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amoristt · 3 years

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Grazing the Fire | IV

well hello. here i am, four years later, once again enamored with nathan enough to finally dust this baby off and pick up where i left it. im a little rusty so bear with me this chapter! much more to come <3

reblogs + tags and replies will make my entire day as i put a lot of effort into this :)! it also helps motivate me!

story continues beneath the read more. let me know if you can’t access it!

Warning: language, very vague s/a mentions

want to support me? heres my kofi!

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“Alright class, who can tell me,” A board stick clacks against the chalkboard. “Who can answer problem four?”

A few hands raise in the corners of your eye, but yours remains atop your desk. Eyes far away, mind in a murky haze and almost completely unaware. All you could focus on were the memories playing on repeat within the confines of your tired, tired brain. Hours ago, you were warm, you were comfortable. Safe.

Cheeks heated to a dusting blush when you remind yourself just how you had awoken that morning. At some point in the night, an angel had blessed you. Allowed you to wake up wrapped around none other than big, bad, Nathan Prescott. Your face nuzzled into his chest, broad but wiry hands pressed firmly over your shoulder and his arm slung over your waist to keep you against him. Thankfully you had been the first to wake up, blinking away the morning sun blazing through his blinds and painting the room stripes of gold. At that moment, before your headache came crashing down onto your skull, you were astounded by him.

Eye lashes brushing the top of his cheeks, his lips parted ever so slightly, chest rising and falling rhythmically. In that moment, there was no anger, no bitterness. Just a soft and peaceful slumber. It was like being the sole viewer of a magnificent painting- each stroke and detail placed just there just for you to pick out, to remember the curves and sharp edges down to the very foundation. From his unkempt hair down to the way his hand flattened onto the mattress where your indent still lived. Nathan was so beautiful like this.

For a long time you stayed there. It was as though you were afraid to move- you couldn’t bear to disturb him. You had wondered, if he was always like this, so at peace, what would he be like? Likely soft voiced, mild mannered. He’d do his school assignments without hassle and donate to the charity board. He would wander the town with his friends and listen to music in a beat up truck flying down the stretch of highway overlooking the bold, blue, and beautiful ocean. An entirely different version of himself- carefree, and a fair blue as opposed to a burning flame of red.

But, if that were the case, you’d never have gotten here. You’d never been both the outsider, and the only seeing eye. A lucky, albeit firstly unwilling witness to the display of depth before you.

It never hit you like it had quite in that moment how lucky you were.

But- just then- an alarm disturbed what serendipity existed. You nearly leapt out of your skin, clutched your hands to your chest at the sudden sound. A headache wove its way into your once untouched temples. Nathan groaned, mumbled, ‘god damn it’, under his breath, and thus his body was reanimated into life. He rubbed his eyes and he stretched, that familiar scowl coming over his eyes and lips as he took in the sunlight damn near blinding him. A polar opposite to the being you’d appreciated just moments earlier.

“Ugh, fuck, how the fuck is it seven already.” He groaned. “I feel like shit.”

“Well good morning to you too,” You started, welcoming Nathan into the world. “‘I’m feeling pretty shitty as well.”

You said that, but really… You were more than alright. Your head had hurt, slight nausea crept into the wells of your stomach, but other than that you’re sure you were phenomenally better than you’d have been waking up whereverTate would have left your ass.

“You need to get outta here, before everyone gets up.” Nathan drawled, but he didn’t sound as urgent as you expected him to be. You’d expected him to be angry that you were still in his room, but instead he just… accepted it.

You snickered, climbing out of his throne of a bed. “Wow, you’re giving me the morning after treatment?”

“Sure am. Get outta here, whore.”

“Oh fuck you.”

You located your heels from last night, resting upright near his dorm room door. Heels didn’t sound like the most practical to sneak out of a dorm with, so you instead opted to grappling them by the straps and carrying them at your side. Hair a mess, outfit riddled with wrinkles and makeup smudged under your eyes, you stood before Nathan in all your glory. He stared at you for a long, odd moment- and you for some reason felt exposed, or even, shy.

“What?” You ask expectantly, placing a hand on your hip.

His eyes trail to your line of vision. He shakes his head. “Just thinking about how now you really do look like my morning after.”

“Yeah?” You hummed. “Find it hard to believe you get a lot of those.”

Nathan shoots you a suggestive glance. “You’d be surprised. Everyone wants a piece of Prescott.”

Surely, he was joking, or maybe he wasn’t, but you… Didn’t like hearing that. It made your stomach feel odd, uncomfortably heavy. As he stood up, reminding you how many inches he had over your size, you swallowed and cleared your throat to flush out that crappy feeling. “Well,” you started, mood having dropped. “I’m gonna go, then.”

“What got your panties in a twist all the sudden?” He asked, raising a brow and pulling some clothes from his closet, tossing them onto the bed.

The bed you two had shared.

You hated the idea of his morning afters- whoever they may be.

“Not feeling great. Probably a side effect of the roofies.” You mumbled.

Nathan breathed a laugh. “Probably.”

He seemed so calm, right now. Perhaps due to it being so early, before the outside world had a chance to remind him just why he was so uptight all the tight. Before he needed to be so uptight all the time. He really did have so many versions of himself- all of whom you were slowly becoming familiar with. Compared to the person you’d believed him to be before your run ins, you’d never have assumed someone so dangerous could be so soft as last night, as this morning. In the beginning, you’d feared him. Avoided him like a plague, or a wild animal. Even when you were enraptured in the existence of him, you still wanted to keep away. You’d never have believed someone like you could wake up clutched to his chest, as though he were afraid if he released you, you’d be gone long before he woke.

Then, a sudden thought struck your mind.

He’d held you so tight. He’d welcomed you in the morning. No anger, no annoyance. His soft laugh at your banter and taunts. How your heels were standing upright instead of tossed haphazardly into some random corner, where he’d watch your struggle to find.

How he’d stayed awake to ensure your sleep.

“So are you just gonna stand there?” Nathan called you back to reality, hands gripping the hems of his shirt. “I gotta get ready and you need to wash up so you don’t look like a five dollar stripper.” Cruel words, but with absolutely no bite. You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah. But, hey,” You started. “Thank you for last night.”

“Yeah, yeah. You gotta start learning to watch your own back.” He says. “There’s gonna be times I won’t be there to drag your ass out of the fire.”

If you’d been charged, if you’d been stricken with a strange defensiveness, you’d have retorted, ‘than stop helping me’, but… Instead you allowed yourself the comfort of protection. You allowed Nathan Prescott to watch you.

“I know,” You reached for the door. “Thank you.”

With that, you bounded out of the dorm silent as a mouse.

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In hindsight, you should have left earlier. Class was merely 15 minutes away when you slipped out of Nathan's room and bounded towards the women's dorm. Albeit not exactly a long walk, by the time you discreetly snuck back into your own dorm, you had roughly twenty minutes to somehow pick an outfit from your countless unopened boxes and make yourself even slightly presentable.

Wiping off whatever make-up you could get and reapplying it, brushing out the tangles of your hair and nearly tearing off your scalp in the process, scattering your nightclothes over your floor and managing to scrounge out a semi-decent outfit for the day… You still looked a mess. If the mirror could laugh, it would have. Black mascara smudges under your eyes and frizzy untreated hair. What a lovely look.

You’d made it to class just five minutes late, but those five minutes were all it took for all eyes to be on you as you tried to slide into the classroom unnoticed. A couple classmates whispered to their table mates as you passed by, smelling of oversaturated cherry blossom perfume to hopefully cover the scent of alcohol. You sauntered to your seat and sank down with all your weight, suddenly exhausted. You’d made it with just five minutes tainting your record of attendance. The teacher greeted you with a disappointed sigh, and thus, the day began.

But, it was so hard to focus. All you could think about was Nathan.

“Alright class, who can tell me,” A board stick clacks against the chalkboard. “Who can answer problem four?”

You lowered your head.

“Ah, how about, ___?”

You snaked back into reality, blinking up at the chalk board that was somehow already riddled with math equations. Since you hadn’t been paying attention even in the slightest, your mouth gaped wide open, eyes scanning for something you understood even slightly so you didn’t look like a total idiot.

Sadly, you were out of luck. The teacher shook his head. “I’m shocked,” He said. “You're normally so on top of things. Oh well.”

“Oh, I’m sure she was on top of things,” A female voice sniggered behind you “Last night.”

Your face flushed a red, hot, ruby. What the hell was she talking about? How had they found out you were with Nathan? You were so sure of being sneaky, there was no way-

“Her and Tate totally got it on last night.”

You whipped around in your seat, facing girls who looked to be clones of some sort. Both with the same dark eyes, short brown hair, and freckles. “What?”

“Alright-” Your teacher blurted. “That's enough. April, May, enough. Let’s not discuss things outside of the classroom.”

The two girls batted their eyes. “Sorry sir.” One spoke, twirling a hand through her hair. Her sister's wide toothy grin never fumbled.

“Back to it then. Kate, can you help out __ with number four?”

The small, blonde girl nodded quickly, brushing a lock of hair behind her eyes and offering an empathic nod.

As you turned around in your seat, her answer fell on deaf ears. Your heart was racing in your chest, hands balled into fists while you stared ahead blankly.

They couldn’t seriously think that you chose to leave with Tate, could they? Surely someone must have seen the state you were in. Someone other than Nathan.

The clock ticks forward but time feels like it's passing almost unnaturally slow. With just 10 minutes left, you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

‘Nathan: consider ur favor officially returned

Your tongue poked from your lips, the tiniest of smiles taking over your once sullen features. Terrible thoughts and worries flew out the window while you type back, ‘damn. here i was gonna to ask you to do a backflip off the roof with me. there goes my plans.’

Nathan types for a moment. Typing, stopping, typing again.

‘Nathan: soundz like a blast. where and when?’

A small blush heats your cheeks. ‘very funny. thanks to last night i have an entire 24 hour session of studying to catch up with.’

His response is almost instant. ‘Nathan: boringgg. txt me when ur fun.’

Rolling your eyes, you shove your phone back into your pocket. It seems you’ve been able to secure enough of a friendship with him for some mindless banter even outside your little visits. You smile. He’s… Fun to talk to. Surprisingly.

Class comes to an end and you start to pack up the books and papers you’d hardly even glanced at the whole period. Whatever had been upsetting you before is lost in your mind while you think of the morning, the night before. All the things in-between. But, your happiness doesn’t last long. As you get up, you’re almost forced right back into your seat as a weight shoves into your shoulder. Your books scatter to the floor. April, the one who’d remarked about you earlier, glares at you in what looks to be disgust.

“Careful April,” Her sister hums as she saunters past you, keeping distance and raising her already shrill tone of voice. “Might wanna watch where you’re walking- I’d hate for you to catch something from this slut.”

You absolutely gawk at her. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

April scoffs. “Oh come on, like everyone doesn’t know what you were up to last night.”

“Sleeping around isn’t a good color on you.” May hikes her bag over her shoulder and snickers at you. They both leave the class together, sickeningly in sync. You’re left stunned where you stand, unsure how the hell your life came to this so quickly. How you’ve stooped so low that the daughters of the world's most uncreative parents are able to bully you based on something that didn’t even happen.

Next class goes no better. The person to your right, a jockey looking brunette guy, asks, ‘have you ever heard of a Tate?’. You say no, that that’s the dumbest name you’ve ever heard. The idiot grins and goes back to marking down likely wrong answers on his test sheet and you debate kicking the leg of his chair out- but you don’t to avoid even more eyes on you. It makes you sick to your stomach- even more than recovering from the roofies does. How can everyone believe it? You barely even knew the guy and you were clearly uncomfortable with his advances. No one saw that?

After everything you’d worked for to build a reputation, trying so hard to not call out peoples shit for the sake of seeming friendly, tainted over something that didn’t even happen? And the kicker was that it hadn’t even been your fault! He’d drugged you, he’d have taken advantage of you! Yet you were the bad person?

Class came and went in the blink of an eye this time. Your mind wrapped up in the situation, your stomach churning. You wanted the day to be over with but you still had 4 more classes to suffer through. Why was this happening to you? Was Tate being treated just as horribly, or was he getting pats on the backs of his unaware friends?

Wandering down the halls to your locker, you noticed Lance and Kaz hanging around one of the drinking fountains. Your nerves quelled- your friends would surely make you feel much better. Especially since they had witnessed how awful you were feeling as you left. You approach with a relieved smile, ready to say your truth and finally have someone on your side.

“Hey guys.” You smile, but Lance looks down at his feet while Kaz places her hands to his hips. Your smile fades.

“You could have told us you were gonna spend the night with Tate,” Kaz snaps. “You didn’t need to lie like that just to leave. We were all worried about you and it was for nothing.”

“What?” You feel like you could cry. “No, Kaz, I really did try to leave. Tate tried to drug me and take me home, and-”

“He wouldn’t do that.” Lance interrupts, with a frown. He looks back down at the floor with knitted brows. “I’ve known Tate since before time. He wouldn't do something like that, especially not to one of my best friends. Plus he told me he was really into you. Why would he even try?”

“Are you serious?” You sputter. “You think I’d lie about something like that?”

“You’ve been lying about all sorts of things!” Kaz huffs. “What’s going on with you lately? You’ve been so distant, and secretive. What are you hiding that’s making you lie like this? We’re supposed to be your friends and then you lie to our faces just to go and fuck the first guy that shows you attention.”

“What…?” It was like acid. It was like the rug had been pulled from your feet sending you spiraling down the unending cliff. Kaz, your best friend, all that venom. How could they turn against you like this? What the hell is going on? You felt your throat tighten. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been distant, but I’m not lying to you, I-”

“We gotta go.” Lance isn’t in the mood to hear it. “We’ll catch up to you.. Some other time.”

Kaz says nothing as she pushes past you. Lance, at least, spares a short glance over his shoulder. You stood there alone in the hallway, your bag falling off your shoulder and clattering onto the floor with a thud echoing off the walls. Everything you had, all gone at once.

No one believed you.

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With nowhere to go where you felt like you could truly allow yourself to process the day's events, you went to the only place you knew.

Just outside of campus, where rocks lined the edge of the boundary, overlooking the outskirts of the town and the ocean stretching as far as the eye could see. You settled yourself there, staring at the vast waters and wondering how this had all happened. Unlucky didn’t even begin to cover how it felt. Not only did you feel violated with Tate attempting to do unthinkable things with your unconscious body, but you also felt alone, and walked on. Your best friends hadn’t believed you. While Lance seemed saddened, Kaz was so… Angry. Her words cut like knives into your skin.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve this.

You want to talk to Nathan, but knowing him, he’d see your state and bounce instantly. After all, this isn’t exactly very fun of you.

As the sun began to fall, splaying orange and blues over the wide open sky, behind you, you could hear voices. A group of them, some male, some female. Memories of when your notebook had gotten snatched by those two horsed face assholes came flooding back and with all your alertness, you stood up, and decided that this sitting place was no longer safe. Nothing was.

Before you even made it ten feet away, the group had found their way to your spot and gotten comfortable, one of the girls cheering, ‘this’ll be our hangout! look at how pretty the view is!’

You took a short drive down the stretches of road and decided that if you were going to lament in your own sadness, you were at least going to do so in a place that had something to cover the sound of your tears. Plus a nice view.

The beach, littered with its picnic tables and the sounds of crashing waves would suffice just fine. So, you pulled in the desolate parking lot and wandered down the sandy shores until you stumbled upon a picnic table shaded by a large willow cascading lushious branches to block out the sun- a perfect canopy for you to wallow under.

You had nothing at that moment. No friends, no reputation, no one to believe your tragic tale. And now, you’d just lost the one spot that made you feel comfortable when stress was building into your body like concrete. Tears pricked into the corners of your eyes and you bit your lip, dreading that feeling of a lump in your throat. Why you? Everything had been going so well. How could not even a single person believe that Tate had tried to hurt you?

Well, actually, there was one person.

Of course Nathan believed you. He’d been the one to rescue you, after all. Time and time again it seemed. How was it that even the ones closest to you would turn their back so fast, yet Nathan seemed to be there even when you didn’t want him to be? Even when you yelled at him, and he yelled right back, fire and sparks falling into embers around the two of you.

In that moment, you almost felt like you could finally relate to him. A reputation based on lies and things out of your control, paired with a hardheaded attitude to try and combat all the assumptions.

No wonder he was so angry.

“Hey bitch,” A voice suddenly called, and you had a split second moment where you were terrified of once again being the victim of a cruel prank or some classmates boredom. “How about next time you have a pity party you don’t fucking call me in the middle of it.”

You blinked away your tears and through the blurriness saw a figure coming towards you. All that sass, the tone...

“Nathan?” You breathed. It only takes moments before he’s in front of you, holding his phone in view, seeing that the call that had been running for nearly ten minute. You flush in embarrassment, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “How did that happen?”

“Well, can your ass dial numbers?” He taunts, ending the call.

“Damn it, dumb phone must have butt-dialed you. I knew I should’ve gotten a different one.” You mentally kick yourself. “It must have unlocked in my pocket.”

“You don’t have a password on your phone?” He taunts. When you shake your head, he whistles. “You are just begging for a robbery. I’ll keep that in mind when I’m in the mood to send random messages to all your buddies.”

“Fuck off.” You scowl, and he grins, hopping up on the picnic table next to you. The sun flatters his skin. He’s almost glowing.

“Speaking of buddies, how the hell did it pick my number out of your sea of friends?”

You shrug. “Probably cuz’ it’s a priority contact.”

“Oh lala, I’ve been upgraded to priority huh? Does it display a superman logo whenever you give it a ring?”

“Nope. When I press call it rings the nearest asshole in my vicinity. The fact that it’s you is your own problem.”

“Haha, fucking ha.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He stares out at the water, watching waves pull and crash onto the beach. It’s almost beautiful, until he ruins it. “Yknow, you’re a really ugly crier.”

“Wow, thanks.” You shake your head. “That's exactly what I needed to hear right now. Why did you even stay on the line?.” Wiping your eyes, you start to forget your tears. “Couldn’t have been that wild of a conversation.”

Nathan shrugs. “Between the crying and the sound of the waves it was pretty nice.” He grins. “Very educational.”

“Awesome. Glad I was able to make your day.” It doesn’t feel like your usual bitey remarks. You’re tired, you’re still a little hurt and you can’t stop thinking about how such an amazing morning had turned into such a horrible day.

“So what’s got you all fucked up? Never seen you act like this big of a baby before.”

“Nothing. You already paid off your debt to me per this morning, so feel free to resume our regularly scheduled mutual hatred.” You say, lying through your teeth. You know you’re both past the point of hatred, but you’re feeling jaded, you can’t help it.

“Oh shut the fuck up,” He groans. “I didn’t drag my ass all the fucking way out to this shit hole of a beach just for you to give me that bullshit. What, did you fail a test? No one matched you on tinder?”

“Everyone thinks me and Tate slept together last night.” You blurt. “I think he’s telling people me and him had sex.”

Nathan tenses his shoulders and grimaces. “Fucking werido.”

“I told my best friends that he tried to take advantage of me and they don’t believe me. One of em’ even said he wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Fuck em’. Who needs best friends.”

“And to make everything so much better, these two bitches that I share four of my classes with harassed me all goddamn day. I mean, fucks sake, how the hell are girls named April and May of all things able to get to me. It’s bullshit. And to make matters worse, Tate is just… Getting away with it.”

“Yeah well, something tells me that Tate’s gonna get a real nice fucking taste of medicine eventually. I just gotta find him first. He’s got a lot of nerve spreading shit around given I knocked his ass onto the pavement.” Nathan brows knit at the memory.

You test the waters. “Why would you do that for me?”

He seems caught off guard, or maybe, surprised that you’d ask. Maybe he thinks you’re both beyond that point. He grumbles, “Why does it matter.”

“I’m just curious. We don’t owe each other anything, remember?”

“Yeah, well,” He huffs. “Don’t ask me questions to shit I don’t know the answer to.”

“You say that an awful lot.” You tease.

“Yeah well you ask dumbass questions an awful lot. Not everything I do has to have some weird ass motives behind it, ___. Maybe I’ve got beef with Tate that’s outside of you.”

“Uhuh. Sure.” You’re about to say something else, when your phone lights up with a text. The display makes your heart fall all over again.

Unknown Number: you should just pack up and go somewhere else. no one wants std’s from breathing your air xoxo

You don’t even know who that is. Now absolute strangers are on your case. You want to throw your phone into the ocean and leave.

Nathan scoffs. “Don’t even bat a fucking eye for that bitch, whoever the hell they are. Half the hoes you’ve mentioned have slept with half the football team,” he pinches his jacket, “and I would know.”

“Ew, Nathan,” You grimace, that same feeling from the morning returning. It feels, oddly, like jealousy. He nudges your arm with his elbow and grins playfully. It’s cute.

“Chill, I’m just fucking with you. You gotta know even I wouldn’t fuck girls that desperate. I’m a man of class.”

That last comment actually forces a laugh from you. It’s soft, but it’s real. The first laugh you’ve genuinely had all day. “That’s horrible.” You remark, giggling again.

It's almost like the slight restoration of your mood puts him at ease as well. He leans back on his hands and stares off into the ocean, those sparkling waters under the setting, orange sun. “I’m for real though. Those hoes aren’t worth your time. One day when we blow this shithole of a town they’re not even gonna matter.”

Your brows knit, eyes blinking up at him. Had you heard that right?

“We?” You ask, perplexed, albeit a little… Hopeful.

Nathan sputters. “Well- Like, when everyone’s older and-”

“You know what, it's fine.” You interrupt. “Fuck it. You’re right. We’re gonna blow this town and they’re just gonna be some shitty memories.”

He sucks in a shaky breath. You’ve never heard him scramble like that, like he’s been unmasked. The look he casts you when you agree, when you don’t tease or patronize and finally hop on the idea that yeah, what if the two of you really didn’t have to deal with it anymore.

What if the two of you could just exist, without the anger.

You look up at him. “Would you actually do that though?” You start. “With me, of all people?”

He swallows. His expression is tense, but he’s not upset. He appears nervous, caught off guard. Nathan tries, “I-”

Your phone rings. Shrill, piercing. Mood destroying.

“Jesus Christ, it’s my mom.” You grab your phone and Nathan looks forward, stone faced and silent as you hop off the table and answer. It’s your mother, who all but shouts into the phone that her and your father are taking a surprising visit to Arcadia Bay while they’re traveling by on their vacation. She insists that you be ready in about an hour for dinner, and likely there will be family photos.

Which means if you still look as wrecked as you did this morning, you’re gonna have a lot of washing up to do. With a quick goodbye, a short and sweet, ‘love you’, you hang up and sigh.

“You still tell your mom you love her?” He teases. “What are you, five?”

You frown. “You don’t tell your parents you love them?”

Nathan side eyes you, and just shrugs. It is all the answer you need, really, and for his sake you decide it wouldn’t be best to press the issue. Not now. But- it still makes your heart hurt just a little. You wished that he’d had it better growing up.

“Right… Do you want a ride home?”

“Fuck no, what am I,” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “a fucking girl scout?”

“I was just offering, weirdo.” When he doesn't get up, you feel like you’re missing out. Like if you stayed, maybe, just maybe, you’d get to know him a little better. “Hey, if you want, I can stay for a bit longer.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re needed elsewhere. But,” he shrugs. “I don’t know. Fuckin’... Text me or something. Or not, I don’t care either way.”

There’s a small warmth in your chest that rises to your cheeks. He wants you to text him. “Yeah,” You say. “If I’m feeling fun.”

And with that, you bid him farewell, beginning your descent to the parking lot.

“Hey,” He calls, and you turn just in time to catch a small item he’s tossed right at you. A tiny key resides in the palm of your hand. “Spare. If shit hits the fan again-...” He shrugs, and actually looks away. “Just don’t be too fucking loud of I’ll kick your ass out myself. No Madison needed.”

The widest grin plays over your lips. “I’m gonna re-decorate your room while you’re gone.”

“Ah, you fucking better not.” He shouts. “Actually- you know what, give it back.”

“No, no! I’m sorry.” You play with the key between your fingers. “Thanks for this.”

“Yeah, whatever. Don’t lose it and remember- emergencies only. I don’t need you watching me sleep like fucking freak. We’re past that stage.”

“How many times will I have to say I was never watching you. Christ… But, alright. See ya, then.” The key is heavy in your palm.

You place it into your pocket and give him one last glance before you take off, leaving him to enjoy the sound of waves, birds, and the absence of your tears.

#nathan prescott #nathan prescott x reader #life is strange #grazing the fire #scenario #fanfic #fluff

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yellowsuitcase · 4 years

Text

In the Prefect’s Bathroom Part 4 // Draco Malfoy

A/N: Guys!!! It's the FINAL part, yay!! I'm super proud of this and I think it's super cute and just AAHH I really hope y'all like it. Lemme know what you think of it and if you expected any of it. Thank you so much for reading, and Happy Thanksgiving (if you celebrate it)

Summary: Draco has been trying to get Y/N to talk to him since he confessed, but he hasn't had any luck. Until, he finds something she left in his dorm.

Warning(s): SMUT! Unprotected sex, lots of fluff, swearing, angst

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist & Taglist

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Three weeks had gone by, and now Draco was on his bed, toying with the idea of giving up. Y/N had been avoiding him ever since that day he confessed. No matter how hard he tried to get her to warm back up to him, she kept her distance. He had tried everything. He'd sit next to her in class; she'd move seats. He'd wait outside the Gryffindor tower; she'd strut right past him. It seemed as nothing was working, so of course, he was getting a bit discouraged.

Just a couple days ago, the two of them had been in Charms class, and on his way out, Draco noticed that Y/N had dropped her book. This is my chance, he thought to himself. He quickly bent down to pick it up since he assumed she would've been already halfway down the corridor by the time he got back up. But when he arose from the floor, she was standing right in front of him. His heart pounded in his chest. Draco knew he had to stall for time, try and get her defenses to weaken. He turned the book over in his hands. "The Tales of Beedle and Bard," he read aloud. Y/N blushed and averted her eyes. He opened the cover and read the first few lines to himself.

There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours. Rather than reveal the true source of his power, he pretended that his potions, charms and antidotes sprang ready-made from the little cauldron he called his lucky cooking pot.

Draco shut the book and said, "I've actually never read them. My father didn't permit me to. Said it was written by a muggle lover. Supposedly he filed an official request to remove it from Hogwarts's shelves." Draco chuckled as he ran his finger along the spine of the light blue book. But his laughter died when he glanced up at Y/N. She looked rather upset, causing Draco to panic and quickly backtrack. "That isn't to say I don't want to read them now. I mean, I'm sure they're not as bad as Father thought they were," he sputtered. Y/N remained silent. "Perhaps... we could read them together, maybe?" he asked hopefully. He knew it was a shot in the dark, but he did it anyway. Draco hadn't heard Y/N's voice in weeks, and it was making him grow desperate.

Softly, she reached out her hand, and Draco held his breath. But then her fingers grasped the book, and the Slytherin felt his heart shatter. He cleared his throat, trying to push away the lump that had formed in it. His grip loosened, and Y/N pulled her book towards her chest. She didn't even look at him before she turned around and rushed down the hallway, leaving Draco feeling stranded, hopeless, and, quite frankly, stupid for even trying.

Since then, he hadn't put in nearly as much effort into rekindling their friendship. It was painfully obvious Y/N wanted nothing more to do with him, and as much as it hurt, Draco had to accept that. But that didn't stop his thoughts. It couldn't. Every night, he would lay awake, worrying. Worrying about Y/N's wellbeing. Was she happy? Did she make any new friends?

Did she still feel alone?

Draco didn't know. From the little he'd seen of her, he assumed she was alright. He hoped she was. But he had no real way of knowing. He had tried reaching out to her roommate multiple times, but all Stephanie would tell him was that she thought Y/N seemed fine, just a bit quiet. That answer never sat well with him. During those few weeks, before he confessed, he had learned so much about Y/N. One of those things being that she was not quiet. She had talked his ear off many times, telling him funny stories from her childhood. Like how, after one of their study sessions, she told him about the time she had made her pet fish turn yellow just by looking at it. Draco remembered that day clearly.

"My mum was terrified! One moment my fish was blue and the next he was yellow! I mean, imagine that." Y/N laughed. Draco shook his head in disbelief. "Sounds like you were quite the little mischief-maker," he replied as he twirled his wand between his fingers, it was becoming a bit of a habit. Y/N continued giggling, kicking her legs as she did so. "You should've seen the look on my dad's face when he got home. That was the day he sat her and me down and told us he was a wizard. My poor mum. She had no idea."

Draco sat up in shock. "Wait, wait, you're a half-blood?" he asked, eyes wide. Y/N cocked an eyebrow. "Is that a problem, Malfoy?" she questioned as she began to sit up. Her tone was somewhat threatening. Draco raised his hands to show his lack of ill intention. "No, no. I was just surprised," he quickly explained. Y/N chuckled and waved her hand towards him. "Relax, I'm only playing with you," she assured him. Her words piqued Draco's interest. He wiggled his eyebrows and licked his lips, staring suggestively into her eyes. "Well, I'd sure like to play with you," he husked. Y/N gasped loudly and swiftly removed the pillow from behind her back and chucked it at the blonde boy sitting across from her. "Draco!" she screeched. "Joking!" he mumbled. "Just joking...unless."

Y/N crossed her arms, and obnoxiously shook her head while clicking her tongue disapprovingly. Draco snickered before throwing the pillow back at her, making her giggle. His heart skipped a beat as he watched her eyes twinkle. She looked unreal to Draco, ethereal almost. However, he was torn from his trance by her continuing the story. "Anyways, as I was saying, my lovely mum had the shock of her life. I was surprised as well. I mean, I had just found out I was a bloody witch. Although I was much more delighted than she was. Come to think of it, she might've cried," Y/N said with a small frown. "Wow..." Draco muttered. "But what does she think of it now? What with you being at Hogwarts and all."

Y/N hummed to herself, recalling that last time she and her mother spoke about Hogwarts. "Well, I think she thinks it's a bit surreal, you know? She always imagined I'd graduate and go off to university to become a doctor or something, but here I am at a school for wizards and witches," she said while gesturing to the castle walls around her. Draco nodded although he was a bit confused. "She just doesn't understand, right?" he asked. Y/N pursed her lips. "I think she will, with time. Maybe I can introduce her to you and your family. Now that would be really fun," she suggested with a mischievous glint in her eye. Draco furrowed his eyebrows. "And why is that?" he questioned, staring at the giggling girl. "Just imagine me introducing you. I'd say, hey mum, this is my best friend and his wizard parents who dress like they're going to a funeral every single day. Oh, and they also own a mansion in the countryside because they're rolling in galleons!" Y/N bellowed, nearly falling over as she clutched her stomach, erupting in laughter.

Draco would've berated her for the slander towards his parents, but his mind was fixated on three words, "My best friend." He waited until Y/N ceased laughing before asking her, "I'm your best friend?" She looked at him as if he had grown a second head. "Well, duh, you're my only friend, Draco." The Slytherin did his best to hide his blush as he looked to the floor. "You're mine too," he mumbled. But Y/N didn't hear.

Draco sighed as he sat on his bed. He missed her. He wished so badly that she'd walk through his door. But she wouldn't, and he knew that. Slowly, he pushed himself off the green covered mattress and walked over to his wooden desk. A piece of parchment was already on top of it, so he took a seat, and he reached for his ink bottle and quill. His nimble fingers unscrewed the cap, and he dipped the point inside it, drenching it in black liquid. He'd written letters to Y/N many times, but every time he finished one, he'd get scared and chuck it into the bin. Draco knew he'd probably do the same tonight, but he wanted to try. So he pressed his quill to the paper and began.

"Dear Y/N, I hope you are doing well. I'm writing to you to give you my apologies. I should've known better than to confess my feelings for you at such a time. I really hope..." he stilled his hand, not knowing what to say next. His head was reeling as different thoughts and feelings flooded his brain, none of which he knew how to convey in words. She made him so dizzy. But, ever persistent, Draco started again.

"Dear Y/N, Are you doing well? I truly hope that you are. I write to you to tell you that I'm sorry for everything. I said and did so many foolish things that day, and if I could take all of them back, I swear, I would. I know I must've frightened you that day, but Y/N, I fear you don't know how much I miss you. I've never felt this empty before. But I know it's because you're not here. I need you..." Draco, in his frustrated haze, crossed out the last line and crumbled the parchment in his fist. He then tossed it across the room, watching as it hit the wall next to his door, and bounced on the foot of his brass coat rack. He stared at it, thinking about donning his coat and taking a walk around campus. But then, he noticed something underneath. He jumped to his feet and rushed over to the rack. Curious, he lifted his black coat off the hook to reveal a brown cardigan underneath. His chest tightened; it was Y/N's. She must've left it in his room after one of their study sessions. Come to think of it, it was probably from the night before Draco confessed.

Hesitantly, the boy reached out and touched his fingers to the cardigan. It was soft. He lifted it up and held it in his hands, letting his emotions settle. Then, he brought it to his nose, breathing in deeply. It still smelled of her: apples, hazelnut, and cinnamon. Draco felt tears begin to gather in his eyes, but he hastily blinked them away. With care, he hung the cardigan back up and retreated to his desk. He got seated, pulled out a new sheet of parchment, and began writing for the third time that night.

------------

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to you to inform you that I've discovered your cardigan in my room. The brown one that is. I suppose you left it after our last study session. I can return it to you tomorrow morning at breakfast, or if you'd prefer, you can fetch it tonight. The current password to the Slytherin common room is Jobberknoll. Hopefully, you remember where my bedroom is, but should you have forgotten, it's at the very top of the stairway on your left. Please knock three times before entering.

There's no need to send an owl with your reply. Just make sure to come before 9:30. If you don't, I'll assume you wish to receive the cardigan at breakfast, in which case, I shall wait for you by the door.

Draco

Y/N clutched the parchment tightly in her hands. She had been scared half to death when an owl landed right beside her while she was sitting by the open windows. But now, she was more afraid of getting her cardigan back. She glanced around her room frantically, as if she'd find an answer to her dilemma upon the walls. Her eyes then drifted back to the parchment in her hands. She looked at where Draco had signed his name. Above it was a dark scribble as if he had scratched something out. What did he write there? It was probably just 'sincerely,' but what if it was something else. What if it was 'with love'? Y/N wondered. She closed her eyes; she needed to calm down. There was no way she'd be able to make a rational decision with such thoughts running through her brain.

But Y/N had nobody to consult, nobody to refer to. Ever since she'd pushed Draco away that day, she'd been alone. Her roommate spoke to her on occasion, but only about school-related things. Almost the entirety of her house had shunned her. And the whole school knew what she did, so making friends had proven to be difficult. But because of this, Y/N had been able to do a lot of thinking. Truthfully, she missed Draco. She hated herself for rejecting him that day. She hated herself because she liked him. The only reason she had rejected him was that she knew she wasn't ready for another relationship. And on top of that, she didn't think she deserved one. Draco wasn't someone she deserved, not in her mind.

But here she was, being forced to make a decision. Should she just wait until tomorrow, or should she go to his room? Her brain was telling her to wait until tomorrow; that way, she could take the cardigan, thank him, and be on her merry way. But her heart screamed at her to go to him. Go to him, confess to him, bring him back into her life. Y/N glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine. "Fuck," she muttered before pushing off the window seat; her loneliness had gotten the best of her.

She rushed towards her closet and flung the doors open. Her eyes scanned the array of clothing for a few moments before she pulled out her favorite pair of light grey sweatpants along with her pale green crewneck. She threw them on and tucked her wand into her pocket. Then she checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was already pulled back, and she had light mascara on. It was good enough, in her opinion, so she slipped on her shoes and turned her doorknob with a shaky hand.

--------

Draco was sitting in his armchair with a blue book in his hands when he heard three distinct knocks at his door. His breathing began to hasten; surely, it couldn't be... Only one way to find out. "Come in!" he called. The door swung open to reveal Y/N. She looked nervous as all hell but nevertheless, stepped inside his room and closed the door behind her. Neither of them said anything. They simply stared at one another. But luckily, Draco came to his senses. "Right, your cardigan," he said as he dropped his book and stood up. He grabbed the cardigan off the back of his chair and walked over to her, holding out the garment. "Here you are." Y/N took it into her hands and examined it. "Thank you, I thought it was lost forever," she told him with a smile. Draco faltered for a moment. He'd forgotten how sweet her voice was. But then he nodded, and the awkward silence returned. It hung in the air for a few moments before it was broken by the two of them simultaneously blurting out, "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, Y/N," Draco insisted while shifting his eyes to the floor. "I acted like a fool that day a-and I frightened you, and I made you so overwhelmed. I should've known better, and I am so sorry...I've missed you so much," he said, whispering his last few words. Eventually, he found the courage to look up, and when he did, he saw that Y/N was crying. His heart clenched, and he felt regret pool in his gut. But before he could apologize again, Y/N spoke up.

"I've missed you too, Draco. And I'm not sorry I rejected you that day, I'm sorry that I kicked you out of my life. I thought I was protecting myself because I just knew I would've gone back on my decision if I had let you stay. I liked you too, I still do, but I just wasn't ready. You're too good to be true. I don't deserve a second chance; I don't deserve you. But you didn't deserve to be shut out, and I really hope you can forgive—"

Y/N was cut off by Draco smashing his lips against hers. He held her face in his hands as she gasped, allowing him to sneak his tongue out and run it along her lower lip. She moaned into his mouth as he started to nibble. His hands traveled downwards until they settled on her hips. He pulled her closer and groaned when his hips touched hers. God, how he had missed this. Then, Y/N reached up and ran her hands through his hair, successfully messing it up. Draco knew he wanted more but pulled away from her lips. She breathed heavily and looked into his eyes, puzzled as to why he stopped.

"You're mine...right?" Draco asked anxiously. Y/N smiled and pulled him close for another soft kiss. "I'm yours," she whispered. Draco kissed her again, and she eagerly returned it. Hesitantly, Draco sneaked his hand underneath her shirt, merely letting it sit there against her hot skin as he slipped his tongue into her mouth again. Then, he began to slide his hand up her torso, all while paying attention to her reactions. She seemed to be kissing him harder as he gently ran his thumb along the underside of her breast. He took that as a sign he was doing good, so he placed his hand on top of it and squeezed. Y/N let out a loud moan and pulled away from the kiss. "Draco, please," she whined. He snickered as he studied her pleading face. "What do you need, princess?" he asked in a sultry voice. Y/N squirmed and continued to whine. Draco clicked his tongue. "Always so scared to tell me what you want. There's no need to be embarrassed. I'll give you whatever you want. I just need you to tell me," he reminded her gently. She bit her lip and stared at the floor before finally answering.

"I wanna have sex with you," she whispered. Her face was crimson. Draco felt his heart squeeze; she was too cute. He put his hand underneath her chin and tilted it upwards. A gentle kiss was planted on her lips. "I wanna have sex with you too, darling," he murmured. Y/N couldn't hide her smile as she swiftly took his hand and led him to the bed. Draco smirked and, with sneaky hands, pushed her onto the bed, making her squeal. "Draco!" she yelled with her back now pressed against the mattress. The Slytherin wasted no time; he jumped on top of her while mimicking a roar, causing Y/N to burst into laughter. Her laugh was music to his ears.

Draco tugged her shirt up and off her body, throwing it to the floor. His hands immediately traveled to her back where he unclasped her bra, throwing that away too. Draco felt his dick twitch in his pants upon seeing her nipples harden in the cold air. He leaned down and latched his lips onto one of them while twisting the other between his fingers. Y/N's gasp sent a shiver down his spine, and he sucked her even harder.

"Draco..." she moaned. Draco let go of her tits and sat up, admiring her flushed face. Then Y/N suddenly sat up and grasped the bottom of his shirt and proceeded to yank it off him. Draco only watched as she did this. Her hands then traveled to his pants. She unzipped him and pushed his waistband down, exposing his briefs. He helped her out by maneuvering himself off his knees so that he could kick his pants off.

Once the pants joined the rest of the clothes, Y/N reached for the top of his underwear. But before she could go any further, Draco stopped her. She looked at him, confused as to why he wouldn't want her to touch him. "Tonight is about you, darling. Lie back for me now," Draco instructed. Y/N's face turned red, but she did as she was told and lowered her body onto the bed. Draco's hands grasped her pants, and he slowly pulled them down, stopping to press kisses to her thighs as he went. They were both in only their underwear now, and he could see Y/N was getting impatient. "Speak princess, what do you want?" Draco asked. Y/N pressed her thighs together and rolled her hips a bit before she spoke. "Finger me, please," she begged. Draco smiled at her and immediately pressed his fingers to her pussy, still covered by her panties.

"So polite," he purred as he gently rubbed her clit through her underwear. She closed her eyes and hummed in pleasure. "That feel good, princess?" Draco asked. Y/N nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but a long moan quickly replaced the words on her tongue as Draco applied more pressure to her nub. He continued to swirl his finger around it for a couple minutes, then he slid a different finger past her panties and slowly pushed it inside, feeling her thighs clench as he did so. "So tight," he mumbled before leaning down and giving her a sweet kiss. The intrusion of another finger caused her to gasp into his mouth. Draco groaned and pressed down on her clit, making her hips jump.

"Did you miss this? Did you miss my fingers inside you and my kisses on your body?" he questioned as he thrusted into her. Y/N clenched her walls around his digits and nodded eagerly. "So much. So fucking much," she mewled. Draco added another finger and increased his pace. He noticed Y/N's breathing beginning to get quicker, and he knew she was close. So he finger-fucked her hole for a minute more before withdrawing his hand. Y/N cried out in frustration and glared at him angrily. "Why did you do that?" she whined.

But then, without warning, Draco lifted up her shirt and pressed his lips to her soft stomach, blowing a raspberry onto it. Y/N instantly screamed and wiggled violently underneath him. "STOP, STOP!" she shrieked, trying to get away as her giggles became uncontrollable. Eventually, Draco took mercy on her and ceased his torment. He leaned up to see Y/N was out of breath, and her hair was a mess. "Quit playing games and put your dick inside me, you twat," she ordered. Draco's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "If you say so," he muttered, taking his cock out of his underwear. Y/N's eyes widened, but before she could say or do anything, Draco slid all the way inside her, burying his dick in her pussy. "Ohhh, fuck," she moaned. Draco grunted as he adjusted to the tightness of her hole. He had the instinct to begin slamming into her, but he controlled his urges and allowed her body to adapt to him as he positioned his hands next to her head.

Y/N's walls clenched around him, and she bucked her hips. "Move, please," she pleaded softly. "As you wish," Draco said as he slowly pulled himself out and thrusted back in, setting a slow but consistent pace. Y/N let out quiet mewls as he moved in and out. Her legs found their way to his waist, and they quickly wrapped around it. This pulled him closer and forced his dick deeper inside her. "Fuck," Draco moaned as he leaned down for a kiss while continuing to thrust. Y/N hummed into his mouth and flicked her tongue against his. "Shit, you feel so good," she purred. Draco's cock twitched at her words, and he increased his pace. A harsh grunt escaped him as Y/N reached up and dug her nails into his back. "You're so gorgeous, Y/N," he breathed. "So goddamn gorgeous."

Suddenly, Draco's sensual thrusts were halted by Y/N calling his name. "Yes, darling?" he replied. "You can be rough, I don't mind," she told him gently. Draco smiled down at her and pressed quick kisses along her jaw. "I know, but I can do that another night. Right now," he angled his head so that his lips were by her ear, "I'm making love to you," he whispered, feeling her shudder beneath him.

Y/N's eyes grew soft, and she moved her hands to his face. "You're perfect," she mumbled before pulling his lips to hers, where they shared a passionate kiss. "So perfect." Draco started to thrust again, resuming his slower pace. The force of his cock rocked the couple back and forth on the plush pillows. But then, he had an idea.

He moved his hands from their spot beside Y/N's head, slid them underneath her back, and lifted her up. "Shit," she cursed as she was now on Draco's lap, his dick still buried deep inside her. Slowly, Draco raised her off him and turned her around so that her back was facing him. He then repositioned her hips above his cock and gently lowered her onto it. "Ohhh," she moaned as she once again became full. She was about to lift herself up and fuck herself on his dick, but Draco's hands stopped her. He pushed her legs wide and placed his hand over her pussy. This didn't please Y/N. She started to squirm and buck her hips forward, causing Draco to groan as she stimulated his cock. "Stay still, princess. I'll take care of you," he assured her. His fingers pressed against her heat and slowly spread the upper lips, exposing her clit. With his other hand, he touched his fingers to her nub and slowly began to circle it. Y/N's head fell back onto his shoulder, and a long, deep groan escaped her throat.

"Oh my god," she whimpered as her breathing became ragged. Draco's hands never stopped or stuttered, not even when Y/N's walls squeezed him tight. He just kept rubbing and rubbing; her soft pants sounded like heaven to him. Suddenly, Y/N's thighs began to tense. "Draco, fuck, I'm close," she muttered. Draco turned his head and once again hovered his lips next to her ear. "Cum on me. Cum with me buried inside you," he ordered. Y/N gasped and rolled her head on his shoulder. He could tell she was almost there. "Oh, god. Fuck, fuck, fuck, just a little more," she begged.

Draco kept circling her clit until finally, she inhaled sharply, and her walls clenched him hard. His finger didn't stop; it continued to rub her throughout her high. It only ceased when Draco felt her body jolt from overstimulation. He then pushed her forward onto her hands and knees and began pounding into her, chasing his own climax. The sounds of skin slapping combined with the tightness of Y/N's pussy lit a fire in Draco's abdomen, and soon, he was pushed over the edge. "Cumming," he warned her before he released inside Y/N with a deep groan. The couple remained in that position for a good minute, breathing heavily. Then Draco pulled himself out and laughed as Y/N immediately collapsed face-first onto his bed. He gently flipped her over and kissed her cheek. "You alright, darling?" he asked. She smiled and turned to him. Then, without thinking, she blurted, "I think I love you." Immediately, Y/N slapped her hand over her mouth. But Draco only grinned and said, "I love you too, Y/N."

She lowered her hand and averted her eyes as blush filled her cheeks. "Draco, are we..." she trailed off, looking apprehensive. "Boyfriend and girlfriend?" he asked. Y/N nodded. "I'd love to be your boyfriend, darling," he said sweetly. In less than a second, Draco was attacked by a forceful hug from Y/N. He wrapped his arms around her still naked body and held her close, breathing in her scent: apples, hazelnut, and cinnamon.

"Thank you for not giving up on me," she said softly. "I don't know what I would've done with myself if you had just stopped caring one day," Y/N confessed. Draco gently pulled away from the hug and cradled his girlfriend's face in his hands. "I never would've stopped caring. Y/N you were all I thought about," he assured her. He watched as her tears began to fall from her eyes. "Don't cry, sweetheart, I'm here now; I've got you. There's no need to cry," he said sweetly, trying to comfort her. But Y/N kept on crying, so he dragged a blanket over his lap and pulled her on top of it. "Look at me, darling," he instructed lightly. She rubbed her tears away with her arm and looked into Draco's eyes.

"I love you. I love you so much. Do not waste your tears on the mistakes of the past. All that matters is that I've got you, and you've got me. Alright?" Y/N continued to wipe her tears and nodded. "Alright. I love you too," she replied.

Draco pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, slid her off his lap, and stood up from the bed. He grabbed some tissues and cleaned himself off before doing the same for Y/N. Then he pulled on his underwear and tossed Y/N hers. As she was getting dressed, Draco strode over to his armchair. In the seat of it sat a small blue book. He picked it up and took it with him as he went back to bed. Y/N was already under the covers; she looked at him quizzically when she noticed the object in his hand. Her mouth opened to speak, but Draco quickly shushed her. He slid under the covers and cozied up next to Y/N. Then, he cracked open the book, cleared his throat, and began to read.

"There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously and wisely for the benefit of his neighbours. Rather than reveal the true source of his power, he pretended that his potions, charms and antidotes sprang ready-made from the little cauldron he called his lucky cooking pot."

The End

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a-stitch-in-time-and-space · 3 years

Text

some (not new) ideas I’m throwing at the wall vis-a-vis gender and star trek (esp in ds9)

Note: We’re eeeeever so slowly moving into times in which “transgender” - as useful a phrase as it is - isn’t the catch-all it’s been for the past 15 or so years, mainly with an understanding that gender is an infinite, fascinating playground that is affected by culture and time. I’m partially using transgender/trans here, and partially terms like nb, genderqueer, femme, and masc as well as “gender transgressive” which is useful to describe, well... transgressive gender.

However I wish I could jump into the future to see what terminology exists then...

I do think there’s something interesting in certain transphobic media, esp the kind that deals with crossdressing-for-laughs (vs drag, which is ofc community-based), because even though it’s usually done mockingly by cisgender heterosexual guys, it reveals how undeniably queer certain ideas are, even if that queering is done in a punch-down sort of way

surprise, this is about Profit and Lace, specifically in how it introduces the idea of transgressive gender in Quark and in Rom, accidentally building off Pel’s story in Rules of Acquisition.

surface story is yeah: Quark makes an ugly woman, with a dose of misogynistic haha women and their hormones amirite (and that opening *shudders*), but what is fascinating is how easily Quark is able to access what we’d today call gender affirming surgery in a future where you can be altered to look like all kinds of different species.

all this handwringing about regret and “staying in your gender” (which isn’t how it woooorks for a lot of us) and not allowing consent over our own bodies and the patronizing, ahistorical, unscientific, slew of unwanted commentary from everyone and their mums, it’s just... not there. they know Quark is going to reverse the surgery the second the jig is up and Julian still just does it, because sure, got a moment to spare.

you wanna have boobs? yeah, go on. you wanna have boobs and still be considered a man? uh-huh, that’s cool - wow, Rom makes a wonderful “woman,” don’t you think? (and Leeta’s.. kind of in support of that!)

I’ve argued a fair few times that Rom is trans/nb/femme/genderqueer by Ferengi standards (that is, gender is measured by business-sense/lobes and is its own kind of binary -- also on that note... their mother is trans/nb/genderqueer by that measurement too). It’s a really fascinating overlap between financial class and gender as a caste system (which affects both Ishka and Rom in different ways), which also exists on earth irl today, even though that intersectionality doesn’t get discussed enough outside of queer circles.

I think Quark fits that standard as well, but he’s fighting it a lot harder than Rom is. The central tension of Quark’s series long arc is his attempts to be A Good Ferengi Male and failing over and over and when he occasionally succeeds, how he doesn’t often feel good about that. He blames a lot of this on the Federation, but by all accounts it was in him to begin with, although he used to be able to cover it up more easily.

Quark desperately wants to get it right, but a lot of the time he’s clearly masking. Sometimes he really enjoys it though, it’s not like with Rom where he has no sense for business, so much as it takes effort.

meanwhile Pel (whom I HC as masc) doesn’t have access to the kinds of surgeries that are so easy to get in the Federation, which puts her in danger - much like not having access puts us in danger today. I'm sort of torn on the headcanon that she either gets her lobes enlarged via the same surgical procedure (which, again, is so no big deal in the future) or because she’s in the gamma quadrant, she’s able to reimagine gender without having to change herself physically - which many trans/nb/genderqueer or otherwise gendered/non-gendered people also don’t want to do.

I also think it’s interesting that Quark-as-a-woman who is dressed in clothes (gasp) is fetishized, because she’s oh so transgressive -- exactly what happens to us today and one reason why so many trans people end up in sex work (of any kind - here’s me adding: get that money however you can and want to, siblings, much love and support).

I bet there are underground sexual “deviancy” shops that sell fake lobes to imagine your female is actually the man of the house, or even lobe-enhancement that some females take to “pass” although they were actually designed for helping out your small-lobed son “perform business better”

(all of my talk of lobes: here’s the reminder that lobes in Ferengi culture are sexual characteristics)

bottom line, the tension between cisgender (heterosexual) people trying desperately to maintain a binary system of understanding gender and how they play in genderqueer sandpits is always interesting for me to watch.

on the one hand they’ll argue there are innate social behaviours that exist in women (and they exist across species) - the way Quark has to learn to walk for example, or even - interestingly - that when Ishka starts dressing, her style is very different from men’s dress (maybe inspired by an older version of Ferengi culture where females weren’t so oppressed? - Ishka as transfemme? She could notice that she and Rom have the same likes and she buys him - gasp buys with her own money!! - a lovely dress and one of those massive lobe-earring/necklace things (lobe-lace?), so they match) - and innate social behaviours that exist in men

on the other hand they will unknowingly present a future in which the distinctions between woman and man are so immaterial that you can access any kind of physical surgery you want - in the Federation that is, and differently defined throughout different species on different planets. I always liked the idea that the further away from the “paradise” of earth you get, the more diverse the gender distinctions become but in a lot of these places they also practise rigid systems, like on Ferenginar. I can imagine some majority-human planet worshipping the old ways of the 20th century and enforcing that colonialist gender binary, urgh, can you imagine....

You wonder what things like “assigned gender and sex at birth” might mean in a future where there’s no social capital involved in assigning those kinds of things, if anything.

And so, Profit and Lace is -- still not a good episode. I remember one of the DS9 writers talking about how unexpectedly well it’s aged and it absolutely has not. It’s misogynistic and transphobic, but I think also very important in the canon of Star Trek’s accidental gender-exploration (Star Trek’s accidental gender-exploration sounds like the title of an article....)

sometimes you find the best gold nuggets in the trash.

and on that note: time to spin the wheel and headcanon that O’Brien was (using today’s terminology) assigned female at birth and decided he liked the sound of being a boy when he was thirteen (his parents like: “for your birthday we got you gender reassignment! and you can always change your mind.”)

also I wrote it above, but Rom and Ishka wearing matching outfits and it being equally shocking is *chefs kiss* (esp with Rom as Nagus)

#quark #rom #ishka #pel #ferengi #profit and lace #rules of acquisition #ds9 #st: ds9 #star trek #ds9 meta #my writing #be prepared for Rambles

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kiribaku-queen · 3 years

Note

Could we please have an insecure!reader x Bokuto! (Also Todoroki x reader but separately if that’s okay?) where she starts to slowly starts to compare herself to all the fangirls and the girls that confess to them? So she slowly starts to distance herself, then meets up with then to break up. But when she says she wants to break up the boys are like “do you not love me anymore, what happened” then she basically goes on a spiel about how much better he would be with one the fangirls and just straight up says she looks like the trash but of course she still loves him. So then the boys reassure her that she’s the only one he wants and that she is perfect and blah blah blah and it’s just a nice happy ending basically :)

It’s Always Been You

Pairing: Bokuto x reader

Angst, Fluff

Word count: 3.1K

A/N: I’M BACK! I’m starting to get back into the groove of things while juggling my work but hopefully, I’ll be able to start that new series soon! Let me tell yall, when I finished plotting out and detailing everything I want to happen in this series, it was 11 pages long.... like what?

Anyway, I love love loved this prompt. It actually made me feel sad inside. I hope it wasn’t too rushed. Also, I just wanted to do Bokuto since I have a lot on my plate, writing wise so i hope that is okay! Thank you to whoever sent this in and I hope you are satisfied with this! Happy reading! (if you want to know more about my next series, DM me! I really want to talk about it LOL)

“Kotarou-kun!” you bellowed your boyfriend’s name from the stands. You would always go to Bokuto’s volleyball practice whenever you could. You had your own club activities so you couldn’t always be there to cheer him on. But when you would, Bokuto would be jumping with joy, trying new moves just to impress you. You were already impressed with the achievements he made this past year, one being the top 5 spikers in all of Japan. But he somehow still thinks that there’s more wow factor in him for you. When Bokuto hears his name fall from your lips, he automatically whips his head and gives you the widest smile.

“(y/n)!” he sings your name, waving both hands in the air. Bokuto was so distracted by you that he didn’t see that ball coming straight for him. Luckily, it missed him but just a hair. But now his team was upset that they just lost a point thanks to him. Thank god this was just practice and not an actual game. You’d never live that one down. You could see Bokuto rubbing the back of his head, embarrassed, as his team continued to scold him to pay attention.

Spike after spike after spike after spike, you were amazing at how many times Bokuto could spike the ball down without getting tired. If that was you, you would surely break both your ankles. You leaned on the railing, admiring how hardworking and how much effort he put in his sport. You’ve never met anyone more dedicated than the man who was dominating the court by just standing there.

“This one’s for…” Bokuto starts as he jumps in the air with exceptional form. You smile fondly because you know what’s about to happen. “(Y/N)!!!” he dedicates his spike to you, yelling with his whole chest and smacks the ball on the other side of the court. With the widest smile and a big thumbs up, Bokuto faces you after his great feat. His teammates clearly embarrassed with his antics. It’s practice, for crying out loud. But Bokuto didn’t care what anyone else thought. He was going to shower you with love and affection to show everyone just who captured his heart.

You giggle to yourself. You loved this side of Bokuto. In the beginning of your relationship, you admit that it was embarrassing. He was just so extra with his affection that you didn’t know how to take it. But day by day, you learned to accept and love all the things he does for you. His smile, his laugh, his iconic ‘hey, hey, hey’ line, and even when he dedicates certain moves to you. But you weren’t the only one to admired him. No, his fangirls were also in love with that. Speaking of fangirls…

When practice was over, you made your way down the bleachers and over to your boyfriend, but when the team came into sight, Bokuto was already surrounded by a herd of fangirls.

“Bokuto-san, you were super cool today!”

“Can you show me how to play?”

“Are you thirsty? Here, I bought you some water!”

“Do you need a towel?”

“Can we feel your muscles?”

Bokuto looked uncomfortable, to say the least. You stayed behind the crowd of girls, giving him some space with his fans. He sees you immediately and gives you an apologetic look. You shake your head, insinuating that it was okay. Because it honestly was. You can’t be mad at him for having adoring fans. It was natural if he was going to play professionally. And this is nothing if he was to really play on a pro volleyball team. So you could take it. Bokuto continues to interact with the girls while to watch them, waiting until he’s ready to leave.

You could see him trying to make his way through the crowd to get to you, but surprisingly, his fans were pretty strong. They refused to let him leave, no matter how many times he said he had to go. But again, you were willing to be patient.

“Look, ladies. I’d love to stay and talk, but I have someone waiting on me,” Bokuto tried one more time and pointed in your direction. All their heads whipped around to you, not looking too happy. Their stares burned at you, scaring you a bit at how vicious they could look. With them distracted, Bokuto was able to slip out of their circle and by your side.

“Shall we go?” he looked down at you, love back in his eyes. You nod and Bokuto automatically wraps his hand around your shoulders, leading you out of the court.

As you pass by the group of girls who were still staring daggers at you, you heard their whispers. You weren’t sure if they were saying it on purpose or if it was because it was the truth, but they were speaking loud enough for you to overhear.

“What does he see in her?”

“Do you see her bare face? Does she not care that she looks homeless?”

“It’s because her face is bumpy, so if she wore makeup it would look cakey.”

“No, even if she did wear makeup, it would look so bad because she doesn’t know how to put it on.”

“God, she’s so boring!”

“Her hair isn’t even done.”

“It’s like she purposely trying be a loser.”

“And do you see how her rolls are spilling out of her shirt? Embarrassing!”

You tightened your grip on your skirt. Were they really talking about you? The entire time Bokuto was walking you home, you were looking down and thought about all those comments that they made. Mean as they were, maybe they were right? You didn’t wear any jewelry. It would only get in the way. You don’t do your hair, but you didn’t think it was that messy. You liked it the way it was. No, you don’t wear makeup. Not only do you not have time in the morning, but you only use it for special occasions. Fat? Maybe you were putting on a few pounds, but you and Bokuto like to eat. It’s his fault that you look bigger than normal. Is this what people think about you? Is this was people say behind your back? You looked down at your stomach and held it shyly. Thinking about those comments just made you upset. But did Bokuto think that way? You look up at him and he’s all happy like normal. He hasn’t said that you should change anything, but maybe that’s just him being polite. But that was going to change.

After dropping you off, you went straight to your room and dug up everything you could find: makeup, clothes, jewelry, accessories, curling iron, straightener. You put everything on your counter and got to work. You were going to look pretty for once.

First, you applied your makeup. Dramatic or subtle? What do most of the girls wear at school? After a quick search, subtle it is. You admit, you weren’t the best at makeup, but it’s not like you’ve never put it on before. You just needed a little practice and this was a good opportunity. After maybe 30 minutes of applying what you thought looked like good makeup skills, you moved onto the hair. You tried something that you normally never do. Up or down? Curly or straight? Extensions or nah? God, so many options. So again, you looked at what the other girls were doing. Looking back in the mirror, you smiled at yourself. Not too bad, if you do say so yourself! You were going to wake up early tomorrow and do exactly this. Bokuto was in for a big surprise.

A big surprise, he was. Bokuto waited outside your house like he did every day. You were running a little late but he didn’t mind waiting.

“Sorry I’m late. I was doing something real quick!” you announced and presented yourself in front of your boyfriend. As soon as Bokuto laid eyes on you, he felt his heart fly out of his chest and then back again because he had to be alive to see how stunning you looked. His mouth flew open but he couldn’t form any words. His eyes grew as wide as saucers and looked up and down. He didn’t want this picture of you out of his mind.

As shocked as Bokuto was, you didn’t take his reaction the right way. Did he not like it? Why wasn’t he saying anything? You know that your look might be different than normal, but he acts like you’re a totally different person. The longer that he stared at you, the more ridiculous you looked. But what were you going to do now? It was too late to change and you were going to be late to school.

“Let’s go!” you urged, hooking your arms together and pulled him along to walk with you. You acted like his reaction didn’t affect you, but inside you were disappointed.

As the day went on, you couldn’t help but feel subconscious about your new look. Your friends said that they loved the new you, but Bokuto’s opinion mattered the most to you. Because you knew that he would tell you the truth no matter what.

In between classes, you look either go to the bathroom or look at your phone, wherever there was a mirror so that you could look at yourself. Your make up started melting and fading away, your hair wasn’t as kept like this morning. Slowly, your new look made you look like a clown. And the more you looked, the more you started to see your flaws. Now you could understand what those girls were saying. Fuck.

Tears welled in your eyes that you rubbed away the tears. But in the process of doing that, you wiped off the makeup that you forgot you had on, the makeup that took you so long to do. It all smeared across your eyes and that made you cry even more. Now you were forced to take your makeup off. You turned on the tap and rubbed all the foundation, the eye shadow, the blush, and the lipstick away. There, your ugly bare face was back.

Since you were doing that, might as well fix your hair. Pulling your hair all the way back, you put it into a bun. You stared at yourself in the mirror again. Homeless. Ugly. Bare faced. Fat. You could see it all. The realization hit you like a ton of bricks and you began to cry uncontrollably. God, you felt so embarrassed with yourself.

Bokuto immediately saw the difference in appearance when he saw you at the end of the day. Your shoulders were slouched over, your head was hung low, not to mention that your new look disappeared.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bokuto said softly. “What happened to your new look?”

“Oh,” you jolted up. His concerned gaze made you feel uncomfortable and even more insecure about your looks. “It was bothering me, so I took it off.” You lied. And it was a good lie because he believed it without a second thought.

“If it bothers you, maybe you shouldn’t wear it to school,” Bokuto suggested. Oh, so he’s basically saying that you shouldn’t dress like that because he’s embarrassed by you. Your confidence levels just reached a new low.

“Yeah, I probably won’t,” you say discouraged and quickly walk away from him. Bokuto didn’t know what to say. Why did you look so sad?

The next day, you transitioned back into your normal outfit. You felt more comfortable but your body and the way you looked to other people was always in the back of your mind. You became so distracted by the idea that you began to distance yourself from the volleyball player.

You went to his practices but didn’t make yourself known anymore. Little by little each day, you let the fangirls take over. So he’ll spend most of his time with them instead of you. It was probably better like that anyway. The more you looked at them from afar, the more you could see the difference between you guys. You were just an ordinary student with an ordinary life with ordinary looks. There really wasn’t anything special about you. There wasn’t anything about you that stood out. Compared to these girls that were flocking all around your boyfriend? Beautiful girls. Their looks were out of this world. You could never compare to them. So why was Bokuto with you when he could have anyone he wanted? He was popular, athletic, goofy, strong. Every girl’s dream guy. It doesn’t make sense that you, a plain girl, was his girlfriend. A match that probably wasn’t meant to be.

Bokuto noticed that you were being distant. Eventually, you stopped going to his practices. Every day, he would look for you in the stands but you were never there. Whenever he has free time and wanted to spend it with you, you were also too busy or had some place to be. He never saw you anymore. You didn’t even want to walk to and from school together. He couldn’t fathom what he did wrong. He thought he treated you well. He thought that he did his best to show you that you mean so much to him. So what was going on?

Bokuto stopped by your house one day after practice because does not like how you were avoiding him. He was going to figure out what was wrong whether you continue to avoid him or not.

“Oh, is (y/n) home?” Bokuto asked your mother who opened the door instead of you. Strange, were you not home yet?

“Oh, Kotarou. No, she isn’t home yet. Would you like to wait inside? She should be home any minute now,” your mother informed, opening the door a little wider to let him in. He gladly accepted and stepped into your welcoming home. Your mother let Bokuto make himself at home and that is just what he did. He went to your room and waited for you there.

When you arrived home, you greeted your mother with a kiss on her cheek and headed for your room when your mom stopped you in your tracks.

“Oh, your boyfriend is waiting for you upstairs, dear,” your mother said. You completely froze. Your heart started to race and cold sweat ran down your back. Shit. What was he doing here? After all this time, you thought you were doing well by keeping your distance but now he shows up out of nowhere, catching you off guard. Reluctantly, you opened the door to your bedroom and sure enough, Bokuto was standing there not looking too happy.

“Kotarou,” you say but didn’t have a clue what to say after. What could you say?

“(y/n),” Bokuto sighs and walks to you. But you backup, making Bokuto frustrated. “What is going on with you? First, you don’t come to my practices. Then, you stop talking to me. You don’t even want to walk with me to school anymore. Did I do something wrong? Because if I did, just tell me so I can fix it.”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you admit, but now Bokuto was confused.

“If I didn’t do anything, then why are you acting like towards me? Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Did I say something that hurt your feelings?”

“No.” Question after question, you kept saying no. Everything that he thought he did, you answered no. You weren’t giving him any information to help him understand what was going on. All you did was stand by the door, head down and you fiddled with your fingers. Bokuto was beyond frustrated. He put his hands on his waist and let out a deep sigh.

You couldn’t see him but you could definitely hear him and feel the ambiance in the room. He was upset at you. He had every right to. But now his reaction made you feel even worse about yourself that you just wanted to cuddle up in bed and literally just forget about everything. Maybe today was the today.

“If you’re so frustrated, why don’t you just break up with me?” you opened your mouth to say. Silence.

All of Bokuto’s anger and frustration dissipated and was replaced with hurt and betrayal. The moment those words left your mouth, his stomach dropped and the pain in his heart hit him so deep that he had to take a step back.

“Baby, why are you saying that?” his voice softens in the most pained toned you’ve ever heard. Guilt starts to eat at you for saying that, but cat’s out of the bag now. You don’t answer him and continue to stare down at your feet. He gets closer and you allow him to take your hands in his.

“I’m just trying to understand. Why are avoiding me? Why are you saying that we should break up?” he asks, trying to look you in the eyes. You shrug your shoulders but don’t say anything. But that’s okay because Bokuto was going to give you all the time in the world that you need to answer back. And it took you a long while before you should say anything.

“It’s because… I think you can find someone better,” you mumble in a whisper.

“Why do you think that?” Bokuto matches your tone. You shrug again.

“I don’t know. I see all those girls around you. And they’re all so pretty and thin. I’m nothing compared to them. And then I started thinking, and… you’re way out of my league. You could do so much better if you were with someone like-”

“Do you love me?” Bokuto cuts you off.

“Yeah,” you answer anyway. “But I don’t think we look good as a couple.”

“I don’t care what other people think. I love you and only you. I picked you. Every practice, every game, I’m looking for you. Whenever I see you, my day brightens up. When I see you, I feel like I can play my best. You are my strength and my motivation. You are the only one that sticks out in a crowd full of people. You’re perfect and don’t let those other people tell you otherwise.” Bokuto lifts your chin up so that you could tell that he meant every word. Your lower lip forms a pout and silent tears streaked your cheeks. His face softens at you. Gosh, even when you’re crying and snot is coming out of your nose, you’re still so cute to him.

“You really mean it?” you cry.

“Yes, you cry baby. Now come here,” he scoops you up and lays you on the bed to cuddle. “So don’t you ever say that to me again, or I’ll quit volleyball.” He threatens. Upon hearing that, you freak out and convince that he shouldn’t. He’s laughing out loud and kisses you all over.

“Ah, I love you too much,” he says content and you cuddle for the rest of the evening.

#bokuto imagine #bokuto x reader #bokuto kotartou #haikyuu bokuto #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu angst #bokuto fluff #bokuto angst #haikyuu

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confused-stars · 3 years

Note

you know what i want to see? i want to see class 1a shenanigans with an ouija board accidentally picking up ghostboro. They chat with him via ouija board for like a week before Aizawa gets wind of what they're doing and everything goes into chaos

It happens to Tokoyami and Shinsou first, because of course it does. Who else would be sitting in a dark, candle-lit room in the dead of night with a ouija board set up between them?

Who else would even own a ouija board but Tokoyami? It's a fancy one, too. Heavy wood and English letters burned into it, grooves painted gold. Tokoyami claimed that it was a failure the few times he's tried, but Shinsou insists that doing it with more than one person would be more likely to have results. Besides, they're both tired but can't sleep, and Dark Shadow is hyping them up.

So they end up sitting cross-legged on the carpet in Tokoyami's room, lights flickering, and they place their hands on the planchette.

"Uh... hi?" Hitoshi tries, feeling a bit dumb speaking into the air like that.

There's no response.

Tokoyami gives him an encouraging nod.

"Hey, if there's anyone here, we'd love to... have a chat?" Hitoshi feels dumber with every word. He shifts.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Tokoyami sighs, and Dark Shadow looks dejected.

Then, their hands are jerked so violently across the board that Hitoshi loses grip with one hand. He stares at the letters the ghost (?) chooses with wide eyes.

'N-I-C-E H-O-O-D-I-E'

Hitoshi is pretty sure he's dreaming or something. This is absurd.

Tokoyami's only wearing a t-shirt, so it's obvious who the ghost addressed.

"I... thanks?" Hitoshi tugs at his hoodie. It's purple and has a cat poking out of the front pocket. Cat ears adorn the hood - Midoriya and Ashido both delight in pulling it over Hitoshi's head just to coo at how adorable it is.

"Do you like cats?" Wow. He's talking to a dead person and this is what he asks. Nice going, Hitoshi.

The planchette all but flies to the 'YES' option, moving away and then coming back to it a couple times in what seems to be a sign of strong agreement or enthusiasm. Hitoshi stifles a laugh.

The ghost’s name is ‘Kumo’ and he uses he/him pronouns, and he is - was? - seventeen years old. He tells them that he used to be a student here, and that he’s been haunting the school for a few years now. Both boys agree that it would be a bad idea to ask him about the circumstances of his death, because that seems insensitive.

They end up just... chatting a little. About cats and heroes, and Kumo tries to give them some well-meaning fighting tips, but it’s hard for him to say anything lengthy with having to spell it all out. Tokoyami offers that he’ll look into easier means of communicating with ghosts, and Kumo seems immensely grateful.

It has to be lonely, on the other side, Hitoshi thinks. There can’t be that many ghosts haunting UA, after all.

The next one they involve is Midoriya, because he approaches Hitoshi about how glad he is he’s making friends in the class, and asks him about what hanging out with Tokoyami is like. Before he can stop himself, Hitoshi has already pulled him into this mess. And it’s good he did, because Midoriya is incredibly clever, and they spend hours in Tokoyami’s room - the darkness of it still seems the most appropriate for this - with a whole stack of fresh notebooks, and their resident ghost patiently answering any question they ask him. Well, most of them anyway. When Midoriya does bring up how he died, he just gives them a ‘NO’ and nothing else. Hitoshi glares at Midoriya, who mumbles an apology and moves on to another question.

Since the last time the class thought the dorms were haunted went less than ideal, apparently, they decide to take telling others about Kumo slow. Hitoshi isn’t sure how he feels about not telling Aizawa-sensei yet, but... well, Kumo is harmless. He’s just so happy to be finally able to talk to someone. What if the teachers decide to somehow get rid of him? Will he be all alone, then? Can ghosts even be chased away? With... an exorcism or something? When Hitoshi carefully asks, Tokoyami snorts and says something it ‘depending on the spirit in question.’ That obviously creates more questions than answers, but Hitoshi has learned to accept that. They tell Shoji, who demands proof, but is on board surprisingly quickly once they give it to him. Midoriya pulls Todoroki into this, and somehow gets Hitoshi to make another friend in the process - they’re both content sitting quietly aside while they let the others whirl around and talk a mile a minute. Well, mostly Midoriya. Uraraka, too, when she learns their secret. And then a very skeptical Iida. And then Kaminari, who is terrified at first, but who actually gets along swimmingly with Kumo. Really, before Hitoshi can blink, the entire class knows, and they’re now in possession of four separate ouija boards so that people don’t have to keep bothering Tokoyami to use his. There’s also a large poster made of several pieces of paper taped together that they’ve been writing different kanji and whole common words on so that Kumo might be able to communicate quicker.

That’s what the majority of the ‘Bakusquad’ are doing when Aizawa-sensei comes in, about a week after they made first contact.

“... do I want to know?” he asks, looking to Hitoshi who is perched on one of the couches with a fresh mug of coffee and has totally not been trying to give the others advice on how to structure the whole thing.

Hitoshi opens his mouth, then closes it again. Guilt makes his throat tighten a bit, and apparently that’s obvious enough that Aizawa-sensei squints at him. “Alright. What are you doing?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Kaminari pipes up from where he’s kneeling in the middle of the poster. “We wanted to see if people that Shinsou controls can still put together words if he tells them to! You know, since they can’t write properly and stuff.” That’s... not terrible, as far as lies go.

But this is Eraserhead, and it’s not working. Their teacher walks over to inspect the poster, brows drawn together. Hitoshi holds out his coffee, and Aizawa-sensei takes the mug without looking. “Not a bad attempt, but if you lie to me again, you’re getting detention,” he says, voice still mild enough that he doesn’t sound completely terrifying. Kaminari still looks like a deer in the headlights.

“... there’s a ghost,” Hitoshi says, earning him a disappointed look from Ashido, but a relieved one from Kirishima. Bakugou, who refused to participate but still hung around for some reason, scoffs.

“There’s... a ghost,” Aizawa-sensei repeats flatly. Hitoshi meets his eyes with a helpless shrug.

“It’s not like last time!” Ashido says quickly, “Really! We have proof. He’s been talking to us.”

Now their teacher looks a little alarmed. “... some invisible stranger’s been talking to you? And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Ah, that’s what Hitoshi was worried about.

“But if he was just invisible, the cameras would’ve picked it up, right?” Kirishima asks, “They pick up on Hagakure. If Kumo was a living person, he would’ve been noticed.”

Aizawa-sensei blinks. His face betrays nothing, but Hitoshi knows him well enough to know something Kirishima said threw him off by a mile. “... what’s his name?”

Oh. If there was a dead student, he would know about that, wouldn’t he? Maybe Kumo was one of his? Hitoshi starts to speak, but then the lights flicker. They look to Kaminari instinctively, but he’s nowhere near any power outlet, and he’s not sparking, either. Then, the big, red marker Kirishima had been holding drops from his hand to the paper. They all watch, enraptured, as the marker slowly starts to move upright and glide across the paper.

‘Hi, Shouta,’ Kumo writes, ‘Don’t be mad at them, they were going to tell you eventually soon.’

Aizawa-sensei brings a hand up to clutch at his capture weapon. His eyes are a little too wide. “Prove it,” he says, and he’s clearly trying to keep his voice even, “Prove you’re the person you say you are.”

They all look from their teacher to the writing and back. Kumo’s never been able to hold onto any random object for this long. It must be taking a lot of effort. Or... a lot of emotion? Isn’t that how it works, for ghosts? ‘In front of the kids?’ Kumo asks, and something about it sounds a little cheeky, enough that Hitoshi nearly snorts.

Aizawa-sensei doesn’t find it funny. “Shirakumo.”

‘Fine.’ The marker pauses for a long moment. ‘We had our first kiss outside the arcade. We’d forced you to eat too much candy and you were nauseous, and I felt terrible about it so I kissed you to make you feel better. You still threw up afterwards.’

Oh. Oh, well. That’s... Hitoshi suddenly wants to look anywhere but at his mentor.

Aizawa-sensei makes an odd choking sort of noise, and when Hitoshi looks back up, he’s already halfway out the door. “Nobody move,” he instructs them without looking back, “I’m getting Mic.”

#ghostboro au #this was fun!!!#i like ghost stuff

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chibi-writes · 4 years

Note

Hi and welcome to the fandom that should have been an otome game. May please ask for headcanons for the dorm leaders with a short fem MC who looks beautiful and innocent but knows martial arts, because she was almost kidnnaped when she was young

Thank you for requesting!! Sorry if some of these seem to OOC!

Riddle Rosehearts -

- Ight I’ll be honest. He’ll be surprised to say the least.

- You look so cute and innocent, but Riddle just saw you deck Ace by mistake after he tried picking you up as a joke.

- He scolds you, but you can tell from the look on his face he was caught off guard.

- Later on, a few days after the incident, he asks about your skills.

- When you explain your situation when you were young, he’s rendered speechless.

- Who would dare kidnap such an innocent person?! (Realistically he knows that people like that exist but still!!!)

- He promises that you will always be safe both in Heartslabyul and by his side!

- He very much so has a newfound respect for you and your abilities. You certainly save him a few gray hairs knowing you are well-trained but still, it’s okay to lean on others once in a while.

Leona Kingscholar -

- He sees you sparring with Jack one afternoon morning and barely bats an eye before doing a double take.

- Well shoot! He thought you were physically weak looking at your looks alone.

- But if the women in his hometown showed him anything, it’s that looks can be deceiving.

- He might probe you about it if you do some amazing shit in front of him. But otherwise he’ll just rest easy knowing you can defend yourself.

- On the off chance a conversation bringing up why you know martial arts happens, he’ll be healthily concerned.

- He may not say it, but he would keep and eye out for you. He would definitely wring some necks if a Savannaclaw student were to mess with you but I think you would do that before him.

- Once again, he would rest easy knowing you can defend yourself, but that won’t stop him from intervening when he feels it’s appropriate.

Azul Ashengrotto -

- You probably already on his radar for a deal. After all, you seem pretty naive and innocent. Surely you wouldn’t be able to defend yourself if the twins were to bring you in-

- Well. the unexpected should be foreseen dear Azul.

- One day, when visiting Monstro Lounge, Floyd surprise hugged you from behind. Both Azul and Jade were pleasantly surprised when you turned the tables on Floyd, effectively pinning him down. Granted you didn’t hurt him, but it was still surprising.

- Azul was thinking he could use this… But decided not.

- Instead, after you apologized to Floyd, stating it as instinct, Azul brings you into the VIP lounge and asks you how you became so strong.

- After you explain… Well…..

- Azul is silent. Thoroughly caught off guard I’ll tell you that. He now realizes that you’re not as weak as you seem.

- He offers a deal to have the twins accompany you places so you don’t have to worry.

- If you decline, the twins might still keep an eye out for you.

- Regardless if you take the deal or not, he does declare Monstro Lounge as a safe place, he swears by the Great Sea Witch!

Kalim Al Asim -

- Wow! You can do that?! Cool!

- Highkey reminds him of Jamil but friendly

- He’ll probably ask you to show off your skills a lot

- He thinks they’re cool!!!

- When he asks you why you know how to defend yourself…

- His face darkens for a moment before returning to his usual bright self.

- He’s glad you’re okay!! And he really likes your cool abilities you got from it!! But he promises, You WILL always be safe in Scarabia. Jamil isn’t there for nothing, and Kalim IS a magician in training. He knows some stuff.

Vil Schoenheit -

- Vil sees you trying to teach Epel some martial arts, and before he could harshly scold the boy, he sees you show off an advanced move to Epel.

- After Epel’s scolding, And your’s too Vil questions your abilities. He appreciates the effort you put into learning such advanced skills after all…. Even if they’re… less.. Than ideal for his personal tastes. Though if those dumbbells in Vil’s room taught us anything, it’s that he appreciates strength too.

- When you explain…. He sports a frown before ‘fixing’ up his face. Can’t have wrinkles after all!

- He’s fairly impressed by the amount of effort you put into becoming stronger to prevent future outcomes. And while looking as radiant and delicate as you do! Why, even the Beautiful Queen’s strength was nothing to laugh at after all!

- In the end he applauds your efforts and asks you to refrain from having Epel go through any messy training in his uniforms.

Idia Shroud -

- Idia was walking from class one morning, shudders horrible, I know. And he sees you being ganged up by a few not-so-friendly Savannaclaw students. He was about to send a robot or Ortho to try and break up a fight, but he sees you quickly make work of the rowdy students.

- He is shocked. To say the least for his shy self.

- Later, back in his room, he asks you where you learned that, when you tell him…

- He frowns. He can find them. I can ruin their lives in more ways than one. There ARE worse fates than death after all…

- If you decline, he’ll mutter under his breath before typing away at something. You’ll have to change the topic with this one.

- Change to topic to the skills themselves. It might launch him into asking a bunch of questions or an offer to be muscle reference for him (Think that one card story where he gives Ortho feet)

- If he goes off on a rant, he’ll catch himself mid-sentence and apologize profusely. That offer still stands though, remember that.

Malleus Draconia -

- Malleus is going for a stroll outside Diasomnia when he sees you and Sebek sparring. HE hides himself so you guys can’t see him, but he is very impressed with your fighting skills against an equally advanced Sebek. Sebek’s impressed too but this ain’t about him

- Later that night, Dragon boi asks about your impressive skills. Where did you learn them? Why? Who taught you? Etc. Etc.

- Explaining to him is a MESS because his first instinct is HOW DARE SOMEONE TOUCH MY FAVORITE HUMAN but in body language form. Similarly to Idia, he offers to find this person and destroy them ruin their lives.

- Once again, if you decline, he’ll leave it be. It seems you’re more at peace not thinking about that person anyway.

- The person who hurt you walks unscathed today, but know this, if anyone tries that shit again, they’re not gonna survive. Period.

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simpingforsoftboys · 3 years

Text

The Odds of Us All

Chapter 2 Pt 5/5: Food & Tea- But Not The Drink Kind

It was finally lunch time, Y/n was more than ready to leave her classroom and head to the twins class. Saying goodbye to some of her new friends, she departed from class 2-5 and headed down the hallway to class 2-3. While she was in college prep, the twins and Suna were in the other classes below her. The girl didn’t hold it against them, some people were made for different fields- academics didn’t define anything besides a persons academic intelligence.

Several people stared after her as she walked, everyone was intrigued with the new transfer student who was the soulmate of Itachiyama’s star ace and the cousin of Shiratorizawa’s famous Ushiwaka. It got on her nerves at first but she got used to the attention eventually. If she was rude to her “fans” then it’d look bad on Sakusa and Wakatoshi.

“Ushijima-san!” Someone called after her, stopping her in her tracks, Y/n turned and looked over at the person. It was a first year from class 1-2, if she remembered correctly he was in her “fan club.” (Honestly she was a little flattered at how fast she gained a following here, back at Nekoma it took her a whole two weeks before some classmates formed one for her.) “I was wondering if you would be willing to accept this... I made it just for you!” She was about to thank him for the horribly wrapped bento, when someone decided to stop her.

“Y/n.” Suna said from across the hallway, phone in hand, “come on we’re eating outside.” He gave the first year a deadpan, daring him to speak, Y/n smiled apologetically at him, thanking him for the bento and accepting it. The first year hurried away, but not without a pleased blush coating his cheeks. “Told you- you’re Ms. Popular.”

“Maybe... but it doesn’t really matter.” Y/n replied, tucking the bento into her satchel. “It’s always been this way, but not for the reasons you might think.” Seeing her soulmates inquisitive gaze she continued. “I mean maybe they start genuinely liking me eventually, but initially they follow me around and try to befriend me in an effort to know about all the drama in my life. Having a famous cousin and soulmate does that to you. Oh- but I’m sure you deal with it too- I mean you and the twins are famous on the volleyball scene for a reason.”

Suna hummed noncommittally, pocketing his phone and shoving his hands in his pockets with it. “I get it- people only want to get to know me cuz of the twins or my looks... but I don’t really pay attention to them... neither do Atsumu or Osamu.” He gave her a side glance. “You shouldn’t either, people like that just aren’t worth the energy.”

“You make a good point Suna- but I can’t. I got to make a good impression for them. Oh wow, Inarizaki sure has everything doesn’t it?” They were in the schools private garden, it was a large plot of land- with rows or fresh vegetables and countless beds of flowers- Y/n could even spot several wisteria trees. “I think it’s even prettier than Itachiyama’s greenhouse.”

“Itachiyama? I thought ya went to Nekoma.” Atsumu asked, popping up in front of her. Osamu walked over to them, they had just arrived too.

Y/n nodded, “Hi Atsumu, Osamu; I did, but I was initially planning on going to Itachiyama- I toured the campus, passed the entrance exams and everything too. But my friends went to Nekoma so I followed.” Osamu said ‘hi’ in response.

“Interesting.” Atsumu said, his mischievous smirk never leaving his face. “Hey follow me will ya?” He grabbed her hand gently, leading her to a round, stone picnic table below the wisteria trees, leaving Osamu and Suna to trail after them.

“There he goes.” Suna whispered, earning a sigh in response from the gray haired twin. “So touchy... surprised no one reported him for harassment yet.”

“I’d thank 'em if they did.” Osamu huffed with an eye roll. “Maybe then he would learn ta keep his hands ta himself.” The four of them settled at the table, Atsumu on Y/n’s left, Osamu to her right, and Suna in front of her.

“Y/n got a bento from a first year earlier.” The brunette gossiped (but in his weird deadpan way), he hid a grin at the matching scowls the twins wore. “Hey Y/n what did you think of him?”

“He was sweet.” She pulled the bento out and plopped it on the table. “But I’m not going to eat it- he’s still a stranger and I’m not the type to eat food from just anyone.” She didn’t notice the glances the three shared at her words.

“What if I made it?” The younger Miya muttered, staring at the h/c (hair color) girl. Atsumu did his best to hide his snort- meanwhile Suna subtly recorded the moment.

“Oh? Well you’re not just anyone are you?” Her words seemed flirtatious, but in actuality she was just being genuinely blunt. “I wouldn’t mind if it were you.” Let’s just say Suna was very glad he was recording- because the pink hue that overtook Osamu’s cheeks was HILARIOUS.

“Good, cuz I made ya some f/f (favorite food).” Osamu pulled an expertly wrapped bento from his bag and placed it in front of Y/n, who looked pleasantly surprised at his kind gesture.

“Look at him flirtin- almost as good as me. I’m so proud.” Atsumu grinned, not the least bit jealous (shockingly). “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Not you getting a big head over this.” Suna teased, earning himself a mean scowl. “If it were you, Y/n would have said no... maybe even eaten that first years bento instead.”

“Ya know I’m startin to think ya spend too much time with ‘Samu.”

“Heh.”

Y/n took a bite of the food, meanwhile Osamu watched her from the corner of his eye- pretending to be occupied with his own serving of f/f. Her e/c orbs widened as her tastebuds registered the burst of flavor that was overtaking them. The entire dish was seasoned to the point of near perfection- of course there was some fault, but that was probably due to Osamu’s inexperience with this specific food. Even if it wasn’t a first for him, this was still some of the best damn f/f she had ever tasted. It was tempting to scarf it all down at once, but she forced herself to savor the taste.

“So... how is it?” All eyes were on her, each of them eager to see what she thought of Osamu’s cooking.

“You cooked this by yourself?” She questioned, swiveling to the right to look at the younger twin. Osamu nodded, fidgeting ever so slightly.

“Yeah... m’sorry if it’s not that good- was my first attempt at makin’ f/f.”

Shaking her head and placing her chopsticks down, Y/n smiled at him cheerily. “When you told me you could cook I was expecting something like a simple tamagoyaki- but this is what it’s like when you’re just experimenting? Miya Osamu you are seriously talented- this is some of the best f/f I’ve had in a long while- and I eat this a lot.”

“Thanks so much, means a lot-” Osamu began, a small, genuine smile slipping on his face.

“IDHOISA Y/n yer so cute! Can’t believe I thought ya were a total jerk on Twitter-”

“How tf did he say that out loud?” Suna wondered, referring to the verbal version of a keyboard smash.

“NO I WAS HOPING YOU DIDN’T SEE THAT TWEET.” Y/n screeched, appalled at the expected- but completely unwelcome- news.

“Pfftt-” The brunette snorted at her expense.

“TSUMU YA RUINED THE MOMENT YA ASSHOLE!”

“OW- THE HELL? YA WANNA FIGHT SAMU?”

To put it simply it was pure chaos, their chances at a peaceful lunch completely dashed. For the rest of the lunch break the twins argued, meanwhile Suna live streamed their idiocy, and Y/n enjoyed the chaos while simultaneously savoring her delicious meal...

Facts/Trivia

Y/n was actually pretty popular in Nekoma- but it took a good two weeks before she had her own fan club

So majority of her fan club actually liked her for who she was as a person and not because of her cousin

Her new Inarizaki fanclub is not like her Nekoma one

This club was only formed because people want to get to know her in order to meet Sakusa and Wakatoshi

Some people like first year kun are apart of it because they think she’s attractive

Yes some girls left Atsumu’s fanclub in order to simp for Y/n

Atsumu may not care for his fans but he does like the attention 💀

Any peace between the twins is ruined because Atsumu can’t stfu

Osamu and Atsumu are actually pretty good at sharing and not getting jealous over partners

Suna never helps stop fights

Good thing Y/n’s here now

Fyi the ramen incident is filed on Osamu’s highschool record 😭

It took all of Atsumu’s willpower to not ask Y/n to be their manager when she talked about cheering for him

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#haikyuu poly au #haikyuu social media au #haikyuu soulmate au #inarizaki manager #miya atsumu x reader #miya osamu x reader #miya twins x reader #sakuatsu x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sunaosa x reader #suna rintaro x reader

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hongism · 4 years

Text

storge - s. mingi

➻ genre: angst, fluff, light smut ➻ rating: M ➻ word count: 15.6k ➻ pairing: mingi x fem!reader ➻ summary: Best friends do everything together, right? ➻ warnings: language, mild smut, fingering, handjobs, oral sex (explicit m, mentioned f), thigh riding, kink exploration, bad practices, learning ➻ colours of love | part one

“I have a feeling that this mild, quiet happiness will last until December. - juansen dizon”

“So, you aren’t dating him?”

You sigh at the question, the simple string of words hitting your ears and grating against them in a way that causes annoyance to bubble in your gut. Instead of responding with words of your own, you simply shake your head at the girl who lingers at your side. She’s the third girl to approach you and ask you this question in the past week. If you’re honest, it’s starting to frustrate you to a point where you’re close to making a public announcement about your nonexistent love life so that no one would disturb you again.

With that being said, your best friend Mingi loves the constant barrage of questions coming your way. Each time you report back to him about which person asked you the same exact question that day, he gets giddier and giddier. You thought university was supposed to be a step up from the typical high school antics. Yet, you’ve been proven wrong day in, day out thanks to the overwhelming amount of love that girls seem to have for your best friend.

“No, we’re just friends. Best friends.”

“Oh, amazing! Could you please mention me or something to him then?”

“Why don’t you do it yourself? I’m sure he’d appreciate it a lot more.”

If only it were so easy to get rid of them that way. You use the same response on every person that comes your way, and none of them seem to be able to grasp the underlying message you’re sending their way. The “please get the fuck away from me, I just want to make it through one class without being asked about my relationship status with my best friend” always flies over their heads, but over time you’ve come to understand it. The whole notion of a girl being close friends with a guy is a concept that people tend to struggle with, apparently. So even though both you and Mingi find it quite ordinary, the people observing from the outside jump to conclusions before considering what your relationship actually is. (He calls it one of the perks of being friends with him, but you only see it as a detriment instead).

It isn’t a surprise that when you approach your friend less than an hour later, the first thing that he comments on is the expression on your face, no doubt one of disdain or exhaustion.

“Long day already?” He laughs as you drop your bag on the floor and sit in the seat across from him. His smile only stretches further when you glare at him from across the table. “How many today?” You scoff at his presumptive question, and even though he’s correct, you don’t want to give him the pleasure of being right quite yet.

“Remember the cute guy from our psychology class?”

Mingi rolls his eyes at the question, shaking his head ever so slightly. You silently wonder if he’s merely disappointed that you didn’t mention any people thirsting after him.

“He’s only cute to you. You have terrible taste in men.” He dodges the attack you send his way, smoothly moving out of the way of your arms reach, and sticks his tongue out at you. “I’m better looking than him though, right?”

“No!” You protest as you try to extend your hand further to actually make contact this time, but your efforts fail thanks to the unfortunate length of your arms. Mingi laughs at your struggles for a moment before leaning closer to let you smack his shoulder. You take the bait, grateful to have the opportunity now before he takes it away from you later.

“Well, are you gonna do anything about it or just let it sit as you always do?”

You fall back against the chair, fingers drumming against the table as you look up at Mingi with pursed lips.

“I know what that means.”

“I’m going to do som—”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to watch him from afar like you always do and secretly pine after him in the desperate hopes that he might notice you or talk to you at some point without putting in any effort into making an actual move yourself.”

“Okay, wow, fine.”

“I’m only speaking the truth.”

“I don’t have people lining up left and right for me. I don’t have it as easy as you do, so that’s not fair.”

“Whoever said I have it easy?”

“People come to me every damn day asking for your number and if I can tell you about them!”

Mingi cocks his head to the side, blinking at you with his wide eyes for a moment. The sudden silence catches you off guard; Mingi rarely sits still without making some sort of ruckus, leaving you to be the calmer, more level-headed one. In all honesty, you expected him to laugh and be a little smug about the attention. You blink back at him, lips still parted slightly.

“Anyways…” You bend down to grab something out of your backpack, but Mingi stops you with what he says next.

“Why won’t you initiate for once?”

You hesitate, glancing at Mingi from the corner of your eye.

“Why won’t you actually go on a date with one of these people?” You counter. You try to fight the embarrassment that creeps up your neck, but it’s too late, and the heat floods your cheeks before you can duck your head again. Mingi is fully aware of why you can’t initiate. Still, you’ve always refused to admit it, even though he’s in the exact same position.

“None of them have really piqued my interest, I guess.” He shrugs.

“That’s shallow.”

“Well, it’s better than leading them on, isn’t it?” Mingi asks, and you have to agree with him. You would certainly rather have someone be upfront about their feelings instead of leading the other on. After a few moments of silence, he continues,

“Anyways, you didn’t answer the question. Why won’t you just initiate?”

The heat on your cheeks deepens even though you were expecting the question. You try to duck your head to keep Mingi from seeing your embarrassment, and yet he keeps pressing his chin forward, so you have no chance to hide your face.

“I can’t,” you hiss through your teeth.

“Why not?”

“I’m scared to initiate things since I’ve never had experience with anything that falls in that spectrum. You know that.”

Admitting it out loud provides zero relief from the anxiety pumping through your veins at the moment. Still, the slight frown that creeps onto Mingi’s face sends you further into a frenzy. You tug a notebook out of your bag, slamming it down onto the desk before you, causing some of the other students within the library to send pointed glares your way.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to learn quickly then?” Mingi suggests, adding a slight shrug to accentuate his words.

“Is it that easy though?” You peer at Mingi with wide eyes for a moment before shaking your head. “Why am I asking you? You don’t know anything either.”

Mingi does nothing to defend himself, instead offering a slight shrug in response. You glance down at your notebook and thumb through the pages until you reach a blank one. Mingi’s hand hits the page. You jerk your head up to look him in the eye, and a hint of playfulness lingers behind his brown eyes, and you narrow your eyes immediately. You know that look, years of friendship have taught you that it can only mean one thing.

Mingi has an idea.

And when Mingi has an idea, you never end up liking it much.

Nothing against your best friend or anything, but he isn’t renowned for coming up with the smartest ideas. He grins at you, gums flashing as he exposes his teeth, and you frown at his enthusiasm.

“No,” you say preemptively, ready to shoot down whatever idea Mingi has.

“I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“It doesn’t matter. My answer is no.”

“Why?”

“I know whatever idea you have is a bad one.”

“That’s not true.”

“Name the last good idea you had.”

“Automatic page-turners so you don’t have to turn the page yourself.”

“That’s not — Mingi, no. How hard is it to turn a page?”

“Harder than you think.”

“It’s not that hard, dumbass.”

A brief moment of silence then— “That’s what she said, ha.”

“You aren’t funny.”

“You love me.”

“I’m regretting everything now.”

“Look, Y/N, listen for two minutes. That’s all I as—”

“Your time starts now. 120, 119, 118, 117—”

“Okay, chill! Damn, no need to be a bitch about it.”

You sigh, propping your elbows up onto the table and staring forward at Mingi with little interest.

“Alright, so I have an idea. Don’t say no yet, just hear me out for a minute. You could… you know, try it out on me.”

“Excuse me?” You squint, eyes meeting Mingi’s brown ones, and he dodges eye contact in favor of looking at the table.

“Since you’re scared to initiate things, you could test it out on me.”

“Mingi, you don’t have any experience either. This guy has probably has had twenty girlfriends in his lifetime and a hundred times more experience than both of us combined.”

“A hundred times zero is zero.”

“Mingi.”

“Hear me out. Th-there’s this girl. I, uh, I’ve had my eye on her for a while… but I can’t initiate anything. I-I don’t have any experience either so that’s holding me back from doing anything. So, why not… why not just learn together?” Your friend glances up at you, eyes darting away as soon as he meets your eyes and clears his throat.

You let the silence settle and mull over the suggestion. You do everything with him, and you’ve done that since you were in middle school. The list of firsts you’ve had with him is not that long, and yet the offer of experiencing more firsts with him… You examine your friend’s face, putting a bit too much effort into analyzing his features. He isn’t bad looking — not in the slightest — and there’s a good reason why so many girls are chasing after him.

Tall? Check.

Sweet? Check.

Funny? Check.

Broad shoulders, large hands that dwarf yours, and thighs that you’ve definitely thought about a hell of a lot more than a best friend ought to think about? Check, check, and check.

Besides, you trust him, and he’s never done anything particularly shady (except for that one time when he told your high school sophomore year crush that you thought his ass was hot). You honestly trust him with your life. What’s the harm in trusting him with this too?

He’s still trying to avoid looking in your direction. A slight redness has risen to his cheeks, and he seems more unsure about the idea than you are, even though he’s the one who suggested it.

There's one glaring issue that's causing red lights of warning to go off in your mind. You love Mingi, there's no doubt about that, and he's your closest friend for a reason. That doesn't include sexual attraction, however, and despite thinking about his looks (and thighs), you made an executive decision a few years ago that meant you would never go after your friend with sexual intent in mind.

His soft-spoken suggestion is hesitant yet convincing, and you blatantly ignore the warning signs in favor of the pull of Mingi's words.

"I mean... why not give a try?" You shrug in attempts to hide the embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck.

Mingi freezes in place. A moment of silence passes between you, your discomfort grows exponentially, and you regret saying the words now. Then Mingi snaps his chin up, dark eyes searing holes into your own.

"Really?" He asks, lip trembling with the syllables.

"Yes?" You answer. You curse yourself for pushing the questioning lilt to your tone, chin tilting to the side slightly.

"Are you being serious about this though?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Do you really… you know, wanna… test things out with me?"

"That's why I said yes, Mingi."

Your legs begin to shake under the table, the nerves in your gut spreading throughout your entire body. If Mingi suggested it, why is he so hesitant all of a sudden?

"Were you expecting me to say no?"

"I don't—I have no idea what I was expecting to be honest." Mingi shifts in his seat, and his hands leave the edge of the table to most likely curl them into tight fists in his lap as he usually does whenever struck with nerves. You don't respond right away, instead of blinking at your best friend with a look of mild wonder.

"Um, so… what do we—when do we—you know?"

"Start?"

"I guess… yes?" You aren't used to this lingering awkwardness between you and Mingi. Typically, your friendship is all sunshine and butterflies with zero awkwardness or tension. Hell, any arguments the two of you have are usually based on something stupid and trivial, and it's been that way for as long as you can remember. Even after the incident where Mingi told the guy you liked that you thought he had a nice ass, you were more embarrassed to be around the guy than you were angry with Mingi for letting that nugget of information slip.

Just the prospect of engaging in physical affection and shit like that causes too much panic and awkward tension for comfort. Perhaps it's another red flag or warning sign indicating that this is a bad idea, but you continue to push that thought further to the back of your mind until it doesn't bother you anymore.

"Wh-whenever we want, I guess? I mean, whenever you want. That's probably the best idea."

"Well, school comes first. I have two projects coming up, as well as a few tests because midterms are on their way, and I refuse to fall behind at this point. I have to make sure I maintain a good GPA in order to get into my fall classes, and I've heard that they have no mercy once you're a sophomore, so I need to make sure everything goes smoothly from this point onward so that—"

"Ah, Y/N, I get it! School first! It's okay!" Mingi's hands come up again, held up in defense over his chest as he urges you to stop your rant. You inhale deeply in efforts to catch your breath, the lack of air during your rant causing you to feel lightheaded.

"W-We don't have to start right away. Take it slow at first? If you think that's best…" Mingi trails off and looks away from you, a redness creeping up his cheeks again. You shake your head at him even though he cannot see the action.

"I don't know what's best," you mumble, tugging the notebook that lies forgotten on the table closer to you. The odds of you getting any work done at this rate are minimal, especially since you know you will be thinking of whatever this arrangement entails for the next few days.

"A-Are you leaving?" Mingi jerks his head back in your direction as he notices your movements, and you shake your head a few times.

"I was going to suggest we head to the coffee shop. I'd, uh, I would rather discuss this there instead of the public library."

"Oh, yeah, uh, that's a good idea. Yeah, let's do that. The usual one?"

"Yes, dimwit, I was also assuming we would walk over there together as we usually do." Your use of the playful nickname alleviates a bit of the tension residing in the air, and Mingi breaks into a gummy smile at the sound of it. You continue to pull your unused belongings together and shove them into your backpack again, Mingi doing the same across from you.

He's first to stand, which would generally mean that you would have to jog to catch up with him and his long legs, but instead of leaving right away, as usual, he turns the corner of the table and joins you where you're still sitting.

You blink up at him with wide eyes, hand frozen on the strap of your bag. Mingi doesn't say a word before stooping down and snatching your bag before you have the chance to stop him. You release a noise of indignation that sounds a bit too much like a dog's yelp for your liking. Mingi doesn't give you any time to breathe, because he next grabs hold of your left hand that's still outstretched in the air for your backpack.

"Mingi," you hiss after a moment. Your gaze drifts between the awkward clasp of your hand in his and the man's cheeky grin above you.

"I got your backpack, don't worry. And your hand." He sends a wink your way, and lunch nearly makes an unwelcome appearance in your mouth again. Before you can retort back, Mingi gently tugs you to your feet and pulls you into step with him as he walks out of the library.

People are sending the two of you looks. Not the kind of looks you are used to getting, but looks. The ever so typical "ugh can they just get together already" and "everyone knows it but them" looks are no longer present. No, this time it’s looks of "oh is it finally happening?", "are they finally together?" and "it's about damn time" that have you bristling. Again, your brain pushes the thought that this may be a bad idea to the forefront of your mind, but Mingi's grip tightens ever so slightly and pushes that thought away.

You glance down at your joined hands as Mingi pulls you along, expecting to feel some sort of warmth blooming in your chest, and yet nothing rises. You shift your fingers in his grasp and slip your fingers between his, a childlike wonder to your gaze, and Mingi looks back at you when you stop walking. He sees your fixation on your joined hands and allows quiet to hang for a moment before breaking your reverie.

"Y/N, is everything okay?" He asks as he bends a bit to look you in the eye.

"It's nothing," you mumble back.

"We've held hands before, you know? This isn't anything new."

"I know…" you trail off, train of thought failing to be vocalized. It feels different, doesn't it? Is it because there is a different sort of intention behind it now? Or am I reading too far into things already?

"Hey, you dolt, you're thinking too hard again."

"Sorry." You shake your head to recover from the impending thoughts and smile up at Mingi. He grins back at you, gums flashing, then squeezes your hand tighter before continuing to lead the way to your usual cafe.

"S-So…this girl, um, do I know her or...?"

"Or what?" Mingi doesn't spare you a look, but his grip on your hand loosens, fingers slipping out of yours, and you wonder if you've said something wrong.

"I mean, is she someone who has come to me asking for every detail of your life or not?"

"N-No, she's not. She, uh, she doesn't seem interested in me at all."

"Would I recognize her if I saw her?"

"Maybe? Uh, she's in our history class. Hyerin. Min Hyerin?"

You purse your lips, shaking your head back and forth even though Mingi can't see you. The name doesn't ring any bells, although you try your best to avoid talking to your classmates. Mingi is the social one between the two of you, having enough extroverted energy to carry the both of you through social interactions and such. He may know this girl well, but you surely don’t.

"You know the guy in psychology yet?"

"What?"

"Do you know his name, you dolt?"

"O-Oh, uh, no? I haven't talked to him at all. I'm too—"

"Nervous, I know."

"That's not all there is, Mingi." You stop in your tracks, eyes bearing holes into your best friend's back. The walls of defense come up immediately, and you cross your arms over your chest. Mingi keeps walking for a moment before he realizes that you are no longer by his side. He glances back at you. A sigh passes through his lips when he reads the frown on your lips.

"Y/N."

"Mingi."

"Y/N."

"Mingi."

"Is this about the anxiety thing?"

You roll your eyes at the question, arms falling away from your chest. Part of you wants to argue and defend yourself, but the constriction in your chest prevents words from coming out. Instead, you stare at the ground, gnawing on your lower lip with a bit too much pressure. Mingi notices the expression painting your features and walks closer to you. He takes hold of your left hand, fingers interlocking yours, and tugs you closer to his side. Whether he knows that you don't really want to talk about it or that he doesn't want to address the topic either, you'll never know, but he starts walking again with you in tow.

You frown at your joined hands again, but the tightness in your chest begins to alleviate as you continue to walk, and for a moment, you think that the anxiety bubbling in your gut will go away. However, that thought is quickly dispelled because the longer Mingi holds your hand, the more you notice the glances and stares of strangers on you, on your joined hands, on the two backpacks Mingi carries. It's another moment of questioning yourself, wondering if you're making the right decision or a terrible mistake, but Mingi doesn't give you much time to dwell on those thoughts because his fast walking gets you to your usual hangout in less than five minutes.

"Can you order for us? I need to go to the bathroom." He asks as soon as the two of you step through the door. A typical gummy smile plays at his lips, one you can't say no to, so you shoo him off, watching as he drops your bags at a booth before he dashes for the bathroom. A sigh escapes your lips, and you walk up to the counter.

"Hi Y/N," the barista behind the counter greets, hitting you with a smile.

"Hi Yeosang, how are you?"

"Eh, as good as I can be. I work a double today."

"Hey, you're the one who chose this. You could've had the same psychology class as us, but you said you wanted a full day off school so you could work." You reach across the counter and poke at Yeosang's shoulder. He laughs at your childish behavior.

"Fair point, okay. I'm assuming you want the usual, by the way?"

"Of course. You know Mingi. He's a creature of habit, not very open to new things."

"Yeah, yeah, but you're the same way," Yeosang teases as he punches in your order on the register. You purse your lips. Should I tell him about the deal with Mingi? No, he wouldn't approve. He'd think it's stupid, wouldn't he?

"Y/N?" You lift your chin and look at Yeosang in the eye, startled by his sudden utterance of your name. "I asked you a question but you seemed to be off in la-la land."

"Oh, sorry. I—whatever. What's the question?"

"When are you actually gonna start working here with me?" Yeosang asks (again), head tilted to the side and bright eyes wide.

"If you want to see me more, all you have to do is ask."

"Pfft, you think I want to see your lazy ass more? Seeing you more means seeing Mingi more, and that's not a joint package I'm the biggest fan of."

"You know you love him," you chastise as you pass your credit card over to him.

"Oh, whatever, he's not all that great. But anyway, I'm asking because of money. You said you were gonna get a job last semester but never did."

"I know, I know. I just—the school has been my focus more than anything else." You glance over at the bathrooms where Mingi is on his way out. Yeosang follows your line of sight to land on the redhead. A small scoff passes through his parted lips.

"Yea, school." The dig is a typical one from Yeosang, he isn't shy about sharing his opinions, and that's something you've grown used to in the time you've known him. Yet it stings this time, perhaps because there are new intentions behind your relationship with Mingi, or it's the doubt still nagging at the edges of your thoughts.

"Be nice, Yeo. That's your roommate, so you're the one who gets to go home to an angry Mingi, not me." Yeosang merely rolls his eyes in response and passes your credit card back to you. A soft smile lands on his lips a moment later though, eyes still following Mingi as he settles into the booth.

"Whatever, I know he's the best roommate I could've asked for or something."

"Oh, by the way, we need to talk about something later. Uh, I'll try to catch you whenever Mingi and I are done with homework." You leave the counter before Yeosang has a chance to question you, fleeing his inquisitive stare and the feeling of anxiety in your gut. It's a last-minute decision on your part, a spur of the moment panic that surges through your gut and makes you decide to confess the deal you have with Mingi, which you regret almost immediately.

You go to join Mingi at the table, but when you sit down, you can see Yeosang glaring at you from across the small coffee shop, no doubt curious about what you desire to talk about, but you simply make a little 'x' with your fingers and shake your head.

"Okay, so…are we needing to make some ground rules or something?" You ask as you redirect your focus to Mingi. He snaps his gaze to you, turning away from the window on his right.

"Uh, I guess we should? I don't know." Mingi brings a finger to his mouth and catches the fingernail between his teeth.

"Okay...what's off-limits for you?"

"Off-limits? I don't know. Should there be those things?"

"Don't we need to have some sort of boundaries?"

"I was just gonna go with the flow honestly." Mingi shrugs and leans back against the cushion of the booth. Your eyes dart over to the counter where Yeosang is and find his gaze tracking you again. You curse under your breath, reach for your backpack, and pull out a notebook so that you at least look somewhat busy. Yeosang is undoubtedly suspicious already, especially considering the fact that you told him you had something you wanted to talk about, and you can't keep your mind from drifting to the thought that Yeosang knows precisely what's going on by now. Mingi watches your hasty movements with little interest but pulls out his own notebook as well.

"Even if we just go with the flow, shouldn't we discuss it?"

"Y/N, that's not what going with the flow means."

"I feel like we need boundaries," you claim.

You're avoiding Mingi's gaze now, and it's more than obvious, especially when he tries to make eye contact, and you jerk your head to the side to dodge it.

"Okay, give me an example."

"No sex," you spit out, cheeks flushing as soon as you say it. Mingi's eyes widen at the suddenness of your words and the volume, and you realize you might have said the words a bit too loud. Then, Mingi's cheeks turn red as well, almost matching the color of his hair.

"Y-Yea, okay, we can—look, we're just gonna take that off the table now, yea? Yea. We don't have to—ew."

"Ew?" You reiterate.

"I just imagined having sex with you."

"Mingi!"

"I'm not saying it would be bad, I'm ju—"

"Gross, I don't wanna know!"

"You're the one who brought it up!"

"I didn't mean for you to tell me about your sex fantasies."

"Oh my god, that's not what I was doing."

"Y/N!" Yeosang's voice interrupts your bickering, his bright tone sends across the cafe, and you instinctively sit up straighter. You excuse yourself from the table without a word.

"What the hell did you do?" Yeosang asks as soon as you get close to the counter. You reach for the coffees in front of you, but Yeosang pulls them out of your grasp at the last second. "Answer the damn question."

"I didn't do anything," you retort as you grab for the drinks again.

"Bullshit. I'm calling bullshit. You fucking yelled 'no sex.'"

Your heart plummets, and you can almost feel the sensation of it dropping. Eyes wide, you stare at Yeosang's blank expression. "So, what the fuck did you do?" Even having known Yeosang for quite a few years now, you still get scared of him at times. This is most definitely one of those times because even though his face is blank, there is an overwhelming level of something in his eyes.

"Can we talk about this later?" You hiss out, cheeks flushed and burning at this point. Yeosang refuses to let up though.

"You're about to make a bad decision, aren't you?" As soon as he voices his question, you realize precisely what you saw in his eyes.

Concern. He's worried about you yet again.

"I swear Y/N, are you letting Mingi drag you to another party? Do you not remember what happened last time?"

"No, I'm not," you mutter back. "Stop worrying so much. This isn’t about a party."

"Y/N." There's a hint of warning in Yeosang's tone, and doubt catches you in that moment of weakness. "I can't bail you out of everything. Especially when it comes to something between you and Mingi."

"There's nothing there!" You spit, eyes flashing anger at the accusation, and Yeosang instinctively takes a step back. "Fucking lecture me later, Yeo, I don't have time for this." You snatch the drinks off the counter and head back to the table where Mingi waits. Either your anger is radiating off you in waves, or Mingi watched your interaction with Yeosang at the counter. As soon as you take a seat, he pipes up with a question.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Were you two arguing?"

"No, no, it was nothing." You ignore the persistent stare that Mingi sends your way by sipping your coffee.

"Why does Yeosang look like you’ve just kicked his puppy then?" You hesitate, drink halfway back to the table, and glance over to the counter again. Yeosang isn't there anymore, however, empty space there instead. You redirect your focus to Mingi, tongue dragging across your front teeth.

"We can't let him know about this."

"What?"

"We can't let him know what we're doing," you reiterate, hand coming down on the table with a bit too much force.

"O-oh, yea, I wasn't planning on it?"

"I'm gonna talk to him about some of it but not all."

"What are you even saying, Y/N? I'm not following." Mingi drums his nails against the table, head tilted as he watches you struggle to find the words.

"I don't know! Just ignore me, I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"Well," Mingi starts, taking a deep inhale of air. "Do you wanna go to my apartment?"

"What?"

"Don't make it weird, Y/N, for fuck's sake!"

"I'm not making it weird!"

"God, you're being so awkward about this. No wonder you've never had a boyfriend!"

"I'm offended, Mingi."

"Good."

You scoff at his response. "How am I supposed to respond? I didn't even hear you clearly the first time."

"I asked if you want to go to my apartment," Mingi says again, slowing his words so that you can clearly hear them.

"Yea, that's fine. I'm fine with that." You glance over to where Yeosang is again.

"Why are you worrying so much about Yeosang right now? He has nothing to do with this, Y/N." You reel and face Mingi again, catching his brown eyes on yours.

"He wouldn't approve of this," you mutter, swirling your coffee around in its cup. Mingi narrows his eyes.

"You just said that he doesn't have to know."

"He's our friend, Mingi, and your roommate. He is going to find out eventually."

"You're the one who agreed, Y/N. I put up the offer, and you accepted it. You didn't have to, and we can still call it off if you've changed your mind." Mingi shrugs, much more nonchalant about this whole matter than you are.

"It's not that. I would just rather… I don't know. I would rather not have him witness it."

"So, you would rather have your roommate witness it?"

"We aren't friends with my roommate; however, we are friends with Yeosang."

"Okay, I see your point," Mingi relents, putting his arms up in defense. "I raise a counterpoint. Hear me out?"

"Go ahead, go ahead." You sit back and rest against the booth.

"Yeosang works late, remember? Full days on Tuesdays and Thursdays, until closing. Then he has to clean the cafe before coming back to the apartment. So that means he wouldn't get back until past eleven." Mingi draws invisible lines across the table with his finger. You follow the movements with your eyes, listening to Mingi's plan carefully.

"So…?" You prod in the hopes that Mingi will elaborate more.

"So, Yeosang is used to seeing you at the apartment without there being some underlying intention behind it. Even if we decide to make this agreement a reality, he doesn't have to know because we could limit ourselves to learning things when he isn't around. And when he does show up, we can just chill and do the things we usually do whenever Yeosang's around."

Mingi is making too much sense. Far too much sense, and he's using far bigger words than are usually in his vocabulary. That is a rather significant concern; however, you can't find any flaws in his argument, no matter how hard you try. And perhaps that's the purpose of Mingi's case and what his true intentions are, to be able to convince you with this, and you hate to admit that it's working.

It's your turn to drum your fingers against the table.

"Well then," you start, avoiding Mingi's gaze by looking at the table. "I guess…we ought to get started then?" You don't intend for it to end in a question, yet it does. Mingi cocks his head to the side, glancing over you with a slight bit of shock across his features as though he wasn't expecting you to agree, which is strange in your mind. You pack your notebook back into your backpack without another word, collecting your things and getting ready to head out. Mingi fumbles to catch up with your pace.

"O-Oh, you wanna go now?"

"You were the one who suggested it?" You peer at Mingi now, head tilted in question.

"I didn't expect you to agree so quickly, that's all." Mingi scratches the back of his neck. A light flush hits his cheeks. "Considering all your…prior complaints about it, that is."

"I'm trying to make sure this isn't awkward, okay?"

"It isn't awkward, it's just—well, it's weird, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" You hesitate, halfway out of the booth, and look back at Mingi again.

"I mean, yea, we've done a lot of things during our friendship. We grew up alongside each other and have done pretty much everything together. Yet, it doesn't feel like this was something either of us considered."

"And now that we're about to do it, it feels odd."

"Yea, exactly. I think you're overthinking the whole situation though. We're doing the same things we've always done: going to cafes, the movies, the park, hanging out at my apartment, those sorts of things. That's nothing new for us."

You sigh and slide out of the booth, collecting your things and not looking back at Mingi when you utter your next words,

"That's not what I'm scared of."

Mingi follows quickly and falls into step beside you a moment later. You feel the heat of his gaze on you but elect not to say anything. He waits though, following you out the door and back into the cold February air.

"I'm scared of things changing between us," you admit once the door snaps shut behind you, as though that will provide you with some semblance of security. Mingi opens his mouth, but you already know what he is going to ask, so you interrupt him. "I like the way things are between us. We're best friends, and I don't want some stupid desires to get in the way of our friendship." Mingi moves in front of you and reaches down between the two of you to grab hold of one of your hands.

"We're best friends. This won't change anything between us because we have been friends for this long without doing these kinds of things. Even when it's all said and done, we will still be friends, and nothing will be different." Mingi pulls you to his side, fingers slotting between yours, and leads the way down the sidewalk. “Let’s just… do this as though it’s just like anything else we would do together.”

You want to point out that this is different: there is a fine line between a normal friendship and whatever this game you’re playing. You can’t bring yourself to voice the concerns, however, so you keep your lips pressed together. Considering how much you’ve complained already, you’re sure that Mingi would just be annoyed if you said anything else. So you stay quiet, fingers squeezing tight around Mingi’s, and fall into step with him. It’s a comfortable feeling, aside from Mingi’s silence, which is a thing you aren’t used to. Still, it gives you time to just bask in the last shreds of normality between the two of you.

Then your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you let go of Mingi’s hand to pull it out.

Yeosang: if you get your sorry ass stuck at another party, I’m not bailing you out

Yeosang: deadass

Yeosang: you’re on your own

You huff as you read the messages, a small pool of annoyance bubbling in your gut. The good and right thing to do would be to respond and reassure Yeosang that it’s not that serious, not even close to what happened last time.

You do the opposite. Ignoring the messages, refusing to respond, and putting the phone back in your pocket to retake Mingi’s hand without saying a word.

“Hey, Mingi, I have a question.”

Mingi glances down at you, no doubt assuming that you’re going to ask something about the deal again, and you rush to clarify.

“How is it possible that none of the people who have been into you have piqued your interest? Just… statistics wise, I don’t understand how that’s possible. Surely at least one has caught your eye.” Mingi’s gaze drifts again, and he snaps his chin away from you before you can see the expression on his face.

“No. None of them have. I don’t know what to tell you. Just... I haven’t been interested in any of them. Sure, some of them are pretty, or have nice personalities, or simply would be a good girlfriend, but none of them are—” Mingi cuts himself off, and you hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes next. You think he’s going to continue speaking for a moment, but instead, he shifts the topic over to you. “I could ask you the same question, Y/N. There are plenty of guys who have liked you, plenty who probably do right now, but you never do anything about it.”

“Hm well, that’s different.”

“How so?”

“I don’t see it. I mean, you get people who approach you directly and an endless amount of girls who come to me because of you, but that doesn’t happen to me. So I never know if someone likes me, or… I have my eyes set on someone else, so I don’t think about it.”

“You never thought that I might be the same?” Mingi’s question shouldn’t catch you off-guard, but it manages to do so anyway. To be honest, you have never considered it. “I’ve liked people in the past, and when I like someone, it’s like no one else exists. That’s why I’ve never focused on the girls who approach you or me.”

In your eyes, Mingi has always been this single free-spirited kind of person. Never talked about girls or boys, never showed interest in either, and never talked about having feelings for anyone. You always chalked him up to be the type to not be interested in relationships, but it seems you were wrong about that.

“So you… you do want a relationship?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Well, you know, some people are aromantic or don’t get that sort of attraction towards others, so they aren’t really interested in relationships. Some just aren’t into that kind of commitment, some just want to fuck and go. It’s different for everyone, and I just… I assumed that—you know?”

Mingi breaks into laughter as you stammer your way through the words. “I thought you knew me better than that, Y/N.”

“We don’t talk about this sort of stuff, Mingi. What do you expect? I can’t read your mind either, so I don’t know what to tell you!” You barely even notice where you are when Mingi releases your hand and pulls a door open. You have to shake your head and actually take in your surroundings, seeing Mingi’s apartment building before you. He waits for you to step through the door without saying anything. “Sorry, zoned out.”

“Obviously,” Mingi laughs under his breath. You duck into the building, warm air smacking you in the face, and you turn your head to avoid the onslaught of warmth. You don’t wait for Mingi to lead the way up to his apartment, you already know where it is. “Hey, remember that Yeosang gets stingy about liquids in the apartment! Try not to spill your coffee this time!”

“It was your fault last time, I don’t see why you’re blaming me!” You call out over your shoulder as you quickly jog up the stairs.

“You kicked me!”

“And you retaliated by throwing a pillow at me! Not my fault it hit the coffee cup.” Something hits the back of your thigh, right below the curve of your butt, and you spin to face Mingi. He cackles at the shock across your face. “Did you just—you did not!”

“Didn’t what?” Mingi laughs, stepping past you on the stairs and continuing up without you. “I didn’t do anything inappropriate.” You scoff and hurry to chase after him.

“You hit my ass!”

“No, I hit your thigh. There’s not much ass to hit anyways.” Mingi sends a grin your way. You can’t do anything except gape back at him, mouth hanging open as he simply laughs and continues up the stairs.

“I’m offended, Mingi. Not much ass? Why are you even looking?”

“Not looking at much, to be honest.”

“Shut up, Mingi!” If you didn’t like your coffee so much, you would consider dumping it all over Mingi in retaliation. Instead, you’re going to have to find another way to get back at him because no way in hell are you going to let him get away with talking shit about your ass, no matter how flat it may be. “You’re equally as flat, if not more.”

“It’s different for guys though.”

You roll your eyes back at the comment. “Don’t be shallow.”

“What’s the saying? Different strokes for different folks? Some people like boobs, some like butts.”

“And some like personality and other non-physical assets.” You can almost hear the roll of Mingi’s eyes even though he’s in front of you, but he doesn’t add any more salt to the wound. Thank goodness for that too, because you’re nearing his apartment on the third floor. The jingle of keys distracts you from your thoughts. Mingi fiddles with his keys, and you watch on with little interest as he unlocks the door to his apartment. You push your way in first once he opens it though, slipping past him to get inside. Sipping at your coffee, you turn to look at Mingi as he steps through the door as well.

“Why don’t you put your coffee in the kitchen this time? Just in case you decide to kick me again.”

“You mean, in case you throw pillows again? I can’t recall if Yeosang was more upset about the coffee on the carpet or the rip in the pillow.”

“Definitely the carpet. He hates stains.”

“He hates tears and rips more though.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes, he does. Have you seen how upset he gets about the dish towels at work?”

“Okay, but have you lived with him? No. Trust me. Stains are his biggest pet peeve.” You shake your head a little bit but decide not to argue with Mingi about it. Still, You listen to his advice and give your coffee one last sip before setting it on the kitchen counter. You hear quite a bit of movement behind you, and you assume that it’s just Mingi bustling about with his belongings. Giving your drink one last quick sip, you turn away from the counter.

Then, the breath is knocked out of you, a sharp force smacks you in the chest, and you gasp in surprise as some tall figure traps you against the counter without warning. You can do nothing except blink at the chest before you, fingers gripping the marble counter that digs into the flesh of your back.

“M-Mingi?” You stammer. You don’t dare look up, your heart descending into shambles at this point (mostly out of shock, yes, that’s precisely what it is, nothing else). “Wh-What are you—what are you doing?”

“Trying something,” Mingi mutters, voice much lower than you anticipated. You nearly choke on your breath. Your fingers grip the counter tighter as Mingi looks down at you. “Hm, interesting.” He steps back, and you inhale a gasp of air now that there is more space between the two of you. You press a hand to your chest in attempts to quell the frantic racing of your weak and fragile heart. Mingi crosses his arms over his chest. His eyes stay on you, and you don’t have a chance to catch your breath.

“In-Interesting?”

Mingi leans forward, and you instinctively lean back at the same time. There’s nowhere for you to go though, you’re still stuck against the counter, and your back bends painfully against the granite.

“Are… are we starting no-now?” You whisper, eyes glued to Mingi’s. His face presses closer to yours. Breath hot across your face, Mingi shifts his gaze so that he’s looking over your features. His arms fall to the counter, entirely trapping you now, one arm on either side of your body, and you forget how to breathe for a moment.

"Do you want us to start now?"

Mingi doesn't look you in the eye; instead, he keeps glancing over your features and following your nose's curve down to your lips. His gaze lingers there. He presses forward a little more, and one of his thighs slips between your legs with ease. Your lips part as you gasp a little, the pressure of his thigh pressing against your inner thighs eliciting a spike in your heart rate.

"Is it working?" Mingi asks after a moment. You can do nothing except exhale shakily as you look him in the eye, trying not to move otherwise for fear of brushing against his thigh again. His stupid fucking thigh that's wedged between your legs. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Is what working?" You hiss out between gritted teeth. Even though you're trying to seem upset, you're confident that your cheeks are the color of tomatoes.

"Can I… can I-I kiss you?" Mingi sounds surprisingly less confident all the sudden, as though the prospect of kissing you is dangerous, even though his thigh resides between your legs.

"Y-yea. Go for it." You grip the counter behind you a bit tighter. Mingi hesitates a moment then slowly leans in to close the gap between you two. Squeezing your eyes shut, you wait for the hard force of his lips hitting yours. It's soft, however, like a pillow against your lips. You don't move, instead of letting Mingi test the waters first. It takes a moment, but suddenly you have the confidence to. You use your weight against the counter to push forward, moving your lips against his with more force. Mingi matches the strength and pushes against you. His thigh involuntarily presses further between your thigh. You gasp into the kiss, clenching around his leg as it brushes your clit, and your hands fly from the counter to Mingi's arms. Mingi pulls back to glance down at your face, which is now surely gleaming with sweat because you can feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

As though by instinct, his arms slide closer to your hips. The pads of his fingers barely brush your skin, where the hem of your t-shirt has ridden up. You bite down hard on your tongue. He has a slight flush to his cheeks now that you really look at him, the redness tints his nose and ears, and you can see the slight stutter of his chest as he tries to catch his breath as well. He doesn't wait for a response to his question.

"I wa-want to kiss you again." His tone is quiet, too quiet for it to affect you the way it does, but there's a tightening in your gut as you hear the words. Instead of answering with words, you shift your hands to the collar of Mingi's shirt and pull him closer to you.

"Kiss me then," you mutter. Your breath is hot on his lips, and the action of pulling him to you causes an almost visceral reaction to washing over Mingi. A high-pitched whine passes through him. It startles both of you. Mingi's blush intensifies, and he ducks his head to hide the embarrassment. You don't give him a chance to hide for long, reaching up to push his chin back in your direction, then press your lips to his once more. Mingi sighs into the kiss. He slides his hands closer to you, taking hold of your hips. His fingers are hot against your skin, and you relish in the sensation as you press yourself further against Mingi.

He doesn't let you pull back for air until he's almost running out of it. Even so, he only gives the two of you a few moments to catch your breath. Whatever you were expecting from your first kiss just went out the window because you had no idea this is what it would be, nor did you think you would be sharing it with Mingi. Yeosang’s concern appears in the back of your mind again. The blaring sirens in your ears ring in warning as you drag your gaze over Mingi’s lips. You ignore all warning signals as you dip in for more.

Something tells you that you’re going to regret this.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

If someone had told you that a month ago you would make a deal with your childhood best friend and that deal would entail making out and sexual explorations, you would have laughed in their face.

Mingi? You really think I would even think about him like that?

Yes, well, here you are a month later in his kitchen yet again (how many times this week?). His lips are on yours. You will say that Mingi has gotten a lot more confident with his kissing in only a month, which is quite impressive in and of itself. He’s also gotten more confident in other departments, wandering hands becoming more frequent, whereas you can barely stave off the embarrassment of kissing him. One thing he loves is marking you. Even if you’re just sitting on the couch, Mingi has his lips on your neck and busies himself with pressing mark after mark against your skin.

But not now. No, right now, Mingi has his lips pressed to yours, and he is kissing you with a particular fervor that leaves you both wanting more. You two haven’t gotten very far past the kissing stage. A little grinding here and there, some awkward orgasms, and a few attempts to get in each other’s pants, but Yeosang always seems to make a timely appearance in those moments. You haven’t been caught yet though, which is more than a miracle since you and Mingi are nothing shy of sloppy.

"I want to try something," Mingi mutters even though the two of you are the only ones in the room. He isn't as shy or reserved this time, no, he's carrying a lot more confidence, and there's a fire in his eyes that catches you off guard.

"More than you've already done?" You exhale shakily.

"Yes. Just a little. Maybe." Mingi's tongue slips out and moistens his lips. Pushing his thigh forward, he works your legs apart slowly. His eyes remain on yours, watching for any sign of hesitation, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip. It's uncomfortable at first; the width of his thigh is too much for your smaller stature.

"Hold on." You shift under him and try to get a better angle with his thigh between yours. "Mi-ingi, wait." Mingi halts immediately at your words. You keep shifting until it's comfortable, only for Mingi to further press his muscled thigh against your crotch. You gasp, the sensation pulsing through you. "F-Fuck."

"Language," Mingi chastises. A laugh courses through him before he presses further up against you. You grasp at his shirt, balling your fists around the material, and throw your head back. "Does... does it feel good?" His voice is much more hesitant, confidence lost from his tone.

"Y-Yes. Yes. It – oh, oh." You shake under him as his muscle works harder against your core. "Fuck, for someone who do-doesn't know what he's doing, you're doing just fine." Rocking back against Mingi's thigh, you feel your hesitations slipping away. The pleasure of the feeling is too good for you to care any longer.

"Your reaction is helping a lot," Mingi huffs out as you release a small moan.

"Wa-ait, I th-think I'm close."

"Already?" Mingi asks. You roll your eyes at his remark and slap his arm.

"F-Fuck you."

"I can stop."

"No, no, no." You bite out, teeth gritted together.

Mingi rolls his thigh forward again. An almost pitiful moan leaves your lips as he does. A string of moans continues to escape as he uses his hands to guide your hips against the muscle of his thigh. You brace yourself by holding onto his shoulder, feeling a wave of heat wash over you.

"Oh fuck, fu-uck, I'm cumming," you cry out as the high hits. Your whole body trembles and shakes as the warmth washes over you. Mingi holds you against him as you ride it out, both arms snaking around you.

"Well, that's one idea down." Mingi slowly pulls his thigh away from you. His hands come down to the counter again, forehead coming to rest against yours. The euphoric sensation quickly leaves you, and as the orgasm passes, you find that cold washing over you instead.

"Is it my turn to try an idea out?" You whisper. Your hands find the collar of his shirt, folding around the material and tugging him down to you.

"Yea, I'd like that." Mingi chuckles. His fingers trace down to your sides.

Then – something rattles and clicks, and you hear the door creak. You shove Mingi back in haste, he stumbles back, and you spin around to turn your back on him. Your hands find the edge of the counter and grip it hard. You try your best to seem somewhat normal, but the two of you look more awkward than anything. It’s glaringly apparent that you were doing something, and you can only hope that Yeosang doesn’t put two and two together.

Your face is hot when Yeosang comes into view. Mingi has moved to the fridge in attempts to hide his red cheeks. Yeosang doesn’t notice you right away, still focused on closing and locking the door, but when he turns to see you, his head tilts in question.

“I really thought you were going to another party.” He laughs under his breath. As he moves closer to the counter, his eyes land on where Mingi is positioned by the fridge. A questioning gleam begins to rise up in his dark eyes. “Why the hell is it so awkward in here?”

You sputter a little, rushing to deny the awkwardness, but Mingi makes the situation even worse by turning around and excusing himself.

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” he mutters as he slides out of the kitchen and down the hall. Yeosang’s brows shoot up. You two stay in silence until the door of Mingi’s room clicks shut. You gnaw on your lower lip as you watch Yeosang lower his school bag to the floor.

“You reek of sex.”

“Ex-excuse me, I d-do not!” You stammer, blinking furiously.

“And Mingi was popping a boner.”

“Oh my god, Yeos–”

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N?” The question isn’t spoken with vehemence or anger. Instead, Yeosang sounds tired and disappointed. That almost hurts worse.

“I-It’s no big deal. Just… we’re just learning. Together.”

“Learning together. Yeah, because that always ends well.”

“Listen, Yeo, what would you do in my shoes?”

“I have no idea, because I don’t even know why you thought to do this in the first place.” Yeosang leans against the counter and presses his palms against the granite. His gaze is hot on your skin, so focused on you that you have to look away.

“I don’t know anything a-about relationships or sex. Neither does Mingi. I… I want to know what I’m doing when I have sex for the first time. And when I get in a relationship. Isn’t that normal?”

“It’s normal not to know what the hell you’re doing, yeah. It’s not normal to make a sex arrangement with your childhood friend simply because you’re both horny.”

“That’s not what we’re doing!”

“Then what is it really?”

“J-Just tell me what you would do in my shoes.”

“Is this what you wanted to talk about earlier?”

“Yeosang, please.” Your embarrassment is skyrocketing at an impressive pace, no thanks to Yeosang’s increasingly invasive questions. “Yes, it is. But I didn’t mean for you to ask this many questions.”

“I would never do anything without feelings being present,” Yeosang answers after heaving a deep sigh. “I ask questions because I’m your friend, and as your friend, I worry. So just let me ask questions and worry about the two of you since you are my closest friends.”

“That’s probably a smart decision,” you mutter as you mull over the first half of Yeosang’s words.

“You aren’t going to make the smart decision though, are you?” When you refuse to answer, Yeosang sighs and turns away from you. “Y/N, I guarantee that you will regret this an–”

“It’s fine. Nothing bad will happen.”

“That’s what everyone says before something bad happens.”

“I trust Mingi with my life. Is that not enough?” You counter, arms coming up to cross over your chest. Yeosang squeezes his eyes shut, but you catch him rolling his eyes just before he closes them.

“I understand that, and I know you do. This is something serious. You should feel something for the person you’re giving all your firsts to.”

“There are feelings there,” you snap back.

“Romantic feelings, Y/N. You can’t tell me that you have any of those for Mingi because I know that you don’t.”

“And? Your point? I won’t be giving all my firsts to Mingi anyway.” As your defensive state grows stronger, Yeosang’s disappointment does too. He pokes his tongue out to drag over his lower lip. When he looks back at you, you almost wish he hadn’t so that you didn’t have to see the sadness on his expression.

“I don’t want to argue with you… especially not over something like this,” he mutters, bringing a hand up to comb through his hair. “I trust you, but I hope you will make the right decision about this. Not one that your body wants, but one that your heart wants.”

“I will,” you whisper back, all the fire and anger gone from your tone.

“I just don’t want you to regret anything, Y/N. Or for this to harm your friendship with Mingi.” The words spark an unprecedented amount of anger in you, and you drop your arms to your side.

“You don’t know the type of friendship I have with Mingi. It won’t ruin anything.”

Yeosang doesn’t get the chance to respond because Mingi comes back from the bathroom at that moment. He glances over you and Yeosang. If he notices the spike in tension between you two, he neglects to comment.

“I think I’m going to head home,” you mutter as you try to collect yourself. Mingi’s eyes rake over you in attempts to understand where your sudden departure is coming from. You don’t look back; instead, you stare straight ahead at Yeosang.

“O-Okay, do you want me to walk you out or…?” Mingi trails off. He fiddles with his hands, picking at a loose nail with little interest as he watches you.

“No, I told her I would walk her out,” Yeosang cuts in, finally looking away from you to nod at Mingi.

“Oh, cool. Uh, I’ll text you later, Y/N.”

“Yea, see ya. Tomorrow, I guess? I’ll text you.” You pull yourself away from the counter. Yeosang follows you out of the apartment, hot on your heels as you leave. It’s only when the door snaps shut behind the two of you that he opens his mouth to speak again. You cut him off before he gets the chance. “I don’t need you to worry about us.”

“I — I know you don’t, but you don’t get to decide when I care and when I don’t. I do. I care, and since I care, I’ll worry about you regardless.”

“I know,” you mutter, turning away from Yeosang before he catches the frown on your lips.

“I won’t lecture you to oblivion again, but… I just want you to be careful. I’m scared you’ll get in too deep or regret doing something with him. I know I’ve done that in the past. It’s not a matter of trusting you or trusting him. I just don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

You moisten your lips as Yeosang speaks and mull over the words. Part of you feels bad for jumping down his throat so quickly like you did. You extend a hesitant hand to grip his bicep, squeezing around his shirt.

“Thank you for looking after us.”

“You’re my friends. I would be a pretty shitty person if I didn’t.”

“Still… I’m grateful that you’re looking out for us.”

“I sense a ‘but,’” Yeosang states, shrugging your hand off his arm.

“We’re being careful, that’s all.”

“If you say so.”

You and Yeosang exchange a prolonged stare, then you reach forward to pull the taller man into your arms. He hugs you back with equal enthusiasm, folding his arms around your waist and pressing his face against your shoulder.

“I love you, Yeosang.”

“Love you too, Y/N.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

You should know how long it’s been by now. Emphasis on should because you most certainly do not know how long you and Mingi have been exercising your arrangement, and things have escalated in a way you did not expect.

In short, the two of you have gotten bold beyond belief. You barely wait to see if Yeosang is home before going at each other, and that’s not even the worst part.

Last week, Mingi fingered you during movie night with Yeosang. It was awkward, he fumbled a lot and had trouble finding the right angle, but once he did, you had to bite on a pillow to keep from screaming out.

Two days ago, you gave Mingi a handjob in the back of a lecture hall. Yeosang was one seat over. God knows what was going through your mind at that moment because that had to be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life. The thrill and rush it gave you was sweet, but as you look back at it, you only feel the hot burn of shame.

And now. This is the worst thing that has happened yet because Yeosang walked in just as Mingi was slipping one hand down your pants. Needless to say, the two of you detached quicker than imaginable. That didn’t stop Yeosang from seeing exactly what was going on, and your whole body burns with the embarrassment of being caught in the act.

“Mingi, you were gonna take me home?” You inquire, turning to the man even though he agreed to no such thing. It’s a desperate attempt to get out of this awful and awkward situation you just put yourself in. Mingi doesn’t seem to realize that right away though, and he blinks back at you with inquiry in his gaze.

“O-Oh? Was I?”

You send a pointed glare his way, and he straightens his back as he realizes what’s going on. You can feel the heat of Yeosang’s presence nearby. Even though he doesn’t say anything, you can sense the disappointment radiating off his body in waves. This is precisely what he was telling you to avoid. Yet here you are. Doing just that after telling him that you had it under control.

“Yes, I was. I remember now. Yeo, can I borrow your car?”

Yeosang’s glare lingers on you. He doesn’t respond for a few moments, and you think he’s going to say no at first. Then he tosses his bundle of keys towards Mingi.

“Fill it up with gas on your way back.” Tone cold and flat. It almost hurts to hear, but Mingi still seems to be oblivious to what’s happening.

“Will do!” Mingi catches the keys with ease. You step around Yeosang to move towards the door. He seems to want to say more to you, but Mingi’s presence deters him. Either way, you’ll get a text from him later tonight saying that he’s sorry and didn’t mean to offend you or snap at you. That’s just how your relationship with Yeosang operates.

Mingi grabs your hand before you’re even out the door, threading his fingers through yours. You dare to glance back at Yeosang. His stare lingers on your joined hands with even more sadness than before.

“So, why am I taking you home?”

“Because, uh, I-I…” You trail off, hurrying to figure out some sort of excuse to get away from Yeosang. “I’m exhausted? Yeah, I’m exhausted.”

“You know you could spend the night with me. We do that… all the time.”

“Yeah, but I just wanna get home. I haven’t been home in hours. Need to feed the cat next door too.” It’s a lie, but Mingi’s eyes light up at the mention of the pet.

“Oh, is Mrs. Parks out of town again?”

“Y-Yep, but I’ll take care of it, so you don’t have to come up!” Mingi frowns at your words, and guilt twinges in your gut a little. It doesn’t last long because the chilly air outside nips at your skin and pushes the feeling away.

You climb into the passenger seat as Mingi gets in on the driver’s side. As soon as you’re settled in the seat, a hand comes down on your thigh. You flinch at the sudden sensation and glance over at Mingi. He acts as though he hasn’t done anything, hand resting on the inside of your thigh and making you look small under him. You won’t admit it to him, but it makes your gut pool with arousal. Mingi pulls out of the parking lot, driving with one hand so that he can keep the other pressed against your thigh. You want to question it and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing, but you can barely form a coherent thought. The simple action has you in shambles, and he isn’t even doing anything.

The drive commences in silence, the radio blares in the background, and Mingi occasionally drums the beat of the songs against your leg. You are trying your best to not think about it and just wave it off as a silly and harmless action. Emphasis on try, because every single time you begin to squirm under Mingi’s grip, he smirks. He knows exactly what he’s doing and isn’t even trying to hide the fact that he does.

When he pulls the car into your apartment complex, you don’t get out immediately. Partially because it feels awkward considering what went down in his apartment earlier, and mostly because his hand is still clamped around your thigh. You glance over at him and open your mouth to ask if something is wrong, but Mingi dips in before words get out. His lips hit yours in a mess of teeth and saliva, and you nearly bite the tip of your tongue off. It’s harsher than your first kiss; Mingi puts a lot more force into this one. You respond with an equal amount of ferocity though and reach down to undo your seatbelt. Mingi does the same, leaning into the kiss as he’s freed from the belt's restrictions.

You only part once you run out of breath, still awkwardly holding each other’s faces as you pant into the other’s mouth.

“You never got to try that thing you mentioned earlier…” Mingi trails off, lips brushing against yours as he speaks. You’re caught off-guard, however, completely unaware of whatever he’s talking about. That’s when it hits you. Before Yeosang came into the apartment, you told Mingi that there was something you wanted to try.

“A-Ah, yeah, th–well, yeah. I can — I can try it now maybe.” You stammer your way through the response and try to swallow the bundle of nerves that hits your throat.

“Y-Yeah, go for it. Just… go for it.” Mingi pulls away from you and puts his hands up awkwardly. You aren’t sure what you’re doing either, so you look equally as stupid. Mingi must be aroused from just the minimal kissing because there is a prominent bulge in his pants, and that’s precisely where you reach next. You place a shaky hand over his clothed erection. Mingi’s legs spread further open when you touch him, and you take it as an invitation. You reach for the button of his pants, popping it open, then you tug the zipper down.

Your motions are slow and calculated. You watch Mingi’s face for a reaction with each shift, delighted with the hiss that escapes him as you reach under the band of his underwear and grip his semihard member. You pull the underwear down just enough to expose his cock to the air and your eye. You aren’t sure what you were expecting — you’ve never thought about Mingi’s size — but his girth alone is enough to make you choke on air. You tighten your grip on his cock.

This isn’t the first time you have given Mingi a handjob. It is your first time seeing his cock head-on like this though, because he usually keeps it in his pants whenever you jerk him off. Your intention now is a little different, and you’re nervous about going through with the idea considering his size. You swallow your nerves and lean across the seat to press your lips over the head of his member.

Two months. Now you remember how long it’s been. Because you have spent the past two months reading articles, watching porn, doing anything you can to learn what the hell you’re supposed to do. It’s your first blowjob. Sure, Mingi has never had one, so he won’t know the difference between a good one and a bad one, but that doesn’t keep you from wanting to do a good job.

You start with a few kitten licks to the head of his cock, blinking up at it through fluttering lashes, then you slowly lower your mouth to encompass his shaft. He stretches your lips nicely; it isn’t painful or unimaginable as you initially thought it would be. However, you know that there is no way in hell that you are getting his whole member in your mouth. That’s off the table. He would be halfway down your throat if you tried to do that.

Instead of taking in as much as you can right off the bat, you start small, worshipping the tip of his cock with kisses and licks. He tastes salty; each bead of precum that leaks from his slit is less salty than the last, but you might just be getting used to the taste. You let your tongue explore his length. It runs down to follow the lines of his veins, tracing the tip before dipping back down to run the flat of your tongue over the underside of his cock. It’s heavier than you anticipated, but you have nothing to compare it to, so you can only assume that this is normal.

You begin to bob your head a bit more as you gain some confidence. Mingi releases small groans when your teeth graze his sensitive skin. The sounds encourage you to increase the frequency of your movements. Soon enough, you have to hold your hair back because you’re bobbing up and down too quickly on his cock. Mingi’s moans increase in volume as you continue. That makes you feel a little bit proud because you’re only halfway down his member. You dare to go a little further though, pushing your tongue out further and wetting the next quarter of his dick. As you dip lower, he hits the back of your throat. It triggers your gag reflex in an instant, and you gag around his dick. The sensation must feel good to Mingi because he releases a particularly filthy moan.

You have to pull off before continuing though. You can barely breathe, and nearly gagging on him made you want to throw up. Mingi watches you with eyes filled with lust and desire as you heave a few deep breaths. Slowly you return to his erect member, holding it by the base before pushing your lips back over him. This time, Mingi holds your hair back for you. His fingers entangle in your strands, staying close to your scalp as you hollow your cheeks around his cock. He touches the back of your throat again. This time you are more prepared for the sensation, but it doesn’t keep you from gagging again. Mingi’s hips jerk as you gag around him. He unintentionally bucks up into your mouth, causing you to choke further. A small noise of indignation escapes you, and you groan around him. Again, that must bring Mingi pleasure, because he shifts his hips back.

You smack his thigh when the grip on your hair doesn’t let you up for air. Mingi gets the hint immediately and lets you pull off him. A disgusting amount of saliva connects your lips to his cock. It must look filthy and perverse beyond belief, but Mingi’s dick twitches as you make eye contact with him, spit covering your lips and eyes watering. You swallow roughly. Surely Mingi is getting close to cumming; at least you hope he is because you aren’t sure that you particularly enjoy having a dick in your mouth.

The idea of pleasuring him outweighs your disdain, and you bend back over him to swallow as much of his cock as possible. You make it further than last time, still gagging a little, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as before, so you’re more comfortable continuing it. You bob along his member, and he helps you along a little by grabbing hold of your hair again. He guides your movements like that. Every once and awhile, Mingi will buck his hips up into your mouth and hit the back of your throat harder than before. You have to push the discomfort aside because you’re too damn determined to bring an orgasm over him.

It works at long last after a few seconds of holding you on his cock. You pull off, gasping for air, and Mingi cums in that moment. His seed hits your face, and it’s a good thing that you had your eyes squeezed shut because he would have popped you in the eye if not. You flinch at the contact. It’s as warm as always, but that doesn’t mean you want it on your face. Mingi cusses under his breath as he rides out the orgasm, voice low and gravelly. You shift to look in the back seat, find a random sweatshirt under one of the seats, and use that to wipe your face clean. You can still smell it, but at least you don’t have to feel it on your skin anymore.

Mingi blinks at you in wonder as you sit back in your seat, hands folded neatly in your lap.

“So…?” You trail off. You are a bit embarrassed to ask him what he thought, but you might have to get the words out anyway because Mingi blinks back at you with a dumb expression on his features. “Was i-it — was it good?”

“Fuck yes,” he mutters, releasing another groan. He quickly shoves his softening member back into his underwear and zips his pants back up. You swallow around nothing. “That was… wow. Wow. Damn.”

“Good! Good, yeah – uh, yeah, I’m glad.” You nod awkwardly, unable to look him in the eye all of a sudden. It’s strange how sometimes you can handle the embarrassment of your arrangement with such grace and ease, and other times you can’t even look at your hands. “Well, I’m gonna – I’m gonna go up now. I guess. Yeah.”

“Oh, o-oh, yeah, okay!” Mingi stammers as you motion over your shoulder. He nods along with you then rushes to hit the unlock button on his door. “You… uh, have a nice night!”

“You too, Mingi.”

“Cool.”

“Yep.”

“Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Why are you still in the car? And why the hell aren’t you getting out? Two questions that you will ask yourself for the rest of your life because you aren’t sure what comes over you. All you know is that tears are hitting your cheeks, and you are having a breakdown in the passenger seat of Yeosang’s car with Mingi, your childhood best friend, and the man you just sucked off in the driver seat. It feels filthy now. You’ve never felt so disgusting in your life like you’ve crossed a line you were never supposed to cross or that you have done something you can’t come back from. All you know is that Yeosang was right.

You regret it now.

“W-What’s wrong? Y/N, hey, hey. It’s okay.” Mingi reaches forward to touch your shoulder, but you smack his hand away before he can touch you. The sharp impact echoes through the car. “Y/N… what’s going on?”

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Mingi, what t-the fuck are w-we doing?” Your shoulders shake as you sob into your hands. You don’t even care that you just held a disgusting sweatshirt covered in cum as you rub at the tears on your cheeks. Mingi doesn’t know how to respond. He brings his hands back into his lap and keeps them there as you continue to cry. “W-We’re so fucking dumb. Why? Why did I let you convince me to do this? Wh-Why did you even suggest it?”

“I… I thought you wanted this.”

“Why would I want this?” You shout with sudden rage. Mingi flinches at the volume of your voice, and for a split second, you feel bad. That goes away immediately though as you settle back into your anger. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“You agreed to it!”

“You should have known better. You’re my best friend!”

“I told you to say no at any time. I said if you didn’t want it, we didn’t have to, I told you that. Why are you suddenly so upset now? After what? Two months? Suddenly this is the worst thing in the fucking universe?” Mingi doesn’t look at you as he hisses the words, eyes forward on the steering wheel. You’re shaking again, but this time it’s the anger that causes you to tremble. Mingi is right. You know he’s right. That’s almost more infuriating.

He gave you the opportunity to walk away, he told you that you could say no, he left the door wide open for you to go. And yet you didn’t. For what? What was all this for? For some damn experience for a guy that you know you’re never going to ask out, let alone talk to? Good fucking riddance.

You push your way out of the car, legs shaky and trembling as you go. You don’t stop to look back at Mingi as you slam the door behind you. A few seconds after you leave the car, the car horn blares. You jerk your head to look back at the car and see Mingi slam a fist against the steering wheel. It’s not hard to walk away, but each step has your legs feeling like lead in an unexpected way. It’s hard to not think about your best friend sitting in the car with tears on his cheeks like yours. It’s hard to believe that Yeosang was right, and he literally warned you that this would happen. Yet you still ignored him. Why? Why, why, why?

You’ve never felt more stupid in your life.

⁂ ⁂ ⁂

“It’s weird, isn’t it?”

Mingi stands across from you, arms folded over his chest as he watches you pace back and forth in your living room. You aren’t sure why you agreed to bring him here. It’s been three weeks since the two of you last spoke, three weeks since that argument in the parking lot, and you aren’t sure what it was that convinced you to come when he asked to meet. You don’t stop pacing back and forth as you recall a conversation the two of you shared shortly before your fight.

“We kiss and do all this stuff… but I don’t feel a thing.”

Your chest tightens a little, but you manage to at least maintain a straight face as he looks at you pointedly. Still, you continue your small rant with a weaker voice.

“I’ve never been sexually or physically attracted to you. And that feels wrong for some reason. It feels like I’m doing something that isn’t right. Do you get that?”

“Yea…” Mingi trails off, looking away from your face to stare at the wall instead. “Is all love like this?”

“I have no clue.”

“I don’t want to be in a relationship if I’m not going to feel anything. That doesn’t sound enjoyable.”

“No, not at all.”

So why did you continue? Why the fuck did you both think it was a decent idea to let things blow up in your faces like this? Now you can barely stand to look at each other, let alone be in the same room as each other. It makes every damn class awkward and tense. Recently it’s escalated to a point where you refuse to sit near him, finding a new seat across the lecture hall just so that you don’t have to think about the things you did with him while sitting in the back. Yeosang stays at your side in those classes but casts glance after glance back at Mingi throughout the class.

It didn’t take long for Yeosang to confront you about what happened either. He first yelled at you for the sweatshirt incident, but that quickly turned into concern as he recalled the state Mingi was in when he returned home.

“What happened?”

“You were right.”

God, you almost wish that Yeosang had laughed in your face and said that he knew he was right. You just wanted him to lecture you and tell you off for what you did. Instead, you got a sympathetic sigh and disappointed stares.

“You were happier when the two of you were simply friends and nothing more.”

“I know. I knew that a while ago.”

“So why did you keep doing it?”

Why did you keep doing it? A fucking good question because you certainly don’t know the answer. You know that it became a habit in a short amount of time and quickly developed into a bad one. So maybe you have Yeosang to thank for the reason why you’re pacing in Mingi’s apartment with two fingers picking at your lower lip as though it will make you feel better. He told you that you should at least get closure. Closure for what? A ruined friendship?

“Uh, that girl… the girl I like started dating someone,” Mingi says after several minutes of silence. You whip your head to blink at him in surprise.

“And…?”

Mingi shrugs, obviously unsure of what to say next. He turns away from you. Your pacing comes to a halt at last, and you just stand in the middle of the room, staring at Mingi with glaring eyes.

“Makes me wonder, you know? What all of it was for.”

You have to bite your tongue to keep harsh words from leaving your lips. In the time apart, you have realized that not all of this was Mingi’s fault — you are at fault just as much as he is. That apology is so fucking hard to get out because you’re so upset with yourself for letting this happen.

“I’m sorry for getting us into this mess,” Mingi says, bringing a hand up to run through his dark hair. “I k-know there were th-things I sh–”

“It’s not only your fault.” You muster up enough courage to say the five words, then your voice seems to die in the back of your throat. Heaving a deep sigh, you force yourself to continue the thought. “I messed up too. I’m at fault too. I’m sorry for pinning all the blame on you. I was ashamed and embarrassed with myself and my actions, so I truly am sorry for yelling at you the way I did.”

“I… no, I did mess up a lot. Even if you agreed to it, it was still initially my fault. I-I’ve been hiding s-something from you.” Mingi’s words cause your heart to drop. You drop your arms by your side, barely able to look at his guilt-ridden face. Something tells you that you don’t want to hear whatever it is he has to say.

“What the hell is it, Mingi? And why did you wait until now to mention it?”

“I – well, I was scared to tell you initially. Then I was scared to leave without having a… I don’t know a special moment with you?”

“What are you talking about, Mingi?” Your throat feels tight all of a sudden, and you don’t dare look away from the man’s face. It’s his turn to pace now, walking back and forth before you as he wrings his hands together. “Song Mingi.”

“I’m transferring to another school at the end of the week. There is no girl I’m into. Min Hyerin is just a random classmate that I thought could pass as a crush. I-I’ve kinda, uh, I’ve liked you this whole time.”

Your jaw all but drops at his sudden revelation. All the air leaves your lungs, and you can’t look at him any longer, turning to face the wall instead.

“I got scared when you were talking about liking that guy from whatever class it was. Psychology? I don’t know… I was scared, and that’s why I suggested the idea of learning together. Then when we talked about it after I while, you said that you didn’t feel a thing when we were doing things together. All the hand-holding and the kissing and the fake dates… I wanted them to be real.”

“What the fuck?” You hiss out between gritted teeth. You are trying your best to hold your tears back, but reality is catching up too quickly for you to handle. “What the actual fuck, Mingi? You — you manipulated me? I-I don’t even know what the fuck I’m supposed to say. I just–” You can’t even finish the sentence, tears hitting your cheeks before you know it.

“I didn’t want to leave without shooting my shot at least. I’ve been planning to leave for a few months, but I was too scared to hurt you. I’m really sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

“Didn’t want to hurt me? You choose to manipulate me and use me for some sick fantasy of getting off to me while lying the whole time? Throwing away our relationship and using me? Abusing your position as my friend to get in my pants because you were jealous? What the fuck?” Mingi freezes under your barrage of words, seeming to shrink smaller and smaller as you continue. “If you wanted to shoot your damn shot, you should have been honest! Instead of using me and my firsts as a way of getting what you wanted! I hope your fucking happy with yourself.”

“I-I, no, I never meant to hurt you,” Mingi stammers.

“Then what did you mean to do then? Because I’m fucking confused and hurt beyond belief right now.”

“I…” Mingi trails off, unable to finish the sentence. You can barely see him through your tears, and no matter how many times you blink, you can’t get rid of them.

“Just get the fuck out. Just go. I don’t want to see you or hear you or talk to you. I don’t want you in my life anymore. Just fucking go.”

“I can’t. I can’t leave you alone like this. I–”

“Fuck off, Mingi. You can leave me alone like this, and you will. I don’t want any more damn apologies. Nothing is going to fix what you did. So just fucking go.”

Mingi stares at you for several moments without saying a word. You refuse to meet his gaze. Just thinking about being in the same room as him makes you want to vomit, and it causes a physical pain to constrict in your chest. How the hell did you end up here? Things weren’t supposed to turn out like this, things weren’t ever supposed to become this way, and yet here you are. There Mingi is. And between you — the ruins of a crumbled relationship.

And just like that, Song Mingi walks out of your apartment and out of your life, leaving a giant dork sized whole in your memories, but to you, it only feels like a waste. It was a waste of firsts and special moments. The effort put into a pointless relationship that ended in flames because you weren’t careful enough.

Perhaps one day, you will regret it and feel bad for cutting him off in such a cruel and hasty way, but you block Mingi’s number and all of his social media accounts. Yeosang gets the hint not to mention him even though he still keeps in contact with Mingi on occasion. He asked you to move into Mingi’s empty apartment space, and you said no at first. It was too much to think about, being in the same house where he lived, and it made you think about all the things you did together while there too much. Then Yeosang offered to move into Mingi’s room so that you could have his own instead, insisting that he was worried about you and wanted to at least look after you in some way. So you decided to agree and move into Yeosang’s old room. Eventually, you get used to the new arrangement and learn to deal with the bad memories that linger in your mind as you live there.

It takes time to do so – six months to be exact – with the passing of the semester and summer break and the entrance of the new school year that bleeds into the beginning of December far too quickly for your liking. It’s a cold and snowy Wednesday morning when Jung Wooyoung sits beside you in psychology, and yet it feels like nothing you’ve felt before. The cold doesn’t leave a mark on you, only Wooyoung does, a branded image over your cold heart when he turns and smiles at you, brushing long strands of black hair out of his eyes.

“Hi, I’m Jung Wooyoung. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

⁂ ⁂ ⁂ a/n: hi and welcome to the end of this way-too-long fic! i would really really love feedback and would love to know what you think of this part, as it is setting up for the future installments of the series, but it could be read on its own for its own story. but anyway! let me know what you think and thank you so much for reading :(

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yourfangirlfriend · 3 years

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It’s Nothing Serious

Chapter One

Multi-chapter if enough interest

Rating: E!

Summary: Well, your new neighbor certainly knows how to entertain his guests

It’s not serious

At least, not enough that you’d complain. It’s just sex. And it’s not unbearably loud. Honestly, you’re happy someone is having a good time. Unlike his bedroom (and, from the sound of it, his couch, his kitchen island, his front door), yours has been woefully quiet since you moved in. So, even though it’s annoying, those nights you can’t sleep and you’re staring up at the ceiling as the muffled moans and groans echo through the wall, you have to think:

Good for her.

Maybe it’s not a conventional way to learn your neighbor’s name, but after a week sharing a wall you’re pretty confident it’s Javi. Javier, if the woman he’s entertaining is feeling particularly formal. You’ve never seen him – heard him plenty, sure – but what little glimpses you almost catch are always just as he’s disappearing into his apartment or out the door. You’re not sure what you’d say, anyway – hey, I’m your neighbor, you have quite the voluminous orgasm – so you don’t make an effort to introduce yourself. Besides, if your shared wall is anything to go by, he seems quite busy.

Still, that doesn’t stop you from imagining it. You haven’t had time to meet many men since you moved down to begin your teaching job, and you haven’t made enough friends to go out with and find some. So, your first few months are just you, your hand, and what inspiration leaks through the walls you are increasingly becoming convinced are made of rice paper. You’re not proud of it, but it’s a healthier stress reliever than the cigarettes in your purse or the tequila you keep in your kitchen. Besides, if he was worried about someone listening, he could move his fucking bed. Or at least put a sock or something between the wall and the headboard.

One night though, you’re reckless. It’s been a particularly rough day at the school – how do you tell a bunch of kids some of their classmates died in a bombing? – and you’ve drunk your dinner and smoked dessert. Now you’re on your bed, hand down the front of your trousers, fingering yourself like a virgin trying to break their hymen so prom night won’t be a disaster. Behind you, Javier – well, Javi! tonight – is absolutely wrecking some lucky woman. Luckily, she doesn’t have that breathy baby voice the girl Saturday had, and every sound that came from the two of them was enough for you to lose yourself in the fantasy. It’s probably – well, that and the alcohol, the insane amount of stress and just a general lack of shits to give – why you let out such a loud moan when you finally cum on your fingers, unaware that your vocal contribution was not, as you assumed it would be, covered by the sounds coming from the next room, and instead cut through the rare silence that interspersed your neighbor’s rounds. It's only when you’ve come down from your high that you snap back up with the shattering realization that they definitely heard you.

The shame is multiplied in the morning, when your head is aching you sleep past your alarm. You try to shove it down, along with what little stomach contents you have left, as you pull your work clothes on and rush towards the door, a black heel in your hand as you turn the doorknob and rush outside. You lock the door before bracing against it to put your shoe on, your messy bun flopping forward when you see a pair of blue jeans and shoes standing in front of his own door.

Of course it’s today.

With your shoe secure, you stand back up and make eye contact with the subject of your masturbation sessions for the past three months. You two stand there for a moment, taking the other in. Annoyingly, he is good-looking. You’re somewhat lost in his eyes a bit before you catch yourself, and remember you’ve got fifteen minutes before a class full of eight-year-olds are left in a room with no supervision, scissors, and a very old and anxious pet hamster.

“Good morning, Javier,” you say before you can stop yourself. His eyebrows raise in surprise as you make a b-line for the doors, throwing them open and walking your burning face outside.

Maybe, deep down, you wanted this to happen. You never smoke outside your building, especially not once you got that window seat set up. Still, here you are at 5:30 pm standing outside your apartment complex smoking your second cigarette. You’re not sure if he’s home already, or held up doing whatever he does, but you still feel the desire to try. So you take another long drag and lean your head back, exhaling the puff of smoke into the sky above.

You jump when the door behind you swings open and there he is, his own cigarette caught between his lips. He doesn’t notice you at first, too concentrated on lighting the end. After a few attempts, he sighs and shoves the lighter back into his pocket.

“Need a light?” You ask.

He looks up and regards you for the second time that day. You extend your hand out, offering the cheap red lighter you bought from a corner shop your first night here. He hesitates a moment before reaching out and taking it from you.

You take a drag, considering his profile as he sparks up. You like his nose in particular and the way his dark eyes focus on the simple task at hand. You’re so entranced you visibly snap back when his eyes meet yours, handing back the lighter.

“Thanks,” he says around the cigarette. You wave your wrist before dropping the thing back in your purse. The two of you stand in the silence for a second, watching the empty street before you.

“So, you’re the new neighbor?”

You shrug. “Newish.”

“New to me,” he says. He turns towards you and extends a hand. “What’s your name?”

You mirror him and lean against the handrail by the stairs. “Eloise.”

He chuckles. “Like the kids’ books?”

“Yeah, my mom was the author.” You say with a straight face. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Really?” he asks.

“No. I’m fucking with you,” you bring the cigarette back up to your lips. His stupid, handsome face breaks out into a smile before he turns back to the front.

“Got me.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales again before turning to look at you.

“Thanks for the light, Eloise.”

“Anytime.”

He gives you a nod before he starts down the stairs. You watch him, letting the cigarette in your hand burn and die as your eyes follow him down the block until he disappears around a turn.

You’re not sure if it's unconscious, but you run into him in the mornings a lot more now. Sometimes he’s got his nightly companions with him, but most mornings it’s the two of you rushing out of your respective apartments. It starts with the usual greetings followed by an awkward, silent, shared walk through the doors and down the stairs before unceremoniously parting at their end. Sometimes he holds the door open for you, and you give him a hurried smile and nod as you rush through, your heels click-clacking against the tile before stepping down onto the concrete stairs. You can feel his eyes on your back when you walk down before him those days. It makes your face hot.

Perhaps a week into this routine you notice he’s begun smoking outside more when you return from work. He nods at you, and most evenings you find yourself joining him. As if payback for your early generosity, he always holds out his lighter to spark your cigarette. At first, it's just silent smoking sessions, the two of you standing in the quiet until someone finishes and throws their butt to the ground first. Then the little questions start. That second talk you discover you’re both from Texas – him from Laredo, you from El Paso. He asks if you know some shithead kids he went to school with, and you actually recognize one of the names. When he smiles at that, you find yourself wishing you knew them all.

One Friday when you return, you find him in his usual spot, leaning against the wall in those too tight blue jeans and a stupid pastel button-up– you’ve never seen a man with so many button-ups. You instinctively reach for your pack when he speaks up.

“You want to get a drink, neighbor?”

It’s nothing serious.

It’s just a drink. Or three.

You’re sat across from him, a slowly filling ashtray between the two of you. The conversation has stayed mostly light – how was your day, how was work (he works at the embassy, you’re not sure doing what), want another? It’s perfectly plain, and it almost feels like a drink you’d get with your brother when he finally asks:

“How’d you know my name?”

You almost choke on the sip you were taking. Coughing, you put the glass on the table and ask him to repeat himself, as if you didn’t hear him the first time.

“My name,” he says, and the way his voice emphasizes the word sends a tingle down your spine. “The morning we met.”

You wonder if you’re drunk enough to answer this truthfully. You take a drag of your cigarette.

“You’re smiling,” he says, breaking out into a grin. Underneath the table, you feel his knee hit yours and it’s like a shock across your skin.

“It’s, uh,” you exhale, taking the excuse to look anywhere else but at him. Emboldened by the drink, or maybe it’s just him, he nudges your hand.

“Go on, then.”

“Your, ah, guests.” You laugh.

“My-” he stops, realizing what you’re saying. The two of you hold eye contact for a second before descending into a fit of giggles.

“I, uh,” his hand goes to the back of his neck. “Ha…wow.”

“Hey, you should be proud,” you say. “It sounds like they’re having a great time.” You reach out for his lighter to re-light your cigarette. “Should move that fucking headboard, though. Like a drum major, some nights.”

He watches you as you inhale, running his thumb across his annoyingly puffy, never quite closed lips. You don’t realize you’re staring at them until his knee hits yours once again, jolting you back to the present.

“Maybe my guests could learn some manners from yours,” he says. You shake your head, too drunk to let the compliment lie.

“What guests,” you laugh.

“You know. Your gentleman callers.” He jokes. You roll your eyes and take another sip of your drink.

“Haven’t had a gentleman caller since I moved down here,” you admit. His eyebrows raise and you shoot him a look.

“Oh shut up,”

“I’m just surprised is all,” he says. “You…look like you. I thought you’d be knocking them back with a bat.”

“Flirt,” you chide. You shake your head. “Sadly, no. Only room for one Cassanova on the bottom floor,” you wink at him.

“There was-“ he begins, then closes his mouth. He reaches for his drink.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he smiles. You kick him under the table.

“What,”

“It’s not polite,” he teases you.

“Go on, I’m drunk enough.”

“I heard something…once. First time I realized someone actually lived there.” He laughs, bringing the glass to his lips. “Sounded like fun. Lucky guy.”

You laugh.

“…girl?” he offers, a sly smile playing across his lips.

“You could say that,” you laugh. He holds your gaze for a moment and you burst into giggles under his scrutiny. “Look, sometimes a girl is lonely and…” you giggle again. You’re definitely drunk. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

“No, go on, I’m intrigued,” he says, placing his drink back down and leaning forward. You flick your eyes back up to him.

“I mean…you’d get a bit jealous, wouldn’t you? Some woman next door is having the time of her life-”

“ ‘Time of her life'? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes and swirl your empty drink. “and you’re just…look, it’s been a long….”

Oh god. You do the math and cringe at the duration since the last time you got laid. You shake your head.

“A girl’s got needs. You seem to know all about that.” You laugh.

“Do I?” he asks, his voice noticeably deeper. You look up at him and see how dark his eyes are. His tongue darts out and wets his lips as those same eyes dip down from your face to your chest, your hands, back up to your lips.

“I…” you smile.

…Fuck.

It’s not serious.

It’s not.

It’s just two neighbors, very neighborly, fucking each other absolutely senseless.

You knew this is where it was going when you agreed to drinks. If you hadn’t, you knew the minute he asked you that question.

Do I?

Fuck off.

So when he offered to buy another round, you agreed. When he came back and sat next to you on the bench, you let him. By the end of the fourth drink, his hand was on your thigh, having pushed up your cute pencil skirt, and his mouth was on your ear, whispering the kinds of things he must have used on countless women before you. It worked, though, because after that last drink you were taking the hand he offered and following him out of the bar, down the street, and back into his apartment.

Once he got you inside, he was surprised to see you taking it all in. He came up behind you, his hands slipping around your waist as his mouth nipped at your neck.

“See something interesting?” he asked, annoyed your focus wasn’t solely on him.

“Feels like I’ve been let backstage,” you laugh, turning around and looping your arms around his neck.

“Yeah?” he leans forward and captures your mouth for the first time in a loud, puckering peck. You smile when he pulls away.

“Yeah, you won’t believe what I had to do to the security guard to get back here,” you shake your head.

“I think I can imagine,” he pulls you back into a kiss. His hands trail down your sides, traveling further down until he’s grasping at your ass through your skirt. You let out a sigh and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. You let out a small groan at the intrusion, reaching up and threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. You bite his top lip as his hands glide up to fiddle with the zipper at the back of your skirt. Breaking the kiss, you begin to play with the button at the nape of his neck.

“You have…”

“What?” he breathes. The zipper is down and his hand slips between the fabric, grabbing your bare ass. God, what a good day to wear a thong.

You laugh. “So many button-ups,” you spring the first button free and dip your face down to kiss his neck in a show of appreciation. He lets out a soft moan as you continue to work the buttons free, your hands taking a moment to explore the expanse of skin before moving on to the next. You feel him shimmy your skirt down and you aid him by working your hips until the fabric falls to the floor. As if he’s out of patience, he pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere, his attention back on your lips as he cups your face and brings you in for another deep, searing kiss. And god, what a mouth. It’s plump and plush and so soft.

It takes a lot to break away from them.

“Bed, I think,” you huff. He nods, his hand dropping down to grab your hand and pull you along the empty hallways towards the bedroom – a strange mirror to your own apartment. Once he’s got the door open he pulls you inside until you tumble into him, pressed against his front with a giggle.

“Take this off,” he says, pulling at the hem of your shirt. You let him pull it over your head and drop it to the floor. In a move that’s too practiced, he unclasps your bra and lets it fall with the shirt before cupping your breasts in his big, warm hands. Heat pools between your thighs – god, it really has been long – and you find yourself pushing him back towards the bed. He falls back with a thump, looking up at you expectantly.

You reach up, pulling your hair out of its hold and letting it fall to your shoulders. Holding his gaze, you hook your fingers around the hem of your underwear and pull them down until you can pull one leg out. Tossing them somewhere in the dark, you lower yourself onto him, crawling up his body until you sit astride his hips and begin to unbuckle his belt and fiddle with the zipper. When he springs free, you smile.

“Of course you don’t wear underwear,” you say. He smiles as he sits up, reaching to pull your mouth down to his.

“Just gets in the way,” he says before his lips press against yours again. You reach down and take him in your hand, slowly jerking up and down as he lets out little breathy sighs in your mouth. You increase the pace, enjoying hearing his noises for once before he pulls away from you and sits upon his knees on the bed.

“What-”

“Lay back,” he instructs, pulling the jeans down before falling onto his back and kicking them off. You lower yourself down, watching as he rolls off the bed and stalks towards its end. One hand wraps around your ankle and pulls you down, causing you to squeak in surprise. His hands trace up the insides of your legs, and it’s a beat before you realize what he’s about to do. His lips follow his finger’s trail, leaving open mouth kisses until he’s there and his hot breath on you is enough to make you cum right then and there. You screw your eyes shut as you feel a finger enter you, and despite yourself you let out a small moan. Proud of himself, he pulls back and thrusts back into you before bringing his lips down to wrap around your clit. You buck up against him, which only encourages him to add another finger and swirl his tongue around you.

“Fuck-” you breathe, reaching down to fist the sheet beside you. He pumps into you again and you try your best to keep the moan threatening to escape caught in your throat. He sucks at you, lazily pumping in until you’re too slick and squirming against him, urging him to go faster because you’re so so so close. Devilishly, he licks your length before circling your bundle of nerves with his thumbs, looking up at you as your back arches and your foot kicks out.

“Keep- keep-”

Then.

The fucking bastard pulls his hand back.

Absolutely outraged you shoot up to see him standing, sucking his fingers.

“Why did you stop?” You breathe. He smiles as he pulls his hand from his mouth.

“Was wondering why you’re being so quiet,” he laughs. “Thought I wasn’t living up to the hype.”

“You were,” you insist. He smiles as he walks around to his nightstand and pulls the drawer open. You hear the foil packet tear before you can see the glint in the light.

“I think I’ll have to do better,” he says once he’s settled back on the bed. He pulls you astride of him, and you feel the head of his cock press against your entrance. You let out a shaky breath as his hands grip at your hips.

“Don’t be afraid to make noise,” he says, kissing along your jaw. “My neighbor likes to listen.”

“Oh fuck y-” the words turn into a moan as he pushes up into you, stretching you out across him. You let out a fluttering gasp as you take all of him in, so warm and big and good. When he bucks up into you again, you let out a girly, breathy gasp, then again when he rocks your hips back and forth. Before you know it you’re pressing him down into the mattress, righting yourself against the banging headboard as you bounce on top of him, impaling yourself on him and the aching stretch of him inside you. You let out another moan as he brings a hand up and slaps your ass, and you suddenly realize how easy it must have been for these women to lose themselves shamelessly in the noise and feeling.

“Like that,” he says, his own voice deep and breathy. “Just like that, baby.”

You hum as you roll your hips against his, your clit pressed against the wiry hairs that cover his public bone. Without warning, though, you find yourself being knocked onto your side and hauled up on your hands and knees. Before you can say anything, he rocks back into you, causing you to let out another loud gasp as he begins to fuck you from behind. You bite your lip as he plunges in and out of you, the pace is more quick and unforgiving than it had been. The feeling inside you builds and you squeeze your eyes shut, reaching up in between your legs to touch yourself.

“Fuck…fuck,” you head from behind you. You speed your fingers up and he continues to fuck you, your moans coming fast and ragged now. What was happening? You were never particularly loud before, but now-

“I’m going-“ you warn him. He slams back into you as if encouraging you, and you’re just so full of him and that sweet slide of him inside you and your fingers working in small circles. You’re surprised, then, when you feel his hand fall on your shoulder and pull you up onto your knees, his hands groping at your breasts as he bites where your neck meets your shoulder. You let out a groan as he pinches a nipple and fucks up and into you.

“I’m-”

“Cum,” he instructs, and it’s enough. You clench around him, harder than you have in months. You let out a cry as you ride out the spasms, the firmness of him inside you feeling so impossibly good and foreign. He follows not long after, and you feel him pulse inside you as he cums, a little pathetic cry escaping his lips.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, panting and sweaty. After a moment, you feel his hands on your hips relax, and slowly, almost tenderly, he pulls out of you Exhausted, as if he was the only thing keeping you up, you fall forward onto your stomach, letting out a hefty exhale.

Behind you, you hear him shuffle around, take off the condom, and go dispose of it in the kitchen. A minute later you feel his weight on the bed once more next to you, and you turn to look up at him. He’s got two cigarettes in his mouth and lights one after the other. Satisfied they won’t go out, he plucks one from his lips and holds one out to you.

“What a gentleman,” you say, bringing it to your lips. He chuckles and relaxes down next to you.

“What was it you said? I know all about a girl’s needs?” he sends you an impish look. You roll your eyes.

“One fuck after nine months of celibacy doesn’t make you a god,” you laugh, taking a drag. He shakes his head.

“Give me thirty minutes.”

It’s nothing serious. It’s nothing serious. It’s nothing serious.

#javier peña x reader #javier peña #javier peña x oc #narcos #narcos tv

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fanficsfromyesteryear · 3 years

Text

SICK & TIRED

A STRANGER THINGS ONE SHOT

— PAIRING: Billy Hargrove x Reader — WORD COUNT: 2,077 — WARNINGS: Cursing, Billy being...himself — REQUESTED BY: @udontneedtokno

Um hi, can I request a billy x fem reader where she Is feeling a bit sick and crappy and he takes care of her? Also could you make it so they aren’t dating yet so he’s still a bit of a meanie and flirts pretty hard with her while he’s taking care of her? I love ur billy x readers sm🥺💖

— A/N: First of all, thank you so much?? Honestly, he’s my favorite character to write for. He’s so unapologetically rude and flirtatious, and I think it’s hilarious. Secondly, I’m sooooo sorry about how long this took!! Life got really busy for a while, so I didn’t have much time to sit down and write, but it’s slowed down again for the time being. Anyway, I can’t even tell you how excited I was when I saw your request! I’m such a sucker for sick reader/character storylines, probably because I relate to them so much. Any time my stomach hurts even slightly, you would think I’m dying with how much I milk it. I had lots of fun writing this, and I hope it was worth waiting for!!

Despite your best efforts to convince your mom to let you skip school, she wasn’t having it. For one, she thought you were just being overdramatic—so what if your nose was a little runny? She handed you a pack of Kleenex, forced cough syrup down your throat, and shoved you out the front door with a promise that you would be fine. You weren’t so sure, and your suspicions were only confirmed when you ran out of tissues by the end of first period, and instead of clearing your head, the medicine had only succeeded in making you drowsy. More than once, you felt yourself slipping away from reality—you weren’t quite falling asleep, but you could tell that you weren’t wholly present either. You wanted nothing more than to go home and take a nap, but your mom was at work, and you didn’t trust yourself to walk all that way on your own.

“Wow, Y/N, you look like shit.”

You were standing in the hallway, unsure of how you had come to be there—you must’ve zoned out again. With a blank stare, you turned to look at Billy Hargrove, who was leaning with his back to the locker beside yours. “Thank you,” you said, sniffing. You couldn’t breathe—it felt like you had a thick wad of cotton shoved inside each nostril. “I feel like shit, too.” As if on cue, you let out a sneeze.

Billy backed away, warily studying you. You had dark circles beneath your puffy eyes, and your nose was red and raw from being smothered with one too many tissues. You looked absolutely miserable, and even though a part of him wanted to stay as far away from you as possible—just in case whatever you had was contagious—he felt bad for you more than anything. He reached up to brush aside a stray piece of your hair. “Hey—” Billy was about to say more but stopped himself mid-sentence, his hand lingering on the side of your face as his eyebrows scrunched together. “You’re kinda hot,” he informed you.

Letting out a groan, you rolled your eyes and swatted his hand away. “Billy, I’m not in the mood for any of your—”

“No, seriously. I think you have a fever or something.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” you said simply. Turning, you started off down the hallway toward your next class. You’d gotten this far—you might as well stick it out until the end of the day. As much as you didn’t want to be there, you didn’t have much of a choice. You figured you might as well try to carry on like normal.

Billy thought otherwise. You hadn’t gotten far when you felt his hand wrap around your elbow. He pulled you backwards, and in your weakened state, you were in no shape to fight against him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Billy demanded.

“To class,” you said, your voice muffled by your hand as you wiped your nose on the sleeve of your sweater.

Billy scoffed. “No, you’re not,” he said. “You’re sick.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” you whined. “My mom’s at work, and—”

“I’ll take you home,” Billy offered. “I need an excuse to get out of here anyway.” Before you could argue any further, Billy slung his arm around your shoulders and led the way outside.

As the two of you trekked across the parking lot to where his Camaro was parked on top of the hill, you were grateful for how close Billy was—you could lean on him for support whenever the need arose, which proved to be quite often.

Billy made sure to help you into the passenger seat—“Watch where you put your hands, Hargrove”—but as he was climbing into the car himself, he looked to you with an air of seriousness. “You better not puke in here,” he warned. “If you do, you’re cleaning it up.”

“I’m not gonna puke.” You hoped that was true because you knew Billy well enough by now to know that he wasn’t kidding, and you didn’t feel like scrubbing your own throw up out of his car’s upholstery.

As the Camaro pulled out onto the main road, you could feel your eyelids growing heavy. At some point, you must’ve drifted off because by the time Billy’s car came to a stop in front of your house, he glanced over to find you fast asleep. Billy yanked his keys out of the ignition and got out with a heavy sigh. As he bent down to scoop you up, he grumbled about how you were going to give him whatever the hell was plaguing you. He concluded with, “Be glad you’re cute,” before kicking the car door shut and walking up the driveway.

Once inside, Billy dumped you onto the couch in the living room. He stepped back and stared at you for a moment with crossed arms as he tried to assess the situation. What had he gotten himself into? He didn’t know the first thing about taking care of sick people—he avoided sick people, mainly because he couldn’t be bothered with them, not to mention how gross they were. You were different, though, and Billy mentally kicked himself for feeling that way. All this trouble just to get you to like him? It was a new low.

When you awoke, you were surprised to find yourself inside your house with a blanket thrown across you, alongside Billy, who was sitting on the other end of the couch with your feet in his lap. You couldn’t remember having walked in—maybe that cough medicine was still messing with your head—and you hadn’t expected Billy to stick around. You had assumed he’d drop you off and then be on his merry way. As far as you could tell, he wasn’t exactly a nurturer. At the very least, you doubted this was how he wanted to be spending his time away from school.

As soon as Billy felt you stirring, he glanced over tentatively and caught sight of you staring at him. He raised his eyebrows in question. “What?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to still be here,” you answered.

Billy looked almost offended at this. “And leave my favorite girl to die alone? I would never.”

A small laugh escaped your chapped lips. “I’m not dying,” you said, poking Billy’s knee with the toe of your sneaker. “At least, I won’t be once I take the right medicine.” You must’ve slept off the effects of the cough syrup your mom had given you—you were no longer insufferably tired, which was a plus, but the congestion in your head had culminated into a headache, and it had brought a side of chills with it. You swung your legs over the side of the couch and were about to get up when Billy stopped you.

“No,” Billy said, pushing you back down. “I’ll get it.”

You told Billy where the bathroom was and what to grab—“Aspirin’s fine”—then he disappeared down the hallway branching off of your living room. You were no expert on what the average time should’ve been for completing such a task, but after several minutes had passed and Billy still hadn’t returned, you started to wonder what was taking so long.

The answer to your silent question came in the form of Billy irritably yelling, “Y/N, why do you have so much shit in here?”

Grumbling, you rose from your spot on the couch and shuffled into the bathroom. “What do you mean?” you asked.

Billy turned to find you standing at his elbow, wrapped up in a blanket somewhat reminiscent of the way E.T. had been in the flying bike scene. Only your pouting face protruded from the folds of fabric. The blond couldn’t help cracking a smile at your appearance—comical, yet undeniably cute—and just like that, he had forgotten what it was that had caused your sudden presence.

You took no time jogging Billy’s memory. “It’s right there,” you said, your eyes resting on a bottle sitting on the bottom shelf of your medicine cabinet. A moment later, your hand poked through the blanket and seized the small container. You bumped Billy out of the way as you popped a pill into your mouth and stepped in front of the sink to pour yourself a glass of water. By the time you’d swallowed, he was gone.

“Billy?” you called, stepping out of the bathroom.

Billy’s voice came from somewhere down the hall, saying, “Holy shit, Y/N, is this your room?”

You appeared behind Billy in an instant, latching onto his arm and giving it a tug. “Oh, my God,” you said, your face burning. “Don’t go in there. It’s a mess!”

Being the sort of person that likes to do the exact opposite of what he’s told, Billy easily pulled free from your grasp and wandered inside. He was like a kid in a candy shop as he admired the things lining your shelves—trinkets, books, records, and the like—with wide eyes. Bedrooms tell a lot about the person to whom they belong, and boy, was Billy learning about you.

“And, who is this?” Billy asked with a devious smile as he picked up the faded brown teddy bear that had been lodged between the pillows on your bed.

Groaning, you buried your face in your hands, the soft fabric of the blanket covering your eyes. You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. If you had known that Billy Hargrove, of all people, was going to be in your room later, you would’ve made an effort that morning to clean up a bit—at the very least, you would’ve hidden anything embarrassing.

You risked a peek up at Billy, but he wasn’t where you’d last seen him. Instead, he’d moved over to your dresser and was rummaging through its drawers. How typical, you thought with a roll of your eyes. I look away for one second, and already, he’s trying to find my underwear.

Billy achieved his goal, too—you could tell by the cheeky grin on his face. His gaze cut over to you, then back down to the contents of the drawer in front of him, nodding thoughtfully all the while. He was about to pull something out, but you intervened—extending an arm, you slammed the wooden compartment shut, and if Billy hadn’t been so quick to pull his hands out of the way, he would’ve gotten his fingers smashed.

“That’s enough of that,” you said, grabbing Billy’s hand and dragging him back into the living room.

“You’re no fun,” Billy complained.

Both of you returned to your spots on the couch in moody silence. You tried to cross your arms, but you stopped abruptly when you realized that your fingers were still entwined with Billy’s. Blushing, you glanced down at your hands, then up at him, however, he didn’t seem to be paying you any mind. He was facing the wall directly opposite the couch with his eyes closed.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

Billy raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment. “Trying to picture you in that underwear,” he stated simply, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

You snatched your hand away to shove him with it. “You’re the worst, Billy Hargrove,” you said, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your mouth afterward.

“Damn it, Y/N,” Billy said. “I can’t concentrate with you giggling like that.”

“Good!” you remarked, nose held in the air as you squinted tauntingly at Billy.

Despite the two of you constantly teasing each other, you actually felt substantially better by the time Billy left your house that afternoon to pick Max up from school. He may not have been a doctor in the making, but where he lacked in nurturing qualities, he made up for with playful flirting and good company, and as they say, laughter’s the best medicine. You thought your troubles were over until you woke up the next morning to the sound of your phone ringing.

“Hello?”

You were answered with a sneeze from the other end of the line, followed by a hoarse voice saying, “This is your fault.”

“Aw, Billy, are you sick?” you asked, feigning surprise as you bit back a chuckle.

“Yeah, I’m sick,” Billy whined. “Get over here and fix it.”

“What’s the magic word?”

Another sneeze, then, “Now.”

And your mom thought you were dramatic when you were sick. As if.

#billy hargrove #stranger things #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove one shot #stranger things x reader #stranger things one shot

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leia-imogen · 3 years

Text

aaron & the family he's found all by himself; vol. 2 // vol. 1

( ft. short jokes, a belated birthday shopping trip, & an ultra-chaotic winter break )

( for @criswisstuff & anyone who enjoyed the first one <3 )

savannah, who is 5'9, is constantly teasing aaron and cleo for being short. katelyn's good at 5'6, and also a bit impossible to tease bcs she's the actual best, so she gets to escape this

cleo ( 5'2 ) is perfectly delighted to have someone shorter than her for once in her life, even by only 2 inches

aaron: guys, just try and see this from my point of view

sav: [ collapses ]

katelyn: [ crouches down ]

cleo: [ sits cross-legged on floor ]

aaron: dude you're literally 2 inches taller than me

cleo: 2 and a quarter

sav is so smug about this but in a good-natured way, in that she and cleo call aaron "kid" or "kiddo" or "pipsqueak" and he doesn't mind bcs they always say it w such a huge smile and he likes to respond to sav with "how's the weather up there, tall-ass?"

and katelyn thinks it's ridiculously adorable how tiny aaron is and obviously she uses him as an armrest all the time

katelyn, petting aaron's hair: guys guys omg he's like an angsty mini blond kitten and i would kill for him <3

sav, popping up between them: mini-yard :))

before i get super distracted, i just wanna mention that aaron met sav and cleo towards the end of november, so they missed the twin's birthday

but sav still insists that she must take him shopping bcs sure his fashion sense is fine but there's always room for improvement, isn't there, aaron??

he relents, so long as she and cleo and katelyn ( who already gave him a birthday present?? why's she doing this??? ) don't spend too much money

sav drags him all around south carolina to the best thrift stores she can find and cleo and katelyn are amazed that she can get such fantastic deals on the supermodel clothes she wears

fr she's literally a fashion design major ( + minoring in business management ) and she shows up to class in skilfully done drugstore makeup and an absolutely killer outfit for like 15 bucks

she grew up poor, and she's still poor now, even if she ( thankfully ) managed to scrape a cheerleading scholarship

sav, flicking through a rack of dresses labelled $4 apiece: RIP to little miss rich bitch reynolds but i'm different ;)

no hate to allison she's awesome but she grew up in the lap of luxury surrounded by designer brands so she knows NOTHING about thrifting and rationing money in general

oh and sav and allison have kind of a frenemies thing going on bcs they're both fighting for the top spot of their fashion design course

they spend the whole day shopping and aaron ends up with a highly upgraded wardrobe that contains a lot of cute pastel stuff and sav's promise to do his makeup

aaron insists on paying for dinner at the really nice pizza place a short drive from campus even tho they all protest

and andrew knows he's found new friends, but has no idea that it's the vixens and he's dating one of them. nicky does tho, but he's sworn to secrecy

nicky thinks his new clothes are adorable and is stunned when aaron tells him the total cost

"oh my GOD that girl sounds like a genius."

"yeah, her name's sav. you guys,, would get along, i think."

okay now for the winter break part!!

i think that you can get permission to stay at dorms if you're an international student or something??

anyways since sav's super upset bcs her father straight-up told her not to come home bcs he has a new girlfriend ( god i hate sav's father )

katelyn would stay with her, but her dad can finally have her home in new york for christmas and she really doesn't want to miss it

cleo, the only one with a properly functional family, is going back to her big family house and loving parents and grandma and aunt and siblings and cousins. love that for her.

so aaron and sav are stuck at psu for 2 weeks and aaron's surprisingly cool with this. and sav's excited bcs for the first time since her mom died, she can spend her christmas with someone she actually wants around instead of her shitty-ass father and his constant stream of bitchy girlfriends

they spend a lot of time together, stealing food from the athlete's dining hall to make their own weird combos, which usually ends with aaron making something Cool and Interesting and sav gagging and spitting out whatever strange concoction she had previously insisted would taste good

i literally can't bring myself to give a shit about the twinyards' deal bcs andrew literally became best friends with renee?? and hooks up with guys at eden’s??? idk what's going on there but it's like andrew is trying to control aaron's life while he can do whatever he wants??? and honestly wtf????

also let me just make it clear that i ADORE andrew so so much he's one of my favourite comfort characters ever but i'm not gonna make excuses for his shitty behaviour. i fully believe he heals and puts away his pride to apologise to aaron, nicky, and kevin for his treatment of them

that's definitely not to say that aaron's internalised homophobia isn't eww, but with so many important people in his life gay, he makes a huge effort to get over it

so andrew just thinks that aaron is spending a lot of time in the library or out with nicky or something

and when aaron tells sav about this deal, she's kinda horrified, but it's pretty clear to her that aaron so desperately wants to fix his relationship with his brother, and she's not in any place to discourage him, is she?

the only thing she can do is hope that he won't come out all the worse for it

and stare at the boy curled up on the other end of the pale pink sofa cleo's parents had gotten, wonder just how much shit he'd been put through, and decide she was going to be his best friend

aaron's face has gone entirely impassive. sav nudges his fluffy-socked foot with her own, then reaches out to smooth the crease between his eyebrows. "careful, you'll wrinkle your pretty little face."

aaron is very caught off guard by this, and very promptly flushes bright red, which contrasts with the pale teal hoodie he stole from katelyn

"okay, enough talk about depressing crap. wanna go make christmas cookies now?"

"yeah."

so they make christmas cookies. well, it was supposed to be christmas cookies, but it turns into double chocolate fudge cookies somewhere along the line. neither of them knows how

them baking together is the definition of chaos. they're still blasting songs, and sav is singing along terribly

"yOu'Re A mEaN oNe, Mr. GrInCh," while poking aaron's cheek as he tries to mix something. he throws a handful of flour at her. "yOu ReAlLy ArE A hEel."

anyways obviously sav retaliates and that ends in a flour fight. it only stops when aaron deadass cracks an egg on sav's head and she smears chocolate into his hair

she also tries to make him sing along to baby, it's cold outside

"i'Ve GoT tO Go `wAAyyy~" she holds a spatula up to his face

"go away."

they video call katelyn, who takes one look at the mess in the cramped dorm kitchen and sighs so loudly and dramatically that her dad pops in and asks if everything's okay

aaron freezes up at the sight of him and sav quickly turns off the camera, bcs they both want to make good impressions on him, and being covered in various cookie ingredients just won't cut it, ya know?

the cookies turn out delicious and sav sends all their group chat various photos of the process, most of which consist of selfies with her making goofy faces while aaron is simultaneously baking and flipping off the camera

plus a several videos of sav enthusiastically dancing and mouthing the lyrics of, as follows, all i want for christmas is you, let it snow, and santa claus is coming to town and aggressively pointing a spatula at aaron

"c'mon aari, just sing! please??? please???? please you can do it i believe in you!!"

finally he just. gives up. "okay, you know what? fine, i'll sing to ONE and then you will STOP bothering me you insolent dumbass."

sav beams. santa baby starts playing. aaron is very clearly going through five stages of grief in 0.5 seconds

"go on," sav says sweetly as she slides in next to a pouting aaron, "i'll sing with you."

sav slings an arm around his shoulder and sways with him, so it's just her doing that and him grumpily mumbling the lyrics

and when the cookies are cooling down, they start cleaning the kitchen up. aaron rubs some spilled egg yolk into sav's hair but it goes pretty okay otherwise, since they're just listening to more christmas songs and chatting about light stuff, like aaron's biochem course, sav's fashion course, and their dumb classmates

aaron mostly listens tho, and learns that sav kind of hates allison reynolds for giving up her inheritance when she would do ANYTHING for even the tiniest fraction of that money

but she still thinks allison's gorgeous bcs c'mon

and that sav's dream is to one day open her own boutique!!

aaron spends most of the actual christmas day with the monsters at eden's bcs nicky and andrew wanted to

he spent a lot of the time texting on their group chat

doessavvyisgay: so u just go to a nightclub every week??

unaliveme: i mean yeah, i literally worked here for a while. we needed money and nicky was already working 2 jobs night and day

actualblessing: babe ur backstory is so tragic

unaliveme: i'm a fox for a reason ig

cleo.magda: Yes but-

doessavvyisgay renamed this conversation "aaron miniyard support group"

unaliveme: oh ffs

unaliveme: sav subject change go

doessavvyisgay: i'm at the clothes store what should i get?

actualblessing: something pretty :)

doessavvyisgay: sorry, i can't buy the cashier

cleo.magda: Wow.

doessavvyisgay: I DID GET HER NUMBER THO

unaliveme: lmaooo what's her name?

doessavvyisgay: uh

unaliveme: savannah istg u don't even know her name??

actualblessing: s a v

actualblessing: damn u really do be turning on the Charm tho

actualblessing: respect i didn't even talk to aaron till i asked him for notes bcs he has rly pretty notes and also a rly pretty face

actualblessing: and even then i was like :0

unaliveme: IT WAS CUTE I PROMISE

doessavvyisgay: u 2 = the only valid heterosexual couple

actualblessing: rt

unaliveme: oh shit i'm getting super drunk

cleo.magda: Aaron, you drink? That's not legal, get out of there right now. Kids these days-

unaliveme: cleo u have literally seen me get drunk af,, the first time we met,,, and anyways this is how my family bonds ✌🏻

doessavvyisgay: that's. so damn weird kiddo but go off ig

actualblessing: no go find better things to bond about other than alcohol and weird sweaty dancing

cleo.magda: Yeah, go watch some Christmas movies!

unaliveme: nicky makes us watch die hard every year

doessavvyisgay: see u in hell, kiddo ;)

cleo.magda: I meant things like The Polar Express and Home Alone.

actualblessing: merry christmas ya filthy animals!!

doessavvyisgay: merry xmas y'all i'm gonna go to that christmas party bcs i'm super bored

unaliveme: merry christmas mothers and fuckers

cleo.magda: Merry Christmas, you guys!

#aaron & the family he's found all by himself #okay this was most aaron and sav centric #but i love them so.#aftg headcanons #aftg #all for the game #the foxhole court #aaron minyard headcanons #the vixens #aaron minyard #andrew minyard #twinyards #nicky hemmick #katelyn aftg #katelyn finley #sav jameson #cleo magdalene

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moonstruckbucky · 4 years

Text

The Recruit (6/?)

Summary: Becoming a SHIELD agent had been your dream and finally, you’ve achieved it. You’re at the top of your class in every field except one—hand to hand combat, and it doesn’t impress Captain Rogers in the slightest. Instead, it seems to convince him you’re useless, setting off a tense relationship between the two of you. In an effort to bridge the gap, Bucky offers to help you train to earn your way back into Steve’s good graces. What could possibly go wrong?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader x Bucky Barnes (not Stucky)

Warnings for Chapter: Some swearing.

Notes: Wow, last chapter blew the fuck up. I’m excited that y’all seemed to hate that cliffhanger, but I hope this chapter makes up for it! Enjoy! x

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Captain Rogers looks awkward in your living space - broad, large, and imposing where he sits on the couch. He sits stiffly, feeling out of place in your personal space, your private space, observing the tiny glimpses of who you are. He doesn’t feel he deserves it, doesn’t deserve the chance you’ve, to his own shock, given him.

Your rigid posture, hands behind your back, imply you’re expecting orders. And despite his attitudes toward you, you’d obey without question.

It makes his mouth twitch sadly, and he shakes his head. The gesture draws your eyebrows downward. Confusion, perplexion - he can’t blame you. He’d stood outside your door for thirty minutes and he’s still unsure of what he’s actually going to say.

How about, I’m sorry?

He knows you’re losing your already waning patience with him the longer he remains silent. Swallowing heavily, he forces himself to meet your eyes.

“I… I owe you some apologies.”

You almost succeed in masking the sheer shock your expression morphs into, but you aren’t quick enough. He huffs through his nose, a bit amused by you.

“I know it isn’t what you were expecting to hear but… I’d been doing some thinking - a lot of thinking, actually - and the way I’ve been treating you is far from fair. Or right. I haven’t been very accommodating to you since you first interviewed here, and for that, I’m sorry.”

It’s deathly silent between the two of you, and you’ve managed to school your features back into that quiet stoicism that kind of unnerves him. He can’t tell what you’re thinking, and each second you don’t speak drags by like a lifetime.

“What game are you playing, Captain?” you finally retort, terse and clipped. Even from across the room he can see the suspicion in your eyes, the mistrust. He hates that he’d been the one to put it there.

He spreads his hands, a gesture of innocence. “No games, I promise. I know I haven’t given you any reasons to trust me but, I sincerely hope you believe my sincerest apology. My treatment of you...it wasn’t intended to be personal…”

“It sure as hell felt personal,” you snap, and Captain Rogers winces, nodding in understanding. “I mean, what’s your angle here, Captain?”

The title is said scathingly, mockingly, a sneer curling your features. A look that’s so familiar when it’s directed at him it makes his stomach sink, makes it feel like it’s full of rocks. The guilt and disgust with himself puts a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

“What are you getting out of this? There’s no way you’ve just happened to have a change of heart.”

“And if I have?” he questions sincerely.

“Then I don’t believe you,” is your immediate reply. Muscles in your jaw jumping, you continue, “From the get-go you have been nothing but a self-righteous asshole to me, ridiculing me in front of the other agents, second-guessing me, making me feel like I’d chosen the wrong career. You make me feel small, Captain Rogers, and like I don’t belong here. That being said, if your opinion of me actually mattered as much as you think it does, I would have put my notice in months ago.”

He knows the feeling of not being taken seriously, knows the pressure of being underestimated, ridiculed, taunted, pushed until he thinks he’s going to break. The fact he’s pushed you to this point puts nausea in his stomach.

You, meanwhile, can see every emotion as it plays out across his face. The furrow in his brow has grown more prominent, his frown deeper, fingers tightening into fists where they rest on his thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut and for a moment, he looks like he’s going to be sick. A small part of you realizes he’s actually disgusted in learning how he’s made you feel, but the angrier, less rational side of you is quickly stomping it back down.

He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness - not yet. Too many months had been spent questioning yourself, your training, your confidence. Your resentment of him for making you feel such a way is nearly palpable.

“You’ll understand why I’m having trouble believing a single word you’ve said to me.” Not a question, but a confident statement, and he can only nod. He’s done a lot of that in the time he’s been here, but he deserves every biting remark and question of motive you throw at him.

“So...where do we go from here?”

A valid question, but you aren’t sure of the answer, not right away. A few more moments’ pause and then:

“Give me time. Treat me like a human being, like an agent. Like I belong here because you and I know both know that I do. Start with that, and we’ll see. I can promise to remain professional - but only that.”

“I understand,” he says, and he stands because he’s getting the feeling he’s beginning to overstay his very reluctant welcome. “I know you don’t trust me, but I hope I can earn it back. You are a good agent, Y/N, truly. One of the best I’ve seen.”

He departs after your sharp inhale, a compliment that staggers you, honest-to-god nearly brings you to tears. Because even though he’s been a royal pain in your ass, it’s all you’ve ever wanted to hear him say.

You’re sure that makes you some kind of mental case, but you can’t find it in you to care. Once the door closes, your knees buckle, dropping you into the armchair. A few tears escape your eyes, emotions in overdrive - first the incident with Bucky, and now this? Your head is spinning, a pulse behind your eyes that warns of an oncoming migraine.

You groan, dig your fingers into your eyes because while dealing with the typhoon that is Captain Rogers, you’d forgotten about Bucky. You’d kissed him, or he’d kissed you - you aren’t really sure how it happened, only that it did.

And it shouldn’t have.

As comfortable as you feel around Bucky, as addictive as his presence is, this can only spell trouble - for you and for him. For one, he’s a higher rank, a commanding officer right underneath Captain Rogers. If anything were to happen between you, it’d be so deeply frowned upon you’d probably have to find another job.

Slamming your fist into the couch feels counterproductive and not nearly as satisfying as punching a wall, but you doubt Director Hill would appreciate having to repair it. So you settle for a hot shower and some Bailey’s in a cup of coffee, a book in bed once you’ve rubbed your skin raw. You have a mission debrief later this afternoon, your second mission, and you can’t help the swell of insecurity - will you fuck this one up like you almost did the last one?

Cursing under your breath at the endless bout of tug-of-war in your head, you abandon the book and rifle through your files for the mission summary. You’re determined to do this next one right.

A part of you, a tiny, miniscule part that speaks up against the crowd, wants to do this to prove Captain Rogers right - that you are a good agent, and that hiring you had been a benefit to SHIELD. You’re determined not to let your blunder on your first mission become your legacy. It bothers you that you feel this way - after all, you’d asserted to the Captain himself that you didn’t give a shit what he thought of you.

It clouds your concentration - your insistence that the Captain’s opinion doesn’t matter, yet your determination to earn your place amongst the ranks. Growling under your breath, you force yourself to memorize the mission notes front and backwards, shove the Captain and his opinions to the back of your head.

You take the stairs down to the conference room, give yourself a little more time to pour over the debrief. When you get there, you’re surprised to see Sam Wilson amongst the six other agents chosen for this mission.

“Agent L/N,” Hill greets, standing at the forefront of the room in front of a projector screen. She waits for you to take your seat before launching into the mission.

A drug kingpin who grew a little too curious about sense-enhancing substances. A bit too close to HYDRA territory, and it’s a simple extraction job. In and out, cease and desist.

Sam’s sent for supervision, to act as the senior agent in case things go awry. To your delight, they don’t. In fact, things go very, very well. Instead of being ordered to stay behind, Sam assigns you the lead position, lets you map out the plan to the other agents. A few heated glares, others envious of the responsibility you’re given, but overall, your plan comes to fruition neatly and quietly. Minimal hand-to-hand, zero injuries or deaths on either side, and you’ve successfully pilfered the scientific documents for the new substances.

You’re congratulated by Sam back on the jet, a bright grin against his dark skin. You like Sam, respect him and appreciate that he hasn’t seemed to judge you for the last time you worked together. In fact, he seems to recognize completely your desire for redemption and he sings your praises on the ride back to the tower, to your embarrassment. Some of the other agents warm up to it and join in, while others roll their eyes and turn away.

It brings heat to your cheeks as he rests a hand on your shoulder and says, lowly so as not to be too overheard, “I can see why Barnes likes you so much.”

A cold panic washes over you, but you just manage to keep it off your face. “What are you talking about?”

A simple disbelieving glance from Sam, a nervous shuffle on your end, and it tells him everything. He smiles knowingly.

“I won’t tease you about it, but you got our resident Iceman all tied up in knots.”

He chortles heartily while your face flames, and you have to look away. Though you feel the twitch of a smile trying to get through. It shouldn’t make you feel as giddy as it does, considering just that morning you’d run away from him.

But knowing you make him feel the same way he does you puts a lightness in your chest, and you resolve to talk to him, apologize for running. The flutters in your stomach intensify as the jet nears the tower, and if Sam picks up on your sudden urgency, he doesn’t say anything.

Chapter Seven

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #steve x you x bucky #bucky x you x steve #bucky x reader x steve #steve x reader x bucky

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest.

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles.

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.”

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn’t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack.

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself.

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window.

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air.

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze.

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay.

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take.

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

“you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely.

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?”

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line.

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot.

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests.

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening.

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!”

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity.

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.”

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest.

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.”

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo.

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips.

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.”

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you.

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together.

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau.

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead.

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.”

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt.

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back.

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him.

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime.

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes.

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon fic #queen #queen fic #j writes

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