#What quip do you spam?

[prettyrenjunn]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫

haechan x f!reader

themes- best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff & crack

summary- haechan gets unnecessarily jealous a lot considering you’re just little ole’ best friends and it takes renjun pointing it out for him to realise.

it’s my first time writing like this i wanted to try it out but damn it’s hard. also if there’s mistakes… my bad

he’s ridiculous.

you think he might need a smack to the back of his head to finally come to his senses but you keep your hands to yourself, no matter how infuriating he is. “hyuck there’s nothing to be upset over.”

he’s going to deny it. he always does. “i’m not upset!” he grumbled back. “i just don’t understand why you and jeno were partners when we’re always partners.”

you can’t even fathom why he’s so upset you had a different partner for your friend groups game night but for some reason he always gets like this. you know donghyuck’s a clinger and he loves to be by your side with your attention on him as much as possible but god you were sick of this. “i’m not seeing the problem? i can partner up with whoever i want its not like we took a blood oath to always partner with eachother.”

it always goes like this until he gets frustrated and eventually..

“okay it’s fine let’s just talk about something else.”

renjun claims hyuck is in love with you and that’s why he always acts like a possessive idiot but you’re quick to shut him up as you notice the boy himself strutting over to the table. “i’m heartbroken. hanging out without me is evil, are you replacing me now?”

you and renjun both roll your eyes at his dramatics. “i wouldn’t dare take your placing knowing you’d never stop whining.” renjun quips back. donghyuck pulls a face until he’s swallowed the big chunk of a sandwich he just bit into.

“i don’t whine.”

renjun bursts out laughing pointing his fingers at the boy. “sure you do. you whined when i called shotgun in yn’s car. you whined when yn went on a date instead of going to sit in your room to watch you game- which sounds like a horrible time by the way. the most recent case of whining was you getting pissy about yn and jeno being partners for game night.”

sheesh renjun had a whole speech. hyuck pursed his lips for a minute before nodding his head. “okay well maybe i do whine a little. i feel like it makes me charming, it’s not always a guy wants to be next to his witch of a best friend all the time..OUCH”

the kick to the shin was well deserved.

donghyuck has become conscious of his problem of always wanting to be your number one. has he seriously always been like this? he wonders.

he notices when a random guy stares at you for a little too long or when jaemins hands linger on your waist for longer then they should- scratch that they should never be there in the first place. he knows jaemin’s a touchy guy but come on! everybody knows yn is his girl.

wait.

my girl??? oh my fucking god.

at this very moment donghyuck realises he’s been an oblivious idiot this entire time. how didn’t he notice sooner? he doesn’t remember ever being this dense but this explains everything. he’s not exactly sure what he has to do right now but one things for sure, he needs to tell renjun.

it takes 3 missed calls and a load of spam texting for renjun to stop doing whatever he was doing and meet up with him. donghyuck calls him a bad friend for not picking up on the first ring and renjun tells him if this isn’t something serious he’s gonna whoop his ass.

“seriously why the hell did you make me come here?” renjun questions suspiciously. “why aren’t you talking? lee donghyuck i swear to-“

“i like yn.” donghyuck whispers quietly in response as he stares down and fiddles with his hands nervously. “you made me realise the whole jealously problem and then i realised it’s because i like her.”

renjun wants to laugh at his friend but he doesn’t because he looks like he’s about to cry or piss his pants…or do both simultaneously. “yeah? and what are you going to do about these feelings?”

“cry probably.”

renjun laughs in his face and donghyuck stares at him appalled. “why are you laughing? this is serious renjun! she’s my best friend.”

renjun only tuts in response, how can two people be so blissfully oblivious. even from his and everyone else’s perspectives it’s obvious there’s something more going on than just a pair of best friends. “i think you have a 90% succession rate if you just grow some balls and confess.”

“90%” donghyuck cries out. “that’s not nearly enough! and i have balls already thank you very much. i felt them drop when i was 13.”

“if you’re not gonna listen to my advise why did i even come.” renjun glares.

“oh renjun aren’t you just so so sweet.”

he’s acting weird and he knows you’ve noticed with the weird looks you keep giving him. in his defence, he’s in shock and you look really pretty and HE LIKES YOU!

“are you sure you’re alright?” you reach up to place the back of your hand on his head. “hm you don’t feel that warm but your cheeks are on fire hyuck.”

his mouth dries up at the close proximity but he needs to get himself together. “i think i just need some water.” he clears his throat. “can i have some of yours?”

you don’t hesitate to pass your bottle of water over and he realises he’s made a mistake.

an indirect kiss.

he’s going to faint.

“maybe you should go home just incase you’re getting sick or something.” you bring him back to reality once again. “come on, i’ll make sure you get home safe.”

donghyuck shakes his head frantically. “i swear i’m okay.” he bursts out. “and the others are already on their way.” he adds.

you nod and the next 5 minutes waiting for your friends to arrive is spent with you yapping and him listening along despite the breakdown he’s having in his head.

when your friends arrive they all notice donghyuck is acting differently too but they drop it after he says he’s okay, it’s only renjun that has an idea of what’s going on with him.

“yn i heard some guy in your lecture asked you on a date.” jaemin wiggles his brows as he starts a new conversation. “what did you say? is he taking you out or what?”

your friends heads turn to you straight away waiting on your answer. you can particularly feels donghyucks stare burning through your skull. “you’re all so nosy.” you chortle “but i told him i’ll think about it.”

donghyuck releases the breath he’d been holding at your answer and then he’s grabbing your hand in a hurry and rushing you out of the diner. “hyuck! what the hell? what are you doing?” you pull your arm back and he lets you, but he continues storming towards your car and waits for you to unlock it. “i’m sorry. can we go home please.”

you’re unsure if he wants you to go into his apartment with him but when he turns back to look at you with glistening eyes you’re already unbuckling your seatbelt.

he drops himself down on the couch and you sit next to him, turning so you’re facing him. “talk to me hyuck? what’s going on?” you murmur but he stays silent. “it’s okay. you don’t have to talk about it. shall we watch something?”

he stays silent for another minute and then he turns to look at you as he speaks. “can you say no to him?”

“say no to who hyuck?”

“the guy that asked you on a date. can you say no?” you’re confused but you nod anyway. “thanks.”

“did he do something?” you speak up. you’re worried he’s some horrible guy but donghyuck shakes his head at your words. “oh then why-“

“i realised something.” he cuts you off and you let him without protesting. you’d rather he talk than bottle up whatever’s going on. “i get jealous and petty because i like you, and i think i get scared and insecure because you’re not mine.”

your heart starts beating faster, so does his. you’re about to talk again but he beats you to it. “you don’t have to say anything i know i’ve thrown this all on you out of the blue. i want you to know that it’s okay if you don’t like me the same way, we can move past this but please don’t leave me.”

he’s rambling and your smile gradually grows. “lee donghyuck.”

“yeah?”

“i’ve always liked you.”

later that day he gets a text.

renjun: how is everthing?

he doesn’t answer yet but he thinks this is the best day of his life.

#nct dream fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct dream imagine #nct dream scenarios #nct dream imagines #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #haechan #haechan x reader #haechan x y/n #haechan x you #lee donghyuck #donghyuck x reader #bestfriendhaechan #nct dream fic

[quizzicalwriter]

Love Her Madly

Pairing: Modern!Dallas Winston x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dallas is more than willing to lend a helping hand, even on film.

Warnings: SMUT. MDNI. Camgirl!Reader, fingering, dirty talkin’, all that good stuff.

Word Count: 4.6k

Everyone had a career, whether it was accounting, mechanical engineering, or meteorology - everyone had something that provided monetary income. Something to survive, hell, some people even loved their jobs. For you, work was a bit more personal. You interacted with customers frequently, purchased things to pull in newer eyes, and you were damn good at it. 

Questions directed your way on the topic of your career were quickly, and skillfully deflected. Most dropped the subject, willing to delve into the next conversational topic, others were persistent. Your friends were the ladder, childhood companions who knew you better than you knew yourself. They’d nudge your arm with their elbow, teasing you with their theories on what you did for a living. 

Hitman, masseuse, dog trainer. All of them were incorrect. 

Except for one, one whispered statement into the crook of your neck on a night when all of you found yourself way past the point of inebriation. It had caught you off guard, admittedly sending a flush of heat across your chest and cheeks. If it had been anyone else, you might’ve gotten away from it unscathed. 

But you didn’t, because Dallas had been the one to guess correctly. 

Luckily for you, Dallas had no issue keeping a secret he found amusing to himself. However, his keeping of your secret included a few ill-made quips at your expense. Whenever company dwindled low, leaving only the pair of you sitting together, he’d inquire about your line of work. His words always came off hushed, almost near a whisper, but the questions were genuine nonetheless - and his intrigue was palpable. 

Usually, your work centered around yourself, toys and props were included every few clips, but it was mainly you on your lonesome. Your viewers seemed to love it enough, and if one tipped particularly heartily, you usually indulged in a little fantasy-making. Every few days you’d check your inbox, mainly to clear out spam messages and the occasional creep, but one caught your eye as you scrolled through the monotonous topics. 

A regular, a nearly fifty-year-old man with enough wealth and boredom to stock your tip jar with obscenities tied into compliments. He was kind, and lascivious, but nice enough to leave you genuinely considering his request - it certainly helped that he’d stuck a hefty tip onto the end of it all. 

All you had to do was find someone to sleep with, no biggie. 

Right?

Whatever method you’d used in the past to hype yourself up had failed you, miserably, leaving you drumming your fingers against the cool tabletop of your booth in feigned hope to ease your worried mind. Out of your friends, and coworkers you were acquainted with, only one struck you with genuine possibility. 

Dallas.

You framed your meeting around buying him lunch, which admittedly, you had promised to do after he bought you lunch the past fourteen times. It didn’t take much convincing, and after a whopping thirty-second phone call you found yourself waiting at your local hole-in-the-wall diner. 

The complimentary fries were enough to keep your mind distracted, the sharp sting of the salt against your well-bitten lips keeping you settled in the present. You weren’t worried about embarrassing yourself, you had walked in on Dallas with enough women to officially blind yourself. The worries flurrying around your mind centered around your friendship with Dallas, one you’d had since the both of you were scraggly teens. 

“Hey, kid.” Dallas quipped with a sharp push to the back of your head, quickly snapping you from your mind with a groan. He only laughed at your reaction, a lopsided smile crinkling the skin by his eyes as he plopped himself down across from you. 

“Ass.” You murmured, fighting away your smile with a rub to the back of your head. “Go ahead, order what you want. I’m like, what- fifty dollars in debt?”

“More than that.” Dallas replied with a sigh and a reach across the table, grabbing a few fries before tossing them into his mouth. “Who’s countin’? I ain’t.” 

You had spoken to Dallas on nearly every topic under the sun; sex, academics, money, drugs - all of it. Yet you were left feeling uneasy about raising such a premise with a lifelong friend. As you two finished your orders, you found yourself willing your silent mind into words, hopeful that there would be an eloquent way to word wanting your best friend to fuck you on camera. 

“Dal-“ You started with a clear of your throat, free hand grasping one of the few remaining fries from the basket between you both. “I wanted to ask you something.”

Dallas hummed, not bothering to hide his intrigue as he relaxed back against the leather booth, legs spread in a manner that left nothing to the imagination as the denim of his jeans clung to his upper thighs. You weren’t sure if he noticed your blatant staring, the way your eyes couldn’t decide if they wanted to focus on his parted lips or his parted thighs, he wore a smirk nonetheless. 

“You know what I do for work, so I don’t have to explain that part.” Before you could finish your words, he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the cool tabletop between you. “I was wondering if you wanted to film something with me?”

“You want me to fuck you on camera?” He asked, tone full of nonchalance and loud enough to turn a few heads from those seated close to you. You were half-inclined to leap across the center table and clamp your hand over his mouth, but you knew Dallas well enough to know that would’ve fueled him more. 

So, with a crimson-tinted face, you nodded. 

To your surprise, he lifted his drink to his lips with a shrug of his shoulders and a quick, “Alright.”

Relief flooded your senses quicker than relative confusion on his quick decision, your mind not wanting to jinx things or have him second guess it all. Dallas had done risky things before just to say he’d done it, maybe he viewed this under the same lens? 

Some childlike part of you was left wondering if he still saw you the same. It wasn’t every day that someone called their best friend over for a lunch date, only to spring on in the middle of it all that they wanted you to fuck them on camera. 

“Dal-“ You began, clearing your throat halfway through the word. “Do you- do you look at me the same?”

His brow quirked, confusion written clear across his face as he chewed away on another fry. Once he saw you were being genuine, his eyes rolled and he let out a lengthy sigh. 

“‘Course I do.” He mumbled. “Everyone does something for cash. I don’t mind lending a helping hand.” 

Even though his words ended in enough insinuation to leave you choking back another laugh, you were thankful for him. He was an odd friend, one you were constantly worried about the mental and physical well-being of, but you knew that he’d seen enough shit in his lifetime to leave him perpetually unbothered.

“Cool.” You chimed, beaming him a genuine smile as you lifted your hips, fishing around in the back of your jeans for your wallet. “Little weird you’re willing to do it with no convincing, but I’ll take it.”

He snorted at your words, leaning back against the cracked leather of the booth with his drink in hand. “You make me sound bad, kid. Just want to help you out is all.”

“Is all?” You asked, placing down enough money to cover your tab and his, along with a hefty tip in a silent apology to your waitress for having overheard Dallas’s filthy mouth. “You realize what I’m asking you to do right?”

His eyes flickered up to yours, a look within them you hadn’t seen before, it left your stomach flipping in on itself. With a quick placement of his empty glass against the table, he leaned closer to you. 

“I’m going to fuck you on camera.” He stated, once again, not quiet enough for your liking. “And when you post it, you get paid. Helping hand, right?”

A ‘helping hand’ was a different frame of mind for it all, but you agreed with a shallow nod and a quick sip of your drink. 

“There are people here.” You whispered as you fished an ice cube from the bottom of your glass. “Don’t need them knowing my business.” 

“You ain’t seeing these people again.” He quipped with a quick reach across the table for your glass, his thick fingers slinking to the bottom of the cup for an ice cube of his own. “I’ll make it up to you later, how’s that?”

“You better.”

You tried to ignore the cocky smile that overtook Dallas’s lax features, the way his lips wrapped around the ice, the droplets of water curving around his wrist. While you lost yourself in the flex of his jaw as he chewed away at the ice, Dallas let his mind run wild with everything he could do to make you regret your words. 

Your apartment was modest, never something you bragged about, but you felt comfortable and proud enough of it to have people over several times a month. The guys had made their home in your apartment, each having their own designated spot they’d relax in for the time being until they moved onto something else that captured their attention. 

Dallas’s was your couch, pressed tight against the exposed brick wall, directly underneath one of the bigger windows overlooking the land beneath the building. He’d always push the window up, leaving the screen down to ensure no bugs crawled in as he smoked half a pack of cigarettes while talkin’ to whoever had come with him to bother you. 

Just as you assumed he would, he kicked off his boots and slung his jacket over the back of a nearby armchair, giving you a short-lived grin that sent your stomach careening in on itself before he made his way down the adjacent hallway. You followed behind him, abruptly kicking off your shoes as well before padding after him. 

“Dallas?” You called, watching as his form disappeared behind the beads you kept stapled to your doorway. They served as a makeshift curtain, only Ponyboy and Johnny seemed to love them as much as you did, Dallas always swatted at them - not that day, however. “Hell are you doin’ in there?”

As you parted the beaded curtain to the side, you caught sight of Dallas making himself comfortable on your bed, legs sprawled out before him as he struck a match against the side of his belt buckle. His blown pupils gave away his internal thoughts, so you decided against wasting time. You already had a set-up near your bed, it took no time at all to have everything propped up, and with the click of your camera, Dallas looked up to you. 

“Strip.” He murmured, a sharp inhale following the order as he took a drag from his cigarette. “Come closer, doll. You want the camera to see, don’t you?”

You nodded, moving closer to the end of your bed. His hips lifted as he not-so-discreetly adjusted himself through his jeans. The sight of his cock straining against his jeans sent your confidence through the roof, and with little more than a smile directed his way, you lifted your shirt up and over your head, letting the fabric fall to your feet. 

“Shit-“ He breathed, eyes widening as you began unfastening your belt. You didn’t try to contain the giggle that left you at his comment, you knew you’d feel the same in only a matter of minutes. 

“C’mere.” He murmured around the filter of his cigarette, a soft smile toiling with the corner of his full lips. You listened without wasting a second, kicking your unbuttoned jeans off your thighs until they were a crumbled mess against the hardwood floor. 

His eyes watched you as you moved over to your bed, how your chest flushed a deep crimson, the heat spreading up your throat until it turned your cheeks the same hue. You noticed the faint lift of his hips as you sunk to your knees, the soft bedspread enveloping your legs as you crawled over to him. 

“Sit between my legs, doll. Want them to see how pretty you look.”

You were used to holding yourself to a certain degree whenever you filmed your videos, a personal disconnect from your real self. Dallas had done away with it, his eyes coaxing you in, deep brown hues echoing each pant that left your parted lips. As you moved to sit between his legs, he hooked an arm around your middle, effortlessly pulling your back flush to his chest. 

The smoke from his cigarette left your eyes watering, but all you could focus on was the steady throb of arousal between your legs, every atom of your body screaming for his touch. Your hips shifted, twisting, inadvertently brushing your ass back against his lap. You felt the rumble of his breath circling his chest, the reflection of his head falling back reflected on your nearby camera lens. 

“Stop that.” He laughed out, words muffled as he kept his cigarette steady. “Already hard, doll. Gonna make me cum before I get to show you off.”

Wherever Dallas had learned to talk filthy, you made a mental note to pay homage to. Each word sent shockwaves through you, leaving your cunt clenching down around nothing, cum dripping down the cleft of your ass. As you tried to refocus yourself, Dallas leaned back behind you, snubbing his half-gone cigarette on a nearby windowsill. 

With a slow exhale, his hand moved to cup your throat, tilting your head back to face the camera fully. You could see yourself in the reflection of the lens, face, and chest flushed, lips parted - pitiful. 

“Come on, pretty girl.” He urged, tone a centimeter away from being an all-out beg. “Spread your legs, show them your cunt.”

He spoke of your body as if he’d seen it, mapped out your being beneath his skilled tongue, and left kisses in places unseen by your own eyes. You obeyed, lips parted in a silent moan as his hands helped your thighs apart with a gentle push to your inner knees. His chin rested on your shoulder, eyes fixed on yours in the reflection of your camera lens. 

“Look at that.” He whispered, tilting his head to see you, a coy smirk written across his face. “Soaking wet already, huh? That desperate?”

You watched yourself, your cunt twitching around nothing, dripping cum onto the bedsheets below. His hands moved from your knees, slowly caressing your trembling thighs until his fingertips brushed against the swell of your sex. 

His left hand slipped back, fingertips digging into the hollow before your hipbone, pressing down in a manner to keep you steady as his right slipped down your cunt, fingers parting your soaked folds with ease. You allowed your head to fall back, eyes shutting in a relief so packed with bliss you could’ve thanked Dallas until your voice gave out. 

With a chaste kiss to your shoulder, his middle and ring finger pressed into your cunt, gently curling up in a ‘come hither’ motion. Your hips rocked into his touch, pulling his fingers deeper, your body doing a better job at voicing your neediness than your vocal cords ever could. 

“Think you could cum from this?” He asked, even though you were both keenly aware of the fluttering of your cunt around his digits, the pants of breath that left you with each push of his fingers. You nodded, and he smiled. “Want to make you cum on my fingers first.” 

You turned your head, tucking your face into the crook of his neck as his fingers plunged into your cunt, the heel of his palm brushing against your clit. You lifted your arm, curling it around the back of his neck, holding onto him as though you were petrified he’d vanish beneath your grasp. 

A ravenous pleasure blossomed in your lower stomach as you rocked your hips into his palm, small pants and whimpers of his name tumbling past your parted lips. He whispered praise against the shell of your ear, gaze set on the reflection of you in the camera lens, legs spread, hands clinging to his forearm and along the back of his neck, cunt stretched around his fingers. 

“Dal-“ You whined, voice breaking off into another desperate moan as your cunt fluttered around his fingers. He hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple as he pushed his fingers deeper, curling them upward with each thrust. He sent you careening over the edge with a gentle circle of his thumb around your clit, continuing the same blissful motion as you cried out his name into the crook of his neck. 

“That’s it-“ He hushed, cheek pressed to your temple. “Good girl, so fuckin’ good.”

Cum dripped from your cunt, dampening the comforter beneath you. Dallas caught sight of it in the reflection of the camera lens, pride swelling in his chest at the realization that he’d made you cum hard enough to coat his fingers and the bedding in your arousal. Only when your moans broke off into desperate pleas did he slow his movements, fingers still gently rocking forward into your cunt, leaving you teetering on the edge of mind-shattering oversensitivity.

He lifted his arm after slowing his movements to a halt, exposing his glistening fingers to the warm sunlight pouring through your bedroom window. You watched with bated breath as he brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on yours. It was as if the air was knocked from your lungs when he parted his lips, pushing the soaked digits against his tongue. You could hear the deep-set groan reverberating within his chest as your saccharine taste coated his tongue, all but making him drool as he sucked your taste from his fingers. 

His left hand moved to cup your jaw, tilting your head back as he lowered himself to meet your lips. His right grabbed at your breast, smearing his saliva along with the remnants of your arousal across your skin as his lips met yours. The moan that fell from your lips was pure, completely instinctive. He swallowed it with a moan of his own, fingers tightening their hold as they slipped down to cup the curve of your throat. 

You could taste yourself on his tongue, the muscle swirling around your own, ensuring you tasted yourself just as he had. It was lewd, debaucherous, leaving you clenching around nothing as you sucked on his tongue. His fingers tweaked your nipple in between rolling squeezes of the tissue, you couldn’t help but notice his tongue moving in sync with his fingers. 

“Dallas-“ You panted, eyes fluttering open to meet his, recognizing the same carnal desire reflected in his irises. He nodded in response to your unspoken question, placing another chaste kiss on your lips as his hands hurriedly moved to unbutton his jeans. You smiled into the kiss, elated laughter bubbling in your chest as your hands moved with his, nearly tearing the fabric of his boxers in haste to have him. 

It was as if there was no camera, no incentive to keep you both pawing at each other besides the heavy lust hanging in the air, polluting your mind into nothing but a heavy daze of desire. Your cunt ached, desperate for some form of attention, but you refused to appease yourself - you wanted Dallas, and by God, you’d have him. 

“C’mon.” He urged, wetting his lips as he reached behind him for a pillow. You hardly understood what he wanted from you before he pushed the pillow beneath your hips, his free hand settling against the small of your back, gently guiding you over the bunched-up fabric. You could feel his fingers spreading your folds as you settled yourself against the pillow, face turned toward the camera. 

“So fucking wet.” He whispered, tone riddled with equal parts amazement and disbelief. A wet squelch sounded through the silence as he pushed his middle and ring finger into your cunt, a sharp hiss leaving him at the feeling of your warmth enveloping his digits. Part of you wanted to be pissed, to yell at him for not fucking you, but the way his fingers curved inside of you left you pushing your hips back against his hand. 

As soon as you grew accustomed to the feeling of his fingers writhing inside of your cunt, he pulled them free, using your arousal to lubricate his already leaking cock. You pushed your face flat to the mattress, arching your back in a display so riddled with desperation it made Dallas’s cock twitch. His hand grasped at your hip, steadying your trembling form as he swiped his tip along your folds. 

He was a performer, a natural before the camera. Each movement was fluid, and effortless in a way that made you pine for him. With a gentle push forward of his hips, he bottomed out inside of you, stretching your cunt in a manner that left you whining into the duvet. You could hear him steadying his breathing, hands tightening their hold on the flesh of your hips.

“Move-“ You ordered, or more so begged. “Please.”

He responded with a grunt and a sharp push forward of his hips, bullying the tip of his cock against your cervix. Once he was sure you had grown accustomed to his size, he pulled out, pushing back in rough enough to force the air from your lungs. You wove your hand down beneath yourself, circling your middle and ring finger around your swollen clit. 

“So fuckin’ tight-“ He rasped, right hand releasing your hip for a moment to smack at the plush of your ass, leaving a red imprint of his hand behind. You felt his hand smoothing up your back, fingers pressing into the muscle of your upper back before slinking around your shoulder. 

His hand wrapped around your throat, fingers pushing your jaw up, forcing your attention onto the camera in front of you.

“Look at the camera, doll.” He grunted, fingers tightening around the curve of your throat. “Let them see how you look taking my cock.”

You could only moan in response, the noise strangled due to his impeccably tight hold around your throat. You pushed your hips back against him, eyes bleary with tears from the combination of sheer pleasure and lack of oxygen. 

His thumb pushed into your mouth, pressing against the wet muscle of your tongue as he fucked you. You sucked at the digit, your moans concealed for nearly a second before his hips jerked against you, pushing his cock deeper into your cunt. You could feel your spit dripping down your chin and onto your breasts, breaths haggard the longer he kept you pressed back against him. 

Your breathy moans were no deterrent for him, his thumb against your tongue all but forcing your noises to be heard by anyone nearby. His free hand held you by your hip, his thighs slamming against yours with each eager thrust of his hips. You could feel the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix, deep enough to knock the wind from your lungs. 

Pleasure swirled within your lower stomach, settling heavy. The chase of your climax urged you to push your hips back, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing throughout your bedroom. Your cunt squeezed around his cock, each roll of his hips leaving you both breathless, hands grasping desperately at each other as your arousal built to a fever pitch. 

“Dallas-“ You whined, tone carrying enough of a warning for Dallas to trail kisses along the hollow of your throat in between rough groans of your name. Your hand slipped between your slick thighs, fingers finding home against your clit where you eagerly swirled your digits. “-I’m gonna cum.” 

“C’mon.” He urged as he smoothed his hand down your side, grasping the other side of your hip. “Cum for me, doll.” 

A broken, garbled mess of a moan tore its way from your throat. Your eyes squeezed shut as pure euphoria shot through your veins, igniting every facet of your being as your cunt spasmed around his cock. You could hardly register the curses that slipped past his gritted teeth, how his hold on your waist tightened as he fucked himself into you, pushing his cock deeper. 

Your hands reached behind you, blindly fumbling against his dampened skin as he continued to bully his cock into you, fucking you into mind-numbing oversensitivity. His hands moved from your hips, both lacing around your wrists, pulling you back to meet each eager thrust of his hips. Your moans broke off, well past incoherent, delving into the grounds of depravity. 

“Sound so good for me, doll.” He rasped, his voice mirroring yours in its spent nature. “Want me to fill your cunt up, huh? Don’t you?”

Without giving you a moment to reply, not that you could anyhow, given your fucked-out state, he buried himself to the hilt inside of your still spasming cunt. You felt his grip on your wrists tighten to an almost painful degree as he grunted out your name, his hips jerking with each mutter that fell past his lips. Warmth flooded your cunt, spilling down your inner thighs, leaving a mess beneath you. 

As soon as Dallas released your wrists you crumbled to the bedsheets below, deep, ragged lungfuls of air heaving your chest as your mind tried to remain in the present. Dallas kissed along your spine as his hands smoothed up your sides, muttering words of praise lost on your fatigue-ridden mind.

“Doll?” He asked as he shifted behind you, left hand moving to cup the underside of your jaw, gently tilting your head back to meet his gaze. “You alright? Didn’t fuck you dumb, did I?”

You shook your head as you smiled, a small bout of laughter following the movement as you threaded your fingers through his, feeling your damp skin against your pulse point. His words didn’t shock you, if anything you might’ve been worried if he babied you for too long without jabbing at you - that was simply his nature. 

“Alright-“ He groaned, moving his hand from yours to pat your cheek as he moved from your bed. “Stay here, I’ll go get a washcloth.”

As the bed dipped from his departure you took a moment to catch your breath, stretching your legs out beneath you. You were sure you could’ve fallen asleep right then and there if it hadn’t been for Dallas’s return. 

The mattress dipped beside you and a cool washcloth wiped away at your inner thighs and cunt. Dallas cleaned himself off, tossing the dirtied washcloth to a nearby corner of your room before moving back to your side. 

“Turned your camera off.” He stated as he stretched his arms over his head, leaning back afterward to retrieve his nearby pack of cigarettes. You responded in a thankful hum, or what you attempted to make sound thankful. “Figured you wouldn’t want to use your legs for a while.”

Cockiness laced heavily in his words, but you were in no state to dispute it - even if you did, you couldn’t deny he’d fucked you until your legs were jelly. You glared at him through your tired eyes, taking note of his self-satisfied grin as he leaned back against your bedroom wall, a lit cigarette hung between his lips. 

“Ain’t arguing, are ‘ya?” He asked, to which you swatted at his exposed thigh with a stifled laugh. “Hittin’ ain’t denyin’.” 

“Shut up.” You responded, not bothering to hide your smile. “You’re too cocky for your own good.”

“Still ain’t sayin’ I’m wrong.”

A/N: I’m not dead! Or inactive! Life has put me in a chokehold recently, but lately it’s been better! Writing has been a sanctuary for me, and while I can’t do it as often as I could before, I still have more time than I did prior! So, thank you all for your continued love and support of me and my work! I hope you guys enjoy this, see it as a late Christmas present, or holiday gift thing.

#the outsiders #my work #dallas winston #the outsiders fanfic #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders writing #dallas winston drabble #dallas winston imagine #the outsiders dally #the outsiders dallas #dallas x reader #dallas winston x y/n #dallas winston writing #dallas winston x reader smut #dallas winston x reader #dallas winston smut #dally winston x reader #dally winston smut #dally imagine #dally winston #dally x reader

[pochipop]

＃GENSHIN IMPACT !! ♡ — ON THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON (CHILDE X READER).

#. synopsis! — childe knows he doesn't deserve this, but he just can't let you go .

#. characters! — childe .

#. warnings! — angst .

#. word count! — 1k .

#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw) @yyolkchi (reblog/spam) .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — this is my "from the vault" era. most of the things i'll be posting for a while will probably have been started anywhere from a few months to over a year ago. i have a huge google doc just stocked with fics that i started and never finished, so i'm trying to wrap some of them up neatly enough to post them and at least let them see the light of day lol.

It’s always lonely at the top.

On nights like this, Childe realizes that now more than ever. Snezhnaya is his home, —but in a more abstract sense of the term. He knows the snow-covered lands and the bitter chill of frost like the backs of his scarred hands, and yet this nation feels less like the soft place he can fall upon each time he returns from somewhere else. It’s the center of his youth, the place that fills most of his heart, but things have certainly changed since he was little more than a young boy who loved making angels in the snow. The world moves faster now; days bleed into weeks in a matter of moments, and there are many times Childe wishes that the weather could freeze time like it does everything else around here.

Still, maybe it’s better that it doesn't. Even if it did somehow, he’s not sure how he’d spend that time anyway. A part of him is all too certain that he’d waste it away, losing sight of his goals within seconds.

He’s always been too driven by madness for his own good.

The viscous truth of it all is that Childe craves acceptance, but doesn’t really like to be loved. Even as you sleep next to him, his arm clutched in your warm, forgiving grip; he doesn’t know how to put such thoughts to the wayside. Selfishly, he wants you. Sometimes, it feels like he needs you. Realistically, though, Childe knows he shouldn’t have you. You’re not much of a fighter, and your only ties to the Fatui are through him, which he holds an insurmountable level of shame and regret for. If not for him, he’s certain your life would be a lot less complicated.

You’ve even said so yourself, albeit only jokingly. Those few little quips hold just enough water for Childe to drown himself in them, though. He wants to push you away as his lungs fill in and oxygen depletes, but you’re so goddamn intoxicating that he can’t bear the thought of parting ways. You snuggle closer to him as if seeking the heat of his body, —as if seeking the protection it offers from any ghoulish figures that could pop up in your otherwise sugar coated dreams.

Childe isn’t sure what he’d do without this, —without the ability to come staggering home to you. Truthfully, you’re more of a home to him now than Snezhnaya has ever been. He yearns for nights like this more than you’ll ever know, more than he’ll ever be able to articulate properly, because Celestia knows he’s never been very good with words.

Not when they’re genuine, anyway.

He can put on a show just fine, put that charismatic mask on and make strangers fall to their knees at his feet. But once they get a glimpse of the monster inside that lusts for violence and bloodshed on every battlefield, they run for the hills. And Childe isn't naive enough to wonder why. He knows, probably better than anyone else ever will, that he is hard to love, and even more difficult to be loved by.

When everything is going steady, he likes to send some ripples through the water just because he can. He pushes buttons he knows he should leave alone, —maybe because he can’t help himself, or maybe because deep down, he wants to push you away. You can’t just up and decide that you want to see him rot his way back into the earth beneath his feet if he flips all the right switches and makes it happen at will. There’s no disappointment to be had there if he’s the one who incites it; like flicking a match and watching your house go up in flames.

If he does it to himself, there’s no reason to be sad about it.

Self-sabotage has always been kind of his thing. Still, here you are with your soft tufts of breath fanning against him, trusting him not to let himself snap to the point of no return and burn everything down around you both (figuratively and literally.) And for the life of him, —Childe doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. You’ve always wanted a simpler life, one you know he can’t give you. . . But here you are, and he doesn’t have the heart to push you away like he knows deep down that he should.

If he’s being honest with himself, and this is one of the rare times that he is, he knows he should be building his walls high enough to force you out if that’s what it takes. Everytime you lay with him like this, he knows he’s stealing that tranquil life you’ve always wanted away from you, and it eats him up inside. He’s not what’s best for anybody, nonetheless for you.

He knows, he knows, he knows. . . He really should just—

“Hey,” you say softly, and his resolve crumbles away like the walls he tries to build between himself and you. “Can’t sleep?”

Childe looks over at you and pauses for a few moments, admiring the way you love him, even when he doesn’t deserve it. Then he thinks to himself that he’s never truly deserved it, and the cycle begins again. He hums in acknowledgement, and you hold him closer, like you’re trying to mend all his broken pieces back together (even if you don’t know it.) It won’t help him sleep, but it feels nice to be cared for like this. To be loved, to be seen. . . To be stripped bare in the moonlight that spills in from your window is a blessing sent straight from Celestia, and it makes him wonder just what he’s ever done well enough to have ended up here in his lifetime.

“You’re thinking too much,” you say.

He almost laughs, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “I know.”

#childe #childe angst #childe genshin #genshin impact #childe x reader angst #childe x reader #childe x you #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x reader angst #genshin impact x reader angst #genshin x reader angst #genshin x reader #childe tartaglia x reader #genshin childe #childe tartaglia #childe x y/n #tartaglia x you #tartaglia x y/n

[riewritten]

𝐎𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 · CHAPTER ONE · AO3

˚ · .─ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: YOU, a college student in Frankfurt, start receiving emails that embarked the dim of normalcy you worked so hard to build on your own; starting from a message claiming you as the light amidst the hell of Kinderheim, who came just in time to bring a paradise of doomsday and grime, something that pleased the monster inside him. Initially, you thought of reporting the email as spam until another ding came: the monster, so pleased and full, is aiming to return the favor—something to flesh out the paradise you had granted him back at Kinderheim.

˚ · .─ 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎: Johan Liebert/Fem!reader | 6.4k words

˚ · .─ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: stalking, manipulation, obsessive tendencies, paranoia, among many things that might arise.

For a fire to start, there must be friction. For a fire to scatter, there must be air. To maintain the fire, the environment must be tolerable.

"And the prairies would do," the little boy, who seems like he just came out from a deep slumber, beams at you.

And so you look around. Indeed, luckily for you two, because this little sanctuary is surrounded by prairies. 

"But, Johan…" you whisper because the little boy asked you to. He entrusted you with a top-secret, after all. "Why burn the whole place?"

Johan stays still. Cold smile, half-lidded eyes. You only realize how lightweight he is when he places his palm on your head. His aura is enormous, darkly so, that it often overwhelms you. You wonder how Johan's simple pat on the head could ground you from his quiet but menacing presence.

"You said you want to see the fireworks up close."

"I did…? Oh, yes, I did, but that was a long time ago!"

"Only two weeks ago," Johan corrects.

"You could remember?"

"Everything you say is etched in my memory."

"Because I'm special?"

Johan smiles, "Because you're special."

You chuckle innocently as your silly little brain can't perceive that silly little remark as something deserving of alarm. After all, Johan is special for you, too.

He's the first friend you ever had. The first kid that has been introduced to you by Daddy. Daddy had constantly introduced you to people of his age. Whenever you ask, "Why not a person of my age? I want a friend!" Daddy had the same answer: it needs to be—for his work, for your house, for your storybooks, for your clothes, and for the food you eat. And with his cold smile, he adds, "It's how the world works. No child would prosper without an adult." His smile gets even more uncanny when he quips, "Worry not because when you grow up smart, you'll be introduced to children like I introduce my men to you. By then, you'll understand. By then, you could replace me."

But you don't want to replace him or his so-called men, for that matter. Something about them unnerves you. Sometimes, you don't even remember what happens after Daddy introduced them to you. You'd just know it when you come home with a new storybook. That was it. That's the only thing you could decipher.

So Johan's arrival in your life was a momentous change. His presence changed the direction of the air, perhaps towards something more sinister. But what could be more ominous than the storybooks, let alone Daddy's workmates? If Johan is with you, sinister would be a secondary thing. The excitement cradled with Johan's gentle presence would be the primary.

And how could you not deem him special when he suddenly went to you with myriads of ideas so that you could see fireworks up close, just because you said you wanted to?

"But, Johan, there might be a reason why fireworks are thrown to the sky."

"What would happen if it wasn't thrown to the sky?"

You look around the prairies and the building. Then, your face gets etched with pity. "What a waste of beautiful things," you thought to yourself.

Johan walks to you, nonchalant, full of poise. He carefully hoists your hair to put a red spider lily on your ear. Then, he replies, "You're right. Everything would get burnt to a crisp. The prairies would be no more. We will be none but dust in the wind."

A strange urge came to you, then. Run. Run away as fast as you can. However, the urge was weak. Curiosity riddled you more. Yes, it could be indeed frightening, but you were so used to it. Storybooks and the sessions with Daddy's workmates gave you a primal urge to run at first, but it all faded when you got used to it.

You stay silent as he looks at you with a subtle adoration—almost proud of how the flower accentuates the features of your face. Just as if it's not the same flower that'd be burnt down to a crisp if he gets to show you the fireworks up close.

Suddenly, you reach for your leather shoulder bag to grab a book, "Just like this one?"

Johan's sleepy-looking eyes lighten up. You know it excites him whenever you bring a storybook with you. He loves reading it more than you do. If not for the policies inside the sanctuary, which you're obviously not aware of, you were sure Johan would've brought it back with him.

The book cover is a paper mache of matchsticks and flames. You had always loved caressing it as you slept. Still, seeing Johan's dazed eyes towards the book right now, you figure it'll always be worth sharing whatever's yours with him.

Daddy said you two share a lot of similarities. You honestly don't see it if you were to compare personalities, but if that was why he introduced you to Johan, then you might as well cling to it. Daddy said Johan meets no other children aside from you. Daddy said Johan, just like you, only gets to talk to the adults. Daddy said the only difference between you two is that you live in an actual house. In contrast, Johan lives inside the sanctuary where Daddy works. Daddy said, Daddy said, Daddy said, Daddy said—

"Thank you, really," Johan calls your name. "The book keeps me awake."

"It's okay to be a sleepyhead, though. Daddy said your quizzes are much harder than everyone else. You're such a hard worker that I could give you everything that's mine!"

Johan's face darkens at the mention of so-called quizzes; hence, you reiterate, "If it'd help you do better in Daddy's quizzes, then you could take whatever's mine. They said everything that's mine has been given to me for being a good girl. You're a good boy, too. And so every piece of mine is yours, too!"

Johan's voice, unlike earlier, is much quieter now. "You resemble someone."

"Do I?"

"Someone I must never forget."

Your smile widens. Suppose your presence alone helps Johan remember someone he must never forget—it'd be unnecessary to give him everything that's yours so he won't leave you alone. "That's wonderful. Are they why you could withstand Father's difficult quizzes?"

Johan didn't answer. His smile, albeit his usual one, is much darker and more complex to decipher. 

You remove the red spider lily from your ear, walk towards him, and gently hold his hand with the flower. Your foreheads bump—perhaps it's your statement to the wind that whatever darkness and terror your friend has inside him, you're not afraid to stick to it—just like the match head is to its igniter or the pin stuck in a grenade.

You don't know why, but it makes you proud. Not anyone could do that. Not even Daddy. Not even his workmates in the sanctuary. Only you.

"Let me visit you as much as I can, then. I'm gonna visit you until you can be with that person again, the one you must never forget."

"Would you?"

"I would!"

After all, Daddy said you're not much different from him. And Johan is special. And he holds you special, too. And he'd devise ways to show you the fireworks up close because you said you wanted to. And you'd love it. Your curiosity would be more palpable than the terror because you're used to it. You're used to it all.

You shot your eyes awake, terror filling every crevice of your skin. You feel hot. Despite the sunny weather, autumn-like sky from the window, and the vivid dream about a poor child who seemed to be a lovely friend, it feels like you're quenched in an oil well fire.

Your breaths are staggered, loud. Your mouth is open, gasping for air as if it just went through hours-long of suffocation. Your throat hurts. Your eyes are drenched with tears, just as your skin is soaked with sweat. You look at your surroundings to ground yourself, but everything seems spooky. One tiny sound would make you faint out of fear. Your eyes linger on the spare bed of your dorm.

"Frieda is right. I need a roommate as soon as possible."

Perhaps the source of your recurrent nightmares was the heap of emails you've been receiving recently. Your friends in college were quite conflicted when you talked to them about it. Half of them, which includes Frieda, said you must file a blotter at the police station at this point. The other half, however, deemed the messages as something sweet. They told Frieda and others not to overreact because the emails were too cryptic to qualify as stalking.

"Too cryptic, huh?" Frieda grimaced. "The sender is named 'Monster,' for heaven's sake!"

"Maybe an exaggeration? Like some sort of 'You might as well call me a monster, for I could only be satisfied once I devour your enormous love' type of monster?"

"Ew!" Frieda shuddered. "It better be that type of monster, but the latest email just creeped me out!"

"Really? What did they say?" the other friend turned to you.

You sigh. You really don't want to think about it anymore. "The Monster said I was the one who brought him the 'paradise of doomsday and grime' and that he'd come to me at last to return the favor I did for him back at Kinderheim."

You froze at the last word.

"Kinder—what?"

"Okay, 'the paradise of doomsday and grime' was actually creepy. But hey, in my defense, the previous emails sounded like a profession of love!"

Kinderheim. Kinderheim. Kinderheim.

You barely skimmed the email this morning, so the word Kinderheim passed from one ear to another. Or maybe you just blocked out the needed energy to decipher what it meant because the message came right after you woke up. Only now that you are at the school cafeteria and sipping an iced coffee with your friends did you realize that Kinderheim was a very familiar word that triggered a primal fear in your head.

The next thing you know, your friends are done talking about the email and are focused on calming you down because of trembling and crying. You ended up at the infirmary after lunch. After witnessing your meltdown, Frieda couldn't gather the headspace to her next class; she insisted on accompanying you instead.

"Sorry for not telling you this sooner, but—" Frieda gulps, "I've found you a roommate. I'm getting really paranoid about the emails. After what happened today, I'm sure you must not be left alone in your dorm for the meantime."

Much to Frieda's surprise, you squeeze her hand to ease her worries. "Thank you, really. My nightmares are worsening, too. Every sound inside the dorm kind of scares me."

"Oh god. I'm so sorry I couldn't be there for you."

You shake your head, "You don't need to. Your grandma isn't getting any younger. Just introduce me to the roommate you've found." Frieda is the most trustworthy friend you've had for god knows how long, so you don't doubt the screening process she did with the roommate in question. 

"She's a very, very pretty girl, let me tell you! She's a recent transferee from Law who's been dorm-hopping for a week now, and she saw my poster on the bulletin board."

"Recent transferee from Law? What's her name?"

"Anna. She's the talk of the town! I can't believe you haven't heard of her yet! She's mysterious but very amicable. I was able to screen her nicely, though, don't you worry! And oh, I think both of you would click."

"Why do you think so?"

"You're similar to each other in ways I couldn't explain," Frieda pondered. "Maybe it's because you grew up with foster parents…?"

You let out a strained chuckle, "Just because of that?"

"Ugh, I told you I don't know how to explain it. Be the judge once you meet her! And be quick to get well because I can't introduce you to her in that state, okay? The pros of having her is that she's ready to move in as soon as tonight."

"Tonight?! Wait, that's too soon!"

"But it's quite a pity, you know? She's been staying at the hotel near the campus since her transfer. She looks wealthy, but we both know how expensive hotels are in this economy! Give some college girl a slack!"

If this were normal circumstances, your face would turn sour at how fast the transaction was. However, Frieda's grandma owns the apartment. If it's her granddaughter who arranges things concerning roommates—let alone with someone from the same campus—it'd be faster than needed.

"How about the down payment? Her lease? Hell, when did she even reach out? Why are things happening so fast?!" you ask, albeit futilely. Deep inside, you're wondering if you had cleaned your room enough for a visitor to come.

"I was initially planning to let her in a week after I tell you, but today was an emergency. You really need a company tonight. Anna told me she needs a place as soon as possible, so this arrangement would benefit her. And she had sent the down payment already."

"Without visiting the place first? If I were Anna, I'd deem you quite sketchy."

"Heh. Anna doesn't need to take a look inside. Don't you know where you're staying right now has always been eyed by the students?! You're just lucky you got the 'best friend pass!'" Frieda crosses her arms and sticks out her tongue. "Besides, I'm sure she wouldn't bother visiting the place anymore when I already gave her the pictures. And she's quite excited to meet you, too."

"She knows me?"

"She said one of her classmates has a crush on you. I'm frustrated that I couldn't get the name out of her, though! Seems like she really is a trustworthy friend."

It made you excited to meet her, too. And oh, Frieda really did not lie at all. She is such a pretty girl—no, pretty would be an understatement.

Stunning could be the nearest term.

You only return to your senses after Anna flashes a sweet chuckle. "My hand is getting numb."

"O-oh! I'm so sorry!" you frantically shake hands. "It's just that you're so beautiful I got lost. Frieda didn't warn me enough."

"Hey, I did warn you!"

"Oh dear," her voice is even sweeter than her face, "how lovely it sounds from a pretty girl like you." Rarely did you ever blush with someone praising you, and for some reason, the honey in her voice didn't help ease the butterflies either.

Frieda helped fix Anna's stuff, which shockingly was a little. The house wasn't that huge—a typical townhouse, if one must say—but the one and only bedroom is designed for two people. That's why it felt pretty empty when only you were sleeping on it.

Anna insisted on cooking dinner while you settled on washing the dishes. She initiated a get-to-know-you conversation, and you were glad to follow through. But then, perhaps Frieda was right when she said you and Anna share many similarities. You could see through her while talking—her gestures, cordial eyes, and eloquence seemed programmed, to say the least. That would take time to practice, and you know how long and hard it'd take. How else would you know if you're not the same as her?

Unlike other people, communication wasn't conventionally taught to you. You were meticulously taught to do so. And you just know Anna was, too. Ordinary people who learned it naturally stutter and space out occasionally, and the awkwardness will be apparent if you squint your eyes. You've been scrutinizing this for as long as you remember. You'd believe someone if they say it's possible for a human being to be born at age ten, already equipped with basic human abilities, despite not knowing the reason why.

But then again, if you don't have any memories of your life below age ten, how could you know you weren't taught conventionally? How could you see through Anna? How do you know she underwent the same process as you did? How? How? How? How?

Anna gently called your name with her palm, caressing the top of your head, dissipating the fiery pit of your deeply rooted curiosities. 

However, even her hand feels unusually familiar, too.

"I'm gonna turn off the lights now. Is it okay?" Anna gently asks.

"Where are you from?"

If Anna was taken aback, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she quips, "Does it have any relevance to me asking to turn off the lights?"

You look away in a flush, "N-no! I-I mean, yes, you may turn off the lights. It's just that I'm not yet over with our getting-to-know-each-other conversation."

"You seem tense today. Frieda told me something had happened and that I needed to move in tonight. Looking at you now, I think you were the reason why." Anna lies on her bed and snuggles inside her futon. She faces you with a smile.

Frieda and you will have to talk as soon as tomorrow comes. However, Anna's honey-laced voice exuded sheer comfort. It's as if she could take whatever you'd tell her. She seems like a person who could put things together despite your incoherence. And it's something remarkable because you have never met someone like that. Your friends had always described you this way, but never did you appreciate the charisma of it until you met Anna tonight.

"I'm having nightmares recently about a strange little boy in a strange little sanctuary. It's so vivid and recurrent that one could think it really happened."

Anna stays silent, but her kind eyes coax you to continue.

"The sanctuary is in the middle of a vast prairie. I have so many storybooks to read, and I share them with this one tiny, pitiful boy who looks like he just woke up from years-long sleep."

"That's a rather wholesome dream. What made it a nightmare?"

"Because he suggested burning the sanctuary and the people inside it just because I told him I want to see the fireworks up close. We discussed how the grass could help turn everyone and everything into dust. And we were so giddy doing so. It's such a nightmare for children to think of something that cruel."

"Is it really a nightmare for children to think about such things?"

"Obviously?" you chuckle nervously. "Do you think otherwise?"

"But what are children's words if not things passed down to them by adults?" Anna trails, "Cruelty is as inherent as our primal fears. No being would survive without it."

Your eyes widen.

"See, if lions teach their cute little cubs to gobble innocent deers who have their own babies, what more could human beings do?"

"You're justifying children's mass murdering tendencies, Anna."

"Am I wrong, though?"

Oh crap. Frieda might've gone wrong with her screening.

Anna calls your name, "Are you and your little friend wrong for wanting to see a firework up close at the expense of prairies and the sanctuary? Is it so bad for children to think of goals in a manner taught to them by adults? Why fear something so natural?"

After a while of not speaking, Anna slowly sits and scoots her face near to your frozen one. You could smell the flowery scent of her hair and the oh-so-pleasing soap she had used to wash her face. Amidst her pleasant smell, nothing else could enter your mind but horror. Her presence is quite similar to your dreams. As Anna's face scoots closer, she's becoming more familiar, too.

When the proximity is only centimeters apart, she blows in your face and says, "Boo."

You sit up in a panic and scream, then quickly return from it upon hearing Anna's chortles. This is the first time you've seen her laugh, heartily so. Throughout the day, her smiles have always been controlled, the same way as her words and gestures are composed. The tears forming in her eyes due to laughing don't seem calculated this time.

"That's mean, Anna!"

"Sorry, sorry," Anna tries to wipe the tears with her fingers. "It's just that you look so cute when scared. I can't help myself."

The flush forming up your face doesn't help you at all. It may prove Anna's point, even. You turn your back to her, annoyed. "Frieda brought you here to accompany me as I sleep, not to make my night harder!"

"Should I turn the lights on, then?" she slyly asks.

"I'm not a kid!"

Anna's chuckles wrap the room again, "Sorry for scaring you. I'll make up for it."

"How? I'm totally terrified to close my eyes now."

Anna hums in pondering. You're still determining if she's thinking of ways to take back what she did or mess around with you more.

"Okay, you could take it this way: if you dream of the same boy again, maybe you could ask him a question," Anna starts. You face her again, confused, and so she continues. "Ask him why he'd grant your wish at the expense of human lives, the beautiful flowers, the grassland, and even the sanctuary itself."

"How would that help me?"

"Once your empathy surpasses the fear, your nightmares would stop being nightmares."

Oh.

"Don't worry, I'll stay here," Anna gives you a sweet smile. "Tell me his answer first thing in the morning."

You're unsure if it's because of Anna's impact on your first day together, but the little Johan in your dreams became clearer.

It was Anna's face, or rather, Anna if she were a young little boy.

"How silly," you thought to yourself. Now, you're sure the dreams are not the memories scraped off from your brain before you turn ten.

˚ · . ─ 𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 ─ . · ˚

Life is good. Every morning is not filled with fires. You have the best roommate who compensates for her mysterious presence by pampering you. You're not a kid (you never became one). You never had a sinister childhood friend. You were a particular case of a human being born out of nowhere with a ten-year-old body, uncanny eccentricities, unrooted trauma, and fear of abandonment. It's better to put things that way.

But it isn't. How bad. Do you hope it works that way? Things are, in fact, getting worse on your end.

Anna was so present in the first month of moving in that you got so dependent on her, especially when having nightmares. Anna is so easy to wake up that you even wonder if she really is asleep the whole time. Anna would sit on your bed, squeeze your hand with her broad fingers, tuck you in while caressing your head, and whisper sweet nothings. When morning comes, she'd ask you about the nightmares, particularly about Johan. Then she'd ask you how you perceive Johan based on the dream. She speaks as if Johan is not a fragment of your dream, that she knows the boy personally, and that she knows the overall premise of your nightmares even though you only tell her the gist of it. It's as if Anna knows everything about you.

Despite the uncanny development between you two that needs to be assessed because otherwise, things could get a bit toxic, you couldn't help but cling to her. How could you not, when she's always there, so aware of what to do whenever you don't? How could you quench this dependency when she rarely comes home now, and the creepy emails from the Monster are increasing alarmingly? How would you sleep alone in a room designed for two when the Monster tells you things only your close friends would know? You're getting a bit too paranoid—delirious, even—during midnight meltdowns that you start cutting people off. It continued until Anna and Frieda were your only close friends left because you were sure neither would be the Monster. You sense Frieda's utter worry, but at least leaving Anna in your circle of trusted people tempered her anxiousness.

One midnight, right after you woke up from a nightmare showing the burnt sanctuary cradling corpses of so many children, you felt the most tormenting headache of your life. But Anna wasn't there to help you. You had to force yourself out of bed, wear your hoodie despite being drenched in cold sweat, and search for the nearest 24/7 pharmacy.

As if the night couldn't get worse, a strange tall man with a pointed nose and black trench coat approached you. He looked like he hadn't slept for days, and his dead eyes riled your intimidation towards him. With a small smile, he asks, "You don't seem well, young lady. Need help?"

"No," you grimace, the headache and paranoia increasing your irritability. "I can manage."

"The pharmacy is three blocks away from here. I can accompany you."

"How could I know you're not gonna bring me somewhere else?"

"You've got pepper spray on your left pocket, taser on the right. I don't think any burglar would dare go against you, not when your temper is riddled by unbearable headaches."

Sharp, he is. You silently nudge him to pave the way, then. The twinkling lights from bars and the volume of people leaving and entering the place help ease your intimidation on this terrible midnight. 

The man waits for the painkiller to kick in with you beside the pharmacy, after which he shows his ID and says, "Apologies for not introducing myself sooner. I'm Inspector Heinrich Lunge from BKA.”

How strange it is for an inspector to introduce himself at three in the morning. Upon examining his ID, you finally ask, "How could I help you, Inspector?"

He confirms your name, with which you nod, and then asks straight to the point, "Have you been receiving peculiar emails recently?"

Blood in your head flushes out in fear, which is quite uncanny, if you'd be honest. This might be the help you've been waiting for all this time. After your teary-eyed nod, the inspector invited you to a nearby cafe. His treat. The economic crisis had made mere painkillers so expensive for college students in Frankfurt, after all. 

You don't let details slip with Inspector Lunge; he seems immersed in it, minus his strange finger tapping on the table.

"To summarize, the Monster started his message by claiming you as the light amidst the hell of Kinderheim, who came just in time to bring a paradise of doomsday and grime, which pleased the Monster inside him. And after telling you that he's about to return the favor you did for him, the emails started becoming more personal and alarming," his finger-tapping did not cease after saying all this. It isn't until he closes his eyes that his voice changes, "All that, and yet, you didn't report it to the police."

"Because I'm conflicted. If I had reported that and it was a silly prank by one of my friends, how embarrassing would it have been to the officials who handled my case? Not to mention that—wait, hold on, how did you know about the emails, then?"

"An anonymous tip came to me, and it just so happened that your case might be related to the person I'm finding."

"The person you're finding…?"

"Okay, first things first. What I'm about to say are merely hypotheses I came up with by myself. It's not confirmed, at least not yet. In fact, you're the one to prove if everything I'm about to say is true."

You raise an eyebrow, "By yourself? How could you disrupt some random citizen's night over something you thought all by yourself? Have you not consulted your colleagues first?"

"That's not needed, to be honest," Lunge poses, holding his methods with utter confidence. "I don't think it's necessary if the one who tipped the information I have about your case is the presumed suspect themselves."

Your head starts spinning, unsure if it's because of the horror or rage. Really? Is all this torment only a game for this Monster?

"That's why you must help me, young lady," Lunge interposes, "because your cooperation would benefit your safety the most."

You don't trust people so quickly, but it's not like you have any other choice if the best one to help is this eccentric man in front of you. "Go on, Inspector."

"Nice choice," he clicks his tongue, "I'll get straight to the point, then," then sips his coffee. You feel he's going tormentingly slow as if pretending to consider your headspace to accommodate it. 

“Johan, Kinderheim 511.”

Fuck.

No way. There is absolutely no way.

"That's quite a reaction. It rang a bell, didn't it??"

Neither Anna nor Frieda had known that the little boy in your nightmares was named Johan.

Myriads of possibilities ran inside your head sporadically. The painkiller started wearing off despite its supposed 12-hour effectiveness. Trembling pleas for help transcended into actual throbbing headaches. If not for the public fiasco it could cause, you might have lost consciousness by now.

"Johan, he—" you trail, "h-he does not exist."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He does not exist!" you exclaim and stand up. The aggressive reaction turned everyone's head towards you. The only one unperturbed about it is Lunge himself.

"What's with your reaction, then?"

"Johan, the prairies, the fireworks up close, the burnt sanctuary holding corpses of burnt children, all of them!" you grip your hair with both hands, hoping to ease the ringing pain inside your head, "They do not exist! They're all in my head, they are nothing but nightmares! I—ah—huh—" you might be having a panic attack right now. Why? You just adamantly claimed that none of these exist? So why?

If the inspector knew of your meltdown, he showed no sign of it. He seems to care more about the information you have in you rather than the tumultuous effect it could give your brain by saying it out loud.

"The only way to ensure your safety right now is if you spill everything to me. Otherwise, you'll remain in that torment until that Monster reaches you."

You glare at Lunge angrily, "I won't be able to spill something that doesn't exist!"

"Your reaction says otherwise. You know it."

Your breathing becomes more staggered, urgent, and unrelenting. The inspector really might help you, so you try to calm down. If you couldn't help yourself, even his initiatives wouldn't matter, "H-huh… Hah—"

You look around the prairies and the sanctuary, "What a waste of beautiful things." "You're right. Everything would get burnt to a crisp. The prairies would be no more. We will be none but dust in the wind."

Tears start streaming down your face. You swear you could feel strands of your hair falling off by how hard you're gripping them.

You remove the red spider lily from your ear, walk towards him, and gently hold his hand with the flower. Your foreheads bump—perhaps it's your statement to the wind that you're not afraid to stick to whatever darkness and terror your friend has inside him. "Let me visit you as much as I can, then. I'm gonna visit you until you can be with that person again, the one you must never forget." "Would you?"

The snippet starts glitching in your head when the red spider lily Johan and you are holding melts down into blood. The tranquil afternoon turns dark. And the fluffy clouds turn into a massive chunk of smoke. The air started to stink. The cold breeze is now tormentingly hot. It reeks of corpses. Children. Flames. Ashes. And there goes Johan, looking at your reaction with expectant eyes, saying: Here are the fireworks you so wished for. I told you everything you say is etched in my memory. You ask, and I deliver.

"Stop—hah—go away! I can't—oh!" you snap out of it when a familiar hand grabs you by the shoulder and brings you to her embrace. 

She hushes you and whispers sweet nothings until it overpowers your sobbing, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm here. Breathe slowly."

Your eyes flutter. Anna's soft touches coax your heart to slow down. 

"Where have you been?" you muffle your cries on her shirt. "I've been having a hard time alone in the dorm."

"But I'm here now, am I not?" There's something in Anna's honey-laced voice that calms you down. Something more effective than drowsy painkillers or the sleeping pills you buy when nighttime events go dire. "You've been so independent all your life, so I thought you could handle it. Am I apparently mistaken?"

Just before you let your body give in to the cradle of Anna's safe arms, she speaks in a voice much deeper than usual, "I'm here because you want me to. It was you who wished for me, so you're not gonna get rid of me anytime soon."

You neither understood what she meant by that nor what was with the sudden change in her voice. Perhaps it was your delusion kicking in, but Anna's tone almost sounded like the boy in your dreams if he got to grow up into a fine young man. How alarming, indeed, but with your mind so desperate for comfort and warmth, you let Anna's remark consume you with relief.

To leave the only inspector who could help you in the hands of a girl you've only known for a month or two? What a pity.

But then, it's not like you can do anything about it. You have no choice but to let Anna handle it. As she always does, as she always would.

When you wake up, you're already at the dorm. Lying on the bedside table was a full-course breakfast Anna cooked for you. She told you what happened after you lost your consciousness. Inspector Lunge begrudgingly called it a night, but her apologies to your roommate were sincere. Anna was able to confirm his identity. Inspector Lunge is indeed from BKA but is on leave of absence.

"Then why did he go to me in the middle of the night? And the strange thing is that he reached out to me with nothing but assumptions he had just made by himself, with no colleagues involved whatsoever."

"My friend's father works at BKA. He told me an uncanny rumor."

"Rumor? It's more uncanny that the beauty and brains Anna Liebert believes rumors."

Anna giggles, scoots closer, and whispers to your ear, "One of the crucial witnesses in the case Inspector Lunge used to handle had killed themselves after he got so engrossed interrogating them. His leave of absence was forced by his superiors," she then faces you upfront; cold but gentle eyes are centimeters away from yours. Her breath smells of fresh mint. "Strange, isn't it?"

What's more strange is how you're flushed from the proximity just now, though.

"That's why I want you to be careful around him," Anna calls your name. "It's not that he couldn't help you—I think he would do so well in that regard—but do come to me once he crosses the line."

Indeed, if Inspector Lunge really crossed the line with this thing, killing yourself is way more possible than anything. "Thank you, Anna. I don't know how to repay all the help you've done for me."

She cups your cheeks, a very soft gesture contrasting her uncanny reply afterward, "I'll do everything for you."

"Why?" and yet you're too entranced to get alarmed by it.

"Why?" Anna lightly ponders. She gives you a cold, sweet smile shortly after: "Because you're special."

"Special? Why?"

"That's a secret," Anna then slides a toasted bread in your mouth. "Now eat. Someone dropped a letter in our mailbox. I think it's for you."

She then closes the door to leave you be. As much as the so-called secret is riling up your fluster, a realization daunts you, too. The longer you stay with this mysterious girl, the more it strengthens the feeling of familiarity towards her.

You brushed a hand through your head, deeply baffled and horrified. Not because of how this inspector nailed the events in your nightmares but because of a long-awaited admittance to your realization: the nightmares aren't just nightmares. You were never a particular case of a human being born out of nowhere with a ten-year-old body and uncanny eccentricities. Johan is real; when you were a kid, he was the sinister but only friend you've had.

I would like to apologize for my reckless behavior the previous night. It was imprudent of me to continue when you're clearly asking for a break. This time, please read this letter at your own pace. I know you're having a hard time, and this is the least I can do to help you.

Long, long ago, in one of Kinderheim's foster homes, there was a little boy constantly forced to sleep as he held the words that could shatter human lives. "He was a monster, keep him locked in the underground!" the staff often say. Rumors have it that he had ten horns and seven heads—a monster, indeed, if one might say. One day, this little Monster developed resistance to Kinderheim's sleep-inducing methods, and there, he leashed out the words that could ruin human lives. His power led to the demise of Kinderheim. Some say the monstrous boy only wanted to see fireworks up close, but Kinderheim wouldn't let him. Death to the foster guardians who didn't let him! Pity to the children who had to sacrifice their bodies so fireworks would be lit!

No one knew about the boy—neither his name nor his past. And as an inspector, I do not believe he's as monstrous as rumors say. It's a child's inherent characteristic to copy what adults around them do. Furthermore, hatred in an oppressive home is strengthened when people inside it gather. Hatred brings people together, and this measly little boy might've just ignited a flame out of it. Perhaps this little boy was just the personification of it all. 

How strange it is for a boy to have the means to burn everything to shreds. If it's true, I deduce it's possible only if someone gave him the material condition to do so—like a matchstick to its igniter or the pin inside a grenade.

Such are mere assumptions a mere inspector came up with on his own. Such are the assumptions only one person can prove.

You've been asleep so long and now have no choice but to wake up and put down the fire your wishes had caused.

• NEXT CHAPTER >>>

🏷️ @cadenza-damour @bianca4evers @lyneyenthusiast @suntizme @hyejohann @onasvigo | GET TAGGED FOR THE NEXT UPDATE

oh this is gonna go down so bad folks

#monster fanfiction #johan liebert x reader #johan liebert x you #johan liebert x y/n #fanfiction #monster fanfic #johan liebert fanfic #heinrich lunge x reader #anna liebert x reader #johan liebert fanfiction

[rukafais]

for @thespacelizard so i'm not just making an extremely long post with no readmore or like, spamming DMs

“Why, Kimmuriel, I had no idea that you were interested in such carnal pleasures,” Gromph Baenre said to the psionicist when Kimmuriel had finished with Dahlia and was preparing to leave House Do’Urden. With the new insight he had gained into the morass that was Dahlia’s jumbled mind, Kimmuriel had thought it time to depart Menzoberranzan for a bit and see to his business on the surface. His intended teleportation journey was interrupted, however, by the rather powerful psionic intrusions of Methil El-Viddenvelp, the illithid standing at Gromph’s side when the archmage met Kimmuriel in the antechamber just outside of Dahlia’s room. “I was learning,” Kimmuriel replied dryly, “as the subject of an experiment.” “One for which I am sure you could find many willing subjects,” Gromph teased. Kimmuriel stared at him blankly, revealing his boredom. “What do you want, Archmage?” “I?” Gromph asked innocently. “Why, Master Oblodra, you are the one who is where he does not belong.” Kimmuriel hardly failed to miss the unsubtle reference to his surname— the name of a House Gromph’s mother, with the power of the Spider Queen flowing through her, had utterly obliterated. “Bregan D’aerthe has been ordered to serve in House Do’Urden, has it not? I lead that band.” ---

“Your unrelenting quips waste my time, Archmage. Is there something of substance you wish to discuss? Like, perhaps, why you instructed Methil to interrupt my attempt to be gone from this place?” “Because I wished to speak with you, of course.” “Then speak of something worthy of my attention."

---

Gromph looked from one to the other, and arched an eyebrow when the illithid bowed to Kimmuriel.

“Do you plan to enlighten me?” asked the archmage, who sensed the exchange but could not quite decipher it.

“Our discussions are quite beyond your understanding at this point in your training, my student,” Kimmuriel answered.

Leave us, Kimmuriel silently requested of Methil, and the illithid bowed again and complied. Methil walked to the door, then dematerializing to pass right through the closed door as only a powerful psionicist might.

“Brilliant,” Kimmuriel said as he watched Methil leave.

“Rather showy, I think,” Gromph said.

Kimmuriel looked at him incredulously.

“Shall I weave a dimensional door to take me from this place when I desire to leave?” the archmage asked.

Kimmuriel shrugged and shook his head, his expression still incredulous, even belittling. “If you so desire.”

“And will I then be brilliant in the eyes of Kimmuriel?”

“Showy,” the psionicist was quick to answer, and now Gromph wore a confused expression.

“Methil exists more in his mind than in the physical world,” Kimmuriel explained. “He exited the room in that manner for the sake of expediency, nothing more.”

Gromph glanced back at the door. “Are you saying that it was less effort for the mind flayer to walk through the door than to reach out and open it?”

“Brilliant,” Kimmuriel replied, and when Gromph looked back at him, he added, “And brilliant in a manner unlike your magical dweomers each day. For Methil the powers are nearly inexhaustible.”

“Will I come to that point, my teacher?” Gromph asked slyly.

“If you do, I will envy you.”

--- “Ah, yes,” said Gromph sarcastically. “You were learning.” “I am always learning. That is why I am the master, and you the student.” Gromph’s red eyes flared for just an instant. He was not used to being talked to in that manner, Kimmuriel knew. “Now that you have learned, you will leave? Or am I to have another lesson?” ---

It was a curious phrase coming from this one, one of those nonsensical surface structures often bandied about by the less intelligent races, but in this context it was more than that. A hint? Kimmuriel sent his probing thoughts into Gromph’s mind. There were few drow more intelligent than Gromph Baenre, and he could easily defeat such psionic intrusions from afar. Indeed, Kimmuriel wondered whether even an illithid could gain much from stubborn Gromph directly through the meld of its probing tentacles if the archmage mentally tried to block it. But now those guards were down. Gromph was allowing him in. Gromph kept it focused, his disciplined mind allowing no side-journeys for the psionicist, who felt almost as if he had mentally entered a long and illustrious hallway, full of statues with teasing placards.

--- “Enough!” Gromph shouted suddenly, breaking Kimmuriel from his trance. Kimmuriel blinked open his eyes and looked at his student, his expression one of puzzlement. “Archmage?” he innocently asked. “What kind of fool do you take me to be?” Gromph said with deathlike flatness. A wave of panic rolled up through the normally composed psionicist, and he seriously considered teleporting from that room at once—though of course Gromph would chase him and find him. “Spare me your false accolades,” Gromph clarified, and it was all Kimmuriel could do to suppress a great sigh of relief. “I know I have failed this day.”

---

“It will grow easier,” Kimmuriel assured him. “These powers of the mind are new to you—I am amazed at the progress you have already made. Such psionic scrying is a difficult task for any, even an illithid, and that you can perform it at all is testament to your mental strength, and offers great hope that you will one day—one day soon, perhaps—attain psionic greatness to rival your arcane prowess.” The compliments performed as Kimmuriel had hoped, and Gromph eased back and visibly relaxed. And the kind words were only partly a lie, Kimmuriel knew, for Gromph was indeed powerful in mind magic —and as intelligent as any drow ever known. Intelligence alone didn’t guarantee psionic prowess—the brilliant Jarlaxle was quite fumbling with regard to the psionic powers, after all—but when one had that aptitude, as with Gromph, great intelligence would present great opportunity, a ceiling as high as the sky in the World Above. “Are you prepared to resume our sessions?” Kimmuriel asked.

---

He could hear their telepathic calls in his head, begging for instructions, and he knew that he controlled them. He could feel it. They would obey his every command. “Kill that one,” he instructed the others, pointing to what appeared to be the most aggressive of the group, and without hesitation, the other four fell over the targeted creature, bearing it to the floor with a tumbling crash. They tore it apart, appendage by appendage, leaving a smoking, melting husk on the floor. Gromph felt almost godlike, and he couldn’t suppress his grin as he considered the melding of psionics and arcane powers. He understood the mind flayers much better at that moment, and understood Kimmuriel as well, and wondered how his brother Jarlaxle could possibly control the psionicist of House Oblodra. ---- “Where is that creature you claim as a peer?” Gromph demanded. The one you consider your tutor? Jarlaxle thought, but very wisely did not say. “Seeking answers, I would hope.” “In the Abyss?” Jarlaxle nearly laughed out loud. “Where Kimmuriel always seeks his answers,” he replied. “At the hive-mind, of course. The illithids know everything in the multiverse, if one is to believe Kimmuriel.”

---

“You will tell me everything Kimmuriel learns,” the archmage said at length. “And when he returns, you will deliver him to me immediately.” “Deliver him?” Jarlaxle shrugged and offered a meek smile. “What?” Gromph demanded. “Kimmuriel is a leader of Bregan D’aerthe, dear Gromph, and as such, he is free to make his own choices,” Jarlaxle explained. “I will inform him of your desire to speak with him, but …” Gromph’s nostrils flared and for a heartbeat, Jarlaxle feared that he might have gone a bit too far in his overt backtracking. But Gromph quickly calmed—no doubt he reminded himself that he needed Bregan D’aerthe right now more than they needed, or feared, him. Jarlaxle could get word of Gromph’s whereabouts to Matron Mother Baenre very quickly, after all, and the mercenary leader had a good idea that Quenthel and Gromph were not on particularly good terms at this time. “I wish to speak with him,” Gromph said calmly. “Perhaps it would help if you would tell me why,” Jarlaxle offered. “Perhaps I might burn my explanation onto your naked back and leave you face down and dead on the floor for Kimmuriel to read.” “A simple no would have sufficed.” “Jarlaxle doesn’t take no for an answer.” “Hmm,” the mercenary leader snorted, and he shrugged, tipped his hat in concession, and walked away, muttering as he made his way through the haunted corridors of Illusk. Now he knew, without doubt, that Gromph blamed Kimmuriel for Demogorgon. “Ah, my tentacle-loving friend, what have you done?” Jarlaxle asked himself, but the question carried back no answers in its echoes.

---

“I will reduce him to ash,” the archmage promised, and there was no compromise or debate to be found in his tone. “Yes, dear Jarlaxle, do go find him.” All four of the others took a cautious step back from the sheer weight of the threat. “He was your instructor in what you most desired,” Jarlaxle dared to reply. “Was,” said Gromph. “And he betrayed me.” “You do not know that.” Gromph glared at him. “Am I to believe that mighty Gromph Baenre considers himself to have been used as a puppet by Kimmuriel?” Jarlaxle answered. “You think it was Kimmuriel who tricked you into casting a spell beyond your control, one that brought the great Demogorgon into the tower of Sorcere?” “There are many times when Jarlaxle speaks too much,” Gromph warned. “But that cannot be,” Jarlaxle pressed anyway. “How can Kimmuriel have had knowledge of that kind of power? To summon the Prince of Demons? Every matron mother in the city would have murdered her own children to find such a secret." ----

Kimmuriel shrugged. “These are strange times of unexpected occurrence, Archmage. I did not know that the invocation I helped you to sort out through the combination of magic arcane and psionic would bring Demogorgon to the Underdark, or that it would so damage the Faerzress as to give other mighty demons access to the corridors of Faerûn’s underworld. “Had I known that, surely I would have helped you to avoid that … trouble.” He shrugged again. “Come, Archmage. You will find the journey enlightening in ways you could not ever before imagine.” Gromph tapped his fingers together again, staring at this confusing drow. The hive-mind! From everything Gromph had ever learned regarding the mind flayers—and thanks to Methil El Viddenvelp, his knowledge of the subject was extensive—the illithid hive-mind was perhaps the greatest repository of knowledge and understanding of the multiverse in existence. He took Kimmuriel’s hand. ---

“Lower your defenses,” Kimmuriel urged him, audibly and in his mind. “The illithids have no reason to show you enmity. It was they who bid me to bring you.” Gromph looked at Kimmuriel with great suspicion, and thought for a moment that he had foolishly accepted the invitation, and that this, after all, might be no more than a ploy to eliminate a threat to Kimmuriel, who had long been favored by the squid-headed beasts. But Kimmuriel shook his head. “They would take no sides in our dispute, even if I so wished,” he said. “They would know with confidence that whichever of us proved the stronger would willingly work beside them, to learn from them as they learned from me, or you. “Lower your defenses, I beg,” he went on. “They cannot serve you here in any case, and hiding behind walls of useless wariness will only prevent you from experiencing the power of this place of ultimate knowledge.”

---

Gromph and Kimmuriel walked side by side through the passageways of Gauntlgrym, a host of dwarf guards directing them. King Bruenor hadn’t been pleased to see them, but at least they had come to see him properly, in accordance with Catti-brie’s wishes. Gromph hadn’t much noticed or cared. He had only come to this place now because of Kimmuriel’s insistence. Since he had accepted Kimmuriel as the official ambassador of the illithid hive-mind in the rebuilding of the tower, Kimmuriel’s wishes were no small thing. “It is an amazing insight, perhaps,” Kimmuriel offered as the party descended the long circular stair to the main chamber of the lower levels. “It is idiocy,” Gromph replied with calm confidence. The only thing preventing him from a complete explosion of outrage here were his most recent memories. Never had he felt such power flowing through him as when the illithid collective had sent the kinetic barrier to the waiting K’yorl. That had felt to Gromph to be the purest and most intense expression of intangible power he had ever experienced. In those moments of flowing perfection, he believed that he had come to know what it was like to be a god. ---

“Truly you wound me, my friend.”

“I wound you, but you’re to get me killed, beyond doubt,” said Kimmuriel.

“Gromph is not going to kill you,” Jarlaxle assured him. “After feeling the power of the illithid hive flowing through him to destroy Demogorgon, he is more likely to cast enchantments of love upon you than to lob fireballs your way.”

“Thrilling,” Kimmuriel dryly replied.

“He would give you a room at the Hosttower.”

“To be surrounded by insipid wizards and their limitations?”

Jarlaxle sighed in surrender.

#he cannot stop comparing gromph to jarlaxle in some of these lmao #jarlaxles ego would become fucking intolerable if he knew kimmuriel was like YEAH JARLAXLE IS SO SO SMART HE JUST SUCKS AT PSIONICS SO BAD #this isnt all of them but they have like. A lot.

[bbybearcubbs]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

DON'T

SPAM

LIKE

I am BEGGING don't spam like please please PLEASE!!!

This is a warning and a request. I BLOCK people that spam like and so does every creator on this app that has content to share. Spam liking gets us shadowbanned. Its already hard enough to get our content circulating on this app, spam liking ensures our posts don't make it onto your dashboard.

If you really want to show a creator that you like their posts, reblog. If you can go through the blog and tap the heart on every post for a minute straight you can do that to the reblog button too!! Reblogs are what help circulate our posts. Reblogs are what ensures you Gey to see the same posts you're liking on your dash! It also shows the creators you actually care about their funny quips or drawing or rant or story and in doing so motivates us to do more!!!

Likes are fine, they're okay and I don't mean to sound ungrateful but they do NOTHING. Absolutely NOTHING to make the system push our work out there. Its extremely frustrating opening my notifications and seeing (47) & (56) waiting for me, only to see that 98% of them are likes. Worse yet when its a line of the same person liking a bunch of posts. You're putting my blog in jeopardy.

If you really want someone to see how much you like their stuff, leave a comment and/or reblog! Please!

#♡cubbs♡ #cubbs.talks #don't spam like #please reblog #spam liking hurts #it actually physically hurts

[superman--yoosung]

こんにちは！元気ですか？⬇️ I saw your taking matchups! so….I would like a Romantic Matchup for Mystic Messenger please? 어쨌든, 시작하자!

Hi @averagetoyakinnie, nice to meet you! Yours is one of the most vibrant and vividly-formatted asks I have ever seen (in a very positive way!) From one creative to another, I wish you all the best in your artistic endeavors!!

Your Mystic Messenger matchup is...................

707 !!

"Oh, Joey, I saw you were duo-ing with Seven in LOLOL the other day! You two have taken the top spots, that's impressive, hehe. But wait, why haven't either of you joined the Shooting Star guild with me?!"

To outsiders of the RFA, you and Luciel Choi seemed like a rather flashy couple. Bold fashion, Luciel's startlingly bright hair, and energetic personalities when combined - the two of you were impossible to miss whenever you cruised by in one of Seven's sports cars. To those in your circles, you were - well, you were still all those things. But you were also known to be considerate, knowledgeable, and highly creative. Out of all the members, it was often the two of you who were able to most consistently produce innovative solutions to problems that came up.

The love between the two of you already proved itself once - and Luciel couldn't wait to see what would come next in your shared story.

Fun details:

707 loves dressing up, so when he realizes your varied tastes in clothes, he'll start buying outfits that cater to those tastes. He'll send pictures of his cosplays (and crossplays) your way for you to critique the outfits and give your fashion input. Once you're an established couple, he will definitely go on a shopping splurge to buy matching outfits (and cosplays) in all the styles and brands you prefer. (And yes, that goes for Saeran, too - he's not going to be left out of this!) Honestly, this is a great way for Seven to bond with you; he thinks your taste in fashion is top tier.

Any time something you've had a hand in producing goes live, there will be an influx of posts about it on social media. Suspicious timing, you say? Seven has no idea what you're talking about. Nope. He definitely didn't make bots to promote your works the instant they're out. Why on earth would he do that? (Spoiler: he definitely did do all that.) If you take issue with the publicity, he'll stop, but only because he'll start spamming his own many socials with the information instead. His words and over-the-top lovey-dovey comments are still always sincere - he resonates with your works, and if you ever steal the headphones off his shoulders, don't be surprised to hear your music echoing back at you.

What with your humor and Seven's memeing, there is never a dull moment in the RFA chat. Even after Luciel tones it down later on, you two will always be a source of lively energy, especially when you're both together. You're able to bounce off one another's quips almost instantly, like it's second nature. You're also both very intelligent and knowledgeable. Yoosung will always come to you first, though, for help with subjects you know well; it's up to you whether you decide to help him, or do a little trolling.

Seven is delighted to find someone with as many varied interests as him; he will always take you up on an offer to join you in an activity you enjoy. He may be good at it, or he may absolutely suck at it - but he'll always give it a try and have fun with the process! Sometimes he'll pretend he's bad at something, too, like when he pretended not to know how to skateboard - but you see right through the act, because of how he handles himself in the small details. Either way, expect things to always be fun and full of laughter if he's tagging along.

Later on, your more artistic pursuits will be intriguing for Saeran to hear about and see in action. If you decide to share those interests with him, he will eventually come around to them, and if you ever put up a small gallery in your home of digital art or give a private concert for Luciel and he cries like a baby by the end of it - well, that's between the three of you.

You and Seven will sometimes switch to different languages while speaking or messaging. Sometimes it's to troll the rest of the RFA a bit, or annoy them, but sometimes it's just because one of you is bored or the thought you'd like to convey is better said in another language. Anyways, Luciel's door passwords are no match for you, so he's just going to have to learn Tagalog faster than you can if he wants to keep you out, isn't he?

Any and all of your date ideas are fine by Luciel. In fact, why not do multiple in a day? (He's a bit hesitant to leave Saeran alone, but as long as your most trusted maid is at home to babysit, he's down for anything and everything.) Expect many handmade gimmicks and knick-knacks from Saeyoung. Like the robo-cat, his gifts have dual purposes beyond just appearance, though sometimes while on a date, he'll sneak something simple home, like a flower you stared at for too long (yes, plucked straight from the neighbor's garden as is, he's a menace like that) or a keychain from your favorite anime. Enjoy these gifts - they are all given sincerely and with love!

When you give him a drawing for the first time, Seven is just... floored. What did he do to deserve something so precious and intimate? It will be his most treasured item, even long after you've settled into life together. He will take in every little detail, every sketched line or color, and his heart will never fail to skip a little faster than normal. This is, after all, the fruit of conscious effort and labor by you made with him in mind. It's proof that you think about him. It's proof you care. That's more than enough for him, yet you choose to share even more - and my, how it makes him realize how impossibly lucky he is.

It was love at first sight for Seven. The moment he saw you on that camera, he was gone. Your fashion, your looks, the way you carry yourself... He wasn't lying about the 2.35 seconds - he couldn't look away. And of course, over the time you spent on the messenger app and in person, he only fell deeper for you as he got to know your personality and soul. With you and Saeran by his side, Saeyoung thinks that - maybe, finally - he can finally learn what a true, happy family is meant to be. You are his source of hope.

~~I also thought of Yoosung for you, but I wasn't sure if you'd prefer that since he was in your kins. (And more importantly, he does the "You're just like XXXX" thing, which you mentioned you dislike.) Anyways, I hope this is to your liking!

#mysme #mystic messenger #mystic messenger matchups #mysme matchups #707 #707 x reader

[zippverschluss]

destiny (with you) doesn't replace development

missed opportunities in developing the romance

i see people complaining about and dropping the drama because they feel that there is no substance to the feelings between shin-yu and hong-jo. you know, other than the destined part.

and i partly agree with that, however i also... disagree.

for one, several videos and explainers i stumbled across suggest that in korea you first start dating and only after defining your romantic / platonic relationship really get to know each other. and since i ask myself the same question in a lot of other dramas, i think the fact that shin-yu doesn't really know hong-jo by now, after declaring her his destiny, can in part be attributed to these cultural differences. on top of that, i really think western audiences underestimate the imbalance and obstacles their different social standings create. on top of that they have the issue of workplace hierachy.

however, another part is missed opportunities in writing. and like the 'groot' scene was supposed to show us that hong-jo understood shin-yu's reference without further explanation, they could have built in such moments throughout.

for example in the beginning, when hong-jo hunts down information on shin-yu she could have said something like 'he sounds like model deatheater. i already hate him.' when he was talking about Sadness and Joy from Inside / Out, she could have quipped back that in her brain Anger and Disgust were tapdancing on her button or something like that.

Instead of that strange scene where he called her out to tell her he's a wilted flower, they could have shown them in a work related situation showcasing that they have the same guiding morals / principals / sense of humour (and also working out the juxtaposition of shin-yu being in control of himself, to only lose that as soon as hong-jo is concerned, maybe with kwon in the mix).

or an establishing shot in both their apartments of the mentioned books / movies / figures.... something. that would also explain why hong-jo was so receptive to the idea of magic and spells.

i also feel, after hearing shin-yu's quips, that he actually appreciated hong-jo going through the 'magic rituals' to try to open the box. before that scene, hong-jo was complaining that even aladdin was polite to the genie, casting herself as the genie. so they could have kept with that and have her do everything but rubbing the box only for shin-yu to remind her that she hasn't tried that yet. and then at his next suggestion have her tell him to wait. genie would then have been the natural option for his nickname for her in his phone (for me at least). and would make the gut punch of not having a name even harder.

Or, if the writer really wanted to go deep, they could have gone with my first association, which wasn't genie from aladdin, but jeannie from 'i dream of jeannie'... which would have even more layers imo.

also, their shared love for semantics and word play. (a lot of which gets lost in translation i'm afraid.)

so anyways, i do think there is substance to their relationship. but you really have to look to see it because it is only ever hinted at. and i agree that with very little change to what we've seen, we could have gotten a lot more. i also freely admit that rowoon and jo bo ah and their chemistry are (for now) the only reason i'm sticking with this. and park gi-dong. sometimes a drama just hooks you for no apparent reason.

PS: i'm not trying to spam the tag, it's just that this drama unexpectedly sunk its hooks into me, i've been thinking about this for weeks and i'm hoping finally writing it down and sending it off into the (tumblr) void will free up mental space for other things. also gifs. also, some of my crack predictions came true and i so badly wanted to say i told you so. also reddit is more like a discussion and i just wanna scratch an itch.

#destined with you #kdrama #netflix #jang shin yu #lee hong jo #rowoon #jo bo ah #ramblings #zippy can't zip it

[miloscat]

[Review] Star Wars The Clone Wars: Lightsaber Duels (Wii)

The waggle is what gives a Jedi her power.

I’m looking forward to Jedi Survivor, so I thought I’d knock a few other Star Wars games off my backlog before it releases. Starting with this, the final game based on the Clone Wars animated shows that I haven’t played yet (apart from an old MMO that is long since shut down, a mobile game that I couldn’t find a non-crashing version of, a handful of Flash games, and Disney Infinity... hmm). I’ve previously played Lego Star Wars III on both console and handheld, Republic Heroes on console and DS, plus the other DS game Jedi Alliance. The latter was actually the companion release to Lightsaber Duels, although they’re in totally different genres. This one is a one-on-one fighting game, mostly centred around the no-brainer concept of translating Wii Remote swings to lightsaber strikes. And, it was made by beloved Aussie studio Krome!

The game was in development at the same time as the show, so it’s only able to pull from first season episodes and the movie. The story mode is fairly brief but adapts certain fights that were seen on screen, with framing cutscenes made up of footage along with new narration by Tom Kane’s narrator. All the characters are voiced by their show counterparts in fact, and the graphics match the show’s 3D animation as well, so it’s nice and authentic. I would have liked to see more new content, but there is one unique scenario at least, with the final battle featuring an advanced dual-saber-wielding droid.

The cast plays pretty safe with the main saber-compatible heroes and villains from the show. Mace Windu, Plo Koon, and Kit Fisto are unlockable by engaging with the Challenge mode, but I couldn’t be arsed. The stages are fun with dynamic layouts and events happening, like droids popping out to ineffectually shoot at you, or bits and pieces exploding and such.

It’s really the core gameplay that lets this down, as waving the wiimote and nunchuck around just never translates to a satisfying and deep gameplay experience. There are combos you can do if you can somehow get the correct directional waggles in sequence, and there are technically dodges, force fling powers, and so forth, but in practice I got through the fights by flailing madly and spamming force attacks while hoping the bot player didn’t just block everything.

Let me pull out a few choice tidbits before wrapping up. I was amused by the tutorial, where Anakin is training Ahsoka on the basics; his fully modelled hands appear on screen holding a Wii Remote and nunchuck to demonstrate the controls, which of course establishes that they exist in the Star Wars universe. The characters pepper quips throughout each duel, which are sometimes surprisingly crass insults, and can be pretty silly when a character is versing themself. Finally I recommend inputting cheats to unlock the concept art gallery, as there’s some good work in there; I wouldn’t mind seeing a comic illustrated by the Krome artists in fact!

Lightsaber Duels works in theory and Krome did a decent job filling the game out in certain areas. But relying too much on motion controls is sadly a fundamental flaw to any game design. As part of the Clone Wars project they could have gone further in the game’s content, but it seems this was compromised by the schedule and even supposedly not wanting to spoil the events of then-upcoming episodes! An absurd concern 15 years later. Still, as a fan of the show I enjoyed the character interactions and how well the game fits the show’s style, even if it’s just a bit of waggly fluff.

#star wars #The Clone Wars #star wars the clone wars #star wars the clone wars lightsaber duels #Krome Studios #review #wii

[n3g5nx]

Negan x OC/Reader TWD

Chapter three !!! I have up to chapter eight on AO3, but I don't want to spam post, so it'll take a few days for me to get then all out on here ^^"

AO3 CHAPT. TWO

X was jolted awake the next day by an insistent, rhythmic knocking on their door. They grumbled to themselves as they peeled back the covers and swung out of bed, black shorts hanging loosely onto their hips and snug black tank tops clinging to their body. Morning light streamed through the window in orange rays as they made their way across the room. With a yawn, X opened the door, sleepily looking up at the man standing there with that cocky grin and leather jacket strapped to him.

"Damn, I thought that you would never-" Negan started with a jovial tone but slowly trailed off in a moment of surprise. He raised a hand to his face, running his fingers down his stubble as he unabashedly let his eyes linger on X's exposed hip bones, taking in their appearance. "Well, shit, I didn't know it was my birthday…"

X was more awake now as they scoffed, sheepishly tugging their shorts up more and crossing their arms over their chest, but they could do little to hide the blush on their cheeks. Their stance straightened, eyes narrowing at Negan as a sharp retort teetered at the edge of their tongue. They wisely opted for silence instead. There was a brief, tense moment of quiet between the two, Negan clearly enjoying the sassy, unspoken retort.

"As I was saying," He resumed after deliberately clearing his throat, that grin of his broader and cockier than ever, "I thought you would never open the damn door, but hell am I glad you did." arm resting against the door frame, he leaned in eye level to X, "You, hot-stuff, are coming on a supply run with yours truly today."

He spoke with equal parts authority and less-than-subtle flirtation. X was annoyed by what was becoming a regular occurrence but also intrigued at the same time. They couldn't deny his attractiveness, after all. Glancing back at the window, the sun climbing higher into the sky, X sighed softly. They turned back to Negan with a reluctant look etched into their face, but they held their tongue.

"Sounds good." They murmured, a hand running through their shaggy black hair.

Down in the courtyard where Negan had led them sat two large trucks already purring and ready to go. X had changed their shorts to jeans but opted to keep the tank. They hopped into the passenger seat of one of the two on Negan's command, glancing over to see Dwight and some blonde girl in the truck beside them. Hearing the driver's side door open and shut, they looked back over to see Negan in the driver's seat, walkie in hand.

"D, Arat, you two ready to roll?" Negan barked into the receiver, getting back two affirmatives within seconds.

The trucks started rolling, and X released a soft sigh as they gazed out the window, getting wrapped up in their thoughts. After a moment of silence, they sighed and spoke up, breaking the silence. "So…" they started tentatively, glancing over at Negan, "any leads about me getting all bagged up?"

Negan offered a laugh in return, eyes flickering over at them before shifting his attention back to the road, "I got my right hand, Simon, working on that, and I will surely let you know if anything comes up, sweetheart.

X wished they could cringe at the sweetheart part but found, like all of Negan's other annoying quips, they just flustered the hell out of them. "Well thanks anyway." They replied softly, gaze absently fixed on him.

They observed his features: chiselled jaw and perfect eyes, hair and stubble framing his face perfectly. Then, lower to his outfit, he just looked overall cool as hell. Their thoughts drifted as they found themselves admiring Negan, being momentarily engrossed by his rugged charm. Damn, was the way he annoyed them hot…

It was Negan's turn to break the silence, speaking up with an amused voice, "I can feel you staring, sweetheart." He smirked, not taking his attention off the road ahead for a second.

X looked away quickly as their face flushed with a deep warmth, head swimming with embarrassment and irritation. They mumbled an apology under their breath and began making small circles on the window with their finger. Instead, they gazed at the passing landscape, taking in the trees and wild brush that zipped past them. It was undeniable how alluring Negan was, and they absolutely despised it. Hell, they didn't even know this guy, and from what they've seen, he's an arrogant prick. But then again, you play with the cards you're dealt, right?

A few miles later, the truck pulled to a stop on the side of the road, coming up to what looked like an abandoned strip of various stores. The treeline encroached far into the strip, and vines tangled across the buildings. It looked like no one, but the dead had been through here in a long while, which boasted well for the idea of a supply run.

Negan sent Dwight and Arat to start at the end of the strip, as far back as they could, and work their way up as he and X began at the front. They got a sideways glance from both of them when Negan was deciding the pairs, Arat looking suspicious while Dwight held an unreadable expression on his face. X couldn't help but feel suspicious themselves, wondering why Negan wanted them paired up with him. They were new, after all.

Still, X followed Negan without refuting, walking into the first store with their gun drawn. They had shot a rifle before, but the one they had strapped to them now felt heavier. X wondered if the gun was different or if they'd grown weaker. The thought got a subtle frown from them as they poked around the store, looking out for any rotters that might be lurking.

"So far, so good, new kid." Negan mused as they strolled back towards the store entrance, his barbed-wire bat casually slung across his shoulder. He glanced at X with a mock accusatory stare, "You are damn good at sneaking around; almost thought you skipped town on my ass." He chuckled.

X kept their pace steady beside him, feeling like they were taking two steps for every step he took as they tried not to fall behind. They offered a nonchalant shrug, piping up with a matter-of-fact tone, "I don't have no place to run off to." They kicked the dirt below them as they made their way back outside and added with a light sniff, "and, uh, thank you sir."

Negan shook his head as they moved on to the next building. "Again with that damn sir shit." he sounded amused more than anything, a smirk plastered on his lips as he spoke. He didn't seem to really be complaining, so X had no reason to stop.

"How I was brought up is all…" They said softly in response as they did a sweep of the building's entrance.

The afternoon gradually shifted to early evening, everyone regrouping back at the trucks. Arat and Dwight seemed luckier in finding supplies, but X didn't come out empty-handed. They had also dug up some hidden first aid bags and a few other things. Anything hidden behind a particularly tight squeeze, X had got.

"What a damn successful day for our new recruit here," Negan mused, satisfaction evident as he put an arm around their shoulder.

X couldn't help but feel proud in that moment, receiving his genuine approval like a shiny gold medal. His arm felt heavy on their shoulders, bringing them back to the other night when they had to lean on him just to walk. It seemed to X that they were already carving out a name for themselves, at least with their new enigmatic leader. The other Saviour's opinions didn't matter much to them.

Once settled back in the truck, X stole a glance over at Negan, speaking in a more sheepish tone now after the unexpected praise, "Thank you. I'm glad I can start to repay your kindness to me, sir."

Negan exhaled slowly as he tapped idly on the steering wheel, still in the park. He twisted in his seat, radioing the others to go ahead and roll out while looking X in the eyes. He spoke in a low but light-hearted voice, "Do you have any damn idea what you calling me that in that little voice of yours does to me, sweetheart?"

X's face flushed red in an instant, a mix of surprise and embarrassment as Negan's words bore into them. That voice of his, husky and bold, oozing with confidence and flirtation, got to them good. They averted their gaze as they began fidgeting with their fingers in their lap, not sure how they could've missed the clear signs of how he reacted to that one word. "Just a habit, sorry." They said with a squeak.

Negan leaned over, grabbing their chin with one hand and guiding them to look at him. A smirk was painted over his face as he dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, "Now, did I say it was a fucking bad thing?"

X's heart raced, their whole body bursting with intense heat- especially where Negan's touch lingered. They unsuccessfully attempted not to stare into his dark brown eyes, finding them too captivating to be able to tear away. On top of that, they were sure they were paralyzed. Thoughts raced, and shaky breaths got caught in their throat as they tried to muster the words to say.

"I… I didn't- didn't mean to…" they stammered, voice trailing off helplessly as they lost their voice again.

Negan traced his thumb along their bottom lip before letting out a cool, low chuckle as he pulled away. "Relax, kid, you're going to stain the seats." He winked at them as he turned his attention back to the wheel and began backing away from the strip.

The truck drew closer and closer to the Sanctuary with each passing mile, X keeping their eyes outside the window. They couldn't even appreciate the scenery, mind still firmly locked on Negan and that damn stunt he pulled. It was hard to feign annoyance when you were utterly awestruck and flustered beyond belief. Who did he think he was touching them like that? And why the hell did they enjoy it so much?

Much to X's dismay, the truck slowly rolled to a stop. Before they could even ask, the distinct sound of walkers groaning echoed outside the truck. Looking ahead, X could make out the other truck slowly peeling off into the distance, probably just missing the meandering horde.

"God-mother-fucking-shit," Negan grumbled, clenching the wheel tightly as the undead bumped into the front of the truck occasionally.

Against their better judgement, X cast a sidelong glance at Negan and spoke with a hint of annoyance, "Y'know, if you didn't pull that little stunt of yours on me back there, we would've missed it…"

Negan's jaw clenched, knuckles turning white on the wheel as he passed a glare to X. His eyes held danger in them, an unspoken threat of violence. "Don't you even think about startin' that shit with me right now." A low, harsh retort.

The atmosphere in the truck was thick with tension, weighing down on the two as the massive horde continued to pass by just in front of them. The sky took on an eerie orange-red haze as the sun started its descent. It wouldn't be long until nightfall and the relentless march of rotters showed no sign of letting up soon.

The engine had long been cut off, leaving the inside of the truck to start growing stuffy. Each moment dragged on longer and longer, only marked by the occasional scrape of decaying hands against metal and dull, aimless thuds. The stench of death permeated outside and threatened to seep into the small, enclosed space Negan and X found themselves trapped in.

X thought for a moment that no matter where they were in the world, no one would ever be safe. Especially not them and their mediocre fighting abilities; it was a miracle they had even made it this long. X stole a sideways glance at Negan, his face partially illuminated by the fleeting sunlight. He had a reserved look across his face, features etched with irritation and a hint of tiredness. X couldn't deny that being around Negan, even in a terrifying as a shit situation like this- that could go south at any moment- they felt secure around Negan. Protected.

Negan caught their gaze for a moment, a faint smirk dancing across his lips. X glanced away, blushing once more as they hid their mouth in their hands, elbows propped up on the door.

"I get it; if I weren't me, I'd stare at my fine self, too." Negan drawled, voice lowered to not draw the attention of the undead inches away.

His irreverent attitude momentarily eased X's worries and coaxed out a soft laugh from them. The air grew quieter as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, leaving them in darkness. Leaning forward in their seats, Negan and X noticed that the horde had thinned and the last undead were stumbling by. X passed Negan an excited look, holding back an ear-to-ear grin. They figured they might seem weak if they showed how relieved they were now that the threat had passed.

"Well, hot damn, looks like the shitstorm has officially passed." Negan laughed, sounding amused and relieved as he shared a grin with his passenger.

The truck rumbled back to life and clicked into gear, Negan high-tailing it out of there before the horde could double back on them. The night was entirely upon them, the thick darkness being only broken by the truck's high beams as they sailed down the road. The Sanctuary was fast approaching, growing larger and larger as the two drew closer and closer. The gates were pulled open for them before chatting back shut after they hauled ass inside the yard. A few people ducked away from the truck that hurled inside the perimeter with reckless speeds before screeching to a stop.

Negan wasted no time hopping out of the truck, dragging Lucille with him and propping the bat up on his shoulder as he scanned the small crowd of people that had formed. "Alright, where are the two pussies that left my ass high-and-dry out there in a sworm of dead-fuckers?"

Wordlessly, Dwight and Arat came to the front of the crowd, looking both determined and slightly weary. A sardonic smile spread across Negan's lips as he approached the two. X hopped out of the truck but hung back, not wanting to be caught up in the crossfire of whatever was about to go down.

"Well, there they are," Negan started with a hardy laugh, "the dynamic duo of dumbasses. You thought it would be amusing to leave me stranded out there, surrounded by a horde of flesh-eating motherfuckers?" His voice carried the cadence of a joke, but it was clear he was not playing around.

Dwight, stupidly, spoke up defensively, "Negan, we thought you were—"

"Nah-ah-ah," Negan interrupted, his face dropping to a scowl, barking back with a voice that matched, "you don't get to back-talk me, D. I don't want to hear your piss-poor excuses. What I want is for you to have my goddamn back when things go south." He slung Lucille from his shoulder, a wooden thud as the tip of the bat hit the ground beside him. He gripped the handle tighter. "You two had one job. Stay the fuck back and help divert the goddamn horde instead of leaving my ass to wait it the fuck out. But no, apparently you had more important things to attend to, huh?"

Arat shifted on her feet, eyes cast downward as she wordlessly took the verbal beatdown. Dwight's jaw clenched in evident frustration, but he bit back any further retort he thought of. The hierarchy was clear, Negan's authority irrefutable. Negan watched the two with a calculated glare before turning and walking back to the truck. Dwight and Arat were left confused as his tirade stopped short, watching him as he sauntered to… X.

"I bet they're pissing their damn pants right now." Negan chuckled as he approached X, voice low and amused. Leaning on the truck dangerously, he grinned down at them, dangerously close with only mere inches between the two. "But hey, I got to spend that time out there next to your cute ass," He added with a wink.

It was X's turn to be confused; they were sure he had been pissed off at them the majority of the time for their earlier retort. Still, Negan's bold demeanour was impossible to ignore. It was clear he'd taken some sort of liking to X.

"And usually I'd be pissed at your sass, but damn I'd be lying if I said it didn't get me going." His voice was chipper and jovial, but the clear innuendo wasn't lost, bringing a blush to X's cheeks, "How the hell do you blush so damn much, sweetheart? Is it me or are you just that easy."

Negan leaned closer, a wide, toothy grin set on his face as his eyes trailed up and down X like he did that morning. Their embarrassment only deepened, cheeks burning hotter and heart beating harder. They wanted to look away but found they were trapped in his gaze as They awkwardly fidgeted with the hem of their shirt. Just when it couldn't get any more awkward, Negan grabbed their wrist, sending shivers along their spine.

Everyone who hadn't returned to the factory was clearly gawking at the display. It was humiliating. They could feel the weight of about a dozen eyes, if not more. Part of them wished the ground would just open up and swallow them whole.

Negan's expression softened then, and he stood straight, dropping their wrist and stepping back. "How about we head back inside. We've had enough excitement for one day."

The night seemed to stretch endlessly as X paced around their new quarters, restless and unable to be taken by the comforts of sleep. It was like every corner of their mind had been occupied by Negan. His looks, his actions, the damn things he said to them. They couldn't tell if he was just toying with them or if he was actually fucking interested. Was the crackling tension between them one-sided, or did he feel it too?

The memory of what Negan had pulled in the courtyard in front of all those people replayed in their mind like a broken record, doomed to stutter and repeat for the rest of time. How close he had been, the way he teased them. Not to mention his audacious remark about their blushing. They couldn't shake the feeling that Negan was just pushing their buttons, testing their limits like a damn plaything. It was as if he revelled in seeing them flustered. But was it just for his amusement, or was it something else? It's not like they saw him acting like this to every chick on the factory floor.

Though they'd heard rumours of his handful of wives, the thought didn't sit heavy on their minds. It was the apocalypse, for Christ's sake; traditional relationship notions had been turned on their heads, and clearly, Negan had a god-forsakenly high libido. Though, the idea that the wives weren't entirely fond of Negan was a bit worrisome. Maybe he had ideas for X that weren't too far from his current arrangements. X shuttered and shook their head. They could deny their foolish desires, not let Negan's power trip over everything he thinks is pretty get the best of them, right?

Exhaustion finally hit them, eyes weighing down and their legs growing sluggish. They found themselves in their bed, nestling under the covers as they continued to mull over the thought of Negan in their mind. X was sure some clarity would come to them eventually, an answer to Negan's strange behaviour. But before that, hey, why not play into his inciting game?

#twd negan #fanfic #negan #negan smith #the walking dead #twd #negan x oc #negan x reader #twd fanfiction #ao3 fanfic

[birboon]

CIRCUS BOY

ACT 1 - Chapter One

PAIRING: Peter Parker x Dick Grayson

WORD COUNT: ~4k

ㅤㅤㅤDICK GRAYSON ADORED the spotlight. How could he not? It was what he'd grown up with. The tabloids had gone crazy when Bruce Wayne first took the newly orphaned boy beneath his wings, irrationally conservative newspapers sprouting unsavoury rumours on the 'truth' of his adoption. Coupled with some scarily intimate knowledge of the twelve-year old's life that journalists had no place in revealing, it made for a spectacle. But that's what came with being the ward of America's most eligible bachelor.

And having spent his earlier teenage years pent up inside to avoid the stalkers and paparazzi being thrown from the grounds of Wayne Manor, Dick relished in the attention. Mostly. The excitement had calmed down as he got older, but the public's interest never did: The gaggle of people gathered on the private landing slip awaiting his and Bruce's arrival proved just that. No doubt they were waiting for some fiasco, a slip up; the flash of the brilliant Wayne smile that the young Grayson had taught himself by copying Bruce to go with a quick scoop for the celebrity columns.

How they'd caught wind of their trip to Washington was beyond him, though. He'd kept it tightly under wraps but apparently modern media was the force that refused to quit. Dick's idea to visit the nation's capital had been a home run in his mind – a couple days away from the gloom and doom of Gotham that just so happened to coincide with his own agenda. He was there for a photoshoot: Teen vogue had been overflowing Bruce's spam with pleads for Dick to be on the cover of their Summer Edition and after a while he had tiredly given up ignoring them.

Of course, Dick had been the one to give the company his email. But what the man didn't know couldn't hurt him.

And, pure happenstance (though some weaseling with Lucius Fox didn't go awry), their little trip to D.C clashed with the grand opening of the new Wayne Enterprises' Washington office. Let Alfred never say Dick never did anything for him. Bruce Wayne was about due another public scandal. In hindsight... maybe it wasn't so hard to anticipate their coming here.

"I still don't see the point in me being here," Bruce grumbled as he straightened his cuffs, peering tiredly towards Dick. The jet lurched as it touched down on the airstrip and the boy grinned easily back at him, fingers gripping the leather arm-rests.

"It's your company, Bruce! The tower's been built with your money and your company's name plastered all over it," Dick condescended. "Which means you need to be there."

The man snorted, muscles shifting beneath his tailored suit as he stretched in his seat. "You're evil, conspiring with Alfred against me."

The boy kicked him indelicately in the shin, fishing a shiny phone from the pocket of his jeans: "It's hardly conspiring if we're both in on it. Here, hold still – I told Alf I'd let him know when we landed." He held the device up towards Bruce, tongue poking from his lips as he captured the man's confused glance in high definition.

"That's exactly what conspiring means, Dick," he said, a gentle frown gracing his handsome face as he watched the boy's rapid thumbs tap out a reply to one of their dear butler's sarcastic quips. "Is that Snapchat? How are you typing so quickly?"

"Do you know how old you just sounded?" the teen chortled, snapping another picture of the man's blank face.

"I'm only thirty."

"That's a poor argument," Dick replied, ducking his head as Bruce reached forward to comb through his dark locks roughly. He chanced a peek through one of the jet's windows, eyeing the bustling crowd poised and waiting outside. Bruce followed his gaze, and Dick watched the slight narrowing of his eyes, the tightening of his shoulders. He stared into the man's outwardly impassive face. "Relax, B. It's just reporters."

"You know just once I'd like to go somewhere and not be hounded," Bruce complained, features taut, and Dick took a mental note of the irritation in his voice. The teen shrugged, releasing his seatbelt. He tilted forward, tugging on the billionaire's tie with a charming grin as he spun into the aisle.

"what did you think this was gonna be? A vacation?" Dick asked jokingly, observing the careful adjustment of the patterned fabric. Bruce cast him a sharp look, a warning, sapphire eyes shadowed. Dick frowned. "I mean, it could be if you wanted –"

"We don't have time for a vacation," Bruce said, voice carefully guarded, and the teen's fingers twitched for something to do as he watched the man perfect his appearance. The billionaire smoothed out the invisible creases in his blazer before rising to his feet.

"I wouldn't mind, y'know. Spending some time together... away from it all."

"Gotham needs us. Like I said, we don't have the time," came the resounding sigh, and Dick's frown deepened further.

"We could make time," he insisted steadily, creeping forward. Bruce shook his head, hunching his shoulders to get a clearer view through the port windows of the bobbing heads gathered just beyond. "Batman could afford a day off and- you need to get away. Maybe the league –"

"The league has strict instructions to stay out of my city, Dick. The less meta-humans seen there, the better."

"Okay, then Ollie! He's like us, he could cover for a few days and we'd be back before you eve-"

"No," Bruce growled, turning towards his ward. He had that look in his eyes, the one he always got when his mind was made up. Dick's face mirrored his guardian's, stern and protected from any clear emotion.

"But Bruce –"

"I said no, Dick!"

The boy stared at him. At the faint rings beneath his eyes, covered by layers of make-up, at the slump in his shoulders and the slight preference he had for his right leg. Their life – their real life – was eating the man alive. Dick was tempted to retort, spit something mean to get his point across and scold the man just like Alfred would. But it would be too obvious to the press that they'd argued on the plane, and they couldn't risk the coverage.

"You should have gone with the teal," he said finally, words emotionless, and Bruce flinched ever so slightly. He gestured to the man's tie: "Red washes you out."

The Wayne pursed his mouth, meaning to reply, and the deep-set guilt in his eyes was setting Dick on edge for one of his 'you have to understand' speeches – as if the boy didn't get it. Like he was still the sniveling child Bruce had first knelt beside in the blood-soaked sands of the circus ring. "Dick, please –"

"Mister Wayne?" someone interjected softly. A pretty woman with cropped brown hair approached them gingerly, almost tiptoeing on eggshells as she made her way from the crew's quarters at the back of the cabin. Bruce's mouth snapped shut instantly. "The pilot says we're ready to disembark."

"My dear your timing is impeccable," came the man's guttural reply moments later. He winked playfully towards the hostess, eliciting a confused blush on the woman's face. "My hero."

"Let's just get this over with," Dick sighed, folding his arms across his chest as the two of them watched the blonde walk away. There was a sway in her step that hadn't been there before and he sniffed resolutely.

"You'll have to save me again sometime," Bruce called after her.

"And what, exactly, did she save you from?" Dick hissed. "Finally expressing your emotions?"

Bruce turned his attention to his ward, crystal eyes glittering. The switch between his personas was seamless, as usual. Dick always hated it; Brucie Wayne was the biggest pain in the ass imaginable. The teen held up a hand to silence the playboy immediately upon seeing the corners of his mouth twitch into a tricky smile.

"I'm not done. This - " he gestured between the two of them irritably. " - is not done. Don't think you can hide behind the idiot to escape me."

"Dickie, I could never hide behind you, you're far too small."

Dick Grimaced, drawing back against the velvet interior at the lop-sided grin sent his way. The socialite's mask was plastered firmly on. "You know what? Let's put a pin in this conversation," he muttered, spying the way Bruce's eyes lit up with the knowledge that he'd won. For now. "How about we give the public a surprise? Let's arrive fashionably early for once."

ㅤㅤㅤ

DICK COULD SENSE Bruce was mad at him, and a mad Batman in a confined space was trouble. Especially when you were trapped with him for the next seven miles.

The conversation on the plane had rattled the man. It was almost as if he didn't think the boy would notice that he was trying to work himself to an early grave. Dick had half a mind to turn their visit to Washington into the vacation Bruce was so scared of just to spite the man...

It may also have something to do with what Dick had dubbed the 'interview incident'. The newest scandal in a long line of similar mistakes the teen had made.

The original meeting had happened so long ago that he'd forgotten all about it - until one of the reporters that greeted them on the airfield brought it up again, thrusting Dick back into the unfortunate limelight: An interview with some moderately popular internet blogger had asked after some of the Wayne heir's hobbies, and it was safe to say they'd been satisfied.

The perfectly executed anecdote on 'that time he'd gone spelunking in South Africa' had seemed funny at the time, but now it was back to haunt them in all it's glory because Dick had tried to see the venomous sparkling in the interviewer's eyes as admiration rather than execration.

The blog just had to resurface now, didn't it?

Bruce was on his phone, sat at the opposite end of the limousine to Dick, scowling as he always did when reading the articles that the teen was involved in:

' 𝙱𝚁𝚄𝙲𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚈𝙽𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚂𝙾𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙸𝙲𝚄𝙻𝙾𝚄𝚂 '𝚂𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃' '

"What were you thinking?" the man asked, exasperated. Dick slid down into his seat, looking away as Bruce threw his top of the range WayneTech mobile harshly onto the leather beside him. His eyes burned into Dick's head from across the way. "'My harness broke, it's lucky Bruce was there to catch me'? Really, Dick? I'm already deemed irresponsible enough, there's no need to rekindle a raging fire."

Dick winced, rubbing his thumb along the grooves of the plush seats awkwardly. "It makes you sound like a hero?"

"Bruce Wayne isn't a hero."

"He is to me," Dick asserted, chancing a glance up through his eyelashes to spot Bruce running a hand over his face. "What?"

Bruce let out a disgruntled growl, levelling the boy with a dangerous stare. "I'm not a good role model, Dick. We've established this."

"No, you established it. I can't help thinking you're cool."

"Oh for the love of - can you stop? What's wrong with you today, Dick?" the man demanded, brows furrowed. He looked furious, but Dick wasn't so sure the anger was directed towards him.

"Jeeze, Bruce, I don't know! Maybe it's just hard to watch someone you care about suffer," the teen snapped, gritting his teeth. Blue eyes widened momentarily, a splash of light quickly drowned. Bruce shook his head.

"If you're struggling with your duties as Robin, I can -"

"God, are you even listening to me?" Dick cried, aghast. "I'm worried about you, Bruce. We all are, hell even Clark said -"

"You've been speaking to Clark?"

"That's not the point! Everyone's worried about you Bruce. Alfred, Babs, Me, the League - you need a break from being in the dark all the time."

"So you arranged this trip?" Bruce concluded, settling back against his head rest. Coal black locks brushed against the roof of the limo. Dick nodded unsurely as the tension in the car reached it's breaking point. "I should have seen this coming."

The boy chose not to reply, instead observing the minute changes in his guardian's expression as he collected the facts in his head. Why it was so hard for Bruce to understand that there were people out there who loved him, Dick didn't understand.

He played with the thin gold chain hanging around his neck, an R-shaped pendant dangling from the end: Bruce had given it to him when Dick first came to live at the Manor. Had said it was in his father's possession when he'd died - an early birthday present they'd intended to give his son after the show.

"You know," Dick began in an effort to break the strangling silence threatening to overcome the vehicle. "Spelunking gives a pretty good excuse for the bruise on my back."

"What bruise?" Bruce asked, eyes snapping to his ward. Dick shrugged, focusing on pulling the rest of his shirt free from his jeans. Having it tucked in was so last season.

"From where that guy got the drop on me a couple days ago. By the harbour?" the boy continued, feeling the palpable stress in his veins begin to release at Bruce's willingness to move towards a different topic. "I think they were one of Penguin's."

"You never mentioned any injuries that night."

"I talked about it in the mission's write-up, I swear. I described it as 'disturbingly floral'!"

"Floral?" Bruce muttered, amused. He ran a hand vapidly through his dark hair. "I think I'd remember reading that one."

"Barbara probably deleted it to get me in trouble," the teen hummed non-committedly, gaze trailing towards the system's electronics piled beside the car's windows. "Hey, what'dya think these do?"

Bruce watched him carefully, a single eyebrow raised dramatically. "Don't break anything I'll have to pay for."

"Poor you, how could you cope?" Dick snickered, unbuckling himself so he could investigate the mismatch of buttons with a new-found fascination. Bruce grunted disapprovingly.

The Grayson boy was automatically drawn to the largest switch, one with a suspect symbol plastered atop, and he instinctively pushed it. A miniature disco ball descended from a hatch hidden in the roof, sending blinding orbs of light into Bruce's eyes as it reflected the pink and purple strobe LEDs accompanying it. The billionaire squinted, shielding his eyes and sending Dick a vexed glance as the boy let out a relived breath. He grinned haplessly towards his guardian: "Oh thank god. I thought it might've been an orgy button."

Blue eyes dulled with parental fear, though Bruce's lips couldn't quite seem to decide whether they wanted to grin or stay stern and resolute. "Don't use words you don't know the meaning of," he chided, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards ever so slightly.

"I know what it means," Dick reassured, grinning immaturely as Bruce's face twisted into horror-struck regret. "It's when a bunch of people get naked and -"

"Alright that's enough of that," the man admonished, and just like that their previous argument was all but forgiven and forgotten. He leaned over to turn the switch off and the disco ball receded, lights evaporating into a boring white glow. Dick laughed brightly, copying the look of disbelief on Bruce's face.

The billionaire took a sip from the champagne flute in his hands - diet ginger beer, Dick could smell it - lifting it away from his lap as the limousine sped downtown, the wheels squealing at a sharp right corner. Bruce was watching Dick through carefully narrowed eyes, a mixture of peaceful alarm making its way across his face as the boy opened his mouth to speak again:

"Have you ever had an orgy?" Dick asked. There was a beat between his words and Bruce's reply as the man swallowed back the rest of his carbonated drink. The silence spoke volumes.

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, buddy," the man said carelessly. Dick wrinkled his nose as he caught wind of the guilt in the his disapproving stare, cheeks flaring up. Bruce's deep laugh rung in his ears as he turned his head away, unable to keep looking at the man. "You'd make a terrible journalist."

"I'd still be better than Clark," said Dick nonchalantly and Bruce smiled gently. The teen stared out of the blacked-out windows watching the world blur past, tinted in shadow.

"Still better than Clark," he agreed lightly. Dick threw him a contagious smile as the car began to slow, pulling up in front of a tall corporation building. Bruce returned it wearily, checking his watch as the engine rattled to extinction.

Dick crawled along the seats towards his mentor, throwing himself onto the man in an awkwardly positioned embrace. One arm was slung around the billionaire's shoulders, the other hanging limply off the edge of the chair, and Bruce let out a breath of surprise as he rested a hand between the boy's shoulder blades.

"This is my stop, B," the teen drew back with a grin, squeezing the man on the shoulder. "I'll see you later."

"Have fun, Dick."

"Without you?" the teen replied as the door slid open. He ducked from the limo with a boisterous thanks to the valet. "Never!"

He winked to Bruce as the door closed behind him, feeling the smile face from his face at the despondent look on the man's face. Great. He was still mad. Dick really thought he'd gotten off easy with the orgy stuff.

He beelined for the pretentious revolving doors, sliding into the lobby. Was it the right building? All signs pointed to yes - it was certainly rich enough to be the type of venue Vogue would hire out for their photoshoots - but the mass of people milling at reception was somewhat alarming. They were all wearing some weird blazer, so maybe they were here for a group shoot. Otherwise... Dick just hoped they weren't fans.

"Hi, could you tell me what level the teen vogue shoot is on?" he asked quietly, keeping his voice low to avoid attracting attention his way. The receptionist spun to him, blinking owlishly in recognition.

"Oh! Dick Grayson! What a pleasure, they said you'd be dropping by today," he said excitedly, and Dick withheld a sigh as a few heads snapped towards them. "You're looking for level two. When you get out the elevator it's the first door on the right."

"Uh, great. Thank you." One of the blazer-clad people - a teenager, a little younger than him by the looks of it - stepped out of their group towards him as he leaned away from the help desk.

She looked nervous - nice, but nervous - and her hesitation made Dick pause despite himself. He did love the spotlight, after all. With a wave, he beckoned her over.

"Holy- Hi, my name's Liz," she said excitedly, running a hand down her ponytail. She stumbled closer as one of her friends pushed her forwards. "I'm a big fan. I mean, wait is that creepy? I'm sorry, I -"

"It's fine, see? Not creeped out." Dick grinned as he gestured to himself. "Did you just want to say hi or...?"

"Oh! Could I get a picture? Is that okay?" She asked unsurely, and Dick shrugged. He cast a glance towards the elevator - it was on the fourth floor, he had time.

"I don't see why not!"

"Oh wow, thank you!" Liz pulled out a sleek iphone and Dick pressed closer to get in frame as she held it in front of them. It was always fun, stopping for a selfie. And the girl seemed sweet enough; as long as the entire group didn't want one there was no harm done. A quick press of the screen and Dick was already pulling away. First floor. Still time.

"It was lovely meeting you," Dick disengaged softly as he began to sidle away, and Liz nodded, holding her phone to her chest with brilliant eyes as the rest of the blazer gang gathered around her, whispering. The Grayson boy shot the girl a wink for the fun of it, beaming as her cheeks darkened and the giggles of her companions filled the room. The elevator was on the ground floor.

Dick stepped into the metal cube as soon as the doors began to open, holding a finger against the button for the second floor as if it would make it go faster. The cheery elevator music reverberated from the mirrored walls, and Dick stared into his reflection thoughtfully.

Liz had been nice. Some of the self-proclaimed 'Richard Grayson' fans out there were pretty weird. And he'd met a few. He'd read a few of their tumblr blogs, too. Creepy stuff. It was always nice to find a genuine admirer who was more interested in him than feeling up his ass. Although, her hand had drifted pretty low...

The second floor was just a little too grand for his taste. Very bare. The doors to the think-box slid open with a chime and Dick shimmied between them. He was greeted by an empty coffee shop, with wide panel windows overlooking the streets of Washington below and the same amount of chairs as there were trees in a square meter of desert. It was barren and it was sad and Dick couldn't remember what direction the receptionist had said to go. Left or right?

There was a random kid curled up on one of the mauve velvet sofas, feet dangling over the edge precariously close to a mug that had been placed on the oval coffee table without a coaster. If Dick did that sort of thing at the Manor, Alfred would throw a fit.

"Hello," he said, alarmingly loud even to his own ears, and the couch's occupant shot upright instantly as Dick strode towards them. His eyes flickered to a yellow blazer discarded to the side - the same that Liz and her friends had been wearing . "Are you here for the shoot?"

"Uh..."

"Were you on your way to the studio? I could use some help finding it."

Dick slumped down on the plush chair opposite the boy, raking his eyes over him. Messy brown hair, cute nose, pretty eyes - definitely a model. "I didn't know there was a - what even is this theme you're going for here? Looks like a school-kid thing, field trip maybe."

"I- I am on a field trip..."

"Already in character. Nice. That's strong, man, I salute you," Dick grinned. He reached forward absently, lifting the cup of now-cold hot chocolate to slide a coaster beneath it.

"Character? What are you talking about - who are you?" The model-boy asked and Dick detected a hint of concern in his quaking voice. He frowned, settling back against the sofa.

"Dick Grayson," he replied curtly, watching for recognition to wash over the boy's face. He didn't get what he was looking for. Dick was beginning to think he'd gotten the wrong impression. "You're here to model right? For Teen Vogue?"

"M-model? Vogue? I- No!"

Dick pursed his lips awkwardly, tapping at his thigh as he and the not-model boy stared at each other. "Oh."

"Right," the other boy agreed. "Oh."

"This is, uh, this is my mistake, It's just I saw your group downstairs and Liz was pretty and you're pretty so I just assumed..." Dick climbed to his feet, wiping his mysteriously sweating palms on his jeans. He was usually smoother than this. 

The boy's face flushed a rosy pink: "I'm not... you know Liz?"

"Uh, not really... I met her downstairs though, she was nice," Dick said slowly, debating whether or not he should just leave. He'd made a big enough fool of himself already. The other boy made an odd sound of agreement, turning his eyes to the floor, and Dick struggled to think of something else to say. He thought back to the conversation he'd had with Bruce in the car: surely there was something from that interaction he could string together to make this one more bearable. 

Boy, was he wrong. 

There was only one thing flooding his mind - one thing that didn't involve alter-egos and stressed out men in capes. Unfortunately, his brain didn't filter it out as a no-no for conversation starting. If anything, it ended them before they even began. 

"Hey," Dick started desperately, trying to avoid the slight crackle of his voice. His throat was itchy, was that normal? The other boy peered up at him sheepishly, a faint blush powdering his cheeks as he caught sight of Dick's stare. "Have you ever had an orgy?"

[...] to be continued

#fanfiction #dc #wattpad #ao3 #dc comics #dick grayson #marvel #peter parker #peter parker x dick grayson #dick grayson x peter parker #mcu x dc #mcu fanfiction #dc fanfic #circus boy

[foxxybenedict]

How It Feels To Abandon Yourself

I deactivated my twitter today.

Please, hold your applause. Allow me to pontificate a bit first, then you may shower me in praise for doing the bare minimum for my mental health.

When I first got onto tumblr in 2011, it was so incredibly freeing. I could share exactly the aesthetics I wanted to uplift. I could put my thoughts out there in formatted blog posts. I could share quips in the tags of posts I shared. It felt like I was in control of every aspect of my identity, my aspirations, I set up a queue schedule so my posts would be evenly spaced and I wouldn’t spam people’s feeds. I had such a handle of who I was and what I wanted and how I wanted to express it. 

oh shit what’s that oh no it’s the tumblr exodus of the 2010s

When I went to twitter, I had to delete most of my tweets and revamp the whole thing, because twitter wasn’t a place on the internet where you lived your life and shared it with people, back in 2015 twitter was where I went to depression post, shitpost, and stalk each person that was ever involved with team starkid. But when the exodus happened, I had to learn how to live my online life on twitter, not only that, but I was on twitter at the behest of someone who was once very important to me, and for years my identity, specifically on twitter, was tied to this person. So I never really felt like myself, I never felt the same sense of comfort in myself or my expression like I did on tumblr. But it’s where the zeitgeist was, and you just had to be there. And when I went there, I deleted my whole tumblr. I abandoned myself. I burned the most comprehensive record of who I was from 2011 to 2018. 

When I did this I had no idea that it would be like burning every journal I ever wrote, but worse, because I’ve never written a journal, so it’s actually the closest thing I’ve ever had to one. But I didn’t realize how devastating that is, until **dunn dunn** 

The Breakup

in 2021 my best friend, my father figure, my BDSM dominant, and far too many more “my”s made the correct assessment that our relationship had run it’s course, and it was time for it all to end. And then he deleted any archive of our correspondences so not even I could not access them. I dunno I never understood telegram but as far as I know, that shit is gone forever. And that broke me inside a bit. Not only was this relationship over, the entire chronological dialogue of the entire thing was eradicated. It felt like someone wrote you the most valuable stack of letters you hold dear and then snuck into your home and burned them. But worse because we never wrote letters it’s all in those chats and they’re just gone. This is the first time that I realized the impermanence of all of this is existentially horrifying. Things I have poured my hopes, my dreams, my desires, my fears, hell my fucking soul, things I have poured my fucking soul into, just don’t exist anymore. 

I always loved the scene from The Lord of the Rings where Bilbo uses his ring to dazzle his fellow hobbits once more, and taking the most self aggrandizing exit from the pleasant fakeness of hobbit life. What I am trying to say, that he did in fact have the charisma uniqueness nerve and talent. This fucking camp queen. Bilbo has successfully made his way back into Plato’s cave without getting killed but then heckles the people making shadows on the wall cause it’s so funny to him.

So how I am coping with abandoning myself after I know how much damage that can do to my future self? I’ll be honest, because it doesn’t feel like me anymore. And I feel like I’ve been holding on to twitter solely because it’s where my largest following on the internet is. I had 5556 followers on twitter when I deactivated my account 30 minutes ago. That level of reach, that level of influence, it’s hard to let go of. I want to hold tightly onto it and hope to maybe make something out of it in the future. But that was all a cope. I just didn’t want to relinquish the only power I felt like I had on twitter, and that power was a silly little number. But the tradeoff I didn’t want to acknowledge is that you belong to that following, and I got that following from being in the proximity of people I am no longer in the proximity of. It feels like I’m sitting in a college course I didn’t sign up for, but I am too terrified of admitting I’m in the wrong classroom to go get up and find the right one. 

So this leaves me sitting here thinking about the very real parts of myself that have been abandoned. The parts of me that I’ve given to people that have been forgotten, erased, taken for granted, or taken as something more than that it is. How many fragments of myself am I going to just allow to be impermanent? Can I even at this point forward be myself when so many parts of my self have been erased? Do I even try in the future to express myself, give parts of who I am to these cooperate entities vying for my attention, my AdSense, my data, in exchange for the feeling of permanence?   

It feels futile, to fragment who you are into these very real pieces, and leave them behind, hoping someone picks it up, tosses a like, makes a comment. It feels silly, it feels hopeless. Jonathan Larson spent decades of his life fighting a clock he himself antagonized because he felt like if he didn’t, it would consume him. I am almost 29 years old and I don’t even have a rough draft of a meticulously crafted grandiose unique perspective that leaves behind an idea of why I deserve to be remembered. 

Maybe it’s about time that I stop abandoning fragments. The issue is, it’s all I know. And a part of me I don’t want to give any credence to, secretly loves to ability to kill a version of me once every few years, and burn the evidence.

#foxxythoughts

[elwenyere]

Sequel for the WIP game pls

Ahhh thank you, Anon, for asking about my oldest and most difficult WIP child. <3<3<3 "Sequel" is a hoped-for, planned-for, tragically delayed follow-up to my canon-divergent Stony fic, "Three Little Words." It's another 5+1 that picks up with the branching timeline around the events of Homecoming and would (in theory, if the author could get her shit together) take the team up through Endgame. It's given me so much trouble, but here's a bit from the first scene, where Tony comes home to find the team play Strip Kemps.

(If you don't know the rules for kemps, basically the key thing for this scene is that you develop a secret signal with your partner to let them know when you have four of a kind.)

.....

“Tap in for me,” Natasha murmured to Tony, unfolding herself gracefully from her chair and nudging him out of his reverie. “If I don’t call Clint before every new episode of Real Housewives, he starts spamming me with live texts.”

“Okay, but with this sorry level of competition it’s only fair to give myself a handicap,” Tony replied, peeling off his suit jacket and draping it over the couch to join Wanda on the floor. “And I should warn everyone that Steve’s signal involves some heavy bedroom eyes, so prepare yourselves.”

Bucky snorted and shot Sam and Wanda a significant glance.

“I don’t know how you’re going to pick up the signal then,” Sam said, “seeing as that’s how Steve looks every time you walk into the room.”

Tony was about to tell Sam exactly what he could do with his weapons-grade sass when he noticed Steve staring fixedly at a spot near his left breast pocket. Tony glanced down to see what had caught his attention and saw the small pinpricks of red now dotting his chest.

Well, Tony thought ruefully, this was going to go well.

“Counter kemps Steve!” Sam yelled, having clearly noticed the steadiness of Steve’s gaze at the same time. But Wanda’s eyes widened slightly as she looked back and forth between them, and a moment later Bucky let out a small, “shit.”

“Perhaps we should leave Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers the room,” Vision said lightly.

“Cowards,” Tony muttered.

“Hey man,” Sam said, slapping a hand on his shoulder as he walked by. “You planned and catered this funeral. Now you’re just going to have to lower yourself into the grave.”

The team filed out of the common room, and Tony could feel his shoulders getting more tense with each exit. Steve was still staring at him, his jaw working as if he were chewing over his words in advance. 

“Take off your shirt,” Steve said as soon as they were alone.

“I think you’re supposed to win it off me, tiger,” Tony quipped.

“Tony,” Steve pressed, and then, as if it took a monumental effort to summon the word: “please.”

.....

Thank you again for the ask, Anon!!! It was a nice treat to check in with this fic.

#wip meme #stony #mcu #thank you anon!!! #will it ever show up in the tag? #who can say

[twinklesofhope]

Invitation

She would slam the table in frustration. Even the best of  ▇▇▇▇▇▇  would have trouble doing some sort of  ▇▇▇  . She would sigh. It’s gotta be perfect. Gotta be good, she would repeat to herself. The girl would sigh. Looking at the computer screen, she would save and close her work. Maybe she just needs a break. Hm... Maybe a check of her mail would do just fine.

That’s when she spotted something...

She opened the mail...

Dear ▇▇▇▇▇▇,

The purpose of this letter is to invite you to participate in a psychological experiment, which will take place on March 30th, 20XX.

The experiment entails exposure to high amounts of stimuli that will trigger strong emotional responses to the subject. You will be kept in a comfortable facility meant to suit your needs.

There will be a large sum of money rewarded after the experiment has been completed, which you are allowed to spend at your leisure.

Upon dialing the number, you will be prompted to list your name and talent, and state whether or not you’ve accepted the invitation.

We will hear from you shortly.

[XX-XXX-XXXX]

“What is this?... Some sort of spam?” She was about to hover over the delete button when her eyes reread the letter.... An experiment? For... what? It completely intrigued her. She found herself grabbing her phone.

beep beep... beep beep beep... beep beep....beep......... beep.

She hesitantly dialed the number. Her heartbeat was racing. Was this a good idea? The money was also tempting as well...

“.... My name is  ▇▇▇▇▇▇  and I’m the ultimate  ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇....”

“........I accept”

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

Okay, This whole long drabble that I’m posting at here is pretty much confirmation, that yes I did get into the rp I wanted to get into.

As such Binary is now a limited muse. I won’t do any major threads on here. Maybe some small quips here or there. Nothing that will get deep into her character. I have no idea if someone else in the cast will find this blog. I’d rather keep some of her details secret to the rest.

Thankfully. I don’t have to worry about closing down many threads since I only had one. Even then, it’s not really a major thread. More about a quip about a joke.

Still If you ask her questions, I may or may not answer.

#v; ocoiwge egedartaqhai: Binary #there we go! Now it's the right time!

[innocentbutnotbychoice]

Bangalore: Want a tip-

Bangalore: Want a tip-

Bangalore: Want a tip-

Bangalore: Want a tip-

Bangalore: Come get some, move it or die.

#Who's your main and #What quip do you spam? #ping spamming #quip spamming #Apex Legends #anita williams #apex legends bangalore #octane #lifeline #wattson #mirage #pathfinder #revenant #caustic #wraith #crypto #bloodhound #gibraltar

[gukyi]

love me or we both go down | kth

summary: after going through with an arranged marriage to please his parents and secure his inheritance of the family business, kim taehyung thinks he’s got it all figured out. he doesn’t. apparently just being married to you isn’t enough, not when everybody and their mother can pick up on the fact that the two of you absolutely loathe each other. but taehyung wants his inheritance one way or another, so he decides that desperate times call for desperate measures: the two of you need to fall in love, and you need to fall in love fast.

{enemies to lovers!au, arranged marriage!au, rich kids!au}

pairing: kim taehyung x female reader genre: fluff, angst, smut (i know, crazy right?) word count: 32k warnings: oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, multiple unprotected sex scenes (they’re married y’all), fat cock tae, tae has a wife kink, lots of praise, alcohol consumption (but they’re safe), minor character death (not explicit), mentions of heart attack, slow burn like there is no tomorrow a/n: hello and welcome to the fic everyone, literally everyone, has been waiting for! i am so, so, so excited to share this with you all, especially because none other than rose @kinktae​ helped me write the smut, and i am literally forever indebted to her. you all better go spam rose with all the love and support you can because this fic would not be here without her and i love her so much. 

also, to all my readers who aren’t comfortable reading smut, please know that the smut in this fic is not imperative to the storyline, and you skipping past it will not affect your reading experience., enjoy!

Never in your life have wedding bells felt so ominous.

The sound of them is akin to the sound of strings, of a single piano note in a horror movie, right when the film opens and someone random is about to die on screen for the sake of proving to the audience that this is, in fact, a horror movie. Make no mistake about it; these wedding bells spell doom for you, too. And the most horrific part about them is that just like that poor, helpless soul in the movie, there is no way for you to escape your fate either. 

With only seconds left to go before you have no choice but to promise yourself to the man waiting at the other end of the aisle, you desperately try to think of any last-ditch efforts to get out of this. Many, if not all of them, are utterly useless. 

Feigning sudden illness won’t work, because then your parents will just reschedule the wedding to a later date. Running away is fruitless. Where will you go? The parking lot?

If only you had a lover out there in the audience somewhere that could object to the marriage when the officiant says, “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” A knight in shining armor that could whisk you out of the venue and off to a new life, far away from here. Too bad all of the people you’ve dated before hate you now. 

Maybe getting married isn’t such a bad thing after all. Instead of having relationships with multiple people who will eventually despise your existence, you only have to have a relationship with one. And the feeling, as has always been, is mutual. 

You bristle as your assistants do some last-minute prepping, fixing your sleeve and adjusting your necklace and making sure you don’t trip on your enormous train. They flutter around you like a swarm of well-meaning but ignorant butterflies complicit in the agenda of your family. None of them have said a word to you about the wedding ever since you arrived at the venue, choosing to talk more about things like the weather. Not that you were ever under the impression they had been hired to entertain you. Maybe they were told to not engage you, just in case you try to conspire with them.

As if they could be of any use in your wildly unrealistic escape plans. 

The truth is that, unless you were to drop dead on this marble flooring right now, you’re getting married. Whether you like it or not.

The doors open. 

You’ve attended red carpets, galas, award shows, and balls. You’ve had hundreds of cameras flashing in your face, the bright light capturing each and every centimeter of you. You’ve had paparazzi waiting outside the restaurants you eat at, the stores you shop at, desperate to catch a picture of you in sweatpants without a drop of makeup on. You’ve been on dates with ex-lovers that looked at you like you were a piece of meat with a credit card. And yet, for some goddamn reason, walking down the aisle in a white dress the size of Pluto, with the rest of your life waiting for you at the other end, makes you feel fucking transparent. 

Face resolute, you clutch onto your bouquet so tightly the flowers feel like they’re about to pop right out of your grasp. Determined not to look at anybody in the audience, you stare straight ahead, right into the eyes of your future husband.

Kim Taehyung, for someone you have seen multiple times drunk off his ass with hickies dotting his neck and jawline, cleans up pretty well. For someone getting married, at least. He dons a simple black tuxedo that still probably costs more than the average car, his caramel brown hair is pushed back off his forehead, and his expression is firm and still. He most certainly has had an equally expensive team prepping him, but they haven’t done too bad a job. The silver lining is that he doesn’t look any more thrilled than you are to be doing this, right here, right now. But to his credit, this is definitely the best he’s ever looked, as far as you’re concerned. 

When you reach him, he offers his hand out to you, a hand that you only accept for the sake of professionalism. The bouquet in your hands is handed off to one of your bridesmaids, and the two of you take your position at the front. Your train drags along the aisle, draping over the few stairs you had to climb to reach the altar, this satin trail behind you that cements you to the floor. It may as well be a ball-and-chain. It’s about as heavy as one, anyway. 

This is the longest you and Taehyung have ever held eye contact. Not that you’re really keeping track of how long the two of you have met each other’s gazes, but if you had to make an educated guess, this would definitely be the victor. Most of the time you end up sneering at each other ten seconds in, but to be fair, those other times you were also not getting married. To one another. In a ceremony attended by hundreds of people. And cameras.

There can be no sneering here. 

“Don’t you look nice?” Taehyung whispers, loud enough so only the two of you can hear. He has that drawling, sickly sweet tone to his voice, the one that you hate because it makes him sound like he thinks he’s so much better than everyone else. “Surprised they were able to makeup that scowl off your face.”

This, of course, brings on a hearty scowl only he can see, your backs both facing the rows of attendees. “How much concealer are you wearing to cover up all of the hickies on your neck?” You quip back easily. It’s not like the two of you are going to pretend he doesn’t waltz around at every club or bar or private venue he can find, looking for his next treat. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Taehyung grins, and if you weren’t standing in front of hundreds of people about to get married, there’s no telling what next you would do.

The two of you would probably go on like that for another ten minutes if it’s not for the officiant, who coughs once he’s ready and opens the book in his hands. Next to you, Taehyung straightens, hands clasped together at his front, and lips pressed into a neat line. You do the same. There will be no giggles, no laughter nor smiles, nor any genuine emotion at this wedding. This is a wedding for the sake of politics, for economics, for security, and anyone in attendance would be a fool to think otherwise. Especially you. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, loved ones, and esteemed guests,” the officiant bellows, listing off as many groups of people as he possibly can in an effort to both include and compliment every person in the audience, “We are gathered here to celebrate the wedding, and future life, of Taehyung and Y/N…”

Taehyung turns to you, grinning in that god-awful way, the way he does when he feels like he’s got something over you. And sure, you can’t think of any punishment quite as bad as this, but what’s Taehyung got to smile about? He’s marrying himself off to a woman he hates, kissing goodbye his days as a free-spirited, heartbreaking bachelor, and promising what may very well be the rest of his life to loving you. That is not cause for celebration. 

But perhaps, to him, your suffering is enough to bring a smile to his face. 

Your vows are, to put it simply, total bullshit. Your family hired someone to write yours and there’s not a doubt in your mind that his family did the same thing. This nonsense talk, this complete and utter garbage that spews from your perfectly-glossed lips, shit about how you promise to love each other until the end of your days, how you promise to take care of each other when you’re sick and accompany each other at every event, every gala, every ball. Shit about how you promise to look only at each other, promise to uphold your family traditions and become a dependable spouse. 

The words don’t belong to you. But the thing is that this marriage was never yours anyway. 

When the kiss comes, there’s a part of you that thinks maybe you should have psyched yourself up a little more for this. When Taehyung pulls you in, placing a stiff hand on your lower back as he brings you towards his chest, your stomach turns and shivers run down your spine. The feeling of his hand on your body, the breath from his lips brushing against your own, are enough to keep you frozen in place. 

He smiles at you, almost as if to ask, “Are you ready?”

And you squeeze your eyes shut, almost as if to respond, “Let’s do this.”

When his lips meet yours, there is almost nothing. Nothing runs through you, nothing explodes, nothing strikes. But when he pulls away and cheers and applause rings out throughout the room, there is something. A little heat, a remnant of a flame, left on your lips. A little sting, just to remind you it happened. 

The entire hall is cheering but nothing about this is worth celebrating. The fact of the matter is that you and Taehyung will never love each other the way that you are supposed to. 

“Ugh, finally.”

The elevator doors haven’t even properly opened by the time Taehyung is loosening his tie, tugging it off over his head as he stretches his head back and runs a hand through his perfectly-styled hair. As he rakes his fingers through his caramel locks, the hairspray and gel loosens, strands falling down by the side of his face, framing his temple.

“Don’t sound so relieved,” you huff out, deciding now is as good a time as any to start getting undressed yourself. Reaching down to lift up the hem of your reception dress, you tug off your heels, already feeling lighter on your feet. Who cares if Taehyung is watching you pull off your stilettos like a defeated movie heroine? You don’t think you can walk another step in those shoes. “We still have to live together, you know.”

“Don’t remind me,” Taehyung says gruffly, brushing by you roughly as he stomps out of the elevator. “I’m just glad the fucking night is over. I swear, seeing that fake-ass smile on your face made me want to gouge my eyes out.”

You storm after him, refusing to be the helpless damsel in this situation. “Oh, like you didn’t also have that exact same fake-ass smile on your face. It almost made me think you were actually enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I was only enjoying the fact that I know you hate this just as much as I do.” It’s perhaps the only thing you will ever be able to empathize with him on. Mutually relishing in the other’s destruction. Taehyung fumbles with the keypad to the door to the penthouse for a moment before you hear the lock click, the door sliding open as the entrance lights flicker on. 

The reason Taehyung’s penthouse is so clean is because he’s never lived here before. Neither of you have—Taehyung’s parents bought it just for the two of you. And as much as you absolutely despise the idea of having to live with him, at least it was not you who paid for your place of residence. 

You can tell Taehyung’s never lived here before because it’s actually quite nicely decorated inside. The ceilings are high and the sleek velvet curtains are pulled open, revealing a shimmering skyline. The furniture is modern and functional, and the whole damn place smells brand new. You’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of entering the place Taehyung lived in before now, and it looked nothing like this. The furniture was worn and stained despite the live-in maid, the house reeked of five hundred different spices that wafted from the kitchen to the living room, and the bookshelves were covered with comics, graphic novels, and old textbooks. 

If it weren’t for the fact that you and Taehyung are rich kids in their twenties that hate each other, you might have actually thought the place looked… homey. 

You don’t have time to be impressed by the interior design and architecture skills of whoever designed this place. Right now, all you can think about is tugging yourself out of your airtight reception dress and passing out on the nearest bed. Which, hopefully, will be as far away as possible from Taehyung’s bed of choice. 

“How many bedrooms does this place have?” You ask, shimmying along the floor so you don’t trip over the hem of your dress. From the looks of it, you can see one giant hallway to your right and a massive, double-sided staircase leading up. 

“Enough,” Taehyung grumbles in response. The hazy stupor from all of the fancy champagne is starting to wear off for the both of you, leaving behind two grouchy, begrudgingly-married individuals who want absolutely nothing to do with each other and have no problems making that known. Whatever golden light of the evening that was making Taehyung at least a little bit more attractive than usual has faded, and now you see him for what he really is: an unceremoniously tired man in a suit. “You want upstairs or down?”

You gaze up at the marble staircase in front of you, then back down at your too-long dress. “Down.” The last thing you want is to trip in front of the man you have to see, every day, for the rest of your life. 

“Fine by me.” Taehyung’s halfway up the stairs by the time he turns back around to say something else. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”

“Yeah.” There’s no point in being hostile now. The both of you are too exhausted to mean anything by it. Besides, what else can you say? Everything to complain about has already been complained about. At least the two of you managed to wrestle out from your parents the stipulation that you would not be going on a honeymoon together. Now that would have been your worst nightmare. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s as good of a goodnight either of you are going to get. Taehyung heads up the stairs and disappears around a corner, and you start wandering down the hallway. All the bedrooms look the exact same other than different colors on the walls and bedsheets, but they all look serviceable to you. Clean. Empty. Far away from wherever Taehyung is. 

You pick the one at the very end of the hall just to be as much of a diva as possible, and don’t even bother drawing the curtains before tugging off your dress. It’s past one in the morning, and you’re so high up you don’t think anyone will be able to see you anyway. By the time you’ve stripped naked and are tugging up the too-tight sheets tucked into the mattress, your legs are about to give out beneath you. The bed could be made of rocks for all you care. Anything to lie down on is fine by you. 

Sleep comes fairly easily to you tonight. Once your head hits the pillow you can already feel yourself drifting off, eyelids fluttering shut, but you don’t sleep quite yet. Not before you can think about how this is your life now, sleeping in a foreign bed in a foreign place with a foreign husband upstairs. This is what you will be living in now. Now and forever. 

Living with Taehyung is, in both the best and worst ways possible, like living with a roommate that doesn’t give a shit about the fact that they live with another person. It’s good, because you and Taehyung hardly see each other and speak even less, which was pretty much the only thing you were asking for when it came to living with him. But it also sucks, because whenever you do happen to cross paths, Taehyung acts like you don’t exist, barely sparing you a hello or even that tight-lipped smile you send to drivers on the road when they let you cross the street. 

Not that the two of you ever engaged in energetic conversation before you got married. But at least the two of you would acknowledge each other, even if only to shoot a glare and a scowl the other’s way from opposite sides of a hotel ballroom. Maybe it’s just because it’s him, but you did always find yourself actually relishing in those little interactions with Taehyung. In this strange, twisted way, it seemed to provide some sort of continuity to your ever-changing life. Like no matter what happened, at least you would know that the two of you would always despise each other. 

To be frank, right now you’re not sure if Taehyung even remembers he got married at all.

Nights have been a lot more sleepless since your wedding day. After two weeks, the reality of it has finally started to settle in. This is your life now. And ever since you realized that, your bed has felt much less comfortable. 

“But the place is nice, right?”

You look around the living room from where you’re sat on the sleek, white suede leather couch, eyes glossing over the bookshelves, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the draping velvet curtains. From here, you can see the entire city skyline, flecks of gold from the windows of skyscrapers against a navy blue background. Slowly, as the moon creeps over the sky and the clock gets later and later, those lights will soon begin to flicker off, one by one. 

“Yeah, it’s not bad.” Nothing to write home about. That is, if home were a place other than here. 

“That’s good. At least you don’t live in, like, a total dump or anything,” Victoria says on the other end of the line. “How’s Taehyung?”

His name alone elicits this deeply-exhausted sigh from your lips, like it’s been ten years since you married and every day has felt worse than the last. “Fine.” You can’t really complain about anything yet, considering that you hardly ever see the man. 

“Just ‘fine’?” Victoria sounds skeptical. 

“Yeah,” you draw out the word, as if trying to convince yourself of its truth. “I mean, it’s like he doesn’t even live here. I barely see him. And when I do, we don’t even speak to each other.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it? You hate him.” Victoria says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And in a sense, it kind of is. 

“I mean…”

“I know that your life hasn’t exactly… gone the way you had planned, but isn’t this your best case scenario when considering everything?” She asks. “If Taehyung is as distant as you say he is, isn’t it almost like you never married him in the first place?”

As if on cue, you hear footsteps coming down the stairs, heels clicking on the marble as they make their way to the entrance. You whip your head around to find Taehyung, all dressed up in loose, flowy slacks and a flowery silk button-down, strolling down the staircase as he scrolls through his phone, paying you zero attention whatsoever. 

He notices you briefly when he reaches the bottom, meeting your eyes with his own. He offers this measly, unenthused half-smile your way before he grabs his wallet and some house keys from the table by the entrance, opens the door, and vanishes off into the night. 

If you hadn’t been in the living room, you probably wouldn’t have even realized he left. Not that you being present as he’s planning on leaving would have stopped him anyway. This is the sixth night he’s done this in the past two weeks. You could stand by the door and stare him down as he emerges from his bedroom, all dressed up for something you’re definitely not invited to, and he would offer you that same goddamn smile and walk out the door without even blinking. Who he was before you got married and who he is now are no different. Not even a ring could change that. 

“I guess,” you tell Victoria. At least Taehyung hasn’t turned into a helicopter husband. “I don’t know. Maybe I just wish that I didn’t have to deal with him at all.”

Wish you could turn back time. Wish you could worm your way out of an arranged marriage before it was too late. Wish you could go back to the way things used to be. 

You and Victoria talk for another couple of minutes before she regretfully has to end the call, citing both her beauty sleep and an 8AM meeting tomorrow morning as her reasons for hanging up. The moment you put the phone down, you sink back into the couch cushions, staring out the windows at the world below you.

Here’s the deal. What Taehyung does in his free time is none of your business. But also, it’s totally your business, because you are his spouse. A spouse who is an equal amount in the public eye as he is. What he does and does not do has a direct impact on what you do and do not do. 

It’s no secret that when you catch Taehyung sauntering down the stairs looking like a Gucci runway model, it’s not because he’s planning on catching a movie with a college friend and then playing video games for four hours on a couch in a basement. He is going out. To clubs, to parties, to exclusive events that he’s been invited to by his equally-rich friends, all of whom are acting like he’s the same bachelor he’s always been. 

And maybe that’s the real problem with your whole marriage—other than the glaringly obvious issue that it’s a marriage wholly unwanted by the two parties involved in it. Despite the ring on his finger, Taehyung is going out and pretending that nothing in his life has changed while you’re trapped at home, desperate to save you and your family’s reputation by keeping as low a profile as possible. You would give anything to march around the city all day, flashing middle fingers at paparazzi as you shop at your favorite high-end stores and frequent your favorite clubs. But you can’t, because your family’s fortune and influence is on the line. 

And apparently, Taehyung’s isn’t. 

It sort of makes you wonder why it was even Taehyung you ended up marrying anyway. His family isn’t any richer or more powerful than yours. Your spheres have always been sufficiently separate. What was it about him, and perhaps more importantly, his family that drew your parent’s eye? And what was it about marrying you that prevented him from saying no? Money? Prestige? Influence?

You suppose you’ll never know. But whatever mystical force that convinced Taehyung to agree to this must not be as important to him as your reasoning is to you, because it’s become exceedingly apparent that Taehyung does not care that he’s married. He doesn’t care about the ring on his finger, he doesn’t care about his public image, and he most certainly doesn’t care about you.

Perhaps you were naive for thinking this, but you actually believed marriage might tone him down a little. Might age him into a real adult with real world obligations. Instead, it’s only given you a firsthand look into who Kim Taehyung has been and always will be: a selfish rich kid.

You don’t bother waiting around in the living room until he gets back, but you are still awake by the time you hear the door creak open. Taehyung makes no efforts to hide his return. You can hear him chattering loudly on the phone as he stumbles up the stairs, can tell from his gait alone that he is most certainly wasted. You don’t want to know what he did tonight. You’ll probably be able to figure it out anyway when you wake up tomorrow morning and check your social media. 

What were you thinking, marrying him? That he would change? That he would suddenly become someone that you could rely on? You had no choice when you said, “I do,” but you were at least hoping that maybe one day, one day in a long, long time, the two of you would finally see eye to eye. Maybe there would even come a time when you would genuinely love him. How foolish. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine a world where you have married someone you love, someone who loves you back.

Not unlike the many nights preceding it, tonight is sleepless. 

Unlike your marital status and general disposition, one thing that hasn’t changed about you is your love for extravagant events. Call you conceited, but there is something so much fun about putting on a fancy, expensive dress that you love and getting your hair and makeup done before going to an exclusive gala and posing in front of five hundred cameras. 

Actually, now that you think about it, maybe your wedding could have actually been pretty good, considering it let you do all those things. It’s a real shame there happened to be a storm cloud in the form of Kim Taehyung there to ruin it. Otherwise, you think you would have rather enjoyed that day. 

Tonight is the first event since your marriage where you and Taehyung are both required to show up and act like a happy married couple. Which would probably be a lot easier if you and Taehyung had exchanged more than ten words over the past two weeks. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but there was a part of you that thought you could use your arranged marriage to actually cultivate some sort of meaningful relationship between the two of you. So events like these wouldn’t be such a drain on both of you. 

When Kim Taehyung comes down the stairs, he actually doesn’t look too bad. You don’t know why this sort of thing keeps catching you off guard—like you don’t expect him to look that good whenever you see him. The problem is that you can’t even chalk up the surprise to him wearing tailored clothes or having his hair done. He just looks… good. 

Well, you suppose you do have to look at him every day for the rest of your life. It’s a good thing he’s attractive. At least he’s not sore on the eyes. 

Taehyung and his unfortunate attractiveness aside, the two of you don’t say a word to each other as you join up at the entrance, grabbing any last-minute items like house keys, chapstick, and whatever dignity you have left to spare. You send forced smiles and tight nods each other’s way in the elevator, staring straight ahead in the lobby of your building as the car pulls up to the front door.

By the time the two of you sit down in the back of the limousine, the built-up tension between the two of you is so thick you’re almost positive that even the chauffeur can feel it through the closed partition. 

If you were any more idyllic, you’d probably spend the drive over to the gala staring out the window and imagining yourself in a different life, on a train to nowhere, flowers in your hair and a journal in your hands. Or perhaps you’d be the CEO of your family’s company instead of having that responsibility passed down to a husband you don’t even want, sitting in an office at the top of a skyscraper overlooking the city. Anything. Anything but this.

But the idyllic part of you died when you realized that fantasies like that are nothing but distractions and that daydreams are for romantics and optimists and losers. 

“What’s our plan for tonight?”

Taehyung scoffs. “What do you mean, ‘what’s our plan’?”

You frown. “Well, we’re married, so we at least have to act like it, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t standing there and smiling enough?” Taehyung asks, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. 

You bristle. Maybe that sufficed for your wedding, but there was so much going on it was easy to distract yourself from the gravity of it all. But this event is not about you. It’s not even about either of your families. It’s about someone the two of you are, at best, distantly connected to, through work, through fame, through power. Which means that though the focus will not be on you, there will still be eyes looking your way. Eyes watching your every move. 

“Do you think it will be?” You challenge. Doesn’t Taehyung realize that things are different now?

Taehyung’s lips curl downwards. “What do you expect us to do, shower each other in kisses? We don’t even sleep on the same fucking floor.”

“Maybe I just expected you to act less like a stranger and more like a husband!”

Taehyung sighs. “Don’t.” The word is clipped, short. “Don’t tell me you actually want to be married.”

“I don’t.” It’s a response that you hardly have to think twice about. “But we are, and nothing can change that.” Unfortunately. But it’s a fact that you and Taehyung have both had to grapple with over the past few weeks, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that you are more aware of it than he is. If Taehyung could have his way, he would ignore you for the rest of his life and keep partying with the rest of his bachelor friends until he keeled over and died. 

He huffs next to you, eyes staring straight ahead. You don’t think the two of you have met each other’s eyes in a week. Maybe more. They’re starting to feel as soulless as your marriage itself. “Whatever. What do you want me to do?”

“What do you think?” You cross your arms over your chest. “Just act like you don’t hate me. Can you do that?” The way Taehyung’s behaving right now, you expect that will be a challenge for the both of you.

“Only if you can. I’ll even hold your hand to prove that we love each other.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The idea of holding Taehyung’s hand makes you want to implode. The mere thought sends shivers down your spine. But it’s better than nothing, and that’s good enough for you. At least you won’t have to kiss. 

The rest of the ride there is silent. You drive to this gorgeous mansion just outside the city, bathed in lights hidden amongst the bushes, illuminating both the architecture and the enormous fountain that sits in front of it. In a house this size, you imagine you could probably go your whole life without ever having to come across Taehyung. It actually makes you consider investing in a home that big. 

Taehyung helps you out of the back of the limousine, a cold hand clasping your own as you rest your palm against his. You can feel the way his fingers hesitate as yours make to intertwine with his as you walk towards the entrance, smiling at whatever camera flashes you encounter on your way. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were holding hands with a ghost. 

The moment you step inside and are ushered out of the door’s view, Taehyung’s grip relaxes on yours. For a moment, you think he’ll actually spend the rest of the night like this, a gentle hand wrapped around yours, but then he pulls it away entirely and shoves it back into his pocket. Oh. You frown quietly to yourself. So that’s how tonight’s going to go. 

You don’t make an effort to reach out towards him again. 

For an event concerning people you don’t know a damn thing about, everyone sure seems to know things about you. Other than greetings, you don’t think anyone’s said anything to you about anything other than your recent marriage to Taehyung. Every conversation is punctuated by a Congratulations! you do not feel that you have at all earned, considering you and Taehyung could barely look at each other on the way here.

Maybe Taehyung was right. All you really can do is stand there and smile.

“Oh, don’t tell me… Y/N, is that you?”

The champagne swirls around in the flute between your fingers as you turn towards the sound of your name, looking up to see a familiar face headed your way. 

Kim Seokjin is nice enough. He’s terribly handsome and got a flawless smile, but you know better than to trust those pearly whites of his. The sight of him alone is enough to make your body tense up. There was a reason you had explicitly told your parents not to invite him to your wedding. 

“Seokjin, what a surprise to see you here,” you say, forcing a smile. “I thought you were supposed to be in Switzerland right now.”

“Change of plans,” Seokjin grins back in that awful, awful way, the kind of grin that makes you feel like he’s looking right through you. “I came back early. It’s a shame, though, I missed your wedding.”

You shrug. “It was a humble affair.” It wasn’t. And you’re positive that Seokjin knows it wasn’t an accident that you didn’t extend an invitation to him or his family. 

“Ah, I see,” Seokjin says, nodding his head. He turns to Taehyung next to you, who is making no effort to hide how wholly uninterested in this conversation he is, and holds out a hand. “You must be Kim Taehyung, then. I’m Kim Seokjin. Congratulations on your wedding.”

Taehyung shakes his hand firmly, the air between the three of you growing unbearably palpable. 

“Seokjin’s father is the VP of News Daily,” You explain, eyebrows raised as you try to signal to Taehyung what exactly it means when Seokjin is speaking to the two of you. “And his mother is a popular journalist for the city’s post.”

Seokjin grew up in the world of media, and it seems he’s picked up his parent’s affinity for sticking their noses in places they don’t belong. You know he’s not talking to the both of you out of the goodness of his heart. 

Seokjin laughs, his hand waving away the mention of his parents. “Oh, please. That’s them. I’m just a bored socialite like the rest of you.”

You resist the urge to scoff. 

“Marriage treating the two of you well?” He changes the subject to what he really wants to talk about: you. 

“Of course,” you say quickly, preventing any hesitation on your end. Your empty hand reaches towards Taehyung’s, fingers searching for his between the two of you. But his refusal to join hands does not go unnoticed by you nor Seokjin, who is eyeing the space between your bodies with an eyebrow raised. “It’s just been—well, it’s just been difficult to adjust to a new life. That’s all.”

If you were to describe the face of a non-believer, it would be the exact expression on Seokjin’s face. “Perfectly understandable,” he says, that same toothy smile lacing his features. “But it must be nice, you know, to marry someone you love.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” you say, almost challenging Seokjin to say something even more inflammatory. He must know that all you’re trying to do at this point is save face. Love? Ha! As if. 

“And Taehyung?” Seokjin motions to your husband. 

You can feel the way Taehyung is stiffening beside you. “I suppose we are both lucky and unlucky in many ways when it comes to who we love.”

It’s enough of an answer to get Seokjin off your tail. For now. He bids the two of you a tense goodbye before sauntering off to go poke his nose in someone else’s business, fish for drama, a thread of a rumor he can pick apart with nimble fingers. You wonder if anybody actually likes him. 

The moment he disappears from earshot, you grab Taehyung’s wrist tightly and pull him close to you. “What the hell was that?” You hiss into his ear. 

“What?” You can’t tell if he’s playing dumb or if he really is that dense. 

“You!” You exclaim. “Kim Seokjin is the one person who could easily expose how fake this marriage is and you pull away from me? Right in front of him? You can’t even hold my hand for two seconds, that’s how much you hate me?”

“Who cares what he thinks?” Taehyung says. “He’s just another media rat. No one will even remember we were here tomorrow.”

“But if you keep acting like this, people will start to notice! Why can’t you just act like you don’t hate me, for one night? Is that so bad? Is it that torturous, to spend one night with me?”

“Do not turn this on me,” Taehyung orders harshly. “You’re making a scene. Come on.”

You don’t have time to shout at him for bossing you around like you’re a toddler throwing a tantrum before he drags you out of the venue, the two of you finding a back door to the building that leads outside. The cold air blows against your body, goosebumps popping up against your skin, but you find that the chilly night provides quite the respite after practically overheating indoors. Taehyung makes fire rush through your veins but at least the air can cool you back down. 

Nevertheless, your conversation is not over. It’s just been moved to a more private location.

“You do realize that our marriage isn’t going to suddenly go away, right? That we’re going to have to keep doing this for the rest of our lives?” You remind him, eyebrows raised. There’s a part of you that genuinely thinks he’s completely forgotten that your marriage is permanent.

“Oh, and not holding hands for five minutes for this one event is totally going to change the course of our lives, isn’t it?” Taehyung fights back.

“Don’t act like you did the right thing,” you spit out. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me. I know you don’t give a shit about our marriage.”

“What marriage is there to even give a shit about? Just because we had a wedding and signed some documents does not mean there is a real marriage between us. Look at us,” he motions between the two of you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We hate each other. Is this what you would call marriage?”

“But at least I’m trying to get past that!” You exclaim. “You make it seem like being as miserable as possible is some sort of badge of honor. Do you actually want to spend the rest of your life hating the person you married? Or do you want to grow up and try and move on?”

Taehyung frowns. “What I want is for the person I married to stop acting like they’re doing me such a huge favor by pretending to care about us. Especially when all they really care about is their family’s goddamn reputation.”

“No,” you tell him sternly. You are doing him a favor. He just can’t admit that he actually needs help from you. “You are putting zero effort into this. What am I supposed to do?”

“Let it go!” Taehyung shouts. “Maybe one day we’ll actually start getting along, but right now it’s obvious that neither one of us can stand the other. I don’t need you to do favors for me. I can handle it myself.”

You look away, rolling your eyes. “Doesn’t look like it to me,” you mutter to yourself. 

Taehyung cracks. “Fine. You want me to pretend that I actually care about us? I will.” Thank God. Maybe now the two of you will finally start seeing eye-to-eye. “But make no mistake about how I feel about you,” he spits. “Getting married to you ruined my life.”

You stare straight at him and his eyes are swirling, so obscured in the darkness of the night that you might even think he doesn’t have a soul at all. His pupils bore into yours and for once, for once in your goddamn life, after so many years of staring each other down at debutante balls, so many years of witty refrains and snarky insults hurled each other’s way, it feels like the two of you might actually snap. 

Then, a camera flashes.

Trouble in Paradise! would be a suitable title for the front page of the city’s biggest tabloid… if anything about your life with Taehyung could be considered paradise. Unfortunately for the both of you, that is not the case. 

You don’t need to keep reading the rest of the trashy article on the front page of the daily tabloid to know how much trouble you’re in, nor do you even have time to scroll beneath the terrible photo of you and Taehyung literally shouting at each other before you hear your phone ring. 

You don’t even bother saying hello to whoever’s on the other end. You know it’ll go in one ear and out the other. 

“I assume you know why I’m calling,” your mother’s harsh tone spits from the other end of the phone. There’s no doubt in your mind that she’s standing in the middle of her office, snapping her fingers at her fifteen secretaries as they partake in the worst damage control your family’s had to deal with since your cousin two years ago was caught with a mistress outside a high-profile restaurant. 

“Can I take a wild guess?” You’re about to be scolded into the next century, so you might as well enjoy your last few moments. 

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” your mother warns. “Care to explain why you and your beloved husband made the front page of the Daily Post today?”

“I know,” you sigh, a hand coming up to rub at your temples. It’s eight in the morning, you’ve barely looked at your phone, and you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. It feels like you’re still asleep, and most certainly lack the energy to deal with this right now. 

Your mother, on the other hand, thinks otherwise. “You know? You know, and you still go out and do this? For everyone to see?”

“We tried to take our argument outside,” you begin to explain, but your mother isn’t having a single word of it. 

“The fact that you thought it was even appropriate to have an argument in a public setting at all astounds me, Y/N. We raised you better than that.” There’s no need for you to even see her face. You’ve grown so used to that disappointed frown over the years that it’s burned into your brain. 

“Maybe you should have thought about that before marrying me off to a man I barely know so I could be someone else’s problem instead of yours,” you bite. 

“We did this for your own good,” she hisses back. “You are married because we love you, and we want you to succeed outside of this family.”

“Then why do you care what the tabloids print about me?”

“Because being married does not mean you are no longer a part of this family,” your mother informs you sternly, lips smacking together. “Your marriage reflects on all of us, and you know that. What will people think of us when they see how terribly behaved you are?”

“Everyone acts like that, and you know it.” How could your mother preach good behavior when everyone, everyone you know, is just as spoiled and entitled as you? There’s no such thing as being altruistic when it comes to people like you. Being genuine, and good, and pure—that will get you ruined. 

You can hear her breathing into the phone when your mother responds, “But not in public, and that is the point. We expect better from you.”

“If you were so worried about me behaving so badly, then why did you even marry me off anyway? You knew that I didn’t want to. What did you think would happen?” It’s a question you wouldn’t have dared ask three months ago. Hell, even a year ago, when it was first revealed you were to be engaged, you wouldn’t have dared open your lips. But things are different now. You’re married to a man that hates you just as much as you hate him. He is making no effort to improve your relationship and seems hellbent on despising you forever. There is no way to get out of it. And if your parents really foresaw all of that, then what was the point in the first place?

“Your grandmother.”

Your mouth shuts. 

“You know she wanted to see you married before she passed,” your mother says, words clipped and biting and harsh. “She cares about you. She wanted to make sure you’d be taken care of.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” you mutter to yourself like a petulant child. In a way, you sort of are.

“If you want to stay in her will, I suggest you change that mindset.”

You freeze in your tracks. The will?

“Is that a threat?” You ask, positively dumbfounded. Are you being coerced into staying in this marriage because of your grandmother’s will?

You can hear your mother laugh, that muted, knowing chuckle of hers. “It was the deal all along, remember?”

Vaguely, you do. You remember fighting your parents tooth and nail over getting married until your grandmother revealed it was her dream to see you wed. You remember the look on her old, wrinkled face, that soft, sad smile that said she knew she didn’t have much time left. You remember agreeing, because how could you deny her? You remember her promising to remember what you’re doing for her. 

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“But—”

“That’s the end of this conversation, Y/N. You fix things with your husband or you’re out of her will. She’s made that clear. I expect you’ll make the right choice.”

She hangs up. 

Well. 

There are a lot of ways to describe how you’re currently feeling, and you most certainly had an expensive education that would provide you with plenty of the vocabulary, but you think the most appropriate words for the current situation would be: you’re fucked. 

At least the feeling is mutual. 

Hardly two minutes after your mother’s brutal phone call, Taehyung comes storming down the stairs, hair still mussed from the night prior, his own phone clenched tightly between is fingers. Even from where you stand in the middle of the living room, you can see the way his eyes are glinting with anger, the veins popping out from his skin. 

“I just got off the phone with my parents,” Taehyung begins, not even bothering to spare a ‘good morning’ your way, “and they are fucking furious about last night.”

You shrug. “Join the club,” you mutter, arms crossed in front of you. What, does Taehyung really think you got off scot-free?

“Don’t act like this means nothing to you,” Taehyung says as he approaches you, footsteps calm despite his demeanor being anything but. “You’re the one who’s so obsessed with keeping up their family’s perfect reputation. You’re the reason we’re even in this mess in the first place.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m the reason’?” You ask, astounded. Like he’s totally absolved of all blame and just an innocent third party. “You are the reason we went outside. You are the reason we had that argument, because you refuse to accept the fact that we’re actually married and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Right, because holding hands is really gonna show all those people how in love we are. I bet your parents are so thrilled right now.” Taehyung drawls. 

“It’s a start!” You shriek. “God, you’re just so—so infuriating! You can’t accept that this was your fault, too. You just have to turn everything against me and you always, always have to get the last word. It’s like you think you’ll die if you don’t.”

“Like you’re any better,” Taehyung huffs back. “You think I’m the villain because I don’t want to pretend to be in love with someone I’m not in love with. You act like us not holding hands is going to ruin our lives. It was one event! One! It’s obvious we hate each other, so why even try?”

“What, do you expect me to just sit around and do nothing? To act like everything’s fine? Like I’m happy?” As if. This marriage is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. “While you prance around the city with your rich boy friends, going out to clubs and parties and pretending that I don’t exist? Is that what you expect from me?”

Taehyung laughs, this loud, disbelieving sort of noise, like he’s never heard such nonsense before. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean the rest of my life has to change. Am I not allowed to enjoy myself with my friends? Or are you determined to keep me chained to your side for the rest of our lives?”

“What I want,” you punctuate every word, “is for you to stop acting like you haven’t got stakes in this, too. You think I don’t know how your family works? What being married to me means for you? Because I do. And I know that if we were to divorce, it would be you who would get the short end of the stick. Make no mistake.”

That’s enough to shut Taehyung up for a good few seconds. And it shuts him up, because he knows it’s true. Taehyung’s family may have a little more money, a little more power than yours, but you’ve got a family intimately more connected with the media. One phone call and Taehyung may have a rather messy, rather public breakup to deal with. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says, calling your bluff. 

“Are you sure about that?” You say, sticking your ground. You would never really divorce him, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I am,” Taehyung says firmly. “Don’t think I don’t know what being married to me is in it for you. What is it? Money? Power? Your father’s CEO position?”

“That’s none of your business,” you snap quickly. Maybe you’re more transparent than you thought. Bristling, you straighten your shoulders and turn back to meet his eyes. “Regardless, it seems we both have a reason to stay in this marriage.”

“It seems we do,” Taehyung agrees with a thin, contained smile. “Then I suppose we can reach some sort of agreement.”

“As in…?” Your interest in piqued. 

“I’ll stop going out with my friends if you stop picking fights with me all the time,” he says economically, like he’s killing two birds with one stone. 

“Only if you agree to also act more like my husband when we’re in public,” you tack on, because you just can’t settle for anything less. 

“Public only,” Taehyung specifies. 

You scoff. “Like I’d even want to pretend to be your wife when we’re in private.”

“Good. It seems we’ve come to a deal.”

“What’s in this for you, huh?” You prod, just to be annoying. Taehyung’s right. There’s a reason you’re not divorcing him the second you get the chance. But there must be a reason why he’s not doing the same thing. 

“Does it matter?” He challenges, a single eyebrow raised. “My life is just as awful as yours.”

Fair enough. 

“Do we have a deal?” Taehyung asks, holding out his hand, that sneaky, devilish grin lacing his features. 

Taking his hand in yours and grasping it firmly is the easiest decision in the world. His palm presses against your own, hot hand meeting your cold skin, and it feels like the two of you are finally finding some sort of balance. You look up into his eyes, burn your gaze into his pupils, watch them glint in the white ceiling light of the living room. 

“Deal.”

For two people raised on the values of reading the fine print and making educated choices when it comes to business deals, you and Taehyung sure haven’t worked out any of the intricacies of the deal the two of you agreed to. Unlike those business deals your parents constantly agreed to, however, knowing all of the stipulations and provisions of your strange, strange agreement with Taehyung may prove more harmful than helpful. 

Like right now. 

“Wait, we don’t have to be by each other’s side the whole night, do we?” Taehyung asks you, eyebrows furrowed in a knot, as you sit in the back of a big, black van on your way to a mutual friend’s twenty-first birthday bash. 

“There are going to be a lot of cameras there,” you respond. 

“Yeah, outside the entrance to the damn club. You know they won’t be allowed in, so who cares?” Taehyung rebukes. 

You huff out a little sigh, not wanting to get into an argument when you’re literally minutes away from your first public appearance since the whole tabloid debacle from three weeks ago. You and Taehyung could both do with being a bit more relaxed than you normally are when you’re around each other. 

“Hasn’t Clarissa invited hundreds of people? They’ll all notice if we aren’t together,” you remind pointedly. The girl whose birthday party you are attending is an heiress who grew up on the money of two people with a monopoly over the current artificial intelligence market and has millions of followers on social media. There will be notable people there. And people will know the two of you, as well. 

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “That’s the point, Y/N. There’ll be so many people, no one will even care. It’s her twenty-first birthday. Do you think people are going to be sober?”

You purse your lips together. He’s got a point. “How about when we are together, we hold hands. But if you see a friend or something then feel free to say hi.” Taehyung can be afforded that luxury. Especially because the chances of him not bumping into someone he knows is exceedingly low anyway. 

Taehyung nods in agreement. “You too. But I won’t leave you unless I know you’re with someone you’re close with.”

“You don’t have to stay, I’ll be fine,” you say with a small chuckle. What, is Taehyung suddenly worried, or something?

“Yeah, but it would be in bad taste if I left you with someone you didn’t know well. Or alone. Just wanna make sure you’re taken care of.” He shrugs nonchalantly, turning back to look out of the window on his side of the car. 

“Okay.” 

You don’t really have anything else to say to that. You’re sure you can handle yourself if you’re left alone for a few minutes while Taehyung says hi, but you actually find yourself rather appreciative of his resolve to look after you. Or, at least, make sure someone else is looking after you. It’s quite… chivalrous. Strikingly out of character for the Taehyung you’ve become well-acquainted with over the past couple of months. 

By the time you arrive, it’s obvious that Taehyung was right about there being so many people you two practically don’t even exist. Other than the herds of camera crews waiting outside the joint, photographing everyone that steps out of a black car to see what they’re wearing and who they’ve come with, no one seems to be paying you any attention. And in a way, that sort of nonexistence, that anonymity, it’s refreshing. Your entire life you’ve felt like all eyes were on you, like there was constantly a spotlight above your head, but here, the party centers around someone else. 

Despite that fact, Taehyung keeps his promise. He keeps himself pressed closely against you when there’s not enough space for you two to stand side by side, and he makes sure to have a hand gently intertwined with your own as you weave your way through the dozens of bodies in the room. He doesn’t say anything, of course, always looking up and forward instead of beside him, where you stand, but you find that you’re actually quite relaxed with his presence. He spots a bit of a clearing near the back of the first floor of the club, where a whole bunch of leather couches are pressed up against the brick walls, where the two of you can take a breather. 

“Damn, Clarissa knows a lot of people,” you say when you finally settle down, happily plucking a martini from a tray held by one of the many caterers wandering through the venue. 

“I doubt she’s even spoken to half of them,” Taehyung comments. “She and I have maybe spoken once… three years ago.”

“It was enough to get you invited, wasn’t it?” You point out with an eyebrow raised. 

Taehyung nods, chuckling a little. “Touché,” he says, clinking his own cocktail glass against yours. 

You take a swig of the drink, letting it wash down your throat. You’re not exactly sure how else you’re supposed to survive the night. “You must enjoy this, huh?” You muse, looking up at Taehyung from where you’re seated on the couch. He’s standing next to you, looking around the room with a distant gaze in his eye. 

“Enjoy what? The drink? It’s nice,” Taehyung says, having another sip. 

“No, I mean this,” you say, motioning toward the crowd. “The clubbing, the dancing, the drinking. I’ll bet that if you could do this every day for the rest of your life, you would.”

“I’m honored that you think so highly of me,” he deadpans. 

“Just making an observation,” you say, holding your hand up in surrender. “I mean, isn’t this what you used to do every weekend before we got married? Get wasted and party? Wake up in someone else’s bed the next morning? Muscle your way through the week just so you could do it all over again?”

Taehyung shakes his head, a knowing grin on his face. “Looks like someone keeps up with her tabloids. Let me guess, you would scroll through all of those trashy articles on your phone whenever you woke up so you could see what your future husband was doing?”

“I could have never even met you and I would know that that’s exactly what you do,” you say, even though you definitely did do those things before your engagement was announced to the public. “You’re a heartbreaker, Kim Taehyung. I don’t need to read a tabloid to know that.”

“Well, you must be quite the lucky girl, then,” Taehyung comments. “You seem to be taking up so much of my energy that I don’t have the time for that anymore.”

You place a sarcastic hand on your heart. “I didn’t know you were always thinking about me. I’m touched.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Taehyung huffs out, making the two of you both shake your heads as you chuckle to yourselves. First civil conversation you’ve had with each other in a long while, even if there may have been a few blows exchanged. 

The privacy doesn’t last long. Soon after, a huge crowd of people that could honestly still pass for teenagers herds towards the back of the club, all of them wanting to take pictures with each other. You and Taehyung do your best to stay out of the way, but one of the girls recognizes him from the Elle photoshoot he did about a year ago and begins to strike up a conversation with the both of you about your recent marriage. If she was paying attention to anything the tabloids leaked three weeks ago, she doesn’t mention it. Taehyung smiles and happily answers all of her questions, and even offers to take a picture of the group for them. The conversation ends before the two of you even catch her name. 

You’re standing by the line of buffet tables laid out against the staircase leading up to the second floor, no doubt as crowded as this one, when the opportunity for you to speak to someone other than Taehyung finally presents itself. 

“Y/N!”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. You turn around to see Victoria barreling towards the both of you, not even caring when she accidentally spills a bit of her piña colada on the floor as she does. 

“Hey!” You exclaim excitedly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Are you kidding? I’m pretty sure Clarissa invited everyone on her, her best friend’s, her best friend’s cousin, and her best friend’s cousin’s dog’s contact list,” Victoria says with a laugh. “It’s nice to see you. I feel like you’ve been holed up in that big ol’ penthouse for weeks.”

“Damage control,” you remind her succinctly. Victoria knows enough that that’s all the explanation she really needs. 

“I don’t know if the two of you have ever met formally,” you say, thinking back to your wedding, where Victoria spent most of her time schmoozing with your parents (who love her) and didn’t even engage with any of the people who Taehyung’s family had invited. “Taehyung, this is Victoria. Victoria, Taehyung.”

“Pleasure,” Victoria says in that loud, unabashedly forward way of hers, holding out a friendly hand. Taehyung smiles back curtly, taking her hand and shaking it gently, so as not to spill any more of her drink. 

“Mine as well. I remember you were at our wedding.” Oh? So he does know her?

“That I was. Oh, I miss that day. The food was excellent. Tonight’s isn’t too bad either. Hope you’re doing well, the two of you. It’s nice to see you getting along,” she says, always the observer. 

Taehyung’s eyes widen a little when he picks up what Victoria is not-so-subtly putting down, but you place a hand on his upper arm to calm him. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “She won’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed,” Victoria adds. 

“If you wanna go spend time with some of your friends, you can,” you say, giving Taehyung a nudge. He looks positively helpless standing in between the two of you as Victoria out-extroverts him. 

“Alright,” he says hesitantly, even though you know he’s already spotted at least ten people you’re sure he’d want to spend time with over you. “I’ll come find you soon, okay? Don’t go too far.”

You nod, and Taehyung disappears off into the crowd. Not two seconds later, you hear someone else call his name in a familiar tone. 

“I thought you said you hated him,” Victoria points out as the two of you watch his caramel brown hair makes its way throughout the crowd. 

You take another sip of your drink. “I do,” you say. 

Victoria looks at you like you’ve just told her you’ve sworn off custard-filled doughnuts. 

“What?” You ask, feeling suddenly defensive. 

“Nothing,” Victoria singsongs. “It just doesn’t look like that to me.”

“We just need to keep up a good appearance in public, that’s all. You know how mad my parents got when the tabloids leaked all that shit a few weeks ago,” you explain. You’re not sure what all the fuss is about. Taehyung said he would do these things. And he did. That was him upholding his end of the deal. This is you upholding yours. 

“If you say so…” Victoria says, not looking at all convinced. “I guess I’m just surprised that—that you two seem to be getting along so well. Maybe you being married isn’t going to be the worst thing after all.”

You stare back out into the crowd, scanning the top of people’s heads for Taehyung’s familiar locks. In the dim light of the club, you have a difficult time finding his, squinting your eyes slightly as you look around, but eventually you spot him, dancing happily with some old friends of his you recognize. He looks like he’s having a good time. And that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this might end up alright. 

“Yeah,” you say, though with the pounding of the bass and the alcohol already rushing through your veins, it doesn’t really feel like your voice belongs to you. You look back at Taehyung, knowing exactly where he is now, and you smile. Just a little. “I guess he’s not so bad.”

You never do get a chance to meet Taehyung’s friends that night. By the time he joins back up with you and Victoria he’s by himself, a little more drunk than when he left, and ready to go home. And for once, instead of fighting him, instead of insisting you stay an hour more just to make sure you’ve done all of your rounds, you let him take you home. 

Taehyung has been spending a lot more time at the penthouse lately. Perhaps his family’s business happenings are slow, or perhaps he’s actually starting to get more comfortable with inhabiting the same space as you, but he has definitely found himself quite the rhythm in that house of yours. He even comes down to the first floor rather regularly. 

When he’s home, Taehyung is a lot quieter than you thought he would be. Granted, you don’t exactly know what you were expecting in the first place, but it certainly wasn’t him ruminating in one of the home offices while the Beatles play softly on the stereo, nor was it him reading a book in French in one of those big old grandfather chairs in the living room. If you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was still absent in that old way of his, ghostlike and silent, like he was occupying the space instead of truly living in it. 

But you do know better, and even though Taehyung is just as noiseless as he used to be, the house already feels a little bit fuller. 

Perhaps the reason you’ve become so keenly aware of his presence over the past few days is because of the notable fact that Taehyung has indeed held up his end of the deal, and no longer goes out with his friends in the evening. Or at all, for that matter. Which strikes you as rather odd, because he’s the epitome of a social butterfly, a thousand contacts in his phone and a whole group of friends he regularly spends time with. Maybe his parents told him to tone down the public appearances, too. And that’s understandable, but don’t they know Taehyung? Can’t they see how much he thrives on social interaction? It almost makes you feel… bad for him. 

To remedy this, you suggest he invite over his friends. Just for a few hours, you swear you won’t mind. 

“Seriously?” Taehyung looks positively shocked when you tell him he can, standing in the doorway of the office he seems to have designated as his own. 

“Yeah, why not?” You say with a carefree shrug. Besides, you’ve never met his friends anyway, and now seems as good a chance as any to introduce yourself. You are his wife, after all. “Unless your parents say you can’t. But it’s not a problem for me.”

“You… don’t mind if I have my friends over for a bit? Honest to God, we’re probably just going to play FIFA for three hours straight,” Taehyung says like it’s some sort of warning. Like the idea of him and his buddies from college are going to sit in the living room screaming at the television, leaving you alone to do literally anything else, is somehow bad. 

You laugh. “It’s fine, really. Call them. I’d actually quite like to meet them.”

Taehyung picks up his phone almost instantly, as if you’ll change your mind in the next five minutes so he better get them over soon, and already you can see the way his face is lighting up, the way his eyes crinkle as he chats to his friends and the way his lips curl upwards when they crack a joke back. Isn’t it obvious? He feeds off of the energy of others. Who are you to deny him such a simple pleasure?

As it turns out, Taehyung’s friends actually end up being quite nice anyway. 

He invites over three, because four people is apparently the perfect number for a hardcore game of FIFA on his Playstation, and they are all very handsome men you have never met before. You suppose like attracts like, after all. 

“You must be Y/N,” says the first one you see when you open the door to let them in. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-one—in fact, he could probably still pass as a college student—and has rather long dark hair that drapes over the sides of his face, covering the edges of his big doe eyes. “I’m Jungkook. This is Jimin and Hoseok.”

“Nice to meet you all,” you say, stepping aside so they can enter.

The shortest one, Jimin, grins in response, and Hoseok, behind him, gives you a wave. It’s refreshing enough as is, not having to exchange formal greetings and shake each other’s hands like you do with everyone else. Hoseok even gives you a bit of a nod, too.“You, too,” he says. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Oh, have they, now? Interesting. 

“All good things, I hope,” you say awkwardly, forcing a small smile as Taehyung comes bounding into the room, ears perked up at the sound of his friends’ voices. 

“Definitely. Thanks for having us over. We didn’t wanna intrude on the sanctity of your new place,” Jungkook says, gesturing vaguely to the house as a whole. He’s got this excellent, genuine grin on his face, the kind that people who are just happy to be alive always wear. 

Already he’s said enough to charm the shit out of you. Who knew Taehyung’s friends could be so… friendly? “Please, you’re welcome any time. I was just thinking Taehyung was getting a little lonely.”

“There he is!” Jimin shouts excitedly when he spots Taehyung behind the two of you, looking a lot more casual than he normally does when he’s alone with you, having abandoned his usual silky button-down and wide-leg slacks for a loose shirt and some sweatpants. You didn’t even know he had those things in his closet. 

“Hey, everyone’s here!” Taehyung exclaims, just as happy. He squeezes past you to give the three of them a big hug, and it almost makes you feel like you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be in. Even though this is literally your house. 

“Nice place you got here,” Hoseok comments, eyes drifting around the living room. “Very minimalist, I like it.”

“Sure hope you don’t spill anything on those nice leather couches of yours,” Jungkook says. 

“Yeah, unlike Kook, who has spilled tomato soup on every shirt he’s ever owned,” Jimin jokes, earning laughs from Taehyung and Hoseok and a punch from Jungkook. 

“Moved after we married,” Taehyung says simply, shrugging his shoulders. It’s an easy enough explanation for why it doesn’t look at all lived in. Here’s hoping none of them realize you sleep in different bedrooms. 

“Yeah, congratulations on that, man,” Hoseok says, giving Taehyung a celebratory nudge in the shoulder. “Who’d have thought, out of the four of us, Kim Taehyung would be the first one to settle down.”

The way Taehyung’s body tenses up at that comment does not go unnoticed by you. 

“Seriously, I would have never guessed,” Jimin adds on. “You’re showing us a new side of yourself, Tae. But I’m happy for you.”

Normally, you’d probably take offense at such blatant insinuations that your husband was a former playboy, especially from his equally noncommittal friends. But truthfully, it’s not like you were blind to Taehyung’s transgressions either. And what matters most is the fact that since it was announced publicly, you are the only woman he’s been seen with since your engagement. 

“Me too. You seem to really like her. I’m glad,” Jungkook pipes up, sending a smile your way. You definitely feel like you don’t belong in this conversation. “I think the two of you will be good for each other.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Taehyung says with a nervous chuckle. His eyes quickly shoot your way, the two of you meeting gazes, your hesitant expressions matching. At least the two of you are on the same page. “Alright, alright, enough,” Jungkook says. “Who’s ready to get their ass kicked in FIFA?”

“You’re on, Jeon. But when I win, you owe me a five-star dinner,” Hoseok challenges. 

“Deal.”

Hoseok, Jimin, and Jungkook immediately crowd towards the couch, and you take that as your cue to leave. But before you can disappear down the hallway, you and Taehyung look awkwardly at each other, hands tied. It’s not like you can say anything to them. 

The truth is that, sometimes, it’s easy to forget that not everyone else knows that your marriage is just for business. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that there are still people out there that believe you marry for love. 

Isn’t it crazy to think that you used to be one of those people, too?

“Hey,” Taehyung says when you meet up at the bottom of the stairs again. 

“Hey,” you respond. 

“You look nice.”

You scoff a little to yourself. What, are you exchanging compliments now? “Thanks,” you say, looking him up and down. “You’re not so bad yourself.” Like he ever is. 

“I knew you had taste,” Taehyung teases, and it’s the sort of comment that would have earned him a melon ball to the face back when the two of you were teenagers at a debutante ball, but today only earns him a roll of your eyes as you join hands. You don’t have anything big tonight—just a small dinner to celebrate some sort of business accomplishment for your family, which means that all you have to manage is not ending up in some sort of food fight by the end of the night. 

“I didn’t have a choice, did I?” You retort easily as you get into the car. 

You don’t normally speak a lot on the way to events. Not that you ever did, but even as your relationship has slowly faded from pure hatred to attempts at compromise, you both seem to relish in being able to stare out of your respective backseat windows and into the city that surrounds you. Just out of curiosity, about halfway through the ride you look towards Taehyung to see what he’s up to, and find yourself genuinely surprised to see him leaning against the window with his eyes closed. Is he sleeping? A couple more minutes of gazing at him tells you he is, because his body has gone lax and his breathing has evened out, soft snores leaving his mouth. This ride can’t be longer than twenty minutes. Has he not been sleeping well? Up in that enormous second-floor bedroom of his?

He’s awake by the time the car parks outside the restaurant, this fancy name brand steak place that was chosen solely because the biggest beneficiaries of your family’s new business deal are two sixty-year-old men whose entire diet consists of beef and beer. No cameras tonight, just a small family affair. You and Taehyung hold hands as you enter the restaurant and are led to the private room in the back anyway. 

You and him are seated on the far end of the long, rectangular table, alongside all of the other adult children dragged along to celebrate something that has no effect on their lives. But it’s nice, because the space alone prevents your parents from actively speaking with you, and you and Taehyung can stay in your own little bubble, only chiming in for a toast when necessary. 

“What are you going to get?” He asks you, the two of you gazing at the menu. No matter how fancy this place is, all the options seem to boil down to steak, steak, steak, steak, and caesar salad. Classic. 

“Oh, so you actually care now?” You counter, an eyebrow raised in amusement. 

Taehyung laughs. “Aren’t I supposed to?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, wise to his usual shenanigans. It’s hard to tell if Taehyung really means what he says, or if it’s all for show. But perhaps he’s asking because he’s genuinely curious, since no one else seems to be paying you any attention. 

“The choices on this menu are simply overwhelming,” you say, motioning to the six options in front of you. 

“I know, I’m so torn,” Taehyung jokes, making you huff out a little giggle. At least he’s still got that same sense of humor. 

You both end up going for a pretty classic steak dinner, which neither of the two of you finish because the damn portions are the size of your head. Dinner is, in and of itself, absolutely mindless, all of your parents talking about things that don’t concern you whatsoever, leaving you and Taehyung to your own devices as you desperately try to make the night go by faster. 

At one point, you notice Taehyung’s foot brushing up against yours, the leather of his loafers brushing against the toe of your patent heel. Thinking someone of it, you push back, foot nudging his back to his own chair. It’s not a second later that Taehyung retaliates, the two of you dancing around each other underneath the table. 

If the two of you were any younger, or perhaps any less resigned to your fate, there’s no doubt in your mind you would be attempting to get Taehyung to fall off his chair in an effort to do the same to you. Footsie means war. But when the both of you know that, at the end of the day, you’ll still be going home to the same place, and waking up the next morning in the same house, it doesn’t feel like this is a battle.

It’s just life. 

Eventually, you meet Taehyung’s eyes with a hesitant smile, shoe pressed against his, stuck in ceasefire. And for once, he doesn’t have that devilish look in his eye, that smug little grin on his face that tells you that he’s going to make you regret whatever it is you just did. He’s just smiling back at you, all pink lips, having found real fun in the little things. 

And that makes you happy. 

The rest of the dinner is uneventful, which, in your book, is about as good as a dinner can go. You cheers to the future of your parents’ relationship with their newfound partners and say a quick goodbye to them both, hurrying out of there before they can ask you any questions on your relationship with your husband. But you don’t spend the car ride in silence on the way back. 

Instead, you say, “Have you been sleeping well?”

The question seems to catch Taehyung off guard. He was already getting in position to take a power nap on the ride home, head pressed up against the window of the car. 

“What?”

“Have you been sleeping well?” You repeat. “I noticed you fell asleep on the way here.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess,” he says, a hand scratching the nape of his neck. “I mean, it’s been hard adjusting, I suppose. But I’ll get over it.”

Hard adjusting? You’ve been together for nearly three months now. Three months worth of sleeping in the same penthouse bedroom, on the same soft-as-a-cloud mattress, underneath the same weighted blanket. And he’s still having trouble? 

“Oh. I mean, I just wanted to ask because you seem really tired lately.”

“I got a lot on my plate, what can I say,” Taehyung says with an empty smile, forcing a chuckle. “I’ll be fine, seriously. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Isn’t that my job?” You remind him. “I am your wife.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything to that. He just lets out an audible breath, the kind you let out when you’re amused and have something snarky to say, but don’t have the energy to get the words off your tongue. 

The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. 

When you get home, you place your house keys in the bowl by the entrance and take off your shoes, just about ready to take a hot shower and collapse in bed, when Taehyung’s voice stops you. 

“Hey,” he begins, almost hesitantly. You look back at him inquisitively. “I was thinking, maybe, if you wanted, we could start sleeping in the same bed?”

You scrunch your nose up. Not in disgust, but in surprise. In bewilderment. What brought this on, all of a sudden?

“Really?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself. “I thought we liked the separate bed thing. Gives us privacy.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says with a shrug, “but—I don’t know, it’s stupid. I just thought, you know, since we’re married and all. And it’s been three months.” He looks about two seconds away from backtracking, from shaking his head and going upstairs before you can say anything else. 

“Alright,” you say quickly, nodding your assent. Taehyung’s eyes widen when he hears the word, like he had completely expected you to shut him down the moment he made the suggestion. “If that’s what you want. We can try it.”

“You sure?” He asks, that same hesitant smile from earlier lacing his features. It’s strange. He almost looks… sweet. Nervous. 

You grin back at him. “Yeah, I am.”

Taehyung lets you grab some of your toiletries and your pajamas from your designated bedroom before you head up the stairs together, towards the bedroom he’s claimed for himself. Funnily enough, this is the first time you’ve been in his room. Three months of living together and you haven’t dared step foot on the second floor. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when he opens the door to let you inside. Maybe a room that screamed ‘Taehyung’ a little more than this one does. One that looks like an actual human has been living here. But other than one of his classic silk button-downs draped over a chair, there’s not a shred of evidence someone has actually been sleeping here. You could honestly be fooled rather easily that the shirt, too, is just decoration. 

“You can pick a side,” Taehyung says casually. He grabs his own sleepwear—an old t-shirt and some sweats—and heads into the bathroom to change. 

You wonder why Taehyung has had such a difficult time adjusting. This room is about as lavish as a bedroom can get. And yet. 

Sitting down on the left side of the bed, you begin to remove your own clothes, unzipping tonight’s dress and stepping quickly into your pajamas, hurrying to make sure Taehyung doesn’t catch you half-naked. How funny is that, you think to yourself. You’ve been married for three months and you still can’t bear the thought of Taehyung seeing you without a shirt on. 

When Taehyung comes out of the bathroom, hair all messy and clothes all casual, he grins lazily to himself. “I sleep on the right anyway,” he comments mindlessly. 

Within twenty minutes the both of you are about as ready to pass out as you have ever been, the only lights still on the ones on your respective nightstands. 

“Goodnight,” Taehyung says, reaching an arm over to switch his off. 

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning off yours as well. And all of a sudden, the room is shrouded in darkness. 

You fall asleep instantly. 

When Taehyung wakes up the next morning, the first thing he says to you is that he hasn’t slept that well in ages. 

“You slept together?” Victoria shrieks, so loud you actually have to move your phone away from your ear as you punch in the code inside the elevator for access to your floor. 

“We did not sleep together,” you emphasize. “Okay, well, we sleep together, as in, in the same bed. But we are fully clothed. And not the slightest bit interested in doing anything other than sleeping.”

“I thought you said you liked having your own space,” Victoria points out. “When was the first time you—uh…” she pauses to find the right words, “shared a bed?”

“A couple weeks ago. It’s really not so bad, I don’t know why you’re so hung up over it,” you say, lips pursed. You squeeze the phone between the side of your head and your shoulder, hands full of shopping bags, the string of the handles burning your skin. Maybe you should look into getting a personal shopper. 

“I’m hung up over it because, for the longest time, you have sworn off Kim Taehyung. Called him dead to you. Insulted him every chance you get.” 

You scoff. You don’t need reminding of how much you hated him, how much you can’t believe you have to spend the rest of your life with him. “It’s different now. We’re married. And he said he wasn’t sleeping well. I felt bad.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Enough about him,” you say, shutting her up. You don’t feel like talking about him with Victoria anymore. “Word through the grapevine says that your parents are actually thinking of letting you start your own company?”

It’s enough to distract Victoria. For the rest of the ride in the elevator, she talks animatedly about a new streaming service her parents are considering letting her launch, under their parent business, of course, but it’s her own company nonetheless. And you’re proud of her. Proud she could do something your parents would never dream of letting you do. Proud she could make that happen. 

You push open the front door with the side of your hip after entering in the security code, phone still snug between your ear and your shoulder, when you hear Taehyung call out your name. 

He comes into view from the kitchen, which surprises you because you have, on multiple occasions, made fun of how much of a disaster chef he is, especially because he’s admitted to you he’s not a very good cook. 

“I made brownies,” he says, holding out a plate of the chocolate treats in front of you. Instinct has you dropping your bags on the floor by your feet and reaching out, but you eye him first, suspicious. 

“I have to go,” you tell Victoria, hanging up before she even gets a chance to object to your sudden departure. “You made these?”

“Yes, I did,” Taehyung says, rather proud. 

“And the kitchen is… still standing?” You ask, skeptical. 

Taehyung frowns at you, clearly unimpressed. “How bad of a chef do you think I am?”

“Pretty bad,” you admit with a shrug. 

Taehyung pouts sadly to himself for a moment. “These are good, I swear. Nothing weird in them like vegetables or anything either. I used a box mix.”

“No wonder they look so nice,” you comment snidely, hesitant hand reaching out to grab one. They feel like brownies. So that’s good. 

“Hey, I was the one who had to crack the eggs and shit. Three eggs! And not one eggshell in the bowl!” Taehyung says, clearly very pleased with himself. 

You laugh at his enthusiasm, taking a bite. It’s good. And exactly what you needed after a long day of shopping. “I’m proud of you. They taste good.”

“I knew you wouldn’t doubt me.” Taehyung grins.

“They’re really good, actually,” You amend, genuinely surprised. And the best part is that you can count at least ten brownies left on that plate, which means that you get at least five more. Which, if you had any less self-restraint, you would probably eat all at once within the day. 

“I’m glad you like them. They’re all for us, you know. No one else to share them with,” he says.

“Honestly, I’m probably going to finish them by tonight. You’ll have to make more tomorrow,” you say sheepishly. 

“We can make some together,” Taehyung suggests. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” you respond. The words come off your mouth easily, tumbling from your lips without you having to think about it. You aren’t saying them because you have to. You’re saying them because you want to. Because baking with Taehyung doesn’t actually sound too bad. Especially if it means more brownies. 

“You’ve, uh, you’ve got something,” Taehyung says, gesturing vaguely to the side of his lip. 

“Oh, I do? Yikes,” you say, a little embarrassed. Your hand comes up to wipe at the left side of your mouth. “Is it gone?”

“Wait, here, let me do it,” Taehyung says, reaching out towards you. He presses his palm against the side of your face, cradling your cheek and jaw in his enormous hands, and all at once it feels like your skin is on fire. 

Your body freezes up at the touch, at the way his thumb swipes at the corner of your mouth, right against your lips, wiping away nothing but a goddamn brownie crumb. You look at him, look right at him, how can you look anywhere else when he’s right in front of you like this, and it feels like you are caught in his gaze, a rain droplet trapped on a web, a bee stuck in its own honey. His big, brown eyes sparkle from the ceiling lights, a chocolate sky that mirrors the food he just made for you. He looks at you and his eyes are so soft, so open, so happy to be looking right back at you. God. 

“There,” he says, a moment too late. 

“Thanks,” you stammer out, speechless otherwise. 

You both stand there, looking at each other, wordless expressions drawn all over your faces, no idea what to do next. 

After a while, Taehyung breaks the silence. “Do you wanna order takeout tonight?”

“Okay,” you nod, still a little breathless. Taehyung smiles before retreating back to the kitchen, leaving you standing in the entranceway, shopping bags abandoned by your side. 

You look over to where he’s vanished. There’s a part of you that wishes he hadn’t left. A part of you that makes you want to see him again. 

Phone calls from your mother are never good. The last time she called… well, you know how that went. So when you see her contact information light up your home screen, it’s only instinct that you feel your heart rate spike. 

“Hello?” The voice that comes out doesn’t even sound like yours. 

There’s no good way to put what comes next. Your grandmother has died. Heart attack. The paramedics got there too late. It was over before it even started. 

For a moment, for a split second, it feels like everything is frozen. Like the world has come to standstill. Your mother’s voice echoes in your ears, suspended in time, the words turning into stone as they crash onto the floor. And when they do, it is as if everything comes back to life. 

Truth be told, you don’t know how long you stay there, sitting on the edge of the left side of the bed, your phone resting lifelessly in the palm of your hand. It feels at once like an eternity and only a second in time. You spoke to your grandmother two days ago. You had promised that you and Taehyung would visit her soon. How can this be happening?

Your phone buzzes relentlessly in your hands, condolences pouring in from every person in your contacts, sorry’s and heart emoticons and If you need anything, I’m always here’s filling up your screen. There’s a part of you that vaguely registers your mother, alongside some of the other members of your family, trying to call you. But nothing can seem to shake you. 

Until—

“Y/N? You still up here?”

You hear Taehyung before you see him. Hear his voice, hear his footsteps, hear the door creak open as he enters your bedroom. Slowly, almost sluggishly, you twist around to look at him, the mere act knocking the wind out of you. Or maybe you were already breathless. 

“Hey, you alright?” Taehyung knows instantly that something is wrong. 

“My grandmother died.” The words sit heavy on your tongue. There’s no point in not telling him. He’ll find out soon enough. He’s… he’s family, isn’t he?

“What?” Taehyung freezes in place. “I—I’m so sorry to hear that, Y/N. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, voice weak but steady. You blink up at him, once, twice, three times, and then suddenly you feel tears running down your cheeks. 

Taehyung doesn’t say anything else. He rushes to your side and sits himself down on the bed next to you, arms wrapping around your body. And you don’t think about the fact that it’s him, about the fact that this is the closest the two of you have ever been. You just let yourself be engulfed in his frame, let yourself be enveloped in his hold as the tears stream down your skin, little hiccups jolting your throat. You close your eyes and press yourself into his arms, head resting against his chest, and wish so desperately that so many things about your life were just a little bit different. 

It must be at least five minutes before either one of you dares to move. Your phone begins to rattle incessantly, that familiar and insistent buzz that the both of you are hard-pressed to ignore. 

“I think you should answer that,” Taehyung whispers into your skin, lips right by your forehead. 

“Yeah,” you sniffle, sitting up next to him and wiping the remnants of wetness by your eyes. Well, Taehyung’s seen you cry. There’s no going back now. “You’re probably right.” You look down at the phone. It’s your father. 

“I’ll be downstairs, okay? Unless you want me to stay,” he offers, looking hesitant. 

You shake your head. “No, it’s—it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need me,” he makes you give him a nod of understanding before he finally gets up, hands slowly removing themselves from your skin, leaving little sparks in their wake. Remnants of warmth. Suddenly, you feel much colder. Hardly a minute later he’s out of the room, and you can hear his distant footsteps as they make their way down the stairs. 

Sighing, blinking, and swallowing all at once, you pick up. 

The call passes by in a blur. Your father says the will will take at least half a year to be executed, but that the funeral is already being planned. Your grandmother had hoped you would eulogize her. You agree, but you have no idea what you will say. He says Taehyung is invited but does not need to come if he cannot make it. He says a lot of other things too, about your mother, about your cousins, about your aunts and uncles and your poor grandfather, who passed five years ago, but you can’t even remember them moments after he’s said them. 

When he hangs up, the tears on your cheeks have dried, patches of them left along your skin. You head to the bathroom, getting off your bed for the first time that day, and try to wash away everything that has stained the morning. A part of you doesn’t even want to bother, just wants to slug downstairs and eat as much sugary cereal as you can get your hands on, but you can’t go down there looking like this. Looking so helpless. 

By the time you reach the kitchen, Taehyung is already standing there, on the opposite side of the counter island, a big stack of pancakes in front of him. They look mouth-watering. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Thought you might want something to cheer you up.”

“Did you make these?” You ask, a little endeared. That was thoughtful of him. 

“Yeah. They’re still warm,” Taehyung says. He holds out a fork. 

You grin. 

The funeral is a week later. It sucks in every way that something can suck. But not in the same way your wedding sucked, or even the announcement of your engagement. It sucks because it’s a funeral, because you have to stare down your grandmother’s casket when a part of you still doesn’t even believe that she’s gone. Because everyone there is so sad, so melancholy, dressed in all black and looking down at their feet. Because everyone is so sorry for you, so sorry for your loss, everyone has nothing but condolences to offer you. What will those do? They won’t bring her back. They won’t change things. They won’t make you feel even the slightest bit better. 

Taehyung comes. He comes because he offers, and because you want him to. You want someone whose hand to hold. Want someone to smile at you when you’re speaking in front of your entire extended family and trying not to cry. You want someone who is familiar, and warm, and there for you. 

And most of all, you want someone who won’t keep the conversation going when you get home. 

“Do you wanna order Chinese?” He asks, coming into the living room, where you have been sulking on the couch ever since you stepped foot inside the door. 

“That sounds nice,” you force out. 

“Okay. Your usual?”

“Yes, please.” You don’t bother asking how Taehyung already remembers what you like to order when you’ve only gotten Chinese twice in the last three months. 

“I’ll call them.” He disappears off into the kitchen. 

What you do appreciate about Taehyung is how he has defaulted to food as a comfort measure, and how the thought alone genuinely brightens you up a little bit. You don’t know each other very well—still, after three months, you couldn’t even say his favorite color—but he is doing his best, and he is trying his hardest. In some ways, you were unlucky to marry him. To marry someone you didn’t love. To be forced into a union you had no say in, with someone you had so much antagonistic history with. 

But in some ways, your luck has changed. In some ways, marrying him was perhaps the best thing that could happen to you. Taehyung is snarky, a little devilish, and absolutely full of himself, but he is not thoughtless. He is not heartless. He has proven that he is willing to put in the work. That he can grow to care. To change. To compromise. And isn’t that the luckiest thing you could have gotten?

“I’m sure you’re probably sick of hearing people tell you they’re sorry for your loss.”

His voice breaks your reverie, carrying throughout the wide open space of your living room. He’s grinning honestly where he stands, slowly making his way over to you. 

“Kind of, yeah,” you admit. “It’s not going to bring her back. Most of those people probably don’t even mean it.”

“Don’t say that,” Taehyung says, sitting down next to you. “I’m sure they do.”

You look at him skeptically. 

“I mean, they’re sorry for your loss because that loss is causing you pain. And that sucks,” Taehyung explains, albeit a little less eloquently than you thought he would. “I know it sucks for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like seeing you sad,” Taehyung says honestly, shrugging to himself. 

You scoff a little to yourself. “I would have thought my downfall would be the exact thing the great Kim Taehyung would wish for himself.”

“Maybe a couple of years ago.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“Okay, maybe even a few months ago,” Taehyung admits with a laugh, making you smile, ever so slightly. “But it’s different now. I like it when you’re happy. When you’re snarky and funny and a little evil. Seeing you like this… I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

“That’s called empathy,” you point out. 

“I’m trying to tell you that seeing you sad makes me sad, stop being a smartass,” Taehyung chides, and that really makes you grin. “There. There’s that smile I was looking for.”

“You’re so annoying,” you say, even though there’s no malice behind it. You give him a little push, palms of your hand pressing lightly against his shoulder as you roll your eyes. 

“Only for you,” he promises. He manages to grab a hold of your wrist as your hand meets his torso, pulling you into him as he wraps an arm around your torso. You gasp a little at the sensation, head falling against his body, fitting snugly in the crook of his neck. He gives your side a comforting rub. “I’m sorry today was so shitty.”

“It was,” you agree. “But Chinese food will make it a little bit better.”

Taehyung looks positively scandalized. “What? ‘Chinese food will make it better’? But not your loving, doting husband?” 

You pretend to think for a little bit, tilting your head up to the sky as you tap your chin with your finger. “Okay. Maybe that, too,” you cave after a bit of waiting, just to be extra bothersome. 

“That’s what I thought,” Taehyung says proudly, looking down at you, eyes sparkling. You can feel his grip tighten as he presses you against his body, letting you rest your head on his side. It feels like the longest hug ever, like you’re wrapped up in a weighted blanket. Only it’s not a blanket. It’s Taehyung. It’s your husband. 

He’s your husband.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he says, and it sounds a lot like a promise. 

You nod against him, letting your eyes drift shut. Things are pretty awful right now. Your grandmother’s dead. The funeral was the saddest family event you have ever attended. You have no idea what’s supposed to happen next. 

But he’s right. He seems to be right a lot these days, actually. 

Tomorrow will be better.

Taehyung lets you sleep in for the next few days. Next several days, actually. Every time you wake up it’s close to noon and your husband is nowhere to be seen, the right side of the bed cold to the touch. It’s nothing to be worried about, though, because you can still see the noticeable dip in the bed from where he lies upon it, sinking his weight into the mattress. Taehyung’s an early bird and you’ve been having fitful nights ever since your grandmother passed. 

Today, you pull yourself out from underneath the covers around noon, sluggish and still tired, squinting as the near-afternoon light streams through the enormous windows of the bedroom. Taehyung must have thought to keep the curtains open today. 

You pull on the first casual clothes you see in your shared closet, some wide-leg sweatpants and a drapey t-shirt, and trudge downstairs like a raccoon to a trash can, hoping to fish through the kitchen cabinets to find something to eat. 

Taehyung is, as far as you can tell, nowhere to be seen. You can’t seem to hear him anywhere, and a part of you wonders where he’s at when you stumble upon the note left on the granite counter. 

Had a meeting downtown, be back around 1! There should be smoked salmon and some cream cheese and bagels in the fridge. 

Taehyung.

You chuckle to yourself as you read his flowy handwriting, amused that he thought to let you know of, of all things, the available breakfast foods in the kitchen. You check the clock. It’s nearly noon. Which means you have just over an hour of the house all to yourself. 

Having the house to yourself for five minutes is infrequent enough as it is, let alone for a whole hour. So often is Taehyung around, somewhere, holing himself up in one of the dozens of rooms or mindlessly wandering down the hallways. And for how much Taehyung is present, the funny part is that you still have no idea what he gets up to most of the time. Despite your voluntary abandoning of the separate bedroom rule, the two of you are still firm proponents of the sanctity of your personal spaces. There are rooms in the penthouse Taehyung has never been in, rooms filled with your clothes and makeup and accessories for when stylists come over before an event. A sewing room that you had specifically asked your parents for, because a part of you never let go of that childhood dream of being a fashion designer. 

And there are rooms in the penthouse that you have never been in. Rooms with dark wooden doors that have always been kept closed, that you have never stepped foot in. It’s not that you aren’t curious as to what Taehyung gets up to. He could have a goddamn evil lair in one of those rooms and you would be none the wiser. But you don’t go, because he doesn’t go into your rooms. Because you two, despite all the vows you have broken, promised each other you wouldn’t.

An hour to yourself is almost a good enough excuse for you to head back up to the bedroom and take a nap. Not that you don’t get enough sleep on a regular basis, or that you even had a fitful night last night—hell, you woke up near noon today and already you want to go back to sleep—but what else is there to do when he’s not around? What new freedoms have suddenly been given to you?

You head back upstairs, much less groggy after that delicious bagel of yours, when you catch a whiff of what smells like wet paint coming from down the hallway. It’s potent and immediately invades your senses, prompting you to wonder if that has always been there, or just magically appeared. Maybe you were so sleepy earlier, you didn’t notice it. 

Well, you notice it now. Unable to help yourself, you start to wander down the hallway, towards the source of the smell. God, it stinks. It takes you back to those days in middle school, when you would spray paint projects inside a tiny little classroom, have to step outside for fifteen minutes while you cracked the windows and aired it out. It gets stronger the further down the corridor you go, like a thick, smelly cloud stationed firmly within the walls of the penthouse. And then you realize where it’s coming from. 

It’s an art studio. 

A very messy art studio, you amend to yourself, as you peek inside. The door is wide open, and all of the windows are popped too, but the extra air circulation doesn’t seem to have made a dent in the scent. And all over the floor, the walls, and the tables are canvases covered in paint, denim jackets and pants and shirts with these wide, unafraid brushstrokes. Open cans of spray paint lie discarded on the hardwood floor stained with splotches of red, yellow, and green. 

Is this what Taehyung does in his free time? Is this where he goes, this bright, sunny room at the end of the second floor hallway? Is this what he is making?

You look down in awe at the clothes resting on the floor, splayed out to maximize dry time. Abstract faces, landscapes, and words are painted onto the backs of jackets, the fronts of old white t-shirts. What hasn’t made it onto the clothes has been put on canvases instead, blurs of color mixed together in this purposeful pattern, confidence emanating from every stroke, every dot. It’s not art in the way that the gorgeous landscapes of Monet, the picture-perfect portraits of Kahlo, the messy, unplanned splatters of Pollock are. It’s art in a different way. In a Taehyung way. 

Who knew he loved it so much? 

You almost feel like an invader encroaching on his territory when you lean down to start cleaning up some of the mess, throwing out empty spray-paint cans and tossing out grey paint water. You don’t dare touch any of the work, don’t dare try to move it. You do what you can, washing out the brushes resting in the water and cleaning up the wet splotches of paint on the hardwood. Over time, the thick scent of still-wet paint slowly fades, disappearing out the window as the fresh afternoon air seeps in. And you stand there, in a room full of art, in a room full of pieces that Taehyung has undoubtedly poured his heart into creating, and you smile to yourself. 

That’s how Taehyung finds you ten minutes later, peering into the room after declaring that his meeting had ended early. 

“Thought I’d find you in here,” Taehyung says with a grin as you jump at the sound of his voice, eyes widen when you turn around to see him standing by the door. 

“Oh, hey,” you say sheepishly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Maybe because this is the farthest room in the house from the front door,” Taehyung teases lightly, coming up behind you. “I see you found my studio.”

“I know I’m not allowed in here,” you admit. 

Taehyung scoffs. “Who says?”

“Didn’t we both agree on that?”

He shrugs. “Sort of. I think we just reached an unspoken understanding we wouldn’t invade each other’s personal space. But it was not in the fine print, no.”

“The fine print of what?”

“That deal we made.”

Right. That deal you made, four months ago, That deal, where the two of you agreed to pretend to be in love with each other during public appearances so you wouldn’t get burned at the stake by your families. Where the two of you agreed not to interact with each other otherwise because you hated each other so much. 

“Oh, yeah,” you say distantly, feeling naive for already forgetting about it. It doesn’t seem to have slipped Taehyung’s mind whatsoever. 

“It’s okay, I don’t mind that you’re up here,” Taehyung says, interrupting that piercing little voice in the back of your head that is asking you why on earth you forgot about that deal in the first place.

“Yeah, I—” You scratch at the nape of your neck, trying to find the words to say. “It just smelled like paint, so I wanted to see what you get up too. And it’s this, apparently.” You motion vaguely to the entire room.

“You sound… surprised,” Taehyung muses correctly. 

“I guess I am,” you surmise. “I’m rather impressed, too, actually.”

“Really?” It’s Taehyung’s turn to sound surprised. 

“Yeah,” you tell him honestly, looking into his eyes. “I—you know, I just came in here because the entire hallway smelled like wet paint and I wanted to know why. But I didn’t know you loved art so much.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Taehyung points out. 

You suppose that’s true. You don’t know his favorite color. His favorite song. His favorite book. For a long time, you didn’t know what he got up to on his side of the penthouse. You don’t know how he met his friends. What he studied in university. Who he has loved in the past. Who he loves now. You don’t know why he does the things he does, and why he doesn’t do the things he doesn’t do. 

But you do know his Chinese takeout order. 

And you do know his hobbies. Well, one of them, at least. 

Who’s to say you can’t learn more?

“Well,” you start with a smile. “I’m your wife, aren’t I? Shouldn’t I begin to learn?”

Taehyung picks up what you’re putting down instantly, grinning in response. “Only if you’ll tell me things about you, too,” he requisitions. 

“I will,” you promise. It’s the easiest one you’ve ever had to make. 

His face is light, bright, bathed in the rays of the afternoon sun. His eyes shimmer as they meet yours, golden flecks more pronounced like this, in this gorgeous, open space, daylight streaming through the windows. Looking at him makes you feel like you are surrounded by warmth, makes you feel like the sun is opening its arms out to you. He has always been gorgeous. Beautiful. But looking at him like this, standing in the middle of a room filled with all the things he loves, a yellow halo surrounding him—he is ethereal. 

Taehyung smiles. “Then I will, too.”

The hand-holding comes naturally tonight.

The funny thing is, actually, you don’t need to hold hands at this gathering. It’s not an event. Or a public appearance. It’s not even a business dinner. It’s your aunt’s sixtieth birthday party, reserved exclusively for family. Isn’t that strange? That Taehyung is, technically, family now?

For so long you had vowed to stay as far away from him as possible. Vowed to stick it to him whenever and wherever you could, do anything you could to get on his nerves, rile him up. Vowed that when you, one day, took over your family affairs, you would never, ever invite him. Make it known that he wasn’t to be a part of your life. And yet, here you are. Clinging to him despite being well-acquainted with—loved by, even—every other person in the room. Holding his hand like a goddamn lifeline. 

To be fair, Taehyung doesn’t look a hair out of place here. Dressed relatively casually, a smart sweater with a collared shirt underneath it, he smiles warmly at all of your relatives and presents your aunt with a beautiful and very expensive scarf the two of you had commissioned from a designer in Italy, which she absolutely loves. She pinches his cheek and proceeds to wear it for the rest of the night. 

“Damn,” you murmur to yourself as you wander around your aunt’s house, hand wrapped around his arm. “This place hasn’t changed a bit.”

“When was the last time you were here?” Taehyung asks. 

The question actually makes you think for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe five years ago? Last couple of birthdays I was overseas or in school. Had to send her a card.”

“Bet your parents were real pleased with that,” he jokes, making you both laugh. At least you two will always be able to share your experiences of domineering and influential parents with each other. 

“Oh, I’m sure. Just as pleased as they were when they realized how much we hated each other.” You expect that little jest to elicit a laugh out of Taehyung as well, but he just smiles tightly, huffing out a breath of acknowledgement. 

“Eh, it’s not like that now, is it?” He offers up. 

“I suppose not,” you muse, sitting down together on her ancient grandma couch in the living room. No matter how rich your family gets, she’ll never get rid of this thing, that’s for sure. 

One thing you’ve picked up over time is that, for every second Taehyung spends basking in the spotlight, he spends an equal amount of time lingering by the wall, watching the rest of the world turn without him. He’s an observer. He is one by nature, feeling an irresistible pull to understand humans in a way only artists could ever do. He sits down next to you and watches your family in an environment where they can relax, where they can feel comfortable and be casual with one another. 

Very seldom have you ever brought friends to events like these. Small family affairs. But Taehyung isn’t a friend, is he? No, he’s your husband. He belongs here just as much as you do. 

“My family seems to really like you,” you point out. Not that anybody has ever harbored as much disdain for him as you. Your parents called him respectable and polite when they told you you were to be wed. Your grandmother had said he was a dashing young man. He doesn’t exactly have to reach far to be loved around here. 

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” He replies snidely. 

“Oh, just take the compliment,” you say with a roll of your eyes. Taehyung always has to be so difficult. “I’m surprised you aren’t nervous as hell. Last boyfriend I brought to meet my parents was shaking in his Louis Vuitton shoes.”

“Last boyfriend, huh?” Taehyung’s interest has been sufficiently piqued. “And, uh, how many of those have you had?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, smile twitching on your lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Heartbreaker.” Pretty rich of Taehyung to be asking you such a question when he’s probably had more girlfriends than you can count on both hands. “Not as many as you’ve had girlfriends, that’s for sure.”

“Guess I’m a lot different than all those trashy guys you’ve dated, aren’t I?” He asks, an eyebrow raised as he looks at you. 

“You are?”

Taehyung nods assertively. “Well, yeah. First of all, I’m your husband. Second of all, your parents love me. Third of all, you love me, too.”

You scoff. “Don’t humble yourself. You don’t know me that well.”

“Speaking of which,” Taehyung says, eyes wide as he points to you knowingly, “how about you tell me a little fact about yourself? It’s my job to learn about you, isn’t it?”

“That is my line, watch it,” you sneer, pointing back at him. You wrack your brain for a fact that you can tell him, something more exciting than your favorite color but less weird than one of those terrible icebreaker exercises you had to do in college seminars. Something that has pertinence to who you are. Who you’ve become. “Alright. I used to want to be a fashion designer when I was little.”

Now that catches Taehyung off guard. “Really?” He says, genuinely intrigued. 

You shrug. “Yeah. I learned to sew when I was really little. Been tailoring and hemming clothes all my life. But I always wanted to design my own stuff.”

“Is that what’s in your room?” Taehyung asks. “A sewing machine?”

“Bingo.”

“Wow,” Taehyung says. “I didn’t know that.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of this exercise?” You say, just to be smart. 

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes rolling. 

“What about you?” You ask. You can’t imagine what he’ll say. Astronaut. Veterinarian. Or, if he really wants to surprise you, a business executive. 

“A museum curator.”

It is an answer that simultaneously surprises and doesn’t surprise you at all. 

“Fitting,” you muse. “You could have put your own art on display.”

“Pretty sure that’s, like, super unethical,” Taehyung reminds you. 

“So? You’re rich. Start your own museum. Put your own art on display. Live your dream,” you amend. “It shouldn’t be holed up in that studio of yours forever. It deserves to be seen.”

Taehyung smiles at you. “You think so?”

You nod. “Of course. You create beautiful things, Tae.” It’s the first time you’ve ever called him that. And that is not lost on Taehyung, either.

“Thank you,” he says softly, blinking as he looks at you. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.

Later that night, when everyone’s gotten a few drinks into their systems and Bruce Springsteen is playing low on the stereo, Taehyung disappears off towards the bathroom, no doubt because of the excellent soup that was served that night. All by your lonesome, you feel a little stranded, surrounded by your old relatives dancing on the hardwood floor of the dining room, your other cousins too young to actually spend time with. 

In the commotion, your mother comes up to you, swirling a rather large glass of red wine in her hand. 

“Where’s Taehyung?” She asks. 

“Bathroom.”

“No wonder you were alone,” she says with a hearty laugh. “The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides all evening.”

“He’s my husband,” you offer as an explanation. 

“I know, I know,” she says, shaking you off with a smile. Your mother is a lot more casual once she’s had her fill of wine, no doubt her favorite, Bordeaux. A lot more loving, too. “You really made your grandmother proud, you know? She loved you so much.”

“I know,” you say, trying not to get choked up at the mere mention of your grandmother. 

“She was so happy to see you with Taehyung. It made her feel safe that you would be taken care of,” she continues on, barely paying you and your swimming eyes any attention. “She would be so happy to see you with him now, too. How much you love her.”

“I miss her,” you hiccup out, trying to compose yourself. Nothing kills a birthday party like some sad sack crying over her deceased grandmother. 

“I know, darling,” your mother says, calling you by a nickname she has hardly used ever since you turned eighteen. She squeezes you tightly, a small hug of comfort. “I miss her, too.”

Someone calls your mother’s name, distracting her as she wanders off to your uncle, who is asking what the best way to cut the three-tiered cake on the dining room table is. She bids you a goodbye before disappearing towards the kitchen, no doubt ready to make the cutting of the cake an affair all on its own. 

Taehyung comes back soon after, spotting you instantly as you stand around in the living room. 

“Hey,” he says, noticing the wet shimmer of your eyes. “You alright?”

You nod, feeling better already now that he has returned. Now that he is by your side. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I hope those tears aren’t because you missed me,” he says, wiping away a stray one that has escaped from your eyes. You close them as his thumb brushes against your upper cheek, your eyelashes, opening them only when you’ve felt his touch vanish from your skin, leaving little sparks in their wake. 

“No,” you say. But the night makes you honest, and a couple of drinks, even more so. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

Taehyung smiles. “Me, too.”

For all those days you have spent together, never have you and Taehyung had a night in. Which isn’t necessarily completely surprising, considering how many evening events the two of you have had obligations to attend, considering your differing work schedules and meeting times. Considering that, for a very long time, the two of you had no desire to spend any time with each other at all. 

But tonight, there is nothing on your calendar. No galas, no dinners, no meetings, no schedules. There is only Taehyung, who has spent the entire afternoon up in his studio, inhaling spray paint fumes and doing what he loves. And there is only you, who has spent the entire afternoon wondering what the hell you’re going to do tonight when there is nothing else planned. 

You knock on the door to his studio, catching him right as he’s finishing up another piece. This one is a single flower, painted in broad, confident strokes, bright green and red and sunflower yellow decorating the canvas. 

“Hey, what’s up?” He asks, turning around to face you. 

“Wanna order takeout tonight?” You suggest. 

Taehyung grins. 

Thirty minutes and your favorite Chinese food later, you and Taehyung have settled onto the couch, trays of dumplings and noodles and rice in front of you, an unfunny movie playing in the background. 

You can’t remember the last time the two of you sat on this couch together. Maybe that night you had made the deal? Perhaps not even then. It wouldn’t at all surprise you if you found out that this was the very first time you and Taehyung have sat together on your couch, in your living room, in your house. So often is it occupied by others—Victoria, who sometimes comes over to ooh and ahh at your closet, Jimin, Jungkook, and Hoseok, who sit on this couch and play FIFA like it’s their job, your mother, when she wants to make herself at home in a place that doesn’t belong to her—but never you. Never you and him. 

“This is kinda nice, isn’t it?” You ask, swallowing a bite of dumpling. 

“Chinese food is always nice,” Taehyung responds over a mouthful of cold noodles. 

“Not that,” you say with a sigh, “this. Sitting together. Watching this shitty movie.”

“It’s not that shitty,” Taehyung tries to reason. On screen, the main character is getting pied in the face during some weird college fundraiser. “Okay, it’s a little shitty. But it’s good background noise, right?”

You nod halfheartedly. “I guess.” Silence. You take another bite of your dumpling, not really sure how to continue the conversation. “We don’t really get to do this a lot, you know? Sit and eat dinner and watch a movie together. Like a date.”

“We’re on a date now, are we?” Taehyung muses, eyeing you snarkily. 

“Isn’t that what this is?” You retort. 

He shrugs. “I suppose it is.”

“Tell me another fact about you,” you request, looking over to him where he sits on the opposite side of the couch. 

“About what?”

“Anything.”

Taehyung pauses, ponders for a moment. But he could never say anything wrong. Not when there is still so much you don’t know about him. Still so much you want to learn, so much you want to commit to memory. For so long you have stared at the planes of his face, the curve of his nose, the twinkle in those dark brown eyes. Those you will always remember. But what about who he is? What he loves? Those are things you still don’t know. 

“The very first time I met you,” Taehyung begins, “I asked Jimin what your name was.”

“When was that?” You ask. Despite you being someone who has spent the better part of the last several years vowing never to give Taehyung the time of day, you sure don’t remember when it all started. 

“That debutante ball,” Taehyung remembers fondly, “when we were fifteen. I asked Jimin what your name was because I wanted to ask you to dance.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t,” you say with a scoff. 

“It’s true. You were standing there in that poofy white dress and I wanted to ask you to dance,” Taehyung points out. The fact that he even remembers what you were wearing is shocking. 

Who knew. Who knew, back then, that you would one day grow up to marry him. 

“And what did I say?” You demand more. 

Taehyung laughs at the memory. “I came up to you, and I asked you if you wanted to dance, and you said, and I quote, ‘Who are you?’”

“No,” you say, aghast at your own behavior. Were those really the first words you ever said to KIm Taehyung?

“You did. Don’t you remember?”

You think back. Think back to every year you have ever known Taehyung, every year you have spent scowling at him from across ballroom floors, making some snide remark as you pass by each other in the hallway. Every year you have spent cursing his existence, willing him away from you so he could bother someone else. Every year you have listened to rumor after rumor of girlfriend after girlfriend. You think back and somewhere, somewhere in there, in those dusty corners of your brain and cobwebbed boxes of your heart, is that first memory of Taehyung, too. 

Of him standing there in some generic black suit, black hair swept over his forehead, shoes too big. Of him coming up to you, trying to be as suave as a fifteen year old could be. Of you saying to him, instead of a hello, or even a what’s your name, “who are you?” 

Of him saying—

“And you said, ‘your dream come true’.” Like a dam bursting open, the memories flood back to you all at once. “I remember that.”

Taehyung laughs out loud at the thought of him saying something so cheesy. “Unsurprisingly, you didn’t want to dance with me.”

“You were so—” you begin, but you don’t have the words. Don’t have the words to express how you felt about him that night. Don’t have the words to express how you feel about him now. Thinking about this, talking about it, it is a bridge. A bridge between what was then and what is now. A bridge between who Taehyung was and who you were and who Taehyung is and who you are. “—so unthinkable. I couldn’t believe you had come up to me and said that. I couldn’t believe you had the audacity. But something about that night made me remember you. Made me remember your name.”

“You thought about me after that?” Taehyung asks. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“There is something about you that is unforgettable,” you say, honest and real and true. What else can you tell him? The truth is that you have always thought about him. Whether you liked him or not. 

You finish your dinner and place your trays on the end tables next to you, stacking your empty bowls and plates on top of one another as the movie rumbles on in the background. 

“It is kind of a shitty movie,” Taehyung admits after a while of being wholly unenthused. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “But it’s good background noise.”

Taehyung laughs at your little mockery, warm and deep and from his belly. You look at him. He feels so far away, on the other side of the couch. Feels like he’s miles apart from you. You have spent countless nights clinging to his harm, hand gripped tight in his. And sitting like this, a full couch cushion of space between the two of you—it isn’t enough anymore. So you inch closer. 

And closer. 

And a little closer. 

Until you’re pressed up against his side, legs touching as they rest neatly in front of you, backs stick straight as you stare at the television. 

Taehyung holds his arm up. An open invitation. 

Without asking, you lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder, in the space right underneath his jaw. You pull your feet up onto the couch and curl into his frame, pressing yourself against him. He is warm and firm and inescapable. He smells of coffee and paint and Chinese spices. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in, as if there were any other place you’d rather be. 

You sit like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other. Lazing around on the couch as the stars twinkle above your head. The movie ends and the two of you don’t even bother skipping the credits, letting them and the cheesy 80’s pop song play on, a distant soundtrack. 

“I never thought any of this would happen,” you breathe out. 

Taehyung looks down at you curiously. “What? This?”

“All of it,” you admit. “Us. Getting married. That stupid tabloid picture. My grandmother. This. It’s all so new.”

“New things will happen all the time,” Taehyung muses aloud. “We can’t help when things change.”

“You don’t have any regrets?” You have plenty. Regrets that you’ll never become the CEO you wanted to be in college. Regrets that you’ll never become the fashion designer you wanted to be as a little girl. Regrets that you will come to resent this marriage, resent Taehyung more than you have in years past, all because you had no choice. Regrets that your grandmother couldn’t see you now. Regrets that there were so many things in your life you could have changed, but didn’t.

“I thought I did,” Taehyung tells you. “I wanted to spend more time with my friends. I wanted to major in art in college. I didn’t want to marry you. I know you didn’t want to marry me.” He looks down and you look up at the same time, eyes locking, inches apart. “But looking back on it, I’m happy where I am. With what I have.”

“I never thought it could ever be like this,” you say, words falling off your tongue before you even ask them to.

“What?”

“Us.”

There’s no need to elaborate. Taehyung understands. He understands that, half a year ago, you both would have thrown yourselves into a volcano before holding hands with each other. He understands that getting over your hatred for each other seemed like an absolutely insurmountable task. He understands that you had never wanted to marry each other, that you couldn’t believe you would have to spend the rest of your lives with each other. 

And he understands that now, things are different. 

“I’m glad things happened the way they did,” Taehyung begins. “I’m grateful for us.”

You press yourself impossibly closer to him, feel his grip tighten around you. Like this, you can hear his heartbeat. Hear it thump like a drum, steady and firm and unwavering. His heart beats against his chest and you wonder. 

You wonder if he can hear the way yours beats for him, too.

There were lots of things that made your night in together special. But one of them is the glaring fact that you don’t get them very often. That their infrequency makes them all the more valuable. 

This has become blatantly obvious to you, because right now you are not spending a night in together. Right now you are stuck at a gala that you have to attend for the sake of business, drinking thin flutes of champagne and mingling with people you barely speak to. 

The one good thing about nights like these is that Taehyung looks positively gorgeous in suits. He sort of always has, but you’d never admit that to his face. At least not until now. And as his wife, you are lucky enough to have a front-row seat. 

“I can feel you staring at me all the way from over here,” Taehyung deadpans as he helps himself to a chocolate-covered strawberry from the buffet table. 

You’re too obvious to have any shame about it. “What can I say, I like the view.”

“Hard to believe I was the once the one being shouted at for being inappropriate in public,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. He bites into the strawberry and eats it all in a single go, tossing the stems into a bin nearby as you join back up in the heart of the crowd. 

“It’s only inappropriate if other people hear,” you tease, letting him guide you, hand intertwined with yours, towards an empty corner where the two of you can snuggle up to one another in (relative) peace. 

“I don’t think the champagne was very good for your filter, Miss Y/N,” Taehyung hisses into your ear, warm breath tickling your skin. 

“Don’t you mean Mrs. Kim?” You pose, an eyebrow raised. 

That seems to do something to Taehyung. It’s not very bright in here, with it being nighttime and all, but even still you can see the way his eyes darken. See the way his lips curl upwards, feel the way his grip on you tightens. It sparks something within you. Something deep in the pit of your belly. 

Something that makes you want more. 

You test the waters. “Mrs. Kim has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, Tae?”

Taehyung looks about a moment away from losing control. But instead of slamming you against the wall in front of all of these people and giving you what you really want, he growls out, low and powerful, “Home. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. 

You hail your car outside of the venue and it’s all the both of you can do to not jump on each other right then and there, in the backseat of this giant black van, overcome with want, with need, with everything in between. Taehyung’s leg bounces impatiently the entire ride back, and the feeling of your hand pressed against his doesn’t seem to be calming him down. He pulls you close to him in the backseat of the car, a hand resting on your thigh. You eye him carefully, as if challenging him to be any more daring. He grins. 

Home cannot come soon enough. The two of you tumble out of the backseat and into the elevators, where you mash the top floor button after entering in the security access code, desperate and shameless. The ride seems to take hours, and the heat that surrounds you practically smothers you, covers you, fills up your lungs and chokes you. 

There is nothing left by the time you reach your door. The moment it slams shut behind you Taehyung presses you up against the back of it, pins you against the wood as he hovers over you, eyes tracing your lips. 

“Tell me something,” he demands. 

“What?” 

“A fact. Something I don’t know.”

It doesn’t take much thinking. “I want you,” you breathe out, watch it hit his skin, watch the way his eyes glint in the light of the entranceway. “Please, Tae. I want you.”

It’s enough for him. 

This is not the first time you and Taehyung have kissed. The first time was nearly five months ago, in a chapel, at an altar, surrounded by hundreds of people. It was so unfun that you seem to have eradicated the mere thought from your memory. But you remember that feeling from that day. That feeling you got when you pressed your lips against his, cemented your marriage with a kiss. That heat. That sting. 

Kissing him now—that feeling has returned tenfold. When his lips meet yours, it feels like fire is rushing through your veins, setting alight every nerve it passes, unforgiving and relentless. His enormous hands come up to cup your jaw, fingers pressing against the skin of your cheeks as they pull you close to him, keep you trapped in his hold. This is not the first time you and Taehyung have kissed but it feels like it is—it feels like there is a lotus blooming on a lilypad in your heart, it feels like you have been struck by lightning, it feels like nothing else you have ever felt before. It feels brand new. 

Pressing back against him, he slowly releases you from the cage he has created against the door, spinning around so the two of you can tumble up the stairs and into your bedroom, unable to resist sneaking in pecks here and there as you make your way upstairs. Every step you take you stop, giggle as he presses you against the railing just so he can steal another kiss from you, put his hands all over your body. It’s a wonder the two of you even make it into your bedroom at all. 

When you do, however, all bets are off. Taehyung presses you against the still-made bedsheets with a glint in his eye and a growl on his lips, pupils blown wide as he stares down at you, at your body.

"Aren't you a sight? Laid out so pretty for me," he purrs, robbing a breath from you.

It's a tone you have yet to hear from him. You find yourself growing impossibly hot under his stare, burning with an uncharted desire.

You can hardly wrap your brain around it. Here you are, craving the man you had spent the better half of your young adult life loathing. Maybe it’s the champagne; maybe it’s the way his fingers are running slowly up the length of your clothed torso. Whatever it is, your stomach does flips, unfamiliar to the way your body preens under his touch.

"Don't let it go to your head," you tease, simply because you could.

Taehyung hums disapprovingly, pressing kisses into your neck as he grabs one of your thighs and wraps it around his waist, riding your dress up in the process.

You sigh, exposing your neck further for him as he paints bruises into your neck. It feels like just yesterday you had called him out at the altar for his habit of sporting the very same marks you were soon to wear.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting the man you had married purely under business pretenses press his hips against your clothed center, but as he rolls his into yours, your mind falls blank, silencing any and all reservations you should have.

Whimpering, you beckon his mouth back onto yours, tongue meeting his wantonly. 

You feel his fingers creep up the outside of your bare thigh, thrilling you in the most primal way. Reaching the band of your underwear after what felt like entirely too long, he runs the pad of his thumb against the lacy fabric.

 You could scream. He is doing this on purpose. He must be. Surely he knows how badly you were aching for him? For him to fill you– whatever the manner may be.

You let out a whine before you can help yourself, frowning as Taehyung looks pleased with himself, confirming his knowledge of your prolonged pleasure.

"What's that? Did you say something?" he mocks, looking cruel and yet strikingly gorgeous as he smirks above you.

"God, you're irritating,” you huff, hips jerking up against his as he pulls at the band of your underwear, the elastic snapping back into the flesh of your hip. "Just fuck me already."

He tuts, clearly unimpressed by your impatience, "Now, where is the fun in that?"

Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers suddenly snake their way between your thighs. Mouth falling ajar, you grip his shoulders as he runs his middle finger against your clothed slit, trailing up and down your warmth. To think he was still dressed while he was touching you like this...

"No... I think I'll take my time with you," he says.

You mew against his hand, arousal forming against his long digits' ministrations. You have to hand it to him. Taehyung knows what he’s doing. The life of a bachelor has seemingly served him well.

You aren’t usually vocal in bed, but the way he’s purring words of filth to you, breath hot against the shell of your ear as he tells you how hot and slick your pretty pussy felt against his hand, has you gasping and sputtering, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist.

The fabric of your panties provides a friction that toys the line of pleasure and pain, making you thrust up to meet his motions, your humility slipping from you.

Taehyung watches you intently, cock growing hard under the constraints of his dress pants. You look better than he could've imagined, eyes watering and body shivering under his touch, his fingers soaking with your arousal. He can only imagine what you'd feel like with his fingers fully buried into you, rocking them against your velvety walls.

He lets out a groan of his own, turned on by the idea of you fucking yourself onto his fingers, whimpering out his name in ecstasy.

There’s this part of you that faintly recognizes that Taehyung has done this plenty of times before. Plenty of times with plenty of other lovers. But there is a different part of you, that part that bursts with light and hope, that reminds you that he was never married to those other ones. That his allegiance lies with you. And that thought, knowing that deep within you, he is yours, makes your jaw fall slack, pretty noises tumbling from your lips and your thighs clamping around him.

You were close, closer than you care to admit. Every touch against you is careful yet deliberate as he reads the signs of your body, the way it keens and arches into him, offering you words of encouragement as your climax finally hits.

"That's right. Good girl. Let go for me," Taehyung coos, eyes dark and focused on your writhing form.

You cry out into the familiar space of your shared room, head thrown back as you ride out the high, letting it wrack your body, send jolts throughout your veins.

You barely have time to catch your breath when he presses his mouth back onto yours, kiss still as eager as it was when you both first entered your home. You are alight with satisfaction as he pulls away to press a trail of kisses against your jaw.

"I want—f-fuck," you stutter as he finds your already hypersensitive clit once more, rolling his thumb over your now soaked panties in tantalizing circles, "want to make you feel good, too."

Admittedly, this fantasy had crossed your mind once or twice, brought on by the way he carried himself in a suit and the way his large fingers wrapped around the champagne glass; confident, collected, and entirely charming. Who are you to shy away from a man like him? He certainly has always been rather good-looking. 

He pauses his motions, pulling his hand back to sit on your waist. Your dress is of the finest, most delicate satin, and after tonight's activities, completely wrinkled. You can almost hear your stylist's cries of dismay. Whatever. You have a steamer. And why focus on the dress when it’s obvious the two of you are focused on what lies underneath it?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod, skin still burning from your past climax.

Helping you back up, Taehyung stands. You lick your lips as you sit back up on the edge of the bed, watching intently as he unbuckles his belt, audibly hissing as his pants fall to his ankles, cock visibly straining against the fabric of his underwear. Thank God you don’t have to stand. With the way your thighs still felt weak and how your husband looks like a goddamn Adonis towering above you? Your legs surely would give out underneath you if you rose.

Brows furrowed, Taehyung palms over himself briefly before pulling down the waistband of his underwear, his painfully hard member slapping against his torso.

Your eyes widened on instinct. While the last thing you wanted to do was help inflate Taehyung's already large ego, you were certainly impressed at his size; thick and girthy, his tip red and shining with precum.

He couldn't help but smirk, thoroughly pleased by the way you stared at him unabashedly, chest rising and falling heavily.

"Open up for me," he orders.

And who are you to deny a request from your dear husband?

Your pretty lips wrap themselves around his engorged tip, all remnants of lipstick long gone by now. Taehyung hisses, a hand finding the side of your jaw as you run your tongue against the underside of his cock.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," he grunts, fighting off the urge to grip the back of your head and fuck your throat. As much as he'd love your have you choking and drooling all over his cock – and boy would he – he lets you set your own pace, not wanting to overwhelm you.

It doesn't take long for you to sink your mouth further down, however, clearly set on making Taehyung feel as good as you could.

A low moan erupts from his throat, digits pressing into your jaw in request to take more of him in, which you happily oblige.

You had your eyes trained on him, completely obsessed with the way he panted through pink lips, hissing slightly every time your tongue rolled over his sensitive tip.

Lolling his head to a side, his eyes meet yours, gaze primal and wolfish as he watches the way you worked his cock.

"Doing so good, love. Doing so fucking good for me,” he murmurs.

You hum against his skin at the sound of the sudden pet name, an unfamiliar feeling fluttering in your belly. You push aside the feeling, focusing instead on the way he grunts at the new sensation you had just given him.

Giggling, you pull off his cock, opting instead to press a kiss against his leaking tip, making sure to hold his eyes as you run kitten licks against it.

"God, you're such a tease." He shakes his head in disbelief. 

He looks so good above you, shivering and cursing out praises on how good your mouth feels, how well you take his cock. Running your tongue along the length of his shaft, you become certain that this is a display you can’t imagine yourself ever getting tired of. But you have all the time in the world, right?

"Y/N,” he gasps suddenly, hips jerking towards your face. "Love, I'm gonna-- gonna cum."

"Cum in my mouth, please." Your voice was pleading and desperate. Taehyung had never heard such words spoken more sweetly. 

"Fuck's sake."

You let out a yelp in surprise as his fingers work their way through your hair, bringing your head back down onto his cock. You relax, though, when you feel the hot ropes of his cum hit the back of your throat, your hands finding purchase on his thighs as you do your best to swallow it all down.

Pulling yourself off him, you let out a small cough, eyes watering slightly as you hadn’t managed to prepare yourself with a breath before his release. His large palm runs across the top of your head as you caught your breath, expression flickering with something unfamiliar. Could it be... fondness? 

Your heart stammers at the thought as you stand, slowly stepping out of your dress, letting it drape off of your figure. Taehyung looks absolutely gobsmacked, pupils dark as he gazes at you, eyes unabashedly raking your body. He’s shameless. 

You both are. 

Slowly, you step towards him, fingers reaching out towards his shirt, carefully undoing the buttons as you gaze at each other, expressions unreadable. 

"Tae?” You ask innocently, blinking up at him. “Fuck me?" 

Your polite request makes Taehyung chuckle. 

"Please?" You bring your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes blinking up at him adoringly for good measure. You reach the last button, let his dress shirt drape open. He brushes it off himself, stands there for a few seconds just to let the way you’re ogling his toned chest go to his head. At least he’s good-looking. 

He sighs, probably contemplating some clever rebuttal, but eventually decides against it as his cock is already twitching back to life.

"Alright, love. Turn around. On your knees for me," He orders, making your stomach flip.

To your surprise, you are hardly in place when the warmth of his large hands finds the soft of your tummy, pressing you back into his chest as he pressed a peck to the back of your neck.

You squirm in his hold, whining as that same hand of his grabs hold of your breast, long digit rolling your nipple between their tips. You can’t help but press your ass back into him. His cock feels hot and heavy, pressing against the back of your thigh, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

You want him.

You want him so bad that you don't know what to do with yourself, shuddering as his free hand runs along the side of your ass, leaving scorching hot trails on your skin wherever he kneads into your flesh. He's touching you everywhere – everywhere but where you need him the most, and the arousal that drips down your thigh mocks you.

"Dammit, please!" You exclaim, running out of patience.

"Please what?" He says, an eyebrow arched.

You shiver, committing the way his middle finger traced your pelvic bone to memory forever.

You puff out a frustrated breath, nearly at your wit's end. "Please fuck me, Tae."

Taehyung pauses, grip on your breast and hip tightening as he lets out a moan. You let one out yourself as you feel him readjust, cock pressing against your slick entrance.

"Fuck, you sound so pretty when you say my name," He grunts. "Okay, baby. I'll fuck you. Begging so nicely for my cock."

You let out a squeak as you're suddenly pushed down onto your hands, back arching as he pushes his fat cock inside your heavenly cunt. He's thick, so thick, that you instinctively grip the sheet underneath you, fingers curled around them tightly as if it means to hold onto your sanity.

Taehyung lets out a shaky breath, angling your hips up so that you could take more of him.

"You feel—feel so good," he admits above you, and suddenly you wish you could see him. See the way his bangs stick to his damp forehead—see the way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip wickedly.

You let that thought go, however, as he thrust into you, making your jaw fall slack and eyes flutter shut. Profanities roll off your tongue unabashedly, helpless under the way his thick member pulls out of you, only to slam back into you.

You weren't expecting this. The way he stretches you out further than anyone had before. Your pussy clenches around him, reveling in the sweet, sweet burn.

He digs into the flesh of your hips, holding you steady as you mew and cry out, pushing your hips back in time to his, trying your best to meet his movements.

"Tae... fuck, fuck, fuck—"

He was filling you to the brim. Filling you tight and deep.

God, the way he was panting behind you was music to your ears. His cock pulses every time you call out his name, voice muffled and buried as you had your head pressed into the mattress, hair messy and bouncing with every hard thrust.

"S'good! Fuck... so, ah, big..." you cry out.

You feel drunk. Intoxicated off this beautiful man and the way he makes you feel a way only he can.

You nearly let out a sob as the rough pads of Taehyung's fingertips suddenly reach around you and find your neglected clit, rolling light circles on the soft and swollen bundle of nerves skillfully.

You are a mess, whimpering and drooling into your expensive sheets, and he filled every inch of you, leaving no place undiscovered. Your high nears, stewing on low heat somewhere near the pit of your belly, waiting for a chance to erupt and wash all over you. Taehyung must be close to, you realize, as his thrusts began to slow down, slamming into you roughly as if chasing after his high.

"Gonna take this load? Huh? Gonna let me cum inside your pretty little pussy?" His voice is straining, as if trying to breathe evenly but merely moments from falling apart.

If only you could formulate an intelligent response, but instead, you are a blubbering wreck, thighs shaking as they threatened to give out underneath you. But somehow, Taehyung knew. He had you. Quicking his motions against your delicate pearl, he could tell you were close too, and he was going to make sure you got there.

Suddenly, you're crying out and convulsing, tears brimming at the ends of your eyes as you feel Taehyung empty into you, collapsing onto his hands as well.

You feel his hot breath against the back of your neck as he pants, breath growing more and more even as the two of you regain control of your bodies and minds.

Pulling out of you, he plops down beside you, and for a moment, the two of you hold each other's gazes, eyes speaking in ways words never could.

Finally, after what feels both like an eternity and just a moment, you work up the courage to say something, moving closer to him as you place a hand on his chest, cushioning your chin as you rested on top of it.  

"Psst," you beckon, voice hushed.

"Yeah?" His voice is husky and tired.

"I’m grateful, too."

"Huh?"

"I’m grateful for us, too."

Taehyung's gaze is soft, and it lingers on you for a second before the sides of his mouth curl up tenderly. He grins down at you, eyes drifting shut. You feel him squeeze you closer, pressing you against his skin. And then, you hear his breathing steady, see his lips part slightly. 

You lean into his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Thank you, Tae.”

Not unlike the many other mornings you have awoken in this bed, when you open your eyes as the morning sunlight streams through the windows, Taehyung is nowhere to be found. The sheets on his side of the bed are flipped aside, revealing that soft outline of his body from the night before left imprinted into the sheets, a dip in the mattress where he slept. You had fallen asleep all wrapped up in each other, tangled up like vines, but must have separated sometime during the night. Distantly, you register Taehyung’s voice outside, notice his phone missing from his bedside table. He must be on an early morning call. 

You check your phone for the time. Ten o’clock. 

A late morning call, then. 

Still basking in the afterglow of the night prior, you slowly inch your way out of bed, shivering as you pull the covers off you and scoot your legs around so they hang over the edge of the bed. You rub at your eyes until you faintly remember you did not take your makeup off last night, and when your hand comes away covered with black streaks and flecks of mascara, you wince to yourself. There goes five hundred dollars worth of a skincare routine. 

After washing yourself up and applying as many serums as you can to your skin, you wrap yourself up in one of his button-up shirts, the torso so wide that it drapes over you. The tips of your fingers peek out from the ends of the sleeves, and you cross your arms lightly over your chest as you make your way to the door, ready to entice your husband back to bed for round two. What? It’s Saturday. 

You peer around the door to find Taehyung standing a few feet away, facing away from you. He’s shirtless, and as his wife you have absolutely no problems ogling him, the toned curves of his back, the muscles in his arms. He’s always been a looker. You just finally have an excuse to look for yourself. 

You approach him quietly, not wanting to interrupt nor broadcast your sex life to anybody on the other side who may be listening. Already, the idea of crawling back in bed together sends goosebumps along your skin, makes you giddy with anticipation. You’re just about to tap him on the shoulder, lips curled upwards in suggestion, when he says—

“And my inheritance? That’s secured now, right? Because I said I would pretend to be in love with her in public—?”

And it is as if Medusa herself appeared in this room, turning you to stone as your heart thuds to the floor, a hollow, empty noise. 

You don’t hear the rest of Taehyung’s conversation. You don’t even hear the sound of your own heartbeat. This terrible, aching sound rings in your ears, silencing everything in its wake, drowning out even the sighs of your own breath. It is as if you have been frozen solid. As if you have been shot in the stomach. You stand there, feeling absolutely nothing, and all you can do is brace yourself for what is to come. Taehyung’s words were the knife but his next actions will be its removal, leaving in its wake an irreparable wound. 

He turns around, casual and cool, voice still hushed. As if you were still asleep. As if you hadn’t heard anything at all. But when he twists his body and sees you standing there, staring back up at him, lips parted in shock. 

“I’ll call you back,” he tells whoever was on the other side of the line, looking more panicked by the second. He opens his mouth so he can explain himself, but you don’t need him to. You’ve heard everything already. 

“I should have known,” you say, feeling angry and betrayed and sad all at once. “I should have known it was all an act.”

“Y/N, wait, let me explain—”

“What is there to tell me, Taehyung? What are you going to say? That you didn’t mean it? That you thought I wouldn’t find out? That last night was just a one-off?” You demand. The heat from your veins hasn’t left. Still, it simmers through your blood, burning you up from the inside out. “That you didn’t want to lie to me?”

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Taehyung says defensively, brows furrowed. “Just give me a chance to explain myself.”

“Explain yourself? How you pretended, every day and every night, just so you could get some more money in your bank account? So you could make sure you would get your father’s business when he died?”

Taehyung bites back easily. “Don’t act like you weren’t also faking it at some point. I know you were almost removed from your grandmother’s will.”

Your tongue is bitter at the mention of your grandmother. As if Taehyung ever even knew her. “My grandmother has nothing to do with this.”

“Really?” Taehyung challenges. “So you wanting to stay in her will was just a little bonus, right?”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “It’s different.”

“Different how?” Taehyung spits. “Because right now, to me, it looks pretty similar to what I’ve done.”

“My grandmother died months ago,” you remind him. Her will is no longer the question. It has been written, settled, and executed. There was no reason for you to continue playing along once she took her last breath. No reason—unless you wanted to. “Meanwhile you’ve been keeping your inheritance a secret from me this entire time.”

“We made a deal,” Taehyung says. “A deal that said we would both act happy and pretend to be in love because we both had things we needed to worry about. Family things. Money things. You were a part of this, just like I was. You pretended, too.”

“Well, maybe I stopped pretending!” 

You can’t take it anymore. All this anger, all this emptiness, it’s been bubbling up inside you ever since you heard those first words come out of his mouth. It spills out of you all at once, an eruption from your lips, your heart’s doors bursting open. You have held his hand tightly in your own. You have pressed your lips to his. You have laid yourself bare in front of him. What is there left to protect? What part of you has not already been stained by him, by his touch, by the feeling of his fingers against your skin?

The hallway is silent, but you can hear your cry echo down the corridor. Hear the way it bounces along the walls before fading away. 

“Maybe I stopped pretending,” you repeat, softer this time. You blink and already can feel the streaks along your skin, the tears falling from your eyes. “Did you ever think about that?”

“Y/N, what are you talking about?” Taehyung looks like he’s in disbelief. Like he cannot believe the words you are saying to him. 

Well, that makes two of you. 

“Can’t you see, Tae? Can’t you tell?” You ask, the nickname falling from your lips before you can even help it. You must remind yourself to change that, later. “I’m in love with you.”

They are words you have never said to someone before. Not even your old boyfriends. Words that you always knew you would reserve for someone special. Someone who would touch your heart and make it their own, someone who would leave imprints of their fingers against your chest. Someone who would brighten you up from the inside out, leave you bursting with light. 

Ironic, that Taehyung has become that someone. When he is the one person you never thought could. 

When he has proven, time and time again, that you two just cannot mix. Oil and water. Pastel and acrylic. Satin and silk. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” you spit out quickly, before Taehyung has a chance to respond. “I know it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Y/N, yes it does,” Taehyung begins, desperate and pleading. “I know you heard what I said, but I swear, it stopped being an act for me, too. Things are different now, just like you said.”

“Don’t. Please.” You pull away as he reaches out towards you. Faintly, you remember that it is his shirt you are wearing. Remember that no matter what you do, he will always surround you. “Please, Tae.” You have nothing left. You can’t bear to look at him, but where else will you go? You cannot believe the things he’s said, the things he’s done, but where else would you go?

“I love you, too,” Taehyung says, and a part of you wants so badly to believe him. 

A part of you wants so badly to ingrain those words into your head, carve them into your heart, let him wrap his arms around you and promise that everything will be alright. But things are different now. Just like you said. You and Taehyung are not the same people you were six months ago. Or six weeks ago. Or even six minutes ago. You are helpless and he has proven that he does not care. 

“I have to go,” you say, looking away. You don’t think you could handle turning back to him again. “Please, Tae.”

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung says, and he reaches out once more but you are not there to meet him halfway. Were you ever?

“I know,” you whisper back.

You duck into your bedroom and pack a suitcase of everything you need. Being here is suffocating. Being with him is like setting yourself alight. 

Victoria has no questions when you show up at her door later that day, suitcase by your side and this ridiculous bottle of Merlot in your hands. You had picked it up on the way over. You sort of figured you might need it. 

“You don’t wanna talk about it, do you?” Victoria asks. 

“Tell me about your streaming service,” you hiccup in response.

Victoria is happy to oblige. She even tells you that she still hasn’t picked a CFO, and that the position would be open for you if you ever wished to take it. 

Funnily enough, what will become of you once your father retires and passes along the company is the furthest away from your thoughts. 

You remember being so worried about that. Being so worried that, once they married you off like every good daughter should be, you would be absorbed into your husband’s life, cut out of your family’s. Your father would choose a cousin, an uncle, or even a friend to take after the business, bestowing upon you a thoughtful inheritance but nothing more than that. All of those years of schooling, finance in college, your MBA soon after, would be wasted, just so you could hang on the arm of your husband for the rest of your life. 

It’s thoughtful of Victoria to think of you for the position. She knows just as well as anyone else that you would be an excellent fit. And if things were just a little bit different, you would be jumping at the offer. 

But your future career plans are on the backburner, along with the rest of your life. 

All you can really do, right now, at this very moment, is wait for things to change. As they always do. 

“Don’t you have an event tonight?” Victoria asks about three days into your stay. She’s given you her favorite (her words, not yours) guest bedroom and an enormous closet to match, despite you only coming over with a carry-on’s worth of clothes. 

You scoff to yourself. “Like I’d want to go to anything with him.”

“Have you even called your parents?” 

“No,” you say, not even caring about the repercussions. There’s no doubt in your mind that they’ll be ringing you soon. And when they do, maybe then you’ll finally work up the courage to tell them what really happened. Tell them that you can’t go back there. Not yet, at least. 

“I’m sorry that this happened to you,” Victoria says as she hands you a bowl of vegetable soup, homemade from a couple of days ago. You nod to yourself, sniffling as you curl into the couch cushions and wish they would absorb you whole. 

There’s no need to ask her what she means by ‘this’. Everything. From your engagement to the marriage, from those tabloids to the deal, from your grandmother’s death to now. It has all been unfair. Life is unfair. And while you’ve always known that, it has been particularly cruel to you as of late. 

Still, when you wake up sometimes, you can still feel him tracing over your skin. Feel his lips hovering over yours, breath fanning out over your cheeks. You turn over and expect to see him lying there, on the right side of the bed, sheets mussed as they cover his figure. You wake up and for a brief moment, for that split, split second, there is peace. And happiness. And love. 

And then there is nothing. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me, too.”

Maybe he really does love you. Maybe things really did change. But you have always been a pragmatic person, always let your head guide you rather than your heart. The secret’s out. Taehyung had an inheritance he needed to secure. You were his path to doing so. Those things haven’t changed. No matter if his feelings did. 

“Hey, look at this,” Victoria says, brows furrowed as she holds out her phone in front of you, revealing a livestreamed interview from the event tonight. 

You peer over. 

It’s Taehyung. 

Of course it’s Taehyung. Who else would she be showing you?

He stands in a clean-cut gray coat, draping over his figure, black dress shirt and slacks underneath, belt wrapped neatly around his hips. He holds his hand up in a wave and smiles politely to the cameras, to the reporters, letting the flashes wash over him like waves in the ocean. 

“Mr. Kim! Mr. Kim!” Someone calls. “Where’s your wife?”

Oh, God.

Taehyung grimaces a little, pursing his lips. “My wife won’t be joining me tonight.”

“Can you tell us why?” They shout. 

“Sorry, no more questions. Thank you for asking though. She’s well,” he says, quickly ushering himself along, entering the venue so no more reporters can bombard him. When he disappears, the livestream immediately moves on to the next guest, but you hardly pay them any attention. 

“Huh,” Victoria says aloud. 

Indeed. Taehyung’s response strikes you as rather odd. Why would he tell the public that? Why not make up a lie, say you’re sick, or you’re overseas, or you’re just late? Why simply tell them that you won’t be there? Surely, Taehyung is just as aware of the consequences of arriving at an event without you as you are. There’s no doubt that his parents will be in contact with him soon, too. No doubt that this will leave a stain on his family. His image. It might even threaten his inheritance after all.

So why not lie?

You frown to yourself, nose scrunching up in confusion. You don’t like where this train of thought leads.

“You okay?” Victoria asks when she sees the bewildered expression on your face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you say. Just completely befuddled. It escapes you, why Taehyung wouldn’t just make up some sort of excuse as to reasoning behind your absence. Why he would even show up at the event at all. Certainly, going to the event without you is worse than not going at all. It prompts questions. It spreads rumors. 

Later that night, you get a call from your parents, demanding to know why you weren’t there with him. You say you got sick. You plead with them not to question anything. 

You wonder what happens next. You and Taehyung still have two more events this week. A dinner and a ball. What will you do then?

Taehyung goes solo for the dinner. You suppose you could have predicted that, considering his apparent willingness to arrive alone for the first event, too. He hasn’t made any efforts to contact you and for once, you’re glad for his silence. Not that you even know what he would say to you, anyway, but at least he isn’t begging you to come back to him. 

The sad truth is that if he did, if he got down on his knees right in front of you and willed you to come back home, you probably would. He has always been impossible to resist. Even when you first met him, when he sauntered up towards you and told you he was your dream come true. You didn’t know it then. But he was. He was everything you would ever want. 

Why would he lie? 

Why would he do that?

You can’t wrap your head around it. What is he getting out of it by telling the truth? By admitting to the paparazzi, to the reporters and the cameramen, that you won’t be there with him. That you will not be joining him. Nothing, certainly. His parents must be furious. His inheritance may be on the rocks. His image might tank. 

So then, why do it at all?

Could it… could it be?

Is it true?

You have loved Taehyung for a long time. Longer than you probably even care to admit. You have always held your head high at events, spoken loudly and without fear, but being with him made you feel safe. Secure. You would hold his hand and know, know that he was holding yours, too. It grounded you. It soothed your worries. 

Does he really love you back?

Taehyung smiles politely and laughs when he needs to at these events, but he doesn’t look the same. Even through the screen you can see those bags under his eyes, that spark that has faded. You hardly recognize him. He looks so lonely, without someone by his side. So distant. 

When you know the dinner has ended, you almost pick up the phone and call him. 

Almost. 

Instead, when the ball rolls around, you ask Victoria if she’s got a spare dress she can lend you.

 Kim Taehyung, for someone you have seen covered in paint splotches, wearing old college hoodies, and fresh out of a restless night’s sleep, cleans up pretty well. For a married man, at least. 

You wonder what the past few days must have been like for him. If they have been as empty as your own. Wonder what it was like, riding alone in a big black van to this hotel ballroom, no one to tease, no one to laugh with, no one to hold. No one to poke him awake if he accidentally fell asleep. No one to make sure he’s okay. 

Taehyung stands right outside of the entrance, waving politely to all of the paparazzi, smiling as the cameras flash, giving them the time of day for a moment before he heads inside and muscles his way through another event without you. 

Or so he thinks. 

You spot him just as he opens his mouth, ready to repeat those same lines all over again.

My wife won’t be joining me tonight. She’s well, though.

And maybe it’s just because you haven’t seen him in nearly a week. Maybe it’s just because he is about to lie to those reporters once more, ready to face whatever consequences come his way. 

Or maybe it’s just because you miss him. Miss him terribly, have been missing him terribly. Being away from him was necessary, but that didn’t make it any less unbearable. Not getting to hold his hand, see his smile, meet his eyes. You and Taehyung may not have always liked each other, but you saw him every day regardless. He became a constant in your life. Not an if, but a when. If everything went to shit, you always knew he would still be there. 

And there he is. 

“Wait! Taehyung!”

Taehyung’s eyes widen as he hears your voice, gaze darting around wildly, mouth parted in surprise. He looks around desperately, scanning the crowd, meeting the eyes of every single person in front of him until he finally looks to the left, sees you rushing up towards him, hiking up the skirt of your dress as your heels tap against the sidewalk. 

And when he spots you, sees you running up to him, his body relaxes, a weight lifted from his shoulders as he beams back at you, relieved and thankful and filled with joy, all at once. And you know, then. 

You know that everything will be okay. 

“Sorry I’m late,” you say sheepishly, cheeks burning as he looks at you, takes in every inch of you, breathes you in and lets you fill him up. 

Taehyung doesn’t respond. You reach out to hold his hand but he grabs your wrist and pulls you in, presses you against his body as he presses his hands against your cheeks, palms burning as they meet your skin, and he kisses you. In front of all these people, he kisses you. 

And goddamnit, you will kiss him back. 

It feels like lightning, like a thunderstorm, like the waves of the ocean are crashing against your heart. It feels like fire, like flames are licking at your veins, sending sparks through your blood. It feels like home. 

You and Taehyung ignore the shouts of reporters, the flashes of cameras, the honks of the cars on the other side of the road. When you part, he presses his forehead against yours and lets the tip of your nose meet his. And you smile. 

“Don’t be alone any longer, Mr. Kim,” you whisper, loud enough so only he can hear. 

“When I’m with you, I never am, Mrs. Kim,” he murmurs back. 

You wonder what those tabloids will be saying about you tomorrow. 

The rest of the night finds the two of you pretty much inseparable. You wrap yourself around his arm and for the first time in a long time, he presses his hand against the small of your back, keeping you close. Like he’d ever lose you again. 

One of your least favorite parts about attending balls used to be the dancing. As a young and eligible bachelorette, you would always have to lock hands with another, let him awkwardly guide you along to the music as you made the worst small talk imaginable, forcing laughter and smiles whenever he said something he thought was particularly funny. 

But, like so many others, things have changed. Things are different now. 

The waltz comes on and you and Taehyung are the first to reach the center of the ballroom floor, letting him rest his hand on your waist as you press yours on top of his shoulder. Let him twirl you around the room as the orchestra plays in the background, a soft, sweet, light little melody that carries you along. 

“I missed this,” you say softly. 

“I missed us,” Taehyung corrects. He pauses for a moment, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my inheritance.”

“I’m sorry for storming out. I should have listened to you.” you respond easily. You both have plenty to apologize for. But night is darkest right before dawn. 

“I should have said something,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. “But I was just so—so worried that something would go wrong. And I didn’t know how to explain how I felt about you. I acted in the beginning, too, but then things changed.”

“They always do,” you muse with a grin. 

“I couldn’t believe I had you,” Taehyung admits. “I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous. And funny. And true.”

“Go on,” you tease, even though you do nothing to hide the smile inching its way across your face, the heating of your cheeks, the simmering of your skin. 

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I just—I felt something for you I couldn’t explain. I still can’t.”

You don’t have to prod any further. You know. Deep within your heart, you know. There is love blossoming in his to match the garden that has bloomed in your own. The flowers that have sprouted in the ashes. He has them, too. And when those petals open and the light streams in, he will know. He will know, too. 

“You make me crazy,” you tell him, whispering gently into his skin. “But I’m a better person when I’m with you. I know I am.”

“I meant what I said, that night,” Taehyung says. Makes you wonder which night he’s actually talking about. “That I’m happy that things have changed. That things happened the way they did. I’m grateful for us.”

“I am, too,” you say. And you are. 

You rest your head against his chest as you dance together, swaying back and forth to the beat of the drums, to the strums of the violins, all wrapped up together like ivy, like vines. Those, too, sit in that garden of yours. Keep you tethered to his side, keep him close to yours. He holds you in his arms and he smiles, because he knows, too. Knows that that garden in your heart will soon have a matching one in his. A mirror image of who you are. Who you’ve become. 

Things change. They always will. But so long as he is by your side, and so long as you are by his, you know. Everything will be okay. 

It's different, this time, when Taehyung presses you into the mattress. 

There is no rush. Because now you know for certain that all the time in the world is yours. He is yours forever. You are his.

The two of you are a mixture of tangled limbs and shared breaths, the feverish, irrepressible need to give yourself to each other nearly tangible. He breaks the kiss suddenly, and you’re about to break out in protest. That is, until you see him unbuttoning his shirt.

Inspired, you wiggle out of your own clothes, eyes locked on Taehyung's soft torso and the idea that you had married such a beautiful man, inside and out.

Looking back, you wonder if that was always inevitable. If you and Taehyung falling into each other had been written in the stars from day one, sealed as your fate from the moment he came up to you at that ball when you were teenagers. He was going to be a part of your life no matter what. Whether or not you ended up marrying him. But having him like this?

It makes it all worth it.

"Do you like what you see?" That old cocky smirk of his makes an appearance.

You raise a brow, choosing to omit a response as you unclasp your bra, letting it fall from your chest.

Taehyung swallows.

"Do you?" You tease.

His response comes in the form of bites down your necks and licks down your chest, stealing your breath from you. 

Your clothes are somewhere dispelled beside your passionate bodies, growing cold beside the way your two hot bodies warmed one another.

"You are so beautiful," Taehyung praises, fingers coming up to cup your breast, bringing it up to his mouth.

You mewl, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as his tongue toys with your pert bud, teeth grazing it ever so often just to hear the broken gasp that'd always follow. 

"And so sensitive too," he giggles, making you pout. His hands are gentle as if every touch means something. As if you mean something—no, everything—to him. And the most wonderful part is that he means everything to you, too. 

"Shut up." You roll your eyes playfully, gasping as his palm comes down the side of your thigh suddenly in warning. You bite down your swollen bottom lip at the gush of arousal that dampened your underwear in response.

"Watch your tone, love. Of both our positions, you are in the most compromising one." He reminds you. It isn't a threat, and while usually, that kind of tone would thrill you, you couldn't help but want his mouth back on yours already.

"You talk too much." You flop back onto the bed with a sigh. Taehyung watches with interest as your pretty tits bounce in consequence. Extending your hands out towards him, you give him a pouty look. "Just wanna kiss you."

"Is that all I am to you? Just a pair of lips for you to mack on? I've got news for you, sweetheart, there's a brain behind these ravishing good looks." He scoffs in feigned offense, sitting back on his heels.

You giggle.

It seems as though even during the most intimate of moments, Taehyung still found a way to be, well, Taehyung. At least that hasn’t changed. 

"Whatever, pretty boy. Why don't you come over here and put that mouth of yours to good use?" You purr, making his eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Oh? I don't remember you being this assertive when I was pounding you into the mattress last time."

“What, I can’t have a little fun as well?” You tease, grinning as you look up at him, raking your eyes over his figure. 

"Wanna have fun, love?," He murmurs into your ears, hands gripping either of your plush thighs. "Then spread those pretty legs for me, and I'll show you exactly how much fun you can have."

God, you love this man.

You oblige eagerly, breath quickening as he helped you press your knees by your chest, leaving the wet patch in your underwear on full display. 

"My pretty little wife." He sighs dreamily, making heat rush to your core.

Taehyung's cock stood loud and proud, a hot reminder of where the night would eventually lead to. Seriously, how did you get so lucky? You must've been a saint in a previous life, you decide right then. Or at least, the stars have chosen to be rather kind to you in this one.

"Gonna take these off," he mutters, mostly to himself, tugging the ruined fabric over your ass and down your legs, with your help, of course.

Despite your usual display of confidence, lying beneath your husband, spread out like this, has you feeling vulnerable and slightly insecure. But that insecurity vanishes, however, as he lets out a soft moan, fingers moving to spread your glossed lips apart.

"So fucking pretty, baby. Gonna make you feel so fucking good," he groans, leaning down to press his face near your most intimate part.

Pressing a tentatively lick against, his eyes flicker up to yourself, curious to see if you’re okay with him proceeding. And, well, it’s not like you’re going to say no, are you?

Embarrassingly, you rut against him, making him laugh as you drown in your own mortification.

"Need it that bad, huh?" He coos.

"Yes, please."

The rest of your plea is lost in a moan as Taehyung finds your clit, wrapping his pink lips around the sensitive muscle and giving it a generous suck. Your hands are in his hair before you can think to stop yourself, tugging at his scalp deliciously as his mouth makes its way with you.

Thank goodness for this apartment belonging to just the two of you as the noises that tumbled from your lips surely would've left a roommate blushing.

You're panting, begging for more even though you aren't sure how you'd even handle more. It comes as a delight and slight surprise as fingers suddenly slip inside, wasting no time to rub against your velvety smooth walls, curling themselves inside you.

"Fuck, Tae!" you cry out, eyes squeezing shut.

It was pure reflex. Up until now, you had been watching Taehyung intently, completely consumed by the way his mouth moves against you. How his tongue flicks against your needy clit cruelly. It just felt too fucking good.

You're so wet, positively dripping down his chin as he runs his hot muscle up and down the length of your pussy, devouring you like he hadn't eaten in months, and you were his first meal.

Taehyung’s nothing short of addicting, completely and utterly intoxicating, and you slip further and further to your demise with every lick he takes, every press of his tongue against your clit.

He has a hand pressed against the lower half of your torso, feeling the way you jerk and squirm as he makes a mess of you. You’re close and you know it, too, if not by the way you’re calling his name over and over again, then by the way your thighs tremble, hardly even strong enough to stay up.

"Let go for me, love. I've got you." He sounds so sweet, so angelic, despite how filthy what he was doing to you was.

His words are the push you need, and, like a rubber band that has been stretched past its limit, you finally snap, back arching off the bed as you come with a cry. White fills your vision, and your mind goes blank, only sounds of blissful static filling your ears.

His fingers hold up your quivering legs, mouth pressing kisses onto your pussy encouragingly until you simply can't bear it any longer, pushing his mouth away as you stutter out words of sensitivity and overstimulation.

“I’m going to have to request more of that throughout this marriage.” You manage to say once your vision and breath come back to you.

Grabbing one of your hands, Taehyung brings it to his mouth.

“All you need do is ask,” he replies, making you laugh as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, always a gentleman

Not long after, you find yourself pressed against Taehyung, tongue running against his as he presses his hips into yours. He isn’t coy about his want for you, rolling his cock against your already sensitive center. Warm precum leaks onto your lower abdomen, and suddenly, all you can think about is having him inside you again.

“Taehyung?”

You don’t even need to ask. Hitching your leg around his thigh, he knows exactly what you’re seeking, lining up his leaking cock with your swollen entrance.

Pressing into you, he buries himself to the hilt, groaning out as your warmth envelopes him. You moan out so prettily for him, feeling tight and full with your first orgasm only minutes ago.

“You okay?” he hums, kissing your cheek.

You nod, ears warm at the intimacy of the moment. In many ways, this is nothing like your first time together. You are face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart. Between your bodies could be found more than just desire, but commitment. Devotion. Love. 

“I love you, Tae.” You gush, sighing out as he begins to rock into you.

He falters slightly at your confession but recovers quickly, intertwining his hand with yours and pressing it by your head.

Faintly, you realize. 

That was the first time you had ever told him that.

You look up at him, expecting some wide eyes or even a bit of a nervous tilt to his lips, but all you are met with is a glow. He beams down at you, and your heart swells. 

“I love you, too, Y/N,” he whispers, but you hear the words in your ears loud and clear.

Soft noises fill the room as the two of you become one—hearts synchronizing with one another in silent promise.

It was a promise unlike the one you had made to each other that day at the altar, for this one was real. This one was true.

You shutter with every thrust of his hips, your abused clit finding itself in the crossfire of Taehyung’s passionate motions.

Whimpering, you cling to him, overwhelmed and emotional, like your heart was about to burst. Taehyung lights a fire in you, sends lightning straight through your core. Every word, every smile, every kiss, every touch, they send shivers down your spine, tingles throughout your skin. It’s like you’re falling in love with him all over whenever you see him, whenever his deep brown eyes meet your own.

You remember being so afraid of love that you broke up with all your old boyfriends because of it. Because you couldn’t commit, because you were worried about your career, because they just didn’t give you that spark. But lying here pressed against him, against your husband, you aren’t afraid. Wrapped up around him, tangled up in him, you know. 

Between messy kisses and words of adoration, you find yourself growing closer and closer to your release. Brows furrowed and neck flushed, you come with a soft whimper of his name, coaxing his own orgasm out of him. He lets go inside you, painting you with his seed in a way that pleases you to no end.

Hand still in yours, he gives it a squeeze, pressing a kiss onto your damp chest, right over where your heart beats for him.

“I love you,” Taehyung says again when you meet his eyes, firmer this time, louder. Like he’s worried you didn’t believe him the first time. 

“I know,” you say with a giggle, the words going straight to your head—and your heart. 

Taehyung scowls. “What, no ‘I love you’ back? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Well, only because you want one so badly,” you tease, pressing a quick kiss to his round button nose. “I love you, too, Tae. Always will.”

“I think I knew, then,” Taehyung says with a fond sigh, nostalgia overcoming his expression. “That first time we met. I knew you would be mine, one day.”

“You got lucky,” you scoff slightly. “But I’m glad things happened the way they did.”

“You’re my dream come true, Y/N,” he says. 

“And you are mine,” you murmur.

As the two of you drift off, all twisted up in each other, so mixed up you can’t figure out where you end and he begins, you think back to that night. That ball. 

“Who are you?” You ask, nose scrunched up in distaste. Before you stood a boy you had never met before, wearing shoes that were too big for him and a suit that was a touch too small. 

He grins at you, running a hand through his perfectly-styled hair fringe swiped neatly over his forehead, and he says, “your dream come true.”

And so it was. 

don’t forget to message me! ~ and don’t forget to message rose!

#taehyung smut #v smut #bts smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #v fluff #v angst #v scenario #taehyung scenario #bts imagine #taehyung imagine #v imagine #bts au #taehyung au #w: love me or we both go down #ITS FINALLY DONE YOU GUYS HOLY SHIT #this fic honestly has plagued my thoughts and my dreams #since AUGUST