy, right now, and it makes him happy to see.

After several minutes of intense staring and thought, Andy nods to themselves, once, solemnly.

“Leofric.”

“Is that their name?” Mads raises an eyebrow, straightening up.

“That is the name he desires and deserves, yes. It means ”beloved king“. As he shall be.”

“A king, huh? What qualifies him as nobility here, was he voted in? Founded the kingdom?”

“As with many rulers who have historically claimed, to various levels of accuracy, to have been designated rulers by a divine messenger bestowing such power upon them personally, so shall Leofric receive a celestial's blessing and the right to rule from an inarguable source.”

As they explain, Andy stands up and moves back over to Mads Aurel, taking him by the hand and tugging him over to the bed, still very serious. They position him in front of the dragon, looking up at the angel expectantly.

If anyone can play along, it's Mads, but he does need to take a moment to figure out what he can do here that means jack shit. It takes him a second to remember he has more literal than usual divine magic at his fingertips. Raising both hands, Madison Aurel mutters a spell, a golden glow enveloping his fingers and, in a shining aura, Leofric and Andy. The latter looks from their glowing hands to their dragon to Mads, wide-eyed at the power and authority they see in him. It doesn't make him uncomfortable anymore, they mean well, and it feels nice to meet their expectations sometimes.

“Leofric, son of Rose, I declare you the rightful king and ruler of..“ He raises an eyebrow at Andy, and without speaking they send him a mental prompt. ”..the kingdom of the Safest Room, and all the lands and creatures within. May you rule with compassion, wisdom, and, a perpetually comforting presence. And, Andy, child of Hinata, I declare you the king's chosen steward, guard, and cuddle buddy, a bond made unbreakable by the divine blessing I've given you both. Do you accept this position?”

They stare in awe at this unexpected involvement and personal assigned task, but nod respectfully, hands shaking in front of them with semi-contained excitement. “I do, and I declare my eternal devotion to the king, and his divine patron.“ Dramatically, they kneel before him; Mads isn't sure how serious they're being, but after an awkward second he gestures them back to their feet.

”How was that, is Leofric nice and officiated now?“

”He very much is, I express my deep gratitude for your contribution. And- oh, my goodness, it did not occur to me.” Andy suddenly moves forward to hug Mads, feeling smaller than usual in this position, due to his literal height increase. He doesn't flinch, but hugs them back, looking down curiously.

“Thank you, Uncle Mads Aurel, thank you very much for providing access to this rather frivolous desire of mine, it means more to me than I am capable of clearly expressing.”

“I dunno, kid, it's perfectly clear to me,” Mads chuckles, rustling their curly hair. “It's not frivolous, I'm sure he'll bring you a lot of joy. You're very welcome. Now, let me give you a hang getting it back to your room because it's literally taller than you are.”

“That will not be necessary, I must adapt to transporting him regularly.” With that confidently established, Andy hefts Leofric up and off the bed, instantly concealed behind his plush mass. Mads watches them go like an ant with an entire marshmallow out his bedroom door, removing the king to his new domain and closing the door behind them with a deftly wedged foot.

[insurrection-if]

If I'm not mistaken, Fyodor has wings right (it wasn't specified on the character page, unless I skimmed over it-)? How often does he groom his wings then? Better yet, how does he react if the MC offers to groom them?

Yep, Fyodor may use his gift to sprout (a) set(s) of wings . . . though he uses them rather sparingly! ¯\_(　´∀｀)_/¯ It’s so rare for them to be seen by the public that most might not be aware he has them at all. (Rumors certainly existed back in his former residence, but few lived past seeing them to affirm what many suspected.)

Unlike Kalyna, they aren’t comprised of any true biological matter and are extremely versatile in their composition. Instead of actual bone and feather, they’re more so a supernatural reflection (perhaps even a manifestation) of his feelings and wants. Typically they take on milky white or pure golden hues with pillowy feathers and expansive reach—angelic in appearance, able to shield and comfort those he cares for. Lately, however, his wings have been noted to be more reminiscent of fire or metal—still able to fly as easily as ever despite the impracticality (impossibility) of their presently chaotic and strange composition. (Reality and logic have little constraint over his gift!) Fyodor has considerable sway over the form his wings take: material, span, movement, amount, etc. Not absolute sway, but considerable sway nonetheless.

When not in use, it’s as though his wings don’t exist at all. No examination could unveil their existence burrowed beneath his skin; no scar can be directly attributed to their point of origin. Though they sprout from his back as though they were always nestled just beneath his surface, the spectacle is no more than an unintended illusion. When Fyodor loses use or want for them it is as though they naturally meld back into the cold night air, passing fog, or daylight rays like they had never been there at all. ¯\_(´・ω・｀)_/¯ A smooth and subtle poof into nonexistence like magic!

Really, Fyodor employs them so hesitantly and rarely that he might not mention their existence unless the sudden need for them arrives or it’s his final possible trump card to impress / win the favor of someone he desires a positive opinion from. Outside of his profession as a useful tool for chasing people down, surveillance, quick / “covert” travel, transportation of others / objects, intimidation, or protection the only (civilian) use he had for them was a resting pillow / blanket / nest for his friends or a (drunk) party trick to earn some praise. Otherwise, his wings are commonly summoned unwittingly / subconsciously by strong bouts of overwhelming emotion. That, or through Mishka’s influence. In those situations, at least in the past, his wings were essentially a (threat) statement to get a particular message across. (；´∀｀)

Mm, I will state that while Fyodor is no angel or nephilim (despite his insistence suspicions otherwise) it’s no coincidence that such a comparison is so common for him. He’s quite capable of numerous physiological changes actually— or he would be, at least, if he had better control over his gift, haha! Ah, though in the original (non-interactive) version of Insurrection one of his children (in the epilogue stage) was a shapeshifter who finally harnessed the potential of versatility that Fyodor so greatly struggles to (consciously) wield! I guess that could be chalked up to a matter of personality . . . （；^ω^）

Due to his wings being more “magical” than “biological” in essence, there isn’t much need to groom them or care for their maintenance. Fyodor does receive sensations of touch through them though, and he would be absolutely elated at the offer to groom them (as unnecessary as the task may be) if only to enjoy the gentle caress and care from the hands of his love. He might be a bit jumpy at first from the particular ticklish sensitivity he would feel from lighter grazes or the alien form of intimacy this curious ritual didn’t have when performed by his friends. For one reason or another, his wings are uniquely this sensitive towards you alone . . . likely due to the profound influence you have over his heart like no other does.

Earlier in the relationship, Fyodor would also be half-distracted with holding up the collar of his backwards shirt / a shielding blanket to cover up as much skin as possible in a nervous attempt to protect his modesty (especially around someone he has romantic intentions towards). He might be self-conscious or quietly worried about unveiling (and thus repulsing) you with the distracting sight of scars on the skin of his back; drowning himself in an odd mixture of sickened concern for how these lingering wounds might change how you look at him and an eager desire to have another part of himself be known by you. His smiles are shaky, his fingers nervously pinch the fabric in his hold to divert the tingled energy that rolls through him. Despite the ferocity of his blush and shifting waves of tension in his shying frame, he cannot mask how pleasurable and soothing an experience it is overall.

Later in a relationship, Fyodor would consider the needless ritual to be cute and precious. He would feel guilty to ask for their grooming when the chore is pointless, but the extended offer alone would be swoon-worthy to him! You’d practically have him purring in heavenly bliss beneath the attention of your hands on his wings—though his pleasure is definitely amplified by the thought behind the act rather than your touch alone. He’d be a bundle of pure joy through the whole process; smiling and laughing and preening while mumbling endless praises towards your generous and loving care. It’s (in so near a “literal” sense) like you’re caressing his soul itself, physically assuaging the intangible ache and mess of his emotions.

Ah, overall though, Fyodor’s wings are much more a spectacle piece and occasional tool rather than a common / ingrained feature of his physique (hence it’s lack of mention on his character page). Uriel views them as a potential boon to his plans for Fyodor and thus will encourage their display, but Fyodor himself prefers to avoid “showing off” with them when there’s no need. After all, with them being so attached to his self-perception and wants, his wings retain a sense of being something personal and intimate to him—something best left to the eyes of those close to them and those that have done him wrong.

Thank you for the ask! (　´∀｀)b

[rosemarydisaster]

Part Two of my "what if they were homosexuals saga", the ficlets were I explore what if certain characters I hc as bisexual due to their opposite gender relationships in canon were gay. Today I offer you Nancy Wheeler with a severe case of CompHet.

This ficlet deals with internalized homophobia and mentions 80's typical homophobia. Pls stay safe if any of that could trigger you. Also, It's a long boy.

Nancy Wheeler was a good girl. That's what every single one of her teachers had always said. It was something she had always been proud of, being good. Obviously it was a good thing to be good, and it made her mom happy. Her father had never cared about those things, but then again he had never cared about anything. He simply existed in the living room sofa.

Nancy loved being good, but it wasn't an easy thing. You see, when bad kids were good, they got praise. When Nancy behaved good, it was what the standard. What she was expected to do. Nancy needed to be better than good if she wanted to get that same response. She needed to be excellent, so she became excellent. Always managed to outdo herself in a constant competition with her past work. Barb was content with being nice, but Nancy needed to be perfect.

The unfairness didn't stop there. When bad kids misbehaved, the teachers sighed and moved on with their lives. When Nancy did though, she was in big trouble. The teacher would be disappointed, her mother would be disappointed, her cat would be disappointed. The only person that would not care was her father, still sitting behind the newspaper. It somehow infuriated Nancy more than her teachers’ unfair expectations.

It was only a matter of time. She was going to get tired of being a good girl at some point, Nancy reasoned. She did love challenges, of course! But there was no point in running a rigged race. That's what she told herself when Steve Harrington started talking to her.

It was flattering. Almost as rewarding as being praised for her grades. No one had ever told her all those things -how pretty she was, how her blue sweater complimented her eyes, how interesting she was. She did not kid herself, no matter what Barb said. She knew the kind of guy Harrington was. He probably didn't mean half of it.

Harrington wasn't that man; Nancy was sure of that. He was handsome, objectively speaking, but he was too self-absorbed for Nancy to care. It felt like fanning a forest fire. He was dumb, and a jock! yet extremely charming in his own way. Plus, she loved the way people looked at her when she was with him. She was now Queen consort, exceeding all expectations for her love life.

Barb didn't like Harrington, and Nancy couldn't blame her. Sure, he was everything they had complained about in their sleepovers. He was a boy, a prime example of the male sex. They had both agreed since the moment that boys became an inevitable topic that they would never date one of the kids at school. They were loud, smelly, annoying, and rude. There were no good boys in Hawkins, so they hoped for a future in Ivy league with men that would sweep them of their feet.

It also helped with rumors. Hanging out with just one girl without having dated anyone...Nancy did not want people to get the wrong idea. Maybe if Barb's hair was longer she would not have the need to resort to Harrington. Her mom had hidden pretty well the relieve -mostly because she was overcome with sudden worry for teen pregnancy. But Nancy noticed, and she liked the freedom it gave her.

It seemed so stupid on retrospective. How she had lost her soulmate just so she could be popular for a bit. Barb had always been there. She was everything to Nancy. No one understood her like Barb and now she was gone. Now she was gone and Nancy had to deal with the grief and confusion by herself. The way everyone else had moved on made her want to scream at the universe.

She was close enough to Steve to realize he hadn't really. He didn't throw parties at his house anymore, avoiding the backyard like the plague. She knew. But knowing didn't make it any better when he kept acting like it didn't matter. His girlfriend's best friend, brutally murdered in his pool, and he wanted to act like nothing happened. Nancy could almost picture him sitting in the sofa, behind the newspaper. She felt bile creep up her throat. Nancy had never been in love with him, but each day she felt closer to hatred.

The Halloween party was her limit. Nancy could not take the Bullshit anymore. Completely intoxicated as she was, it made no sense to her. Why on earth would she have been on Steve's bed having mediocre sex? She should have been with Barb, her Best Friend. The person she cared most for in the entire world. She knew she was crying and Steve was trying to calm her down, but she didn't want to calm down. She felt like her heart had a massive hole in the middle, and each day she could not see Barb's soft smile or hear her sweet voice it became bigger.

Nancy didn't remember what she said to Steve. Judging by his face the next day, it wasn't pretty. She wasn't even sure they were still dating by the end of the conversation. He sounded angry, but his eyes were glossy and red rimmed. For just a second Nancy allowed herself to think about the possible feelings Steve The Hair Harrington could have. She had never thought there were any in all the time they've dated, but clearly she managed to hurt them into existing. Nancy felt bad, but she somehow felt more bitter than sad.

The same way she dated Steve to spite the world, Nancy dated Jonathan to spite Steve. She knew Steve hated him, and she wasn't even that sure they had broken up. But Byers was the only one that could at least try to understand her pain. And he did try. He was soft spoken, and sweet and all the things Steve was not. So maybe, maybe, it could work. In Nancy's logic, it made complete sense. The problem with Steve was that there was zero compatibility. They didn't have anything in common. Johnathan and her were a powercouple, a force to be reckoned with.

Dating Jonathan was nice. They worked together really well, and he was such a nice guy to be around. Steve had matured a lot since the break up, but Nancy never felt tempted to come back. She felt tempted to apologize though, but the way he had dismissed Barb's death...she wasn't over it yet.

She still thought about her, of course she did. Every single day. It hadn't gotten any easier, she simply got used to it. At first Jonathan had been really helpful. He hugged her and let her cry for her friend, giving Nancy the space to properly feel her pain. But after a few months it started to feel wrong. Her grief was laced with things she could not speak about, and Jonathan made her feel dangerously comfortable. Maybe ignoring it would make it go away faster, even if she felt extremely guilty for it.

Not having other friends was convenient, but it also made her more dependent on her Jonathan. Barb was gone (had been for a while), and her only other option was his ex. Not that she felt weirdly about Steve, Nancy had been over him before the relationship started. It was just that she didn't feel like being the third wheel. And hanging out with Steve always meant third wheeling these days.

The thing about Jonathan was that, no matter how good of a team they made, they were reliant in proximity. Nancy didn't really feel the need to call him when he went away to California. She still called from time to time, she was supposed to. It helped to distract her from the bad thoughts, her guilt, and the weird thoughts. It grounded her. She was still sweet Nancy and she had a boyfriend. No one gossiped about the other thing when she had a boyfriend, especially now that she had cut ties with pretty much any girl she could have been friends with. After the upside down, normal people lost her interest, and no girl could compare to Barb.

She didn't hate Robin. At first she was sorry for her, being stuck with Harrington. But she seemed so happy, and they seemed to enjoy each other's company so much...maybe she was a bit jealous. Not of her relationship with Steve -Platonic her ass-, but of the attention. She missed the complicity, being someone's partner in crime. She missed Jonathan, but most of all she missed Barb. She felt so alone, smiling through the collapse of another relationship and all the hardships of being valedictorian in a world with evil dimensions.

When she got stuck with Robin as a partner, she started feeling sorry for Steve. The girl never shut up. It was a constant rambling that fused multiple topics in the same sentence in a way that almost made her brain hurt. She got used to it though. And Nancy had to admit Robin was fast and witty. Clearly her assumptions were wrong, but she didn't understand why. How could Steve be so close with a girl without flirting with her.

She got somewhat of an answer after Vecna. They finally talked about things and, for the first time, Nancy allowed herself to listen to Steve. He had looked so shaken when Vecna took her, she could not deny he cared for her. And somehow that almost brought her to tears. She apologized. Profusely. Steve hadn't deserved all her assumptions. He had forced himself to fit into a mold, and Nancy had never tried to see beneath that facade.

They talked about everything that night. About Barb, about his father sitting behind his newspaper never even lifting a brow, about expectations, about how unfair it had all been for them. Nancy laughed, hugging his ex, realizing how much they had in common. Way more than she thought, maybe even more than she and Jonathan. And still, Nancy could not feel it. She looked at Steve's gorgeous face, lovely even in his teary vulnerability, and she could see nothing more than a friend. A good one, but just a friend.

She broke up with Jonathan once he came back from California. He seemed almost relieved. Things had been difficult for him too, and if long distance did not work once, it was not going to work for college. They were still friends and Nancy almost felt weirded out by how similar it felt to when they dated. Maybe they had never been more than friends. It didn't help with the thing. Just because people did not gossip anymore, it did not mean her brain had left the topic alone.

The group was a welcome distraction. Now that the air was cleared between them, she actually enjoyed  hanging out with Steve and Robin a lot. Nancy had missed having girl friends and Robin was just so... electric. No one could substitute Barb, years and years of intimacy could not be build in weeks. But she surprised herself with how fast Buckley had won her over. She had that dorky charm to her that made Nancy giggle against her will. And she had such an earnest intensity to her...it was hard not to get flustered whenever Robin complimented her. Thankfully, she still shared a brain with Steve and spent a big chunk of their time with her platonic soulmate

Eddie was great in those instances. He was everything Nancy was not. He was so sure in his insecurity where Nancy was extremely insecure about her self-assurance. He was The Freak, bad in a way society could not justify. Eddie did not care for rumors, and laughed in the face of anyone who dared call him queer. He was unrepentantly weird, and Nancy couldn't get enough of it. He made her feel cool.

She had always been Goodie Two Shoes Nancy, even when she dated Big Bad Harrington. But Eddie raved on and on about how she was such a badass...Nancy was starting to believe him. Yes, she had pushed for the truth at the newspaper, even when it had meant "sticking it to the man". Yes, she had managed to be valedictorian AND save the world the same year. And Nancy had very much indeed, threatened Carver with a modified shotgun "like the bad bitch you are Wheeler! Pardon my language".

Nancy helped him pass English class, and he screamed "This one's for you Wheeler!" at graduation. Steve had taken big offense to that because he had helped too -no, he hadn't. They've gotten pretty close those past few months. So, when people started inquiring about them Nancy could not feel surprised. Baffled? Absolutely. Horrified? That too. It was their graduation party for goodness sake!

Steve had thrown the party, the first party King Steve threw in years. A legendary event for the annals of history. Carver's party stood no chance. Nancy understood better than anyone the significance of Steve's present, and she made sure he was enjoying himself. Any time he looked at the pool she dragged him into the conversation. So, when Gareth had begged her to tell him if Eddie and her were dating yet, Nancy really tried not to freak out. She didn't want to ruin the night for anyone, and Gareth had implied that it was expected they would end up together. Nancy really didn't want to reject his friend in the middle of their graduation party.

She managed to hold herself off for a whole 20 minutes. Give or take. Nancy found Eddie in the porch with Steve and Robin. Harrington immediately asked if she was ok, clearly worried. She managed to shake him off and Robin eventually got the hint, taking him inside. Eddie simply waited for her to speak, silently smoking away. God did she hate being in that situation, but she could not do this any longer. Nancy could not force herself to date guys just because that's what people expected of her. It was not fair for her nor them, and she really did not want to mess things up with Eddie.

She took a deep breath and related his conversation with Gareth as calmly as she could. Before Eddie could intervene, she composed the most thoughtful rejection she could muster at the moment and waited. She felt like a thread about to snap, and Eddie standing there in silence was not helping at all. Then he laughed. He doubled over, almost falling to the floor, unable to contain himself. Nancy stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Eddie patted the floor next to him and she sat down, dumbfounded. He grabbed her hands, still giggling like a school girl "oh, Wheeler! Haven't I told you Gareth is as dumb as a sack of bricks? I've told you, haven't I? Don't worry, I'm not interested. You're not my type".

Nancy was too relieved to feel offended by Eddie's rejection. They sat in comfortable silence for a bit, but Eddie got restless after a few seconds. He bounced his leg, looking that way and the other, nervously hiding behind his hair. Just like Eddie waited for her to speak, Nancy waited for him, squeezing his hand in hers. "You know, I... feel like you won't be like, 'hate-crimey' about it so mmm. You're not my type because girls are not my type". His voice raised at the end of the sentence with barely controlled panic. And then silence. Eddie was rigid next to her, and for a guy that had never been quiet in his entire life, that was a feat. So Nancy hugged him.

It started easy, Eddie asking her about Steve. He had a massive crush on him and he wanted to know how Steve was in a relationship. So Nancy told her about them, about how it was doomed from the start. It segwayed to talking about Jonathan, of course, one ex leads to the other. Sure. She had more trouble remembering how she ended up crying about Barb, how she was the only person she had truly loved. And Nancy could not understand for the life of her were Robin came from. She was ugly crying, confused and ashamed, and Eddie held her together. And when she was done, they put the pieces back in their place.

They were closer after that, Eddie feeling way more relaxed now that that wasn't standing between them. She had never been trusted with such an important secret. Barb told her everything, but the secrets of a middle schooler weren't that deep. This was different. Like Eddie had said, it could mean a lot of trouble for him. It was anxiety inducing, not being able to trust even your closest friends. Not even Robin, and Steve and Jonathan, the people they've saved the world next to. It was quite flattering, knowing that he had decided to trust her given the risks. So Nancy decided to trust him.

"We are helpless" was her conclusion, and they both laughed and joked about how obvious it should have been. "Come on Wheeler, you should have known when King Steve didn't stir up trouble in your panties!" He followed that up with an uncanny imitation of Steve flirting, and Nancy almost died right then and there. It became their joke, and they could not stop laughing the next time they saw Harrington. He was confused of course, but Eddie refused an explanation and Nancy felt almost lightheaded from how hard she laughed. Robin was very much annoyed she was not in on the joke, and she had looked so cute all frowny and frustrated...

Being able to openly (to herself and Eddie) crush on Robin was both freeing yet painful. She felt more alive than ever before, but also immersed in the sorrow of a lost battle. Eddie kept telling her that she might be queer "she's in band, Nancy" but now that she was out to herself Nancy understood how horrifying the idea of coming out to others truly was. She wasn't risking rejection, she was risking becoming a social pariah. She would still have Eddie but...no, she was not ready at all.

It was an offhand comment what started it. They were all in her basement, the kids had just gotten out to stretch their legs while Eddie took his well deserved smoking break. "Dude, Will is like ridiculously in love with your brother, Isn't he?" Eddie was talking to her, and it would have been a harmless remark if Steve and Robin had not arrived from the kitchen at that same moment. Robin was completely rigid, only her eyes darting from Steve to Eddie in a terrified stare. "So what if he is?" Steve crossed his arms, staring down at Eddie like he was ready for a fight. Nancy noticed how he stepped in front of Robin, his signature protective stance "Did not take you for that kind of asshole Munson".

Steve had, understandably, many questions about it but Nancy only had eyes for Robin. Buckley's eyes widened impossibly more, jaw dropping as her face snapped to Steve. Nancy delighted in Robin's panic. Not only was she adorable, but if it meant what she thought it meant...Eddie nudged her with his foot, wiggling his eyebrows. Tonight was proving quite interesting for them both, but she intended to make it even better. "So did you guys know about Will or..?". Steve choked a bit and Robin nodded and shook his head almost at the same time.

Eddie was white as chalk, quick to over explain himself. Steve did not relax until he blurted out in a panic that he was queer himself. "Oh. Sorry, I... I might over react when it comes to the kids". He said the kids, but Nancy was paying very close attention and she could see the way Robin squeezed his arm. A silent thank you she was very familiar with. Soon enough they were all laughing about the situation, Eddie finally at ease after the misunderstanding. Nancy was still turning gears in her head about Steve and Robin, their "platonic with a capital P" friendship, when Robin asked her "so, you did know about Eddie" she sounded a bit nervous, her big gorgeous eyes staring right inside Nancy's very soul. She was reading her for an answer, not necessarily to the question she had asked. And fuck it, Nancy was going to give it to her. "Yeah, and he knows about me".

"He came out to us a bit back." Steve finally managed. He looked at Robin, like he didn't know what else to say. Nancy could see that same exact fuck it moment in Robin's face. "I felt bad for him, you know, being a weird gay kid in Hawkins. So I mmm came out to him". "Oh" "yeah" "and Steve?" He was the last piece to this extremely queer puzzle. Nancy was not about to make assumptions, she had learned her lesson, but she felt almost obligated to push it for Eddie's sake. "I-" Steve finally started "I wasn't mmm I didn't know about myself then".

It was a great thing that Mike was a pubescent idiot, or else he would have realized his sister had never worn nailpolish. She wasn't even sure she had any -definitely none that were functional. Robin had noticed, of course she had. "Look Nancy, I'm not sure if this means what it means but you never even paint your nails and we were just talking about-" Nancy simply cupped Robin's face with her hand, giving the other girl the time to back off and being extremely happy when she didn't. So Nancy kissed her. She kissed a girl, she kissed Robin Buckley, She kissed a nerd when she was a nerd herself and she was ecstatic.

It was full house and Nancy shared a look with Eddie. This didn't have to mean anything. Just because they were all gay -Bisexual, Steve had explained- it didn't meant their feelings were mutual. Well, at least for the boys. Now that she had confirmation of Robin's sexuality she had zero doubts about her feelings. Nancy wondered how desperate she would look if she asked Robin out right that moment, then decided she did not care. The moment the game resumed, Nancy invited Robin to her room so she could show her her nailpolish collection.

They came back down with messy hair and clean nails, but none of the brats noticed at all. Only Steve and Eddie looked their way with knowing smiles. To Nancy's delight and horror, her dork of a girlfriend actually high-fived Steve. But maybe what really surprised her was how happy she felt in that moment. She had a Girlfriend. Sure, it wasn't what she was expected to do. But Nancy had always exceeded expectations after all.

"I've wanted to do that for a really long time" Nancy whispered while Robin sighed happily. "Bet I've wanted you to do that for even longer". The both giggled. "It's not a competition, doofus" "But I win" "shut up" "make me" and Nancy happily obliged.

[flightofaqrow]

water in the desert

qrow + Winter ( @eiiskonigin​ )

qrow sprays Winter with a water pistol!

Ah–?!

One moment, she’s lamenting the heat silently to herself. The next, a spray of cold water is pulling her out of her thoughts, and she goes from silently stewing about her situation to staring at Qrow with an incredulous expression.  “Honestly? Where did you even find that?”

“ah, my little secret,” qrow smirks, tucking the silly little toy away.

he wants to say I’m so glad to see you, I’m so glad you survived. but this childish action offers too much of a comfort and the easy way out, when so many other paths have been cut from him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow sprays Winter with a water pistol.

Ah–?!

One moment, she’s lamenting the heat silently to herself. The next, a spray of cold water is pulling her out of her thoughts, and she goes from silently stewing about her situation to staring at Qrow with an incredulous expression. Why is she still surprised? She really should be used to this nonsense.

“Honestly? Where did you even find that?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“ah, my little secret,” qrow smirks, tucking the silly little toy away.

he wants to say I’m so glad to see you, I’m so glad you survived. but this childish action offers too much of a comfort and the easy way out, when so many other paths have been cut from him.

Winter being pissed at him is easier to process than the shared sadness and anxiety written on her face a moment prior. than the despair which threatens them both like the vacuoan quicksand pits all around.

he glances sidelong at the woman in the best way he can offer, “how you holdin’ up?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Whatever relief came with the cold spray of water is likely going to be a short-lived comfort – the heat settling back over her with a discomforting pressure. So she finds comfort instead in something that feels familiar, something she can grasp onto in unfamiliar times. For once, his teasing is a welcome sight.

Reality settles in too quickly, though, at his question – and she takes a slow, careful breath in to buy a second to think. The instinct to save face is still strong, still nearly instinctual to affirm that she’s fine, that she can handle this. As if her sister wasn’t missing, and her father hadn’t been murdered, and everything wasn’t falling apart around them.

Exhale.

“As well as one would expect.” It leaves just enough open to interpretation, but honesty bleeds into her expression, in her eyes as she finally looks back at him. “…And you?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

short-lived comforts are qrow’s specialty, after all.

he doesn’t even seek out a hand on her shoulder, or a hug, or any sort of closeness which would only exacerbate this damned heat. as well as rip open the wounds carefully hovering at the surface of his heart.

he runs both hands through his hair, lips pursing with a wet, sloppy, inconsistent sigh pushing through them. it reflects his answer quite clearly, though he doesn’t speak immediately.

vermillion eyes glance around, at all of Mantle’s people finally safe and trying to find a place as refugees. he can hear Clover’s voice in his head. Maybe even Robyn’s too, and tries to be… optimistic.

“one step at a time, it seems.”

he sits up, squirming to find any sort of comfortable position, any sort of comfortable phrase, “you did good out there, for them. …Winter.” he says her name in all due respect, and yet as if it were a new nickname, new moniker, new title. he praises her as a maiden.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

One step at a time. One day at a time. One second at a time. It’s not enough for her.

It’s worse, somehow, to hear him use her name – and she flinches, unknowingly. Shoulders rising, fists clenching and gaze drawing away before she relaxes again. Please, don't dies in her throat, far too dry to attempt to speak softly. A spike in temperature comes along with the sudden burst of discomfort, and she cannot handle that much right now.

Instead she sighs again, lets her head fall back and her eyes lift to the sky – unfocused on any particular details beyond the orange hue of the sky and the glow of the sun behind the swirling dust. “…One good deed will not repay everything I have done to get here. And I don’t expect the people of Mantle to be so inclined to forget just what I’ve done so quickly.”

Her knees draw closer to her chest, and with a shuddered breath, Winter lays her head down. Quiet for a moment, and then, “…Just… talk to me like… me, for… a while longer. Please.“

She will recover. She’ll be strong, and steel, and whatever everyone needs from her soon. She will tuck these broken pieces away and hide the fissures and fractures beneath layers of ice. For now, she’ll lay those jagged edges out in the open – and just breathe.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow peers at her through tilted eyes and a frown, elbows on his own knees, likewise barely holding himself upright. care and concern for her, one of the few, if any he has left, the only thing holding his head up, too. if she even thought of him as a friend.

he doesn’t want to think about it.

he’s so used to oppressive weights on his chest, it must only be the heat adding to it.

something in him, the teacher, or the uncle, or the friend… wants to preach about the nature of people and how Winter worries too much. or maybe she doesn’t. the masses may very well look for a scapegoat. and wouldn’t that just be the way of the world? making their guardian an enemy.

Penny all over again. she’s missing too, isn’t she? actually for Winter to be winter… when part of the evacuation plan involved… oh.

qrow wishes he could just sink into the sand.

he processes Winter’s request, realizes he’d done nothing but recoil into his own body and thoughts for the past few moments, and drags himself miserably out in all the ways he’s done since he was young. survive.

he can talk. he can do that. qrow can do that for her, and for all the people depending on her, whether they like it or not.

he takes a deep breath, lets it expand his chest to rising up and lounging back, hands behind his head and long legs spreading wide, like a tree canopy inviting sunlight, or a tavern door opening in welcome; as if instead of debriefing in the desert, they were lounging by a pool.

he looks over at those broken bits of shattered glass, shattered ice, and lets some sense of smug satisfaction wash over him. he wishes pulling her to his side of pessimism wasn’t the truth. he finds no comfort in being right, yet lets the validation keep him moving all the same.

he raises a brow in her direction, “you let your hair down some, finally, huh? it’s a good look for you.”

…before Winter knows it, she can feel the squirt gun hitting her again; this time in the back of the neck. :]

[americahasasuperstar]

𝐀 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 ( 𝐃. 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐘 )

pairing(s)— drew starkey x female reader

summary — your boyfriend looks a bit too good in outer banks season two, leading to you craving him during the worst time possible

warnings — breeding kink, spitting, praise, pet names, overstimulation, semi-public sex, daddy kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, smut mfs, graphic descriptions, & choking

As much as you hated Rafe Cameron, you had to admit that he was played by one hot mother fucker. And you weren’t just saying that because you were in a committed relationship with said hot mother fucker. Well… you were, but shut the hell up. You were dating Drew Starkey of all people and he was one of the hottest men you had ever encountered. Of course he made your panties soaked without even trying to.

Watching Drew on screen had your panties soaked in seconds. You didn’t know what came over you but the sight of your boyfriend playing some crazy rich boy that didn’t know when to stop was attractive. It was mainly because it was Drew and anything your boyfriend did was automatically hot to you but seeing him so… aggressive did something to you. It made you want to find out if Rafe’s aggression was something that was made up or something that Drew had deep inside of him.

Hopefully it was the latter because you were really in the mood to be man-handled.

You were surrounded by your friends unfortunately. You loved their company, especially JD and Rudy who never failed to make you laugh but you needed to have an orgasm and they weren’t going to offer one to you so they all needed to leave. Well, maybe you should’ve left since you guys were all in Chase and Madelyn’s apartment but that’s not what happened. Of course not. You were reckless and didn’t care if anyone heard you getting your brains fucked out. So you just went ahead and did what you had to in order to get fucked.

You made sure to keep your voice low as you leaned towards your boyfriend who was engrossed in the show that he stared in. You wondered if he was admiring himself just like you were. Probably was considering nobody could resist his looks, not even himself.

“Rafe what nice hands you have.”

You whispered, giggling as Drew looks down at you with an amused look.

“Why thank you.” Drew said, feigning a serious expression. You assumed that was him activating Rafe mode. What get it was, it made you clench your legs together to stop yourself from staining Madelyn’s couch with your juices.

“I wonder how much better they would look around my neck.” You said, smirking when Drew’s eyes clouded with lust instantly. Wasn’t hard to get him riled up thank god. Made it easier for you.

“Get your ass to the bathroom now.” Drew ordered, tossing the blanket off of the two of you. His boner was evident but he didn’t seem to care about who saw him aroused.

“But what about—“

“Don’t act like you care about them now.” He scoffed.

He was right too. You didn’t care that the others were right next to you guys, even if you did care, you wouldn’t let that stop you from being fucked. So you sucked down the bit of embarrassment that came with getting up in front of everyone and walking towards the bathroom with Drew following right behind you. It was pretty clear what was happening but the boys, being the idiots they were, were confused to the sudden departure of their two friends.

“Uh, you guys got to shit or something?” Rudy asked the two, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked at the couple who seemed to be in a rush.

Drew didn’t make any movements to turn around and say something, not wanting to show his boner off to his bros so that meant you had to be the one to lie. “Oh, um, Drew isn’t feeling too well. Just making sure he doesn’t throw up on you guys.” You told them. Drew backed you up by coughing but that still didn’t convince most of them.

“You don’t have to lie Y/N.” Madelyn scoffed.

“What?”

“A girl has needs. We get it. Just turn on the shower so we don’t hear you moaning and crap.” Madelyn instructed you two, waving her hand dismissively as she focused back on her shows

“Ew! What!?” Rudy gagged, looking at the two of you in shock. But Drew was tired of talking so he just grabbed your ass and pulled you into him.

“Bring your ass on.” He whispered.

You moaned as he grabbed your ass with both hands, relishing in how close you were to him. The two of you made your way to the bathroom as you began to undress, not in the mood for anything other than having your brains fucked out and airway restricted by Drew’s massive hands. Which he was on board with providing since he was already unbuckling his belt.

You reached over and turned the shower on, respecting Madelyn’s wishes of at least making sure the others didn’t hear you despite knowing what was as going on. While you did so, Drew took it upon himself to smack your ass with all his strength which made you moan in pain and pleasure.You looked over your shoulder at him, playfully rolling her eyes when he shrugged innocently. You knew how much he was obsessed with your ass so you just let him have his fun. Even more obsessed with that than your lips and hands. And he loved those two parts of you.

Drew also loved to do the work for you, treating you like the queen he thought you were. As you pressed your back against the door of the bathroom, Drew took it upon himself to pull your sweatpants down your legs himself and get a whiff of all the arousal that has pooled in your underwear.

It smelt like fucking heaven to him. He couldn’t get enough of just how addicting you were to him, a drug that he couldn’t get enough of. If he could overdose on your love and how much you made him feel like the luckiest man on earth, he would’ve died a long time ago.

“You’re so wet for me, Princess.” He smirked, teasing you by brushing his nose up against your sensitive area. “Thank you so much. You’re always so ready for me.”

“Anything for you daddy.” You whimpered, grabbing ahold of his hair. “Please do something.”

“You’re such a good girl. Asking nicely and shit. How could I say no?” He said, tugging your panties down and immediately licking a stripe up your cunt.

Your back arched as pleasure shot through your body, a pornographic moan leaving your mouth. A bit embarrassing but he made you feel too good to hold it in so you didn’t really care. Your nails dug into his scalp as he devoured you as if you were his last meal, moaning and whimpering got him to go faster. He obliged to what you wanted, speeding his tongue up and even pressing his nose against your clit which made you scream his name out.

That made him pull away from you though, disappointment clear on your face as your orgasm faded as fast as it approached. The sight of him with your juices dripping from his lips was almost enough to make you cum right then and there though so you weren’t complaining at all. You knew whatever you did or said, he would still give you how many orgasms you wanted until his couldn’t anymore. And he could go on way longer than you so that wasn’t a problem.

“Drew! Why did you stop?” You whined, pouting your lips as he pinned you against the door.

“I let you make so many mistakes, Princess. But come on, you know that’s not my name.” Drew sighed, brushing his lips against yours. Your eyes rolled back at the taste of his lips mixed with your juices but you knew you couldn’t relish in the feeling for too long.

“I’m sorry daddy.” You muttered, leaning forward and giving him a sweet kiss that instantly made him your own personal sex toy again. Like said before, he would do anything for you no matter what you did or said.

“It’s fine.” He smiled, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss on the back of it. He always did like to be sweet to you before he absolutely defiled you. “I love you too much to say no to you.”

While Drew pulled his pants down to his knees, letting his dick hang there for you to stare at it, you stepped out of your sweatpants fully. Your panties were still caught around your ankles but since Drew was already down getting undressed as much as he needed to, he didn’t give you any time. He lifted you up onto the sink with ease, ducking and coming up through your legs so that you now had him trapped between your legs. Just the way he liked it.

“You’re such a little slut for me.” Drew told you, reaching forward and grabbing you by your throat. “How did I get so lucky? You’re amazing.”

“Thank you daddy.” You heaved, looking down at where he was absentmindedly teasing your slit with the tip of his dick.

Drew didn’t take long before he thrusted into you, ripping a moan from both of you. The shower wasn’t doing much at this point. It was just ambience to the moment that she was sharing with her boyfriend who had fulfilled her wish of choking her. Which he was doing a good job at since he had tightened his grip around her throat as he started to thrust in and out at a rapid pace. Each thrust was fueled by passion and lust, both emotions driving Drew to make you cum as quickly as possible.

You felt your stomach tighten as your orgasm approached you, scratching at Drew’s hand to let him know. The way you clenched around him let him know too, also sending him towards his orgasm. Just a little more and he would be there, cumming inside of you and getting you pregnant. At least, hopefully he would. He gripped your neck even harder now, snapping his hips back and forth as he reached down and started rubbing your clit. He was doing so much and you were grateful that your boyfriend knew how to push you over the edge.

“Can I cum in you this time?” Drew asked you, looking at you with hooded eyes. His stamina was depleting by the second but he would rather die than leave you without at least two orgasms.

Drew always asked to come inside of you even though you told him that you didn’t care if he got you pregnant. It was a sweet thing that he still asked for permission but now you had to gather enough strength to muster up a complete sentence that pleases what he wanted. “Yes daddy! Cum inside me please, give me all your babies!” You cried out, gripping on his hand as you felt your orgasm hit you like a truck.

“Thank you so much.” He whispered, giving you a particular thrust that just turned you into a puddle of arousal.

“I’m cumming, oh my god!” You screamed, slapping his hand as your body started to shake uncontrollably.

Your toes curled as you came, moaning so loud that Drew winced at the high pitched sound. He loved your moans though. He loved them so much that he had a whole video collection of you cumming so he could listen to them and get off when he was away filming. He never wanted them to stop which is why he didn’t stop fucking you even though your poor pussy had been abused and worn out for the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of the week.

You whined as your sensitive bud was rubbed again, reaching down and grabbing Drew’s hand to stop him from making you cum hard a second time. Which would surely hurt a bit considering you were already ready to go home and sleep in your bed.

“You don’t want one more?” Drew asked you, confused to why you stopped him. Thing is, you only stopped his hand. His hips were still slamming into yours, making you moan non stop as you struggled to tell him.

“I— I don’t think I can.” You whimpered.

“You’re strong Princess.” He told him, his gentle words contrasting the way he was viciously using your body as a fuck toy. You loved every second of it. “Just take my dick some more. You got this.” He said, rubbing your clit again.

“Daddy!” You screamed, suddenly hit with another orgasm. Your eyes rolled back in your head and you could’ve sworn that you stopped breathing for a second as you came on his pelvis for the second time in ten minutes.

“You’re going to look so beautiful with my baby in your belly. All swole and shit.” Drew told you, “I’m thinking a son, what do you think?” He asked you.

“I don’t care!” You yelled.

“But I do, so answer me or I’ll fuck you until you cant walk for the week.” Drew told you.

“I want a boy!” You told him, gasping for air as you tried to compose yourself. It was too hard though so you just gave up and let him use you to get off.

“So he can grow up and be amazing like his father?” Drew questioned.

“Yes Drew! Yes!” You exclaimed, not in the right head space to follow the rules you had established for sex. Not that Drew cared at this point either.

“I’ll let that fuck up slide.” He growled, cutting your airway off completely for a few seconds as his orgasm overcame him.

He grunted as he emptied himself inside of you, silently wishing that you got pregnant later on. He slammed into you a few more times as he fully rode out his orgasm, then he finally let go of your neck and let you breathe in the air you desperately needed. He rested his head against your shoulder as the two of you enjoyed each other’s company while you guys gathered yourselves and relaxed.

But Madelyn decided enough was enough after 15 minutes of you guys hogging her bathroom.

“Okay now, you horny bastards, stop wasting our damn water!”

[gukyi]

love me or we both go down | kth

summary: after going through with an arranged marriage to please his parents and secure his inheritance of the family business, kim taehyung thinks he’s got it all figured out. he doesn’t. apparently just being married to you isn’t enough, not when everybody and their mother can pick up on the fact that the two of you absolutely loathe each other. but taehyung wants his inheritance one way or another, so he decides that desperate times call for desperate measures: the two of you need to fall in love, and you need to fall in love fast.

{enemies to lovers!au, arranged marriage!au, rich kids!au}

pairing: kim taehyung x female reader genre: fluff, angst, smut (i know, crazy right?) word count: 32k warnings: oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, multiple unprotected sex scenes (they’re married y’all), fat cock tae, tae has a wife kink, lots of praise, alcohol consumption (but they’re safe), minor character death (not explicit), mentions of heart attack, slow burn like there is no tomorrow a/n: hello and welcome to the fic everyone, literally everyone, has been waiting for! i am so, so, so excited to share this with you all, especially because none other than rose @kinktae​ helped me write the smut, and i am literally forever indebted to her. you all better go spam rose with all the love and support you can because this fic would not be here without her and i love her so much. 

also, to all my readers who aren’t comfortable reading smut, please know that the smut in this fic is not imperative to the storyline, and you skipping past it will not affect your reading experience., enjoy!

Never in your life have wedding bells felt so ominous.

The sound of them is akin to the sound of strings, of a single piano note in a horror movie, right when the film opens and someone random is about to die on screen for the sake of proving to the audience that this is, in fact, a horror movie. Make no mistake about it; these wedding bells spell doom for you, too. And the most horrific part about them is that just like that poor, helpless soul in the movie, there is no way for you to escape your fate either. 

With only seconds left to go before you have no choice but to promise yourself to the man waiting at the other end of the aisle, you desperately try to think of any last-ditch efforts to get out of this. Many, if not all of them, are utterly useless. 

Feigning sudden illness won’t work, because then your parents will just reschedule the wedding to a later date. Running away is fruitless. Where will you go? The parking lot?

If only you had a lover out there in the audience somewhere that could object to the marriage when the officiant says, “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” A knight in shining armor that could whisk you out of the venue and off to a new life, far away from here. Too bad all of the people you’ve dated before hate you now. 

Maybe getting married isn’t such a bad thing after all. Instead of having relationships with multiple people who will eventually despise your existence, you only have to have a relationship with one. And the feeling, as has always been, is mutual. 

You bristle as your assistants do some last-minute prepping, fixing your sleeve and adjusting your necklace and making sure you don’t trip on your enormous train. They flutter around you like a swarm of well-meaning but ignorant butterflies complicit in the agenda of your family. None of them have said a word to you about the wedding ever since you arrived at the venue, choosing to talk more about things like the weather. Not that you were ever under the impression they had been hired to entertain you. Maybe they were told to not engage you, just in case you try to conspire with them.

As if they could be of any use in your wildly unrealistic escape plans. 

The truth is that, unless you were to drop dead on this marble flooring right now, you’re getting married. Whether you like it or not.

The doors open. 

You’ve attended red carpets, galas, award shows, and balls. You’ve had hundreds of cameras flashing in your face, the bright light capturing each and every centimeter of you. You’ve had paparazzi waiting outside the restaurants you eat at, the stores you shop at, desperate to catch a picture of you in sweatpants without a drop of makeup on. You’ve been on dates with ex-lovers that looked at you like you were a piece of meat with a credit card. And yet, for some goddamn reason, walking down the aisle in a white dress the size of Pluto, with the rest of your life waiting for you at the other end, makes you feel fucking transparent. 

Face resolute, you clutch onto your bouquet so tightly the flowers feel like they’re about to pop right out of your grasp. Determined not to look at anybody in the audience, you stare straight ahead, right into the eyes of your future husband.

Kim Taehyung, for someone you have seen multiple times drunk off his ass with hickies dotting his neck and jawline, cleans up pretty well. For someone getting married, at least. He dons a simple black tuxedo that still probably costs more than the average car, his caramel brown hair is pushed back off his forehead, and his expression is firm and still. He most certainly has had an equally expensive team prepping him, but they haven’t done too bad a job. The silver lining is that he doesn’t look any more thrilled than you are to be doing this, right here, right now. But to his credit, this is definitely the best he’s ever looked, as far as you’re concerned. 

When you reach him, he offers his hand out to you, a hand that you only accept for the sake of professionalism. The bouquet in your hands is handed off to one of your bridesmaids, and the two of you take your position at the front. Your train drags along the aisle, draping over the few stairs you had to climb to reach the altar, this satin trail behind you that cements you to the floor. It may as well be a ball-and-chain. It’s about as heavy as one, anyway. 

This is the longest you and Taehyung have ever held eye contact. Not that you’re really keeping track of how long the two of you have met each other’s gazes, but if you had to make an educated guess, this would definitely be the victor. Most of the time you end up sneering at each other ten seconds in, but to be fair, those other times you were also not getting married. To one another. In a ceremony attended by hundreds of people. And cameras.

There can be no sneering here. 

“Don’t you look nice?” Taehyung whispers, loud enough so only the two of you can hear. He has that drawling, sickly sweet tone to his voice, the one that you hate because it makes him sound like he thinks he’s so much better than everyone else. “Surprised they were able to makeup that scowl off your face.”

This, of course, brings on a hearty scowl only he can see, your backs both facing the rows of attendees. “How much concealer are you wearing to cover up all of the hickies on your neck?” You quip back easily. It’s not like the two of you are going to pretend he doesn’t waltz around at every club or bar or private venue he can find, looking for his next treat. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Taehyung grins, and if you weren’t standing in front of hundreds of people about to get married, there’s no telling what next you would do.

The two of you would probably go on like that for another ten minutes if it’s not for the officiant, who coughs once he’s ready and opens the book in his hands. Next to you, Taehyung straightens, hands clasped together at his front, and lips pressed into a neat line. You do the same. There will be no giggles, no laughter nor smiles, nor any genuine emotion at this wedding. This is a wedding for the sake of politics, for economics, for security, and anyone in attendance would be a fool to think otherwise. Especially you. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, loved ones, and esteemed guests,” the officiant bellows, listing off as many groups of people as he possibly can in an effort to both include and compliment every person in the audience, “We are gathered here to celebrate the wedding, and future life, of Taehyung and Y/N…”

Taehyung turns to you, grinning in that god-awful way, the way he does when he feels like he’s got something over you. And sure, you can’t think of any punishment quite as bad as this, but what’s Taehyung got to smile about? He’s marrying himself off to a woman he hates, kissing goodbye his days as a free-spirited, heartbreaking bachelor, and promising what may very well be the rest of his life to loving you. That is not cause for celebration. 

But perhaps, to him, your suffering is enough to bring a smile to his face. 

Your vows are, to put it simply, total bullshit. Your family hired someone to write yours and there’s not a doubt in your mind that his family did the same thing. This nonsense talk, this complete and utter garbage that spews from your perfectly-glossed lips, shit about how you promise to love each other until the end of your days, how you promise to take care of each other when you’re sick and accompany each other at every event, every gala, every ball. Shit about how you promise to look only at each other, promise to uphold your family traditions and become a dependable spouse. 

The words don’t belong to you. But the thing is that this marriage was never yours anyway. 

When the kiss comes, there’s a part of you that thinks maybe you should have psyched yourself up a little more for this. When Taehyung pulls you in, placing a stiff hand on your lower back as he brings you towards his chest, your stomach turns and shivers run down your spine. The feeling of his hand on your body, the breath from his lips brushing against your own, are enough to keep you frozen in place. 

He smiles at you, almost as if to ask, “Are you ready?”

And you squeeze your eyes shut, almost as if to respond, “Let’s do this.”

When his lips meet yours, there is almost nothing. Nothing runs through you, nothing explodes, nothing strikes. But when he pulls away and cheers and applause rings out throughout the room, there is something. A little heat, a remnant of a flame, left on your lips. A little sting, just to remind you it happened. 

The entire hall is cheering but nothing about this is worth celebrating. The fact of the matter is that you and Taehyung will never love each other the way that you are supposed to. 

“Ugh, finally.”

The elevator doors haven’t even properly opened by the time Taehyung is loosening his tie, tugging it off over his head as he stretches his head back and runs a hand through his perfectly-styled hair. As he rakes his fingers through his caramel locks, the hairspray and gel loosens, strands falling down by the side of his face, framing his temple.

“Don’t sound so relieved,” you huff out, deciding now is as good a time as any to start getting undressed yourself. Reaching down to lift up the hem of your reception dress, you tug off your heels, already feeling lighter on your feet. Who cares if Taehyung is watching you pull off your stilettos like a defeated movie heroine? You don’t think you can walk another step in those shoes. “We still have to live together, you know.”

“Don’t remind me,” Taehyung says gruffly, brushing by you roughly as he stomps out of the elevator. “I’m just glad the fucking night is over. I swear, seeing that fake-ass smile on your face made me want to gouge my eyes out.”

You storm after him, refusing to be the helpless damsel in this situation. “Oh, like you didn’t also have that exact same fake-ass smile on your face. It almost made me think you were actually enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I was only enjoying the fact that I know you hate this just as much as I do.” It’s perhaps the only thing you will ever be able to empathize with him on. Mutually relishing in the other’s destruction. Taehyung fumbles with the keypad to the door to the penthouse for a moment before you hear the lock click, the door sliding open as the entrance lights flicker on. 

The reason Taehyung’s penthouse is so clean is because he’s never lived here before. Neither of you have—Taehyung’s parents bought it just for the two of you. And as much as you absolutely despise the idea of having to live with him, at least it was not you who paid for your place of residence. 

You can tell Taehyung’s never lived here before because it’s actually quite nicely decorated inside. The ceilings are high and the sleek velvet curtains are pulled open, revealing a shimmering skyline. The furniture is modern and functional, and the whole damn place smells brand new. You’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of entering the place Taehyung lived in before now, and it looked nothing like this. The furniture was worn and stained despite the live-in maid, the house reeked of five hundred different spices that wafted from the kitchen to the living room, and the bookshelves were covered with comics, graphic novels, and old textbooks. 

If it weren’t for the fact that you and Taehyung are rich kids in their twenties that hate each other, you might have actually thought the place looked… homey. 

You don’t have time to be impressed by the interior design and architecture skills of whoever designed this place. Right now, all you can think about is tugging yourself out of your airtight reception dress and passing out on the nearest bed. Which, hopefully, will be as far away as possible from Taehyung’s bed of choice. 

“How many bedrooms does this place have?” You ask, shimmying along the floor so you don’t trip over the hem of your dress. From the looks of it, you can see one giant hallway to your right and a massive, double-sided staircase leading up. 

“Enough,” Taehyung grumbles in response. The hazy stupor from all of the fancy champagne is starting to wear off for the both of you, leaving behind two grouchy, begrudgingly-married individuals who want absolutely nothing to do with each other and have no problems making that known. Whatever golden light of the evening that was making Taehyung at least a little bit more attractive than usual has faded, and now you see him for what he really is: an unceremoniously tired man in a suit. “You want upstairs or down?”

You gaze up at the marble staircase in front of you, then back down at your too-long dress. “Down.” The last thing you want is to trip in front of the man you have to see, every day, for the rest of your life. 

“Fine by me.” Taehyung’s halfway up the stairs by the time he turns back around to say something else. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”

“Yeah.” There’s no point in being hostile now. The both of you are too exhausted to mean anything by it. Besides, what else can you say? Everything to complain about has already been complained about. At least the two of you managed to wrestle out from your parents the stipulation that you would not be going on a honeymoon together. Now that would have been your worst nightmare. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s as good of a goodnight either of you are going to get. Taehyung heads up the stairs and disappears around a corner, and you start wandering down the hallway. All the bedrooms look the exact same other than different colors on the walls and bedsheets, but they all look serviceable to you. Clean. Empty. Far away from wherever Taehyung is. 

You pick the one at the very end of the hall just to be as much of a diva as possible, and don’t even bother drawing the curtains before tugging off your dress. It’s past one in the morning, and you’re so high up you don’t think anyone will be able to see you anyway. By the time you’ve stripped naked and are tugging up the too-tight sheets tucked into the mattress, your legs are about to give out beneath you. The bed could be made of rocks for all you care. Anything to lie down on is fine by you. 

Sleep comes fairly easily to you tonight. Once your head hits the pillow you can already feel yourself drifting off, eyelids fluttering shut, but you don’t sleep quite yet. Not before you can think about how this is your life now, sleeping in a foreign bed in a foreign place with a foreign husband upstairs. This is what you will be living in now. Now and forever. 

Living with Taehyung is, in both the best and worst ways possible, like living with a roommate that doesn’t give a shit about the fact that they live with another person. It’s good, because you and Taehyung hardly see each other and speak even less, which was pretty much the only thing you were asking for when it came to living with him. But it also sucks, because whenever you do happen to cross paths, Taehyung acts like you don’t exist, barely sparing you a hello or even that tight-lipped smile you send to drivers on the road when they let you cross the street. 

Not that the two of you ever engaged in energetic conversation before you got married. But at least the two of you would acknowledge each other, even if only to shoot a glare and a scowl the other’s way from opposite sides of a hotel ballroom. Maybe it’s just because it’s him, but you did always find yourself actually relishing in those little interactions with Taehyung. In this strange, twisted way, it seemed to provide some sort of continuity to your ever-changing life. Like no matter what happened, at least you would know that the two of you would always despise each other. 

To be frank, right now you’re not sure if Taehyung even remembers he got married at all.

Nights have been a lot more sleepless since your wedding day. After two weeks, the reality of it has finally started to settle in. This is your life now. And ever since you realized that, your bed has felt much less comfortable. 

“But the place is nice, right?”

You look around the living room from where you’re sat on the sleek, white suede leather couch, eyes glossing over the bookshelves, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the draping velvet curtains. From here, you can see the entire city skyline, flecks of gold from the windows of skyscrapers against a navy blue background. Slowly, as the moon creeps over the sky and the clock gets later and later, those lights will soon begin to flicker off, one by one. 

“Yeah, it’s not bad.” Nothing to write home about. That is, if home were a place other than here. 

“That’s good. At least you don’t live in, like, a total dump or anything,” Victoria says on the other end of the line. “How’s Taehyung?”

His name alone elicits this deeply-exhausted sigh from your lips, like it’s been ten years since you married and every day has felt worse than the last. “Fine.” You can’t really complain about anything yet, considering that you hardly ever see the man. 

“Just ‘fine’?” Victoria sounds skeptical. 

“Yeah,” you draw out the word, as if trying to convince yourself of its truth. “I mean, it’s like he doesn’t even live here. I barely see him. And when I do, we don’t even speak to each other.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it? You hate him.” Victoria says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And in a sense, it kind of is. 

“I mean…”

“I know that your life hasn’t exactly… gone the way you had planned, but isn’t this your best case scenario when considering everything?” She asks. “If Taehyung is as distant as you say he is, isn’t it almost like you never married him in the first place?”

As if on cue, you hear footsteps coming down the stairs, heels clicking on the marble as they make their way to the entrance. You whip your head around to find Taehyung, all dressed up in loose, flowy slacks and a flowery silk button-down, strolling down the staircase as he scrolls through his phone, paying you zero attention whatsoever. 

He notices you briefly when he reaches the bottom, meeting your eyes with his own. He offers this measly, unenthused half-smile your way before he grabs his wallet and some house keys from the table by the entrance, opens the door, and vanishes off into the night. 

If you hadn’t been in the living room, you probably wouldn’t have even realized he left. Not that you being present as he’s planning on leaving would have stopped him anyway. This is the sixth night he’s done this in the past two weeks. You could stand by the door and stare him down as he emerges from his bedroom, all dressed up for something you’re definitely not invited to, and he would offer you that same goddamn smile and walk out the door without even blinking. Who he was before you got married and who he is now are no different. Not even a ring could change that. 

“I guess,” you tell Victoria. At least Taehyung hasn’t turned into a helicopter husband. “I don’t know. Maybe I just wish that I didn’t have to deal with him at all.”

Wish you could turn back time. Wish you could worm your way out of an arranged marriage before it was too late. Wish you could go back to the way things used to be. 

You and Victoria talk for another couple of minutes before she regretfully has to end the call, citing both her beauty sleep and an 8AM meeting tomorrow morning as her reasons for hanging up. The moment you put the phone down, you sink back into the couch cushions, staring out the windows at the world below you.

Here’s the deal. What Taehyung does in his free time is none of your business. But also, it’s totally your business, because you are his spouse. A spouse who is an equal amount in the public eye as he is. What he does and does not do has a direct impact on what you do and do not do. 

It’s no secret that when you catch Taehyung sauntering down the stairs looking like a Gucci runway model, it’s not because he’s planning on catching a movie with a college friend and then playing video games for four hours on a couch in a basement. He is going out. To clubs, to parties, to exclusive events that he’s been invited to by his equally-rich friends, all of whom are acting like he’s the same bachelor he’s always been. 

And maybe that’s the real problem with your whole marriage—other than the glaringly obvious issue that it’s a marriage wholly unwanted by the two parties involved in it. Despite the ring on his finger, Taehyung is going out and pretending that nothing in his life has changed while you’re trapped at home, desperate to save you and your family’s reputation by keeping as low a profile as possible. You would give anything to march around the city all day, flashing middle fingers at paparazzi as you shop at your favorite high-end stores and frequent your favorite clubs. But you can’t, because your family’s fortune and influence is on the line. 

And apparently, Taehyung’s isn’t. 

It sort of makes you wonder why it was even Taehyung you ended up marrying anyway. His family isn’t any richer or more powerful than yours. Your spheres have always been sufficiently separate. What was it about him, and perhaps more importantly, his family that drew your parent’s eye? And what was it about marrying you that prevented him from saying no? Money? Prestige? Influence?

You suppose you’ll never know. But whatever mystical force that convinced Taehyung to agree to this must not be as important to him as your reasoning is to you, because it’s become exceedingly apparent that Taehyung does not care that he’s married. He doesn’t care about the ring on his finger, he doesn’t care about his public image, and he most certainly doesn’t care about you.

Perhaps you were naive for thinking this, but you actually believed marriage might tone him down a little. Might age him into a real adult with real world obligations. Instead, it’s only given you a firsthand look into who Kim Taehyung has been and always will be: a selfish rich kid.

You don’t bother waiting around in the living room until he gets back, but you are still awake by the time you hear the door creak open. Taehyung makes no efforts to hide his return. You can hear him chattering loudly on the phone as he stumbles up the stairs, can tell from his gait alone that he is most certainly wasted. You don’t want to know what he did tonight. You’ll probably be able to figure it out anyway when you wake up tomorrow morning and check your social media. 

What were you thinking, marrying him? That he would change? That he would suddenly become someone that you could rely on? You had no choice when you said, “I do,” but you were at least hoping that maybe one day, one day in a long, long time, the two of you would finally see eye to eye. Maybe there would even come a time when you would genuinely love him. How foolish. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine a world where you have married someone you love, someone who loves you back.

Not unlike the many nights preceding it, tonight is sleepless. 

Unlike your marital status and general disposition, one thing that hasn’t changed about you is your love for extravagant events. Call you conceited, but there is something so much fun about putting on a fancy, expensive dress that you love and getting your hair and makeup done before going to an exclusive gala and posing in front of five hundred cameras. 

Actually, now that you think about it, maybe your wedding could have actually been pretty good, considering it let you do all those things. It’s a real shame there happened to be a storm cloud in the form of Kim Taehyung there to ruin it. Otherwise, you think you would have rather enjoyed that day. 

Tonight is the first event since your marriage where you and Taehyung are both required to show up and act like a happy married couple. Which would probably be a lot easier if you and Taehyung had exchanged more than ten words over the past two weeks. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but there was a part of you that thought you could use your arranged marriage to actually cultivate some sort of meaningful relationship between the two of you. So events like these wouldn’t be such a drain on both of you. 

When Kim Taehyung comes down the stairs, he actually doesn’t look too bad. You don’t know why this sort of thing keeps catching you off guard—like you don’t expect him to look that good whenever you see him. The problem is that you can’t even chalk up the surprise to him wearing tailored clothes or having his hair done. He just looks… good. 

Well, you suppose you do have to look at him every day for the rest of your life. It’s a good thing he’s attractive. At least he’s not sore on the eyes. 

Taehyung and his unfortunate attractiveness aside, the two of you don’t say a word to each other as you join up at the entrance, grabbing any last-minute items like house keys, chapstick, and whatever dignity you have left to spare. You send forced smiles and tight nods each other’s way in the elevator, staring straight ahead in the lobby of your building as the car pulls up to the front door.

By the time the two of you sit down in the back of the limousine, the built-up tension between the two of you is so thick you’re almost positive that even the chauffeur can feel it through the closed partition. 

If you were any more idyllic, you’d probably spend the drive over to the gala staring out the window and imagining yourself in a different life, on a train to nowhere, flowers in your hair and a journal in your hands. Or perhaps you’d be the CEO of your family’s company instead of having that responsibility passed down to a husband you don’t even want, sitting in an office at the top of a skyscraper overlooking the city. Anything. Anything but this.

But the idyllic part of you died when you realized that fantasies like that are nothing but distractions and that daydreams are for romantics and optimists and losers. 

“What’s our plan for tonight?”

Taehyung scoffs. “What do you mean, ‘what’s our plan’?”

You frown. “Well, we’re married, so we at least have to act like it, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t standing there and smiling enough?” Taehyung asks, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. 

You bristle. Maybe that sufficed for your wedding, but there was so much going on it was easy to distract yourself from the gravity of it all. But this event is not about you. It’s not even about either of your families. It’s about someone the two of you are, at best, distantly connected to, through work, through fame, through power. Which means that though the focus will not be on you, there will still be eyes looking your way. Eyes watching your every move. 

“Do you think it will be?” You challenge. Doesn’t Taehyung realize that things are different now?

Taehyung’s lips curl downwards. “What do you expect us to do, shower each other in kisses? We don’t even sleep on the same fucking floor.”

“Maybe I just expected you to act less like a stranger and more like a husband!”

Taehyung sighs. “Don’t.” The word is clipped, short. “Don’t tell me you actually want to be married.”

“I don’t.” It’s a response that you hardly have to think twice about. “But we are, and nothing can change that.” Unfortunately. But it’s a fact that you and Taehyung have both had to grapple with over the past few weeks, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that you are more aware of it than he is. If Taehyung could have his way, he would ignore you for the rest of his life and keep partying with the rest of his bachelor friends until he keeled over and died. 

He huffs next to you, eyes staring straight ahead. You don’t think the two of you have met each other’s eyes in a week. Maybe more. They’re starting to feel as soulless as your marriage itself. “Whatever. What do you want me to do?”

“What do you think?” You cross your arms over your chest. “Just act like you don’t hate me. Can you do that?” The way Taehyung’s behaving right now, you expect that will be a challenge for the both of you.

“Only if you can. I’ll even hold your hand to prove that we love each other.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The idea of holding Taehyung’s hand makes you want to implode. The mere thought sends shivers down your spine. But it’s better than nothing, and that’s good enough for you. At least you won’t have to kiss. 

The rest of the ride there is silent. You drive to this gorgeous mansion just outside the city, bathed in lights hidden amongst the bushes, illuminating both the architecture and the enormous fountain that sits in front of it. In a house this size, you imagine you could probably go your whole life without ever having to come across Taehyung. It actually makes you consider investing in a home that big. 

Taehyung helps you out of the back of the limousine, a cold hand clasping your own as you rest your palm against his. You can feel the way his fingers hesitate as yours make to intertwine with his as you walk towards the entrance, smiling at whatever camera flashes you encounter on your way. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were holding hands with a ghost. 

The moment you step inside and are ushered out of the door’s view, Taehyung’s grip relaxes on yours. For a moment, you think he’ll actually spend the rest of the night like this, a gentle hand wrapped around yours, but then he pulls it away entirely and shoves it back into his pocket. Oh. You frown quietly to yourself. So that’s how tonight’s going to go. 

You don’t make an effort to reach out towards him again. 

For an event concerning people you don’t know a damn thing about, everyone sure seems to know things about you. Other than greetings, you don’t think anyone’s said anything to you about anything other than your recent marriage to Taehyung. Every conversation is punctuated by a Congratulations! you do not feel that you have at all earned, considering you and Taehyung could barely look at each other on the way here.

Maybe Taehyung was right. All you really can do is stand there and smile.

“Oh, don’t tell me… Y/N, is that you?”

The champagne swirls around in the flute between your fingers as you turn towards the sound of your name, looking up to see a familiar face headed your way. 

Kim Seokjin is nice enough. He’s terribly handsome and got a flawless smile, but you know better than to trust those pearly whites of his. The sight of him alone is enough to make your body tense up. There was a reason you had explicitly told your parents not to invite him to your wedding. 

“Seokjin, what a surprise to see you here,” you say, forcing a smile. “I thought you were supposed to be in Switzerland right now.”

“Change of plans,” Seokjin grins back in that awful, awful way, the kind of grin that makes you feel like he’s looking right through you. “I came back early. It’s a shame, though, I missed your wedding.”

You shrug. “It was a humble affair.” It wasn’t. And you’re positive that Seokjin knows it wasn’t an accident that you didn’t extend an invitation to him or his family. 

“Ah, I see,” Seokjin says, nodding his head. He turns to Taehyung next to you, who is making no effort to hide how wholly uninterested in this conversation he is, and holds out a hand. “You must be Kim Taehyung, then. I’m Kim Seokjin. Congratulations on your wedding.”

Taehyung shakes his hand firmly, the air between the three of you growing unbearably palpable. 

“Seokjin’s father is the VP of News Daily,” You explain, eyebrows raised as you try to signal to Taehyung what exactly it means when Seokjin is speaking to the two of you. “And his mother is a popular journalist for the city’s post.”

Seokjin grew up in the world of media, and it seems he’s picked up his parent’s affinity for sticking their noses in places they don’t belong. You know he’s not talking to the both of you out of the goodness of his heart. 

Seokjin laughs, his hand waving away the mention of his parents. “Oh, please. That’s them. I’m just a bored socialite like the rest of you.”

You resist the urge to scoff. 

“Marriage treating the two of you well?” He changes the subject to what he really wants to talk about: you. 

“Of course,” you say quickly, preventing any hesitation on your end. Your empty hand reaches towards Taehyung’s, fingers searching for his between the two of you. But his refusal to join hands does not go unnoticed by you nor Seokjin, who is eyeing the space between your bodies with an eyebrow raised. “It’s just been—well, it’s just been difficult to adjust to a new life. That’s all.”

If you were to describe the face of a non-believer, it would be the exact expression on Seokjin’s face. “Perfectly understandable,” he says, that same toothy smile lacing his features. “But it must be nice, you know, to marry someone you love.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” you say, almost challenging Seokjin to say something even more inflammatory. He must know that all you’re trying to do at this point is save face. Love? Ha! As if. 

“And Taehyung?” Seokjin motions to your husband. 

You can feel the way Taehyung is stiffening beside you. “I suppose we are both lucky and unlucky in many ways when it comes to who we love.”

It’s enough of an answer to get Seokjin off your tail. For now. He bids the two of you a tense goodbye before sauntering off to go poke his nose in someone else’s business, fish for drama, a thread of a rumor he can pick apart with nimble fingers. You wonder if anybody actually likes him. 

The moment he disappears from earshot, you grab Taehyung’s wrist tightly and pull him close to you. “What the hell was that?” You hiss into his ear. 

“What?” You can’t tell if he’s playing dumb or if he really is that dense. 

“You!” You exclaim. “Kim Seokjin is the one person who could easily expose how fake this marriage is and you pull away from me? Right in front of him? You can’t even hold my hand for two seconds, that’s how much you hate me?”

“Who cares what he thinks?” Taehyung says. “He’s just another media rat. No one will even remember we were here tomorrow.”

“But if you keep acting like this, people will start to notice! Why can’t you just act like you don’t hate me, for one night? Is that so bad? Is it that torturous, to spend one night with me?”

“Do not turn this on me,” Taehyung orders harshly. “You’re making a scene. Come on.”

You don’t have time to shout at him for bossing you around like you’re a toddler throwing a tantrum before he drags you out of the venue, the two of you finding a back door to the building that leads outside. The cold air blows against your body, goosebumps popping up against your skin, but you find that the chilly night provides quite the respite after practically overheating indoors. Taehyung makes fire rush through your veins but at least the air can cool you back down. 

Nevertheless, your conversation is not over. It’s just been moved to a more private location.

“You do realize that our marriage isn’t going to suddenly go away, right? That we’re going to have to keep doing this for the rest of our lives?” You remind him, eyebrows raised. There’s a part of you that genuinely thinks he’s completely forgotten that your marriage is permanent.

“Oh, and not holding hands for five minutes for this one event is totally going to change the course of our lives, isn’t it?” Taehyung fights back.

“Don’t act like you did the right thing,” you spit out. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me. I know you don’t give a shit about our marriage.”

“What marriage is there to even give a shit about? Just because we had a wedding and signed some documents does not mean there is a real marriage between us. Look at us,” he motions between the two of you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We hate each other. Is this what you would call marriage?”

“But at least I’m trying to get past that!” You exclaim. “You make it seem like being as miserable as possible is some sort of badge of honor. Do you actually want to spend the rest of your life hating the person you married? Or do you want to grow up and try and move on?”

Taehyung frowns. “What I want is for the person I married to stop acting like they’re doing me such a huge favor by pretending to care about us. Especially when all they really care about is their family’s goddamn reputation.”

“No,” you tell him sternly. You are doing him a favor. He just can’t admit that he actually needs help from you. “You are putting zero effort into this. What am I supposed to do?”

“Let it go!” Taehyung shouts. “Maybe one day we’ll actually start getting along, but right now it’s obvious that neither one of us can stand the other. I don’t need you to do favors for me. I can handle it myself.”

You look away, rolling your eyes. “Doesn’t look like it to me,” you mutter to yourself. 

Taehyung cracks. “Fine. You want me to pretend that I actually care about us? I will.” Thank God. Maybe now the two of you will finally start seeing eye-to-eye. “But make no mistake about how I feel about you,” he spits. “Getting married to you ruined my life.”

You stare straight at him and his eyes are swirling, so obscured in the darkness of the night that you might even think he doesn’t have a soul at all. His pupils bore into yours and for once, for once in your goddamn life, after so many years of staring each other down at debutante balls, so many years of witty refrains and snarky insults hurled each other’s way, it feels like the two of you might actually snap. 

Then, a camera flashes.

Trouble in Paradise! would be a suitable title for the front page of the city’s biggest tabloid… if anything about your life with Taehyung could be considered paradise. Unfortunately for the both of you, that is not the case. 

You don’t need to keep reading the rest of the trashy article on the front page of the daily tabloid to know how much trouble you’re in, nor do you even have time to scroll beneath the terrible photo of you and Taehyung literally shouting at each other before you hear your phone ring. 

You don’t even bother saying hello to whoever’s on the other end. You know it’ll go in one ear and out the other. 

“I assume you know why I’m calling,” your mother’s harsh tone spits from the other end of the phone. There’s no doubt in your mind that she’s standing in the middle of her office, snapping her fingers at her fifteen secretaries as they partake in the worst damage control your family’s had to deal with since your cousin two years ago was caught with a mistress outside a high-profile restaurant. 

“Can I take a wild guess?” You’re about to be scolded into the next century, so you might as well enjoy your last few moments. 

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” your mother warns. “Care to explain why you and your beloved husband made the front page of the Daily Post today?”

“I know,” you sigh, a hand coming up to rub at your temples. It’s eight in the morning, you’ve barely looked at your phone, and you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. It feels like you’re still asleep, and most certainly lack the energy to deal with this right now. 

Your mother, on the other hand, thinks otherwise. “You know? You know, and you still go out and do this? For everyone to see?”

“We tried to take our argument outside,” you begin to explain, but your mother isn’t having a single word of it. 

“The fact that you thought it was even appropriate to have an argument in a public setting at all astounds me, Y/N. We raised you better than that.” There’s no need for you to even see her face. You’ve grown so used to that disappointed frown over the years that it’s burned into your brain. 

“Maybe you should have thought about that before marrying me off to a man I barely know so I could be someone else’s problem instead of yours,” you bite. 

“We did this for your own good,” she hisses back. “You are married because we love you, and we want you to succeed outside of this family.”

“Then why do you care what the tabloids print about me?”

“Because being married does not mean you are no longer a part of this family,” your mother informs you sternly, lips smacking together. “Your marriage reflects on all of us, and you know that. What will people think of us when they see how terribly behaved you are?”

“Everyone acts like that, and you know it.” How could your mother preach good behavior when everyone, everyone you know, is just as spoiled and entitled as you? There’s no such thing as being altruistic when it comes to people like you. Being genuine, and good, and pure—that will get you ruined. 

You can hear her breathing into the phone when your mother responds, “But not in public, and that is the point. We expect better from you.”

“If you were so worried about me behaving so badly, then why did you even marry me off anyway? You knew that I didn’t want to. What did you think would happen?” It’s a question you wouldn’t have dared ask three months ago. Hell, even a year ago, when it was first revealed you were to be engaged, you wouldn’t have dared open your lips. But things are different now. You’re married to a man that hates you just as much as you hate him. He is making no effort to improve your relationship and seems hellbent on despising you forever. There is no way to get out of it. And if your parents really foresaw all of that, then what was the point in the first place?

“Your grandmother.”

Your mouth shuts. 

“You know she wanted to see you married before she passed,” your mother says, words clipped and biting and harsh. “She cares about you. She wanted to make sure you’d be taken care of.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” you mutter to yourself like a petulant child. In a way, you sort of are.

“If you want to stay in her will, I suggest you change that mindset.”

You freeze in your tracks. The will?

“Is that a threat?” You ask, positively dumbfounded. Are you being coerced into staying in this marriage because of your grandmother’s will?

You can hear your mother laugh, that muted, knowing chuckle of hers. “It was the deal all along, remember?”

Vaguely, you do. You remember fighting your parents tooth and nail over getting married until your grandmother revealed it was her dream to see you wed. You remember the look on her old, wrinkled face, that soft, sad smile that said she knew she didn’t have much time left. You remember agreeing, because how could you deny her? You remember her promising to remember what you’re doing for her. 

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“But—”

“That’s the end of this conversation, Y/N. You fix things with your husband or you’re out of her will. She’s made that clear. I expect you’ll make the right choice.”

She hangs up. 

Well. 

There are a lot of ways to describe how you’re currently feeling, and you most certainly had an expensive education that would provide you with plenty of the vocabulary, but you think the most appropriate words for the current situation would be: you’re fucked. 

At least the feeling is mutual. 

Hardly two minutes after your mother’s brutal phone call, Taehyung comes storming down the stairs, hair still mussed from the night prior, his own phone clenched tightly between is fingers. Even from where you stand in the middle of the living room, you can see the way his eyes are glinting with anger, the veins popping out from his skin. 

“I just got off the phone with my parents,” Taehyung begins, not even bothering to spare a ‘good morning’ your way, “and they are fucking furious about last night.”

You shrug. “Join the club,” you mutter, arms crossed in front of you. What, does Taehyung really think you got off scot-free?

“Don’t act like this means nothing to you,” Taehyung says as he approaches you, footsteps calm despite his demeanor being anything but. “You’re the one who’s so obsessed with keeping up their family’s perfect reputation. You’re the reason we’re even in this mess in the first place.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m the reason’?” You ask, astounded. Like he’s totally absolved of all blame and just an innocent third party. “You are the reason we went outside. You are the reason we had that argument, because you refuse to accept the fact that we’re actually married and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Right, because holding hands is really gonna show all those people how in love we are. I bet your parents are so thrilled right now.” Taehyung drawls. 

“It’s a start!” You shriek. “God, you’re just so—so infuriating! You can’t accept that this was your fault, too. You just have to turn everything against me and you always, always have to get the last word. It’s like you think you’ll die if you don’t.”

“Like you’re any better,” Taehyung huffs back. “You think I’m the villain because I don’t want to pretend to be in love with someone I’m not in love with. You act like us not holding hands is going to ruin our lives. It was one event! One! It’s obvious we hate each other, so why even try?”

“What, do you expect me to just sit around and do nothing? To act like everything’s fine? Like I’m happy?” As if. This marriage is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. “While you prance around the city with your rich boy friends, going out to clubs and parties and pretending that I don’t exist? Is that what you expect from me?”

Taehyung laughs, this loud, disbelieving sort of noise, like he’s never heard such nonsense before. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean the rest of my life has to change. Am I not allowed to enjoy myself with my friends? Or are you determined to keep me chained to your side for the rest of our lives?”

“What I want,” you punctuate every word, “is for you to stop acting like you haven’t got stakes in this, too. You think I don’t know how your family works? What being married to me means for you? Because I do. And I know that if we were to divorce, it would be you who would get the short end of the stick. Make no mistake.��

That’s enough to shut Taehyung up for a good few seconds. And it shuts him up, because he knows it’s true. Taehyung’s family may have a little more money, a little more power than yours, but you’ve got a family intimately more connected with the media. One phone call and Taehyung may have a rather messy, rather public breakup to deal with. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says, calling your bluff. 

“Are you sure about that?” You say, sticking your ground. You would never really divorce him, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I am,” Taehyung says firmly. “Don’t think I don’t know what being married to me is in it for you. What is it? Money? Power? Your father’s CEO position?”

“That’s none of your business,” you snap quickly. Maybe you’re more transparent than you thought. Bristling, you straighten your shoulders and turn back to meet his eyes. “Regardless, it seems we both have a reason to stay in this marriage.”

“It seems we do,” Taehyung agrees with a thin, contained smile. “Then I suppose we can reach some sort of agreement.”

“As in…?” Your interest in piqued. 

“I’ll stop going out with my friends if you stop picking fights with me all the time,” he says economically, like he’s killing two birds with one stone. 

“Only if you agree to also act more like my husband when we’re in public,” you tack on, because you just can’t settle for anything less. 

“Public only,” Taehyung specifies. 

You scoff. “Like I’d even want to pretend to be your wife when we’re in private.”

“Good. It seems we’ve come to a deal.”

“What’s in this for you, huh?” You prod, just to be annoying. Taehyung’s right. There’s a reason you’re not divorcing him the second you get the chance. But there must be a reason why he’s not doing the same thing. 

“Does it matter?” He challenges, a single eyebrow raised. “My life is just as awful as yours.”

Fair enough. 

“Do we have a deal?” Taehyung asks, holding out his hand, that sneaky, devilish grin lacing his features. 

Taking his hand in yours and grasping it firmly is the easiest decision in the world. His palm presses against your own, hot hand meeting your cold skin, and it feels like the two of you are finally finding some sort of balance. You look up into his eyes, burn your gaze into his pupils, watch them glint in the white ceiling light of the living room. 

“Deal.”

For two people raised on the values of reading the fine print and making educated choices when it comes to business deals, you and Taehyung sure haven’t worked out any of the intricacies of the deal the two of you agreed to. Unlike those business deals your parents constantly agreed to, however, knowing all of the stipulations and provisions of your strange, strange agreement with Taehyung may prove more harmful than helpful. 

Like right now. 

“Wait, we don’t have to be by each other’s side the whole night, do we?” Taehyung asks you, eyebrows furrowed in a knot, as you sit in the back of a big, black van on your way to a mutual friend’s twenty-first birthday bash. 

“There are going to be a lot of cameras there,” you respond. 

“Yeah, outside the entrance to the damn club. You know they won’t be allowed in, so who cares?” Taehyung rebukes. 

You huff out a little sigh, not wanting to get into an argument when you’re literally minutes away from your first public appearance since the whole tabloid debacle from three weeks ago. You and Taehyung could both do with being a bit more relaxed than you normally are when you’re around each other. 

“Hasn’t Clarissa invited hundreds of people? They’ll all notice if we aren’t together,” you remind pointedly. The girl whose birthday party you are attending is an heiress who grew up on the money of two people with a monopoly over the current artificial intelligence market and has millions of followers on social media. There will be notable people there. And people will know the two of you, as well. 

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “That’s the point, Y/N. There’ll be so many people, no one will even care. It’s her twenty-first birthday. Do you think people are going to be sober?”

You purse your lips together. He’s got a point. “How about when we are together, we hold hands. But if you see a friend or something then feel free to say hi.” Taehyung can be afforded that luxury. Especially because the chances of him not bumping into someone he knows is exceedingly low anyway. 

Taehyung nods in agreement. “You too. But I won’t leave you unless I know you’re with someone you’re close with.”

“You don’t have to stay, I’ll be fine,” you say with a small chuckle. What, is Taehyung suddenly worried, or something?

“Yeah, but it would be in bad taste if I left you with someone you didn’t know well. Or alone. Just wanna make sure you’re taken care of.” He shrugs nonchalantly, turning back to look out of the window on his side of the car. 

“Okay.” 

You don’t really have anything else to say to that. You’re sure you can handle yourself if you’re left alone for a few minutes while Taehyung says hi, but you actually find yourself rather appreciative of his resolve to look after you. Or, at least, make sure someone else is looking after you. It’s quite… chivalrous. Strikingly out of character for the Taehyung you’ve become well-acquainted with over the past couple of months. 

By the time you arrive, it’s obvious that Taehyung was right about there being so many people you two practically don’t even exist. Other than the herds of camera crews waiting outside the joint, photographing everyone that steps out of a black car to see what they’re wearing and who they’ve come with, no one seems to be paying you any attention. And in a way, that sort of nonexistence, that anonymity, it’s refreshing. Your entire life you’ve felt like all eyes were on you, like there was constantly a spotlight above your head, but here, the party centers around someone else. 

Despite that fact, Taehyung keeps his promise. He keeps himself pressed closely against you when there’s not enough space for you two to stand side by side, and he makes sure to have a hand gently intertwined with your own as you weave your way through the dozens of bodies in the room. He doesn’t say anything, of course, always looking up and forward instead of beside him, where you stand, but you find that you’re actually quite relaxed with his presence. He spots a bit of a clearing near the back of the first floor of the club, where a whole bunch of leather couches are pressed up against the brick walls, where the two of you can take a breather. 

“Damn, Clarissa knows a lot of people,” you say when you finally settle down, happily plucking a martini from a tray held by one of the many caterers wandering through the venue. 

“I doubt she’s even spoken to half of them,” Taehyung comments. “She and I have maybe spoken once… three years ago.”

“It was enough to get you invited, wasn’t it?” You point out with an eyebrow raised. 

Taehyung nods, chuckling a little. “Touché,” he says, clinking his own cocktail glass against yours. 

You take a swig of the drink, letting it wash down your throat. You’re not exactly sure how else you’re supposed to survive the night. “You must enjoy this, huh?” You muse, looking up at Taehyung from where you’re seated on the couch. He’s standing next to you, looking around the room with a distant gaze in his eye. 

“Enjoy what? The drink? It’s nice,” Taehyung says, having another sip. 

“No, I mean this,” you say, motioning toward the crowd. “The clubbing, the dancing, the drinking. I’ll bet that if you could do this every day for the rest of your life, you would.”

“I’m honored that you think so highly of me,” he deadpans. 

“Just making an observation,” you say, holding your hand up in surrender. “I mean, isn’t this what you used to do every weekend before we got married? Get wasted and party? Wake up in someone else’s bed the next morning? Muscle your way through the week just so you could do it all over again?”

Taehyung shakes his head, a knowing grin on his face. “Looks like someone keeps up with her tabloids. Let me guess, you would scroll through all of those trashy articles on your phone whenever you woke up so you could see what your future husband was doing?”

“I could have never even met you and I would know that that’s exactly what you do,” you say, even though you definitely did do those things before your engagement was announced to the public. “You’re a heartbreaker, Kim Taehyung. I don’t need to read a tabloid to know that.”

“Well, you must be quite the lucky girl, then,” Taehyung comments. “You seem to be taking up so much of my energy that I don’t have the time for that anymore.”

You place a sarcastic hand on your heart. “I didn’t know you were always thinking about me. I’m touched.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Taehyung huffs out, making the two of you both shake your heads as you chuckle to yourselves. First civil conversation you’ve had with each other in a long while, even if there may have been a few blows exchanged. 

The privacy doesn’t last long. Soon after, a huge crowd of people that could honestly still pass for teenagers herds towards the back of the club, all of them wanting to take pictures with each other. You and Taehyung do your best to stay out of the way, but one of the girls recognizes him from the Elle photoshoot he did about a year ago and begins to strike up a conversation with the both of you about your recent marriage. If she was paying attention to anything the tabloids leaked three weeks ago, she doesn’t mention it. Taehyung smiles and happily answers all of her questions, and even offers to take a picture of the group for them. The conversation ends before the two of you even catch her name. 

You’re standing by the line of buffet tables laid out against the staircase leading up to the second floor, no doubt as crowded as this one, when the opportunity for you to speak to someone other than Taehyung finally presents itself. 

“Y/N!”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. You turn around to see Victoria barreling towards the both of you, not even caring when she accidentally spills a bit of her piña colada on the floor as she does. 

“Hey!” You exclaim excitedly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Are you kidding? I’m pretty sure Clarissa invited everyone on her, her best friend’s, her best friend’s cousin, and her best friend’s cousin’s dog’s contact list,” Victoria says with a laugh. “It’s nice to see you. I feel like you’ve been holed up in that big ol’ penthouse for weeks.”

“Damage control,” you remind her succinctly. Victoria knows enough that that’s all the explanation she really needs. 

“I don’t know if the two of you have ever met formally,” you say, thinking back to your wedding, where Victoria spent most of her time schmoozing with your parents (who love her) and didn’t even engage with any of the people who Taehyung’s family had invited. “Taehyung, this is Victoria. Victoria, Taehyung.”

“Pleasure,” Victoria says in that loud, unabashedly forward way of hers, holding out a friendly hand. Taehyung smiles back curtly, taking her hand and shaking it gently, so as not to spill any more of her drink. 

“Mine as well. I remember you were at our wedding.” Oh? So he does know her?

“That I was. Oh, I miss that day. The food was excellent. Tonight’s isn’t too bad either. Hope you’re doing well, the two of you. It’s nice to see you getting along,” she says, always the observer. 

Taehyung’s eyes widen a little when he picks up what Victoria is not-so-subtly putting down, but you place a hand on his upper arm to calm him. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “She won’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed,” Victoria adds. 

“If you wanna go spend time with some of your friends, you can,” you say, giving Taehyung a nudge. He looks positively helpless standing in between the two of you as Victoria out-extroverts him. 

“Alright,” he says hesitantly, even though you know he’s already spotted at least ten people you’re sure he’d want to spend time with over you. “I’ll come find you soon, okay? Don’t go too far.”

You nod, and Taehyung disappears off into the crowd. Not two seconds later, you hear someone else call his name in a familiar tone. 

“I thought you said you hated him,” Victoria points out as the two of you watch his caramel brown hair makes its way throughout the crowd. 

You take another sip of your drink. “I do,” you say. 

Victoria looks at you like you’ve just told her you’ve sworn off custard-filled doughnuts. 

“What?” You ask, feeling suddenly defensive. 

“Nothing,” Victoria singsongs. “It just doesn’t look like that to me.”

“We just need to keep up a good appearance in public, that’s all. You know how mad my parents got when the tabloids leaked all that shit a few weeks ago,” you explain. You’re not sure what all the fuss is about. Taehyung said he would do these things. And he did. That was him upholding his end of the deal. This is you upholding yours. 

“If you say so…” Victoria says, not looking at all convinced. “I guess I’m just surprised that—that you two seem to be getting along so well. Maybe you being married isn’t going to be the worst thing after all.”

You stare back out into the crowd, scanning the top of people’s heads for Taehyung’s familiar locks. In the dim light of the club, you have a difficult time finding his, squinting your eyes slightly as you look around, but eventually you spot him, dancing happily with some old friends of his you recognize. He looks like he’s having a good time. And that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this might end up alright. 

“Yeah,” you say, though with the pounding of the bass and the alcohol already rushing through your veins, it doesn’t really feel like your voice belongs to you. You look back at Taehyung, knowing exactly where he is now, and you smile. Just a little. “I guess he’s not so bad.”

You never do get a chance to meet Taehyung’s friends that night. By the time he joins back up with you and Victoria he’s by himself, a little more drunk than when he left, and ready to go home. And for once, instead of fighting him, instead of insisting you stay an hour more just to make sure you’ve done all of your rounds, you let him take you home. 

Taehyung has been spending a lot more time at the penthouse lately. Perhaps his family’s business happenings are slow, or perhaps he’s actually starting to get more comfortable with inhabiting the same space as you, but he has definitely found himself quite the rhythm in that house of yours. He even comes down to the first floor rather regularly. 

When he’s home, Taehyung is a lot quieter than you thought he would be. Granted, you don’t exactly know what you were expecting in the first place, but it certainly wasn’t him ruminating in one of the home offices while the Beatles play softly on the stereo, nor was it him reading a book in French in one of those big old grandfather chairs in the living room. If you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was still absent in that old way of his, ghostlike and silent, like he was occupying the space instead of truly living in it. 

But you do know better, and even though Taehyung is just as noiseless as he used to be, the house already feels a little bit fuller. 

Perhaps the reason you’ve become so keenly aware of his presence over the past few days is because of the notable fact that Taehyung has indeed held up his end of the deal, and no longer goes out with his friends in the evening. Or at all, for that matter. Which strikes you as rather odd, because he’s the epitome of a social butterfly, a thousand contacts in his phone and a whole group of friends he regularly spends time with. Maybe his parents told him to tone down the public appearances, too. And that’s understandable, but don’t they know Taehyung? Can’t they see how much he thrives on social interaction? It almost makes you feel… bad for him. 

To remedy this, you suggest he invite over his friends. Just for a few hours, you swear you won’t mind. 

“Seriously?” Taehyung looks positively shocked when you tell him he can, standing in the doorway of the office he seems to have designated as his own. 

“Yeah, why not?” You say with a carefree shrug. Besides, you’ve never met his friends anyway, and now seems as good a chance as any to introduce yourself. You are his wife, after all. “Unless your parents say you can’t. But it’s not a problem for me.”

“You… don’t mind if I have my friends over for a bit? Honest to God, we’re probably just going to play FIFA for three hours straight,” Taehyung says like it’s some sort of warning. Like the idea of him and his buddies from college are going to sit in the living room screaming at the television, leaving you alone to do literally anything else, is somehow bad. 

You laugh. “It’s fine, really. Call them. I’d actually quite like to meet them.”

Taehyung picks up his phone almost instantly, as if you’ll change your mind in the next five minutes so he better get them over soon, and already you can see the way his face is lighting up, the way his eyes crinkle as he chats to his friends and the way his lips curl upwards when they crack a joke back. Isn’t it obvious? He feeds off of the energy of others. Who are you to deny him such a simple pleasure?

As it turns out, Taehyung’s friends actually end up being quite nice anyway. 

He invites over three, because four people is apparently the perfect number for a hardcore game of FIFA on his Playstation, and they are all very handsome men you have never met before. You suppose like attracts like, after all. 

“You must be Y/N,” says the first one you see when you open the door to let them in. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-one—in fact, he could probably still pass as a college student—and has rather long dark hair that drapes over the sides of his face, covering the edges of his big doe eyes. “I’m Jungkook. This is Jimin and Hoseok.”

“Nice to meet you all,” you say, stepping aside so they can enter.

The shortest one, Jimin, grins in response, and Hoseok, behind him, gives you a wave. It’s refreshing enough as is, not having to exchange formal greetings and shake each other’s hands like you do with everyone else. Hoseok even gives you a bit of a nod, too.“You, too,” he says. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Oh, have they, now? Interesting. 

“All good things, I hope,” you say awkwardly, forcing a small smile as Taehyung comes bounding into the room, ears perked up at the sound of his friends’ voices. 

“Definitely. Thanks for having us over. We didn’t wanna intrude on the sanctity of your new place,” Jungkook says, gesturing vaguely to the house as a whole. He’s got this excellent, genuine grin on his face, the kind that people who are just happy to be alive always wear. 

Already he’s said enough to charm the shit out of you. Who knew Taehyung’s friends could be so… friendly? “Please, you’re welcome any time. I was just thinking Taehyung was getting a little lonely.”

“There he is!” Jimin shouts excitedly when he spots Taehyung behind the two of you, looking a lot more casual than he normally does when he’s alone with you, having abandoned his usual silky button-down and wide-leg slacks for a loose shirt and some sweatpants. You didn’t even know he had those things in his closet. 

“Hey, everyone’s here!” Taehyung exclaims, just as happy. He squeezes past you to give the three of them a big hug, and it almost makes you feel like you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be in. Even though this is literally your house. 

“Nice place you got here,” Hoseok comments, eyes drifting around the living room. “Very minimalist, I like it.”

“Sure hope you don’t spill anything on those nice leather couches of yours,” Jungkook says. 

“Yeah, unlike Kook, who has spilled tomato soup on every shirt he’s ever owned,” Jimin jokes, earning laughs from Taehyung and Hoseok and a punch from Jungkook. 

“Moved after we married,” Taehyung says simply, shrugging his shoulders. It’s an easy enough explanation for why it doesn’t look at all lived in. Here’s hoping none of them realize you sleep in different bedrooms. 

“Yeah, congratulations on that, man,” Hoseok says, giving Taehyung a celebratory nudge in the shoulder. “Who’d have thought, out of the four of us, Kim Taehyung would be the first one to settle down.”

The way Taehyung’s body tenses up at that comment does not go unnoticed by you. 

“Seriously, I would have never guessed,” Jimin adds on. “You’re showing us a new side of yourself, Tae. But I’m happy for you.”

Normally, you’d probably take offense at such blatant insinuations that your husband was a former playboy, especially from his equally noncommittal friends. But truthfully, it’s not like you were blind to Taehyung’s transgressions either. And what matters most is the fact that since it was announced publicly, you are the only woman he’s been seen with since your engagement. 

“Me too. You seem to really like her. I’m glad,” Jungkook pipes up, sending a smile your way. You definitely feel like you don’t belong in this conversation. “I think the two of you will be good for each other.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Taehyung says with a nervous chuckle. His eyes quickly shoot your way, the two of you meeting gazes, your hesitant expressions matching. At least the two of you are on the same page. “Alright, alright, enough,” Jungkook says. “Who’s ready to get their ass kicked in FIFA?”

“You’re on, Jeon. But when I win, you owe me a five-star dinner,” Hoseok challenges. 

“Deal.”

Hoseok, Jimin, and Jungkook immediately crowd towards the couch, and you take that as your cue to leave. But before you can disappear down the hallway, you and Taehyung look awkwardly at each other, hands tied. It’s not like you can say anything to them. 

The truth is that, sometimes, it’s easy to forget that not everyone else knows that your marriage is just for business. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that there are still people out there that believe you marry for love. 

Isn’t it crazy to think that you used to be one of those people, too?

“Hey,” Taehyung says when you meet up at the bottom of the stairs again. 

“Hey,” you respond. 

“You look nice.”

You scoff a little to yourself. What, are you exchanging compliments now? “Thanks,” you say, looking him up and down. “You’re not so bad yourself.” Like he ever is. 

“I knew you had taste,” Taehyung teases, and it’s the sort of comment that would have earned him a melon ball to the face back when the two of you were teenagers at a debutante ball, but today only earns him a roll of your eyes as you join hands. You don’t have anything big tonight—just a small dinner to celebrate some sort of business accomplishment for your family, which means that all you have to manage is not ending up in some sort of food fight by the end of the night. 

“I didn’t have a choice, did I?” You retort easily as you get into the car. 

You don’t normally speak a lot on the way to events. Not that you ever did, but even as your relationship has slowly faded from pure hatred to attempts at compromise, you both seem to relish in being able to stare out of your respective backseat windows and into the city that surrounds you. Just out of curiosity, about halfway through the ride you look towards Taehyung to see what he’s up to, and find yourself genuinely surprised to see him leaning against the window with his eyes closed. Is he sleeping? A couple more minutes of gazing at him tells you he is, because his body has gone lax and his breathing has evened out, soft snores leaving his mouth. This ride can’t be longer than twenty minutes. Has he not been sleeping well? Up in that enormous second-floor bedroom of his?

He’s awake by the time the car parks outside the restaurant, this fancy name brand steak place that was chosen solely because the biggest beneficiaries of your family’s new business deal are two sixty-year-old men whose entire diet consists of beef and beer. No cameras tonight, just a small family affair. You and Taehyung hold hands as you enter the restaurant and are led to the private room in the back anyway. 

You and him are seated on the far end of the long, rectangular table, alongside all of the other adult children dragged along to celebrate something that has no effect on their lives. But it’s nice, because the space alone prevents your parents from actively speaking with you, and you and Taehyung can stay in your own little bubble, only chiming in for a toast when necessary. 

“What are you going to get?” He asks you, the two of you gazing at the menu. No matter how fancy this place is, all the options seem to boil down to steak, steak, steak, steak, and caesar salad. Classic. 

“Oh, so you actually care now?” You counter, an eyebrow raised in amusement. 

Taehyung laughs. “Aren’t I supposed to?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, wise to his usual shenanigans. It’s hard to tell if Taehyung really means what he says, or if it’s all for show. But perhaps he’s asking because he’s genuinely curious, since no one else seems to be paying you any attention. 

“The choices on this menu are simply overwhelming,” you say, motioning to the six options in front of you. 

“I know, I’m so torn,” Taehyung jokes, making you huff out a little giggle. At least he’s still got that same sense of humor. 

You both end up going for a pretty classic steak dinner, which neither of the two of you finish because the damn portions are the size of your head. Dinner is, in and of itself, absolutely mindless, all of your parents talking about things that don’t concern you whatsoever, leaving you and Taehyung to your own devices as you desperately try to make the night go by faster. 

At one point, you notice Taehyung’s foot brushing up against yours, the leather of his loafers brushing against the toe of your patent heel. Thinking someone of it, you push back, foot nudging his back to his own chair. It’s not a second later that Taehyung retaliates, the two of you dancing around each other underneath the table. 

If the two of you were any younger, or perhaps any less resigned to your fate, there’s no doubt in your mind you would be attempting to get Taehyung to fall off his chair in an effort to do the same to you. Footsie means war. But when the both of you know that, at the end of the day, you’ll still be going home to the same place, and waking up the next morning in the same house, it doesn’t feel like this is a battle.

It’s just life. 

Eventually, you meet Taehyung’s eyes with a hesitant smile, shoe pressed against his, stuck in ceasefire. And for once, he doesn’t have that devilish look in his eye, that smug little grin on his face that tells you that he’s going to make you regret whatever it is you just did. He’s just smiling back at you, all pink lips, having found real fun in the little things. 

And that makes you happy. 

The rest of the dinner is uneventful, which, in your book, is about as good as a dinner can go. You cheers to the future of your parents’ relationship with their newfound partners and say a quick goodbye to them both, hurrying out of there before they can ask you any questions on your relationship with your husband. But you don’t spend the car ride in silence on the way back. 

Instead, you say, “Have you been sleeping well?”

The question seems to catch Taehyung off guard. He was already getting in position to take a power nap on the ride home, head pressed up against the window of the car. 

“What?”

“Have you been sleeping well?” You repeat. “I noticed you fell asleep on the way here.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess,” he says, a hand scratching the nape of his neck. “I mean, it’s been hard adjusting, I suppose. But I’ll get over it.”

Hard adjusting? You’ve been together for nearly three months now. Three months worth of sleeping in the same penthouse bedroom, on the same soft-as-a-cloud mattress, underneath the same weighted blanket. And he’s still having trouble? 

“Oh. I mean, I just wanted to ask because you seem really tired lately.”

“I got a lot on my plate, what can I say,” Taehyung says with an empty smile, forcing a chuckle. “I’ll be fine, seriously. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Isn’t that my job?” You remind him. “I am your wife.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything to that. He just lets out an audible breath, the kind you let out when you’re amused and have something snarky to say, but don’t have the energy to get the words off your tongue. 

The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. 

When you get home, you place your house keys in the bowl by the entrance and take off your shoes, just about ready to take a hot shower and collapse in bed, when Taehyung’s voice stops you. 

“Hey,” he begins, almost hesitantly. You look back at him inquisitively. “I was thinking, maybe, if you wanted, we could start sleeping in the same bed?”

You scrunch your nose up. Not in disgust, but in surprise. In bewilderment. What brought this on, all of a sudden?

“Really?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself. “I thought we liked the separate bed thing. Gives us privacy.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says with a shrug, “but—I don’t know, it’s stupid. I just thought, you know, since we’re married and all. And it’s been three months.” He looks about two seconds away from backtracking, from shaking his head and going upstairs before you can say anything else. 

“Alright,” you say quickly, nodding your assent. Taehyung’s eyes widen when he hears the word, like he had completely expected you to shut him down the moment he made the suggestion. “If that’s what you want. We can try it.”

“You sure?” He asks, that same hesitant smile from earlier lacing his features. It’s strange. He almost looks… sweet. Nervous. 

You grin back at him. “Yeah, I am.”

Taehyung lets you grab some of your toiletries and your pajamas from your designated bedroom before you head up the stairs together, towards the bedroom he’s claimed for himself. Funnily enough, this is the first time you’ve been in his room. Three months of living together and you haven’t dared step foot on the second floor. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when he opens the door to let you inside. Maybe a room that screamed ‘Taehyung’ a little more than this one does. One that looks like an actual human has been living here. But other than one of his classic silk button-downs draped over a chair, there’s not a shred of evidence someone has actually been sleeping here. You could honestly be fooled rather easily that the shirt, too, is just decoration. 

“You can pick a side,” Taehyung says casually. He grabs his own sleepwear—an old t-shirt and some sweats—and heads into the bathroom to change. 

You wonder why Taehyung has had such a difficult time adjusting. This room is about as lavish as a bedroom can get. And yet. 

Sitting down on the left side of the bed, you begin to remove your own clothes, unzipping tonight’s dress and stepping quickly into your pajamas, hurrying to make sure Taehyung doesn’t catch you half-naked. How funny is that, you think to yourself. You’ve been married for three months and you still can’t bear the thought of Taehyung seeing you without a shirt on. 

When Taehyung comes out of the bathroom, hair all messy and clothes all casual, he grins lazily to himself. “I sleep on the right anyway,” he comments mindlessly. 

Within twenty minutes the both of you are about as ready to pass out as you have ever been, the only lights still on the ones on your respective nightstands. 

“Goodnight,” Taehyung says, reaching an arm over to switch his off. 

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning off yours as well. And all of a sudden, the room is shrouded in darkness. 

You fall asleep instantly. 

When Taehyung wakes up the next morning, the first thing he says to you is that he hasn’t slept that well in ages. 

“You slept together?” Victoria shrieks, so loud you actually have to move your phone away from your ear as you punch in the code inside the elevator for access to your floor. 

“We did not sleep together,” you emphasize. “Okay, well, we sleep together, as in, in the same bed. But we are fully clothed. And not the slightest bit interested in doing anything other than sleeping.”

“I thought you said you liked having your own space,” Victoria points out. “When was the first time you—uh…” she pauses to find the right words, “shared a bed?”

“A couple weeks ago. It’s really not so bad, I don’t know why you’re so hung up over it,” you say, lips pursed. You squeeze the phone between the side of your head and your shoulder, hands full of shopping bags, the string of the handles burning your skin. Maybe you should look into getting a personal shopper. 

“I’m hung up over it because, for the longest time, you have sworn off Kim Taehyung. Called him dead to you. Insulted him every chance you get.” 

You scoff. You don’t need reminding of how much you hated him, how much you can’t believe you have to spend the rest of your life with him. “It’s different now. We’re married. And he said he wasn’t sleeping well. I felt bad.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Enough about him,” you say, shutting her up. You don’t feel like talking about him with Victoria anymore. “Word through the grapevine says that your parents are actually thinking of letting you start your own company?”

It’s enough to distract Victoria. For the rest of the ride in the elevator, she talks animatedly about a new streaming service her parents are considering letting her launch, under their parent business, of course, but it’s her own company nonetheless. And you’re proud of her. Proud she could do something your parents would never dream of letting you do. Proud she could make that happen. 

You push open the front door with the side of your hip after entering in the security code, phone still snug between your ear and your shoulder, when you hear Taehyung call out your name. 

He comes into view from the kitchen, which surprises you because you have, on multiple occasions, made fun of how much of a disaster chef he is, especially because he’s admitted to you he’s not a very good cook. 

“I made brownies,” he says, holding out a plate of the chocolate treats in front of you. Instinct has you dropping your bags on the floor by your feet and reaching out, but you eye him first, suspicious. 

“I have to go,” you tell Victoria, hanging up before she even gets a chance to object to your sudden departure. “You made these?”

“Yes, I did,” Taehyung says, rather proud. 

“And the kitchen is… still standing?” You ask, skeptical. 

Taehyung frowns at you, clearly unimpressed. “How bad of a chef do you think I am?”

“Pretty bad,” you admit with a shrug. 

Taehyung pouts sadly to himself for a moment. “These are good, I swear. Nothing weird in them like vegetables or anything either. I used a box mix.”

“No wonder they look so nice,” you comment snidely, hesitant hand reaching out to grab one. They feel like brownies. So that’s good. 

“Hey, I was the one who had to crack the eggs and shit. Three eggs! And not one eggshell in the bowl!” Taehyung says, clearly very pleased with himself. 

You laugh at his enthusiasm, taking a bite. It’s good. And exactly what you needed after a long day of shopping. “I’m proud of you. They taste good.”

“I knew you wouldn’t doubt me.” Taehyung grins.

“They’re really good, actually,” You amend, genuinely surprised. And the best part is that you can count at least ten brownies left on that plate, which means that you get at least five more. Which, if you had any less self-restraint, you would probably eat all at once within the day. 

“I’m glad you like them. They’re all for us, you know. No one else to share them with,” he says.

“Honestly, I’m probably going to finish them by tonight. You’ll have to make more tomorrow,” you say sheepishly. 

“We can make some together,” Taehyung suggests. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” you respond. The words come off your mouth easily, tumbling from your lips without you having to think about it. You aren’t saying them because you have to. You’re saying them because you want to. Because baking with Taehyung doesn’t actually sound too bad. Especially if it means more brownies. 

“You’ve, uh, you’ve got something,” Taehyung says, gesturing vaguely to the side of his lip. 

“Oh, I do? Yikes,” you say, a little embarrassed. Your hand comes up to wipe at the left side of your mouth. “Is it gone?”

“Wait, here, let me do it,” Taehyung says, reaching out towards you. He presses his palm against the side of your face, cradling your cheek and jaw in his enormous hands, and all at once it feels like your skin is on fire. 

Your body freezes up at the touch, at the way his thumb swipes at the corner of your mouth, right against your lips, wiping away nothing but a goddamn brownie crumb. You look at him, look right at him, how can you look anywhere else when he’s right in front of you like this, and it feels like you are caught in his gaze, a rain droplet trapped on a web, a bee stuck in its own honey. His big, brown eyes sparkle from the ceiling lights, a chocolate sky that mirrors the food he just made for you. He looks at you and his eyes are so soft, so open, so happy to be looking right back at you. God. 

“There,” he says, a moment too late. 

“Thanks,” you stammer out, speechless otherwise. 

You both stand there, looking at each other, wordless expressions drawn all over your faces, no idea what to do next. 

After a while, Taehyung breaks the silence. “Do you wanna order takeout tonight?”

“Okay,” you nod, still a little breathless. Taehyung smiles before retreating back to the kitchen, leaving you standing in the entranceway, shopping bags abandoned by your side. 

You look over to where he’s vanished. There’s a part of you that wishes he hadn’t left. A part of you that makes you want to see him again. 

Phone calls from your mother are never good. The last time she called… well, you know how that went. So when you see her contact information light up your home screen, it’s only instinct that you feel your heart rate spike. 

“Hello?” The voice that comes out doesn’t even sound like yours. 

There’s no good way to put what comes next. Your grandmother has died. Heart attack. The paramedics got there too late. It was over before it even started. 

For a moment, for a split second, it feels like everything is frozen. Like the world has come to standstill. Your mother’s voice echoes in your ears, suspended in time, the words turning into stone as they crash onto the floor. And when they do, it is as if everything comes back to life. 

Truth be told, you don’t know how long you stay there, sitting on the edge of the left side of the bed, your phone resting lifelessly in the palm of your hand. It feels at once like an eternity and only a second in time. You spoke to your grandmother two days ago. You had promised that you and Taehyung would visit her soon. How can this be happening?

Your phone buzzes relentlessly in your hands, condolences pouring in from every person in your contacts, sorry’s and heart emoticons and If you need anything, I’m always here’s filling up your screen. There’s a part of you that vaguely registers your mother, alongside some of the other members of your family, trying to call you. But nothing can seem to shake you. 

Until—

“Y/N? You still up here?”

You hear Taehyung before you see him. Hear his voice, hear his footsteps, hear the door creak open as he enters your bedroom. Slowly, almost sluggishly, you twist around to look at him, the mere act knocking the wind out of you. Or maybe you were already breathless. 

“Hey, you alright?” Taehyung knows instantly that something is wrong. 

“My grandmother died.” The words sit heavy on your tongue. There’s no point in not telling him. He’ll find out soon enough. He’s… he’s family, isn’t he?

“What?” Taehyung freezes in place. “I—I’m so sorry to hear that, Y/N. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, voice weak but steady. You blink up at him, once, twice, three times, and then suddenly you feel tears running down your cheeks. 

Taehyung doesn’t say anything else. He rushes to your side and sits himself down on the bed next to you, arms wrapping around your body. And you don’t think about the fact that it’s him, about the fact that this is the closest the two of you have ever been. You just let yourself be engulfed in his frame, let yourself be enveloped in his hold as the tears stream down your skin, little hiccups jolting your throat. You close your eyes and press yourself into his arms, head resting against his chest, and wish so desperately that so many things about your life were just a little bit different. 

It must be at least five minutes before either one of you dares to move. Your phone begins to rattle incessantly, that familiar and insistent buzz that the both of you are hard-pressed to ignore. 

“I think you should answer that,” Taehyung whispers into your skin, lips right by your forehead. 

“Yeah,” you sniffle, sitting up next to him and wiping the remnants of wetness by your eyes. Well, Taehyung’s seen you cry. There’s no going back now. “You’re probably right.” You look down at the phone. It’s your father. 

“I’ll be downstairs, okay? Unless you want me to stay,” he offers, looking hesitant. 

You shake your head. “No, it’s—it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need me,” he makes you give him a nod of understanding before he finally gets up, hands slowly removing themselves from your skin, leaving little sparks in their wake. Remnants of warmth. Suddenly, you feel much colder. Hardly a minute later he’s out of the room, and you can hear his distant footsteps as they make their way down the stairs. 

Sighing, blinking, and swallowing all at once, you pick up. 

The call passes by in a blur. Your father says the will will take at least half a year to be executed, but that the funeral is already being planned. Your grandmother had hoped you would eulogize her. You agree, but you have no idea what you will say. He says Taehyung is invited but does not need to come if he cannot make it. He says a lot of other things too, about your mother, about your cousins, about your aunts and uncles and your poor grandfather, who passed five years ago, but you can’t even remember them moments after he’s said them. 

When he hangs up, the tears on your cheeks have dried, patches of them left along your skin. You head to the bathroom, getting off your bed for the first time that day, and try to wash away everything that has stained the morning. A part of you doesn’t even want to bother, just wants to slug downstairs and eat as much sugary cereal as you can get your hands on, but you can’t go down there looking like this. Looking so helpless. 

By the time you reach the kitchen, Taehyung is already standing there, on the opposite side of the counter island, a big stack of pancakes in front of him. They look mouth-watering. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Thought you might want something to cheer you up.”

“Did you make these?” You ask, a little endeared. That was thoughtful of him. 

“Yeah. They’re still warm,” Taehyung says. He holds out a fork. 

You grin. 

The funeral is a week later. It sucks in every way that something can suck. But not in the same way your wedding sucked, or even the announcement of your engagement. It sucks because it’s a funeral, because you have to stare down your grandmother’s casket when a part of you still doesn’t even believe that she’s gone. Because everyone there is so sad, so melancholy, dressed in all black and looking down at their feet. Because everyone is so sorry for you, so sorry for your loss, everyone has nothing but condolences to offer you. What will those do? They won’t bring her back. They won’t change things. They won’t make you feel even the slightest bit better. 

Taehyung comes. He comes because he offers, and because you want him to. You want someone whose hand to hold. Want someone to smile at you when you’re speaking in front of your entire extended family and trying not to cry. You want someone who is familiar, and warm, and there for you. 

And most of all, you want someone who won’t keep the conversation going when you get home. 

“Do you wanna order Chinese?” He asks, coming into the living room, where you have been sulking on the couch ever since you stepped foot inside the door. 

“That sounds nice,” you force out. 

“Okay. Your usual?”

“Yes, please.” You don’t bother asking how Taehyung already remembers what you like to order when you’ve only gotten Chinese twice in the last three months. 

“I’ll call them.” He disappears off into the kitchen. 

What you do appreciate about Taehyung is how he has defaulted to food as a comfort measure, and how the thought alone genuinely brightens you up a little bit. You don’t know each other very well—still, after three months, you couldn’t even say his favorite color—but he is doing his best, and he is trying his hardest. In some ways, you were unlucky to marry him. To marry someone you didn’t love. To be forced into a union you had no say in, with someone you had so much antagonistic history with. 

But in some ways, your luck has changed. In some ways, marrying him was perhaps the best thing that could happen to you. Taehyung is snarky, a little devilish, and absolutely full of himself, but he is not thoughtless. He is not heartless. He has proven that he is willing to put in the work. That he can grow to care. To change. To compromise. And isn’t that the luckiest thing you could have gotten?

“I’m sure you’re probably sick of hearing people tell you they’re sorry for your loss.”

His voice breaks your reverie, carrying throughout the wide open space of your living room. He’s grinning honestly where he stands, slowly making his way over to you. 

“Kind of, yeah,” you admit. “It’s not going to bring her back. Most of those people probably don’t even mean it.”

“Don’t say that,” Taehyung says, sitting down next to you. “I’m sure they do.”

You look at him skeptically. 

“I mean, they’re sorry for your loss because that loss is causing you pain. And that sucks,” Taehyung explains, albeit a little less eloquently than you thought he would. “I know it sucks for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like seeing you sad,” Taehyung says honestly, shrugging to himself. 

You scoff a little to yourself. “I would have thought my downfall would be the exact thing the great Kim Taehyung would wish for himself.”

“Maybe a couple of years ago.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“Okay, maybe even a few months ago,” Taehyung admits with a laugh, making you smile, ever so slightly. “But it’s different now. I like it when you’re happy. When you’re snarky and funny and a little evil. Seeing you like this… I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

“That’s called empathy,” you point out. 

“I’m trying to tell you that seeing you sad makes me sad, stop being a smartass,” Taehyung chides, and that really makes you grin. “There. There’s that smile I was looking for.”

“You’re so annoying,” you say, even though there’s no malice behind it. You give him a little push, palms of your hand pressing lightly against his shoulder as you roll your eyes. 

“Only for you,” he promises. He manages to grab a hold of your wrist as your hand meets his torso, pulling you into him as he wraps an arm around your torso. You gasp a little at the sensation, head falling against his body, fitting snugly in the crook of his neck. He gives your side a comforting rub. “I’m sorry today was so shitty.”

“It was,” you agree. “But Chinese food will make it a little bit better.”

Taehyung looks positively scandalized. “What? ‘Chinese food will make it better’? But not your loving, doting husband?” 

You pretend to think for a little bit, tilting your head up to the sky as you tap your chin with your finger. “Okay. Maybe that, too,” you cave after a bit of waiting, just to be extra bothersome. 

“That’s what I thought,” Taehyung says proudly, looking down at you, eyes sparkling. You can feel his grip tighten as he presses you against his body, letting you rest your head on his side. It feels like the longest hug ever, like you’re wrapped up in a weighted blanket. Only it’s not a blanket. It’s Taehyung. It’s your husband. 

He’s your husband.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he says, and it sounds a lot like a promise. 

You nod against him, letting your eyes drift shut. Things are pretty awful right now. Your grandmother’s dead. The funeral was the saddest family event you have ever attended. You have no idea what’s supposed to happen next. 

But he’s right. He seems to be right a lot these days, actually. 

Tomorrow will be better.

Taehyung lets you sleep in for the next few days. Next several days, actually. Every time you wake up it’s close to noon and your husband is nowhere to be seen, the right side of the bed cold to the touch. It’s nothing to be worried about, though, because you can still see the noticeable dip in the bed from where he lies upon it, sinking his weight into the mattress. Taehyung’s an early bird and you’ve been having fitful nights ever since your grandmother passed. 

Today, you pull yourself out from underneath the covers around noon, sluggish and still tired, squinting as the near-afternoon light streams through the enormous windows of the bedroom. Taehyung must have thought to keep the curtains open today. 

You pull on the first casual clothes you see in your shared closet, some wide-leg sweatpants and a drapey t-shirt, and trudge downstairs like a raccoon to a trash can, hoping to fish through the kitchen cabinets to find something to eat. 

Taehyung is, as far as you can tell, nowhere to be seen. You can’t seem to hear him anywhere, and a part of you wonders where he’s at when you stumble upon the note left on the granite counter. 

Had a meeting downtown, be back around 1! There should be smoked salmon and some cream cheese and bagels in the fridge. 

Taehyung.

You chuckle to yourself as you read his flowy handwriting, amused that he thought to let you know of, of all things, the available breakfast foods in the kitchen. You check the clock. It’s nearly noon. Which means you have just over an hour of the house all to yourself. 

Having the house to yourself for five minutes is infrequent enough as it is, let alone for a whole hour. So often is Taehyung around, somewhere, holing himself up in one of the dozens of rooms or mindlessly wandering down the hallways. And for how much Taehyung is present, the funny part is that you still have no idea what he gets up to most of the time. Despite your voluntary abandoning of the separate bedroom rule, the two of you are still firm proponents of the sanctity of your personal spaces. There are rooms in the penthouse Taehyung has never been in, rooms filled with your clothes and makeup and accessories for when stylists come over before an event. A sewing room that you had specifically asked your parents for, because a part of you never let go of that childhood dream of being a fashion designer. 

And there are rooms in the penthouse that you have never been in. Rooms with dark wooden doors that have always been kept closed, that you have never stepped foot in. It’s not that you aren’t curious as to what Taehyung gets up to. He could have a goddamn evil lair in one of those rooms and you would be none the wiser. But you don’t go, because he doesn’t go into your rooms. Because you two, despite all the vows you have broken, promised each other you wouldn’t.

An hour to yourself is almost a good enough excuse for you to head back up to the bedroom and take a nap. Not that you don’t get enough sleep on a regular basis, or that you even had a fitful night last night—hell, you woke up near noon today and already you want to go back to sleep—but what else is there to do when he’s not around? What new freedoms have suddenly been given to you?

You head back upstairs, much less groggy after that delicious bagel of yours, when you catch a whiff of what smells like wet paint coming from down the hallway. It’s potent and immediately invades your senses, prompting you to wonder if that has always been there, or just magically appeared. Maybe you were so sleepy earlier, you didn’t notice it. 

Well, you notice it now. Unable to help yourself, you start to wander down the hallway, towards the source of the smell. God, it stinks. It takes you back to those days in middle school, when you would spray paint projects inside a tiny little classroom, have to step outside for fifteen minutes while you cracked the windows and aired it out. It gets stronger the further down the corridor you go, like a thick, smelly cloud stationed firmly within the walls of the penthouse. And then you realize where it’s coming from. 

It’s an art studio. 

A very messy art studio, you amend to yourself, as you peek inside. The door is wide open, and all of the windows are popped too, but the extra air circulation doesn’t seem to have made a dent in the scent. And all over the floor, the walls, and the tables are canvases covered in paint, denim jackets and pants and shirts with these wide, unafraid brushstrokes. Open cans of spray paint lie discarded on the hardwood floor stained with splotches of red, yellow, and green. 

Is this what Taehyung does in his free time? Is this where he goes, this bright, sunny room at the end of the second floor hallway? Is this what he is making?

You look down in awe at the clothes resting on the floor, splayed out to maximize dry time. Abstract faces, landscapes, and words are painted onto the backs of jackets, the fronts of old white t-shirts. What hasn’t made it onto the clothes has been put on canvases instead, blurs of color mixed together in this purposeful pattern, confidence emanating from every stroke, every dot. It’s not art in the way that the gorgeous landscapes of Monet, the picture-perfect portraits of Kahlo, the messy, unplanned splatters of Pollock are. It’s art in a different way. In a Taehyung way. 

Who knew he loved it so much? 

You almost feel like an invader encroaching on his territory when you lean down to start cleaning up some of the mess, throwing out empty spray-paint cans and tossing out grey paint water. You don’t dare touch any of the work, don’t dare try to move it. You do what you can, washing out the brushes resting in the water and cleaning up the wet splotches of paint on the hardwood. Over time, the thick scent of still-wet paint slowly fades, disappearing out the window as the fresh afternoon air seeps in. And you stand there, in a room full of art, in a room full of pieces that Taehyung has undoubtedly poured his heart into creating, and you smile to yourself. 

That’s how Taehyung finds you ten minutes later, peering into the room after declaring that his meeting had ended early. 

“Thought I’d find you in here,” Taehyung says with a grin as you jump at the sound of his voice, eyes widen when you turn around to see him standing by the door. 

“Oh, hey,” you say sheepishly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Maybe because this is the farthest room in the house from the front door,” Taehyung teases lightly, coming up behind you. “I see you found my studio.”

“I know I’m not allowed in here,” you admit. 

Taehyung scoffs. “Who says?”

“Didn’t we both agree on that?”

He shrugs. “Sort of. I think we just reached an unspoken understanding we wouldn’t invade each other’s personal space. But it was not in the fine print, no.”

“The fine print of what?”

“That deal we made.”

Right. That deal you made, four months ago, That deal, where the two of you agreed to pretend to be in love with each other during public appearances so you wouldn’t get burned at the stake by your families. Where the two of you agreed not to interact with each other otherwise because you hated each other so much. 

“Oh, yeah,” you say distantly, feeling naive for already forgetting about it. It doesn’t seem to have slipped Taehyung’s mind whatsoever. 

“It’s okay, I don’t mind that you’re up here,” Taehyung says, interrupting that piercing little voice in the back of your head that is asking you why on earth you forgot about that deal in the first place.

“Yeah, I—” You scratch at the nape of your neck, trying to find the words to say. “It just smelled like paint, so I wanted to see what you get up too. And it’s this, apparently.” You motion vaguely to the entire room.

“You sound… surprised,” Taehyung muses correctly. 

“I guess I am,” you surmise. “I’m rather impressed, too, actually.”

“Really?” It’s Taehyung’s turn to sound surprised. 

“Yeah,” you tell him honestly, looking into his eyes. “I—you know, I just came in here because the entire hallway smelled like wet paint and I wanted to know why. But I didn’t know you loved art so much.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Taehyung points out. 

You suppose that’s true. You don’t know his favorite color. His favorite song. His favorite book. For a long time, you didn’t know what he got up to on his side of the penthouse. You don’t know how he met his friends. What he studied in university. Who he has loved in the past. Who he loves now. You don’t know why he does the things he does, and why he doesn’t do the things he doesn’t do. 

But you do know his Chinese takeout order. 

And you do know his hobbies. Well, one of them, at least. 

Who’s to say you can’t learn more?

“Well,” you start with a smile. “I’m your wife, aren’t I? Shouldn’t I begin to learn?”

Taehyung picks up what you’re putting down instantly, grinning in response. “Only if you’ll tell me things about you, too,” he requisitions. 

“I will,” you promise. It’s the easiest one you’ve ever had to make. 

His face is light, bright, bathed in the rays of the afternoon sun. His eyes shimmer as they meet yours, golden flecks more pronounced like this, in this gorgeous, open space, daylight streaming through the windows. Looking at him makes you feel like you are surrounded by warmth, makes you feel like the sun is opening its arms out to you. He has always been gorgeous. Beautiful. But looking at him like this, standing in the middle of a room filled with all the things he loves, a yellow halo surrounding him—he is ethereal. 

Taehyung smiles. “Then I will, too.”

The hand-holding comes naturally tonight.

The funny thing is, actually, you don’t need to hold hands at this gathering. It’s not an event. Or a public appearance. It’s not even a business dinner. It’s your aunt’s sixtieth birthday party, reserved exclusively for family. Isn’t that strange? That Taehyung is, technically, family now?

For so long you had vowed to stay as far away from him as possible. Vowed to stick it to him whenever and wherever you could, do anything you could to get on his nerves, rile him up. Vowed that when you, one day, took over your family affairs, you would never, ever invite him. Make it known that he wasn’t to be a part of your life. And yet, here you are. Clinging to him despite being well-acquainted with—loved by, even—every other person in the room. Holding his hand like a goddamn lifeline. 

To be fair, Taehyung doesn’t look a hair out of place here. Dressed relatively casually, a smart sweater with a collared shirt underneath it, he smiles warmly at all of your relatives and presents your aunt with a beautiful and very expensive scarf the two of you had commissioned from a designer in Italy, which she absolutely loves. She pinches his cheek and proceeds to wear it for the rest of the night. 

“Damn,” you murmur to yourself as you wander around your aunt’s house, hand wrapped around his arm. “This place hasn’t changed a bit.”

“When was the last time you were here?” Taehyung asks. 

The question actually makes you think for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe five years ago? Last couple of birthdays I was overseas or in school. Had to send her a card.”

“Bet your parents were real pleased with that,” he jokes, making you both laugh. At least you two will always be able to share your experiences of domineering and influential parents with each other. 

“Oh, I’m sure. Just as pleased as they were when they realized how much we hated each other.” You expect that little jest to elicit a laugh out of Taehyung as well, but he just smiles tightly, huffing out a breath of acknowledgement. 

“Eh, it’s not like that now, is it?” He offers up. 

“I suppose not,” you muse, sitting down together on her ancient grandma couch in the living room. No matter how rich your family gets, she’ll never get rid of this thing, that’s for sure. 

One thing you’ve picked up over time is that, for every second Taehyung spends basking in the spotlight, he spends an equal amount of time lingering by the wall, watching the rest of the world turn without him. He’s an observer. He is one by nature, feeling an irresistible pull to understand humans in a way only artists could ever do. He sits down next to you and watches your family in an environment where they can relax, where they can feel comfortable and be casual with one another. 

Very seldom have you ever brought friends to events like these. Small family affairs. But Taehyung isn’t a friend, is he? No, he’s your husband. He belongs here just as much as you do. 

“My family seems to really like you,” you point out. Not that anybody has ever harbored as much disdain for him as you. Your parents called him respectable and polite when they told you you were to be wed. Your grandmother had said he was a dashing young man. He doesn’t exactly have to reach far to be loved around here. 

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” He replies snidely. 

“Oh, just take the compliment,” you say with a roll of your eyes. Taehyung always has to be so difficult. “I’m surprised you aren’t nervous as hell. Last boyfriend I brought to meet my parents was shaking in his Louis Vuitton shoes.”

“Last boyfriend, huh?” Taehyung’s interest has been sufficiently piqued. “And, uh, how many of those have you had?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, smile twitching on your lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Heartbreaker.” Pretty rich of Taehyung to be asking you such a question when he’s probably had more girlfriends than you can count on both hands. “Not as many as you’ve had girlfriends, that’s for sure.”

“Guess I’m a lot different than all those trashy guys you’ve dated, aren’t I?” He asks, an eyebrow raised as he looks at you. 

“You are?”

Taehyung nods assertively. “Well, yeah. First of all, I’m your husband. Second of all, your parents love me. Third of all, you love me, too.”

You scoff. “Don’t humble yourself. You don’t know me that well.”

“Speaking of which,” Taehyung says, eyes wide as he points to you knowingly, “how about you tell me a little fact about yourself? It’s my job to learn about you, isn’t it?”

“That is my line, watch it,” you sneer, pointing back at him. You wrack your brain for a fact that you can tell him, something more exciting than your favorite color but less weird than one of those terrible icebreaker exercises you had to do in college seminars. Something that has pertinence to who you are. Who you’ve become. “Alright. I used to want to be a fashion designer when I was little.”

Now that catches Taehyung off guard. “Really?” He says, genuinely intrigued. 

You shrug. “Yeah. I learned to sew when I was really little. Been tailoring and hemming clothes all my life. But I always wanted to design my own stuff.”

“Is that what’s in your room?” Taehyung asks. “A sewing machine?”

“Bingo.”

“Wow,” Taehyung says. “I didn’t know that.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of this exercise?” You say, just to be smart. 

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes rolling. 

“What about you?” You ask. You can’t imagine what he’ll say. Astronaut. Veterinarian. Or, if he really wants to surprise you, a business executive. 

“A museum curator.”

It is an answer that simultaneously surprises and doesn’t surprise you at all. 

“Fitting,” you muse. “You could have put your own art on display.”

“Pretty sure that’s, like, super unethical,” Taehyung reminds you. 

“So? You’re rich. Start your own museum. Put your own art on display. Live your dream,” you amend. “It shouldn’t be holed up in that studio of yours forever. It deserves to be seen.”

Taehyung smiles at you. “You think so?”

You nod. “Of course. You create beautiful things, Tae.” It’s the first time you’ve ever called him that. And that is not lost on Taehyung, either.

“Thank you,” he says softly, blinking as he looks at you. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.

Later that night, when everyone’s gotten a few drinks into their systems and Bruce Springsteen is playing low on the stereo, Taehyung disappears off towards the bathroom, no doubt because of the excellent soup that was served that night. All by your lonesome, you feel a little stranded, surrounded by your old relatives dancing on the hardwood floor of the dining room, your other cousins too young to actually spend time with. 

In the commotion, your mother comes up to you, swirling a rather large glass of red wine in her hand. 

“Where’s Taehyung?” She asks. 

“Bathroom.”

“No wonder you were alone,” she says with a hearty laugh. “The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides all evening.”

“He’s my husband,” you offer as an explanation. 

“I know, I know,” she says, shaking you off with a smile. Your mother is a lot more casual once she’s had her fill of wine, no doubt her favorite, Bordeaux. A lot more loving, too. “You really made your grandmother proud, you know? She loved you so much.”

“I know,” you say, trying not to get choked up at the mere mention of your grandmother. 

“She was so happy to see you with Taehyung. It made her feel safe that you would be taken care of,” she continues on, barely paying you and your swimming eyes any attention. “She would be so happy to see you with him now, too. How much you love her.”

“I miss her,” you hiccup out, trying to compose yourself. Nothing kills a birthday party like some sad sack crying over her deceased grandmother. 

“I know, darling,” your mother says, calling you by a nickname she has hardly used ever since you turned eighteen. She squeezes you tightly, a small hug of comfort. “I miss her, too.”

Someone calls your mother’s name, distracting her as she wanders off to your uncle, who is asking what the best way to cut the three-tiered cake on the dining room table is. She bids you a goodbye before disappearing towards the kitchen, no doubt ready to make the cutting of the cake an affair all on its own. 

Taehyung comes back soon after, spotting you instantly as you stand around in the living room. 

“Hey,” he says, noticing the wet shimmer of your eyes. “You alright?”

You nod, feeling better already now that he has returned. Now that he is by your side. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I hope those tears aren’t because you missed me,” he says, wiping away a stray one that has escaped from your eyes. You close them as his thumb brushes against your upper cheek, your eyelashes, opening them only when you’ve felt his touch vanish from your skin, leaving little sparks in their wake. 

“No,” you say. But the night makes you honest, and a couple of drinks, even more so. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

Taehyung smiles. “Me, too.”

For all those days you have spent together, never have you and Taehyung had a night in. Which isn’t necessarily completely surprising, considering how many evening events the two of you have had obligations to attend, considering your differing work schedules and meeting times. Considering that, for a very long time, the two of you had no desire to spend any time with each other at all. 

But tonight, there is nothing on your calendar. No galas, no dinners, no meetings, no schedules. There is only Taehyung, who has spent the entire afternoon up in his studio, inhaling spray paint fumes and doing what he loves. And there is only you, who has spent the entire afternoon wondering what the hell you’re going to do tonight when there is nothing else planned. 

You knock on the door to his studio, catching him right as he’s finishing up another piece. This one is a single flower, painted in broad, confident strokes, bright green and red and sunflower yellow decorating the canvas. 

“Hey, what’s up?” He asks, turning around to face you. 

“Wanna order takeout tonight?” You suggest. 

Taehyung grins. 

Thirty minutes and your favorite Chinese food later, you and Taehyung have settled onto the couch, trays of dumplings and noodles and rice in front of you, an unfunny movie playing in the background. 

You can’t remember the last time the two of you sat on this couch together. Maybe that night you had made the deal? Perhaps not even then. It wouldn’t at all surprise you if you found out that this was the very first time you and Taehyung have sat together on your couch, in your living room, in your house. So often is it occupied by others—Victoria, who sometimes comes over to ooh and ahh at your closet, Jimin, Jungkook, and Hoseok, who sit on this couch and play FIFA like it’s their job, your mother, when she wants to make herself at home in a place that doesn’t belong to her—but never you. Never you and him. 

“This is kinda nice, isn’t it?” You ask, swallowing a bite of dumpling. 

“Chinese food is always nice,” Taehyung responds over a mouthful of cold noodles. 

“Not that,” you say with a sigh, “this. Sitting together. Watching this shitty movie.”

“It’s not that shitty,” Taehyung tries to reason. On screen, the main character is getting pied in the face during some weird college fundraiser. “Okay, it’s a little shitty. But it’s good background noise, right?”

You nod halfheartedly. “I guess.” Silence. You take another bite of your dumpling, not really sure how to continue the conversation. “We don’t really get to do this a lot, you know? Sit and eat dinner and watch a movie together. Like a date.”

“We’re on a date now, are we?” Taehyung muses, eyeing you snarkily. 

“Isn’t that what this is?” You retort. 

He shrugs. “I suppose it is.”

“Tell me another fact about you,” you request, looking over to him where he sits on the opposite side of the couch. 

“About what?”

“Anything.”

Taehyung pauses, ponders for a moment. But he could never say anything wrong. Not when there is still so much you don’t know about him. Still so much you want to learn, so much you want to commit to memory. For so long you have stared at the planes of his face, the curve of his nose, the twinkle in those dark brown eyes. Those you will always remember. But what about who he is? What he loves? Those are things you still don’t know. 

“The very first time I met you,” Taehyung begins, “I asked Jimin what your name was.”

“When was that?” You ask. Despite you being someone who has spent the better part of the last several years vowing never to give Taehyung the time of day, you sure don’t remember when it all started. 

“That debutante ball,” Taehyung remembers fondly, “when we were fifteen. I asked Jimin what your name was because I wanted to ask you to dance.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t,” you say with a scoff. 

“It’s true. You were standing there in that poofy white dress and I wanted to ask you to dance,” Taehyung points out. The fact that he even remembers what you were wearing is shocking. 

Who knew. Who knew, back then, that you would one day grow up to marry him. 

“And what did I say?” You demand more. 

Taehyung laughs at the memory. “I came up to you, and I asked you if you wanted to dance, and you said, and I quote, ‘Who are you?’”

“No,” you say, aghast at your own behavior. Were those really the first words you ever said to KIm Taehyung?

“You did. Don’t you remember?”

You think back. Think back to every year you have ever known Taehyung, every year you have spent scowling at him from across ballroom floors, making some snide remark as you pass by each other in the hallway. Every year you have spent cursing his existence, willing him away from you so he could bother someone else. Every year you have listened to rumor after rumor of girlfriend after girlfriend. You think back and somewhere, somewhere in there, in those dusty corners of your brain and cobwebbed boxes of your heart, is that first memory of Taehyung, too. 

Of him standing there in some generic black suit, black hair swept over his forehead, shoes too big. Of him coming up to you, trying to be as suave as a fifteen year old could be. Of you saying to him, instead of a hello, or even a what’s your name, “who are you?” 

Of him saying—

“And you said, ‘your dream come true’.” Like a dam bursting open, the memories flood back to you all at once. “I remember that.”

Taehyung laughs out loud at the thought of him saying something so cheesy. “Unsurprisingly, you didn’t want to dance with me.”

“You were so—” you begin, but you don’t have the words. Don’t have the words to express how you felt about him that night. Don’t have the words to express how you feel about him now. Thinking about this, talking about it, it is a bridge. A bridge between what was then and what is now. A bridge between who Taehyung was and who you were and who Taehyung is and who you are. “—so unthinkable. I couldn’t believe you had come up to me and said that. I couldn’t believe you had the audacity. But something about that night made me remember you. Made me remember your name.”

“You thought about me after that?” Taehyung asks. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“There is something about you that is unforgettable,” you say, honest and real and true. What else can you tell him? The truth is that you have always thought about him. Whether you liked him or not. 

You finish your dinner and place your trays on the end tables next to you, stacking your empty bowls and plates on top of one another as the movie rumbles on in the background. 

“It is kind of a shitty movie,” Taehyung admits after a while of being wholly unenthused. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “But it’s good background noise.”

Taehyung laughs at your little mockery, warm and deep and from his belly. You look at him. He feels so far away, on the other side of the couch. Feels like he’s miles apart from you. You have spent countless nights clinging to his harm, hand gripped tight in his. And sitting like this, a full couch cushion of space between the two of you—it isn’t enough anymore. So you inch closer. 

And closer. 

And a little closer. 

Until you’re pressed up against his side, legs touching as they rest neatly in front of you, backs stick straight as you stare at the television. 

Taehyung holds his arm up. An open invitation. 

Without asking, you lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder, in the space right underneath his jaw. You pull your feet up onto the couch and curl into his frame, pressing yourself against him. He is warm and firm and inescapable. He smells of coffee and paint and Chinese spices. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in, as if there were any other place you’d rather be. 

You sit like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other. Lazing around on the couch as the stars twinkle above your head. The movie ends and the two of you don’t even bother skipping the credits, letting them and the cheesy 80’s pop song play on, a distant soundtrack. 

“I never thought any of this would happen,” you breathe out. 

Taehyung looks down at you curiously. “What? This?”

“All of it,” you admit. “Us. Getting married. That stupid tabloid picture. My grandmother. This. It’s all so new.”

“New things will happen all the time,” Taehyung muses aloud. “We can’t help when things change.”

“You don’t have any regrets?” You have plenty. Regrets that you’ll never become the CEO you wanted to be in college. Regrets that you’ll never become the fashion designer you wanted to be as a little girl. Regrets that you will come to resent this marriage, resent Taehyung more than you have in years past, all because you had no choice. Regrets that your grandmother couldn’t see you now. Regrets that there were so many things in your life you could have changed, but didn’t.

“I thought I did,” Taehyung tells you. “I wanted to spend more time with my friends. I wanted to major in art in college. I didn’t want to marry you. I know you didn’t want to marry me.” He looks down and you look up at the same time, eyes locking, inches apart. “But looking back on it, I’m happy where I am. With what I have.”

“I never thought it could ever be like this,” you say, words falling off your tongue before you even ask them to.

“What?”

“Us.”

There’s no need to elaborate. Taehyung understands. He understands that, half a year ago, you both would have thrown yourselves into a volcano before holding hands with each other. He understands that getting over your hatred for each other seemed like an absolutely insurmountable task. He understands that you had never wanted to marry each other, that you couldn’t believe you would have to spend the rest of your lives with each other. 

And he understands that now, things are different. 

“I’m glad things happened the way they did,” Taehyung begins. “I’m grateful for us.”

You press yourself impossibly closer to him, feel his grip tighten around you. Like this, you can hear his heartbeat. Hear it thump like a drum, steady and firm and unwavering. His heart beats against his chest and you wonder. 

You wonder if he can hear the way yours beats for him, too.

There were lots of things that made your night in together special. But one of them is the glaring fact that you don’t get them very often. That their infrequency makes them all the more valuable. 

This has become blatantly obvious to you, because right now you are not spending a night in together. Right now you are stuck at a gala that you have to attend for the sake of business, drinking thin flutes of champagne and mingling with people you barely speak to. 

The one good thing about nights like these is that Taehyung looks positively gorgeous in suits. He sort of always has, but you’d never admit that to his face. At least not until now. And as his wife, you are lucky enough to have a front-row seat. 

“I can feel you staring at me all the way from over here,” Taehyung deadpans as he helps himself to a chocolate-covered strawberry from the buffet table. 

You’re too obvious to have any shame about it. “What can I say, I like the view.”

“Hard to believe I was the once the one being shouted at for being inappropriate in public,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. He bites into the strawberry and eats it all in a single go, tossing the stems into a bin nearby as you join back up in the heart of the crowd. 

“It’s only inappropriate if other people hear,” you tease, letting him guide you, hand intertwined with yours, towards an empty corner where the two of you can snuggle up to one another in (relative) peace. 

“I don’t think the champagne was very good for your filter, Miss Y/N,” Taehyung hisses into your ear, warm breath tickling your skin. 

“Don’t you mean Mrs. Kim?” You pose, an eyebrow raised. 

That seems to do something to Taehyung. It’s not very bright in here, with it being nighttime and all, but even still you can see the way his eyes darken. See the way his lips curl upwards, feel the way his grip on you tightens. It sparks something within you. Something deep in the pit of your belly. 

Something that makes you want more. 

You test the waters. “Mrs. Kim has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, Tae?”

Taehyung looks about a moment away from losing control. But instead of slamming you against the wall in front of all of these people and giving you what you really want, he growls out, low and powerful, “Home. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. 

You hail your car outside of the venue and it’s all the both of you can do to not jump on each other right then and there, in the backseat of this giant black van, overcome with want, with need, with everything in between. Taehyung’s leg bounces impatiently the entire ride back, and the feeling of your hand pressed against his doesn’t seem to be calming him down. He pulls you close to him in the backseat of the car, a hand resting on your thigh. You eye him carefully, as if challenging him to be any more daring. He grins. 

Home cannot come soon enough. The two of you tumble out of the backseat and into the elevators, where you mash the top floor button after entering in the security access code, desperate and shameless. The ride seems to take hours, and the heat that surrounds you practically smothers you, covers you, fills up your lungs and chokes you. 

There is nothing left by the time you reach your door. The moment it slams shut behind you Taehyung presses you up against the back of it, pins you against the wood as he hovers over you, eyes tracing your lips. 

“Tell me something,” he demands. 

“What?” 

“A fact. Something I don’t know.”

It doesn’t take much thinking. “I want you,” you breathe out, watch it hit his skin, watch the way his eyes glint in the light of the entranceway. “Please, Tae. I want you.”

It’s enough for him. 

This is not the first time you and Taehyung have kissed. The first time was nearly five months ago, in a chapel, at an altar, surrounded by hundreds of people. It was so unfun that you seem to have eradicated the mere thought from your memory. But you remember that feeling from that day. That feeling you got when you pressed your lips against his, cemented your marriage with a kiss. That heat. That sting. 

Kissing him now—that feeling has returned tenfold. When his lips meet yours, it feels like fire is rushing through your veins, setting alight every nerve it passes, unforgiving and relentless. His enormous hands come up to cup your jaw, fingers pressing against the skin of your cheeks as they pull you close to him, keep you trapped in his hold. This is not the first time you and Taehyung have kissed but it feels like it is—it feels like there is a lotus blooming on a lilypad in your heart, it feels like you have been struck by lightning, it feels like nothing else you have ever felt before. It feels brand new. 

Pressing back against him, he slowly releases you from the cage he has created against the door, spinning around so the two of you can tumble up the stairs and into your bedroom, unable to resist sneaking in pecks here and there as you make your way upstairs. Every step you take you stop, giggle as he presses you against the railing just so he can steal another kiss from you, put his hands all over your body. It’s a wonder the two of you even make it into your bedroom at all. 

When you do, however, all bets are off. Taehyung presses you against the still-made bedsheets with a glint in his eye and a growl on his lips, pupils blown wide as he stares down at you, at your body.

"Aren't you a sight? Laid out so pretty for me," he purrs, robbing a breath from you.

It's a tone you have yet to hear from him. You find yourself growing impossibly hot under his stare, burning with an uncharted desire.

You can hardly wrap your brain around it. Here you are, craving the man you had spent the better half of your young adult life loathing. Maybe it’s the champagne; maybe it’s the way his fingers are running slowly up the length of your clothed torso. Whatever it is, your stomach does flips, unfamiliar to the way your body preens under his touch.

"Don't let it go to your head," you tease, simply because you could.

Taehyung hums disapprovingly, pressing kisses into your neck as he grabs one of your thighs and wraps it around his waist, riding your dress up in the process.

You sigh, exposing your neck further for him as he paints bruises into your neck. It feels like just yesterday you had called him out at the altar for his habit of sporting the very same marks you were soon to wear.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting the man you had married purely under business pretenses press his hips against your clothed center, but as he rolls his into yours, your mind falls blank, silencing any and all reservations you should have.

Whimpering, you beckon his mouth back onto yours, tongue meeting his wantonly. 

You feel his fingers creep up the outside of your bare thigh, thrilling you in the most primal way. Reaching the band of your underwear after what felt like entirely too long, he runs the pad of his thumb against the lacy fabric.

 You could scream. He is doing this on purpose. He must be. Surely he knows how badly you were aching for him? For him to fill you– whatever the manner may be.

You let out a whine before you can help yourself, frowning as Taehyung looks pleased with himself, confirming his knowledge of your prolonged pleasure.

"What's that? Did you say something?" he mocks, looking cruel and yet strikingly gorgeous as he smirks above you.

"God, you're irritating,” you huff, hips jerking up against his as he pulls at the band of your underwear, the elastic snapping back into the flesh of your hip. "Just fuck me already."

He tuts, clearly unimpressed by your impatience, "Now, where is the fun in that?"

Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers suddenly snake their way between your thighs. Mouth falling ajar, you grip his shoulders as he runs his middle finger against your clothed slit, trailing up and down your warmth. To think he was still dressed while he was touching you like this...

"No... I think I'll take my time with you," he says.

You mew against his hand, arousal forming against his long digits' ministrations. You have to hand it to him. Taehyung knows what he’s doing. The life of a bachelor has seemingly served him well.

You aren’t usually vocal in bed, but the way he’s purring words of filth to you, breath hot against the shell of your ear as he tells you how hot and slick your pretty pussy felt against his hand, has you gasping and sputtering, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist.

The fabric of your panties provides a friction that toys the line of pleasure and pain, making you thrust up to meet his motions, your humility slipping from you.

Taehyung watches you intently, cock growing hard under the constraints of his dress pants. You look better than he could've imagined, eyes watering and body shivering under his touch, his fingers soaking with your arousal. He can only imagine what you'd feel like with his fingers fully buried into you, rocking them against your velvety walls.

He lets out a groan of his own, turned on by the idea of you fucking yourself onto his fingers, whimpering out his name in ecstasy.

There’s this part of you that faintly recognizes that Taehyung has done this plenty of times before. Plenty of times with plenty of other lovers. But there is a different part of you, that part that bursts with light and hope, that reminds you that he was never married to those other ones. That his allegiance lies with you. And that thought, knowing that deep within you, he is yours, makes your jaw fall slack, pretty noises tumbling from your lips and your thighs clamping around him.

You were close, closer than you care to admit. Every touch against you is careful yet deliberate as he reads the signs of your body, the way it keens and arches into him, offering you words of encouragement as your climax finally hits.

"That's right. Good girl. Let go for me," Taehyung coos, eyes dark and focused on your writhing form.

You cry out into the familiar space of your shared room, head thrown back as you ride out the high, letting it wrack your body, send jolts throughout your veins.

You barely have time to catch your breath when he presses his mouth back onto yours, kiss still as eager as it was when you both first entered your home. You are alight with satisfaction as he pulls away to press a trail of kisses against your jaw.

"I want—f-fuck," you stutter as he finds your already hypersensitive clit once more, rolling his thumb over your now soaked panties in tantalizing circles, "want to make you feel good, too."

Admittedly, this fantasy had crossed your mind once or twice, brought on by the way he carried himself in a suit and the way his large fingers wrapped around the champagne glass; confident, collected, and entirely charming. Who are you to shy away from a man like him? He certainly has always been rather good-looking. 

He pauses his motions, pulling his hand back to sit on your waist. Your dress is of the finest, most delicate satin, and after tonight's activities, completely wrinkled. You can almost hear your stylist's cries of dismay. Whatever. You have a steamer. And why focus on the dress when it’s obvious the two of you are focused on what lies underneath it?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod, skin still burning from your past climax.

Helping you back up, Taehyung stands. You lick your lips as you sit back up on the edge of the bed, watching intently as he unbuckles his belt, audibly hissing as his pants fall to his ankles, cock visibly straining against the fabric of his underwear. Thank God you don’t have to stand. With the way your thighs still felt weak and how your husband looks like a goddamn Adonis towering above you? Your legs surely would give out underneath you if you rose.

Brows furrowed, Taehyung palms over himself briefly before pulling down the waistband of his underwear, his painfully hard member slapping against his torso.

Your eyes widened on instinct. While the last thing you wanted to do was help inflate Taehyung's already large ego, you were certainly impressed at his size; thick and girthy, his tip red and shining with precum.

He couldn't help but smirk, thoroughly pleased by the way you stared at him unabashedly, chest rising and falling heavily.

"Open up for me," he orders.

And who are you to deny a request from your dear husband?

Your pretty lips wrap themselves around his engorged tip, all remnants of lipstick long gone by now. Taehyung hisses, a hand finding the side of your jaw as you run your tongue against the underside of his cock.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," he grunts, fighting off the urge to grip the back of your head and fuck your throat. As much as he'd love your have you choking and drooling all over his cock – and boy would he – he lets you set your own pace, not wanting to overwhelm you.

It doesn't take long for you to sink your mouth further down, however, clearly set on making Taehyung feel as good as you could.

A low moan erupts from his throat, digits pressing into your jaw in request to take more of him in, which you happily oblige.

You had your eyes trained on him, completely obsessed with the way he panted through pink lips, hissing slightly every time your tongue rolled over his sensitive tip.

Lolling his head to a side, his eyes meet yours, gaze primal and wolfish as he watches the way you worked his cock.

"Doing so good, love. Doing so fucking good for me,” he murmurs.

You hum against his skin at the sound of the sudden pet name, an unfamiliar feeling fluttering in your belly. You push aside the feeling, focusing instead on the way he grunts at the new sensation you had just given him.

Giggling, you pull off his cock, opting instead to press a kiss against his leaking tip, making sure to hold his eyes as you run kitten licks against it.

"God, you're such a tease." He shakes his head in disbelief. 

He looks so good above you, shivering and cursing out praises on how good your mouth feels, how well you take his cock. Running your tongue along the length of his shaft, you become certain that this is a display you can’t imagine yourself ever getting tired of. But you have all the time in the world, right?

"Y/N,” he gasps suddenly, hips jerking towards your face. "Love, I'm gonna-- gonna cum."

"Cum in my mouth, please." Your voice was pleading and desperate. Taehyung had never heard such words spoken more sweetly. 

"Fuck's sake."

You let out a yelp in surprise as his fingers work their way through your hair, bringing your head back down onto his cock. You relax, though, when you feel the hot ropes of his cum hit the back of your throat, your hands finding purchase on his thighs as you do your best to swallow it all down.

Pulling yourself off him, you let out a small cough, eyes watering slightly as you hadn’t managed to prepare yourself with a breath before his release. His large palm runs across the top of your head as you caught your breath, expression flickering with something unfamiliar. Could it be... fondness? 

Your heart stammers at the thought as you stand, slowly stepping out of your dress, letting it drape off of your figure. Taehyung looks absolutely gobsmacked, pupils dark as he gazes at you, eyes unabashedly raking your body. He’s shameless. 

You both are. 

Slowly, you step towards him, fingers reaching out towards his shirt, carefully undoing the buttons as you gaze at each other, expressions unreadable. 

"Tae?” You ask innocently, blinking up at him. “Fuck me?" 

Your polite request makes Taehyung chuckle. 

"Please?" You bring your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes blinking up at him adoringly for good measure. You reach the last button, let his dress shirt drape open. He brushes it off himself, stands there for a few seconds just to let the way you’re ogling his toned chest go to his head. At least he’s good-looking. 

He sighs, probably contemplating some clever rebuttal, but eventually decides against it as his cock is already twitching back to life.

"Alright, love. Turn around. On your knees for me," He orders, making your stomach flip.

To your surprise, you are hardly in place when the warmth of his large hands finds the soft of your tummy, pressing you back into his chest as he pressed a peck to the back of your neck.

You squirm in his hold, whining as that same hand of his grabs hold of your breast, long digit rolling your nipple between their tips. You can’t help but press your ass back into him. His cock feels hot and heavy, pressing against the back of your thigh, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

You want him.

You want him so bad that you don't know what to do with yourself, shuddering as his free hand runs along the side of your ass, leaving scorching hot trails on your skin wherever he kneads into your flesh. He's touching you everywhere – everywhere but where you need him the most, and the arousal that drips down your thigh mocks you.

"Dammit, please!" You exclaim, running out of patience.

"Please what?" He says, an eyebrow arched.

You shiver, committing the way his middle finger traced your pelvic bone to memory forever.

You puff out a frustrated breath, nearly at your wit's end. "Please fuck me, Tae."

Taehyung pauses, grip on your breast and hip tightening as he lets out a moan. You let one out yourself as you feel him readjust, cock pressing against your slick entrance.

"Fuck, you sound so pretty when you say my name," He grunts. "Okay, baby. I'll fuck you. Begging so nicely for my cock."

You let out a squeak as you're suddenly pushed down onto your hands, back arching as he pushes his fat cock inside your heavenly cunt. He's thick, so thick, that you instinctively grip the sheet underneath you, fingers curled around them tightly as if it means to hold onto your sanity.

Taehyung lets out a shaky breath, angling your hips up so that you could take more of him.

"You feel—feel so good," he admits above you, and suddenly you wish you could see him. See the way his bangs stick to his damp forehead—see the way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip wickedly.

You let that thought go, however, as he thrust into you, making your jaw fall slack and eyes flutter shut. Profanities roll off your tongue unabashedly, helpless under the way his thick member pulls out of you, only to slam back into you.

You weren't expecting this. The way he stretches you out further than anyone had before. Your pussy clenches around him, reveling in the sweet, sweet burn.

He digs into the flesh of your hips, holding you steady as you mew and cry out, pushing your hips back in time to his, trying your best to meet his movements.

"Tae... fuck, fuck, fuck—"

He was filling you to the brim. Filling you tight and deep.

God, the way he was panting behind you was music to your ears. His cock pulses every time you call out his name, voice muffled and buried as you had your head pressed into the mattress, hair messy and bouncing with every hard thrust.

"S'good! Fuck... so, ah, big..." you cry out.

You feel drunk. Intoxicated off this beautiful man and the way he makes you feel a way only he can.

You nearly let out a sob as the rough pads of Taehyung's fingertips suddenly reach around you and find your neglected clit, rolling light circles on the soft and swollen bundle of nerves skillfully.

You are a mess, whimpering and drooling into your expensive sheets, and he filled every inch of you, leaving no place undiscovered. Your high nears, stewing on low heat somewhere near the pit of your belly, waiting for a chance to erupt and wash all over you. Taehyung must be close to, you realize, as his thrusts began to slow down, slamming into you roughly as if chasing after his high.

"Gonna take this load? Huh? Gonna let me cum inside your pretty little pussy?" His voice is straining, as if trying to breathe evenly but merely moments from falling apart.

If only you could formulate an intelligent response, but instead, you are a blubbering wreck, thighs shaking as they threatened to give out underneath you. But somehow, Taehyung knew. He had you. Quicking his motions against your delicate pearl, he could tell you were close too, and he was going to make sure you got there.

Suddenly, you're crying out and convulsing, tears brimming at the ends of your eyes as you feel Taehyung empty into you, collapsing onto his hands as well.

You feel his hot breath against the back of your neck as he pants, breath growing more and more even as the two of you regain control of your bodies and minds.

Pulling out of you, he plops down beside you, and for a moment, the two of you hold each other's gazes, eyes speaking in ways words never could.

Finally, after what feels both like an eternity and just a moment, you work up the courage to say something, moving closer to him as you place a hand on his chest, cushioning your chin as you rested on top of it.  

"Psst," you beckon, voice hushed.

"Yeah?" His voice is husky and tired.

"I’m grateful, too."

"Huh?"

"I’m grateful for us, too."

Taehyung's gaze is soft, and it lingers on you for a second before the sides of his mouth curl up tenderly. He grins down at you, eyes drifting shut. You feel him squeeze you closer, pressing you against his skin. And then, you hear his breathing steady, see his lips part slightly. 

You lean into his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Thank you, Tae.”

Not unlike the many other mornings you have awoken in this bed, when you open your eyes as the morning sunlight streams through the windows, Taehyung is nowhere to be found. The sheets on his side of the bed are flipped aside, revealing that soft outline of his body from the night before left imprinted into the sheets, a dip in the mattress where he slept. You had fallen asleep all wrapped up in each other, tangled up like vines, but must have separated sometime during the night. Distantly, you register Taehyung’s voice outside, notice his phone missing from his bedside table. He must be on an early morning call. 

You check your phone for the time. Ten o’clock. 

A late morning call, then. 

Still basking in the afterglow of the night prior, you slowly inch your way out of bed, shivering as you pull the covers off you and scoot your legs around so they hang over the edge of the bed. You rub at your eyes until you faintly remember you did not take your makeup off last night, and when your hand comes away covered with black streaks and flecks of mascara, you wince to yourself. There goes five hundred dollars worth of a skincare routine. 

After washing yourself up and applying as many serums as you can to your skin, you wrap yourself up in one of his button-up shirts, the torso so wide that it drapes over you. The tips of your fingers peek out from the ends of the sleeves, and you cross your arms lightly over your chest as you make your way to the door, ready to entice your husband back to bed for round two. What? It’s Saturday. 

You peer around the door to find Taehyung standing a few feet away, facing away from you. He’s shirtless, and as his wife you have absolutely no problems ogling him, the toned curves of his back, the muscles in his arms. He’s always been a looker. You just finally have an excuse to look for yourself. 

You approach him quietly, not wanting to interrupt nor broadcast your sex life to anybody on the other side who may be listening. Already, the idea of crawling back in bed together sends goosebumps along your skin, makes you giddy with anticipation. You’re just about to tap him on the shoulder, lips curled upwards in suggestion, when he says—

“And my inheritance? That’s secured now, right? Because I said I would pretend to be in love with her in public—?”

And it is as if Medusa herself appeared in this room, turning you to stone as your heart thuds to the floor, a hollow, empty noise. 

You don’t hear the rest of Taehyung’s conversation. You don’t even hear the sound of your own heartbeat. This terrible, aching sound rings in your ears, silencing everything in its wake, drowning out even the sighs of your own breath. It is as if you have been frozen solid. As if you have been shot in the stomach. You stand there, feeling absolutely nothing, and all you can do is brace yourself for what is to come. Taehyung’s words were the knife but his next actions will be its removal, leaving in its wake an irreparable wound. 

He turns around, casual and cool, voice still hushed. As if you were still asleep. As if you hadn’t heard anything at all. But when he twists his body and sees you standing there, staring back up at him, lips parted in shock. 

“I’ll call you back,” he tells whoever was on the other side of the line, looking more panicked by the second. He opens his mouth so he can explain himself, but you don’t need him to. You’ve heard everything already. 

“I should have known,” you say, feeling angry and betrayed and sad all at once. “I should have known it was all an act.”

“Y/N, wait, let me explain—”

“What is there to tell me, Taehyung? What are you going to say? That you didn’t mean it? That you thought I wouldn’t find out? That last night was just a one-off?” You demand. The heat from your veins hasn’t left. Still, it simmers through your blood, burning you up from the inside out. “That you didn’t want to lie to me?”

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Taehyung says defensively, brows furrowed. “Just give me a chance to explain myself.”

“Explain yourself? How you pretended, every day and every night, just so you could get some more money in your bank account? So you could make sure you would get your father’s business when he died?”

Taehyung bites back easily. “Don’t act like you weren’t also faking it at some point. I know you were almost removed from your grandmother’s will.”

Your tongue is bitter at the mention of your grandmother. As if Taehyung ever even knew her. “My grandmother has nothing to do with this.”

“Really?” Taehyung challenges. “So you wanting to stay in her will was just a little bonus, right?”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “It’s different.”

“Different how?” Taehyung spits. “Because right now, to me, it looks pretty similar to what I’ve done.”

“My grandmother died months ago,” you remind him. Her will is no longer the question. It has been written, settled, and executed. There was no reason for you to continue playing along once she took her last breath. No reason—unless you wanted to. “Meanwhile you’ve been keeping your inheritance a secret from me this entire time.”

“We made a deal,” Taehyung says. “A deal that said we would both act happy and pretend to be in love because we both had things we needed to worry about. Family things. Money things. You were a part of this, just like I was. You pretended, too.”

“Well, maybe I stopped pretending!” 

You can’t take it anymore. All this anger, all this emptiness, it’s been bubbling up inside you ever since you heard those first words come out of his mouth. It spills out of you all at once, an eruption from your lips, your heart’s doors bursting open. You have held his hand tightly in your own. You have pressed your lips to his. You have laid yourself bare in front of him. What is there left to protect? What part of you has not already been stained by him, by his touch, by the feeling of his fingers against your skin?

The hallway is silent, but you can hear your cry echo down the corridor. Hear the way it bounces along the walls before fading away. 

“Maybe I stopped pretending,” you repeat, softer this time. You blink and already can feel the streaks along your skin, the tears falling from your eyes. “Did you ever think about that?”

“Y/N, what are you talking about?” Taehyung looks like he’s in disbelief. Like he cannot believe the words you are saying to him. 

Well, that makes two of you. 

“Can’t you see, Tae? Can’t you tell?” You ask, the nickname falling from your lips before you can even help it. You must remind yourself to change that, later. “I’m in love with you.”

They are words you have never said to someone before. Not even your old boyfriends. Words that you always knew you would reserve for someone special. Someone who would touch your heart and make it their own, someone who would leave imprints of their fingers against your chest. Someone who would brighten you up from the inside out, leave you bursting with light. 

Ironic, that Taehyung has become that someone. When he is the one person you never thought could. 

When he has proven, time and time again, that you two just cannot mix. Oil and water. Pastel and acrylic. Satin and silk. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” you spit out quickly, before Taehyung has a chance to respond. “I know it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Y/N, yes it does,” Taehyung begins, desperate and pleading. “I know you heard what I said, but I swear, it stopped being an act for me, too. Things are different now, just like you said.”

“Don’t. Please.” You pull away as he reaches out towards you. Faintly, you remember that it is his shirt you are wearing. Remember that no matter what you do, he will always surround you. “Please, Tae.” You have nothing left. You can’t bear to look at him, but where else will you go? You cannot believe the things he’s said, the things he’s done, but where else would you go?

“I love you, too,” Taehyung says, and a part of you wants so badly to believe him. 

A part of you wants so badly to ingrain those words into your head, carve them into your heart, let him wrap his arms around you and promise that everything will be alright. But things are different now. Just like you said. You and Taehyung are not the same people you were six months ago. Or six weeks ago. Or even six minutes ago. You are helpless and he has proven that he does not care. 

“I have to go,” you say, looking away. You don’t think you could handle turning back to him again. “Please, Tae.”

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung says, and he reaches out once more but you are not there to meet him halfway. Were you ever?

“I know,” you whisper back.

You duck into your bedroom and pack a suitcase of everything you need. Being here is suffocating. Being with him is like setting yourself alight. 

Victoria has no questions when you show up at her door later that day, suitcase by your side and this ridiculous bottle of Merlot in your hands. You had picked it up on the way over. You sort of figured you might need it. 

“You don’t wanna talk about it, do you?” Victoria asks. 

“Tell me about your streaming service,” you hiccup in response.

Victoria is happy to oblige. She even tells you that she still hasn’t picked a CFO, and that the position would be open for you if you ever wished to take it. 

Funnily enough, what will become of you once your father retires and passes along the company is the furthest away from your thoughts. 

You remember being so worried about that. Being so worried that, once they married you off like every good daughter should be, you would be absorbed into your husband’s life, cut out of your family’s. Your father would choose a cousin, an uncle, or even a friend to take after the business, bestowing upon you a thoughtful inheritance but nothing more than that. All of those years of schooling, finance in college, your MBA soon after, would be wasted, just so you could hang on the arm of your husband for the rest of your life. 

It’s thoughtful of Victoria to think of you for the position. She knows just as well as anyone else that you would be an excellent fit. And if things were just a little bit different, you would be jumping at the offer. 

But your future career plans are on the backburner, along with the rest of your life. 

All you can really do, right now, at this very moment, is wait for things to change. As they always do. 

“Don’t you have an event tonight?” Victoria asks about three days into your stay. She’s given you her favorite (her words, not yours) guest bedroom and an enormous closet to match, despite you only coming over with a carry-on’s worth of clothes. 

You scoff to yourself. “Like I’d want to go to anything with him.”

“Have you even called your parents?” 

“No,” you say, not even caring about the repercussions. There’s no doubt in your mind that they’ll be ringing you soon. And when they do, maybe then you’ll finally work up the courage to tell them what really happened. Tell them that you can’t go back there. Not yet, at least. 

“I’m sorry that this happened to you,” Victoria says as she hands you a bowl of vegetable soup, homemade from a couple of days ago. You nod to yourself, sniffling as you curl into the couch cushions and wish they would absorb you whole. 

There’s no need to ask her what she means by ‘this’. Everything. From your engagement to the marriage, from those tabloids to the deal, from your grandmother’s death to now. It has all been unfair. Life is unfair. And while you’ve always known that, it has been particularly cruel to you as of late. 

Still, when you wake up sometimes, you can still feel him tracing over your skin. Feel his lips hovering over yours, breath fanning out over your cheeks. You turn over and expect to see him lying there, on the right side of the bed, sheets mussed as they cover his figure. You wake up and for a brief moment, for that split, split second, there is peace. And happiness. And love. 

And then there is nothing. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me, too.”

Maybe he really does love you. Maybe things really did change. But you have always been a pragmatic person, always let your head guide you rather than your heart. The secret’s out. Taehyung had an inheritance he needed to secure. You were his path to doing so. Those things haven’t changed. No matter if his feelings did. 

“Hey, look at this,” Victoria says, brows furrowed as she holds out her phone in front of you, revealing a livestreamed interview from the event tonight. 

You peer over. 

It’s Taehyung. 

Of course it’s Taehyung. Who else would she be showing you?

He stands in a clean-cut gray coat, draping over his figure, black dress shirt and slacks underneath, belt wrapped neatly around his hips. He holds his hand up in a wave and smiles politely to the cameras, to the reporters, letting the flashes wash over him like waves in the ocean. 

“Mr. Kim! Mr. Kim!” Someone calls. “Where’s your wife?”

Oh, God.

Taehyung grimaces a little, pursing his lips. “My wife won’t be joining me tonight.”

“Can you tell us why?” They shout. 

“Sorry, no more questions. Thank you for asking though. She’s well,” he says, quickly ushering himself along, entering the venue so no more reporters can bombard him. When he disappears, the livestream immediately moves on to the next guest, but you hardly pay them any attention. 

“Huh,” Victoria says aloud. 

Indeed. Taehyung’s response strikes you as rather odd. Why would he tell the public that? Why not make up a lie, say you’re sick, or you’re overseas, or you’re just late? Why simply tell them that you won’t be there? Surely, Taehyung is just as aware of the consequences of arriving at an event without you as you are. There’s no doubt that his parents will be in contact with him soon, too. No doubt that this will leave a stain on his family. His image. It might even threaten his inheritance after all.

So why not lie?

You frown to yourself, nose scrunching up in confusion. You don’t like where this train of thought leads.

“You okay?” Victoria asks when she sees the bewildered expression on your face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you say. Just completely befuddled. It escapes you, why Taehyung wouldn’t just make up some sort of excuse as to reasoning behind your absence. Why he would even show up at the event at all. Certainly, going to the event without you is worse than not going at all. It prompts questions. It spreads rumors. 

Later that night, you get a call from your parents, demanding to know why you weren’t there with him. You say you got sick. You plead with them not to question anything. 

You wonder what happens next. You and Taehyung still have two more events this week. A dinner and a ball. What will you do then?

Taehyung goes solo for the dinner. You suppose you could have predicted that, considering his apparent willingness to arrive alone for the first event, too. He hasn’t made any efforts to contact you and for once, you’re glad for his silence. Not that you even know what he would say to you, anyway, but at least he isn’t begging you to come back to him. 

The sad truth is that if he did, if he got down on his knees right in front of you and willed you to come back home, you probably would. He has always been impossible to resist. Even when you first met him, when he sauntered up towards you and told you he was your dream come true. You didn’t know it then. But he was. He was everything you would ever want. 

Why would he lie? 

Why would he do that?

You can’t wrap your head around it. What is he getting out of it by telling the truth? By admitting to the paparazzi, to the reporters and the cameramen, that you won’t be there with him. That you will not be joining him. Nothing, certainly. His parents must be furious. His inheritance may be on the rocks. His image might tank. 

So then, why do it at all?

Could it… could it be?

Is it true?

You have loved Taehyung for a long time. Longer than you probably even care to admit. You have always held your head high at events, spoken loudly and without fear, but being with him made you feel safe. Secure. You would hold his hand and know, know that he was holding yours, too. It grounded you. It soothed your worries. 

Does he really love you back?

Taehyung smiles politely and laughs when he needs to at these events, but he doesn’t look the same. Even through the screen you can see those bags under his eyes, that spark that has faded. You hardly recognize him. He looks so lonely, without someone by his side. So distant. 

When you know the dinner has ended, you almost pick up the phone and call him. 

Almost. 

Instead, when the ball rolls around, you ask Victoria if she’s got a spare dress she can lend you.

 Kim Taehyung, for someone you have seen covered in paint splotches, wearing old college hoodies, and fresh out of a restless night’s sleep, cleans up pretty well. For a married man, at least. 

You wonder what the past few days must have been like for him. If they have been as empty as your own. Wonder what it was like, riding alone in a big black van to this hotel ballroom, no one to tease, no one to laugh with, no one to hold. No one to poke him awake if he accidentally fell asleep. No one to make sure he’s okay. 

Taehyung stands right outside of the entrance, waving politely to all of the paparazzi, smiling as the cameras flash, giving them the time of day for a moment before he heads inside and muscles his way through another event without you. 

Or so he thinks. 

You spot him just as he opens his mouth, ready to repeat those same lines all over again.

My wife won’t be joining me tonight. She’s well, though.

And maybe it’s just because you haven’t seen him in nearly a week. Maybe it’s just because he is about to lie to those reporters once more, ready to face whatever consequences come his way. 

Or maybe it’s just because you miss him. Miss him terribly, have been missing him terribly. Being away from him was necessary, but that didn’t make it any less unbearable. Not getting to hold his hand, see his smile, meet his eyes. You and Taehyung may not have always liked each other, but you saw him every day regardless. He became a constant in your life. Not an if, but a when. If everything went to shit, you always knew he would still be there. 

And there he is. 

“Wait! Taehyung!”

Taehyung’s eyes widen as he hears your voice, gaze darting around wildly, mouth parted in surprise. He looks around desperately, scanning the crowd, meeting the eyes of every single person in front of him until he finally looks to the left, sees you rushing up towards him, hiking up the skirt of your dress as your heels tap against the sidewalk. 

And when he spots you, sees you running up to him, his body relaxes, a weight lifted from his shoulders as he beams back at you, relieved and thankful and filled with joy, all at once. And you know, then. 

You know that everything will be okay. 

“Sorry I’m late,” you say sheepishly, cheeks burning as he looks at you, takes in every inch of you, breathes you in and lets you fill him up. 

Taehyung doesn’t respond. You reach out to hold his hand but he grabs your wrist and pulls you in, presses you against his body as he presses his hands against your cheeks, palms burning as they meet your skin, and he kisses you. In front of all these people, he kisses you. 

And goddamnit, you will kiss him back. 

It feels like lightning, like a thunderstorm, like the waves of the ocean are crashing against your heart. It feels like fire, like flames are licking at your veins, sending sparks through your blood. It feels like home. 

You and Taehyung ignore the shouts of reporters, the flashes of cameras, the honks of the cars on the other side of the road. When you part, he presses his forehead against yours and lets the tip of your nose meet his. And you smile. 

“Don’t be alone any longer, Mr. Kim,” you whisper, loud enough so only he can hear. 

“When I’m with you, I never am, Mrs. Kim,” he murmurs back. 

You wonder what those tabloids will be saying about you tomorrow. 

The rest of the night finds the two of you pretty much inseparable. You wrap yourself around his arm and for the first time in a long time, he presses his hand against the small of your back, keeping you close. Like he’d ever lose you again. 

One of your least favorite parts about attending balls used to be the dancing. As a young and eligible bachelorette, you would always have to lock hands with another, let him awkwardly guide you along to the music as you made the worst small talk imaginable, forcing laughter and smiles whenever he said something he thought was particularly funny. 

But, like so many others, things have changed. Things are different now. 

The waltz comes on and you and Taehyung are the first to reach the center of the ballroom floor, letting him rest his hand on your waist as you press yours on top of his shoulder. Let him twirl you around the room as the orchestra plays in the background, a soft, sweet, light little melody that carries you along. 

“I missed this,” you say softly. 

“I missed us,” Taehyung corrects. He pauses for a moment, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my inheritance.”

“I’m sorry for storming out. I should have listened to you.” you respond easily. You both have plenty to apologize for. But night is darkest right before dawn. 

“I should have said something,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. “But I was just so—so worried that something would go wrong. And I didn’t know how to explain how I felt about you. I acted in the beginning, too, but then things changed.”

“They always do,” you muse with a grin. 

“I couldn’t believe I had you,” Taehyung admits. “I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous. And funny. And true.”

“Go on,” you tease, even though you do nothing to hide the smile inching its way across your face, the heating of your cheeks, the simmering of your skin. 

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I just—I felt something for you I couldn’t explain. I still can’t.”

You don’t have to prod any further. You know. Deep within your heart, you know. There is love blossoming in his to match the garden that has bloomed in your own. The flowers that have sprouted in the ashes. He has them, too. And when those petals open and the light streams in, he will know. He will know, too. 

“You make me crazy,” you tell him, whispering gently into his skin. “But I’m a better person when I’m with you. I know I am.”

“I meant what I said, that night,” Taehyung says. Makes you wonder which night he’s actually talking about. “That I’m happy that things have changed. That things happened the way they did. I’m grateful for us.”

“I am, too,” you say. And you are. 

You rest your head against his chest as you dance together, swaying back and forth to the beat of the drums, to the strums of the violins, all wrapped up together like ivy, like vines. Those, too, sit in that garden of yours. Keep you tethered to his side, keep him close to yours. He holds you in his arms and he smiles, because he knows, too. Knows that that garden in your heart will soon have a matching one in his. A mirror image of who you are. Who you’ve become. 

Things change. They always will. But so long as he is by your side, and so long as you are by his, you know. Everything will be okay. 

It's different, this time, when Taehyung presses you into the mattress. 

There is no rush. Because now you know for certain that all the time in the world is yours. He is yours forever. You are his.

The two of you are a mixture of tangled limbs and shared breaths, the feverish, irrepressible need to give yourself to each other nearly tangible. He breaks the kiss suddenly, and you’re about to break out in protest. That is, until you see him unbuttoning his shirt.

Inspired, you wiggle out of your own clothes, eyes locked on Taehyung's soft torso and the idea that you had married such a beautiful man, inside and out.

Looking back, you wonder if that was always inevitable. If you and Taehyung falling into each other had been written in the stars from day one, sealed as your fate from the moment he came up to you at that ball when you were teenagers. He was going to be a part of your life no matter what. Whether or not you ended up marrying him. But having him like this?

It makes it all worth it.

"Do you like what you see?" That old cocky smirk of his makes an appearance.

You raise a brow, choosing to omit a response as you unclasp your bra, letting it fall from your chest.

Taehyung swallows.

"Do you?" You tease.

His response comes in the form of bites down your necks and licks down your chest, stealing your breath from you. 

Your clothes are somewhere dispelled beside your passionate bodies, growing cold beside the way your two hot bodies warmed one another.

"You are so beautiful," Taehyung praises, fingers coming up to cup your breast, bringing it up to his mouth.

You mewl, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as his tongue toys with your pert bud, teeth grazing it ever so often just to hear the broken gasp that'd always follow. 

"And so sensitive too," he giggles, making you pout. His hands are gentle as if every touch means something. As if you mean something—no, everything—to him. And the most wonderful part is that he means everything to you, too. 

"Shut up." You roll your eyes playfully, gasping as his palm comes down the side of your thigh suddenly in warning. You bite down your swollen bottom lip at the gush of arousal that dampened your underwear in response.

"Watch your tone, love. Of both our positions, you are in the most compromising one." He reminds you. It isn't a threat, and while usually, that kind of tone would thrill you, you couldn't help but want his mouth back on yours already.

"You talk too much." You flop back onto the bed with a sigh. Taehyung watches with interest as your pretty tits bounce in consequence. Extending your hands out towards him, you give him a pouty look. "Just wanna kiss you."

"Is that all I am to you? Just a pair of lips for you to mack on? I've got news for you, sweetheart, there's a brain behind these ravishing good looks." He scoffs in feigned offense, sitting back on his heels.

You giggle.

It seems as though even during the most intimate of moments, Taehyung still found a way to be, well, Taehyung. At least that hasn’t changed. 

"Whatever, pretty boy. Why don't you come over here and put that mouth of yours to good use?" You purr, making his eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Oh? I don't remember you being this assertive when I was pounding you into the mattress last time."

“What, I can’t have a little fun as well?” You tease, grinning as you look up at him, raking your eyes over his figure. 

"Wanna have fun, love?," He murmurs into your ears, hands gripping either of your plush thighs. "Then spread those pretty legs for me, and I'll show you exactly how much fun you can have."

God, you love this man.

You oblige eagerly, breath quickening as he helped you press your knees by your chest, leaving the wet patch in your underwear on full display. 

"My pretty little wife." He sighs dreamily, making heat rush to your core.

Taehyung's cock stood loud and proud, a hot reminder of where the night would eventually lead to. Seriously, how did you get so lucky? You must've been a saint in a previous life, you decide right then. Or at least, the stars have chosen to be rather kind to you in this one.

"Gonna take these off," he mutters, mostly to himself, tugging the ruined fabric over your ass and down your legs, with your help, of course.

Despite your usual display of confidence, lying beneath your husband, spread out like this, has you feeling vulnerable and slightly insecure. But that insecurity vanishes, however, as he lets out a soft moan, fingers moving to spread your glossed lips apart.

"So fucking pretty, baby. Gonna make you feel so fucking good," he groans, leaning down to press his face near your most intimate part.

Pressing a tentatively lick against, his eyes flicker up to yourself, curious to see if you’re okay with him proceeding. And, well, it’s not like you’re going to say no, are you?

Embarrassingly, you rut against him, making him laugh as you drown in your own mortification.

"Need it that bad, huh?" He coos.

"Yes, please."

The rest of your plea is lost in a moan as Taehyung finds your clit, wrapping his pink lips around the sensitive muscle and giving it a generous suck. Your hands are in his hair before you can think to stop yourself, tugging at his scalp deliciously as his mouth makes its way with you.

Thank goodness for this apartment belonging to just the two of you as the noises that tumbled from your lips surely would've left a roommate blushing.

You're panting, begging for more even though you aren't sure how you'd even handle more. It comes as a delight and slight surprise as fingers suddenly slip inside, wasting no time to rub against your velvety smooth walls, curling themselves inside you.

"Fuck, Tae!" you cry out, eyes squeezing shut.

It was pure reflex. Up until now, you had been watching Taehyung intently, completely consumed by the way his mouth moves against you. How his tongue flicks against your needy clit cruelly. It just felt too fucking good.

You're so wet, positively dripping down his chin as he runs his hot muscle up and down the length of your pussy, devouring you like he hadn't eaten in months, and you were his first meal.

Taehyung’s nothing short of addicting, completely and utterly intoxicating, and you slip further and further to your demise with every lick he takes, every press of his tongue against your clit.

He has a hand pressed against the lower half of your torso, feeling the way you jerk and squirm as he makes a mess of you. You’re close and you know it, too, if not by the way you’re calling his name over and over again, then by the way your thighs tremble, hardly even strong enough to stay up.

"Let go for me, love. I've got you." He sounds so sweet, so angelic, despite how filthy what he was doing to you was.

His words are the push you need, and, like a rubber band that has been stretched past its limit, you finally snap, back arching off the bed as you come with a cry. White fills your vision, and your mind goes blank, only sounds of blissful static filling your ears.

His fingers hold up your quivering legs, mouth pressing kisses onto your pussy encouragingly until you simply can't bear it any longer, pushing his mouth away as you stutter out words of sensitivity and overstimulation.

“I’m going to have to request more of that throughout this marriage.” You manage to say once your vision and breath come back to you.

Grabbing one of your hands, Taehyung brings it to his mouth.

“All you need do is ask,” he replies, making you laugh as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, always a gentleman

Not long after, you find yourself pressed against Taehyung, tongue running against his as he presses his hips into yours. He isn’t coy about his want for you, rolling his cock against your already sensitive center. Warm precum leaks onto your lower abdomen, and suddenly, all you can think about is having him inside you again.

“Taehyung?”

You don’t even need to ask. Hitching your leg around his thigh, he knows exactly what you’re seeking, lining up his leaking cock with your swollen entrance.

Pressing into you, he buries himself to the hilt, groaning out as your warmth envelopes him. You moan out so prettily for him, feeling tight and full with your first orgasm only minutes ago.

“You okay?” he hums, kissing your cheek.

You nod, ears warm at the intimacy of the moment. In many ways, this is nothing like your first time together. You are face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart. Between your bodies could be found more than just desire, but commitment. Devotion. Love. 

“I love you, Tae.” You gush, sighing out as he begins to rock into you.

He falters slightly at your confession but recovers quickly, intertwining his hand with yours and pressing it by your head.

Faintly, you realize. 

That was the first time you had ever told him that.

You look up at him, expecting some wide eyes or even a bit of a nervous tilt to his lips, but all you are met with is a glow. He beams down at you, and your heart swells. 

“I love you, too, Y/N,” he whispers, but you hear the words in your ears loud and clear.

Soft noises fill the room as the two of you become one—hearts synchronizing with one another in silent promise.

It was a promise unlike the one you had made to each other that day at the altar, for this one was real. This one was true.

You shutter with every thrust of his hips, your abused clit finding itself in the crossfire of Taehyung’s passionate motions.

Whimpering, you cling to him, overwhelmed and emotional, like your heart was about to burst. Taehyung lights a fire in you, sends lightning straight through your core. Every word, every smile, every kiss, every touch, they send shivers down your spine, tingles throughout your skin. It’s like you’re falling in love with him all over whenever you see him, whenever his deep brown eyes meet your own.

You remember being so afraid of love that you broke up with all your old boyfriends because of it. Because you couldn’t commit, because you were worried about your career, because they just didn’t give you that spark. But lying here pressed against him, against your husband, you aren’t afraid. Wrapped up around him, tangled up in him, you know. 

Between messy kisses and words of adoration, you find yourself growing closer and closer to your release. Brows furrowed and neck flushed, you come with a soft whimper of his name, coaxing his own orgasm out of him. He lets go inside you, painting you with his seed in a way that pleases you to no end.

Hand still in yours, he gives it a squeeze, pressing a kiss onto your damp chest, right over where your heart beats for him.

“I love you,” Taehyung says again when you meet his eyes, firmer this time, louder. Like he’s worried you didn’t believe him the first time. 

“I know,” you say with a giggle, the words going straight to your head—and your heart. 

Taehyung scowls. “What, no ‘I love you’ back? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Well, only because you want one so badly,” you tease, pressing a quick kiss to his round button nose. “I love you, too, Tae. Always will.”

“I think I knew, then,” Taehyung says with a fond sigh, nostalgia overcoming his expression. “That first time we met. I knew you would be mine, one day.”

“You got lucky,” you scoff slightly. “But I’m glad things happened the way they did.”

“You’re my dream come true, Y/N,” he says. 

“And you are mine,” you murmur.

As the two of you drift off, all twisted up in each other, so mixed up you can’t figure out where you end and he begins, you think back to that night. That ball. 

“Who are you?” You ask, nose scrunched up in distaste. Before you stood a boy you had never met before, wearing shoes that were too big for him and a suit that was a touch too small. 

He grins at you, running a hand through his perfectly-styled hair fringe swiped neatly over his forehead, and he says, “your dream come true.”

And so it was. 

don’t forget to message me! ~ and don’t forget to message rose!