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forgottenpasta · 5 years

Text

Wednesday

Summary: Each day of the week was reserved for one member: Jimin on Mondays, Namjoon on Tuesdays, Hoseok on Wednesdays, Seokjin on Thursdays, Taehyung on Fridays, Jeongguk on Saturdays and Yoongi on Sundays. Juggling a relationship with seven boys was difficult on its own. Add to that your insecurities, your mother’s disapproval and Hoseok forgetting your anniversary and you had the makings of the worst Wednesday ever. (...Or the best Wednesday ever?)

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader, Ot7 x Reader

Genre: Angst, Smut, Fluff

Warnings: Unprotected Sex, Oral (female receiving), Rimming, Creampie Rough Sex, Public Sex, Fingering, Orgasm Denial

Word Count: 12.2k

A/N: Enjoy! :)

“Where is it?”, you muttered, throwing open your closet to scan the contents of your scarf drawer. After a short second you slammed it close with a curse.

Your favourite green scarf with pretty red lace tulips sewn in on the edges was nowhere to be found. You’d checked the laundry and every inch of your living space with no luck. Pouting at the thought of losing the precious gift Jimin had given you after returning from the European leg of their tour, you slumped on your bed. Snatching your phone from where it had been charging on the bedside table, you dialled Hoseok’s number, not giving a mind to the loud clack as the charger’s adapter pulled free of the socket and fell on the floor, the wire still connected to the phone at your ear.

There were two reasons for your foul mood this lovely Wednesday morning. One was the scarf, and the other…

Hoseok hadn’t called like he did every Wednesday morning to confirm he wasn’t busy and that he’d be spending the night with you. But that wasn’t all. Today was special for the two of you. Just the two of you. And despite your myriad hints leading up to this day, Hoseok hadn’t shown even the slightest proof that he remembered.

He hadn’t called you and now he wasn’t picking up his phone.

With a frustrated sigh, you dialled Jin instead. He answered on the third ring.

“Babygirl.”

A content smile flitted on your face at the eldest’s soft endearment of a greeting, temporarily easing the unknown frustration you’d been feeling the last few days.

“Good morning Jin.” His name was a sigh on your lips, and you knew he’d be able to pick up on your current temperament from just that. Out of all of them, Jin was the most attuned to your emotions, often the one you sought out when you were feeling down or moody or if you just needed someone to cuddle away all your worries. No wonder he was the one you’d automatically called.

Sure enough, he sounded more alert when he asked, “What’s wrong, __?”

“I can’t find my favourite green scarf.”, you whined. You sounded like a petulant three year old complaining to her mother, but you knew Jin would never make fun of you.

An amused snicker sounded down the line. “Aww, did babygirl lose her blankie?”

You scowled at your iPhone, then slapped it back against your ear. “Seokjin, you traitor. You’ve been hanging out with Taehyung too much.”

“What can I say,” You heard the sound of a door closing, likely Jin coming out of his room. “He’s been unusually generous lately. Been paying for all our food, insists on it even.”

“He’s upto something.”, you said without a second thought.

“Oh I’m sure. Likely wants in on the rap line now that he’s secured a spot on the dance one. That boy won’t rest till he’s had a cypher of his own.” Jin yawned and you heard the distinct sound of the fridge opening. “Just last week I saw him disappear into Yoongi’s studio for hours. Just to come out with an intense look of determination on his face. Like he was about to go to war. I was scared.”

You chuckled, a sudden urge came over you to kiss Taehyung breathless, till he could no longer conjure up all kinds of schemes in that adorable head of his. More and more often, similar surges of emotion regarding the guys would pop up in your brain when you were away from them.

If a sweet love song played at the cafe you worked at, you started craving Jeongguk’s soft, whispered singing in your ear. If you read a particularly interesting book, you immediately wanted to discuss it with Namjoon. You shivered every time you passed a sex shop on the streets, remembering Jimin’s expert hands binding you with his silken ropes till you quivered with anticipation. Jin’s affectionate gestures were always at the back of your mind when you saw a couple on the streets or a lifetime movie with too much romance and not enough plot. And even the most random things reminded you of Yoongi. A cat cuddled into a ball outside your window, an oversized black hoodie on someone, the smell of brewed chocolate (his favourite drink ever since you’d rendered all his recording equipment unusable by pouring a cup of it over them).

And Hoseok. He was the start of it all, the member you had met even before you knew seven boys were going to crash into your boring, monotonous life and turn it upside down. The first person you had fell in love with. The one who had introduced you to the rest of them.

The one who was supposed to be your one and only boyfriend.

Till you’d come to the horrifying realisation that you felt more than just platonic affection for the six other boys who’d come attached with him like a buy one get six free package deal.

Jin’s voice snipped that train of thought in the bud. “I can tell you’re not listening to me, babygirl. I’d feel offended but thankfully the size of my ego is directly proportionate to my handsomeness.”

You rolled your eyes, too used to his boasting. “Can you ask Namjoon if he saw the scarf? He was here last night when I was wearing it.”

Jin huffed and you heard him moving through the dorm again. “You only call me when you need something, __. I’m sure I don’t like it.”

You grinned. “What happened to your invincible ego? Besides, I distinctly recall you getting off to my moans when I called you last Thursday, just for you to turn it into phone sex—”

“I was 587 miles away from you, woman! We had a show the next day, I couldn’t just book a flight from Narita to Incheon just to spend a few hours with you like last time.” Jin groaned. “I needed you so bad and my hand was a piss poor replacement.”

Your heart was melting into a sympathetic puddle. But before you could reply to his impassioned declaration Jin started laughing.

“Yo, what the fuck!”, he managed in between guffaws.

Perking up , you asked, “What is it?”

“What did you do to poor Namjoon last night?” You heard a little shuffling, then a groggy voice groaned in the background. “He’s out cold on the couch, muttering in his sleep. Here listen.”

“…mmhfh y/n-ah, juft one mor paghe n weh cann fuk…hmf…”

“Oh my god!” You giggled, not being able to understand the sounds coming out of his mouth anymore. Jin must have brought the phone close to his mouth.

“What did you do to him?!”

In between suppressed laughter, you managed to explain, “He wanted to have sex so bad last night but I had a ton of classwork, so he helped me complete it, hoping it would get done faster and he’ll get some. But he fell asleep on my desk writing an essay on Turko-Mongol war strategy and weaponry.”

“You and your essays on dead people.”, Jin teased, still chuckling. The boys were well aware of your love for history and literature, even indulged your interests by buying you all kinds of first editions of rare books and published articles. During your Medieval era European poets phase, Yoongi had bought you some early 16th century illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy. They were so priceless that you’d cried at the sight of them. When you’d haltingly asked where and how he got them when even reputed museums had difficulty finding early Dante illustrations, Yoongi had evaded your question like the plague. To this day you suspected he had some very high connections in the black market.

“Oh and by the way”, Jin said offhandedly. “I think he’s drooling on your scarf.”

Mirth disappeared and your eyes went round. “What?!” Then you remembered you’d wrapped it around his neck early this morning while you were still half asleep, hoping he wouldn’t catch a cold on his way to the dorm. “Aagh, get it away from him!”

The doorbell went off just then, surprising you. You weren’t expecting anyone.

“Umm Jin, I’ll call you later,” you told him, getting up from your bed. “Save my scarf please. That’s the only gift I have from Jimin that isn’t a sex toy. And also, ask Hoseok to call me please.”

“Sure.”, he reassured. “Are you coming to our photoshoot today? I know you don’t have any classes scheduled.”

“Miss a chance of seeing you guys all dolled up and posing sexily? Hell no.”

Jin laughed. “I love you, you pervert. Bye.”

“Mmhm, I love me too.” You hung up, knowing full well that Jin would be rolling his eyes at your antics.

“I’m coming!”, you shouted as the bell went off again, striding out of your bedroom and towards the front door. The smiling face of your mother was the last thing you were expecting to see when you opened it.

“Mom!” You hugged her automatically. “What are you doing here?”

She patted your back, dropping a kiss on the side of your head. Her ever youthful face coming into your view as she pulled back. “I was in Seoul to attend a soiree some of my friends were hosting. I couldn’t leave without meeting you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”, you said cheerfully, ushering her in and closing the door. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. I’ll make some tea for you.”

She followed you into the kitchen, seating herself on one of the breakfast barstools as you set about making her a hot cup of her preferred beverage. “Thank you, dear. I really appreciate that you keep tea in your kitchen for when I visit, even though you don’t drink it.”

“Oh, umm, it’s nothing mom.” You stared at the water filling the kettle intently, not having the heart to tell her that you also kept it for when Taehyung stayed over. He didn’t like the taste of coffee.

Your mother knew about your relationship with the seven boys. Your father didn’t. After those first few weeks of being with them, you’d taken the risk of telling her because you had no one to talk about such a big change happening in your life. You couldn’t tell any of your college friends because technically Bangtan were not supposed to be dating anyone, let alone all seven of them dating one, lest their fangirls (and boys) get mad. You couldn’t risk outing them. The only one you hundred percent trusted to keep a secret was your mom. So you had told her. And as expected she’d kept your secret even from your father.

But that did not mean she approved or supported seven men being with her one daughter.

“Hows college going, sweetheart?”, she asked, watching you put in a tablespoon of sugar in her tea, just as she liked.

“It’s going good.” You paused. That was a lie. “Actually I barely get time to complete my class projects. It’s kinda hectic.”

“__, please tell me you finally broke it off with those boys.”, she blurted out as soon as you poured her a cup.

There it was. Of course she would assume you didn’t get time because your boyfriends took up all of it.

Rubbing sluggishly at your eyes, you sighed. Your mother was never one to beat around the bush.

“Mom, I love them.” You looked up into her eyes so she could see how sincere you were. “I’m not going to end it with them.”

She took a cautious sip from her cup, a contemplative expression coming over her face. You braced yourself. When your mother got thoughtful, it meant she was about to drop some serious truth bombs and painful facts that you were likely not going to like or want to hear.

“So, are you waiting for them to end it with you?” She raised a brow, phrasing her question like she was genuinely curious. You knew better.

“ You’re a very intelligent girl, dear. Do you seriously see such an arrangement lasting?” Her mouth twisted at the word “arrangement”, like it tasted foul.

Gazing at the ceiling, you prayed for her understanding, even though a part of you understood her reservations and that she was only looking after you.

“You don’t know them like I do, mom. They love me too. Very much so.” Your voice came out strained, ruining the conviction you’d wanted to infuse it with.

“I don’t doubt that. Look at me, __.”, she ordered softly.

You did and she offered you a tentative smile. “I don’t doubt that at all. You deserve all the love in the world and more. But a little pragmatism goes a long way, __. How is it possible that seven men keep themselves limited to one girl only?”

She took your hand that was fisted on top of the counter, slowly prying the tensed muscles open till you gave her your palm and she kissed the middle of it. “I don’t want you to get hurt, y/n. And you’re only setting yourself up for a seven times bigger fallout if you keep this thing up. Men are notoriously possessive creatures, if they don’t seek out other women, they’ll likely fight amongst themselves for you.”

Shaking your head, you took your hand out of her grasp. “No, mom. They’re very close, like brothers. They do get jealous when other men hit on me but never each other.”

Your mother sighed, frustration creeping up on her face. Her tone hardened as she said, “Then they would not hesitate to kick you to the curb if you threaten their unity even the slightest bit. I did not want to do this but you have to stop being so naïve, __. Haven’t you thought about why they agreed to this thing with you so easily?”

You almost said because they liked you so much, but you knew that wasn’t the answer your mother had in mind. “I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”

She leaned forward with a scowl. “Because it’s convenient. They’re insanely popular right now. Everywhere they go they’ve got eyes on them. Even your recluse of a father, who only concerns himself with politics and sports knows their songs. It’s easier for them to keep and share one woman then deal with seven.”

The kitchen was deathly silent save for the blood rushing in your ears. You did not want to hear this. You did not want some half baked ideas your mom had raise doubts in your mind about the boys.

Forcing back the tears that threatened, you softly murmured, “Mom, please.”

But she wasn’t done. “You drop everything to go to them. You keep yourself available 24/7. At their beck and call seven days a week.”

“It’s not like that.”, you exclaimed. “They support me just as much, if not more. They never ask for more than I’m comfortable giving.”

“That’s the problem, y/n.”, your mother snapped. “You’re willing to give too much of yourself. Better reel yourself in before you find yourself utterly vulnerable and exposed, with no one to lean on.”

“What does that mean?”, you asked, just as harshly.

“It means…”, she paused, as if debating wether to continue or not, before shaking her head. “I’m telling you to be ready for the time when they find partners of their own.”

Aggravated at her continued belabouring, you threw up your hands. “I’ve told you they aren’t interested in other girls—”

“Yet.” She cut you off. “Or maybe who knows, they might just be keeping company of others behind your back. Though you’re smart you’ve never been very observant.”

“Mom!”, you almost shouted, horrified at what she was insinuating. Even the thought of them going behind your back like that was unbearably painful. But you trusted them, so this whole conversation was unnecessary. “You’re just saying that because you haven’t met them. Once you’ll get to know what kind of people they really are, you wouldn’t say such things.”

She sneered, clearly put off by even the idea of meeting them. Then she delivered the final blow. “That’s not gonna happen, Y/n. The day you bring home seven men at once, your father will have a heart attack. And I’m not ever going to be interested in meeting the men who treat my daughter like a communal shower.”

“Mom.”, you breathed, pinching the bridge of your nose for patience and to quell the tears that were waiting to burst free. You couldn’t believe she actually said that. “I think you should leave.”

“I think so too.” You heard her get up from the barstool, opening your eyes to gaze unseeingly at her half empty cup on the counter.

The sound of her retreating footsteps stopped at the entryway. “I’m your mother, __. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you. Remember that.”

And with that parting reminder, she left. As soon as the door closed behind her, your tears fell like a dam burst free, crumbling all your emotional defences along with it. Slowly, and not-so-gracefully you crumbled to the kitchen floor yourself, your butt hitting the cool tiles as you buried your face in your knees, wrapping your arms around them to make a rolled up, human ball of woe.

When initially you’d told your mother about the boys almost half an year ago she’d been disbelieving at first. Later, when she’d finally accepted you were not joking, she’d told you that you would get tired of “this new polyamory fad” soon, not being able to handle dealing with so many people in your love life at once. You guessed that after almost a year of you dating Bangtan, she’d finally come around to the fact that this wasn’t just a phase in her daughter’s life. Today was the first time she’d gotten so vocal about her disapproval though. Usually it was just snide remarks, invasive questions or straight up ignoring that you were even dating someone. You knew that keeping such a big thing from your dad because of the promise you’d extracted from her also weighed on her conscience.

The chill seeped from the cold tiles to your whole body and you shivered as you wiped your tears, frowning when more rushed to replace them. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t asked all those questions your mother had raised yourself. Trepidation had racked you when you’d first ventured into such a daring commitment with them. Will you alone be able to satisfy them? How would you divide your time amongst seven men? What if they got bored with you, or worse, jealous of each other? Would they seek out someone else?

But slowly and surely, the boys had shown you that trust and loyalty, though hard earned, were bonds that survived the treacherous potholes of navigating a polyamorous relationship. You trusted them, you were loyal to them. They trusted you, they were loyal to you.

Or were they?

Shaking your head, you got up off the floor with a huff, stalking to your bedroom with an irritated gait. This is why you did not want to talk to your mother. You were only human. The seeds of doubt once sown, germinated into assumptions and suspicion you absolutely loathed. Mainly, because you were self aware enough to realise that they had no real substance to them, they only reflected your own secret fears back at you. But again, you were only human and no matter how much you tried to shake off the encounter with your mom, your mood soured further when your overactive imagination supplied images of the boys with other women.

And your age old enemy, insecurity, reared its ugly head. Taehyung was an ass man, maybe he’d like to be with someone with a bigger butt. Were you even intelligent enough for Namjoon? Jin would suit a more wholesome woman who knew how to cook something other than ramen. Yoongi liked breasts, maybe someone with a perkier pair. You could not sing to save your life, so why did Jeongguk like you when all his female celebrity crushes had killer pipes? Jimin used to train submissives before you came into his life, did he think about those happier times?

Did Hoseok resent having to share you with his members when you’d pledged to love him and only him?

You were angrily yanking open your closet to look for something to wear to their photoshoot when your phone flashed from where you’d thrown it on the bed before your mom had officially ruined your day.

Peeking a look at it, you wondered if you should have read your horoscope. Because the day was far from over.

Hobi: Few high school friends invited me for drinks tonight. Rain check?

~.~.~

Exactly one year ago ~

The bookstore became eerily quite after 10 pm. Only a few last minute stragglers sometimes showed up to look for some obscure book they obviously couldn’t find anywhere else.

You loved being with your lonesome self behind the cash register. Usually with a book in your hands, reading up on all kinds of historical fiction, medieval fantasies, long forgotten poems of equally unknown poets and of course the occasional bodice ripper.

Which was what you were doing when the bell above the entrance chimed, indicating someone was indeed, on the prowl for some late night book hunting. You didn’t look up from the raunchy text in your lap as a dark figure passed by, clearly no more interested in exchanging pleasantries than you were. With a shrug you went back to focus on the guilty pleasure of a novel you’d picked for yourself tonight. A courtesan heroine during renaissance Italy who entertained patrons from not only the newly emerging Humanist circles but also the corrupt members of the clergy? Oh yes please.

But when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw the newcomer heading for the comic book section you grew intrigued. Late night hunting for…comic books?

Close proximity to the Seoul National University meant that the bookstore you worked at housed mostly academic readings. And as such the people who came here were also mostly students who wished to buy a copy of the expensive publishings they could otherwise also find in a library. That alone meant that the bookstore was never buzzing with customers. Let alone ones who were looking for some flashy illustrations and superhero escapism. The comic books you had on offer usually just collected dust.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you abandoned your heroine in midst of a wanton tryst with a nobleman to observe the anomaly currently browsing the comics on display.

He had on a long black trench coat, leather pants encasing the muscular legs below and Dr. Martens on his feet. His hair was covered with a black cap and from what you could see, a mask of the same colour stretched across his face. It wasn’t unusual to see people with their face fully covered, so you didn’t think much of his all black ensemble. Though he would blend in perfectly outside at night, under the store’s bright lights he stuck out like a bat during the day.

Maybe he’s a fan of batman.

When he’d chosen his pick he turned around, making you duck your head down quickly. The light chuckle that reached your ears meant that you weren’t fast enough and he’d caught you checking him out. You flushed red.

“Can I get these gift wrapped please?”

Two comic books landed on the counter in front of you, the sound accompanying the husky lilt of the man’s voice.

Left with no choice but to interact with him, you softly replied, “Of course.” Strangely, your heart beat spiked as you reached forward to pick the thin, glossy books up. He’d placed his hands on the wood counter, palms down, his sleeves pushed up a little. For a second you stared at his long fingers, a ridged vein stretching from the knuckles to the back of his right hand, forking out on his bare forearm before disappearing under his clothing like a purplish blue tattoo.

As if on cue, he started drumming his fingers, snapping you into action as you quickly scanned his purchase.

“That’ll be 15,430 won.” Opening a cabinet to pull out a selection of wrapping papers, you deliberately took your time to avoid meeting his eyes. What was going on with you? You couldn’t even see his face properly but you were acting like a teenager with her first crush. You decided it was time to stop reading romantic fantasies.

Clearing your throat you presented the options to him with a flourish, this time looking him straight in the eyes. “Which one would you like?”

He gave a cursory glance to the colourful sheets before glancing back at you with a quirked brow. Was he laughing at your flustered form? You couldn’t tell what with the mask, but there was definitely mirth dancing in his eyes.

A shrug. “Whichever. I really don’t care.”

“Fine”, you huffed, really not appreciating being the source of his amusement. You chose a blue paper with green stripes, placing the comics in the middle.

“I like that one.”, he commented graciously. And you were just about to reply when he continued cheekily, “I also like your choice in books.”

Your hands froze, eyes darting to the unfinished

novel you’d placed face up on the table. The salacious cover showed a woman in medieval garb, her mouth half open in a silent moan as a blonde man wearing a billowy white shirt kissed her bare shoulder, the open neck of her gown threatening to expose her breasts.

In a flash you flipped the book, cover side down, opening a drawer to hastily throw it inside. Slamming it closed, you glared at the man who was now outright laughing at you.

“Don’t be embarrassed.”, he cajoled in a tone that suggested you should, in fact, be embarrassed. “Everyone’s gotta live vicariously somehow.”

Was he suggesting you read erotic books because you didn’t get laid in real life?

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that why you’re reading children’s books?” You indicated the My Little Pony picture book and the Superman comic he’d picked up. “I must say you’ve got varied tastes.”

“Hey now.” He held up his hands. “Those are for my niece and nephew. They’re twins and it’s their birthday today.”

“Maybe that’s what you say whenever you’ve got to stock up on the latest My Little Pony issue. Have them gift wrapped so no one suspects.” Now you were just pushing it, but the burn of embarrassment still irked.

He was grinning behind his mask. “No that one’s for my nephew. He likes ponies.”

You gaped at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

You held up the Superman issue. “And I’m guessing your niece likes superheroes?”

“Only the ones who can fly.” He shrugged. “According to her Batman is an imposter with no real powers.”

“Radical.”, you said in amazement.

“Look I didn’t mean to upset you.” His hand on the counter moved to cover yours. A shock of awareness jolted through your spine, making you sit up straighter. By the way he swallowed, he wasn’t unaffected either. But he didn’t let go of your hand, clutched it tighter actually. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”

“I, umm.”, you stuttered, not being able to look away from his sincere gaze. What were you upset about again? Yeah, the living vicariously comment. “It’s alright. Though I’ll have you know, I get plenty of action.”

No you didn’t get plenty of action. And you did not just say that.

At least you’d managed to shock him out of his sauve demeanour. “I’m…sure you do.” He cleared his throat, squeezing your hand. “I wasn’t insinuating anything. I read smut too, you know.”

Now it was your turn to be shocked. “You don’t.”

“I don’t.” He grinned again. “Just trying to make you feel better.”

“Hey!” You snatched back your hand, scowling at him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”, he breathed in between laughter. “You’re just too easy to rile up.”

“Ha ha.”, you mocked. “Are you living vicariously through me then? Not enough comedy in your life, huh?”

He straightened then, his amusement disappearing. “Maybe.”

Reaching for the hand you’d pulled out of his grip, he brought it closer to him. Wrapping both his hands around yours, he made sure you were looking into his eyes when he said, “Maybe you’re exactly what I need in my life.”

Your breath hitched at that. “I don’t even know your name.”

His eyes crinkled at that. He was smiling behind his mask again. At that moment, you wanted to see his face more than anything in the world.

One hand let go of yours to point at the large S on Superman’s chest on the comic’s cover.

You frowned in confusion. “Your name is…S?”

“No silly. That’s not an S, that’s the Kryptonian symbol for hope.”

~.~.~

Present Day~

Your tears had dried by the time you left your house to head for the Bighit building. The occasional sniffle still persisted though, and you hoped you looked put together enough for the boys to not suspect anything.

The talk with your mother was not entirely responsible for your persisting melancholy. You’d been reminiscing your first meeting with Hoseok ever since his text came in. Something about it being the first anniversary of when he’d come into your quaint little bookshop, all masked up in disguise and asked you out, after thoroughly embarrassing you that is. You hadn’t gotten to see his face on the first date either, or the second or the third. When he’d asked you why you still went on multiple dates with him when he didn’t allow you to see his face (which also meant he didn’t kiss you), you’d joked about having a taste for wanted fugitives.

But the truth was that you’d fallen in love with him even before you really knew who he was. He made you laugh, made your heart flutter when he’d wrap you up in his arms, he wasn’t afraid to push your boundaries when it came to getting to know you. By the time the fifth date had rolled around he knew everything about you and you still knew nothing about him, except for the fact that he had some sinful moves, which you’d gotten to know when he’d gave you a fully clothed lap dance on your birthday. You’d fallen for his mannerisms. He’d pull out your chair, open doors for you, give you his jacket. He was different than all the guys you’d previously dated, he never once tried to get into your pants, the most you’d gotten was a quick brush of his lips across your forehead before he’d quickly slide his mask back in place.

You were the one who’d grown frustrated at him taking it so slow. He’d only chuckle lightly and divert your hand to safety whenever you tried to grope him, all your amateur attempts at seduction thwarted when he’d cage you in his arms instead or pull your attention elsewhere.

The day you’d gotten to see his face was also the day he introduced you to the rest of the boys. When he’d invited you over to his place for the first time you were ecstatic. Finally having his trust was a big deal to you. By now you’d realised he must be someone important (or dangerous) for him to hide his identity for so long, but you’d never pushed him to reveal himself. You’d thought he’d finally realised how serious you were about him.

Oh, he’d realised it alright. When he’d opened the dorm door for you, the first thing he’d done was kiss your mouth senseless, even before you’d registered who it was you were looking at. When he’d pulled back after ravishing your mouth, you’d gaped at him in shock, both at his hungry mauling and the fact that you were looking at, well, him. A world famous artist. Who’d just kissed you like his life depended on it.

His words then were still etched into your brain. He’d smiled wide and you remember thinking it was the most beautiful sight ever. “You have no idea how long I’ve been dying to kiss you, __.”

You clutched your coat around you tighter as you took the familiar route to your boyfriends’ workplace. A wistful smile graced your lips when you remembered how the rest of the boys had embraced you into their group seamlessly, like you were always meant to be right by their side. Your friendship with them had started out innocent enough, but they had always been very handsy when it came to you. You hadn’t minded and neither did Hoseok, when one of them asked you for a massage or laid their head in your lap or if the competitive younger ones tickled you ceaselessly when you’d beat them at a game. You’d developed a rapport with Namjoon and Yoongi, you enjoyed listening to them whenever they had something to say and you were flattered when they took your opinions and suggestions seriously.

Slowly and surely they’d trusted you with all their secrets, allowing you into their private life as you and Hoseok’s relationship had deepened. So it really came as shock to you when one day you’d snapped at Namjoon when he’d come to you asking advice regarding the girl he’d been dating. It hadn’t been your finest moment and for a while it had mired your bond with the boys in confusion and uncertainty. Especially when Namjoon had broken up with the girl the very next day.

The real shocker came when Jeongguk kissed you full on the mouth in the presence of Hoseok. And your boyfriend did not seem to mind at all! Gradually the boys’ handsiness had grown into full-blown PDA. They kissed you, pulled you into their lap during movie nights, back hugs became commonplace. Taehyung even loved to warm his hands against your bare waist, sneaking them inside your shirts whenever he could. Before your moral compass went haywire with guilt you had sat all of them down and talked about the nature of your relationship.

Communication was always key. Hoseok had initially been unsure of the mere idea of sharing you but you’d assured him that you would never go ahead with it if he wasn’t onboard. But the fact was, you’d fallen in love with the rest of the boys too. And he could see that as well.

You still wonder sometimes, if he’d said yes only because he risked losing you otherwise. You wouldn’t have been able to handle secretly pining for the other boys if he’d said no.

As you displayed your id to the guard at front, you wondered if he’d really forgotten that today was your anniversary. It seemed like it. Why would he accept an invitation to go out tonight of all nights if he didn’t? Should you remind him? Or maybe it just wasn’t as big of a deal as you were making it out to be.

You didn’t know what to do, all you knew was that today was a shit day. And with that thought, you entered the spacious conference room converted into a studio for the photoshoot. Namjoon had told you that it was for this years season’s greetings.

From the soft mood lightings against the panel of wall to wall windows spanning one side of the room and the light coloured casual clothing that hung from the racks pushed to the corners, you deduced that they were going for a soft, boyfriend look this time.

You snorted. How ironic they’d sell such a concept to their fans when all seven of them were taken at the same time. By the same person.

The familiar faces of the co-ordis greeted you as you moved in, and you murmured a soft good morning to them. “Where are they?”, you asked, looking around.

Solji, one of the older stylists, answered you with a smile. “You’re a little early. They’ll be here soon.”

“Great. I’ll set up somewhere out of your way then.” You returned her smile, she was your favourite out of all the staff, always friendly and understanding.

Speaking of the staff, your eyes caught a new face flitting among the familiar ones when you scanned the room for a place to sit. You nudged Solji. “Is she new?”, you asked, flicking your chin towards the blonde girl assisting the hairstylist in pulling out all kinds of products from a bag.

Solji nodded. “Miso. She’s a temp. We fell short on hands when Hyoyeon took her maternity leave. Most likely will become permanent if she’s good.”

You frowned. “Does she know about me?”

The staff were well informed about your relationship with Bangtan, the Non Disclosure Agreement they signed when they were hired prevented them from going to the media with any kind of private details about the boys, lest they be sued for their weight in gold. But it always caused you anxiety when a new staff member got to know about you. More so when they got to know you were dating all of them.

“Yes. I informed her myself. She was surprised, to say the least.”

“Everyone is.” Your mom’s sneer came to mind suddenly, but you pushed it away. Patting Solji’s arm, you said, “Time for me to catch up on my studies I guess.”

Spying a small love seat in one corner of the big room you headed towards it. Picking up the empty make up containers strewn over it, you placed them carefully on the carpeted floor instead. Perching yourself on the seat, you pulled open your handbag, pulling out your laptop and the textbook you and Namjoon had been pouring over last night.

This is what you did when they asked you over on a photoshoot, or vocal practice or dress fittings. Watching them from a corner while trying to get some work done. But mostly just gazing at them go about their way from your front row perch, hearts in your eyes.

You’d only just begun reading when the sound of their laughter reached your ears. Looking up eagerly, you promptly forgot your work. Yoongi was already headed towards you, looking downright sinful in a white Supreme hoodie, jeans and converse. Did he even need to change? This was boyfriend look right here.

“My little bird’s already hard at work I see.” He bent to give you a heart stopping kiss, his hand cupping your nape in a proprietary gesture. “How am I gonna focus on the shoot with you looking so gorgeous today, hmm? Maybe we can convince the photographer to take your pictures instead.”

Oh, flirty Yoongi was in the house today.

“I don’t think your fans would like that.” You bit his lip, not even trying to resist the temptation right before your eyes.

Another deep kiss. “Their loss.”

“Hyung, Solji noona is calling you.”, a cheerful Taehyung said from behind Yoongi.

The elder straightened up with a scowl. “Really? You’ll get a knuckle sandwich if you’re lying.”

“I’m not.”, he exclaimed, jerking a thumb behind him. “Go ask her yourself.”

As Yoongi left while muttering something under his breath, Taehyung sprawled himself on the love seat beside you. “I lied.”

You nodded. “Of course you did.”

The shout of “Tae you motherfucker!” could be heard as the subject of the loud curse brushed some stray hair behind your ears, an unbothered boxy smile directed at you as he asked, “So __, I heard Hobi hyung won’t be spending the night with you. This must come as a shock because I’m a busy man,” he polished his nails on the lapels of the Gucci coat he had on, before inspecting them like they were the singular most interesting thing, “but did you know I’m completely free tonight?”

You smiled at his attempt at nonchalance but your heart ached at the reminder. Looking towards Hoseok, you found him and the boys surrounded by the styling team. When Hoseok caught you looking, he grinned wide, moving to make his way to you.

A small hand on his shoulder stopped him in his path. The new temp Miso held up a shirt to his torso, looking up at him with a smile as she said something you couldn’t quite hear. You saw Hoseok nod and reply to her, all plans of coming to you forgotten.

“Is there trouble in paradise?”, Taehyung guessed, looking at his hyung then at you then back to his hyung like a ping pong ball.

Halting his swivelling head by placing a palm on his cheek, you pouted, “Tae, do you know what today is?”

A scared look came over his face. “Oh shit, did I forget your birthday or something?”

You scowled. “No. It’s me and Hoseok’s one year anniversary. It’s the day I first met him. And he doesn’t remember.”

“Oh.” Then a strange look came over his face, somewhere between constipation and indigestion. He was hiding something. “Oh.”

“What are you ohing about?”, you asked curtly, your curiosity growing. “And why are you making that face?”

“What face?”, he squeaked, getting up from the chair in a flash. “Oh looky there, Solji noona is calling me.”

“Wait!” But he was already hightailing it out of there. “Tae you motherf—ugh!”

For the next hour you watched them from your corner seat as they went through multiple outfit changes and all different kinds of poses against the strategically placed props near the windows. The soft sunlight filtering in provided a natural lighting and their beautiful features seemed to glow from within because of the luminescent makeup they wore. All in all it was a mesmerising affair, they looked like angels.

And throughout it all instead of focusing on getting some work done your gaze slipped to Hoseok again and again. All of the boys had come to sit beside you at one point or the other, except him. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.

The pencil in your grip almost snapped to half when you saw the new hire, Miso, bend down to whisper something in his ear as she messed with his already perfect hair. One of her hands landed on his shoulder and you could swear she was caressing him.

For his part, he rested his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed and barely giving her one word answers. But that did nothing to quell the embers of jealousy burning inside you. Solji had said that the new girl knew about you. You did not want to interfere in their work but if she continued feeling up your boyfriend...

You almost catapulted out of your chair when you saw her brush her ample chest against his arm whilst pretending to pick something up from the floor.

But luckily Namjoon made his way to you at the same time, saving you from smacking a bitch into next week.

“I’m sorry about your scarf, doll. I put it in the laundry for you.” He smiled, cheeks dimpling deeply, as if he expected a pat on the back for managing such a feat.

Reluctantly you looked away from Hoseok and the snake coiling herself around him, giving Joon a half hearted smile. “Thank you, baby.”

The dimples disappeared. “Is something wrong?”

The sincere worry in his eyes was all it took for your composure to shatter. The past few days, your mother’s visit, Hoseok’s forgetfulness, your own insecurities and now the bitch a few feet away from you.

With a pathetic whine you launched yourself into the leader’s lap, situating yourself between his thighs and wrapping your arms around him. Your face fit perfectly in the space between his shoulder and neck. You didn’t care if you were ruining his carefully put together outfit or the fact that you were in a room full of people.

Thankfully Namjoon didn’t care either, he immediately pulled you close, bending down to kiss your nose affectionately.

“Doll?”, was all he said in his soft, deep, ever understanding voice and everything you’d been bottling up came hurtling out in a hiccupy word vomit. By the time you were finished tears were running down your face and you turned to hide into his chest so nobody else could see you breaking down.

“Aah your mother is wrong, so so wrong. You’re our centre, the best thing that ever happened to us.” Sighing, he rubbed your back. “But I understand where she’s coming from. If it were my daughter I’d be sceptical too. We’ll just have to convince her that we love you more than anything in the world.”

“She doesn’t want to meet you guys.”, you murmured against his chest, wiping your nose on his expensive designer shirt.

He didn’t seem to mind, brushing away your tears with his shirt sleeve himself. Solji was going to kill you both.

“I’m sure we can change her mind.” Namjoon nudged your chin up till he was gazing into your eyes. “As for Hoseok, don’t you dare doubt his love for you. He worships the ground you walk on.”

“Is that why he forgot our anniversary?”

Namjoon evaded your eyes. “Doll...”

“And why isn’t he pushing away that new temp?”

“Huh?” Confused, he looked up in the direction of the man in question.

“Forget it. Do I even have any right to be jealous when it comes to you guys?”, you questioned softly to yourself. Something you’d been wondering about for a while. “I mean there’s one of me and seven of you. You don’t get jealous when I’m with Jimin or Yoongi. Why should I be jealous if you guys show interest in other girls, right?”

That snapped his attention back to you, and what you saw in his eyes made you shrink in on yourself. He was angry, furious even. He grabbed your jaw, made sure your eyes didn’t stray from him.

“Of the most ridiculous nonsense you could come up with, I never imagined you’d be questioning our loyalty to you.”, he said through his teeth. “Firstly, we have no fucking interest in dating another girl, get that through your thick head. Second, we don’t get jealous of each other but you very well know we can’t stand anyone else putting their hands on you. Thirdly,” he paused, taking a deep breath. “I can’t say for other guys but I love it when you get jealous.”

“What?”, you breathed.

Sheepishly, he rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you remember when I came to you asking for dating advice before you’d agreed to be with all of us? When you were only Hoseok’s girlfriend.”

“I do.” You were just reminiscing about your early days with the boys a few hours ago.

“I didn’t really want your advice, I suspected you liked me too and I just wanted to get a rise out of you.”

You stared at him. “Is that why you broke up with the girl the next day?”

“Hehe.”, he laughed nervously. “I wasn’t dating anybody in the first place. I only wanted to be with you.”

Your jaw dropped.

Solji’s voice cut through your intimate bubble then. “Namjoon, you’re up.”

“Time to get scolded for ruining my shirt.” He picked you up and set you on the cushions like you weighed nothing.

“I’m sorry about that.” Glancing at the wetness that covered his front from your tears and snot, you winced.

“I drooled on your scarf, you cried on my shirt. We’re a match made in heaven, babe.”, he said, a shit eating grin on his face.

“You’re so cheesy.” You threw a cushion at his face.

He flicked it away with a swat. “You’ve been sitting here for hours, you should stretch your legs. I have that SourPunk string candy you like so much in the drawer beneath my computer. Go get some.”

“Really?!” You jumped up at once. “It’s my favourite.”

“I know.” He left after giving you an indulgent smile, though you heard him mutter under his breath “it tastes like satan’s ass” before he was out of earshot.

Ignoring him, you happily made your way out of the huge room, heading straight for Namjoon’s studio on the third floor. There was a spring in your step. Not surprisingly talking to the leader had put some sense back into you, he’d Expecto Petronumed your insecurities like they were dementors. For now at least, you were sure they’d rear their ugly head again in the future like a chronic disease.

Striding down the hallway cheerfully, you did not expect a hand to shoot out of a door. You shrieked like a banshee when the hand clutched your arm, hauling you inside before slamming the door close.

“What the—“, your shout was cut off by Hoseok’s hand over your mouth.

“It’s me, __. Don’t scream.”

Narrowing your eyes, you licked his palm.

“Aah!” He snatched it back, face scrunching. “What was that for?”

“For ignoring me all day. And scaring me just now.”

“Ignoring you?” He scoffed. “Fuck no. I don’t do childish stuff like that. I’m not Yoongi hyung.”

“I’m going to tell him you said that.”

Hoseok’s glare turned into a confused frown when he saw your face clearly, the dim lighting not helping his vision. “Were you crying?”

Flinching, you spoke sharply, “No.”

The frown didn’t abate. “__, I swear I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“That’s not why I was crying.”

“So you were crying.” He raised his brows, daring you to deny it. His eyes softened when you looked away instead.

“Hey baby, I’m sorry.”, he murmured in your ear, his hands finding purchase on your waist. He nudged your face toward his, nuzzling you softly. “Whatever I did I’m so sorry.”

Melting in his arms, you allowed him to pull you close. “You don’t even know what you’re apologising for.”

Placing a hand on the side of your neck, a thumb at your chin pulled your mouth open. “It doesn’t matter. I hate seeing you upset.”

He kissed your open mouth, his tongue immediately finding yours. The taste of him made you moan, coffee and the sugar coated lemon drops he loved so much. It was a strange but delectable combination.

As you sucked on his tongue, his hands dropped to work on the buttons of your blouse. You pulled away for a second to ask, “We’re really doing this here? Right now?”

“Not we.” Pushing your blouse and bra out of the way, he freed one breast for his hungry mouth.

“I just want to make you feel good.”, he breathed against your nipple before taking the cold, hardened bud between his warm lips.

Head thumping back against the door, you clutched him to your chest. “Hobi, oh my god!”

Taking your sensitive nipple between his teeth, he pulled, making a jolt of arousal go straight to your core. He chuckled as a moan tore from you. “I haven’t even started and you’re already invoking god. You won’t be able to keep quiet, would you? Do you want everyone to know your boyfriend’s worshipping you?”

Pulling him up for another messy kiss, you confessed against his lips. “Yes. I want everyone to know that you belong to me.”

Something primal and unrestrained entered his eyes, and you almost regretted your words for a second. With a swiftness that defied gravity, he picked you up and strode to a nearby table. After clearing the surface with a sweep of his hand, he placed you gingerly on top. The clink and clatter of jewellery and other accessories hitting the floor echoed in the room, but you only had eyes and ears for Hoseok.

“Be careful what you ask for, __.”

What had you unleashed?

He made swift work of your jeans till you were clad only in your blouse and soaking wet panties.

“Look at that, you’ve already made a mess.” Cupping your crotch, he stroked your clothed labia slowly, smirking when you swivelled your hips for more. “How badly do you want me to eat you out, __? Tell me and I might let you have my tongue.”

You wanted him too much to care about how desperate you sounded. “So bad. Please! I want your tongue on my pussy.”

“What my baby wants, she gets.” He dropped to his knees between your spread legs, pushing at the back of your thighs to expose your genitals in the most lewd way possible. Pushing aside your soaked panties, he dove in with fervour like he was about to devour the most scrumptious meal ever.

The first flick of his tongue on your clit had you gnashing your teeth and fisting his thick, soft hair. From previous experience you knew that receiving oral sex from him meant that he was going to put all your vibrators to shame.

And sure enough, the speed of his tongue on your clit blew your mind, as did the currents of pleasure coursing through you. How he was able to move his tongue so fast, you had no fucking clue. Pausing in his expert assault, he took the already quivering bundle in his mouth to suck, simultaneously thrusting two fingers deep in your slick channel.

“Hobi! Fuck! Umfh..” That was all you could manage till he found the soft spongy spot on your inner walls, pressing on it in tandem with his licks on your clit. Most of the sounds that came out of your mouth were incoherent shouts and half pleas.

Hoseok’s eyes met yours over the expanse of your tummy and you could tell he was internally laughing as you dissolved into a mindless being intent on reaching your climax. “Hobi please make me cum!”

The bastard pulled his sinful mouth away from your cunt instead. “What was that?”

“Aagh!”, you yelled in frustration. “Put that tongue back on my fucking clit!”

He pouted, his cheeks glistening from your juices. “Is that any way to speak to your boyfriend?”

“Hobi.”, you cried, about to burst into frustrated tears literally. “Please!”

Grinning, he dove back down. “Now was that so hard?”

This time he pulled his fingers out of your entrance to rub slick circles on your nub instead. His mouth tasted a path down your inner labia before tonguing your clenching, empty hole.

“Hoseok, don’t tease me.”, you begged.

Taking mercy on you, he thrust his tongue deep inside. The fingers playing your clit like a fiddle doubled their strokes.

“Fuck yes!”, you screamed.

His tongue inside your pussy mimicked his dick thrusting in and out, your pussy trying to grip the muscle everytime he pulled it back out. You could come just from him tongue fucking you.

“Hoseok don’t stop! Please don’t stop!”

He stopped. Pulling away once again.

“What?!”, you shrieaked, your orgasm slipping away from your grasp. Frustrated tears did, in fact, make their way down your cheeks this time.

“Your pussy tastes like fucking ambrosia, __.”, he groaned, licking his lips. “But I wanna have a taste of something else too.”

Frowning, you half sobbed, half moaned, “What?”

He smirked. “Let’s see if you can come from having your ass eaten.”

The shudder that went through you at his words was overshadowed by pleasure when he licked down your pussy, giving a fluttering peck to your neglected entrance before venturing further south. Your perineum received a wet, open mouthed kiss and a nuzzle.

“Hold your legs for me, baby.”, he commanded softly, his breath tingling both your holes.

Snaking your arms around the back of your thighs, you pulled your legs up and away. You were nervous but excited, none of the other boys had rimmed you before. “Hobi, please hurry.”

A nip on your buttcheek made you yelp. “Don’t rush me. I’m going to enjoy this.”

Kneading your buttocks in his palms, he pulled them apart, a butterfly kiss to your asshole followed. Then he laved the puckered hole, making you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

“Oh.”, you breathed. “That feels so good.”

You felt him smile. Another light kiss on your rim, then his tongue explored. Circling your asshole and probing at your forbidden entrance till you clenched at the foreign feeling with a groan.

He tsked, clearly disapproving. “Don’t tense up, baby. Open up to me. I love this cute little hole.”

At his urging you relaxed and he began eating your hole with the same enthusiasm as he had your pussy. When his hand slid up to tease your clit once again, your arms gave from beneath you and you thumped on the table, arching your back from the insurmountable pleasure he was giving you.

He was right. You could cum from having your asshole stimulated. The release that had slipped away earlier came hurtling back like a train wreck, with double the force.

Stiffening his tongue, he pushed it up your anus as far as it would go.

“Fuck!”, you cursed at the intrusion.

In your endorphin hazed brain, you registered a noise outside the door that sounded like Hoseok’s name. You ignored it at first, the dancer between your legs making you feel too good to care about anyone barging in.

But then the hesitant voice grew louder. “Hoseok-ssi. It’s Miso, are you in there?”

At first sheer fury coursed through you. And then you smirked.

“Hobi!” Your voice was so loud the man in question paused in his ministrations for a second. “Don’t stop! You eat my ass so good!”

With a shrug, he happily continued, circling your clit with his fingers just the way you liked it.

“Oh fuck yes!” Though your volume was exaggerated, you could feel yourself get closer and closer to the precipice.

This time you didn’t hear the squeak and the rush of footsteps disappearing outside, the blood rushing in your ears drowning out everything else.

“Baby I’m so close.”

“Cum then. Let me see your pretty pussy cum.”, he growled, increasing the torture on the bundle of nerves he was assaulting with his fingers.

When you came, everything went white for a second. The scream of his name was so loud, you were sure the whole building heard you climaxing. The seizure like shudders that racked you had you closing your legs and pulling away his hands because of oversensitivity.

Panting on the table, you flopped on your side to calm down. Hoseok bent over you to caress your hair.

“Are you alright, baby? Did I overdo it?”

Shaking your head, you got up to wrap your arms around his shoulders. “No. You are amazing. Your mouth is amazing.”

You tried to pull him down for a kiss but he turned his face away at the last second. “I just had my tongue up your ass, babe. Do you really wanna kiss me?”

“Shut up.” You gave him a deep, sloppy kiss.

~.~.~

The crew and staff were packing up when you got back to the room after cleaning yourself up in the bathroom. So you headed straight to get your things as well.

You found Jimin seated at the love seat, idly going through your textbook.

You smiled at the adorable furrow of concentration between his brows. “You into history now, Chim?”

Jimin hummed, flipping the book shut before looking up at you. “No, but I heard you’re into rimming.”

Cheeks going tomato red, you stuttered, “D-did you—”

“Yeah. You were very loud.”

Groaning you buried your face in your hands. What felt like a good idea at the time, made you shrivel up in mortification now.

Jimin got up to pull your hands away, giving you an eye smile of reassurance. “Don’t. I loved that you were so loud. I got to know that assplay is not a hard limit for you.”

You gulped. “Jimin.”

He gave you that predatory look, the one he used only in the bedroom, making you shiver. In fear or anticipation, you didn’t know. “Make sure you’re free next Monday.”

Before you could reply, he picked up your bag, placing your book and laptop inside. “Now. Let’s get you home.”

Glancing around, you found the room almost empty. “Where’s everybody?”

Jimin took your hand, interlacing your fingers. “They’re already in the car. Let’s go.”

The driver held open the door of the Escalade when you two arrived outside. You slid in first, immediately snuggling up against Jeongguk who was seated near the other window. Jimin got in behind you.

Yoongi was up front, with Namjoon, Jin and Taehyung making up the back.

“Where’s Hoseok?”, you asked as the car pulled away from the curb.

Jin answered you. “He was invited over for drinks remember.”

“Oh.” You remembered. But you’d forgotten to remind him of the anniversary, too preoccupied with his tempting mouth.

“What’s the matter, __?” Came Taehyung’s sly voice. You glanced at the rearview mirror to see him grinning. When his eyes met yours, the grin vanished in a flash.

You narrowed your eyes, Taehyung’s earlier werid behaviour coming to mind. “Nothing.”

The rest of the ride passed by in relative quiet. Only Jeongguk’s voice telling you about his recent trip back to Busan filled the car. You listened with your head on his shoulder, though your mind was adrift.

You did not fancy the idea of sleeping alone in a cold bed, one of the boys’ constant warmth against you throughout your nights had spoiled you. You were just about to take Taehyung up on his earlier offer to spend the night with him when the car stopped suddenly.

Confused, you sat up straight. It usually took twenty minutes to get to the boys’ dorm, thirty minutes to get to your apartment. It had barely been ten. “What is it? Why did we stop?”

Yoongi turned from his seat to look at you with a fond smile. “Your stop’s here, __.”

“What?” You frowned when Jimin got out of the car, holding out his hand for you to take.

“Just trust us.”, Jeongguk whispered next to you.

With a deep breath you took Jimin’s proffered hand, getting out of the car in the middle of the street.

“What if someone sees us?”, you asked, scared someone might click pictures of you two together. “Where are we?”

Jimin shook his head, turning you toward the footpath on the side of the road. “You know where we are.”

When your eyes left his to glance around, your breath caught. Because you did know where you were.

The lights inside the old bookstore you worked at illuminated your surroundings. Taking a step forward in amazement, you peered up at the two story building, the grey stucco walls of the exterior filling you with nostalgia. After you’d moved into your new apartment almost a year ago, the bookstore became too far out of your way for you commute to daily. You’d also gotten a better paying job working at a cafe. But you’d always missed the quiet of this store, the hundreds of books at your disposal that you had loved to explore. The cafe was too loud, boisterous and hectic in comparison.

A throat cleared behind you and you turned to find Hoseok gazing at you from above the mask he had donned. The car and the rest of the boys were gone.

“Did you really think I’d forget, baby?”

Elation surged through you and you barely restrained the sappy tears that threatened to overflow. He held out his arms and you launched yourself at him, making him laugh.

“So that text was a lie?”

“Hmm.”, he hummed against your hair, pecking your forehead. “They did invite me to hang out but I had to politely reject.”

Hoseok wrapped an arm around your waist. “We should go in. Someone might recognise me out here even with the mask.”

Frowning, you let him lead you towards the front entrance. “Umm, are you sure? Do you wanna pick up a book or something? The lady who owns this building won’t like us having a date in her bookstore.”

Hoseok opened the door, ushering you in. The store was unsurprisingly empty, but you frowned when you saw nobody manning the cash register.

“The lady who owns this store loves me. So I think we’re good.”

Your head snapped back to him. “Who?”

He pursed his lips, clearly suppressing his amusement. Fishing for something in his pocket, he held your hand out, palm side up.

“You.” Two keys on a Superman keyring dropped on your palm.

For a minute you stared at it dumbfounded, not comprehending him. But he spoke before you could bombard him with questions.

“I bought this whole building in your name. It’s yours.” He closed your fingers around the keys.

Blinking up at him, you swallowed at the resurgence of emotion within you. “I-umm”, you looked away. “Hoseok I don’t know what to say. It must have cost a fortune. I can’t accept this.”

“Of course you can.”, he replied breezily, pulling your chin to make you look at him again. “I know you don’t like working at the cafe. They pay you peanuts there anyway. Now you don’t have to. The earnings from this store will be more than enough for your rent, tuition, bills and everything else.”

“I-I don’t know.” The part of you that wanted to earn everything you received rebelled at taking such an expensive gift.

“I knew you would be stubborn.”, Hoseok sighed as if pained he was having to say this. “If you want, you can pay me back on your own time, okay.”

Cracking a smile, you gave him a knowing look. “You and I both know you’re not gonna accept a penny from me.”

He gave you a “duh” look. “ See, you’re smart. Now be a good girl and just tell me you love me.”

You laughed. “Fine. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Cupping your cheeks, he kissed you like he meant it. “Now shall we christen this place?”

“Hobi!”

“What?”, he whined. “The first time we met I wanted to bend you over that table and fuck all the sass out of you.”

Glancing behind you at the old desk and chair you used to spend most of your shift at, you smirked.

Sliding out of his arms, you made your way to the table, swinging your hips just right. When you reached it you placed your elbows on the surface, bending at the waist to wiggle your butt.

“Come get me, Superman.”

Hoseok groaned, stalking toward you like a tiger on the hunt.

A “whooo” escaped you when he gripped your jeans and panties to slide them down in one fell swoop, the garments tangled at your knees.

“I’ve been hard ever since I got the first taste of your pussy. I need it rough and fast this time baby.”, he growled, stroking your pussy before sliding two fingers inside. They slid in without any resistance. “Shit you’re so fucking wet.”

“You ate me out so good, I’m still dripping.”, you moaned as he wedged another finger inside your slick entrance. “Use me, Hobi.”

“Fuck.” You heard the clank of his belt and his zipper going down. He gripped his rock hard length to rub the engorged cock head up and down your slit, spreading his pre-cum and your juices everywhere.

“Put it in.”, you moaned, still oversensitive from earlier. Your battered clit pulsed like a mini heartbeat and from the way Hoseok’s grip tightened on your buttocks, his nails digging in, you knew you were going to be sore after he was done with you.

Positioning his cock at your hole, he buried himself to the hilt inside you with one hard thrust of his dancer hips. The force jerked you up the table, your hands flailing for purchase.

“Oh.” You felt full, so deliciously and utterly stuffed. “Fuck, you’re so big.”

Hoseok paused, letting you adjust and bringing his instincts under control. He did not want to hurt you. “You always take me so well. So fucking tight and warm.”

“Move, Hobi.”, you moaned after a second. “I’m ready.”

He set a punishing pace from the start. Clutching your hips in his hands he slammed you down on his dick as his hips surged upward in thrust after thrust. The slapping sound of skin against skin resounded throughout the store. You still had a hard time believing you were fucking in your old bookstore.

Oh, how far you’d come. From reading smut on this very table to fucking your boyfriend over it.

“I want to hear you, __. Don’t hold back.”, he hissed through his teeth, his hand snaking down to abuse your already sensitive clit some more.

“Shit shit! Oh my god.” Too much sensation assaulted you.

“Fuck, your pussy is squeezing my dick so good.” Hoseok adjusted his position, his length penetrating even deeper inside you. The speed of his pistoning hips doubled, if that was even possible. The table beneath you inched forward against the floor with his every harsh thrust.

Your eyes rolled back in your head. This was the definition of a quick, rough fuck. The semi public nature of it shooting a thrill down your spine. The sign at the front said open, anybody could walk in any moment. Moreover though the desk of the cashier was placed sideways, if one wanted to peer inside the windows, they would definitely get an eyeful.

The idea that someone could be watching you get your brains fucked out, made you even more wanton. Meeting Hoseok thrust for thrust, you reached back to pull his head down to your mouth, the difficult position and the hard slams of his dick inside you meant that you kissed not just his mouth but also his chin, nose and cheeks.

Hoseok laughed. “You’re so cute when you’re desperate, baby.”

“Don’t call me desperate.”, you whined, biting his chin. “Also please make me cum.”

“Whatever you say.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself, so you clenched your pelvic muscles till your pussy gripped his cock so tight.

His thrusts faltered. “Shit baby.”, he groaned. “Of course you’re not desperate. I’m the one who’s desperate.”

“Better.”

At that Hoseok hauled you up by your arms, circling his hands around your torso to hold you up. The upright position against the table forced him even deeper. He angled his hips just right, the tip of his cock hitting your g-spot every time he drove inside you, coiling that impeding pressure in your belly more and more.

“Are you close?”, he panted against your ear, his finger returning to circle your clit.

“So close.” Gasping, you tilted your head when he bit the crook of your neck. “Just keep fucking me like that.”

The lewd noises of your love making echoed throughout the room, the rough slaps of skin, the incoherent moans, the table shaking beneath you. His thrusts didn’t relent one bit, battering your pussy till you felt that tingle in your spine building and building.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He cursed a storm, his nails digging crescents into your hips. Your walls clenched around his thick length desperately, the friction of him moving in and out too much for you.

“I’m cumming, Hobi! Shit, I’m cumming!”, you screamed, just as he circled your clit roughly one last time, pushing you over the edge.

“Oh my god!” Your second orgasm of the day was just as powerful as the first one, leaving you a barely conscious mess as tsunami waves of pleasure spread like currents through your every nerve ending.

With you reaching your end, Hoseok fucked you like you were a blowup doll, with the sole purpose of reaching his own climax. He used your poor pussy, thrusting inside with supersonic speed. You clenched around him to help him along.

“Shit __!” With a shout of your name he buried himself deep inside you, thick jets of his warm cum painting your inner walls white. After you’d milked him of everything he had to give, he dropped down over you like a sack of potatoes.

“That was amazing.”, you breathed beneath him.

“Yeah.”, he panted. Apparently that was all he was capable of enunciating. Both of you caught your breathing, your thundering hearts slowing to a gallop. Hoseok nuzzled your neck like he wanted to burrow himself within you. You chuckled at his neediness.

Once you’d both calmed down, he got up, taking you with him. After turning you around, he knelt before you. For a second he just watched his cum dribbling down the inside of your thigh, before placing a feather light kiss on your mound, as if apologising to your sore vagina. He pulled up your panties and jeans, fastening the fly.

Eyes softening, you stroked his hair back from his face, gazing down at him with a smitten look on your face. “I love you.”

He was whipped for you as well. Taking your hand he placed a kiss on the inside of your palm. “I love you too.”

Frowning, you looked out the window. “What if someone saw us having sex?”

Chuckling, he got up off the floor. “Then I hope they enjoyed the show.”

#bts fic #bts smut #bts scenarios #bts fluff #Hoseok smut #bts angst #wednesday #7 days a week series #part 2

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thesaltofcarthage · 5 years

Text

I dreamed a Good Omens fic last night

For various reasons I slept badly last night, and this was the fic which unfurled in my head over three hours as I drifted in and out of sleeping and waking.

What if they aren’t being monitored? There is no Ineffable Plan; God just turns everyone loose and sees what happens. Crowley still Saunters Vaguely Downwards, because that happened before she created humans. There are still angels and demons, and what they are Supposed To Do, but the “sides” are not quite so fiercely drawn.

So Aziraphale and Crowley get to know one another over the years, but they can become friends openly because no one is watching them and there’s no one to report to. The Flood is the only time God intervenes with humanity. The scene outside the Ark still happens but then Aziraphale and Crowley end up on the Ark because there’s nowhere else for their corporeal bodies to go.

And Crowley grieves all the children, terribly. After a few nights he ends up curled up in Aziraphale’s arms weeping, and they continue to bed down together because who else are they going to stay with?

A week or two later, after becoming accustomed to waking up next to a friendly, familiar face, Crowley wakes up alone. He flatlines mentally and just sits in their blankets hugging his knees and rocking back and forth for hours. Aziraphale finally returns, chilled to the bone, and Crowley clings to him. “I thought you left me,” he says, crying.

Aziraphale doesn’t quite look all there. “I’m sorry, my dear. I was up on the deck.”

“For six hours?”

“I just needed to clear my lungs out a bit; it’s a little musty down here with the goats.” Crowley realizes Aziraphale is a mess, inside and out. The angel was also deeply affected by the death of every living thing on the planet not on this boat. He pulls himself together.

“You’re soaking wet, Angel,” Crowley tells him softly, running his fingers through Aziraphale’s dripping wings. He miracles the water away, but Aziraphale still looks dazed with shock and depression. They lie down together again and eventually end up kissing. Both of them realize they want more. Aziraphale says “I can’t allow you to tempt me to lust!” and Crowley says “No, Angel, you’re comforting the afflicted. I’m miserable and having horrible nightmares. You’re winning a demon over to love.”

“Oh, well, if you put it that way, my dear.”

They end up making love pretty much every night, sometimes twice a day, because the rain doesn’t stop and they’re on a lower deck with the big animals, and it’s pretty grim on that boat, honestly. By the end of the soggy forty days they admit they’ve fallen in love. Crowley begs Aziraphale to stay with him, and he says he will.

And they do. They stay together more or less openly for the next millennium and a half. As long as they aren’t macking on each other in public, they won’t get into trouble. They take turns visiting each other once a week to be together.

Christ is born. Aziraphale doesn’t know what happened, but he knows something did, and things shift inside him. When Crowley next comes to visit, sneaking up on his angel from behind and wrapping his arms around him, full of smooches, Aziraphale kisses him back gently but says he’s not really in the mood. Crowley is surprised but respects that. They have dinner and cuddle and kiss a bit, and sleep chastely holding each other.

This happens on the next visit, and the next, and the next. Crowley is hurt, but Aziraphale continues to say that he loves Crowley and is always happy to see him, and seeks him out eagerly, and visits when it’s his turn. Conversation is always easy. There are lots of forehead kisses and tender face touches, but that’s it.

Two years pass. It’s a lovely summer night, and they’re lying together on a lounge on a city rooftop somewhere looking at the stars. Aziraphale is holding Crowley, who’s curled up with his head on his angel’s chest. Crowley finally can’t bear it any more and looks up at him. “Angel, may I ask you something?”

“Of course, my dear, anything.”

“All right — and please know that I’d never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do, or share anything you don’t want to share, but — ” and here his voice trembles a little and gets very small, “Angel, why don’t you want to have sex with me any more? On the ark it was every night, and then it used to be a few times a week, but you haven’t wanted to touch me in two years.” Aziraphale gasps. Crowley is in tears. “Just — tell me, please, did I do something wrong? I would never, ever force myself on you or demand anything of you, I just — I just want to know what happened.”

“It’s been that long?” he says, horrified. “Oh, Crowley, my love, forgive me, I didn’t mean — I never meant to hurt you!”

“Then what did you mean?” Crowley says, wretched.

Aziraphale explains: “Something changed — I can’t put my finger on it, but something happened. It took all the desire out of me. I thought it happened to you too — you’re still an angel, even if you’re a fallen one. Something… I just get the sense that something is going to happen, soon, or soon-ish. There’s definitely an end date to this. And we have to — prepare for it, I guess.”

“Soon-ish?” Crowley says with some hope. “Does that mean years? decades?”

“A few decades, I think? Less than a century, to be certain.” Now Aziraphale is welling up. “My darling, I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t realize. Do you want me to — well — help you out?”

Crowley laughs through his tears. “No, Angel, it’s all right. Sex isn’t any fun if it’s not both of us. I can wait for you.” He cups Aziraphale’s face. “I can wait for centuries if I have to. I love you.”

“I love you too, my dearest.” They kiss, gently, and then hold each other close. Crowley inhales the smell of Aziraphale’s skin to hold him over.

Crowley spends the next thirty-odd years jerking off once or twice a day, continuing to visit with Aziraphale every week, cuddling, and coping.

They witness the Crucifixion. Crowley is horrified and heartbroken, again. Aziraphale isn’t accepting; he’s inconsolable from Friday to Sunday.

On Monday, however, he wakes up with raging desire. He pulls down the sheets and starts sucking Crowley off. Crowley wakes up startled and very happy. “I see you found your libido again!” he says with a delighted gasp. They don’t leave the bed for two days.

The world keeps turning, and they stay together. Crowley starts wearing the sunglasses after the Crucifixion. Somewhere in the Middle Ages Crowley buys a thousand-acre plot of land in what will eventually be England and starts building an enormous house in the middle of the lot. He hires humans to build it with wood and stone, proper architecture to hold it up, no miracles. “I don’t want this dependent on a miracle, because I don’t want either my side or yours to come by and un-miracle anything,” he explains.

Somewhere along the line on some part of the planet, there’s a municipality which will solemnify non-religious marriages. Aziraphale and Crowley get hitched, because it seems silly otherwise after how many thousands of years.

Now they do live together, albeit discreetly. Civilization rises. Their house is surrounded by woods on all sides. The driveway is a mile long, crushed gravel, and isn’t marked — you can only find it if you’re looking for it. There’s a high wooden fence around the house proper. The house number is 504. Originally they were putting up dueling signs like “Welcome/Go Away,” but Aziraphale noted that it would attract too much attention, so there’s just a small white porcelain oval with the house number in black type.

They save as many people from various wars and plagues as they can, but there’s only so much they can do without getting caught out. Crowley ends up doing the book deal with the Nazis; the prophecy books are of course complete tripe, and additionally the pages are soaked in poison (which was Aziraphale’s idea, because he’s delighted by the thought of books being able to bite back).

At some point in the 1970s or 1980s they are out doing something silly in London (public drunkeness?) and they get arrested. They are in the local hoosegow, which doesn’t have a drunk tank per se, and Aziraphale is outraged to realize there are kids in the cell with them. He hustles right over and hisses “Crowley! There are children here!”

“Children? In a jail? Why are there children in jail?”

“I. don’t. know but I intend to find! out!” And the guards explain they are in for stupid things like graffiti or smoking or truancy or whatever it is, and Aziraphale loses it.

“Oh, you’re in for it now, you’ve gotten my husband good and mad,” Crowley drawls from his corner of the cell. The cops think he’s a weird poofter because obviously two men can’t get married, but then magically all the kids’ bail is getting paid and charges are being dropped left and right. And now Aziraphale has a mission.

They take aliases: Anthony J. Colubra (which means snake, thank you Madeline L’Engle for sticking in my subconscious) and Arthur Z. Fell. Aziraphale closes the bookshop and keeps the building (he owns all of it) as their second home in London. They instead open a community center. There’s a large open room with pews where people can meditate and worship as they choose, but no services and no leaders. Aziraphale is still an angel who wants people to do what’s right, but seriously, after the Flood and the Crucifixion and the Black Plague and Spanish Flu and WWII, he’s not particularly happy with God or Heaven.

There’s a gym, a library, a daycare, and various other rooms as needed (somewhat suspiciously just as they’re needed… there’s some Room of Requirement shenanigans going on). The kids are wary of the two at first because they think they are just there to preach, but one evening Aziraphale is talking to the kids earnestly about doing good and Crowley walks by and ruffles his angel’s hair in a clearly Old Marrieds way, and Aziraphale stops mid-sentence to melt into a puddle of heart eyes and can’t remember his train of thought for ten minutes, and the kids realize these two are on their side.

As the decades pass, more queer kids and outcasts and homeless come to the center because they have a home there, and the non-binary and gender-fluid kids flock to Crowley because they see him as a kindred spirit.

There is no Antichrist; Adam is a human boy. Adam and Warlock are born at the same hospital and get switched because stupid things happen. Both of them end up going to university in London, and they meet and fall in love at a community center called Wings of Hope.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ficlet #I dreamed a dream #I dreamed a fic #taking over life itself

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phantasticlizzy · 6 years

Text

Your Mess Is Mine

Summary: “I know what you’re thinking,” he said with a serious tone, catching Dan off guard.

“Do you?” honestly, it wasn’t that hard to guess.

“Yes. You’re thinking that this hat totally clashes with everything else I’m wearing, and you’re not wrong.” He was looking at Dan with round, shiny eyes. Dan blinked at him a few times, dumbstruck.

——————————— A university!au where Dan is a third year student dealing with demons from his past, and Phil is the peculiar guy from his Greek mythology class who he just can’t quite get out of his mind.

warnings: mention of suicide (not discussed in detail), Minor Character Death

read on ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12640926/chapters/30148923

chapter 6

words for this chapter : 3562

read last chapter here

start at the beginning

The first two weeks of December went by quickly and quite uneventfully for Dan.

The cold weather was becoming more permanent, days shorter and shorter and more often than not Dan was walking back from his classes to his dorms in complete darkness.

A few times they even got a rainy, wet snow dropping from the sky for a few hours before melting into dirty puddles on the side of the road.

Every time though, without fail, Phil would call him on the phone and excitedly exclaimed that it was snowing outside, urging Dan to get out of the comfort of his bed and go soak in the “white miracle.”

“That’s not a miracle Phil. That’s not even snow. That’s basically god throwing a lot of diluted bird poop on us from the sky,” he said once, when Phil called in the ungodly hour of 7:30 on a Sunday morning.

But even through the grumpiness of being so unnecessarily woken up, Dan couldn’t stop the small, sleepy chuckle that left his lips in response to Phil’s dramatic gasp.

“That’s very mean Dan! Snow is snow even if it doesn’t stick, or if it’s a bit watery, don’t discriminate!” his voice was pouty and exasperated and Dan could hear the sound of the cars and wind from Phil’s end of the line.

“Are you outside?” Dan asked, probably a bit too loudly in the quiet of his room because Ezra let out a frustrated ‘humph’ and turned to the other side on his bed.

“Yes! Obviously, it’s snowing!”

They’ve been through this every time, but Dan just couldn’t get Phil’s need to subject himself to the cold, wet weather when he couldn’t even make an actual snowballs from the so called “snow”. So at some point he let it go, adding it to the least of quirks he had going on in his mind regarding Phil.

Besides, it was too early to argue about that. So instead he just asked, “Are you wearing warm clothes?” because Phil was constantly cold but when it was actually cold outside he turned into full on ice man.

“Yes.” He answered, and Dan could hear the smile in his voice. “Coat and scarf and Cornelia’s hat and everything.”

“Mittens?” he asked, turning the other way so that his voice would be muffled by the pillow and hopefully disturb Ezra (who was letting out a stream of huffs every time Dan said a word) a little less.

But Phil said nothing to that, humming a little.

“Did you forget again?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re going to get a cold.”

“Am not.”

“Just don’t touch the snow please, you’ll have hypothermia and then the doctors will have to chop off your hands.” Honestly, Dan started to think that Phil’s strangeness was rubbing off on him.

“Aha! So you’re admitting its snow then?”

Dan let out a sigh.

“Phil.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s 7:30 AM.”

“Yeah?”

“On a Sunday.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Phil was silent for a few moments.

“Are you mad that I woke you up?” He asked, and sounded a bit unsure of himself all of a sudden.

“No I’m not mad, just tired,” he tried to say as reassuringly as he could.

“Okay.”

“I’m really not.”

“Okay. But you should get some more sleep now, I don’t want to hang out with grumpy Dan later.”

Dan chuckled. “Yeah, I think you’re right about that.”

“I’ll hang up now.”

“Don’t stay outside for too long.”

“I won’t.”

“Seriously.”

“I won’t!”

“Okay.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Okay.”

“Sleep well.”

“Thank you.”

“Bye bye.”

“Bye.”

“Don’t sleep for too long though.”

“Phil.”

“Sorry. Bye.”

When Phil finally hung up, Dan wasn’t even taken by surprise by the warm, overpowering feeling that was spreading in his abdomen anymore, burying his face in the pillow and smiling to himself. God he was so gone.

“If I’m not allowed to play music in the room at night then you’re not allowed to talk to people on the Phone when I’m sleeping.” Ezra grumbled at him from his side of the room.

“Are you seriously compering the two things?” Dan asked, and he wasn’t even annoyed, just highly amused by that statement.

“Well, one disturbs your sleep and one disturbs mine, so yes,” he answered, and really Dan couldn’t argue with that logic.

But he didn’t answer, because Ezra was already snoring softly again in his bed and quite frankly Dan wasn’t sure he could make that kind of promise.

**********************

The first time Phil came to visit Dan in his dorm room was on a Thursday, two and half weeks into December.

The winter holidays were fast approaching and they finally had their last day of classes before being able to head home for some much needed rest.

Dan wasn’t planning on going home immediately. The thought of spending the next month at his family home, dealing with his parents and brother and seeing his childhood friends who always asked how he was doing with a bit too much sympathy wasn’t exactly his ideal for a good time.

And besides, Phil was apparently spending Christmas at his apartment with Martyn and Cornelia, so Dan hoped they could at least hang out for a few more days before his mum would eventually call and guilt him into coming home.

“Are you going to have more people at your place for Christmas?” Dan asked one time when they were sitting in the university cafeteria.

Phil was sitting next to him, munching on a cupcake he was holding in one hand and resting the other hand in Dan’s palm, letting him warm it up with his body heat.

“No, don’t really have anyone else to invite,” he said once he swallowed the food in his mouth.

“What about your aunt?” Dan asked, absentmindedly reaching out and wiping the corner of Phil’s mouth that was smeared with icing.

Phil’s face flushed a little pink, but he ignored Dan’s actions, instead asking “what aunt?” with confusion.

“The one you told me about? With the fat dog.”

Phil looked at him for a moment before throwing his head back and letting out a high pitched laugh.

“I can’t believe you remembered that!” he exclaimed loudly, drawing the attention of a few tables near them.

“Well, yeah,” Dan mumbled quietly, feeling a bit embarrassed. Was he not supposed to remember things Phil told him?

Phil looked at him with amusement before flopping down on his shoulder with a sigh.

“Can’t invite her anymore,” he said, rubbing his face on the fabric of Dan’s jumper.

“Thought you made up?”

“We did, but then she died in a car crush a few months later, so that was the end of it.” Again, Dan couldn’t stop himself from feeling taken aback by Phil’s words.

Phil probably felt the way Dan’s shoulders stiffened under his cheek because he drew back, looking at him with an understanding look.

“I told you already, we all die young in my family, she was no exception,” he shrugged, squeezing Dan’s fingers in his own reassuringly and Dan thought it was absurd how calmly Phil was reacting to this so called ‘family curse.’

“What about the dog?” Dan asked, because really, he didn’t know what else to say.

Phil perked up at that, smiling at the change of topic. “Her daughter took him, put him on a strict diet as well. He lost 5 kilograms already! You can follow him on Instagram if you want, witness the transformation. “

Dan laughed, because like everything else Phil said it was a bit ridiculous and endearing and a little strange, but he couldn’t erase the uneasiness he was feeling about the whole thing.

Phil must have realized that, because before Dan could respond in any way Phil was leaning in and leaving a small kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“It’s sweet that you worry about who I’m spending Christmas with, but you really shouldn’t. I do have some distant family left, and if I really wanted to I could have spent the holidays with them. But I much rather spend it in my own home with the people I’m close to.” He was smiling and his face was still close to Dan’s so Dan leaned in and kissed him one more time, making it sweet and short because they were in public and things like that always made him a little bashful.

“Yeah, okay,” he said after he drew away and Phil beamed at him, squeezing his hand one more time before changing the subject.

It was a few days after that that Phil announced that he wanted to see Dan’s dorm room.

He was waiting for Dan after his last class, standing by the doors of the lecture hall and looking at his mitten covered hands, wrapped up head to toe in warm clothes, looking a bit like a round, puffy, colorful marshmallow.

He looked up at Dan when he approached him, smiling brightly.

“Hey you,” Phil said, reaching out his hand for Dan to take.

“Hello, what are you doing here? I thought you were done with your classes hours ago.” Dan asked, taking Phil’s hand without a second thought.

“I was, but I wanted to wait for you,” he answered, a bit shy, letting their joint arms swing between them.

Dan was fighting the desire to coo.

They started walking, hand in hand, before Phil spoke again.

“I want to go see your dorm room,” he said, looking at Dan from the corner of his eye.

Dan chuckled. “It’s not very exciting.”

Phil shook his head. “I don’t care. You’ve seen where I live, I want to see where you live as well.”

“Okay, we can do that.”

“Good.”

“I want to go right now.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess we can. But I don’t know if Ezra, my roommate, is there or not.” Dan wasn’t sure how well Ezra and Phil would hit it off, considering Ezra was probably one of the few people who were actually weirder than Phil.

“I don’t care,” Phil shrugged, lifting up his unoccupied hand to rub a little at his pink, cold nose.

“Okay, dorm room it is.”

Phil was surprisingly quiet on their way there. Dan didn’t really mind the quiet, but he contemplated asking if something was wrong. He decided against it, because maybe Phil was finally getting comfortable enough in Dan’s presence to not feel the need to fill every moment of silence with words, and Dan didn’t want to make him self-aware.

“Welcome to my palace,” Dan said once they stepped in the small room.

The room was actually empty, and Dan was very glad for it.

It wasn’t big, and even though Dan brought some of his stuff from home there it still kind of lacked personality. But it was at least tidy enough (thanks to Ezra, who always made Dan clean his side when it was starting to get a bit too messy) and Dan thought that for a simple dorm room it was good enough.

Phil, on the other hand, looked fascinated. He was going around the small space, looking at every nick-nack and detail with great interest.

He stopped by Dan’s shelf though, looking at the framed picture there. And Dan could feel his insides twisting.

The only picture Dan had in his room was of him and Oliver.

They were not older than 17 in that picture, smiling wide and a bit silly, heads pressed close together, almost touching. Oliver was looking a bit to the side, eyes fixated on Dan, while Dan was looking at the camera.

Dan could feel his heart beat in his ears. Looking at Phil’s back, unable to see his face and reaction until he finally turned around and looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“Who is that?” Phil asked, gesturing towards the picture frame.

Dan willed himself to calm down. “That’s…that’s my best friend. And ex-boyfriend… I guess.” He felt wrong calling Oliver his best friend without adding the second part. Felt like he was betraying his memory, betraying all they had between them for years. All the kisses and touches and closeness. He couldn’t leave that out, pretend like it wasn’t part of their relationship.

Dan couldn’t understand the facial expression on Phil’s face, but the whole situation made him feel quite uneasy.

When Phil finally talked, his voice was unusually cold and timid. “I know we haven’t had this conversation yet, but I thought it was pretty clear I was looking for a relationship. I don’t do casual dating, and I definitely don’t do rebounds.” There was a flash of hurt in Phil’s eyes and Dan hated that he had to explain this. Hated that they couldn’t just let it go.

But he knew for some time now that they would have to have this conversation eventually. If he wanted him and Phil to have a chance, he needed to be honest.

“That’s not the case here, I promise,” he tried to reassure, but Phil was still looking closed off and so unlike Phil and Dan really wanted to make it better.

“I don’t share,” Phil added, and he let his eyes drop to the ground.

“I’m not asking you to.”

He took a few steps towards Phil, relived when Phil didn’t step away from him. He let his eyes travel to the frame on the shelf, looking at his and Oliver’s faces smiling back at him.

“His name was Oliver. He killed himself on our last year of school.” Dan couldn’t remember when the last time he told this story was. Couldn’t remember who he was telling it to or what he was feeling then.

But now, he was surprise to find out it wasn’t that hard to talk about. His heart was racing and he felt nervous but he didn’t really feel the struggle he was sure he would be feeling in that moment.

Instead, he felt relieved to share this part of his past with Phil.

“Oh,” Phil said, and when Dan looked at him Phil was already staring back with wide eyes.

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry Dan.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not,” Phil said, and for some reason he sounded a little pissed off.

“I mean, obviously it’s not. But like with your family, it’s just the way it is,” Dan said, trying to understand the meaning behind Phil’s expression.

Phil looked at the picture, and then then at Dan’s face again.

“It isn’t though. It’s not like that at all,” he said, and Dan felt a little confused.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Phil looked hesitant for a second before speaking. “He chose to leave you. He chose to cause you this pain. That’s a horrible thing to do.”

Dan was taken aback by this response, looking at Phil with surprise.

He wasn’t a stranger to this kind of thoughts. Had to battle them a lot at the beginning, lying in his bed at night and thinking about what Oliver had done. How he’d left everyone to deal with his decision, without a single word. How he left his family and friends and Dan to suffer because he didn’t want to anymore.

And he hate himself for thinking that. Hated the way he was mad and judgmental and could never really fully forgive Oliver for his choice. Because he did understand that there was no way for him to know what was really going on in Oliver’s head. He couldn’t really know what he was battling. He hated that as much as he thought that he and Oliver knew each other inside out, he had to admit that he didn’t really know Oliver at all.

And still, there was a weird, protective feeling that seeped in his veins at Phil’s words.

“You… you can’t say that. You don’t know what he’s been through, you don’t know what he was feeling.” Even I don’t know, Dan thought.

Phil was shaking his head.

“It’s a selfish thing to do, no matter what it’s a selfish thing to do to the people you love. If you love someone you shouldn’t do that to them.” Phil’s voice was trembling, and Dan couldn’t stop the irritation he was feeling, letting out a short, humorless laugh.

“You’re so idealistic Phil. Life doesn’t work like that, love is not the cure for everything, the sooner you realize it the better.”

Phil was drawing back from him a little, hugging himself and avoiding his eyes. “It should be,” he said quietly.

“Well, a lot of things should be,” he said and his tone was short and impatient and Phil flinched a little.

They were silent for a few seconds, and Phil words were still ringing in his head. Because they were nothing he haven’t thought before himself, but Phil had no right to say them. He didn’t know Oliver, he had no right to judge him.

“I think… maybe you should go,” Dan said, because he didn’t want to say anything else he might regret later and most of all he didn’t want Phil to say something Dan wouldn’t be able to look past.

But Phil’s eyes shot to his and he looked mortified by the idea.

“No! I can’t leave right now! Not when you’re angry with me.” He said the last part quietly, inching closer to Dan.

“I’m not… I just don’t want to fight about this. I don’t want to regret telling you this,” he said, even though he was angry, at least a little. But most of all, he was feeling hurt for Oliver’s sake, because Phil had no right, he didn’t know anything.

But even that was seeping out if his body when he looked at Phil’s teary eyes.

“I don’t want that either. I’m sorry, I really really don’t want you to regret telling me. I shouldn’t have said any of that, I wasn’t thinking,” he was close to Dan now, reaching his arms a few times before changing his mind and bringing them back to his sides.

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Dan said, and his voice was still kind of cold, agitated, but he hated seeing the wetness in Phil’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, I just hate that someone hurt you like that, I hate it. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

Dan said nothing in response, but he didn’t fight it when Phil let his fingers graze the back of his hand before taking it in his own.

“I witnessed to many people fight for their life. So many people who would have done anything to stay in this world just a bit longer, and it’s so hard for me to think someone can choose to leave. It hurts me so much that there are people that get the chance stay but throw it away.” Tears were still running down Phil’s face and Dan reached up without thinking about it and wiped them away with his thumbs.

“Some people don’t have the choice even if it looks like that. You can’t… you can’t say that. You don’t know what people are thinking or feeling or battling. I wish it was as simple as you say, I wish love was enough but sometimes it’s just isn’t. Sometimes people just can’t take it.” His voice was softer now, and he used the words he was repeating to himself constantly when he was feeling betrayed and angry by Oliver’s actions. It didn’t always help, but there was nothing else he could really do.

There was something almost comforting, reassuring, in the thought that Oliver didn’t have another choice. That there was nothing to be done, nothing Dan could have done to prevent it.

That it wasn’t because his love wasn’t strong enough to keep him around.

“Can I please hug you? I’m sorry, you’re right. I can’t judge and I know nothing about what he was going through and I’m an idiot but please can I hug you now?” Phil was pleading and he looked so hurt and scared that Dan would tell him to leave again, so really there was nothing for Dan to do other than engulf him in a tight hug, letting Phil cling to him, letting him fist his the back of his shirt and bury his face in his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said again.

“It’s okay,” he said, even though it wasn’t completely, but he knew it will be. And besides, he hated to hear Phil’s voice so tiny and sad. Wanted to make it better somehow.

“Do you really regret telling me?” Phil asked after a few moments, and his voice sounded trembling again.

“I don’t,” he assured.

Phil drew away, looking at Dan with teary eyes.

“Can you please kiss me? It’s okay if you don’t want to, but can you please? I just hate feeling like you hate me.”

Dan could feel his chest tighten at Phil’s words. He cupped Phil’s cheeks, rubbing the pink under his eyes with his thumbs before leaning in and connecting their lips.

Phil clung to him a bit more, letting go of a breath he was holding through his nose and kissing back immediately, a bit desperately.

Dan drew back, ignoring the way Phil chased his lips and leaned his forehead against Phil’s.

“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I don’t think I ever could.”

Notes:

hello again! thank you for reading! i was planning this chapter for some time now and i hope you liked how it turned out (i'm a bit emotional from writing it haha) please tell me your thoughts, i love reading them

#phan #phanfiction #university!au #chaptered #chapter 6 #strangers to lovers #phantasticlizzyfics

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joshuarossiter-blog · 6 years

Text

A Day In A Trice (short story)

It would not be too unreasonable to assume that Cloyne is the name of some debilitating illness rather than that of a coastal village. ‘Cloyne’s disease’, ‘an outbreak of cloynes’, or ‘You’re on the waiting list, but Cloyne’s patients are rather overlooked, unfortunately’ all seem to be more believable phrases than ‘Gee, I can’t wait to visit Cloyne in the summer’.

Even if someone were talking about their upcoming trip to the village, you would probably hear them say something more like ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go down to Cloyne at the weekend, my grandma Rosie isn’t doing too well. Yeah, I might come back Sunday morning, earliest. I do feel bad for her, though. Ugh, I’ll ask if she’ll come up our way instead; it'd do her some good to get away for a bit.’ But God forbid anyone bring the place up in conversation in the first place. They’d either have to be a fool, or be able to make their point so concise that no one would have a chance to cut them off and talk about someplace else. ‘Oh, Cloyne? I think we passed through on the way to, uh, where was it we went yesterday, Greg?’ Cloyne was a melting pot of well-meaning misdemeanours; good intentions causing reprehension; a clear contrast between the obliviously elderly, aimlessly middle-aged, and a gauche amalgam of youth. They lived as separately as possible, of course, but this did not mean they would go without silently denouncing each other day in and day out. Grannies would throw glares from between the garish curtains of front windows, so the students, slouched against streetlights, would slink across their front lawns to impart pungent puffs of smoke. Whether their way of life desired cheap decor or a measly gram of marijuana, at the end of it, they were both carelessly spending the same £10, over and over, no matter how they looked at it. Perhaps the only place where the people of Cloyne might have eased once upon a time was Mangum’s Diner on the seafront. There, they practiced more composed behaviour that for once produced a neutral state of affairs. One might want to call this a societal haven, but a more appropriate wording would be something along the lines of ‘public no-man’s-land’. The building itself was once a bungalow of the same calibre as the vast line of other beach shacks, until one day a plucky pair of lovers began dedicating the last three decades of their lives, financial investment, and forced smiles to renovating it until it was scarcely presentable and hygienic enough to tender food and drink from. They did so in defiance of the call of retirement and in a bid of vain self-preservation above all the other individuals whose lives passed before they could turn and see what was happening. Any person who ever observed this progression and felt pity for the couple’s fickle life decisions would soon grow to become as much of a reiteration of the Mangums than those who thought nothing of it. Again, at the end of it, they were destined to a scrabbling in the pebbles for relevance - trudging through the car park to the entrance of Mangum’s, and barging between profusely perspiring faces that were either far too familiar or frightfully foreign. Until one day they weren’t. Perhaps a more curious conundrum than why Mangum’s burned down one night was why the population dropped by half during the following week. There was no fervent expulsion, nor was there some established exodus. One by one, sometimes in twos, often in families (but rarely as nuclear units), people decided that perhaps there might be something more to be had. Or was it less than that? Perhaps they’d never reached further than the bottle on the yellow-brown coffee table because, well, their feet were on the table too, and they literally could not reach any further without getting up off the stained and singed sofa? And what is getting up anyway? A one-two, snap-click of knees and ankles, teetering forward toward the kitchen door and sinking back down into the dark ass-print depression of years gone by. Like that’s worth the effort. - - - Even during its final day, Mangum’s Diner was no more and no less than what the locals knew it as and had come to use it for since it opened. Down in the waters which it faced, the tides awoke and began to come inland for the morning. Seaweed waited to hitch a ride back into the ocean from its nine-to-five job of reflecting the light of the moon through the night while being harassed by curious dogs, crabs that had lost their way and the shoes of bored teenagers. 1. The crest of dawn illuminated the tracks left in the sand by a group of youngsters. Each trail, though directed toward the same campfire, met the sun with a different shimmer. One was made of smaller, shallower footprints, adjacent to a narrow, unbroken outline where the illustrator had drawn her skateboard through the sludge. Another was wider, deeper, and contained footprints that rotated every few steps. These footprints told of a person who had been spinning in circles all the way to the water, his face melted and his brain fried, attempting a sort of dance he was sure was the most perfect combination of movements and utilisation of space the universe and all its grace had ever seen. The third set of footprints kept close to the second, and then gave way a little once all the aforementioned spiralling started. It then made a wide, horseshoe diversion around a puddle of vomit. “Jesus, the sun’s up and I can still smell it” said the girl at the end of the first trail, pulling her dip-dyed hair to her nose. It was the same green-yellow as the fluorescent safety vest her father had bought her ‘to go with your new skating board’; the vest that was found smouldering in the back garden the following morning. He had wanted to be angry at her, but opted for avoiding confrontation after convincing himself her new hair choice would keep her visible enough on the road after dark, and for this reason it might have been a mature decision after all.

“It’s just kind of floating above every other smell, you know? How does that even happen?” “If you’d let me go to bed like I wanted to, we wouldn’t still be here, and we’d all be surrounded by the wonderful stink of our own bedrooms instead,” said the ash-faced, grey-eyed, steadily-drooling boy stood next to her, who was kicking sand onto the campfire. An empty bag of crisps tipped towards the embers a touch more and quickly retreated into itself, blackened and crumpled. “And about an hour from now, you’d wake up in a cold sweat, hang out of your bed until the head-rush hits you and then fall face-first onto the floor,” the other girl put forward. She put a gentle hand up to the boy’s ribs and stared at him with the sorry eyes of someone who had just shut their cat’s tail in a door. “Also, I might remind you that right now, staying with us means you’re only about…” She glanced over her shoulder at Mangum’s in the near distance. “About three minutes from work? You’ll be ‘right.” Water emerged from the under the layer of sand the boy was scuffing with his shoe. He noticed how the damp surface of the sand was ever so slightly flowing, only just. It washed his attention to the sea; his gormless gape swinging a dribble of saliva that swayed in the wind. The girls looked at him, wondering why he seemed to be watching the ocean so longingly. “Can we just- Let’s- Yeah, we’re all going to hold hands,” he started, “And then we’ll see how far we get.” “Right,” the girls responded together. “Because I don’t think we’d get as far as the sea. We’d probably sink in the mud. But we’ll hold hands and give it a go, and just leave all our phones on your skateboard so no one can call for help and we wouldn’t have to get up for anything ever again. It’d be so much easier.” “He’s got a point,” the first girl said, catching on like a bluebottle to a plate of leftovers. “Never get stood up again.” “Never wait for a bus again,” the other girl agreed. “Never have to assemble a sandwich again,” “Or even bother to eat at all,” “Never use PowerPoint again,” “Never have nightmares about pharaohs,” The boy shot out of his trance and fired his attention to the girls again - he looked ever so hurt.

“Don’t fucking bring up my nightmares about the pharaohs, OK? We spoke about this already. And that’s the last thing I want on my mind when I’m trying to die.” “Right, yeah. You’re such a moron, you know that?” “Fine, I’ll go myself, right now, is that what you’re telling me to do?” he blubbed, crying now. Of course, his friend was not trying to tell him anything. However, she was still very adamant that he was a moron. This much was true. Before her at that point in time was a manchild who was capable of doing nothing more than sucking a spliff through the tears gathering in the corner of his lips. His feet had entrenched themselves in the sand at this point, and he couldn’t bring himself to move them. Similarly, his emotions had also sunk a great deal. Both were freed only when the second girl offered a helping hand in the form of a slap to his gurning face. With his feet still physically rooted to the spot, he pivoted sideways and the rest of his awkwardly gargantuan body became stamped into the beige mire, like a grotesquely psychedelic version of Gulliver’s Travels. There, the addled adolescent remained for the next minute or so, blinking sediment from his eyes. He watched as a beached row-boat doubled and floated and waved into the air several times. Then his eyes fell onto a shooting star as his head lolled to the side. Spitting his tongue out in a cyclic succession of giggling and gasping, he watched the light cascade again and again. The others also turned their heads, but instead saw the light trundling across the horizon, not falling towards it. They frowned at the incapacitated idiot lying in the damp, making sand angels as he reached for the sodden joint which rested just above his head. “Well there you go; you slap Charlie hard enough and he starts laughing at trains.” 2. The train was due to arrive in Cloyne in about two minutes, not enough time read a double page spread of a biology text book but just enough time to roll a cigarette. Jay sighed at the pitiful image of Nicky frantically cobbling together a smoke on the fold out table, constrained by the strict schedule of the rail service and the insufficient legroom. He looked for something more hopeful to watch. A girl sat ahead of them pulled an almost colourful fabric from her fried-egg-shaped tote bag. He couldn’t tell what it was, only that it had ears and whiskers. Some tawdry, novelty purse? Feline-themed slippers? No. To his surprise, she draped the scarf around her neck, the head of the two-dimensional cat hanging beside her chest. Its rainbow patterning had greyed over time, and it looked a little sad, almost like it was a partisan of this girl’s scrawny neck. He imagined her constantly preventing it from slipping off as she craned further toward some YA fiction novel, maybe a MacBook keyboard, or perhaps the cleavage of her friend that she gets uncertain thoughts about every other evening. He stopped himself there. The girl flipped a bright, tea-stained magazine under her arm and scurried past the two boys. Jay caught a glimpse of a twenty-something-year-old androgynous person, kneeling with a dummy in his/her mouth. Still looking, Jay chuckled, then Nicky noticed too, offering an accompanying scoff. “Twats like that are so embarrassing,” Nicky uttered under his breath. “Well, come on, who does she think she is?” Jay turned, winced, and turned back. “I’d say she knows pretty well who she is. Seriously, look. Looks like she’s worn that scarf every day since she got it.” “I dunno... Just pisses me off that everyone has to try so hard to be so different, innit?” “I mean, if they know what they’re into, they probably don’t have to try hard at all.” “Oh, fuck off.” “No, no, I do see your point though. It’s like a constant battle between who can look the most iconic; the most free-spirited and individual, yet they're the people who try constantly to preach that we're all really just the same on the inside.” Jay pulled up his pastel pink socks and turned up another several folds on his trousers until they were swinging halfway up his shins. “Oi, let’s all just dress like clowns instead, I don’t know. If we’re going to keep progressing to looking more wacky and trying to make a bigger statement, why not skip the progression entirely and just literally channel the aesthetic of a clown?” He trailed off into tangents of different circumstances he might get himself into in full clown attire. Every scenario began with him striding through town in a frilly, multicoloured mash of fabric layers and assorted buttons, completely in denial of his paranoia that absorbed every up-and-down glance, every confused face through every white van window, and every double take over every navy-suited shoulder. He wasn’t too sure about it, actually, but it would be something. He rolled his trousers down again, for now. Nicky wasn’t even sure if he could remember what a clown entirely looked like – he had neglected to think about them since the days of flipping through cardboard picture books or being too naive to realise whenever those mildly exciting circus posters that slowly peel off of lampposts over the course of a year are actually advertising an event that occurred months ago. He looked at his grey t-shirt, its only focal point being the unused pocket on the left chest. Turning red, he looked across at Jay and his paisley shirt tucked into straight-legged trousers, and broke into a sweat trying to justify why he now felt so uncomfortable in the seat of his cargo shorts. “You hipsters are all the same,” he scoffed, tucking his cigarette beside his crew cut and behind his ear, securing that brilliantly tailored opinion. “Right.” “You are. You know it.” “Do I? Or, do we? I don’t know how you expect me to respond to that, to be honest. Just take a deep breath or something, man, don’t hurt yourself.” 3. As she walked past, Nicky’s heavy breathing was all that the girl with the cat scarf acknowledged of the boys’ exchange of various hormonal sounds before she decided to tune them out. It was far from difficult for her. If she decides something is going to make her uncomfortable or cause her harm, out it goes; out through the window, or under the carpet, or into the back of the cupboard with every out-of-touch birthday and Christmas present she had received from her parents over the last few years, but didn’t have the heart to dispose of. Leaving a situation was less like flicking a light switch; it was more like a dimmer that she could dial back as she gently shuts her eyes and emits a jettison of cold air past her septum piercing. She had reached a point long ago where she could anticipate the last notch of the dial, and depending on the situation, she might gently push the threshold for a moment until – CLICK – away she would drop. This was not one such occasion. She felt that getting used to a normal light switch would have been nice for once. Reach around the doorway at the back of her head and slap her hand straight onto the plastic panel; or if she had the courage, reach around the seat behind her and slap the brainless expression straight off that boy’s frustratingly shaped head. Why was the width of his jowls twice that of his forehead? Why did he feel the need to stick what little hair he had into such a pointless little peak? It made no sense. She tried not to care. The doors opened, and the satisfaction of that final click came as she dropped the platforms of her shoes onto the platform of Cloyne train station, and into the arms of her mother. “Hello, Olivia, that’s nice, thank you!” the sinewy lady stammered. Swatting her daughters scarf from her face with every difficult greeting, “OK, hiya, yep, alright now,” the wind would bring it back, waving in front of her every time, like a dog who never knows when the game of fetch is over. Where some would find benign enthusiasm, others see relentless irritation. Olivia’s mother whisked her away into the morning sun along the coast of the village. “Your grandfather will be happy to see you!” she lied. Olivia sat in the back seat, chewing on her seatbelt. She stared not through the window, but at it. She was watching the reflection of her mother as her mother watched the reflection of her via the rear view mirror. “Should be nice,” Olivia wavered, like the flag wafting in the distance. It indicated low tide. Should be nice, she thought. Means she shouldn’t have to go swimming. The car jolted downhill for a moment, into the dip in the junction. All the school kids hoped this area would flood every morning - that way, the school gets completely cut off by road, and the walking route from there is a safety hazard in heavy rain. The kids would gleefully agree with the health and safety laws, and then proudly parade their day off by playing in a construction site or derelict boat shed somewhere. Farther down the road, the car rumbled across the wooden bridge that a few of the same school kids hoped would collapse whenever the junction failed to flood. Were she a few years younger, Olivia would have been one of them. She dropped a penny out the window. Who knows, maybe it would break something.

4. “¡Guau! Mat-i-yew, come to grandpa, see this, yes? You got to come over, but be very gentle when you walk, please, Mat-i-yew.” The penny had landed upright, and remained there all morning. Unlike Olivia, little Matthew’s grandfather was pleased to see him, but only marginally more so. They had been walking all morning toward the diner, and now it came into view just as the sun hit directly overhead. “Granddad Red Car, you’re walking too fast,” came Matthew’s little voice from behind. It is difficult for a six-year-old to remember the surname Izquierdo, and it is difficult for a disciplinary, sixty-two-year-old, enormous, moustachioed Spaniard of upper class descent to hear a child use an elder’s first name. So, the distinguishing feature of Granddad Izquierdo’s red car as opposed to Granddad Beauchamp’s green car made communicating easier for Matthew. “My legs hurt and your watch has beeped three times after we sat down the last time and that means it’s been a really long time and I want a wee.” Granddad looked over his shoulder and sighed. He turned his face to the sun, closed his eyes and presented himself with an imaginary list: - Keep Matthew active – in progress. - Talk to Matthew – sí. - Feed Matthew – shared a sandwich in the car, will eat again at the diner. - Educate Matthew – trying to, Dios mío. Matthew came windmilling toward the bridge as quickly as he could. Granddad furrowed his brow, so the boy did too. His cheeks huffed and puffed, his face reddened as Granddad beckoned, until this little balloon of a face, inflated with the optimistic gusto found only within a child’s head, fell flat on the woodwork. A head in which why was, in that moment, long lost to a confusion of who, what, where, when, and above all, how. It burst and exploded into a cacophonous cry for help. Once the toddler crashed to the ground, the penny jumped onto its side, and Granddad Red Car sighed once more. Bleeding little more than a torrent of tears, Matthew’s pleading and pining projected all the way to the promenade. 5. “And you said it would be quieter down here.” “Well it’s quieter than Mangum’s. Just sit down.” Tentatively avoiding the afternoon crowds, two twins took a seat on the steps below the outreaches of the walkway, overlooking the tide as it reluctantly began to slip onto the pebbles, higher and higher. “You know, sometimes I’m almost glad I’m infertile. No idea how you manage.” They both turned to the direction of the distant din. “Eh, you just get used to it. Kids are bound to make a fuss when there’s barely a fuss to be made, then we grow up and we hit an age where it’s all ‘c’est la vie’ because we know no one’s going to listen.” “Why are human children the loudest, though? You ever see a video of any other baby animals crying? They don’t make half as much noise. Even chimpanzees, and they’re basically the same thing as us.” “Fine, you’re right, I know. Humans are awful in all forms.” “And how come we’re the species that's allowed to run the world? All we did was get clever enough to build things, but then our brains also invented crippling anxiety. Was it worth the effort?” “Yeah, I am still with you on this. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a bipolar dolphin.” “Who’d be a more capable dominant species, d’you think?” “You know, I’ve always wanted to see an intelligent, talking giraffe.” “How come?” “I know they’re not as dexterous as us and so probably not as capable in a sense, but look at them. It’s marvellous how they just stand and observe from way up there. They’re the perfect embodiment of a God; they’re pretty much living in the clouds, too. Wouldn’t mind a final judgement from a giraffe.” “Fair.” “You?” “Parrots.” “Parrots?” “Yeah, parrots. Imagine like, a six foot tall bird. It’d be mad. And they don’t even have to try to look presentable. They’d never have a bad day.” “But how would they run the world any better?” “Uh... There’d be a lot of talking, so it probably wouldn’t be much different. I wonder, though...” From where they sat, their heads ran parallel to the pavement. They both scrutinised the ants ruling the cracks in the concrete. The first twin looked a couple of degrees higher. “I wonder... What about that rabbit over there? Could he make a good prime minister?” “Not a chance. Far too many kids.” 6. The rabbit almost looked offended. It turned its head a few times. It didn’t look like there was about to be a dramatic reshuffling of the food chain or the history of evolution anytime soon. Not to worry, then. It dived headfirst into the ditch and scarpered the rest of the way towards Mangum’s Diner. Humans can’t take shortcuts through brambles, heh heh. As it came out into the side alley, it stopped short at the reverberation of idle feet swinging against empty dumpsters. Humans can turn boredom into intense levels of violent force, however. Everything has to be about them. Even rabbits are sick of teenagers. Back into the brambles it went. “I swear these rabbits won’t leave us alone, dude.” “They are leaving us alone, idiot, that’s why they keep running away.” A family walked through the alley from the car park, faces to the floor. The two boys sat atop the dumpster also faced the floor, but only until the family had passed. Then it was all eyes on. The first boy leaned toward the other. “Daddy,” he said in a slower but higher voice, “Why do those boys smell funny?” The second boy responded in a lower tone, “‘Oh it was probably just the bins’”, then belted out a guttural guffaw, rasping and rolling his eyes back. “Nah, the dad totally knows. ‘You’ll find out when you’re older, sweetie.’” “As if he’s going to let her. He’s in the last generation to think drugs are bad, he’s not going quietly.” “About the only thing he has a voice for now. How many words do you reckon he says to his wife a day?” “I bet some days he gets away with none.” The first boy turned to the brambles yet again. “It reminds me of, like, that David Lynch thing, with the rabbits.” “You and your rabbits.” “Shut up. It's really funny, saw it on Facebook, there’s one rabbit in a dress doing the ironing with the sofa beside her, right, and you watch nothing but that for a solid two minutes. Then another rabbit comes in wearing his little suit and goes to sit on the sofa, and you’re forced to watch that for another however many minutes, expecting something to happen, only it never really does, and this laugh track keeps reacting to all the nonsense they’re talking about. Can’t remember what else happens but, yeah. Says a lot that you know nothing is gonna happen, or at least that it doesn’t faze you. It’s such a recognisable husband-wife sort of thing, the only difference being that they’re rabbits, which is hilarious.” “Why’s that hilarious?” “Well, what do rabbits do more than anything?” “Fuck?” “Yeah! So it’s like, implying that all they have left is bland, wordless sex, and that’s what probably happens once the film’s over and the characters go to bed.” “That’s not funny. Makes sense but, Christ.” 7. Inside, the family had managed to acquire the last free booth. Mangum’s was always uncomfortably packed if it was uncomfortably hot outside. No one left because once they claim their spot, it is theirs - such is the way of the British psyche. On top of that, Cloyne’s inhabitants were either too pompous to hold themselves any lower, or too slovenly to think any further ahead. This family were clearly not locals, however. There was something about the way the parents offered their seats to anyone else first; the way the children stared at everyone in the room. It confused people. The way in which the waitress practically pushed them into the last free booth, and the way the man who spilled over the edges of his bar stool stared at no one in the room but the children was much more customary. Maybe it was the heat, maybe a weekend was just too long to be visiting Cloyne, but after fifteen minutes of miscommunication, the father started to grow “really rather cross with everyone. There, I’ve said it.”. The waitress waited. The father cursed at his family for not opening their mouths, not making up their minds, not hurrying up themselves and not being patient enough for him. The waitress waited. The son looked out of the window, the daughter sobbed, the mother apologised. The waitress waited. 8.

“And that’s why I don’t bloody come here no more. Always some family pratting about, I tell ya.” The man spilling over his seat was sat with his boy, a wiry lad of fifteen years. “I’n’t no reason it should be four quid a pint, I’ll teach ya that. Especially not if you’re not drinking yours anyway, Jack.” He grabbed the other glass from in front of his son. Jack watched his father down his beer. No, Jack watched his dad down his beer. The distinction between father and dad should be made clear, as father connotes that the word could also be used as a verb, and so in the case of Jack and the man beside him, using the word father would simply be incorrect. Jack watched the man slouched over the bar drink the beer that was bought for him, pouring about one-eighth of its contents down his shirt. Jack began counting the legs of all the stools along the bar. Once the man tucking away his gut began ushering him out, Jack instead counted the stools themselves. He would multiply the total by four in the car when he inevitably needed to. As they hurried through the car park, he wondered if one day he might have the time or need to count all the gravel behind Mangum’s. For now, he thought of onomatopoeia for the sound gravel makes as the man fumbling in his pockets continued swearing at his own ineptitude. Critch. Scritch. Scrutch. Khahrch! Two pop-pshh-slosh-slams later, at eight-twelve, Jack watched the projections on the table made from the kitchen light flowing through two beer glasses. He yawned. Blah blah, being a man, learning, alright? Here’s some home truths, tell you what, are you— “—even listening to me?”

Jack looked up.

“Right, go on, piss off up to your room then, I only fucking ever try with you.” Try what? Teaching me about life? No. Try to project yourself onto me. Try to voice yourself to someone you mistakenly think is impartial without actually attempting to sort yourself out. Try to make everything around us more and more miserable. God, now I’m doing it, the whole ‘woe is me, woe is me, woe is - Jack dropped into bed in his loft room. - me’. Inhale. Exhale. He looked up, trying to focus. The slant window always gave him a perfect view of the gradient of colours in the sky. Typically, one third gold, one tulip, one periwinkle. Then, later, one cantaloupe, one orchid, one azure. Then a less defined transition from a deep black to the dark half of blue. He checked his watch. Nine-fourteen. Curious; tonight, the sky glowed a sweet, candy red. Alluring as it was, this was very curious indeed. Worrying. Multiply the bar stools. He couldn’t remember how many there were. The fire in the sky declared itself. - - - Jack stood atop his bed, but found no words or sequences in the radiance; a radiance that felt as if it were bestowed upon him. Down the hall, the man with his door bolted shut drew the curtains without even looking outside. The family, packing away a board game within their chalet, felt the warmth before they saw anything. Then the outline of their double glazing glowed. They looked to one another in silence, puzzled. Best head off to bed. The dumpster in the alley warped and its plastic lid dripped into the hull amongst a whirl of ash and shadow. Meanwhile, the two boys, in some living room, melted into a sofa within their own haze of grey, contented in the contortion of their brains. “Dude, when do rabbits go to sleep?” “Hardly ever, probably. Must get scary out there.” The rabbit stained the wooden bridge a rich crimson. It had been painted with a single wide stroke across the slats, with its collapsed carcass gathered in a heap once the bridge met the tarmac in the most saturated point of the macabre illustration. A colony of ants were well into their work of conquering the mutilated mountain. At home in the centre of town, the twins swaddled a baby each. Simultaneously, their phones chimed. The babies wailed, and the father took them both while his sister swiped her phone. Then, after taking a moment to fathom what was on the screen, she turned it to her brother. “Oh...” “... C’est la vie?” Upon a hill, Matthew watched the flames from behind a screen door. They were clutching at the clouds, over and over. Wriggling a pillow under himself, he tried to understand. His family, in the kitchen, gravitated around glasses of spirits and Granddad Izquierdo, laughing obliviously. “And when the torero pierced the bull the last time, my amigo did not cheer with the crowd, but said ‘Really, Mr. Izquierdo, why do we do it?’ I say to him, ‘Why do we ask so many questions, eh? Come; drink.” Olivia was already lost in the red. Nothing but red. She grabbed a paper and pen, dimmed the lights to the last notch, and sat on her windowsill. Jay did much the same. Nicky likely did not. And on the beach, the three tracks had long been washed away, their artists sound asleep already. Now the tide, in their place, extinguished every ember and returned each iota to the inlet. Nonetheless, it would not come to flush away the flames. The way the scarlet struck the water in an ever-blooming blush - it caused the waves to crash continuously with contrite culpability.

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