Tumgik
#and maybe extensions for my mullet
peachhcs · 8 days
Note
sam and will just being soft with each other and maybe it’s just them cuddled in bed talking to each other sleepy?
a soft morning
hughes!sister x will smith au (samy + will)
a soft, slow, lazy morning with samy and will (an extension of rainy days at the lake house)
.9k words
i kind of made this into a blurb, i hope you don’t mind. it’s kind of like a part 3 to my two part lake house story acting as a morning after situation. there’s also a longer imagine i wrote a bit ago that has this similar vibe (sunday mornings) but writing this was so cutie :) as always, send in more requests, i love writing them!
au masterlist
summer's for the slow mornings
the second the sun began poking through the blinds samy's eyes slowly fluttered open. she could never keep sleeping when the sun shined into her bedroom, cursing her circadian clock. she squinted when the light crossed her eyes and immediately shoved her face back into will's chest who still slept peacefully beside her.
waking will up in the summer wasn't easy. when he didn't have early morning hockey, he slept until noon unless someone woke him up. not even the rising sun bothered the blonde which definitely made samy envy how heavily he slept.
now that she was awake the girl moved around for her phone that was somewhere in the bed. her fingers curled around a device, pulling it towards herself to see if it was hers or will. she smiled when she saw the familiar purple color.
samy readjusted herself against will's chest as she opened up her phone to check her notifications. none were of much an importance, so she headed to instagram. the posts were endless as the youngest hughes scrolled through her feed and tapped through stories. none of it was all too interesting, so samy switched into snapchat just to check how bad her bed head was.
the hickeys littered across her neck caught her off guard for a second. she forgot those were there for a moment until the memories of last night played in her head leaving a small smile on her lips. she carefully examined the ones she could see knowing there was no way she'd be able to hide all of them.
she'd just have to wear them with pride and ignore the chirping from everyone while also avoiding any eye contact with her parents.
the girl got bored of her phone, so she threw it back down on the bed. she got herself more comfortable against her boyfriend so she could play with his hair while waiting for him to wake up. 10:30 wasn't too early, so there was hope the blonde would wake up soon. samy's fingers carefully tangled themselves into will's messy curls in an attempt to make then a little less messy.
she was glad the mullet season was gone for now and he had his normal length back that wasn't too long at the nape of his neck. samy didn't hate when the boys had mullets, but it definitely wasn't her favorite hairstyle of will's.
she'd never tell him that though because then will would never grow his hair out like that ever again and his team would chirp at him for being such a simp.
samy knew how much will valued her opinion on everything and also how much he hated the constant chirping.
her delicate fingers must've woken will up because a few seconds later, the blonde's eyes fluttered open and squinted from the harsh sunlight coming in higher through the half-closed blinds. the boy looked to his right, immediately smiling when he saw samy.
"good morning," the girl grinned softly.
"morning," will's voice came out rough and raspy from sleep. "what time is it?"
"like 10:30," samy answered, gently running her finger up and down his hickey-filled chest.
"so early," he pushed his face into the side of samy's head making her giggle.
"early? it's late," she chuckled.
"early for me," will corrected himself.
samy rolled onto her side so she was facing her boyfriend who hid his face in the pillow when she moved her head away. he looked so cute in samy's eyes. "how'd you sleep?" she wondered.
will finally showed his face again, a lazy smile on his lips, "the best i've slept in months."
"that good, huh?" samy reached out to drag her fingernails across his exposed shoulder. the action had will jumping in surprise before quickly melting into her touch.
"i told you i've been wanting to sleep with you beside me since we got here," the boy mumbled earning a smile from the brunette.
"good thing i kicked hannah out then," samy laughed while will playfully rolled his eyes. he took ahold of the hand dragging across his shoulder to leave gentle kisses on.
his action made a deep blush spread across samy's already rosy cheeks.
"so how badly are things gonna be when we go downstairs?" will wondered meaning the two hadn't seen everyone since yesterday afternoon before their extremely eventful night.
"uhh..i'm not sure. maybe luke kept his mouth shut or they all heard us," samy giggled and her words definitely didn't ease the embarrassment on will's face at the idea of the entire house hearing.
"amazing," the blonde muttered.
"we could just stay here for a bit longer," samy suggested as her boyfriend met her gaze again. a smile danced on his lips while pushing his face closer to hers.
"sounds perfect," the boy mumbled before placing a chaste kiss to her lips and wrapping his arm tighter around her frame.
she curled into him with a content smile and will hummed in response, burying his face into her hair. the couple wrapped themselves up in one another finally feeling like they could be close without someone breathing down their backs every second.
will would lay in bed all day as long as it was with samy.
samy wouldn't ever get tired of being wrapped up in her boyfriend's arms as the sun slowly rose and their friends' voices sounded downstairs as everyone started waking up, ready for another full day of adventures.
78 notes · View notes
robthegoodfellow · 1 year
Text
Billy Hargrove’s Extensive Knife Collection
Rated G - 1.5k (or read on AO3)
commissioned by @ihni​ for harringroveforturkey! based on a discussion of our Swedish Billy headcanons 💛
(tw for brief reference to Steve being mistaken for a sexual predator because of his shady-seeming presence at the Byers)
...🔪🔪🔪 ...
The thing was—Billy Hargrove just seemed like the type to have one or more knives on him at any given moment. Like, he gave off this general sense of imminent violence, this erratic rage simmering away under the skin. Even before Hargrove beat his head into the Byers’ floor, Steve had known the guy was pretty much always a breath from destruction. It wafted off of him like the woodsy cologne that Steve had smelled and distantly pondered moments before he stopped smelling anything for a while, on account of the bastard punching him in the nose a hundred times.
So yeah, when Steve saw him during their lunch period, a couple weeks after the thrashing, the dregs of autumn warmth barely clinging to the air—a couple weeks after Hargrove had snagged him in the hallway, thrown him against a locker and seethed I find you near my sister again and I’ll gut ya quicker n’ you can blink—a couple weeks after Steve realized he was maybe into volatile dudes and that said volatile dude thought Steve was into little girls, what the fuck—like he was saying, a couple weeks after all that, when he saw Hargrove emerging from behind the gym building, from the direction of the running track, folding a knife and slipping it into the pocket of his leather jacket, he felt compelled to investigate.
Given that Steve hadn’t yet figured out how to assure someone you weren’t a creepy predator without sounding like a total creepy predator, he waited until Hargrove was out of sight, then crossed the parking lot and peered around the corner, ventured as far as the bleachers, even—but saw no signs of a recent stabbing. No student or teacher or animal bleeding out on the ground.
So he shrugged and went back inside.
But then, over the next few days, he realized he’d never once seen Hargrove in the cafeteria since that blond curly mullet had first darkened Steve’s door. Not once. And because Steve apparently hadn’t had enough combustible encounters of late, he went looking.
The bell was about to go when he got to the bleachers—and no Hargrove. Steve had half a mind to skip next period; it was history and he hated history—so fucking boring, and he hadn’t done the homework—so when he circled to the back of the metal stands and saw something pale on the ground underneath, he happily let it draw his feet nearer.
It was… a horse. A small, roughly carved wooden horse, about the height and length of his palm. Not like, a detailed horse, just the vague shape of a narrow face, a curving neck, a stout torso, and four straight simple legs. No hooves, no tail. But still, undeniably a horse.
He thought it was kinda neat, so he took it home with him, put it on his bedside table next to the alarm clock.
The following week, when he scouted the bleachers again—driven from the lunchroom because Nancy and Jonathan had been making goo-goo eyes at each other and it was still a bit fresh, that particular wound—around the same place he’d spotted the last carving, he found a wooden… bear? Or maybe a fat dog, but the rounded ears and butt were reading more “bear.”
He took that one home with him, too. Had the silly passing thought that it was nice for the horse to have company. A friend.
It was the third time patrolling that he confirmed what some small incredulous part of him had been theorizing all along. Steve skipped lunch entirely, went the long way around to approach the bleachers from behind, stopped at a distance nonetheless.
Because there, leaning against the announcer’s booth, high up in the stands, hunched over his lap, one leg hanging loose between the slats of the seats, was Billy Hargrove.
Steve would know that mullet anywhere.
Smoke drifted above him, dissipating lazy. Occasionally the hanging leg swung a bit, sort of childlike, which was—a fucking trip. Steve stayed where he was, just watching awhile, then, not knowing what he’d do or say if Hargrove spied him spying, and not wanting to disturb his peace at any rate, he turned and walked back the long way again.
So he could just—think.
When he snuck over to the bleachers before driving home the next afternoon, curiosity getting the better of him, he learned what Hargrove had been whittling that time.
It was unfinished. Maybe he’d grown frustrated, because it was more ambitious than his previous figures: the beginnings of a bearded face, its features only just manifesting from the fine-grained block.
Nearby, half-hidden on the dirt ground, was another surprise. He would’ve missed it if it hadn’t gleamed, catching the sun precisely at the right moment, because its handle was the exact shade of the surrounding moldering maple leaves—this deep reddish brown.
A knife.
But not really the kind of knife he’d imagine in Hargrove’s possession—and not the folding pocketknife he’d glimpsed before. No, this was—an antique? Sharp blade about three inches long, and the handle this weird oblong shape, the letters WGF burned into the wood toward the base.
And maybe he should’ve left it there—because Hargrove would notice it was gone, was bound to come looking where he last had it—but Steve was selfish. A bit of a jerk.
So he pocketed both. Didn’t add them to his bedside collection, though.
No, they were still in his pocket the following day, a Friday, as he strode, heart hammering, to the bleachers, ears ringing like the lunch bell forgot to shut up.
Hargrove was already there, pacing under the stands, cursing under his breath, the dirt bare from frantic swipes.
Steve cleared his throat—and holy fuck that was a switchblade, that was a switchblade Hargrove had whipped out in one fluid movement as he whirled, the steel flashing free.
“Please don’t gut me for real!” It was choked, high and hysterical, hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry—I just—” Fumbling, he reached into his coat, drew out the knife.
The moment Hargrove saw it, he darted, quick as a cat, and snatched it from limp fingers.
“I—uh, found it,” Steve finished, lamely.
Hargrove didn’t look at him, busy sliding the knife into a worn leather sheath he’d produced from somewhere in his jacket. He tucked both it and the folded switchblade back out of sight, and Steve faintly wondered just how many knives Hargrove carried on his person.
“You waiting for thanks or something?” Hargrove asked, his tone very much indicating that thanks would not be forthcoming.
“What—what is it? The knife?” Steve asked, because he did, after all, have a death wish. “It’s… important?”
Maybe he should just let Hargrove stab him, Steve thought, mentally face-palming. Put him out of his misery.
Hargrove glared at him a long moment, then—to Steve’s everlasting shock—he answered. “A sloyd knife. My morfar’s—grandpa’s.”
“Oh,” Steve said, heartened, trying to work up the nerve to—just do it. Haltingly, he drew the bearded figure from his pocket. “For—um, carving stuff?”
Hargrove stared at the misshapen block of wood, unreadable, but Steve firmly reminded himself he’d faced down monsters from a hell dimension, and soldiered on.
“Is it him? Your… morfar?” Did his best to repeat the sounds, awkward.
Hargrove blinked, still didn’t respond.
Steve waved his extended arm a bit, encouraging. “You should finish it.”
Finally, fucking finally, Hargrove reached out, took it.
Sensing he was fast overstaying his welcome, Steve backstepped, nodding sharply, and turned toward the parking lot—then jerked around again.
“I’m not a perv,” he blurted. Because there wasn’t any graceful way to say it, he’d realized, flushing hot in the cool air.
Hargrove cracked a smile, a small little thing, and Steve stupidly traced it with his eyes, riveted. “I know.” He scuffed the dirt with a dusty boot. “She said you were—babysitting.”
“Yes,” Steve agreed, silently thanking Max with his entire being. “I was. Doing that.”
And to ensure he didn’t humiliate himself further, Steve spun, marched to the school entrance without looking back.
He spent the next week avoiding Hargrove, not wanting to seem like the stalker he was in case the guy had put two and two together on the lack of discarded carvings among the leaves.
After last bell, students pouring across the parking lot en route to weekend plans, Steve trudged alone to his car, which would convey him to an empty house. His key was in the door before he saw it, perched on the windshield wiper.
A rugged face above slouching shoulders, slender waves gouged in his moustache and beard that suited the curly hair peeking beneath one of those old-fashioned caps with the short brim.
He looked up, unconsciously seeking the spot Hargrove always parked, and saw him leaning against the Camaro, staring back.
Steve smiled.
…🔪🔪🔪 …
Edited to add, in case anyone’s curious:
All about Dala horses
Carved bear looked like this
All about Sloyd/Slöjd knives
140 notes · View notes
jermeyscreams · 1 year
Text
Tumblr media
Hello and welcome to jermeyscreams! This is a semi-literate roleplay blog for an original character set in the “Scream” (1996) universe. Buckle in and let’s get into introductions and rules!
Let’s set some ground rules, no?
RULES:
1: I have a strictly no NSFW rule for all my roleplaying blogs. No smut. I’m okay with jokes here and there, maybe some spice dialogue, but nothing strictly nsfw.
2: No pedophilia, nor anything else of the sort is tolerated on this blog.
3: No minors! Sorry, I don’t feel comfortable roleplaying horror with minors.
4: I will discuss topics of the roleplay and the overall intended storyline with my partner before posting a starter! In my experience it makes things clearer on both sides and more enjoyable.
5: DNI if you’re a Trump supporter, JK Rowling Supporter, transphobe, homophobe, irl-serial killer simp, racist, etc. Be a nice person!
6: Please don’t pressure me extensively to respond. On a rough week it’ll probably take me 3-4 days to write a decent response, and I’ll DM my roleplay partner or it’ll be longer than that.
Introductions: Jermey
Jermey Welcher is a strange guy, and considered an outcast by the student body. He is a freshman in college, majoring in journalism and minoring in forensics, and was held back last year due to him not attending for over half the school year. He is almost always peering over his shoulder or murmuring to himself, partially due to his extreme shyness and not-so-slight paranoia due to bad experiences with friends in the past. He always slouches, his hight clocking in at 6’0 while hunched over, and a respectable 6’4 when his spine is straightened. His fragile frame is hidden by huge sweaters, which make up 90% of his wardrobe, accompanied by frayed blue jeans and sneakers with the soles falling off. If you have a chance to sneak a glance at his face before he turns away, his cheekbones are noticeably sharp, and his pale sunken cheeks are even more prominent, the bags under his blue eyes a telltale sign of insomnia. A badly cut mullet adorns the top of his head, his hair too unruly to truly obey the style, the ginger curls easy to pick out from the crowd..or to see in the dark of a room, huddled in a corner clutching a phone. Jeremy views himself as a queer boy, in the most literal sense, he is a gay man in the 1990’s but doesn’t outwardly express his orientation, partially due to social backlash and mostly due to no one knowing him intimately enough for them to know this information. If someone did know him intimately, they would know many things, including him being a huge nerd for literature and film, but he refuses to watch Halloween under any circumstances. He loves knitting in the seclusion of his apartment, where he lives alone with his cat Molly, and he always keeps his living space tidy and locked up tight, taking comfort in a small space where he can be alone and safe. There is something he, nor anyone else knows, he takes comfort in fear. He feels fear so regularly it has become normal, and he is able to think more clearly in terrifying situations, becoming emboldened and possibly even defiant under the right circumstances. That is to say, he’s a veteran of fear, strong in mind. Though strong in mind, his muscle strength is extremely lacking, and he would probably not be able to fend for himself without a weapon.
Introductions: Mun
Hi, I’m Billy (no, not the Loomis one), I’m 19, and I’ve been roleplaying online since I was twelve. I’m mobile-Tumblr bound, so sorry if my banner or format is weird! I’ve recently started hyperfixating on Scream (mostly the 1996 film and Dead By Daylight) and I’d like to roleplay in this fandom! I’m honestly not sure that people are still interested in roleplaying for this fandom, but I’m hoping there are some characters out there, especially Billies and Stu’s, maybe even some Dannies! I’m open to roleplaying outside of the movie, but I don’t know much about the franchise besides Scream (1996) and Dead By Daylight. I enjoy doing my roleplay via reblogs and writing 3-4 paragraphs per reblog, I can adapt to my partner’s roleplay style if asked! I also like to joke around or comment on the roleplays in tags such as: “((OOC: Holy shit bro just did a flip))”. Small note: Please interact with this post if interested!
Boundaries
I am seeking interaction with canon characters, but OC’s are fine too!
I’m fine with AU’s, different settings, and other things along those lines! I’m very flexible when it comes to roleplays, just ask me about the AU or scenario you want and I’ll most likely be down for it!
I only feel comfortable roleplaying with people under 30, sorry.
I’m fine with gore, stalking, violence, horror, etc. I mean, it’s Scream!
I’m open for romance between characters, but only male ones in accordance to Jermey’s orientation.
There are smaller boundaries I have, but it would take a while to list them here. Ask me before we start a roleplay about anything you think could be a possible boundary-breaker!
Tags
Active roleplays will be tagged: “🔇Stay quiet! He’ll hear you.”.
Out of character posts will be tagged: “‼️Billy! Billy! He’s in the house!”
1 note · View note
panicartist · 2 years
Text
Stein at the movies Pt. 2 “Concessions” (drawfee character fan fiction)
A brief and whimsical fanfic in 4 parts about Jacob’s character Stein from this drawfee video Part 1  When Stein arrived at the theatre they saw Leigh, who had arrived early, leaning casually against the wall by the ticket machine. She was wearing a pair of distressed stonewashed baggy jeans, and a band t-shirt of some obscure indie rockers. Her curly black hair formed a loose mullet, with the sides cut back just enough to show several piercings (gold, of course - a vampire would never be caught dead wearing silver. It just doesn't fly in monster social circles). Stein only realised how tense they had been when they felt a wave of relief settle over their body. I don't know what I was so worried about, they thought, but I'm so glad it's Leigh standing there, and Fritz is nowhere to be seen. The hairdo Stein had picked out was just about the opposite of Leigh's, with more length in the front than the back, though only by a little. They had spent far too long in front of the mirror trying to decide whether they still looked femme enough with short hair, long legs and muscly arms, and they picked out some larger eyes to balance out the look. "Oh hey, Leigh!", Stein greeted their date with enthusiasm. "Oh, is that you, Stein? You look different to your picture." Leigh's brow furrowed, either in confusion or disappointment. "I especially wasn't expecting you to be so... tall..." Stein stooped their shoulders to compensate - with their leg extensions, they were nearly half a foot taller than Leigh. "Well it comes with the territory of being a reanimated amalgam of several small pieces of several different corpses. Sometimes I look different than other times. It depends what mood I'm in. But it's what's inside that counts, right?" Stein hoped they didn't come off as too defensive. "You don't think it's a little vain? We can't all change our bodies on a whim, you know." Leigh's laugh sounded like it should have belonged to a Disney villain. But was it the manipulative laughter of a tentacled sea witch or the cold, callous laugh of a fur loving fashionista? Either way, she had gone straight for the kill with that comment. "Well I-... I was just-..." Stein was a little taken aback. Actually, they were a lot taken aback. They literally stepped back a few paces just to keep their balance. "You were just hoping I'd stroke your ego and tell you how great you look. Wow, what big muscles you have," Her tone of voice was mocking, but when she play acted the loving girlfriend she was almost too believable. She reached out her arms and gently caressed Stein's bulging biceps. Stein could put up with a lot on a first date, but this was pretty hard to hear. They started thinking that maybe they had gone too masc after all... "So... date cancelled?" Stein guessed. Wrong. "Oh you won't get out of it that easily. You're paying for the tickets. Anyway, I need to get some good pics if I'm hoping to make Terry jealous." So it’s a revenge date? Not exactly the kind I was hoping for, Stein thought to themself, but at least the weight's off my shoulders to make it a good one. The two of them decided to see a slasher horror where the murderer had an uncanny ability to teleport between bodies of water, (mostly bathtubs, going by the posters). Stein complained that they had seen it before, but apparently that wasn't the point of a movie date anyway. The two of them sat at the back of the theatre - not so that they could canoodle or anything, but just so Leigh could take photos of the two of them without the staff noticing she had a camera. No doubt she was sending the pics to 'Terry,' whoever that was. Stein pretended to be super engrossed in the inane car and perfume adverts rather than humour whatever it was Leigh was up to. But just as the last advert finished playing and the lights were dimming, the theatre door creaked loudly open, and a familiar face walked in... It was Fritz, only he wasn't observing Stein at all. In fact he was putting a lot more effort into observing the stud muffin on the other end of his arm... To be continued... Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
3 notes · View notes
Beautiful Spouse’s Rewatch Thoughts SPN 11x08 Just My Imagination
“We didn’t have to go that far east for this one” “very supportive” “What manual are they talking about? I want to know” “The RIE Manual? I don’t know what that is” “that’s a fuck load of glitter. That’d be a disastrous mess” “didn’t even notice that there was someone there watching you sleep?” “I want that cake. Idk what’s on it, but I’m assuming it’s a rainbow cake. Holy fuck I want a rainbow cake” laughter “i’m gonna get my gun” laughter “fkn robe and whatever the hell is on his feet” “there’s a dent!” “What do they call those sweaters? Cardigans?” “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone button a cardigan all the way down like that” “call you in a couple days??? Jesus” “The more you find out about John, the worst it gets” laughter
“He’s going to be so disappointed” “Wait didn’t he use Bert and Ernie, then use the term partner? Maybe they need to check their phrasing” “going to let 2 strange men dig around your daughter’s room?” “what’s the phrase? All that glitters is gold?” The internet says it’s all that glitters is not gold “this certainly is not gold” laughter “this is so ridiculous “ “that’s some crazy ass waterproof makeup dude” “Are they all in the same town or what?” laughter
‘Dude the hand signaling and whatever else. It’s almost too much” “I feel like they do a good job finding Dean children, but the Sam ones aren’t remotely close. No offense to the kids” “free will motherfucker” “how many thousands of graves have they dug up at this point?” “Oh, I get it. He’s not the dad. But it explains the mullet that looks like hair extensions.” “oh the girls’ running away! And it’s a beetle!” “wouldn’t the blood have dried by then?” “handprint” “Why did Dean call him acid-wash? Because of the pants? And if dudes who buy acid wash pants know they’re buying it?” laughter “what a fkn asshole” “Sam needs therapy” “Dude where the hell are the motels with this decor? Do you see the cows? It’s so bad that it’s timeless” “He got stabbed? And all he gets is a bandage and two pieces of tape?” “if he’s the answer to killing the Darkness, why wouldn’t the zanna help Sam do that?” “Is it Dark Charlie or something?” “Wait. Charlie died. That sucks” “Was Sully this guy’s dude as a little kid?” “how can she see the guy?” “oh we’re about to learn” “hey!” “still gonna need therapy” “add that knife to my collection” “whoosh” “engine purring” “whoever wrote the subtitles - holy shit”
0 notes
first-born-to-his-name · 10 months
Text
𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒
WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE ?
A mixture of oak - moss, cedar, tobacco and marijuana smoke with an underlain coppery scent .
WHAT DO YOUR MUSE’S HANDS FEEL LIKE ?
Calloused, sharp nicked scarring. Sometimes unkempt nails.
WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY EAT IN A DAY ?
He'd be lucky to get two meals, let alone a full one. Squirrel and rabbit seem to be his easiest and most abundant meat source. Though venison he would pursue more often than not, even during off season. Occasionally pilfering food from others.
DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE A GOOD SINGING VOICE ?
Oddly enough, he does ... however , he mostly uses it in guttural imitations aimed for expressive high signature wails of the 80s rock and metal categories.
DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY BAD HABITS OR NERVOUS TICKS ?
Tons. Being as he holds bundles upon bundles in medical problems, physically and mentally crippling more than not. He often uses drugs as an effort in subduing or escaping them. His hallucinations in particular, he would often try to avoid in addressing publicly. At times failing in obscuring what only he was capable of seeing or hearing, prone in stirring deeper reactions from him. Yet in private, they gave him company and he often openly interacted with them eagerly. He also has an idling hands tick, where digits would seemingly vibrate under excessive energy influenced under intrusive thoughts, especially potent toward a target that interests him. A more than eager stemming to reach for the hilt of a blade.
WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE USUALLY LOOK LIKE / WEAR ?
Typical 80s era fashion. Yeah, you know the card. Mostly dark stressed blue jeans, holes littered up and down pivoting contact points; the knees , glutes. At times replaced with fatigue cargos just as equally weathered. Vests often acquired by the same denim material, darker in contrast with self cut out sleeves. Some littered with band patches, others, clean slated.
Fabric fraying across hems. Band t-shirts or even plain dark colored tees, maybe no more than three in the lighter shades he interchanges throughout the weeks. Prone to wearing the same band t-shirt for a three day streak. Majority of his clothing faded.
Hair usually worn less mohawk and more fohawk design with extensions pillared in a tuft of longer hair in the back. Remnants of a lesser duck tailed mullet.
IS YOUR MUSE AFFECTIONATE ? HOW SO ?
Yes , though he is highly selective in who he opens up to. Your typical poster child for a devoted son. Following in the foot steps of his father. Or so the illusion wools over the truth of not being your conventional family. He is, however, very much a daddy's boy in all my verses . His affection toward his father is the most natural he has ever grown to feel, his attachment toward him is an even greater sickness and can become violently opposing to anyone who wills him harm or tarnishes his name. Their name. His own mother included.
However, his mother is a contradiction to him above all. He yearns for her affection, for a mother acknowledging his existence -- but in equal assertion he harbors vindictive hatred for her. Exiled abroad her lies inflicted upon his and his father's name. Unfit to distinguish her sins from anyone whom he may dub the title of mother to. Projecting all ailments on the role perceived. This same contradicting turbulence of emotions can be reflected on anyone , at any given time, who he grows attached to as a maternal figure. It is a twisted delusion that he and his father share in near identical aggression.
WHAT POSITION DOES YOUR MUSE SLEEP IN ?
Fetal position to conserve energy for warmth. A habit he developed in both boarding schools as well as the adopted family he currently lives with. If his body temperature is at a comfortable reach, he is a side sleeper majority of the time.
COULD YOU HEAR YOUR MUSE IN THE HALLWAY FROM ANOTHER ROOM ? 
Unless he wants you to ? Then no. His footsteps are almost nonexistent. He is so adamant in being out of sight out of mind with his current family, that it carries over in where ever he tenants. If he is comfortable with them, then he may be a bit more obnoxious. Blasting music is a common trade.
Tagged : I stole another one . .
Tagging : Nn, I feel as if I have been bothering people as of late with tagging them over dash games in particular. So .. I'll just leave this untagged. If you wish to give it a whirl, then by all means you are welcome to steal it as I had.
1 note · View note
isolavirtuosa · 2 years
Text
Cass & Dean's Infinite and Beyond Playlist 6-10
[fanfiction] Dean/Castiel
Canon Compliant Coda / Sequel to Cass & Dean's Infinite Playlist
The one where Cass makes a Daddy Issues playlist.
Referenced songs playlist on Spotify.
Parts 6-10/26 under the cut. Previous parts here.
- 6 -
Sam and I had a tendency to end up at the other’s front door with a six-pack at fairly regular intervals.  This afternoon it happened to be Sam knocking on my door, and I was glad to have him.
“Where ya been, dickwad?” I asked, giving him a friendly slap on the back.
“Uh, down the street from you where I live?” he said, moving into the kitchen to get the brews on ice.
“Thanks for the geography lesson, Copernicus.”
Sam rolled his eyes at me, slouching against the kitchen counter.
“You want something to eat?” I asked.
“You cooking?”
“I could make some chili,” I offered.
Sam grinned and nodded enthusiastically.
“Okay, big brother will whip you up some chow,” I said, moving around the kitchen and gathering up the ingredients.
Sam cracked open a beer for each of us and set mine by the chopping board as I set to work.  “You’ve gotten so domesticated,” he mused at me.
“I’ve always cooked for you,” I said, waving it off.
“Yeah, but you didn’t always do it well,” he pointed out.
“Unappreciative much?” I grumbled.
“You know what I mean,” he said, not caring at all that he was wounding my very manly pride.  “I mean, once we were in the bunker you really came into your own, but this,” he said, gesturing to the extensive spice rack and the drying herbs hanging from the ceiling.  “You’ve gone all Julia Childs in here.”
“I would consider myself more of an Anthony Bourdain,” I commented, putting some olive oil in the pan and turning on the burner.
“Of course you would.”
“Shut up, bitch, I’m making you chili.”
Sam shrugged and took a swig of his beer.  “Appreciate it, jerk.”
“Go put a record on or something,” I said, my back to him as I worked my kitchen magic.
Sam disappeared into the living room.
I found myself humming Bad Moon Rising, until I was oh-so-rudely interrupted by Soul Meets Body blasting out of the living room.  “Dammit, Sam!”
“It was in your collection!” he shot back.
“Because of your bad influence!” I snapped, smacking my pan with the ladle harder than really necessary.  I was pretty sure there was no worse sound on this earth than Deathcab for Cutie.
“Hey, is it my fault that your angel got tired of all your mullet rock?”
“My angel loves mullet rock!”
He didn’t respond to that, but I could feel his smugness permeating the air.
I stomped over to the living, crossing my arms over my chest.
Sam was on the floor, surrounded by records as he sorted through them.
“Just so you know, every time Cass listens to this album he looks completely confused and keeps muttering to himself about how your taste in music friggin’ sucks,” I informed him smugly.
“Oh, yeah, that sounds like Cass,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.
“Okay, so maybe he says it in a more Cass-ish way, but the meaning is clear enough,” I relented.
“What does he say exactly, Dean?”
“He says, ‘does Sam not find this whinging tone grating on the eardrums?’” I said, doing my best eye squint and head tilt.
“Oh, kinda sounds like when he’s listening to metal and says, ‘how does Dean tolerate this affront to sound?’” Sam said, doing his own eye squint and head tilt.
I huffed at that.
Sam snorted.  “I mean, do we need to be taking criticism from a guy who listens to Britney Spears unironically?” he asked, holding up a Britney album.
That gave me pause for a moment, and then I felt my cheeks heating up for some inexplicable reason.  Maybe it was all the car dance parties Cass and I had been having lately.
My brother gave me a funny look, then tucked some of his Disney princess hair behind his ear and went back to flipping through albums.
I went back to my chili, grumbling about pussy emo music.
Dinner carried on with the same kind of relaxed bickering.  I finally got Sam to change the record, though how we ended up agreeing on listening to one of Bobby’s Kenny Rogers records, I didn’t know.
I was pleasantly buzzed.  We were talking about taking a drive up the coast, maybe with Eileen and Junior if they wanted to come.
“You should invite Cass, too,” Sam said casually.
And suddenly I just needed to know.  “How did you know?”
“How did I know what?” he asked, taking a pull from his beer.
I tried not to turn red and felt myself failing.  “About… me.”
Sam was now looking at me like I was crazy, which wasn’t really a new thing, but I hated that look when I was trying to actually be open with him.
“About me and Cass,” I sputtered out.
“What about you?” he asked, looking almost amused now.
“You don’t have to be a jackass,” I muttered, staring down at the table.
“Dean, I’m not…” he trailed off.  “What do you want to know?”
“I just said it,” I grumbled.
“How I knew about you and Cass?  What about you two?”
He wasn’t really going to make me say it.  “You just… you just looked at me and you knew.  And Charlie did the same thing.  And even Bobby.  And I don’t…” I trailed off, feeling shame start to coil in my belly even as I tried to fight it off.  “I mean, it’s not like anything really changed…  Just we’re… you know, and…”
“You’re in love,” Sam supplied softly.
“I… yeah,” I said, not minding that wording so much.  “But I’ve always loved him, ya know?  He’s Cass.  So nothing really changed, it just… shifted?  But you assholes all keep giving me these knowing looks like I… I don’t know, like the whole damn universe got flipped upside down…”
“Dean.”
I stopped and looked up at him.
“That night you came over, I looked at you, and it was like… some kind of tension had been released,” he explained.  “You looked… lighter.  Happier.  It was a good thing.”
“And why did you just assume that it was all due to Cass?”
“I didn’t,” he said.  “It wasn’t really about Cass.  It was about you, letting go.”
“Oh, okay, Elsa.”
Sam groaned.  “Dean, man, come on.  You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Please enlighten me.”
“Okay, then,” he said, like he was about to school me.  “You’ve always had this idea of what it means to be a man-”
“Samuel,” I growled.
“You asked a question, Dean.”
I sighed, stabbing my chili with my spoon.  “Yeah, all right.  Do your Dr. Phil thing.”
“Oh, like I can tell the great Dean Winchester anything.”
“Sammy.”
We exchanged some non-verbal communication, and Sam finally seemed to accept that I wasn’t trying to be a complete ass and was ready to at least attempt to listen.  “Look, the way Dad raised you was fucked up.”
“The way he raised us.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said with a shake of his head and rueful smile.  “You raised me.”
I flushed at that, feeling my own mouth twitch into a small answering smile.  “That why you’re such a damn hippie?  ’Cause I’m pretty sure I told ya a million friggin’ times to cut your hair.”
Sam just kept smiling at me, his eyes conveying all the shit that definitely never needed to be said out loud.
“Was there a point to all this?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “there was.”
I waited.
“I think there are a lot of things that held you back from being happy when you were alive,” he said, “and a big one was trying to live up to Dad’s stupid standards.”
“Dad wasn’t-”
“Dean.”
Even now there was always a defense of my father lingering at the tip of my tongue.  I let it die.
“You’re really… kind,” Sam said slowly.
I snorted at that.
“Yeah, dude, I know, it sounds crazy,” he said, giving me a lopsided grin.  “But… you are.  You… were.  When we were little.  You… you always…” he trailed off, his expression losing its lightness.  “I didn’t have a mother, Dean, but you… you always held my hand when we crossed the street, and read stories to me after you tucked me into bed, and kissed my friggin’ knees when I skinned them and…”
“Yeah, yeah, I was Mother Fuckin’ Teresa,” I muttered, wishing he wasn’t staring at me with those big doe eyes of his, all watery.
“You were,” he said, the sincerity in his voice making me want to sink under the table.  “You were so… kind, so gentle, so… sweet with me.  Not with anyone else, because you already knew…  It’s like Dad beat the kindness out of you, Dean.  He sharpened you into the hunter that you needed to be, but he… he took something away from you.  Something important.  And when I was still little you could… like be yourself for a few minutes while you were taking care of me.  You were so… soft, Dean, you were…”
“Jesus, Sammy,” I groaned, because if I wasn’t already dead this conversation would literally be killing me.
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I need to say it,” he said stubbornly.  “I was the only person you could be yourself with, and then I turned into a moody adolescent and you stopped holding my hand, you stopped hugging me, you stopped… everything, because I wasn’t a little kid who needed your affection anymore, but you…
“So help me god if you say I was the one who needed the affection.”
Sam raised an eyebrow at me.
I rubbed my face with my hand, feeling exhausted just listening to him talk.  “So all this has to do with how you knew that Cass and I are fucking, why?”
“Dude!” Sam cried, giving me a mortified look
It took me a moment to rewind what I’d said.  Shoulda stuck with ‘boyfriends’, but I’d dug this hole for myself and I was going to own it.  I looked Sam dead in the eye, pushed my tongue against my cheek rhythmically, and mimed giving a blow job.
The sheer horror in my baby brother’s eyes made it all worth it.  “You are sick.”
“Are you gay-bashing me?” I asked innocently.
He kicked me under the table.
I kicked him back harder.
“You’re not getting out of this by being you!” Sam snapped at me, emphasizing his point with another kick.
“Eat your chili, Sam.”
“Not until I tell you what a kind, sweet, lovable person you are,” he growled at me.
I laughed at that and picked up my spoon, shoveling food into my mouth.  It was easier when he wasn’t being sincere.
Sam started eating again, too, but then he put his spoon down suddenly.  “I saw that in your eyes.  When you were sitting on the couch with Cass.  That person you’ve always hidden away.  The one who loves so deeply and doesn’t care what anyone, especially John Winchester, thinks about it.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I muttered, and refused to look at him until all the chili was eaten and we were back to the mundane topics of our regularly scheduled sibling banter.
- 7 -
Cass was a cuddler, and his dedication to it was almost pathological.  He would climb into my bed in the dead of night, throwing the sheets aside and forcing my arms around him so he could lay his head on my chest and wrap himself around me.
The first time he did it, I woke up as soon as he touched the sheets, ready to fight.
“Hello, Dean, we are cuddling,” he informed me, snuggling into me.
“You don’t just… stealth cuddle someone, Jesus,” I complained, pulling my hand away from the gun that lucky for Cass wasn’t under my pillow anymore.  “Give a guy some warning, would ya?”
“But you looked so peaceful sleeping…”
“Do I seem peaceful now?” I growled at him, still half-asleep.
He just leaned up to kiss my cheek and then burrowed back into my chest like that was that.
And that was that.
I didn’t even wake up anymore when he came clamoring in.  After years of sleeping on a hair trigger, I could finally just sleep for as long as I wanted, as much as I wanted, as deep as I wanted, without always having to be ready to defend myself on a moment’s notice.
So it wasn’t a surprise when I went to bed by myself and woke up the next morning with an armful of Cass.
“Morning, angel,” I mumbled, aiming a kiss at the top of his head.
“Good morning, Charlie,” he deadpanned at me.
It took me a moment to wake up enough to understand the reference, then I cracked up.  “You Lucy Liu or Cameron Diaz?”
“Definitely Drew Barrymore,” he said.
I laughed harder.
Cass grinned up at me, looking all mussed and rumpled even though he hadn’t actually been sleeping.
“Love you,” I said sleepily, still laughing a little as I pecked him on the lips.
“I love you,” he replied, brimming with sincerity.  He always said it back, but never as a reflex.
“You stickin’ around for a while?”
“Yes, as long as John Bonham does not need my assistance in carrying out his duties today,” he said.
I’d stopped asking ‘the musician or the angel?’ after about the fiftieth time Cass mentioned some famous rock musician that he had business with, because it was always a damn angel that Jack had created and named.  It was my own fault, so I couldn’t really complain.  “Good,” I mumbled instead, closing my eyes and attempting to go back to sleep.
Cass’s stare was almost heavier than the physical weight of him lying on top of me.
I cracked an eye open, meeting his gaze.  “Could you… tone it down?”
His nose scrunched up in confusion.
“Haven’t you got better things to do than creep on me while I sleep?” I tried.
“No,” he replied, continuing to stare.
I rolled my eyes and pretended to be put out.
Cass just smiled at me.  “I like the way the morning light illuminates your features.”
“You are so corny,” I groaned.
“Says the corn-fed Kansas boy.”
I snorted at that.  “Yeah, Cass?  That what you’re into?”
“Corn-fed Kansas boys?” he asked, squinting at me.
I waggled my eyebrows at him.
“Well, there’s one I’d certainly like to get into,” he said, staring into my eyes pointedly.
All the air pushed out of my lungs and I had to look away from that unwavering gaze.
There were some things Cass and I didn’t do.
He laid his head back on my chest, one hand tracing up and down my forearm in a soothing repetitive motion.  “Do you want coffee?” he asked suddenly.
“Hm?” I said, realizing I’d been drifting back to sleep.  “Nah, not yet.”
“You want more snuggle time?” he asked, scratching his five o’clock shadow against my neck.
I was supposed to tell him that men did not ‘snuggle’, but instead I snorted and rubbed my cheek against his hair.  “Yeah, darlin’, that’d be alright.”
“Good, I also desire more snuggle time,” he informed me, rubbing that beard more insistently into me and peppering in a few kisses.
I couldn’t stop my fond smile.  I kissed the top of his head and cradled him closer.
Sam had it all wrong when he said I was ‘kind’, but I could kinda see how I was a bit… indulgent with Cass.  Making him a little happy after all the shit I’d put him through seemed like the least I could do.  So Dean Winchester indulged in a little morning cuddling.  And if Cass stared at me a little too long from a little too close, so be it.  I wasn’t gonna make an issue out of his weird pastimes.
He seemed perfectly content now, staring up at me and occasionally peppering my skin with kinda sexy kisses that didn’t have any intent behind them but still made me shiver.
I shifted a little, feeling his weight pinning me down.  “You’re like a weighted blanket,” I murmured sleepily.
A frown tugged at his lips.  “You hate weighted blankets.”
“Oh, Jesus, do you remember when Sam thought one would be nice gift for me?” I asked, snorting at the memory.  “I woke up in such a panic I shot a hole in the wall.”
“Yes, Dean, I recall the time you almost killed us all because of a weighted blanket.”
“It’s like someone holding you down, man, it’s super freaky.”
Cass rolled his eyes up at me.
“This would have never happened while I was alive, would it?” I mused, cupping his jaw.
“You allowing me to function as your weighted blanket?” he grumbled at me.
“Me liking the weight of you holding me down?” I countered, and then immediately flushed, biting my lip.
Cass’s expression relaxed and he pressed a small kiss to my thumb as it brushed by his lips.  “I’m glad that those fears no longer control you.”
I guided his face closer, needing a quick kiss to settle the weird tension in my belly.
Cass pressed his forehead to mine, gazing at me gently.  “Would you like your coffee now?”
I thought about it for a moment and then nodded.
“Okay,” he said, still lingering, still weighting me down.
I squeezed him tighter, then finally let go, feeling level.
“This time I am definitely going to make the coffee correctly,” he declared as he got up.
“Big words.”
Cass just flashed me a grin before wandering off towards the kitchen, inexplicably humming You’re the Inspiration.
I groaned, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and trying not to smile.
- 8 -
“I wanna see you completely drunk,” I decided, glaring at Cass over my whiskey glass.
“I don’t get completely drunk, Dean,” he replied from across the kitchen table, looking bored.
“That’s not true,” I said, squinting at him.  “Remember that time back in Blue Earth?”
Cass gave me a very unimpressed look.  “Oh, yes, the time we killed the Whore of Babylon after I realized my father had abandoned us so I proceeded to drink a liquor store.  What a nice memory to reminisce about.”
“The way you said ‘whore’,” I said, cracking up.
“Do I amuse you, Dean?” he asked with a glare, but there was no edge to it.
“Yep.”
“I do not intend to.”
“I don’t believe you,” I said with a grin, reaching across the table to loop our fingers together.
“Most of the things I say that you laugh at were not meant to be jokes.”
“Yeah, but you know what you’re doing.”
Cass got this strange, secretive smile on his face, and started tracing along my fingers.  “I actually haven’t seen you drink in a while.”
“Yeah,” I said, kinda mesmerized by the feel of his skin against mine.  “Just… feelin’ nostalgic or some shit.”
“Or some shit,” Cass repeated with a sage nod.  He continued tracing along my fingers, dipping between each one with such a feather-light touch that it was doing funny things to my stomach.
I took another sip of my whiskey, looking away from him.  “Hey, so on game night-”
“We do not talk about game night, Dean.”
I snorted.  “Okay, well then remember when you were human?  You went from the greatest of all time to a one beer queer.”
“Dean,” he said with that reprimanding tone of voice.
“What?” I asked.  “It’s true.”
“Dean,” he repeated, and now he straight up sounded disappointed.
“What?” I repeated in a tone that was definitely not a whine.  Without really wanting to, I let my eyes meet his again.
“We’ve talked about this,” he told me in his disappointed dad voice.
I gave him a blank look, because I honestly had no idea where we were going here.
“The homophobic language, Dean,” he said with a long-suffering sigh.
“Homo… hey, now, I didn’t-”
“Dean.”
“It’s a saying!”
“Dean.”
“It is,” I said in a tone that was definitely not sulky.
“That’s not the point.”
“Well how can I be homophobic when we’re…” I trailed off, gesturing between us.
Cass proceeded to give me the most patented ‘bitch, please’ look I had ever witnessed in my life, and it left me struggling for words.
“I’m not homophobic!” I finally snapped, irritated.
“I know that,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Okay, then what’s the problem?”
“Did you mean it in a complimentary way?” he asked, still dragging his thumb along the shape of my fingers.
“Huh?” I said.
“When you called me a… ‘one’ ‘beer’ ‘queer’… was it complimentary?”
“Obviously not, it means you suck at drinking.”
“So you used that word to belittle me.”
I stayed quiet, not meeting his gaze.
“Dean?”
“I got it, Cass.”
He picked my hand up off of the table, pressing his lips to the back.
“Sorry,” I finally mumbled.
“It’s okay,” he said, setting my hand back on the table and curling our fingers together.
“I don’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.”
“It’s just… how I’ve always talked.”
“I know.”
“I don’t…” I floundered, before finally repeating, “I don’t mean anything by it.”
“I understand,” Cass said gently.  “I know your heart, Dean, I know how good and pure it is.  But you can’t continue to use the excuse of ignorance when you’ve been educated.”
“Sam’s lectures are not an education,” I muttered.
Cass rolled his eyes at me.
I taught him that, so I couldn’t be too mad.
In the living room, the record player started crackling.
Cass looked into my eyes for a moment, then carefully pulled his fingers away from mine with a lingering brush before going to re-set the record.
The opening strains of Hot Blooded filled the air, and then he was back, taking my hand in his again like he’d never left.
We both looked at each for what was probably too long.
“This song is highly inappropriate,” Cass finally said, breaking up the intensity of the moment.
“Dude.”
“‘Are you old enough?’” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s a legitimate question.”
“That a grown man would even consider sexual liaisons with a teenage female is so distasteful.”
“Not into age differences, Cass?”
He picked up on what I was implying immediately, leveling me with a glare.  “No,” he said, sounding more petulant than he probably intended.  “What I am saying is that a being that is fully developed mentally and sexually should be interested in other beings that are fully developed mentally and sexually.”
“Whatever you say, cradle robber,” I said with a shrug.
He looked flabbergasted, and it was hilarious.
“I mean, you’re getting all holier-than-thou over like a what, a twenty year age difference?” I asked.  “Our, you know, several millennia age difference didn’t seem like a problem for you when you took me to bed, huh?”
“That’s different,” he protested, turning an interesting shade of red.  “You are fully developed.”
“Really?” I asked.  “‘Dean, you’re behaving like a child,’” I mimicked him.
Cass squinted at me.  “So you’re saying you’re… ‘not’ ‘fully’ ‘developed’?”
“Yep,” I said, doubling down.  “Pedo,” I added for good measure.
He flat-out pouted at me, his bottom lip making a big showy display of sticking out.
“Baby, I’m just teasing you,” I laughed.
“Oh, so I’m the baby here?” he grumbled at me.
“Yeah, definitely,” I said.  “Just call me Daddy.”
“Okay, Daddy,” he deadpanned at me.
It took me a minute, and then I was laughing so hard my entire body was shaking with it.  “Jesus,” I said, wiping the tears from my eyes with my unoccupied hand.  “You know exactly what you’re doing,” I accused him between wheezing laughs, recalling our earlier conversation.
Cass just shrugged, but I could see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I love you so much,” I said, shaking my head and smiling.
Cass’s entire face lit up.  “I love you, too, Dean.”
Just a few simple words out of my mouth could make him so happy, and yet I was always denying that happiness to him.
Instead of dwelling on that thought, I picked up my whiskey and finished it off.  “Hey, remember that time Ellen and Jo tried to get you drunk?”
“‘Tried’ being the operative word.”
“We should go to Harvelle’s,” I said, getting enthusiastic about the idea.
“I highly doubt there is enough alcohol at the Roadhouse to fully intoxicate an angelic being.”
“You clearly have not been there recently.”
“If you believe there will be sufficient quantities to achieve what you are searching for, then I’m not opposed to giving it a try,” Cass said with a shrug.  “It would be nice to see Jo and Ellen.”
“Alright, it’s a date,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze.
He looked perplexed but pleased, and that was all I needed.
- 9 -
Somehow our date turned into a double date with Sam and Eileen riding in the back of Baby while the sounds of Cass’s carefully curated Songs That Will Be Played in the Car mixtape filled the speakers.
“I feel like you took the theme a little too damn literally,” I muttered as both Sam and Cass enthusiastically sang along to Fine Young Cannibals.
“She drives me crazy!” Sam warbled.
“Oh oh,” Cass replied, completely out of tune.
Eileen and I exchanged long-suffering looks through the mirror.
‘At least you can’t hear them,’ I mouthed at her, and maybe it was in poor taste to be jealous of Eileen’s deafness, but she smirked at me, so I was pretty sure she agreed.
“Oh thank god,” I muttered when the song changed to Queen’s I’m In Love With My Car.
“Dean’s theme song,” Sam said, cracking up.
“Shut up,” I said, giving him a glare in the mirror.
“Yes, that’s why I picked it,” Cass explained cheerfully.
“Don’t contribute to this,” I grumbled, giving him a half-hearted smack in the arm.
Cass gave me the most innocent look he could muster up, which was pretty damn angelic, but I was on to his game by now.
“I’m in love with my car!” Sam sang enthusiastically.  “Got a feel for my automobile!”
“Such a beautiful love song,” Eileen put in.
I shot her a look.
She winked at me.
“I mean, I’m pretty sure Roger Taylor fucked his car, yeah?” Sam mused.
“Sammy, how much did you pre-game before getting into my car?” I asked.
“Just a coupla beers…”
“Uh-huh.”
“Or…” he trailed off, squinting at his fingers as though he were trying to count to a high number.
Eileen shook her head, touching Sam’s arm to get his attention and then signing something to him.
I still sucked at sign language, but the soft smile he gave her assured me whatever she was saying wasn’t for me.
“How does one have sexual relations with a car?” Cass mused.
“Dunno, ask Dean!” Sam declared, breaking away from his lovey-dovey gaze with Eileen to give me a shit-eating grin.
“Dude, like I would defile Baby like that,” I scoffed at him.
“So you do know how the mechanics of it work?” Cass asked, squinting at me.
“You can’t fuck a car, Cass,” I explained patiently.
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Eileen commented.
Sam nodded his agreement.
“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” I asked incredulously.
“Dean called me ‘Baby’ the previous evening,” Cass put in out of nowhere.  “Do you think that I should read something into it?”
Sam sucked his teeth.  “Yeah, shit, Cass, man, that’s no good if he can no longer differentiate between his car and his boyfriend.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, squinting at him through the mirror.  “And also, why are you telling them our personal business?” I chided Cass.
“It’s just Sam and Eileen,” Cass said with a shrug, like it was no big deal.
The obnoxious twosome in the backseat were snickering at our little telenovela, and I realized it really wasn’t a big deal.  So I took one hand off the wheel to flip them off, then rested it between the seats and wiggled my fingers until Cass took the hint and laced his fingers with mine.
“Aw,” Eileen couldn’t help but utter.
I winked at her.
She gave me a soft, knowing smile.
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling, too.
Then Prince’s Little Red Corvette came on, and my stupid tipsy brother and my annoying angel boyfriend started singing as loudly as they could, and it just felt like the Impala was filled with… joy.
I held Cass’s hand tighter, and maybe I sang along, too.
- 10 -
The lights were all blazing when we pulled up to the Roadhouse.
“Full house,” Sam commented as he pushed his way out of the backseat.
I hesitated.
Cass gave me a head tilt.
“You ready to get drunk?” I asked, forcing a smile.
He stared at me.
“Come on,” I said, letting go of his hand and opening the door.
He followed me inside.
Sam and Eileen were already filling a couple of pitchers of beer at the bar.  The Roadhouse tended to be self-serve, as Ellen and Bill’s idea of heaven apparently wasn’t serving a bunch of old hunters drinks for the rest of eternity.
I looked around for the Harvelles, spotting them holding court at a corner table.
“Dean,” Bill said, sticking his hand out towards me.
“Bill,” I said, shaking it.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Ellen hummed, getting up from her seat to wrap me in a hug.
“Hi, Ellen.”
“Haven’t seen ya in a while.”
“Yeah, been kinda busy at home,” I said with a shrug.
Ellen arched an eyebrow at me, then turned to Cass, wrapping him in a hug.
Cass had gotten very good at returning hugs.  “It’s good to see you, Ellen,” he said warmly.
“So what brings the Winchesters here tonight?” she asked.
“We’re gonna get Cass drunk,” I informed her.
“Good luck with that,” Ellen said with a snort.  “Pretty sure there isn’t enough booze in heaven to get that one drunk.”
“Your previous attempt was valiant,” Cass offered.  “Dean wishes to re-create it, but slightly more effectively.”
“Well, Jo’s got some hard stuff stashed away in the back if you can drag her away from her game,” she said, nodding her head towards the back of the bar where the pool table was.
“I will keep you updated,” I said, and Ellen grinned at me as I took my leave.
Jo was lining up a shot, bent over the table with one eye closed.
“Don’t miss!” I yelled cheerfully as she moved the cue.
The cue ball clacked into the 5 ball, sending it rolling into the pocket.
“I never do,” she said, standing up slowly and flipping her long hair over her shoulder.
Had Jo always looked so…
I shook it off, offering her an easy smile.  “Wanna put your money where your mouth is?”
“Busy,” she replied, nodding her head towards the little fanclub of hunters who were waiting by the pool table to have their asses handed to them.
“Busy, sure.”
Jo scoffed at me and lined up her next shot, sinking it easily.  “If you just came over here to annoy me…”
“We’re gonna get Cass smashed,” I explained.
“Oh?” she asked, looking intrigued.  “Is that even possible?”
“Well, this one time at game night-” I began.
Cass shot a glare at me, making me grin.
“I’ve got some 190-proof Everclear in the back,” Jo said, waggling her eyebrows.
“So it’ll be like a shitty 90’s house party…” I reminisced.
“You are so old.”
I gaped at her, offended.
“Are you two done flirting?” Cass asked, squinting at me.
“We’re not-” we both started and stopped at the same time.
“I am going to join Sam now,” he stated, taking his leave.
Jo straightened up, looking between me and Cass’s retreating back.  “I’ll bring some shots over after I finish this game.”
I gave her a little nod of acknowledgement, already following after Cass.
“Dean Winchester!”
Apparently we were at Cheers.
“Hey, you old son of a bitch,” I said, pausing to exchange pleasantries with Caleb, followed by several other hunters who called out to me before finally making my way over to the table where Sam and Cass were sitting.
“You’re popular,” Sam commented, handing me a beer.
“Not as popular as your wife,” I said, nodding over to the bar where Eileen was surrounded by other hunters.
“Yeah,” Sam said, smiling fondly.
I rolled my eyes.
Cass rested his hand on my knee as he leaned into the arm I’d settled around his chair.
I startled, having not even realized I’d put it there.
He turned to me with a frown.  “Is this… okay?” he asked, quietly enough so only I could hear him over the din of the bar.
I hesitated, but then forced a smile.  “Yeah, of course.”
“Dean.”
“Of course,” I repeated with more sincerity.  “I’m just… it’s new.”
“You don’t have to push yourself.”
“I wanna push myself.”
Cass huffed out a smile, his eyes crinkling and his nose scrunching up.
I felt myself smiling, too, briefly reaching up to cradle his cheek in my hand before going back to my beer.
Sam was giving me a look, so I chose to ignore him.
“You boys are in luck,” Jo said, bustling over to the table with a stack of glasses and some bottles tucked under her arm.  She lined up the shot glasses on the table, then started pouring from one of the bottles.  “This is the warm-up.”
“Jack Daniels?” I asked, picking up a shot and giving it a whiff.
“Coy Hill High Proof,” she said, pushing a shot to Sam, taking one for herself, and leaving the other five for Cass.  “About 140 proof, give or take.”
“Awesome,” I said.  “Down the hatch.”
Sam, Jo, and I all downed our shots.
Cass eyed us like he was cataloging something in his weird angel brain.
“Ya gotta drink ’em to get drunk,” I explained.
Cass gave me his patented ‘bitch, please’ look and proceeded to down the five shots in rapid succession.
We all cheered.
“Feeling anything?” Jo asked as she refilled the glasses.
“I am feeling like whiskey tastes like watery grain molecules and wondering why humans subject themselves to this nonsense,” Cass said with a shrug before downing the next five shots.
Jo cracked up and filled the glasses up again.
Eventually Eileen wandered back over to the table and we somehow ended up playing Quarters, everyone making Cass take a shot of Everclear every time they got the quarter in the cup.
This was all fine and good until it was Cass’s turn.  He never missed.
“Cass ish dishqualified,” Sam declared after one penalty drink too many.
“For what reason?” Cass asked, wrinkling his nose.
“For cheating,” he said solemnly.
“I am no cheater.”
“Using your angel mojo is totally cheating,” I said, grinning at him.
“How is that cheating?  It is a part of me.”
“Cheater,” Eileen put in.
“Dirty, dirty cheater,” Jo agreed.
“Filthy,” I smirked at him.
Cass glared at me, ignoring the rest of the rabble-rousers.  “I do not cheat.”
“Drink!” Eileen declared, pushing the bottle of Everclear over to him.
“Why do I have to drink?” Cass asked incredulously, finally looking away from me and over at Eileen.
“Drink!” she repeated.
“Drink!  Drink!  Drink!” Jo and Sam chanted.
“These are not the rules that we agreed to,” Cass grumbled, sullenly snatching the bottle and chugging.
We all erupted into cheers.
Cass finished the bottle and slammed it on the table.  “You are all behaving like children.”
I leaned in closer, letting my lips brush against his ear.  “Sorry, daddy, we’ll be good.”
Cass breathed out slowly, radiating pissed-off energy, but when he turned to meet my gaze, his look was pure sex.
I bit my lip, grinning at him and trying not to turn completely red.
He turned his face a bit more towards me so Eileen couldn’t read his lips as he mouthed, ‘the things I am going to do to you when we get home.’
The trying not to turn completely red thing went out the window, but it wasn’t so bad, being the recipient of the pure desire burning in Cass’s eyes.  “Babe, I think you might be a little drunk,” I pointed out, trying to laugh it off.
“No,” he said dismissively.  “You might be a little drunk.”
“I’m not… okay, yeah, maybe a little,” I agreed after a little self-reflection.  I was feeling loose and warm in a way that alcohol hadn’t really made me feel in years.
“Alright, new game,” Jo said, passing Cass an unopened bottle of absinthe.  “And if you don’t start dancing on the tables after this, I’m getting the rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit.”
“Is that… safe?” Sam asked, looking perplexed.
“I am an angel of the Lord, Sam, your disinfectant products cannot harm me,” Cass explained.
“Oh, well then, bring on the isoproperr uh isopropro… rubbing alcohol,” he finally decided.
“After this game,” Jo said.  “So let’s play Never Have I Ever, and I’ll start.  Never have I ever… uh… had wings.”
“Am I expected to drink now?” Cass asked.
“Well, if you’ve ever had wings, then yep,” Jo said.
“Does it count if an angel was possessing your body?” Sam asked, scratching his head.
Jo turned to Eileen.
“Absolutely,” Eileen said.
Sam and I both gave her a look and took a drink from our beers.
“You’re next, Eileen,” Jo said, nodding towards her.
“Never have I ever been to Purgatory,” she said.
“We’re trying to get Cass drunk here,” I complained, taking a drink along with Sam and Cass.
“We can’t help it if you two do a lot of stupid things,” Jo pointed out.
“How is being possessed by an angel or going to purgatory us doing stupid things?” I demanded.
“Knowing you two, bad choices,” Jo said.
“Co-dependency,” Eileen added.
“Fuck you both very much,” I grumbled.  “Sammy, show them how it’s done.”
Sam grinned, his eyes drooping like he was about to fall asleep.  “Never have I ever been a girl.”
Eileen and Jo rolled their eyes and took a drink, followed by Cass.
Jo’s look turned to intrigued.
“I have occupied female vessels,” he explained to her.
“Wait, wait,” she said suddenly.  “Sam was totally possessed by Meg, so wouldn’t that make him a girl?”
“I was still in my body,” Sam protested.
“Yeah, but there was a girl in your body.”
“I would hardly call Meg a ‘girl’,” Cass mused.
“Okay, this is hurting my brain,” I complained.  “Though, yes, Samantha definitely-”
Cass stopped me from continuing by covering my mouth with his hand.
“Thank you, Castiel,” Jo said with a sigh.
“What?” I protested when I was free to speak again.
“No one wants to hear your misogynistic nonsense,” she said.
“How am I-”
Cass covered my mouth again.
I glared at him.
“Trust me, Dean, I’m helping you,” he informed me.  “Now, it is your turn.”
I made a face at him and then thought about it for a while.  “Never have I ever willingly dressed like a tax accountant for years.”
“Define ‘tax accountant’,” Cass said, gazing steadily into my eyes.
“Just drink, already, J.P. Morgan,” I replied, smirking.
He looked very unimpressed with my cleverness as he took a long swig of absinthe.  He set the bottle down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and declared, “it appears to be my turn.”
“Oh, this should be good,” I said, rolling my eyes.  Cass never understood how these things worked.
Except when he did.
“Never have I ever worn women’s pink satin panties,” he said, toying with the bottle in his hand and not even looking at me.
“You son of a bitch.”
Jo stopped with her beer halfway to her lips and burst out laughing.
Sam was looking at me like I was an alien.
Eileen eyed me up and down in a way that was very confusing.
“Dean?” Cass prodded.  “Aren’t you going to take a drink?”
“Goddamn traitorous fucking angels,” I muttered before taking a long drink and refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
Cass squeezed my knee gently under the table.
I could suddenly sense how insecure he felt, afraid that he’d gone too far.
Lucky for him, I was buzzed enough not to actually be angry about him revealing one of my deepest, darkest secrets.
“Nicely played, angel,” I conceded, letting my arm slide from the back of the chair to around his shoulders, pulling him a little closer.
The tension eased from him immediately, and he turned to give me a small, pleased smile.
“You’re gonna pay for that later, though,” I threatened.
“Oh?” he asked, his head tilting to the side but oozing smugness.
“Little shit,” I grumbled at him, then leaned in close to press a quick kiss to his mouth.
“Never have I ever…” Jo’s voice suddenly cut in to our little moment.  “…made a complete and utter spectacle of myself at the Roadhouse being all lovey-dovey with my boyfriend.”
Sam snorted.
I was mortified, pulling away from Cass.  Maybe I’d kinda sorta forgotten that we were in public.
Cass for his part just rolled his eyes and drank the rest of his bottle.
“You gotta drink, Dean,” Eileen pointed out.
I gave her a very sullen look and drank my beer, setting it down on the table with a little more force than necessary.  “We need some good music,” I decided, standing up abruptly and moving off towards the jukebox.
It felt like everyone in the bar was staring at me as I went.
After flipping through all the songs, Beautiful Loser seemed like the correct choice.
0 notes
inkofyoonkoo · 2 years
Note
Omg did you mean the cowway video ? Just saw that one! Nooooo, why the mullet ? Ugh. Hope it's just the extention. Wish the stylist could just slick back his hair even if there is mullet. Mullet with parted bangs ? Noooo
Yes it should be that! It was my same reaction 😂 like, I think that long hair really suits him in general, but the mullet... Ugh, I don't like it on anyone 😮‍💨 it's a hairstyle that nope. And I suppose they're extensions, so maybe they just did it for that particular commercial 🥺🫠
P.S. Jungkook with slicked back hair 😍 I'm 🫠💔🫠💔🫠💔
1 note · View note
funfettified · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
14 notes · View notes
heytherejulietx · 3 years
Note
hey! i don’t know if i sent this before but could you write a richie x reader where reader protects the losers from bowers? and she gets injured but doesn’t show it until she passes out?
bowers - richie tozier
↳ i hope this turned out alright for you nonnie! 🤍
↳ content warnings - violence, bullying, injury mention, blood, swearing, sex jokes, aged up losers.
↳ 3.5k word count
↳ masterlists
@bucky-j-barnes @mikewheelerc join my tag list
Tumblr media
y/n decided that she absolutely detested her english teacher.
it was one of the last days of school before summer, and yet she’d been kept back for an extra hour to tutor some asshole in her class who hadn’t even been bothered to read their set text for that month (to be fair, richie also hadn’t read the text, but she supposed he wasn’t as much of an asshole because she loved him. boyfriend perks or some shit. and she also wasn’t staying back to tutor him, too). so whilst the rest of the losers had been let out of school she had to wait until she could catch up with them after. so she hated her english teacher and by extension the idiot that she had to tutor.
she’d had one good tutoring experience, and that was because richie genuinely needed help writing a history paper. it was only good because they got ten minutes in before they forgot the essay completely and ended up making out in his bedroom for the rest of the “tutor session”. richie had said they spent their time well and he didn’t regret it when his paper was graded poorly, and y/n smacked the back of his head. it was his fault they ended up making out in the first place. obviously.
so when four o’clock rolled around y/n left the practically empty school with a scowl on her face. her bike - usually surrounded by the bikes of the rest of the losers - stood alone as she walked towards it and unlocked the bike chain before she got on and rode off away from the school. richie had said to find them by the clubhouse, but as much as she loved him, she took stan’s word that they’d probably be by the local park instead. stan usually had the best idea of what was going on.
after a little while of peddling through derry y/n found herself approaching the park with a sigh of relief. she was tired and honestly wouldn’t mind listening to richie and eddie bickering like an old married couple for the next however long. she’d have preferred it to tutoring the asshole. though as she came to the edge of the street she screeched her bike to a stop, spotting the losers on the other side of the street with bowers in front of them.
from where she was stood she couldn’t quite hear what was being said, but she could see richie stood right in front of bowers yelling something about “shouldn’t you be off blowing your cousin” and beverly stood beside him, hands on her hips as she glared bowers down. bill was stood behind richie, trying (and failing) to get him to back down, with eddie on his other side with an inhaler in hand. stan stood shuffling on his feet nervously beside mike, whilst ben was keeping an eye on beverly.
y/n got off of her bike and stood it up against the wall of some building beside her as she frowned at the scene. she hurriedly searched henry’s hands for any sign of his knife and was thoroughly surprised when she didn’t see it. until she noticed it peeking out from his back pocket.
memories of seeing ben’s scar on his stomach for the first time made her glower at the back of henry’s head, angry at the thought of him hurting any of the other losers again.
she spotted an empty glass bottle on the floor and without thinking lifted it up and hurled it through the air towards bowers. it shattered against his upper back and the shouting went silent as they all turned to face her, bowers with a murderous glare on his face.
“hey bowers!” she shouted, hands on her hips, matching bev’s stance. “what’s it gonna take for you to chop that mullet off, dude? shit’s fuckin’ ugly man!”
although y/n wasn’t completely alike her boyfriend (mostly in the sense that she could calm down if she wanted to, and richie was constantly at a state of maximum energy at any given point) they were alike in their mannerisms if y/n really got going. she maybe even had bigger balls than he did, as stan once pointed out. she didn’t shy away from conflict - she probably ended up making it worse sometimes, to be honest.
she didn’t look away from bowers but she could feel eight pairs of eyes on her. though the death glare that she was defiantly staring back at was definitely the strongest. she’d maybe even be a little bit scared if she wasn’t too pissed off to care.
as bowers started crossing the street towards her, shouting nasty and horrible things her way, y/n sent a look towards stan and bill and nodded in the opposite direction. they needed to get the losers away before it kicked off with bowers, because she knew that richie and bev would be eager to get themselves involved too. the whole point of distracting bowers was so they wouldn’t be.
stan and bill had hands on the other losers arms, and from where she was stood she heard something close to “she’ll lose him then meet us around the corner“. once she was sure that the boys had it covered she faced henry again, stepping back a little as he got closer though she didn’t lose her glare.
“what the fuck are you playing at?” bowers spat, stopping directly in front of her. she could see small shards of glass sticking in his hair and inwardly smirked to herself.
“the bully act is a little old, isn’t it? you’re pathetic.” she stood her ground with as much ferocity he had, momentarily forgetting about the knife he had, though it was quickly brought to her attention when it was taken out of his back pocket and the tip was pointed at her.
y/n stumbled back a little on instinct, though tried to keep her stance the same. bowers was slowly closing in on her - she only had so much pavement left behind her before a wall. though just as he raised it to send a slash her way, she spotted blue lights in the distance and smirked.
“i’d watch it, bowers,” she nodded in the direction of the sheriff’s cruiser, knowing fully well that his father was in the car. “wouldn’t want daddy catching you with a big-boy blade.”
the cop car drove right down their street and past them, and y/n thought that it would be okay to turn and walk away with a final gesture of her middle finger his way.
big mistake.
she got a few steps away as the cruiser went down the street, though she didn’t take into account that bowers might come at her again. just as she glanced down the street, wondering what side street the losers could have taken to get away, she felt a hand grab the strap of her backpack and yanked her backwards onto the floor, winding her with a wheeze as she landed on the pavement. as she tried to forcefully drag in a breath of air she could see bowers towered over her, blade still in hand, and panicked. he had a fucking knife and she was laying on her back, defenceless.
her hand reached out beside her to grab the first thing she could on the floor and when her fingers circled around one of the larger shards of glass from the bottle she threw mere minutes before she swiped at him with it, taking his moment of leaning back away from it to scramble up to her feet.
“the fuck is your problem, man?” she wheezed, still somewhat winded, now sounding like eddie. she could feel her heart beating out of her chest, almost painfully thumping against her ribcage.
instead of an answer bowers pushed her back again and she landed on the floor once more, the shard of glass falling from her hand. breathing through her teeth, knowing she didn’t have enough time to stand up again since bowers was so close, she rolled onto her stomach to reach and grab the shard of glass, planning to turn back towards bowers to defend herself.
y/n misjudged how long that would take, because before she could turn back around she felt a sudden pain to the back of her leg, along with the sound of her jeans tearing. fuck, did he cut her? if he did he probably didn’t do it very deep because it didn’t hurt terribly bad. y/n still yelped in surprise, though, and kicked him away before she got to her feet again, glass in hand again.
the knife he was holding was coated in blood and it made her feel sick to stare at him, a sadistic fucking smile on his face. y/n would honestly rather have tea with michael meyers over that.
thinking on her feet she threw the glass at him and managed to hit him in the face. bowers groaned in pain and immediately covered the spot with his hand, and y/n wasted no time in turning to run away from him.
through being winded twice the drags of air she took in were audible and wheezy, hurting her throat and chest with every intake of breath. she debated on tackling eddie for his inhaler when she saw him. her shoes slapped against the pavement loudly as she ran down the street and down the first alleyway she saw, hoping the losers were somewhere close. she could already feel herself tiering, and she didn’t want bowers catching up to her again when she had less energy. she’d be much worse off.
thankfully the losers were quite literally right in front her, as when she had turned to run down another side street she collided with richie and almost sent them both tumbling down, if not for mike and ben who managed to hold the both of them up.
“fucking hell-“ she was still wheezing, gripping onto richie’s ugly shirt in tight fists once she was back on her feet. “are you guys okay?”
“we should be asking you that, holy fuck,” richie’s eyes were wide as he held onto her arms to keep her steady. “you sound like eddie.” he added, ignoring the complaint behind his back at the comment.
with richie keeping his hands on her arms bev rubbed her back from where she was stood on her left side, eyes kept on her face. y/n had momentarily forgotten about the cut on her leg because the rush of adrenaline she was feeling kept her from noticing it, and she was wearing black jeans so the blood wouldn’t really show on the material.
“i’m okay,” she nodded, breathing slowly but surely becoming an easier task as she continued to hang off of richie’s shirt, which he seemed like he didn’t mind. “i’m fine.”
“badass taking on bowers like that,” eddie commented, earning a chuckle from the rest of the losers. “i don’t think anybody else would have actually done it.”
“hey!” richie complained, turning to face eddie though he kept a hand on y/n’s arm. “i totally could have done that.”
“no offence rich, but i do have bigger balls than you.” y/n poked him in the chest and earned a playful glare in return.
as richie and eddie started arguing like usual y/n blinked a few times. the adrenaline was wearing off, and the supposed scratch on the back of her leg grew more and more painful the longer she stood there. she grimaced, eyebrows furrowing slightly as she inhaled deeply through her nose. the back of her thigh felt oddly warm, like warm water was running down her leg, though she immediately dismissed the idea that it was blood. no, she’d know if it was that serious. she couldn’t have run all that way with a deep cut in her leg, could she?
“y/n?” she blinked a few times and looked up, meeting stan’s concerned gaze in front of her, soon followed by the rest of the losers taking suit. “are you okay?”
“yeah,” she exhaled deeply, attempting to step forwards, though the movement was so wobbly that immediately richie grabbed one of her forearms to keep her steady. “just peachy, stan-the-man. i think i just need to sit down…” she attempted to step forwards again, though this time the wobbling was more prominent, and she fell right towards stanley as her eyes rolled back.
-
“fuck!” richie had immediately reached forwards in the attempt to catch her before she fell on stanley, and with the help of stan and mike he managed to lower her to the floor.
“oh my god!” eddie was shrill with panic, taking in worried breaths already. “bowers killed y/n!”
“she’s not dead you fucking idiot!” stan yelled back, though his face was pale with worry too.
richie tried to block the bickering out when bev and mike joined too as he crouched beside her, hands a little shaky as he tried to check her over for any injuries, ben doing the same from where he stood. he couldn’t see anything, though a puddle of blood forming underneath her left thigh spoke for itself, and immediately he was panicking too.
“fuck! eddie her leg!” richie was shouting too, hoping eddie knew something about what the fuck was going on due to his extensive medical knowledge.
eddie crouched on the floor beside her leg, gritting his teeth to hold back the willing heave from the sight of blood as he tried to see what had happened. with the help of bev who lifted her leg up, eddie gasped and almost made richie go into cardiac arrest.
“what?! what is it?! is her leg falling off or something?!” now he was sounding like eddie.
“bowers cut her-“ eddie almost heaved again though swallowed it down to speak again. “it’s bad. she needs to get to the hospital she’s losing a fuck ton of blood.”
“fuck-“ richie felt nauseous with worry, and his hands shook as one moved to her cheek, shaking her slightly as if she would wake up. when she continued just to lay there he pulled off his shirt with trembling fingers and leaned over her body towards her leg. “she needs something tied to stop the blood flow, right?” he spoke quickly as he looked up at eddie, who had his hands clamped over his mouth as he tried to keep from throwing up. “RIGHT?” he yelled, impatient.
eddie nodded frantically as his hand dug into his fanny pack for his inhaler and richie wasted no time in wrapping his shirt around her leg, and tied a knot tightly above the cut, not bothered by the blood staining it. once it was tied beverly lowered her leg back down to the floor.
all of the losers had the same sort of expression on their faces; shock. whether it was shown through wheezing like eddie or standing as still as a statue like stan, they all had the same almost ghostly look to their expression.
“there’s a phone booth down the street, i’ll go call an ambulance.” bev announced before she took off running in the direction of the phone.
richie sat back on his heels, pretending his hands weren’t stained with his girlfriends blood as he took her hand and sat it in her lap. he could feel his heart thumping against his ribs and just prayed that the ambulance would get there soon.
-
y/n blinked almost furiously under the sudden harsh light, it hurt her head to look at it. the bed she was laying in was uncomfortable and the room smelt like disinfectant. eddie better not have cleaned my room again, she thought. the last time he had done it was because she had a stomach bug and “the germs could spread and get everyone sick!“, so she didn’t see why he had reason to do it now.
once her eyes had adjusted to the brightness of the room she glanced around and was suddenly taken aback by where she was; the hospital.
y/n immediately sat up, suddenly wide awake, though she flinched when she felt something grab her hand and turned to see what it was, thoughts of bowers and his blood-coated knife flashing in her mind. though she relaxed slightly when she saw richie sat there instead, his hand over hers.
“it’s not even summer yet and you’re already having adventures. look at you go.” his teasing voice filled the room, though she could see in his eyes that he wasn’t completely carefree like usual.
y/n smiled a little as she leaned back against the pillows of her bed and shrugged. “what can i say? i’m just way cooler than you.” she teased as she moved her fingers gently against his to link them together.
richie scoffed in mock offence though a moment later he’d leaned forwards, his other hand over their linked ones. “you feel okay?” his voice was soft and genuine, a tone she only ever heard from richie when they were alone.
she blinked a few times at the question, and suddenly the pain in her leg had registered and she winced. “my leg hurts.”
“i’d expect so after bowers fucking sliced you open,” richie grumbled. he looked angry and concerned and different. y/n rarely saw him so serious. “when i see him next i’m going to kill him.”
“no, rich,” y/n shook her head, frowning a little as she squeezed his hand a little firmer. “i’m okay. just leave it. it’ll get worse.”
richie sighed though nodded, his gaze focused on their interlocked hands. y/n waited another moment before she shuffled over on the bed (and grit her teeth to suppress the grunt of pain from moving her leg, which richie picked up on anyways) before she pat the bed beside her and tugged on richie’s arm. “in.”
“not the first time you’ve said that.” richie snorted as he stood up, and let go of her hand so he could climb onto the bed beside her. once he had settled comfortably against the pillows y/n tucked herself into his side, and closed her eyes once her head had dropped against his shoulder.
after a moment she could feel the tips of richie’s fingers dragging up and down her arm, tracing invisible patterns along her skin. his lips pressed to the crown of her head and in return she gently left a kiss to his collarbone with a quiet hum, though kept her eyes closed.
“you didn’t have to put yourself in harms away for us today,” richie mumbled. “i totally could have handled it.” he added jokingly, not able to stay serious for long.
“oh i’m sure,” y/n smirked slightly before she shook her head and sighed. “i saw the knife in his back pocket and thought of ben and what he did to him. i couldn’t imagine him doing that again to any of you. i’d do anything for you guys,” her voice was so soft it was almost a whisper, and when she looked up richie was already looking at her. “especially you.” she added, almost silent.
richie brought his tree hand up and brushed some hair out of his face as he looked at her, surprisingly not cracking a joke or even a smirk that time. instead his expression was soft; a rarity for sure. his gaze softened and he had a half-smile that made y/n almost swoon, despite being in a hospital bed.
“that means a lot,” richie told her genuinely. “i just don’t like seeing you get hurt, doll.”
“i know, but i’m okay.” she insisted, sitting up a little against his side as she looked at him.
“you’re almost okay,” he corrected, as his fingers tapped against the thigh of the leg that was hurt. “just don’t throw yourself in front of bowers for us again, okay?”
“‘kay. promise.” she smiled, and her eyes closed shut again when richie pressed a soft, loving kiss to her lips.
“as much as i’d love to enjoy this moment,” richie pulled away, his usual smirk back on his face. “eddie is probably outside going through his third inhaler, and stan’s hair probably dropped out from stress.”
y/n laughed and shook her head, though she knew richie really wasn’t far off.
almost as if the losers had heard them, the door opened so quickly and with so much force that it slammed against the wall beside it, revealing (surely) eddie hugging his inhaler and stan looking sick with stress, followed by the other losers.
“yo stan, you look like you just saw under eddie’s mom’s skirt.” richie called over, and immediately eddie was cursing at him as he stepped forwards.
y/n giggled to herself as she tucked against richie’a side, watching the usual bickering start up again. back to normal, she thought to herself.
320 notes · View notes
marky4l · 3 years
Text
Step by Step / Mark Lee
step by step / mkl
pairing: Mark Lee x Reader
From an innocent childhood friendship to a juvenile high school rivalry to a forced pairing for a Psychology paper, it seems you and Mark just can’t avoid each other. But something’s a little different now.
genre: fluff, angst (a little bit), suggestive themes, childhood friends (barely mentioned!) to enemies to lovers, college!au
notes: lia yeonjun chan hyuck jeno all make tiny appearances 
word count: 17.2k 
hi!!! this is my first work nd I’m really excited to put this out I’d looove if you could give it a read :^) hound me on my inbox if u wanna i take anything
“Remember when we were best friends in fifth grade?”
His voice is a little quiet, and there’s a very obvious undertone of boredom, but you hum softly anyway, nodding, as if to question why you would ever forget. Fifth grade was a suburban brew of Star Wars marathons, figuring out the world, and Harry Potter merchandise littering your house. Fifth grade was lemonade and oatmeal, knitted sweaters, and sneaking into your mom’s vanity to swipe her makeup. And fifth grade was Mark—bright eyed, geeky Mark, with his Death Star replica and weird electronica music. 
Mark, who had an affinity with Troy from High School Musical and Spiderman, and wanted to be just like them. Mark, who would show up grinning to your front door everyday, pie dish in his nimble grip. He was the one who had opened a lemonade stand at the corner of your block so he could buy you the Gryffindor scarf you’d been nagging your mom about the entire holiday season. He was the one who learned the chords to your favorite Jonas Brothers song and sang it to you each time you requested it.
“Yes, I do,” you answer instead, clearing your throat. 
You attempt to push down all the memories that just ran through your head and adjust the grip you have on your pen. “Well,” Mark continues, “that was ages ago. Beats me why it ever happened.” 
The timidity is replaced with a tidal wave of teasing, and the annoyance that had disappeared is beginning to crawl all over you. Again. You roll your eyes and pull up the slides your professor had assigned. “Beats me why we even ended up in the same university, let alone the same class,” you jab, “if you thought I forgot about how you outright failed our Spanish classes in high school, I didn’t.”
Your friendship with Mark had reached its unfortunate demise to the hands of middle school, where you had branched out with your interests and began to stick to societal (as societal as school can get) norms. He had joined the geeky, cool kids; you hadn’t joined a specific social circle, but you had a best friend, Lia, and you were generally good with everybody. 
Somehow, despite you both being in good graces with everyone, you had a deep-seated dislike for one another that stemmed from an intense academic rivalry. Specifically, the competition to become school council president. That had ended now, seeing as though you were both in college, but the abrasiveness of your banter had never worn off.
“Oh, because you were so good at Physics?” he says, voice even. His brow is raised. “We all have our strong suits, you know. You’re one to talk.” You decide to pay him no mind, instead jotting down the criteria for your final project in Psychology 1—something about the stages of grief. You’re supposed to relate it to a different human process and show how they fit with one another. 
It’s absolute fucking bullshit, and the fact that Mark Lee became your partner among a hundred students is beyond you. Absolutely beyond you. 
He nears your screen, reading the content of your project, eyes squinted—you’d noticed his lack of decent eyesight years ago, but it seemingly hadn’t improved. “Relate the stages of grief…hold up, what? That’s difficult as hell. What are we supposed to do, lose a loved one?” You roll your eyes, turning to him. “No, Mark. The point is to find another process that happens gradually and relate it to this—denial, bargaining, anger. Get it?”
He stares back at you. “No.”
You groan audibly, turning back to your notebook. “This is impossible. Can we just switch partners so I won’t have to deal with you?” He smirks, kicking his feet up on the library table. Absently, you note how nice his sneakers look. Reclining onto the seat, he shuts his eyes as if to contemplate. 
“I heard through the birdvine our professor’s the type to pair up people she thinks would look good together for shits and giggles. Girls and boys, boys and boys, you name it. Johnny”—he’s referring to a guy who’s a year above yours, studying Biology—“tells me over five couples have been born out of this class. Isn’t that nice?” You scoff, scrolling mindlessly through the slides to keep yourself distracted. 
“It really is. A shame we won’t be adding to that list, because I can’t fucking stand you.” He laughs loudly, the vibration of it remaining in the deadly silent air. “I can stand fucking you, though,” he says, and then, before you can even blush, “All jokes. Don’t get your hopes up, ‘kay?” He’s quick to get up, just as flustered as you are at the uncharacteristic phrase that just left his mouth. He collects his jacket and jogs out of the library with a small, half-assed bye under his breath.
Lia’s eyes bore into yours. “He actually said that? I’m telling you, he’s some weird kinky guy under that whole cool geek persona. High school Mark would never have. Oh my god. He’s a furry—he’s a furry!” She flops back onto your bed, laughing. You poke at her waist in protest. 
“It’s because he’s surrounded by too many weird classy fuckboys. You know, those that think that they’re all that because they haven’t roofied a girl.” You’re half-joking, and you’re really only referring to maybe two guys you’ve happened to see Mark with. As if to read your mind, Lia continues. “Hey, I heard some of them are okay. They’re not, like…those ‘nice guys’, if you get me.”
“I do,” you quip. “But I guess I’m just trying to find a way to justify the whole 360 in Mark. I mean, in high school, he was still nerdy—well, you know. Shy. But jump to sophomore year of uni and he’s suddenly some…” You rack your head for a proper term. “Sex god?” your friend asks, holding in a laugh. “Oh, eat shit,” you fire back, “really, eat shit. And while you’re at it, feed me some, too, because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to turn in at the end of the term. Like, Jes—”
There’s a faint knock at the door, and then. “Lia? It’s—uh, it’s me, Daniel? Er, Daniel Choi.” Your wide eyes can’t possibly match Lia’s as she tugs on a decent-looking pullover and puts it on. As she swings the door open, you manage to sufficiently hide yourself under your duvet and attempt to hear their conversation. 
“You know, it’s okay if you leave out the whole…saying your full name at the door part. Trust me…I know you,” she jokes, and you hear him laugh before you detect the crinkling of a plastic bag. “Chinese. Uh, I bought some extra for your best friend, because I’m not gonna pretend I don’t see the sentient blob on the bed.”
You pull the blanket off and smile sheepishly. “Hey, Daniel,” you say, “thanks for the food. I owe you an empty room next time, I swear by it. It’ll be easy, since I’m gonna be”—you heave yourself off the bed and onto the floor, where they’re both sitting—“holed up at the library for the next few weeks.” 
Lia nods, chewing her chow mein, and then when she’s done, she explains to Daniel your whole huge Psychology end-of-term paper about stages and grief and whatever, oh also she’s partnered with Mark Lee, this guy that we both know from high school, and she dislikes his guts, oh you know him? 
“Wait. You know him?” You repeat, and Daniel nods, ruffling his black mullet. “His room’s, like, three away from mine. He’s studying Theoretical Physics, right? Yeah, he’s always in his room doing school shit, but every weekend he’s out with the upperclassmen. He’s probably out now, ‘cause it’s Friday. How he even charmed them, though, is a mystery.”
Mid-dumpling, you roll your eyes. “Y’know, the hardest part is being partnered with him. But also, even finding what kind of gradual process to relate denial and anger too is weirdly hard. It feels like I could find something, but I haven’t gotten it…quite…” you trail off, your eyes landing on Lia and Daniel across you—they’re smiling softly at each other, and you distinguish their fingers interlocking quietly, as if you wouldn’t notice. 
“…yet. Except maybe I have. How would you want to participate in my end-of-term paper?” Their gazes turn to yours, and you nod frantically. “Oh my god, I’m a genius! Seriously! Falling in love! Yes! It’s denial—anger—whatever, whatever! It makes perfect sense. The end is acceptance, too! Oh god, Li, it’s perfect. I will owe you for life if you help me out.”
“Wait, what? You dove straight into it, what—recap, please,” Lia asks, and you compose yourself before explaining giddily. 
“Falling in love. It happens gradually, and we can compare it to the stages of grief. Seeing as you and Daniel are headed right there, we can use you as some test subjects. It’s not required to have respondents or subjects, really, it’s just an extensive paper, but it might help get the grade up. This is gonna be great, and if you ever wanna back out, you can, because it’s not mandatory.” Lia and Daniel meet eyes briefly, and then slowly, nod. “Okay, that’s pretty smart,” Daniel says, “I’m up for it. Are you?” Lia nods, slowly and hesitantly, and you smile widely. “You two just saved my Psych grade. I’ll be at Giselle’s tonight. Just…not on my bed.” You grab your keys and phone and bound out of your room, straight into the elevator at the end of the hall.
The elevator door nearly closes when a Converse-clad foot steps in, and your eyes rake up the figure, eventually landing on his face. 
“Jesus fuck,” you mumble, “you must be kidding me.” 
Mark enters the elevator with a small, teasing smile, hands tucked into his jacket’s pockets. “Hey, dude, what’s up? Was on your floor on my stop down to get some money Lucas owed me,” he says, “this is actually a godsend, because my genius brain found us a project idea. Relate grief to something else gradual? Easy as pie. Falling in lo—” 
You cut him off before he can finish, “Falling in love, right. I thought of it first, earlier,” you say profusely, absently noting the pettiness in your tone. He whistles. “No need to get all possessive over an idea the previous classes have used before, man.” You continue, ignoring him. “Whatever. Lucky for our grades, I went the extra mile to get us some test subjects. Do you know the two Chois? Lia and Daniel?” 
He nods once, “Yeah, their PDA on Instagram is fucking sickening, but I see your technique, and I like that—we get some extra data from their god awful PDA.” You nod once, and he continues. “It’s nearing 11 on a Friday night. Whose party are you headed to?”
“You’re welcome for the test subjects,” you gripe. “Anyway, I was so giddy about coming up with it, I just left them to…well, fornicate. As a compromise for being lab rats. I texted my…” you realize you’re starting to share too much to a guy you typically dislike talking to, and then there’s a silence in the air that’s painfully awkward. 
“You texted your…?” Mark asks. “My friend, but she’ll be home at 1AM, so I’m out to kill time. No parties, just…I dunno.” He nods again, and then the elevator lets out a blissful ding. You step out simultaneously, and then he faces you. “Look, it’s freezing out, you’re in shorts and a puffer coat, and it’s three hours to 1AM, so I doubt you’ll get far.” You scoff at his words despite feeling your legs shake from the breeze outside. “I’ll be fine, dumbass.”
“Just concerned,” he says, in a tone that sounds more blank than annoyed, but he turns and heads toward the door anyway. He swivels back around briefly. “It’s in Johnny’s apartment. Just a couple people, if you get bored freezing.” He jogs outside then, and you inwardly appreciate the small gesture, but again, annoyance returns just as quickly. You linger a bit before heading out yourself, walking briskly to a local Japanese restaurant. You consider this an opportunity to have some me time, some rest after a shitty week in university. Lasting ’til 1AM alone and entertained would not at all be a problem. 
You last one ramen bowl and head to Johnny’s apartment.
When Johnny Suh answers the door, he’s clad in a makeshift shower curtain gown of sorts, and is flushed and very buzzed all over. He hikes up the top to cover his chest and laughs profusely. “Did Mark invite you?” Behind him is a sizeable group of just about twenty people, which looks like forty in a cramped communal space. You’d been here before—Johnny likes to invite just about anyone to get stoned and listen to Kid Cudi on Fridays, and you had pushed Lia to accompany you before. 
You distantly spot the kitchenette, the small living room, and then the two bedroom doors opposing each other. “The rule was to show up wearing something not marketed as clothing, but Mark didn’t follow the rules, so. Anyway, you’re off scot-free, too…” he pauses, “…if you take off the puffer coat. We’ve got heating, anyway. Free booze and weed, too.” You figure being in a flimsy tank top isn’t so bad—you’re sure half the people here are already getting laid or trying to, and nobody would really pay attention to you.
You shrug off the coat as Johnny steps aside to let you in, hugging it close to your body and navigating your way to the kitchen. The granite counters are filled with various bottles of booze, and you also note the cigarettes and blunts lining the island. You peruse the brands before settling on a sealed can of decidedly not-so-cheap-looking beer, and crack it open to take a swig. It’s warm and fucking disgusting, but there’s not much glitz in an “anything but clothing” off-campus college party anyway. 
There are several people scattered among the living area, passing around a blunt—another group is playing suck and blow. You make your way over to the cheap couch on the far end of the room, taking a seat on the arm and stretching out your hand to claim the blunt. It’s Jae who passes it to you—Jaehyun Jung, an upperclassman whose infamy (for wearing nothing but toilet paper and running through campus) greatly surpasses him. “Who are you?” he asks, and you holler your name back over the Kanye West song playing in the background. “Mark invited me,” you tack onto the end as compensation.
He nods in understanding, watching you take a drag and pass it back to him. He only hands it back, saying, “It’s nearly done, just finish it,” and getting up to probably get some booze or another blunt. 
You scan the area for a better place to cherish your weed, because you’re definitely not going to do it on the arm of a couch housing three couples making out to the high heavens. You spot an open window and a fire escape just beside the kitchen and walk over, ducking into the cool night air. It’s not quiet, it never is, and you treasure the peace that comes with the noise, closing your eyes and trying to milk the last few drags. All that is flushed down the drain when somebody kicks you out of your reverie and your last two drags are falling down, through the grills of the fire escape. 
“What the fuck?” You look up to meet, of course, Mark’s gaze, teasing and mischievous. 
“That wasn’t fucking funny, asshat. Get away from me.” You get up instantly, ducking back into the house and searching for your coat. It’s (very unfortunately) buried under a couple who have escalated from making out to borderline public indecency.
“Fuck it,” you mumble, swinging the door open and mentally preparing yourself for the cold once you get to the sidewalk, floors down. Mark follows suit, a laugh gracing the atmosphere around the two of you. “You know, I forgot how fun it is to make you pissed off. I did it all the time in eighth grade when I told our teacher you knew the solution to the Physics problems.” You’re fucking pissed. However petty, you’re fucking annoyed that you couldn’t finish the blunt, and you pay no attention to him. 
He badgers on anyway. “Hey—it was a mistake, I wanted to say hi to you.” You scoff, finally turning—“Why? Because we’re friends? We’re not. We’re Psych partners, we came from the same high school, we share a couple mutual friends. But you and I are not friends, not objectively, anyway. Please, Mark. I only just re-acquainted myself with you today, but, like, you’re already so annoying!” You’re at the elevator now, and when the doors slide open, you step inside and let them close at once. You barely catch the unreadable look on his face in your annoyance, and you lean against the wall, shutting your eyes and breathing heavily. 
How you’d even get to Giselle’s, or how you would wait out the remaining half-hour before she got home, was just up to whichever higher power happened to be witnessing you that night.
The door of your professor’s office closes with a saddening click. You stare back at her name, embossed on the wood in bold, in defeat, accepting your fate with a heavy heart. Just fifteen minutes prior, you had entered with a whole spiel prepared on how you just had to swap with somebody from your class so you wouldn’t have to work with Mark. This speech had occurred twice now—with your TA, and then once with your professor. This was your second chance, your redemption: so you prepared notes, you prepared convincing words—you had a point. 
But your professor simply shooed you away, muttering how she didn’t have time for you because she was going to be receiving hundreds of papers in a few weeks’ time from a different class and she, quite honestly, couldn’t be bothered. You bite your lip, thinking back to the previous Friday—it was nearing two weeks since your small outburst at Mark. Since then, you’d expected to build a silent rapport of just working, observing Lia and Daniel, and then parting. And that was almost it. You would show up to your so-called “lab rat sessions”, cup of warm caramel latte in hand, and work. 
Except Mark would constantly make noise, jeer, swipe your pen, and do other things that got on your nerves.
“You’re going to have to stop trying sometime,” Lia says, backhugging you. She’d been waiting outside. You let your head loll back onto her shoulder and whine. “Do you know when you’re so frustrated you want to cry? Yeah? That’s exactly how it is, Li. I can’t keep up with this for another two, three months. It’s like he’s not even, like, fuck, like he’s not even trying, y’know? We’re building the foundation of a pages-long paper. This isn’t some finals essay he can bullshit in three hours.” 
You groan as Lia pulls away from you, whirling you around to face her. “It’ll be fine, I swear to you. I’ll help out, anytime you need it. I promise. If I start hating Daniel, I’ll even pretend like I’m in love with him. Head over heels.” You let yourself laugh and pull out your phone as you two begin to walk towards your dorm.
She tsks. “We’re gonna have a thing tonight, right? Like, a lab rat session?”
You nod, squinting over your calendar app. “Yeah, at around 5:30 to 6. It’ll be quick, but Mark and I are gonna have to stay behind to divide the work for the general paper and then start. Hopefully we can get some outlining done by tonight…so don’t wait up,” you sigh. She smiles apologetically, pinching your waist affectionately. 
“Daniel and I will totally help you. He’s a Mark anti now. I told him about the party outburst thing.” You had sent her a slew of texts that night, and like every other story you had told (save for the most private ones), Daniel had caught wind of it. You’re half sure he was capable of blackmailing you at that point. “Good,” you shoot back, “I’m going to need all the anti-Mark force I can get.”
“Why?” You both turn to see Mark standing idly behind you. There’s a beat, and then: “You look like an inane stalker,” you retort, turning to continue walking. Lia follows suit—with the two of you, the vibe of the atmosphere would always come easy. If one was mad, the other would act mad, too. 
“Hey,” Mark repeats, falling into step beside you, “why do you need an anti-Mark force? Tell me.” At this point, your nerves are on fire and your blood is boiling, and you’re beginning to envision beating him up on the quad. “Mark, it’s been great, but we’re going to our dorm, and in case you don’t want to catch a restraining order, I suggest you get off at your floor instead of following us like a creep,” you say sweetly, quickening your steps until he’s far behind you, smiling. Fucking asshole. 
“I’ll see ya this evening, then,” he teases, and you grumble under your breath.
It’s 5:45 when Lia and Daniel leave the library—fifteen minutes early. You and Mark leave ten minutes later, hours before you were supposed to complete your task. You’re fuming, and for once, Mark has the decency to read the room and feel remorse. 
The evening had started off well enough, though—Lia and Daniel had showed up, did their thing, described what was happening, and you and Mark had noted it down. And then, well. Mark spilled water all over your planner, which, in hindsight, was definitely unintentional, but in the spur of the moment, you could do nothing but your natural—everybody’s natural—response to getting something precious ruined. You began to cry. “What the fuck,” you sniffled, “is wrong with you?!” You had shaken the majority of water off your planner, but any and all dates had been smudged and bled, and you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive him. “I know I called you annoying, but this is too far,” you had said, watching his face go from teasing to genuinely sorry. “Dude, it was accidenta—” 
“I don’t give a fuck—!” You quickly cut yourself off and wipe your tears when you see a young library assistant heading towards your table. Everybody composes themselves—Lia and Daniel straighten out the things on the surface and Mark sits up straight. “Hey,” he says. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but two students already came in with a noise complaint. We’re gonna have to ask you to,” he makes a gesture, “leave for now and come back tomorrow. Also, the puddle on the table…yeah. I’m really sorry.” He leaves, as if to make sure you have no other choice but to just go, and you slump back onto your chair in exhaustion. 
“You two can go ahead,” you hear Mark say, “I’m really sorry about this. We’ll clean up and apologize.” Faintly, you hear them get up, and you feel Lia’s hand squeeze yours as she promises a text and food later. You let your eyes remain shut, drinking in the quiet, trying to calm your inner turmoil.
Ten minutes later, when you’re out in the cold November air, Mark finally speaks. You had cleaned up and collected your things in silence. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “it was an accident, for real. I know I tease a lot, but, uh, I’m being serious. I would never have done that on purpose. I see you write shit on that thing a lot, so…I know how much you like it. Treasure it…? I don’t—whatever it is, I’m really sorry. Like, really. T’was an accident. If you need me to pay for it…” You shake your head softly, hugging your damp planner closer to your sweater-clad chest. “It’s okay. Thanks, anyway. For helping. I’ll email you what you have to do. Bye,” you turn and begin walking in the direction of your dorm. The sun is beginning to set, golden orange hues casting a vast array of colors onto the landscape of the city. You sigh softly, heart heavy with annoyance and exhaustion, and speed up before you start having a mini-breakdown.
Stage 1: Denial|
Your cursor blinks back at you as you finish typing in your outline for the introduction. It’s early into November, but already, you’ve had to shut your window to shielf yourself from the biting breeze outside. Across you, Lia applies mascara and talks to you. “What are you up to?” she asks, face contorted. 
“This godforsaken paper,” you mumble back, “just finished the introduction outline. I’m trying to give a loose definition for each gradual ‘stage.’” Shoving your Macbook off your lap, you get up to stretch. “Which I’ll probably find on Google Scholar, honestly. If you had to give me a definition—what’s denial?” 
She hums contemplatively, wand on lash, and then pipes up. “I think it’s just a stage where you can’t face the fact that you’re interested in that person. Like, why them? With Daniel, he wasn’t really my type. So the whole denial was denying I liked him, because…well, yeah. But I think it differs. Some people deny it because they’re shy, or ashamed, or weirded out that they even like them.”
You’ve had your fair share of crushes before, and sure enough, you had denied them all. But that was high school—college, though, had only brought short-lived flings and one night stands; you were an overachiever, much too committed to your own prosperity to pay mind to anybody else for too long. (Except Lia.) So you hadn’t really experienced the whole boyfriend-in-university thing—not that you particularly wanted to, but you were just human; you were curious. Lia had gotten it, and it looked wonderful. 
Speaking of—“So, a week without meeting Mark in person, huh? How is that going for you?” You scoff lightly, shaking your head as you pull your hair into a bun. “It’s going just fine. Dandy, actually. We work from our dorms and you and Daniel just update us. It’s a fine arrangement that I regret was not formulated sooner.” Lia nods in understanding, and you watch her pull on a top, mutter I’m out and head outside. For the fifth time this week, you’re alone in the dorm, with nothing but your Alexa playing SZA and your laptop. You pull it onto your lap again, staring at the boldface letters you had typed minutes prior: denial. You had no firsthand experience of being mature and going through denial; not in that way, anyway. You found it stupid that people even denied when it would be less painful to just admit interest.
You blow a raspberry as you research studies related to the term, bored out of your mind.
Two days later, you meet Mark again. 
You’d also had the pleasure of, for a minute or two, meeting a friend of his, Donghyuck Lee from Economics. He’s loud and amusing and, from your viewpoint, undeserving of somebody as boring as Mark. (That’s from a minute-long intercation.) 
At Lia’s insistence (and likely Daniel’s, too), you two met up to properly work and collaborate. In fear of being kicked out again, the four of you had chosen to meet somewhere else—a cafe off-campus affectionately named something along the lines of Saltwater Coffee. Naturally, after Donghyuck leaves, you find yourself sitting idly (awkwardly) beside Mark. “They won’t be long,” he says suddenly, “er, Daniel just texted me. They’re near.” You nod, pursing your lips, eyes trained onto your laptop. “We’re almost done formulating the denial stage and we can start outlining anger and bargaining. This’ll take about a week more—maybe mid to late November? Uh, I know it seems justifiable to slack off with the holidays,” you say, “but I really want us to finish this early. The due date’s in mid-February, so we can pass this on the 14th.” You turn to face him. “Get it? ‘Cause it’s Valentine’s Day.”
He nods. “Okay. No slacking. I get it. The Valentine’s is smart, too.” You nod back in silent understanding, turning back to type frantically into your keyboard. 
You hear the door jingle and Lia’s small “hey, guys”, so you look up and offer a smile. “I’m gonna go order everyone some coffee,” Mark says beside you, getting up and shuffling over to the counter. Daniel joins him, and Lia takes a seat across you, her smile knowing and apologetic. “Everything okay?” You blow a raspberry, but smile, anyway. “It’s not so bad. It could be better, but no more banter, just very annoyed auras…? You get it. It’s just been tough trying to divert my focus to this and ignore all the annoyance I feel.”
“Totally, I get that,” she says, “but all the same, I’m glad he’s matured a little bit and lessened all the ribbing.” You smile at that, agreeing, and then the conversation spirals into one about both of your days—“Professor Callahan totally pops a stiffy over Professor Michaelson”, “Daniel tells me Joshua cheated. Yes, on Jess!”, “Mia dropped out the other day and nobody knows why, hope she’s okay”—before Daniel and Mark return, coffee cups in hand. Mark places one next to you, and profusely, you look up at him, who’s just about to sit. 
“Thanks, but I don’t drink brewed coff—”
“It’s a caramel latte, the only thing you drink. Heard you say that to Lia once.” He takes a seat and pulls his laptop open. 
You stare at him, taking the cup and bringing it to your lips. Sure enough, it’s caramel—thick, and foamy, and sweet. You look up at him again, but he’s busy on Google Scholar, perusing through journals and studies. You shake your head before turning to Lia, who’s already looking at you, expression mirroring yours. 
Sweet, she mouths, but you purse your lips and choose not to acknowledge it. “Thanks,” you say quietly, and he hums to say you’re welcome. 
Your eyes flicker to him. He’s wearing a knitted sweater, but he’s pulled it up to his elbows. He’s typing quickly, and he can use all his fingers, too (you fail miserably at that), and his brows are furrowed as if he’s stressed, or in a hurry. You’ve never really noticed this much of Mark before. It’s probably, you think absently, because you’re confused. Puzzled at the gesture that you didn’t expect—at all.
After an hour, he angles his laptop to yours. “Nailed the intro. High five?” You open the Google doc on your own browser, and sure enough, the word count has increased monumentally. You can’t deny his knack for writing. “There are a few discrepancies in grammar,” you say instead. “But…okay. This is good.” You ignore his hand, in mid-air, and continue researching. 
Lia holds in a giggle, but turns back to Daniel, who, after fifteen minutes, turns to you and Mark. “Lia and I are heading out, guys,” he says, and Lia quickly tacks on. “Hey, if you need me to stay, I can,” she says quickly, but you smile and shake your head. 
“This might take a while. Go ahead. See ya at the dorm, Li. Bye, Daniel.” Mark bids his farewells, too, and they leave you alone in the cafe. It’s nearing a three hour crunch when he abruptly gets up to stretch, a low grunt leaving his lips. “I’m exhausted,” he sighs, “but at least we’re nearly done with this whole denial thing.”
“We’re actually only just starting,” you state, “this is going to go through a lot of editing and proofreading.” 
He chuckles and walks back to the counter to order something, and you shut your laptop to rest your eyes. Your glasses rest uncomfortably on the bridge of your nose as you breathe deeply. You lose track of time, and you open your eyes ten minutes later, fumbling to get up properly. There’s a panini beside your laptop, wrapped neatly in a tissue and laid on a plate. Mark’s is empty, save for crumbs, and he says nothing. 
“Get up,” he remarks teasingly after a while, and you groan in exhaustion. “I am, I’m up,” you mutter, straightening your back and flexing your neck. Inwardly, you wonder if you should thank him for the panini that is obviously yours that you obviously did not buy for yourself. 
Then Mark’s hand stretches out to take the panini, and he takes a bite. “Sorry,” he says, “I had to put my second sandwich in your space. This table’s a little small.” You hum back in acknowledgement, nodding once. “It’s, uh…all good,” you respond, voice small as you type into your laptop. Internally, your body fills slowly with humiliation and confusion, but you stay quiet, and that’s how the rest of the night goes: a silent, steady beat of keyboard clicking and the occasional question. 
No banter, no nothing—it’s a godsend, yes, it is, but you can’t help but miss the abrasive, playful conversations the two of you had built up over the previous several weeks. But really—had you truly assumed he had bought you a panini? As if a coffee wasn’t enough? You felt at odds with yourself for even expecting such a gesture from the guy whose main habit was to annoy you to the ends of the Earth.
“It’s late,” he says, as if he’s reading your mind and knowing you’re absolutely mortified inside. “Let’s head home.” You nod, deeming the night’s work satisfactory—maybe even beyond, considering the amount of effort you both put into the output. You shove your laptop and charger into your bag and pocket your phone, lingering awkwardly and waiting for Mark to finish packing up. He’s particular with it—he has little sections in his backpack for the wires and chargers, and even his AirPods, and his laptop. 
“Very organized,” you find yourself commenting offhandedly, your tone taking on a teasing edge. He glares playfully back at you. 
“Sorry I don’t want my wires to break,” he shoots back, eyeing your flimsy tote bag, “unlike some people.” You roll your eyes and, against your strongest wills, a smile appears on your lips, albeit a small one. His eyes linger on your smile for a little bit before he clears his throat and zips up his knapsack. “Let’s, er, go. Thank Jesus we’re in the same building.” When you exit, the air bites at you despite the jacket covering your body, and you quicken your pace. “It’s cold as hell.”
“Ironic,” Mark says. You hide a smile.
That’s what November brings you—the next week and a half are composed of just slowly learning to get used to working with Mark again and going home late into the night, crunching to the max. 
Your paper begins to take on more and more structure, and two out of the six days you’ve met, Mark has set down a caramel latte for you to arrive to. The acoustic music slowly phases into holiday guitar, and the coat rack at the entrance is weighed down more and more as the days pass, preparing to welcome December. 
You and Mark work silently, save for the rare banter and eyeroll, and very gradually, the annoyance that had bubbled up within seconds before had sank down. You’re not friends, per se—it’s just that the frustration and exasperation had lessened considerably. 
You were civil. That’s it. You won’t try to deny that you’ve been thinking about this a little too much—about what your “friendship” had become with Mark. You hadn’t snapped at him in days, and he hadn’t tugged at your ballpen in even longer. It wasn’t that you had cowered him into silence by crying over your planner—it may have instigated it, but his behavior was…different. 
More calm, more sure. Less childish. He would still tease you, but not as much. It’s nearing mid-November now, and you’ve successfully done much of your introduction and denial, needing less and less of Lia and Daniel’s presence. (Which you’re sure they’re grateful for.) But being left alone with Mark isn’t as bad as you once thought—
“Hello. Earth to you,” you distantly hear, and you whip your head in the direction of the voice as you pace back to your dorm building. Mark stares blankly back at you. “What,” you mumble back. He quirks a brow before continuing. “I was saying, I think I need to take a rain check tomorrow. The, uh”—he clears his throat—“um, yeah.”
You eye him. “Okay…?”
He nods profusely, “Yeah, all good.” The walk continues in silence, the sun finally setting down behind the Manhattan skyline beyond you and the breeze taking on a chillier temperature. You sigh softly, fatigue overtaking you as you stare at the building nearing you. “If you take a rain check, just make sure you write it within the day or after,” you say, half-sternly and half-tiredly. He mumbles a “got it” and you both jog up the steps to the lobby, where you run into, by some weird twist of the day, a small group of anti-abortion protesters.
“Jesus Christ,” Mark mutters under his breath. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You rub the bridge of your nose in your fingers, choosing to tune them out and instead maneuver your way through the door. Before you can even take a step, though, they’re all up in your face with pamphlets and brochures and a guitar. “Excuse me,” you grunt, trying to gently push them aside, but they only come on stronger. “A child is a child,” they say. “If you know anybody who’s—”
“Is this your new initiative? Preying on college students on school grounds, unaccounted for?” Mark asks from behind you. You turn to find he’s filming and stifle a laugh. “I’m surprised nobody’s kicked you out. Won’t be long, now,” he adds with a smile. 
You tune out nearly everything else—it’s really just them telling Mark to stop recording and him retorting with equally snarky phrases. It’s not until maybe after a solid two minutes of back and forth that one of them, a weird middle-aged woman, pulls out a burgundy gummy bear from a bag and pushes it into Mark’s camera. He takes it from her and examines it, puzzled. “That,” she says matter-of-factly, “is the approximate size of a fetus. It’s big. It’s sentient, alive. What, I beg of you, what would you do?”
Mark squints at it. Then he pops it into his mouth, takes your hand, and runs straight to the elevator across the floor. 
“There’s a bunch of anti-abortion people outside, it’s not cool!” He hollers to the receptionist before the doors close with a damning click. 
There’s a beat, and then.
Both of you are doubling over in laughter. “Why the hell would y—why would you do that?! You’re insane!” The response is: “Because they’re not cool! They’re fuckin’ annoying! So I ate their baby!” There are tears in your eyes, your laughter so hard it’s nearing silent—Mark’s, though, is loud and annoying sounding, though you seem to not mind so much. The laughter subsides when the ding of your floor sounds and you straighten yourself up. Getting into a different position reminds you of the very there, very obvious brushing of your hand against Mark’s, which he’d taken just moments earlier, post-baby eating.
You freeze and jerk your hand away. “I’ll, um, go now,” you say, “I’ll see you tomorr—no, the day after.” Against your wills, you meet his eyes, and you’re surprised to find that he’s already looking at you, an unreadable expression on his face. “Okay,” he says, his eyes not leaving yours. Your heart beats faster at a very small increment, but you head out and semi-run to your room, swinging it open and leaning against it. 
You look up to find Lia and Daniel engaged in a heated Monopoly match. You make no noise, mind (and heart, but you can’t tell why) racing fast. You watch them play for a second before they both look up slowly.
“You’re smiling like a goddamn idiot,” Daniel says. Your face falls immediately. “I’m, um, no I’m not,” you say casually, pacing over to your bed and flopping onto it. Lia laughs loudly. 
“That sounded so freaked. Like we’re your mom and you just brought weed home kind of freaked.” Pause. 
“Are you hiding something from me?” She rises from her spot to look at you, head in pillow and all, and you let out a muffled “no!”, probably too defensive for your own good. 
It’s Daniel’s turn to snort. You look up and glare at him, “You’re getting too comfortable for your own good. You need to humble yourself, Daniel. What’s it again? Oh yeah, Yeonjun, right?” He rolls his eyes at the use of his Korean name and turns back to the Monopoly board.
Lia flops atop you, eliciting a grunt from your lips. “Are you okay? Did somebody flirt with you? Did Mark finally fuck off and leave you alone properly?” 
At the mention of Mark, your heart races—you will it to stop, and audibly groan in the process. “What is it, you bitch?” Lia asks, tugging on a section of your hair. “It’s nothing, Li! Nothing, I promise.” She glares at you before walking to Daniel and covering his ears. Instantly, he begins to let out a chorus of Lalala, and deeming the environment safe enough, you let it slip.
“Mark and I held hands. But it—”
“You what?!”
“It really, really doesn’t mean anyth—”
“How can that not mean anything? It’s hand holdi—”
“If you would listen to the backstory you’d know!” She pauses, and then uncovers Daniel’s ears and knees him. 
“Okay, get out. Monopoly postponed, Jun,” she says, pushing him out insistently. He barely collects his phone and keys before he’s out, but you swoon silently when you catch him pressing a short goodbye kiss to her forehead before actually leaving. She turns immediately, fire and curiosity awfully evident in her face. 
She nears you. “Explain.” 
And that’s what sparks the story of the weird protesters, Mark’s power move, and the unintentional hand hold that lasted a few moments too long. She nods the entire time, laughing, and then her face straightens out again. You can almost hear the gears in her head turning as she analyzes the situation, and then she nods once. 
“Okay. Perfectly justifiable to freak out.” Another pause. “But why were you smiling?” You stare blankly back at her, head working impossibly quick to formulate a reply. You’ve taken too long now, judging by the way Lia is looking at you with the most shit-eating grin on her fucking face. You groan.
“You like him, you bitch!” 
You shake your head, facing her. “I don’t, dude. Trust me. I just…it was a fun experience, so naturally I’d be laughing. And smiling. But I’m just not interested in Mark! I’m not,” you fumble, being completely honest. 
You didn’t—not even if you looked in the mirror and asked yourself. But you couldn’t deny the feelings you felt in the ten seconds from the elevator to your room, your heart racing and your fist curling and uncurling. When you look at Lia again, she’s still smiling, flushed. “You like him,” she says into her palm, which she’s slapped over her mouth in disbelief. You stare back at her, your expression baffled. “If I did,” you begin, getting up to discard your shirt, “I’d have told you by now. It’s really not that big of a deal unless you make it out to be.”
After that, you and Mark spend nearly three weeks walking on eggshells around each other. While conversations are no longer avoided, and you could talk without getting exasperated or too embarrassed, finger brushes are frequent, and eye contact only makes you extremely nervous. You had worked until the second stage—anger—already, but you’d still been polishing the denial and introduction. Considering November wasn’t over and the paper was due February, you figured you were moving at an okay pace. Besides, a lot of your friends hadn’t even begun.
There are two instances where you rush home, mortified beyond belief.
The first when when you struck up a conversation with the cute, Australian barista. Scrawled in big penmanship on his name tag is Chan. You had brought up, in passing, how often you’re at the cafe and how you probably deserve a free drink. He replied with a low hum, and you dialed down your flirty tone, slightly embarrassed. But not really. You’ve rejected plenty of people before. It’s when you’re already paying for your drink that he replied, handing you your (for a change) iced matcha with a small grin. 
“I’d have flirted with you weeks ago if you didn’t have your boyfriend with you all the time. He’s always buying you your drinks.” You spluttered for a good second, staring at him incredulously. “He’s not my boyfriend,” you finally said. 
He had shrugged, nonchalant. “He sure as hell looks at you a lot for someone you’re not dating. And you do it just as much, if not more. I’m observant, by the way. Not a stalker.” You had taken your cup and paced over to the other end of the cafe, sat across Mark, cheeks heated.
He looked up, brow raised. You shook your head.
The second time was when Donghyuck graced you both with his presence. You quickly found out that he was a magnetic presence and you both shared similar interests. The energy you both created was both amusing and annoying to Mark. 
Although you kept quiet mostly, you enabled Donghyuck’s incessant teasing, which annoyed Mark to the ends of the Earth. “You’re a dork. Isn’t he?” You look up and nod with a smile. Mark rolls his eyes, sending Donghyuck into a laughing frenzy. Mark just grunts and continues typing.
Hyuck had made a joke about how two Physics textbooks discussed why the sad man named Mark owns two of them and didn’t have a life, and you laughed. 
You didn’t usually laugh, not around Mark, at least, since it was safe to say you didn’t have any source of entertainment in such a boring guy. But you laughed at the witty joke, and Donghyuck, without thinking much, had said in passing: “Mark, I guess you’re right about everything about her being pretty.”
Mark said nothing, typing. You said nothing. Nobody said anything, not even a sly Donghyuck or, from the counter, an even slyer Chan.
When you see Mark next, it’s three days later, and it’s, for the second time, in Johnny’s apartment. 
Lia had asked if you wanted to tag along, and you found no harm in going. (“You’re going because Mark is” becomes Lia’s favorite phrase of the night, so much it’s spread to Daniel, who you’d succumbed to and spilled everything to hours prior.) The walk there has something boiling low in your gut and you’re quiet, in fear you might end up vomiting in nerves or saying something stupid. Lia teases you, but her hand clasping yours reassures you, and you squeeze it tightly. 
You get there late—it’s past 1AM, and you have a sense of deja vu walking into the cramped space. It’s fuller this time—people are creeping into the bedrooms to smoke in private or do some other things, but suffice to say it’s crowded as fuck.
“Want a drink?” Lia hollers, and you nod over the music. Johnny’s neighbor is another upperclassman named Doyoung, though he’s mainly referred to as Doie by just about everybody around him.
You’ve seen his girlfriend call him bunny a few times, though you’ve long desired to repress that memory. 
Judging by the fact that you can faintly hear a different song from the next room, the party has probably extended to Doyoung’s. There’s quite a gathering this week—the rich freshman who you’d befriended once before, Chenle, and his horde of friends are here; from Lia, who hands you a drink, you learn that Kun and Sicheng, two incredibly attractive juniors, are here, too—in Doie’s, though. The party only intensifies, which is hard, because Johnny’s apartment is very tiny.
Eventually, you find yourself in the bathroom, smoking a joint you’d grabbed out of the clammy hands of a tipsy Chenle and kicking a couple out under the guise that you’re Johnny’s cousin. Chenle had protested but eventually given in, pulling a new one out of his pocket.
The bathroom light is white and harsh, but there’s a very funky lamp at the corner. From your place inside the dry (and thankfully clean…looking) bathtub, you eye it. It’s a tall one in the shape of a glass of margarita. 
You heave yourself up and find the switch, and then when it’s on, you giggle at the green light emitting from it. You have absolutely no idea why Johnny, Jaehyun, or their roommate Jungwoo (3J, as some call them) have a decorative, margarita-shaped green lamp, and in their bathroom nonetheless, but you shut off the main light and return to smoking your blunt. Deciding your ass aches far too much, you lean against the tile wall and cherish the smoke.
The door opens abruptly, and you curse, pushing it back closed. 
“I have explosive diarrhea,” you say robotically, using the same excuse you did for the previous three couples that showed up. 
From the other side, you hear a shrill laugh and sound of confusion. When you peer over the other side and see Mark, you groan and laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I saw you come in. Like, twenty minutes ago.”
“I’m cherishing the party privately.”
Mark ushers himself into the dark space and shuts the door. He makes a show of locking it, as if to show you it’s possible to do so. The sound of it locking sends a wave of nerves up your spine. 
“I didn’t lock it in case a medical emergency happens and they have to rush inside.” 
Mark quirks his brow. “I doubt they would think to go inside the restroom and not panic and call 911, you know.” 
You shrug in indifference and take another drag, reluctantly offering it to him.
He takes it, and you pause for a second to observe him. His hair, dark, and which usually covers his entire forehead like a broom or at least parts in the middle slightly, is now styled differently. 
He’s in a fitting black shirt and blue jeans, and, upon your closer inspection, silver rings adorn his fingers. You will yourself to look down. It’s dark. “What’s that you’re holding?” You ask instead, trying not to extend your stare at his shoulders.
“Your puffer coat,” he says, tossing it to you. “Left it last time.”
“That time when you annoyed the shit out of me, right,” you retort.
“Yes, exactly that time. That was ages ago. Weeks ago. Look at us now.”
“Us now—what, still disliking each other?”
He laughs humorlessly, but doesn’t entertain you further. He turns to the lamp instead. “Do you know I was there when they moved this in,” he begins, gesturing to it, “Jae got it at some weird, awful flea market, and he had to buy some extra wiring to fix it or whatever. I was doing Physics homework. It was at the start of this school year. And I bet you didn’t know…” he bends down and reaches to the base of the lamp, pressing a button, “that it changes color.”
The room is bathed in red now, and you swallow. “Interesting,” you manage to say, despite the racing in your head. “Very,” he responds, taking a step closer to you. You gaze up at him. He’s tall. You breathe softly. You nod in agreement. You don’t know what to do. You want to punch him and kiss him and leave all at once. 
You want to kiss him, oh God, you want to kiss him.
“Oh God,” you say softly, out loud. Oh fuck. Too much weed?
He inches closer, leaving the blunt on the rim of the sink. “Why?” He smiles a little and you smile back, nervous. He’s so close now, and he smells so good—like cologne and laundry and weed. You shake your head. “Nothing,” you mumble back.
He’s even closer now, eyes boring into yours. You adjust your strap, a nervous habit. He takes your hand and does it for you. “I like this song,” he says casually, like he’s not playing with the strap of your dress. “Do you know what it’s called?” It’s vaguely familiar to you, but you shake your head. 
“It’s Jhene Aiko,” he replies, and you nod. You gravitate closer.
You stare at him. He stares back. “I’m high,” you say. You giggle. “I had a brownie and that blunt.”
“That’s a lot,” he says. “Don’t finish the blunt, ‘kay?” You nod back, and giggle again. In two seconds, your nervous mechanism has kicked in and you’re laughing like a psycho. “I’m high,” you repeat, and then he kisses you, effectively sobering you up.
Huh. He kisses you, effectively sobering you up. He kisses you.
You kiss back, shocked and relieved, deepening it, trying to get as much of him as possible. His hands are big and wide and warm, traveling all over you. You want him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, lips molding against yours deliriously. 
“Want you,” you say when his hands play with the hem of your dress, teetering closer and closer to your core. “I said, I want you,” you whine, “now.” Mark only laughs, his hands under your dress and playing with the lace waistband of your underwear. 
“I like how this feels,” he mumbles. “Wanna take a look.” You whimper, hiking your leg up and nodding. “Please, just…touch me,” you say breathlessly. “Please.”
“I will,” he says, voice calm. “You’re being good.” You can’t deny the noise you make at the praise, breathy and loud. You pull him in again, drunk for more, your hands raking through his hair. It’s dark, the both of you basking in the small red light. Mark hikes your dress up, inching it higher, slowly, until he sees the hem of your white lace underwear. He grunts and pulls at it. “I love this,” he says. “So fuckin’, Jesus.” 
You giggle against the smile. He toys with your panties for a bit before finally pulling them down, watching them sink to your ankles. “Hot,” he jokes, and you laugh in disbelief. “Why would you even be joking abou—”
“Mark! Let’s go, it’s 2:30!” Donghyuck’s voice is just as loud and clear as it would be if you weren’t separated by a door. Jolted, you and Mark instinctively break apart and stare at the rattling door. “Maaaark,” he sing-songs, knocking to a beat. You stare at Mark, waiting for him to respond.
“I have explosive diarrhea,” he says. You stifle a guffaw, pulling your panties up.
He pouts, tapping your ass. “Bullshit,” Donghyuck says from outside. “I’m cooomin’ in!”
In the span of a minute, where you realize Donghyuck is not bluffing and in fact has a stolen bathroom key from Jungwoo’s bedside drawer, you manage to shove yourself into the bathtub and hide yourself with the curtain. Mark switches the light back on, much to both of your disappointment, and pretends to smoke the blunt you’d left on the sink fifteen minutes ago. Ergo: pre-kiss.
You find your phone on the bathtub floor and grip it, turning the brightness down. You have a plethora of messages and voicemails from Lia, five calls from Daniel, and an interesting iMessage of Donghyuck’s red, weed-induced eyes from an unknown number. It could be anybody, and that scares you.
The texts are all frantic, and they’re the last things that bring you out of your high and back to reality. Where are u, who u with?, u getting railed??!, Have you seen mark?
“Hyuck, if I actually did have a shitstorm coming out of my ass, you’d be so sorry for breaking in,” you hear Mark say. You sink lower into the bathtub, awaiting Donghyuck’s voice. “You were the one who suggested we go at 2:30, and you’ve been smoking weed for the longest time, dipshit,” he says, “now let’s go. I haven’t seen your Psych girl all night, so you can cry about it at home.” You faintly detect Mark protesting and then, “Let me just freshen up! Just go ahead.”
Reluctantly, you peek out and find Mark alone. You get up and fix your dress.
You’re sober now. The red lights are gone. It’s just you and Mark, plain and simple. Your feelings haven’t gone away, though. You’re fucking fucked. You want him to fuck you. Oh, fuck.
“Go,” you say instead, spluttering. “And I’ll see you. Tuesday.”
You leave first despite yourself, not turning around for even a split second, finding a worried (and then relieved) Lia and taking five consecutive tequila shots to down the nerves and denial bubbling in your system. She raises a brow, but you refuse to even meet her eyes, head and heart pounding impossibly fast. You want to kiss him again. So, so bad. But what the fuck did you just let happen?
Stage 2: Anger|
Lia hadn’t pressed, and you were nervous, but it was getting easy to diverge the details of what happened during Johnny’s party. You had instead opted to work alone, too much of a coward to even see Mark’s face. If you were being completely honest with yourself, you feared you might just kiss him if you ever saw him. So you spent days at class working, and then at your dorm working, adjusting your route to avoid, as much as possible, Mark or Hyuck’s buildings and that godforsaken cafe. You did text Mark, though, and the exchanges were brief, not even a “thank you” or “good morning” preceding them. It was awful.
Working alone forced you into a heavy load of retrospection. You would think deeply, like how you are now, spiraling into a series of questions where you studied the play-by-play of what happened in the bathroom, up against the wall. You liked it. A lot. But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself. Why it even happened…God. You mentally berated yourself for giving into it. Didn’t you hate him? Or at least dislike him? Didn’t you take pleasure in scolding him or fighting with him?
“You’re freaking me out,” Lia says from her bed. She’s been staring at you. “You’ve been lying on your bed staring at the ceiling for twenty straight minutes.” She walks over to you, flopping next to you, her arms winding around your body. “You can tell me anything.”
“I know,” you say, nervous. You gulp.
“Okay. If you’re n—”
“Mark and I kissed.”
She sits up and turns to look at you.
“Made out, more like. We were going to fuck if we didn’t get interrupted.” You’re mortified, refusing to meet her gaze. When you look up, her face is even, but you know she’s bubbling over with giddiness inside. “That is so fucking great, dude,” she replies. “Why are you so embarrassed?”
“Because it’s Mark,” you whine. “He’s not…I don’t know.”
She lies back down. “You’re overthinking this.” You laugh, poking her waist. “I know, but I just…I feel like he might not like me much anymore.” You recount the way you left him hanging, despite the lack of awkward air and the potential to talk and become something. She tsks but justifies it, because she’s so good at that, being a mediator, and you continue with your day quietly. 
Your mind is always on it, though, his hands and his lips, and you’ve scoured Spotify for the song playing that he had commented on.
It’s called Pussy Fairy. You cannot make it up. It’s a weird title, but the song is heavenly, and you can’t deny when it’s full blast on your AirPods and your hand is creeping closer and closer there, trying desperately to replicate what you felt in that moment. When you’re not sated, ashamed and sighing, you resort to working on your paper. There are moments where both you and Mark are working at the same time, and you hate yourself for getting all flustered when it happens. 
It’s a Tuesday, in the early afternoon, when you’re out of class and cleaning out the little litter in your dorm, repasting whatever decorations fell off, et cetera. You have the time, anyway, and it wouldn’t hurt to fix the place up a bit. You’re halfway into re-stringing Lia’s fairy lights when someone knocks on the door, jolting you. You curse under your breath, hopping off her bed to swing the door open and reveal—
“What is up?!” Donghyuck grins back at you. His hand is raised in a high-five invitation, which you hesitantly reciprocate. “Mark tells me you’re meeting today, and that I should come remind you, since it seems like you forgot. He says you haven’t texted all day. Since I was on this floor—do you know Jeno Lee? Do you know it’s so amusing how Mark, Jeno, and I all have the same surname? Anyway. I was here on your floor to remind Jeno about an Econ presentation, and Mark texts me and goes, if you’re with Jeno, then remind you—you as in you, you—to come meet me and work.” 
He talks so goddamn fast. “You talk so goddamn fast.”
He just guffaws, high-fiving you again. “Well, you get my point, right? Meet Mark at the cafe and work is all he said to do. If you wanna.” You nod slowly, absorbing his words. “Tell him I’ll be a little late,” you say simply, and as you’re about to shut the door, he talks again, his voice quieter this time. “I know you were hiding behind the curtain.”
You pull the door open again, so fast a minuscule gust of wind washes over both of your faces. “You’re kidding,” you say, “you’re kidding.” You stare at each other for a second before his solem features break into a smile. “I am. Mark spilled everything to me, so I decided to trick you.” Relief and annoyance break over your system as you swat Donghyuck’s shoulder. “You’re a dick,” you spit. “You’re bringing a bad image to Econ majors.”
He merely laughs and closes the door himself, light brown hair fluffing with the severity of his laugh (cackle.) Slightly annoyed, you drag yourself to get dressed, dread building up in your stomach at the prospect of seeing Mark again. Not when your mind conjures up what happened everytime you just see his name. Or the word mark. You’ve been out of it since it happened, not even responding to your usual heated debates with the conservative Trump supporter in class. You suppose the best way to confront it is to simply confront it.
When you get there, though, it’s clear that confrontation would not be an option. Immediately, when you sit, the air shifts into something oddly familiar—the atmosphere between the two of you when you first got partnered up. Except now, Mark won’t even give you a pinch of attention, or banter, instead typing his questions into the document to avoid verbal conversation. (He is a fucking petty bitch, you’ll give him that.)
You stroll over to the counter, pout set on your lips. “Hello,” Chan says politely, and you just smile half-heartedly. “Lover’s quarrel?” He teases, and you roll your eyes. “He’s ignoring me,” you respond, watching him make you a latte. “And we’re not dating. We never were.”
“Mm, right,” he says, finishing and setting your drink in front of you. You laugh a little, taking it. “No. We weren’t. But I’ll update you.”
When you return, Mark’s looking at you, quiet as ever. You break his gaze and continue working, working and working until the sun sets, nestled deep behind the horizon. When you look up again, the sky is already dark, city lights providing solace to the place. You look at Mark quizzically, as if to ask him what time you should both leave, but he just shrugs. “Any time,” he states plainly, and huffing, you get up.
“I’ll go right ahead then,” you say, trying your best to sound annoyed and get your message across. He says nothing, watching you pack up your stuff and sling your bag over your shoulder, and then eventually, leave.
Daniel is the first to see you in your raged, annoyed state—you meet him in the elevator of the lobby, your blood boiling and your fists balled. Knowing you’re headed to the same floor, he presses the button, ruffles his hair, and then lets the silence take over. And then, “What’s going on?” You breathe deeply, turning to him with a tired look on your face. “Mark’s going on,” you mumble, “he was ignoring me the entire time. And to think he was the one who requested my presence! It makes no sense. Why would he ignore me when we can just talk about it?”
“About what?”
It suddenly occurs to you that Daniel knows about your weird feelings for Mark, but not how they culminated. You splutter. “Um, about us. Everything.” Daniel looks amused, but the doors open, and you thank them for the temporary exit from the topic. He stops you right outside, though, and pulls out two ticket, card-looking things. “Wait, um. Listen, Lia and I are going to reach our seven-month…anniversary, I guess, of, y’know, being a thing. I know it seems really small, but I want to give her a little something out of appreciation, so I got us a room at this ski lodge outside the city.”
“That’s so sweet,” you say honestly, “but I must admit, it comes on sort of stalker-y. Like you’re whisking her off out of the city.”
He beams even louder. “That’s why you’re coming. With Mark!”
You gape back at him. “Did you miss the whole I-hate-him thing that happened in there?” You jab your finger towards the closed elevator doors, disbelief written across your face. He laughs. “Sometimes you can’t keep hiding behind”—he begins walking to your room, and you follow suit—“emotions, like anger. When I liked Lia, there was a point where I was just pretending to alienate her so I wouldn’t have to face that I was starting to love her. Like her. And you know, she did it right back.” 
“Oh, quit it,” you scoff, insistent. “You’re lecturing me like you’ve been married a decade.”
“That’s what I want,” he says, and you gag. “The first step to that would be ski lodge trip, so you’re coming!”
You’re in front of your room now, and you pinch his wrist as he reaches for the handle, gaining his full attention. “I’ll gladly go,” you whisper, “if Mark’s out.” Daniel just laughs, shaking his head. “No, no. An overnight trip would delay your paper severely. Plus, they have two beds per room.”
“We’ll be staying in the same roo—hey, Li,” you say, quickly cutting your angry rant off when she opens the door, her face confused (to say the least.) 
“Mm, hey,” she says, ushering the two of you in. “How long were you two out there?” Daniel shrugs, ruffling his hair and then pressing a kiss on Lia’s forehead. You boo from your place on your bed, buried under your duvet. “You both suck,” you holler, “always sexing it up in a sacred space. AKA my room.” Lia just grins and jumps on top of you, drawing grunts from you both. Daniel seats himself on the floor and busies himself with his phone. “How was Mark,” she whispers into your hair, and you groan.
“Bad,” you respond, “I’m so annoyed. We’re back to square one.” She makes an apologetic noise and gets up with a sigh, adjusting the strings of her pullover and then hugging Daniel. You watch them. You want to kiss Mark again. Life sucks that way.
Predictably, Mark turns down the offer of the ski lodge. He’s polite about it, too, especially since he and Daniel have grown a little bit closer since the start of your project. Daniel is, by no means, a “Mark anti”, but he would participate in the ribbing sometimes. Still, he’s insistent on the trip, saying it’s the best way to welcome December and that the forecast predicts a nice, thick layer of snow. It takes a week and two coffees everyday for Mark to give in, under the condition that he buy his own room when you get there.
Which, honestly, really, you have no problem with. Really, you think to yourself as you unceremoniously shove a knitted sweater into your bag. Really. Lia, who had graciously accepted the surprise, watches you abuse your bag, shoving sweater and scarf inside like they want to murder you. “Relax,” she says after a while. You laugh, playing it off (not so) casually.
The drive up there, courtesy of Daniel and a borrowed Prius, is fun, and cramped, but still decent, considering it was just an hour long. You’re in the back with Lia, and Mark is in charge of the AUX, which, of course, comes with its own bout of jokes. You even find the heart to participate and laugh in a few, not daring to meet his eyes. But all his songs are so fucking good. Frank Ocean, Jhene Aiko, SZA, and smaller indie artists flow from the speaker under his phone. The car ride has its share of epic karaoke moments—Mark plays ABBA, and Queen, solely to make sure everybody is belting out to the high heavens.
You get there when the sky’s purple and orange and there are some skiiers scattered around, though, since it’s not the proper holiday period, not too much. You trek over to the main lodge and that’s where Daniel pays for his reservations, and he and Lia retire to their room and promise to get up for dinner. You’re, again, alone with Mark in the lobby as you both stare at each other, willing the other to get up first. He does, to buy his own room like he said he would, and you can faintly hear the exchange from your seat on their nice, fluffy couch.
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re renovating a majority of the rooms for the holidays. That’s why reservations were a prerequisite for staying here.”
Mark sighs. “Okay, right. I’m so sorry. Um”—it’s at this point that you go up next to him, polite smile on your face, ready to take the room key and fuck off—“could we just get an extra blanket, please? For one of the beds.” The receptionist gives a curt smile, handing over the keycard and nodding. “That’ll be one queen-sized warm blanket, then,” she hums, typing away. The receptionist beside her goes to the back, presumably to get the blanket. Mark nods, smiling. “For two queen-sized beds, it must be a big room for both of them to fit comfortably,” he comments offhandedly, fiddling with the card.
The receptionist chuckles. “There is only one bed, sir.”
Oh, God. “Oh, God,” you whisper. “One bed?” She nods with an eye-crinkling smile, like her words have not just rained hell upon the two people across her. “One bed and a sofa,” she corrects herself, reading the information on the computer by the desk. Not wanting to risk your last shred of sanity, you smile profusely, walking quickly towards your room which, thankfully, is on the same floor, at the end of the hall. It’s a small, quaint place that would be honest-to-God perfect if not for the fact that—
“There’s one bed,” Mark sighs, the truth clicking into place. “Daniel is a fucking shithead.” You drop your bag onto the carpeted floor, surveying the room with a scrutinizing gaze. It’s sizable—a bed, a couch, a window. There’s a small wooden desk that looks like its legs can barely hold its weight, and then another door, leading to the bathroom. It’s not bad at all. But you’re exhausted, the sun’s long gone, and your resolve is shredding away as the seconds tick by. “Take the couch,” you say dismissively, “or the carpet.” You make a beeline for the bed, but Mark’s arm wraps around your waist, effectively stopping you.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod “Shut up and let go of me, dick,” you stutter out. Mark loosens his grip and you shove him off, glaring at him. He gazes back down at you, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “We can’t just make up terms without negotiation,” he says matter-of-factly, and you blow a raspberry. “Fine. Let’s negotiate then. I’m a girl and that puts me above you because chivalry isn’t dead, thus, boom, I get the bed.”
“I was in the uncomfortable passenger seat all day and my lower back hurts,” he counters.
“My legs are wobbly.”
“Bullshit. My back aches.”
“You already said that, it’s invalid.”
The back and forth only intensifies, your arguments growing more and more bizarre, until finally, your volume is so high Lia says she can hear it faintly, four doors down. 
“The couch looks comfy,” you try, but Mark stands firm. 
“Do you know what? The bed is big. It’s a big bed. And we’re not going to take up much space. If we divide the bed with the sofa pillows…” you pick up the cushions and line them up neatly along the middle, “…then we can sleep beside each other without having to make contact with each other.” He seems convinced, stepping closer to the bed and nodding. “Okay. I get first dibs on the shower.”
“Asshole,” you mutter, but you let him anyway. You’ve unpacked nearly all your things and he isn’t done yet, so you’ve resorted to scrolling mindlessly through Tiktok and laughing at just about everyone that pops up on screen. Mark finally exits after what feels like forever, and you keep your eyes trained on your screen to avoid looking at him. From your peripheral vision, he is very much shirtless. There are no words exchanged, the thickness in the air only building bit by bit.
Three hours later, post-dinner, post-abandoning the thought of working on your paper, you’re stumbling into your room after helping the very tipsy couple of the night into theirs. You’re beyond tired now, and you can tell Mark is, too, despite the lack of eye contact or communication between you. You don’t even look at him, brushing your teeth and removing your makeup and clipping your hair up into a bun. It’s when he does the same, and you’re both in bed, using your phones, that he finally breaks the silence.
“I’m not mad,” he says. His voice is even and calm, and you quickly shut your phone off and sit up, peering over the pillow boundary you had created. You look at him expectantly before he sighs and continues. “Why did you leave?”
You stand up, getting out, trying to increase distance. You’ve never really liked confrontation. “I was weirded out,” you spill, “and scared…? I guess with the nearness of being caught, and with all the lights on, I was just shocked back to reality.”
He sits up. “What’s reality?”
“I don’t—know,” you splutter, getting back on the bed. “Not kissing you?”
He laughs, and then it becomes silent. “Right. Let’s sleep, then.” Without another word, he pulls his lamp off, and only the white moonlight is left illuminating the both of you. Shucking yourself under the covers, feeling your heart practically thump out of your chest. You honestly think he can hear it, or at least feel it. Suddenly the boundary doesn’t do much. You turn away from him, nervous, and you can faintly hear his breathing even out. You shut your eyes for a second. When you open them again, he’s looking right at you. “Just checking to see if you’re asleep,” he says quietly. You nod. And then you lean upwards, just a touch, so your lips nearly brush slightly. “Night,” you say, before turning to sleep for real.
You’re not sure when. And how. Sure, you faintly remember digging your legs sleepily through the sheets to find warmth and tangling Mark’s in your own. But still—when you’re up, the pillow fort is at your feet, hanging precariously off the four post bed, and your back is against Mark’s chest. His breath fans lightly over your hair and you blearily register what happened overnight. His arm is slung over your middle, it’s quiet, and oh Christ, he is hard.
It’s fairly late. He’s hard. The antique clock mounted up on the wall tells you it’s around nine, which essentially gave you seven hours of sleep. He’s hard. You bask in the warmth of Mark for a while before your resolve solidifies and you gently push his arm off from its position on your hips. He only comes on stronger, wrapping fully around your waist, mumbling incoherence into your hair. He’s hard. You squeeze your eyes shut, summoning sleep to overcome you quickly, but it never does. Dread overcomes you as you feel your underwear grow damp.
“Mm,” Mark grunts, his hand around your waist loosening. You move away but his head suddenly lolls into the crook of your neck, his lips touching the side of it. You whimper. He’s a fucking asshole, even when he’s asleep. You pinch his arm, jolting him to half-awakeness, and you roll away, despite your body’s protests.
He blinks his eyes open. “Sorry, shit,” he says, voice deep and ridden with sleep. You’re fucked.
“It’s okay,” you splutter instead. “Just go back to sleep.” You faintly register that you sound just as exhausted as he does, and you bury your head back into the covers. Everything, plus the sound of his voice, has you dripping, and you breathe in deeply to poorly disguise a whimper. He chuckles, already half-asleep, from where he is, and it’s quiet for a few minutes before you realize he’s fallen asleep. Knowing Lia and Daniel will be busy for a while, you pull a spare pillow over your head and chant to yourself before falling back asleep, too.
When you awaken, the bed is cold and empty, and the shower’s running. You check the time to find only an hour has passed, but you’re much more awake now, getting up and knocking incessantly on the bathroom door. “Hurry,” you demand hoarsely, “I want to go skiing.” You hear a muffled okay and scurry over to your bag to find the pair of leggings you had packed for this. You also find your parka, and you pull off your shirt to clasp on a bra.
“Not that I don’t mind,” Mark says, eliciting a yelp from you as you tug a sweater on at record speed, “but generally, that kind of thing only goes unnoticed in nudist colonies. I could research some for you, if you’d—ow! I was joking, God!” You bonk him twice over the head with the Bible on the bedside table, your brows furrowed angrily. “You looked, asshat,” you say, collecting your things and locking yourself in the bathroom.
When it becomes increasingly evident that Lia and Daniel have no plans of exiting their room, you grumble and resort to skiing alone. But as you’re shuffling out, bundled up, you spot Mark leaning against the exit waiting for you. He looks up and tsks. “About fucking time,” he says, holding the door open for you. It’s not that cold out—maybe you’re just used to having snow and chilly weather, and so is Mark—so you barely shiver, walking around and looking for a good place to ski.
“Forget skiing,” Mark says after a few rounds. “Let’s go sledding. I have a thing.”
“A toboggan, you mean.”
“A funny word. Really, just say sled.”
You let up, anyway, the bright sky and cold ground sending serotonin right into you. Sure enough, Mark does have a nice, blue sled that he lets you on, and then the two of you are bolting down the hill at breakneck speed, laughing all the way. It’s quite a long ride, and you’re smiling and yelping so much the cloth you’ve used to cover your neck has ridden down, the cold air hitting your face harshly.
You land very ungracefully—the toboggan hits a small tree and sends you and Mark catapulting in the same direction, your hands clawing at the air for expense. You find Mark’s arm and cling onto it in the split second you’re in the air, landing on a clearing of thick snow. The arm you’ve clung onto pulls you closer, Mark grunting “be careful,” and when the whole fiasco’s over, you’re smiling like an idiot, and you’re right on top of Mark.
You’re not straddling him or anything, but you’ve just happened to land with your face a little above his. You can’t stop laughing, your face flushed and red with the cold air hitting your face. So you laugh. Why wouldn’t you laugh? It was a good day. A good ride down the hill. So you keep laughing until they’re reduced to giggles, Mark laughing right along as you pull down the covering of his mouth and tug his beanie off, ruffling your hands in his hair and dipping down to kiss him.
He kisses you right back, his lips cold but quickly growing warm with the friction. You smile into the kiss, your hands roaming all over his pink face. The kiss is giggly and light, your hands all over each other as the sunlight filters in through the thick trees overhead.
You pull away after a while. “I hate you,” you whisper. He presses a kiss to your jawline and lets it linger there. “You think I don’t?”
Stage 3: Bargaining, Depression|
You’ve begun to type the structure out when Lia tugs on your pajamas, her tone insistent and curious. “What’s up with you and Mark?” she presses, her cheek pressed to your stomach. You fervently hope she doesnt notice how your breathing quickens, and, keeping your voice even, you answer. “We’re…thinking about things.”
Which—you were thinking about things, to be fair. There were things to be thought and you had to think about them. It was a broad half-truth. It had been two weeks since the ski lodge thing, and you and Mark had decided it was probably best to shut the fuck up about everything you had done. (Everything meaning a few kisses here and there, and maybe a little more under the covers.) You’d hated yourself for hiding it from Lia, but you and Mark were actually feeling hesitant about moving forward with whatever you were. There was a lot of ambiguity and questions, and until you could clear it up yourself, you knew you weren’t ready to tell anybody else. You had talked about it already—clearly, the two of you were beyond jumping straight into a relationship after not liking each other that much and then becoming hesitant friends.
But it was, if you had to admit it to yourself, nice having that little secret.
“I’d want to tell Lia soon,” you tease, walking steadily beside Mark. The afternoon sun is warm on your heads, the snow falling intermittently. He turns with a small smile. “I’d want to tell Hyuck, too.” You scoff, burying your head in his chest. You probably look fucking disgusting. Around you, Washington Square Park is full of natives and tourists, and college students like you, all scurrying around and giving you that very much holiday feel.
He buys you a hot cocoa and hands it to you. “Are you heading home soon?”
You take a sip, your tongue hot. “If my ratty dorm counts as home, then yes.”
“Home is a feeling, not a place. Does your ratty dorm feel like home?”
“Kind of. Lia’s there. And so is the rat infestation in the ceiling.”
Mark nearly chokes on his cocoa. “You’re gross as fuck.”
You let out a loud laugh, your beanie nearly falling off with the bounciness of it. Mark reaches behind you to catch it, pressing a kiss to your lips in the process, soft and light and God, you like it. A lot. “Clumsy,” he remarks, pulling it back on and dragging a generous amount of your hair in front of your eyes as he does it. “It’s gonna be Christmas soon, and thank God we’re nearly done with this paper.”
“It was my genius idea to combine bargaining and depression,” you quip. “That’s my gift to you. Merry Christmas, Mark Lee.” He laughs at that. His laugh, you’ve noticed, is goddamn loud, and it’s a literal cackle, but he always looks so happy when he laughs. And buoyant. “You look stupid,” you say, but the smile on your face is undeniable. He glares playfully at you, taking your hand and walking you both in the direction of your building.
“New York in the snow,” he hums. “Always a great place.”
“It’s full of tourists,” you counter. Always disagreeing.
He chuckles and then, like clockwork—like how you’ve done it for the past six dates—you separate when you’re just shy of a meter away from the lobby entrance. Your fingers curl in search of his, and you jog up the steps, eager to get into the warmth of the building. The lobby’s pretty empty, save for a couple of students. Mark’s ahead of you, already pressing the elevator button and waiting impatiently. 
“We’re alone,” he sing-songs, his eyebrows wiggling. The doors open right as you take Mark’s hand, and you look up to meet Daniel’s wide eyes. Then you look to the right to meet Lia’s.
Despite your inner turmoil, you remain nonchalant, pinching Mark’s wrist instead of holding it like you’d planned. “That’s why our professor fucking hates you,” you say, narrowing your eyes. Your heart is beating a mile a minute, but you muster a neutral expression, shoving your hands back into your pockets. Lia knows you, though, and her furrowed eyebrows and parted lips say everything—but you just shrug, playing off what they could have caught you doing. “Hey,” you say, walking into the elevator with Mark. It all blows over.
AKA: Daniel has to drag a curious Lia away from you, with a promise that you would converse later. You and Mark are alone again, in the elevator, your hands barely touching, laughs loud. It’s all blurry after that. You’re high on a laugh and the thought of a kiss—you drag him over to your room, hands in his hair, breathless, loose kisses. You’re both so exhausted, though, that all you manage to extend your energy to is taking your tops off and making out lazily to the songs you’d recommended to each other.
“Mm,” he says when one of your songs starts playing. “It’s a nice song.” You nod with a smile. “I know it is, it’s one of my recommendations. It’s called Softly.” He plays with the strap of your bra. “I’ll give it more of a listen, then. Also, a red bra to school? Whatever will the professors think,” he jokes lightly, pressing insistent, but soft kisses on your shoulder. You laugh, pinching the inner part of his arm and eliciting a swear from him. “I was joking! I know you wore this for me, stupid.” The wind whistles outside, barely audible from the half-open window across the room, overlapping with the music.
This all feels too real, now.
You pout lazily against his bare chest. “Get off before Lia gets in,” you mumble, your heart beginning to race. He does, for what it’s worth, rolling off your bed with a loud thump and tugging his shirt and sweater back on. You watch him (fondly) annoyedly, your hair draping over you as you get up to properly shove him out. “Out, out,” you chant, laughing, and he giggles, turning abruptly to poke at your waist.
“Shut up,” you groan, a smile on your face. There’s a beat, then he pulls you close and kisses you, running outside right after with a literal guffaw. You watch him, wrapping your fleece blanket around your frame as he runs to the elevator, sweater backwards and hair messy.
Doubts are normal. This you’re assured of, but your head pounds with the sheer amount of things you’re cramming into it. You squint impossibly harder, trying to get the nail polish into the crook of Lia’s nail. You’ve probably overdone it, judging by the way she jabs her knuckle in between your eyebrows, her face contorted in worry. “Are you…okay?”
You narrow your eyes, the inner debate of telling her raging on and on. The nail polish drips onto her fingernail, rolling onto her pant leg, and she yelps, but her eyes are still on you. “You can tell me anything,” she says, softer this time. You know she’s serious—you know you can. You always have. You told her about every fling, one night stand, pregnancy scare, bad grade, hot professor, and spoiled deli food you’d encountered since you ever became friends. She knew you. And you were so sure she knew what you were about to say.
Except you didn’t know what you wanted to say. Your feelings were a mess, and you wanted one thing as much as you wanted the other. You couldn’t place what you wanted, and if you had to narrow it down, you’d realize that you were scared of what you wanted. You were never really one for commitment, or a relationship, or really anything, for that matter. And the fact that you were so hung up on thinking about what you and Mark would become—Mark? It all seemed so dystopian, almost. Like you’d never expected it. Your friendship was a childhood bubble that popped in the span of your first high school semester, and that was that. But just two days ago you were being kissed all over by the same guy you’d had a cutthroat student council president competition with.
It seemed so absurd? Crazy? Those adjectives were a little over the top. Deep down, if you dug deep enough into the parts you didn’t even tell yourself, you knew what you were. And if anybody else were to know, it would be Lia.
“I’m scared,” you choke out, your voice shaky. “I’m scared and sad, and happy and angry, and I want this but I don’t.” You cover the nail polish, shaking your head. “This is all so new to me. I hate how much I feel, especially because it feels so wrong. You know me—relationships are just not cut out for me. They’re scary and new. And people in relationships turn all gooey. I’m scared that this won’t last, but I’m scared that it will, and I’ll be doomed to an eternity of bland, padlocked relationships. It’s weird. I could be feeling this way for anyone, but it had to be Mark? If only I didn’t hate him, then maybe we could’ve gone off on a better foot. If only this whole thing never fucking happened, right?”
“It’s okay,” Lia cuts in. “Being scared is okay. It’s part of the whole process. And nobody said you had to get along like conjoined twins in a relationship. They just go when they go and end when they end. Not every relationship starts as a high school sweetheart thing and ends with three kids and a picket fence. And I’m so sure Mark would be so understanding if you didn’t like him or if you chose not to continue.”
“You knew?”
She laughs. “Of course I knew. I know a post-sex glow when I see one, and I was blinded that morning at the ski lodge.” You groan, pinching her indignantly, hiding your face in your hands as she laughs out of view. “Okay. Take some time and think about it, but for now, I want to get my nails done, so.” 
It’ll be a week before you come up with what you want, and the whole time you generally avoid talking about solemn topics with him in person. 
It’ll be another few days before you finally talk to him personally—with your paper nearly finished, you suggest a meeting at the library. It’s just two days before Christmas Eve, and you know Mark’s going to be driving to Canada, so you want to snatch him away for your own personal time for just a second. The snow has all but thickened as you meet outside the building, the silence deafening.
“Hi,” he says, smiling. You know he’s probably picked up on your erratic, quieter behavior in the past several days, but you gulp and lead him inside anyways, to your favorite section. “It’s almost Christmas Eve,” he says, watching you stall, surrounded by Philosophy books from just about every century. “I know,” you say, hoping you don’t sound too nervous.
“You sound nervous,” he says.
“Do I?” you ask shakily, your voice taking on an unnaturally high pitch. “I mean, er. I guess I sort of am. I guess I’ve been thinking about everything lately—about you and me and everything that just happened so suddenly. Because—because it did happen so suddenly. I just…needed time? Yeah, time. To think about everything. Because it all happened so quickly, I…” you stutter. “I’m scared of these things. I’m not used to them. Relationships? Things that last longer than a couple weeks? I don’t like these. 
I have something bigger I want to focus on and anybody who gets in the way just isn’t worth it. And it’s so weird how it was you out of all people I started thinking about it with. Usually I just have the rare fling and then they’re gone, and I’m not even mad. But you’re different. And I like it. 
But I just needed time to find out if I really liked it. If I really wanted to try. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and I probably sound really fucking stupid, but you get me—you get me, right? And that’s how I realized—if it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. I don’t know why I overthought it. I mean, it’s a good thing and a bad thing that I did. Like, on one hand, I got to really think about how this would play out, and on the other, I’d just end up spiraling. And it’s just weird. I hope you don’t know I hated you. Hate you? Hated you. I was just—it was all so juvenile. Everything just stemmed from that one awfully dumb high school rivalry. But other than that, you were always a cool…see what I mean? I’m kind of rambling—even if I thought I had planned this out. And. Yeah. I dunno. I fucking…I hate you, stop laughing.”
Mark smiles down at you—you’re busy pretending to read a Sartre book to look unfazed, but your flickering gaze says it all. 
“Okay, stupid,” he says, bordering onto a laugh. “If that’s your way of saying you’re willing to give this a try, then I graciously accept. Should I be saying something equally long? I—is that how this works?”
You roll your eyes and kiss him instead, pulling him close, Sartre’s postulates dropping to the floor alongside your tiptoes.
Stage 4: Acceptance|
“Acceptance is just that. Just accepting that you love that person after weeks or months of all the other stages. With her, it was. Like. It’s the whole sitting down after silence, having some time for the revelation to set in before you realize you love them. Or like them? Well, love them, I guess. But I don’t know why you would be asking me this.”
You bury your head further into Mark’s shoulder, your eyes strained from how long they’d been trained onto your screen. You smile up at Daniel, thanking him for the input and beginning to type it in, watching Lia doze off on his shoulder. “We’re asking because we’re not quite there yet,” Mark hums, “it’s just February. It’s barely been two months.” You nod, watching Mark type where you left off on the document. Daniel snorts from across you. “You’re just about, I guess.” Mark chuckles, shrugging so your head bounces off his shoulder unceremoniously.
“Like I’d ever fall in love with that shitstorm,” he says pointedly.
“Oh, and I’d fall in love with this dickwad?”
“You’re perfect for each other. Bullying, but we all know Mark brought back gifts from Canada and that you stitched an initial onto his sweater.”
“To practice my embroidery. Also, I stitched Mark’s initial. M. Asshole.”
“Okay,” whistles Daniel, his hand unconsciously coming up to make sure Lia doesn’t fall off his shoulder. “But hey, you’re just about to submit this paper and I’m fondly remembering all the times you despised each other. And when you”—he points at you, devilish grin on his face—“started gushing to Lia about how he”—he then turns to Mark—“kissed you at Johnny’s party.”
“God, it’s not the time for that yet, we’re still a fresh couple,” you groan, burying your head in your hands. “You have so much dirt on me, Choi.” Mark just laughs, though, loudly, bringing the other cafe-goers’ attention to yours. He bites your shoulder to stifle it, eliciting a laugh from you. “I agree, there should be a certain time requirement for pre-relationship embarrassing stories,” Mark says, closing his laptop. Lia gets up at that point, already half-awake from the ruckus (AKA Mark’s laugh), pulling on Daniel’s sleeve. “Alright, and that’s my cue to get this girl some more coffee and then go.”
“Mm, I’ll come with,” you say, “I need a refresher before we leave soon, anyway.”
You walk in between them, your fingers laced in Lia’s as she squeezes them sleepily. They order first and then they’re off with a smile and a polite goodbye, leaving you to order your drink. You gaze up at the menu, and then down at—
“Long time no see,” Chan says with a knowing beam. “How is your not boyfriend boyfriend?”
“Well, he’s my boyfriend now.”
“See, I always know. What do you want?”
“An iced ca—how did you know?” You ask, tempted.
“It’s just…the energy? It was a hit or miss, but I kinda got that feeling that something was going to happen.”
“Hmm,” you hum. “An iced caramel then.”
“And a black coffee for her best friend!” Hollers a new voice that you could never miss, turning slowly towards the entrance to meet Donghyuck’s crazy eyes. He’s in a suit, which isn’t unusual given the sheer amount of presentations he’s had to do since the new year started. You roll your eyes but put in the extra cash anyway, much to Chan’s amusement. Hyuck nears you with a sly grin. “I hear you’ll be submitting your paper soon. I just want my name in there so I’m in your professor’s good graces.”
“She’s not even going to be your professor, Hyuck,” you say, taking your drink and smiling at Chan. You and Donghyuck both walk back to where Mark’s sitting, you beside him and Hyuck across the both of you. “Yes, but it pays to be in somebody’s good graces, I swear. See what happened? I got you two together. I orchestrated your entire love st—”
“Okay, now you’re just lying, Hyuck,” Mark says with a laugh, finishing up the first few paragraphs and closing his laptop. “We’re not even in love.” But his friend lets out a teasing smile, his eyes narrowed, and he gets up with a loud farewell and alibi about “being needed by my better friends.” You assume he’s talking about Jeno.
You walk to Mark’s room alongside him, thanks to the promise of his roommate, Jaemin, sleeping at a friend’s. Your fingers are intertwined loosely. The sun’s setting and Mark’s room is sheathed in beautiful shades of orange and pink, a vast array of dusk settling over the space. It happens quietly, but full of laughs, which is how it happens when you’re both tired and/or shitfaced. You do this a lot—a routine of sharing new songs or books you’d picked up over the week and then making out while they play in the background or while one of you read. It’s awfully, horribly, terribly fucking intimate. 
“Your bra sucks,” he jokes.
You love it.
“Get better abs and we can talk about it,” you counter, poking his toned stomach. He really, fully guffaws at that, pulling you onto his lap and then tugging his guitar out from where it stands at the corner. You flop back onto his bed, watching him play—and then registering the familiar opening of the Jonas Brothers song you used to request nearly everyday. “Lovebug,” you muse with a smile, singing along to his voice, carried away. You’re sleepy and light, and you know deep down—in that space of yourself where you’re all but honest—that you were going to fall in love with him someday.
Later, when all you’re doing is hugging him as he reads your latest Philosophy requirement to you, he pauses.
“Is this the 21st century idea of love?” He asks idly, unclasping your bra and connecting the moles on your shoulder. You hum. 
“It’s the Gen Z idea,” you say, connecting the ones on his bare back. “And this isn’t love.”
“Corny.” he smiles against your collarbones. You kiss his neck. It’s all very gradual.
hope you liked it :) drop an ask! I absolutely love all types of feedback 
326 notes · View notes
neonponders · 3 years
Text
This isn’t what @memes-saved-me had in mind for this post but lol (read their tags, they’re delightful) 
Thinking about a younger Billy and an older Steve today ✨
✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨
Billy scratched at the hair on his nape. He wanted to grow it out; really had always wanted long hair. And now, as he peered at the other sophomores trying to fluff themselves bigger to match the juniors and seniors, he just might.
Long hair was in. Mullets, rock star manes, extensions - even the opposite. Women with buzz cuts and pixie faux hawks. Pleasant little surprises in Hawkins, Indiana, and Billy might finally indulge in that.
Plenty in this town was backwards as all hell. Girls wearing white stockings like it was the fifties. Boys and girls alike clearly letting having learned hair styling from their out-of-date parents. Two girls with beehives sat in his English class.
But it was fine, because there was plenty of present-day styling, and Billy wouldn’t get any shit at home for matching his peers.
Cherry Lane. The most backwards spot in Indiana.
But that’s okay, too, because small town people need occupations. Parties.
A cool senior with teased, black hair walked right up to him and handed him a neon orange sheet of paper. He saw others holding similar invitations all day. 
Party on Friday night. Address, dress code, and everything.
Caught him by surprise, that a dress code would be needed for one of these things, but the invitation just said ~casual attire~ and someone in his Advanced Biology class told him that Tina hosts the best shin digs, often with costume themes.
So he went. The late summer evening was still humid as all hell, making the party split between the massive house and the matching yard a convenient way to start a weekend.
He’d had alcohol before. Enough to know he preferred tequila drinks over vodka and gin, but the safest way to wake up the next day was to just stick to beer. No matter how bitter or sharply carbonated some of it was made.
Maybe that’s why he heard people hollering about King Steve.
Keg stands weren’t original to Hawkins, but Billy preferred them next to a bonfire on a beach. But people were really yelling for this king to do the damn thing - 
“Steve, why are you even here? You graduated in May,” Tina’s voice cut through the din.
“I live down the street! You really think you’re making this much noise without me noticing? And all of you shut the hell up! I’ll do a keg stand the day one of you dip shits can actually beat my record.”
Another surprise:
Steve Harrington.
Billy’s dumb luck had him three years behind, so he couldn’t look at that face in the hallways. Sit behind that head of glossy, bouncy hair in European History. He still lived in town, apparently. Right down the street. Billy asked around and discovered he worked at the mall and attended the community college -
“Heard you been asking about me.”
Billy stared wide-eyed over his beer. He recovered quickly, but not before Steve bounced on the balls of his feet, smug. That hair was really distracting.
These people really gossip about everything.
“I didn’t think anybody actually went by a title like that.”
“I didn’t put it on my resume, that’s for sure.” Steve’s smirk grew into a smile. Christ, the guy really had that Indiana, home town handsome thing to his face.
That was dangerous. Billy’s gut told him so, the way it bruised like someone had poked it. And wanted to be poked again.
“Let’s do this properly. Steve.” He held his hand out.
It wasn’t queer to accept a handshake. “Billy,” he replied.
“Hargrove?”
“Jesus,” he scoffed involuntarily, releasing Steve’s large hand. His weight shifted over his feet. “Everybody knows everything here.”
“Not everything,” Steve said. His voice sounded...reassuring? But the way his eyes blinked...and a darkness slipped behind his eyes like a curtain. Adults liked to call it maturity. Wisdom beyond years. Billy called it ghosts. Everyone had ghosts behind their eyes. But...he had a hard time imagining what ghosts this pretty senior in suburban America would already have.
Then again, Billy knew better.
Except, as the party progressed and the weekend flowed into a new week, Billy really couldn’t imagine what made Steve slouch a little, and what made his eyes fade out of a conversation. Billy probably should have put more attention into how much he’d begun seeking the guy out.
He worked in the ice cream parlor at the mall. The uniform was equal measures ridiculous and hilarious, but his coworker was cool as hell. Robin. Not Steve’s girlfriend, even though they carpooled to work and community college.
Steve’s house proved just as luxurious as Tina’s, with a pool to boot. A house which supposedly stayed empty more often than it hosted its own family. Steve notoriously didn’t host parties, which....seemed uniquely odd.
Apart from Billy visiting the ice cream shop, it seemed Steve’s only other visitors were high school freshman. Which was weird. That’s weird, right? Then again, Billy was ball and chained to eight hours a day, five days a week to high school. There was plenty of time for Steve to be with friends his own age.
Except he showed up at the next party on Halloween.
Tina’s house boasted a surprising number of Hawkins graduated seniors, forcing the party all the way out onto the street.
Just like before, Steve manifested beside Billy, announcing himself with fingertips brushing his slowly growing, weak little mullet. “Growing that out?”
Steve’s already heavy eyelids were heavier with alcohol. Billy had his customary cup of beer, but his cheeks flushed for a different reason. He had to rub the back of his neck to make the tickle stop.
“Yeah. Maybe it’ll touch my shoulders next year.”
“Have you trimmed it?”
Billy frowned at him. He’d heard some things come out of Steve’s mouth that were endearing in a ‘bless his heart’ kind of way, and this was among them. “No, that defeats the point of making it longer.”
Steve shook his head and waved for him to follow. “Come here. I’ll trim it.”
“You’re not cutting my hair,” Billy scoffed. And followed.
Upstairs.
Billy did his best not to look around the living room; to see any eyes apart from the ones he imagined on his backside. He followed at a leisurely pace. Not eager to be with King Harrington anywhere...
The guy walked right into the closed master bedroom. Billy stood outside of it, stunned at his audacity and the fact that no one was inside it already - 
“You coming?”
Billy’s not a coward -
Actually he is. But he’s an overeager sophomore with a dangerous crush even more.
Steve dug through the master bathroom’s drawers until he found a pair of scissors in their own case. “Sit on the tub.”
By tub, he meant jacuzzi edge. Billy perched. Steve gripped his shoulder to step into the tub with a comb that smelled of foreign hair product and aftershave. Billy’s nose wrinkled. “Wash that first.”
Then he jumped at the tub faucet turning on right beside his ass. Steve laughed. “Chill out. I’m washing it.”
Billy settled with a disgruntled shake of his head. “My hair is curly. You’re not supposed to brush it at all.”
“You’re in the hands of The Hair Harrington, sweetheart. Just relax.”
His shoulders sagged right underneath the weight of sweetheart.
I’m so screwed - 
Of all people to show up in the doorway, Robin from Scoops showed up with an energy that insinuated more sobriety than the guy wielding scissors.
Her mouth hung open like she had come with something to say, but then she sputtered through laughter. “Oh shit. Are you consenting to this?”
Billy rolled his eyes. “If he cuts my ear, I’m beating his ass.”
“I’d appreciate more faith from you, Buckley. I cut your bangs for you.”
Billy chirped, “Really?” admittedly feeling a bit better.
Steve intercepted with the order, “Are you gonna play music or what? I’m so tired of Tina’s music.”
That’s how Billy wound up in a bathroom with college freshmen trimming his ends and styling his hair while Steve and Robin shout-sang to Whitney Houston.
It was great.
Steve curled the top of his hair so he had ringlets falling over his bold brows. Steve, who had his hands all over Billy’s head until he washed the hair down the drain and filled the tub for a bubble bath. Billy scrutinized himself with a handheld mirror until Steve wrapped his arms around him and they tumbled backward into the wet landing.
Tina was hardly pleased to find the three of them making a mess of the jacuzzi, but she sassed a quick thank you for warding off people trying to fuck in her parents’ bed. Billy didn’t have words; only laughter at Robin putting her hair into a wet mohawk and Steve piling bubbles onto his head.
Steve insisted they go back to his house afterward. “It’s November and we’re soaked. Your car will be fine. I can come back and park it in my driveway if you’re that worried.”
That wasn’t the problem.
“It’s fine that your parents are never home, but mine will only recently lifted my curfew for good behavior.”
Somehow, he convinced Steve and Robin to drive him back to his house, at the expense of letting them change at Steve’s first. Billy had his eyes on a beautiful Camaro and was just a few more months of allowance and part time jobs away from having her.
It was his first time in Steve’s house. He had to admit, he preferred Tina’s layout and decor, but he got to wander around. He saw Robin use one of the guest rooms. He saw Steve’s....incredibly boring room. And said as much.
“A prison cell has more personality.”
Steve laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Are you ready to go?”
It wasn’t until Billy lay in his own bed that those words tumbled through his brain. His fingertips moved through his still-styled hair. It felt better with those dead ends gone. Steve did a good job. Steve liked Whitney Houston and Blondie and a little of everything, really. Steve cared about his appearance enough to be a self-taught stylist.
Steve didn’t have a lot of furniture in his room. Clutter on the dresser and desk, sure, but all of it monochrome or neutral colors. Steve who had an old BMW, house, and surely a bank account to match, but didn’t buy anything in excess. Like he wasn’t allowed to, or something. Billy indulged every scent he got on things he wanted, but Steve didn’t.
Steve had a nailed bat in his trunk. Billy heard it rolling around on their way back to his house, and finally bent over to look under the seats and saw it.
Steve was a walking contradiction. A contradiction who smelled good but didn’t say much when Billy and Robin talked about history. Who started giving Billy free ice cream but never asked about Billy’s stepsister. Who gave Billy rides and gave him the hookup to the high-paying neighbors of Loch Nora for mowed lawns and dogs walked.
Steve helped him get his car sooner than he would’ve otherwise but didn’t ask for anything in return.
Steve, who was always available for a good time, but looked sad when left with his thoughts.
Billy didn’t take well to not being the center of attention. He’d grown up with an interrogation lamp over his head, and sought positive interaction everywhere else. He got so much of it from Steve, that the occasions where Steve bumped against him...refused him, or ignored him, or reminded Billy that he was a rinky dink sophomore lit a match in his belly. And he’d swallowed gasoline for too much of his life.
“That’s something a virgin says.”
Billy couldn’t even remember what he’d just said. He was already, instantly, seeing the glow of embers on the fringe of his vision. “Excuse me?”
Steve shrugged as he got up from his couch. “It’s whatever. It’s fine. Just showing your hand, is all.”
Billy couldn’t believe it. Steve was either the biggest idiot in Hawkins - which he knew wasn’t true considering there was a real cesspool that smoked underneath the bleachers - or he was so far in denial that Billy had a whole new reason to be pissed.
An involuntary sound left Steve when Billy came up behind him and pushed him against the wall underneath the stairs.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
Billy wasn’t some cute sophomore. He stood toe to toe with Steve, barely an inch shorter. If this is what it took for Steve to realize that, fine.
To realize that Billy wasn’t some teenager scared shitless of a girls’ bra -
Steve regained his footing, and closed the distance between their mouths. It was small, soft, and brief. Rationality should have made Billy step away. Punch him, maybe. But Billy wasn’t rational. His shock held him statuesque, barely breathing while Steve moved a hand to cradle the side of his head and neck -
A sound left Billy this time, as Steve angled his mouth over Billy’s. Where he learned Billy was scared, so scared of Steve. His body dashed rationality against the wall and kissed him back tentatively, and then earnestly, just trying to keep up until Steve’s other hand framed him in. As Steve pushed against him until Billy walked backwards to have himself pressed against the wall.
He felt drunk as his hands let go of Steve’s shirt to hold onto the curvature of his ribs. He panted while Steve kissed his throat and washed Billy’s senses with his warm, sweet fragrance; his hair brushing Billy’s face and inspiring him to turn his face into Steve’s scalp. Inhale him into his lungs.
Billy didn’t know what game they were playing. But Steve outplayed him.
107 notes · View notes
hongism · 4 years
Text
liquorice and ivories - k.hongjoong
Tumblr media
➻ pairing: hongjoong x fem!reader ➻ wc: 16.5k ➻ genre: smut, tad angsty, fluff, e2l, pianist!hongjoong, pianist!reader ➻ rating: M, 18+ ➻ warnings: public sex, semi-public sex, explicit smut, oral sex: m & f, fingering, handjobs, choking, lowkey hate sex at first, sex on a piano, degradation, praise, marking, biting, multiple orgasms, cum swallowing, creampie, unprotected sex ➻ summary: you and hongjoong are competitors, of course. two people, one dream - there’s never room for two in this industry. neither of you care who you have to step on to get to the top.
​​​
Your fingers hit the ivories with a thud. The sound echoes through the practice room, reverberating against the walls and sending the sickeningly sweet sounds to the ears of all the people in the room. You sit back, satisfied with the performance, and glance over at your small audience. The professor is the first to clap, and he sends a small smile your way before standing up. Five of your classmates mimic his movements, but the sixth remains stony and cold, unmoving except for the slight curl of his lips that echoes his disgust with your performance.
Kim Hongjoong.
The two of you have never cared for each other; both are so competitive that you can’t stand to be around one another for more than five seconds. You are arrogant to a degree, but only because you think about how far you’ve come and how much you’ve developed over the years. Hongjoong, on the other hand, is just arrogant. There’s no need to beat around the bush and think harder about it. You’ve known the man for about two years now – you both joined the university at the same time and now are in your junior years together. Given the minimal size of your program though, it means that you have to share every single class with Hongjoong.
When you started your journey in the program, you didn’t notice Hongjoong. He’s a short-statured man – still taller than you yes, but small compared to your other male classmate – and he was relatively quiet during the first year of school. A fashionable student, even with the awkward uniform you’re all required to wear, but he always manages to style it in a way like no one else. Whether it’s a beret on his head or a sudden change of hair color, Hongjoong always adds a new flair to his outfits. Once he even had a mullet, which you had never seen before in person, but as much as you hate to admit it, it actually suited him quite nicely. Now, however, his hair is bright blue and parted right down the middle. His bangs frame his forehead, exposing just enough skin to entice, and if you didn’t hate his guts so much, you would understand why all the girls at this school want to get in his pants.
As you said, you didn’t notice him during your first year at university because he was so quiet and kept to himself. That all flipped during the second year though. Hongjoong became bold all of a sudden; the bright-eyed boy of freshman year was long gone and replaced by a cynical man who sought to tear everyone down. You became his primary target of attack. You weren’t sure why at first, but it became glaringly obvious once your professor admitted that you and Hongjoong were the top two students of your generation. It is a competition, in which you are his biggest competitor.
Exchanged insults, glares and scowls sent in each other’s direction, attempts to outdo one another in practices and recitals and competitions. You fight each other tooth and nail. Your professor seems totally unbothered by the hatred you bear for one another; he claims that it’s a healthy way to challenge each other, even though everyone knows that it is the opposite of healthy.
All that to say – you are not surprised in the slightest to see his disdain. Your professor on the other hand cannot stop grinning after your performance.
“Fantastic job, Y/N. Really stunning. I think you’re doing better than ever with this piece. I have no doubt that you can win the next competition if you continue practicing hard and performing at this level.”
You push the piano bench back just enough to step out, bowing to your professor at his kind words.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Kim, you’re up next.” Hongjoong stands as he’s called forward. The two of you pass without sparing so much as a glance in the other’s direction. You take his now empty seat, one leg crossing over the other as you lean against the back. Hongjoong sits on the bench, fiddling with the adjustments and distance from the keys a bit. “Remind me of your piece?”
“Chopin’s Nocturne, Opus 48, number 1.”
“Ah yes. Start whenever you’re ready.”
As soon as Hongjoong’s fingers hit the keys, you’re reminded of why you hate the man so much. It’s not because he’s arrogant and egotistical for no reason. No, he’s sickenly good at playing the piano. That infuriates you even more. If he was bad and full of ungodly rage, you might be able to rectify his attitude, but no. He’s the best pianist you’ve ever met, ever heard, better than some professionals that you’ve gone and seen in concert. He plays the piano as though it’s an extension of himself. The ivories are like his muscle and bone, he treats each one like it’s a part of him, and he knows how to recreate a piece of music in a way that is so authentically original yet completely his own. Yea, you fucking despise it.
Over the years, the biggest complaint you’ve received from teachers and judges is that you cannot properly express the music. You can play it perfectly, recreate the notes as they were written, and copy them to perfection. But that’s not what the judges or teachers want. They want you to be unique and diverse. They don’t want a perfect replica. They want you to take the piece of music and make it your own, create something flawless and make it even better by putting your own heart and soul into the notes. Hongjoong does that with such ease that he makes it look effortless.
This piece he plays now gives him the perfect playing ground to do that again. The way his fingers dance across the keys, a feather-light touch that brings the slightest notes out and the hard-hitting chords that resound in your ears. His performance is as flawless as ever, he has no trouble making the song his own. You hate it. The perfection under his fingers nearly makes you sick to your stomach because the player behind the keys is nothing but a self-righteous asshole.
You honestly want to smack some sense into Hongjoong, maybe rough him up a little and try to make him less of an asshole, but you doubt that would work. You settle for glaring at the side of his head throughout the performance, despising each perfect note he plays until he finishes the song. You return the favor of not clapping when he finishes the piece, six long minutes of torture, but everyone else in the room applauds his performance with fervor. He stands up and steps around the piano bench, bowing to the professor then turning to look right at you. A smug smile spreads across his lips. He knows how well he did, and he knows how much you enjoyed the piece. You don’t give him the pleasure of returning the glare any longer and glance away to stare at the floor instead.
“Fantastic job, Mr. Kim. Near perfection, I would say. Be sure to watch the tempo as you play. Otherwise, I have no advice for you.”
“Thank you, professor.” Hongjoong’s voice mimics the sickly sweet tone of his playing, a melodious sound that grates against your ears despite how pretty it is. He rubs at his wrists as he pulls away from the piano, and his expression is blank when you look back up at his face.
“Alright, that’s all for today. You all did well with your performances. Be sure to keep practicing. I’ll see you at the competition on Saturday. Watch your emails as I’ll be sending out information about the bus ride to the concert hall. Dismissed!”
You waste no time in standing up, snatching up the bag at your feet and slinging it over your shoulder without thinking twice. You’re out the door within seconds. It would be a wise idea to drop by a practice room and work on your piece some more seeing as there are only a few days left until the competition, but too much rage boils in your gut. You want nothing more than to go home and stew in fury on the couch while watching some awful drama. So, that’s exactly what you do.
The bus ride back to your apartment is quick and easy, as is the walk up the stairs to your room. When you step inside, a small black cat darts out from under the couch to greet you. You stoop down to scratch at his chin, cooing as he rubs against you with a happy purr.
“Hi, Victor. Did you have a good day?” The response you get is a quiet meow. “Yea, I had a good day up until practice. Fucking Kim Hongjoong.”
You step around the small cat to plop down on the couch, dropping your bag to the floor with a thud. Digging around in your pockets, you pull your phone out to find a littering of texts across the screen as well as two missed calls. With a sigh, you tap the screen to return the call, immediately greeted with a loud scream in your ear.
“Y/N!”
“Yea, hi, Woo. Why’d you call?”
“I can’t just call my best friend out of nowhere?”
“No, because you never call unless you want something,” you sigh into the receiver. Wooyoung replies with a dissatisfied click of his tongue.
“Wow, I see how it is. I get absolutely no respect. None! You hear that, Seonghwa? No respect!” You hear Wooyoung’s roommate hum quietly over the phone, and Wooyoung grumbles at his nonchalant response. “Anyways, you’re right. I called because I want something.”
“I fucking knew it.” You sit straight on the couch, elbows coming to rest against your knees. “What is it this time? Calculus homework? You know I’m not a math major…”
“No! No, if I wanted help with Calculus, I would just ask Hwa.”
“Okay, so what is it?”
“I’m having a party tonight and–”
“No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out!”
“The answer is no.”
“Come on, Y/N! You never go out!”
“I don’t want to.”
“It’s a chill party!”
“You say that every time then the cops get called and suddenly it’s no longer a ‘chill party’.”
“Okay, but this time it really is.”
“How so?”
“It’s small. Only seven or eight people are coming. Including you, maybe?”
“More always end up showing up, Woo.”
“Not this time. I’ve limited it. Mingi and San are not allowed to bring anyone over, I’ve made it glaringly clear. So please? Pretty please? Seonghwa and I will buy you dinner for a whole week!”
“Um, when did I agree to that?” Seonghwa’s voice carries over the phone against, his tone full of protest as Wooyoung makes the offer.
“Make it two weeks and you have a deal,” you respond, voice flat.
“What? No! That’s way too much. One week.”
“One and a half.”
“I’ll give you one week and Hwa will buy a whole bag of cat food for Victor.”
“Deal.”
“What?” Seonghwa’s shout of protest resounds again. “I did not agree to this!”
“Too bad, so sad, Hwa! She’s coming!” Wooyoung cheers, voice quieter as he pulls away from the phone for a moment. He comes back right after to talk to you again. “Okay, be here by eight. That’s when people will start showing up. Seonghwa’s getting us some good good alcohol so we’re really going to have fun. I promise!”
Wooyoung doesn’t give you the opportunity to respond; instead, he hangs up the phone and leaves you in silence again. You drop the phone to the couch with a sigh, glancing over at where Victor is now perched on the armrest.
“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
He meows back at you, amber eyes wide with curiosity.
“Yea, that’s what I thought.”
The house is already booming with music when you arrive at the front door. Wooyoung is lucky to live with Seonghwa because the man is filthy rich and can afford to rent out a whole house to live in for the school year. It allows for loud parties like these, although the house is relatively small and the other houses around it are very close, they can at least have the luxury of not sharing a whole apartment building with hundreds of other people.
You don’t bother knocking, twisting the knob and stepping into the noise. Wooyoung is there to greet you at the door, two cups in hand, and he grins when he sees you.
“Y/N! Let’s get this shit started! Rum and coke?”
“Yea, yea.” You snatch one of the cups from his hand and start sipping at it without a second thought.
“Hey, that was mine!”
“Well, it’s mine now!”
“You little shit.” Wooyoung scrunches his nose up, then drops a hand to your back. “Okay almost everyone is here. San is in the middle of dragging Jongho over by the ear, then we’re gonna be in full party mode.”
“I can’t wait to make a speedy getaway.”
“You say that every time. Then you stay all night. Make up your mind, woman.” Wooyoung elbows you in the side. He catches sight of Seonghwa a moment later, rushing off to go stand with the older man. You watch him go with a small shake of your head. As much as Wooyoung doesn’t want to admit it, he is absolutely infatuated with his roommate. Every time they have a party like this, Wooyoung ends up in Seonghwa’s bed, and they wake up as though nothing happened. Part of you wishes you could have a relationship like that – fuck and move on without a care in the world. The two won’t admit that it’s something exclusive but you know Wooyoung wouldn’t dare sleep with anyone else, and Seonghwa doesn’t bring anyone to the house or spend the night elsewhere. They have an unspoken agreement, an undefined relationship. Still, it bothers Wooyoung that Seonghwa won’t speak up about his feelings, and you’ve had to console the man through drunk tears on occasion. The only action you get, on the other hand, is hearing Wooyoung’s stories about how they fucked and getting gross details of all the positions Seonghwa put him in throughout the night.
You shake your head at the thought, downing some more of your drink to expel the image from your mind. You glance around the living room, searching the faces of the people who are already here. Wooyoung was at least telling the truth, and there are only three people talking in a small circle. All are faces you recognize: Wooyoung’s friend Mingi, Seonghwa’s old flame and best friend Yeosang, and Yeosang’s current boyfriend Yunho. All people you know well enough to be friends with, so you approach them without any hesitation. It’s only when you step past Mingi’s outrageously tall form that you catch sight of a much smaller form, one with bright blue hair that you recognize in an instant.
“He fucking didn’t…” You mutter to yourself as you drag your gaze over the man’s form. “Jung Wooyoung, I swear…”
You spin on your heel just before going to where the group is standing. You make a beeline for Seonghwa and Wooyoung, catching the younger man by surprise when you grab hold of his shoulder and yank him back.
“Woah! What? What happened?”
“You fucking invited Kim Hongjoong?” You ask, tone incredulous as you glare at your best friend.
“I-I – oh shit. I forgot! I forgot you weren’t friends!”
“How did you fucking forget, Wooyoung? I tell you how much I had him on the daily!”
“Mingi asked if he could bring his roommate! I didn’t know that his roommate was Hongjoong, I swear. I’ve never met him before, I just assumed it was some random person. Please don’t hit me!” Wooyoung flinches away from you as you raise a hand to smack him across the back of the head.
“I can’t believe you,” you grumble as Wooyoung yelps. Seonghwa laughs at your exchange with Wooyoung, eyes forming soft crescents as he smiles. “You didn’t think to ask?”
“Why would I need to ask? We’re friends, I just assumed his roommate would be chill like he is!”
“No, it’s Kim fucking Hongjoong, the least chill person in the fucking universe. I’m leaving.”
“Woah, woah, woah! Please don’t, Y/N. You just got here, come on. Stay for just a little bit. You don’t even have to talk to him, okay? Just stay with me or Seonghwa. Or San when he gets here! I know you like him!”
“Shut up!” You turn away at the accusation, cheeks heating up as he points out your minor crush.
“I’m just stating facts,” Wooyoung huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest and sticks his tongue out at you.
“I’ll stay as long as I don’t have to breathe near Hongjoong.” You send a glare at the blue-haired man’s back even though he can’t see you. You don’t even know if he’s seen you yet; he’s still glued to Mingi’s side without a care in the world.
“What’s the deal with you two anyway?” Seonghwa asks as he brings his drink up to his lips.
“He’s a self-righteous fucking asshole who tears people down so he can feel better about himself,” you grumble back. Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up, and Wooyoung shakes his head.
“Competition. They’re both good at piano. Thus… they’re competition to each other.”
“Yea, yea… it would help if he wasn’t such a fuckwad.”
“Ooh, fuckwad. That’s a new one. Hey, Hwa, how kinky would it be to call you fuckwad during sex?”
“I – what?”
“Please spare me! I did not come here to hear about that again.”
“Oh, fuckwad, harder!” Wooyoung cries out, leaning closer to you. You try to swat him away with weak hands.
“Not as kinky or hot as you think,” Seonghwa chimes in, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
“Maybe we can try it tonight and see if I change your mind.”
“I hate it here,” you chime in, trying to hide behind your drink.
“Sure you do.”
“No, I really hate it here. This is disgusting, I didn’t sign up for this.”
“I mean, you can watch if you want–”
“No! Oh my god, no. Wooyoung!”
Wooyoung cackles as he pulls away from the two of you, moving over to where the others stand with their drinks, and leaves you and Seonghwa to stand at the edge of the kitchen.
“What am I going to do with him?” Seonghwa asks as he watches the short brunette walk away.
“Marry him?”
Seonghwa releases a small laugh. “We’ll see, we’ll see.”
You smile at the taller man, glancing at his love-stricken expression out the corner of your eye before downing the rest of your drink. Casting another glance over at Hongjoong’s back, you spin on your heel and enter the kitchen to make yourself another drink. The amount of rum you put in is almost shameful, and it’s a good thing that your recital is on Saturday and not tomorrow because you know you will end up absolutely wasted before the night is over. You don’t even bother to put soda in this time either, just leaving the liquor and a few cubes of ice.
The alcohol burns as it sears down your throat. Seonghwa has moved forward to join Wooyoung with the others. You know you’re going to have to go over there eventually, but Hongjoong’s lurking form is deterring you from doing so for now. Just your luck too because the doorbell rings as you step out of the kitchen.
“I’ll get it!” You call out over your shoulder, making your way over to the door. You already have an inkling as to who it might be, and that is only confirmed when you crack the door open. San and Jongho stand behind it, bright smiles on both their faces. You bite down hard on your lower lip at the sight of the former and try not to let your gaze rake over his body as he steps over the threshold.
“Oh, Y/N! I didn’t know you were going to come too. What a pleasant surprise!” San says. His hand finds your waist as he pulls you in for a warm hug. Your heart does small cartwheels as he presses against you, and you feel the need to down a whole bottle of rum to expel the feelings.
“Yea, I-I, uh, Wooyoung convinced me to come,” you stammer out, glancing away from San’s face. Jongho smiles at you but says nothing, and he looks a lot less excited to be here than San. You understand the feeling at least and pass a sympathetic smile in his direction.
“I’m glad he did. I don’t see you nearly enough.”
“Oh shut up. You’re just one building over, you can always visit me in the practice rooms.”
“And risk seeing asshole supreme? I’ll pass.” San laughs as he shuts the front door, and you know exactly who he’s talking about.
“Don’t speak too soon. He’s here with Mingi.”
“Oh fuck. Where’s the alcohol? I’m gonna need it.”
“Kitchen.”
“Bless you.”
“Mhm,” you hum over the rim of your cup. Your eyes shift back over to where the others are standing. Your heart plummets in an instant as you see Hongjoong’s gaze on your form. That familiar hatred is lingering in his stare, and you return it immediately with an equal amount of fury. Rather than staying any longer to see him, you move to follow San into the kitchen, downing a good amount of alcohol along the way.
“You know, I should’ve brought my girlfriend with me,” San says as you step into the kitchen. You freeze in your tracks, mouth falling agape as your brain processes the words. It’s almost a physical pain that spreads across your chest when you realize what he’s saying. You don’t let it show on your face though; the pain is covered with a shaky smile and laugh.
“W-What do you mean?”
“You’re always the only girl at these parties. It must suck to not, I don’t know, have another girl to talk to, you know?” San brings a cup to his lips, sipping at it quietly as he looks at you. You swallow roughly.
“Right, yea. Of course. I… Honestly, I barely notice. I have Wooyoung.”
“Good point, good point. I’ll be sure to bring her to the next one though. I think the two of you would get along! Hell, you might even know her. She’s in the piano program.”
“O-Oh, wow! Wow. Wow. What a coincidence!”
“I know right? Her name is Minnie if you talk to her at all.”
You nearly choke on your drink as San says the name. Not only do you know the girl in question, she is one of your closest friends – if not your closest friend in the piano program. Not once did she ever let it slip that she was dating your crush. The crush you have mentioned to her on multiple occasions. Nice. Fuck, this nice just keeps getting better and better.
“I-I, no. No, uh, I’ve not talked to her too much!” You lie with another weak smile. “But I’ll be sure to introduce myself soon. I’d love to chat with her about music and stuff.”
“Yea, absolutely. I can give you her number if you’d like?”
“No, no! It’s okay! I’ll see her tomorrow in class. You don’t need to do that.”
“Oh yea, I forgot you guys have practice together every day. She speaks highly of your playing, by the way.”
Your smile is beginning to hurt your cheeks as you strain to keep it going.
“Oh please, I’m not that good. Nothing special.”
“Humble words for the best in the program,” San replies with a lilt to his tone. Your cheeks feel like they might collapse if you maintain the grin any longer. Thankfully, San steps away from the counter and motions towards the living room a moment later.
“I’m gonna go say hi to the others.”
“Yea, go ahead. I’m just gonna get a refill on my drink!” You don’t need another refill, you still have half a cup left. You throw it back when San disappears though in the hopes that it’ll take the sting in the corners of your eyes away. It wasn’t even a straight-up rejection. Still, you’ve spent months pining after San and trying to get close to him, only for this to happen. One of your closest friends to up and date him behind your back? Yea, that hurts a lot more than you’d like to admit. Once the alcohol is fully down, you drop your cup to the counter and begin to pour another glass of straight rum. You don’t even notice when someone else steps into the kitchen with a drink in hand.
“Even at a random party, you manage to annoy me.”
Hongjoong. As though your night couldn’t get any worse, he decides to come and bother you. How perfect. You should’ve said no to Wooyoung.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not in the mood to deal with you.” You slam the bottle of rum against the counter and bring your cup back to your lips. Hongjoong comes closer to the counter, shaking his head at your behavior.
“Such a model student you are.”
“You’re one to fucking talk.”
“The mouth on you is absolutely foul.”
“I didn’t realize we weren’t allowed to cuss.”
“It’s not pretty for a lady to cuss.”
You nearly toss your drink in his face but somehow you manage to hold back from doing so.
“My patience is already minimal.”
“Rejection ruin your night?” Hongjoong reaches across the counter to pick up the bottle of alcohol. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard that you think you’ll draw blood. “Everyone in class knows that Minnie’s dating San. How did you manage to miss that? Especially seeing as you’re the one who talks with her the most?”
“She neglected to tell me.”
“Probably didn’t want to crush your dreams.”
Your grip on the cup in your hand tightens. Hongjoong’s words shouldn’t get to you – they normally don’t, but right now you’re already in a bit of a fragile mindstate, so the stinging in the corners of your eyes returns in a rush. You inhale sharply. Hongjoong glances up at you as he hears the sound. His fingers pause on the bottle of rum.
“Are you crying?” He asks. You squeeze your eyes shut as though it will hide the evidence of your tears, but it only serves to cause them to run down your cheeks. “Fuck, I-I’m sorry. I di-didn’t mean to make you cry.”
Hongjoong’s apology is quite the shocker. You half-expected him to laugh in your face and call you all sorts of names. When you glance over at him again, his expression is one full of regret and guilt. You wipe furiously at your cheeks with one hand, keeping the other on your cup of alcohol.
“Shut the fuck up,” you say again, albeit with a much shakier tone this time. All the remorse on Hongjoong’s expression melts away in an instant. He glares at you in response and returns to pouring himself another cup of alcohol. You turn away and move towards one of the counters, hopping up on it and mulling over your drink in silence.
“You’re really going to sit there and mope all night? I should’ve known you were boring as fuck just from hearing your performance quality.”
It didn’t even take a minute for Hongjoong to return to insulting you. The temptation of chucking your drink at him returns, but once again you manage not to do that.
“What do you get out of being mean to me? Does it make you feel better? Is that it?”
“No. You’re just so easy to rile up. Makes you worse at playing the piano too, which means it makes me that much better than you. Eliminating the competition, love. That’s all.”
“Don’t fucking call me ‘love’.”
“Why? Does it get you going?”
“I hate you so much, I swear. Don’t you have a line of girls you can fuck around with whenever you’re bored?” You hiss the question at Hongjoong. He laughs a little, one corner of his lips curling up as he takes in your questions. He hums and pushes the bottle of alcohol away again, then brings his cup up to his lips. After a long and slow drag of the drink, he pushes it back down to the counter. You watch his movements with wary eyes as he steps around the counter and moves closer to where you’re perched.
“What’s the fun in that?” He asks, head tilting to the side as he draws closer to you. “Why not play a little game of cat and mouse? Tease, poke fun, see how much it takes for someone to give in. That’s real fun.”
“So I’m a game to you?” You spit out as Hongjoong closes in on you. He pauses in his tracks, only a few feet away from you now.
“A game? You aren’t the game itself. You’re just a piece in the game. The true game is getting under your skin.”
Hongjoong continues to move forward until he hits your knees. Despite his short stature, he’s just tall enough to be eye level with you at this angle. You lean back, head thudding against the cabinet behind you. There’s nowhere for you to go, and you stare back at Hongjoong with narrowed eyes. You bring your cup up, effectively blocking him from coming any closer, and down some more alcohol in the hopes that it’ll drive away the sudden warmth in your gut that arises when Hongjoong grins at you.
“Cat got your tongue all of a sudden, princess?”
“No,” you rush to answer. Hongjoong’s smile persists, and he places his hands down on the counter. They close you in, dropped on either side of your form. He’s putting an awful amount of trust that you won’t knee him in the balls like this, because you’re at the perfect angle to do so.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Hongjoong says. Your breath catches in your throat when you hear his words, and you panic, shoulders tensing up in an instant. Hongjoong hesitates, watching your movements with careful eyes. “Unless you don’t want me to?”
“N-No, I… I…” You can’t finish the sentence. Your gaze travels down the slope of Hongjoong’s nose to his plush lips, their dark red color enticing you to lean forward. It’s the alcohol in your system, it really must be, because otherwise you wouldn’t even dream of kissing him. Hongjoong leans even closer, his breath mixing with yours. It smells like alcohol, and as he gets closer, you can see a faint blush across his nose and cheeks. He must be feeling the effects of the drinks as well, which should be a sign for you to stop and know that you’ll regret this in the morning. Hell, you aren’t even drunk yet. You’re barely tipsy. So why the fuck do you want to Hongjoong to pin you to the bed and fuck you senseless?
You don’t think any longer than that. You drape your arms around Hongjoong’s neck and close the distance between your lips. His lips are soft and warm when they hit yours, slotting together like puzzle pieces. He sighs into the kiss. He pushes against you as his hands shift to grip your hips. Despite the smell of alcohol on his breath, his lips taste sickenly sweet, almost like liquorice candy. Strangely, you can’t get enough of you. His tongue prods at your lower lips, swiping across the skin in a way that causes shivers to run down your spine.
A slight gasp escapes you, and Hongjoong uses that to his advantage. He presses his tongue between your lips with ease. It hits yours in an instant battle for dominance, and that sweet liquorice taste is on his tongue as well as though he’s been eating the candy for hours.
He pulls back for a moment, letting the two of you catch your breath. Your eyelids flutter as he moves, and your head falls back against the cabinet behind you. Hongjoong takes advantage of the motion. He leans forward and presses his lips to the column of your throat, tongue dragging over the skin there. Small gasps of air leave you as he sucks gently at the skin as well, and you know you should stop him because he’ll leave marks. Marks that won’t be gone within two days for the competition. Yet you don’t mind it too much ask his tongue lavishes your neck. What you do mind is the fact that the two of you are still in the kitchen. Which has no doors. So anyone could walk in and see the two of you going at it like this at any second.
You nudge Hongjoong’s shoulder, and he pulls off within an instant.
“What’s up?” He asks in the most nonchalant and casual tone ever.
“Upstairs bedroom. First door on the left. I’ll meet you up there in five minutes,” you say through a series of gasps. Hongjoong arches a brow, your confident tone catching him off-guard as well as the confirmation that the two of you are taking this further. He pulls away from you. His hands slide down your thighs as he moves in a teasing manner, and the gleam in his eyes tells you that he knows exactly what he is doing. You wait until he’s completely gone from the kitchen to release the breath you were holding, eyes falling shut. You take another chug of alcohol and finish off the rest of your glass. It’s just enough liquid courage for you to hop off the counter and pace around the kitchen, hands pressed together as though in prayer.
Now that Hongjoong is gone, you’re suddenly second-guessing this whole… situation. The two of you hate each other, that fact hasn’t changed in the slightest, you know that he still hates you as much as you hate him. It’s just the alcohol. It’s just the alcohol, it has to be. You’re still thinking straight and clearly though. It’s the arousal in your gut then. That was not there before Hongjoong kissed you or when you pulled him into said kiss. Then… perhaps the rejection that wasn’t really rejection from San. Maybe it’s that. Surely it’s that. Or maybe the two of you just need to fuck this out of your systems and carry on with hating each other.
Thinking is getting you nowhere. You don’t wait any longer, dipping out of the kitchen and taking the stairs up to the second floor without a second thought. The door you mentioned to Hongjoong belongs to Wooyoung, and he may not be happy about you using his bedroom to fuck your sworn enemy, but he’ll be wasted and distracted with Seonghwa within an hour anyway. You push into the bedroom with a sudden burst of confidence, but that dissipates the second you step in and lay your eyes on Hongjoong.
He’s stripped the leather jacket he was wearing off, leaving him in black pants that are far too tight, and a tucked-in tee that looks so effortlessly good on him that you hate it. You hate how damn perfect he is without even trying. He barely gives you time to shut the door before he’s approaching you, pressing you up against the wood. Your lips find each other again, and you moan out of surprise. The sound spurs Hongjoong on; he grabs hold of one of your legs and hikes it around his waist. The show of strength sends a surge of arousal to your core. He presses his tongue between your lips again, and you eat that sickly sweet taste of liquorice up as though starved.
“Are you sure?” Hongjoong asks, pulling away for a brief moment to look you in the eye.
“Yes,” you respond without any hesitation. “Yes, so fuck me.”
“Fuck…” Hongjoong mutters. He pulls you off the wall, and you press your other leg around his waist as he moves for the bed. You’re glad Wooyoung at least didn’t leave his room a complete mess otherwise Hongjoong would be tripping over clothes and shoes. He makes it to the bed with ease, however, dropping you to the mattress. The air leaves your lungs in a huff. You sit up on your elbows. Hongjoong stays back for a few moments, tugging at his belt until it’s completely gone, then his shirt follows quickly. You barely noticed the obvious tent in his pants prior to this but in all honesty, your eyes were looking anywhere except for his groin. His stripping encourages you to do the same, pulling at your own t-shirt and discarding of it on Wooyoung’s floor. Your shorts are harder to inch off, but as you tug at the zipper, Hongjoong’s hands land on your hips.
He doesn’t say a word, yanking your pants down with such ease that you nearly melt at the sight. Now he’s the one overdressed though, tight pants still clinging to his form, while you’re left in the black set of lingerie that you wore without thinking you were going to end up like this. Hongjoong doesn’t seem to mind one bit, bending down over you and dropping his hands on either side of your body. You welcome him with a kiss full of teeth and saliva.
“Fuck you’re hot,” Hongjoong says as he pulls off your lips for a second. He reaches around your torso and unhooks your bra, yanking it off you. Cold air hits your chest, and you suddenly feel very embarrassed at the exposure. Hongjoong’s eyes rake over you. He brings a hand to drag over your chest, pinching your nipple without warning. You gasp at the sensation, and your back arches off the bed under his fingers. Your reaction encourages him to repeat the motion, and he dips down to latch around your other nipple with his lips. You cry out from the sudden stimulation, Hongjoong’s teeth grazing over your breast lightly, and your hands reach down to find purchase in his bright blue hair.
He doesn’t waste much time though, lips quickly leaving your breast and trailing wet kisses down your bare abdomen until he reaches the band of your underwear. A grin spreads across his lips, eyes twinkling with mischief as he snags the material with his fingers and pulls it down with ease. You don’t even have time to think before he reaches between your folds and flattens his tongue against your clit. Another startled yelp escapes your, legs jerking, and Hongjoong hooks his arm around your leg and grasps at your opposite hip with the same hand. The other hand lingers at your core, teasing your dripping folds while his tongue goes to work at your clit.
“Fuck, you taste so good, princess,” Hongjoong purrs against your lower lips. You glance down at him, making eye contact as he drags his tongue through your arousal. You can see your juices on his lips. The dirty sight causes you to writhe against him. He stills you by pressing two fingers into your heat.
“Ah! Ho-Hongjoong, oh my god,” you stammer out as he immediately curls those two fingers inside you and nips gently at your sensitive bud. “F-Fuck, fuck.”
“Such a dirty mouth for a dirty little slut, huh?” You can’t respond with words this time, but his statement draws a high-pitched whine out of you and your walls tighten around his fingers. Hongjoong teases the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Dirty talk then? Or degradation?”
You answer by squeezing around his fingers again, and the sensation is so tight that Hongjoong grits his teeth.
“You’re gonna be so good around my cock,” he hisses out. He squeezes a third finger into your heat, scissoring you open with relative ease. That damn tongue continues to tease your clit. He flicks over the small bead and draws small circles around it. It edges you closer and closer to an orgasm, but Hongjoong senses that and pulls away within an instant. He drags his tongue lower instead and pushes the wet muscle into your heat with his fingers. The added stimulation makes you cry out, and your hand grips Hongjoong’s hair and tugs at the strands. He nearly growls, the vibrations of the sound reverberating through your core in just the right way. It causes your orgasm to hit all of a sudden, back arching off the bed and body going slack as the intense waves wash over you.
Hongjoong guides you through the orgasm, fingers still curled inside you as he pulls his tongue back to lick the juices off his lips.
“Ready to take my cock in that dirty little cunt?”
“Yes, fuck – fuck, yes. Please fuck me.”
“Since you asked so nicely, I suppose I can do that.”
Hongjoong pulls back from your core, hands going straight to his pants. He has to stand up to tug them down, and he yanks his underwear down in the same motion. You’re surprised by his size in all honesty. He’s rather short compared to the other men you’ve been with so you weren’t expecting much in that department, but he’s much larger than you expected him to be. He doesn’t give you time to gape any longer though, kneeling back on the bed and pulling your legs up around his waist. He guides his member to your entrance. You swallow in anticipation and watch him slowly enter you. He continues moving forward until he bottoms out, a low groan leaving his lips when you instinctively clench around his cock.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he grunts out, leaning down over you again.
“Just fuck me already,” you say in response. You curl your fingers around his neck and bring his head down to yours. Your lips connect as he pulls out, and the sharp thrust of his hips against the back of your thighs breaks the kiss. You throw your head back at the sensation, the curve of his cock rubbing against your sweet spot at just the right angle. You can’t keep the moans from slipping out; the feeling is far too good for you to keep quiet, and it spurs Hongjoong to thrust faster. He picks up a relentless pace, hips slamming against your thighs at an almost bruising pace.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans. You tilt your head to the side and press your lips against your bicep, biting down on the flesh in attempts to quiet your moans. Hongjoong must not like that because his fingers close around the base of your throat. “Eyes on me.”
You follow the order without thinking twice, snapping your head back to look Hongjoong in the eye. Your quick obedience brings a stutter to his thrusts. He dips down to capture your lips in his own. Despite the fact that you just hit one orgasm, the drag of his member inside your walls is already spurring you to another one in a short amount of time. Your sporadic clenches around Hongjoong’s cock signal that oncoming orgasm.
“Are you gonna cum again, slut?” He growls against your lips. You nod a few times, tongue darting out to taste his liquorice tasting ones. He pulls just out of your reach and leans back. “Do it yourself.” His words draw a surprised gasp from your mouth. You can’t tell whether he’s being serious or not until he pulls his still hard member out of your heat. You swallow roughly, eyes trailing over him in disbelief, before pulling yourself up to be eye level with him again.
“T-Then let me ride you,” you say. Hongjoong arches a brow and bites his lower lip. Still, he doesn’t move. You blink at him. You don’t know what he’s wanting you to do or expecting you to do, so you do the only thing you can think of. Pin him down against the bed, throw a leg over his hips, and grip his member by the base. He groans at the action, watching you guide his cock back to your drenched folds with a cocky grin. You wipe the smile off his lips with a sudden drop of your hips. You take his whole length in again and don’t waste any time in picking up your pace until it matches his previous one. Even as you bounce on his member, he doesn’t grip your hips or guide your movements, just laying back and watching you do all the work. It reminds you of how much you hate the man, even in the throes of pleasure, he’s still an arrogant and self-righteous asshole. That thought doesn’t keep your orgasm from approaching quickly. Your bounces slow down as you grow ever closer to your high. When it hits, you release a loud cry, freezing on top of him with pulsing walls as the strength leaves your body. You stay like that for a few seconds, unable to move because of the intense orgasm, then pull off slowly.
He watches you with a narrowed gaze as you lower your mouth to his cock. You lap at his member, collecting the juices and precum from it, then take half of him into your mouth. He nearly bucks up into your mouth. You have to comb a few strands of hair back when they fall over his member. Hongjoong releases a wanton moan. You bob your head up and down along his cock in efforts to make him cum faster, and the plan works in your favor. Moments later, he is spilling hot cum down your throat. You swallow every last drop. When you pull off his softening member, you wipe at your lower lip with a satisfied grin.
“You fuck better than I thought,” Hongjoong says through a deep sigh.
“You’re not half bad yourself,” you answer as you fall back against the bed. Your whole body aches and burns from the sex, but you feel extremely satisfied as well. Hongjoong moves with you, head hitting the pillow at the same time yours does.
The two of you refuse to look at each other even in the afterglow of your sex. You don’t know what to say to him, or if you should say anything for that matter. All you can do is stare at the ceiling. Based on the noise that resounds from across the hall, Seonghwa and Wooyoung are already getting down to business. If you hadn’t just fucked Hongjoong, you might find this predicament awkward.
“I’m going to shower,” Hongjoong announces after the silence drags on for a few minutes.
“Y-Yea, yea, go ahead. Help yourself to a towel and stuff. Wooyoung won’t mind.” You watch the man get up and head into the bathroom. The awkwardness is now setting in, and you aren’t sure what this means for the two of you. Perhaps it was just hate sex, but it certainly wasn’t drunk sex because the two of you were surprisingly sober before you even started fucking. It shouldn’t change anything at all.
At least, that’s what you have to keep telling yourself. As Hongjoong passes you on his way out of the bathroom, he doesn’t even spare you so much as a glance. You take a shower of your own in complete and utter silence, mostly spending your time staring at the wall with a blank stare. It’s only when you step out of the shower and look at yourself in the mirror that you say something
“God, how fucking dumb can you be, Y/N?” You towel your body dry and reach down to snatch one of Wooyoung’s spare shirts off the floor, not caring that it might be dirty as you tug it over your head.
When you step back into the bedroom, Hongjoong is long gone. You shouldn’t be surprised. You really shouldn’t. You knew he wasn’t going to stay, and you knew that this was nothing more than a quick fuck for him. However, you are not the type to just have a quick fuck and go. So when you slide under the covers of Wooyoung’s bed, you only feel cold and dejected. Sleeps doesn’t come for quite some time, and you refuse to admit that there were tears on your cheeks at any point in the night. It was just a quick fuck and nothing more. You really have to keep reminding yourself of that fact.
“Come on, ladies! Quit moving so slowly! We’re on a schedule.”
You release a huff. The bus seat under your ass is wildly uncomfortable, and even though two days have passed, you aren’t any less sore from your little sex escapade with Hongjoong the other night. It’s the morning of the piano competition now, and you have managed to fully avoid Hongjoong in every way up until now. Because for some unknown and dumb reason, your professor decided that he needed a seating chart for the bus. And he thus decided that putting you and Hongjoong next to each other was a brilliant idea. You can only be glad that you arrived before he did, taking the window seat and pressing your headphones in so that you don’t even have to interact with him in the slightest.
It feels like some bad karma is against you at the moment, the same bad karma that perhaps caused you to fuck Hongjoong in the first place. Being forced to sit next to him is a punch in the gut. You thumb through your music on your phone to find the piece you’ll be playing for the competition today, letting the chords and notes resound through your ears and take over your thoughts. You don’t even notice when Hongjoong climbs onto the bus and sits down beside you, but the sudden lurching of the vehicle causes your eyes to snap open. You glance around in surprise, the music completely distracting you from what was going on around you. When your eyes fall on Hongjoong, you taste liquorice on your tongue. More than that, you fucking smell the candy.
You understand why after a moment, Hongjoong’s fingers toying with a small cube of the black candy. He pops it between his lips, tongue darting out to drag over his lips and collect the rest of the sweet treat’s taste. Then, he glances at you out the corner of his eye and catches your lingering stare.
“What the fuck do you want?”
You were right about one thing. Nothing has changed between the two of you. You opt not to respond and turn away from him with a huff. You return to your music, trying your best to only focus on the notes and all the notes you got from your professor over the past few weeks. Thankfully, Hongjoong doesn’t bother you any longer and actually lets you have some damn peace and quiet. However, you blame him for the fact that your mind keeps drifting back to him, thinking about everything from his body to the way he fucked you the other night and how good it felt. With each intruding thought, you crank your volume up higher and higher. It does nothing to expel the thoughts but at least it gives you some peace of mind.
That is, until Hongjoong elbows you harshly in the side. You yank one of your earbuds out and whip to look at him.
“What?” You spit out with venom in your tone.
“Turn your fucking music down. I can barely think with how loud it is.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“It’s your damn music,” Hongjoong hisses back with an equal amount of anger to his voice.
“Fucking deal with it.”
Hongjoong’s hand darts out and closes around your thigh. You choke on your saliva, coughing as he squeezes your leg. His fingers are dangerously close to your core, and due to your surprise, you pressed your thighs together and effectively trapped his hand between your legs. Hongjoong leans closer to you, and you pull away in response.
“Turn your damn music down.”
You can smell the candy on his breath, and it reminds you of the taste of his tongue and feel of his lips. You almost want to lean in and revisit the taste, but you resist that burning urge. Instead, you manage to plug your earbud back in and turn the volume down a few notches. It’s enough to satiate Hongjoong for the time being. His grip on your thigh disappears, giving you a chance to breathe again but it’s much harder to breathe now that he’s gotten you a bit worked up like this. You curl further against the window and glare at the passing scenery as the music continues to play in your ears. At some point, you fall asleep to the rhythmic beats of your piece. You don’t even realize it, head still pressed to the cool glass of the window as the bus rumbles onto your destination.
You wake up once the bus comes to a halt, and you wake up with a jolt. However, it’s not because of the bus’ sudden stop; no, it’s because your head has somehow managed to come to rest on Hongjoong’s shoulder as you were sleeping. How that happened, you have absolutely no clue because you were angled towards the window and you’ve never been one to move much in your sleep. Hongjoong must have fallen asleep as well, because as soon as you jolt upwards, your head smacks against his and he wakes with a start.
“What the fuck?” He cusses, bringing a hand to rub at his temple where you hit him. You rub at the sleep in your eyes in attempts to hide the evidence of your tiredness before your professor catches sight.
“Wake up, shithead,” you mutter as you shove his shoulder. “I need to get past.”
“Your fault for choosing the damn window seat.”
“And it’s your fault for falling asleep.”
“Were you not just sleeping yourself?”
“I hate you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Hongjoong spits back, eyes narrowed at you. He gets up regardless and steps away, and you take the chance to leave the bus with your bag in tow.
The one thing you hate the most about these recitals and competitions is the fact that you have to dress up nicely for them. It would be nice to show up and perform just the music, hell maybe even just play behind a curtain. But no, the judges need to see you and you have to be immaculate in every way. It’s not cheap in the slightest, but you’ve opted to reuse one of your previous recital dresses in the hopes that none of the judges will be faces you recognize.
Your professor leads the way into the concert hall, and you linger at Minnie’s side, as ironic as it is. Despite still being madly angry at her for not telling you that she was fucking dating Choi San behind your fucking back, she is still your closest friend in the program. That and she can’t seem to shut up about some movie she watched the other day. Her noise at least distracts you for the time being, especially as Hongjoong slips past you and runs a hand through his blue locks. The action is far too enticing and attractive for your liking. Again you’re left to blame it on horniness.
As you walk through the concert hall, those familiar gnawings of anxiety bite at your heels. Minnie is chattering away in your ear but you can’t hear a word she’s saying. Your hands grow cold quickly, and you tighten your grasp on your bag. You only relax a little once you get backstage and settle into a small dressing room.
“Alright, get ready quickly! Y/N, you’re the opener for the competition so you should get ready first.”
You respond with a few shaky nods before ducking into one of the bathrooms in the room. You change with haste, tugging the dark blue dress over your form until it rests comfortably on your body. You took care of your hair and makeup before coming; that was the first thing you did in the morning. All that’s left it to put on your shoes and get warmed up for the performance.
“Y/N, the room across the hall is where you can warm up,” your professor says when you step back out of the bathroom. You answer with another set of nods, moving for your bag to put your casual clothes back inside and replace your shoes.
“You’re gonna kill it!” Minnie drops a hand to your shoulder, squeezing you tightly.
“Thanks,” you mutter back as you fasten the straps of your shoes. When you stand up, you catch sight of Hongjoong staring at you. Your immediate response is to glare at him, which he returns just as quickly. “What?”
“Don’t fuck up too much. I don’t wanna have to clean up our reputation for you.”
You puff your cheeks full of air and stomp out of the room, not bothering to fight back at Hongjoong’s insult. You head straight for the practice room across the hall. It takes a few adjustments of the bench and your shoes, but you manage to get seated comfortably at the piano.
“Emotions. You need to show the emotions, Y/N,” you murmur to yourself as your fingers touch the ivories. It isn’t even the real thing, you should just be warming up and practicing the parts you had troubles with, but you still put your all into it as though it is the real thing. By the time you conclude the last notes of the song, you aren't even sure that you did what you needed to do. You can’t hear the emotion in the notes, you can only play them and hope for the best.
How Hongjoong does it is a mystery to you. He plays each note like it’s his very blood and bones, his life story laid bare before the keys. For someone so full of hatred and anger, it seems even more confusing to you, and as much as you try to reconcile it, you can’t.
“L/N Y/N to the stage. L/N Y/N to the stage.” You glance up with a start, eyeing the small speaker in the corner of the room. There’s a growing lump in your throat, and it only grows larger as you walk out of the room. Your professor is waiting there for you, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder as the two of you begin to walk towards the stage.
“Remember the time signature and tempo. Watch your crescendos. And emotion! Put feeling into it!” He says as you walk ever closer to the front. You can’t respond due to the lump in your throat. Your attempts to swallow it down and dispel it do nothing either. As you reach the curtains, you catch sight of a certain blue-haired man at the edge of the stage. Your gaze hardens on him. Hongjoong never comes to stand by the stage and watch you perform. He’s toying with another black liquorice candy when you walk up to him, popping the candy between his lips before dropping his hand to mess with his cufflinks.
“Our first performer of the day, Miss Y/N L/N. She will be performing Franz Liszt’s Etude Opus 161, Number 3, La Campenella,” the announcer says, his voice booming through the hall. You don’t have time to think before your professor is pushing you forward onto the stage, and you nearly suffer the embarrassment of tripping over your feet on the way to the piano.
You reach the instrument without any issue, by luck of a miracle. The lump in your throat subsides as you sink onto the piano bench, and your fingers dance over the knobs on the bench to adjust it to your liking. Lift your left hand high, right one at the ready on the keys for the cue from your left. You drop your left hand to the keyboard and begin playing your piece to the best of your ability.
All your focus becomes consumed by the keys and music in your ears. You can’t even glance up to watch your professor or Hongjoong’s expression, too enraptured with your playing to think about anything other than the piano. Your whole body follows the tempo of the piece. You sway back and forth, following the movements of your hands as they dance across the ivory keys, and your heart leaps a little in your chest with each successful chord and note. Even if you aren’t able to fully capture the emotions behind a song, you can at least perform. And performing is what you do best. Replicating the notes, decrescendos, crescendos, chords, octaves and leaps, your runs and arpeggios all executed to absolute perfection. The entire performance is full of the excitement in the piece up until your last note after the five and a half minutes of playing.
Your fingers hover over that final note, letting it ring out and coat the ears of your listeners, and when you pull back, your foot slips off the pedal to let the music die out into silence. Applause greets you as you rise from the bench and bow towards the judges. You leave the stage the way you came, joining your professor and Hongjoong at the edge just behind the curtains.
“That was better than ever!” Your teacher cheers as you reach his side. He beams from ear to ear, eyes hidden behind the smile of his eyelids, but you don’t pay him any attention. Rather you look to Hongjoong in attempts to gauge his expression. If he’s impressed in the slightest, he does well to conceal it.
“Following Miss Y/N L/N, we have Mr. Kim Hongjoong, playing Chopin’s Nocturne, Opus 48, number 1.” The announcer’s voice rings out again, calling Hongjoong onto the stage. He glances away from you as he steps out from behind the curtain.
“They put us back to back?” You mutter the question to your professor, who just looks down at you with a glint in his dark eyes.
“The judges requested that you two play back to back,” he explains, maintaining his grin.
“Oh…” You exhale and turn back to watch Hongjoong sit down at the piano. His performance is always a thing of beauty, but you know exactly why the judges would want the two of you back to back. Whilst you exude perfection in every note, Hongjoong does more. More with the piece, he plays with the rhythms and tempos, creating music that sounds wholly his. He plays as though he is the sole creator of the piece and no one else. Each piano he plays becomes part of him. You are polar opposites when it comes to performing. And that’s what they want to see. They want to see the two of your challenge each other with your differing play styles.
The lump in your throat returns as Hongjoong begins to play. Something feels off in the very first note. A spring of anxiety pops up in your gut as you hear it. It isn’t the same as usual, something in the way Hongjoong’s fingers glide over the ivories is not right. The professor still looks quite pleased though, almost like he doesn’t even notice the difference. When you glance out over the panel of judges, they bear similar expressions. It’s a mystery to you how they don’t notice the difference because in your ears, it is so stark and unable to be missed.
The next six minutes carry on with that same vibe. You can’t place what is going wrong until Hongjoong presses his fingers to the final note. The wrong note.
You lurch forward. Hongjoong freezes. The chord echoes through the whole hall, the glaringly obvious mistake resounding without stop even as Hongjoong pulls his fingers off the keys. He stands. Bows to the judges. Heads back towards where you’re standing without a word. It’s not like Hongjoong to make a mistake, not like him at all. You don’t think he’s ever made a mistake, even in practices he is always meticulous and perfect.
Hongjoong’s hands are trembling when he comes off stage. He strides past you without sparing you a glance. He doesn’t look at anything in fact, his eyes are unfocused as he moves forward. You can only stay rooted to the spot and watch him move away without a word. It happens in a millisecond, and if you blinked you would have missed it for certain. Hongjoong’s legs give out and he begins to collapse. Your professor rushes to his side as fast as possible. He grips the blue-haired man’s arm and pulls him back up, draping his arm over a shoulder and rushing down the hall. He’s calling for a medic and an ambulance, and as soon as those words process in your head, you choke on air.
Your feet move before your thoughts do. You chase after the pair, hiking your dress up a bit as you run. The old man carries Hongjoong back to your shared dressing room. Your fellow students dash out of the room as he brings Hongjoong in. You pause in the door frame, watching the scene unfold before you with a plummeting heart. An emergency nurse pushes past you to get in and effectively blocks your line of sight. All you can see is the blue strands of hair atop Hongjoong’s head and nothing more.
Someone catches hold of your arm. It’s Minnie, and she tugs on your wrist as she spews words in your direction. However, you don’t hear a thing. Your ears still ring with that final wrong note Hongjoong played, eyes unfocused as you try to look at Minnie. She’s pulling you to the aside, away from the hustle of bustle of the other people in the hall, and trying to catch your attention. You refuse to look at her, however, and opt to stare back at the room where Hongjoong is with wide eyes. The shock hasn’t drifted from your bones in the slightest.
You don’t get any form of relief until the emergency nurses file out of the dressing room. They don’t carry Hongjoong out on a gurney which is a small relief in and of itself. Your professor appears in the doorway next, sweat on his brow and glasses in one hand. The other runs through his hair – the minimal amount that’s left, that is – and he addresses the other students first.
“You all are to wait at the stage for your performances. You can go into that room across the hall if you need some more practice time, but you are not to enter the dressing room again until the end of the competition. Understood?”
You watch the students share a chorus on nods. Minnie releases your arm to move away with the rest of the students, but she sends one final look your way, one that seeks answers you do not have. Once all your classmates have filed away, you are left to stand across from your professor with bated breath. He doesn’t say anything at first, and neither do you, so the two of you just exchange forlorn stares without speaking. The silence drags on for so long that you think you might pass out; you’ve been holding your breath the entire time as well and it’s really starting to make you feel a bit lightheaded.
“What happened to him, professor?” You ask when the silence grows unbearable.
“He’s fine. Just a small accident.” The answer is spoken with haste, and his tone is flat. The way he says it almost implies that the words are rehearsed.
“A small accident wouldn’t warrant such a reaction from you though,” you reason, lifting a hand to scratch at your scalp.
“I need to go up to the stage to be with the other students, Miss L/N.” Your professor speaks with such finality that you don’t dare press the subject any further. Instead, you watch him walk back to the edge of the stage, waiting until he’s completely out of sight before pressing into the dressing room where Hongjoong is yourself.
You don’t see him immediately, which surprises you to a certain extent, but then you notice that the unisex bathroom in the back corner has an open door and the lights are on. Hongjoong must be in there, but it seems odd for him to have left the door open when anyone could walk in. You’re tempted to call out to him and ask if he’s alright. Something prevents you from doing so, however, and you merely creep closer to the room with quiet steps.
Whatever you might have been expecting goes out the window as you catch sight of Hongjoong’s blue head of hair. He is hunched over the toilet, an awful retching sound leaving his form every few seconds, and you can’t believe that the nurses and your professor dared to leave him alone in a state like this. Hongjoong hasn’t caught sight of you yet, but you certainly make your presence known as you stumble back. Your heel catches on the short train of your dress, you throw your hands back to brace yourself for a fall, but instead catch hold of a table and manage to stay on your feet.
Hongjoong whips his head towards you as you stumble, however, and all of his attention is suddenly directed at you. There is a small excess of vomit lingering on the corner of his mouth, and he wipes at it with the back of his hand as he looks towards you. There’s no explanation that would be suitable enough to explain what you’re doing or why you’re doing it, because frankly, you don’t even understand why yourself. That fact alone is slightly more terrifying than you would like to admit.
“What the hell do you want?” Hongjoong spits out. He slowly stands up straight, legs a bit wobbly as he moves, and moves for the sink to wash his hands and face. “Come to see me suffer? Does that get you going?”
Your jaw stutters as you fumble to come up with some sort of response. Nothing comes out for a few seconds and you’re left to just stare dumbly at Hongjoong with nothing but a blank expression.
“Figures…” Hongjoong mutters. He leaves the bathroom and heads for his small travel bag. You watch him move without saying anything, eyes tracking each of his movements with scrutiny. As he bends down to open the bag, Hongjoong winces. His arms jerk, back straightening for a brief moment, then his body returns to normal as though nothing happened. Hongjoong hisses, teeth gritted as he continues to push down and get whatever he was looking for. When he stands back up, you catch sight of a toothbrush and toothpaste in his hands. It’s strange, because those aren’t items he would typically bring to a competition like this one which lasts less than a day. The behavior makes it seem like he almost knew that this was going to happen.
“What’s wrong with you?” You ask out of the blue. Hongjoong all but ignores you in favor of walking towards the bathroom again, this time with toothbrush and toothpaste in hand. “I mean – what happened to you?”
“You’re going to have to elaborate because there’s plenty wrong with me.”
“On the stage, Hongjoong. You fucked up and missed the last note. You never do that.”
“Yea, well, I did this time. What do you want me to say?”
“You collapsed as soon as you were backstage. Something is obviously bothering you now since you puked. What the hell is going on with you?”
“Why do you care all of a sudden? Wanna know why your competition is getting worse? Get used to it.”
“No…” You trail off, unsure of what to say next. Hongjoong brushes his teeth with ferocity, and his gaze remains on the mirror rather than looking to you while you speak. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
You aren’t sure where the desire came from. It’s foreign to you, as it the worry that bubbles in your gut as you look over Hongjoong’s form. He seems frail all of a sudden, and that’s just so unlike him in every way that you can’t get past it. He doesn’t respond right away – probably due to the fact that his currently scrapping his toothbrush over the expanse of his tongue. You wait for a reply in silence for two minutes, then Hongjoong spits in the sink and washes his mouth out again.
“Parsonage-Turner Syndrome,” he says. His eyes find yours, still as void of emotion as ever, but you blink back in shock. “Do you know what that is?”
“N-No, I’ve never heard of it,” you answer honestly. Hongjoong sighs and returns to his duffel bag, pushing his toothbrush and toothpaste back inside. He digs around a bit more in the bag before standing up straight again. A small wrapped candy lingers between his fingers. He undoes the wrapper with quick motions, then pops the black liquorice between his lips.
“Idiopathic brachial plexopathy or neuralgic amyotrophy,” Hongjoong recites the words as though he’s heard them thousands of times. You don’t doubt that he has based upon the look in his eyes. “A rare disorder consisting of a complex constellation of symptoms with abrupt onset of shoulder pain, followed by progressive neurologic deficits of motor weakness, dysesthesias, and numbness.”
Hongjoong pauses and purses his lips. He looks away from you, but the way his eyes well up with crystalline tears doesn’t escape your notice. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek in silence. If there’s anything to be said, you certainly don’t know what it is.
“In short, I’m losing the function of my arms. Eventually, I won’t be able to use them at all. The more I play the piano, the bigger risk I run of destroying them further. How ironic, huh?” Hongjoong releases a dry laugh, but the humor is gone from his tone. As his words sink it, your heart sinks further and further. You dare to glance up at his face from across the room. The tears in his eyes have fallen down his cheeks. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen Hongjoong, but you also can’t imagine how difficult it must be for him. “How fucking ironic…”
Hongjoong’s voice dies off a little, cracking as he finishes his sentence. A moment of silence passes. You debate saying something but every time you try to speak, your voice dies in your throat. A scream of anguish leaves Hongjoong’s throat. He swings for the wall with his left hand, fingers clenched into a fist so tight that his knuckles are white. He hits the wall with such force that the sound echoes in your ears, and you flinch away from the table you’re leaning against. Hongjoong sinks to the floor, knees hitting the ground with a thud. His fist never quits its rhythm against the wall; he continues slamming his hand at the surface. You’re frozen in place, watching his fist hit the wall over and over until red flecks begin to spread across the pristine surface of the wall.
“Hongjoong–” You start towards him, a sudden urgency rushes to your bones, and you hurry to keep him from abusing his hand any more than he already has. “Hongjoong, stop. Stop it, Hongjoong, stop.”
You snatch him by the wrist, and he relaxes into your touch within an instant. He slumps forward until his forehead hits the wall. It takes a few seconds of silence, then a strangled sob escapes his slacked body. You catch him before he completely falls over and drag his weight in your direction instead. He doesn’t even complain, fingers finding the material of your dress and balling around it without a word. He cries against you. You can’t imagine how long he’s been holding it in, how long he’s known that this was his fate, that the thing he loves the most will lead to his destruction. It’s heartbreaking and horrible to think about. The fear of even spraining a finger haunts you sometimes, but Hongjoong has to live with the knowledge that his fate is to lose his ability to play forever.
“It’s okay, Hongjoong,” you mutter against his hairline. A laugh leaves his lips, but it’s wet and full of mucus. He nearly chokes as he continues to laugh.
“How the fuck is this okay? In what world is this okay? Answer me that.”
“I-I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Everyone is always fucking sorry. Yea, come say sorry again when you have your only passion stolen from you.”
“Ho-Hongjoong. No, I-I – stop. It’s not been taken away from you yet. You still have tim–”
“How much time? How long until I fuck my arms up to the point of no return?”
“Can’t they do anything?” Your question is spoken in such a quiet tone that you fear that Hongjoong might not hear it.
“There’s no cure. Just fucking physical therapy and acupuncture to slow the muscle denervation. Electrotherapy. Nothing that fixes it.”
“But it would slow it?”
“For a time.”
“Isn’t that worth it then? Even to just… try? The hope that maybe it will fix things enough to let you play is worth it isn’t it?”
“Worth it to what? I’ll never be able to play at the level I want to. I’ll never get to achieve my dreams, not in this condition. Not with this disease. I’m doomed no matter what. Physical therapy won’t do shit. If I’m gonna lose my arms, then I’m gonna do what I love until I can’t anymore.”
Hongjoong’s resolve is strong, even through the weakness he’s showing right now, and you can’t blame him. His behavior makes sense now. The hatred and disdain for you, the ego and arrogant nature about him, the flaunting of his skills – it was all just an attempt to hide the fact that he was breaking inside.
“Then you’re robbing yourself of an opportunity… you never know if something is going to work unless you try, Hongjoong. Even if you’re not a miracle patient who gets cured out of the blue, just trying could give you the ability to play longer. Not because you need to be the best or play better than everyone else or even play at a high level. But because it’s something that you love. And at least having the ability to do something you love is better than losing it altogether.”
Hongjoong doesn’t respond to your words. His tears aren’t slowing down, and you wonder if he’s in any pain in this very moment. His shoulders tremble but because of the sobs that wrack his hunched form. As you cradle him against your chest, you can’t help but look down at your own hands. Your fingers are trembling against Hongjoong’s back. In that brief moment, you imagine yourself in his shoes.
The first sear of pain through your arms. The continued abuse over weeks. Finally going to see a doctor. Being told that it’s a disease. That the longer you play, the worse it will get. That eventually you’ll lose the use of your arms completely. The dream you’ve had since you were a child – you wonder if it was Hongjoong’s dream too, before he was given the news. You wonder if Hongjoong had the same bright eyes and hopeful dreams of becoming something great, someone great. You imagine that dream being wrenched from your grasps. It hurts. Just the thought of it hurts more than a thousand knives in your chest.
All you can do is pull Hongjoong closer. There is nothing to say, nothing you can say or do that would make this any easier or better. You settle for this and press your cheek against his head.
The time has escaped you yet again, and you glance up from the keyboard to see that the clock reads six o’clock already. You wanted to get some rest in your apartment before nightfall hit because Wooyoung somehow managed to drag your ass out for another party even after what happened last time.
You push the bench back and close the lid of the keyboard. Your fingers linger on the wood, however, and you look at the instrument with a strange tightness in your chest.
It’s been three weeks since that competition. Three weeks since you’ve seen Hongjoong. He hasn’t attended class, you haven’t seen him in the practice hall or rooms at any point in time, it’s almost as though he disappeared off the face of the planet. You hate it. Class is too silent. It’s boring. Without Hongjoong, you have nothing to do except think about when the class is going to be over. It’s almost funny how only now that he’s gone do you realize how much time you spent slaving over the mere thought of him.
During the first week, you watched the door and waited for Hongjoong’s blue head of hair to step through. You always had your snide remark at the ready: “Late for class? At least you bothered to show up this time.” Hongjoong never came though.
The second week you guessed where he might be. Thought about what happened in the aftermath of his meltdown at the competition. They took him to the hospital, forcibly prying him from your arms, and that was the last you saw of him.
And then the third week passed by, and you began to wonder if the damage to his arms had already been done. Even now as your thoughts are occupied by the thought of him and him alone, you wonder if that’s the case.
As you get to your feet, the door behind you slides open. The sound is almost silent, and if you had still been playing you wouldn’t have heard a thing. You whip around to face the intruder. You nearly don’t recognize the form standing before you. Formerly blue hair has been replaced with a bright red, and it’s only when you look at the man’s features that you recognize him. Your darting gaze flits down to his left hand. It’s wrapped in a white gauze, fingers loose and flexing in the wrap. A good sign, perhaps. At least the damage isn’t fully done yet.
“Ew, it’s you,” you say, trying to contain the smile that threatens to overtake your lips when you see Hongjoong.
“Wow.” Hongjoong glances around the practice room. There is something sad and longing in his eyes as he looks around. You open your mouth to say more, but he continues speaking without you having to ask. “I, uh, I dropped out.”
“You what?” You just about fall over upon hearing the news. It catches you so off-guard that you choke on the saliva lingering on the back of your tongue.
“I dropped out of the program.”
“Yo-You – but, but the program – you were one, you were one of the only ones to get – what?”
“I thought about what you said. I, um… Yea, I dropped out. Started doing general studies instead. Think I’m gonna go for a teaching degree. Maybe try to be a piano teacher one day.”
“Why?” You aren’t being very eloquent, but the shock is too strong for you to even think about putting together a coherent thought.
“I kept thinking about what you said. Robbing myself of an opportunity… losing something I love. I love the piano, and I love playing the piano more than anything. I can’t lose the ability to play it. That’s – That’s taking away a part of me I can’t lose. Without piano… I would be nothing. I’m not ready to lose it because of some stupid fucking disease that can kiss my ass.”
Your breath catches in your throat. It’s the last thing you expected to hear from Hongjoong, especially since he resolve to be the best regardless of what happens to him was so strong. He saves you the trouble of coming up with a reply.
“I started going to physical therapy. They started me out on some acupuncture treatments, then worked me up to doing strengthening exercises and range of motion exercises. We’re going to try some electrotherapy next but the doctor said I’m making really good progress.”
“R-Really? Hongjoong, that’s amazing. Honestly. That’s truly incredible. I’m so ha–”
“Thank you,” he interrupts. His gaze is on the floor, fist clenching here and there, and his tone is quiet. “Thank you for giving me my dream back.”
You don’t have time to think before Hongjoong is walking towards you. He catches you by surprise, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you against his chest without hesitation.
“You don’t need to thank me,” you murmur in response. Your arms drape over him, and hesitance fills your motions unlike his hasty ones. He is warm and soft under your touch, so unlike how he was that day of the competition – cold and stiff.
“I do. Please, I-I…”
Hongjoong doesn’t need to finish the thought, but you don’t need him to. You can guess what he might be trying to say. You aren’t sure you need to hear it or if you can handle it. Instead, you settle for this comfortable embrace. Hongjoong’s breath is hot against your throat, and curse you for thinking about it because it leads your thoughts in a bad direction. Hongjoong shifts his head closer to your neck, lips caressing the skin there that barely peaks out from under your collar.
“C-Can I…?”
“Yes,” you exhale when Hongjoong inches closer to your lips. He brushes over your skin with such a gentle touch that you wonder if it is actually real. He deepens the kiss a moment later, however, and presses against you with more fervor. Your lips slot together, warm filling your chest and gut. He guides you backwards as his hands find your hips. You gasp into Hongjoong’s mouth when your ass hits the lid of the piano. Hongjoong doesn’t seem to mind though. He uses it as an opportunity to press his tongue between your lips. That familiar taste of liquorice lingers there, and you smile into the kiss.
You let him take over, his tongue exploring your mouth with a newfound interest. It’s so different from your first time together; that time was filled with fervor and passion and arousal. This is slow, gentle, almost romantic. You can’t get enough of it. Each kiss leaves you wanting more, each lingering touch makes you want to take more, and when Hongjoong’s fingers hook around the back of your thighs, you moan into his open mouth. He lifts you with ease although you do worry for a split second about straining his arms. He dispels that worry with haste, propping you up on the lid of the piano without a care in the world.
His lips attack your neck next, pulling away from your mouth to leave a saccharine trail down your skin until he stops at the base of your throat. You bring a hand to his freshly red locks as he sucks at the skin there and roll your head to the side to give him better access. Your gaze flits down to the door he entered through, and the lock on the handle isn’t turned. You should be worried because being caught having sex on a damn Steinway would be atrocious, but Hongjoong pushes that to the side as well. Deft fingers work the buttons on your blouse apart and push the material back until you’re stripped of the shirt. He pops the clasp of your bra next and drops the lingerie to the floor. You bare your chest to him, ready for him to dive in and mark up your breasts in a similar manner but he doesn’t.
His hands instead go to the waistband of your skirt. He unhooks that button and zipper, tugging the material off of you as quickly as possible. All of a sudden you’re left only in your underwear. Hongjoong doesn’t let you stay nearly naked alone for long. He leans back to tug his own shirt off, then his pants are quick to follow. As the material drops, you catch sight of the prominent bulge in his underwear. Without thinking, you reach out and grab hold of his constrained member. He groans into your touch, hips automatically bucking forward from even the slightest touch. You don’t wait to dip your hand past the band of the underwear and take hold of his semihard member.
“Y-You’re the devil,” Hongjoong hisses out as you pump his cock ever so slowly. In response, you drag your thumb over his slit, collecting the precum there and using it to help you pump his cock with more ease. You release a small laugh as his hips thrust into your touch. The laugh is cut short when Hongjoong presses the palm of his hand against your core. “Something funny, princess?”
You can do nothing except gasp in response, back arching off the lip of the piano. Hongjoong must enjoy the sight before him because a low moan slips through. His free hand darts around your back and collapses the music stand atop the piano. He seems ready to move you up even higher on the piano, but you stop him with your hand.
“N-No, wait – I just, I want you to fuck me. That’s all.” Your hand slides across Hongjoong’s bare chest, leaving goosebumps in your wake, and Hongjoong nearly shivers. Your words seem incentive enough for him, however, and he dips down between your legs to tug your underwear off. His follow soon after; hardened cock finding freedom at last. You slide a bit further down the lid of the piano in efforts to get more comfortable. Hongjoong braces your hip with his left hand and the other goes to your dripping folds. You’re nearly wet enough to drip all over the floor, positioned carefully so that you don’t sully the piano any more than you are already.
He works you open with deft fingers, two pushing into with ease thanks to your wetness. He uses those fingers to scissor your heat open and stretch you. You moan under the touch. The loudness of your moans is a bit worrisome considering you’re still in public, so you try to conceal them at least with the back of your hand. The moment you try to cover your lips however, Hongjoong reaches up and tugs your hand back down to the piano. He covers your lips with his. The position lets you moan freely into his mouth until his fingers disappear from your heat altogether.
“F-Fuck, I can’t wait any longer,” Hongjoong hisses. He uses the juices of your arousal on his fingers to pump his cock a few more times before lining up with your tight hole. The stretch isn’t painful; quite the opposite really, but a high-pitched whine breaches your lips. Hongjoong hesitates halfway, eyes tracking your expression for any sign of discomfort. He only moves again when you nod. Once he’s completely buried in you, you expect hasty thrusts but they never come. You blink at Hongjoong, eyes wide in expectation.
He stares back at you with an unreadable expression. His brow has furrowed and he almost squints as he looks into your eyes. You open your mouth to ask if something is wrong, but he speaks before you get the chance.
“I wanna try… us.”
“You want to what?” You ask, taken aback by the sudden statement. It’s hardly a proper time to bring up a serious subject, but maybe it’s the best timing in the world. How are you supposed to know? It’s not as though you fuck people on the daily in a practice room atop a piano like this.
“I wanna take you out. Spend time with you. Go on dates. Be in a relationship. With you and only you.”
“You’re asking after you’ve fucked me twice now?”
“Haven’t fucked you the second time yet, actually.” Hongjoong winks at you, a smirk curling across his lips. “Is that a yes or no?”
“It’s a ‘ask me again after you’ve fucked me senseless’.”
“I’d rather have your senses intact when I ask you.”
“Yes, Kim Hongjoong. In case you didn’t notice, I’m a bit more than interested in you.”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell when I was… you know, in you.”
“Shut up and fuck me already!” You protest, slapping his chest with the back of your hand. Hongjoong pulls his hips back and snaps them back against you without warning. You release a strangled moan that quickly evolves into a whine at the sudden thrust.
“I’ll make the rules, princess.”
You nod hastily in reply and brace yourself against the pillow for Hongjoong’s next thrust. He goes slower this time though, taking his time with each thrust, and you know he’s only doing it to rile you up because of the cheeky grin on his face. You want to either kiss or slap it off him, but he makes you choose the former by pushing forward. Your lips slot together with ease. It’s comfortable, easy, relaxed – like you’ve done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
His thrusts do pick up in pace after that, his tongue entering the mix as well as he pries your lips open with the wet muscle. You allow yourself just let go under Hongjoong’s touch. You drape an arm over Hongjoong’s shoulder, nails raking down his back as he fucks you with reckless abandon. The angle is near magical because each thrust seems to hit deeper than the last, and your moans are borderline shouts of pleasure. Hongjoong doesn’t let up once. You’re glad for it because you’re pretty certain that if he does stop, you’ll slip off the piano entirely.  
Your head falls back, lips disconnecting from Hongjoong’s, and you struggle to stay upright with the way his cock rams against your sensitive g-spot. An orgasm is approaching quickly. You can’t manage to get any words out, but Hongjoong seems to understand when you drag a hand to his shoulder and squeeze tightly. Your walls clench around his member without warning. Hongjoong’s thrusts stutter as you squeeze his cock, then he reaches up to pull your face back to his.
“Ca-Can I cum in you?”
“Yes, yes, fuck yes. Please. Please, Hongjoong.” The man presses his lips against yours after you get the words out. You can’t hold the orgasm back any longer, and it washes over you with a sudden intensity that leaves you trembling in Hongjoong’s arms. He joins you not long after, hot seed spilling into you, and you moan at the sensation of his cum filling you up. He hunches forward and his head hits your shoulder. Both your chests heave from the exertion; you can’t seem to get enough air in your lungs. Gently you bring a hand to Hongjoong’s hair again and comb through the red locks with light fingers. Hongjoong sighs into the touch, shivering as your nails brush over his scalp.
“So… is this when I take you to dinner or?” Hongjoong lifts his chin to look you in the eye. You roll your eyes ever so slightly as he grins. The hand in his hair moves to smack him upside the head.
“You’re supposed to do that before you fuck me.”
“Eh, I’ve never been one to do things in order like that.”
“Good thing you can fuck well then or else I might not want a date at all.” Hongjoong’s smirk morphs into a wide smile, and his nose scrunches up as he looks at you. You smile back at him then press a quick kiss to his lips. “I’ll take that date now though.”
“One specialty Kim Hongjoong date coming right up. Though you better be prepared to stay up late tonight.”
“And you better be able to keep up with me. Hopefully all those exercises they’re making you do can help.”
Hongjoong grumbles at your comment, pulling back from you with a pout on his lips.
“I’ve got great stamina, thank you very much.” Hongjoong pauses his sulking for a moment to wear a serious expression on his features. “I’m serious about this, you know. You aren’t just some… some quick fuck to me. You didn’t have to be nice to me or give me a chance or anything, especially with the way I’ve been treating you over the past two years. So, uh, yea. Yea, I’m serious.”
You cup Hongjoong’s cheek gently and pass him a small smile before leaning your forehead against his.
“I believe you. And it’s not like I was any kinder to you. But if this is a chance to make things right, then let’s do it.”
“Y-Yea, yea, you’re right.”
“Now let’s get dressed before someone walks in on us like this. Then you can take me to dinner.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Hongjoong pulls away with a grin still on his lips. For a moment, you just sit there on the lid of the keyboard and watch him move around collecting articles of clothing. The warmth in your chest is foreign and unknown, but comfortable nonetheless. You never would have expected things to play out the way they did, but it was a happy accident and you want to bask in it for as long as possible. You slip off the lid of the ivories. The taste of liquorice is still on your tongue.
​​​☽     ☾
➻ requested by: @atinyinwonderland ➻ prompts:
“Ew, it’s you.” “Wow.”
“Eyes on me.”
this highkey turned into a Thing and idek how that happened but here we are aosidjfosijdfo also i did some research into PTS (parsonage-tanser syndrome) and it’s a rather rare disease apparently but this kinda issue with no longer being able to play piano and being forced to give up your dream kinda stemmed from my personal life and my sister and how i saw it impact her so it’s very real emotions and reader’s thoughts about being in hongjoong’s shoes are thoughts i’ve had myself and it truly is hard for me to even think about especially since music means so much to me but yea i cried while writing this, i hope you all enjoyed im going through it imma head out
872 notes · View notes
hyporheicflow · 3 years
Note
ok, (this might be long so bear with me here i’m sorry) i got the very bright idea to try and braid my hair last night since i’ve been letting my mullet grow longer than usual, i’m too lazy to cut it but also i kinda want to see how long i can let it grow anyways, that shit was hard. i spent more time than i even want to think about trying to do a dutch braid up the back of my head and then i still had to do the top half to meet back it was a serious test in my patience, dexterity, and (most importantly) arm strength. i almost forgot just how difficult it can be to braid your own hair, and it’s just so much worse when you can barely hold onto it
but now, all i can think about is little mullet boba (maybe just as he’s growing his hair out to the length it is later on? idk, but the point is it’s not super long) trying to figure out how he’s gonna fit it under his helmet since now it’s too long to just leave alone and so i’m just picturing little boba sitting there trying (and mostly failing) to braid his mullet up, while fennec just watches on in amusement because “no fennec, i don’t want or need help” (i like to think there’s an unholy amount of bobby-pins and maybe a few sparkly clips involved to keep it all together those first few times) or maybe, alternatively, boba realises just how hard it is and agrees to let fennec braid his hair instead until it’s long enough for him to do it with less struggle. either way, the mental image of baby mullet boba trying to figure out his braids has been haunting me all day and i needed to share
first off can i just say my favorite asks are when people with mullets come here to tell me about them lmfao <3 it feels like such a specific corner of the internet i’ve accidentally cultivated considering i don’t actually have a mullet myself!! but i do have very long hair rn so i completely feel you on the braiding lol
 (also i saw your follow up and you’re right, reqs aren’t open rn, but i was already on this train of thought and am always in the mulletverse mood lol so enjoy some rougher sketches and some context lmfao)
and yes!! it is absolutely my hc that fennec teaches him (idk how long you’ve been here but my thoughts here are an extension of the baby fennec as zam wesell’s protégée verse that i played around with a while back) and boba is allergic to asking for help so it’s a whole thing and fennec teases him relentlessly about his first few attempts...
the other thing i’ve been thinking about re: helmet braids is fennec’s threading...i’m not sure what the costumers were inspired by for it but i personally was reminded of hair tapes like this (painting is from 1586, unknown artist):
Tumblr media
i imagine that added structure would be really helpful with layered hairstyles like boba’s mullet lmfao...
anyway from there i got into the idea of fennec teaching boba how to do these hair tape styles to keep the helmet hair to a bit more manageable level lol
Tumblr media
(and here are some rough sketches of how that could look (one based on fennec’s, one based on an alternate padmé costume i drew a while back)
60 notes · View notes
fluffi · 3 years
Text
SNOW-COVERED KISS :: FELIX
pairing: felix x gn!reader
genre: 70% fluff, 30% angst, barista!felix, angst subplot
word count: 2k
author’s note: hi @constellynx! you knew already, but im your secret santa! you mightve deactivated by now (which im pissed at myself for not uploading sooner) but if you havent i hope you enjoy this! have a great new year :)
warnings: mentions of getting stood up
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Maybe it was the fact that it was a Friday morning and you had no classes, or that you had walked past the cute little coffee shop on the corner of Avenue street twenty times this week, and you still hadn’t bothered to check it out. Nonetheless, you had the afternoon free today, and you were planning to spend it at Little Leaf Café.
“Welcome to Little Leaf! We hope you have a wonderful time here!” Chorused voices from employees at the café echoed as you opened the door to cold air and overlapping conversations.
It was a gorgeous café, you could tell why it was so popular. Plants of various colors were placed around the area -- hung from grids on the ceiling, on tables, growing on the sides of the walls. Not to mention the festive decorations — an assortment of green and red items meticulously placed around the café.
However, there was something...rather, someone, that was way more gorgeous than the entire café.
“Hello! How can I help you today?”
You were met with an ethereal face after lining up for what felt like ages. As soon as the last heart-struck girl left, an angel entered your line of view.
The sunny boy stood across the counter with a googly smile on his face. You noticed the way his eyes crinkled upwards, and how the apples of his cheeks turned a shade of baby pink when he saw you. He had a silver mullet that looked perfectly trimmed and maintained...you were tempted to run your hands through it. However, his contrasting baritone voice caught you off guard.
In shock and nervousness of talking to new (handsome) people, you completely messed up.
“Hi...I, um, anything? I’ll get anything?” You stuttered and internally facepalmed.
You just embarrassed yourself in front of a very cute boy, but he didn’t seem to notice. Rather, he didn’t seem to mind.
“Sure, I can give you some recommendations. Right now our xmas-special Peppermint Mocha is popular, but if I’m going to be honest, it’s not one of my favorites. I would recommend the Gingerbread Spiced Coffee, but it's your call.” He leaned over the counter and whispered, looking around to make sure his boss didn’t hear him.
As he leaned over to talk to you, you were able to see him clearer. He had glowing skin and his eyes sparkled in excitement, but it made you feel calm. You felt serene and happy looking into his dazzling brown orbs. 
Just then, said eyes blinked and squinted at you. That brought you down to Earth.
“Right, right! I’ll get whatever you said! The Singerbread Giced Coffee?” You nodded your head in panic before you realized what you just said.
“Uh, it's called the Gingerbread Spiced Coffee, but sure. Anything else?” He looked back at you after inputting your order with a teasing gleam in his eye.
“Nothing else. I’m sorry, I’m such a mess today!” You bowed in embarrassment and looked at your fidgeting fingers.
He chuckled. “Nothing to worry about. What’s your name?”
“Y/N. What’s yours?” You answered, before realizing that he only needed it to write your name on the plastic cup.
“Oh! I’ve never had anyone ask me my name before. It’s Felix.” He flashed another dazzling smile at you before handing you a table number.
Felix put your order on the pick up table and left to man the counter. Through your peripheral vision, however, you could catch him nervously glancing at you. Ignoring the rising butterflies in your stomach, you walked over to your reserved seat and placed your tray down.
Felix put your order on the pick up table and left to man the counter. Through your peripheral vision, however, you could catch him nervously glancing at you. Ignoring the rising butterflies in your stomach, you walked over to your reserved seat and placed your tray down.
Felix put your order on the pick up table and left to man the counter. Through your peripheral vision, however, you could catch him nervously glancing at you. Ignoring the rising butterflies in your stomach, you walked over to your reserved seat and placed your tray down.
However, as you were about to take a sip of your specially recommended drink, you glanced down and saw your receipt, with a specially written note on it.
Hi, Y/N. If you see this. Read my continued message on the serviette under your drink ;)
-felix
Your heart shuddered as you began to overthink pretty much every possibility that could happen between you and Felix. Maybe he wrote you a note to tell you that you were annoying? Maybe kind of weird? A little cuckoo? A bunch of mind-boggling thoughts started circulating your brain as you slowly flipped your serviette over.
Hi Y/N.
I know this seems like a really unconventional method, but I honestly don’t have the courage to ask someone out on a date in person hehe. Oops! I just said it...uh, would you want to go out with me on a date? I think you’re really cute and I love your personality! Also, um, you’re really pretty.
I was thinking that we can maybe meet at the 31st Bus Stop at 4pm? I have a shift till 3.30 so I could go there and meet you. We can plan everything else out later :3
If you’re already taken, that's alright! You can ignore this message. But do what you will with the information I gave you.
-felix the little leaf barista dude
Your face was in a dark shade of beet red as you looked up timidly and immediately locked eyes with Felix. You tried not to smile as you looked away and giggled shyly.
On Felix’s side, he had been staring at you ever since you took your order. When the two of you met eyes, his entire body froze, and he stopped what he was doing, dropping his half-washed cup into the sink.
“Dude, what are you doing, I- “ Bang Chan, his senior colleague and friend, followed Felix’s line of sight to you and chuckled slyly.
“In my opinion, the color of their face probably means that they’ll go out with you. Get back to work Lix, or you might not be able to see her later.” He nudged Felix’s side, prompting him to continue working. Felix looked up at Bang Chan in confusion and continued his work, still glancing at you occasionally.
Tumblr media
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. How can I help yo-oh. Oh.” Felix looked up at you smiling, still blessed with a tinge of pink across your cheeks.
“I should’ve given more context. Yes, I’ll go out with you tonight!” You didn’t know where you received this newfound confidence, but you were going to use all of it.
“Oh, really? That’s great! I’ll meet you there then. Be careful, okay? Can’t have you getting hurt before we have our first date.”
Once again you had melted into a puddle of nervousness. Unable to voice out anything, you nodded your head multiple times and ran out the café. Your hands were cold from the chilly season, but your heart was warm from the cute barista.
Tumblr media
It was ten past four. You were sitting under the shade of 31st Bus Stop, fidgeting with the hem of your waistband and looking around, by yourself.
You weren’t losing hope, you were sure Felix was on his way right now. He would never stand you up, right? 
Right?
Regardless, you sat on the uncomfortable metal bench in freezing weather, and you were about to text him, when…
You realized you didn’t have his phone number. 
You weren’t going to go home, however. Determined Y/N was planning to wait for as long as it would take. You trusted Felix.
Tumblr media
Forty minutes now. You had been playing some mobile games, looking out at the bustling street in front of you. During the winter season, the sun set earlier, so it was already dark and it definitely wasn’t safe for you to be alone. However, you were determined that Felix would arrive soon.
Five more minutes was what you told yourself as you stared out into the empty road, now barren of cars as the rush hour was over.
Tumblr media
“Lee Yongbok, where do you think you’re going?”
Felix cursed under his breath and turned to Mr. Park with a small smile. “I’m done with my shift boss, I’ll get going now.”
“Felix, it's peak season right now. If you don’t remember what I told you guys during the brief meeting, I’ll say it again. From the 12th of December to the 25th of December, all of you have your shifts extended for two hours due to the influx of customers during the Christmas season. Is that so hard to understand?” Mr. Park crossed his arms and squinted at Felix.
“Mr. Park, I’ve understood that rule. I did my two-hour extension, now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going now. I have somewhere to be.” Felix tried opening the door and walking out but was pulled back by a stronger arm grabbing his.
“Nuh-uh, young man. I’m sure that whatever event you have today isn’t going to be as important as the wellbeing of Little Leaf. Now if you’ll excuse me, do get your apron and hat back on and go back to manning the counter.” Mr. Park mocked.
Felix sighed and tried one last time at changing the mind of his horrible boss. “But Mr. Park, I swear, I did my two-hour extension, you can check the roster if you-”
“Get back to work, boy. Unless you want to start a new job in 2021.”
Felix sighed and threw his bag down, walking to the staff room to retie his apron.
Later, when Mr. Park checked the roster, he would find out that Felix did do his two-hour extension, and that he never lied.
Tumblr media
An hour and a half, that was how long you waited. No one would ever wait for that long. No one would ever stay alone at late hours of the day, waiting for someone who probably wouldn’t even show up.
Tears stung your eyes as you sighed and stood up, huffing and smoothening your outfit out. You thought that Felix had probably stood you up. It was probably a dare, maybe he had been dared to write a generic love serviette to some desperate person who fell for his charming looks. Even then you couldn’t help but think of Felix, and tears streamed down your face as you trudged back home.
“Y/N! Y/N, wait up! Y/N, don’t leave, hear me out.” The voice you had been waiting for finally could be heard.
You stopped in your tracks and turned around to face a panting Felix. His hair was disheveled, apron still on, and his jacket was worn the wrong way round. What an entrance to a first date.
“Y/N, I’m sorry. Mr. Park honestly...he kept me for an hour more, before I convinced him to let me leave. I don’t know why, I’m so sorry. I honestly didn’t think you would be here, no one would stay that long. Please, give me another chance?” Felix took a few steps closer to you but maintained his distance. His eyes scanned yours for any response.
“I’m- I mean, it's not your fault...but you made me wait for so long. I just, I don’t know what to say. I thought you stood me up.” Your eyes watered once again.
Felix immediately waved his hands in denial and took one more step closer to you. “No, no, Y/N. I would never. I’m sorry if you thought I would ever stand you up. I should have made my way here over faster, if only I gave you my phone number. I’m so sorry-”
Your eyes suddenly widened, and you looked up. White, shimmering, pieces of ice fell upon the both of you. You stared at him in awe, mouth open wide.
It hadn’t snowed in Seoul for a long, long time. Maybe this moment was special. 
Felix smiled back at you. Amidst the white rain, he took a few steps closer to you until the both of you were so close that you could...kiss.
“Y/N. I apologize. I’m sorry for being a horrible first date. Will you forgive me?” His dark chocolate orbs glanced into yours, dragging you into a new universe.
“Yes. I’ll forgive you.” You whispered, looking at the ground.
His eyes scanned yours for any sort of consolation. He didn’t even need to ask anymore. “Y/N, can I kiss you?” He quietly asked, using his pointer finger to tilt your chin upwards.
As you nodded, he leaned in and placed his lips on yours, as the both of you stood amidst the snow. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he put his around your waist and the both of you deepened the kiss.
Two lone beings, coming together as one, in the midst of a snow-struck city.
Tumblr media
2021 © fluffi
102 notes · View notes
lion-time · 3 years
Text
Time for some VF headcanons cause I’m bored
-The Force will just randomly install and uninstall the fridge in the main room whenever they feel like it.
-Pidge has a nape piercing which not many people know about.
-Chip helps with the vocals for Stereolactic. He also helps beta test the Voltron game from time to time.
-Lance will set EVERYTHING on fire every time he tries to cook. The food. The kitchen. Himself. EVERYTHING.
-The cadets make a game out of stealing Lance’s jacket. Whoever steals it without him noticing for the longest is the winner.
-After Keith cuts off his mullet, the rest of the Force hold a little funeral for it. Tears ensue.
-Daniel’s extensive Voltron knowledge can freak out the active pilots sometimes. Dan is completely unaware of how much potential blackmail he actually holds.
-On a similar note, Daniel has written Voltron fanfiction and you can’t convince me otherwise.
-Hunk has written a theme song for his lion
-Whenever the team strumbles across something which is annoying yet perseverent, they will describe it as being powered/infected by Lotorium.
  ��   -e.g ‘Ugh. This thing is being really annoying!
             ‘Sounds like it might be powered by Lotorium.’
-Just like how there’s an ex-Lotor group of evil Drules (the Syndicate), there’s a group of good ones too, who help the Den.
maybe i’ll do more when i feel like it these were just ones off the top of my head
47 notes · View notes