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ugh-yoongi · 2 years

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riding fakie | ksj

(or, the one where you think you’re getting a fake boyfriend, but you end up with a whole lot more.)

→ pairing: seokjin x f. reader → genre(s): enemies to lovers (lite), fake dating | humor, fluff, angst → rating: mature → warnings: based entirely on this edit i saw ages ago so good luck, swearing, reader is a trust fund kid with awful parents so classism and screwy family dynamics, a very brief but referenced two-night-stand with taehyung who has a foot fetish (canon) and is ultimately plot irrelevant, this is lite enemies to lovers so sometimes they are not very nice to each other, kissing. i think that’s it? this is mostly tame, all things considered, but i will revise if needed. → word count: 14.2k → written for: the catch of the century collab. thank you to @raplinesmoon / @joheunsaram / & @kithtaehyung for hosting and allowing me to participate! ♡ → thank yous: my holy trinity for keeping me inspired and accountable and letting me know when i don’t word good. @the-boy-meets-evil / @hot-soop / @effortandmore. also my husband who actually skateboards and helped me to sound knowledgeable but will also never, ever see this. → a/n: [looking a whole lot like the dehydrated spongebob meme] hey, long time no see. this fic absolutely kicked my ass like nothing has ever kicked my ass before, but it’s finally done and here. i don’t think i’m super happy with how it turned out and i think it’s probably rushed, but i hope you all enjoy it regardless! now, if you need me i will be sobbing on the floor holding a locket with seokjin’s picture inside.

[THE THREAT]

The thing about privilege is—

Well, nothing. It’s just there, propped up in the corner, looming over every aspect of your life. And usually it’s fine. You want for nothing. People just hand things to you. But, just like the apple tree and Isaac Newton and the Law of Gravity—everything that goes up must come down. Nothing gold can stay. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. You might have your name and your money and your status, but you also have your parents and your brother.

Your brother, who has somehow found someone to marry him and is planning a wedding.

Your parents, who are threatening to revoke your trust fund if you don’t attend. And bring a date.

“I don’t want to hear it,” your mother says, preemptively cutting off your protests. She’s always had a knack for dictatorship, and another one for doing so as she barks orders to the hired help in the background. “This wedding is very important for us as a family. Do you know how bad it’d look if you not only didn’t show up, but showed up alone? It won’t do.”

On your end of the line, sitting at some bougie outdoor café with an overpriced latte in hand, you roll your eyes. “Wouldn’t it look worse to cut off your only daughter and leave her destitute? God forbid, what if I have to get a job?”

An aggravated click of her tongue. “I don’t know where you got that smart mouth of yours, but it’s unbecoming. I’ve at least managed to talk your brother’s fiancee out of including you in the bridal party, so you could show a bit of gratitude instead of being a brat.”

(Impossible, you think. Your brother had taken all the suck-up genes and left nothing for you. Alternatively, you’d taken all the backbone, so it’s almost even.)

“Why don’t you ask the youngest Jeon boy? They’re coming anyway, and it would look good for your father if the two of you were seen together.”

You grimace. “Jeongguk? Absolutely not.”

Another click. “Fine, but don’t you dare even think about showing up with some—”

“Piece of shit loser,” you finish for her. Usually she’d scold you for swearing, but it’s apparently allowed in the name of shitting on the middle-class. “Yes, Mother, I get it. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare sully our good family name by associating with the poor.”

She doesn’t trust you, you can tell by the way she huffs and starts mumbling under her breath, but it’s clear she’s just as done with this conversation as you. “You have three months to figure it out.”

Privilege can go to hell.

[THE SEARCH]

Park Jimin is a lot of things.

He’s got money. He’s got hundreds of thousands of Instagram followers for no reason other than he’s hot. He’s got a closet full of in-season designer clothes, so he’d look stunning hanging off your arm in a tailored suit. He’s got charisma and charm and that innate ability to talk to anyone about all that boring shit you can’t stand.

Most importantly, he’s got a chip on his shoulder, too. He’s on your level.

Park Jimin is telling you no. “Sorry, I’ll be out of the country that weekend,” he says. He doesn’t look sorry. “One of those things I can’t skip. You know how it is.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re full of shit.”

Park Jimin’s got a laugh that rings like Tiffany crystal. “Maybe.”

Still, you’re not above begging. The list of acceptable arm candy candidates (which you’ve taken to calling The Armcandidates, because you also got all the humor genes) is rapidly dwindling, and although Jimin’s not bottom of the barrel, he’s close. “Jimin, please. Whatever you want, I just need this one favor.”

“Don’t barter with things you’re not willing to give up,” he chides, nothing but heat. Would you fuck Jimin to keep your trust fund? Pillowy lips, slutty little waist, thighs that could crush your head like a grape—you could definitely do worse, all things considered.

“Who says I’m not?”

Jimin would come dead last in a poker tournament, the way surprise flashes across his face. “Well, in that case, I’m actually sorry I’ll be out of the country that weekend.”

You groan, head dropping onto your folded arms. “Can’t believe I outed myself like that and you’re still turning me down.”

Laughter trails behind him as he disappears into his massive closet. “Have you asked Taehyungie? He loves weddings.”

“The last time I talked to Kim Taehyung, he jerked off on my feet and cried. I don’t think I could look him in the eye, let alone invite him to my brother’s wedding.”

Jimin snorts. “He’s actually quite lovely once you get past the foot stuff. Think about it.”

Regretfully, not only do you think about asking Taehyung, you actually go through with it.

One day you’re talking to Jimin and the next thing you know, you’re once again on your back in Kim Taehyung’s bed. No weird feet shit this time, you’d told him, and, well, here you are. Skin tacky from sweat, entire room stinking of sex. Kim Taehyung is weird as hell but he’s unreasonably hot, and you’d made it all of ten minutes in his presence before folding.

(The last time it’d been five, so you’re making progress. Surely that’s something to be proud of.)

“I actually came here for a reason,” you say, still trying to catch your breath. Beside you, Taehyung hums an acknowledgement. You try not to wonder if he’s staring at your toes and that’s why he’s breathing so hard. “I need to bring a date to my brother’s wedding or my parents are gonna cut me off.”

He whistles. “Damn, that’s cold. Fully?”

“That’s what they say.”

“And you’ve decided to ask me? I’m honored, angel.”

“I asked Jimin first, to be fair.”

Taehyung’s face falls comically. “I’m no longer honored,” he jokes. “Jiminie’s great at weddings. He said no?”

You shrug. Something about his rejection still stings. You’re trying not to take it personally. Or think about it too much. “Said he’s going to be out of the country that weekend. Told me to ask you because you quote-unquote ‘love weddings’.”

“He said that?” Taehyung asks, voice pitched higher, dopey look overtaking his features. “Wow, we’re so in sync.” Wistful, like he’s lovesick. “We really must be soulmates.”

You choke. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Uh, no. Is the wedding the weekend he’s going to Milan?”

That ‘no’ seems to be carrying a lot of weight. You eye him suspiciously. “Apparently.”

“Ah, I’ll be in Paris. I asked him to come with me and he told me no, too. Guess you know how it feels.”

You sit up, sheets clutched to your chest. “Seriously, what’s going on with you two?”

Taehyung heaves a long-suffering sigh. “How much time do you have?”

You roll your eyes. “About three minutes.”

“Next time, then. Sorry I can’t help with the wedding. You’ll find someone, though.”

Another day, another rejection. You tell Taehyung not to look at your feet as you get dressed to leave.

Jung Hoseok isn’t generationally wealthy, but he’s got enough money to be deemed respectable in the eyes of your parents.

He’s also got a 24 karat smile and a meticulously highlighted and underlined study guide for your upcoming exam, so he’s currently ranked number one on your Armcandidates list.

“Hobi, have I ever told you you’re my favorite person?”

He eyes you over the lid of his coffee cup. “A few times, yeah.”

“Jung Hoseok,” you singsong, “actual sunshine, number one human, best thing since sliced bre—”

“If you finish that sentence with some fire of my loins Lolita bullshit I’m leaving.”

You pout. “I need a favor.”

He tosses the study guide in your direction. “Just take it. I have another copy in my bag.”

“Not that,” you say, but you take it anyway. Hoseok’s study guides are a thing of legend: even if you don’t use it, you’ll be able to sell it to some idiot underclassman for a week’s worth of coffee. The bougie kind with whipped cream on top. “I need a date for my brother’s wedding.”

Now it’s his turn to choke. “And you’re asking me?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with asking you?”

He shrugs, suddenly antsy, like he’s too big for his skin. “I don’t know. Don’t you have, like, actual prospects? Every dude in our cohort wants to date you.”

“Because I’m hot and I have a shitload of money,” you retort, and Hoseok makes a face that says yeah, fair. “I’d rather be tarred and feathered than ask any of them. We’re friends, and I trust you. Additionally, your family’s rich enough to get my parents off my back and we’d look good together.”

“Ah, yes, that last point is very important.”

You scoff. “Of course it is, it’s my brother’s wedding. Do you know how many pictures I’m gonna be forced to take? Hundreds. Possibly thousands.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It will be, which is why I need a brother-in-arms. A confidante. A comrade.”

“Have you asked Jimin? He’s great at weddings.”

You nearly start shrieking. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“...Is that a yes?”

“Of course I asked Jimin. I asked Taehyung, too. They’re both going to be out of the country and are probably fucking, and that’s not particularly something I want to get in the middle of.” Hoseok raises an eyebrow. “It could be serious,” you argue. “Like, Actual Feelings kind of stuff, and that shit gets messy.”

“Yeah, fair,” Hoseok concedes, out loud this time. “Plus Tae has that weird foot thing.”

“Exactly! So you get it.” Finally, a lead! “Will you come, then?” You flutter your eyelashes. “Pretty please, Hobi.”

“When is it?” As you rattle off the date, Hoseok digs through his bag for his phone. Then he pulls up his calendar and frowns. “Shit, no can do, either. My elective rotation starts that prior Monday.”

“Ew. What elective are you taking?”

Hoseok nearly blinds you as he smiles. “Reproductive endo and infertility.”

Your eyes widen. “Holy shit, that one you applied to ages ago? You got it?” He nods. “Oh my god, Hobi, that’s amazing!” You launch across the table to hug him. “I still hate you for bailing, but think of all the tiny raisins you’re gonna help bring into the world!” You wipe away a fake tear. “You’re a god amongst men, Jung Hoseok.”

He takes a bow. “Thank you, thank you. Speaking of which, how’s the volunteer gig in the ER treating you?”

“It’s fine.” You groan, put-upon, and sometimes Hoseok is so smiley and endearing that you feel guilty unloading all of your burdens on him, so you aren’t going to. Not unless he asks. Because he’s prone to dramatics and neuroticism but not like you are, and you know it can be a lot for someone not expecting it.

However—

“That’s good. Is that annoying guy you told me about still bothering you?”

Wrong question.

You cock an eyebrow. “This is the third time this week.”

In front of you, Kim Seokjin just grins, dried blood cracking on his plush lower lip. “Yep.”

“It’s Tuesday,” you deadpan. The grin grows wider, warping the purple-black bruise beneath his eye.

Because he’s arguably the most annoying person on earth, Seokjin just hums an acknowledgement, leaning further against the reception desk. “Well,” he says, voice interlaced with honey, “you’d have to take that up with the Babylonians, since they invented the modern calendar. Not much I can do about that.”

A pause. Then, “You’re really fucking annoying, do you know that?”

“It's a bit rude to insult someone seeking out your services, don’t you think?”

You roll your eyes, pushing your tongue into the fat of your cheek. “Not really. Not if it’s you.”

Surprisingly—or maybe not, considering everything seems to roll off his back—a laugh comes tumbling out of him. “Listen, I know it’s probably overwhelming to be blessed with the sight of this face not once, but three times in a week. I can understand and excuse your insensitivity, so I won’t report you this time, but—”

Ignoring him, you slam a clipboard onto the space between you. “You know the drill.”

“What if I’ve forgotten it?”

“Name, address, insurance information, reason for treatment.”

“You know my name, you know where I live, insurance hasn’t changed, and I’m just here to soak in your sparkling personality.”

With as murderous a stare as you can muster, you push the clipboard further in his direction. It hits something solid. Probably a rib, judging by Seokjin’s pained wheeze, but you don’t get paid enough to care. “Do you need a pen?”

“Why, so you can stab me with it?”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He rolls his eyes. Thumbs through the intake forms and pretends to read them, even though the last time he had to sign one he’d just drawn a stick figure giving you the finger. “Have you ever spoken to anyone about your sociopathic tendencies? Might do you some good.”

With prolonged eye contact, you toss a pen in his direction. Hits him square between the eyes. “A million times,” you deadpan. This is where you’d blow a bubble and pop it if you were allowed to chew gum on the clock. “I’ve been diagnosed with an incurable case of bitchitis. It’s a very tragic burden to bear. Fill out the form.”

Seokjin huffs. Stays standing right in front of you as he does as you say, ignoring the line of people behind him that’s rapidly stacking up. Someone towards the back yells at him to get out of the way, but the protest dies immediately once he turns around and smiles. You think an elderly woman faints. She definitely bobbles, at the very least.

“Thanks so much for your help,” Seokjin says, handing the forms back with a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. They’re free of doodled middle fingers, so you wave him off. “Have a great day,” he lobs over his shoulder. When you look down, he’s giving you the finger at waist-height.

“Have the day you deserve,” you fire back.

Your skin needles with anxiety for the rest of the day.

Seokjin comes into the emergency room again on Friday.

He’s got a large gash just above his eyebrow that’s gonna need stitches. You tell him as much as he fills out the same forms as the day before, and he tells you to tell him something he doesn’t know as he rolls his eyes and winces immediately.

“Here’s something you don’t seem to know: karma is real, and she also thinks you’re an asshole.”

You get the finger again for that one. Honestly, you can’t say you don’t deserve it.

“Kiss my ass.”

You pretend to pout. “Health hazard. Against hospital policy.”

Seokjin pauses. Seems to study you for a while, and then he’s cocking an eyebrow and asking, “What do you actually do here, anyway? Besides be a giant bitch.”

Wordlessly, you point at your name tag. There, right beneath your first and last name, lies the answer to Seokjin’s question. He squints. Winces again. “You’re a med student?”

Again, you point at your name tag.

“That means I can write a complaint.”

“Go ahead,” you retort. “My mother’s on the board of directors, and luckily for you she already knows I’m a giant bitch.”

Seokjin snorts, jaw dropping slightly. Just enough to draw attention to his mouth, which you’ve seen a hundred times for a hundred different injuries, but it looks especially sinful today. Maybe it’s just because he’s being mean to you, which is something you might need to explore with Taehyung in exchange for pictures of your feet.

“Ah, I should’ve known. You’ve got overwhelming nepo kid energy. Probably never had to work for anything a day in your life, huh? Probably a legacy to whatever shit-tier medical school was bribed into accepting you, too.”

Until now, you’d thought your banter with Seokjin was relatively harmless. Barbed, sure, and definitely effective. You’d throttle Seokjin if given the chance, and you know he’d do the same. But it’s never been outright cruel.

You try to look unfazed. Try to look like you don’t care about Seokjin and his words at all, because they’re nothing you haven’t heard before. Not like you’d asked to be born to your parents, so shit like this usually rolled off your back.

Now, though—

Your face must fall, just a little, because Seokjin immediately looks remorseful. Moves to say something, but you’re retrieving his clipboard and intake paperwork before he can stutter out an apology. “Thanks. They’ll call you back shortly.”

“Hey, I—“

“You can take a seat over there,” you interject, eyes locked on your computer screen. If you tear up, you can just blame it on eye strain.

You don’t see Seokjin for another two weeks.

And that’s… fine. His absence has given you some time to digest, some time to mull things over, decide if you’re actually upset or if you’d gone temporarily insane. It’d taken ten days, but you came to the conclusion that it’d just been a fleeting moment of sensitivity. People are mean to you all the time in the ER; if you took each insult or attack on your character to heart, you’d be in for a world of hurt.

So, yeah. You’d had a rough day and Seokjin saying you were a good-for-nothing nepot stung a little. That’s it.

Because you’ve got more pressing matters to attend to. You’ve managed to piss away an entire month without securing a date to the wedding, and now you’ve got time breathing down your neck. Two months, your mother’s shrill voice shrieks in your head, and it devolves into weeks and days and hours the longer you let yourself spiral. It’d seemed like so long before: you’d been so certain you’d have a date by the end of day one, and then the universe had to go and humble you. Cruel.

But the universe is also fair, because one day it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen Seokjin, and the next it’s a painfully slow Thursday afternoon and he strolls in with splinted fingers and a sheepish, weary expression.

“Uh, hi.”

You look up from your computer, taking in all the bruises and scars that dot his face but take nothing away from the beauty of it. “Sorry, exorcism hours ended at noon.”

Seokjin swallows, nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to argue, just because he’s him and you’re you, but he acquiesces with a little nod. “Fair. I deserved that.”

“Here for the usual?” you ask, tone dry and neutral. When Seokjin doesn’t answer, you grab a clipboard and start your usual spiel—name, address, insurance information, reason for treatment—and then there’s a choked-off sound, not unlike a cat dying.

He looks pained when you dare a glance. Face contorted into a grimace, just like all the parents who bring in their constipated babies. “No, no,” he says. Sucks in a deep breath, and you nearly roll your eyes in exasperation. This guy’s acting like he’s about to give a speech at the goddamn United Nations. “I’m here to… apologize?”

You blink. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Telling you?” A pause. “Yeah, definitely telling you.”

“Okay.” Another pause. Seokjin fidgets, shifts his weight from one leg to the other, wipes probably-sweaty palms on his jeans, picks up every pen in the cup and drops it back in. “Well, the floor is yours.” More silence. His face seems to shift into reluctant acceptance. “Any day now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“I was having a bad day and I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Okay.”

“I still think you’re really mean—”

“Sure, that’s fair.”

“—but I’d like to make it up to you. I think.”

“You sure are thinking a lot. Wanna give those brain cells a break?”

“Fuck you,” he replies automatically. “Here I am, trying to be nice—”

An idea strikes you then. Parts the hazy recesses of your mind like the Red Sea, and it feels like you’ve been struck by lightning. “How were you planning on making it up to me?”

Because he’s not wholly an idiot, Seokjin sends you a pointed look. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You’re sure your smile looks straight out of a Creepypasta, but there’s an opportunity here, and you’d be a fool to let it slip through your fingers. “Because I just so happen to need a favor, and here you are, ready to dish one out.”

“I never said it was a favor.”

You pout. “But Seokjin,” you whine, “you were so mean.”

One of his eyes twitches. “Why does this feel like a crossroads deal?”

“I think the Grinch felt similar. Right before his heart grew three sizes and he saved Christmas.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you can almost see the scales tipping in his brain, weighing whether or not it’s a good idea to entertain you at all. Which is impressive, all things considered, because he doesn’t even know what you’ll ask for yet. He could be expecting something humiliating at his expense, or a monetary bribe—you’re pretty certain asking for a date will catch him fully off-guard.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing big,” you reply easily. Twirl your hair around your finger. Bat your eyelashes. “Just a little date.”

Seokjin sputters. “A what.”

“A date,” you repeat. “I just so happen to need a date to my brother’s wedding, and you just so happen to be overcome with guilt. It’s a win-win.”

“We don’t even like each other!”

You click your tongue. “Even better, because I don’t like my brother, either!”

“So this is… what? A game? Some kind of petty revenge? Bring the guy who looks like me to your brother’s wedding to rebel against your parents?”

“Yes, absolutely,” you answer, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. Seokjin doesn’t seem convinced. You sigh. “Look, you can say no. Or I can throw in something extra if it feels unfair—”

“Like what?”

You shrug. “I don’t know, I haven’t had time to prepare a fucking offer sheet, Seokjin. What do you want?”

“Depends. What’s this all entail? Is it a one-time thing or do I have to pretend to be your boyfriend?”

You choke. “My boyf—” But then it hits you: your brother will hate this. Your parents will hate it even more. Without even needing to ask, it’s clear Seokjin isn’t from your world, and if they’re ready to disinherit you for showing up to your brother’s wedding alone, might as well commit to the bit. So you clear your throat and smile again. “And if I say yes?”

“It’ll cost more,” Seokjin deadpans.

You nod, feeling a little like you’re swindling this poor man. “Add it to my tab, boyfriend.”

[THE MEETING]

Finding a date was supposed to be the hard part. Turns out, it’s only the beginning.

Your parents are thrilled and a little stunned when you tell them you’ve secured a plus-one. (So is your brother, but you have better luck with him listening when you tell him to fuck off. It’s a little hard to say the same to your mother and father when they’re dangling a trust fund in front of you like a carrot.) And, in true upper echelon form, they grill you. For hours. Family name, family business, how you met, what their intentions are, blah blah blah. You feel a migraine coming on somewhere around question two.

Eventually, your mother says, “I don’t know about this,” and your father grunts in agreement. You don’t think he’s used full words in years. Not with you.

“What’s there to know?” you whine, nearly rolling your eyes. “I’m not marrying the guy. It’s just a date.”

Your mother flutters around the kitchen, pointedly not looking at you. It’s weird seeing her like this: almost like a real mother, almost like she’s going to say something comforting and serve you a plate of freshly-baked cookies instead of huffing and puffing at everything you say and treating you like a pariah. “Do you even know this young man?”

“Of course I know him.”

“Do I need to remind you that it’s bad etiquette to bring a first date to a wedding?”

There’s a pang of annoyance that you have to tamper down. “It’s not a first date.”

“Oh? You’ve been seeing him regularly?”

This time you do roll your eyes. “Sure, Mom.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at your mother,” your father says, not bothering to lower the newspaper in front of him.

“How did you—”

“Is this young man your boyfriend?”

You think about what Seokjin had said: It’ll cost more. Not, you couldn’t pay me eight billion dollars to pretend to date you. Not, no thanks I’d rather die. Just, it’ll cost more. So, as you sit in this opulent kitchen with your parents and some ungodly amount of Italian marble, you think there’s nothing you wouldn’t pay to make these people miserable. These people, who never saw you beyond a status symbol. That traditional nuclear family tucked behind the white picket fence. Two kids. Golden retriever. Pool boy. Family vacations to five-star resorts, only your parents smiling in the pictures before they abandoned you and your brother with the nanny.

So, no, Seokjin isn’t your boyfriend. Not really. But he’s willing to play the part and that’s good enough. “Yeah,” you answer, and one simple word stops your mother in her tracks and gets your father to finally abandon his stupid newspaper, and just this little bit of power feels nice.

“Oh,” comes your mother’s reply. She shares a look with your father.

Because the patriarchy is alive and well and he loves to play the arbiter, he says, “I think we should meet him.”

And, because you’re not an idiot, you say, “Don’t forget the rule was that I had to find a date, not that you had to approve them.”

With a huff, your father disappears again behind his newspaper.

You: i need another favor

Rapid Onset Migraine: how much

You: shouldn’t my boyfriend want to do nice things for me out of the kindness of his own heart

Rapid Onset Migraine: no

(“Shouldn’t you have him saved under his actual name? Maybe a little heart emoji?” Hoseok asks, looking over your shoulder. “Unless he has a degradation kink, I don’t think anyone’s going to buy that someone named Rapid Onset Migraine is actually your boyfriend.”

“Shut up, Hobi. It’s one of those things that are violently affectionate and ironically cute.” A pause. Then—“Do you think Thunderclap Headache is better?”

“No. No, I definitely do not.”)

You: you don’t even know what the favor is

Rapid Onset Migraine: don’t care

You: fine

You: i would like to formally demand your presence at dinner with my parents this thursday at 7

Rapid Onset Migraine: i’m busy

You: i will literally venmo you rn to cancel your plans

Rapid Onset Migraine: i’m suddenly free. @jin-k92

Rapid Onset Migraine: five hundred dollars please

You: fuck off

You: $50. final offer. take it or leave it

Rapid Onset Migraine: leave it

You: sent. see you thursday!

It’s Tuesday night and you’re fresh off your shift, headed to your car, looking forward to doing nothing but absorbing into your couch and maybe using that new bath bomb, when someone on a skateboard crashes into you.

You’re on your ass before you can process, stunned, staring up at the fluorescent lights of the parking lot. A familiar face enters your line of sight, not looking all that apologetic. “Whoops.”

You groan. “Worst boyfriend ever,” you retort, sticking your hand in the air. “At least help me up.”

There’s absolutely no grace in the way Seokjin hauls you to your feet. Doesn’t bother to steady you when you bobble, either, and you have half a mind to give him the finger. Instead, you say, “Are you stalking me?” and delight in the split-second of panic that overtakes his features.

“No,” he eventually says, expression right back to neutral. “You’ve already agreed to date me. Why would I need to stalk you?”

“There’s at least seventeen different problems with that statement and I’m not going to touch any of them.” You take a second to look him over: no obvious injuries, still obnoxiously attractive. Hair a little longer than usual, rogue strands hanging loose and framing his face. No one should be allowed to look like this. He really, really gets on your nerves. “Why are you here, though? You look fine.”

“I am fine—”

“Uninjured,” you clarify, which earns you a scoff.

“I’m that, too,” he snarks, “but I came to find you to figure out the game plan.”

“Why didn’t you just text me?”

“I was already in the area,” he lies.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I thought I could con you into buying me dinner.”

“What’d you do with the fifty bucks I sent you the other day?”

Seokjin looks at you like you’re dumb. You’re really starting to wonder if you are. “I spent it.”

“On what?”

“Are you my accountant now?” he huffs.

“No, but you’re not my sugar baby, either. Buy your own dinner.”

He bats his lashes at you. “But honey…”

“Fuck off, Seokjin,” you say, stomping towards your car. Unsurprisingly, he’s right behind you, the wheels of his skateboard noisy as they glide along the concrete. “This is why you’re always needing stitches?” you ask, knowing he’s close enough to hear.

“Yep.” A louder noise; probably some kind of trick. You’re not going to dignify him by watching and being impressed.

During your second semester of college, Hoseok had gotten you into this horrible habit of parking far away. So you get your steps in, had been his reasoning, and it’s hard to say whether you’d given in to the 10,000 steps per day hysteria or just Hoseok’s convincing, evil little smile, but you still do it. And you’re really regretting it now, when you have to traipse through a half-mile of parking lot with the world’s most annoying person on your heels.

“Are you gonna take me to dinner, though?”

That’s how you wind up sitting across from him at a diner.

His cheeseburger is demolished in record time. Fries are halfway gone, too, by the time he asks what the plan is and seems genuinely shocked when you say there isn’t one.

“What do you mean there’s no plan?”

“There’s no plan,” you repeat, dipping your own fry into his ketchup just so he has to swat your hand away. “I mean, dinner is at seven, but that’s it.”

Seokjin looks confused, like you’ve tilted his world on its axis. “There’s gotta be a plan,” he argues. “There’s always a plan with you trust fund kids.”

Another dig, and you can tell by the way he avoids your gaze once he makes it. “There’s really no plan,” you say, ignoring the quip. There’s a reason you’ve got a fake boyfriend, and it’s not because your parents are benevolent and easy-going. “I don’t care what you tell my parents.”

“Now I know for sure you’re setting me up.”

You shrug. “Believe whatever you want.”

Seokjin studies you, clearly still unconvinced. “You’re telling me,” he begins, sticking the straw of his root beer float in his mouth, “that I can just walk in there and sabotage you? That I have carte blanche? That I can tell them you literally paid me to be there?” You shrug. There’s a disgusting slurping sound. You grimace.

“Well, I’m hoping you won’t, but I certainly can’t stop you.”

“You’re terrible at fake dating.”

A sigh escapes you before you can stop it. You don’t want to delve into twenty-plus years of parental trauma, especially not with this guy, but sometimes it can’t be helped. “Look, I don’t want to go to my brother’s wedding. I don’t like him, and I don’t like my parents. No one else wanted to fake date me”—you hold up your hand to kill the obvious comment before he makes it—“and, honestly, my parents are gonna hate you and that’s the entire reason I asked for your help. So, no, I don’t care what you tell them, because I don’t care if they approve. I’m sick of them making me jump through hoops just to be their kid.”

Unfazed, Seokjin breezily replies, “You obviously care enough to keep taking their money.”

“I consider my trust fund to be reparations.”

“That why you were so touchy about that nepotism comment?”

Nodding, you fidget with the hem of your scrub top, hands suddenly sweaty. “Well, it doesn’t feel great to have my accomplishments credited to my last name or whatever, but it’s not something I can stop anyone from assuming.”

“Are they?”

“It’d be naive to think they aren’t.”

“You got into med school, though,” Seokjin says, and you tamper down the flush that’s creeping in. You are not going to care about any man’s acknowledgement. “That’s not an easy thing to do.”

“Can you tell my parents that?”

A laugh bellows out of him, and you’re horrified to learn it’s a terrible sound. Everyone in the diner turns to stare, and you’re flushed crimson and trying to duck under the table.

Still, you can’t help but smile. Your parents really are going to have a stroke.

To your delight, Seokjin is good at getting people to hate him. Like, really good—almost scarily so.

He’d shown up twenty minutes late, having ignored the dress code entirely, clad in a pair of ripped black jeans and a plain black t-shirt, arm tattoos and innumerable scars proudly on display. He hadn’t bothered to shake your father’s hand or introduce himself to your mother, just fell into the seat next to you, stage-whispered a, this place is a shithole huh, and stuck his nose in a menu. When the waiter came by, he ordered a bottle of wine older than the two of you combined and the most expensive entree on the menu.

Now, an hour in, your parents are teetering on the edge of a major cardiac event.

“So, Seokjin,” your father says, voice gritty and forced, “what do you do?”

Seokjin shoves a large piece of meat in his mouth, making sure to smack his lips. “What d’you mean?” he asks, the question garbled around the food.

“For a living.”

Scarily good, you think. Seokjin pretends to choke, pretends to look shocked and appalled. “I don’t work,” he answers, tone bang-on to the one your parents use when they’re being condescending. “My parents give me money, and I figured I’d date this one”—he flicks you in the temple—“until she becomes a doctor and can support me. Then we’ll get married.”

Your mother gasps. Your smile is involuntary.

Your father, on the other hand, knocks over his wine glass. Spills it all over the table, goes red in the face, and it’s the most distressed you’ve ever seen him, usually composed to a fault, immovable. “You’ll do no such thi—”

Seokjin fakes a yawn. “You ready, babe?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just stands, tosses his napkin on the table, and grabs your hand. The two of you are out of the restaurant before either of your parents can utter a word.

Feels like one of those movie moments, you think: the cool breeze in your hair, against your flushed cheeks, your hand in Seokjin’s, both of you not daring to breathe or make a sound until you’re safe outside, away from your parents and their gobsmacked expressions. And then you crack, just enough for laughter to spill out, and Seokjin snorts, another horrible sound, and before you know it, the two of you are collapsed against the side of the restaurant, tears in your eyes as the brick scrapes against your skin.

Maybe something shifts. Maybe the smile Seokjin sends you is genuine.

[THE RELATIONSHIP]

Much to your horror, fake relationships aren’t all that different from normal, authentic ones.

Which means two things: one, that your brother and his wife-to-be both received an earful from your parents about Seokjin and The Dinner, and two, you still have to compromise.

The first one wasn’t so bad. Your brother had called you and issued a vague threat, of course, because he’s never had a sense of humor about anything, but you hadn’t answered so it’d been easy to delete the voicemail and forget about it. And, luckily for him, your future sister-in-law was far more lax. Bring him, she’d texted. He sounds like a good time.

You’re not sure you’d describe Kim Seokjin as a good time, but you replied with a thumbs-up emoji regardless.

All of that had been fine. You’re well-versed in dealing with your family by now, so it’s easy to let their bullshit wash over you and down the drain like rainwater.

No, it’s the fake but has to look at least semi-real relationship that’s proving to be difficult.

Because you don’t like to compromise. You want to do what you want to do when you want to do it, and you don’t want to hear about it from anyone. But here you are, doing a quasi-photoshoot with Seokjin so he can “soft launch” you on his Instagram—which, honestly, is a little daunting. He has a lot of followers. Not surprising, considering the way he looks, but the thought of being perceived by hundreds of thousands of strangers makes you feel like you’re wearing your skin inside-out.

“Can you try looking less constipated?” he asks, tone dry as toast as he scrolls through the series of selfies the two of you just took.

You scoff. “First of all, I don’t look constipated.” Really, you don’t. “Second of all, why do you even need to do this? We only have to convince my parents, and you pissed them off so bad I’m not sure they’ll ever ask me to bring a date to anything ever again.”

“Because I have a competition next weekend that you’ll have to go to, and I don’t want anyone asking any questions.”

“What if I’m busy?”

“You’re not,” Seokjin retorts, all conviction. “If I had to clear my schedule for that dinner, you’re free for this.”

“What if I have a school thing?”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. He’s looking at you, and you’re looking at him through his phone camera. It’s really not fair, the way his face is. “Do you?”

“No, but what if?”

He takes another picture and cackles, gleefully showing it to you. “See? You definitely look constipated.”

With a glare, you wrestle the phone out of his hand and aim it the way you want—the way you know looks good. And maybe you do a little pout, too; do that thing with your eyes that looks seductive and a little dirty. Not because you care about what Seokjin’s followers think, because you’re hot and you know it, but because you want him to suffer. Just a little bit. It’s illogical, the way you want him to look at this picture and feel… something. Half pride, half longing.

So, you angle and pout. Delight in the caught-out expression on Seokjin’s face this time, like it’s the first time he’s learning that you’re hot and that it troubles him a little. “Is that better?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

Seokjin doesn’t respond, just posts the picture to his Instagram story.

Skateboarding has never been your thing.

Your brother had gone through a phase, once. Spent all his allowance on the video games and collected CCS catalogs, spending imaginary money as he’d thumb through the pages and circle everything he wanted. Never bought a real board, though—just developed a superiority complex because he listened to the Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater 2 soundtrack one too many times and thought it was a legitimate substitute for actual pre-teen rebellion.

However, fake-dating Seokjin means you’re getting a crash course.

“What do these do?” you ask, holding up a set of wheels. There’s an alien holding a bong on them. They make you laugh.

Seokjin eyes you from across the shop and pointedly ignores your question. Instead, the disgruntled guy behind the register answers. “They’re wheels,” he says, tone clipped, which you answer with a surprised noise, like you’ve discovered something new.

“Wow, wheels,” you intone. “Cool.”

Done picking out new grip tape, or whatever the hell he’d said, Seokjin plucks the wheels from your hand and puts them back where you’d gotten them. “Fascinating invention, huh?”

The man behind the register smells like weed. Reeks of it, actually, and the stench is almost overbearing as you sidle up next to Seokjin at the counter. Yoongi, his name tag reads. You don’t think he looks like a Yoongi, because it kind of lends itself to a stoner character, but it also sounds kind of sweet, and the man in front of you looks like he could snap you like a twig and enjoy it.

Then—“Oh, you’re Instagram girl.”

You scowl. “I’m who.”

First, you’re reduced to nepotism and your family name; now it’s Instagram. There’s a huff halfway out of your mouth when Seokjin wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you against his side. You think he’d press a kiss to your temple if this was real. “My beautiful girlfriend,” he says, playfully hip-checking you.

Yoongi looks between the two of you, then pushes the tape back in Seokjin’s direction. “You know you don’t have to pay for this shit, man.”

“Sure, but I can. I have a rich girlfriend now.”

He yelps when you step on his foot with the heel of your boot. “Aren’t you so lucky,” you grit out.

You don’t see the way his gaze softens, but Yoongi sure does.

Anticipation crackles in the air.

Feels like the day you’d sat for the MCAT—that brand of nervous, determined focus, bordering on excitement. Something that will really only go one of two ways with a million variables, and it’s a small relief to not be the one in the hot seat.

Hoseok had been there last time. Now, a man that’s seemingly all limbs plops down beside you, ungraceful and awkward.

“You’re Instagram girl,” he says, before sticking his hand out. “Hi, I’m Namjoon.”

Seems like Seokjin’s idea of a soft launch is anything but. Briefly, you wonder how many more people are going to forego your identity entirely in the name of Instagram, but it’s kind of nice, too—nice to be someone other than your parents’ daughter, your brother’s sister, your family name. There’s a long way to go before the patriarchy is smashed entirely, because it’s not so nice to be newly reduced to Seokjin’s girlfriend, but baby steps.

For now, it’s all right.

For now, there are far worse things you could be.

“Hi, Namjoon,” you finally reply, because he seems out of place and nice enough—nicer than Yoongi, at least. Definitely far less gruff and abrasive.

He chokes a little, like he’s surprised you responded to him. Not for the first time, it’s just sort of par for the course when you are who you are. “Oh, sorry,” he says, cheeks flushing under the guise of the relentless afternoon sun. “I just—recognized you? And couldn’t help myself? Which probably sounds really creepy, which was not my intent, it’s just—Jin doesn’t bring anyone to these things. Like, ever. So it was a little shocking! Kind of like meeting a celebrity? Even though I’ve never really done that, either. Oh! I met Greta Thunberg once. That was cool. It was, like, on accident, though? So…”

On and on he goes, bless him, because he just talks endlessly without expecting a response. You look around: the bleachers are starting to fill up, awestruck kids with humored parents, and you wonder what that’s like. To have an interest in something and have it nurtured, instead of having to live up to expectations you never wanted. Maybe you would’ve been a skateboarder, too. Maybe you would’ve shucked all those societal norms and did something you wanted, even though it doesn’t really matter now.

“Hey,” you say, stopping Namjoon’s latest spiel in its tracks, “do you come to these things often?”

Namjoon lights up like Christmas. People must not ask him about himself much. “Yeah! Well, sometimes? I’m in grad school, so I come when I have time. I thought it’d be a good idea to get two master’s degrees, so I finished my first one—in philosophy, before you ask, which was pretty stupid, because what am I gonna do with that, you know? But I guess it worked, because I had a full-blown existential crisis and decided to get a second one to put off the inevitable second existential crisis over what I was going to do with my life—”

“What was that one in?”

Namjoon startles again, and it’s almost hopelessly endearing. “Huh? Oh, Botany and Plant Pathology.”

You blink. “Plant pathology?”

“Yeah! It’s really interesting, because everything’s connected, right? Like, you can’t really fight climate change and food insecurity if you have all these diseased crops and forests, and I leaned pretty heavily into biological philosophy for my first degree, especially environmental ethics and conservation—”

“...And you come to skateboarding competitions for fun?”

His ears turn red; his cheeks and neck follow shortly thereafter. “I like physics, and skateboarding has a lot of physics.”

Just your luck. “Can you explain to me what’s going on, then?”

Namjoon does as you ask, and takes his job very seriously. He explains the rules and the implications, the rankings and what they mean for the future, who’s who and the major players. He explains tricks as they happen—how they got their names, who did them first, notable events. You remember your brother screaming at the TV the night Tony Hawk landed the 900 at the X Games, and Namjoon’s smile is so bright when you tell him about it.

“Yeah, that’s—that was so fucking cool, man. You know he was 31 when he did that? I think about that sometimes. There’s all this emphasis on aging, this juvenile notion that life peaks in your twenties, that you need to have it all figured out before you’re thirty: the job, the marriage, the house with the white picket fence, and it’s bullshit. I know it’s bullshit, but sometimes I feel like I haven’t accomplished anything at my age, and I just think: Tony Hawk landed the first 900 when he was 31 years old, and now 10 year olds are doing it. That’s fucking dope.”

He’s off on another tangent almost immediately, telling you about how he’d met Seokjin and how they became friends. You hear none of it. Seokjin comes in second place. You don’t remember much of the celebration, either.

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve been dunked in ice-cold water. Feels a bit like drowning.

You’re good at compartmentalizing.

You have to be, growing up in the family you did. Because Namjoon’s words had rattled you, sure, but you can’t linger on them. Lectures still need to be attended, hospital shifts still need to be worked, and it’d really hurt Hoseok’s feelings if you bailed on your study sessions, so you have to tuck away all those wayward thoughts for later.

Not until you’re alone, tucked into bed far too early for someone in their mid-20s, do you think about it.

Well, it’s less ‘thinking’ and more ‘ah, these are the existential crises Namjoon was talking about.’ Certainly not your first crisis, and it won’t be your last, but it’s still… unnerving. Being a doctor was something you’d always been rock-solid about. You hadn’t wanted to go into business like your father and brother, had no interest in kissing ass in the political sphere and wielding influence like your mother, but you’d been told all your life you had to do something. Something important, something impressive, something worth bragging about��because what were you worth if your parents couldn’t talk endlessly at fundraisers about how much better you were than everyone else?

You glance at the clock: almost two a.m. There’s only one person that’ll be awake at this hour, even though you shouldn’t. Seokjin has one job, and it isn’t talking you off the proverbial ledge in the middle of the night. Still—

You: you up?

Rapid Onset Migraine: this is happening a little fast don’t you think?

You: ??? huh

You: wait no

You: that’s NOT what i meant

Rapid Onset Migraine: yeah sure

Rapid Onset Migraine: well obviously i’m awake

Rapid Onset Migraine: you ok?

You: yeah, i’m sorry to bother you about this

You: i think i’m just having a bad time?

That’s that, you think, because minutes pass without a response. But then your phone’s vibrating, lighting up in your hand. Rapid Onset Migraine flashes across the screen, his contact photo set to a meme of Handsome Squidward just because you’d thought it was funny.

“Hello?”

“Sorry,” he says immediately, “I needed to make a pot of coffee before I had this conversation.”

You hum. The comment doesn’t sting. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink coffee.”

“I don’t,” Seokjin answers. “Well, not usually. Only if I have an early flight or something.”

“Or need to talk through your fake girlfriend’s two a.m. existential crisis?”

“Yeah.” Seokjin laughs, and it’s almost enough of a balm. “But I’m friends with Namjoon, so I’m an expert in those by now. I keep weird hours, anyway, you know? I’m either skating or gaming, so he used to call me at, like, four in the morning because he’d read too much Kierkegaard or Beauvoir and was spiraling.” You hear him take a sip of coffee. He starts sputtering immediately. “Shit, that’s hot. Fuck, I think I burnt my tongue off.”

“Luckily you know a doctor.”

“I do,” he says, and his tone is warm. Almost proud? “Anyway, what’s going on? You read Being and Nothingness, too, or what?”

For a moment, you’re just quiet, trying to think of the words to say. You’re well aware of your privilege, make a conscious effort to not throw it around the way others might, so there’s a lot of guilt that comes with something like this. You know what people probably think: poor little rich girl, with her family money and their connections, it must be so hard to be her. It’s not, and you’re fine, but—

“Did you always want to skate professionally?” you ask, because you figure it’s safe. Doesn’t give it all away, even though Seokjin’s smart enough to read between the lines.

And, to your surprise, he plays along. Doesn’t call you out or press on the bruise, just says, “Hm, no, not really.”

“No?” you repeat, incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he confirms. “This is really embarrassing, but I wanted to get into software engineering or coding. Whatever would let me make video games.”

“Why would that be embarrassing?”

“Because it’s me?” Seokjin forces a laugh, pure self-deprecation. “That’s the kind of stuff people like Namjoon do. And that’s—it’s fine. I’m good at skateboarding and I get paid to do it. That’s the kind of thing kids dream about, right? Getting paid to travel around and skateboard all day?” He sighs, and it’s broken in a way that’s unsettling and familiar. A sound that could be coming from your own lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it and I’m thankful I get to do this as a job, it’s just not what I thought I’d be doing with my life.”

A brief silence, and then Seokjin’s talking again before you can reply, which you’re glad for. Everything feels off-center. “Is that what’s going on? School stress?”

“Maybe,” you admit, still a little breathless. “I’m just… struggling? I think? With knowing what’s actual desire and what’s just expectation.”

“Ah, I see. I don’t think I can really help with that beyond empathizing, but I’m sorry you’re going through it.” Then, like he’s telling you a secret, “If it helps at all, I think it takes a lot of courage to do this kind of introspection. It’s not easy, especially when you’re likely to find things you don’t want to.”

You can’t help but snort, but it’s gentle. Quiet, though still loud in the stillness of your bedroom. “Thanks,” you eventually reply. “Surprisingly comforting.”

“Yah, I’ll have you know I’m a very comforting person!”

“Of course you are.”

“Besides,” he says, and his tone takes on such conviction you’re sure you’ll believe whatever comes out of his mouth next with no hesitation, “it’s fine if you decide this isn’t what you wanna do. It’s never too late, or whatever, but for what it’s worth, I think you’re going to be a great doctor.”

“Or whatever,” you echo, smile creeping up on you. “That makes it sound so easy.”

“I guess it is.”

What’s it like to live like that, you wonder. Completely devoid of expectations, just going with the flow, doing what you want without crippling fear of the consequences. Must be nice, is your conclusion. Life doesn’t work like that for you, and you’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with that, so it’s fine. You’re on a path and maybe it’s not what you would’ve chosen had you had time to look at all the possibilities, but you’re on a path and it’s yours.

You want to say this to Seokjin. You want to thank him, both for the pep talk and the unfounded confidence, but your eyelids feel heavy and he’s just babbling now, something about the first time he landed a tre flip, and it’s soothing. Comforting.

Sleep takes you before you can think about it too hard—think about how Seokjin used to be nothing but a menace, the worst part of your day, and now he’s not.

You’re on another night shift, third in a row, and you’re the kind of exhausted that has you smelling colors.

Nothing makes sense. Your bones hurt. When you think about going home and finally going to bed it feels like when you’re starving and wait too long to eat and don’t feel hungry anymore. Then you finally do and it’s not satisfying, kind of makes your stomach hurt, and the cycle repeats.

Seokjin texts you to check in. After your two a.m. convo, you’re hyperaware of how much time you spend venting, so you assure him you’re fine. He drops off a coffee and some snacks, anyway. Just because he’s already up.

—

There are other hangouts. You don’t call them dates, because that word has implications and meaning and this is fake, but you have them nonetheless.

Overindulgent takeaway, equally expensive alcohol that has sat unopened in your apartment for far too long, shitty movies playing in the background, and Seokjin’s inability to stop talking. He sneakily lobs popcorn at you when he thinks you aren’t looking. This prompts an all-out war, and you both have tears streaming down your faces by the time Seokjin calls a truce.

Just days later, you spread out a gingham blanket in the park. Seokjin makes up bullshit constellations, gives them horrific names and backstories, and revels in the sound of your infectious laughter. When your head feels too heavy to hold up, you lay back in the grass and try to keep your heart in your chest when Seokjin does the same, slender fingers searching out yours in the dark.

You want so badly to kiss him. Want to crash your mouths together and kiss him breathless, but you don’t.

On your third hangout, you cover each other in silly temporary tattoos and take too many selfies. Seokjin snorts at how dumb he looks in the filters and asks you to send him some, immediately setting a particularly couple-y shot as your contact photo.

And if you get butterflies when he posts one to his Instagram story? Well, that’s your business.

—

Seokjin gets the dumb idea that he’s going to teach you to skate.

Which is not only dumb because it’s impossible, but because you’re sure your skeletal system is probably insured for millions of dollars, knowing your parents. You can’t do any of your clinical rotations with broken bones—instant dismissal—and Seokjin knows this, but he’s annoyingly persistent and assures you you’ll be fine, so you relent because you trust him, despite all odds.

Physically, you are fine. Seokjin holds onto your waist and doesn’t let you fall, which is about all you can ask for when it comes to unwanted skateboarding lessons. Emotionally, though? Not so much. You’ve been close to Seokjin before. Enough to feel his body heat; enough to get goosebumps; enough to nearly become delirious with your want to taste him.

Normally that’s fine. But now, as he uses one hand to hold your waist and the other to hold your own hand, you can’t think of a single logical explanation for depriving yourself of more of this. Because he’s steady and warm, and sometimes you teeter and he grips tighter, causing your mind to wander and think about things it shouldn’t. You’re only human, and Seokjin is an otherworldly brand of handsome, so you don’t beat yourself up over it.

Still. It ignites something, that’s for sure, and if it’s anything like Seokjin himself, it won’t be easy to extinguish.

—

It’s by complete accident that you meet Jeongguk.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. You’ve met him before, at some bougie function your parents dragged you to, but it was brief and forced and awkward. Jeongguk was weird back then. Still is, probably, judging from his entire… presence, now.

He’s dangling upside down from a tree branch when you meet him for the second time.

“Oh. Jeongguk. Hi?”

“Hi!” he says, smile brighter than the sun, and before you can ask him why he’s upside down in a tree there’s a massive camera in front of his face. “Are you here to see Jin?”

Here is a public sidewalk, but you don’t say that. Instead, you say, “I’m on my way home. Why are you in a tree?”

His response is nonverbal, just a finger point dead ahead of you. Some Brutalist architecture leftover from the ‘50s—a large set of stairs, public fountain, weird art sculpture, a small crowd. Doesn’t take long to learn what they’re there for: Seokjin grinds down the rail, lands perfectly, nearly skates into the street and gets whacked by a car. Everyone cheers.

Ah, that explains the camera, too. You vaguely recall your mother telling you the youngest Jeon went to school for filmmaking. She hadn’t sounded impressed. You wonder what she’d think if she knew he was your delinquent, skateboarder, fake boyfriend’s videographer. Probably something aneurysm-inducing.

“He’s so cool,” Jeongguk says, whimsical and dreamy in a way that sounds like he has framed photos of Seokjin on his walls. Maybe his picture in a heart frame, like that one meme. “You’re so lucky.” There’s definitely some jealousy there.

You raise an eyebrow. “You wanna date him instead?”

Jeongguk seems to mull it over. Doesn’t move from his spot in the tree, either, and you reckon he’s got another sixty seconds before you forcefully turn him right side up. “Nah. He seems really happy with you.”

“We’re not—” Together, your brain finishes, but you can’t bring yourself to say it. So you cough, hope Jeongguk hasn’t caught it, and say, “Yeah, we’re not doing too bad,” instead.

—

“I think you’re too far gone, personally.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. What does Hoseok know? Okay, he’s probably the smartest person you know, but that’s medicine. He hasn’t had a long-term partner in years, so yeah, what does Hoseok know.

“I am not,” you insist, because the majority of your time in this library has been spent defending the validity of your love life, not studying. “Hobi, look.” You sigh, snapping shut your notebook. A migraine is forming just thinking about the amount of reviewing you’re gonna have to do at home to make up for this. “Does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things? Life is fleeting and we’re all inconsequential, so I understand why you’re grilling me on this and not the MLE review book we paid for—”

He pulls a face. “It was fifty bucks! You’re acting like I’m out thousa—”

“Not the point!”

Hoseok squeezes his eyes shut. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Presses his fingers deep into his frontal sinus points. “I think it not being the point is the point, though? None of this was necessary. You could’ve just brought him to the wedding without having to pretend he’s your boyfriend.” You move to protest. He waves you off. “I know you wanted to get back at your parents. Your parents suck, so I get it, but don’t you think this is a little much?”

“How?”

Now it’s Hoseok’s turn to sigh. Put-upon, like he’s a beleaguered parent talking to a very idiotic child. “Uh, how about the fact that the two of you are going on actual dates, for one? And they’re definitely dates, so I don’t want to hear it. You took him to a Michelin star restaurant, quote-unquote, just because.”

“I was hungry!”

“Sure, okay, whatever you say.” He throws his hands up, clearly defeated, and it settles all wrong in your gut. Hoseok gets mad, sure, but never at you. Not even annoyed. “Have you given any thought at all, even considered just a teeny-tiny bit, that this might not be as fake as you think?”

“No,” you retort, petulant, because it is fake and you don’t need Hoseok to tell you that.

But Hoseok is smart, you know, so you were never going to get off easy. “I think you actually like him.”

“I know. You’ve said that a hundred times.”

“And I’ll say it a hundred and one, if I have to. Fuck, your head must be made of concrete.”

“Could be,” comes your breezy response. “Maybe that’s why my mother hates me.”

Hoseok chokes. Knocks his tea over and onto the MLE guide, which prompts a distressed shriek from him and a harsh shushing from the rest of the library.

So much for it only being fifty dollars.

—

Unbeknownst to you, Yoongi does leave his skate shop, which comes as a shock for a man who has severe cavedweller vibes.

“Hey, Instagram,” he says, smelling like actual cologne and laundry detergent instead of a dispensary as he stands behind you in line.

Yoongi is clearly talking to you. You know he’s talking to you, but you still pause, fragile like a deer caught in headlights, and look over your shoulder as if he could be talking to anyone else. “Uh. Hi?”

He squints. “You are Instagram girl, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I thought so, but you looked at me like I was the one who’s stupid so I wasn’t sure.”

Did he just call you stupid? “Did you just call me stupid?”

Yoongi shrugs. “What’s good here?” he asks, changing the subject. He definitely called you stupid.

“I—most things? I don’t know, I always just get a cold brew with oat milk.”

He grimaces. “Ew, gross. I’m gonna go grab a table. Grab me a medium iced americano.”

You order him a small, purely out of spite, and Yoongi doesn’t come to this coffee shop often enough to know the difference so he doesn’t even notice when you set it down in front of him. Takes all the satisfaction out of being petty. He must know. “Thanks,” he says, not looking up from his phone as he unwraps a straw and stabs his drink perfectly in the center.

“Sure. I’ll send you a Venmo request.”

“Oh, I don’t have Venmo.” He finally looks up. “Are you going to Jin’s thing?” All he receives in response is a blank stare. “The skate comp. Second qualifying round for the big championship event? Surely he’s told you about this.”

Let no man ever say you’re a bad liar. “Ah, yeah, of course! Med student brain. It’s all memorizing neural pathways and… stuff… and forgetting skate competitions.”

“Hm,” comes Yoongi’s response, and he quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t question you further.

(You bring it up to Seokjin later, expecting him to laugh it off, extend an invitation out of obligation. Instead, he laughs in a way that sounds fond. Says, “Yoongi beat me to it,” in a way that brings his scarlet red neck and ears to the forefront of your brain, and follows it up with, “I’d really love it if you came, but I understand how busy you must be right now,” that has your skin flushing all the same.

You’re loath to make promises, but sometimes they’re easy.)

Time is not on your side.

You barely make it to Seokjin’s second competition. Barely have your ass in the bleachers, hairline dotted with sweat and anxiety coursing through you, before he’s dropping into the bowl for his first run.

He’d mentioned it offhand. Told you it wasn’t a big deal if you couldn’t make it, because he knew how busy you were with school and that you needed to study because exam season was relentless, but he’d looked so relieved when you joked that it wasn’t so easy to get rid of you, that you’d be cheering him on from the first row. That being anywhere else just wasn’t an option.

And that had… taken you aback. Watching him skate is a good enough distraction for all those thoughts. You don’t have to dwell on the whys: why the thought of sitting in your apartment, nose stuck in a book instead of being here, had been so unconscionable. Instead, you’re able to focus on him, which is almost worse. Because the way he looks—wind pushing his hair back off his forehead as he skates around, calf muscles flexing every time he kicks, shirt fabric darkening under a light sheen of sweat, smiling at kids and the countless people he knows—is a little overwhelming. You’re winded for two reasons.

It’s a beautiful thing, watching someone do something they’re passionate about. Seokjin especially, but you’re biased. You want only good things for him.

His first run finishes. He chews on his bottom lip as the judges huddle together. Numbers flash on the scoreboard. Good—great, even. You know what the stakes are: score high enough and he’ll advance to the championship. More sponsors will fall in line. Someone will present him with one of those comically large checks that he’ll probably spend on god-knows-what at Yoongi’s shop.

More skaters follow. Highs and lows. Seokjin watches them all, enraptured, just as happy for their successes as his own. Someone bails out right next to him, arms out to break their fall, making a sound an arm should never make, and Seokjin’s there right away. He’s good.

Except the universe doesn’t always reward goodness. His second run starts off well: smooth as butter, impressively technical. Seokjin is fluid when he skates. Makes it look easy, like you could hop on a board and do it just as well. You watch him, but you almost like watching everyone else watch him more: the wide eyes, the whistles under their breath, the nods of approval. Seokjin’s got all of it, truly thrives on the admiration. He’s good, he’s good, he’s good.

You know it’s coming. That trick he’d told you about—the one he’s never been able to land during a competition. The one that’s gnawing away at him. He’s going to try it, and you’re holding your breath as he kickflips, grinds his board along the rail, does some kind of dismount that looks absurd and impossible to your untrained eye.

Then he’s on the ground.

He’s still for a second. Huffs in frustration. Back on his board before you can blink.

Seokjin’s not a child, but you know it stings. You’re overwhelmed by the urge to comfort him, the way he’s done for you countless times, but you shouldn’t so you don’t. The two of you don’t talk until after, and by then it might not matter.

It isn’t until he’s about to drop in for his final run that he scans the crowd. You want to believe the look on his face when he spots you is relief, but it’s painted over in a nanosecond. He smiles, smug but content, and then he’s shoving his helmet back on his head, clapping someone on the back, and he’s off.

Maybe the universe does reward goodness, because everything goes right this time.

Seokjin lines up to attempt the trick again, because if he’s going to go out it’s going to be on his terms. Completely unshakeable, the kind of attitude that gets plastered on those bullshit inspirational posters about falling down nine times and getting up ten, and you wonder, briefly, if it’s stupid. A good score would be enough to get him through, but he wants to do this.

And he does.

Everyone around you erupts as soon as the trick is landed. Seokjin calls the run early—just a handful of seconds left, anyway—and his fellow competitors are on him immediately. Someone picks him up in a bear hug and spins him around, and the joy on his face is so pure, so unbridled, that you almost cry.

But the wait is torturous. His second run had gone so poorly and those in the top spots had done so well that it’ll be close, even with a gazelle flip under his belt. Nothing is certain, and the way you can barely bring yourself to look at the scoreboard is proof enough. Seokjin is good, and you want only good things for him, and you can barely look at the scoreboard but you can’t look away, either—

The roar of the crowd is deafening.

A freeze-frame moment. All around you, there are fists in the air, shrill yells of Seokjin’s name, maybe a chant, nothing but chaos. You can hardly hear yourself think, but you can see just fine, and what you see is Seokjin’s gaze locked on yours. The corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. A flicker of hesitation before he’s gracefully shrugging everyone off of him and making his way over to you, and then it’s just reflex. Here, you know what to do.

You barely flinch when he grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in.

Everything is soft. Feels a bit like floating.

Seokjinnie: do you wanna come over later?

Seokjinnie: i can either cook or get takeout, your choice

The apartment is small and you love it because he kisses you at the door. Seokjin has lips you want to memorize, so you kiss him again as he pulls away. The two of you kiss for a long time: throughout the “tour,” which is just the large studio space and the bathroom, all over the kitchen as he finishes cooking, until he exaggeratedly pulls out your chair, until you have to shove food in your face to keep your mouth off of him.

Seokjin has the kind of lips that leave you questioning if it’s really this easy.

Because Hoseok had been right: this isn’t fake for you anymore. Hasn’t been for a while, if you’re being honest, and maybe before this would’ve been a realization that scared you, but this doesn’t. Not when it’s Seokjin. So, yeah, maybe it is easy.

“Wait,” he says, chest heaving, gently pulling away from you. “Before I—wait, I have to talk to you about something.”

You just smile, hands still grazing over warm skin. “I think I already know.”

He stills. Takes a few seconds to reboot his brain before he’s smiling, laughing in a way that almost sounds unhinged. “God, yeah. Yeah, me too. But it’s—not that.”

“What, then?”

Immediately it’s clear this is not going to go well. Seokjin sighs, tilts his head back against the arm of the couch. His neck is gorgeous, littered with marks from you, but you gear up for a fight nonetheless. “The competition,” he says, as if that’s enough explanation. “The final round got pushed up.”

Your stomach drops. You know what’s coming, but you still ask, “To when?” because you’re a little bit masochistic. Because maybe you’re itching for the fight. Itching to say see, I told you so, I knew this was never going to work, because it’s always been fake. Itching to hurt, because you want what’s familiar when you hurt.

“Saturday.”

The day of your brother’s wedding. “Of course.” You snort; the universe loves a good dose of irony.

He sighs again. Looks so genuinely distressed that you find it hard to truly be upset. “I’m sorry. I just found out today.”

“It’s fine,” comes your instantly reply, auto-generated. Some silly, naive part of you refuses to spiral, stubbornly convinced you can salvage this. You’d found a date. That was the rule. You’ve done exactly what your parents asked of you, and you think with a rueful smile that they’ll probably be relieved when you show up alone.

But Seokjin’s not convinced. There’s still turmoil painted across his face—some silly, naive part of him clinging to something stubborn, too. “I’m going to ask you to be there.”

Yet another freeze-frame moment. The part in video games where it’s clear you have a very important choice to make, neon signs practically blinding, saying you better choose right, better not fuck it up. But you’re going to. You’re going to say no, and it’s going to hurt Seokjin, and you have about ten seconds to come to peace with that.

“I can’t.”

To his credit, Seokjin doesn’t look surprised, and you think that might be more painful. He’d expected nothing from you and you still let him down, so his snort is sardonic and derisive when he says, “Of course you can’t.”

And your tone is defensive and disbelieving when you retort, “What’s that supposed to mean? What exactly do you expect me to do here?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to do anything, I’d foolishly hoped you’d say yes.”

Your jaw drops. Snaps shut when you swallow around the lump in your throat, because you’re not going to cry at not living up to another set of invisible expectations. “It’s my brother’s wedding, Seokjin. It’s not some small thing I can blow off.”

“Is that it?” he challenges, eyebrow quirked, expression bemused. “Or do you not want to lose your precious little trust fund?”

“Are you serious? Of course I don’t want to lose it, but I—”

“You don’t even like your brother,” he continues, giving you absolutely no reprieve. No chance to catch up, catch your breath. “You don’t even like your family, but I guess you like their money. Nothing was ever gonna be more important than that, huh?”

“That’s not fair, Seokjin.”

He hums; knows you’re right. Doesn’t try to get in anymore jabs, but he looks broken. “I don’t think this has been fake for either of us for a long time. It was stupid to think you’d go against your family on this, but I thought maybe, for me—”

“Again, that’s not fair.”

“I know it isn’t fair,” he shoots back. “I know that. I just…” He rubs his hands over his face. “I can’t skip this, and you’re not willing to skip yours, so I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

“I can just go alone,” you say, because it seems simple. “I already did what they asked, so I can just go alone. It’s fine.”

“It’s not like that for me.”

You’re stunned into silence. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s irrational, but it’s… the principle. For me. I’m never going to match up, you know? I’m never going to be from your world. I can make all the money in the world doing what I do and I’ll still never come close. So I had this stupid thought in my head, like, if she comes then it’s real for her, too. It means something. If she’s there, we can figure it out.”

“And that’s the only way? It’s only real if I do this one thing? Doesn’t matter how we feel?” You laugh, exasperated, and you’re up and halfway to the door. “That’s bullshit, Seokjin. How am I supposed to live up to these expectations you’ve got of me if you never tell me what the fuck they are? You know, that’s—this is exactly what my family does, and you—you know that, what the fuck.”

“Hey, no—”

“I can’t belie—” Things go all glassy. Crystalline. You need to get out of here. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I’m sorry.”

“Wait—”

You press harshly into your eyes. You’re not going to cry over this. “Good luck, Seokjin.”

[THE CHOICE]

Things come full circle during another two a.m. crisis.

You’d stared at the ceiling. Scrolled mindlessly through your phone. Ignored Seokjin’s texts and thought about texting Hobi but decided it wouldn’t be fair and instead went cross-eyed watching some questionable late night paid program. Tried to disregard the crippling weight on your chest. Couldn’t. Thought about what Namjoon might do, because he seems well-versed in these sorts of crises, and looked up Sartre quotes on the internet. Got as far as one and quit, both because it hit too close to home and because all you can think about is your last two a.m. crisis.

Seokjin’s voice had been so soft. It wouldn’t have that same tenderness if you called him now and that stings, knowing you had a good thing, something velvet, and you let it go.

And still you think about Namjoon, about the ethics of conservation: when to preserve and when to let die. Does preservation ensure survival, or does it stave off the inevitable? It all gives you a headache, because nothing is guaranteed but that doesn’t mean you don’t try.

Jimin goes to Milan. Taehyung posts a selfie looking sad and beautiful on some balcony in Paris. You don’t want to be like them, doing some perpetual song and dance. Resisting an obvious thing.

Your brother answers on the second ring.

“Hello?” Groggy and confused. A voice you’ve heard a million times that still feels indistinguishable from a stranger’s.

“I can’t come to your wedding.”

A moment of silence, both literally and for your trust fund. “Uh, okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you rush out, because it feels important to say even if you don’t necessarily feel sorry. “I, uh—I am sorry, because I like your fiancée and I know this is probably a huge inconvenience considering your wedding is in a few hours, but I can’t—”

There’s some rustling. You don’t think you’ve ever talked to your brother in the middle of the night before. “It’s really fine.” He yawns. “This couldn’t wait ‘til the morning, though?”

“Not really.”

“Alright. Why do you sound like you’re about to have a panic attack?”

A lightbulb moment: he doesn’t know. “I am. You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That Mom and Dad threatened to cut me off if I didn’t show up at your wedding with a date.”

More silence. Then, slowly, the trickle of laughter. Just a quiet snort at first, and you’re a little confused, wonder if you should be laughing too, if he’s laughing at you, and then it compounds until he’s nearly in hysterics. “Oh my god.” He’s almost shrieking. “Holy shit. That’s why you brought that guy to dinner, isn’t it? The one they hated?” It’s the first time you’ve heard him sound like this.

“Yeah.”

“That’s fucking hilarious. Fair play.” You wonder why you’ve spent two-plus decades hating this man on the other end of the line. “Okay, then. Why can’t you make it?”

You talk until you’re hoarse: about the competition, the fake relationship that hasn’t been all that fake for weeks, about the trust fund and growing up under the weight of your family’s money and expectations and always coming in third behind societal ass-kissing and your brother. You’re not looking for an apology but you get one anyway. A heart-to-heart in a moment that’s not entirely built for one, because the sun is coming up and your brother is still getting married in a few hours even if you won’t be there to witness it.

“All right, I really gotta go, but listen: I’ll talk to them, okay? And I’m rooting for you. Maybe in a few weeks you and Seokjin can come over for dinner, if it all works out.”

“Yeah, sure.” You agree readily, and it’s nice to have someone that shares your name in your corner. “I’ll make sure he behaves.” Your smile drops, chest cracked in half. “If it works out.”

Your brother says goodnight and wishes you well. Hangs up, and the silence is deafening and consolatory. You think about the Sartre quote again: Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you.

Whatever happens, you think you’ll do just fine when it’s on your own terms.

Perhaps naively, you expected the day of your brother’s wedding—and subsequently Seokjin’s competition—to be gloomy. Of course, the weather is perfect. Mid-70s, light breeze, cloudless blue sky. When you’re wounded everything feels like an attack, so maybe before it would’ve felt like the universe was mocking you, saying look how beautiful and intact the world is when you’re falling apart, but you see something else.

You’d done a lot of thinking. Soul-searching and introspection and all those uncomfortable, vulnerable things you and Seokjin had talked about before, and you’ve made it to the other side, so a cloudless blue sky on a beautiful afternoon doesn’t feel like an attack. What you see is clarity being reflected back at you.

But it still takes a lot of courage. Instead of putting on a stunning, designer dress and painting on a smile to pacify your family and anyone else important enough to be granted entry, you’re pulling on normal clothes and normal shoes. It doesn’t matter if your hair and makeup are done. Everything feels wrong for a moment, like you’re forgetting something important, and you suppose that’s normal. This is arguably the biggest and most consequential decision you’ve made thus far in your life. No wonder you’re out of sorts.

Normally, this is where you’d compartmentalize. Tuck all that discomfort away for later: a problem for Future You. But that had been your go-to for years, and it did nothing but turn you into an emotionally constipated mess, so you’re done with that—trying to be done with that. Which is fine, because you don’t have a plan, not really, but sometimes it’s enough to simply show up, so that’s what you’re going to do.

Rejection is likely. You’re smart enough to know that, and you’re mature enough to accept it, if it comes down to it. But you don’t want Seokjin to feel rejected. Not again. That’s more important. So you’re going to show up, heart on your sleeve, and if he rejects you, fine, but you’re going to be there. And you’re going to cheer when he wins, even if your voice is drowned out.

Another packed event. It helps to feel anonymous when your sympathetic nervous system is working overtime like this. You’re trembling by the time you find a spot—a little out of the way, no room left on the bleachers. Seokjin probably won’t see you here, wouldn’t think to look, and it’s okay. You’re here for him but you’re here for yourself, too. Just to prove you can. Just to prove that you’re still human.

It all goes by in a blur. The skaters you don’t recognize, some you do. Scores that are both meaningful and meaningless until they aren’t. Seokjin’s name gets called and your stomach drops, but it’s okay. You see Namjoon, Yoongi, and Jeongguk, all nervous energy and bit fingernails and cautious smiles. They don’t see you, but it’s okay.

Two runs happen in a nanosecond. Seokjin holds steady in third. The guy sitting in first falls on his final run, and it’s best of three so you’re not breathing easy yet but your fingers start tingling with anticipation. The guy in second does well but nothing good enough to improve his score. Your phone’s blowing up in your pocket. Presumably your brother’s told your parents by now, and you can wait just a little longer to get cut off. What’s in front of you is more important, it is, and you know it when—

Call it divine intervention, but Seokjin looks up just as he’s about to drop into the bowl. Looks right at you, and the tingle spreads from your fingers all over. Another freeze-frame moment; the two of you are getting good at this.

He smiles. He wins.

Feels a bit like falling in love.

As always, thank you for reading! My inbox is always open if you’d like to leave feedback. I’d love to hear your thoughts! ❤

#btswritingcafe #thebtswritersclub #btshoneyhive #btscarnivalnet #bts imagines #bts scenarios #seokjin imagine #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #seokjin x you #jin x you #bts fanfiction #bts fic #seokjin fanfiction #jin fanfiction #seokjin fluff

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julieverne · 3 months

Text

"I can take her," Maura blurted. Already robbed once of a child she'd wanted to have, she couldn't see another slip through her fingers. Tasha had charmed her from the moment they'd spoken, despite the circumstances. Jane looked at her warily.

"You're single, and the hours you keep - I checked. Neither of us are eligible."

"Angela."

Jane's face grew pensive. She'd forgotten, somehow, that Angela lived with Maura and might be seen as an extra caretaker for Tasha.

"Let me ask for her. Please. She has such a brilliant mind; I cannot let it go to waste."

"Beacon Hill, hm? Six bedrooms and a guest house."

"She'd receive a trust fund, of course, once she reached majority." Maura wrung her hands nervously. "And my sister can help out too."

The social worker's eyes didn't even bother to flick to Jane; it was obvious Maura wasn't referring to her.

"And my grounds have a caretaker, who would be available for Tasha in the event I took a night call. She'd never be alone - unless she wanted to be."

The social worker sighed. She'd seen the cop fight for this kid, and her medical examiner friend plead for her too. She wished she could do something.

"I'm afraid I can't let her go to you. If you were married -"

Maura's hand shot out to cover Jane's, clearly to keep her from an outburst of what Jane had seen men do to their wives and children. Jane obviously calmed as soon as Jane touched her.

"We aren't yet," Maura said smoothly. "I mean, we've been seeing each other for years. She'll be staying with me too, once the hospital releases her. She just keeps her old place across town because she doesn't want people to think she's a gold digger." Maura's hand gripped Jane's, and Jane's eyes narrowed, then relaxed.

"I mean, look at her. And look at me. I'm not in her league."

"We're not playing baseball, we're fostering a child." Maura's brow was perplexed.

"I guess we are, babe," Jane said, her voice only a little sarcastic. "Look, tell me what paperwork we have to do - we're not common law, her family is kind of weird. But we'll get it to you by morning if it'll keep Tasha out of the system."

"Kiss her," the social worker told Jane, watching Maura blush.

"It takes all the fun out of it if it's mandatory," Jane grumbled half-heartedly, but she leaned in, the way she had when Hope and Angela had been watching with bated breath, and this time she didn't veer to the side. With the same affection she'd always shown Maura, she kissed her, sweet and gentle. "Now give us the damn kid," Jane demanded, watching as the social worker smirked and handed over some paperwork. Maura looked it over.

"Get your lawyers on it, babe," Jane said, sliding her hand around Maura's waist.

"You need to go back to bed," Maura said, concerned at how much weight Jane was resting on her, how unsteady she was on her feet. Jane complained, but she closed her eyes when Maura tucked her in.

Tasha woke to Maura looking out her hospital room window.

"What are you doing here?" she asked shyly, wiping at her face. She liked the other woman; she wasn't as funny or hard as Jane, but she was intelligent and compassionate.

"I should have asked," Maura said anxiously. "There's a way I can take you - you wouldn't be beholden to me, or reliant on me in any way. You would have somewhere to live, and social services would leave you alone. But you would have to live with me."

Maura's face was pale and drawn, like it worried her. Like she was offering too much.

"You don't have to." Tasha didn't want to say she'd wanted Jane to offer, not Maura. She didn't want Maura to feel like she owed Tasha anything.

"You don't have to, but Jane and I already - I mean, she'll be living there too, for the foreseeable."

"Oh." Tasha thought back to Jane talking about Maura, about how Maura had been so solicitous of Jane, always helping her without Jane having to ask or even noticing sometimes, since Maura was so subtle. About how Jane smiled at Maura like the taste of honey had burst over her tongue. "Oh."

"I mean, it's my house. I live there. But you won't see much of me if you don't want to."

"Why wouldn't I want to?"

"Well, you're very independent. And you and Jane get along, and I would just..."

It struck Tasha then that Maura was afraid of being turned down, of being the third wheel in her own relationship if they brought a child into it. Jane had been pregnant; they'd lost their child because of her. And they wanted her to take their child's place, in a way.

"Jane's mother lives with me. Us. She'd love to have another kid around the house. My sister is only a little older than you. You wouldn't have to deal with me."

"But what if I want to?" Tasha asked slowly, realising all that was being offered. "It's your house, isn't it? I had parents, once." Maura nodded, her eyes soft, obviously remembering their phone conversation. Tasha hated it when anyone felt sorry for her, but Maura had been practical on the phone, and it was refreshing to have someone worried that Tasha might not like them, if a little sad. "I had parents. But I never had aunts."

Maura exhaled slowly.

"I could manage that. I'm still getting used to being a big sister. I could never - I don't think I'm the nurturing sort, and Angela will smoother you the second she meets you. But I could fill the role of an aunt for you. You're a responsible, studious young woman, and you have some important exams coming up. I have the resources, but I don't have the time. As long as you understand I'm not trying to replace anyone - on your side or ours - I would very much like it if you stayed with me until either you're no longer legally required to have a guardian or you have another arrangement in place."

It wasn't exactly emotional. It wasn't exactly formal either. But Maura had offered, and she was a doctor and her sister was pre-med, so she would be a fool to turn them down.

She owed them a kid, anyway.

"Yeah. Okay. Just no more anatomically dubious stuffed animals, please."

"Angela won't be happy," Maura said with a wry smile, and Tasha smiled back. "I'm glad."

"Thank you," Tasha whispered. She'd been terrified of a group home, or worse, being fostered by a family for the money or less noble reasons. She felt so vulnerable in that hospital bed, and she relaxed a little, knowing that she still had a future.

Maura didn't try to hug her, but she did rest a hand on her forearm before she left.

"Wait, I have to stay in your room?" Jane's eyes were wide and scared.

"It's just for the home visit. I've already put all your things in the other dresser. You can go back to the green room once we've satisfied the social worker. Tasha doesn't know we lied, though, so we might need to figure out if we're going to tell her."

"What about Jack?"

"Oh, he got sick of me waiting around for you to get better. He's back with his ex-wife."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"I'm not. Tasha's future is worth more than his ego."

"You didn't lie. You just told them we weren't married."

"But all this paperwork, the domestic partnership, the taxes - my lawyer thinks you're a bad investment, by the way - all of that is a lie."

Jane studiously avoided Maura's eyes.

"Isn't it?" Maura's voice was small and insecure.

"I told you there's no one else I'd trust with my child. Tasha will be both of ours, and if we need to do all this to make sure she has a stable home for a year or two, I can think of worse things than being in a domestic partnership with you."

"Oh, Jane."

Maura's lips were wobbly, like Jane had said something sweet, but she'd just told the truth about their lies. There were worse things than living with Maura and a kid they were keeping off the streets. Hell, Jane practically lived there anyway. And people already thought they were dating. It wasn't like Jane's reputation would suffer any, being linked to Maura.

"We could tell her, but I don't think she'll notice. She's got a lot of exams coming up, and a bullet wound to recover from. Those hurt a lot, from memory."

The social worker came in, and Jane handed over the paperwork, then took Maura's hand.

"She's all yours, ladies. Your clearance checked out, your finances check out, and your house checks out. Congratulations."

"Thank you," Maura said, but she was looking at Jane with shining eyes as she said it.

Angela was thrilled. Maura didn't think Angela had ever met a kid she didn't like. Tasha put up with it with a gruff exterior, the same way Jane did, but she held onto Angela when she caught her in a bear (ursa) hug.

"Angela is across the courtyard, and you're upstairs and to the right. My room - our room -" Maura glanced at Angela, who looked at her expectantly. They'd had to tell her, and she'd been thrilled that they even had a chance to foster Tasha. She hadn't even mentioned that they were legally, for all purposes, common-law married. "- is to the left, at the far end of the house. You're welcome to any food, and you can add groceries to the list. I've put a child lock on the television but that's for Jane's brothers, not for you."

Jane snorted, and Maura rolled her eyes.

"I'd like to know where you are if you go anywhere; I am legally responsible for you. If you just want to sleep here and have nothing to do with me, that's okay."

"Maura," Jane chided her.

"I like you," Tasha blurted out. "I mean, not just because you're helping me out. I like talking to you. You're really smart, and you think I'm smart too. I'm not - like - ugh..."

"You said aunt, right?" Jane asked quietly, and Tasha nodded. "We're not trying to be anyone we're not. We just want you to be safe."

Maura looked at Jane as though she'd said something profound, and Jane smiled wistfully at her. Tasha was sure she'd missed something, but she'd already missed that they were a couple when it was so obvious now, with hindsight.

"I told you I was adopted. I have my own issues with parenthood, so if I'm lacking as a guardian, please let me know. I do work long hours, but Angela has agreed to stay with you in the house if I'm out late."

"I'll be fine. I've had worse."

Maura nodded as though she was unconvinced and Tasha had a sudden rush of anger for whoever had made this frankly lovable woman feel so unloved that she couldn't accept that someone might actually like her.

"We'll let you get settled, then," Maura said. "I'm going back to work tomorrow, but Jane is yet to be cleared. She'll be home for another week. Two, if she knows what's good for her."

"You are," Jane said, scrunching up her face.

"I'm what?"

"Good for me," Jane said, and Maura blushed and Tasha excused herself. She hadn't quite thought about what it meant to have two gay foster mums.

"You're hogging the blanket," Maura complained. Jane groaned and rolled herself tighter. "You know, when we get divorced, you signed a pre-nup, and that blanket is mine."

Jane rolled over to face Maura, relinquishing her hold on the blanket.

"Divorced?"

"I mean, once Tasha's aged out of the system. You'll find someone, and I'll..." Maura trailed off, her jaw moving as she wet her lips, unable to finish her sentence.

"I'm not getting any younger. And I could do worse. I got me a real trophy wife."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that's years away, Maura. If we meet someone before then, we'll figure it out. Together. And if we don't, then... I wouldn't have asked Casey. If he'd been here and Tasha had needed two parents to take her in. I didn't want to raise our baby with him. I asked you to help me parent, both times. And maybe that's because I know I can trust you with what's most important to me. And what's most important to me is you. So if you do want a divorce I won't contest it. But even if it's only common-law and just for CPS, I kinda like being married to you."

Maura looked like she was going to cry. Jane unwrapped the blanket from around herself and spread it over both of them.

"I don't have to pretend. Not with you."

"You lost the baby," Maura said finally.

"We lost - I lost our -"

"It's not your fault," Maura told Jane sternly. "I wish you'd waited for backup, but I can't bear to think about Tasha on one of my tables because you couldn't help her."

"I was thinking of it as Casey's. That's why I went in. But when I woke, and I knew... I'd been thinking of it as yours. As ours. And I wanted it then, so fiercely." Jane felt her face, wet with tears, then Maura enveloping her like she'd been waiting for Jane to fall apart all week. She held Jane and rocked her and hushed her and told her it wasn't her fault and that it was okay and that she loved her.

And that only made Jane sob more. She'd put not only her life on the line, but her potential child's as well. All because Maura had found someone, someone who had left her because of Jane. Jane just kept ruining Maura's life and stealing her blankets and making her adopt kids and...

... and Maura was crying too. And that was something Jane loved and hated in equal measures; she loved comforting Maura, but she hated Maura to be upset in any way.

"I'm so selfish," Maura whimpered, her face wet, trying to pull away. Jane held her closer, wiped her face with shaking fingers.

"You've taken in three strays, Maura. That's generous by any standards."

"It was your baby. It was your loss. But I feel it so strongly too."

"That's not selfish. That's empathetic." Jane gave Maura a shaky grin. "We can share the blanket if we sleep a little closer. It's not my fault your bed is enormous."

"I was hoping for an orgy," Maura said, completely deadpan.

"Well, we're one short. You'll have to make do with me." Jane pulled Maura close, adjusting their bodies, her aching bones and organs revelling in the warmth of the other woman.

Tasha saw the way they looked at each other when they thought she wasn't looking. She made excuses to dash off to the library, to give them some space, but the sorrow between them remained unbroken. Social services came every few months and seemed assured she'd been fed and bathed (the indignity!), and Cailin was a worthy tutor and Hope hovered in the background, offering suggestions and telling (literal) war stories. All in all, it was a good life, much better than the one she'd been living, always hiding, always scared and hungry, never quite clean.

Jane and her brothers were watching a game with Angela, and Maura joined Tasha in the kitchen.

"You don't mind, do you? They come over and ignore you."

"Everyone has their own hyperfixation. It's nice to see them get along." They watched Frankie and Tommy slap at each other. "For them, anyway." Maura looked at Tasha and smiled like she liked what she saw. "I'm glad you get along with Cailin and Hope. Constance is looking forward to taking you to France after you graduate, but I have to be honest. I'm going to miss you."

"It's only for a few weeks. And you have Jane."

There it was again, that look on Maura's face, like she was a kid outside a candy store. She was looking at Jane, who felt her gaze and turned to smile equally wistfully at Maura.

"I'm still going to miss you. I thought I was offering because you and Jane had a connection, because I'd been adopted and I couldn't let you go into the system. But the truth is I like you. I never thought I'd have children, but I'm so honoured that you let me have you, for however little time you needed me."

Maura had been more high strung than Jane. She liked things neat and clean, but so did Tasha. Jane and Cailin were the fun aunts, and Angela was a great grandma. Frankie and Tommy were a lot of fun.

But Maura had known when to step in and when to back away. She never took up too much space, never asked for too much, never took too much. And she gave and gave and gave, but never in a way that made Tasha feel indebted, even though she knew how much she must be costing them.

"That's too bad, because it turns out I kind of love you," Tasha mumbled quickly, trying not to be heard. She stepped forward, and Maura's arms opened for her, wrapped around her, keeping her safe. Maura pressed a kiss against her hair.

"I love you too," Maura whispered, her heartbeat high and flighty. Tasha had never even heard her say it to Jane. "And you are always welcome here."

And Tasha believed her, because Maura didn't lie.

"It's weird having the place to ourselves, isn't it?" Jane asked, putting the dishes away. "Feels kinda empty."

"I froze some eggs," Maura said suggestively, and Jane dropped an entire handful of knives.

"I just meant I miss Tasha. Jeeeez."

"Well, she'll be of age when she comes back from South America with Arthur. Then she's off to Indonesia with Hope for a MEND clinic, then she's off to Harvard. She might not want to live with us, once she's not obliged to legally."

"And then we wouldn't have any reason to live together either," Jane said, wiping down the counter.

"You can get your divorce, Jane. I know I'm not easy to live with, but it was worth it to make sure Tasha was safe. Thank you."

"You're not a burden - you're not something I just put up with for her sake. You know that, right?"

Maura shrugged and Jane put the knives she'd picked up back in the dishwasher for another cycle. They'd kissed that once, for the social worker. They slept together, lived together, worked together. They raised a kid together.

"I think Tasha turned out okay, so if you want to try again, you've got those eggs. And you've got me, if you want someone to raise them with."

"I love you, Jane, but I need someone who loves me."

"I do," Jane said seriously. She closed the distance between them easily, pushing Maura back against the counter. "I always have. Why do you think I moved in? Why do you think I common-law married you? Do you still doubt me, after all this time?"

"You never said - you never told me."

"I had to tell me first. And really listen, not just deny or try to tell myself that this is how women feel about their friends. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"I don't," Maura said, nearly crying. Jane leaned down a little and kissed her. Maura froze and Jane pulled away, scared she'd ruined everything.

"I love you the way a woman in a common-law marriage loves the other woman in her common-law marriage. The way a woman loves a woman. The way a woman feels about her wife. I didn't ask you the first time, it just kind of happened. But if you did want to marry me, not just common law marry me, I'd really like you to. I'd like to do it properly."

"Oh."

"Um. Sorry."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"Yeah. Yes. I'll marry you. We already live together. We're already married."

"It's convenient, huh?"

"It's convenient because... Jane. God. All this time we've been sleeping in the same bed and..."

"Do you want to go christen it?" Jane said, her mouth suddenly dry. Maura nodded emphatically.

"But it's too far away, so let's christen the couch instead."

The social worker smiled as Maura handed over the last of the paperwork.

"I'm glad you got to adopt her formally as an adult. It's not often I see one of these fake marriages work out in favour of the kid, but she's absolutely thriving. Harvard!"

"Wait, fake marriage?"

"Oh, you two were so full of shit. But she needed someone to take a chance on her, and if you two were game I wasn't going to bust you."

"But we're... we're married. Proper married."

The social worker gave them both a big wink, then looked down at Jane's swelling belly. "Congratulations," she said. "I know you're going to be great parents."

And then she was gone, leaving a bemused Jane and Maura in her wake.

#rizzoli and isles #rizzoli & isles #maura isles #rizzles #jane rizzoli #rizzles fanfic

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trashbag-baby666 · 4 months

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My Husbands Name- Clegan

Casper FD au

Summary: I wanted to write a little Drabble based off this post! Gale and Rosie are at an annual work convention and Gale's missing his John.

WC: 915

C/W: None!

mota masterlist! | ao3 link

The autumn leaves crunched under his shoes, the early morning breeze nipping at his ears as he pulled the collar of his jacket up. Well…it was actually John’s jacket, the dark chocolate, brown leather one.

He and Rosie had spent the last two days at the annual Doctors of Wyoming conference in Cheyenne. A crisp four days of sitting in a stuffy banquet hall staring at a projector and slides of how to better treat patients.

Gale didn’t know if he really believed it was more beneficial rather than just a way to spend hospital funding on pointless tickets to a conference for their doctors.

Really, he just wanted to go home to John and the girls. Last night he didn’t want to hang up on John but he knew Rosie needed his white noise to sleep. So, instead he laid there in the dark hotel room staring at photos on his phone of his family. The sound of Rosie’s artificial waves and the occasional whale noise filled his silence. Normally, Rosie’s white noise would bother some, but Gale was used to it from years of sharing a dorm.

“Can’t wait to go home,” Gale grumbled, letting the sliding doors of the hotel open for them.

“Me too, this morning Benny texted me saying Freddie stress ate all of his food and was sick all night.” Rosie’s hand went up running a stressed hand down his face.

The two flashed their lanyards to the door guy by the conference center to be let into today’s torturous babbling and team exercises.

“I know, I’m about to tell Maxine to give my ticket to a younger, more eager doctor for next year.” The pair sat at their table readying to meet new people as the conference liked to mix the seating arrangements up daily.

Across the circular plastic fold-out table draped in a dark blue tablecloth, sat a younger set of three doctors. Two women and a man, he sat between the two women and looked the slightest bit uncomfortable. The two gossiping over him like he was just some centerpiece of the conversation.

“Good morning,” Gale cleared his throat, setting his cup of coffee on the table. He knew these kids probably looked at him and Rosie as elderly, Gale peeking over the frames of his glasses at them.

“Morning,” the two girls said at the same time before talking amongst each other again.

“Hi,” the man squeaked out, looking tense as ever. Gale noticed the way he seemed to sit stick straight and as still as a rock.

“I’m Doctor Gale Cleven,” Gale reached his hand across the table for the man to shake. His eyes flicked between Gale’s hand and then up to his ocean blue eyes.

“Uhm, uh, Doctor in training, John Mayfield.” He shook Gale’s hand. Gale observed his stiff handshake and the other's sweaty palms of nervousness.

“My husband’s named John!” Gale's eyes lit up, practically sparkled and turned into hearts if you asked Rosie. Gale's hand instinctively went to his ring finger and began turning the gold band.

"Trust me Doctor Mayfield, you do not want to get this guy started on his other half." Rosie clicked his tongue and shook his head.

Gale dropped his head, his cheeks heating up pink in pure bashfulness.

"Oh, how long have you been married?" The naive young doctor asked.

"Ten years, together for fifteen." Gale smiled, mostly to himself, honestly. He took in a deep breath, pulling the scent of John off the jacket, the familiar piney cologne leaving a residue smell along with the familiar burnt smell John had. Not like a bad kind of burning, more like a campfire kind of burning.

“Wow, that’s impressive,” Mayfield said, his eyes wide with a mix of admiration and curiosity. “You must have a lot of stories.”

“Oh, we do,” Gale said, his voice warm with affection. “John is a firefighter captain, so we have quite the mix of hospital and fire station tales. Keeps life interesting.”

Rosie chuckled, shaking his head. “Interesting is one way to put it. Between the two of them, there’s never a dull moment.”

The young doctor seemed to relax a little, his shoulders loosening as he leaned in, clearly intrigued. “How do you manage it all? The work, the family, everything?”

Gale thought for a moment, his fingers still absentmindedly turning his wedding band. “It’s not always easy. We’ve both had our fair share of challenges, but we’ve learned to support each other through everything. Communication, trust, and a lot of love. That’s the secret.”

Rosie nodded in agreement leaning in a bit further, “And a good, healthy sex life.” he winked causing a small eruption of laughter from the three, but knowing when to take a break, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Like now, chatting before listening to the same presentation as yesterday but by a different doctor.”

As the conference began, Gale’s mind drifted back to his family, the thought of returning home to John and the girls giving him a sense of peace. He glanced at the young doctor beside him, hoping that he too would find the kind of love and support that made even the toughest days bearable.

And as the speakers droned on, Gale’s thoughts were 200 miles away, nestled in the warmth of home, wrapped in the scent of pine and vanilla, and the arms of the man who made every struggle worth it.

taglist: @storysimp @austeenbootler @executethyself35 @coastiewife465 @slowsweetlove reply to be added to the tallest :3

#casper fd au #rosie gets a little sassy #masters of the air #mota #gale cleven #buck cleven #rosie rosenthal #clegan #fluff #fluff drabble #drabble #theo writes #trashbag baby666 fics

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stars-and-leather · 10 months

Text

🥁 🥁 🥁

Fat stacks

🥁 🥁 🥁

Cold cash

🥁 🥁 🥁 🥁

You've always had it real lavish, first-class

🥁 🥁 🥁

Trust fund

🥁 🥁 🥁

Gold tongue

🥁 🥁 🥁 🥁

80 grand in both your hands, but no love

#conan gray #affluenza #karaoke

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untitledbandcomic · 1 year

Text

UBC#2 - Paid in Exposure (to Asbestos)

{ID - six panel comic titled, 'UBC#2 - Paid in Exposure (to Asbestos)', featuring four characters (Laurie, Kaz, J and KC). Full ID under cut. END ID}

we're not talking about the month between these pages. i said low comittment for a reason. anyway if this happens to you IRL you run ok? yea.

Full ID: Six panel comic featuring Laurie Alistair, Kaz, J and KC, all located within a dingy, run-down club (Dreamscape).

J laughs bashfully and says, "So, uh... When I said this was a new venue... heh." Laurie stares back at J, fingers steepled as he processes. "SO. Let me clarify: You spent ALL your funds on a sign." He points both hands at J and closes his eyes, almost looking like he's praying. In the background, Kaz has stepped in something brown and sticky. They cry out, "LAURIEEE I'm gonna DIE here"

Laurie continues: "And you want Kaz to recoup the costs with a show... tomorrow..." He gestures around to the room, finally snapping slightly and looking stunned and slightly terrified. "HERE?!" J tries to respond, "It'll look BRAND NEW by tomorrow, trust me!"

KC enters the club carrying a large cardboard box. He looks oblivious to the conversation, and carries on a long, loud, non-stop monologue as he enters: "Hey J Babe Where D'You Want The Mould Remover They Didn't Have Enough So I Had To Go To Two Different Stores Your Change's In The Thingy In The Car OH. Also I Think That Maybe That Plumber Was A Crook Because The-" KC finally notices the newcomers and cuts himself off to greet them brightly: "Ah! You guys are the performers, right? Hi! I'm KC!"

END ID

Character Descriptions:

Laurie Alistair (he/she/they) is a tall, broad-shouldered white person with long ginger and grey hair in a ponytail. He has green-grey eyes and thick eyebrows. Here, he wears a brown suit with a matching tie, and a single green earring that dangles from his right ear.

Kaz (she/they) is a short, fat black person with a lavender buzzcut. She has teal eyes and vitiligio in patches over her eyes, top lip, each side of her neck and on her underarms. Here, she wears a short sleeved red leather jacket and matching boots. She wears red headphones with antennae on the cups.

J (he/him) is a tall, thin mixed man with ginger hair under a green beanie, and a matching ginger goatee. He has blue eyes. Here, he wears a tight fit navy turtleneck. He also has a silver ball tongue piercing.

KC (he/him) is a short, muscled white person with white blonde hair cut into a fluffy mullet, with two larger spikes that look like cat ears. He has hazel eyes. Here, he wears a red tracksuit with gold accents, black biker shorts, and a blue vest. He also wears a matching red sweatband.

#artists on tumblr #webcomic #original comic #original character #original art #UBC #UBC J #UBC Laurie Alistair #UBC Kaz #UBC KC #update

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bunniescribbles · 6 months

Note

🎻?

oooooh you got a Conan gray song!

Fat stacks, cold cash You've always had it real lavish, first-class Trust fund, gold tongue 80 grand in both your hands, but no love

#Kren!#Also sorry for not answering right away #I was at my grandmas house

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beautifuloldbasement · 1 year

Text

SO HEAR ME OUT-

I was listening to "Affluenza" (by Conan Gray) the other day, and I thought the song really related to Ambrosius. And ofc I have my reasons

-On verse 1, it says "Mama's got a new man. And daddy's got a new mansion to keep. He never really calls back. 'Cause he's got too many finances to reap" And (even though they didn't show any of his past or stuff like that) I feel like his parents would have many mansions or big houses around the whole kingdom, since their socioeconomic status clearly allows them to do so. Being descendents of Gloreth. But also I feel like his parents could be separated, and there is a possibility that his mother met someone else. And then ofc, his dad is the one who's in charge of all the finances and stuff.

-On verse 2, it says "Every day's your birthday. You threw a party, but you kinda hate all your friends. So you're crying in the driveway Killin' time, gettin' high, can't wait 'til it ends" and I feel like in an alternative reality, where he hadn't meet Ballister, or chose to be somehing else that a knight, he would cry in the drive way, and maybe use drvgs in other to help him cope. And I'm pretty sure he would feel the hate towards his "friends" too, cause he feels like most of them only wanna be friends with him because of his fame and money.

-And on (verse 3?? idk what this is) it says "Fat stacks, cold cash. You've always had it real lavish, first-class. Trust fund, gold tongue. 80 grand in both your hands, but no love" It just really makes scence to me that he pretty sure has been through all those things, like, he knows he's been in 1st class and all that, and that with all of the fame and money he has, he still has no love, and that hurts him a lot at times.

Anyways, ik this is kinda long but if you got to the end ,TYSM FOR READING THIS AKSJDKSKS- 😭 ❤️

btw if you haven't listened to "Affluenza" or any other Conan Gray songs, plz do they are AMAZINGGGG

#nimona #conan gray #lyrics #ambrosius goldenloin #nimona movie #thoughts #sad shit #i dont even know #music

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silveraurea · 2 months

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The lion cub

cr: pinterest

Pairings: Lannister!OFC x Ned Stark

AU: Ned Stark unveils the mystery behind Myrren Lannister’s fears, while she succumbs into madness.

TW: age gap; angst; enemies to lovers; death.

════════ ≪ •❁• ≫ ═══════

Chapter 06

A piece of scroll was added into a pile that reached his knees. Eddard frowned, put a hand over his temple, he grew tired and older every time a candle faded. When Catelyn was alive, she would take care of the castle accounts and lift some of his burden. But now, he couldn’t afford to trust a Lannister, even if his health was at stake.

The tingle of the sword still echoed in his mind. Closed his eyes at the horrendous sight. Five days prior, he had beheaded the senior septa by orders of Lady Lannister, to avenge her sense of protection, to give his mind some long desired peace. Yet, he found himself under a veil of guilt. The senior septa, ever loyal to the previous Lady Stark, would have done him a favor, but for how many days could he and his legacy count before dead? The love of his life was sacrificed in name of an advantage he would never bear. And would now never dream of.

Several hurried knocks startled him, causing pain in his head. Jory opened, it was a maid. Her eyes were tinted with red water. “My Lord, I- I fear for my own life, and my lady’s. But ‘tis best I loose my own than she does, the poor thing”, she muttered, somewhat hesitant. “Tis Lady Lannister, m’lord. She’s made all of us swear on our lives we wouldn’t tell you, Ser. She wants to kill the culprit when the attempt is made and thus, m’lord, won’t leave the room. She.. won’t take drink or food saying tis poison, holds the poor dead kitten as her own babe”, she cried. “And she speaks in some weird tongue, in a defiant tone, as if we’d ever hurt her, and ordered the septa’s head to be placed on a spike at her door. M’lord, she doesn’t sleep either. I beg of you, let her cast her sentence, but don’t let her end her own life!”.

“If she wants to end her life, let her”, Lord Eddard casted, paying little attention, aware it might’ve been one of her shows to steal his attention.

“M’lord, forgive me, tis pitiful… such young thing, already as mad as those blonde-haired kings from the meister’s books! Aye, tis what they say, after her hair became white”.

His eyes widened at the bold thought. If proven right, the consequences were unimaginable. “Tis nonsense! On what funds do they say so?”.

“M’lord, one day Lady Arya went to visit Lady Lannister, and understood a few words she muttered. Then we overheard her questioning the meister. Soon there were lines to open the hist’ry books, and we all saw it, m’lord, on them pictures, all the stories with dragons and mad kings. Maester Luwin told us to keep silence, but tis too pitiful her life should end like this, a fate shared with kings and dragons”.

Eddard shared eyes with his esquire, didn’t dare to consider its veracity. Myrren was daughter of Tywin Lannister, there was no doubt: the proud lion would never assume a Targaryen bastard in his sane mind, especially during the rebellion. However, rumors can be more powerful than evidences, and every attempt to explain would only foment them. Not even Tywin’s gold could save them from Robert’s wrath. He was not ready to fight another war. “Spread my word: if these words are ever repeated I shall cut each person’s tongue. Do you hear?!”.

The maid gulped, it was unlike Lord Stark to give such severe orders, he who was so magnanimous. She sniffed, “Yes, m’lord”. All she wanted was to see Lady Lannister being fierce again, t’was quite a show, aye.

Eddard finished writing a scroll, sealed in the wolf sigil. “Jory”. There was certainty in his voice. “Have a raven fly to Castle Black. Master Aemon is to ride at once to Winterfell”. Placed the scroll in his esquire’s hand, one of the few men he fully trusted, the North’s future was at stake.

Locked the door of his office, walked almost with his eyes closed, the path to her chambers was engraved in his heart. He often found himself taking them, hoping behind those doors would be his Cat, her ginger hair, her dry voice. But when Eddard arrived, he would listen to the sound of crackling fire, of needles through silk, of wine pouring, and turn away. His Cat was gone, no woman could bring her back.

Yet, something in the lioness draw his attention, ever since he first saw her golden curls stealing the sunlight as she arrived in Winterfell. Against his will, he often caught himself staring whenever she passed, the wild curls and stomps denouncing her fierceness. Unlike northern ladies, ever so polite, Myrren wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, gold transformed her fears into dust. Yet, since she ran away and fell ill, the golden armor fell, she was more and more vulnerable. Her hair lost color and her life lost happiness; her claws showed and she lost pride.

When Eddard opened the door, he watched the cold light from the solar kiss the pale curls, her face hidden on her knees. An eye appeared behind the rose dagger, and seemed to turn from amber to red, from fire to blood. Then to red again, every time it blinked. Lifted her head towards the solar, muttered to the wind. Saw Eddard, spoke to him the same words, in the same foreign language. He approached her, with caution, rested his cloak on a chair, and her angelic voice became stern, strong, as her eyes turned fierce, of fire, of blood.

Such sight of Lady Lannister, taken by madness, horrified him. She, ever so cunning and unafraid, now haunted by the terror of losing her own life. “Myrren, look at me”, he asked in a sweet, reassuring tone. The lioness’ voice evoked the fire from her eyes. Eddard lowered himself to her, reaching the floor, her hand trembled pointing the dagger towards him. An inch away, the dagger’s sharp end touched his chest. Put his hand above hers. “Give me the dagger”, Eddard whispered on her ear. The lioness let a small hiss as he embraced her. “Come, dear, give me the dagger. There’s no reason to be afraid”, he continued. “I will protect you”.

Eddard’s calm voice soared on her head. Myrren muttered her speech in a delicate whisper, almost in prayer. Then, the fire-blood eyes recognized the silver sea, clearing every stumbling thought. She couldn’t believe she dared to hurt him, he, the Ward of the North she so longed for. Was it true, did she indeed hear such words? Could he protect her from herself? The dagger fell from her hand, powerless, her eyes widened upon the realization her mind and reason had abandoned her.

Eddard embraced her in his strong arms, “Where is my fierce lioness?”, his voice whispered. Guided her to bed, laid beside her and instinctively held the fragile body. An inch away from her face, her eyes seemed to recognize his, while her mouth hurriedly whispered the Valyrian words. Caressed her face, Eddard pitied his wife; if she was indeed half lioness, half dragon, nothing in this world could save her from herself. All he could do was love her. Pressed her head against his neck, hoping she would sleep, hoping she would find peace.

There was blood on the claws made of iron. Blood that dripped once she lifted them towards her mouth. Drowned the claws once more, the sharp end retaining blood, and repeated. Her eyes slowly focused on the open chest, there was an open heart, and above it a head covered in short blonde hair, from its head to its beard. Stern clear eyes faced the ceiling, aiming glory through his cruel deeds. Myrren smiled proudly at the sight, took his heart to herself and crumpled it, squishing the flesh above her mouth.

Her claws suddenly grasped something rough, set in a delicate pattern, could be leather. The fingers reached above, a soft fur, then a large warm hand protecting hers agains the cold. Felt lips on the back of her hand, eyes opened to the sight of a man embracing her: eyes made of silver, hair made of chestnut, scars made of grief. Her heart seemed to know him, but not her mind.

“Myrren, my love. You should eat”.

The lady frowned. Carefully watched him pour broth on a cup. “Come”, he whispered, placing the cup on her lips. Her eyes widened, the memory of a kitten spelling white foam on her hands haunted her again, could it be? Could her life end so easily in the hands of a man? Looked at him, blinked. “Aye, it seems my lady needs a taster. I shall do the honors”. The red eyes followed the cup, touching the man’s lips, and empty. Touched his face, traced his lips with her fingers, looking for a hint of poison, nothing happened. Myrren sighed in relief, and accepted the broth.

A knock on the door startled her. “Hush, darling, I will see it”. She grasped his hands, claws almost scratching his arm, “what if they kill you?”. The man smiled, “Who dares to harm the Lord of Winterfell and his lady?”. Planted a kiss on her forehead, and went to the door.

Myrren watched the door open to an old man bearing a black tunic and white hair. He approached, the red eyes widened, placed the broth on the side table and quickly got away from her bed, hid behind the red curtain. “Who dares to approach me, say your name or you shall burn”. The man stopped. “Fret not, child”, she heard him answer in the same High Valyrian, “you are blood of my blood”. Took his hand, frowned at the resemblance of the pale hair. “To conquer the world, you must conquer your thoughts”.

The old man’s words caused her heart to sink. Suddenly, blood started to drip from the walls, a waterfall that tainted the rocks red. There were screams. A man on a red cloak took out a sword from a woman in orange, and a little girl with pale curls kneeled before him, begging for mercy. Myrren shivered at the sight of a stern man ordering her marriage to the North, a red-haired woman collapsing, the cat crawling back from the dead.

“I never wished to conquer anything. I never wished to be sent here”, she hissed, in High Valyrian, “None of this was my wish!”. Her thoughts returned to her, as she recognized the lion sigil on the walls, “I am not some dragon scum like you, I am a lioness!”. Took the cup and threw in his direction. Eddard quickly placed himself between them, as the porcelain shattered behind. “Myrren, dear, make reason”, he pleaded, grabbing her shoulders. “You dragons are all mad! Mad! Where are your dragons to defeat you now? No wonder you chose to bury yourself beyond the wall! Why are you still alive?! Traitor!! Scum!!”, she screamed, trembling, spitting fire through the amber eyes.

“My lord, this is worse than I imagined”, he said, “I’m afraid there is little we can do. I shall wait for you outside, my lord”, said the old man, rushing towards the door, and closed it.

Eddard held her tightly, as the lioness trembled in his embrance. Her eyes met his, her breath became steady. “Stay here, my love”. She kept his arm, “They might kill you”, her eyes danced around the empty room, wondering how the cascade of blood disappeared. “If they try, I will gift you their heads. Don’t worry”. She nodded. This man seemed to care for her deeply, and her heart sunk in guilt for not knowing who he was. Accepted his kiss, and accompanied him to the door.

Eddard found Master Aemon in his office, distracted by a drawing that showed a woman in red and black on the iron throne. “Master Aemon. I apologize for troubling you”.

The white head turned with a kind smile. “This same question has been asked a long time ago, and often unveiled wars”. He paused, as he turned pages, and stopped at a figure with dragons fighting on air. “Like before, it was always an open secret that no one dared to speak against”.

“I fail to understand. Why would the Lannisters mingle with Targaryen blood?”.

“Perhaps you were busy with another affairs, my lord. My nephew, king Aerys II, was very fond of Joana Lannister. Tywin, aware of the growing suspicion of the king towards him, decided to get his revenge. A strange calculation. Queen Rhaella gave birth to her second child, princess Maerryn, and the lord hand was the father. The princess was pale of hair, and Aerys was enchanted. She soon became his favorite child, at the age of three spoke High Valyrian fluently, and had a strange obsession with lions.

Maester Aemon went on. “Once the king became suspicious of prince Rhaegar, he nominated princess Maerryn as the crown princess, at the age of five. This caused a rift, and prince Rhaegar ran away with your sister, Lyanna Stark. When the siege happened, queen Rhaella fled to Dragonstone with the younger children, crowned Viserys prince of Dragonstone and left princess Maerryn on purpose, hoping the Lannister stain wouldn’t survive. Two nominated heirs to the crown, and a mad king. Some say Robert’s rebellion was a blessing. When Tywin Lannister killed Elia Martell, princess Maerryn begged for mercy, not knowing he was her father”.

Lord Eddard looked down, shaking his head in denial. Yes, he knew king Aerys had crowned princess Maerryn against the heir, but could never imagine she was Tywin’s daughter. He could never imagine she lived on and became the fierce Myrren. “How did you know, then? That princess Maerryn was a bastard?”.

Maester Aemon looked at the falling snow. “Tywin Lannister was never kind to anyone. But, suddenly, he would pull the princess and advise her. He could have been more cautious, but it caressed his pride, seeing the Targaryen princess grow so fond of lions”.

Lord Eddard saw in his hands the memory of her pale curls, the tears of terror he had wiped away. “About her… condition”, he said, not wanting to degrade his lioness, “You said it was worse than you thought. Why?”.

“In his wiseness, Tywin Lannister seemed to have alienated her against Targaryens to protect her true identity. What will she do, once she learns to be the precise thing she despises?”.

Hearing such words, Eddard could easily predict she would end her life. Pressed his eyes, he fought against his feelings for too long, and by pushing Myrren away he had instead subdued her to madness. Shed a tear, could it be too late, to lose his fierce lioness, just when he had begun to love her? “Maester Aemon, I…”, he was at loss for words. He could not afford to grief again, not the little cub. He swore to protect her, for all he had done wrong. “I beg of you. There must be something to stop all of this”.

When Eddard returned to her chambers, he found Myrren walking from one end to another, restless. Upon seeing him, she rushed to his embrace. “Thank the gods you’re safe! Did they hurt you, my lord?”, she wanted to know, unfastening the leather clothes, desperately searching for blood through his scars.

“Myrren, my love, you must trust me one last time”. Eddard guided her to bed. She looked at his hand retrieving a small round glass from his coat, and felt her heart racing again. “You will poison me. Just as I feared!”, she cried. He wiped her tears, held her against him. “I knew it!!”, her scream was muffled by his leather attire, while her body entered in agony.

His hands held her face to him, as she turned into a beast, eyes growing red of rage, mouth muttering in Valyrian. Maester Aemon’s words echoed in his head, “All will be as before”. Forced her mouth open, poured the liquid and pressed it until she finally swallowed. Held the lioness tightly until she found sleep, and placed a kiss on her temple, hoping she would heal.

#the lion cub #my fanfics #asoif fanfic #got fanfic #ned stark fanfic #lannister fanfic

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chefediaboiv · 5 months

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Clappers

Im gonna keep leaking the secret. The traffic of geeks hits speeds of dumb, no I don't want or wanna give you a lollipop but she likes when I speak in tongues. Telling me to shut the fuck on my freedom of speech on who and why on the breach of my plush fund? Oh no come come. I can lead you to who's holding out for some gum drops, eyes red as the devil's dick; bloodshot. Jay won't even tell silent Bob what's in his glove box, pictures of a dogma. No honor with cheap shots from Wisconsin, thank you Ohio. Every card I drew scary, no hate on your Bible. That's a Dilbert, who's line was a diamond dick and your still hurt. Sure wish any cigarette you had came from the cancer team, that's what you get for not figureing out how to play the tambourine. All this child abuse, you knew better then to raise your hand at me. Now your festering about a little spinal tap, learned a time attack. Then get pissed off that I already know how to take my time with tacs, toe tagged the FM radio hobby as the time ticks. Now somebody is using a pencil to cassette rewind it back but I'm sick. Touch that door and you'll see how much more elaborate I convince. It could take years for a nigga to come up with some timeless shit, just tell him to take his time with. That bit of advice is profound, timeless shit. I struck out an entire team for seven innings, remember what I said bout the crazy man's flexes. I wasn't kidding, repeat is a better answer then lemurism. I've never met so many black people that can't keep a riddim. For a frosted flake, Toby McGuire is a great position and drew uncles Bill for the trouble. Oi, it's no mystery to me why they Jake Gyllenhaal'd her bubble boys, image is more important then the pro ferrets Sara Bellum, you told him some shit that you're actually scared to tell him. My mojo loco and your ex husbands a career felon, they update every time I wipe my ass. He say, she say, he's the shit and I can't smell him. There's no amounts to the fucks I give that I won't tell em. It's over boy with your mud donk, any reason my actual opponents don't show to get mud stomp. A Papai I see era in you rushing to Wilson, for a Pat on the back you better belichick the whole million. Your religion must be Christiana Aguilera trust me your coaches know the rent. I'm not gonna waste words on fools, hold your sense. Your too bitch for my blood, trust me I know the stench. Can you keep up I hear a go home baljeet attack in the distance, castration is what we do to the wimp men. You thought Sheldon was smart I make the big bangs lookalike simplins, your name doesn't get points on this SAT little chitterlins. Looking to buff your GPA, you may wanna put in the effort. King's orders for negating the other way, Sepatown Sa da tay! Go that way. Stool pigeons and what they do, on your ride to badder Babe Ruth's who don't mind the bandito's payday. Remember comic view didn't work out for your laced little JJ, is it gold Dupree. Your a little behind the times, spell check doesn't go with loose leaf. Never seen or heard my talents, play that role loosely. There is no max with no Goofy, Billy Blanks keep the wiz on hold til bacalito learns from smarter people. Great see ya Moana about vitamins, there you go cutting into your time again.

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jayhorsestar · 1 year

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re.miss 'dove pic, silver nails 'coach, and golden buckle on a black leather purse, sort of reply to 'mariaisabel pic of the gold ring and diamonds 'coco-chanel, vs the pink leather purse magnetic clasp and buckle logo in gold 'coco-chanel. ystdy, on a thursday. both are heavy pics. and several layers, and 'dove seemed even deeper. and w/ relay to PART 2 of 'Purple Hearts which might never be scheduled because apparently 'galitzine was trying negotiating like a jew, or an irish, and him from UK, not born in the USA (royalties eligible). and 'cameron was trying to say just like acting 'i need to have all sort of hashes onto my globally owned servers GSK Corp. London, playing UK fella w/ money. which 'dove added 'sometimes he just wasn't.. sort of smiling to sex affairs records of youth and past. so in view of JUNTAH jobs and retirement estimated shadow 60 yrs+ according to RO Law, sometimes cloth placed upon moto-bikes tyres keep those warm b4 racing, or cloth placed on horses back, keep them warm b4 races, or cloth placed on-top rocket engine bells to cover up against dusty railroad in Baikonur, Kazakhstan (horizontal travel). or leather gloves worn when driving the GT car, or cloth placed onto USNAVY Virginia class USSN submarines when in dry-dock, or drawn sketches of cruises ship never mentioning the minus 3 and minus 4 decks, where deck zero is water level, the port pier level. so never revealing the five or four shaped propeller, and subs a seven type single shaft propeller. the more blades, the chiller the water, the more dense, the lesser speed, the more torque, thus Miami Cigarettes speed boats, usually three blades props only. that CLOTH could be a Luis Vuitton wine (champagne) bag. the way Luis Vuitton begun its journey. a branded wine bag for a region certified sparkling wine called Champagne. Hollywood Studios could not offer all its actors and writers the warranties of JUNTAH 401(k) jobs, w/ all the papertrail of a Labor chamber and hustle of unemployment aid. several indeed, yet not all. a NATION could not PROTECT art and movies and cinema and fantasies to such a fine degree as ALL artists would had been shadowed at JUNTAH for 60+ years of career, and to the minimum wage at California GDP. and mebbe was partly also a SECRET, in the past, not to reveal the ARMY of STUNT takers. those STUNT makers were definitely seen by JUNTAH just like FEMA and fighting fires in HAITI, or POLAND sending out to GREECE convoy of firefighting squads for forest fires (ie.2019-2020). Emmerich Liptak our old gardener friend of HH Hamburg now in Swiss, was doing such jobs back during late 70s early 80s, filming stunts at Buftea studios, Bucharest north. so becoming a MILLIONAIRE at HOLLYWOOD, should had always been seen as JUNTAH reserved its right to waive any claims over that ACTOR career, and allow so instead of an ESTIMATED shadow 60+ yrs scheme, the 'LET-GO, and fella choice over living his life as a COACH seat on a plane, or a BUSINESS class seat on same plane. from BANK interest paid, and perhaps added several forfeit cash from certain investment into trust funds, or assimilated 'commodities. even gambling and speculating, to a certain point of assuming risks. longer or shorter retirement happy life. that be the GOLD ring C-C of 'mariaisabel agains pink purse of European Union approach, which never seemed to say OK, I LET YOU DECIDE YOUR OWN LIFE. YOU WERE BORN FREE. and that be also 'dove cameron relay, only multi-layered, silver wedding, gold wedding, MTV cosmonaut vs Hollywood Oscar, coach nails vs gold buckle (his word, his tongue). m

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artificialperidot · 4 years

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Trust Fund, Gold Tongue 6/7

A/N: Chapter 6 is finally here! I’m so sorry for the wait, and for leaving you all on such a cliff hanger!! I hope this chapter is worth the wait! We’re so close to the end! The finish line is in sight!!

I also want to share some incredible art for this fic, drawn by one of my favourite artists in the whole fandom @hetteh-spegetteh!! They are so incredibly talented, and got Crystal and Gigi so spot on!! Please show them all the love in the world, they are wonderful!

You can read the new chapter (and find the whole fic) on ao3 here!!!

#my writing #trust fund gold tongue #rupauls drag race #rpdr #rpdr fanfiction #rpdr fanart #crygi #gigi goode #crystal methyd #pretty art #its gay as hell yall #i really hope people havent forgotten about this!

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writethehousedown · 4 years

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Trust Fund, Gold Tongue 3/7 (Crygi) - Peridot

A/N: The support for this fic so far has been amazing, and I’m so so grateful! This chapter has got to be one of my favourites, so I hope you guys like it too! Also I know virtually nothing about tennis and basically all of my information is from google, so please feel free to correct me if I’ve got anything wrong! You can find me @artificialperidot as always, and I hope you enjoy!

Crystal had never dated a girl before. Or a boy for that matter. Even though she was eighteen and going to college in a matter of weeks, she had never found time for relationships, or really had any desire to look for one. She had never been on a real date, never kissed someone, and never had a real loving connection outside of her family and her friends and her dog, Disco.

Being invited to play tennis with Gigi Goode was the closest to a date she had ever gotten.

Which is why she was desperately nervous about it the whole day.

She had ended up spilling the information to Jan on their shift that morning.

“Gigi Goode asked you to what?” she exclaimed, her jaw slack.

Crystal shushed her, anxiously looking around to make sure no one had heard. “Keep your voice down! I think she wants to keep it a secret.”

“Oh, so it’s a secret tennis date. I see how it is,” Jan said with a wink.

Crystal hit her on the shoulder playfully. “No! It’s not a date. I mean, I don’t think it’s a date…”

“But you do like her, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

“And she likes you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know,” Crystal whined.

“I guess you’ll know after today,” Jan said, and Crystal hummed in reply.

“I guess.”

“You have to tell me what happens. I feel like I’m in a gay romance novel listening to this shit,” Jan mused.

The two of them erupted with laughter, their job of wiping down the tables long forgotten. It was at that moment, though, when their floor manager Jackie passed through the dining hall.

“I hope you two are working hard,” she said, eyeing up the pair as they giggled.

“We’re working hard, don’t worry Jackie,” Jan chirped, turning back to her task. “Only a few more tables left to wipe down.”

“Atta girl!” Jackie said with a knowing smirk, giving Jan a pat on the shoulder before walking through to the kitchen.

Crystal watched Jan purse her lips and gulp as her eyes followed Jackie out of the room. When she turned back to Crystal, a light pink blush had spread on her cheeks. Crystal wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“What? What?” Jan inquired defensively, looking just a tad embarrassed, and Crystal burst out laughing again.

***

Three o’ clock came in no time, and before she had fully comprehended what was about to happen, she was pacing around the tennis court, waiting for Gigi to arrive. She was nervous as all hell - the idea that someone as gorgeous as Gigi had even spoken to her was shocking enough, but the fact that she actually wanted to spend time with her? One on one? Even though she was a millionaire and Crystal most certainly was not? It blew her mind.

After a minute or so of nervously pacing, Gigi came bounding around the corner with a bright smile on her face, swinging two tennis rackets in one hand and bouncing a ball in the other. She was dressed in all white, in a classic tennis outfit that looked as though it was straight from Wimbledon - a white polo shirt, and a white skort, and white tennis shoes, and a white visor on her head. Her hair was tied into a ponytail that bounced when she walked, making her seem energetic and youthful. She looked like she was straight out of some rich teen sports magazine, and Crystal suddenly felt very underdressed in her work clothes.

“Hey!” Crystal called out, her voice shaking slightly, partially in anticipatory anxiety and partially in excitement.

“Hi there, hot stuff,” Gigi said, skipping her way to the other side of the net. “Catch!”

Before Crystal had time to register it, a tennis ball was flying towards her, aimed directly at her face. She stumbled to catch it in a panic, tossing it between her limbs a couple times before she got a hold of it in both hands, looking a little bit like a headless chicken. But, she caught it nonetheless, and she was proud of herself.

“You can have first serve,” Gigi continued, handing Crystal a racket and taking a few steps back from the net, anticipating Crystal’s hit.

Instead, Crystal gripped her racket like a caveman holding a club, and when she threw the ball up the air, she swung with all her might-

-and missed the ball entirely.

The sheer force of Crystal’s mis-swing sent her whole body flying, and she staggered to stop herself from falling over her own feet. Gigi shook her head and chuckled.

“God, we really need to go back to basics, huh?” she said, smirking, her eyes squinting a little in the sunlight.

Crystal simpered. “Please!”

With that, Gigi was bounding over to Crystal, clambering over the net. She bent over slightly to pick up Crystal’s abandoned ball, and Crystal’s stomach definitely did not fill with butterflies at the sight.

“Okay, you know what a serve is, right?” Gigi began, her tone light and chipper. Her cheeks had a rosy tint and her glossy lips formed a smile and Crystal couldn’t help but find her energy infectious.

“You just throw the ball and hit it, right?”

Gigi giggled. “It’s a little more complex than that. I’m no expert, but I’ll try my best to show you.”

“Sounds good!”

“Well, first thing’s first, your stance is all wrong.” Gigi dropped to her knees and started moving Crystal’s feet into the position she wanted, shuffling her shoes across the ground. “This foot should be pointing towards the net post,” she muttered, “and this one should be parallel to the baseline. There!”

Crystal chuckled as Gigi popped back up from the ground. “Where’d you learn all this stuff?”

Gigi scoffed a little, but her face adorned a wide grin. “I was enrolled in tennis lessons since I could walk,” she laughed. “As well as golf, badminton, water polo, and horse riding.”

Crystal gasped. “Horse riding?! You have a horse?!”

“His name is Banjo,” Gigi beamed. “I’ll take you on a ride someday,” she added with a wink.

And Crystal’s heart did a somersault.

“Anyways, the next step is to fix your grip,” she said, taking Crystal’s right arm in her hands. She carefully manoeuvred Crystal’s fingers across the handle of the racket, bending them into the shape that she wanted. Crystal couldn’t take her eyes off of the way her hand moved so intricately, precisely, and the gentle touch of her skin against Gigi’s sent sparks through her veins.

It was such a tiny, insignificant action, and yet Crystal could still feel the tingle of her skin where Gigi’s hands had been, stroking her fingers.

“Perfect,” Gigi said softly, and suddenly Crystal was aware of how close together they were. Gigi’s icy blue eyes glittered in the sunlight, and she beamed at Crystal. Whether it was out of excitement for her sport or because of Crystal, though, was something that was more difficult to tell.

“Now what?” Crystal mumbled.

“Now, you throw up the ball, and hit it when it’s high in the air. I’ll show you,” she said, moving away slightly to give herself some room. Crystal watched as she assumed the position, bouncing her ball on the ground a few times to warm up.

“Now the key to this is timing your swing,” she said, before bending her knees and expertly tossing the tennis ball in the air, bouncing up and thwacking it over the net with a resounding thud as if it was nothing.

Crystal was in awe, in more ways than one.

“Your turn!” Gigi said, as if serving an ace was as simple as she made it look.

Gigi tossed her a spare ball from her pocket and Crystal caught it with less of a struggle this time. She steadied her position and bent her knees as Gigi had done, tossing the ball and springing into the air.

And again, she missed entirely.

Gigi laughed, and whilst she was a little embarrassed, Crystal found herself laughing too. Something about Gigi made her feel welcome. Warm. It almost made her forget about how this girl was a millionaire who probably had more money than she’d earn in her whole life.

Almost, but not quite.

“Here, let me help you,” Gigi suggested, skipping back over to Crystal and whipping yet another tennis ball from her pocket and handing her it.

And then Gigi was holding her: one arm was wrapped around her waist and the other gripped her elbow, and the front of her body was flush to Crystal’s back, and Crystal was having heart palpitations. She wanted nothing more than to lean back into her touch, but being held by her already felt like she was in a fever dream, and her breath hitched in her throat. She could feel Gigi guiding her arm, and her hand on her waist, and her breath by her ear, and her heart raced at a million miles an hour.

“Okay, you need to throw up the ball, and then we’ll hit it together, got it?” she explained. Her voice was soft and hushed against her neck, and the moment felt tender. Crystal simply nodded.

“You ready?”

Crystal was not ready. In fact, Crystal had never been less ready. Not when the girl of her dreams had her arm around her waist, and her mouth was so, so close to her neck, and their bodies were pressed so closely together. Not to mention the fact that said girl of her dreams was the extremely wealthy daughter of the owner of the country club where she worked, and seemed to be throwing out hints that she was into Crystal just as much as Crystal was into her.

No, she absolutely was not ready. Not in the slightest. But she hummed in confirmation regardless.

And then she launched the ball in the air, and with Gigi guiding her arm, her racket actually connected with the ball, sending it soaring over the net to the other side of the court.

Crystal knew that it was almost entirely Gigi’s doing, but she felt proud nevertheless.

“Amazing!” exclaimed Gigi, pulling away and clapping her hands together in excitement, before embracing Crystal in a hug, throwing her arms around her neck. Crystal was a little taken aback, but she found herself sliding her arms around Gigi’s waist, squeezing her tightly as the two of them started giggling.

She didn’t really want them to pull apart, but if the hug had been any longer, Crystal was positive that she would’ve short-circuited.

“I knew you could do it,” Gigi said, and Crystal could tell that she meant it.

Crystal mimed tossing her hair over her shoulder. “What can I say, I have an excellent teacher,” she giggled.

Gigi beamed, and Crystal smiled back, and for just for a moment their smiles were all that mattered in the world.

***

Tennis became a regular thing for them.

They found themselves meeting each weekday afternoon on Crystal’s break, Gigi having snuck away from whatever family commitment she had and the two of them constantly on the lookout for anyone who could potentially spot them. But there were so many tennis courts scattered around the country club premises that they were rarely joined by any unwanted guests.

By day four, Crystal had managed a successful serve all by herself, even if she had hit the ball into the net at least a hundred times before that. Gigi called it progress.

At a week, they had played their first proper game. Crystal didn’t know the rules. Gigi let her win anyway.

After a few more games (in which Crystal was very outmatched in terms of skill level), their daily meet-ups became less about tennis, and more about each other. It wasn’t long before they had abandoned sport altogether, simply meeting on the tennis courts for a chat and a well needed break from Crystal’s busy work and Gigi’s hectic family life.

It became a system, and it worked well for the both of them.

And Crystal found herself falling for Gigi more and more every day.

Through their chats, they had gotten to know each other a lot better. Crystal told Gigi about her plans for art college and her favourite indie rock singers and the time she failed her driving test because she thought there was a bug in the car and she panicked. Gigi told Crystal about her love of fashion and her family drama and all of the insane rich-kid house parties she had been to.

She also told Crystal that sometimes she wished she was born into a different family, and could be normal. Crystal had disagreed pretty strongly on that last one, but she didn’t let it show.

And, though neither of them had said it outright, Crystal had worked out through their subtle hints and less-subtle discussions, that they were both gay. It was reassuring for Crystal to know that she wasn’t completely delusional, thinking that someone like Gigi Goode could possibly have an interest in her. After all, Gigi had been seemingly dropping hints left right and centre, and it would have been concerning if she hadn’t picked up on at least a few of them by now.

One time, Crystal brought ice cream.

Gigi was already sat cross-legged on the ground waiting for Crystal, mindlessly scrolling through her phone, when she arrived. Crystal plonked down beside her, two tubs of ice cream and two spoons in either hand.

“Strawberry or vanilla?”

Gigi jumped a little in surprise, but her face broke out in child-like glee at the sight of the ice cream. “Strawberry,” she said, without hesitation.

“That works out well, because vanilla’s my favourite,” Crystal replied, handing Gigi a tub and a silver spoon (that she had ‘borrowed’ from the dining hall) and popping open the lid of her own tub.

“Vanilla is your favourite flavour? Really?”

“Hey! It’s nice!”

“Boring,” Gigi droned, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “I’m so not a vanilla person.”

Crystal couldn’t help but pick up on the double meaning of that, and Gigi winked to drive the point home.

“I can take your ice cream back, ya know,” Crystal warned, but the threat was empty, Gigi having already started to tuck in.

“Fuck, this is so good,” she moaned, throwing her head back in bliss. “Where’d you get this?”

“We got some new orders of ice-cream in this morning, and the chef needed to make some room in the freezer.”

Gigi nodded. “Gotcha,” she responded, her spoon practically hanging out of her mouth.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they both snacked, every once in a while passing a comment about their day or the heat or how good the ice cream was. Crystal found herself totally at ease, as if she hadn’t had a hard day at work and she was just hanging out with a friend. Because that’s what Gigi was. A friend.

(Except the two of them both knew that they were a little more than friends, but neither ever decided to bring it up.)

Regardless of any of that, Crystal found that seeing Gigi made her automatically happy. It was as though a switch flipped in her brain at just the sight of her, and the most crappy day could turn into one that wasn’t so bad after all. Sure Gigi had lots of things going for her - she was gorgeous and rich and confident - but she also possessed the natural ability to make Crystal feel better in no time at all.

But today, Gigi herself didn’t seem to be so at ease.

“I have something I need to tell you,” Gigi piped up.

“What is it?”

Crystal noticed Gigi’s sharp intake of breath before she spoke. “So you know my mom’s boyfriend, James, right?”

“Yeah. Kinda.”

“Well, uh, he has this nephew. Matthew.”

With that, Crystal felt her heart plummet. Who the fuck was Matthew? She found herself automatically assuming her worst fears, jumping to conclusions straight away - that Gigi was clearly straight and had never liked her and that she was delusional for even thinking that in the first place - but then, Gigi continued.

“He’s spending a couple weeks here at the country club with my family. And my parents are trying to push us to date, and I really don’t want to, Crystal, I want you to know that.” Her eyes were wide and sincere, and she spoke fast, as though she was desperate for Crystal to believe her. And Crystal did believe her, and she felt her stomach twist with emotion.

“I’ve already told my parents that I’m not going to date him,” she went on, “but just in case they make me spend time with him - I want you to know that I’m not interested in him. At all.”

Crystal shot her a sympathetic smile, her eyes tracing Gigi’s features that were full of concern. “It’s okay,” she said calmly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Gigi caught her breath a little bit and seemed to relax, but there was still something bubbling underneath the surface, something behind her pale blue eyes that Crystal couldn’t quite put a finger on.

“I’m only interested in you, Crystal,” she said, her voice soft, barely a whisper. She ghosted her fingertips over Crystal’s hand, and Crystal felt electricity pulsing through her whole body. She clung onto Gigi’s hand, their fingers interlocking, and right now the rest of the world didn’t matter because they were together.

Their eyes met, and Gigi smiled. “I like you,” she murmured, her blue eyes tracing Crystal’s features and making her heart flutter. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, but Crystal couldn’t help the sudden sharp feeling in her chest, as if her heart was trying to escape from between her ribs. The shock made Crystal feel like her entire world was falling apart, but simultaneously she saw everything falling perfectly into place, like a twist in her fairytale, a new chapter in her story with Gigi.

“I like you too.”

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