#ten singing the last line Like That i just evaporate

[sluttywoozi]

SATURDAY | Seven | smg xf!reader

You love when I jump right in All of me I'm offering Show you what devotion is Deeper than the ocean is

Rating: M (18+) | WC: ~1.8k | Pairing: smg x f!reader | Genre: smut, romance

Friday

Warnings: biting/marking, praise kink, oral f. rec., fingering, kitchen sex

Reader Notes: wears skirts and dresses, has breasts and a vagina, gets lifted by mingi

Mingi leans over the sauce pan and takes in a deep breath through his nose to check the garlic and shallots as they saute over low heat. They need a couple more minutes to become fragrant, and those minutes give Mingi just enough time to get the rest of his ingredients out. A tube of tomato paste, a few tablespoons of vodka, and a cup of heavy cream are lined up on the counter, along with a block of parmesan and some butter. 

He opens and squeezes the tomato paste into the sizzling sauce pan just as you breeze into the kitchen wrapped in a towel, your skin dewy and your hair up. 

“How long do I have?” You ask, wrapping your hand around his elbow and leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. 

“Twenty or so minutes,” he estimates, stirring the paste into the aromatics until the mixture smooths out before turning his head and stealing a real kiss. You giggle into his mouth, cupping his face with lotion-soft hands and kissing him breathless, and then you pull away. 

You pull away, and Mingi is too dazed to catch you as you dart from the kitchen. He just stands there, one hand wrapped around a wooden spoon and the other holding the handle of the pan, and tries to remember what he was doing before you came in. 

He was cooking, he knows that, but where in the recipe was he? What steps are left? There’s cooked pasta on the counter, so he did that already, at least. There’s also an uncapped tube of tomato paste and oh, that’s where he was. 

It’s simmered more than long enough by now, and he slowly pours in the vodka to deglaze the pan, stirring until it’s all evaporated before adding the pasta water he kept. He lets it come back to a boil as he stirs, the mixture becoming smooth and bright and fragrant. 

“Okay, outfit number one,” your voice sounds behind him, and he tries to contain the rush of giddiness that comes when he realizes you’re going to give him a fashion show. You don’t do it often, just when you’re having a date night in and you have the energy, so Mingi absolutely adores these nights. The twinkle in your eye, the extra pep in your step, the cute little twirls you do to show off the whole outfit, he loves it all. 

He turns in place and attempts to keep his face smooth, to pretend to be critical, as he takes you in. You’re wearing a short, light pink dress, with lace and little embroidered strawberries and bows on the straps, and as you spin for him, he notices you’ve got matching bows in your hair. You look gorgeous, adorable, radiant, and he doesn’t even have to think to say, “One million out of ten, baby.”

He reaches for your hips, only to feel his face fall in a pout when you skip out of the way and out of the room, calling, “Next!” over your shoulder as you go. Sighing, he returns to dinner and tries to figure out where he was again. 

The cup of pasta water is empty, so it must be time to add the cream. He stirs as he pours, reducing the heat when the sauce has smoothed out and opening up the parmesan to start grating it. 

“Outfit number two!” You sing as you glide into view, wearing one of his favorite tops and a skirt he hasn’t seen before. His hands freeze as he looks you up and down, his heart racing at the sight of you. The shirt is light, buttery yellow silk, and something about the way it molds to your tits always makes Mingi’s head spin. It goes perfectly with the white, flowy skirt you chose, the whole outfit making you look like sunshine embodied. 

It’s just as sweet as the last, but with a different vibe, and Mingi wonders what the final outfit will be. He doesn’t even try to touch you this time, knowing both that you’re too quick for him and that he’s got cheese hands. Instead he beams and says, “Fuckin’ beautiful, baby.”

You preen at his words, your pleased little smile pushing your cheeks up as you smooth your hands down your body, ironing out invisible wrinkles. 

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he warns before you can ask, giving the sauce a stir and returning to his cheese grating when you squeak and fly away. He misses you instantly but reminds himself you’ll be back before he knows it. Dinner requires his attention anyway, the parm and butter just sitting there, waiting to be added. 

Both go into the bubbling sauce, along with some fresh ground salt and pepper, and as he lets it all meld together, he starts cleaning up. With just a minute to spare, you rush into the kitchen, sliding on socked feet and stealing his breath. 

You’re wearing thigh high socks. That’s literally all Mingi can register. He doesn’t know what else you’re wearing, can’t hear what you’re saying, doesn’t even notice the timer going off. All he knows is you’re wearing thigh high socks, and he’s so gone for you. 

He only drags his gaze from your legs when you start moving toward him, his arms opening on instinct as you step into his space and reach up. He’s not sure what you’re doing, but you could do anything to him and he’d be happy about it, thankful even. He’s a little disappointed when he finds that you were just turning off the microwave timer, but he’ll survive if it means he gets to keep looking at you.

“I guess this one’s your favorite?” You tease, switching the burner to low and turning in a slow circle for him. Finally, he takes in the rest of your outfit, a cute little pajama set, and his face crumples in defeat when he sees the way your knit shorts hug your ass. 

“Fuck, baby. Yeah, this one’s my favorite,” he practically groans, his hands burning with the desire to touch, to take, to consume. He abandons the stove, the wooden spoon clattering onto the spoon rest as he takes you by the hips and lifts you to sit on the freshly cleaned island. 

Your hands fly to his shoulders, holding tight and keeping him close when he starts to pull away. 

“Lemme eat you out, baby. Hm?” Mingi murmurs in your ear, pressing kisses down your throat as he waits for your answer. 

“Shouldn’t we eat dinner first?” You ask halfheartedly, tilting your head to the side to give him better access. 

“This is our place, baby, we make the rules. If we want dessert before dinner, we can have dessert before dinner,” he speaks low and slow, feeling very much like the devil on your shoulder and not minding at all. 

“Okay,” you shrug and sigh happily, blissfully, a smile brightening your voice as he tugs you right up to the edge of the counter. Your hands fall away from his shoulders to brace behind your back, your hips lifting when he curls his fingertips in the waistband of your shorts and starts to pull. 

He’s careful pulling them over your socks, folds them up and places them next to you on the island before sinking to his knees and biting a mark into your inner thigh, just above where the socks pinch. 

“Why have I never seen these before?” He asks softly, running his hands over your calves and wrapping his hands around your ankles to spread your legs wider. 

“They’re new, I bought them with the set I wore on Tuesday,” you gasp as he takes hold of one leg and hefts it up onto his shoulder, doing the same with your other leg before nuzzling into your pussy and taking a deep breath. 

“I fuckin’ love them,” he mutters against you, knowing you can feel his words better than you can hear them. 

“Good, I bought them for you.” 

He thanks you by licking through your folds to find your clit, a loud moan leaving his lips as soon as your taste hits his tongue. He wonders how long you’ve been wet, if you started off your little fashion show with damp panties and wicked intent, or if every wardrobe change made you hotter. 

He’s not curious enough to tear himself away from you, too entranced by your weeping pussy to even consider pulling away long enough to ask. All he cares about is getting more of you on his tongue, in his mouth, on his face. 

He wants you all over him, and with determined fingers, he starts to search for the spot that will make you gush. He knows he’s got it when you buck into his touch and curl up around him, whimpering his name in a voice that makes his cock twitch. 

The ache is distracting, and he reaches down to undo his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down just far enough for his dick to pop out. He sighs in relief as he tucks them under his balls, squeezing the base of his cock once just to tide himself over, the feeling of your walls wrapping around his fingers making it throb. 

He grinds into that spongy patch with his fingertips and slides his tongue from your clit to your entrance to catch the arousal that seeps out, an encouraging groan leaving him as he swallows you down. He’s never been more thankful for his nose, the size and shape of it perfect for you to rub your clit against while he shoves his tongue inside you along with his fingers. 

Your cunt clamps down like you don’t want him to move, but he knows that just means you’re getting close, knows he should fuck you through the tightness, knows you can take it even though your socked thighs are trembling on his shoulders and you’re crying like you can’t. 

“You can do it, baby. You can cum for me, I know you can,” Mingi pulls his tongue out to coo roughly, his fingertips still working your g-spot. You open one teary eye, peeking down at him, and he grins sharply, his lips swollen and shiny with you, before he wraps them around your clit and sucks hard. 

The sound is obscene but the result is divine, a rush of wetness flowing out of your fluttering cunt  as you writhe in pleasure above him, your whimpers and soaking wet pussy making his dick throb against his thigh. 

He could stop, but his knees don’t hurt yet and his tongue still works, so why should he?

Dinner will hold, and if it doesn’t, there’s always takeout. 

pls reblog if you enjoyed!! as always, i would love to hear your thoughts 💖

Sunday

Seven Masterlist

My Masterlist

[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper Pt. 6

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Reader

Warnings: Angst, morning wood

Length: 1.5k

Notes: Back at it with their bullshit!  Finished this and even though I’m not as ahead as I’d like to be with this fic I have a general idea where it’s going so I’m posting this before I feel like I should? Enjoy! Divider by @firefly-graphics 💛 Header by me 💋

Parts ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, FIVE

Sleep slowly faded away, like a heavy fog evaporating in the morning sun, and your consciousness was becoming aware of a few things all at once. You were unseasonably warm, you had a raging headache already, and you really needed to pee. The arm slung over your waist was doing nothing to ease the latter issue, but it was also the reason for your warmth. 

This was the first morning, since moving into the drafty old farmhouse, that you had woken perfectly cozy and warm. You could say it was due to the fact that you had passed out in your leggings and hoodie but you didn't even want to pretend it wasn't because of the living furnace currently snoring softly into the back of your neck.

Normally, as a morning person, you would jump out of bed and be putzing around the kitchen by now. However, you had no desire to disturb the peaceful atmosphere that waking up cradled in Frankie's arms had created. Morning light was already streaming through the edges of your curtains, casting your room with a warm glow. You watched dust motes dance in the air as you relaxed and matched your breathing with Frankie’s even as his mustache tickled your skin with each of his exhales.

Deciding to give yourself another ten minutes you carefully, as to not wake the grumpy farmer behind you, pulled up the blankets and wormed your body further backward so his curved fully around yours.

Frankie hummed in his sleep as his arm subconsciously tightened around your waist, his large hand spreading out so that his pinky was touching your hip bone and his thumb caressed just under your breast. His mind was still deep in slumber but his body was, er, waking up.

Visions of last night bombarded your mind as you laid there, body frozen and barely breathing to avoid waking Frankie. 

Opening up to Frankie, and he to you. Crying, him making you tea, you asking him to stay so you wouldn't be left alone with the ghost of Brad to haunt your dreams... Frankie had surprised you both, if the look on his face was anything to go by, when he had agreed. The initial awkwardness of laying in your bed together, fully dressed. He had eventually started telling you stories of his childhood friends and their adventures and his soft, raspy voice had lulled you into a peaceful sleep.

All of that, however, had been more intimate and exposing than you'd ever been with anyone. Having Frankie wake up, after all of that emotional intensity, to having his boner pressing into your ass? It would be too much, you didn’t want that level of awkwardness detracting from how each of you had let down your walls for each other.

Slowly, very slowly, you rolled to the edge of your bed and slithered to the floor, avoiding the creaky floorboards on your way to the bathroom.

As you stood at the sink, gazing at your reflection, you were pleasantly surprised by your complexion. No bags, no dark circles under your eyes, just a bit of smeared mascara that was quickly wiped away. Last night's slumber had done wonders for your body. Before this morning you hadn't realized how much tension you had been carrying, or how your poor nights had been weighing on your mental state.

One great night's sleep, the best night's sleep you'd had in a long, long time, had completely restored you. Just sharing a bed with another person, nevermind the fact that he was extremely sweet, thoughtful, and hot as hell, had given you the tranquility you were missing. You instantly craved more. 

It killed you to acknowledge it but a battered, bruised, yet healing part of yourself cried for independence. Reminding you how little of it you've had. It wanted you to be happiest on your own and not need someone else to feel comfortable and safe.

Hating to agree, you knew that bitch was right. For however nice that sleep had been, and however much you craved it again, you knew that you also needed to find happiness in yourself first. Brad had done so much damage, you needed to heal yourself and find yourself again before adding another person into the mix.

Taking a deep breath and coming to terms with your new resolve, you finished your morning routine before exiting the bathroom. Seeing that Frankie was still snoring away, you decided to run to town for coffee, thinking it would be a nice way to thank him for his kindness and company.

Writing a quick note and leaving it on the table, you stepped outside into the beautiful Autumn morning. Grabbing your bicycle you made the short trek to town, unable to wipe the smile from your face.

Town was busy for such an early house, and you were met with a line of customers in the bakery when you entered. The din of chatting friends nearly drowning out the bell chime above the door. Agnes, the owner ‘for over forty years!’ gave you a wave before giving her attention back to the tourist family at the counter. The smell of cinnamon, coffee, and yeast instantly enveloped you and your stomach growled making you want to order everything they had to offer behind the counter.

Knowing it would take a while before you could place your order, the owners of the place liked to stop and chat with customers, you meandered over to the community notice board that hung on the wall near the little bistro tables that graced the front window.

Amidst the notices for lost dogs, babysitting services, church service meetings, and town hall meetings was a poster for a fundraiser that caught your eye. The local youth group was organizing a county fair to raise money for a skateboard park to be built near the school. Visions of cotton candy, excited girls bursting with glee, and purses bursting with prizes flooded your mind. You had loved visiting the fair when you were younger, and decided that helping out would be a great way of experiencing that excitement again.

Grabbing a phone stub you called and signed up as a volunteer. The lady you spoke to was ecstatic and your offer to help and couldn’t wait to meet you. This was a great opportunity to meet more people in the community as well, you realized. You’d been so busy working at Morales Acres and then on your home, you hadn’t put very much effort into getting to know anyone else.

On the bike ride back home, you felt like you were walking on sunshine. Not only was your bike basket laden down with sweetbreads and a new French coffee press, which Agnes had sworn was foolproof, but you had also convinced Jacquie to volunteer for the fundraiser. It hadn't been hard as her eldest child, Cole, was very keen on becoming the next Tony Hawk.

Your future was looking so bright. There was guaranteed girl-time with your new best friend, meeting new people doing something that sounded super fun, and while you had decided to not dive into anything romantic with Frankie, you were looking forward to spending more time with the grumpy guy hiding a heart of pure gold.

Regardless of the crick in his neck, his belt digging into his hip, and his feet sweating from sleeping with socks on, Frankie woke with a smile. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so well. Despite the discomfort, he'd had a dreamless, deep slumber and woke fully rested.

He could try making excuses for it, blame it on the cider, the tiring workday, the spent emotions, but deep down he knew it was due to you. You, who had asked him to stay. You, who had given him so much comfort by just laying next to him. Not only that but he felt like you truly saw him when he spoke. He had opened up more in the last twenty-four hours than he had in the five years since he'd moved here.

He hadn't told you everything yet, the last time he'd done that he had scared away his wife and lost his daughter. He feared that he could lose you too if he told you about Columbia, Tom, the money, and how it had brought out the worst in him. 

Frankie had felt safe enough to share his struggles with cocaine, his failed marriage, and losing custody of Annie. You had only shown sadness and concern, there had never been pity or judgment in your gaze.

Coming out of his inner reflection, Frankie soon became aware of just how quiet your house was. He could tell you had left the bed a while ago, as the space you'd occupied had gone cold. There was no usual humming or singing, no footsteps or signs of life. Slightly mystified and erring on the side of caution, Frankie slipped silently out of bed and began sweeping your house room by room.

By the time he made his way into your kitchen, his heartbeat had gone from a panicked staccato to a slow beat heavy with dread. The truth slapping him in the face: you had left. You'd woken before him, slipped away without saying anything, and left your own house in order to avoid him. Frankie couldn't help but wonder if you regretted your plea for him to stay.

Had he taken advantage of your emotional state? Was staying the wrong thing to do? Even though nothing sexual had happened he still felt like he had done something wrong, and felt horrible for it. Had he talked in his sleep, or maybe lashed out from a dream he didn’t remember? 

Should he leave and give you the space you seemed to want? Should he stay and apologize? Glancing between the stairs that led to your bedroom and the front door, Frankie hesitated while weighing his options. With a sigh, he shook his head and made up his mind. Grabbing his coat from where it rested on the table, he told himself he was doing the right thing. You’d call when you were ready to see him again.

The lightness in your heart very abruptly turned to confusion when you arrived back home, just shy of an hour after you'd left. Frankie's truck was missing from your driveway.

Walking inside, you placed your breakfast and coffee on the table and had a quick look around for any signs of Frankie. When your search turned up nothing, not even a note back, you slumped down onto a dining room chair with a huff.

Had Frankie just got out of bed, grabbed his coat, and left? You tried to not read too much into it. Maybe he had run home for a shower? Or new clothes?

After finishing off your third cinnamon twist, you pushed the bag away from you in disgust with a little too much gusto and it thumped onto the floor. Heaving a dramatic sigh, you reached down to grab the muffins that had spilled out of the paper bag, and that's when you noticed the note that you had written to Frankie had fallen under the table.

Despite yourself, and what your therapist had cautioned you against, your mind automatically conjured up a scene. Frankie waking, glad that he was alone. Making his way downstairs, reading your peppy little note and throwing it away with a scoff. Leaving in a hurry, glad to be free of you and your issues.

Your heart sank, even while your brain fought against the imaginary scenario. Eventually, just barely, your head won. 

When he hadn't shown up after two hours you began to worry. The two extra-large coffees in your system, why let his go to waste? didn't help matters.

By dinner, you were miserably painting the guest bedroom, alone. You told yourself he just needed some space as he had opened up his heart to you in a way he probably hadn’t in a long time. You decided to wait for him to call you once he felt comfortable enough.

Part Seven

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[oftenderweapons]

Love talk - Yoongi

Pairing: Yoongi x reader (nicknamed Kitten)

Wordcount: 10k words

Genre: fluff, smut

Rating: 18+

Hello bunnies! I know you’ve been streaming Dynamite (I’m doing so as I revise and edit). I decided to postpone publishing the piece, so that we can focus on streaming and then as soon as the 24h are over and you’re well-rested you’re hopefully all ready for this 😏

Basically, I’ll do a quick recap of Yoongi and Kitten’s sliver of backstory. They’ve been dating for a couple months on again off again (he’s quite busy with schedule) and have been on several dates, however the situation escalates when the two start playing a steamy late-night after-date 20 questions game.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Consumption of alcohol. Swearing. This is smutty, especially in the end. This is intended for an adult public. Some of the themes are only discussed by the characters. Strong language, alcohol consumption, masturbation both male and female receiving, same for oral (feat. face riding). Mild voyeurism/exhibitionism, quite detailed description of sexual positions and fantasies, discussion on STDs, mentions of previous relationships and past traumas (abusive boyfriend and one very sorry fuck). Choking, breast worship, mentions of restrictions, sensation play and switch Yoongi. This should be all. Also, watch Kitten thirst for Yoongi’s hands (and tongue. and lips. and all the rest of Yoongi) for 10k words. (On a second note, watch Yoongi drool -- only metaphorically, much to his dismay -- over Kitten’s tits).

Yeah, it’s date 10 and these two haven’t kissed yet, I somehow think that Yoongi is the kind of guy who would wait till he’s dying and then just pounce. Also these two just want to jump each other’s bones and I can’t wait for you to see them in Illicit Affairs (definitely my 2nd favourite couple -- ‘cause Joon will be A Lot™)

Wordcount is around 10k.

Since I need to start planning next scenarios, I need you to help me choose the theme, you can vote at the link in my bio!

Here is my masterlist, enjoy 💜

“God, what’s with the weather tonight?”

“Man, this is a nightmare, get in quick.” The arm around your shoulder loosened a little as he let you move quickly from under his umbrella to the passenger seat of his car. As you got comfortable and tried to fix your hair and makeup a little, he walked around the car, opening the driver’s door, sliding in quickly and, with a sleight of hand, shaking the umbrella, closing it and smashing the door shut as fast as possible.

“Damn it.” He moved the soaked object at the foot of the backseat, stretching in the process with a groan.

You set with your hands pressed together, shoved innocently between your thighs.

This was your tenth date with Yoongi and you were smitten over him. Also, horny, but that’s for another moment. You’d been dating without commitment for about two months, the timing absolutely awful – he was in the middle of promotion with the group – but he had been too hung up on you to wait. He had wanted to do things properly, but after two weeks of stalking your profiles on social networks and making a fool of himself anytime you accidentally met, he decided he needed to act, and quickly so.

You went for a coffee once, then he brought you lunch, then you started with your sneaky dates at the cinema, walks at Han river late at night and dark and discreet bars dominating the rooftops of Seoul.

But the cinema was your most recurrent. You were just back from one of your dates at your go-to theatre, at two a.m, the late night show allowing him enough privacy to sneak around and protect you from any prying eyes.

He started the car and asked if you needed the AC on. “You have goosebumps on your arms.” He commented.

He is attentive. And caring. Which really makes you want to jump him. But again, digressing.

“No, thank you, Yoongi.” You replied kindly.

“Okay.” Moving out of the parking lot he started driving to your house, stopping at a couple traffic lights, looking at you as he waited. You looked back at him, smiling affectionately. He took your hand, holding it and warming it up in between his.

“Who would believe it’s September, it feels at least November out there.” You commented, feeling extremely dumb in discussing the weather, but too afraid of letting your mind delve in more mature or appropriate topics.  

“Sure you’re okay?” He asked, as he placed your hand back, the lights turning green.

“Yeah.” You risked evaporation, looking at his focused expression as he drove. Could you believe he hadn’t kissed you yet? No. Could you imagine why he hadn’t done that yet? Hell, no. You had squeezed your brains trying to imagine why he hadn’t kissed you while at the same time keeping on asking you out, date after date.

The night lights reflected beautifully on his delicate features, on his cute nose and his round and soft cheekbones, on his pouty, blatantly soft, deliriously pink, wildly wanted lips, on his flashy silver watch, on his sparkly, delicate necklace, on his small and sober earrings. You wanted him. Your heart skipped a beat at the way your body and mind aligned in that statement. The pressure you felt within you was a living, beating, ravenous thing, enlarging its size like a bird puffing its feathers.

His hands on the wheel were extraordinarily pale and sturdy, skeletrical but also undoubtedly strong. You wanted them on you, grabbing and groping your flesh. And the way he seemed to chew on his lower lip, opening and closing his mouth in that gesture which is so his, as if he were tasting wine or coffee.

You didn’t even realise you had arrived at your place, since you were so caught in staring at him. “A picture will last longer, Kitten.” He teased.

You blushed, turning quickly to look out your window.

“Oh, you’re shy now...” He smirked. “Go figure, I had a proposition for you.” He commented, almost with disinterest, his mouth speaking through a fake pout, the corners of it turned downward.

“I’m curious.” You said, turning to him.

“I don’t wanna let go of you yet.” He admitted, catching your hand again. “I’ll be away for ten days. With the guys. We’re leaving tomorrow evening.” He explained. “Tonight is my last available moment with you and I know it’s two in the morning and all the rest, but I want to spend more time with you.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. “Do you mean…?” You hoped he had somehow sensed your longing. He seemed to have a direct line to your brain, reading you in a way that scared you too often.

He grinned. “I mean, whatever comes from this. Just talking. Just watching you as we talk. It’s not the same over the phone.” He said with a frown.

You nodded. “Do you wanna talk here? Would you like to come upstairs?” You asked, trying to feel the mood.

He bit his lip and laced his fingers together, placing them between his knees and hunching his back. “You see, I kinda wanted to take this to my place. But I promise you I won’t make a move. It’s really just talking.”

Please, do make a move. You silently begged – although you were too shy to actually speak.

“Yeah, nice. Okay.” You replied with a happy smile.

“It’s okay if you want to stay here. Or go upstairs. It’s just that I really wanted to see you at home.”

The tenderness of his domesticity killed that hunger rumbling in your insides and made your head float up high, with cute pink clouds and angels singing and stars glimmering.

This is a crush.

“Show me your crib, kitty cat.” You joked. He laughed adorably at that. He looked radiant.

As he started driving to his place you got back to your thirsting over him, this time openly oogling at his confident charm, at the way he looked so used to all of this. The way he lead you out of the car in the underground parking lot of the residence, the way he locked the car and punched in his passcode to the apartment.

“Here’s the crib, kitty cat.” He taunted right back.

The place looked immaculate. Spot on. Tidy. Neat. A bit cold but his. And it smelled so good. Like cinnamon and fir. Like a cosy, winter cabin. You wanted a blanket and a hot chocolate and a Christmas tree. You wanted him in an ugly turtleneck jumper and flannel sweats and furry slippers.

You wanted home.

“It feels very nice in here, Yoongi.” You couldn’t stop looking around, drinking in every small detail. You understood why he had wanted you here. He wanted to see if you could fit here.

He noticed you did.

“I got these, for you.” He said, offering you a pair of slippers, gesturing for you to take off your shoes as he did the same. He didn’t need to ask twice.

He led you through a quick tour of the house, moving quickly away from his most private places – the bedroom and the studio. You understood his reserve on those, giving his hand a quick squeeze in understanding.

“Finally, the living room.” He explained as he switched on the lights illuminating a large space with a thick cream carpet covering the cold white marble, the room completely dominated by a black leather couch. It looked very traditional and “grandpa”. It really resembled him. “Might as well settle in, we’re gonna be here for a while. Want to drink something?” He asked.

You. “What do you have in mind?” You asked, shutting up your inner slut.

“Well, I was thinking I wanted to do that ‘get-to-know-each-other’ kind of thing.” He said, opening a cabinet in the console under the gigantic tv. In the meantime ha started a slow rap playlist from his phone. “I know this will sound like usual fuckboy who’s trying to make a move, but I have no intention of getting you drunk. I’ll drink, and I promise I’ll be perfectly responsible for my actions, but you don’t have to drink or do anything you don’t want to.” He said, putting some whisky on the coffee table together with two tumblers.

However, you opened the bottle and poured some alcohol first in his glass and then in yours. “Now it’s me the one with a proposition, mr. Min.” You cocked your head playfully. “We play twenty questions. In turns we will ask twenty questions to each other. If you don’t want to answer you pass and drink.” You explained quickly.

“Okay. Let’s get it, Kitten.” He said with a smirk, as both of you sat down at the two sides of the L-shaped sofa, near the corner. “You start, ____.”

“Warm up round, yeah?” You asked.

“Play your advantage carefully.” He suggested.

You nodded, quickly leaving aside dumb and obvious questions, but still going for an innocent one. “How many exes do you have?”

“Okay, nice. Well. I’ve “officially” had three girlfriends and two flings. All the relationships ended because of my job and lifestyle.” He offered you a free piece of information. He didn’t mind anyway. “My turn?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m satisfied.” You replied. “For now.”

He grinned devilishly. “What about your exes?”

You nodded as if expecting the question. “Officially one. It was a long, painful relationship. I’ve had flings though. Maybe eight or nine occasional partners.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Okay. I really didn’t expect that but it’s cool to me.” He said. He really didn’t mind. You’re a woman in her midtwenties, and you have the freedom to do what you want with your body. “Next.”

You looked down and toyed with your fingers, then looked up with a curious smile and gleaming mischief in your eyes. “I’ve gotta ask. When was your first time?”

He smiled. “I was nineteen. I had been dating this girl for a few months. We did it on my birthday. She was two years older than me, showed me the ropes. But even if I really liked her, it all got to hell when we debuted. She was only in it for the fact that I was an idol, she wanted an in, I think. Changed her mind when she realised I was sort of a loser.”

“Well, look at that loser now.” You said, looking him up and down and licking your lip.

He laughed embarrassed.

“I won’t do that mistake.” You promised, this time with a serious expression.

“We’ll see.” He commented, looking you up and down himself. God, he was getting flirty. A pleasured shiver ran down your spine. It wasn’t the cold. “My turn. When did you do it for the first time?”

Again you nodded. “I was with a childhood friend. It wasn’t a relationship. Just, we thought it was a good idea to do that together, because we knew each other and we trusted each other. It was nice. It felt nice. It was the summer after our senior year in high school. He moved out for university afterwards and we lost each other. But it’s a good memory, I must say.” You reminisced fondly. “No unrequited feelings, though.” You clarified, afraid that he would misunderstand.

“Okay. I’m glad it’s a good memory. I was afraid that the painful ex had been your first.” He commented, leaning towards you slightly.

“No, thank fuck.” You muttered. “Let’s move on, yeah?”

He nodded.

“I kinda have to ask this one, out of curiosity and for personal reasons. Have you ever been tested for STDs?”

He blinked and crossed his legs. “I have. It’s part of my medical check-ins. Of course the tests are more for... completeness, so to say, rather than actual need. My sex life is not that active, and when it is, I always use protection. I’m quite obsessed with it, to be honest.” He explained, his defensive stance opening up. He answered thoroughly, not even thinking of how much he was offering freely. “Do you mind me asking the same question?”

“Not at all. I also got tested. After my relationship I had to. My ex wasn’t very faithful.” You replied, blushing. “During all my flings I’ve always used protection except once. I was a bit dumb back then.” You admitted, wincing painfully. “And after my last one I got tested. He didn’t make me feel like a condom was safe enough. Thank God, everything is absolutely fine and I’m clean.”

“Oh, yeah, same here.” He offered back, with a shy laugh. “Ready for question three?”

“Yeah. I’ve got to ask one last question, for my peace of mind. Do you expect monogamy from me?” You asked.

“Do you?” He deflected.

You smiled “I asked you, Yoongi. Do you want me to date you exclusively?”

“Well I do. Do you? Want to date just me? I mean.” He asked.

“Yes, I will date you exclusively if you’re dating me exclusively.” You replied, matter-of-factly.

He shook his head, incredulous. “Of course I’m dating only you.” He murmured with a pout. “Why would I be seeing someone else?”

“I don’t know.” You shrugged.

“Well, I’m strictly monogamous, ____. I’m giving you my undivided attention and all my spare time. Don’t you ever doubt my commitment. I don’t cheat.” He seemed almost too serious for a moment.

“I needed to know.”

“It’s okay. But just because you got burned once, that doesn’t mean that everyone wants to burn you, okay? That’s a bastard’s move. I promise you I won’t.” He said. And for the first time you felt like believing in it.

You took a deep breath, then smiled. “Well, anyway, you already asked your question. So it’s my turn again.” You said, cheekily.

He huffed, offended, but let you go on.

“Time to start drinking, Yoongles.” You chanted in a sing-song voice.

He laughed silently. “We’ll see.”

“What’s your favourite position in bed?” You asked, trying to peek into his private life.

“Should I drink? At this? You have to seriously one-up your game, kitten.” He stared at you intently. He was desperately trying to keep a poker face to hide how much he wanted to climb over your body and hide in the crook of your neck, inhale your sweet scent, which was enhanced by the rain that had hit you earlier.

“I’m quite traditional. I like anything that allows me to see the face of my partner. So missionary, cowgirl and lotus. When I’m a bit angsty I go for doggy. Spoons is another one I like – and also an awfully underrated one. My past lovers all said that the angle is amazing. It’s very rewarding.” Again, he gave you more than what you asked for. He wanted you to know these random things about him. He was telling you everything he wanted you to know. Who cares about vulnerability and offering too much? His aim was to earn your trust. And for you to repay his prodigality in kind. He wanted you to open up and overshare things about yourself. He wanted to know what to imagine when he thought about kissing you. When he thought of you while touching himself. He wanted to understand what he could ask, what you could possibly like, what scared you, what you needed comfort in.

At this point you were imagining him behind you, a hand at your waist, the other on your breast, his low moans caressing your ear, eyes closed, lost in bliss. Snap out of it, slut. “Wide choice.” You commented with an awkward chuckle, still trying to get back from your fantasy.

“It really depends on my partner, though. Whatever works for them.” He shrugged, his arms leaning forward, palms up. “My turn, right?” He waited for your confirmation.

“Off you go.”

“What’s your most frequent fantasy?” He muttered, shy but also sultry, his voice a low rumble.

You inhaled deeply, noticing how close he had got to what you were thinking a few seconds ago. “Dammit, I might drink.” You looked at the glass, almost lunging for it. But it was a feint. ”Actually lately I’ve been thinking a lot about having sex in the kitchen.”

Fuck. He was out. He licked his lip. He almost thought you were done with your confession, but you went on.

“Being pushed up against the counter and bent over. Or being lifted up and sat on the counter. Having someone tease me while I’m spread on the table. Or having to keep a straight face while someone is toying with me underneath the table.” You scratched your cheek, “You pick.” You whispered slightly embarrassed, laying your hands on your cheekbones in an attempt to calm down your blush.

He lifted the glass. He needed to calm down.

When you noticed his gesture you sucked your lips in, trying to hide a smug grin.

“Are you proud of getting under my skin, Kitten?” He asked.

“Yes, of course.” You replied immediately.

“Well done, ____.” The way he almost moaned your name made your blood soar to your ear. “Your turn, kitty.”

“Are you more on the dominant or submissive side?” You asked. You honestly couldn’t figure this out. He showed small signs leaning towards both sides. He was traditionally courteous, giving you attention and taking care of you, paying for food and using his body language to show you were taken, that you weren’t hanging out with a friend or a relative, but a possible love interest. At the same time, he never initiated openly intimate contact, rather he waited for you to initiate. And he had never kissed you, nor shown any interest in doing so.

“I’m leaning dom. But it’s a slight preference. It has a lot to do with my partner’s preferences. I’ve both dommed and subbed in the past. I like the protective, possessive side of domming, but I also like the receiving, caring side of subbing. Still I enjoy the control that comes from being more dominant. I would say it’s 65 to 35 for domming.”

You nodded. That sounded good. “That’s nice. I’m also a bit in the middle. Leaning sub, though.” It felt natural replying. It felt like he should know.

“Thank you for giving that up.” He smiled, warming up to you, trying to associate a positive outcome to your sharing personal information about yourself. “Now, about my question.” He fumbled a bit in his head, trying to go for something intimate, but not openly sexual. “Okay, if you could kiss any part of your significant other but their face, what would it be?”

You smiled at the cute question. Because you honestly didn’t think of the sexual side of it. “Well, you said no face. Let me think... I think I really like giving hand kisses. They’re old school, but also so meaningful. They’re apparently platonic and innocent, but they have that side of worship and adoration that just makes me weak.” You hugged yourself, growing smitten at the thought.

He cocked his head to the side, looking at you with a curious and endeared expression.

“I also like kissing on the chest, like the breastbone, like the very center of the chest. Another not openly sexual spot, but I think it’s so tender. There’s the heart there, so it’s an especially fond spot. It sort of implies that the other person is hugging you, and that you’re laying your head on their chest.” You gushed, turning absolutely tender at the thought.

“What about the face?” He asked. He wanted your hand kisses. He wanted his fingers in your mouth, but that was not the point of the question at all and you were there smitten and cute and he should stop sexualising your cuteness outburst.

“Isn’t that another question?” You smirked, brow creasing.

“I should have asked for ‘anywhere but mouth’. Dumb me.” He huffed out and sulked.

“Then, forehead kisses. Underrated. Affectionate. Platonic but so tender. They go to a whole other level of intimacy.” You murmured, anything to stop his sulking, which was making your heart twist in your chest.

He grinned “Thank you.” He said, sinking his head between his shoulders.

“Well, pay up for it with question six. Thoughts on being vocal during sexy time?” You asked.

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate one second. “Tendentially I’m not very verbal, and I try to keep it quiet. After such a long time with roommates, that’s kind of ingrained in me. Since I moved out, I kinda got more vocal, still not very verbal, but don’t expect pornographic feats.” He laughed, trying to relax the mood. “For my partner, any sound is a nice sound, as long as it’s not fake porn screaming. Subtle moaning and heavy breathing get me going quickly. Sensitive ears and stuff.” He scratched his neck. He was getting worked up again. Deep breath, boy. He scolded himself. “Anything else?”

You shook your head. “I’m good, thanks. Come on, shoot it.”

“It’s my number six?”

“Yes, champ. Go get it.” You teased cheekily.

He took in a big breath, licking his lips.

God, any more lip game and you’d throw yourself at him.

“Quick reminder: you have your drink there, just in case.” He offered. “Have you ever had a sex dream?”

Yes, about you and your dirty mouth and naughty hands. Wait, do dirty daydreams count?

He misunderstood your pause for a sign of reluctance. “Your drink is there, ____, waiting for you.” He reminded you.

You took your glass.

He nodded with little movements of his head, his expression neutral. That’s how much is too much, he though.

“I’ve dreamt of a classmate performing oral on me, once during that relationship I mentioned.” You admitted after taking a sip. Indeed, liquid courage. “I felt awful when I woke up. But it was an epiphany of sorts. It really made me understand how fucked up it all was. I don’t usually have those dreams.” You admitted. “Although I have dreamt random stuff about being naked and sexual feelings related to non-sexual contexts. Like once I dreamt I was canoeing on a rough river and I had this complicated torso bondage thing going on.” You laughed awkwardly.

Breast bondage. He was salivating. Maybe he was overthinking it but his mind had reserved a special spot for your breasts and maybe you didn’t even like nipple play that much and he was just making it up in his head. He closed his eyes to avoid checking your chest. He knew it would kill him. He was already dealing with a semi, elbows propped on his knees to hide it, hoping that the angle and the dim lights would help him. In a part of his brain he started building a folder about your previous relationship, saving there all the useful information. He sort of assumed, because of the dream you had recollected, that oral was some sort of hot topic during that time.

“Thank you, Kitten. I was afraid I had gone too far.”

“It’s okay. It’s just… I do wanna open up to you, but there’s hurtful stuff in the process.” You admitted. “I’m a bit fucked up.”

“We all are, sweetheart.” He reassured you, wanting nothing but to hold your hand, bring it to his heart, to his face, to his lips.

“My turn!” You smiled excitedly. “Sleeping habits: pjs, underwear or naked?”

“My sleeping habits or my preferences for my significant other?” He asked, trying to understand the answer you expected.

“Well, since you asked, both? For the kisses question earlier.” You reminded him.

“Nice, okay. I often sleep in pjs, especially when it gets colder. Naked feels nice too, I guess. Usually in the summer. When I’m on vacation.” He thought about the other one. How would he want you to sleep next to him? “I think I like my partner in very loose clothing. Oversized t-shirt and panties.” No bra, of course. He wants his hands to move there freely. “Naked sounds nice, but I don’t expect it. Some people feel vulnerable like that. My ex did.” He explained.

You understood, people are different, et cetera, but at the same time you asked yourself who wouldn’t want to sleep naked next to him. Feel him waking up, his warm skin enveloping you, his hands and mouth having free access to anything he craved, being completely laid bare for his whims and wants.

He noticed you were distracted and asked you his question right away.

When you noticed him staring you moved your head forward, waiting for him to speak.

“I’ve already asked, but maybe you were distracted, Kitten. How would you rate your sex drive from one to ten?” He asked. “To understand your needs, you see.”

You settled back against the back of the sofa, smiling and thinking. “I’d say around seven? Maybe eight? Like, usually I fool around about two or three times a week. Maybe four if I’m feeling very spoiled and needy.” You explained, fumbling around with the words. Yeah, you have toys and use them. Yeah, you masturbate and have an healthy sex life. Getting laid helps you deal with stress and mood swings, and endorphins help you keep your mood up, what’s wrong with that?

“Reasonable.” He didn’t comment on your fooling around. He might as well try to figure that out with the next question.

“What about you?” You asked.

“Is that your question, Kitten?” He waited for your confirmation. At your lively nod, he smiled. “I think I’m also around seven. As you said, I fool around about three to four times a week, when I’m quite relaxed. Sometimes I might get too tired and just avoid it entirely. Sometimes I’m tired but nervous and just do it more often but take shorter sessions. My question now.” He wanted to speed things up a little. It was around three now and he was afraid you wanted to bail on him.

“Go.” You said, already expecting this one to be bad.

“Do you use any sex toys?”

You laughed. “Yes. I do.”

“That’s it?” He asked, impatient to know more.

“When did this conversation become so explicit?” You asked.

“It was you who started it. But since I’m interested in knowing what you like and what you need, I realised I could use it to my advantage. I want to build intimacy with you before I start actually messing with you. I want our first time to feel right. I want to be able to laugh it out, were things to get messy. I want to know how to make you lose your mind beforehand.”

“If you say so…” You smiled suspicious but also curious. “I have a vibrator. A simple, practical one. Very old school, a bullet number. I also have a double density dildo. Expensive ordeal, but most definitely worth the money. And nipple suction cups. They’re still new. It’s a gift from myself I did a few months ago after a tough time at work.”

Fuck, he wanted to shove his head in a frozen lake. Could you? For real? He dragged his hands down his face.

“I wish I could see what’s going on in your head right now.” You wondered, faking aloofness. You were most likely ready to spread yourself on the coffee table and ask him to feast on you. “Now, about my question.” You followed your intuition. “What’s the body part that turns you on the most?”

He took a sip.

Don’t leave me hanging, Yoongi, please. “I like eye contact. Makes me understand the mood of my partner. It really turns me on when my partner maintains eye contact during sex. And I’m a breasts man. A hopeless one at that.” Again he shrugged in an “I can’t help it” kind of way.

You laid your head back against the sofa, looking at him with a knowing glance from under your lashes. “Interesting.” How long would it take to convince him to rip your shirt, slip the cups of your bra under your tits and suck your nipples until you orgasmed a couple times and fell asleep?

He took another sip. He was blushing. You liked your nipples sucked. And he liked sucking them. How convenient. “What’s a blatantly nonsexual thing that turns you on?” He asked, putting down the glass.

You did consider drinking. Could you handle him knowing such a sensitive piece of information? To hell with reason. “If you cup my face I’ll go smitten. Pair that up with a term of endearment or a little praise and I’m ready to drop to my knees.” You admitted.

“Praise kink?” He asked.

“No. I just get soft when someone cups my cheek. It makes me want to please them.” You admit.

“You know I’ll use this against you the moment you allow me to, right?” He states openly.

“Yes. I don’t mind.”

“Ask your question. It’s number ten baby.” He looked at his watch. “It’s late. Tell me when you want to go. I’ll understand.”

“I want to keep going.” You said. In more ways than one. “What’s something you want to try in bed?”

He stared off in the distance. “Oh. Let me think.” He started bouncing his leg. “Specifically in bed?”

“Yes.”

“I’m pretty sensitive. Maybe I would try something with blindfolds and restraints and sensation play? Like a feather or silk or something along that line.” He blushed and his his eyes in his hands.

“That sounds interesting. You want to try that on someone else or on yourself?” You asked for clarification.

“Myself. But I’m not opposed to doing that to someone else. Okay, let’s go on, I’m suffering here.” Inhale. Exhale. “Do you want to take it down a notch or keep going?”

“Keep going.” You murmured, afraid of what would come next, but also excited.

“Kitten, what makes you wet in seconds?” He whispered.

“You want to use this against me too?” You suspected.

“Only in your best interests.”

“Do you mean sexual things that turn me on innocent ones?” You pushed your head behind your ear.

“Do your thing, kitten.”

“On a more innocent level, I’m really sensitive to voices. I must say that yours unsettles me a little.” You confessed on a small note, with a tiny voice. “On a sexual level, I’m a mess for anything around my chest and neck. It makes me weak at the knees, it really drives me wild.”

“Touching, kissing, biting, sucking, licking…?” He suggested, fixing his posture.

“Yes to all.” You whispered, stretching to get the glass.

“Yeah.” He took a sip himself.

You gulped and put down the tumbler. “Do you ever willingly deepen your voice?”

“Yes. I did it for you, when we met. I saw you shiver when I did it accidentally, the first time we met at the office. So I did it again. I wanted you to notice me, I wanted to get you flustered.” He admitted shyly.

You sucked you lip. “You did. I was squeezing my legs so bad. You know when you stood up and said goodbye?”

“You were holding the edge of the table.” He remembered, nodding.

“My knees were wobbly. I don’t think my legs could hold me up.” You confessed, shaking your head timidly.

“Poor Kitten.” He said, hiding his mouth behind his hand. “Can I ask you a tricky question, sweetheart?”

As you nodded he huffed out a question, scared to ask. “Oral: giving or receiving.”

“Giving. Receiving is a difficult matter. My ex didn’t really… enjoy that.” You spoke vaguely.

He did a double take. “He didn’t eat you out?”

You shook your head gingerly.

“He was shit.” He muttered, pouring himself another shot. You were eleven questions in and he’d drunk only sips. And it was not because he didn’t answer but rather because he needed to calm his nerves before he jumped you.

“I guess so.” You giggled embarrassedly.

“Never?” he asked again, shocked. “Never in 3 years?”

“Never.” You confirmed. “He said the taste made him gross.”

“Gross… And he wanted you to suck him, quite obviously.”

“I didn’t mind. I like the view”. You admitted with a playful gleam in your eyes.

He saved that for later, but at the moment he was too busy handling the matter of your ex. “Fucker.” He replied and took a sip. “But are you opposed to it?” Yoongi asked, curious and honestly worried. He would give anything to convince you to let him change your mind.

You blushed. “I’ve done it a couple times with a few flings, but just like you and noise-making, my mind is kind of set on giving rather than receiving. Still, I think I could give it a try.” You announced.

“I’m glad you’re not letting that fucker take that from you.” He admitted, keeping the glass in his hand and holding onto it like it were his sanity.

“If I’m being honest, after that time we went to the park– you remember the ice cream right?”

Yeah, he remembered. Most importantly he remembered the huge boner he’d got as he watched you eating it, his body losing it like a teenager. He nodded.

“I think I’ve started to think about… Your head. There.” You were getting loose-lipped.

You were going to make him sin. He swore under his breath, downing the shot. Again you laughed, enjoying how you were affecting him. “Gonna show you how good it is.” He teased.

“Hope you’ll show me many, many things.” You joked cheekily.

“Trust me, I’m keeping a list, sweetheart.” And the final smirk made you want to rip your own panties and offer yourself to his pink, wet tongue. “Are you okay, Kitten?” He asked, reaching for your knee.

If he touches me, I’ll fucking explode. And there was his hand. On your knee. “Have you ever had sexual fantasies about a man?” The words left your mouth quickly.

He let his fingertips caress your clothed skin. He wished you were wearing a skirt. “I consider myself attracted to people regardless of their gender identity. I had a very brief fling with a man once, but nothing truly ever happened. We just kissed a couple times, but we weren’t right for each other, emotionally. He was too reserved for me. And he was incredibly untrusting.”

“So trust is the dealbraker? Trust?” You asked, immediately interested in something that had changed his relationship so dramatically.

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“Moving on. What are your thoughts on the last time you had sex?” He kept spurring you on, going deeper and deeper under your skin, getting closer and closer to your soul, trying to discover the very heart of you, and most importantly if he had any chance to settle there.

“Oh God.” You laughed. “It was almost eight months ago. It was traumatic.” Again you laughed.

“Is that an exasperated laugh?” He asked, worried but also interested in your ironic reaction.

“I’m laughing to hold back tears. Last time I had sex, the dude had a dick too big for his own good and didn’t know how to use it. I definitely faked the second one because he kept poking me with his fingers. I asked to change positions so I could touch myself and cum. It was awful.” You laughed some more. “When I went back home I just had to take care of myself.”

“Promise you won’t fake with me.” He almost begged. “Promise me you won’t go home and take care of yourself.”

“I can promise you the first.” You bit your lip. And drank. Don’t ask me the second, please don’t. Please.

“I’ll need the other one too, you know.” He said, pressing you in the matter.

You have no idea, Yoongi. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” He murmured, frowning.

Because I did that so many times already coming home from dates with you, every time silently begging you to kiss me, to touch me, to ruin me. “I’ll try to from now on.”

“I’m sorry if I sent you home frustrated before. But I honestly needed to take my time.” He shoved his hands in his hair, combing it back. “I tend to rush. Once I let go.” He confessed exhaling loudly. He looked at you with a lustful glance. “But I promise I’ll take care of you. Completely.” He was getting flirtier.

“Quickies or long session?”

“Is that your question, kitten? Are you sure?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Answer me, Yoongi.” You laid back, opening your legs just lightly. Anything to lessen the discomfort lodged in your crotch.

He looked amused. “I can do both. But long sessions for the win. The devil’s in the details and the sex is in the foreplay.” He also leaned back and parted his legs, mirroring you perfectly. “What’s the best sex you’ve ever had?”

“A guy I was dating on-again-off-again, before I met my ex. I was twenty. I let him go because I was starting to fall for my ex. He showed me half the stuff I like. The other half I picked up myself.”

He wanted to know more. He wanted to know what you liked, what he owed some horny teenager and what you had discovered yourself. How you had discovered it. Most importantly, he wanted to excel in everything you liked. He wanted to please you again and again, till you were drunk in bliss and his taste, your skin glistening in a gross and divine mixture of his sweat and drool and your own perspiration. He wanted messy and loud and obliterating.

He wanted…

“Have you ever touched yourself while thinking of me?” You asked, bold, spitting the question out of your tongue like ripping off a band aid.

He threw his head back, groaning in something that looked like pain. It wasn’t arousal. You were quite sure.

He was burgundy with shame and effort. He grabbed the glass and downed the alcohol in one go. “Yes.”

You rolled your neck and exhaled, moaning.

“Almost every day.” He went on. “I can’t get you out of my head and I need it to stop for just. One. Second.”

You gulped, then took a big breath through you mouth. “I have too. Thought of you, that is.”

“I assumed so.” He whispered. “I’ve thought of things I’m not proud of, Kitten. I’m a grown, respectful man, but you’ve made such a sorry mess of me.”

“I am so sorry, Yoongi.” No, you’re not.

“You’re truly sadistic, aren’t you?” He asks.

“Is that your question?”

“No.” He pauses. “What’s your favourite body part on yourself and on me?”

Your heartbeat felt like a joke. You closed your legs. No need to try and play it cool. You were drenched, and you were afraid that by now it was actually starting to show. “I think I like my hands? Or maybe… I don’t really know. I think my hands are nice.”

“They are beautiful, ____, really.” So were your tits, but it didn’t feel quite right to point that out in that precise moments.

“Thank you.” You took a long break, biting your lip before going on with your answer. “On you... I’ve been thinking about those hands a lot”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” You deadpanned. The background music shifted to something sultry and so slow you felt like desire was spiraling in your loins with that cool, rich drawl.

“What about them?” He continued.

You took a sip of your drink, looking at him from under your lashes. “Around my throat.”

Yoongi sat back, undoing one button of his shirt. “Keep going.”

“One around my throat, the other in my hair as you kiss me, drawing me in. Keeping me still.”

“Keep going.” He said, closing his eyes and rolling his shoulders.

“Maybe I’ve been thinking of your hand on my chest. Your fingers pinching my nipples.”

“God bless you, Kitten. What else did my naughty hands do in those dreams of yours.”

Your voice got breathy and shy. “Maybe… Just maybe they got between my legs.”

“And how did that make you feel.” He was going to lose it.

“Horny.”

His heavy breathing stopped for a second. “Did you touch yourself?” His eyes opened to look at your reaction.

You nodded slowly, trying to get some saliva in your awfully dry mouth. The whisky helped. “I needed it.”

“Good girl.” He praised your honesty, again trying to work on that association between your openness and a positive outcome. He thought it was over. Your confession.

“But to be honest what really made me cum was thinking of your pretty pout on my breasts, licking my tits and biting into the soft skin there.”

He growled, pushing the balls of his hands against his eyes. “Kitten, I think I just came in my pants.”

You laughed wildly at his honesty, rolling your head back and teasing him, showing the expanse of your neck and chest.

“Cruel, ain’t you?”

“I’m also sweet.”

“I don’t care, I’ll lick you up anyway.” He teased downing his glass. His second.

You both did a refill. You were tipsy and his eyes had a gleam that wasn’t there at the beginning of the evening.

“You won’t be able to drive me home.” You murmured.

“Do you really want me to?” He asked.

“No.” You answered.

“Remember, I promised not to fuck you tonight, Kitten.” He reminded you.

“Not even foreplay?” You pouted. “Not even making out? A small peck on the lips?”

“I’m hungry for you. That shit just ain’t it.” He growled. You knew he had deepened his voice for you.

You crossed your legs. “Do you like massage?”

“What number is that?” He asked, referring to how many questions you’ve gone through.

“Fifteen. Do you?” You pressed him, trying to get him to talk.

“I mentioned being sensitive. I do like that when I’m in a stressed mood. I like it after a warm bath, with warm lotion or massage oil. It really makes me weak. An ex introduced me to it and I think I got a bit addicted to it, whenever I feel like I need to be taken care of.”

“It sounds nice.” It felt like a nice pause from the kinkfest that had been going on until five minutes ago.

“Have you ever cried while you were in bed with someone?” He asked, his voice delicate as he reached for another intimate, although innocent side of you.

“The first time I hooked up after my ex. It was so liberating I cried. The guy beside me freaked out a little, but he understood. He was kind, just very emotionally dumb, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry for that. It sounds like he scarred you so much.” Yoongi commented, his boiling desire subduing at your vulnerable, tender side. A silly, egotistic part of him wanted to heal you. Try as hard as he might.

“It’s cool.” Your mouth quirked to the side. “Let’s move on to brighter themes, yeah? What’s your favourite thing to do, sexually speaking?”

He looked at you with doubt in his eyes. You knew the past scars conversation wasn’t over. Still, he smiled bright and replied. “I want to suck your nipples. Bite your soft, round tits, leave hickies all over them.” He leaned over, feeling bold as he let his hand catch yours. He scooted closer to you, his voice so deep he sounded like Hades, god of the Underworld. “That’s one of my favourite things in bed. And not just there, honestly.”

Could a person die from arousal? Because you felt your heart burst at that moment, explode like a match and light up your bonfire body. “Yoongi.” You murmured as he let the back of his fingers travel along the outer side of your thigh in a phantom touch.

“You wanna know what else I really, really like doing in bed? Another fantasy of mine?” He asked, his tone patronising but his posture all the opposite, respectful and tender, like a man talking to his woman. He leaned down, close to your ear. “I want you to sit on my face, Kitten. I wanna lick you up like you’re dripping in cream. I want my face covered in jour taste. I want to choke between your legs. Will you give me that?” He asked, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and placing a soft kiss on your temple. “Will you give me that, Kitten?”

You had gone completely still, afraid that even your smallest move could break the spell. “Take it now, please, Yoongi.” You begged. “I can’t take this anymore. I’m so wet. I’m so tired of needing you all the time!” You whined, grabbing his hand and placing it between your clothed thighs, where your wetness had started to diffuse.

“I can’t, Kitten. You know our promises. But what about my question, uh? Have you ever had a threesome, sweetheart?”

“Once. After leaving my ex I had some wild times. A couple of university friends asked me to join them. I sort of liked it.” You admitted, as your hips tried to grind against his barely-there fingers.

“Liked doing it with a girl?” He asked, gripping your thigh and pressing you down, stopping your attempt at release.

“I liked eating her out.”

“Kitty girl likes using her tongue. Good for her.” He murmured, trying to stop the image of you doing that. He needed to try. Needed to see. Fuck monogamy, he could try this before you became too his to share.

By now he was sitting at your side and you were doing everything, everything in your power to stop yourself from straddling his lap and shoving his head between your breasts. You took your glass and took a sip, his nose drawing a thin line following the outline of your throat while swallowing. You almost choked. “What’s your favorite part of sex?”

“Foreplay. But it was already clear, wasn’t it?” He taunted. “You need to focus, Kitten. Ask the right questions. Mirror sex?” He queried.

“Yes.” You replied. Alcohol spurred you on. “Honestly, I want to try giving a man a hand job while stading behind him, in front of a mirror. I’d like to feel the power of that.” You shrugged.

“That sounds nice.” He played it cool, the erection in his trousers now too blatant to even bother covering.

You almost wanted to ask him if he had a full-length mirror nearby so you could get started right there and then. But you didn’t like how cool and unaffected he seemed. You wanted him to get flustered and drink and undo another button. You wanted him to throw his head back so you could lick a stripe up his neck. “And I would whisper dirty stuff in your ear. Don’t think I didn’t notice how flustered you were during our gallery visit.”

“Darling, that was an exercise in restraint. I almost smashed you against the closest painting at least three times.”

“Only three times?” You lifted your eyebrows dramatically.

“I’m almost offended, Min Yoongi.”

“Careful there, Kitten.” He warned.

“Unless?” You provoked him.

“I’ve promised I won’t fuck you tonight.” He murmured.

“Such a coquettish tease you are.” You huffed, looking away.

“I want you to ruin me, Kitten. We can’t do that until promotion is over and you can leave marks all over me as much as you want.” His deepened voice made you squirm on your seat, legs crossing in desperate need to ease the pulsing under your panties.

“It’s almost four a.m. Are you sure you want to finish this?”

I want you to finish me. “Question...”

“Eighteen, babe.”

“Mh, nice. If your partner ever caught you touching yourself, would you keep going?”

“Depends, but yeah, I think so.” Pause. “I would put up a nice show for you.” He palmed his erection through the fabric, trying to get more comfortable.

Yes, you noticed. No, you did not comment. Self combustion is not your current goal, after all. “That’s all you’re gonna offer me?” You asked piqued, dragging your fingernail from his knee to his hipbone slowly. He didn’t manage to hold back a shiver.

You chuckled lowly. “Sensitive little thing.”

“My turn, little devil. What of masturbating while dirty talking?” He asked, his arm moving behind your back and climbing up, snaking around your shoulder, his hand grabbing your chin to shift your gaze from his lap to his face.

“Want to know a secret, baby?” You lured him in, carefully.

“Everything.”

“I’ve touched myself while listening to you.” You whispered at his ear, goosebumps raising everywhere, his whole body growing too sensitive as your hand moved to his inner thigh.

“Really?” Yoongi asks, trying to push his crotch in your palm.

You retreated your hand, offering only the tip of your index finger, which started lazily tracing the outline of his hard on. “I’m sorry. Does it bother you?”

He winced. He would really come in his pants like a teenager. Was your question about your hand or about using his voice to get yourself off? He didn’t mind, both. “I’m perfectly good with it, Kitten. I’m just surprised. What was I talking about.” His voice was neutral, but his eyes were closing, mouth hanging open.

You neared your mouth to his ear and started explaining. “It was a voice note. You were discussing a beat, describing the vibe of the piece you had just finished, murmuring stuff about the bass and not being sure of the tempo, maybe slowing it down.”

“And you came to that?” He asked, opening his eyes and meeting yours.

You were stroking him through his clothes and you hadn’t even kissed him yet. I told you. A slut. That’s what you are. You reprimanded yourself. “I came to the sound of your voice. The pattern of stresses. It was so relaxing. The way your voice resonated.” You kissed his jaw, taking courage.

He smiled. “Next time I’ll send you something more... stimulating, then.” He cocked his head to the side, showing you the soft skin below his chin.

You kissed there too. “I’ll look forward to it.” Another kiss. “Final question.” Another. “if you could do anything to me right now, what would you do?” You placed another kiss on his neck as he moaned, his hips moving shamelessly.

You offered him your palm.

He groaned when he started answering. “Tear your clothes off. Suck your panties clean ‘cause they must be soaked.”

You squeezed your hand around his shape. He was rock hard, the curve following the waistband of his pants. He didn’t feel excessively big, but still his thickness felt nice on your palm. You just wished you could see him naked. He emitted a low whine, his hand dropping from your chin and hitting your chest. “Keep going, Yoongi.” You encouraged him, needing to know what he wanted to do to you.

“I would lick you clean. Fuck you on the sofa, you on top of me. Riding me while I suck on those gorgeous tits.” His hand reached lower, holding your breast and rolling it expertly in his gentle grip. “I’d cum in your cunt while I’m balls deep inside you. And when we’re done I would fuck my cum back inside with my tongue.” He growled like a vicious beast and you just couldn’t help it, you needed your hand between your thighs. You obeyed to your need.

“You’re a filthy, greedy boy, Yoongi, aren’t you?” You asked, giving him more, rewarding for the glorious image he’d just gifted you.

“It’s with you. Just you.” He called out, his voice broken, his mouth desperate. “My final question. Why haven’t you kissed my lips yet?”

“I was waiting for you.” You murmured, bringing your lips upwards, against his throat. He was completely immobilised as you lingered a hairsbreadth from his plush pout. “Yes?”

“Yes.” He whispered.

That’s when you lowered yourself on him, once hopeless, starved and now finally hopeful and nourished.

He feeded you milk and honey, his assault sweet and rich, a balm to your tarnished soul. His lips latched onto your lower lip, sucking and sucking in a way that made you want to offer him every inch of your body. Yes, you would still wait for this. You would keep waiting. For this moment to come back, for this feeling to bloom and fill you over and over again, anytime he kissed you, from now to the rest of eternity. You murmured his name on his mouth and he spoke yours, with alarm over his features.

“Too much, too much, Kitten, please.” He whispered, pressing harder against your hand. “Want you. Please. Touch yourself. I wanna cum with you.”

He was lost and desperate, grinding against you like a fool.

You undid your zipper and put your hands on your sodden folds. You delivered a peck on his lips. “How close?” You asked.

“Very.” He replied, wetting your lips with the tip of his tongue, making you open your mouth and licking you up, flirting with your own tongue.

You pulled away to bite his jaw gently. “I’ve never been this wet, Yoongi. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Gimme...” You studied the geography of his lap, finding his tip and focusing there. “Yes.” He murmured, before intensifying his pushes. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Please, ____, let me hear you.”

You let out an embarrassed, tentative whine, then, trying to properly assist him, you started getting carried away, losing your damper, clenching your inner muscles and whispering his name. “Yoongi, I’m close.” You murmured. “Need you to…”

“Yes, Kitten, baby, please… I–” With a groan, he hid his head in the crook of your neck, biting on the skin, not too harshly.

It was all it took. “Yoongi!” You screamed, pushing into your own hand and collapsing against the back of the couch, dragging him with you.

When you regained conscience, he was already out of his high, looking flustered and sleepy and glowing. Beautiful.

“Can I?” He uttered quietly.

You nodded, barely coherent.

He helped your hand out of your waistband, careful not to stain your clothes. And granting you a fine view, he brought your hands to his mouth and licked them clean.

His tongue delved into every angle and plane, making sure he got every drop. Licking his lips, he stared into your soul and murmured deeply. “The fucking sweetest.”

And then he held you close. “There’s a spare bathroom, at the end of the hall. It has everything you need.” He explained. “I’ll get cleaned myself. Will you sleep in my bed?” He asked, his voice so vulnerable it shattered your heart.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

[mail-me-a-snail]

Stardust of a Song

Chapter 1:  Sero Maaviks tag list: @starl1ght-child​ tw: violence, swearing The first chapter of the mafia AU :3c 

On any given night in the Last City, the lounge that goes by the name Luna is packed full with patrons drinking their worries away and listening to the nightingale tone of the lounge’s singer.

No patron that dines or drinks there lives in the rich districts of the City; they all come from the back alleys, looking to make connections or strike up a deal. Any rich patron that comes comes with a posse of bodyguards and a poorly veiled aura of disgust. The lounge is nice--silver tiles, dark blue wallpaper, comfortable sofas, and mahogany shelves lined with spirits--but more often than not it’s the people that puts a damper on the ambiance. Rich folk like to mingle with their kind, because they have all the connections to more money.

Washed up gamblers with debts hanging over their heads have a reason to go to Luna, however, because it’s not just a lounge--it’s the Hive. Dredgen Yor, owner of the establishment and boss of said Hive, walks through the doors from his personal office. He surveys the room and catches the eye of several clients.

Some of these people will want someone dead; others just want a job. It’s not Yor’s place to question it. All he asks for is money, unwavering royalty, and a when and a how. No job is too bloody, no amount of cash too great. You want someone dead?

Done. Quick, clean, and best of all--entirely discreet.

Dredgen Yor is considered the golden standard of the back alleys. A gentleman who's all business and ambition, who's heart softens only for the love of his life--the lounge singer, an Exo by the name of Avidan-9. He sings something from the Golden Age, maybe even well before it, and Yor is entranced. He is enthralled, has been ever since they met. They are, as everyone knows, partners in crime.

--

The lounge is peaceful tonight. There are two, three patrons, none sitting together, drinking their worries away and shooting billowing clouds of smoke out of their parched lips. They’re waiting out the storm. The band play something appropriately soft; chimes of the piano, deep plucks of the bass, and soulful trumpet remind those lonely drinkers that they’re not so alone after all.

The owner of the lounge sits at the bar, swirling golden whiskey in his glass. He is not alone, unlike the midnight crew. The prettiest thing sits beside him, not drinking or smoking, in order to keep that nightingale voice of his in pristine condition. He has never heard an Exo sing more beautifully than this one. On the surface, he might not look like much to anyone but Yor; grey and what had once been white paint, now yellowed with age; green, almost blue optics; tall build, enough to rival even Yor’s stature; all tucked into one midnight blue suit. Always with the clean cut suits of muted colors.

“Yor, darling,” he says, laying the adoration on thick, accent emphasizing; dar-ling. He brushes Yor’s hair out of his face. “promise me you won’t get blood on the tiles tonight. You know how hard it is to get blood out of leather soles.”

It isn’t hard at all; take soap and dump it in some water, lukewarm, just right. Stir it until it’s sudsy and you take the foam with a sponge and gently wipe the leather. Easy as pie and just as clean. For his love’s sake, Yor indulges him.

“I know, dear,” Yor sympathizes, taking an amused sip, trying not to sigh as the Exo’s hands move through his hair. “I promise. Whatever business might go down--”

“--business always ‘goes down’ in this lounge--” The singer removes his hands from his hair and Yor tries not to groan. How can metal hands feel so good?

“--I will handle it,” Yor cuts him off. He cups the Exo’s cheek. “in the backroom. Will that suffice?”

He grins, takes the glass from Yor’s hand, and sips. One drop never hurt nobody. “If I say no, what would happen?” He challenges, “You’re the big, scary mob boss; what would you do to this buzzing bee of the Hive?” His hands, always moving, always gentle, tug at his tie. Black, tonight; Yor had gotten an earful about getting blood all over his green one.

“Always such a tease,” Yor tuts, his hand now holding the other’s chin, thumb stroking gently. He leans close, just close enough to smell the whiskey on his metal and hints of cologne here and there. “Honey, if I did what I wanted to you, what I have always wanted to do to you, you wouldn’t be able to sing. And we don’t want that, do we?”

The Exo visibly fidgets in his seat. He can dish it, but he can never take it. That’s what Yor has always loved about him. Even with limited expressions, he can tell he’s struggling not to overheat.

“Is that a threat?” He snorts and puts the whiskey glass down. “Besides, there’s nothing that can keep me quiet. You of all people should know that.”

“You’d be surprised.” The doors of the lounge swing open and in walks his clientele, all sharp suits, all business in black and white. Not an ounce of color. They’re just in time.

The one at the head of the posse is holding a shiny leather briefcase with gold clasps. He can smell the abundance of Glimmer from here. They’re not Guardians; no Light on any of them. Guns, maybe, tucked into their suit jackets or strapped to their legs. Their leader is Sero Maaviks, an Awoken man with light blue skin and white hair in a braid over his shoulder. He’s one of the few to come from old money, being Reefborn, however his status as a City dweller and the scorn of his fellow Reefborn has diminished that repertoire considerably.

All three patrons stir. They didn’t come in together, but they sure are leaving together; they know danger when they see it. Nevermind the hail outside. The band stands at attention.

Yor slides off his stool, as does his love. Before they separate, Yor grabs his hand, relishing the smooth metal grooves for just a moment. “You can start off gentle, if you’d like, but in ten minutes’ time,” he advises under his breath, “it’d be better if it’s big, loud, and extravagant. You know how these things go.” He raises his voice loud enough for the clientele to hear. “Remember, Avidan, you are the beauty of this Hive.”

Avidan grins, or as much as an Exo can. “Like me, it’s hard to forget.” Reluctantly, they part, and Avidan goes to the stage. He talks with the band for a moment. They nod along to his every word. Both know exactly what to do.

Avidan’s been in this business as long as Yor has--they had started this lounge together, after all, when he had first met the Exo in Spinam Gorge, those many, many years ago, when the Exo had been down on his luck. It hadn’t started out as love, but does it ever really start at the best part? It had taken a while (several proposals, in fact) until Avidan had said yes. The wedding had been private, of course. Yor takes off his ring and slips it into his pocket. Avidan keeps his on--he won’t be dealing in blood tonight.

“Gentlemen,” he addresses his clients at last, downing the whiskey in one go, and giving them the best smile he can. One of them shivers. They must be the replacement for the one who’s fingers got broken; he had had it coming, touching Avidan in a way that would’ve garnered all ten fingers broken, not just the five, had he had gone any farther. “Shall we?”

Yor gestures to the backroom. He always makes good on his promises. Avidan flashes him a wink from the stage. Yor resists grinning. The Exo steps up to the microphone and taps to test it. The piano player picks up a violin, as does everyone besides the bass player, and they begin. Their strums are gentle and sweeping, but they’re loud. They don’t call it big band music for nothing. Avidan reels the microphone stand in to waltz. He holds it close, as close as he had held Yor on their wedding night.

“And now the purple dusk of twilight time,” Avidan starts, soft, but not quiet. His mouth glows green, though not the sickly green of the Hive. A vibrant green, and it is easily the brightest thing in the lounge. The clientele stop to gape. His voice floats without a care in the world. It’s soothing--almost like a drug. It tells you everything will be just fine. “steals across the meadows of my heart. High up in the sky, the little stars climb...”

Yor feels sorry he won’t be able to hear the rest of the song as he leads the gentlemen into the backroom. It’s one of his favorites; the one they had played on that night years ago on a record they had found in the City archives dating back to long before the Golden Age. Avidan’s voice fades behind them as they go past the deserted kitchen and into his personal office.

It’s a lived in, yet professional office. One mahogany desk, leather chair behind it, and unimportant documents--bills, mostly, for the lounge--piled on top. A cart with his own personal whiskey stock sits under a painting. A bottle of that horrible swill vodka is next to it. Four pristine and polished glasses sit in a tray beside it. A couch sits across the room. Yor leans against the beautifully cut edge of the desk and crosses his arms.

“Care for a drink?” Yor gestures to the vodka. Unfortunately, it’s just the kind of drink for business. Poisonous for the liver and mouth, as all business in the backwaters is, and clinically impersonal enough with its clear white color.

“You know I don’t drink on the job,” Sero says, then adds, almost begrudgingly, “sir.”

“The only thing I know about you, Maaviks--” Yor reluctantly pours himself vodka. He doesn’t take a sip right away; a clear sign of his distaste of the drink-- “is your insufferable pride. Then again, I can’t blame you for keeping it so close. It seems to be the only thing you have to offer.”

Sero bristles and growls. He moves towards Yor, fangs bared. “If you would just accept my offer on the Vanguard job--”

It’s a shame to crumple such a nice tie but Yor grabs Sero’s tie anyway and pulls him forward, bearing his own fangs. The Awoken man gulps, aggression evaporating. “And if you would just hear sense,” Yor snaps, “you wouldn’t still be coming to me about that. I told you: I won’t do it. Tell your bodyguards to lower their guns.”

Sero waves them away and the guards holster their guns. They stand at attention. Yor releases him and the man stumbles. Sero fixes his tie, tucking it back into place and dusting off his suit.

“It isn’t as crazy as you make it out to be,” Sero argues, though with more caution, “I have the floor plans. I’ve got moles in the Praxic and the Vanguard. Nothing will go wrong.”

“Apparently, you’re a terrible gambler, too,” Yor snorts, then gestures to the couch. “Have a seat.” Sero does not and stays standing, as if he didn’t hear him. Yor rolls his eyes, rubbing his temple with his thumb--prideful and stubborn.

He goes around his desk and takes a seat. There’s no reason for him to stand when Sero is already doing plenty of it for the both of them. He sinks into the comfortable leather. He swirls his drink around in one hand while the other taps against the mahogany surface.

“I have all the winning cards. I think I’m more than inclined to play them. Don’t you want to share the winnings, Yor?” He sweetens his tongue with charisma. “I’m sure we can find something in that vault that could work for you.” Yor doesn’t appreciate the patronising tone, as if he’s a child being asked to pick out a toy. “There could be any number of items that might...interest you.”

“Maaviks. I already told you. There is nothing I want in that vault.” Guns and gadgets to sell, maybe, but there is nothing rare enough to risk so much. It would be so much easier if Sero had just been asking for an assassination, but a heist? “It’s a suicide mission. If either of us get caught, we’re done for. The Praxic vault is one thing, but the Vanguard vault? You must be more arrogant than I thought. It won’t succeed.”

They’ve been over this countless times. From the first day Sero proposed it, Yor has had no reason to say yes and he’s not seeing anything promising now. Every time he asks, Sero doesn’t have a convincing argument.

“I’m not so arrogant as to think I can do it alone.” Sero crosses his arms. “I’m putting aside my pride to ask for your help. You are the one and only Dredgen Yor...”

“The flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“...and besides, if what’s in the vault doesn’t interest you now, it might look appealing in just a few moments; if you don’t accept my offer, that is.”

Yor puts his glass down and smiles at the nerve this little punk has. He stands, pushing his chair backwards, and laying his palms flat on the wood, leaning forward to look Sero right in the eye. His fingers go to the holster on his hip. The Thorn hums.

“Are you threatening me, boy?” He says quietly.

“Am I?”

Just as he whips the Thorn out, the band explodes with sound, rattling the walls with percussion and bass, Avidan’s voice commanding every listener’s attention.  The volume masks the gunshots; two for each of them. They fall, a dark red splatter blooming across their white shirts. It’s a good thing they wore black suits. Sero barely flinches, even as a graze on his ear bleeds and drips onto his shoulder.

“Are you threatening me,” He growls, louder now, “boy?!”

Sero pauses to look at the two corpses behind him. Puddles of blood grow under them, staining the soles of his shoes and the rug. He looks wholly uninterested. The man smirks.

“Not you,” He answers, “specifically.”

He turns, swings open the door, and runs down the hall. Yor takes a second to register these actions, then slides over the desk with a curse, hearing his glass shatter on the floor, and chases after Sero. He splashes the puddle of blood on his way out; there goes his promise to not get blood on the tiles.

The band has stopped playing when he rounds the corner. He only realizes why when he sees Sero behind Avidan, holding the Exo at gunpoint. The blood in Yor’s veins turns ice cold. He comes to a halt. Avidan stands statuesque, rigid with tension. Only the piano player remains of the band; the rest have hidden behind the bar. He sits on the stool, shaking hands poised over the keys.

“Blood on the tiles,” Avidan says, nightingale voice faintly warbling,  “I thought we talked about that.”

“No choice, darling,” Yor says through gritted teeth, then swings his glare around to Sero, who is still fucking smiling. “No choice.”

“Your answer, Yor: yes or no?” The gun clicks as it’s loaded.

“You’re fucking insane; you’re not going to walk out of this bar alive.”

“I’m not going to walk out of here alive?” Sero snorts, “That’s rich. Considering your boyfriend is at the end of my gun, you’re gonna wanna rethink that.”

“Husband,” Avidan corrects him tersely, “Didn’t you see the ring, asshole?” He wiggles his finger. The ring glints in the low light.

“It hardly matters.”

“So, this is your plan?” Yor keeps him distracted by talking as he inches closer to the stage. “Threaten me with my husband’s life to force me to work with you just to repair your goddamn reputation with the Reefborn?”

“It’s not about them,” Sero hisses, but it’s not very convincing. Yor can see right through him. He’s now inches away from the stage. “There is something in that vault I need, something that would benefit all of us, every gang, especially yours. So what’s it going to be, Yor?”

Yor remains silent. Just as he formulates a plan, Sero cuts across his thoughts.

“Yes or no? Come on, Dredgen, your boyfriend is waiting.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but Avidan interrupts him.

“For the last time,” the Exo growls, “he’s my husband.”

He swivels right around, catching both Yor and Sero off guard, and grabs the man’s wrist. They wrestle for the gun, Sero pushing back, struggling to keep his grip on the weapon. Avidan pulls his arm this way and that but the man won’t budge. Sero wrenches free. He strikes Avidan’s jaw with the gun. It knocks the Exo back and he stumbles. The microphone topples off the stage and the feedback disorients all. He nearly falls off the stage, but Sero grabs his arm, pulling Avidan towards him.

The gun slips under his chin, presses against his neck--there is no music or song to mask the gunshot now. There will never be any music or song, ever again. 

Yor climbs the stage but always, always he is too late.

In a way, this is all music. The click of the gun, the pulling of the trigger, the release, the... 

BANG!

The thud.

Then, the deafening silence.

part two coming soon :)

[the-blind-assassin-12]

You Again

A/N: counting down the smooches. Here’s 18, another Ryan kiss to cap off your Saturday. Not connected to Passing Through, this one stands alone, just like the cheese.

Word Count: 2,183

Prompt: from @breanime

You sat on your couch, knees pulled up to your chest, the heavy orange and green crocheted blanket that was normally draped over the back cushion wrapped around you as rain lashed at the windows and wind howled down your chimney. The channels changed on the television as you mindlessly flipped through them. You weren’t sure what, if anything you were looking for. Something to take your mind off of the fact that your friends were out right now, probably having a great time laughing, drinking and enjoying a local band or musician at Candy’s. It was your friend Kate’s birthday, and normally you’d be there dancing in front of the stage area, swaying your hips freely with a beer in your hand and not a care in your head. But when you’d heard that Dave was going to be there, with her, you decided against it. Nope, don’t need to see that display, no thank you. You frowned as you settled on a baking competition show.

It had been almost a year since he’d ended your 4 year relationship, confessing to you that he’d spent the last year and a half cheating on you with a woman named Madison that he’d met at the gym. It was beyond you as to why he’d waited so damn long to tell you, or why he thought your anniversary was the right time to break the news, but you’d never felt so dumbstruck or betrayed in your life. That night stuck with you even after you’d cried all your tears and thrown out all his sweatshirts and broken the glass in the framed photo on your bedside table as you tossed it forcefully into the dumpster one night in a drunken rage as your roommate Amy cheered and clapped, shouting an enthusiastic “Fuck youuuuuu Dave!”.

Most of your friends were on your side of the rift, but Kate’s boyfriend and your ex had been friends since highschool, so there was no way that he wouldn’t be invited to her party. That fact had been confirmed by Amy after she’d run into Kate at the coffee shop a few days back, Amy telling you with a roll of her eyes that not only was he invited, but that he was bringing Maddie with him. You’d sent Kate a text that same day, apologizing and promising that you’d have some kind of make-up celebration afterwards. She responded saying that she completely understood, and that she was sorry about the whole situation. You’d told her not to worry, that you’d be fine. And for the most part, you were. Enough time had passed that you had stopped missing Dave, stopped feeling down on yourself. You’d even started to dissect the details of your relationship, finding that things that you had brushed off or swept under the rug weren’t as small as you had convinced yourself that they were at the time. For the most part, barring random bouts of self pity and greeting card holidays, you had moved on completely. But that didn’t mean you were ready to share the same space with the man who’d stomped on your heart, or the woman who he’d chosen over you.

You sighed as the baker on your screen sprinkled little heart shaped decorations on perfectly frosted pale pink cupcakes. It hadn’t helped matters that in the past few months your sister had gotten engaged, while you had yet to go on a date post-Dave. Not that you hadn’t been asked out. You definitely had. By more than a few guys, actually. Most had been easy to turn down due to their personalities or lack thereof. But they weren’t who you were thinking of right now. Thunder clapped right outside your window, a bolt of lighting splitting the sky right on top of the boom.

You dropped the remote as the show panned to one of the other competitors, their hands deftly squeezing a piping bag full of rich, dark chocolate. The baker flourished his wrist so that the cocoa ribbons formed musical notes, filling a whole tray with bass and treble clefts before popping it into the blast freezer in a hurry. A hurry. Just the way Ryan Brenner had moved into and out of your life. “Oh, come on.” You meant for the comment to be contained in your brain, but you heard it out loud in the empty house, and you threw your head back against the couch with a huff as your memory took over the reins.

You’d been out at Candy’s with Amy; she’d dragged you out after you’d wasted six of your precious vacation days calling out of work to wallow in your pajamas after what she’d come to call “the event”. After downing a few rounds of shots, each one toasting another thing Amy “always hated about Dave”, she’d suggested that you both switch to beers and head over to the music stage, where a guitarist was setting up to play. Shit, you remember thinking in your heartbroken, inebriated state, he’s...something.

And that was before you’d heard him sing. Before you’d seen him play. To hear him, to see him- it was synonymous with feeling him and knowing him, and it was at once comforting and unsettling. How much of this is him, and how much is the booze? Amy had gone back to the bar for another beer, but you’d waved her off, entranced by the performance in front of you. She was just happy to see something other than tears or vacancy in your eyes, so she mouthed a “be right back” and vanished into the crowd that had gathered to hear the music while you stayed planted where you were, enthralled by the way his quiet nature somehow transported you somewhere else. He’d spent the majority of his set with his eyes closed or focused on the strings that his long fingers were plucking, but a few times you felt them land on you, and you were sure that your heart had stopped in your chest, changing the way that it beat as it restarted.

Even after the last notes had evaporated into the stale, beer scented air, and he’d spent a few minutes talking to a few patrons that had gathered, you couldn’t move or take your eyes off of him- off of the way he held his guitar, or the way he looked down when he smiled upon accepting a compliment. You noticed his eyes flicking your way every now and then, and you told yourself to move, to turn and walk towards the bar where Amy had been chatting with an attractive stranger, but the enigmatic energy that he brought to the room had you rooted. Even as he set his guitar down and brushed his hands- the fingers marked with thin black lines- against his jeans, taking a few long strides towards you, you were unable to move. Well, guess this is happening. As he got closer you could smell crisp fall air and crunchy brown leaves, coffee and cigarettes overpowering the peanut and beer aroma that Candy’s could trademark if they wanted to. “Hi, I’m Ryan,” he said, chocolate eyes shining as they looked directly into yours, a sheepish smile climbing his cheeks above the patchy beard that claimed his jaw.

“Hi,” you managed, telling him your name. “You’re...you play really well, Ryan.” You smiled, and it felt like dusting off an old box in the attic.

He looked down at his shoes, whole head swinging towards the floor before scooping up to gift you with a sheepish grin. “Well, thanks, I… I just like connecting with people when I play, you know?”

Oh fuck. He felt it too? Your whole face, your neck and your ears flushed a vibrant red as you realized that this interesting, talented, borderline otherworldly individual was telling you that he’d felt the same spark from you that you’d felt from him. You wanted to reply with something smart or memorable. But you’d just let out a burst of laughter that sounded foriegn to you. Oh, come. On.

Instead of scaring him off though, it had only made his grin widened, a flash of white teeth and a slip of his tongue as it came out to wet his lips. “Can I…” he nodded towards the bar where Amy was staring at the two of you, her jaw nearly dropped to the sticky floor. “Wanna grab a drink?”

“Sure, Ryan,” you somehow answered. Why?

You’d spent the next hour or so talking to Ryan, hearing about his travels, about the things that inspired him and the places he’d been. But when the conversation turned to you, you had to be honest with him. You’d told him that you’d only just gotten out of a long term relationship, that it had ended messily, and that while you very much enjoyed talking to him and hearing him play- and looking at him and seeing the way he felt the music, and being in the same space as him- that you wouldn’t feel right carrying anything past the current conversation. He’d hung his head again, this time less sheepishly and with what you thought looked like disappointment, but he’d raised it again with that brilliant smile. “Well,” he’d said, “I’m gettin’ ready to head outta town tomorrow, but I’m set to be back in the area ‘bout a year from now...maybe I’ll see you again and things’ll be different.”

You blinked and you were back on your couch, the baker with the candy hearts being dismissed from the show on the screen. A year from now. Your phone on the arm of the sofa caught your attention, lighting up with a text from Amy. YOU NEED TO GET HERE NOW. Oh...come on.

You grabbed your phone, your heart in your throat. What do you mean, A??? Why?

He’s here. Playing again. That guy. YOUR GUITAR GUY.

You stood so rapidly that the blanket fell from your shoulders in sync with the flashing lightning outside. Ryan? He’s...he said he’d be back but… your heart was thumping the same way it had when you’d been rooted in front of him on the small stage at Candy’s, and you realized that even though you were a skeptic at heart, you couldn’t dismiss the serendipity staring you in the face. Fuck these cupcakes, and fuck Dave and Madison. You responded that you’d be there soon, clicking the power button on the remote and rushing to your bedroom to change, hands raking through your hair in lieu of a brush. Twenty minutes later, you were dressed in jeans, tall black boots and a maroon sweater, your hair pulled into a braid. Ten minutes after that you were walking purposefully towards the front door of the bar, pulling it open and welcoming that familiar divey scent into your nostrils. You were vaguely aware of Dave standing by the bar, a frown on his face as he saw you, Madison draped over him like a feather boa. You smirked, walking straight to the stage, slipping Amy a discreet high five as you passed her. His voice filled your ears as you got closer, and you found the same spot you’d stood in roughly 365 days ago, the first time his music had infiltrated your heart and mind. Within a few seconds of your feet finding the same beer soaked boards, his eyes opened on you and you saw the recognition flicker like a flame. Hi, Ryan.

You’d watched a few more songs, and this time he didn’t make time to talk to anyone before heading over to you. “You again,” he said, a smile on his face and in his voice.

“Me again,” you said, holding your arms out to show off your wet hair and soaked sweater- it was still raining hard when you’d walked in, the weather nor your ex doing anything to dampen your spirits. “Can I get you a drink, Ryan?”

He shook his head, soft brown hair peeking out from under his ball cap.

“No?” you asked with a tilt to your head.

“Are things...different now?” he asked quietly.

You bit your bottom lip, eyes on his as you nodded. They sure are.

Before your head had come back to neutral, he’d taken a step closer. “Can we skip the drink this time?”

You nodded again, slowly, looking up at him through your eyelashes. Again, before the nod was even done, he’d taken another step, this time placing his hands on your waist to pull you closer as his lips found yours. You involuntarily whimpered as his kiss melted on your lips, just like the baker’s chocolate on that dumb show you’d been watching, sweet and smooth, pure and delicious, full of longing and missing and need for the connection that you’d shared a full twelve months prior. When you finally parted, he brushed his nose against yours. “Can we do that again?”

You laughed against his lips, one hand coming to rest on his bearded cheek. “You bet we can, Ryan.”

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @agent-bossypants @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @songtoyou @ymariejp @breanime @gollyderek

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

A for Val!!!

Minific was the name of the game. This is likely not what it meant. 

But, y’know. Val. Family. Feelings. It’s all par for the course at this point. So here’s three different scenes about Val using thaumaturgy. 

2500ish words.

—–

The candle just wouldn’t burn. 

Or rather, it wouldn’t burn the way Val wanted it to. The little funny word in Infernal that her mother had taught her - the one that made torches burn brighter, or changed them brilliant purple in an instant - only seemed to startle whatever birds chanced to land nearby, and make whoever was milling by on the trade road walk just a little bit faster. 

Val growled, pitching forward onto her hands and knees, and lowering herself down until she was eye level with the flame.

“Get bigger,” she hissed, in Common this time: the candle just flickered with the puff of her breath.

“Ohhh, I think you startled it.”

Val’s head shot up at the voice, and turned to the familiar silhouette casting its shadow over her. Even through the glare of the sun, she could make out the spiraling tower of horns, the dark red skin, the unbroken slate black eyes; everything that would suggest her father, except for the coal-colored hair cut short around his ears, parted neatly to one side, and the wry smile pulling at his lips. The anger that had been cooling in her evaporated completely, replaced with a sudden rush of excitement as she sprang to her feet.

“Uncle Imren!” she cried. He barely got both hands out before she launched herself at him, clinging to his forearms when he buckled under her weight.

“Whoa!” He scooped an arm beneath her so that she was propped against his hip and laughed. “Gods, you’re getting big! One day you’re going to have to pick me up like this.”

Val sat upright in his arms and wrinkled her nose. “You’re being silly.”

“I’m not! One day, you’re going to be taller than a dragon. And he’ll see how big you are, and he’ll puff up and start breathing dragonsmoke, and -” He paused then, sniffing at something in the air, and stole a glance downwards. “Ah.”

Val followed his gaze to where her little candle was laying sideways in the grass, knocked over in the scramble and just starting to torch the drier grasses around it. She made a little noise of alarm, but her uncle didn’t so much as flinch. He just muttered something under his breath - a familiar something, Val realized - and the little flame began to dim. The last few embers, he smothered beneath the tip of his tail. Val clutched at the front of his shirt, gasping.

“Uncle!”

He looked up just as she pushed out of his grip, and scrambled to catch her. “Easy, easy Valtish! Gods, what is it?”

Val took no heed of his valiant attempts to stop her from toppling to the grass; she let herself roll down into the dirt, then scrambled up and set the candle back into its stand.

“You can make it bigger, right?” she asked as she turned, beaming. “Cause mum can, and so can da, and I keep trying ‘cause they taught me the word but it’s not working, and they’re busy, and -”

“Alright, alright,” her uncle laughed, waving a hand to cut her off. He stepped to the opposite side of the candle and sank down onto the ground, so quietly that Val couldn’t even hear the grasses bend, then pulled a piece of flint from the satchel on his hip and gestured her way. “Let’s see what you’re doing.”

Determined now, Val plopped herself solidly onto the ground again, leaning forward and focusing as her uncle relit the candle in front of her. She waited for the flame to steady in the faint afternoon breeze, then took a deep breath, narrowed her eyes and muttered the same word that she had heard Imren use. 

The candle didn’t so much as flicker.

She tried again, leaning closer, eyes narrowed even further. Still, nothing. The third time, her voice cracked as she spoke, and Imren reached out a hand and gently pushed her back.

“Easy now,” he said softly, wiping away the hot tears that had begun to well in her eyes. “This doesn’t mean you won’t ever get it. Nine hells, it took your father almost a year to do it right. And now he’s a master of all sorts of magic, isn’t he?“

Val sniffled and scrubbed the lines of her tears from her face. "Guess so.”

Imren hummed quietly, and then Val heard him slide sideways through the grass, until he was hunched right beside her. He pressed an elbow into her shoulder, warm and familiar.

“In fact,” he said quietly, leaning down, “I happen to know how he figured it out too. Want me to tell you?”

Val looked up, still sniffling, but the mischief glittering in her uncle’s eyes banished the last of her tears. She nodded, and his grin widened. 

Very carefully, he removed his flint from its satchel again.

“Your father,” he said, as he turned it over in his hand, “always did magic better when he had something to do. It’s why he sings or plays the lute when he does it, understand? It makes more sense in his mind that way.” Out of the corner of her eye, Val saw a flash of metal, and watched with wide eyes as her uncle withdrew a wicked looking knife from somewhere around his waist. “Now, this particular spell only requires the word, but sometimes, if he was having trouble getting it right, he would pretend that he was adding to the fire himself. Like so.”

In one quick motion, he struck the flint with the spine of his knife and sent a shower of sparks scattering through the grass. Val recoiled instinctively, but her uncle’s tail swept over the patch of earth and smothered whatever grass was starting to catch. Then he held the flint towards her.

“Do exactly what I did,” he said as she slowly reached out to take it, “but pretend your fingers are the knife. Don’t hit the rock there, just make the motion. Atta girl, just like that.”

He slipped the knife away with a simple flick of his wrist and grabbed Val’s hands as she began gesturing them frantically towards each other, making little adjustments until it looked, to her little mind, like she was nearly scratching the edge of the flint with each pass. He let her practice a few more times, then swept the candle back in front of her with the tip of his tail.

“Now,” he said, with a gesture towards it, “try again. With the word, this time.”

Charged with a sudden surge of adrenaline, Val straightened her shoulders, reached back and struck a wide arc over the flint, all but shouting as she did. Her heart pounded hard in her chest as the candle flickered, wavered…

And stubbornly refused to grow.

This time, the tears came too quickly to stop, and her uncle’s arm swept around her and pulled her up into a crushing hug as they broke across her cheeks.

“Keep practicing, kid,” he said softly, as she fisted little claws into the front of his shirt and sobbed. “You’ll get it soon.”

—————

The candle hung heavily in Val’s pocket, bouncing off of her knee as she ran. 

She could hear her mother’s laughter behind her, growing steadily fainter as she pounded across the hillside towards the last place that she had seen the wagon. Her uncle’s arrival had been unannounced, as usual: but as usual, her mother had been prepared. Val shoved a hand into her dress pocket to keep her candle from tumbling out and willed her legs even faster.

Miraculously, neither her uncle nor her father noticed her approach. They were standing beside the wagon, locked in a low, intense conversation as she skidded around the base of the hill.

“…. no real aptitude for magic,” her father was saying as she came into earshot, barely seconds before his eyes flicked up over his brother’s shoulder and caught sight of her bounding their way. He stepped back instinctively.

“Valtish,” he started, his tone a warning; but Val was already hunched low, and she sprang for her uncle’s waist with a wild cry of triumph.

Imren, for his part, did not so much as flinch as he spun neatly on a heel and snatched her up into his arms.

“Aha!” he cried, hoisting her onto a hip as she shrieked with delight. “There’s the ferocious little lion cub I was looking for. Who taught you to creep up like that, huh? Your dad?” He turned to leer pointedly back at her father away. “He’s the sneaky one of the two of us, after all.” 

“No, uncle,” Val giggled as her father rolled his dark eyes, “you’re the sneaky one!”

“Am I? Why, I hadn’t noticed.”

Grinning, he pulled her into a tight hug, digging fingers into her sides until until she squealed and thrashed in his arms.

“Well,“ he said, when she finally managed to push herself away, “if that’s my handiwork, I ought to teach you how to do it right, huh?”

A sudden panic fluttered in Val’s chest. She made a wordless noise of protest, wrenching around in her uncle’s grip. If he was going to teach her anything, she thought to herself, he needed to know his success first. She snatched the candle in her pocket and then held it up in front of him, so close to his face that she saw him go cross eyed. 

"Watch!” she demanded, then swung her tiny fist in an arc over the candle’s wick. The candle remained unlit - a mistake that she only realized ten minutes later, in retrospect - but the lantern hung on the wagon’s door beside them suddenly blazed higher in its case, shifting to a vibrant blue the color of a summer sea. Her uncle and father turned, startled, as Val threw her hands up with a whoop of triumph.

“Did you see?” she asked, turning to face her uncle again. “Did you see what I -”

Imren was not looking at her. His dark eyes were fixed on the lantern flame with an intensity that drove the last of Val’s excitement straight down into her gut. 

“I see,” he said quietly. Then his eyes shifted towards her, and she caught a faint grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”

Her excitement flared up again, hot as the lantern burning behind them. She nodded furiously.

“I did what you showed me! I tried it again and again and again and again and then one day, poof!” She threw her arms out to both sides. “It worked!”

Imren laughed - a bit less loudly than before - and then hiked her further onto a hip and glanced over his shoulder towards his brother.

"Well, Cai!” he said, with a grin. “Seems you were wrong about little Valtish here, huh?”

Her father’s eyes remained fixed on the lantern. “Seems so.”

“And no self respecting niece of mine would be fine with just that, would she?” Imren turned back to Val with a winning smile that chased any worry about her father’s odd silence clear out of her mind again. “What do you say, kid? How about I teach you how to be sneaky this time around?”

She nodded again, so hard that her curls swatted at her cheeks. Over her uncle’s shoulder, she saw her father turn.

“Imren,” he said, with the same warning tone that he’d used before. Imren waved him off.

“Easy, Cai. She’s a good student. And there are worse things to learn than to not be seen, don’t you think?”

This time, when they trotted off, her father let them go without a fight.

————–

The candles were already burning low when Val arrived back at the grave.

The funerary party had been small, but had insisted that she leave her vigil long enough for dinner. She had only gotten through half of a plate before she couldn’t stomach the ashen taste of food anymore. They had let her go then, after they were sure that she had heard all of their offers of a bed for the night.

For the night, she knew, but likely not for much longer. 

That would have been fine, once. An inn bed tended to be a luxury, one that she was used to forgoing for a tent, or the blanket-covered floor of a wagon anyway. In any other time, at any other place, she would be fine with that. In any other time, she would not need it. 

In any other time, perhaps her parents would not be dead.

The bitterness of the thought winched her throat shut, but all that did was bring a too-familiar stinging to the corners of her eyes. They’d run out of tears long before her father’s grave had been dug; the reminder that she was still alone certainly wouldn’t be enough to bring those back. So she turned them up to the hill on the horizon instead, squinting into the growing dark, where a splinter of the trade road wound down the length of it. Still no silhouette on the horizon, no towering horns, no dull red skin catching the last lingering rays of sunlight. 

Still no Imren.

Sighing and scrubbing at her stinging eyes, Val stepped over to the little round of the headstone and sat down beside it. She didn’t dare cross over the freshly turned earth beside her, or look at it for long enough for her mind to process. Her eyes would only sting more. 

Watching the candles was easier. They had been placed in a little arc around the sides of the headstone, a few on top, dripping wax down the swath of slate grey. She whisked some of the longer drops away with her bare fingers, focusing on the scalding heat and the dancing whip of the flame that always seemed to make her blood pound a little harder in her ears. She didn’t play often with fire, but there was something familiar about it, something old and nostalgic that made little threads of excitement burn up to her chest…

An idea, the wild sort that only grief could conjur, suddenly sprang to life in her mind.

Straightening, she spun herself to face the candles - away from the grave, away from the memory, away from the empty, empty hill - and lowered her face to their level. She watched the flame for a long moment, focusing. Then, with a frantic rush of hope that could only come in a bard’s child, she waved her hand across the top of them and muttered an old, familiar word.

The flames brightened dutifully, to a brilliant red like skin on an open field in the middle of summer, but the world around her remained empty. No one stepped out from behind a tree, arriving in the dramatic eleventh hour like they would in her father’s stories; no one appeared to crest the hilltop. The wind was just cold, the earth still freshly turned, and she was still utterly alone.

The tears came then, fierce and hot with the fresh dashing of her hope, and they did not leave again for a long, long time.

[fanaticwritings]

Unspoken [part four]

Eventual Sam x Reader [AU Series]

Catch up here: PART ONE // PART TWO // PART THREE

Summary: Sam Winchester is studying to be a lawyer and the Reader is a part time librarian. When Sam starts frequenting her library, sparks fly. Not having the guts to talk to him, she starts leaving him anonymous notes. Sam thinks it’s adorable but can’t figure out who the sender is. Soon, he unknowingly starts falling for her too. Will Sam figure out who it is before Y/N tells him?

A/N: I am so sorry this took so long but I just couldn't think of anything. But @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba is an angel and helped me out line the whole thing so I'm really excited to complete the series! It's going to be great. Also, do check out her writing because it's simply brilliant.

Y/N debates whether she should make a run for it and flee the country.

Her heart is pounding against her ribs and her stomach feels nauseously heavy. She wants to blurt it out to him that she was the one leaving the notes, yes and that she is sorry if she disrespected his boundaries. She is sick from the dread that’s slowly descending down her body, making her freeze in her place.

Sam's standing close to her and towering above her. She has to crane her neck to see his face. Every time she looks at him, it feels like she is looking at him for the very first time. And every single time he takes her breath away.

She hadn't noticed that little mole on his cheek before, it's adorable.

Y/N shakes her head and chides herself. Sam's just caught her red handed and she's still fantasizing about him? Sam’s warmth is distracting yes, but her anxiety is stronger. The bile in her stomach becomes concrete as Sam begins to speak.

"I wanted to know if you had anything on Evidence Law and Practice ? I can't seem to find it anywhere, so I was wondering if you could help me?" he asks quietly, an eyebrow quirking up. He lowers the hand that's been holding the note.

It takes a moment for Y/N to realise what he's asking. Wait, her secret is safe?

She's still too shocked to react but she mumbles a yes because she immediately recognises the title.

"Follow me," she says, still not over the fact that Sam hasn't found out, yet, that she is the one sending the notes.

Making sure that Sam's right behind her, she makes her way to the shelf that says 'Reference books'.

This shelf contains books that are as old as time and smell like vintage houses. Y/N adores this section.

She runs her finger over the backs of the bronze and worn down spines, scanning every title.

She is aware that Sam is watching her. She is aware that he's standing right next to her because the spaces between the shelves are very narrow. And she is finding it difficult to believe that she's alone with him. The tall stranger she's falling for, but doesn't know yet.

Y/N skims the third shelf but can't find the book there either. Maybe her memory isn't that good, after all.

She musters the courage to glance back at Sam. He's not looking at her anymore. He's reading the note. Her note.

His sunflower eyes dart over the words fast, lips drawn into a thin line. His mouth twitches a little when he finishes reading the note, as if amused and then breaks into a small smile. Before she can even appreciate the sight that are his lovely dimples, the smile vanishes and he looks up.

"Did you find it?" he whispers.

Not sure if he has noticed her staring at him, she nods. "Yeah. Well, it's up there," Y/N says and points at a shelf that's too high for her to reach.

"Oh, I'll get that. Thanks," he says, smiling warmly. He reaches above her and grabs the book off the shelf.

The movement pushes him even closer to Y/N and she freezes. He's so close, she can smell a mixture of vanilla and sandalwood on him and it is intoxicating.

"Can you please write my name in the register?" Sam asks, waving the book in front of her.

"Sure," she mumbles and walks back over to her desk. She brings out the giant register and enters his name.

"Thanks so much," Sam says and turns on his heel.

Y/N doesn't know how or why she does what she does next.

"Hey?" She calls after him. He turns around, eyes narrowed in polite confusion.

"I have a friend who is studying Law and she thinks this book is quote, unquote absolute shit," she offers. She's very surprised at her own new found confidence.

Sam looks at the book he is holding and then back at her. He let's out a small chuckle, that brings back those dimples again.

"Okay then, did your friend recommend something else that I might borrow instead?" Sam asks, amusement written all over his face.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude but I just couldn't help myself," Y/N says, biting her lip. The confidence evaporates in an instant.

"Of course not! You're not being rude. I'm glad you told me. I wasn't sure about the book myself," Sam replies, running his hand through his hair. She can see that he's feeling slightly awkward and she feels embarrassed. Why did she have to say anything?

Inspite of his awkwardness, he's still trying to be polite and waits for Y/N's reply. She thinks that is a trait that not many people have and is instantly floored.

She excuses herself and brings back the book that her friend told her about and hands it to Sam.

"There you go," she says, grinning.

"Thank you!" Sam says and returns her smile. He walks back to his place, settling into his chair again.

Almost immediately, his shoulders droop and that air of tiredness returns around him.

Y/N notices that. He had acted all cheerful and polite around her, but the moment there was nobody around him, his sadness returned.

She understands him. She doesn't, of course, understand what the reason for his weariness is but she can understand why he has to pretend.

And it stings a little.

She wishes, then, that she can help him turn that awful frown into his dimpled smile.

But sadness, as she knows from experience, cannot be bottled. So she lets him be, for the rest of the day, hoping he feels better tomorrow.

**

Y/N is finally free from all her work. Her projects are all finished and on the respective professors' desks. Exams are a month away so she will have to start planning to study eventually but she still has time, or so she thinks.

She feels so light, as if a physical burden has been removed from her shoulders; she feels like singing at the top of her lungs.

She skips into the library, greeting Erika as she exits. The latter is in a better mood today, because Y/N is on schedule.

The library has hardly ten people today. Mrs. Henderson, as usual, is one of them. She often feels sorry for her but is glad that the library can provide some sort of comfort to the old lady.

She spots Jim, who waves at her. She waves back, smiling politely.

She also spots Madison, a college student and a regular, sitting at one far corner. She is reading "The Fault in Our Stars." Y/N almost gags at the choice.

Madison is a pretty girl, gifted with sharp features and straight brown hair. She's effortlessly beautiful. Y/N often wishes she could have her looks, even if she reprimands herself for being so stupid, later.

Y/N makes her way to the desk and opens the novel she's been waiting to start- "Behind her eyes" by Sarah Pinborough. She has received a lot of reviews about the book and can't wait to read it herself.

At last. She can delve into reading once again; her favorite thing in the world.

She begins to read and slowly, the words start spinning around her, blurring the lines between reality and fiction. The library moves in a time lapse around her as she breathes in the words, the story consuming her entirely. She is so engrossed in her book, which is an absolute page turner, that she completely loses track of time.

She only jerks up shakily when a tap sounds somewhere above her. She looks up to see that it's Jim. He is wearing a gross yellow shirt that is almost the same color as his hair.

"The book is very interesting, huh?" he asks, leaning on her desk.

Y/N groans internally. She forces a small chuckle out of her, wishing he would leave. Nothing is worse than someone who interrupts reading.

"Anyway, I was wondering what was all that stuff about yesterday?" he asks, his smile turning into a frown.

Y/N looks at him, puzzled. What is he talking about?

"The stuff with that tall guy. You know him?" he explains.

Y/N remembers then- Jim saw her leave the note for Sam.

"Oh yeah, I kinda know him," she says, flipping her book back open.

How could he have asked her such a personal question?

"How?"

Y/N feels really pissed now and wants to slam her hands on the desk and ask him to leave.

"I don't think that's any of your business, Jim," she says, fiercely. She is being harsh but he is crossing the line. Sure, she talks to him twice a week but that's only because he seems so interested and she doesn't have the heart to be rude.

Jim backs away, hands up in surrender. But there's something weird about the way he's looking at her and it makes her worry a little.

She shakes her head and goes back to her reading. But now, she can't focus. Fantastic.

She shuts the book loudly and the sound echoes in the wall of the library. Some people look up. Y/N smiles guiltily at them and they resume their reading.

Sam's here today too. He's dressed in black jeans and a purple t-shirt today. It has a little dog stitched onto it. (Does he like dogs?) He could wear the most ridiculous outfits and still look good.

He's reading the book he borrowed yesterday and is clearly engrossed in it. His eyebrows are knitted in concentration and the skin of his forehead is all scrunched up in a way that makes him look cute.

It's a shame she can't just waltz up to him and ask him out. She wishes, then, that humans could be less complex creatures and stop making their own lives so difficult.

Y/N gets existential crisis on a daily basis so the spiral she falling down currently, doesn't surprise her.

Sam Winchester, however, provides the anchor she needs.

"Hey," he says. His honey thick voice breaks through her thought process and she looks up at him. His hair is even curlier today and falling in bangs.

"This," he points at the book he's holding, "is amazing." It's the book she recommended to him and she can feel her heart swell because of the compliment.

"Well," she smiles, "you're welcome."

"I think I'll do well on the test I have tomorrow," he says, one toned arm dangling over the desks front. Is that a flirty smile on his face or is she dreaming?

"I hope you do," she says, head resting on her hand. Dreamy, is the only word she can think of to describe him. The rest of he vocabulary has abandoned her.

"Please, thank your friend from my side," he says.

"I will. Also, good luck," she says and he nods and smiles at her, before turning away. She watches him walk out the library, long hands dangling at his sides.

She sighs as she stretches her arms above her. It's almost the end of her shift and the rest of the people are leaving too.

She hadn't left him a note today but she actually got to talk to him. Even if it was over a book.

But talking to him, listening to his voice had made her feel things she hadn't ever felt before. It had warmed her insides, her chest and her face.

She feels like a schoolgirl with a lame crush but she can tell it is something more than that.

She doesn't know if she can settle for only little notes now and she definitely can't wait to see him again.

Tagging: @crystallstaircase @infinitexspacex  @elliewithcellie @mystrie @prettyxlittlexwriter @chalicia @curly-haired-disaster @cleverdame @xi-i-i-whatsyouremergency @fandometsy @zombiewerewolfqueen @andtheraincamefalling @mostly-shawn

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[saltineofswing]

Prime Fragment: REMEDY MISDIRECT

“I SAID, we NEED some BACKUP!!” Viggo didn’t shout so much as scream ingloriously into the comm receiver as the triple-thud staccato of Bronto Cannon fire marched a line of smoking craters into the burnt-out shack that Viggo and Alathar were crouched in; Moon bounced back and forth on the roof as if dancing over hot coals, and the crackling rapport of her hand cannon matched Viggo’s pulse as he beat his fist against the stack of telemetric technology beside him. “CRIMES! Does any of this thrice-shat waste-of-time Dead Orbit tech ACTUALLY work!? Or do they just stack empty boxes together and call it a fucking bargain? When we get back I’m gonna stuff this antenna up Arach Jalaal’s–“

Viggo’s panicked rant was cut off by a tremendous roar and the roof above them simply evaporating. The double-size Cabal tank that was currently rolling through the Sludge on its way to the City by way of the Farm had a main cannon roughly the size of a Worm god’s skull, and thanks to the recent fiasco on Mars that was unfortunately a definable quantity. The flash of fire and heat overhead made a line of blisters boil across the back of Viggo’s neatly-shorn scalp even through his helmet, and Viggo screamed into the noise and flattened himself down on his belly, grabbing for his Pulse Rifle.

Alathar slammed his shoulder against an invisible force barrier in the world and a towering convex shield erupted in front of them, soaking up Cabal fire as cracks splintered across its surface. He panted to himself and turned to glance at Viggo. “Where’s Moon?” He asked, voice rising as the noise of Cabal munitions threatened to drown them out once more. Viggo snapped his head up in a panic to search for the Hunter that had taken it upon herself to be his mentor, Moon-5, who had moments ago been on the roof.

The roof that had just gotten eaten by a massive line of molten solar fire.

His query was not long left unanswered, thankfully; Her body landed face- up in the muck about fifty feet behind them with a wet squelch, her cape fluttering down over her face and her Ghost spinning out in the open to assess the damage. Viggo held his breath for a moment before one of her arms popped up, thumb held high. “I am O-Kay!”

He sighed, exasperation and panic bludgeoning one another for prominence in his chest. “God! She’s nuts! She’s nuts, and I’m gonna die, and it’s because she’s a fucking loon!”

“Relax,” Alathar said evenly, lifting his rocket launcher onto his shoulder. “Deep breaths, young one. Cover me.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to shoot them with a rocket.”

Viggo whipped up and leaned his gun on the windowsill of the shack, firing precision shots into the crowd of Cabal escorting their latest horrible military death machine. Each triple-burst of his Swift Ride popped pressure seals or burned holes in brain stems, giving Alathar time to rise with measured patience from his crouched spot, step around his Barricade, and fire a warhead across the street into the crowd.

There was another boom of munitions as his rocket struck a Centurion in the chest and turned his torso into a gooey jigsaw puzzle, and the explosion scattered the procession. Moon vaulted off of Alathar’s shoulders and a raucous rush of Light adorned the ignition of her Hand Cannon. Six shots cracked out in three seconds and one of the rear thrusters keeping the massive wartank aloft crumpled and died.

Moon whooped as she wheeled around to cover, her cape singed nearly a foot shorter. “How’s that for a bit of adrenaline?” She asked savagely, thumping Viggo’s chest.

“Why are you so excited?” He shrieked, fumbling a new clip into his Pulse Rifle. “We’re going to DIE!”

“Who isn’t?” She retorted. “Load up, rookie, we’ve still got about forty Cabal out there and they did not bring party favors!”

“Move,” Alathar cautioned, grabbing Viggo by the scruff of his shoulder-length cloak and heaving him up. Moon scrambled under the hulking Titan’s feet and bounded across the clearing as the noisy hum of the tank’s main gun charging filled the air.

Seconds later the shack they’d just been hiding in was nothing but a molten crater, and the three of them were hiding behind a stack of ancient cars with the Dark Forest directly at their back.

“Oh Light,” Viggo hissed through his teeth. “Oh, I hate this. I hate this! Why did it have to be here?”

“What’s so bad about here?” Moon said, her voice forced into a chipper mask as she reloaded her handgun and pretended not to have noticed the oozing hole in her side. “Besides the tank, I mean.”

“Maybe ten more seconds until we have to move,” Alathar cautioned. “It will keep pushing us in the opposite direction of its advance until we can make it to that warehouse.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it was the fact that the last time we were here, that headcase corpse-monster in the woods turned you into a modern art sculpture, and made Al blind!” Viggo spat. “With his MIND!”

“Only for a few minutes!”

“That doesn’t make it better!!”

Alathar’s rocket launcher spat heat again and the rocket crashed against the fore shields on the tank. The explosion still managed to half-incinerate the pair of Psions stationed by the vehicle’s primary thrusters.

“That Guardian,” Moon murmured thoughtfully; she stroked her chin in a peculiar way that Viggo didn’t understand, especially considering she was wearing her helmet. “The Corpse. Yeah.” He’d once seen Cayde-6 make the same motions and asked if she’d gotten it from him; Al had said that Moon was a great deal older than she seemed, and that it was the other way around. He’d gotten the mannerism from her.

“Yeah? What do you mean, ‘yeah’?”

Moon stood and checked the clearing for a moment. “Can you hold down the fort here, boys?”

Viggo blanched, appalled. “No!”

Alathar simply checked the ammunition on his auto-rifle as if he was used to this. “Why?”

“I have an idea. A bad one, but an idea.”

“Ikora told us not to bother that thing in the Forest,” Alathar reminded her mildly, stuffing a cluster-munitions rocket into the tube of his launcher. He dragged two fingers across the inside of the wrist that held the launcher by the grip and made a circle with his forefinger and thumb against the scuffed plating. Out. “Yeah, but these are extenuating circumstances.” She stuffed her hand cannon in its holster and crouched down in a sprinter’s crouch.

“Moon, you can’t just kite a bigger, badder monster in to solve our problems,” Alathar said pointedly. “Five seconds. I can hear the gun charging.”

“Why not? Either he gets vaporized or he turns that tank into mulch. Either way that seems like a win-win from where I’m sitting. One way or another a threat gets taken out of the equation.”

“I don’t like you talking about a Guardian like that.”

“Whatever he was before, he – Oop! Move.”

They scattered like rats as the tank discharged again. White filled Viggo’s vision until it went black and his legless torso splashed into the mud. Alathar slid to a halt next to him, suppression-firing into the crowd with his auto-rifle, until their Ghosts could channel enough light together to knit Viggo’s body back together from the ether. He dry-heaved inside his helmet and scrabbled on hands and knees behind cover at the edge of the cliff face that separated this portion of the Sludge from the road that ran past the Farm.

Moon helped him to his feet. “Are you okay?” She asked, gentler than she ever was in any other circumstance as he tried to get his newly-remade stomach to stop flipping end over end. “Can you breathe? Deep breaths. Stretch your knees. Roll your ankles. You’re okay.”

“Maybe half a minute until the tank re-emerges from around the warehouse,” Alathar judged.

Viggo slapped his hands against his helmet and successfully suppressed the urge to vomit in his helmet. “Green,” he rasped hoarsely. “Green. I’m reading green.”

“Good.” She thumped the forehead of his helmet with the side of her fist. “I’m off. Keep the light on for me.”

“Moon, wait!” He pleaded. “What if it just kills you?”

“It won’t! I’m too fast for that.”

“Okay, what if he kills us?” Alathar snapped.

“He – it – did once before, almost! Why should this time be any different? We’re Guardians!”

“I just got my legs vaporized,” Viggo mumbled queasily. Moon sighed, and took a moment to huddle with her fireteam.

“Listen,” she said earnestly. “We don’t have the firepower to break this thing before it breaks us. Viggo, you said it yourself, Dead Orbit’s radio-tech is scraprust-garbage. That means we either put this thing away here, or we pray to the Traveler that there are enough Guardians lingering at the Farm to stop it.” She put her hands on the backs of either of her teammate’s helmets. “And before they do that, it’ll vaporize a lot of stuff we can’t just Glimmer back together. This is us, Guardians. We smash the hard place with the rock we get stuck under. So trust me, okay? I’m moderately certain this will work.”

Alathar sighed, shaking his head slightly, but his expression was inscrutable behind his helmet. “Very well, Moon,” he rumbled. “It’s your call.”

“Thanks, Meat Mountain. Don’t die until I get back, ‘kay?”

“I will do my level best.”

“That’s the spirit!” She patted Viggo’s cheek and then turned and sprinted off towards the treeline.

“Think we’ll ever see her again?” Viggo said glumly.

“For at least a couple of seconds. Tether,” Alathar responded, hefting his rocket launcher.

Viggo spun out from behind their cover and pulled a short leather-wrapped handle from his belt; a phantom bow curled off the material component of his Nightspell and he drew the drawstring as swirls of void-light pooled at either end. “Choice of dispersal?”

“Center mass.”

“Yes sir.”

The arrow careened through the air like a twirling angelic mortar, burst just above the crowd, and sent a spiderweb of branching void-tendrils snaking through the crowd, binding them to the pulsating globule of Void Light that dragged them all inward.

Alathar’s cluster missile turned thirty more Cabal into so much Solar dust. And so the dance continued; Viggo and Alathar darted from cover to cover and left a molten pile of slag behind everywhere they crouched, trying to keep up with the thankfully now much slower ultra-tank as it trundled along through the Sludge. The forward Cabal guard clashed with Taken and Fallen while the tank and what was left of the battered rear guard tried in vain to deal with a pair of wily Guardians. Lives were on Viggo and Alathar’s side. Firepower was on the Cabal’s. The battle was pitched, and Viggo eventually passed Alathar his shotgun so that the Titan could charge the tank and blast the other rear thruster pod to smithereens with it, but the result was Alathar’s exasperated Ghost muttering ‘Why do you enable him?’ To Viggo while Viggo fed it enough Light to unscramble Alathar’s molecular waste and return him to the world of the living with a saucy chuckle and a light dusting of ash.

After almost twenty long minutes of following the tank, which now drove at a snail’s pace with the back half grinding along as it dragged thrusterless behind the front end, Viggo heard something from the abyssal trees and looming Shard behind them.

“Oh, shit,” he whined; a ghastly wail had picked up, wavering and rising with the wind. Even Alathar had to shudder at the sound of it, swiftly growing closer. Viggo felt it like a shadow blotting out the sun, or a demon chasing him through a bad dream, just behind and growing ever-closer in his Nightstalker senses. This thing, this once-guardian, it trembled in the bloom, suffuse with Voidlight unlike any Voidwalker or Sentinel he’d ever encountered before. Ikora was a bottomless well of stillness. The Corpse was like a slavering black hole.

Moon came ripping out of the Forest, one of her arms missing from the shoulder down, metal curled into springy strips and her hand cannon conspicuously missing.

“Run!” She shouted gleefully as she tore past them, dirt and mud flying up in a mist under her heels.

Behind her the Forest lurched, gravity-distortion waves bending the world momentarily as the Corpse screamed out of the treeline, jittering forward as if Blinking soundlessly from point to point. Viggo turned and sprinted out into the open after his mentor, panic seizing his heart, and heard the surprised grunt and thundering footfalls of Alathar just behind him. Moon laughed like a lark into the open air as she ran, her remaining arm flying into the air over her head. She was running so fast that her hood had fallen back, and Viggo kept one hand clapped to the crown of his head to keep the same from happening to him.

“WHAT DID YOU DO!?” Alathar roared, uncharacteristically fussed, as the Corpse’s screaming behorned form chased them across the ruined city street.

“I SHOT HIM!” Moon called gaily back. The Cabal were so stunned by the sight of them that for a moment none of them fired; the tank’s main cannon warmed, gurgled with heat so intense that Viggo watched the foliage peel and blacken off the slagged cars on either side of it, and slowly came to bear on them. He took a split second to glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, a bright violet wisp was drifting up and away from the Corpse’s torso from both sides, the singe of golden fire undoubtedly from Moon’s Golden Gun already dimming as the Corpse was slowly filled in as if time had decided to reverse course around the wound.

Viggo dodged and weaved for his life through Cabal slug guns, rockets, and Bronto-shot. He did his best to stay calm. Hit the hard place with the rock you’re stuck under. Viggo sucked his breath in through his teeth. The Corpse overflowed with Void Light. It was like the thing’s anchor. He could feel it pulling at the gravity under his boots as it glided like a nightmare after them. Okay. He could work with that.

“DOWN!!” Viggo shouted as he leapt upwards, vaulted off nothing, then triple-jumped for maximum height. Moon and Alathar dove to either side as he drew his Bow once more, reached into the Möbius quiver at his hip, and fired as many tethers as he could across the tank and the crowd of Cabal. The second his feet hit pavement he dove and rolled for all he was worth, holding his breath, feeling the Corpse fall upon them –

“I AM! Legion! Crimson tide! Forgotten army! Self-deluded castoffs lost and cowering away from Calus’s love/hate!” The Corpse rocketed past them, tattered robes fluttering in the wind. “WALLBREAKERS! CITY IN CINDERS! Ghaul’s pathetic final whimpers drain away like scattered dust in the vastness of the Datasphere! Yarrow says GO HIDE IN A HOLE SOMEWHERE, YOU UGLY FROGS! I AM NOT!”

The cannon fired and Viggo gritted his teeth and forced himself not to look away as the massive beam of solar power streaked towards the new biggest threat; but before it could impact the Corpse and turn it into ash, the magnetic field shaping the superheated energy unspooled in the fathomless Void, and the cannon’s discharge looped and spun away into nothing. The yawning nothing within the Corpse stretched out, and the massive cannon crumpled, screeching metal upon screeching metal, peeled open like a flower.

The Cabal unloaded their full retinue of fire on the Corpse, but the munitions spun away into the Vortex crowned above the creature’s umbral horns. It held its arm out, palm forward, wailing into the sky, and Viggo’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets with how hard they bugged as he watched the tank begin to buckle from inside. It let out a sickening groan of metal straining against gravity, crunched, bent in half, and then began to crumple like a tin can, dragged inwards as a second Vortex spun up from a pinprick somewhere in the bowels of the great machine...

Viggo blinked and it was gone. The sudden still and quiet was deafening to his ears and when he brought himself to pay attention, he noticed that all of the Cabal were now dead, too; they lay here and there, some in heaps, some sprawled alone in the middle of the street. All grey, as if the very color had been leeched out of them, with staining rust and green moss crawling across their armor as if they had been dead for decades.

The Corpse shuffled quietly back the way it had came, hugging itself like a lost civilian, hunched and small as if it were just a ghost. Viggo got to his feet first. He felt a pang of... emptiness. Longing. It was incomplete, he thought, and he approached it warily but at a firm pace.

“Hey,” he mumbled, trying his best to ape Moon’s ‘comforting Rez-sick newbie Guardian’ voice. “Can you hear me? Is– is there anyone in there? Hey.” He reached out, but the moment before his fingers touched its shoulder it began to fade, its image vanishing right before his eyes as if it had walked behind an invisible shroud and out of sight.

The oppressive weight of its presence instantly guttered and went out.

The three victorious Guardians stood in a silent triangle, alone with an empty crater and fifty dead Cabal.

“We need to talk to Ikora,” Viggo said breathlessly.

“Dammit,” Moon pouted. “I’m going to get in trouble.” 

[infireation]

Serendipity

Prompt (from Anonymous) : A fluffy Jimin scenario where he pretends to have you and eventually he confesses / (author addition) “We both got randomly selected to sing ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ at this karaoke bar AU”.

Word Count: 14,400

Genre: Fluff - because nothing suits this sweet boy more than a nice dose of fluff.

It was not supposed to happen like this. This was not how he wanted to tell you, his tongue sloppy and his words slurred, tasting nothing but the harsh burn of soju when he would have rather been tasting your sweet lips instead.

No, it was not supposed to end up like this. But it did, and that was something Jimin had to live with.

The snow began to fall on a Saturday morning, the air a crisp, bitter cold that you feel in your bones, the flakes creating a field of white across the sky. The clouds were overcast, the fog from Jimin’s breath evaporating into the atmosphere as he walked down the streets of Seoul, wandering from store to store for last minute holiday shopping. Hands stuffed into his pockets, he buried his nose into the comfort of his scarf, shivering as the wind blew. He hustled through the crowds of people, finally able to breathe once he entered the shop he had his eye on from across the street, a quaint little family owned bookstore that he knew you loved to frequent.

Jimin wasn’t great at picking out individual novels, but he figured he knew you well enough to understand the genres you always fell back on and enjoyed. Getting into specifics was more of something Namjoon excelled at. The owner was currently standing at the register, waving to Jimin when he noticed him enter, the ding of the bell alerting him of his presence.

His fingers brushed against the spines of the novels as he wove through the aisles, his eyes wandering over the titles, trying his best to find one that you would truly love. Jimin almost missed it, his shoes skidding against the carpet as he backtracked to make sure his vision wasn’t tricking him - yes, this was it, this was the one. He broke out into a grin, grabbing it from the shelf.

Once he made it to the register, he was met with the warm smile of the owner, someone who had become a great friend over the years.

“Is this going to be all?” He asked, bagging up the book as he accepted the money from Jimin. With a nod, the man handed over the purchase, stopping Jimin from leaving with a clearing of his throat. “You make sure to say hi to Y/N for me, alright?”

Jimin grinned, promising to do so, as he waved goodbye and walked towards the door to exit, but not before he heard the last words of the owner behind him.

“Y/N is going to love it!”

Jimin could feel the blush form on his cheeks, the heat radiating off of him hard to ignore. The bell dinged again as he exited the shop, struck by the cold winter air once more as he walked towards the subway station to travel home.

He had known you for the better part of ten years, first meeting in middle school and now into your twenties, harboring his feelings for you ever since you were in high school. Everyone knew it, everyone except for the one person that matters, as it usually goes. He was playful with you, flirty when the time called for it, but he never crossed that line. He never mustered up enough courage to take the next step, to tell you that you’re always on his mind, that you’re the first thing he thinks about when he wakes up in the morning. It’s your scent that lingers on his clothes, from the countless number of times you borrowed them, it’s your smile that drives him absolutely wild.

Jimin was undoubtedly in love with you, and it was irrevocably eating him up inside.

He was startled from his thoughts when his phone rang in his pocket, Jimin scrambling to answer it before it was too late. He did not pay attention to see who was calling, answering it without a second thought. He smiled when he realized it was none other than you.

“Jimin!” He listened as he picked up onto your frantic tone. “Jimin, thank god you answered. I don’t know what else to do!” Jimin stepped to the side of the street, away from the fast walkers and impatient people.

“Take a deep breath, Y/N. What’s going on?” his mind was racing with possibilities of what could have happened, his thoughts taking a turn for the worst.

“I need you to be my boyfriend for a weekend.”

His heart stopped.

“W-what?” He couldn’t form a coherent thought, telling himself he simply had not heard you correctly, that he was imagining things.

“My sister is getting married next weekend, and my parents are advertently expecting a plus one, and I can’t continue to show up alone at every family function. They haven’t come out and said it, but it’s definitely been implied,” you sighed on the other end. “It’s like they care more about me showing up with someone than my own sister’s marriage, for crying out loud.”

Jimin remained silent, trying to process the words that had just been spewed out to him. He is sure he looked like a crazy person, his fingers running through his hair, the fabric from the gloves causing it to stick up in all different directions, pacing back and forth on the same spot on the sidewalk.

“Are you there?” your voice echoed in his eardrums, his heart about ready to burst from his chest.

“Yeah, I’m here.” his voice was timid, weak.

“So what do you say? Help an old friend out?” Jimin could sense your smile even from a thousand miles away, “Pretty please with a cherry on top?” he could only imagine your eyes growing wide, a pertinent pout on your lips as you would try to win him over. You did not have to try very hard, most of the time Jimin bent over backwards for you without you having to say a thing.

“I’ll do it.”

What has he just gotten himself into?

With his suitcase sprawled open along his bed, Jimin tried to tune out his friends as best he could while he packed, but it was hard trying to ignore six overgrown children all screaming at you at one time.

“Are you serious? You said yes?”

“You are fucking insane, you’ll never pull it off.”

“This is his chance, guys! You idiots aren’t seeing the potential that this has.”

“We do see it, we just don’t think he’ll be able to do it.”

Jimin could not help but roll his eyes, muttering under his breath. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

It was then that he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, looking up to see Namjoon towering over him.

“I’m serious, Jiminnie,” Namjoon’s tone was soft, “You have a golden opportunity here to confess, finally, how you feel.”

Jimin sighed, running his fingers through his hair as a nervous habit. He continued to fold his clothes, letting those words sink in.

“Just remember, we’ll be going too.” Jin spoke from his left, sitting at the edge of his bed, re-folding a few of his shirts that didn’t seem to be satisfactory to his standards. “So if you need any help at all, we’ll be right there with you.”

That was one thing Jimin could count on, was the fact that all of them were invited too, having become friends with you and your family because of him, naturally being included.

“Yeah, so when you screw up, we’ll have a drink waiting for you at the ready.” Jimin grabbed onto the nearest thing he could find, his pillow, and whipped it in Jungkook’s direction.

“You’re not even old enough to have a drink, let alone hold one for someone else.” Yoongi mumbles, his eyebrow raising as he lifted his feet to rest on top of Jimin’s desk. Jungkook retaliated by punching his arm, but the voice of the oldest of the group put a stop to that immediately.

“That is not the point.” He could recognize the frustration as Jin began to speak, his tone indicating that this argument was over. “The point is that we’ll have your back, no matter what happens.”

“And to be honest, even if you do fuck it up, Y/N will still love you anyway. You have just been too blind to notice.” Yoongi shrugged as he left the room, Jimin staring at where he sat with wide eyes. Hoseok broke out into an ear-splitting laughter, the group in agreement, Jimin seeing many nods and grunts of congruity that were hard to ignore. He had been hearing this sort of thing ever since they figured out he had feelings for you, but Jimin never listened to them.

“This means absolutely nothing. You’re all just crazy.” Jimin shook his head as he shoved his socks into the top zipper pocket of the suitcase a bit harder than he should’ve. “I’m helping out a friend, that’s all.”

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Taehyung chimed in, a teasing grin on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. The smile fell fast, the look in Jimin’s eyes was one that could kill, Taehyung nervously laughing and raising his hands in a mock surrender.

Jimin roughly grabbed the shirt Jin has in his hands, shoving it inside the suitcase and zipping it closed with an aggravated demeanor.

“This means nothing.”

Jimin comprehended that he had to keep repeating it to himself, but would any amount of times actually aid in helping him to believe it?

Who was he kidding? He was all kinds of screwed.

The train ride to Busan from Seoul was long, tiring, and did not help Jimin’s mental state in any way shape or form. If anything, it only heightened his anxiety, his brain playing tricks on him and having him think of nothing but the worst of any scenario or situation that played out in his head. He wound up sitting next to Jungkook, the youngest having fallen asleep, his head resting upon Jimin’s shoulder. Yoongi and Taehyung were sitting to his right, Namjoon and Hoseok situated in the seats in front of him, with Jin by himself behind him. Jin insisted on a seat of his own, not wanting to “deal with the incessant snoring in his ear from Namjoon again” like last time.

Jimin had his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze stuck in a trance on the landscape as it passed by him in a whirl of colors, his head resting against the back of his seat. He had spoken to you once or twice throughout the week, as you had already left and arrived earlier on considering you were the Maid of Honor, only talking to confirm details and places to be. Other than that, there had been no real discussion on how the both of you had planned to pull this off. You were probably terrified, and wanted to avoid it as long as possible, or so he told himself.

He tried to sleep for the remainder of the ride, but no matter how hard he tried, he was restless, seeing your face at every moment, his nerves going haywire. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, retrieving it with a furrowed brow, noticing it was Yoongi who had texted him. Jimin  moved forward and glanced around Jungkook, shooting Yoongi a confused expression, the elder shaking his phone in his hand, indicating for him to read it.

Grandpa [14:17pm]: Did you get Y/N a Christmas gift?

Jimin [14:18pm]: Of course I did, did you?

Grandpa [14:18pm]: Who do you think I am? A monster? I’m checking to make sure you’re doing this correctly.

Even though Yoongi had a soft spot for Jimin, he seldom held back on his sarcastic retorts.

Jimin [14:19pm]: Doing what correctly?

He heard Yoongi chuckle.

Grandpa [14:20pm]: You have so much to learn. Just don’t give it to Y/N until after the wedding, after you’ve told Y/N how you feel.

That left Jimin puzzled, looking up from his phone and directly at Yoongi, but Yoongi remained with his head down, earbuds in.

Jimin [14:21pm]: I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I’m not confessing. But that would be after the holiday, wouldn’t that defeat the purpose of calling it a Christmas gift?

Jimin watched, impatient, as he saw the three dots appear and disappear simultaneously as Yoongi continued to type.

Grandpa [14:22pm]: Trust me on this. If there’s one thing you listen to, let it be this, okay?

Jimin huffed, ready to type a reply but Yoongi was one step quicker.

Grandpa [14:23pm]: Believe me, Y/N will be all over you by the end of this weekend. Keep your head up, shortie.

At those final words, he was more than ready to start a fight, hovering over his seat, glaring at the ebony hair of the older boy to the right; but Yoongi went seemingly right back to sleep, his hat covering his eyes, his music blasting in his ears, but Jimin did not miss the smirk that played at the corners of his lips, before Yoongi’s fingers pulled his mask up again to cover his face.

By the time they had arrived, the sky was pitch black, not a cloud in sight and only the light of the moon and the stars. Jimin craned his neck upwards with a soft, appreciative smile, missing the vast open landscape that Busan could offer compared to the brightly lit buildings and neon street signs of Seoul. With a deep breath, he inhaled the smells of the sea, the cool, winter air, and he was so happy to be home.

He would see his parents tomorrow, they chose to spend the night at home and would drive up for the wedding reception the evening to follow, and he didn’t blame them. Luckily enough for Jungkook, his family home was within half an hour of the venue, so he was able to stay with his parents for the remainder of the weekend if he chose to, but he elected to stay at the hotel with Yoongi and Taehyung in their room on the couch. As for the rest of the group, everyone would be split into adjoining hotel rooms, Jimin staying with Hoseok.

The fiery red hair of his friend came into view, his bright smile rivaling that of the stars, waving Jimin down to tell him to meet him at the check in desk. And with a final parting breath, Jimin wheeled his suitcase in the direction of the hotel, the entrance doors opening on a sensor with his footsteps, warmth washing over him as he made his way inside.

Hoseok threw his arm around Jimin’s shoulders, pulling him into a side hug. “Let’s go, roomie!”

Jimin threw himself on the bed closest to the window, his eyes fluttering closed when he felt the soft fabric of the sheets against his skin. He hummed quietly to himself, hearing Hoseok begin to unpack his suitcase and put away his clothes between the dresser and the closet.

He could feel Hoseok’s eyes on him, but Jimin paid it no mind, the extent of his exhaustion was finally hitting him and that was all he could focus on at the moment.

All until he felt a pillow hit his gut.

“What the hell?!”

“You need to wake up, sunshine.” Hoseok said, Jimin’s eyes opening with trepidation, the dim light of the hotel room even too much for his sensitivity right now.

“And why would I need to do that?” Jimin rose slowly onto his forearms, his lips forming into a small pout.

“We’re going out.”

Jimin groaned, stretching his limbs across the mattress, wincing when he felt Hoseok ruffle his hair over his forehead, hearing him laugh as he did so.

“Don’t make such a big deal over it, we’re only going to Namjoon and Jin’s room across the hall. Everyone else is in there already, they’re waiting on us.” Hoseok began to pull Jimin upwards, yanking on his arms until he sat up straight.

Now that, Jimin could handle.

Clad in only a hoodie and sweatpants, Jimin followed Hoseok into the hallway, his feet shuffling on the carpet as his hands rested in the pocket on the front of his sweatshirt, his fingers playing with the key card in his grasp. Hoseok was holding a small case of beer, knocking on the door obnoxiously loud, until he was met with a scowl from Yoongi on the other side. It did not stray him from his attitude though, Hoseok charging into the room with a boisterous greeting, Jimin catching the grin on Yoongi’s face when he shut the door. Yoongi could never be upset with Hoseok for more than three seconds before succumbing to a smile.

The rest of the group was scattered along the furniture, Jungkook and Taehyung situated upon the couch, while Yoongi plopped back down onto the armchair, Namjoon and Jin sitting on their respective beds. Hoseok placed the cans down on top the desk near the television, before pulling out the chair and sitting down. Namjoon was scrolling through his phone to pick the playlist for the night, Jimin choosing to sit beside him on the edge of the mattress. Yoongi was quick to grab a can, sipping hurriedly onto the foam that had formed on top before it spilled over. Jin held his hand up, Yoongi tossing him one as well. Anyone who wanted a beer had one in their possession, Jungkook glancing in Taehyung’s direction with a longing stare, Taehyung chuckling at the younger boy’s expression.

“You’ll get there one day.” He mumbled, but before the rim of the can could touch his lips, Jungkook was swift to snatch it away, chugging the remaining alcohol as fast as he could before Taehyung could react. The older boy reached over to pry it from his hands, but Jungkook was strong, easily pushing Taehyung away and wiping his mouth with a satisfied smug smile.

“Ya! You idiot!” Taehyung smacked Jungkook upside the head, causing him to ruffle his hair as he rubbed his scalp, but the grin never faded. Taehyung looked to Namjoon and Jin to handle this, Namjoon merely laughing at the entire situation, while Jin appeared ready to put Jungkook in his place, ears red and cheeks flushed.

“Let him have his fun, it’s not like we didn’t drink before we were legal,” Namjoon pointed out, sipping the beer in his hands. He tapped Jin on the shoulder and the two of them exchanged a glance, a silent conversation that nobody was able to understand but them, Jin’s demeanor changing instantly. Jimin heard him sigh, still disgruntled as he drank his own, but he left it alone. “Besides, it’s almost the new year, and he’ll be of age anyway. He’s in good hands.”

Jungkook’s grin was as bright as ever.

Taehyung shrugged, grabbing another beer and opening it, handing it to Jungkook and taking another for himself. Hoseok offered one to Jimin, who accepted it gladly. He needed to calm his mind for a little while.

“Has Y/N talked to you yet?” leave it to Yoongi to get straight to the point, a teasing smile on his face.

Jimin choked, coughing mid-sip, wiping the edge of his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He shook his head no, allowing Yoongi to continue his interrogation.

“What did you buy for a present?” the rest of the boys were listening now, leaning closer to hear his answer, all eyes on him. Jimin gulped.

“A book from her favorite book store.”

A chorus of murmurs and groans followed his words, Jimin seeing Yoongi shake his head in disapproval, but Namjoon patted him on the back in reassurance. Jimin furrowed his brows, confused as to why they reacted so negatively.

“That’s sweet and all, but you’re going to have to do better than that,” Yoongi sat up, resting his elbow on his thigh as he leaned in closer to Jimin. “It has to be from the heart.”

Namjoon was quick to dismiss him, waving his hand and placing his arm around Jimin’s shoulders. “Who says this isn’t from his heart? He knows Y/N loves to read, I’m sure he took care in choosing something special.” He shot Jimin a sideways grin, Jimin exhaling with a nervous laugh.

“I guess so?” He was unsure now, but he did hope that you liked it. Jimin was known for being thoughtful with his gifts to the people he cared about, but when it came to you he could never find anything that fit right. Nothing was perfect, nothing was ever good enough for you.

“You should get her some jewelry, girls always like that sort of thing.” Jungkook chimes in, sipping onto his second beer a lot slower than the first.

Hoseok aggressively shook his head, “No, that’s too materialistic, too cliche,” He hopped up and crossed his legs beneath himself on the chair, “You need to think beyond that.”

“Well what do you think is beyond that?” Jimin used air quotes, growing frustrated with the back and forth from everyone, now second guessing everything.

“It has to be sentimental,” Jin was resting his chin in his hand, his eyes glazing over as he lost himself in his thoughts. He nodded, his head turning to face Jimin. “The gift has to mean something. It has to be important.”

Jimin knew it was not just because of the alcohol as to why his head was spinning. He knew they were just looking out for him, but this was not making the situation any better, if anything it was making it worse. It was confusing him, confusing his feelings, making him doubt everything he had in mind from the start.

One thing he knew for sure, he damn well was not confessing now.

Not that he was going to anyway, right?

Right.

Jimin was rudely awakened the next morning by a jumping Jungkook, said boy leaping onto his bed and placing all of his weight onto his entire body. Jimin yelped, his eyes scrunching in pain, shoving Jungkook off of him mumbling I’m awake as he shifted himself to sit up against the headboard.

“Now that you’re up,” Jimin scowled as the younger boy grinned broadly, “Let’s go eat!”

“You attacked me because of a breakfast buffet?” Jimin rose up to smack Jungkook on the back of his head, but he was one step quicker and ducked just in time to avoid the hit.

“Do you even have to ask?” Jungkook began walking towards the door of their hotel room, which is when Jimin noticed Hoseok brushing his teeth in the bathroom, nodding at Jimin in acknowledgment of a morning greeting. He finished up, throwing on a sweatshirt and sneakers, following behind as the three boys made their way down the hall to meet up with the rest of the group before going to the dining area.

“I can’t believe you let him in.” Jimin muttered to Hoseok, making sure to stay a few steps behind. Hoseok laughed, nudging Jimin’s shoulder as he spoke.

“It was the only way I could wake you up,” Jimin looked at him confused. “You barely twitched when I hit you with my own pillow, so I had to bring in reinforcements.” He jerked his head, indicating Jungkook. “You were out cold, my friend.”

Jimin didn’t realize how deprived of sleep he has actually been these past few weeks until his head hit the pillow the night before. What once would bring him comfort, the faint, lingering smell of your perfume on his sweatshirt, or the thought of your smile before he went to sleep, only brought him anxiety and worry of the weekend to come. He thought about texting you, but he figured you were busy with preparations that he did not want to bother you.

So it came as a surprise to him when his phone buzzed, your name popping up on his screen, a cute smiling emoji as you wished him a good morning, hoping to meet up sometime today before the rehearsal dinner to go over the arrangement.

Wait, rehearsal dinner? Oh fuck.

Hoseok noticed Jimin’s change in demeanor, his eyebrow raising in question. “Are you okay?”

Jimin looked flustered, running his fingers through his hair as he glared at his phone screen. “I totally forgot about the rehearsal dinner tonight.”

Hoseok’s mouth opened wide, an expression of understanding washing over his features. “That will be the first time you’ll be seeing Y/N since she asked you to do this, isn’t it?”

Jimin nodded.

Hoseok clapped his hand on Jimin’s back, “This is when the fun really begins.”

“You’re not helping.” Jimin muttered, shoving his hand away and walking faster to catch up with the rest of the group. Hoseok just chuckled, his hands in his pockets as he shuffled into the dining hall with the rest of them.

Jin and Jungkook already had piles of food on their plates, wide smiles and full mouths as they ate like they would never see another meal again. Namjoon and Yoongi sipped quietly on their cups of coffee, occasionally taking bites of the pastries and bagels they took from the buffet. Taehyung was at the front of the line, eyes bright as he decided on what to eat, Jimin and Hoseok following suit and getting behind him with their own empty plates.

Sitting down next to Jin, Jimin looked at his food with little interest. He played with the eggs atop his plate, everyone noticing that his mood was off. He felt a tap against his arm, looking up to see Jin staring at him, mouth still full of food but his expression was questioning, prompting Jimin to speak about what was troubling him. Jimin waved him off, shaking his head as he took a bite, not noticing how Jin turned his gaze to Hoseok, knowing they were together before everyone met up.

“Y/N texted him about the rehearsal dinner tonight and he’s freaking out.” Hoseok’s lips tilted into a small smile, catching a glare from Jimin who held his head in his hands.

“So that’s what has got your panties in a bunch,” Yoongi set down his cup of coffee, a sly grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “You have to talk to Y/N eventually, otherwise none of this is going to work.”

Jimin nodded in agreement, but the scared look sprawled upon his face said otherwise.

“Look, don’t put too much pressure on yourself to be a picture-perfect boyfriend. Just act like you normally do when you’re together, but include a little more physical contact. Put your arm around Y/N’s waist, give her a kiss on the cheek, things like that.” at the word kiss Jimin almost choked on his water, the thought alone giving him butterflies and nervous knots in the pit of his stomach.

Jungkook shot a smile in his direction.

“It can’t be that hard, right? The two of you are already so close, you share clothes for crying out loud, you might as well call yourselves a couple. This shouldn’t be too difficult. You can do this, Jimin.” Jungkook put up his fist, a gesture of encouragement, but all Jimin could think about was the fact that he would probably have to kiss you at some point this weekend, and the idea had surprisingly not even crossed his mind.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the chime of his phone, alerting him of a new text message, seeing your name on the screen once again.

Y/N [11:30am]: Can you meet me at my hotel room in one hour? I finally got away from all of the craziness. We can talk then?

The boys noticed Jimin’s change in demeanor almost immediately, a grin developing on his face and his shoulders relaxed.

Jimin [11:31am]: Sounds good, I’ll see you then.

He placed his phone down with a smile, taking a hearty bite of his breakfast, paying no mind to the eyes of the six boys that surrounded him.

Yoongi chuckled, “You’re going to be just fine.”

You were pacing the floor in your hotel room, your fingers twisted and intertwined as your hands mindlessly moved on their own for not knowing what to do with them. The rehearsal dinner was in half an hour, and despite going through the story that you were to tell your family and friends with Jimin a hundred times by now, it did not make it any easier to know that it was going to become a reality very soon.

You were startled by the touch of a hand on your shoulder, warm and consoling, a touch you knew immediately. It was Jimin, offering you a reassuring smile and a nod, silently telling you that everything was going to be okay. You twisted yourself to face him, pivoting on your heel and wrapping your arms around his torso in a strong hug. His comforting scent of pine and spice calms your nerves, his fingers running through your hair never failing to soothe you. You were so absorbed in the feeling that you did not hear the door opening behind you, your eyes fluttering open when hearing her voice.

“Aren’t you two just the cutest?” You moved yourself away from Jimin, but he kept his hand on the small of your back, a gesture you appreciated. “It’s about time you guys got together.”

Your sister teased you, smiling as she entered the room with her fiancé at her side. You had forgotten that she had a key card, just as you did to her room, in case of emergencies. Clearly she was not abiding by that unwritten rule. Upon her words you separated from Jimin, the blush appearing on your cheeks instantaneously, while Jimin cleared his throat.

“Are you ready to go?” She clapped her hands together, slipping her arm through her fiancé’s grip as she headed out the door, her vivacious energy bordering on

infectious, the joy radiating from her wonderful to see. You knew deep down she was nervous, but it was so nice to see her with someone who was absolutely her other half, no doubts about it. The both of you nodded, checking to make sure you had everything before leaving the room and locking the door.

You let the two of them go ahead of you, staying behind to walk with Jimin. His hand slipped into yours, his thumb caressing the back of your palm, sensing your uneasiness. The small action caused your heart to flutter.

“We’ve got this, okay?”

You squeezed his hand tighter, nodding without saying a word. The next battle would be presenting yourselves to your family, making them believe that you are in a solid, loving relationship. Your heart dropped into your stomach at the thought of it.

The rehearsal and ultimately the wedding were to be located at the venue within the hotel, your heartbeat beginning to pick up its pace once more as you saw your family standing in the room. Due to the fact that your sister was getting married during the Christmas weekend, the decor was reflective as such: fresh balsam trees surrounding the rows of chairs, silver and gold tinsel draped across the branches, blankets of white dusted upon the foliage, the aisle leading up to the altar decorated with a silk ivory runner. It was a picturesque holiday scene, and it was absolutely beautiful.

You noticed your mother speaking to the wedding planner, pointing out details that otherwise would have been left alone had she not been so anal over everything. She wanted her daughter’s wedding day to be nothing short of perfection, and it was appreciated, but you knew how your mother’s ideals and her opinions could get the better of her, and everyone else around her.

“Hi Mom,” you mumbled, your hand rising in a shy wave, feeling Jimin’s presence behind you, observing.

“Oh, hi dear!” she turned to face you with a smile, excusing herself from her previous conversation to walk over towards you. Jimin came up next to you, sliding his fingers along your spine, letting you know he was there.

“Jimin sweetie,” your mother came forward and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug, “So nice to see you again.”

He returned the gesture and pulled away with a gleaming smile, his hand patting her shoulder in addition. “I’m just glad I could be a part of this special day.”

“Oh of course, you are a part of our family just as much as the rest of the boys.” Jimin’s grin grew wider at the mention of the others, feeling the warmth inside his chest listening to your mother’s kind words. Although, her eyebrow raised as she continued to speak. “I have to admit I was a bit surprised that Y/N included a plus one,”

Now it was Jimin’s turn for his heart to drop into his stomach.

“Y/N suddenly spoke of a supposed ‘boyfriend’ that would be introduced to us, but failed to mention who it was,” you instantly brought your hands up to your face, your palms covering your eyes as you exhibited the tell tale signs of embarrassment: your cheeks flushed with a dusting of pink, your skin feeling clammy and your nerves undeniably insane. “I’m shocked that the relationship was never mentioned before, considering.”

It was then that Jimin wrapped his arm around your waist, and tentatively placed a kiss on your temple, hoping to alleviate the pressure of the situation to make it more believable.

“You know how Y/N can be,” Jimin began, noticing the rise to his tone of voice as he cleared his throat, now awkwardly placing his hand over your shoulder. “Very private with these sorts of things.”

You watch as your mother crosses her arms against her chest, her eyes continually moving back and forth between the two of you, an indication that she was making a deduction, one of which you had no idea what she was thinking.

“I suppose you’re right,” she smiled softly, and you tried to make your sigh of relief as inconspicuous as possible, “Well it’s nice to finally meet you.” she stepped away with a wink, ending the conversation, the sound of her footsteps left in her wake as she went ahead and mingled with your sister and her fiancé.

Your eyes shut tight as you released the breath you had been holding, Jimin’s shaky laugh beside you a cue that he was just as nervous as you had been.

“If it was that uncomfortable with just my mother, we have to do a lot better when the rest of the family comes.” you muttered under your breath, your hand smoothing against the back of your neck, trying to ease the tense muscles.

Jimin nodded in agreement, his fingers sifting through his hair as he attempted to calm himself down, his heart racing wildly inside his chest at even the smallest of touches to your skin, his lips feeling like fire when he merely kissed your temple. He had to get a grip on himself, or this would never work out.

He had to tell himself that this was real, that was the only way this was going to be believable.

And you too, had to trust the same feeling; you both had to be on the same page, otherwise this charade would come crashing down, and there would have been no point to all of this commotion, all of this planning, in the first place. You have made it this far, you cannot stop now.

Luckily the rehearsal went without a hitch, save for a bit of disfunction when it came to timing for everyone walking down the aisle, but despite that, the consensus was good; everyone felt confident that the precession would go well tomorrow. Jimin sat back along the first row of chairs, watching with curious eyes as he had not been to a wedding yet in his lifetime. He could see the look of boredom cross your features as they went over the formalities, occasionally creating funny faces in his direction, making it very difficult for him to keep quiet amongst all of the giggling.

Before long it was time for dinner, Jimin hand in hand with you as you followed your family to the dining hall, trying your best to keep your emotions in check. Many were already seated, noticing your father at the end of the table, greeting you with a smile until he ultimately noticed Jimin at your side, a look of surprise upon his face. Your father nodded in acknowledgment, smiling at him, watching carefully as you both sat down. He exchanged a glance with your mother, who merely shrugged with a grin and took her seat next to him.

The courses were served within the hour, your family choosing to keep the event casual and lighthearted as laughs and memorable stories and celebratory drinks were shared amongst the crowd. From time to time Jimin would place his arm around you, and whenever the question of your relationship was concerned, his delivery of your supposed beginnings and kinship highlights were seemingly flawless in your eyes, making it much easier to accept your beguile reality and play along. You would reciprocate as the champagne tickled your coherent senses, touching his thigh or kissing his cheek, taking a subconscious mental note of the way his breath would hitch, or how his face would blossom into a darling shade of pink whenever you would do so.

You would be lying if you did not say the liquor had had an influence on your behavior, but the numbing of your nerves made it manageable, and that much more believable to many curious eyes.

“I can’t help but to ask,” your sister started a new conversation, her hands jittery as her excitement became more apparent as her thoughts spewed out. “When did you finally ask Y/N out on a date?”

Your heart began to pound inside your chest, holding onto Jimin’s hand tighter as you shared a look, the twitch of his lips expressing for you not to worry, but it did not stop you from it. This was something you had gone over too many times to count, but now that it was actually happening, your mind was drawing a blank, and you could not be more thankful for Jimin’s lingering sobriety than right now.

“It wasn’t easy,” he began, an airy chuckle falling from his lips as he addressed your family with a newfound confidence that you had not seen before. “Y/N can be very stubborn,” that comment produced a laugh from the group, knowing you well enough to agree. “But miraculously I was able to persuade her to give me a chance about three months ago, and I haven’t regretted one second ever since.”

You turned your head to look at him, and in that moment you became so absorbed, so lost in Jimin that everything else around you went still. He smiled, and you swear your heart stopped, and this feeling equally terrified and thrilled you.

“Look at them,” in the back of your mind you figured it was your sister speaking, but you did not bother to verify the fact, your eyes still locked with Jimin’s. “That is something you cannot deny is real.”

With those words you jolted out of your daze, shaking your head and facing the table, sighing and taking a breath. What you did not notice was the way Jimin’s smile fell, his arm sliding just a bit further away from you, until it ultimately removed itself completely from your shoulders and went back down to rest against his side.

“I’m going to say it thousands of times this weekend, but I can’t thank you enough, Jimin.” The two of you walked side by side towards the elevators, planning on heading upstairs to your respective rooms. “I know this isn’t easy.”

He opened his mouth to retort, only to close it shut when he realized it would not do any good. He agreed that it was not easy, but not in the way you were proposing. It was not easy, holding his feelings inside, sticking to his promise to himself that he was not going to confess. It was not easy, touching you the way that he was and unable to act on anything with real fervor like he so desired.

What was easy, was how natural it all seemed. How effortless it was for everything to fall into place once it started. And that is what Jimin feared the most, that as soon as the weekend was over, it would go back to normal. As customary as it could get, with the two of you.

“Of course, I’m glad I could help.” He offered a small smile, his hands shoving into his pockets. He watched as you pressed the button for the elevator, hearing the ding as the doors opened, following you silently inside.

Your back rested against the interior of the elevator, your arms crossed over your chest and cradling yourself as you stared at the light when the floors changed numbers, watching them increase. It was quiet, but not uncomfortable, at least not to you. You felt confident, you felt like you could actually pull this off; and yet you could not help the way your conscious was toying with you. Even though this was your idea from the beginning, with the way Jimin was treating you, with every touch there was a spark that was not there before. Every smile seemed like it was made entirely just for you, his gaze focused on you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world, and he could not take his eyes off of you. It seemed entirely too real, and your heart was doing backflips and somersaults that you had never experienced before with Jimin.

Everything was becoming brand new, and you tried to keep your tight grip on reality, but you had a hard time ignoring what was right in front of you.

You were jarred from your train of thought when you heard dual chimes fill the air between you, the sound of both of your phones going off at the same time. It was a group chat, the boys texting you and Jimin alike.

Taehyung [20:45]: Are you lovebirds done yet?

At the use of the term, the flush that formed on your cheeks was unmistakable. Jungkook was next to chime in.

Problem Child [20:45]: We need some quality time with you two before you’re whisked away for the wedding.

Jimin rolled his eyes, his fingers quickly typing a response, catching a glance from you beforehand.

Jimin [20:47]: It’s not like you won’t see us, Jungkook. What did you have in mind?

The elevator came to a stop, Jimin stepping out into hallway with you following behind him.

Namjoon [20:48]: Come to our room and you’ll find out.

You looked at Jimin, confusion written all over your face, but a smile nonetheless was present upon your lips. You had not been able to see the rest of them yet this weekend, so you were excited. You could always count on good times with these boys.

Jimin led the way towards Namjoon and Jin’s hotel room, knocking on the door with more of an excessive force than normal, due to the fact that you could hear loud laughter and talking from the other side. The door swung open, revealing Namjoon with a bright smile.

“That didn’t take long,” he said, stepping aside so you two could enter. “We were afraid we’d never see you.”

“It’s not like my sister is keeping us hostage,” you placed your coat down onto the chair near the desk, plopping down onto the nearest bed you saw. “I am allowed to roam free every once in a while,” seeing their smiling faces caused your grin to grow. “Besides, you would see me during the reception anyway, no need to make a big fuss over it.”

Taehyung leaped up from his seat to head over to you, his arms wrapping themselves around you in a warm hug. “It’s Christmas! We have to celebrate the holiday, too.” When he pulled away, you could smell the alcohol on his breath, and laughed as he went back to the couch.

It was clear that they had begun to drink already, now noticing the few stray bottles of soju scattered about the room.

“We’re here now, what did you want to do?” Jimin said, antsy to figure out what they had planned, and nervous at the same time of what it could lead to.

The boys shared a silent exchange, until ultimately out of all of them, Yoongi spoke up and announced the night’s events.

“We’re going to a karaoke bar, so get your shit together and let’s go.”

Surprisingly no one made an attempt to stop it, the lot of you pushing together in the rideshare Jin had ordered, feeling Jimin’s warmth as he pressed against you in the backseat.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, trying his best to situate so he was not as close, but it was of to no avail, Jungkook sitting on the right side of Jimin and Hoseok to your left, ultimately pushing the two of you together. You tapped his leg, a gesture stating that it was okay, because there was really nothing that could be done at this point.

Due to the time of night, entering the noraebang wasn’t as easy as you all had hoped, mainly having issues because the bouncer didn’t believe Jungkook when he claimed he was of age to enter the establishment. Somehow - but in reality it was no surprise - he won him over, smiling in victory as he walked backwards into the entrance, looking forward at the group of you with his thumbs in the air, a gleeful laugh leaving his lips as the rest of you had your IDs checked. Despite it being for karaoke, they still serve liquor at this hour, and extra precaution was needed.

Once you were settled into the room and the drinks were scattered and separated amongst you, Taehyung immediately went up front to grab the microphone, soju bottle in hand, announcing his first of many songs of the night to come. Most of them took several turns, and you were more than thankful that the walls were soundproof, and you were isolated. Nobody needs to hear this insanity.

Suddenly and without warning, you felt yourself being dragged up towards the front by the television, a microphone shoved into your hand.

“Oh no,” you complained. “No no no, this is not my thing, you know this.” you attempted to return the microphone to Hoseok, who shook his head at you with a brilliant bright smile.

“You’re up, Y/N, just deal with it. You nor Jimin have sang yet.” It was then at the mention of his name that you noticed he had been situated right beside you, microphone also in hand, a nervous grin upon his face. He leaned over, his breath smelling of liquor and a hint of mint, whispering into your ear.

“I’ll take over if you want, just have fun with it. Don’t think about it too much.” You could feel the heat become visible from the flesh of your cheeks, the effect of the alcohol doing a fine job of making itself known through the slur of your speech and the heedless ease of your movements. You nodded, silent.

As the music begins to play, you recognize the opening notes of Baby, It’s Cold Outside and instantly your knees buckle, glaring at Yoongi who was snickering in the corner, joined by Jungkook and Jin. They will swear up and down that this entire scenario was random, that the music was on shuffle, it was all for a bit of fun; but in this moment you were too scared to put the finer details into perspective, and you certainly were not in a sober state of mind to bother.

Despite your desire to not sing in the slightest, you began the song anyway when prompted to on the television screen, grinning as Jimin joined in for his respective parts, attempting to keep you entertained throughout; he did not have to try very hard though, as watching him light up was more than enough to make you overjoyed. Albeit, you were glad the bottle of soju was still in your hand, a couple of sips of liquid courage every now and again to make the experience that much more enjoyable.

You could not help the scarlet that danced along your skin, hearing Jimin sing gosh your lips look delicious and almost missing the next verse. He did take the lead most of the time, as he promised, but with a song like this it is impossible not to be sucked into the fickle, amorous sentiment of it all, your heartbeat picking up speed as he threw coy expressions your way when he performed his lines.

The song was over within minutes, Jimin walking with you back towards the couch, the both of you plopping down onto the cushions as Jungkook took the microphone again, Namjoon rushing up to sing along - badly, if you were being honest - but he danced around like an idiot which made it even funnier, and you have not laughed that hard in a long time. It felt great, better yet it felt fantastic, and you were well and truly happy.

Your ears were filled with the joyous laughter from Jimin beside you, causing you to look over in his direction: taking in the sight of his smile, the way his cheeks were flushed and his skin glowed, a radiance that was beautiful to you. It made you grin, the corners of your mouth slowly rising, and you could not help yourself as your hand reached out to move his hair away from his eyes. Jimin did not even flinch, so consumed by watching the boys have their fun. It was instinctual, your mind signaling to your limbs that this was something habitual, something that came easy; you did not have to think twice about it.

What you did not see‍, was that Namjoon noticed every part of this. Even though he was preoccupied, his natural suspicions from the depths of his subconscious were confirmed right in front of his eyes, and that there is in fact something between the two of you that is undeniable; except now, it was clear you were on the very same page, whether you realize it yourself or not.

He had never truly taken into account the way you behaved with one another until now. You both had always been close, that much was obvious, Namjoon very familiar with how Jimin felt and how Jimin spoke of you, but this was different. The way with which you were looking at Jimin right now was full of fascination, curiosity, the light in your eyes hard to miss, all rolled into one. Namjoon deliberated for the next few minutes, screaming his lungs out while internally the gears of his brain were working in full force.

Namjoon feared that there was a chance that he was wrong, that you did not feel the same way after all. It is possible in his drunken condition that Namjoon was imagining things, that everyone was hyping Jimin up for no reason. He worries if he mentions anything to the rest of them, that Jimin would catch wind of it, causing Jimin to do something he would regret in the process. But that train of thought was short lived, knowing Jimin well enough that he would only be his own worst enemy in the end. Jimin would overthink, he would put too much pressure on himself for anything to happen. Namjoon still chose to keep this discovery to himself, not wanting to make things worse for the two of you.

Namjoon just hopes that this wedding would be exactly what you needed to finally be happy the way he knew you both deserved to be.

The night was coming to a close after that, the music fading out and the drinks empty, with you ending up resting on Jimin’s shoulder as you fell asleep once the alcohol completely went to your head. He stood up, careful to hold you in place as he gripped onto your waist to keep you upright, telling the others he was going to leave ahead of them and take you back to the hotel himself and put you to bed, even though he was stumbling quite a bit himself.

It began to snow when you stepped foot outside, Jimin doing his best to hail a cab as you continued to sleep soundly on his shoulder after realizing he stopped moving, his hand rubbing your arm in an attempt to keep you warm. It took less than ten minutes to arrive at the hotel, Jimin slipping slightly on the icy sidewalk before catching himself and walking you both inside. As you left the elevator, Jimin ended up carrying you on his back as you were out cold, after clumsily fishing through your purse to find your key card. He did his best to place you onto your bed as carefully as possible, but gravity was against him, the liquor consuming him, falling on top of your mattress and fighting back his laughter to no avail.

The sound of his voice woke you from your slumber, realizing you were in the comfort of your bed, looking at the boy beside you with a soft smile. He caught you watching, reciprocating with a grin of his own, and a newfound warmth that caused his limbs to tingle and his stomach to be filled with butterflies.

“Y/N…” he whispered, seeing the way your eyes began to flutter close again, reaching out to brush your hair away and tuck it behind your ear. “I have something that I need to say.”

Jimin was not in his right mind, he knew this. He was not thinking clearly, but everything in his body, his heart, was telling him that this was the best thing to do in this very moment.

“Y/N, I love you.”

His words were met with the murmur of your slumber, feeling your body press against his as your arm fell onto his torso.

It was not supposed to happen like this. This was not how he wanted to tell you, his tongue sloppy and his words slurred, tasting nothing but the harsh burn of soju when he would have rather been tasting your sweet lips instead.

No, it was not supposed to end up like this. But it did, and that was something Jimin had to live with.

What he was not aware of, was that you heard every word.

The sunlight shines through the windows like an unwelcome surprise, harsh and unnerving, Jimin’s head throbbing as his eyes flutter open. It feels like a pound of bricks has fallen onto his shoulders and his limbs are aching, blinded from the luminosity and disturbed by the noises currently echoing throughout his hotel room. He hears the faint television to his left, sliding his body upwards in his bed to rest against the headrest. The rushing sound of water from the sink in the bathroom alerts him that Hoseok is awake, followed by the chatter amongst the rest of the boys that appear to be in his room, Taehyung laughing with Jungkook about something. He did not care, he just wanted everyone and everything to shut up for a minute.

“He lives!” Taehyung pivoted on his heel when he noticed Jimin’s movement in the corner of his eye, facing him completely with his hands in the air.

“I am going to need you to not do that right now.” with a voice full of grogginess and a scratchy throat, Jimin attempts to speak. He slides back down into the warmth of his comforter, covering his arms as he allows his eyes to close again.

“Aw, is someone hungover?” Taehyung walked over towards him, ruffling his hair and pinching his cheeks, and if Jimin did not currently feel like death incarnate, he would kick his ass. The rest of the group soon gathers around his bed, surrounding him like vultures, praying on his every move and every word.

“How was it last night?” Namjoon was the first to speak up, a soft smile on his face as he watched Jimin slowly unfold from the comfort of his sheets.

“You know exactly how it was, hyung. You were there.” Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head.

“And you know what I’m really talking about.”

Jimin froze. Last night. Last night, he made a lot of stupid mistakes, a spectacle of himself. He drank entirely too much and was regretting it right this very moment. Last night, he sang his lungs out and had the time of his life. Last night, he told you he loved you.

He told you he loved you.

The chorus of gasps and yelps that followed startled Jimin, so much so that he jumped upwards, stumbling as he tried to regain his balance onto the bed. He did not understand why everyone suddenly reacted so extreme, only to realize he has said his thoughts out loud.

The following minute was filled with hugs and endless shaking, Taehyung and Jungkook thrashing him around in excitement, Jimin finally getting up from the bed to pull himself away. He scratched the back of his neck, and laughed nervously as he felt everyone’s eyes on him.

“So?! What did Y/N say?” Hoseok came out from the bathroom, a towel around his neck and hanging over his shoulders, his hair dripping wet from the shower.

Jimin shook his head, “She was asleep, she didn’t hear me.”

“You never know,” Yoongi spoke up, the room watching him as he headed towards Jimin, placing a hand on his shoulder. “There have been plenty of times I’d heard many things I’d rather wished I didn’t when I was sleeping around you idiots, and you had no idea.”

Taehyung released a gasp of surprise, his body language indicating he was nervous. “Wait, hyung, what have you heard?”

Yoongi flashed him a smirk. “I hear everything.”

Taehyung and Jungkook alike turned as white as a sheet, their heads falling to face the ground.

“Don’t let it get to you too much, Jiminnie,” he heard the voice of Hoseok to his right. The elder swung his arm around his shoulders, nuzzling into his hair as he gave him a side hug. “You can speak your mind properly later, and make it count that much more.”

Jimin smiled, thankful to have his friends at a time like this. The next few hours were taken up by the boys getting ready in their respective hotel rooms, congregating once again in Namjoon and Jin’s room as they had been doing all weekend. Jimin was adjusting his tie in the mirror, fixing the stray hairs that would not stay in place before giving up entirely and running his fingers through it instead. He was absentmindedly brushing the imaginary dust off of the lapels of his suit jacket, trying to calm down his racing heart.

Would you bring it up? Did you remember anything from last night? Had he just made a huge fool of himself?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The deep baritone of Namjoon startled him, glancing in the mirror at his reflection when he came to stand near him. Jimin released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, smiling softly.

“The night is finally here, and I guess it hit me out of nowhere. I will never be ready for this.”

He felt Namjoon place his hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. “You’re more ready than you give yourself credit for. You already told Y/N once, what’s going to stop you from doing so again?”

Jimin sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. It was easier said than done, and he knew Namjoon was aware of that fact, and was only trying to help encourage him. He appreciates it, but it does not help that his first confession was when you were fast asleep on his chest, and he was lucky if you heard anything at all. When he does it this time, he has to do it right.

Commotion and chaos surrounded you whilst you sat idly in a chair in the corner of the hotel room, your sister the last to get ready, her hair currently being curled while another woman tackled her makeup at the same time. You had been done for quite a while, your scarlet dress draping down to your feet, your hair in an elegant updo and your makeup subtle, your nerves going haywire as you were left to tend to yourself and in turn become lost in your own head.

You propped your feet up onto the table in front of you, not caring if your heels scratched the wood. The rest of the bridesmaids were talking amongst themselves or to your sister, leaving you alone which you were more than happy for. Your head was still pounding, the amounts of water and pain killers that were in your system were probably unhealthy, but you needed to get a good head on your shoulders for the night to come, if anything, to support your sister the way a maid of honor should.

And yet your mind was elsewhere, drowning in thoughts of a confession that you are almost positive you were not supposed to hear, at least not yet, not then.

You had to keep reminding yourself that once this weekend was over, it would go back to normal. Blame it on the magic of the holidays, blame it on the atmosphere of people being in love, blame it on anything but yourself and this haphazard plan you came up with.

Jimin was just a friend, your best friend, and nothing more; but you could not lie to yourself anymore, you could not ignore the way he was making you feel. The biggest problem was that all of this scared you to death, these mysterious and unknown presentiments that were buried in the depths of your subconscious were coming to the surface, causing you to question your entire relationship with Jimin in the first place.

“Have any of you noticed that there are quite a few attractive men here this weekend?” your ears perked up at the sound of the conversation, curious as to whom they were referring to. You had a hunch that it was your friends, considering the guest list was not too extravagant. “Normally with weddings you’re lucky if you can meet one cute guy, let alone the seven that are here. It’s a Christmas miracle.”

“I think I know who you are talking about,” one of your sister’s friends from high school added on. “I always see them hanging around Y/N, too.”

Suddenly you felt the gaze of all of the women entirely on you, eyes curious and their restrained frivolous expressions had you feel as though you were being scrutinized, despite the fact that they barely said a word to you at all. You smiled, unsure of what to do, until your heart started beating rapidly inside your chest at their next comments.

“You know who I think is gorgeous? The one with the brunette hair, and plump lips that I could kiss for hours,” with a light giggle from their end of the room, you ran through the current hair colors of the boys, knowing they changed frequently. Only a few could match her description, and you were waiting on bated breath to find out who they were speaking of, though you had a pretty good idea. “He’s a little short for my taste, but that makes him all the more adorable. What I wouldn’t do to that boy. I think his name is Ji something? I don’t remember.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, your hand rising to curl your hair behind your ear, your fingers falling to your mouth to nip at your nails as your hunch came true. The girls continued to fawn over them all, gossiping and rattling on about which of your friends they wanted to steal for the night, and frankly it made you uncomfortable.

“Jimin!” eyes focused on the source of the voice, you were surprised to see your sister turn in her chair, resting along the back to face her bridesmaids. “His name is Jimin and he’s absolutely off limits. He is happily in a relationship with Y/N, so don’t even think about it. I’m looking at you, Seulgi.” with a teasing smile, she turned back around, allowing the team to continue working on her. Once more all eyes were on you, Seulgi’s lips upturned into a grimace that she tried to hide but was unsuccessful.

A couple of minutes later, your sister was successfully finished, and she looked nothing short of spectacular. A smile came upon your face, linking your hands together as the emotions started to overcome her, laughing as she mentioned how thankful she was for waterproof mascara. She led all of you to the venue, watching as your father took her hand, stepping back so you could walk down the aisle first and take your respective places at the front. Your eyes absentmindedly diverted to the crowd, unknowingly scanning the sea of people for a familiar face, calmed by the presence of your friends, who were waving and smiling bright.

You could not deny it when your heart skipped a beat when Jimin grinned in your direction. His cheeks were flushed a soft shade of pink, his brunette locks neatly styled to frame his features, his black suit fitting him like a glove. You could not deny it when the butterflies formed in your stomach, twisting and dancing along your ribs, your body overcome with an unexpected warmth when he waved to you, his eyes never leaving you.

The ceremony came and went, the room erupting with cheers and applause, the reception starting in the blink of an eye before you knew it; meaning, you had to face Jimin head on. Your nerves came back in full swing, diminishing the flame that had formed inside of your chest, a rush of apprehension washing over you like a tidal wave. The classical music surrounded the entire ballroom, your sister stepping out onto the dance floor with her husband, beginning their first dance. The atmosphere was quiet, respective, and blooming with joviality and love, watching the new couple with adoration. You kept time with the tapping of your foot, counting the number of beats until it was your turn to join her. Exchanging a glance with Jimin, you gave a short nod to signal for him to come as well.

The two of you fell into step with ease, his hands sliding onto your waist, yours resting upon his shoulders. Jimin kept the tempo, leading you into a twirl across the dance floor and pulling you back towards him in one fluid move. Your heartbeat was racing, worrying if your palms were sweaty when the choreography had you switch to your fingers becoming linked, his free hand drifting down to your hip.

You had a hard time looking him in the eye, when normally you would have had no problem doing so. He was making you feel incredibly anxious. Your gaze wandered all over the room, until locking in a stare with your sister, her approving nod and giddy smile only increasing your distress, causing you to take a deep breath. You feel Jimin squeeze your side, trying to ease your obvious tense stance.

“Are you okay?” He whispers, so close to your ear it was impossible to hide the electric chills that ran down your spine. You shut your eyes as you turned to finally face him, noticing the look of worry that washed over his features as you opened them, his brow furrowed and his lips in a soft frown.

He looked so concerned; it was then that you recognized the friend whom you have always known, who is always there for you, was right in front of you. The idea alone brought you comfort, your muscles relaxing when his lips upturned into a smile. You should not be scared, you told yourself. You should not be afraid. He remained silent, his grip holding onto you just a bit tighter than before, a rosy hue glowing dusting his cheeks.

“I got you a Christmas gift,” he chuckled, a shy smile forming. “But after everything, it seems so mediocre.”

His words confused you, but when his lips briefly parted, you realized he was not finished speaking; and yet he remained silent, his mouth closing again as he simply continued to spin you around the dance floor, keeping his grip in place and watching you with care.

The crescendo was close at hand, Jimin picking up the pace as he glided with you along the wooden floor, the spins and twirls making you light headed. The only thing you could hear were the strings, the high pitch of the violins swirling around you as you swayed, the only sight being that of the smiling boy who was holding you so tight, he feared you may slip away. The final notes presented themselves as he dipped you low to the ground, pulling you back up with an idle accuracy, his fingers sliding along your spine and up your back as he adjusts his hold on your frame to bring you back to center with ease.

“My heart,” He panted, “My heart is the best gift I can give.” Jimin still swayed with you, his eyebrow furrowing when he heard your light giggle at his words, because that is something he would say.

“But it’s not a gift if you’ve had it all along.”

It was then that he stopped moving all together. You were lost in his eyes, trapped in the warmth from the alluring brown as the light reflected in them as his gaze held yours with such intensity, you could not catch your breath. Time stood still, your world was spinning around you, but the one constant was Jimin.

It was always Jimin. It will always be Jimin.

Parting your lips to speak, you were rushed into reality as his fingers slid along your waist, slipping from your body as he sifted through his suit jacket, noticing a small, delicately wrapped gift in his hands. He presented it to you with a mild shrug, giving you one last look before you were watching him walk away.

The thunder of applause once the dance was over drowned everything out around you, seeing how the boys were following Jimin out the door, concerned expressions scattered along all of their faces. Your mind was blank, you were frozen.

You felt a hand on your shoulder, turning to find the source, seeing the warm, familiar smile of Namjoon as he gestured for you to leave the dance floor. You caught eyes with your mother as you passed her table, a wash of uncertainty spread across her face. Namjoon led you to where you supposed was his table, guiding you into a chair opposite him, handing you a glass of sparkling champagne, fresh from the bottle for the upcoming toasts.

Taking a hearty sip, you closed your eyes for a brief moment, fluttering them open slowly as you placed the glass back upon the table. Your hands fell into your lap as your grasped onto Jimin’s gift, feeling the frown creep up on your lips, the soft grip of Namjoon’s hand atop your knee in a comforting squeeze.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

Namjoon was taken aback by your question, ultimately grinning in the end. He laughed, leaning back in his chair, nodding in your direction.

“It was obvious,” he began. “To be honest, he wouldn’t shut up about you all the time.” he chuckled, and you gave him a harsh stare, causing him to cough into his hand to try and disguise it, but it was of no use.

“I’m being serious here,” he shifted in his seat, his elbows coming down to rest on top of his thighs as he leaned in close. “As much as we joke and make fun, his feelings are true, and we all want nothing more than for the two of you to be happy, together.”

At the mention of the word together, your eyes lifted upwards to meet his stare, seeing the sincerity. With a sigh, you casually toyed with the ribbon on the package, before tearing a small hole in the wrapping paper. Your fingers had a mind of their own, ripping and sliding it off with no intention, your body working faster than your mind could catch up. Your curiosity was getting the better of you, your heart pounding violently inside of your chest as these feelings were blossoming like wildflowers along your ribcage and twisting around your heart strings. Once the wrapping paper was removed, your fingertips traced over the fabric of the book cover, the familiar title producing a soft smile onto your face, fiddling with the pages until you noticed a small piece of paper fall from the inside and onto the floor.

With hesitation you picked it up, Namjoon watching you carefully, as this was something he was unaware of besides the book Jimin mentioned to all of them a couple of days ago. You unfolded the paper, immediately recognizing the small handwriting of Jimin’s, a letter he had written addressed to you. You started to read, the smile on your face growing as the lines progressed.

Y/N,

I’m not sure where to begin.

I guess I should just come out and say it, but that’s something that’s very hard for me to do. I would hope by now that my future self has had the courage to tell you how I feel, and that you’re reading this with an open mind and an open heart.

You became more focused, reading each and every word with careful precision, holding your breath as you continued on.

This isn’t much of a gift, but I pray that you like it. I saw this at your favorite book store, and I knew you and your grandmother used to read this together when you were little, and how devastated you were when you dropped your copy she gave to you before she passed away in a puddle that horrendously rainy day before first period. I’ll never forget the look on your face. So, I hope this provides some comfort and some happiness, even if it wasn’t what you wanted.

Tears began to form in your eyes, Namjoon gently asking if you were okay, nodding at him while you remained silent. It was just like Jimin to do something like this, and you chuckled to yourself when you read over again that he said it was not much. It was just like Jimin to view his efforts as mediocre when in fact they were treasured, and sincerely one of a kind for the people he cared for.

It was just like Jimin to know you better than anyone else.

I’m sure by now that I’ve become a coward and run away,

Once again, you lightly laughed at the reality of his words, but the next few sentences took your breath away.

but just know that whatever I said to you, I meant it. Whatever I will continue to tell you, I will mean it with my whole heart, because you have my heart, Y/N, and you always have.

I love you.

Merry Christmas,

Jimin

And it was then that you had an epiphany, one that was inside you all along, and the fact of the matter was that you too, were in love with Jimin. You were in love with Jimin, and you always had been; it just pained you that it took you this long to realize it.

Namjoon noticed the change in your facial expressions, smiling to himself as he saw the comprehension wash over you, the aura radiating from you undeniably different.

“You know,” his baritone struck you from your thoughts. “I could see it that night at karaoke.” He could tell you were confused, and continued to speak. “Whether you realized it or not, it was in your body language. You would absentmindedly touch him with affection, and you had this blissful smile on your face that stayed the entire evening.”

The blush that dusted your cheeks and the warmth that you felt caused your stomach to fill with butterflies, the same ones that had been dancing the entire weekend, and that you could no longer ignore.

“I fear it’s too late.”

Namjoon had to crane his neck to hear you, your voice so soft he would have missed it had he not been reading your lips. He stood up, offering his hand to help you with a grin and you accepted.

“It’s never too late.” He twirled you around, facing you towards the door and gently pushing you because your feet remained stuck on the ground. “He’s waiting for you, Y/N. Don’t leave him hanging.”

With a final deep breath, you turned around one last time to look at Namjoon, jumping to kiss him on the cheek in thanks, before racing towards the exit.

As Namjoon watched you run away, his curiosity urged him to take a look at the book, briefly reading over the letter with a proud smile on his lips.

“Well I’ll be damned, Jimin.”

The harsh winter air hit you square in the face as you bolted outside of the front lobby, hoping you would find them out here since you went upstairs to their rooms and nobody was to be found. Your wishes were answered when you heard the voices you were so accustomed to down at the bottom of the steps. All of a sudden you froze, your once enthusiastic attitude dwindling down to the sheepish disposition upon catching your name in conversation.

You recognized the voice of Jungkook, trying to crack a joke to appease Jimin’s feelings, Jin joining along with some of his famous one-liners. Jimin laughed, but it was a half-hearted attempt, still listening to the way he spoke with such melancholy. You saw Yoongi throw his arm around him, talking too quiet for you to hear, but you can only imagine it was something surprisingly encouraging, for he was one that always took you by surprise with how thoughtful he truly was.

“I’m sure it was a misunderstanding,” Taehyung spoke up, his bright smile shining in the moonlight. “Have you tried to talk to Y/N since you gave her the gift and ran off like an idiot?”

A loud groan followed, Yoongi having had punched Taehyung in his stomach, mumbling something about making stupid comments. You had to cover your mouth to mask your laughter.

Jimin shook his head no, explaining how he had come right outside after he had done so, needing the fresh air to help clear his head and give him a chance to breathe. Once again the butterflies arose in your stomach, but this time for a very different reason.

The click of your heels against the cement was loud enough for all of them to hear, six boys turning their heads to find the source of the noise, all of their eyes on you as their surprised gasps filled the air, but your gaze was locked only on Jimin. Your hand gripped onto the railing, carefully walking down the steps until you were right in front of him, sensing the group disperse and giving you two some space. Jimin’s eyes were as wide as saucers, nervously licking his lips as he waited on bated breath for your next words.

“I read your letter.” you mumbled, chewing on your bottom lip.

“Uh, what did you think?” He stuttered, and it was absolutely adorable.

You smiled, stepping closer and noticing his breath hitch. “I certainly read it with an open mind and an open heart.” His lips twitched into an embarrassed grin at your teasing grin, a flush of pink atop the apples of his cheeks as you held back a laugh. You leaned into his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist and brought him in for a hug. His arms raised upwards, hesitant, before slowly wrapping around your frame, and you felt warm, you felt like you were home.

“I love you too, Jimin.”

You could feel his heartbeat against your skin, rapidly pounding just as quickly as yours. It was silent, but it was comforting, a mutual, wonderful acceptance shared between the two of you. You briefly heard the sound of footsteps behind you, listening as they walked off to the side to where you knew the boys had gone, lurking in the bushes and not doing a very good job at hiding it.

Jimin squeezes you tighter as he felt you shiver, the winter cold starting to seep through to your bones. Tiny crystals of ice melted onto your skin as you realized it had begun to snow, looking up at him and grinning as the flakes were dusted throughout his chestnut locks. It was yet again that in this moment time stood still, Jimin’s hand rising to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against the flush that had formed as he smiled, his crooked tooth all the more endearing in the holiday lights as he leaned in close.

He hovered over your lips, his tepid breath coating your skin as he whispered I love you one last time before he kissed you. Fireworks cannot even come close to describing the way you feel, electricity seemingly inferior; the only way you could describe what you were feeling was nothing but pure bliss, absolute ecstasy flying through your veins and into every limb, tingling your every sense and every nerve. Your arms grasped him tighter, pulled him closer, even if it was not possible anymore, it did not matter.

All that mattered was that right here, right now, you could happily say that Jimin loved you, and with every fiber of your being, you loved him too.

The both of you were startled by the sudden outcries and rowdy cheers that surrounded you, pulling apart as you were bombarded and tackled by your friends, trapped in a large group hug between six very happy boys. Jimin let you go, watching fondly as his friends continued to hug you and shower you with affection, until he felt a tap on his shoulder as people dispersed.

“I told you Y/N would be all over you by the end of this weekend.” Yoongi’s signature smirk appeared on his lips as he spoke, Jimin shoving the older boy with a playful smile, knowing he was right.

You were grateful for the amount of patience your friends had with all of this, it had to have been infuriating at times and downright ridiculous, considering the means to which you discovered your feelings. You stepped to the side, joining Jimin once again and sliding your hand to intertwine your fingers, catching his small smile as you looked at him. You realized within a matter of minutes that the footsteps you had heard behind you were that of Namjoon, who had joined the lot of you outside. He caught your eye, a large wide smile forming on his face at the sight of you two, with you reciprocating and thanking him silently all the same.

It was mutually agreed upon that it was too cold to continue to stay outside, so you gathered together and headed inside back to the ballroom to continue the reception festivities. The lingering headache from your hangover this morning had finally started to dissipate, the additional alcohol being shoved in your direction certainly helped in forgetting the dull throbbing pain. You felt on top of the world, intoxicants aside, the smile never leaving your face the entire night. Namjoon ended up in the middle of the floor, dancing and prancing around like he knew exactly what he was doing, Jin joining in seconds later, until everyone was on the dance floor. The room filled with laughter, clamorous music, and frivolity as it was clear everyone had more than their fill and the celebration wasn’t ending any time soon.

You stood back and watched everything unfold, the laughter building in your chest and the warmth in your heart spreading to your limbs, Jimin’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind, your body easily sinking into his touch. From time to time he would scatter light pecks along your skin, nuzzling into your hair or swaying to the beat, and never before had you felt so alive, so free, as you did tonight.

Off to the side sitting at their designated table were your mother and father, taking everything all in, smiling with pride and happiness as they watched their daughter transition into the next chapter of her life. Your mother’s eyes wandered over to you, a genuine smile and an all knowing look on her face at seeing your behavior with Jimin. She turned to face your father, speaking low.

“It’s about time,” she spoke, gesturing to you both. Your father noticed her gaze, following it with his own, a soft smile upon his face. “I was wondering how long it was going to take them to realize their feelings.”

“Wait, excuse me?” your father was confused. Were not the two of you already together?

Your mother laughed, squeezing his shoulder. “It doesn’t surprise me that you were blind to it. But I could smell that lie a mile away. Only now are they truly together, and I say finally.” He continued to appear abashed, your mother waving it off and laughing to herself.

“Yes,” she mutters to herself. “Finally.”

[maryjeanstar]

Sulfur and ash hugged the stone walls, shaken and stirred by King Bowser's toweled figure stomping towards the pool-sized hot lava tub. At the tub's edge, a tower of three goombas stood holding a steel thermometer with tongs. The end was dipped in the large square tub of molten red rock.

Bowser snorted a deep whiff and exhaled pleasantly. "How hot?" he asked, not bothering to check the thermometer.

The bottom goomba cleared her throat. "Eight hundred ten degrees, your majesty," she read.

Bowser glanced at the tub's bubbling contents. "F?" he asked.

"F your majesty?" The bottom goomba asked.

"Yeah is that in F or C?"

"…it's Kelvin, your majesty."

"WHAT?"

The top goomba gave a start. "It's perfect your majesty it's the temperature you always request."

Bowser scowled, then hmphed. "Okay then." He pulled his towel off and flumped it onto the goomba tower. "And today it's Your Awesomeness, got it?"

"Yes your awesomeness!" the top goomba chirped. The bottom goomba began to dissociate. The middle goomba pulled out the thermometer with his mouth.

Bowser dipped a clawed toe in the lava. Then he sunk his entirety into the tub, displacing the lava right to the brim. "OOoh yeah now that's what I'm talking about!" he exhaled a cone of flame to the vented dome ceiling. He reached up with his claw, and the middle goomba handed him his phone. Bowser thumbed its heat-proof screen for half an hour, slowly sinking deeper and deeper into the bubbling smoking lava bath. Eventually his fiery brows relaxed, and he began to snooze. His phone floated off, showing Princess Peach's latest instagram post. She was wearing a floral pinafore and was covered in flour. The phone was slowly lifted and rolled over again and again by the bubbling liquid, eventually becoming partially submerged and vanishing beneath the molten surface.

"It’s Kelvin your majesty?" The top goomba whispered. "Really bitch?"

"Hey don't give me shit for not licking his ass Karloomba."

"Oh is that what I'm doing? It's called job security Janoomba. I've been Tower Top for six months you think you'll last a week with that kind of back-talk?"

"Is that all this is to you?" Janoomba scoffed. "You know this big idiot is running our entire nation right?"

"Uh, yeah? Hello? He's the King, and our asses are his."

"He's a monarch, not a god. We need to give him the best chance to make the right decisions."

"By what, by teaching him degrees Kelvin?"

"By supplying him with optimal information. Kelvin is far superior to Fahrenheit, which by the way I don't think he even knows how to pronounce."

"You think I don't know that? He's got us to know that kind of stuff for him."

"There can't be any harm giving him a chance to learn—"

"There's plenty of harm in what you're doing Janoomba. This guy is a time bomb of insecurity; you make one suggestion that you are in any way better than him and he will literally bite your inflated head clean off your feet."

"It's our job to make his job a success."

"No, it's our job to make him think his job is a success, or he'll roast all three of us for insubordination."

"So what you want me to tell him he's awesome and hope he magically becomes it by my saying so?"

"Look newbie, what you're suggesting is political sabotage. As long as the fat head believes he's awesome he won't try any idiot stunts to prove it, like kidnapping foreign celebrities or turning the flippin' castle into a mecharobot and endangering people's lives."

"You're suggesting we perpetuate his ignorance by lying to him. Why do you think he's such a bad dictator in the first place it's because nobody's ever challenged his views!"

"You need a reality check bitch and I am so ready for you to get yours in full but as long as you're tower bottom you do as I do. If you stand up to him with me at top it's MY teeth he knocks out and I did NOT climb the ladder this far just to get crushed for some newbie goomba's airy idealisms and half a brain!"

"Karloomba," the middle goomba said.

"What now?"

"The king's phone is ringing."

Karloomba gasped. A faint tune could be heard playing over the boiling lava. "Where is it?" he asked.

"Lava."

"Can you tell who it is?"

"Peach."

"Shit we gotta get that or he'll know he missed her call. Janoomba, take us to the bath net."

Janoomba furrowed her brow and dissociated.

"Janoomba now!"

Janoomba huffed, sinking into the steel-plated floor and glowering.

"AUgh, Sean hop off her lets go get it."

"Not breaking rank," the middle goomba said.

"Sean for christ sake Bowser's gonna wake up and know we left his phone ringing he'll be more mad about that than some stupid tower formation!"

"Net takes three to man."

It was a heavy net, being made of lava-proof steel and all. The phone's chime ceased. Karloomba groaned. "We need to get it now, his awesomeness could wake up any second. Janoomba!"

Janoomba's lip curled. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Janoomba if we don't get that phone—"

"It's your ass, right? Why should I care?"

"Oh for the love of— Janoomba you are the worst tower bottom ever!"

"Thank you."

Karloomba heard the ringtone begin again and winced. "ooaaaaaaAAAHH!" He hung his head and sighed. "Janoomba you're not wrong."

Janoomba glanced up.

"Yes, King Bowser sucks at being king and yes, if he knew better maybe we wouldn't have such a turd ruler running the country. Your heart's in the right place and all, you just aren't aware of how sensitive things have been around him."

"You're still a brown-noser."

"We don't have noses Janoomba. But yes, I am. I suck his ass to cover everyone else's, including my own."

Janoomba hummed a note of content.

"And I'm sorry I called you a bitch."

"Okay then." Janoomba shuffled the tower over to the steel net. "As long as you know I'm right."

Sean gripped the net with his jaw, using the tower's weight to counterbalance the net's leverage. Together they scooped the vibrating phone from the bubbling red liquid stone. Sean flipped it onto Karloomba's head, who balanced it with the towel to keep the phone from singing his goomba skin. Janoomba brought them directly to Bowser and the phone landed neatly in his limp palm.

King Bowser awoke, immediately recognized the tune he'd appointed to Princess Peach's number, and sat up so abruptly he splashed lava onto the tub's edge. He held the phone upside down to his head and clawed the answer button. "H-Hi hello hey there doll!" he stammered.

"Hi handsome!" Peach sung. "Did I wake you?"

"No, ha! Not at all how can I uh what's up?"

Peach giggled. "Well, as you know, I've been cooking something special up."

"Have you? Did I know that? Wait what?"

"You liked all my instagrams."

"Oh." Bowser's face was growing redder than the lava in his tub. His cheeks puffed out, then popped. A tiny trickle of fire sizzled out his nostrils. "I uh, I got an underling to do that for me, they go around liking all the instagrams of important people. Y'know, politics and stuff heh. Anyway wha'cha calling for?"

"Well, if you're not busy I was wondering if I could ask you for something really quick. I ran out of something crucial."

"Crucial huh?" Bowser did not know exactly what that word meant, but it felt great saying it, especially after Peach had just said it, especially especially the way she was saying it directly to him. "What do you need, cooking oil? Gas? Maybe a little personal touch from the King of Fire Breath himself?"

"Actually—"

"That's me," Bowser added quickly.

"No I'm good with heat, Bowser. I actually just need some olive oil."

"Oh?"

"Yep. I thought about getting some from Toadmart, but see, this meal I'm cooking up is for an especially special guest party and I wanna make sure every ingredient is top-of-the-line."

"Weeeeellll," Bowser said, his ego swelling. "What kind?"

"Just… olive oil?" Peach frowned, biting her lip. "Preferably from olives?"

"Babe you're talking to the Oil Specialist. Here at Bowser Oil we got virgin, extra virgin, non-virgin in four strains of olive. You tell me the dish I'll match the oil to crushing perfection."

"Oh you really don't have to do all that," Peach said teasingly.

Bowser shot a fireball across the tub, which exploded satisfyingly on the far wall. He grinned and began spinning his fingers around in the goopy lava. "You ask the best, the best is the least you should expect honey cakes. Wha'cha bakin?"

"Not baking, actually. It's spaghetti."

Bowser froze. "Spaghetti."

"And meatballs. Ground beef straight from Moo Moo Meadows."

"Moo Moo's got quality product," Bowser said, nodding in distracted approval. The hair on his neck was starting to prickle. "So… Spaghetti. Huh. Your ah, your guest…"

"Guests."

"Guests, right. They Italian?"

Peach snorted. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. Yes it uh, it yes I would say it matters."

"I think they actually are, but they're second, maybe third generation? Why does this matter?"

"Every factor matters when you're looking to make the perfect dish Babe." Bowser took a breath and sat up straighter, nearly leaning forward. "So where are they from?"

"They're locals here. Mushroom Kingdom?"

"Okay but were they born there?"

"No, I think they're from a place called Brooklyn."

Bowser's claws began to rake the edges of his phone, which was still upside down. "How many are you serving?"

"Well, the dinner's is for myself and them, so two guests, three total."

"Two guests huh?"

"Yep."

"From Brooklyn."

"I think so."

"Spaghetti."

"Spaghetti and meatballs."

Bowser sat, now furrowed and tight. The lava around him was starting to glow orange and evaporate. "Do they have mustaches?"

"Bowser does that really matter?"

"YES IT MATTERS I AM THE OIL SPECIALIST!" Bowser screamed at the phone from arms length, coating it in flame.

From there he heard Peach's voice say "Well okay then. Yes they have mustaches. Full and black, both of them, which is weird considering that their hair is actually brown. Do you think they dye their heads or their 'staches? Is it normal for italian brooklyn orphans to dye their facial hair or—?"

"Extra-virgin olives bottled on Yoshi Isle, that's gotta be your best bet. I'll swing by to drop you a bottle."

Peach beamed so vividly her voice echoed it straight through the phone. "Oh thank you sweetie! I can't thank you enough they'll be here in just a couple hours and I've been a nervous wreck over the whole ordeal."

Bowser chuckled. "Okay Peach pie. By the way that pinafore is killer, you mind keeping that on for me?"

"Sure, if you don't mind flour." Peach giggled. "I made my own pasta in it."

"Okay well lemme just get myself ready. Bubye." He pushed where the hang-up button should've been if his phone was right side up. Then he stood up. "GOOMBA TOWER!" He roared. "Towel. Now. I'm naked."

"You're always n—" Janoomba began, than quickly said "Yes your awesomeness."

Bowser smirked. "Awesomeness. Heh. I like it. Nice touch, goomba tower." He received the towel from Sean and wrapped himself in it. Then he got out of the tub and gave Karloomba a pat. He tromped towards the bathing room's landing pad just outside, and snapped his claws. A pair of koopa paratroopers flew his clown copter to the landing, and he was off with a roar to the Mushroom Kingdom.

"Who's brown-nosing now?" Karloomba asked.

"I like to consider it Tactical Negotiation," Janoomba said. "He won't take criticism, but if he's boosted with compliments he might be prone to some good advice."

"Hmm," Karloomba said. "Than why didn't you give him any?"

"What good advice might I have for gifting olive oil to another kingdom? Sounds like a solid political gesture to me."

Karloomba sighed. "You don't really think that's what that was all about do you?"

"What? I heard the whole thing, his phone's on speaker."

"Yeah. Did you see him grab a bottle of olive oil?"

"No."

Karloomba said nothing.

"Oh. Oh he's not delivering her anything is he?"

"He's not going to the Mushroom Kingdom for delivery, no. He's going there for pick-up."

[sunken-standard]

Hello are you still taking requests? 5,7 and 93, please. Ignore this if you aren't :) thank you.

So this starts out one way, and then ittook a turn and I just… let it.  Because life does that.  Andbecause I need to stop erasing and rewriting everything I put down. So yeah.  It’s not in any ‘verse, though it could be a newone—Shit-We-Won’t-Tell-The-Grandkids 'verse, maybe.

“What do you mean you’releaving?”/ “Please, I’m begging you.”/ “I oweyou what?”

“Sorry, I’ll only be a second, Ijust need to grab a—is that my razor?” Molly stopped shortbefore she got to the medicine cabinet.

“Well I was hardly going to ruinmine just for my legs.  The blades cost £4each.  You’re dripping, by the way.”

“Bollocks,” she said, puttingher hand over the sink while she opened the medicine cabinet.  Shereally should keep plasters downstairs in the kitchen, since that waswhere most of the injuries in her flat occurred (very few of themactually hers), but it just felt weird and wrong to do that.

She heard the sounds of Sherlockgetting out of the bath behind her and clamped down on the urge tolook; she’d seen him naked a million times before (she was a doctor,not a woman, and modesty was for other people anyway) butnever with shaved legs and she was a bit curious if he’d gone anyhigher.  She was really a terrible person.

“Why are you bleeding so much? Did you hit an artery?” he asked, peering down at her hand.

“No, but I did take off part of mythumbnail with the cheese grater.  Don’t worry, I picked it out ofthe cheese, so no one’s getting any surprises on their pizza.”

“Shame, it’d be a bit like findingla fève in a King cake.”

“King cake.”  It rang a bell,but wasn’t something she could ever recall having.

“Mm.  French thing, for Lent. They put a figurine inside a cake and whoever’s lucky enough to findit gets to be king for the day.  Hardly worth the dental work, butthat’s the French for you.”

“Ah.  So was that for some case inFrance?” she asked, watching the blood swirl down the drain asshe washed the wound.  She always thought it looked pretty.  Andthat’s why they don’t let you out of the morgue, she thought toherself.

“No, family.  Fully one quarterFrench on my Mum’s side.  And Catholic, to boot.”

She turned to him with an expression ofmock-appal.  "A Papist?  The horror.“

He smiled softly as he looked down atthe plaster he’d grabbed, peeling the paper tabs off the sticky part. "I was even baptized Catholic, as far as that goes.  And I cansay the Rosary in seven different languages.  Came in surprisinglyhandy when I was in Eastern Europe.”  He used gauze to dab awaythe blood that continued to well up from the wound, then gentlyapplied the plaster.

Her breath caught at the weird, casualintimacy of the moment; she wasn’t used to being the one patched upand if she did need it, she always just did it herself.  She soughtdesperately to cover the things it was pulling out of her; she wasafraid she might do something stupid like kiss him.  "So whywere you shaving your legs?“ she blurted.

"Why do you shave yours?  I likethe smoothness,” he said with a straight face, then cracked intoa smile.  "It’s for a client.“

"What are you, Pretty Woman?”

“That remains to be seen, but onehopes.  When’s the last time you’ve been to a drag show?”

“Why would you assume I’ve everbeen to a drag show?”

“Jim Moriarty, with whom youwatched Glee, was your boyfriend and you’ve gone tothree gay weddings in the time I’ve known you.  Your femininity andsexuality are completely non-threatening and, work attire aside,you’ve got a strong sense of personal style.  Of course you’ve beento drag shows.  Also, I’m going to need help doing my make-up.”

The desire to kiss him evaporated andwas replaced with the desire to throttle him instead.  She settledfor a scowl.

*

“Well, I mean, Cher is kindof a cliche,” Molly said, following him to the bar.

“I don’t even know who Cher is,”he complained, gesturing to the bartender to get his attention.

“Of course you don’t.  Have younever been to a fancy dress party?  There’s always that one couplethat goes as Sonny and Cher because it’s 'retro.’  Though, I mean,more in the 90s than now, but old people still do it.”

“Wouldn’t know, I delete alltraumatic experiences.”

She rolled her eyes and ordered herselfa double bourbon on the rocks and got Sherlock something neon pinkwith a crazy straw.  He might delete it later, but she was going toenjoy that memory for a long time.

“Molly?!  Molly Hooper?!” Oneof Beyoncé’s back-up dancers appeared at her elbow.  "I knew itwas you!  I’d never forget that nose!“

She struggled for a second to place thevoice with a name, and then it hit her.  "Bassie!  How areyou?” she gushed, a reflex.  Sherlock cleared his throat.  "Oh,right, Sher—Shireen, Bassie, Bassie, Shireen.  I used to go outwith his flatmate Jim,“ she said, lifting her eyebrows toemphasize.  Sherlock stiffened next to her, then relaxed.  After all,it was five years ago and Sebastian had been cleared of anyinvolvement straight away, so it wasn’t like he was any kind ofthreat.

Bassie put his hand to his ample bosomand made a sad face, obviously in memory of Jim, then reached out toher, eyes and mouth going wide.  "Oh my God, though, do youbelieve it?  You did hear about it, right?”

“Saw it in the paper.  So sad,”she said as convincingly as she could.  

“I think he’s still outthere somewhere.  He always said he wanted to go to Thailand, I betthat’s where he is.”

Sherlock choked on his cocktail.  Sheand Sherlock were two of the only three people alive that knewexactly where Jim Moriarty was, and it was definitely notThailand.

“I wish he’d call me, I’d fly outfor drinks.  Any excuse, yeah?” Bassie went on, then winkedtheatrically.  "He was so down after you two split.  Oh my God! Did you know?“

She tittered and sipped her drink,aware that Sherlock was watching her like a hawk.  "Nope. Didn’t even know he was gay, let alone a criminal mastermind, hehheh.”

“Gay,” Bassie rolledhis eyes.  "Jim was above labels.  Unless it was Westwood orMcQueen, I am I right?“  He glanced behind the bar.  "Gotto dash, sweetie, I’m on again in ten with Lady HaHa and getting intothe latex to be one of her little monsters is murder.  Stickaround til the end of the night.  Please, I’m begging you.  I’m doing'This is My Life,’ never a dry eye in the house, you’ll die.  Textme, we’ll do drinks sometime.”

He was gone with a flurry ofair-kisses, leaving only a cloud of hairspray and Chanel in his wake.

“He’s really not that campy inreal life,” she said.  She remembered him as pretty reserved,actually.

Sherlock let the crazy straw drop fromhis lips, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the plastic.  "Mm. Wouldn’t imagine he’d get very far in civil engineering if he were. You never mentioned—"

“Isn’t that your client overthere?” she deflected, pointing to a random stranger.  There wasa lot she never mentioned about Jim, and it was going to stay thatway.

“What?  Where?”

*

“Oh bugger,” she said whenthe song changed.  It was a drag club; it was bound to happen.

“What?” Sherlock asked,perking up, no doubt on guard for another surprise social interactionor something actually related to the case.  "And why is everyonelooking at me?“

"The song.  It’s Cher. It’s like Rocky Horror, they always do something special for thevirgins.”

“How do they know I'm—”

She ignored him, swigging the rest ofdrink and slamming the glass down on the bar.  "Alright, let’sdo this.  You’re going to owe me.“  She took Sherlock’s wristand pulled him into the middle of the dance floor.  She wouldn’t beany kind of assistant if she let his cover get blown because he was acomplete knob that didn’t know a single song written after 1920, withthe exception of (and God only knew why) Ringo Starr’s discography. Besides, standing around all night in a club full of good-looking,well-groomed men that wouldn’t grope her or press theirawkward boners into her arse was just a wasted opportunity.  She’ddrink away her embarrassment later.

"Wh-what are you doing?”

“It’s not what I’m doing,it’s what you’re doing.  This song is for you.  Startdancing and act like you’re having a good time,” she shoutedinto his ear before she let go of him and went for it.

She felt like the hero in an actionmovie, running through no-man’s land and drawing the bad guys’ firewhile the other part of the team did the thing to save the world. She channelled every liquor-soaked night out after a bad break-upthat she could actually remember as she belted out the opening linesof 'Believe,’ using Sherlock as her prop, dancing against him andsinging to him and oh God there really wasn’t enough booze in theworld for this.

And then nothing in the world madesense because he started dancing.  With the music.  And lip-syncing. Perfectly; well-rehearsed.  

Oh, she was going to kill thatprick.  He did things like this to John all the time (and sometimesMary, and Greg once or twice, and his brother whenever he possiblycould), the tit, but she thought she had some kind of… immunityfrom it.  Sure, there was probably some reason he’d acted allclueless and then suddenly switched gears, the deception was all partof the plan, always was, but he could have at least trusted her forthat bit like he normally did.  

Suddenly the music and dancing and thewhole novelty of a case in a drag club didn’t seem quite as fun andexciting as it did five minutes ago.  She powered through the rest ofthe song anyway, dancing her way back to the edge of the floor andletting him have centre stage, just as he’d probably planned from thestart.

She didn’t know why she was hurt by it;it wasn’t exactly a rational or proportionate response.  Leaving wasnot a thing an adult woman would do, but she really didn’t want to bethere anymore.  It wasn’t like he really needed her for the caseanyway, he could internalize his own executive functioning for onceinstead of making someone else do it.

And then he was suddenly in front ofher, blocking her way to the front of the club.  "Where are yougoing?“

"Should be fairly obvious.  I’mleaving.”

“What do you mean you’releaving?  Are you not feeling well?”  He reached out to touchher forehead and she batted his hand away.

“I’m feeling fine.  Next timemaybe—” she cut herself off, pressed her lips together.  Shedidn’t want to have to shout over the music to explain it to him.  Itwasn’t worth it.

“Next time what?”

“Just, finish your thing here,”she said, then walked away.  She was only a little let down (thoughnot surprised) when he didn’t follow after her.

*

“Really hoped you’d make more of ascene,” Sherlock said breezily, coming to stand beside her atthe bus stop.  She’d only been there a few minutes, though she hadtaken her time getting there.  She needed the air to clear her head.

“What are you talking about?”

“When I humiliated you on thedance floor.  Thought you’d have a stronger reaction.”  Hewinced as he pulled off his wig, pins catching in his hair.

She had a feeling she was about to havethat stronger reaction with whatever he said next.  "So it wasall part of your plan.“

"Obviously.  Really though, Ican’t believe you thought I didn’t know who Cher is.  If I canidentify a gay man by his underwear, it’s a safe bet I know a bitmore about the culture.”

Wait, was he trying to tell hersomething?  Mrs. Hudson used to think—  But Molly’d never got thatvibe from him (then again, she hadn’t got that vibe from Jim, and,well), and there was Irene Adler and the other one, and he’d neversaid anything in all the years he’d known her, but they didn’t talkabout those kinds of things—

“No, I’m not gay, you of allpeople should know that,” he said, sounding slightlyexasperated.

“Me, of all people,” sheechoed flatly.  She felt like it was an insult of some kind and shewasn’t sure why.

He looked at her like he was trying tofigure something out, then looked away; she wasn’t sure what wasbehind that.  Whatever, it didn’t change anything.

“So why couldn’t you just tell meto 'make a scene’ when you gave me a signal?  I would have gone alongwith whatever.”

“Because I really did need you toleave and I needed it to be authentic.  Thought for a minute youweren’t going to.  Didn’t have a plan B this time, either.”

“Mm.”  She was beginning tounderstand why John reacted how he did sometimes.  Right then, shereally didn’t care about the case.  He’d obviously solved it, theside of good prevailed, hurray, and the only collateral damage washer trust.  It was like he delighted in finding the most convoluted,idiotic ways to get from point A to point B sometimes and it didn’tmatter who was in the way.

“You’re angry with me.”

“Not really angry, no. Disappointed,” she said truthfully.  Sometimes she didn’t evenknow why she invested the time in explaining and correcting his badbehaviour.

“And hurt.”  It was aquestion.

“A bit.”

“I’m sorry.”  His voice wassoft, sincere.

You always are, she thought withan edge of bitterness.  She shrugged.  It was a stupid thing to behurt over, anyway.  She just needed a bit of time to get over it.

They stood in silence for another fewmoments, until Sherlock finally spoke again.  "You said I wouldowe you.  I owe you… what?  Name it,“ he said quietly.

"Doesn’t matter, it was just athing I said.  You don’t owe me anything,” she said just asquietly.  She really just wanted to forget about it.

“I could put the wig back on andwe could go to a different club.  You like dancing,” he offered. He was only half-joking, but she could tell by his voice that herealized this wasn’t the kind of thing he could charm his way out of.

“Maybe some other time,” shesaid, trying to keep her voice neutral.

“Would you—ever… want to?  Godancing.  When it’s not for a case.  After you’re finished beingcross with me,” he said, looking out into the street.  He wasn’tlooking at anything, he was just avoiding looking in herdirection.

Any other time she’d wonder if sheheard him correctly, or what kind of angle he was working; she hadthe thought that the timing was too bad for it to be anything but asincere offer.  And the way he asked wasn’t the way he asked if shewanted to go grab something to eat after work or if she wanted to gowith him to see this or that new exhibit at whatever museum orgallery.  It was like he was afraid she’d say no and the rejectionwould actually mean something.

“Like a date,” she said.  Itwas more of a question.  She felt like an idiot for even asking, andmaybe it was all just wishful thinking again like the time she’dmisread things so badly before that party, but she couldn’t help butfeel like this time was different.

“You could call it that, Isuppose.  Wouldn’t be inaccurate,” he said, finally looking ather out of the corner of his eye.

Her pulse sped up and the part of herthumb she’d grated off throbbed uncomfortably; Sherlock was stillmostly (absurdly) in drag and the night was muggy and the streetsmelled overwhelmingly of wee and spilled beer.  It was about as farfrom 'fairytale’ as one could get.

“After I’m finished being crosswith you.  And you won’t do anything like that again.”

“I won’t.  I truly am sorry.”

“I know.”

They stood in awkward silence foranother few moments until the bus turned the corner at the end of thestreet.

“You’re not actually expecting meto take the bus all the way back to yours as a form of penance, areyou?”

“Tempting, but no.  You can usethat magical cab-summoning superpower of yours any time now.”

Sherlock gave her one of those soft,genuine smiles of his and, while making her stomach do the samelittle flip it always did, it made her giggle, too.

“I didn’t even get to make anyjokes about John Waters, RuPaul, or Kinky Boots.  So manymissed opportunities.  Guess you’ll just have to take another casethat requires High Drag.”

“Ah, no,” he said, swinginghis wig as they walked in the direction of the taxi rank.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,”she said.

[bleusarcellewrites]

It's Not Destiny Who Chooses

Wrote this last week, and I thought I might share it here too, so ~ 

Long post. 3k, just below the ‘red more’, so I’m adding the Ao3 link in case someone wants it!  Ao3 clicky me

Disclaimer: Voltron doesn’t belong to me. 

Lance squeals when strong arms wrap themselves around his small waist and then he’s laughing as his brother hold him way up above his head.

“Tony! Tony, no! No helicopter!” Lance shouts, giggles escaping his mouth as his older brother continues to spin him around.

“But Lance! Our audience demanded a maiden in distress, didn’t you, guys?” The seventeen years old turns to the small audience a few feet from them, all of their big eyes wide and entranced in curiosity, nodding their small heads at the question, some of them even cheering for the teen.

“Sorry, hermanito, the audience has the last word.” Tony smirks and tickles Lance on the side, earning a loud laugh from the seven-year-old.

“Angie!” Lance shouts in distress, laughing bubbling, making him shake, “Angie, help!”

The twenty-year-old rolls her eyes but smiles softly at her brothers as she makes her way towards the pair. “Okay, alright, Tony, stop tormenting him. It’s almost time for dinner, anyways. Come and help before you continue playing, deal?” She asks, looking down at her brothers before turning towards the small children, “Who is ready for a warm Christmas Dinner, guys?”

The small children cheer louder at her words, most of them raising their hands enthusiastically as some of them stumbled on their own steps to stand up.

Angie giggles fondly at them before she raises her head and her eyes meet a small body on the other end of the room, face hidden from her as he looks down on the ground and rubs his arm nervously, almost as if hugging himself.

It’s not the first time that one of the kids in the orphanage they volunteer at is closed off or distant. Christmas is always a hard time for orphanages, especially for the kids. Angie understands that, she’s been volunteering along with her family most of her life, and she had been so good to befriend and include every single kid back when she was their age.

Now, at age of twenty, it’s difficult for kids to confide in her easily. It’s no one’s fault, it’s just a clear line between adult and kid and sometimes it’s difficult to find a common ground.

Angie purses her lips, deep in thought, before a body crashes into her middle. She huffs out of surprise before she looks down and the bulb inside her head lights up as soon as her little brother’s blue eyes look up at her.

“Ups, sorry!” Lance says, rubbing the back of his neck.

Angie waves him off and she kneels down quick to grab her little brother’s arm as he was about to follow the small crowd behind her.

“No, wait, Lance,” She calls, moving her head around until she caught her brother’s eyes. Angie nods once she decides he’s paying attention to her before she continues, “Do me a favor? You see that kid over there?”

She points with her head subtly and she wants to facepalm herself when her brother turns around abruptly towards the direction and screams his concerns.

“Angie, why is that kid all alone? Is he sad? Why is he sad? It’s Christmas! Does he know it’s Christmas?” He questions with a small pout, not pleased that someone wasn’t having fun like the rest of the party.

Angie hushes him quietly. “Well, I don’t really know, buddy. Maybe he doesn’t like partying?”

“But why is he alone?” He asks, tilting his head to the side in confusion and Angie pushes his bangs out of his face.

“Maybe because he needs a friend?” She suggests, shrugging her arms and giving him a small push with a smile, “Are you up on being a friend, buddy?”

Lance blinks before he beams and nods his head. Angie laughs at her brother’s enthusiasm and drops a quick kiss to his temple.

“That’s my Lance.” She praises softly before she pushes him gently towards the kid, “Now go. Please tell him dinner is almost done and then it’s time for gifts, alright?”

“‘Kay!” Lance shouts back over his shoulder, making his way. He dodges and avoid the big bodies around the room, mumbling and shouting at the same time quick ‘sorry’s’ when he’s not quick enough.

“Huh,” Lance says out loud as soon as he arrives, standing behind the kid, “You have a mullet! Cool!”

The kid stiffens and he’s quick to turn around, meeting Lance’s eyes for the first time and the brunet doesn’t hesitate to wave at him innocently, offering a big smile.

“Hi! Sorry, I just looking at your hair and it reminded me of my Tio’s hair. He says it’s a mullet with style, and that only cool guys like him have one, but my mama says it’s something only old guys wear. She says my Tio is still living in the eighties, even though he lives like five houses away from us, and there are no streets named like that, but that’s okay! As long as he visits during the weekend, of course! Yours look like a mini mullet though and you are not old –”

“Um,” The kid cuts off, unsure but his posture still tensed at Lance’s presence, “Who are you?”

Lance blinks and then perks up. “Oh, yeah! I’m Lance McClain, hi! I always forget to introduce myself, duh! I’m seven, how old are you? What’s your name? Why are you in the corner? Were you put in timeout? That’s not nice, it’s Christmas!”

“Uh,” The young black haired kid murmurs again, this time narrowing his eyes in suspicion, “I’m Keith Kogane. I’m seven too and I’m here because I don’t like...crowds. There’s too much noise.”

Lance hums. “Oh, well that’s okay! We can play here!” He decides, grabbing Keith’s hand to bring him down to the floor.

“You...you wanna play with me?” Keith asks softly, surprise taking over his face and Lance frowns in confusion.

“Yeah! Why not? You are cool! And you have a mullet, and my uncle said that anyone who has a mullet is cool!”

Keith puffs his cheeks, a soft red color taking over his cheeks as he stick out his lower lip and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t have a mullet.”

Lance shrugs, smiling playfully. “I see a mullet.”

“It’s not!”

“It is, it is, it is ~!” Lance sing songs, laughing when Keith launches at him, “Ah! Keith, not fair!”

“I win.” Keith declares happily as he hovers above Lance, pinning him against the ground, “You didn’t even try, Lance!”

Lance gasps. “Psh, yeah alright but I could totally win against you in a swordfight!”

Keith’s eyes light up at the words. “I love sword fights!”

The brunet’s annoyance evaporates just like that. “Really!? Oh man, I brought two of my lightsabers, do you wanna play Star Wars?”

“Yes! I wanna be Luke!”

“Okay! And I will be Han Solo!”

“But Han Solo doesn’t have a light saber.” Keith says bemused and Lance waves his hands off.

“He’s Han Solo, he does what he wants.”

Keith shrugs, accepting the reason.

“Be right back, I’m going to get them!” Lance says, jumping on his feet before crossing the entire room in a flash. It’s not five minutes later when he comes back, panting hard but a big grin on his face.

“Okay, so you want blue or red?” He asks and Keith points at the blue one, “Nice! That’s my favorite but I can share, because I like you.”

Keith’s chubby cheeks flush at the blunt confession but he smiles back at the brunet. “I like you too, Lance.”

“Cool! I can’t wait to tell my Tio I have a Mullet friend!”

They end up playing for half an hour, going on and on about different scenarios for their adventures in space. At some point, they both decided that Star War was boring and moved on with Space Explorers, two young astronauts who find a legendary castle that inside hold the Universe’s biggest weapon.

“The Princess was alone inside the castle, yes? And then we come in and rescue her and then she gifts us with two powerful lions!”

Keith opens his mouth in wonder. “Okay, but like, are they she-lions?”

“Of course they are she-lions!” Lance answers, “Mine is name Blue!”

“Oh, mine is Red, then!”

“We are going to be like, Space Partners!”

“Yes!”

Mr. McClain chuckles under his breath as he watches his son continue playing with the young orphan. He walks towards his wife and settle the plates he was carrying near her, nodding when she mumbles a soft ‘thank you’.

“Have you seen this?” He wonders, tilting his head back to where his son is playing.

Mrs. McClain pauses and turns around, her smiles turning soft and loving at the sight. “He has always had that charm to make friends.”

Mr. McClain nods proudly. “That he does.” He murmurs before he cups his hands, “Lance, son, please come closer! It’s time for dinner. Bring your friend with you, alright?”

“Okay, Papa!” The seven years old shouts back, not wasting any time before he grabs Keith’s hand and drags him along, “Come on, Keith!”

Dinner is warm and comfortable. Lance and Keith sit together on the kid’s table, the rest of the party forgotten for them as Lance goes on and on about their Lions and their special abilities and nods when Keith inserts his own two cents on the matter.

Soon, it’s time for the presents and Lance stands on the back with Keith as he watches his family giving out the gifts they had brought for the kids.

Lance bites the inside of his cheek, hesitating for a second.

“I will be right back.” He tells Keith before he walks towards his mama. Lance purses his lips, taking a deep breath and then he tugs his Mama’s jeans, catching her attention.

Mrs. McClain looks down at her child. “Yes, sunshine?”

“Mama, can I choose a gift for my friend?” He asks, innocently pointing towards Keith.

Mrs. McClain puts his pointing down but her gaze is firmly placed on the small seven years old in the middle of the ocean of children, shifting nervously under his feet as all the kids open and play with their new toys.

Mrs. McClain’s heart melts at the sight. She doesn't hesitate to crouch down at her child’s height and she smiles proudly at him.

“Of course, amor.” She says, patting him on the cheek tenderly, “Be sure to choose wisely, okay?”

Lance nods with a grin and then looks down the big bag her mama puts in front of him. It actually takes him ten seconds before he shouts in surprise and dives into the bag.

“This one!” He announces loudly and Mrs. McClain allows herself to take a quick look at the box in her son’s arms before she nods approvingly.

“Nice choice, sunshine.”

Lance giggles. “Thank you, mama!”

“Now go, your friend is waiting for you.” She says, smiling knowingly as she easily catches the not so subtle glances the small black haired child keeps making towards their direction.

Lance nods before he turns around, waving the box in the air proudly. “Keith! Keith, I got your present!”

Keith eyes snap open at the words, red taking over his cheeks, almost resembling his long sleeve sweater he has on. “Um, what?”

“A present, Keith!” Lance repeats kindly, smiling with excitement, “And I got the perfect one! I hope you like it! Merry Christmas, Keith!”

The seven years old stares, almost dumbfounded at the small box Lance pushes against his chest. He looks up, meeting Lance’s bright blue eyes and the brunet limits himself to nod at him, urging him to open it.

He starts opening the box slowly but soon enough, a smile creeps into his face and then he’s grinning, matching Lance’s enthusiasm.

“Woah.” He whispers in awe when he takes out a small red plastic guitar, the strings a little loose at the touch and the color is a little faded but Keith falls in love with it at first sight.

“It used to be my brother’s, but he said he didn’t want it anymore because he got a new one.” Lance says, hopping on the couch behind them and patting his right side, “Come on! I can teach you, if you want. Tony taught me my favorite song.”

Keith climbs the couch and settles himself besides Lance, guitar still close to his chest like something precious. “Okay.” He whispers, smiling sheepishly.

Lance smiles back and takes his pale hand, placing the guitar correctly on Keith’s lap before he starts moving Keith’s fingers with his own.

“It starts like this,” He whispers softly before he starts singing, “Estrellita, donde estas. Me pregunto quien seras.”

It’s not the humming that catch his attention, it’s the lullaby itself.

Lance stops short on his tracks, head turning around out of curiosity and his eyes widen at the sight of another student, sitting cross legged under a tree near the campus’ green area.

He can’t see their face, but there’s something familiar on the way their shoulders move and how their fingers caress the guitar on their lap, gently and yet with a purpose.

The stranger continues to hum the lullaby’s melody under their breath, no lyrics in the air but it feels oddly familiar, having in mind that it’s not that common to hear your childhood lullaby out of nowhere in the middle of your campus’ area.

He’s about to shrugs his shoulders and continue his way when he notices the mullet.

Lance pauses, smiles and prays to God he’s not about to make a fool of himself.

He makes his way towards the guy, ice tea still on his hand as he stands beside him quietly and he tilts his head to the side, enjoying the music coming from the musician’s fingertips. Lance waits until the guy is done playing before he speaks up.

“Keith Kogane?” He asks with a wary smile and he almost jumps when the guy’s head looks up at him abruptly.

“Uh,” Keith lets out dumbly, blinking confused before he continues, “Keith Shirogane-Kogane, actually.” He replies, almost in automatic before he narrows his eyes, “And you are…?”

Lance beams and raises his hand. “Lance McClain, nice meeting you again.”

Keith stares at the hand and then something shifts in his gaze.

“Lance McClain?” He repeats slowly, and the brunet nods.

“Yeah! I mean, I know it’s been a long time but I used to volunteer at Shack Street Orphanage when I was young and there was this one Christmas, my first time volunteering, that I met a kid and,” Lance hisses under his breath, internally wincing when the guy’s eyes just get wider and more confused than before, “And now I’m thinking I’m an idiot and I’m rambling now because I probably got this wrong and I’m making a fool out of myself, but you look a lot like a kid I knew back then, and I taught him like, ‘twinkle twinkle’ with a plastic guitar, yes, I’m that talented, but I never saw him again and – yeah, okay, should I stop talking? I should. I am. Shutting up now.”

They stand in silence, Lance still shifting nervously on his feet while Keith puts his guitar down, eyes never leaving Lance’s. Then, he smiles, growing into a grin, and soon after he’s barking laugh, arms around his stomach as he shakes.

Lance just stares and then he pouts, a small flush taking over his cheeks.

“Okay, no need to laugh.” He huffs and makes a move to leave but Keith is quick to stop him.

“No, no! I’m sorry, I’m just – You’re Lance! Parrot Lance! I mean, sorry, shit! It’s just that, the rambling, man! I remember the rambling.” Keith says, taking a deep breath to control himself, “I’m so sorry, I’m just surprised because, damn, I never thought I would see you again?”

Keith hums, shaking his head in disbelief, still incredulous at the turn of events. “I mean, it’s such a wild concept that I would meet the very same person who helped me find my passion in music because he gave me a plastic guitar the Christmas before I was adopted, again! I’m just...woah, you know?”

“Tell me about it!” Lance shouts back, chuckling and flopping himself on the ground besides Keith, pulling his knee up, “I can’t believe you actually continued playing. I mean, the plastic guitar wasn’t even tuned, you know? The sound it made still haunts my dreams.”

Keith shrugs, his smile never leaving his face. “It got stuck in me, I guess. I liked it.”

“Aw, was I special to you, Mullet?” Lance jokes, easily falling into a familiar banter with the black-haired man, his grin only growing when Keith shoves him on the arm.

“Psh, you wish!” He shouts back.

“It’s actually...really nice to meet you again, Keith.” Lance confesses quietly, nudging him on the shoulder.

Keith smiles. “It’s a nice turn of events, I have to admit.”

“It sure is.” Lance muses, “Okay, but now you gotta tell me about what happened after that Christmas. My best buddy disappeared right after we were about to save the Princess, what the heck, Keith!”

They chat for a few minutes, words flowing easily as the first time they met. Keith goes on about how he got adopted and was brought as the youngest member of the Shirogane Household just before New Year’s Eve. He told Lance about how he kept the red plastic guitar even after his adoption and how he practiced the same song he taught him over and over again until his parents decided to sign him up for lessons.

“I even taught my brother, Shiro, to play it.” Keith says.

Lance arches an eyebrow, smiling knowingly. “Did you make him learn it with the plastic guitar?”

Keith winks and smirks mischievously. “You bet.”

Then it’s Lance talking. He goes back on the different years he went volunteering, always on the lookout for his friend but never having any luck. The tell Keith about how he still goes to Orphanages, in between the school year, whenever he has time to hang out with the kids. Lance offers to bring Keith with him one day.

Keith easily agrees.

“Okay, alright, I know this might sound insane but,” Lance pauses, shaking his cold beverage in the air, “My friends and I are going to hang out at my best friend’s dorm right now, you know, chilling and video games, probably a pizza. Maybe you wanna join us, Keith Shirogane-Kogane?”

Keith pauses before he smirks. “My mom told me to never leave with strangers, you know.”

Lance gasps out loud, hand over his chest for dramatic effect. “How dare you, Keith! We’re childhood friends!”

“I don’t think spending one Christmas’ eve together when we were seven counts as childhood friends.” Keith replies flatly.

“It’s close enough, though.” Lance challenges and he smiles in victory when Keith’s mouth twitches upward.

The black-haired man laughs and shrugs, faking being nonchalant. “Sure, why not. Lead the way, Lance McClain.”

“Alright, you better prepare, man, because I’m going to swipe the floor with you!”

“Hah! You wish, McClain! You wish!”

“Okay, but should I be worried that you recognized me even after fifteen years apart?” Keith teases, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as he looks up at Lance, point at the brunet with the end of his pizza.

Lance scoffs and waves his hand off at him, leaning down to grab another slice from the box. The shouts of his two best friends get louder on the background, still on their own game competition but Lance just scootch closer to Keith as he replies, not wanting to raise his voice.

“Please, man. I could recognize that mullet from space.”

Keith frowns, his lower lip out in a pout and Lance can easily picture him with the chubby flushed cheeks, bigger eyes and small scrunched nose he used to have almost a lifetime ago. “Not a mullet.”

Lance hums and takes a bite from his own pizza.

“Once a mullet, always a mullet!”

Keith flips him off with a smile.

[twigcollins]

Yeah, I’m not going to have the thing done by tomorrow.  Work schedule and general insanity prevent forward motion.  Maybe the weekend, I hope.

The thing’s long, too.  I promised myself I’d do the ‘I’m gonna sing the doom song now’ flashback as one chapter, because everyone else only cares about the present-day stuff but there’s a couple of super self-indulgent scenes I really wanted to write... and things, as they always do, have gone a bit awry.

Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.

------------------

The scenery passes by, mountains and rivers that will keep on being mountains and rivers no matter what the rest of them do.  Jack checks his phone because it’s habit, because there might be some emergency somewhere - and there is.  It’s him.  A notification from the Watchpoint they just left, to use the back door for safety concerns, until further notice.  Until they can clean up the front lot.

Jack will have to issue some sort of formal apology.  Or maybe they’ll forgive him this one, because of the circumstances.  Of course, Gabriel won’t have to apologize to anyone, and Jack feels a sudden, childish sting of jealousy at the thought.

Torbjörn doesn’t ever feel the need to fill in the silences.  Maybe that’s the reason they’ve gotten along so well over the years - although given how little they talk, would he even be able to tell if they didn’t?  Jack thinks he has some Scandinavian blood in him somewhere, if you go back far enough.  Maybe that’s where the quiet comes from.

“She should have been the last one standing.”  Torbjörn finally says.  “I always thought she’d be there, talking shit at my wake.”  

“We figured you’d just booby trap your coffin.”

Fun fact:  Jack has no idea what his life expectancy actually is.  The SEP didn’t bother calculating out past about a twenty-year estimate, and everything over ten could barely be considered speculation - how could they know?  As far as Jack’s aware, any day now some internal equilibrium will finally tip and he’ll just collapse into a pile of parts, or spontaneously combust.  The spiteful part of him hopes it happens on camera.

“Was he right?  Gabriel?”  Torbjörn says, quietly.  “Could they have… is Ana…?”

Screaming, alone in the dark?  Jack balls his hands into careful fists - anything he touches now, he’s going to break.

“I won’t stop looking, not until we find… I won’t stop.”

Torbjörn is merciful enough to let that pass without comment, to pretend either one of them is holding out hope.  The window is cool where he rests his head against it, and time passes and Jack’s surprised when it’s his own voice, breaking the silence.

“What have you heard, exactly?”    

“Nothing new.”  Torbjörn says.  “Enough.  I know how this works, Jack.  When they’re looking for easy answers, when they just want someone to blame.  It only gets worse from here.”

History���s a pendulum, and that pendulum swings.  It’s nothing personal.  Jack’s seen three US presidents go by, closing in on a fourth.  God only knows how many heads of state and prime ministers.  He’s watched entire countries turn themselves inside out and backwards - this is the way it is, the way it’s always been.

It swings one way, and the world seems full of possibility.  Crisis averted, world saved, and what rises up in the aftermath is strong in all sorts of ways - technological advancements that seem to improve everyone’s quality of life.  Stumbling countries righting themselves, environmental policies finding their legs, fragile peace treaties growing stronger roots.  Omnics granted the rights of sentient species, after endless debate in every possible facet of the world - legal, religious, philosophical.  Debates that are still raging, and the laws - entirely new legal codes, to define what an Omnic is and what that means and it’s still not perfect - far from - but it’s a start.  Of what, exactly, nobody’s sure.   Numbani declares its intentions, a city for all, and the monks in the mountains politely stake their claim and somehow nobody dies for it.  They sell little garlands of paper flags, cut with circuit board patterns as souvenirs near the front gates.  Jack has a strand hanging in a corner of his Swiss office.

It swings the other way, inevitably - and suddenly there’s laws against Omnics owning property, having jobs, ‘cohabitating’ with humans.  A few nations go so far as to ban Omnics entirely - even Omnic limbs, and how can they not at least be past that by now?  Hurting people, hurting themselves for no logical reason whatsoever.  Borders shutting down, people withdrawing from alliances, suspicious of everything.  Federally mandated tribalism, and fear, and hate - two steps forward, one back.  The laws they pass for the people aren’t any better.  It’s like the whole world just decided the best way to survive was to shut the door in each other’s faces.  As if everything they’d learned about teamwork during the Crisis never happened - and Overwatch is a symbol of a world that nobody wants anymore.

In his more realistic moments, Jack thinks that all ‘success’ really means is getting lucky enough to retire on the upswing, to die with the world at least pretending that all that trying had left a mark.

He’s lived too long to get that chance.  A matter of bad timing - no false victories for Jack Morrison  The last sweep of elections has all but created a perfect storm of people that Jack has never done any favors for, and most of his own allies are retired or dead, with anyone who even remembers the Crisis getting older by the day, the way that Jack’s getting older.  Overwatch is out of touch, and none of the people Jack thought were on their side are going to risk themselves on his behalf.

Corruption mostly matters when it’s in someone’s best interest for it to matter.  Ethics are a wonderful thing to wave around when it’s time for a re-election bid.

If only it were easy.  If only Blackwatch were always wrong.  If only getting rid of Overwatch would make all the problems go away.  Would it?  Is he too close, can he just not see it?  Maybe all his critics have been right from the start.  Is Jack Morrison just too damn stubborn to take his life’s work out back behind the woodshed and be done with it?

He’s not afraid of the hard choices, never has been - it’s supposed to be the entire point of him, underneath the camera-friendly shine.  He’s supposed To Do What’s Right.  Which means Jack doesn’t get to be exempt from those rules, even if it hurts.  But there’s still work for Overwatch to do, and they can still do it.  No one else can, not the reaction time or the array of talents or the experience and it still matters, it does.

The suggestion’s been on the table for a while now - if he goes quietly, they’ll let it happen.  Jack gets the gold watch and the cushy consulting gig of his choice, and every hostile implication evaporates as if they’d never been, because ‘beloved retired war hero’ casts a glow that everyone can warm their hands around.

Ana’s gone.  Gabriel would be happy to see him in the ground.  Liao and Reinhardt and now Torbjörn… Jack’s the last man standing.

“What are you going to do?”  Torbjörn says.

Fuck it.  If they want Overwatch so damn bad, they’re going to have to pry it from him, piece by piece.  Jack’s not obligated to make this easy, or tasteful, or clean.  He watches the first few drops of rain hit the glass, dragged into long, thin lines by the speed of the car, and then the whole world blurs under the rain, an impressionist painter who’s run out of any color worth looking at.

“My job.”

[sparkesink]

Chapter 7:

Wake Up

Wake Up.

Wake Up TJ…

(Wake Up.)

The Lights Flickered, 

My Irises Fumbled Through Focus.

 Wake Up.

 Why Can I Not Break This Consistent Dormancy?

I Have Been Stuck Here,

In The Dusk Of A New Day,

(Waiting For The Sun to Rise, 

Stirring The Everlasting Slumber I Battle To Escape.)

 Wake Up.

 My Blurred Vision Ceases To Encase My Apperception.

 “Hello!”

 Jade, 

(Wide-Eyed,)

Nearly Brushing The Tip Of My Nose With Her Immortal Eye Lashes:

Exasperated In Glee Of My Cognizant Acknowledgement,

(Her Existence Before Me.)

 “Jade, Where Am I?”

 She Hesitated, 

(Dawdling For The Correct Definition Of Which I Currently Reside.)

 “Um…Well…This Is My Home.”

Jade, Seemingly Nervous,

“The Others Won’t Find You Here, 

This Is A Reality, 

(Only I,) 

Allow Myself To Access.

I Wouldn’t Have Brought You Here,

But I Couldn’t Find Anywhere To Take You,

At least, 

Nowhere She Wouldn’t Find You.

 I’m Good At Hiding. 

I Have Been Doing It My Whole Existence…

I’ve Perfected Realities For This Soul Purpose!

(You Know, Hiding From Monsters And Such.)

 The Round Top Is My Pride And Joy,

Everyone Really Seems To Exist Well Within That One…

You Know! 

You Are The Only One To Come Across Realities With Me!

That Is Quite Something!

We Should Celebrate!

Do You Want Some Cake?

I Haven’t Any Here…

But I Could Certainly Go Get Some…

Somewhere Else…

And Bring It Back…

If You’d Like?

 You Can’t Come With Me Though,

Not Until Your All Healed Up…

I Nearly Killed You Just Transporting You Here In The First Place.”

I Began To Explore The Room Surrounding My Being…

 “Is This… A Hospital Of Some Sort?”

Jade Lowered Her Voice To That Of A Rodents Whisper,

 “The Infirmary.”

 She Began To Shuffle Through The Ash,

(Scattered Across Every Inch Of Open Surface.”

“I Have To Go…

I Have To Leave…

Right Now…

You Want Cake?

I Will Get You Cake!

We Will Celebrate!

I Will Get You Cake…

Yes,

Yes,

Cake.

Cake…With Ice-cream…

Ice-cream,

Ice-cream…

And Cake.

Cake. 

Cake.

Cake.” 

Her Demeanor Shuffled, 

(Lost In Thought,)

Terrifyingly Absurd…

(Lost for Words,)

Timorous To My Avowal Of “Her Reality”.

 She Giggled, 

Discordant In Nature, 

(A Sound I Could Never Expect This Beaming Beauty To Produce.)

She Made Haste Toward The Opening Of The Room,

(Leading To An Abandoned Hallway, 

Lined Florescent…

Flickering As A Light-bug,

Once More.) 

She Turns,

(Body Unrecognizable,

Contorted Within A Vibrant Vortex,)

Showing Only Her Face As She Evaporated.

 “I Left Your Book Upon Your Night Table,

Beware Of The Nurse,

She Is The Puppet Master,

Teeth Stained In Blood Fable.

Do Not Believe The Coroner,

His Smile Is Warm,

He Will Try To Play Games,

Make You Feel Weak,

He Is Only Filled With Lies And Deceit.

 I Love You TJ, 

I Will Be Back,

But First You Must See The Story Through My Eyes

That Is, 

If You Desire Truth, Through Fact.”

A Glimpse Of Her Silhouette Wreathed Within My Soul,

This Beautiful Young Girl Was Melted From Right Nose, To Ear.

Her Prevalent, Grinning, Acquisition…

Now Pinned With Fish-hooks,

From Ear, To Ear…

This Sight Shivered Through My Spine, A Transportation Toll.

 The Ash Rained, 

(Unfaltering,) 

Without a Doubt.

My Book,

Lying Stagnant, 

Upon The Side Night Nook.

 My Fingerprints Graze,

Across This Wooden Cover,

A Lyrical Maze,

Imprinted With An Alternate Wonder.

Soot, 

(Now Smudged,)

Across The Pages Of My Thought,

Slowly,

(Timidly,)

Opening A Labyrinth,

A Battle Separately Fought. 

“Chapter 9: Hot And Ready…”

Jade’s Story,

Pieces Of The Puzzle,

An Emancipation Of A Lost Girl’s Muzzle.

 The Pages Feel Like Home, As I Finger Through The Folio.

A Stagnant Sickness, 

Equivalent, Death By Polio.

The Nurse Will Wait,

The Coroner Will Get His Turn…

Responsibility Ten Years To Late,

The Cause Of This Young Girl’s Burn.

 The Laceration,

(Splintered Through Victoria’s Constant Control,)

Throbbed In Consequence Of My Perpetual Cowardice.

Wreathing Within My Caudal,

Slithering As A River Throughout My Skull.

Her Voice Whispering,

(An Aside,)

Valid Only To Those Who Listen.

“You Should Stop.”

“You Won’t Finish.”

“No-one Cares.”

“You’re Going To Fail.”

“Why Would You Even Continue To Try?”

“It’s All Shit.”

“You Will Never Matter, Anyways.”

 Stop.

“You’re Such A Fucking Coward!”

 Stop.

“You Are Sloth. A Waste Of Brilliant Potential.”

 STOP.

(Grinding My Palms Amongst The Ratted Mess Upon My Head.)

“You’re Going To Fail. You’re Worthless. Everyone You Love, Would Benefit From Your Perish.”

 STOP.

(Stumbling, Collapsing Upon The Cold Laminate Floor.)

 STOP.

(Scurrying, Grasping, Closer, Closer Towards The Bathroom Shore.)

 STOP.

(Climbing, Shifting, Comforted Within The Walls Of The Clawfoot Tub.)

 JUST FUCKING STOP.

(Shivering, Shaking, Slamming My Mind Against The Porcelain, Drub.)

 “YOU WILL NEVER MATTER. YOU’RE WASTING YOUR TIME. JUST FUCKING GIVE UP!”

 I Scour For The Faucet,

(Water, Hot As Flame.)

 Her Voice Starts To Wither,

Thoughts Manageable, Tame.

 I Sat Under The Scorching Rain,

Allowing The Shivering, Come To Bay.

 Tears, Masked, Within The Droplets: Surround.

There Lie A Beaten Woman, To Demented To Say.

Jade’s Skeletons Lay Within This Porcelain Drain,

Reaching Out,

Attempting to Ensnare My Ankles As I Pull Away,

Chilled Quiver Shoots Through My Veins.

 I Scrub My Eyes,

(“This Is Just A Bad Dream,”)

Pulling Myself Together,

“This Has To Be Some Grand Scheme.”

I Crawled Out Of The Bathtub,

Blood Covered In Fear,

Floundered Through This Nightmare,

Pulled Myself Up, Into The Mirror.

I Saw My Own Reflection, 

Though Warped In Some Sick Game,

I Wasn’t Pretty,

I Was Drenched In Shame.

The Mirror Wrote Back,

“You Will Always Be Thick,

Now Go, You Sad Little Girl,

Go Make Yourself Sick.”

 I Ran,

(Back To The Bed, Jade Left Me, Once Before.)

What A Horrible Place,

(Such Glamorous Gore.)

It’s Time I Face My Suppressed Past.

I Opened Her Book, 

Make Peace At Last.

 “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Just… Write It Down. 

Just Write It Down.

 Strings Are Fun And Interesting,

Strings Keep You Flowing “A-boot”

These Things On Your Strings Seem Tantalizing,

And I’m Off On A Tangent, To Boot.

These Things You String Are Compromising,

Your Shadow Of Spire Compare

For These Strings Of Things Come Promising

Golds To High To Compare.

Oh, These Interesting Things, 

Surely, Keep You Flowing About.

These Tantalizing Things, 

(You’re Reassuring,)

Pouring Such Emptiness, 

(Such A Jester: He Sings;) 

The Contents Of My Mine, 

(Flourished With Doubt.)

These Compromising Doubts,

(Filled With Hatred And Despair:)

Backed Only With Superficial Lies,

(To Weak To Compare.)

 I Found A Way, To Escape Your World;

A Vortex Of Purples, Yellows, Blues…

(Such Birthed Realities To Be Whirled.)

Conceived Through Strengthening, Thoughtful News,

You Cannot Find Me Within My Beautiful Round-top,

Your Strings Cut In Such Transfer Of Belief,

You Cannot Survive Where I Am Going, Pop;

No Longer Forced To Grin Bloody Teeth. 

Running, I Am Aware, Will Never Solve My Problems.

They Will Not Be Going Away,

Though, For Now, I Find Solitude

In A Land To Complex To Sway.

Greed: 

Pulling, Stretching, Contorting;

(Everlasting Impoverish Fear;)

Once Humble, Such A Soft Façade,

A Longing, 

Such A Ponder; What Blinds Your Mirror?

(A False Pretense Of Covenants From Your God?)

I Cannot Follow In Footsteps So Sheer,

For Your Deadly Sins Will Not Be Masked,

When Faced When Mortality Come Near.

Such Money Saved… A Dollar Earned Mad,

A Lost, Disowned Kin…

Are You Proud Of Me Now Dad?

{Silence, *Keep Face}

Stop Talking, You Mustn’t Be Sad.

Such Things Are Not Allowed; 

Put On Your Mask, Covered In Lace. 

Our Blood Runs As Water, Transparently Fair,

A Thank You Towards Wavering Support: 

A Book, In Fact, ‘A Simple Silly Dream’, 

Here For All To Stare.

 Dear World,

I’m Sad Today.

(Regardless How Hard I Cry,)

I Cannot Will These Pangs To Wash Away.

My Skies,

Always Grey…

I Cannot Help But Beg For This To All Go Away.

Every Moment,

Every Fucking Lonely Second…

A False Smile, Permanently Painted.”

I Set Down Her Thoughts,

Feet Cool, Pressed Amongst Unfamiliar Substructure,

(At Best.)

Checkered Appearance,

Providing Loss To Sanity’s Capture.

One Foot Amongst Another,

Towing A Chain,

To A Mind With Substantial Fracture.

Down Toward The Corridor,

Elevator Marking It’s Deadline.

One Room, One Passage, 

One Floor, One Entrance…

(The Office Of The Medical Examiner.) 

 A Click,

Stilettos:

Tap,

Click,

Clock…

The Clock: 

Scurry Little Mouse,

Back To Your Bed,

The Nurse Is Coming,

She Will Fill Your Head.

Fun,

Run,

Pretend To Sleep.

Close Your Eyes Tight,

Don’t Whisper A Peep…

“Grab Our Book,”

Jade’s Voice Transparently Singing:

“We Mustn’t Let Anyone Steal A Look.”

 Hide Your Head,

(Beneath The Covers,)

Time For Bed.

[shirlleycoyle]

e-race

In the not-too-distant future, mandatory, state-enforced high-tech microsurgery will enable all citizens to join the brave new colorblind e-race. In his latest cutting speculative parable, fast-rising SF writer Russell Nichols satirizes techno-optimism, the ways tech is deployed in the service of ‘combatting’ racism, and much more. Enjoy. -the Ed

[Starting tomorrow, racism in America will be history!]

When the urgent notification popped up in his eye-mail, the very old man swatted it away. How was he still getting these damn things? He unsubscribed twenty times at least from this mailing list he never even signed up for. Tried to block them. What part of no means no didn’t these parasites understand? Last week he was so fed up with the spamming, he called the U.S. Department of Reparations toll-free number to strongly suggest they go straight to hell, but nobody answered.

[Today marks the deadline for compliance. After midnight, all non-members of the new e-race will face severe penalties, including…]

He slapped at the air again, deleting the message mid-scroll. Then groaned, rolling over in bed. The nubs where his legs used to be itched. The sign of a storm coming. Then: Boom! Boom! Boom! On the door of his senior living pod. He pulled the cover over his head, but knew he couldn’t hide. “Police!” came the voice from the other side. “Open up, Mr. Ellison!”

*

Fifteen minutes later, the security guard dragged Ellison into a crowded microsurgery clinic.

“Get your hands off me!” Ellison hollered, fighting but failing to break free. “I’m exempt!”

The guard took Ellison to reception. “Got another 406 for ya.”

“Wunderbar!” said the receptionist. She aimed an ID scanner, clicked, and a blue light flashed. The data loaded onto her computer. “Waldo Ellison. Been playing a little hooky, have we?”

“No, no, seriously, I—I’m handicapped, look—” Ellison showed off his robotic prosthetics. “I’m supposed to get a pass.”

The guard bent down like talking to a toddler. “Can you say man-da-tory?”

“Please,” Ellison pleaded. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Rightio, you’re supposed to be over there.” The receptionist pointed to the long line of people waiting to go through pre-op body scanners. Then she pressed an intercom and muttered, “Need a fix on a 406,” as the guard escorted Ellison away.

“Hold up, I can’t do this. I don’t do hospital beds, I break out real bad—”

“If you try to break out of here, it won’t be good. Trust me.”

The guard patted Ellison’s shoulder and left him in the back of the line. The line was a snarl-up, going nowhere, like a scene from the DMV back in the day, before autonomous cars. A shame that cars learned to be autonomous before people. Look at them. More like drones in skin wrapping paper. With zero perspective beyond their eye-mail. Look at them, staring all blank, scrolling through retinal feeds, the contents of which Ellison could only guess—e-race fashion dos and don’ts: Do wear bright colors and you’ll be fab! Don’t wear gray or you’ll look drab!

Didn’t they see what was happening?

[The Indivisible Nation Act will level the playing field by eliminating the perception of skin color from the visual cortex…]

Ellison whacked the notification away with a grunt.

Then: a voice behind him. “What’s the matter, legacy?”

[Legacy [leg-uh-see] noun, offensive: An old or obsolete person with machine parts]

Ellison dismissed the pop-up definition, turned around. “Whatchu call me?!”

Standing in line behind him was a boy, maybe fifteen, wearing an LED shirt that kept flashing Now You See Me then Now You Don’t.

“No trigger, no trigger,” he said with his hands up. “Just launching dialogue with you. Looking like we’ll be frozen here a minute.”

Ellison almost asked the boy where his parents were, but then remembered he didn’t give a shred of damn. He turned back around, hoping a non-response would shut him up.

But the boy asked: “Why you all sad-faced?”

Ellison turned around. “Lookie here, you—”

“Call me Disher.”

“I’m tired and it’s about to rain and I’m just tryna get out of here. And I got a hunch that if you zip those lips of yours, that’ll happen a helluva lot faster, you got me?”

Ellison turned back around.

“I think I got you,” Disher said.

Ellison turned around. “No, no, you clearly don’t, see, ‘cause that was a rhetorical question. That means you’re not supposed to answer.”

“I know what rhetorical means.”

“Then why are you still talking to me?”

Disher frowned. “Is that rhetorical?”

Ellison shook his head, turned back around.

“Why the downvotes, legs? I mean, judging by your body-mods, that last-gen suit and your buggy social skills, I’m getting a strong centenarian signal. I fig, what, a buck oh-five? Buck ten? Point being, this should be an achievement day for you.”

Ellison scoffed. “Achievement day.”

“No more color lines. Equality all around. That’s God particle!”

Ellison glared at Disher. Was he born remedial? Or was that LED shirt offing brain cells?

“It’s Trojan horse-shit,” Ellison said.

“Edit: Okay, maybe not God particle, but at least it’s a step in—”

“—Trojan horse-shit.”

“Whatchu infected with? Verify, I’m not as ancient as you. Still I’ve d-loaded enough history to know it was all glitched up back in your era. But now, thanks to this program, I can be somebody.”

Ellison palmed his face. “A monochrome somebody.”

“Legs, you can’t act like complexion don’t matter. You know how long it took me to find a job? How many opps declined me because my skin tone? How about all the undocs looking for sanctuary?” Disher motioned to the people in line. “Like or dislike, this new law levels the playing—”

“Spare me the sound bites, alright? It’s the same field, different game.” Then, without thinking, Ellison shouted: “You fools really think not seeing color will make racism disappear?!”

“Who’s a fool?” came a voice from the crowd.

Ellison felt all eyes on him. But he got an idea: If he could get enough of these drones riled up, the guard would have to step in, and Ellison could step right the hell out.

“Who’s a fool?” he asked. “Everybody in this line, that’s who.”

“Who this legacy think he trolling?” somebody asked, rhetorically.

“I speak the truth!” he said. “You’re all getting herded up like cattle. In the name of equality. Am I the only one seeing this?”

“Amigo, you’re going to be seeing a whole lot less if you keep at it,” somebody said.

Ellison kept at it. “Discrimination never dies. If not the color of your skin, it’ll be your accent.”

Pointing to various people around him. “Or your eyes. Or your nose. Your height. Or your weight.”

Ellison pointed to Disher. “That hair.” To himself. “These legs.” A man in a color-changing hijab.

“That Christmas ornament on your head.”

His partner pushed Ellison’s hand away. “You crossed the line.”

“See, exactly, that’s my point! There will always be a line.”

The security guard waved a finger at Ellison. A warning to stop.

Ellison didn’t stop. “Do any of you know what it feels like to get hit in the face by a high-pressure fire hose? I’m talking enough water pressure to tear bark off a tree or brick off a wall. Of course you don’t, but I do. See, I was out there, Kelly Ingram Park, singing ‘Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around’ while getting sprayed to the ground by pigs.”

The security guard didn’t budge.

“Bet you never even heard that song, huh? Listen, don’t be mad at me, I’m only speaking truth! I grew up in the segregated South. Marches, boycotts, sit-ins. Out there fighting for my rights. My life. But see, that’s what’s wrong with you kids today. You don’t know nothing about sacrifice!”

The security guard wasn’t intervening.

“And now look at you, staring all blank, scrolling through retinal feeds, for what? e-race fashion dos and don’ts? Do wear bright colors and you’ll be fab! Don’t wear gray or you’ll look drab! Ha! You’re standing in line for a mandatory surgery to be colorblind and that’s supposed to be quote-unquote great for America? I didn’t vote for this. Did you vote for this?”

Why wasn’t the security guard intervening?!

“But wasn’t this the end game?” Disher said. “A future where we don’t see color? That means all the protests paid off, right? Isn’t this the world Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. dreamed of?”

The question wasn’t exactly rhetorical. But Ellison didn’t answer fast enough, and the tension evaporated with murmurs of “That’s true.”/“Good point.”/“Preach!”

Ellison hollered: “I know where I stand!”

Somebody hollered back: “Yeah, in line just like the rest of us!”

The crack drew laughs. Moment gone, just like that. Everybody went back to their business. Scrolling through retinal feeds. The security guard raised his fist in the air like “power to the people.”

Ellison, rage boiling over, stepped out of line. Power walking. Straight for the guard.

[Starting tomorrow, racism in America will be history!]

Ellison punched the notification.

The guard held his ground, grabbed his nightstick.

Ellison closing in.

Tunnel vision.

[Starting tomorrow, racism in America will be history! Today marks the deadline…]

Ellison batted the air. He’d show them a deadline.

The guard stepped forward, winding up.

“Don’t take another step!” he said.

Ellison didn’t stop. But a default safety feature made his legs slow down.

The guard lit up, convinced of his godlike power.

Ellison pushed himself forward, but Disher’s hand grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“No ban, mods,” Disher told the guard. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Get off of me!” Ellison said.

But Disher used the energy to pivot and escort Ellison to the vacant restroom.

Inside: there was a window up in the wall, getting pummeled by pellets of rain. Disher locked the door and went to a urinal. Ellison leaned over the sink, adrenaline coming back to Earth.

“What were you thinking?” he said, staring at his reflection.

“You’re welcome,” Disher said. “And don’t start spamming me about colored-only restrooms.” Ellison splashed his face with water. “I don’t know nothing about colored-only restrooms.”

“Riiight.”

“That’s the truth. I never stepped foot in one in my life.”

“But you said—”

“I never marched. Never boycotted. The only sit-in I ever did was at home, alone on my couch, when I didn’t feel like being bothered with people. Which was all the damn time.”

Disher washed his hands, keeping his mouth shut.

“Back then I felt like, if I could work hard, make something of myself, anybody could. And everybody blaming racism was just using that as an excuse. I really thought that.”

“Where’s the error?” Disher said. “Race is a social construct. If you don’t believe in ghosts, they can’t attack you.”

“I used to say, ‘I don’t believe in race.’ But see, to say that, I was denying the struggle of the oppressed. Hell, my own struggle! I was in denial of myself.” Ellison turned to Disher. “Look, I know you think this Indivisible Nation Act is the end-all, be-all, but I’m here to tell you, it’s not even close. Racism is grafted into the skin of America. You can’t remove it without spilling a whole lot of blood.”

Disher seemed to consider this, staring up at the window.

“Look at me: I’m 125 years old. Lost my legs in a car crash. Before autonomous cars took over. Didn’t fight for any kind of rights. But here I am, a survivor, and I can’t live with the guilt of doing nothing. I have to resist. I want to make a difference and … I will not let our history get wiped away.”

“History lives on,” Disher said. “Right here.”

Disher pointed to his chest. Ellison figured he was talking about his heart, but all he could see was the shirt flashing Now You See Me then Now You Don’t.

The room was silent, except for the patter of heavy rain.

Disher looked at the window again. “Ready to ex outta here?”

“You and me?” Ellison felt a surge of pride, but he knew the weather would force his prosthetics into safe mode. Probably wouldn’t get two blocks. “I don’t know—”

Disher tapped Ellison’s arm. “That was a rhetorical question.”

Ellison chuckled. Took a deep breath. And positioned himself under the window.

Then: Boom! Boom! Boom! On the restroom door.

Ellison’s legs held steady under the weight as Disher stood on his shoulders.

Disher opened the window, looked down at Ellison. “You following?”

Ellison heard keys at the door. “You go on. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“No you won’t.”

“Go on! I’ll find you—you just go and keep going. And don’t look back, you got me?”

Disher gave him a sad smile. “I got you, legacy.”

The boy pulled himself up, crawled out of the window and into the storm.

When the security guard burst in, the very old man fell to his mechanical joints.

[Starting tomorrow, racism in America will be history!]

*

Moments later, Ellison came out of the restroom on a stretcher. Eyes heavy. The world fading as a sedative took hold. Body going numb, but he could still feel the weight on his shoulders, where the boy had been standing. An orderly pushed him through the pre-op area. Past the line of drones he gave no damns about. He sacrificed himself to make a difference and nobody could take that away.

“You can’t make me do this!” a woman hollered at reception. A kindred spirit.

As the orderly pushed him through a door and down a white hall, toward the operating rooms, Ellison heard the receptionist over the intercom: “Need a fix on a 406.”

And that was when he saw it. At first he thought it was side effects from the sedative or his old eyes playing tricks on him. But no! There, through the window of a waiting room, he saw a group of kids sitting completely still, their heads plugged into the walls. And one of them, a girl, maybe fifteen, unplugged herself and walked out toward the pre-op area, in the same LED shirt they all wore, flashing Now You See Me then Now You Don’t.

e-race syndicated from https://triviaqaweb.wordpress.com/feed/

[republicstandard]

For a New (National) Social Contract

In the spring of 184, the azure sky was dying; the yellow sky rose. Yet the year was jiazi, and no prosperity was found. But Ling ruled in Luoyang and Han kept the Mandate of Heaven. The Ten Attendants without their appendage retained control even after. More rebellions rose, and corruption plagued the land. The power was in the hands of the sans-testes. But Ling ruled in Luoyang and Han kept the Mandate of Heaven.

In 189, a butcher and a woman let all under heaven rot in stagnant water. They battled for power, weakened the state, and threw the nation into confusion. But Shao ruled in Luoyang and Han kept the Mandate of Heaven. A chivalrous man from the western plains finds the Hegemon’s blade and is corrupted and possessed. He tortures the ministers and captives for pleasure rising to Imperial Father. But Xian rules in Chang’an and Han kept the Mandate of Heaven.

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In 196 a man who lifts his drink to sing a song, knowing not whether life is short or long, seizes the seat of Imperial Chancellor. He governs well, and the nation under his power prospers. Yet Xian rules in Xudu and Han kept the Mandate of Heaven.

Only in 220 does Xian abdicate and Cao Pi take the throne. But in Chengdu, a spark of the Han glimmered with the Imperial Uncle, not extinguished until 263.

When did Han fall?

Odoacer deposed Romulus Augustus in 476, taking Rome, but nominally as a client of the Emperor of the East. Julius Nepos, reigning before Romulus, reigned as Emperor in Dalmatia, recognized by Zeno as Emperor until he was assassinated in 480. The Roman Senate was last mentioned in 603, and the Senate building was finally turned into a church in 630. Did Rome last until 630? Until 476? Can it even be said that it lived that long? Rome itself had not even been the capital for over 150 years.

When did Rome fall?

For the peasant and the monk in the farmlands of Jing, how was the day before Cao Wei? The day after? Did a farmer in Abruzzo ponder the fall of Nepos?

There was a fall, a precession. How did the villages and towns survive? They were lucky, in a way. The Empire may protect, provide order, and let one prosper, but the village and town – the family and clan – are independent units built on their own foundations. They may be unbound from the eagle, or come out of the Imperial waters, even submerged in another. But the town, village, and family do so as a whole. The fall of the Empire may usher in a new age, but the community remained whole and continuous.

We are not so lucky.

Our civilization is picked apart from without and festers from within. Our every bond is broken, our ancestors defiled, their tombs desecrated, our heroes blasphemed. Our wives are thrown to the animals while our children are burned at the altars of Moloch.

It seems we must start from scratch. Should we leave our waters now, no matter how poisonous they are, we will turn only into formless goop whose fate is only to be evaporated or dissolved, for we currently have nothing but this pool of poison keeping us together.

How does this start? It cannot be imposed. A community grows organically, even as its cultivated. Uniting against something is almost always the first step. How many movements, good or bad, were formed by groups of dissatisfied men gathering in a café or bar to complain? It is no doubt healthy and useful to gather together with like-minded people, especially in the face of our looming annihilation. But I admit I find the mutual outrage at the latest piss plague of the Kali Yuga unsatisfying. It reeks of impotent rage at best, purely masturbatory at worst – and there is already far too much jerking off to go around.

Anger is spiritual caffeine. It will pick us up and give us energy, but if we don’t have a healthy lifestyle, or we have too much, we find ourselves sapped of life explosively defecating out what few nutrients we had left in our living corpse.

We already know these things, though. No doubt among the various circles, pool parties, book clubs, and chapters, discussion abounds as to what the “next steps” are going to be. These likely turn to more political action. Flyering a town or campus, perhaps a spontaneous demonstration for those in more organized groups. A letter writing campaign. Perhaps someone runs for office, or there’s a rally to support some politician or cause or another. A growing number understand that these will not fulfill the 14 words. This is undoubtedly true. But is it wasted effort? I would hesitate to throw it all away. These activities can bring people in, help dispel the curse and illusion magic cast on our people, even if only by a little bit.

Furthermore, the political front lines are a worthy battle if only to delay the inevitable. In Revelations, there are distinct periods. If we are in the first, this is our chance to win as many people over while we still can. Accelerationism is what we want in the late stages of the end, but only after our families and communities are strong enough to withstand Piss Earth’s Final Flush. For now, what we need is time. After all, waking up is fine, but they – we – need somewhere to go. We all know what happens if that place doesn’t exist.

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When it comes to community building, there are two primary external antagonists – RICO and Waco. Now, obviously none of us would be breaking the law such that RICO would apply, but we live in Piss Yuga. Being white is a sin; white people coming together is a crime. This means our community building must be truly organic and built on individual trust. This will appear different based on circumstances – the starting size, starting assets, whether you’re rural or urban, mostly families or mostly single, fairy or fisting, etc. Again, no crimes are being committed, everything is legal, but since when do our occupying overlords care about that? As to the specifics, I would defer to those with real legal knowledge.

As for Waco, we all know what happens with compound-building. Firstly, withdrawing from the world is running from it. It’s not riding the tiger; it’s fleeing it. There is no escape. Give it up. Secondly, your compound will be firebombed by the FBI, and you will all die. But be wary of your compound just because it’s in an urban environment or your Aryan Apartments are going to look like the scene of the next Raid: the Redemption movie. This time around you won’t be accused of child sexual abuse, of course, because by this time that will not only be legal, but mandatory in schools. So at least that.

Hunkering down and riding out the collapse is not a viable strategy. In one sense, the collapse will not happen for another hundred, hundred-twenty years. But in another sense, the collapse has already happened. To paraphrase Hobbes, the moment we entered anarcho-tyranny, we have already returned to the state of nature.

Therefore, whatever your Männerbund may be, it must eventually transcend politics. When the corpse of this civilization has finally been picked apart and rotted away, after the Final Flush, we must be ready with the framework of our new society already constructed. Or if you want a vision of the future, imagine a rabbi pissing on a human face - forever.

from Republic Standard | Conservative Thought & Culture Magazine http://bit.ly/2GN7xzf via IFTTT