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criminalmindzjunkie · 4 years

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Unlucky in Love

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Gif credit to @ogledalo-moje-duse

Summary: Spencer is unlucky in love - until he isn’t.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, some suggestive content

Word Count: 3.4k

Spencer Reid is, by most people’s definition, unlucky in love.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. In his early twenties, Spencer often caught himself fantasizing about being on the receiving end of some great storybook romance straight out of one of the classic novels on his bookshelf. On the rare occurrence where his mind was able to slow down long enough, Spencer would daydream about what his future partner would be like. Would they share his fondness for the written word, or his penchant for foreign cinema? Would they find his tendency to go off on tangents endearing and his less than fashionable style of dress charming? Spencer liked to think so, but the likelihood of finding someone who could accept him despite all of his quirks seemed low.

But still he hoped, even though he knew hope was a dangerous thing. Hope gave life to the possibility of disappointment – and if there was one thing Spencer did not need more of, it was that.

Spencer Reid was in love with the idea of love – obsessed with the idea of his soul intertwining with someone else’s. But with his thirtieth birthday quickly approaching and absolutely no prospective love interests in sight, Spencer was feeling more than a little disheartened. It certainly didn’t help that everywhere he turned, love was running rampant. Hotch had Beth, Penelope had Kevin, Jennifer had Will, and Morgan had… any number of possible partners. Emily and Rossi were both unattached, but happily so in a way that Spencer just couldn’t quite manage.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like seeing the people around him happy – it was just that he couldn’t help but wonder when he’d finally get his chance at love.

A month before Spencer’s thirtieth birthday, everything changes.

When a member of Garcia’s victims’ support group goes missing, it’s all hands on deck at the BAU. It’s not that they’d give any less than one hundred percent on any other given day, but as with any case that hits close to home, everyone on the team is in a frenzy trying to put the pieces together. The thing that makes this case different is the fact that people from other departments are quick to lend a hand. It comes as no surprise to Spencer – Penelope is a social butterfly by nature. She made it her business to know and befriend everyone in the building. Her sunny disposition is hard not to love, and her current distress had garnered the support of more than a few non-team members.

By the time the case wraps up, the bullpen is much busier and, much to Spencer’s chagrin, much louder than usual. The steady influx of people has Spencer’s head spinning and he can’t seem to focus on the papers sitting in front of him. What should take him thirty seconds to read has almost taken twenty minutes, and at this point the words on the paper are all running together. Spencer knows that it doesn’t help that he’s running on less than three hours of sleep, as evidenced by the frequency of his yawns. Worse even is the fact that his coffee cup is empty and no, he thinks, that simply will not do. With a sigh Spencer pushes away from his desk, bones creaking as he stands.

With his coffee cup in hand, Spencer shuffles to the breakroom. He goes through the motions of preparing his drink, lazily stirring in the mountain of sugar before turning to leave.

Spencer supposes that if it weren’t for the fact that he was horribly sleep deprived, he would’ve seen you walking down the hallway. But alas, Spencer’s alertness had been compromised by poor sleeping habits, and he isn’t aware of your presence until his body is colliding with yours and his hot coffee is dripping down the front of your blouse.

“Ouch,” you whimper, and Spencer is immediately overwhelmed with guilt.

“O-Oh my God, I am so sorry,” he splutters. Without waiting for a response, Spencer’s rushing into the break room and procuring a thick stack of napkins. The part of his brain that controls logical thinking is apparently overrun by the onset of his mortification, and in an act of absolutely panic, he begins to dab at the stains with one of the napkins.

“I-I wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m so so sorry,” Spencer stutters out, frantically attempting to blot the stain. “I’ll give you money for a new shirt. A-Actually, you should probably take this one off. The best way to treat scalds is to immediately get the person away from the heat source. You should also run some cold water over it.”

In his hurry to rectify his mistake, Spencer hadn’t managed to take a good look at you. When his eyes leave the stain in favor of looking at your face, he prepares himself to see anger there. What he doesn’t expect is for your face to be just as flushed as his, with eye brows raised in shock.

Spencer also doesn’t expect this to be the moment he’s been waiting on his entire life, but one look into your eyes tells him this is it - this is your person.

Stunned into a stupor, Spencer stills, eyes boring into your own. You’re even more beautiful than he’d dared to let himself imagine, but in all honesty that didn’t matter much. What matters is the fact that there’s a faint hint of smile lines etched into your skin, and your eyes are so inherently kind that Spencer has no doubt that you’re as gentle as you are alluring. Your benevolence is also evidenced by the fact that you hadn’t immediately begun to yell at him, and for that he is thankful.

Spencer’s revelation renders him unable to form any semblance of thought, and before he knows it almost a solid minute of him gaping at you passes. You begin to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze.

“I, uh, appreciate the help, and you seem like a nice enough guy, but your hand is on my boob and I kind of make it a point to not let strangers touch the goods. So, if you don’t mind,” you stammer, looking pointedly at his hand that is still pressing a napkin to your chest. Spencer recoils as if he’s the one that’s been scalded.

“I-I didn’t mean to, um, t-touch your -,” Spencer gulps, “- chest. I swear I was just trying to get the stain out. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he chokes out. Spencer had imagined the moment he’d come face to face with his person a million times, and none of his daydreams had accounted for the possibility of him giving her second degree burns and inadvertently copping a feel. His emotions fell somewhere between mortification and elation.

“Mm likely story,” you murmur, lips upturning into a smile that has Spencer feeling weak in the knees. Spencer practically swoons. “Do you make it a habit to ask strangers to take their tops off, or am I just special?”

Oh God, had I really suggested that? Spencer cringes and wonders what good an IQ as high as his was when it seemed to fail him at times like these. Speaking to women had never been a specialty of his, despite Derek’s coaching, and Spencer was floundering to come up with an acceptable response.

You are the most special woman in the world, probably. Nope – too creepy, and Spencer definitely doesn’t want to scare you off. Not when he’s been waiting the better part of thirty years to meet you.

I didn’t mean to insinuate that you should take off your shirt, but I also wouldn’t particularly mind if you did. Even worse – that would certainly earn him a stern talking to from HR.

Spencer decides to go for the honest approach.

“I-I’m not sure how to answer that.”

His honesty draws a laugh from you, and Spencer loves the sound so much that he decides then that he’ll never tell a lie again. You shake your head at him and reach for the napkins that he still has clutched in his hands.

“What’s your name?” you ask him as you continue his earlier efforts to sop up the coffee.

It’s probably the easiest question he’s ever been asked. That doesn’t stop him from making a fool out of himself, though.

“I’m Doctor Spencer R-Reid. Uh, I’m Spencer. Y-You don’t have to call me Doctor.”

Someone please put me out of my misery.

Your eyes meet his again and he can tell that you’re holding back a laugh.

“Okay, then, Spencer,” you say as you discard the napkins in a nearby trash bin. “I’m Y/N.” You punctuate your words with an outstretched hand, and before Spencer can think better of it, the usual spiel come tumbling out of his mouth.

“The number of pathogens passed during a handshake is staggering. It’s actually safer to kiss.”

Your lower your hand and cock your head to the side.

“Are you always this forward, Doctor Reid?” you tease him, eyes flashing amusedly.

“I-I didn’t mean that we should kiss,” Spencer interjects, cringing at the way his voice has suddenly raised in pitch. “N-Not that I wouldn’t kiss you! I-I’m sure that kissing you would be really n-nice. I just meant that… you know. Germs.”

Are you there, God? It’s me, Spencer. A hole opening up in the ground and swallowing me up would be great.

To Spencer’s delight, you don’t seem offended in the slightest.

“I cannot believe that they’ve been hiding you up here, Spencer Reid. I should’ve come to visit Penny years ago.”

Wait – what?

“You work here?”

You nod.

“I work on the floor below this one – sex crimes,” you explain.

“For how long?”

“Coming up on three years now.”

Three years. You’d been right under Spencer’s nose for three years and he hadn’t the slightest clue. You’d parked your car in the same parking garage and taken the same elevator as he! How many times had your paths nearly crossed in the last three years? If he’d been just a little bit earlier or a little bit later getting into work, might the two of you met earlier? The possibility of it was maddening.

“Oh, wow. I-I’ve never seen you,” Spencer mutters lamely. But miraculously, you don’t think he’s lame, if your response is any indication.

“Nor I you, Doc. It’s a shame, too. You’re a funny guy.”

Spencer Reid has been called a lot of things in his lifetime – funny was never one of them.

“Y-Yeah. I’m a real riot at parties,” he deadpans. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” you hum, and Spencer really hopes that you mean it. “Would you mind escorting me to Penelope’s office?”

Spencer nods, and the two of you fall in step together. Spencer’s wracking his brain again for something – anything- he could say to fill the silence. Thankfully, you don’t seem quite as inept at conversing as he, and you beat him to it.

“You look a little young yourself, Spencer. How long have you worked here?”

“Uh, I’ve actually worked here for almost eight years. I started when I was twenty-two.”

Your eyebrows raise in shock.

“Twenty-two, huh? That makes you – what? Thirty now? I wouldn’t put you a day past twenty-five,” you muse, and Spencer isn’t quite sure what to make of that. You must pick up on the conflicted look on his face, because you clarify. “That’s a good thing, Doc. I hope I look as good as you do when I’m thirty.”

Spencer has to remind himself how to breathe.

“I’m not thirty yet. Technically I have twenty-three more days. I could have a rapid decline in attractiveness by then.”

Spencer’s not usually one to try to be funny, but she seems to have a good sense of humor and he wants to impress you in any way he can.

“I guess I’ll have to swing back by in twenty-three days and find out.”

The two of you come to a stop in front of Penelope’s office and Spencer tries not to look as disappointed as he feels. He doesn’t want your meeting to come to an end – not when there’s so much about you that he wants to know. He wants to ask about your opinion on books and obscure foreign films and most importantly, Spencer wants to know what you think about him. Did meeting him affect you in the same way it did him? Did you secretly wish to make this moment last, too?

Spencer wants to say so much, but he can’t. He’s too awkward and too scared and too nervous to find the right words. So instead, he gives you a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m sorry about your blouse. Can I please give you the money to buy a new one? I feel like it’s the least I can do.”

“Absolutely not. It’s really not that big of a deal. Didn’t even really care for the shirt, if I’m being honest. Red really isn’t my color.”

Spencer wants to tell you how wrong you are – that he’s infinitely certain that you’d look irresistible in any color – but he doesn’t.

You reach for the door knob, and Spencer’s shoulders slump.

“It was nice meeting you, Spencer.”

And then you’re gone, and Spencer can’t help but think that he royally fucked up the most important introduction of his entire life.

When Spencer envisioned how his life would look at age thirty, he’d imagined it being a lot different than it is now. He’d hoped to use his intelligence for something great – finding a way to cure Alzheimer’s had been his main aspiration. Yet, here he was, thirty years old with nothing more than three PhDs to his name. He’d accomplished nothing of great significance, and the idea of having wasted his intelligence was eating away at him.

In short, Spencer Reid was in a bit of a funk.

It didn’t help that he hadn’t seen you since that fateful day in the bullpen. Spencer had contemplated paying you a visit, but the lingering embarrassment over his actions kept him from reaching out. He didn’t think he could handle how badly a rejection from you would hurt, so instead he sulked around the office and wallowed in his own self-deprecation.

Spencer’s birthday wasn’t something he tended to advertise. From a young age, he’d chosen to observe it silently. Usually, his mother would forget, and he never really had any friends to celebrate with, so the day was always rather unimportant to him. Perhaps he would order takeout and gorge himself on greasy food while he sat alone in his apartment. It had been good enough for him last year, and he supposed it would have to suffice this year as well.

He made it a point not to mention it to his coworkers, and the day passed by just as any other day. By the time five o clock rolled around, Spencer was waving a goodbye to his coworkers and heading out the door. As he waits for the elevator, he debates on whether to order Thai food or pizza for dinner.

Just as he settles on Thai, the elevator doors open.

“Oh, thank God, I was worried that you had left already!”

Before Spencer can get over the initial shock of seeing you, you’re stepping out of the elevator and into his space, an excited smile on your lips. And then you’re holding out your hand, and Spencer’s almost moved to tears when he sees you wielding a single chocolate cupcake.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d like chocolate or vanilla better, so I went with my gut. I get the feeling you’re a chocolate kind of guy,” you say, eyes shining as you look up at him. “So, was I right?”

“You brought this for me?” Spencer asks, voice barely above a whisper. He can’t fathom it – that you had spared him any thought past your initial meeting. Spencer had surely expected you to forget about him entirely. Either that, or you’d written him off as someone to be avoided.

You nod.

“Of course, I did. It’s your birthday. Everyone deserves something sweet on their birthday.” You pause, the smile dropping from your face. “It is your birthday, right? I didn’t miss it, did I?”

Spencer is slow to shake his head.

“N-No, you didn’t miss it. I’m just surprised you remembered.”

You chuckled softly.

“You’re very unforgettable, Doctor Reid,” you say, and Spencer’s heart flutters in his chest. “And you didn’t answer my question.” You gesture to the cupcake expectantly.

“Chocolate is my favorite,” Spencer breathes out, raising a shaky hand and taking it from her. “I… Thank you. You didn’t have to do this. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re turning thirty. That’s a very big deal, Doc.,” you argue, and Spencer gives you a tentative smile.

“If you say so.”

“I do,” you smirk, before hitting the button to open the elevator doors. “So, do you have any big plans to celebrate?”

The doors open and you and Spencer file into the elevator together– an event three years in the making.

“Not really. I was just going to order some food and stay in,” Spencer says before taking a bite of the cupcake. It tastes wonderful – better than a store-bought cupcake could ever be. This cupcake was undoubtably made from scratch, and the thought of you taking the time out of your day to bake something for him makes him feel weak at the knees. Pair that with the way you’re looking up at him and Spencer worries he might collapse.

“What kind of food?”

“Thai,” Spencer says around the mouthful of cake.

“Mm,” you hum. “You know – I happen to love Thai food. And I also happen to not have any plans for the evening.”

Even Spencer, who struggles to decipher the simplest of social cues, can deduce that you are insinuating that you want to spend the evening with him. He’s thankful, then, that he had already swallowed the bite of cupcake, because there’s no doubt in his mind that he’d have choked on it. Spencer gapes at you, but your gaze is unwavering and your body language gives no indication that you were joking.

“D-Do… Do you want to, uh, come over?” Spencer trips over his words more times than any grown man should, but in his defense, he isn’t exactly well versed in matters like this.

“Do you want me to come over?”

“Yes.” Spencer answers so quickly that it should be embarrassing, but it’s hard to feel anything but happy when you’re looking at him like that.

“Then in that case, I thought you’d never ask,” you sigh dramatically, and then the door opens up and you link your arm with his. “You know, I was beginning to think I’d never see you again. I’ve been driving Penelope crazy asking about you, Doc.”

“You’ve been asking about me?” Spencer asks, incredulous.

“Absolutely. It’s not every day that you meet a guy who has the audacity to feel you up and ask you to undress within the first five minutes. I just had to know more,” you tease, and Spencer can’t help but laugh. Despite the cold air of the parking garage, Spencer feels warm – warmer than he’s ever felt and he knows that it has everything to do with the way you’ve pressed yourself against his side.

“In that case, I’m very glad I spilled my coffee on you,” Spencer says and you let out a snort.

“Yeah, I could’ve done without that part. And the part where you called me germy.”

“I did not mean it like that,” Spencer insists. You hum and detach yourself from him, and Spencer instantly misses the contact.

“Because it’s your birthday, I’ll let you off the hook,” you announce, making your way to the other side of his car, all while never taking your eyes off him. “And if you’re lucky, birthday boy, I might just be willing to test that theory of yours.”

Spencer cocks his head to the side.

“Theory?”

You nod, and the smile that creeps across your face is the best birthday present he’s ever gotten.

“You said you thought kissing me would be nice. I think we should find out.”

Spencer Reid is, by most people’s definition, unlucky in love. But as he steals glances at you on the way to his apartment, his chest swells with a hope that maybe – just maybe – his luck is about to change.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer x y/n #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid self insert #fluff #fanfiction

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princessmariaphiliper · 3 years

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THE SLEEPOVER FIC | Part 9 The Fluff

Summary: You and James have put yourselves into trouble, but you think maybe it’s hotter that way.

Notes: James Acaster,

Pairing: James Acaster x Reader

Genre: Fluff, , Slow Burn fic

Words: 1,472

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9

In the evening there came a knock at your door. Four gentle raps and you recognised the tune. Ed. He stepped inside your apartment, and you graced him with confusion.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, am I okay to come in?”

The two of you stood in your hallway, plagued in an awkward silence. The corner of his mouth flicking up in amusement. You felt nervous, as though he somehow miraculously knew about the things you’d done the night before with James.

James was (you presumed) back at his own place after having gone to work with Ed. He’d agreed with you when you opened the suggestion of keeping things on the low in relation to Ed knowing about your casual dating. Still somewhere you didn’t know entirely if you could trust James yet. And so Ed being here moved you into a panic.

“Are you okay?” Ed said inquisitively as he walked into your living room, brows furrowed, fronting his entertainment by your nervous disposition.

“Yeah yeah. I just wasn't expecting you at all.”

“Oh sorry are you expecting someone?”

“No its fine, place is just a bit of a mess that's all”

You looked around your apartment. Having just returned home there still sat yours and James’s glasses from the night before, as well as your discarded underwear beside the sofa. You hurried over to them, while Ed lingered beside the television.

“Wild Sunday night?” He teased.

You blushed, nodding. Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, although stopping as soon as you began from the jolt of pain it caused you. Their sensitivity and tiredness still lingered from James’s rough treatment.

He’d walked you all the way to your studio building this morning. Even offering to bring you some lunch later on as you hadn’t had a chance to prepare anything last night. You declined thankfully, saying you didn’t mind the opportunity to visit a cafe close to work as Olive kept raving about their lunchtime menu. He left you with a polite smile, by asking when he could see you again.

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone y/n”

“Um yeah. Just sort of happened”

“Ah. I see” Ed moved closer to the now tidied up couch area, gesturing with his hands. “Is there anywhere I shouldn't sit?”

Images of you and James presenting themselves in the forefront of your mind unclothed and in bliss covering the sofa. You paused for a moment to consider where the purest area was. Your stomach doing flips upon realisation that on every cushion you had (unforgettably) fucked his best mate. Pointing to the left you figured was safest. Cunnilingus didn’t seem too bad compared to cowgirl.

“There.” you suggested and Ed sat down.

“Oh I invited James by the way. He’s not got much on since Sarah’s out of town so I figured we could keep him company. Hope that's alright.”

Your bloodflow stopped, unsure of whether or not you could handle the pressure of being around the two of them together. Another knock came at the door, James entering in a panic.

“Y/n I’m sorry I-” He spoke hurriedly before cutting himself off upon noticing Ed already plopped on the couch. His eyes went a little wide before he composed himself. You could see him picturing the two of you in his own mind for a hot minute.

You stood dumbly with your underwear and wine glasses in hand. “Come on in James, don’t be shy.”

“Sorry I” He came up with an excuse for his hurried entrance. “I thought I was late?”

He of course didn’t think he was late. The underlying truth in actuality was that he’d ran to your apartment in an attempt to arrive before Ed and explain away the coincidence.

“No you’re alright, I just got here mate.”

“Ah, right then.”

A numb silence ensued and you took the opportunity to regain some dignity and toss your pants into your bedroom. James watched you nervously, he was still dressed in the cl0othes you’d given him this morning. It was starting to feel as though he lived there.

“Shall I order takeaway?” Ed opened into the flat. And as James made his way over to the sofa he gave him a polite nod - stating “I wouldn’t sit there if I were you.”

However - James ignored his remark sitting comfortably, one arm on the rest. Ed pulled his phone out as you disposed of the glasses in your kitchen sink.

“Sorry Y/n, you’re not busy are you I should have called ahead mate.”

“No no, I’m free its okay!” You insisted, trying to haul yourself through the awkward air.

James was staring at you. His quietness giving you a hint of anxiety. He looked devilish sitting in that spot so comfortably, as though he was non the wiser to the things that’d happened on it last night. Catching you meet his eye he flashed you a knowing smile as you took a seat across the coffee table. He seemed to be enjoying this, as though it was a game only the two of you knew about.

“Nice to see you again Y/n,” The smug bastard nodded at you. You knew he was doing this to slip you up.

“You too,” Two could play at that game. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh just living life.”

“Do anything special at the weekend?”

His cockiness sank from his facial expression. The corner of your mouth twitching with amusement as he scrambled for words. Ed chipped in when he didn’t respond right away. “James?”

“Er yeah. Just trying to think.”

“Don’t strain yourself Jesus.”

“Haha. No, just the usual.”

“Right,” Ed questioned, “Should we get a takeaway? My treat?”

Your mouth watered at the thought. You couldn’t care less if it was a Monday, you’d had a stressful week already.

“God yes.” You moaned, causing James to look at the floor. Crossing one leg over the other. “Wagamama?”

“I’m not bothered either way.”

“I’m fine with Wagas”

Time passed of you ordering food and casual chats between the three of you. You and James occasionally chatting to each other for too long before catching yourself out. Ed didn’t seem to mind all that much as he kept checking how close your order was to arrival the moment that you’d placed it.

It was about 45 mins later when Ed received a phone call from the rider, being unable to locate your flat he was making his way out to door to find him. You and James finally alone in the kitchen, preparing bowls for the three of you.

“Y/n,” He said, wrapping his arms around your waist, “I swear Ed suggested this I would never just invite myself back I was trying to get here before him, but my phone was dead. God I’m sorry.”

You turned to him, holding back a smile from how flustered he was.

“Its alright, Ed already said he’d invited you before you arrived. Plus,” You started, “I guess I like spending time with you.”

“You guess?”

“Hmm,”

“That’s not what you said last night.” He responded sarcastically, encouraging you to playfully tap his chest.

“Shut up,” You laughed, a gentle smile forming on your mouth. You were beginning to get more comfortable in the solitude of his company. Something you hadn’t felt yourself doing in years. It felt easy now the air had been cleared between the two of you. You just wanted Sarah to come back so he could finish things properly, then you wouldn’t have to worry about Ed. “How was your day?”

“I’ve not sopped thinking about you.”

“Quite the romancer aren’t you?”

“What can I say. Born this way, Lady Gaga behbeh.”

You looked into his playful eyes. A warmness overcoming you, you thought maybe you might allow yourself to fall in love this time. You deserved it after so long. You arched your heels away from the floor, leaning up to give him a gentle kiss on the cheek. You could not resist it. A shy smile grew on his face, and you swore you could see a faint tinge of pink forming on his ears.

The two of you heard the door open, quickly pulling away from one another in an unnatural manner. Hurriedly making yourself busy with cutlery and bowls.

“Found the feast!” Ed’s voice called out from the corridor, as James lent over to whisper in you ear.

“I like you” with a stupid, cavity inducing grin.

“I like you too James”

HI HI! Long time no see lads. Bit of a shorter chapter today as I’ve been in a little bit of a writing slump with this fic. Trying to plan the direction I want to take it in, Hopefully now I’ll be a bit more on track with updates as I’m aiming for for quality over quantity moving forwards. Thank you for your patience, support and love! - Lu xoxo

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If you want to be put on, or taken off my taglist, feel free to tell me!

#james acaster imagines #james acaster x reader #james acaster fanfic

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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“Oh, you're everything I'm wanting -- Come to think of it, I'm aching... On account of my transgression, Will you welcome this confession? Could this be out of line? Could this be out of line, To say you're the only one breaking me down like this? You're the only one I would take a shot on -- Keep me hanging on so contagiously...” ~“So Contagious” by Acceptance

x~x~x~x

In Estrid Soelberg’s @thatravenpuffwitch sixth year, there was a noticeable shift in the kelpie who’d taken on the identity of Rudolph Ollivander. Ru was as snarky and anti-status-quo as ever, but they also didn’t seem to look upon everyone with so much universal disdain or distrust. They would initiate a game of Wizard’s Chess with their fellow Ravenclaws now again, including Siobhan Llewelyn @kc-needs-coffee. They enjoyed spending time with Galen Stagg @cursebreakerfarrier, even going so far as to rope the meeker Gryffindor into helping him scare some of their classmates at the Shrieking Shack (which resulted in the two “running for the lives” to get away from their targets’ retaliation, Ru laughing their head off all the while). And with Estrid herself, Ru had actually started taking to asking her to dance with them and then whisking them away so that she wouldn’t have to deal with a hundred and one guys trying to court her at parties. Admittedly that particular behavior only made the rumor machine at school work double-time -- the entire school, it seemed like, saw Ru and Estrid as a couple, or at least sweet on each other, just because of how much time they spent together. It had been rather aggravating for both Ru and Estrid for a long time, even after they stopped actively hating each other and started nurturing a real friendship.

As their seventh year began, Ru’s relationships with both Galen and Estrid grew even closer. Before long, you wouldn’t see one without the other two. If Galen ever got bullied, Estrid and Ru would ride to his rescue. Whenever Estrid had to brave parties, Ru was her shadow, warding off all unwanted advances. And once, when Ru was challenged to a duel by a Gryffindor and one of his buddies and then attacked from behind upon them winning by throwing a potion in their opponent’s face, Galen went full-on “Papa Bear,” blocking the spell before it could land on Ru, disarming the bloke who’d attacked them, and sticking his wand right in the other Gryffindor’s face until he backed off. And as the three’s friendship grew stronger, Estrid really started to realize how much she dreaded the end of her time at Hogwarts. She’d miss spending time with Galen and Ru -- having them always there.

Ru in particular she hated the thought of saying goodbye to. As a kelpie, Ru had no real family, and they didn’t see themselves as having many prospects for a real future. They didn’t have very strong magic, and their life-span was short enough that they’d have trouble disguising themselves after a while.

“Sooner or later, any folks around me at a job or some such would start giving me the side eye,” Ru had said at the time, sounding rather grim and resigned, “they’d dismiss all the theories like botched Transfiguration or a Dark curse, and Bob’s your uncle, they’d figure out the truth. At that point...well. The game would really be over then, wouldn’t it?”

It was that masquerade that was central to Ru’s current life. They’d only gotten into Hogwarts by pretending to be Rudolph Ollivander, so without their identity as Rudolph, they didn’t have a pair of shoes to fill that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. And once that identity was taken from them and they were revealed for what they were, Ru seemed pretty convinced that no one would want to stick by them. They hadn’t even told Galen the truth about what they were yet, and Estrid suspected it was largely because they feared what their best friend would think, if he knew they’d stolen the identity of the Ravenclaw boy they’d drowned in the Lake four years ago. Estrid got the feeling that Ru was already preparing to say goodbye to their life as a human and retreat back to that solitary existence they led prior to attending Hogwarts...and that thought hurt Estrid. She hated the thought of Ru living out the rest of their life alone...only being able to look back at all of the fun things they did at Hogwarts, and never be able to try anything new ever again. Never be able to take any more pictures, or get any better at their crude animations, or even take a stroll through the pouring rain again...

The memory of the two of them dancing in the rain together the previous year rippled again over Estrid’s mind.

Ru had been so happy, just dancing with her in the rain and enjoying the squishing, squelching sounds made by their shoes and their sopping wet clothes. It just didn’t seem fair that someone who could be happy with so little had to condemn themselves to a life devoid of even those little pleasures. But could she really expect a wild creature to put their own self-preservation at risk -- expect Ru to actually brave the consequences of their past actions? As much fun as they had as a human, and as much fun as they had at school...well, it’d already seemed like they’d given up. Like they’d seen the writing on the wall and were prepared to go out quietly, like a very old cat sneaking out of the house to die in peace. And as human as they were...they were still a kelpie. Would they even be happy with the kind of life witches and wizards led post-Hogwarts -- one with structure, with employment and responsibilities -- with family?

Perhaps it was because of how guilty she felt about Ru’s situation that Estrid agreed to go with Ru when the kelpie decided to take advantage of the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend to sneak out to a photography exposition in a nearby Muggle town. It was likely because of his loyalty as a friend than Galen tagged along too...and perhaps because Siobhan Llewelyn had also caught wind that Ru was sneaking out and decided to tag along too.

It was a bit strange, dressing in something other than their school uniforms. Estrid had decided it would be practical to wear pants, since they’d probably have to be able to run quickly in case they got caught sneaking out or sneaking back in. She hadn’t been sure what Ru would do, exactly, since she’d never seen them in anything but their school uniform -- when Ru met up with them, though, dressed in a flared red hunting jacket and khaki trousers with no shirt underneath, she found herself completely unsurprised. Ru already never buttoned their uniform shirt, presumably because of how much they hated collars -- Estrid supposed it was only the next step, to walk around just in a jacket without any shirt on at all!

The exhibition showcased a series of so-called “moving pictures” -- compilations of still photographs that, when put together, created the illusion of movement. Magical photography tried to create such movement through the use of enchantments, like the kind used on enchanted portraits, but the technology of photography didn’t mesh well with those sorts of enchantments, since it was harder to “fold” the enchantments into the photographs the same way one could with paints, and so they were often poor quality and would often lose a lot of the magic trying to give them the ability to talk and move before long. But, as Ru pointed out to the others, these “moving pictures” the Muggles had developed could be played over and over and over again in a loop, and even if there was no sound included, the overall quality of the pictures remained the same.

“It doesn’t even try to recreate life, like wizards do with their pictures,” said Ru. “Instead it creates the illusion of life -- records one moment, rather than stupidly trying and failing to recreate everything that person was. And that one moment is enough! It’s more than enough. With that one moment recorded, you get all the information you need. You can fill in the blanks of everything else on your own.”

The four spent the day watching and enjoying moving pictures of walking in Paris, France, galloping horses, and even a girl feeding her cat. The entire time, Ru was transfixed, sitting awkwardly as ever on their chair between Estrid and Galen with their way-too-long legs crossed at a weird angle and leaning across their own lap to look at the pictures better. At one point, Ru leaned their head very far to the side close to Estrid, to try to see the picture from a certain angle, and their long black hair came down like a curtain beside Estrid’s face.

Biting back a laugh, Estrid carefully brought a hand up to smooth Ru’s hair out of her face. The gesture startled Ru and made them look at her.

“Here,” whispered Estrid with a fond smile.

She very gently reached up to tuck Ru’s hair behind their ear.

Ru’s face flushed slightly. Their electric blue eyes darted off to the side.

“...Thanks,” they muttered.

Close by, a couple of older matrons whispered amongst themselves.

“Ah, that’s how the couples are split, then -- left and right pairs -- ”

“Such a strange-looking pair on the right, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps...but look at that dark-haired lad, he’s clearly smitten -- ”

“Is that a lad? Good heavens, that hair -- ”

Estrid shot a tired look over her shoulder.

“Sounds like people are jumping to that old conclusion again,” she said to Ru with a wry smile.

Ru was still blushing slightly, their mouth twisted in a frown. “...Mm.”

No snarky comment? That was odd. Ru would hardly ever pass up the chance to scoff about how humans’ ideas of “romance” and courting were utterly bizarre. Instead there was almost something...grim in their expression.

People wouldn’t be making that mistake anymore, Estrid thought sadly, if Ru disappeared back into the void, once their class graduated...

The kelpie returned their focus back to the screen, and Estrid followed suit gladly. At least it seemed Galen and Siobhan were too distracted talking amongst themselves to overhear.

Unfortunately the group couldn’t stay for the entire exposition, if they wanted to sneak their way back into school with the rest of the kids enjoying their Hogsmeade weekend without getting caught. And although Ru flagrantly ignored the rules most of the time, they seemed oddly concerned about the others’ feelings on the matter, for once.

“Don’t want your whole future getting derailed right as you’re reaching the finish line, do you?” they said rather gruffly.

Estrid had almost never heard the kelpie think of the future that way before. But, of course, even then...it was their friends’ futures. Not their own. Because they didn’t think they’d have any chance of a future themselves...

As the four sat together at the table in the Three Broomsticks, chatting and laughing over some butterbeers and pickled oysters, a fiery, robust feeling was slowly forming in Estrid’s chest, crystallizing and hardening like some kind of flaming hot diamond.

Ru deserved a future. Even if they had once drowned somebody and stolen his identity -- even if they’d nearly eaten a first year -- they’d grown so much since then, and Estrid had seen there was so much more to them since then. Ru deserved to be able to keep living as a human as long as they wanted. They deserved to live their life to its fullest, even if it was short. They deserved to have somewhere safe to go, even if everyone else found out the truth about what they were and turned their backs on them. ...They deserved to be happy.

“Estrid?”

Estrid felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up. It was Ru, looming over her like a shadow as always.

“Everyone’s getting ready to leave,” they prompted her.

Estrid looked up. All the students in the Three Broomsticks were gathering together in a clump that migrated toward the door. Galen and Siobhan had already started heading out too, whispering amongst themselves -- Galen shot a very quick glance over his shoulder at them and smiled before turning back to Siobhan.

“...So they are,” said Estrid.

Despite this, she found herself not immediately getting to her feet. She stayed seated for another moment, her eyes on the table. She could sense Ru watching her, but they didn’t speak again. They sensed that she was deep in thought and decided not to interrupt. It was something Estrid appreciated about Ru -- they were never afraid of silence.

Estrid closed her eyes, exhaled through her nose, and then opened her mouth to speak. Unfortunately, before she could, a voice cut her off.

“Come on, lovebirds!” crowed a particularly obnoxious Hufflepuff boy. “Don’t want to be left behind, do you?”

Both Ru and Estrid shot the boy a very dirty glare.

“We’re not lovebirds, Wilfred,” Estrid shot back dully.

She sighed.

“...What is it you like to say about silence being better than stuffing the space with useless words?” she asked Ru, her voice touched with dry amusement.

Ru avoided her eyes, frowning deeply again. “...Hn.”

The amusement slid off of Estrid’s face. No snarky response again?

“Ru?” she asked.

“What?” said Ru.

“Are you...” Estrid bit her lip, “...is there something on your mind?”

Ru gave a loud bluster through their nose and mouth. “I would damn well hope so -- I don’t know how so many people go around with nothing in their heads...”

Estrid relaxed noticeably despite herself.

“Well, now you’re sounding more like yourself, at least,” she said with another light sigh and a small smile. She rose from the bench at last. “Come on then...suppose we’d better catch up with Galen...”

She’d barely gotten all the way to her feet when she suddenly felt a light tap to her cheek.

Estrid turned her head. Ru had brought a hand up beside her face, their long pointer finger and thumb only touching her skin just enough to prompt her to look at them. They’d also bent down enough that the collar of their jacket gaped slightly, showing off the Adam’s apple and the top of the pale chest under their silver chain, and that Estrid’s and their faces were only a few inches apart.

“Estrid...”

Ru swallowed. Something seemed to harden in their electric blue eyes, and they plowed on bluntly.

“...Look -- I’m attracted to you, okay?”

Estrid gave a light start, but Ru pressed on, undeterred.

“I know it’s stupid, but I like you. I don’t need you to act any differently, and I’m not going to prance about like a show horse trying to make you like me too. If you don’t like me as I am, I’m not going to change myself so you do. The only reason I’m telling you is…”

They glanced away uncomfortably.

“...Well, for once, everyone else isn’t being stupid when they talk about me being interested in you – and I just thought you aughta know.”

They looked her full-on again.

“Now you do.”

Estrid was left speechless. Ru’s electric blue eyes were very intense, and more serious than she thought she’d ever seen them, as they removed their hands from Estrid’s shoulder and away from her face.

It was strange, for Ru’s face to be so serious. It made them look oddly grounded, steadfast...dedicated. Ru had never been particularly suave or romantic in their manner of speaking, but the bluntness in their tone only seemed to highlight how very truthful and sincere the sentiment behind their words was. It was...really quite sweet. It was like Ru had rested a warm hand over her heart, along with lightly touching her face. A hand that made her feel fuller and happier than she had in a really long time.

Estrid had already come to the thought that Ru wanted to stay as they were, as a human -- to keep enjoying little human pleasures like wearing earrings and taking pictures...but now she also knew for a fact that if Ru could...they would also stay. They wouldn’t just charge off into the sunset and disappear. They might even, if she asked, not hate the idea of living like a human -- of having a job and a home like a human, of dealing with everyday human problems...of settling down and laying down roots and...staying.

If she asked...Ru might stay.

“Ru...”

Estrid reached out and took hold of the red sleeve of their jacket, preventing them from completely straightening up.

“...Come home with me.”

Ru stiffened. “What?”

“After graduation,” Estrid clarified. Her words came out at a bit of a rush, despite her best efforts. “You can stay with my grandfather and me in Denmark. I’m sure Grandfather won’t mind. You could look into a job with the Daily Prophet -- they could use someone who knows what they’re doing with photography. And if you’re sending stuff in through Owl Post, no one’ll notice if you don’t look human...I can always answer the door, if someone comes to call and you’re not yourself...”

Ru stared down at her, not quite comprehending what they were hearing. Estrid could feel her face flushing, but she kept a brave face on all the same.

“...You don’t have to stay here all alone, Ru,” she said under her breath so no one else could hear. “I’ll help you protect your secret. And even if everyone does find out what you really are...I’ll stand by you.”

Ru seemed stunned. Their electric blue eyes ran over Estrid’s face, dipping in and out of her eyes and into the corners of her lips. They didn’t say anything for a long moment, but Estrid could sense they were searching her face for any flicker of doubt. When they didn’t find any, their face seemed to lose the rest of its color.

They bit their lip, looking hesitant in a way Estrid had never seen before.

“...You want me to follow you?” they asked very lowly. “To live with you?”

Estrid’s cheeks were burning, but she nodded all the same.

“Yes,” she said.

And as soon as she said the word, she realized how deeply and sincerely she meant it.

She wanted Ru to follow her. She...wanted them to stay with her.

Ru’s expression seemed to clear. Their face broke into a broad, beautiful smile, full of both a childish kind of delight and quiet, soothing relief. They bowed their head toward Estrid, their lightning-like eyes sparkling just like the silver chain on their neck.

“...Well, then...”

Ru brought a hand up to tuck some hair behind Estrid’s ear, trailing their long fingers through it so that it lay flat.

“...Guess you’ll be my ‘keeper’ a bit longer then...won’t you?”

Estrid felt her own lips curling up in a smile too. “...Guess so.”

“You’d better keep a tight hold of me,” Ru said with a mischievous smile. “Kelpies don’t tame easily.”

“Oh yes, I’m very well aware,” Estrid said coolly. “Your lack of table manners alone make that obvious.”

“Humans have hands, we may as well use them.”

Once Estrid’s hair was smooth enough for Ru’s liking, the kelpie’s smile grew a bit more wry as they extended their arm to her in a mockingly over-the-top formal gesture.

“Lead and I’ll follow, madam,” they said dryly.

Biting back a laugh, Estrid brought her arm down onto Ru’s and started to walk with them toward the door.

“Oh...and Ru?”

“Yeah?”

Estrid moved up onto the tips of her toes as she walked and just barely managed to graze their chin with her lips.

“I like you too,” she said softly.

Ru looked down at her, startled. They examined her face again, searching it for any hint of insincerity or teasing, but Estrid merely smiled.

“It is weird,” she admitted, “considering everything we’ve gone through -- where we started...”

“...What I really am,” Ru pointed out lowly, cocking an eyebrow.

Estrid nodded. “But, well...I guess both of us were always a little weird, to begin with.”

Very slowly, Ru’s lips spread into another beautiful smile, purer and happier than ever. They moved into Estrid, leaning down enough to rest their head down on her shoulder and gently nuzzle the crook of her neck.

“More than a little,” they whispered into her skin.

With a light pink flush to her cheeks, Estrid secured her hold on Ru’s arm, and Ru straightened up again as she led them out.

The pair left the pub together, perfectly unaware of how many people around them were exchanging Galleons.

Turns out that Ru and Estrid had been the subject of quite a few bets around both Hogwarts and Hogmeade village.

#hphl #hogwarts legacy #my art #ru ollivander #estrid soelberg #galen stagg #siobhan llewelyn #my writing #yesssss our two gender-role-defying victorians!!#when I found out estrid likes wearing pants I knew I just had to draw her in them at some point #particularly since ru just doesn't give AF about staying inside the gender binary #they may present male but if they like something out of comfort or because it's pretty then they will wear it #hence why collared shirts are a no but flared coats earrings and long hair are a yes #hope I did estrid justice lovely!! xoxo

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andypantsx3 · 4 years

Text

ab intra | 1 | ab initio

pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi / Reader

length: 18,811 words / 6 chapters

summary: When a wave of disturbing crimes sweep the city, underground hero Hitoshi Shinsou is assigned to work the case with you. What’s even more frustrating than his obnoxious personality is the fact no one will tell you why he’s involved. Things only get more suspicious from there.

tags: romance, thriller, misunderstandings, pro hero AU, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, suicide mentions, brainwashing, consensual mind control, some violence

ab intra [ ahb in-trah ] — adverb, Latin — from inside; from within.

The victims couldn’t remember anything. The ones who had been left alive, anyway.

You sighed, tapping a fingertip idly against your desktop as you stared blankly at the notes on your computer screen. The fact that no one could remember who the perpetrator was, what they looked like, or even anything that had happened during that window of time was extremely unhelpful, and gave you almost no leads to go on.

You’d spent the better part of last week combing through CCTV footage surrounding both the museum and the bank, but nothing had proved decisive. There had been crowds of thousands going in and out of the museum, eager to see a new exhibit on historical wedding jewels, and as far as you could tell, everyone who had entered the grounds was accounted for, either dead or alive. It was much the same for the bank.

Footage from inside both buildings had been summarily destroyed, so there was no telling what had happened inside either. All you knew was that at both locations on two different days, it had been business as usual. Then the buildings had been robbed, five people had turned up dead, and scores more had lost upwards of thirty minutes.

The people who had died all appeared to have committed suicide--one leaping out a window from the top of the museum exhibit hall, another choking himself to death with his tie. There were no fingerprints, no weapons, no memories, nothing you could work off of.

It all pointed to a mind-altering quirk.

You’d pulled as many records as you could, spent the entire weekend scurrying around the courts in order to get as many restrictions lifted as possible, and ended up with a list of only twenty people, when you knew there were hundreds more. It was nearly impossible to get access to information on people’s quirks, even more so to get access to files on those who possessed abilities like this, due to the sensitive nature of their powers.

It made sense, given the kind of discrimination that could take place based on that information alone, but it was still infuriating, knowing the culprit could be in any one of those hundreds of files you’d been unable to get ahold of.

You’d done your best to follow up on what you had been able to get, however, researching the background of every person whose documents you'd been allowed access to. You’d been in the middle of one of the few files, nursing a coffee and something like a migraine, when a manila folder slapped you in the back.

“Captain wants you in his office,” your coworker Aya said, chuckling when you startled and spilled coffee onto your keyboard.

You whipped around in your chair to stare at her accusingly. “You did that on purpose.”

She flashed you a cheeky grin. “You’ve been wandering around the precinct like a zombie for days. You need some livening up.”

You honestly just wanted some livening down, for this case to solve itself and for you to be able to sleep for a week. But you didn’t say as much, digging a box of kleenex out of your file cabinet and sopping up the rivers of dark coffee pooling in between your keys.

“Captain was in a mood, so I recommend you pick up the pace,” she said, and you sighed, climbing out of your chair and throwing on your jacket. The captain always kept his office at a temperature only a polar ice cap might find suitable, and you needed to be properly equipped if this turned out to be more than a quick chat.

Aya’s theory was that he kept it so cold in there to dampen the burning hatefire of rage within him. You just thought his alien species preferred an icy freeze like that of space.

You hurried into the stairwell and down a fluorescent hall, stopping just outside a tall oak door with a little carved plaque that read Noriyasu Nagumo, Captain. You tapped twice, and the door opened inward immediately like someone had been waiting for you just on the other side.

Which, you discovered as you stepped inside, they had been.

A man with unruly indigo hair stood just inside the door, looking you over with a somewhat indifferent expression. He was tall, nearly lean, strapped with sleek muscle that was almost imperceptible through the black of his jumpsuit, and he wore a long scarf and dark, mask-like device at his neck. His eyes were an even deeper purple than his hair, giving his appearance an almost fey quality, and they were bright with a keen watchfulness that felt at odds with his disinterested look.

He was very striking, and you might have thought him handsome if it weren’t for the deep shadows beneath his eyes, or the strange sensation that washed over you as you looked at him, a prickle of feeling that told you there was something more to him than was plainly visible.

A sense of foreboding settled in your stomach as you registered his black jumpsuit, boots, and the strangeness of the items around his neck. It all screamed hero costume, and your mood immediately took a nose dive. You'd worked with heroes before, and it was hardly an experience you wanted to repeat.

At the other end of the room, your captain sat behind his heavy desk, a dark eyebrow raised and a stern look on his weathered features.

“You’re late,” he said by way of a greeting.

You glanced between the two men in question. “I came as fast as I could. Am I interrupting a meeting?”

The captain shook his head, gesturing both you and the purple-haired man to the chairs in front of his desk.

You took a seat, scooting imperceptibly farther from the man when he sat down next to you. Something about him raised your hackles, an aura of subtle command that made you feel like a cat whose fur had been brushed backwards. Coupled with his dismissive expression, you could already sense he was bad news.

“This is Hitoshi Shinsou,” the captain said, indicating the purple-haired man. “Shinsou is a hero on loan from the Public Safety Commission.”

You gave him a cursory once over. You’d never heard of him.

“Shinsou, this is Y/N, one of my investigators,” he continued. “She’s working on the museum and bank heist case we discussed earlier.”

This put you on edge. “What does he have to do with my case?” you asked warily. You’d been on at least three investigations with heroes before, and you knew all too well how things went. You didn’t need some asshole to contribute absolutely nothing to the case and swoop in at the last second to grab all the credit.

“Shinsou is being added as a resource to this case,” Captain Nagumo said. “You will operate as if he were co-lead on this investigation.”

Oh hell no. This case was especially complex and the last thing you needed was to slow down and onboard some random hero, just so he could muck about and up his credentials. People's actual lives were at stake here.

Your nails bit into your palms, and Shinsou smirked as if he knew what you were thinking. “Captain, with all due respect, there is nothing that indicates the need for a secondary lead on this assignment.”

The captain fixed you with a disinterested look. “And yet here you have one. Now that I’ve made introductions, please get Shinsou up to speed on your progress.”

"I can work faster on this alone," you argued. "How about we call Shinsou in when I've found something and he can help with the apprehension?"

Captain Nagumo's face went still. "This is not a request. Shinsou will be working this case with you."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the captain’s look shifted into something angrier and your teeth clacked together. There was a reason Aya spoke so openly about his inner hatefire--his temper was the stuff of legend. At least once a day the hallways echoed with the sound of his screaming, and you swore you'd once caught him suspending an officer for looking at him the wrong way. You’d gotten off easy with him so far, buoyed by your excellent track record, but the look he was giving you told you that could quickly change.

Shinsou leaned forward, and your eye darted to him quickly. “Why don’t you bring me to your desk and show me what you were working on?”

His voice was low, smooth, and strangely compelling. You found yourself entirely distracted from the captain's darkening mood, opening your mouth to reply before you could think better of it.

“I--,” you began. There was a small pause, then your temper caught back up with you. You exhaled through your nose. “Fine,” you said, climbing to your feet and heading for the door without a look backwards. “If you don’t want to get left behind, let’s go.”

You heard the scrape of a chair as Shinsou stood to follow you, a murmur as he bade farewell to the captain. Then he exited the office after you and shut the door quietly behind himself. You turned down the hall, walking briskly, like with any luck you could leave him in your dust, but he caught up easily enough, keeping pace with his long legs.

“How much did Captain Nagumo tell you about the case already?” you asked as you led the way up the stairs, taking a calming breath to soothe yourself. Professional, you could be professional. You'd managed it with all the heroes before.

“Not too much,” Shinsou replied in his low drawl. “Just that there had been break ins, multiple suicides, and a lot of missing memories.”

You pushed open the door to your floor and gestured him through, then stalked over to your desk. It had previously been a point of pride for you that your workspace was clean, devoid of the mountains of paperwork that cluttered everyone else’s because you knew how to keep on top of your reports, but in the last week, your desk had slowly started to amass a small tower of files not unlike those on the surrounding desks.

You shoved a bunch of files over and dragged over a chair from the staff conference table. “Sit and let’s chat, then.”

He dropped into the chair, legs stretched out in front of him, and you sat across from him.

“So why did they send you?” you asked.

Those purple eyes flicked over you. “To help.”

You suppressed an eye roll. Very informative. Some huge help this guy was already proving to be. “Obviously, but why you? What interest does the Public Safety Commission have in this case?”

He rolled a shoulder. “Dozens of people show up without their memories, and you think the police force can handle this without help? I'm here to provide support.”

He had a point but that still answered like zero of your questions. “So why you, specifically? What are you bringing to this case?”

A slow smirk made its way across his mouth. “My good looks and big brain.”

Your headache from earlier made a brief showing at your temples, and your small puddle of patience began to dry up. So this was how it was going to be.

“Fascinating. Well that will be a huge help, no doubt. Good thing they sent you.”

Shinsou's smile widened. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

You eyed him irritably. “Listen, I don't mean to disrespect your profession. Heroes are great and totally needed for patrols and raids. When it comes to investigations, though, you slow things down, and I don't have time for you to hold things up.”

As you spoke, there was a sudden, small tug at the back of your mind, like a thought on the edge of resurfacing. You stopped short, brow furrowing. Had you forgotten something urgent?

Shinsou raised a dark eyebrow, pulling your attention back to him. “Is that so?” he asked.

Something like dry amusement layered in his tone, and the rest of your patience vanished. Was his quirk raising blood to a boil? If so, he wielded it with unparalleled skill and dexterity.

“What’s your background?" you demanded. "And your quirk? I’m assuming they didn't add you to this case for your charm and social grace.”

He smirked again. “I’m afraid that’s above your clearance level.”

Your stared at him in disbelief. Above your clearance level? He had the gall to waltz in here and insert himself into your case, and then refused to give you any basic information like why he was here at all or what your expectations should be for his partnership? Christ, he was even worse than the other heroes you’d worked with. They, at least, had pretended at being friendly when stepping in to work with you. Shinsou was something else completely.

You felt your hand curl into a fist under your desk. “Fine then, let me guess. You're an emitter type -- astounding levels of absolute bullshit.”

He let out a surprised laugh and leaned forward, like you’d suddenly sparked his interest. “You’ve got quite the set of claws for such a little kitten.”

You didn’t know how it was possible to be getting this angry, but it was happening. “Then I suggest you work with me here, if you don’t want to get stuck with them, Shinsou.”

His eyes darkened and he considered you for a long moment. There was that gentle brush in your thoughts again, like you'd forgotten something, and your brow wrinkled. Before you could focus on it, however, the feeling was gone, and Shinsou was slowly leaning back in his chair. “Oh, I’ll work with you, kitten, but you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“Try me,” you ground out.

“I’m here on behalf of the Commission,” he said firmly, “and my reasons for being here, my background, and my quirk are all information that is well above your security clearance. I work for the Commission, not you or your captain, and I will not be answering to you, operating on your orders, or sharing any information just because you think you deserve to know it.”

You stared at him. You could feel the little half moons your nails were leaving in your own skin but you couldn’t unclench your fist.

"You seem to think that heroes do nothing but stand around until they can grab the credit, which makes me think that you will try to hide elements of this case from me. I'll tell you just this once that you will cooperate with me to the best of your ability, or I will make sure you are taken off this case entirely," he said.

“Great,” you said, gritting your teeth. “Glad that I have a partner who I can know nothing about, can’t ask questions of, and can’t trust to give me the same courtesy I have to give them. I can’t think of any partnership set up for more success than this one.”

A wry smile curled the edge of his mouth. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page, then.”

You glared at him over the top of your files but he just stared back, unaffected.

Eventually you gave up, huffing, and shoved a file at him. “Fucking fine. We’ll start here. I’ll walk you through my theories and then you can read over the case files for the details.”

Shinsou took the folder from you in a slender, long-fingered hand. “Generous of you, kitten.”

You fixed him with a baleful gaze. “Don’t call me that.”

He said nothing, but the look on his face told you that you might as well be speaking to a brick wall for all the good it was going to do. He flipped open the cover of the folder and gave it a cursory inspection.

You rolled your eyes. Fine.

“We think it’s some kind of mind quirk,” you said, pointing to a line in the folder. “Either that or a team including some time-based quirk. The details are light, however, as no one can remember what’s happened to them in the time they’ve lost. The suicides make me think that even if there’s a time freeze quirk involved, there’s somebody else with some amount of mental manipulation in on the operation, since none of the people who died had anything other than self-imposed wounds.”

Shinsou nodded, his eyes skimming the page. “A lot of mind quirks could influence memory in different ways.”

You inclined your head in agreement. “I’ve been trying to track down people with mind-related quirks to see which types could be involved, but the courts are impossible to get around. I only have data on like twenty people who’ve previously been in trouble with the law, and none of them seem related to this case.”

Shinsou hummed low in his throat. “Why don’t you walk me through the details of each of the break ins, and then we can talk about what other avenues we might be able to take.”

You nodded again, and launched into an explanation. Over the next few hours you talked him through both the museum and the bank robberies, meticulously detailing all of the timelines, the victims, key witnesses, and locations. You covered all of the floor plans, the CCTV footage, the documents you’d collected, and the crime scene photos. Shinsou listened attentively and--surprisingly--asked intelligent follow up questions, your conversation taking you deep into the evening until your shift was almost over.

Eventually, Shinsou’s phone vibrated, and the rustle of the other investigators’ jackets brought you out of your bubble.

Shinsou stood, glancing at his phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then, kitten,” he said.

You eyed him sourly, bad mood returning. “If my prayers go unanswered, then yes.”

He chuckled and pocketed his cell, lifting a vague hand at you in farewell. Then he was out the door, leaving you to stare after him in resentment.

Aya popped up at your elbow as soon as he'd gone, letting out a low whistle. “Who was that, Y/N? He was pretty cute.”

You scoffed, turning to your desk to gather up your things to head out to the train. “If you think demons plumbed from the depths of hell are cute, then sure. He's going to be hell to work with.”

Aya laughed, giving you a conspiratorial look. “I don’t know. I’d let him plumb my depths, if he wanted.”

You choked, and Aya chuckled again before waving herself off. “You should think about yours as well,” she called as she disappeared through the doorway. Her cackle echoed down the hall behind her.

You gawked after her, headache finally settling in behind your eyelids.

This was going to be a very, very long case.

184 notes · View notes

welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least.

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least.

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really.

----

Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made.

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam.

----

“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible.

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen.

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise.

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem.

The crux of their problem, really.

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already.

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication.

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again.

She’s totally going to say it again.

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines.

And they’re trying to avoid that.

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too.

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult.

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be.

Showing with other people, though. That made sense.

It made—sense adjacent.

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical.

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week.

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm.

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything.

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan.

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible.

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma.

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred.

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out.

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything.

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud.

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her.

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort.

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table.

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma.

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation.

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either.

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his.

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems.

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them.

Will looks far too entertained.

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking.

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly.

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused.

That’s fair.

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it.

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes.

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds.

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working.

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers.

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength.

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous.

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate.

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time.

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least.

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge.

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet.

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation.

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though.

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point.

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism.

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point.

Emma smiles.

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem.

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks.

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important.

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better.

Probably because she’s wearing it.

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused.

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed.

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles.

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least.

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her.

Sooner rather than later.

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his.

Emma rolls her eyes.

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now.

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy.

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks.

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be.

Or quest. Whatever, honestly.

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else.

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd.

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later.

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle.

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him.

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized.

Until he had to pretend he didn’t.

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though.

He flips his wrist.

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night.

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices.

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot.

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night.

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo.

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way.

That sucks, admittedly.

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses.

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her.

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this.

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding.

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity.

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?”

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly.

He opts for honesty.

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all.

Sort of.

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over.

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head.

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend.

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe.

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly.

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so.

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do.

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this.

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs.

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done.

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable.

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over.

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #i was not kidding about the amount of christmas fic #i've got three more prompts to write and also the blue line stuff i rewrote and a new time travel chapter tomorrow #guess who's stressed in a holiday sort of way???

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arhvste · 4 years

Text

irreplaceable - oikawa tooru

summary - you and oikawa have been broken up for a couple of years but managed to maintain a close and friendly relationship with each other however, it proves to be too much of a challenge for you two to keep your relationship purely platonic. - fluff

an- this was requested on my wattpad i’ll tag the user when i find it, also i have no idea what the hell is going on with the spaces between paragraphs i can’t fix it google docs obviously hates me but i’ll put up with it for now.

warnings - cursing (minimal)

“Hey I think we should break up. It’s for the best right now.”

It had been 3 years since you and the famous Oikawa Tooru had decided to part ways. There was no bitterness behind the decision to end your romance, it was just like Oikawa had said, “for the best right now.”. You two had remained close friends despite your relationship status returning back to single, there was no reason to be unfriendly and throw away what you had so carefully and lovingly built up over the past 2 years with each other. Your schedules disagreed with each other and time spent together had slowly but surely decreased leading you both to mutually decide on putting a halt on your romance to prevent the feeling of neglect on either side.

You truly were happy for Oikawa and everything he was achieving and still were just as close to him as you were before, the only difference being you two weren’t exactly physically affectionate anymore. Not that you minded a huge amount but part of you did hang on to the last two words of his break up line.

“Right now.”

Before, you had secretly hoped to naturally rekindle your romance and pick up from where you left off as time went on and your schedules changed but it never happened. Not sure on Oikawa’s thoughts and feelings about the situation, you had decided it was best to move on and you did your best to do that, managing to convince yourself you were over the setter. Deep down you knew you still had lingering feelings for the boy but they were enough to handle and had gotten exceptionally easier to control and ignore when you were around your ex. You were almost certain that those lingering feelings had eventually faded but you always knew the boy would have some sort of place in your heart as your first serious love and you were fine with accepting that.

Whatever Oikawa was feeling about you, it didn’t matter as much to you as it did before. He was happy to be working towards his goals as a professional volleyball player and you couldn't be more proud of him.

Things were fine the way they were. You were still good friends and still hung out together as you did before. Both happy and content with the events occurring in your own lives while still being able to offer support and a platonic type of affection. Things were okay as they were and you were both okay with that.

The door slammed open startling you from the couch causing you to snap your head up and in the direction of the front door to your apartment. Your gaze met an irritated looking Oikawa who was currently dripping wet from the rain. Little droplets of water fell from his pretty brown locks which had stuck to his face agitating him further and his soaked clothes that would definitely need throwing in the dryer immediately.

“Bad weather?” you hummed teasingly as you swung your legs off the couch and made your way over to the soaking volleyball player.

“No, the sun is shining, temperature absolutely sweltering as you can tell by my excessive sweat.” he sarcastically quipped back, taking off his puddle filled shoes as close to your front door as he could.

Even after your break up, the two of you would still frequently visit each other's apartments whenever you wanted. Though you weren’t exactly romantically affectionate anymore, you both still found comfort in each other’s presence and the pair of you would visit each other when one of you needed to vent something out or you just felt like a general catch up between your busy and cruel schedules.

You threw Oikawa a warm towel that had just come out of your dryer. He caught it sharply and brought the warm and soft material to his face savouring not only the comforting warmth it brought to his cold skin, but also the relaxing scent of you. Oikawa would never admit out loud but, the scent of you was so familiar to him it almost gave him a sense of home. His pride wouldn't allow him to ever admit to something so sappy out loud to you, at least not for now.

“Go on, you know where everything is, go take a shower and leave your clothes in the basket outside. I’ll throw them in the dryer and make us some tea.” You smiled warmly at him as you made your way past him into the small but clean and sleek kitchen area to fill the kettle with fresh water.

“Thanks Y/N-chan. You’re the best!”

“We can’t have one of Japan’s top rising volleyball stars catching a cold can we? Now when you make it big, you’ll have me to thank because I kept you in good health.”

Oikawa snickered slightly before making his way to the bathroom down the hall in your apartment.

It wasn’t rare for the boy to visit you after training. Sometimes he needed a little extra support or words of encouragement particularly after training sessions he found more challenging or tiring than usual. You were a good listener who gave honest and unbiased feedback and that was something Oikawa could greatly appreciate you for.

After you heard the bathroom door click shut you approached the washing basket and grabbed his sopping wet clothes and threw them into the dryer in the small utility area. Turning it on a quick dry you set the basket back down and made your way back to the kitchen to finish serving the hot tea.

Grabbing two mugs, you carefully poured the hot liquid into them and carried them over to the small coffee table which sat in front of your couch. You went back to the kitchen to grab two plates and a loaf of milk bread you had made earlier. Oikawa had taught you how to make milk bread and you made sure to have some made as much as possible just in case he ever decided to drop by. Your cooking and baking skills didn’t go unnoticed by the setter who decided that “Y/N-chan’s milk bread is the best.”. You smiled to yourself fondly remembering the time he announced that after trying a piece of your first attempt of the recipe.

You heard shuffling noises from the bathroom and after a couple of minutes you heard the bathroom door open. Oikawa made his way over to you with damp silky hair which had perked up slightly, the soft white towel slung over his neck to keep his fresh t-shirt from getting soaked through by the water droplets in his hair and a pair of fresh training shorts.

“You’re always a few steps ahead huh?” He smiled as he sat down next to you and relaxed into the couch.

“If you’re referring to the warm clothes I keep in the airing cupboard for you, you’re welcome.” Turning to lazily smile at him.

You both stayed like that for a few moments. A comfortable silence washing over the two of you. Neither of you felt the need to speak up just yet, you both allowed yourselves to indulge in the calming and warm atmosphere around the pair of you.

After a few moments passed by, Oikawa leaned forward to rip a piece off the milk bread loaf. Biting into it he hummed in approval before eating the whole piece. “Y/N-chan, you make the best milk bread you know?” Your laugh rang through Oikawa’s ears. “Your flattery will get you anywhere Oikawa.”

A few moments passed again, nothing said between the two of you. Oikawa had a slight frown on his face looking as if he were deep in thought. You noticed this but decided to let him be for a moment.

The setter sat there trying to find the right words to use to get his current thoughts across to you. Truth be told Oikawa had shown up to your place purely for a general catch up but picking up on the little quirks and details to your routine with each other, he had been thinking about you the minute he noticed the spare clothes you kept for him in the airing cupboard. He had never really lost feelings for you. Sure, he had been on a few dates here and there, but nobody lasted more than 3 dates before he grew bored. His mind would always wander back to thoughts of you and he took this as a sign that these other girls were just temporary fillers for the void left in him when you had split up. He had always known you were the only one who would satisfy his physical and emotional needs, but he wasn’t sure as to the whereabouts you were in your feelings for him so he never spoke up about the situation.

After a few minutes you grew slightly concerned. Yes, you knew the two of you could sit through a while of comfortable silence but the bothered face on your ex worried you slightly.

“Oikawa? Are you okay?”

“Huh? Oh- uh yeah, sorry lost in a thought for a second there.”

He looked up at you with his pretty brown eyes and gave you his signature charming smile.

You had known Oikawa for years and you had grown close enough to be able to tell a genuine smile from a fake one and the smile he was currently pulling right now was most certainly fake. You frowned at the boy making his smile drop a little.

“What's wrong Y/N-chan?”

“I should be asking you that? You should know by now to not pull that half assed expression with me.”

Oikawa sighed and broke eye contact with you as he cast his gaze down to the coffee table.

“It’s just, well- Ah fuck it. You’re really irreplaceable to me. There’s nobody as good as you.”

Your eyes widened at the boy's sudden confession. Did Oikawa Tooru really recite back what feelings you thought you had gotten rid of? Just by that sentence alone, past feelings to which you were certain you had managed to contain and bury had come rushing over you clouding your thoughts and completely throwing you off guard.

“That doesn’t sound like something you say to an ex girlfriend.”

He looked back up and locked his longing eyes into your own.

“Well, maybe I don’t want you to be my ex girlfriend anymore.”

You felt as though your heart couldn’t take much more. Your chest felt tight and you knew for a fact your face was turning red as you felt your skin heat up from the volleyballers direct and unfiltered confession. You opened your mouth but were stopped when Oikawa quickly spoke.

“Listen to me Y/N, I’m not playing games. I’m done trying to fill the gap only you can fill. I’ve fucking missed you like crazy and I didn’t want to admit it. I never said anything because I wasn’t sure what you were thinking or feeling but you have my heart Y/N. It’s always been you. No matter what I do I can't stop thoughts about you creeping back on me when they shouldn’t. Tell me I’m crazy Y/N. I should be over you by now but I’m not because no matter what I do or try, I can’t deny the fact I’m still in fucking love with you!”

You didn’t think twice about your next move. Before you could even think of the words to reply to him, instinct took over you and you threw yourself onto the boy and crashed your lips onto his. He took a second to process what was happening but after a second of not reacting his arms snaked around your waist as he kissed you back with an equal amount of passion. With that one kiss, Oikawa knew the feelings were mutual. You could both feel the raw desire and need for each other, the deep feelings and passion that was once locked away, finally free and was poured into the kiss. He pulled you onto his lap properly as one of his hands drew little circles on your waist while the other made its way up your neck as his fingers skillfully weaved through your silky hair. You pressed your body closer to his as your own hands wandered into his slightly damp locks.

Finally pulling away, you both took a second to catch your breath. You looked up and into Oikawa’s twinkling eyes which held nothing but sincerity and genuine love and adoration for you.

“Idiot. You should’ve spoken sooner.”

Nothing could stop the bright smile on Oikawa’s face. His handsome features lightened up as he laughed and caressed your cheek. Small tears gathered in the corners of his eyes threatening to spill at any moment. You leaned forward and wiped them away before they could fall and left a trail of small pecks across his soft skin.

“You have no idea just how happy you’ve made me. I love you so so much I promise I’ll never leave you again Y/N.”

He spoke with such honesty as a big smile broke onto your own face.

“I’ll hold you to that. And Tooru, I love you too.”

He pulled you in close inhaling the scent of you. Sure you were both okay with your close friendship but this to Oikawa felt like home. That once empty gap that could only be filled by you, full once again making his heart flutter.

Things were okay the way they were but this? This is how things were meant to be.

#oikawa tooru #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#oneshot #fanfic #x reader #oikawa x reader

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asphora · 4 years

Text

untitled | jww

angst; one-sided love

“For love, I will handle your sins.” “And for justice?”

Wonwoo’s arm is a sturdy warmth around your shoulder, both your eyes glued to the television screen in front of you. It’s 2 a.m. on a Friday night and you and your best friend are up to your usual plans: dramatic romance movies, popcorn, the two of you wrapped up in warm blankets, curled up on your couch with your head on his shoulder, his arm around yours and the usual sleepover that would ensue soon after.

There must be lifetimes where the two of you are more than this, you muse, but this is the way it’s always been, and despite your hidden feelings for your dearest friend, you wouldn’t change or trade your friendship for the world.

It’s true; you’d be a liar if you said you hadn’t ever wished things were different, that if maybe he or you were different, things between the two of you could be different. But this is the lifetime you’re born into; one where you are only his friend, but even then, your gratitude outweighs your yearning every time. So as always, you keep your eyes on the movie, ignoring the way your heart races at his touch despite its familiarity. You let yourself cry through the angsty bits of the movie and even shed a few tears, secretly meant for yours and the main character’s one-sided loves.

Especially now that he had a girlfriend, you’d keep this secret to the grave. Finally, this dork of a best friend of yours had finally managed to snag the girl of his dreams: the long awaited, beautiful girl who you were convinced had probably saved a country in her past life to be this lucky. Admittedly, it hurt to see them together, but despite this, you were thankful for her. She brought joy to light of your life and for that, you’d be forever grateful. So much so that you barely even ever registered the pang of pain in your chest anymore.

Wonwoo had been particularly restless that night, but as his best friend, you knew him well enough to know that if it was something he wanted to share with you, he would and that prying just wasn’t the best way to go about it. So, as he fidgets every few seconds throughout the opening scene of the movie, seemingly looking for a comfortable spot, you let him. You carry on as usual and remain unbothered, completely trusting that when he’s ready he’ll tell you.

Somewhere along the line though, your worries diminish as he finds a comfortable spot, head resting on your shoulder with the blankets snugly pulled up and encasing the two of you in shared warmth. The movie ends and the credits roll. You press the soft cotton of the blanket to your eyes, dabbing the dampness from the tears away. Then, looking up at Wonwoo who at some point had managed to become engrossed enough in the movie to finally focus on it, you saw he was now fighting back the obvious tears in his eyes. Honestly, he did this for every movie, fight back his tears, often saying that he didn’t want to get his glasses wet. Being the wonderful and understanding best friend that you are, you simply let him believe that you believed his reason. But you knew the truth, you knew that he had to stop himself or he’d be an even bigger sopping mess than you by the end of the movie.

“That was so good,” you tell him, offering him the same portion of the cotton blanket you’d used to dab your own tears.

“Yeah,” he agrees, lifting his glasses up to his hair as you move to dab the moisture off his face like you always do, but before you can, he moves back as if recoiling from your incoming touch and he takes the cloth you’re offering, then dabs his face on his own.

You almost raise a brow at the sudden and unusual gesture, but you let it slide. You really weren’t the confrontational type anyway, maybe he was feeling particularly antsy tonight and just didn’t want to feel like a bigger crybaby than his best friend (which to be completely honest, you knew he was and your entire shared friend group knew it too, not that you’d ever tell him though). Instead of saying anything though, you indulge him, grabbing the now empty bowl of popcorn from his lap and getting up to rinse it in the sink.

“Hey,” he says your name in a tone you haven’t heard since high school when he’d accidentally lost your favorite book and just didn’t know how to come clean about it. The sound makes you stop the circular motions of soaping on the bowl in your hands and look right at him.

In the darkness of the room, the only source of light from the moon outside the window and the quiet flashing of the still turned on television with the credits rolling to soft music, you see his expression clear as day. It’s tense and almost stoic. You can tell he isn’t angry at you, but he’s upset and from the twisting of his facial features, you knew he was struggling to get the words out.

You rinse your hands and walk over to him, drying the dampness on the fabric of your hoodie. “Hey, Woo,” you take a spot next to him, an arm instinctively wrapping around his shoulder and a hand from the opposite arm rubbing soothing circles onto the space on his chest where his heart was.

“It’s okay, you can tell me anything.” You say and he believes you, but it isn’t his belief in you that feels tested, but it’s in himself. Could what his girlfriend said to him possibly be true? And if it was, where did they go from there? Where would you and he go from there? Would he be able to bear what he might hear?

Braving his internal panic, he lets the question out, not meeting your eyes as the jumbled mesh of words tumble from his lips: “Do you like me?”

His question catches you of guard and your hands freeze their ministrations on his chest. You look him in the eye and for the first time in all the years you’ve known Wonwoo, you’re at a loss for words. He is too, finally staring back at you and reading the panic and fear that flash across your features. He was so sure you’d say no, but he knows that your silence is answer enough.

He shakes his head, looking down at where your hand is still frozen on his chest and he takes it in his own to remove it and untangles himself from you, shifting slightly on the couch to sit further from you and put enough distance that neither of you are touching. The sudden loss of contact feels cold and foreign to you, but you don’t protest.

“Y/N.” disappointment. You hear it so clearly in his tone that your eyes shift as quick as light to look down at the potted plants on your coffee table in the middle of the living room. Anywhere else but at his face where you know his beautiful, soft features are marred by the same disappointment that drips in his tone.

“I have a girlfriend.”

You’re offended by the way his says it. As if you had any malice or ill intentions towards him, when he was the one who asked first; as if all these years have been some kind of ploy to get him into your bed instead of years built on mutual understanding and adoration that had grown into something deeper than romance.

Hot tears threatened to pour from your eyes. You were going to be sick; how could he think so lowly of you? How could he diminish the sturdy foundations of something built on years of friendship in so few words? It must have been a talent, you thought bitterly, to be so eloquent that he could reduce a soul’s connection to another with so little, so easily.

He on the other hand, reads your tears as an admission of guilt. He watches you, shoulders and frame shaking as you try to fight the sob that wracks through your chest. “To be honest,” he speaks trying to fill the silence as he usually does in moments of uncomfortable confrontation, but you just wish he would stop. The more he spoke, the more his disappointment seemed to seep out of him, spilling out onto the carpet of your freshly made and cleaned apartment, staining everything.

“I didn’t believe it when I heard it at first. I thought Sohee was just being paranoid, but now…” he trails of, letting the pause settle and spread around the room into tension so palpable that even a knife couldn’t cut it, it rang in your ears so much so that you felt that maybe your ears might pop.

“Now, I don’t know.”

You don’t respond. You don’t say anything because like him, you also don’t know. Any attempts at defending yourself seemed futile at this point, especially when it seemed as though he’d made up his mind. Unfortunately, it wasn’t made in your favor.

“I think I should go,” he says, getting up from the couch, pushing the blanket off his lap and gathering his things from a corner of the room.

When he reaches the small hallway in your apartment leading to the door, he turns to face you, finding that you’d quietly followed his movements and were there to see him out despite the tears still streaming down your cheeks that you had left unchecked.

He looks at your shaken form; you devastated from the suddenness of it all, him devastated by what he saw as your betrayal of his trust and at a loss for what would come next. Watching you like that, his heart ached, and he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around you in a comforting embrace.

Crying into his shoulder, soaking his shirt, you wrapped your arms around his waist and shoulders recognizing the hug exactly for what it was at this point. You’d known Wonwoo long enough, had been in love with him long enough to know every meaning and reason behind every movement he made.

This was pity.

You spill a few tears for the friendship you feel like your losing, and for the shear pathos of your situation; how low was low enough at this point? How much more pathetic could you get?

As you cry, you feel him squeeze you before his words break through the sound of your sobbing, “We shouldn’t see each other,” it feels as though his sentence is incomplete, the way it hangs in the air, as if he’s left the last word out before he abruptly adds, “you know, just for a while, while things calm down.”

He says for ‘a while’, but you know that a while piles up; a while could be minutes, even days. A while could also mean years. You knew your best friend like the back of your hand and exactly what he meant by a while. It was a kind let go, a caring send off to you; a while, in this case, was a kind goodbye. A while meant never again.

You push of and out of his grip, angry but still gentle in your touch. “Are you serious? Over this small thing, Wonwoo I would never, I’m not that kind of person–”

“It isn’t a small thing,” he cuts you off, a little too aggressively, voice a little too loud, eyes a little too furrowed for your comfort. That’s when you realize, it’s those miniscule changes that make someone so familiar, look so easily like a stranger.

“It isn’t small, please don’t trivialize it.” You try to process his words and almost think that maybe he’s feeling guilt over all the years he hadn’t noticed your feelings, but the next words out his mouth prove otherwise. “It bothers Sohee, and I doubt that would go away, especially now that you’ve admitted it.”

Should you have lied instead? You wonder. As if this situation is on you when you’d never even dared or thought of making your feelings known.

“So, for her sake, for her comfort, I don’t think I can see you right now.”

You feel frozen in place, but your feet feel like their failing you, like you’re being engulfed in quicksand, you already couldn’t move, and just as the cherry on top, you were sinking.

“So that’s it then? An entire lifetime’s worth of friendship, down the drain, just that easily?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to sound or seem like you were begging for him to stay.

When he doesn’t answer, you try again, “C’mon Woo, we’ve been in each other’s lives for as long as we could remember.” At the words, you feel your resolve to remain dignified failing, “I don’t know this world without you, all our friends are the same, our families are so close, I can’t exist without you, and I-I know it isn’t just me.”

You look into his eyes and watch tears start to pool in them from behind his lenses as you speak, and just when you think you’ve gotten through to him, an apology slips from his lips. “I’m sorry, it isn’t permanent, at least I don’t think it will be. Just till things blow over.”

You feel your firsts clench at your sides. ‘Till things blow over?’ As if this friendship of over fifteen years could ever just blow over, as if the feelings you’ve harbored and taken such great care to hide and protect him from would ever just blow over, for him to minimize this as though forgetting the intertwinement of your lives and souls was as simple as waiting for a storm to cease. Maybe for him it was that simple, but for you, it would be like rebuilding a house after watching it burn down, or losing a limb; you could replace it, remake it, but it would never be the same or as good as what it was before the loss.

With that, he faces the door again. This time his hand is firmer on the doorknob. Even the metal in his hand knows of his certainty and resolve to leave. How lucky it is, you think, to be the last thing he touches, prints embedded into the cold surface, permanent to the memory, but invisible to the eyes the moment he would let go and leave.

At that moment, you feel yourself overcome with a sudden surge of anger that washes over you like a bucket of cold water waking you from your immobility, and the words leave your mouth before you can even think to stop them.

“So what if I love you?”

The tone you use is sharp and Wonwoo doesn’t think he’s ever heard that sound come out of you, let alone directed at him; so striking with how full of hurt and burning rage it was. The sound is something akin to a wounded animal and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turns to look at you. He says nothing, but his eyes are a silent question; mixed emotions of a clarification begging to be answered, laced with a fear that seemed to take over his features at the realization of your words. If he let himself speak, if he found enough of his voice to even attempt to ask you what you meant, what would that mean for the two of you? Even for him and Sohee? He desperately wanted to know your answer to his unspoken question, but he also knew that once he knew, once the words released into the world, they couldn’t be unsaid.

At least now, if he didn’t hear you, he could always excuse himself and you; say he never knew exactly how you felt, that it was just mere infatuation that would subside. But if he knew, in his mind, he knew there would be no going back from the words you would say. He wouldn’t be able to bear the weight of your truth, the gravity of what you truly felt for him.

You, on the other hand though, do not back down. You’re angry and understandably feeling very betrayed, so you let the negative feelings flood out of you; if he wanted out of your life – out of this friendship – then he would also have to deal with being treated like someone who didn’t belong in it. He wouldn’t be spared the aftermath of destroying the one thing you held sacred in this life.

“So what if I love you?” You repeat, “So what I’m in love with you and have been for most of my life?”

The heat in your eyes warns you of the traitorous tears that are threatening to spill over, this time tenfold of how they had the first time, but you power through it not caring if you looked like an idiot in front of him. You believed in fighting for this, for your friendship and for him. If there was ever anything that would ever be worth fighting for, you knew with every fiber of your being that it was this. Between him and the world, you would choose your friendship. You would choose him every time. (It was just unfortunate that for him, that didn’t seem to be the case).

You can see his trapped expression, like a deer caught in the headlights, while you were a freight train headed right for him. All it would take is one step, one twist of the doorknob already in his hand and one swift motion for him to leave to escape the impending danger that seemed to be rushing at him. Worst of all was though, he didn’t even know if he wanted to step out of your path of destruction.

“The fact of the matter is,” you feel the moisture finally escape from your eyes, the words becoming muddled as they mixed with your sharp intakes of breaths and sobs.

You’ve never been religious, but you find yourself praying desperately to any and every divine being there is in the universe that this last hail mary would pay off. You may not have been a believer of gods, but you had always been a believer in this connection with Wonwoo and you would exhaust any and all options before you let it go just like that.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel, because it all comes down to you.” You choke on the last word, knowing just how painfully true your words seemed to ring.

“Because you have never,” you push back a sob, your own tearful eyes boring into his own that now seem to be filling with moisture. Wonwoo may not have been as empathetic as you, but he knew you and with just the shaking in your voice and the pain in your eyes, he could already tell that years of agony and rejection seemed to spill from just the few words you had said.

It wasn’t at all what he had expected. Instead of pushing your romantic feelings onto him, what was happening seemed to be worse than what he had initially thought. Instead, you were resigned to this fate; a yearning so deep but unsatisfiable, a thirst that only he would quench, but couldn’t. The realization of true cruelty seemed to wash over him harder than he had ever thought possible, its result personified and facing him directly in the form of your broken form and unsightly begging.

He was wrong. You were not a freight train headed straight for him. It was him. He was an impending crash; the driver of a car you were a passenger to, as he headed straight for a cliff he would willingly (but unknowingly) drive the both of you off of, and yet, with every means for you to escape, you simply refused to. You would happily stand in front of him if he was a freight train; gladly bear the leap into the unknown abyss of a ravine, if it meant you would go down with him. You would set yourself on fire if it meant he could be warm, and nothing broke his heart more.

Eyes shut, as if anticipating the impending collision, you swallow the lump in your throat, and push yourself to continue, “and could never, feel the same.”

There it was. The reality you’d learned to live with. You had come to terms with it long ago, even if just on a subconscious level, but saying the words out loud, speaking into the universe was something else entirely. The agony of admission, of the truth coming to light, spilling from your mouth for the very person who was responsible for your hurt to see and spectate, was a pain unimaginable before this point.

You thought that after experiencing living through and with your unrequited love you could manage anything, but this was a kind of torture even more excruciating than the last. Your bleeding heart laid out on the floor, mangled and bloody for Wonwoo to examine every crevice of its selfish and wounded ventricles. Even more torturous was how he watched it, not so much as even an attempt to retrieve it from the ground; from his end there was nothing. Despite how long you seemed to wait for him to say something, anything, for him to be the best friend you knew he was and tell you that it would be okay.

It’s only when you find the courage to open your still teary eyes that you hear the first sound that breaks through the thickness of the silence:

Click.

Your eyes barely register his quick movements, only catching a glimpse of his shadow as he exits and closes the door of your apartment behind him.

It was over.

“For justice, I will show you mine.”

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by-ethos · 3 years

Text

Lesson #1: Nothing goes as planned.

It has been a month since Ethos’ first launched. Or has it been 2 months? 3, even? (well, according to ACRA) But if you ask me I don’t keep count anymore - not that it does not matter. Time moves really fast when you’re working around the clock , that’s all I can say. In retrospect, I wish I had written our journey down sooner but I learnt that – lesson #1: running your first business isn’t always going to go as planned. I had the idea of starting a business over few years ago when I discovered I love being in operations (eeks, my team will read me as bossy) and how things flow accordingly (SOPs, par levels, inventories of sorts). In fact, Ethos didn’t start off as a beverage company. Initially, I took an interest in açaí, not only because it was my favourite superfood but working in Poke Theory years back, made me realise there were a handful of customers who couldn’t quite make out what açaí really was. These bowl of purple gold (a.k.a açaí) were too good to be passed off as “orh like ice cream ha?” “frozen berry? so like sorbet lah?” and then, there’s the mixup with asahi as well. I’m gonna stop myself here with a disclaimer that I’m not a superfood wanker or any sorts. I just love it when good food gets the appropriate appreciation.

How did we become an environmental-centric cold brews, you asked? Besides myself leaving a good-paying job to venture into this, I decided to bring in 2 more close knits of mine and we decided to go with our common ground – chilled coffee in a bottle. After putting together 3 heads, we wanted the modus operandi of our brand to be a grab-n-go concept with sustainability as our core. Sustainability. I love the sound of that word, almost as if it emits scents of birch woods and cedar. I will leave that topic for another entry as I have been known to ramble on and on about eco-practices.

With the amounting stress from running the pop up at Eatbox and setting up our upcoming cafe, I really should be on Excel instead of writing. But I decided to out work aside now because my team reminded me today that it’s healthy to have another hobby outside of Ethos (not because it’s already 2am) I have always loved writing, especially sad proses when I was a romance-deprived teenager; anyways, I digress. I sometimes get too caught up with the stresses that comes together as parts and parcels of running a business for the first time. I wanted to start writing again to remind myself of the hard work that’s been put in and again to fall in love with Ethos repeatedly.

Again, I will be sharing more insightful tips (if I have gotten any wiser, that is) in the next entry. For now, I will be ending my first entry the most clichè way, which is sharing my favourite quote from Tim Burton:

“Every story has a beginning, middle and an end. But not necessarily, in that order.”

www.ethosbeverages.com

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write-something-new-again · 4 years

Text

Houston (Dream Team one-shot)

~Dreamnap

~Warning: Anxiety

Dream lands in Houston. Sapnap isn’t there yet.

Stupid faulty alarm clocks, cheap chargers and bad weather. Now he was left stumbling through tired gray masses. His arms quivered in cold, his hair was plastered to his face from rainwater. No phone, no sense of time other than the fact that he was late. Late. To meet Dream.

“Flight 19 will be leaving in approximately 30 minutes. All passengers please report to terminal b-52” The shuffling of so many feet muffled the speakers. What terminal was he even in? His shoes squeaked against the floor with every step and turn. Pale, zombified faces swam around him. He couldn’t do this. His phone wouldn’t turn on, his head hurt, and he was hopelessly lost.

Dizzy and half awake, the boy staggered. The only direction he knew right now was forward, and forward he went. Suddenly he crashed. Blurry LED lights cast colors on his face, warming up his skin and making his eyes sting. Pulling away to see what had blocked left him staring at a bright advertisement panel.

A girl. Blonde, skinny and pretty. Being held close by a guy. Tall, dark and handsome. ‘Meet your soulmate using today’s hottest new app- Miss Match!’ Sapnap felt sick.

Think, what was the last message Dream sent? He curled in on himself and slid to the ground, his back against the image of technicolor romance. The last message he sent was....his gate number. For a second, Sapnap thought he was screwed. But while he couldn’t remember the number, he remembered smiling when he saw it.

Brushing his teeth in a frenzy while he wriggled into his shoes, knowing that the plane had already landed and he hadn’t even left the house. The last time his phone buzzed he was one foot out the door and terrified that Dream was angry. He couldn’t remember the number, but he remembered the warm feeling that came with it. Something special.

Okay, what numbers were special to them? Dream was 22, he was 20, but neither of those sounded right. It could have been gate 9, they had known each other 9 years, right? Yeah, because they met in-

Sapnap scrambled back to his feet on shaky knees. He needed a sign, and he needed it now. Heart throbbing, ears ringing, the stress was destroying his body. If Dream was mad at him (which he should be), he’d throw up. He just needed a sign. Everything looked the same, like dull blue chain stores. His eyes wouldn’t focus, he couldn’t breathe-

Most of all, he had to find Dream. To pull himself together. To get some semblance of direction.

He must have looked insane. Sopping wet, jerking in circles, and swaying where he stood. Even more so when one too quick of a turn stole his balance and sent him to the floor. He was so close to sobbing, he just wanted to see Dream. Just as the last of his composure was about to crumble, he saw it. A little ways up the hall, a pathetic faded sign hung. It blended in so well with the lifeless droning he sat in. Gate 30.

Sapnap whipped around, more awake than he had ever been. He heaved himself off the floor and wiped a wet sleeve across his face. Breath held, shivering hard, his eyes were darting everywhere.

Sign. At first, it almost looked like another worn down gift shop. After the double take, it looked like Gate 29. In the distance, 28. Sapnap started running.

The dull and the blue swarmed around him. The boy cut through the corpses. Suitcases and stiff limbs slowed him down, but the profanities and offended scoffs didn’t. His heart hurt with anticipation. Every gate he passed made him feel a little less dead. Some sort of Disney store at Gate 17, a pizza place by 16. He just wanted to see him. Just once before potentially losing him forever.

And there he was, outside of Gate 13. A splash of green amidst this miserable gray. His hoodie was somehow a little too big and hung around his waist and wrists from where he sat on a table outside of Starbucks (He doesn’t even like coffee). Soft blue phone light on his face, his knee bouncing idly, playing with his hoodie string- there he was.

He was probably so mad. Sapnap had completely lost his chance, but he couldn’t just leave. What was he supposed to do? There really was only one option. He started walking.

Green. Getting closer. There’s too much to say about it. Green was passion, and it was creativity. It suited him so well. Green was everywhere, it was right in front of him. He could almost reach out and touch it-

“You’re here!” Green, enveloping him completely. When had he started crying? “You’re here! I thought you weren’t coming!” Sapnap didn’t even want to look, and instead buried his head into the boy’s hoodie. Now he’d get it all wet, great. Everything was falling apart right in front of him, and like the coward he is, he chose to look away.

He chose to look away until he couldn’t. A hand on his chin pulled and left him staring up into shimmering green eyes. Sapnap tried so hard to brace himself. Dream would yell and shove, he knew it. Plus he was taller, which made it all so much worse. If he could just get it over with, maybe he’d be okay some day. Maybe he’d get over him.

Dream simply smiled and held him close. “Hi!”

After all of this torture, Sapnap still somehow held himself together. Shaking, stuttering, shaking his head. “Please don’t be mad, I don’t know what happened, I just-” His chest was on fire, his throat had closed up.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Why would I be mad, silly?” Suddenly, everything felt okay again. His phone was still dead, he was still sopping wet, and he was still late. But he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t scared, the dizziness had since passed. Everything was green.

“You’re here.” Not on a screen, you’re here in my arms- He had so much to say. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

#dreamwastaken #dream #georgenot #sapnap #dreamnap #oneshot #hurt comfort #dream team #fluff and angst

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gingervitus · 4 years

Note

How ‘bout 7, 9, 20, and 26

YAAAAHOOOOOO. LET’S GOOOOO!

7. (write ~300 word love scene for them)

Emma didn’t know how she ended up in the black coffee guy’s house, let alone drying dishes in his kitchen after he washed them. “This could have waited for tomorrow morning when the dishwasher is done running,” she grumbled while running the towel along the inside curve of the low ball glass in her hand. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to maintain the grimace on her face, not allowing a grin to come through. “Also dinner was good. Thanks.”

Eyes glanced down at her. A satisfied smirk found its way to Paul’s lips. “You’re welcome,” he replied as he scrubbed at a pan with the scratchy side of his sponge. “I’m glad you enjoyed, and I’m also glad you humored me enough to help with the dishes.”

The smile peeked through. Dammit. “Yeah, yeah, don’t tell anyone I’m being wooed by a bigass dork, though. You’re gonna ruin my street cred,” she continued to mumble even though a full fledged, toothy grin. He handed her the pan after rinsing it, but her face twisted at the sight of it. “You need to rinse that better. That’s why your eggs taste like fucking soap.”

His eyebrows raised, eyes shifting to the pan. “Huh,” he puffed before throwing it under the water again. “Thanks.”

“I’ve got your back, kid.” She snatched the pan back from it once she decided it was adequately rinsed off. “But--”

“Don’t tell anyone because it’ll ruing your street cred. Got it.” Her eyes shifted up to him only to find that he was staring right back at her. She felt her heart leap into her throat. “Thanks for putting your bad bitch reputation on the line for me.”

He leaned in, and she pushed up on her toes to meet him halfway. When their lips met, her heart hammered against her chest. Something deep inside cursed the involuntary smile that pressed against his mouth. “Yeah, just for you, though,” she muttered against his lips. She felt him return the grin. “Don’t give me that shit.”

“You like me.”

Another kiss.

“Fuck you.”

Kiss.

“If you insist.”

He kissed her again, but this time she found herself laughing into his mouth. “You’re on thin ice, nerd.” She squealed when wet hands found her waist, soaking through her shirt. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re lucky I like you, asshole!”

“You better believe it.” One of his hands moved to brush the stray tendril of hair from her eyes, leaving a small droplet of water in its wake. She stared directly into his eyes, hoping and praying he was too smitten to notice what she was doing. Sink still running, she carefully grabbed the spigot, and in one swift movement, she pressed the button to switch the stream to spray and turned the water on him. “Emma!” he shouted, dropping his hands to his sides. Her head tossed back with laughter. “Come on! It’s such a fucking mess in here now. There’s water everywhere and--”

Without another word, she pointed the stream at her own chest, matching his in terms of wetness. “Now, it’s a wet t-shirt contest,” she announced as her eyes raked up and down his sopping wet shirt. “I think you won, big guy.”

“I think you’re the worst.”

“You’re a bad liar.” She tugged him closer to her. “Some might even say you’re the fucking worst.” He took his turn to grumble as he leaned down to kiss her again. “But it’s okay. I still like you.”

(THIS IS MORE THAN 300 WORDS BUT I LIKE SOFT ROMANCE. THEY ARE I N L O V E AND I HAVE NO SELF CONTROL)

9. (have they made each other cry?)

Emma makes him cry when she tells him she can’t say ‘I love you’ back to him. It’s not instantaneous. He doesn’t want her to feel bad, but when she’s gone, the lump rises in his throat and he punches the kitchen counter. He doesn’t believe her when she says it’s got nothing to do with him. It’s always been him. Just too plain and weird for anyone to love. In contrast, she also makes him cry when she does say it back. Her actions have said it for a while, but when the words leave her lips so nonchalantly, he’s so relieved he can’t stop the tears. ‘Get it together, nerd. It’s not like you didn’t already fucking know.’

Paul gets he on the anniversary of her sister’s death. It’s been a few years, and the tears don’t come like they used to, which she feels guilty about. He sits cross-legged beside Jane’s headstone in his suit. She called him as he got out of work, and of course, he came right away. He tells her it’s okay to not feel so broken. He reminds her that people are allowed to move on with their lives, and that’s what she’s doing. She’s living and she’s happy and that’s okay. Her icy fingers wrap around his as a particularly cold December wind rushes over them. ‘You could spend Christmas with me if you’d like.’ A simple gesture. She’d spent the last ten by herself. ‘It’ll just be me and the cat, and I’m pretty sure the grocery stores are all closed at this point. But we can make something work.’ Her gaze finds him and immediately blurs. She falls into his chest, sobbing. An arm wraps around her back. A kiss presses into her hair. One single snowflake falls between them.

20. (what is a promise they have made to each other?)

They’re both drunk and sitting in Bill’s backyard as a Fourth of July barbecue comes to a close. They lean close together in two uncomfortable fold out chairs they’ve been occupying for the last several hours. Emma’s breath smells like rum and popsicles. Paul’s has the faint scent of watermelon and beer. ‘After I graduate I’m gonna take you to Guatemala.’ He just blinks for a moment and then lets out a loud laugh. ‘No, Paul, I’m fuckin serious!’ He continues laughing. ‘C’mon. When I get a good job and we’ve both got that sickass cash money, let’s just go. Just a couple weeks. I wanna take you there.’ He agrees to go through his giggles. ‘Promise?’ Her eyes are serious and hard while he giggles away. He sticks out his pinky. She wraps hers around his. ‘The pinky promise is a sacred fucking oath, man. You’ve gotta keep it now.’ ‘Cross my heart, Em.’

26. (what are their favorite parts about physical affection/sex?)

Emma likes how he revels in her. Like she’s some sort of ethereal being sent from the heavens and somehow landed in his bed. Feather light touches and kisses laying out a carefully placed trail for him to follow again later. How he treated each time he touched her like he was exploring new territory. Filled with some giddy anticipation. Also boy’s got a mouth that really fucks. Paul finds her exciting. Everything with her has some sort of grit to it. Teeth and sweat and scratches against his back. She has a very innate physicality about her that he has never found himself captivated by in any other person. There was something primal and intoxicating about the way his own name was growled into his nape of his next and the way her fingers curled tightly into his hair. Also she got an ass that just don’t quit. Paul is an ass man. You can fight me on that, but I’m right and will fight you to the death.

#paulkins #I AM HAVING A VERY FUN TIME AND I HAVE A LOT OF THOUGHTS ON THESE TWO KNUCKLEHEADS #otp: you probably drank my spit #donteatthefishtacos

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the-general-hux · 4 years

Text

@finishwhxtyoustartxd

Armitage Hux rested his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window. His parents had stopped talking hours ago, his mother was asleep in the front seat and his father was driving with white-knuckled fingers crimped around the steering wheel. Hux shared the backseat with luggage that wouldn’t fit in the trunk of their rental sedan. His knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat and he longed for chance to stretch out his legs. His eyes blinked open and shut as he looked out the window at the endless procession of trees.

Traffic slowed down and his father spat out a string of curses at the other drivers’ abilities to keep stopping distance on the rain slick road. The air smelled damp, even through the filter of the air conditioning. A small town appeared and a sign declared it Bayport. Perhaps the settlers had never heard of redundancy, Hux thought. A smiling whale spouted a flourish of water on the sign. Hux gritted his teeth and put in his headphones.

Tourists crossed the highway, oblivious to oncoming traffic and the increasing frequency of his father’s cursing. A bead shop. Souvenirs. Weed shop. Rinse and repeat. Hux caught a glimpse of some amazing biceps in front of a coffee shop and he wrenched his neck to see if the potential face matched the muscles, but his father turned a corner and Hux lost his sight line. He huffed out a sigh. Probably just a tourist, maybe one of those bikers that cruised up and down the Oregon coast. Doing what? Whale-watching?

They pulled into a driveway that was marked with a jaunty lighthouse, Driftwood Cove. They named the rental house. Of course they did. His father stopped the car, turned off the ignition and announced. “This is our home for the next month. Let’s try to not kill each other.”

“No promises.” Hux said and his mother shot him a warning look. “Fine. You work on your book, you work on your paintings and I’ll work on growing a thick coat of mildew.”

“Now darling, it’s not that bad. The ocean air is marvelous for my health and I only have so much time with you before you go off to college and leave me behind.”

Forty two days, six hours and twelve minutes, Hux thought as he got out of the car. He sighed again and nodded because that was what you did when your sick mother guilt tripped you. This wasn’t his idea of a beach holiday. The sky was painted in shades of blue and gray, the whole landscape looked angry and battered into submission by the relentless coastal wind. Then he turned to the ocean. There was a haze covering the entire Pacific Ocean, as far as he could squint. “Twelve hours in the car and I can’t even see the fucking water.”

Hux claimed the room at the very top of the rental, it had a window overlooking the ocean and a stupid sign. “The Crow’s Nest.” He dragged his luggage up the stairs. The whole room smelled musty and forgotten. He sat down on the edge of the queen bed and flopped backwards, staring at the rafters. There was no need for a bed this big in such a small space— Hux scrunched his face up in disgust. Do not think about how many people have had sex in your bed, just don’t. That way lies madness, Hux thought. I am not going to look under the mattress pad.

“Boy!” His father hollered up the stairs, “Come help your mother with her junk!” Hux blew out the breath he was holding and descended the stairs.

It started to rain.

It continued to rain for three days. Drops splattered on the window panes and wind shrieked through the eaves. Hux made a bet with himself about how soon the roof would fly off. It was even money. He curled up on the bed, surrounded by fifteen decorative pillows that some poor soul had embroidered with seagulls and a two year old copy of People magazine. He’d read it cover to cover three times. Cellular service was complete shit and WiFi was apparently an alien concept in rustic vacation rentals. His father’s laptop had not survived the road trip and Hux’s had been commandeered, so no jerking off to his carefully curated archived amateur Alpha porn. The television downstairs had a dial to change the channels. All three channels.

“I’m going to start talking to myself. I am. I’m going to start talking to myself and go find a great white whale to have a battle to the death with. Honestly, it’s inevitable.” He could go talk to his parents. See what they were doing— Hux shook his head. Mother was sleeping, exhausted from her medication and Father was writing. He could write for days at a time, eating what was brought to him and pissing in a milk jug by his desk. He had a bestselling series, it was Regency romance of all things and the royalties were sending Hux to a very good school.

“Yet another thing for me to grateful for.” Hux told a decorative seahorse on the wall. “I have to get out of here. I have to.” He grabbed his coat and one of the guest umbrellas from the hallway. “I’m going out!” He called to his father who grunted in response and waved him off.

Hux made his way down the driveway towards the town center. He paused in front of the map of the town, drawn in a cartoon fashion that made the library and the police station look like equally jaunty places to visit. His sneakers squelched with wetness as he made his way to the coffee shop. It seemed like ages ago that he’d caught a glimpse of those glorious biceps. Everyone was wearing shapeless polar fleece and practical galoshes that he coveted with an practical intensity he’d never truly felt before.

He ordered a hot milky tea, something to chase the cold away from his bones and wrapped his fingers around it. “It's June,” he reminded himself and the counter girl smiled at him and then at his Omega Pride lapel pin. “It really is June, isn’t it?”

“It usually clears up by now. It’s not so bad. Just remember to take your vitamin D pills until the sun comes out again.” She pulled another shot of espresso after that bit of unsolicited advice. Hux pushed his sopping wet shock of red hair out of his face. He was not a natural sun worshipper, but the next time he saw the sun even he might offer up a few prayers of gratitude.

Hux wandered over to the small shelf of used books that lined the back wall. A hand lettered sign read, “Lending Library”. Out of habit, he looked for his father’s name on the spines of the books. Only one volume this time. The fourth. Savage Unbroken Hearts. Hux couldn’t read his father’s writing, it was far too intimate an act. It was worse than the time his father had walked in on Hux taking a selfie, wearing glitter and a rainbow thong. Hux cringed at the memory and selected a paperback space opera that boasted about galactic conquest. He sat down at a table and thumbed through the yellowed pulpy pages. The previous owner had scrawled his name in childish block letters on the interior cover. Ben.

The counter girl gave him a plastic bag for the book and Hux stepped out into the rain. It wasn’t going to defeat him. “You hear me?” Hux muttered to the weather as he made his way down the boardwalk. He rolled his eyes at the tiny salon and a candy store that was only open on the weekend. He paused in front of a photograph studio that specialized in pirate portraits. Skywalker Studios. Tourists grinned in tawdry costumes and posed in front of pirate flags. Rain dripped from the tip of Hux’s nose and he snorted in disdain. There was a 90% chance that his mother would drag them all in here for a souvenir portrait.

The beach access stairwell was just beyond the photography studio and Hux gripped the guardrail as he wrestled with both the slippery seagull shit smeared steps and the wind that threatened to steal his umbrella. The ocean was surging, the tide rolling in. Hux stared out at the dark, seething waters and felt begrudging respect for the power and intensity of the storm. Also for the warning signs posted all over the beach. Rolling logs that could kill you. Rip tides. Sneaker waves. Tsunamis. This was not the ocean that was in the brochures. Icy spray hit him in the face and he blinked saltwater from his lashes.

There was a man strolling along the pebbled beach. Long dark hair whipped around his head. What kind of Alpha bullshit was this? It was a stereotype of course, but the only person who would have the sheer ballsy stupid confidence to be walking on that beach would be an Alpha. A shameful thrill trilled up the back of Hux’s neck and he tasted the salt on his own lips.

The man reached the stairwell and as he ascended, Hux hid behind his Driftwood Cove umbrella. The man paid him no mind as he passed, Hux peeked out from beneath the umbrella shade. He swallowed hard as he caught the hint of a defined, youthful jawline, speckled with interesting moles that reminded Hux of constellations. The man unlocked the door to Skywalker Studios, stepped inside and flipped on the OPEN neon sign.

Oh god dammit. He wasn’t going to follow that weirdo guy, no matter how broad his shoulders were, no matter how bored Hux was, no matter— he stood on the steps of the photography studio and pushed open the door.

A bell jingled announcing Hux’s presence as he folded up his umbrella in the entry way. “Just a moment!” A deep voice called out from behind a curtain. “Be right out!’

Hux looked at the puddle of rain water accumulating around his feet and he flushed with embarrassment. He glanced to the side at a mirror for the tourists to check their costumes. His hair was plastered to his head, water dripped from his ears. No, no, no this was a mistake—

The broad-shouldered stranger walked out in a muscle baring tank top, drying his hair with a towel. The lack of fabric made one thing painfully clear to Hux’s libido. This was the owner of the Glorious Biceps. He wrapped the towel around his hair in a makeshift turban and looked at Hux. For a long moment, the Alpha’s plush pink mouth fell open as he took in the bedraggled, soaked ginger making a mess of his shop floor. If the Earth could open up and swallow me whole right now, that would be just dandy, Hux thought. He turned to leave.

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quicksilverlightning · 4 years

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General Discussion All Might Battles Meeting All Might Rescued by All Might All Might Encounters >Small Might Encounters (New!) Fanart and Fanfiction

CaptainCelb09 So, I've met All Might before. I just didn't know it was him.

It wasn't a big deal or anything - I tripped walking home one day and this really tall skinny guy stopped to make sure I was okay. I was embarrassed someone saw me and brushed him off, practically ran away. Now I'm sitting here with my face on fire cause I tripped in front of ALL MIGHT and he tried to help me up and akslhsdfouashefgoawu I cannot fucking believe this I should have taken his hand

070809 Pudding Cups

Time - 6:53 PM

Scene - Shofu Park

Your Narrator - crying on a bench

My girlfriend had just broken up with me. Through text. Like, ouch, right? Anyway.

I'm just kinda staring at my phone, blurry eyed, kicking at maple leaves, wishing I could text her back cause she just blocked my number when this tall blond guy shuffles up and takes a seat at the other end of the bench. Doesn't say anything, just sits, placing his grocery bag beside him. It's a public park, whatever right?

I'm wiping my eyes, putting my phone back in my pocket and suddenly there's this white thing in front of me - blond guy is offering me a napkin, Still doesn't say anything, just smiles a little. I take it and wipe my eyes, blow my nose, try to get it together cause apparently I look bad enough that this complete stranger is worried about me. I'm stuffing the napkin in a pocket when he holds something else out - a chocolate pudding cup, one of those with the little spoons in the lid.

I'm kinda like wha? but take it anyway and he takes another one out of his bag, he's got a six pack of them in there, and he tears off the lid and starts snacking and I do the same cause fuck it, right? I eat the whole thing and he gives me another one, like we're old friends or something and I'm halfway through it when he finally speaks.

"Bad day?"

And I can't help but laugh. It's so dumb. I'm single and heartbroken and eating pudding cups with this stranger on a public park bench as it gets dark and I don't know what to feel anymore. I tell him what happened and we eat the whole six pack together, shootin' the shit until the street lights come on. He calls me "young man" and claps me on the shoulder and it's so dumb but it cheered me up. He puts all the trash back into the bag and tosses it in the bin and tells me he needs to get going and hell, I do too.

I didn't even get his name. I thought about that encounter a lot though. I have a new girlfriend and she's great. We were together when All Might's last battle happened, watching everything go down on the TV at a bar and we're all losing our shit and I lose it even harder when the smoke clears cause that's the guy I ate pudding cups with what the hell

The last three years, any time I'm having a bad day, I go to the store and get some chocolate pudding cups. Whenever the world was just a shitty place, I'd think about that blond guy, shuffling through the park and making things better as he went along.

And I guess it figures that man would turn out to be All Might, cause that's what All Might has always done - moved forward and made things better.

spite-and-aesthetic my dumbass cat

small might plucked my stupid cat out of a tree wtf kinda cliche is this guy

AM_FAN0112 i cannot BELIEVE

TWO YEARS. TWO FUCKING YEARS ALL MIGHT HAS BEEN COMING INTO MY SHOP ARE YOU SERIOUS WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL TOSHINORI

I'M DEADASS SERIOUS HE COMES IN EVERY FEW WEEKS AND BUYS A BOOK AND SOMETIMES WE CHAT ABOUT MANGA AND HE ALWAYS ASKS HOW SCHOOL IS GOING AND HELPS WITH MY ENGLISH HES SO NICE AND TOLD ME TO CALL HIM TOSHINORI IS THAT HIS REAL NAME?? A CODENAME?

I GOT HIM HOOKED ON SUGAR SUGAR CAT CAFE ITS THE DUMBEST SYRUPY SHOUJO ROMANCE AND WEVE BEEN READING IT TOGETHER FOR OVER A YEAR WHAT IS MY LIFE

Sexi-tery Long post is long

Lemme set the scene; it's raining buckets, and I'm on my way to a job interview in the ritzier part of town. I've got my best clothes on - nice, crisp suit jacket, smart-looking skirt, a decent-but-could-be-shinier pair of heels. I've just left lunch with a friend and I've got an hour before the most important interview of my life.

That's when a bus rolls by and drenches me in the greasy puddle-water of downtown Tokyo.

Y'all, I was trying not to hyperventilate. I don't have time to go home and change. Even if I did, these were my best clothes. I'm screwed, no one is going to hire me looking like a sopping mess, *I* wouldn't hire me looking like this whatdoIdo

Someone picks up my umbrella. I didn't even realize I'd dropped it. I'm still freaking out. Someone is pulling me, I'm not even on this planet right now, someone is talking to me, I have an interview, where are my anxiety meds?

There's this blond guy hunched over, trying to bring me back down, telling me to breathe, calm down, you'll be okay. He's breathing with me and it's working and I think I might be crying but my face is so wet I can't tell.

He gets the story out of me once I'm back on planet Earth, and gets this determined look on his face. Drags me across the street into a clothing store. A really, really nice clothing store. Outta-my-budget, outta-my-lifetime sort of clothing store. Pushes me to the racks, tells me to pick out whatever I want.

I don't even question it - I may be back on Earth, but I'm still in the upper atmosphere somewhere. I grab a few things to take to the dressing room and fit myself into an extremely nice pantsuit. An attendant comes in to help, gets the tags off so I can wear the clothes out, bags my soaking wet puddle of fabric and blond guy pays for it all without even blinking.

He leads me back out, hails a cab, and I'm like, what now? And we pull up to a salon and he gets my hair dried and done, I KNOW he must have tipped the hairdresser a crazy amount to get me in and out that quickly, and the cab is idling outside the whole time, waiting to take me to my interview when we're done. All the while, blond guy is smiling, cracking jokes, and just being all-around charming. I'm wondering what I'm going to owe for this, what he wants, maybe he's some sort of creeper? But he seems so nice?

And when we're done, he prods me over to the cab, but doesn't get in. Doesn't ask for anything, just wishes me good luck. Like, who even is this guy? Who does all that for a total stranger?

All Might, that's who. Holy crap you guys, All Might got me to my interview on time and it's the best job I've ever had. I'd still be pushing pencils in a miserable office if he hadn't been there that day.

Kirasagwa74

A train ride

I remember a time before All Might. I remember when the Yakuza worked out in the open and villains took what they wanted without fear.

I'm old, is what I'm saying. These bones ache and creak every time the weather even thinks about changing. I don't complain too much; I'm used to it. I'm used to being out of the loop and lost in the shuffle. It's alright - I have my routines and I stick to 'em.

One of them is riding the train to a favorite cafe. They have an excellent coffee blend. I've seen All Might on that train many times, though I never knew it was him until a little while ago. He's a good man with kind eyes. If it was crowded, he would let me have his seat. Chat about the good ol' days, heroes from another generation. I haven't seen him on the train in a while. I miss him.

SingleSuperMom31 Carried Home

This was pretty recent - just a few months ago. Long post up ahead.

Context: I'm a single mom. My ex didn't want kids, so I've raised Aya by myself. It's been a little difficult lately thanks to a broken arm, but I've managed.

Anyway, I took Aya to a local park a few months ago. It's a few minutes walk from the apartment, and I wanted to grab some things from the store anyway, so I took her out to let her burn off some energy. Her Quirk is Photosynthesis, so she has a lot of it!

When we get there, the first thing Aya wants to do is get on the swings. She's almost three and my arm is broken - I don't want to put her in a regular swing in case she falls, so I'm trying to maneuver her into one of the strapped swings with one arm. Aya isn't heavy, but I'm still struggling to manage when a thin man with blond hair walks up.

"Ma'am? Would you like some help?"

He's tall, super super tall, and gaunt, but he has a kind smile. Aya likes him right away and helps her into the swing and pushes her a little while she screams to go higher.

He was so, so nice to my little girl. He let her call him Toshi and played with her for over an hour, lifting her on the monkey bars and holding her hands on the balance beam since I couldn't manage it at the moment. He sits with me when some other children come to play, and we talk a while, about Aya, about how my arm got broken (it's quite a story), about being a single parent.

It's hard, you know? I love my kid, I'd die for her, but it's still hard, and it's even harder with this arm. He was just so nice - he had this presence, like you could tell him anything and I did. I told him about my ex, that he left, that he didn't want to be a part of Aya's life. You could tell he was really listening, not just being polite. I've gotten a little teared up, and he just smiles and pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket. He's quiet for a little bit, watching the kids play. Then he turns back to me, and I know I'll remember this for the rest of my life, word for word -

"I don't have any family of my own, so perhaps it doesn't mean much coming from me," he looks a little awkward. "But for what's it's worth, I think you're doing a fine job. One day, Aya will be old enough to appreciate what a strong, lovely mother she has."

Aya sees me crying and comes rushing over, hugging my knees and I'm a mess and maybe a little bit in love. He's just so kind and Aya has crawled into my lap and hugs my neck. It's sunset, so her Quirk is finally slowing down and she falls asleep while I'm still reeling over the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I'm apologizing, it's late, I still haven't gone to the store, Aya is asleep on my lap and I'm trying to figure out how I'm gonna get her home with this broken arm and he offers to walk us home. He lifts Aya up and puts her head on his shoulder and I know she's drooling a bit, but it doesn't seem to bother him. He radiates this goodness and warmth and safety; I don't even hesitate to invite him in for a cup of tea. He comes in long enough to put Aya on the couch, but doesn't stay. He wished us both well, and that was it. I took Aya to the park every day that week, hoping to see him again, but I didn't.

Until two weeks ago - I was making dinner and Aya was watching cartoons. I thought it was cartoons anway, when she yells -

"Mommy! That's the man who carried me home!"

And that's definitely him, there's no mistaking it. I shouldn't be letting a three year old watch this, but I can't look away either. All Might played with my Aya. All Might told me I was a good mother. All Might carried my daughter home. All Might is fighting for his life on my television right now.

I didn't know what love was until I held Aya in my arms. I didn't know what heroism was either, not until that night. Not until I connected two people together and realized they were the same person. I didn't know what a hero was until I realized that "hero" wasn't a title All Might put on and took off, it's something he IS, 24/7, on and off the clock. I'd live the rest of my life with a broken arm if I could have half of the strength and kindness that exists in this man, if I could be even a fraction of the person he is.

I think about him every day. I got an All Might keychain, so I'd always have something close by to remind me that heroism isn't always about punching villains and holding up buildings; sometimes, heroism is about talking to a stranger. Sometimes, heroism is about pushing a swing.

Sometimes, heroism is about carrying a little girl home.

#yagi toshinori #all might #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #mha #bnha #fanfic #boku no hero fanfic #look #I just want Toshi to interact with his fans okay #I want him to know how loved he is #in any form

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mininky · 5 years

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Love is for the birds baby!

Summary: You refuse to believe in love. It’s a concept created by big corporations like hallmark to get sad saps like you to buy their shit. But it’s all fake. You’re convinced of that at least until a series of events with a certain tattoo artist who you loved to hate makes you question everything you’ve ever known.

Pairing: Tattoo artist!Yoongi x (fem) reader

Genre/Warnings: Romance, slow burn, fluff, comedy, smut warnings include: unsafe sex (always wear a condom), oral sex (male & fem receiving), multiple orgasms, spanking, light breath play, mentions of squirting. Non smut warnings for lots of cussing. Lots.

Word Count: 13.3K

A/N: A special shout out to @mzpandylu for inspiring me with such odd dialogue. Also challenge accepted, a quivering starfish is mentioned.

Love is a completely abstract and intangible concept to you, at least romantic love is. There are many forms of love. Familial love is a concept you sort of understand, let's just say that your home life wasn't the greatest but you do at least understand the concept. Platonic love you completely understand. But romantic love? You very secretly yearn to understand it, desperately trying to figure out how the fuck some people get so lucky that the spark happens. You've dated, sure. But try as you might none of them have ever made your head spin or your heart sing. Lust you get. You've had plenty of flings and even some longer relationships, but love? Love is for the birds baby.

You refuse, absolutely refuse, to admit that you have in any way shape or form an interest in this bizarre concept that is the investment and endeavor of romantic love. You've carefully hidden away all of your fanfics and all of your shojo mangas and all of the things that others would say is honestly completely normal to keep questions at bay. You know that your friends are interested in love, and unlike you they have no shame in admitting it. They talk about it all the time. They fall in 'love' with each man they date. But you're convinced that's not love. It's something more than like, sure you'll give them that but you're sure that it'll all end eventually. Love isn't sustainable because it's all a lie. Maybe you're too romantic at being romantic, perhaps you've just been suckered into all these stories into believing that a whirlwind romance is possible until one day the crushing realization that it wasn't possible occurred. That the sparks of electricity and burning hot embers of passion aren't sustainable and aren't indicative of love.

You were twenty, he was twenty-one. The two of you had been dating mutually for three years at that point, a lifetime in college years. Billy Johnson. Fucking Billy. He was smart and funny and he actually knew what a clit was, and he kissed you under the night stars and made you feel like you were in love. Maybe you were, but you like to think that the feelings you felt weren't actually that strong. It made the fallout easier. Which brings you to the fallout, that realization that romantic love is all a big corporate lie to sell shitty grocery store roses and cute snuggly teddy bears and dime back novels to sad sops like you. A marketing ploy. Not a reality. Fuck Plato for being the first to sell the idea of soulmates, and fuck Billy too. Billy Johnson was a cruel heartless asshole who fucked your best friend. And in one day you lost two loves, one romantic and one platonic. In turn, you gained a distinct hatred for romantic concepts and a world-weary view on relationships, waiting for the other shoe to drop every time you encountered someone new.

You dated again after that, but now at the young age of twenty-six, you've decided that it's time to give up. Or maybe you gave up after Billy. You can't say you've ever actually given it a real try after that if you're being honest. You know when to call it quits. You refuse, absolutely refuse, to be a corporate sellout. And your feelings are in no way shape or form reflective of the animosity at being broken up with by Johny last week because you were too 'sarcastic' in the middle of your vacation to Busan. Too sarcastic your ass. You'll show that motherfucker sarcastic. God, sorry, you're getting off track here. Where were you again?

Ah yes, love is for apparently everyone that isn't you. So you'll just be a cat lady. An affection earned entirely by ear scritches and feeding them. A reward system that makes sense. You take care of them and they tolerate you. Now that you understand. That makes sense. Why in the ever loving fuck would you try romance again when instead you can have a mutually beneficial understanding with something as cute as a cat that can't tell you 'I think you're a bitch' in a language you understand? Fuck Johnny, and Billy. And every other man for that matter.

You're ruminating in anger as you order your coffee, eyes staring straight into the young and timid barista as you slap down the change. Poor kid, it's not his fault but today you just hate the world. You try to smile but you're pretty sure that just scares him more if the way his eyes go large and round in fear is anything to go by. Christ, you need to work on your people skills. And you're totally not thinking that because of that dick weasel who you've decided will no longer be named.

Normally once you get your caffeine fix you're in a much better mood, but today the only thing you want to do is karate chop your own throat. Or maybe just play Red Dead Redemption 2 and kill a bunch of people in a completely legal way. Not online though, you really don't need another 13-year-old boy slurring about how much girls suck unless you want to unleash the crazy bitch inside of you to the point of no return. But unfortunately, you have bills to pay. Caffeine fixes to afford. Student loans to pretend you'll someday actually pay off except interest is a bitch. Which means going to work. Normally something you love, but today you're really not in the mood to edit another shitty sci-fi story where the physics of breasts go beyond the dudebro fedora lover that wrote the shitty thing.

Be an editor they said. You love books they said. You'll be great they said. They hadn't warned you that being an editor at a major publishing house still meant reading through a painful amount of crap writing that you would, in turn, make all pretty and nice and somewhat more presentable garbage for public consumption with no acknowledgment or credit for all the hours you spent trying not to bash your screen in with your face. At least you were close enough to walk to work.

You grab your piping hot venti quad shot vanilla latte (with soy) as you go back out into the frigid air. Your eyes are cast down on the pavement, trying not to bump into too many of the zombie state morning foot traffic as you make your way into the office. At least you have an office of your own, a salvation of peace and quiet away from prying eyes that allows you to wallow in self-pity safely. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, your normally somewhat antisocial personality becomes far more present as you hide away from even your beloved breakroom coffee pot to avoid too many interactions. You just knew that you would end up running into Susan. Nice gal, but she talks way too much and she set you up with Johnny no wait, the douche canoe. You forgot he must never be named again. The last thing you need is her bringing up how he dumped in you in the middle of your vacation.

You're also the last one to leave tonight. For someone who didn't really want to step foot into the building, you sure do seem to be having a hard time getting out of here. But there are deadlines to meet and your vacation meant that there's a pileup of work that needs to be done. That and you really don't feel like going into your empty apartment to binge watch on Netflix while you host another internal pity party.

By the time you're finally out the door and into the freezing winter night, you can feel exhaustion seeping deep into your bones. Or that might just be the joint pain that this super shitty winter is causing. That's another thing the world lied about, joint pain isn't just for old people. It's apparently also for future cat spinsters who hate everything no matter their current age. Your head is stuck on the last chapter you were editing, trying to make sense of how exactly you might be able to convince the author to scrap the whole damn thing politely as your nose picks up on the smell of a cigarette wafting over. Your stomach rumbles, brain shutting off as fingers twitch. God, it's been two years since you stopped smoking but it smells so painfully fucking good right now.

Your face whips up as you see the small trail of smoke wafting over to you. It's the guy from the tattoo shop, Min fucking Yoongi. You should've known. The guy is hot you'll give him that. Eyes just sharp enough to give him that bad boy image when paired with his full sleeve tattoos and the crawling cherry blossoms on his neck. The chronic scowl that says 'try me' in a way that oddly makes him hotter. Hair that looks like he spends way too much time on usually. Today however he's decked out in a beanie and black leather jacket with pants just tight enough to make you wish he would turn around and walk away. But in the last year since you've unfortunately gotten to know him you know that he's every bit as snarky, bitchy, and firey as you. He's also as much bite as he is bark, although so far you've never been the one he's pointed his bite at.

"(Y/N), I see you were working late again." He takes a lazy drag on his cigarette, eyes staring straight through you as his lips quirk up into a smirk.

"Yoongi." Your eyes narrow in on his, fingers twitching at your side as you bite down the incessant desire to beg for a cigarette. You won’t break, especially not in front of him. Just because you’ve had a series of bad days doesn’t mean you actually need that cigarette.

"Jesus, what's wrong with you? You seem even bitchier than normal. I guess this cold snap we're having is because the ice queen decided to control your body."

"Har-har-har little man." He bristles at the jab and you can't help but cackle internally at your small victory (pun completely intended.) "No for your information the world is a cruel, evil bitch and yet again I fell for its corporate seductions and evil capitalist ploys."

"Right, I'm going to nod my head and pretend I understood what that meant just so you don't kill me. Hey, so are you ever going to get that tattoo or not?"

You reach into the trenches of your memory, recalling months ago on a particularly good day when you told this same tiny Satan that you wanted to get a tattoo. He had seemed oddly impressed that you wanted a snake on your upper thigh and all was well until he told you that he pictured you wanting some shitty positive statement, most likely placed on your collarbone or ribcage and adorned with little doves or a dreamcatcher or some other shit. Bleh. That's when he first learned that you are possibly insane and most certainly a bit of a bitch. It's all been downhill with him since, each run in turning into a battle of insults.

He stubs out the little remaining part of his Marlboro before gesturing to the warm shop. "I've got an opening to do a consult if you wanna talk about it more."

Perhaps this is it, maybe this is what you need to do. Something different. Something that doesn't include your usual routine of wake up, caffeinate, work, work, work, and Netflix binge all in between minor anxiety driven breakdowns. Besides, it's just a consult, not the actual tattoo. "How do I know this isn't an elaborate plan to eventually see me half naked?"

Yoongi rolls his eyes as he opens the door to the shop, glaring at you as he speaks slowly. "You might be hot, but I have a feeling you'd be the type of girl to try to peg me with no lube. I prefer cuddling. Trust me, I'm not interested in getting you naked and seeing where it goes." You're thrown for a loop at that one, shuffling slowly behind him as your brain tries to make sense of it. You know you should be offended that he seriously thinks you wouldn't use lube, but Yoongi likes cuddling? The guy who scowls at life itself? The guy who you've watched physically throw out a neo-nazi who wanted a tattoo? The same guy who rides a motorcycle and refuses sugar in his coffee because he likes it as bitter as his very soul? Man, life is really fucking weird.

You follow behind him tentatively, shocked to hear rather calm hip hop station on. Maybe you stereotype too much but you pegged him (pun not intended this time) as a Lamb of God kind of guy, definitely not a Dean and PH-1 fan. He takes you over to his office, gesturing at a free seat before he sits down at his desk. Every surface is covered with intricate artwork. From Japanese style tattoos to Sailor Jerry flash pieces to pops of dystopian Disney paintings. "So, you still thinking about doing the same thing?"

"Yeah. Red Belly black snake. I'm thinking upper thigh/hip area." You stand up and move your coat to the side to point to the area.

"That's a good sized piece. Have you thought about adding anything more to it? Maybe some hyacinths on the left and right of the snake, I'm thinking in maybe a pale pink so it doesn't offset the red in the snake too much."

"You know what a hyacinth is?" You snort slightly, glaring back at him when he leans onto his elbows to shoot a look that he's probably hoping will kill you.

"I'm a tattoo artist. Do you know how many fucking flowers I have to draw every day? Swear to god I should open up a flower shop next door and make a killing with my amazing arrangements." This time you give a full-blown laugh, shocked to hear him mirroring quietly. In all the time you've kinda sorta known him you've never heard him laugh. It's nice, deep, and the gummy smile he gives has your heart doing little flip flops that you absolutely refuse to analyze.

You take just a beat too long to look at him, your head tilted slightly as you mentally murder the lone butterfly that has survived all of the anger you've culminated in the last few years. "How about a peony instead? I think it would look better."

"We can do that. With the size you're looking for and all the color work I'd guess that we're looking at at least 6 hours if we want to make sure it's done right. We can split it into two three hours sessions. I charge $200 an hour so you're looking at at least $1200, but you might want to be thinking to around the $1600 range just to be safe. I also require a $300 deposit usually just for a consult and another $300 later but I figure I can always hound you if you don't come in." He opens up his computer, clicking away for a moment before adding, "I have enough time to get started this Friday night if you want? At 8:00."

"Gee thanks for the trust. Yeah that all sounds good, I'm down."

He nods quickly, hands grabbing at some paper as he starts making drafting up some rough sketches. You try not to invade his space as you look over the paper, brain desperately searching for a small talk topic. God, you've always been bad at this. "So...how long have you been a tattoo artist?"

"Well I started my apprenticeship right out of high school at 18 so 10 years total, but as an actual artist only about 8 years." Interesting, so that would make him two years older than you. For some reason, you feel a need to put that in one of your mental files. "What exactly do you do at that giant office building down the street?"

"I work for a publishing house in there as one of their many editors."

Yoongi snorts, nodding his head as he keeps sketching away. "Yeah, I can see you working with books. Your creative insults suddenly make so much more sense."

"I'll take that as a compliment." You lean back into your chair, taking in your surroundings a little more closely before focusing unabashedly at the man before you. His tattoos are on full display now that he's taken off his jacket. Almost all are black and white with small splashes of reds and pinks laced mostly on his neck where cherry blossoms fall delicately off a branch. His eyes are cast in complete concentration, lower lip bitten as he works. There's something painfully sexy about the image. You almost want to burn it into your brain to use for late night consumption.

You aren't sure how long the two of you sit there in silence, but it's comfortable. There's something soothing about listening to the way his markers glide over the paper as soft music, buzzing tattoo guns, and chatter filters in fuzzily through the closed door. You can feel yourself finally start to relax, all of the earlier rage and grudges held at the world slipping away momentarily as you enter a near-meditative state just watching him work.

Finally, he glances up, a smile on his face as he pushes the paper over the desk to you. It's beautiful, a little rough around the edges without the finishing touches but it's better than anything you thought of. "Wow, Yoongi this looks great."

"It's just a rough drawing. I still need to work on some of the other touches but if you're good with that I'll get started on making the transfer later this week."

"Yeah..." You words are quiet as you look at the picture, elation growing in your heart. You might turn into a cat lady, but at least you'll be a badass one. "Okay, so seriously though do you want me to put down the deposit now? I have no problem with that."

"Nah, don't sweat it. Oh, but I do need your full name and number to actually book it. And don't give me some shit about this being a ploy for your number." You roll your eyes before giving him the information. Standing up slowly when he opens up the office door and leads you back out to light snowfall. "Alright, see you this Friday (y/n)."

"See you Yoongi. Thanks again." As you turn back to send a smile something painfully familiar stirs in your brain when he flashes that gummy smile and sends you on your way.

---------------Friday----------------

By the time Friday rolls around you've been through a whole litany of emotions. You're of course excited about the tattoo, that's not the problem. No the source of all evils is Min Yoongi. Sexy. Witty. Can handle your sarcasm. Enjoys cuddling. He's plagued your thoughts, gummy smiles invading your daydreams and inky tattoos hovering over you at night. It's been a long time since you've actually crushed on anyone. Dating as an adult is an entirely different experience. Usually, you know someone who knows them or met them on tinder and you're just praying that they aren't a secret serial killer and that you share enough interests to talk in between getting railed while praying for an orgasm. At least, that's been your shitty experiences anyway. You know that it isn't always the case considering that just about all of your friends have gotten magically engaged or married recently. But Yoongi? There's something about him that stirs up all of your previously assumed dead thoughts on love. All of the secret romantic pinings combines with lust in a painful swirl but luckily the thoughts you have of him are usually fleeting.

You step forward into the tattoo shop after grabbing a bite to eat, two warm cocoas in your hand as you try not to freak out that the big event is finally here and you'll be face to face with tiny, sexy, tattooed satan yet again. The man behind the counter looks over at you, and you can't help but wonder for a moment if being really good looking is a requirement to work here. Deep dimples, sunkissed skin, glasses perched on his nose.

"Hi, do you have an appointment?" You shake your head yes, staring at the floor for a moment before finally squeaking out that you're there to see Yoongi.

"Ay, (Y/N)'s here!" He shouts out towards Yoongi's office and you see him strolling out just a moment later.

"Jesus Joon, you've been spending too much time around Hobi. I think the whole shop could hear you." Yoongi steps around the desk eyeing the other cup before you hand it out to him.

"It's just cocoa, I didn't lace it. This time. Also, it's made with soy milk." You can hear the man called Joon laughing in the background as Yoongi slowly grabs the cup and squints at it before taking a tentative sip.

He gives a small nod that you assume is to signify satisfaction before he starts walking over to a curtained-off section in the back. "You ready to get started?"

"Yep, all ready!" You take a sip of the cocoa and sit down on the tattoo chair slowly.

"Alright, just check over this transfer and let me know what you think before you undress so I can put it on." You look over the image, heart warming up slightly at the brush of his fingers before you finally nod a silent affirmation. "I need words babe, is it good or not?"

You can feel yourself bristle at the tone, sighing wearily before you finally bite out, "Yes, babe, it's perfect."

"Cool. I'll leave you to get undressed, I'll be back in just a moment." The one shitty thing about the placement of your tattoo is that it will require not only pants to come off but underwear too. Before nerves can take over you strip quickly, laying back down on your side before you can think about it too much. Getting undressed faster than you can sneeze was probably a bad idea though because now you're forced to just sit there with your ass cheeks freezing and mind shutting down while you wait for him to come back. After a minute you hear him announcing that he's coming in before opening up the curtain.

Your eyes are trained on the floors. Jesus, you wish you could get your tiles to glisten the way their's does. They must mop a thousand times a day, you can't even see a speck of dirt in the grout. The sound of him clearing his throat has you jolting a bit before turning around to glare at the sound of his laughter. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just going to disinfect the area and put the transfer on then I'll have you take a look and let me know what you think of the placement." You decide to go mute apparently as your only response is a feeble thumbs up before quickly turning to resume your ever so interesting study on what floor cleaner they use. Probably Fabuloso.

You force yourself to stay stock still when you feel his warm hands on your hip as he cleans the area and peels the transfer on before he gives a light tap to your thigh. "Alright, take a look." With all the grace of a hospice patient you slowly swing your legs off and walk over to the mirror, trying to not pay attention to the fact that you're awkwardly half naked in front of arguably the hottest man who's admitted he enjoys cuddling before you finally relax at the sight of the transfer. "Man, this is going to look rad. Alright little satan, do your thing!"

"Little Satan? Really? What happened to all your usual creative bitchiness? What was it you called me that one time?"

"Oh! Degenerate Malfoy with a nicotine problem? Or was it wannabe colon inspector?"

"Neither actually, it wasn't even something you called me now that I remember it. You once told me 'Ah I see the fuck up fairy decided to mess with my life and force me to see you yet again.' That's a good one by the way, I've used it a few times."

"Glad I could help, but I wish I could copyright it so you could pay me the rights to use it." You try not to get too nervous as you hear him slip on his gloves and the needle buzzing ominously behind you. The pain won't be that bad right? "Relax, you'll be fine." His voice for once isn't laced with sarcasm. It seems that even the formidable Yoongi has a professional voice that he employs occasionally.

After what feels like ages filled with anxiety-ridden thoughts you feel the needle prodding away, moving quickly while leaving tingling and ever slight burning sensations in its wake. It does hurt, but not to the point of being unbearable. "See it's not so bad, scaredy cat." You resist the urge to turn around and pummel him in his annoyingly handsome face.

"If you weren't tattooing me right now I'd choke you out."

"Kinky, but I prefer a chick to at least buy me a drink first."

"Already did jackass, the cocoa remember."

"Huh, you did didn't you. Okay, well it's still off the table for you. You'd probably keep going until I actually died."

"Hell misses it's little satan though, I'd just be helping you reunite with all your friends."

"Do you have a snarky remark for everything princess?"

"Nah, depends on the day and the person. You're a special one Min Yoongi, something about you makes me want to bludgeon things."

"Oh, what a sweet compliment. Isn't that how people feel when things are too cute too?" You don't even need to look over to know that he's smirking as you flip him off.

"Or annoying." The rest of the three hours the two of you spend going back and forth with each other to the point that some of the other artists passing by started to call out their two cents in. By the time you're done, you have the outline complete and some of the black shaded in. The rest will be done in just two weeks time at his next opening.

-------------2 weeks later-----------

Oddly enough for once, you haven't seen Yoongi outside during his normal smoke break time when you leave work for the last couple of weeks. You also haven't seen him getting his normal disgusting black coffee either. Not that you've been looking for him. Okay...so maybe you have. There's just something about him other than the really good looks you like. In one sense it's almost like walking on a blade the entire time you're with him, never sure when he's going to make a jab. On the other hand, he's also easy to talk to. In a way where everything is oddly comfortable even with this underlying lurking sexual tension. Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe there's no sexual tension and it's just been so long since you last had a good lay (the dingleberry boy who shall not be named was terrible) that you're starting to hallucinate. Which is a rather real possibility.

This time when you walk in with another cocoa it's with far fewer nerves. No, you're ready for the battlefield and only tremble ever so slightly when you have to face him with a bare ass in his face.

"Alright sunshine, let's finish this bad boy up." Is all he states before he gets right into it, ever the professional. By the time he's finished, you're 110% positive that you were just imagining the sexual tension because his eyes don't even wander as you check the tattoo in the mirror. Which is a good thing right? Because you're supposed to be on your fast track to nundom not trying to bag the super hot tattoo artist who works near you.

There's a bizarre sinking feeling in your heart though when you realize the tattoo is done and you won't be able to see him for extended periods of time on such a good excuse. An expensive excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. Now, however, with your beautiful, intricate, and very sore skin you'll have to go back to happenstance run-ins. You think that maybe, just maybe, if the somewhat hollow looking smile he gives you when you leave is anything to go by that he doesn't really want it to end either. But that's probably just the few embers of hope remaining in you that needs to be crushed out.

--------1 month later---------

You've spent another night overworking yourself. This time there wasn't really a good reason to either. You're not only on schedule but way ahead and yet you've decided to just keep busting through work until dusk begins to fall and the shitty flickering streetlights by you turn on. Almost every night for the past few weeks you've been working longer days and as much as you hate to admit it it's to try to keep yourself from wallowing too much at night about your impending lonely doom. Tonight will be different though. Tonight you'll ruminate and bask in the fucked up world with your dear old friend Irene as she's finally decided to have a night away from her obnoxiously good looking fiance Taehyung. She might not be able to relate to your doom and gloom sentiments on life but she's always a good friend for a pick me up.

You set off in the opposite direction of your usual route, winding through the chilly streets until you get to your favorite bar that serves oddly impressively delicious fried chicken. The moment you step in you notice Irene sitting at one of the few tables at the place, glaring at a man who clearly can't take a hint. Marching over you grab the seat across from her before biting off a 'Jesus how much aftershave do you use? Did you put in on your asshole too or something?' Knowing he's now outnumbered, and out bitched, the two of you watch the man leave without protest.

"You know you really should be careful. People are crazy, aren't you ever afraid that you might get hurt or something?"

You shrug nonchalantly before sighing at the doe eyes she gives you. "Irene, I love you but I'm not curtailing my inner bitch just because some douche might murder me. There are countless absurd ways I could die, if I have to check myself in fear of that then I just let all those asshats continue being menaces to society without being put in their shitty sad places."

"So what you're like a superwoman with a bad attitude only you save the world one dick at a time with well-timed insults?" You know that voice, you know that voice all too well. Your ears perk up and your jaw drops open as you whip around to come eye to eye with Yoongi. For one whole month, you haven't seen him even with perfectly timed coffee runs around his smoke breaks. Not that you learned his habitual schedule or anything. Nope. Nothing like that at all. Just coincidence is all. And you just happened to notice he wasn't there. That's all.

"Yoongi!" You hate the way your voice goes up an octave, excitement making your voice quiver like a little puppy reuniting with their owner after a short separation. You can already feel the heat bursting on your cheeks as his head tilts, eyes watching you carefully before he cracks a lazy smile.

"Um, (y/n), who is this guy? Do I need to mace him or something?" Irene whispers to you, but just loud enough that as Yoongi steps closer he can hear her.

"Please don't mace me. I promise, I only bite if you're into that."

"Hey, watch it, mister. She's a taken woman." Reluctantly you wave your hand over the free seat to invite him over before looking back at Irene. "Irene this is Yoongi, Yoongi this is Irene. Yoongi did my tattoo for me."

"Oh, you got a tattoo? Can I see it?"

"We'll definitely get a free round of drinks if you show it off, that's for sure." You can't help but smack Yoongi's shoulder, shocked at the sturdiness of it. Considering how slight he looks you really didn't think that he worked out but now your mind is starting to wander.

"Yeah well, kind of can't show you in public considering I have to take my pants off. Oh! But I do have some pictures!" You pull out your phone, swiping through until you find one and turning it to show her.

"Wow, that looks like it hurt. It looks great though you did a good job..." Irene pauses, eyes going wide with panic before she finally adds, "Yoongi."

"Thanks." He almost looks shy and you can feel your heart breaking. Yeah, typical to have the hot dude fall for your friend and not you.

"Did you order drinks yet?" At the shake of Irene's head, you're grateful to have an excuse to flee to the bar not rushing to grab the bartenders attention and face falling slightly when he sidles up next to you immediately. The world is a cruel place. You want them to take their time and they're there immediately. You want them there right away and suddenly so do seventy other people. Luck. Or murphy's law maybe. Whatever.

You huff out a sigh before plastering a smile on your face, "Two cranberry vodkas, please. Tall and stiff." The bartender nods as you slap down a twenty, praying that perhaps he'll at least make the drinks slowly but oh no this man must be one of those bartenders that enters fucking speed competitions because he's sliding both drinks over before you can fucking blink. Unbelievable. The service at this place is just too good and it's making you twitch slightly in irritation.

Trying not to huff, you grab the two drinks and make your way back to your table. Heart sinking even more at the sound of Yoongi being strangely amicable to Irene. This was not the night you wanted at all. You wanted to get drunk and hang out with Irene and forget about how shitty boys are, not have glaring reminders everywhere about how the capitalist ploy that is romance will suffocate you to death. Okay so maybe you're being a little melodramatic. A lot. Whatever. It's your pity party, you can cry if you want to.

When you finally sit back down and hand Irene her drink you can't help but guzzle yours back right away, ignoring the acidic burn in your throat and the quirked eyebrow from Yoongi.

"So...(y/n)...any new boys after Johnny?" Irene refuses to look you in the eyes as she asks, smart enough to sit just out of reach from your possible rage.

"I refuse to fall victim to the bullshit masquerade we call love yet again. I've called it quits. I'm just going to be a spinster with a million cats who will inevitably be forgotten until my landlord finds that mittens, my favorite cat, has eaten my left asscheek for sustenance after my untimely death."

Irene bawks, trying immediately to rush into lengthy reasoning as to why you shouldn't stop searching for love as Yoongi nearly falls off his chair laughing so hard. At the end of Irene's dialogue, Yoongi wipes away a stray tear before shooting you a gummy smile. The kind that makes you want to hate him less, but you refuse to. Because that's dangerous territory. Territory you've sworn to never cross again. "You don't actually mean all that bullshit right? Love is natural, it's needed. It's biologically ingrained in us to be social creatures and affectionate."

"Don't you judge me and mitten's life path!"

"You don't even have a cat!" Irene looks exasperated as she takes a sip of her drink, silently judging you. "Listen, I get it. You've been fucked over a million times by terrible guys. But that doesn't mean that the whole world is that way." At the withering look you send her Irene sighs, shaking her head but falling mute. You feel a little bad that yet again you've ruined the mood so you try to lighten it up a bit, reaching over to pinch her cheek lightly.

"Thanks, Irene. I'm sorry. I'm just...I don't know. I've been in a bit of a mood." You bit your tongue from further sarcasm at the pointed look she gives you. "Things haven't been so hot lately. I'll get over it. In like a decade. But you know that's better than never." You can feel Yoongi peering at you, analyzing you from the corner of your eye.

"Why though? Why are you so convinced that love is such a sham?" Yoongi's words don't seem to hold any judgment or his usual quiet hostility, instead just honest curiosity.

"Well if they don't cheat on me they always grow tired of me. I'm a bit too much of a bitch for my own good. I should really work on that." You shrug, staring at your almost empty glass as you try to shush the self-loathing thoughts that want to invade.

"I like that part about you though. You've got spunk doll, it ain't a bad thing. You just need to find a guy who can match it." He smirks at the way you go quiet before leaning slightly into you at the table. "I don't know, I think I'm up for the challenge if you are." He grabs a card from his pocket, placing it next to your cup as he stands up. "That's my cell on there. Text me sometime babe." You hate the way your brain shuts down, playing back the way he calls you babe until all senses fail.

"You should do it. You know he was asking about you the entire time you were getting drinks?" You feel your heart sink even further at the realization that you judged the situation too quickly before suddenly soaring at the idea that Min Yoongi asked you out on a date. You. Snarky, bitchy you found a match in hell. Capitalist ploys be damned! You'll at least find out if he's cocky for a reason. If you don't chicken out that is.

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

Later that night after all the alcohol has left your system and you're snuggled up under enough blankets to possibly suffocate you, you find yourself staring at your phone. You entered in his contact almost immediately after he left at the urging of Irene. Apprehension has held you back from actually sending anything though. Your fingers hover over the screen, bottom lip stuck between your teeth as you suck in a breath. What have you got to lose?

[You]: Hey...

[Yoongi]: (Y/N)?

[You]: Yeah

[Yoongi]: This is unusual. I'm used to quippy remarks. Don't tell me you've grown soft?

[You]: Fuck off. I'm just confused that's all.

[Yoongi]: What's there to be confused about? You're funny, you have no problem with giving it right back to me, and you have a fantastic ass

[You]: Well that was blunt

[Yoongi]: I'm an honest man [Yoongi]: So listen, about that date, I wanna take you out Sunday

[You]: That's in like a day from now

[Yoongi]: Yeah well I've wanted to take you out from the first time you told me off for smoking on the street. And that time you told me you were going to shove my tattoo needle up my ass solidified it.

[You]: You have some odd kinks sir

[Yoongi]: Is that a yes babe?

[You]: Hmmm....yeah I'll go

[Yoongi]: Great send me your address I'll pick you up at noon

[You]: You aren't going to chop me up in a million pieces and feed me to the fishes right?

[Yoongi]: No I prefer my women in one piece

You send over your address, butterflies swarming around as you squeal into a pillow before sending him a quick good night. You don't need to embarrass yourself by saying something off the wall as exhaustion starts to set in. Like "I want to kiss your face" or "Fuck me in your office." Yeah, that's not good pre-date material. You need to keep it kosher for now.

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

You had spent all day Saturday cleaning to keep your nerves at bay. Not that you can really tell much in your closet after you ransacked it. And not that you can tell you went through all of that energy just to pick a simple oversized black hoodie and jeans. It's too cold to go all out anyway. You've been staring in the mirror, double checking your hair and makeup a thousand times as you hear the doorbell chime through the apartment. It's a good thing no one else is around to see you nearly trip over yourself as you slip on your shoes and answer the door. "Hi!"

Yoongi is wearing his usual black leather jackets, skin-tight black jeans, and cat-like smirk. "Hey. You ready?"

"Yeah, oh just let me grab a jacket." Pulling one off the rack you shut the door behind you, locking the door before shuffling behind Yoongi. Much to your surprise, he slows down until your right next to him, clasping his hand around yours and smiling as he silently leads you to his car.

"What, no motorcycle today?"

"Nah, I figured you'd strangle me and we'd crash. Dieing on the first date just seems tragic. We need to get on date number five at least." He shoots you a wink as he opens your door, shutting it lightly behind him as he jogs around to the other side.

"So...where exactly are you taking me?"

"You're a curious little thing today, aren't you? Well at first I was thinking something simple like coffee, but let's be honest that's overplayed and boring. So then I thought about going to an aquarium just so I could make a joke about feeding you to the fishes but then I thought nah too easy. So I spent more time than I'll tell you plotting. And I realized exactly where we needed to go. We're going to the river for a picnic. Something that's oddly ordinary and you'll secretly love but no dude's ever actually done for you. Am I right?"

You're at a loss. You certainly didn't expect him to think this through to this extent. Honestly, no guy has ever cared this much about a first date before. You figured that only existed in stories and movies at this point. "You're certainly right. Isn't it a little cold for a picnic though?"

"I have brought plenty of cocoa and jjigae to keep us warm, don't you worry your pretty little head about it." You can't help but fidget slightly, nerves boiling over until his hand rests soothingly on your thigh and you feel yourself melt. Or maybe boil over until you malfunction. But that's something to dwell on at a later time.

It doesn't take long after that until you pull up at the river. During springtime it's packed, everyone comes out to drink under the cherry blossoms, but right now it's serenely quiet. You're almost the only people in sight save the zealous runners and elderly couples strolling through on their daily walks. When you try to help set up the blanket and food Yoongi refuses, so instead you watch him meticulously lay everything out. Maybe this is a post-season Christmas movie because you swear you can feel your dead cold heart grow as you watch him. It's an oddly domestic feeling. Certainly romantic. Painfully sweet. And for once all of your usual bitter snarkiness has drowned it's self in the river to leave you a heart-eyed mess.

"Come on, come sit. I told you before, I don't bite unless you're into that."

"I'm into that, but right now I'd rather have cocoa and jjigae." You watch him pour out your drink as you sit down, carefully handing you the piping hot drink before pulling the still boiling soup out of the basket.

"Alright, so I figured that being you'd probably refuse to tell me too much out of wariness. So I propose that we play 21 questions. What's your favorite food?"

"Tofu, in all it's many forms. What's your favorite color?"

"Black, just like my coffee."

"And your soul." You duck as he tosses a napkin at your face, laughing at the gummy expression he sends your way.

"Aish. Okay, next question, what are your hobbies?"

"Reading and video games. Why'd you become a tattoo artist?"

"I love drawing, but I especially love the idea of a living canvas. It's just so interesting. Although I hate that I don't usually get to control the outcome of it, some people have god awful tattoo ideas. Most people actually. I'm at least booked enough now that I can refuse those ones without worrying about my bank account too much. Why are you so afraid of love?"

You weren't expecting that question. You figured he'd keep things easy but then again you should have known better. Of all the many ways you can describe the man before you easy isn't one of them. "Trust problems I guess. I didn't have the best home, parents kicked me out young and we haven't talked since so that's probably at the root of it all. I don't know though, never seen a shrink about it so that's just an educated guess. Add all the boys that I've dated either dumped me or cheated on me and it makes it tough to believe that love, especially romantic love is real. Why do you believe in it?"

"Because love is the very essence of humanity. The best way to fight a shitty system that tries to keep us all down is through love. It's not power or money or any of that other bullshit they tell us we need. It's love. We all just need someone who understands us. It doesn't need to be a ton of people, just one who really gets us and bam! Everything's good. Sometimes those people come and go, but that doesn't make the love you held for that time discounted. It just means that now you need to find someone else who understands you." He chooses his words carefully at first, but when he sees that you're held in rapt attention he grows passionate. Eyes blazing as if to dare you to disagree. And suddenly you're seeing the world through a different lens. Here you had been chalking romance up to marketing, which isn't entirely untrue but that's just one part of it. But love the way he sees it? To him, love isn't about marketing or money it's just about human connection. And suddenly you're starting to understand that abstract intangible concept. You also realize that what you were looking for wasn't love, but perfection. You didn't want to do all the work, you just wanted all the pieces to magically fall into place for you and gave up when expectations weren't instantly met. "Next question, why'd you say yes to this date?"

"Because you're hot." You roll his eyes at the exaggerated wink he sends you before eating a bit of the jjigae. "Okay so that was a part of it but mostly I was curious. You're this weird enigma Yoongi. At first, I thought I had you all figured out. Tough dude with tats and a motorcycle who probably has a slew of booty calls waiting for him. But then you said you liked to cuddle and I got curious. And then I realized that I didn't have the whole picture, just a glimpse. Why in the world did you ask me out? And for the love of god don't say 'dat ass.'"

"Okay but dat ass though." The way he laughs full heartedly, slapping his knees at the sight of your glare almost makes you not elbow him. Almost. But you have a reputation to uphold. "You've just got this thing about you. You're like a fortress. A puzzle. I guess that same idea of wanting to figure a person out is the same reason why I'm so attracted to you. You see at first glance you seem to be just brutally honest, but then when you look closer it's easy to see that you're vulnerable. Fragile. Callous due to a previous naivety that landed you in shit places by the sounds of it. I like that you have spirit, you aren't afraid to tell people to fuck off. But what I like most of all is under that there's this heart of gold. At least if your interaction with your friends is anything to go by you do." Fuck, you think you have something in your eye. It's definitely not your long extinct tear ducts learning how to work again. Nope.

You can feel his thumb brush a stray tear, hand cupping your face as you automatically nuzzle into the warmth before he clears his throat. "Next question-"

Before he can finish the question your lips are on his. They're chapped but still soft, plush under yours. And suddenly that tailwind romance you thought was all fake feels so real as a spark of electricity zaps you. Or maybe that's more carnal, but whatever it is it feels so right. As if his lips were made to be against yours. And when you feel him kiss back roughly, hands weaving through your hair as he pulls you in closer you know that he must be feeling the same thing. You're floating. High in the clouds. Weightless. The sound of someone running past finally has the two of you breaking apart slowly. "Right next question, can we do that again?"

This time there's a fire behind the kiss as your hands grab onto his jacket and his tongue slips into your mouth. This time you know it's more carnal. Burning bright. Passionate. Hungry. Needy. But before it can devolve into public debauchery you reluctantly pull back, blush creeping up your neck as you see his molten brown eyes focused on you in a way that clearly states that he is indeed as dangerous as he looks. At least if your definition of dangerous is sex right out in the open at a very public park anyway.

"My turn. What's your favorite music?"

The rest of the date goes by too quickly and you learn about everything Yoongi related and he learns everything about you. You're positive that you've never learned so much about a person on a first date, or hell even by the third. You've learned his birthday, his favorite music, all about his friends, how he actually co-owns the tattoo shop and how that all happened. You've learned about how he came from a poor family and how he makes sure to send a little bit each week to help out on top of the apartment he bought them. Suddenly the $200 an hour fee makes a whole lot more sense.

By the time you're pulling back into your apartment, the two of you have already planned a date for next Sunday. And as he puts the car in park you can't hope but wish that somehow it was already magically next week. But when he pulls you in for a heated kiss and presses his forehead against yours before sending you off you're too much on cloud nine to pay any attention. You'll have to add that Yoongi is certainly the best kisser you've ever known to your mental file.

-------------1 week later---------------

Well, it's official. You're nuts. You'd like to blame Yoongi but let's be honest, all you needed was a little help to push you over the ledge. Except the problem is that before you were very sure of life. Completely comfortable with anger, bitterness, and believing that everything inevitably fails. And in some sick twist of fate, his words have been playing back in your head over and over every single day for the last week. Before you thought it was all or nothing. Love was there or it wasn't. You get one shot at true love and if it fails then it never existed. Except now your world is flipped upside down.

Perfection is a fruitless endeavor. An impossible task. One with zero rewards. And what you've been looking for all this time is perfection. A perfect love. A whirlwind romance. But if it's perfect it's fake. It's all a lie. An elaborate performance. Which is mostly all you've ever gotten, granted usually in short-lived moments but sometimes longer. And when the curtains closed each time you thought, "this show wasn't a real show. I'll go to a better play next door." Except the play was still very much real. A part of you. A part of them. Which means that love is indeed real it's just not always very grand. But when it was there it was beautiful, you were just blind and ignorant in even the good moments. Unaware of the magic in small acts. But with Yoongi suddenly you want to see all the small acts. You want to not just see the show but be a part of it. Go behind the scenes with him. See how this plays out.

Which is completely fucking nuts. You're already talking about your entire worldview changing and the concept as something as obscure as falling in love with a man you barely know and have only been out on a date with once. It makes you afraid. It makes you feel free. It gives you options. It's like being able to use all of your senses at once for the first time. Except that's scary because there's too much coming at you at once. But it's equal parts exhilarating. You've been through every single possible emotion a person could have every day.

By the time your second date finally arrives, you're suddenly calm about it all. As if everything is right and the puzzle pieces to life are aligning and maybe just maybe you have a chance to see things differently. And while before you would have rather poked your eyes out than face rejection again this time you just want to see where this takes you. You aren't thinking so much about the end results, rather the journey.

Tonight Yoongi is taking you out to his favorite record store. While you don't own a record player you can certainly appreciate the aesthetics of vinyl. There's something oddly charming about them, even if it is ridiculously impractical in the modern world of space-saving technology and cramped apartments. Perhaps the impracticality of it is apart of the appeal, however. This time you aren't tripping over yourself to get to the door. But that's because you're standing right by it giving yourself a pep talk. Not that he needs to know that of course. After smoothing down your hair and doing a quick checklist in your head your pulling the door open.

This time he's wearing an oversized sweater but again the same tight black jeans. The man must have stock in them. Not that you blame him, it looks good after all. "You look great, babe." Heat blossoms on your face as his eyes scan you from head to toe, that signature lazy smile adorning his face before he takes your hand in his and leads you to his car.

"Still no motorcycle?"

"Nope, still don't trust that you won't freak out and kill me accidentally. Why? You seem oddly keen on the bike."

"It just looks fun that's all."

"It is. There's nothing better than a good ride, and you can take that any way you please." He winks at you, laughing when you scoff and punch his shoulder. If any other guy said that line you would have jumped out of the now moving vehicle, but for some reason when he says it you turn into putty. Maybe it's the charm of being absurdly good looking. Or that tattoos. The bad-boy charm. Or maybe it's because in all his infinite aloof glory he's just Yoongi. Comfortable and confident in his own skin without being sleazy.

The record store is quiet, playing a selection of upbeat jazz. Your brain is trying to figure out the tune until you finally snap your fingers and softly say, "Giant Steps!"

"You know jazz? Are you a secret Coltrane fan or something?" Yoongi is giving you that look. The look that says he's clearly analyzing you. Studying you. Dissecting your brain as you speak.

"Sort of. I dated this guy in college for years, he was a jazz major. His thesis was going to be on Giant Steps, it's been years since I've heard it though. Are you secretly into jazz, Min Yoongi?"

You watch him shake his head no as he scans the records before pulling one out. Outkast, ATliens. A great album, one that invokes nostalgia. He quickly puts the record under his arm before he continues searching. "Nah, I'm more of a blues guy myself. Nina Simone. Etta James. Bill Withers. The building blocks to all modern music. At least hip hop, R&B, and all the subgenres of rock."

"You know an awful lot about music considering you're a tattoo artist. What's the background story on that?" You peruse next to him as you speak, flicking through the music slowly.

"Once upon a time I wanted to be a rapper." There's something far off about his voice. As if he's reliving the memories. A gentle smile on his lips as he shakes his head as if to push them back into their little file in his brain to not be disturbed for some time. "But I had bills to pay. I'm not complaining though. I love music, adore it. But I love what I do too. It's almost like trying to pick between your two children. You might actually have a favorite, but it changes depending on the day."

"Let's hope you only have one kid then."

"Nah, I'm going to have a horde of mini Mins. Take over the world with them and overthrow capitalism. It's my diabolical plan to get housing prices back to normal and get student debt forgiveness."

"And how exactly do you plan to have this army of darkness? Polygamy? A sex cult?"

"God that just sounds exhausting. I can hardly keep up with you let alone more women. No, I think I'll actually stick with two children. You know, just so on tough days I can look at one and go 'ah yes today you didn't fuck up.'" You pray that he doesn't look over to see your cherry red face. He in a way made it sound like he's thought about children with you. Clearly, that's not what he means but now your mind is wandering. Mini mins. They'd be cute. Probably slightly evil but cute nevertheless. They might be born glaring though. Or smirking instead of crying.

"What happens when they both fuck up?"

"Then I've got you." Fuck, he was implying you. Holy shit. Holy shit. Act natural. Don't look at him. "Ooh look! They have a Frank Ocean Blonde vinyl. Unopened this bad boy is worth a few hundred. Man, I can't believe how cheap they're selling it for." He tucks it under his arm before cataloging through some more. For a short while the two of you work in silence, falling into a pattern that when you stare at one for just a little too long he's plucking it out of your hands and refusing to listen to you protest.

By the end of it all, the two of you are walking out with a dozen records after learning a wealth of information on all of Yoongi's favorite artists. You also learned that once upon a time his rap name was 'Suga.' Which led to you immediately and passionately singing Sugar by System of the Down quickly increasing in volume until he clamps his hand over your mouth and stares at you with the rage of a thousand suns. Totally worth it though. Especially when the dude behind the counter picks up where you left off.

Dinner goes by too quickly. You wish you could freeze time, force it to slow so you can languidly explore his world. It's with a heavy heart that you unbuckle your seat belt before leaning over and pulling him into a heated kiss. One that makes your head spin again and proves that the first date wasn't a series of flukes. Nope, Min Yoongi really does have a skilled tongue. When you pull away you can see stars in his eyes, his hair ruffled and cheeks red as he tries to even out his breathing. The most dangerous part about Yoongi is his duality. The way he can flit between sexy to cute and somewhere in between without trying.

------------2 months later----------

You've lost count on how many dates you've gone on at this point. He's taken you out on his bike finally to go stargazing. Out to plays and art galleries. Sometimes you've just stayed in and watched movies together. You have lunch together at least twice a week now, grabbing coffee together for a short reunion in the mornings after spending all night talking about everything and nothing over the phone. It's as if a time before Yoongi didn't exist. It's comfortable. Oddly easy.

It's to your chagrin and surprise that you learn that Yoongi wants to take things slow. He doesn't rush you into bed. He's the perfect gentleman. A punk Disney prince, albeit with a sharp tongue. No even after the third and fourth date when you try to heat things up he's quick to pull away and tell you that he doesn't want to rush things. Not with you, he says. He wants you to trust him first. He wants you to be truly comfortable first. He doesn't want you to think that he's only in it for that.

You get it. In fact, in a twist, it actually makes things hotter. But the build-up is getting almost painful now. The sexual tension mounting to epic proportions. Your poor vibrator would hate you if it wasn't inanimate. He wasn't lying about loving cuddling. He's also apparently a man of extreme patience because no matter how many times you've felt his hard dick against your ass mid-spooning he's refused to act on it. Or let you. It's left you more than slightly frustrated on multiple occasions. It also wasn't helpful that it, in turn, made you an awkward mess. In fact, you remember jokingly mentioning some gibberish about your starfish quivering to try and crack the tension and for a while you thought he would never let you live that terrible joke down. Starfish, really? What were you thinking?

What you belatedly realize though is that his master plan fucking works. Because somewhere along the way you started letting down your guards. Somewhere along all your dates, you find yourself falling. Allowing yourself to be human. Allowing yourself to stop fearing love. Allowing yourself to trust. Without fighting it. Without running. It's no longer terrifying. It's no longer something that gnaws at you in the chasm of anxiety.

And just shy of three months into dating Yoongi you realize that you love him. Love. Abstract. Intangible. Yet not. It's the way he looks at you. The way he holds your hands. The way he thinks about the things that make you tick. The way the two of you try to find joy in the tiniest of things. Marie Kondo would tell you that you've finally found something that sparks joy. But it's not just from him. No, even when he's not around you feel lighter. Freer. Happier. You're still sarcastic. A bit of a bitch. But this time it's no longer from a place of longheld bitterness and pain, rather it's from your twisted brand of humor.

This realization comes to you as you after hanging out with Yoongi's friends and coming back to his place to just chill and listen to his vinyls. When his thumb soothingly rubs your hand as you curl up into his chest. It's so natural. So right. "I love you." The words come out a soft sigh, muffled slightly into his chest but he hears them loud and clear.

Yoongi twists, pulling your face up to his. "Did you just say you love me?"

"Min Yoongi I love you." You don't expect to hear anything back. You aren't saying it for affirmation or reciprocation. You just want him to know.

"I don't think I've ever heard better words. Say it again." That gummy smile is back. The one that stirs up butterflies. The one that warms your soul. The one that you fell in love with.

You swing your legs over his lap, straddling him as you stare into his eyes. "I. Love. You."

"God, you don't know how bad I've wanted to hear that. I love you so fucking much. So much. Holy fuck. I want to kiss you, can I kiss-" Before he can finish the sentence your lips are on his. Soft and pliant under yours, a lingering taste of leftover chapstick and nicotine. It's captivating. Dizzying. It's so easy to get drunk off his lips. His taste. The soft groans that leave him. Tongues intertwine as his hands roam your body before landing on your ass with a firm squeeze. It's messy. Needy. Sloppy but full of passion. As if you're the only cure for each other. Each emotion lingering in the air. Your hips swivel down, grinding against his pants as one hand weaves into your hair to pull your neck back and attach his lips to there.

You can feel the small bruises blossoming already. Love bites and harsh sucks leave cherry blossoms along your neck, mirroring the pattern of his own tattoo. Quiet moans of need are spilling out, desire pooling into your panties each time his teeth scrape against you. "You, doll, are the hottest thing I've ever seen. I could worship you. Dedicate a temple to you. Can't wait to feel you. God, I want you so bad. I love you so fucking much." Each word spills out from him like a deep moan, reverberating through his chest and chewing them off at the end. A loud mewl of satisfaction leaves you. He loves you. He loves you. You're in love. Over the moon. How could you ever think that love wasn't for you? How could you ever give up? How could you honestly think that you were destined to be a spinster when a man like him wants you?

His hands claw at your shirt, quick to remove your bra and leave you partially bare. Even with the slight chill seeping in through his apartment you still feel feverish. Each time his calloused hands roam your skin you can feel your temperature increase. God, you've never wanted someone so much. It's almost an out of body experience. Sex elevated off the mortal plane. You swear you might cum just from him touching you at this rate. His lips brush against your nipples before biting down, one hand reaching back into your hair as you arch into the touch.

"Wanna touch you Yoongi. Wanna feel you." The words come out drunkenly. Wobbly. Laced with honey through your swollen lips. When his grip lets go of your hair you lean down to his neck, pressing kisses around his tattoo, tongue laving at the branch as your teeth scrape against his soft skin. The deep moans hiccuping out of him are music to your ears, urging you on as your grind against him. Desperate for friction. Desperate for release. Your hands toy at his shirt before finally breaking away to pry it over his head. Your eyes dance over his half-naked form, taking in the sight before you. Almost every square inch is covered, ink swirling around in intricate stories. God, you're about the fuck the hottest living canvas.

His chest is heaving, breathing uneven as the two of you make eye contact again before lips come crashing together and he's picking you up. Carrying you out of the living room and into his bedroom, stopping occasionally to push you against a wall just to latch onto your neck or chest. By the time you make it to the bed, you're sure that for the first time in your life you could actually forgo foreplay. You're so wet that you can feel it seeping through your underwear and leaving a mark on your jeans. He stumbles onto the bed, your head hitting the wall with a loud thwack that has both of you pausing for a moment. "Shit, are you okay?"

"Mmokay, take your pants off." You rub at the sore spot before reaching up to place a reassuring kiss on his lips. You hold your breath as you watch him strip, dick springing out proudly. Smeared with precum. Red. Throbbing and twitching. "You don't wear underwear?"

He looks almost bashful for a moment. "It's laundry day actually..." At the sound of your giggles, he takes the opportunity while you're disarmed to unbutton your pants, freeing you from your jeans and leaving you in just your flimsy lacy panties. The mood shifts back again when you see the hunger in his eyes. As if he's staring at a feast. "Christ, can't wait to taste this pussy. Make you cry my name." His hands are shaking slightly as he slowly pries your underwear off, eyes narrowing on the way your juices stick to your underwear finally tossing it off the side of the best.

"Please taste me, I need you. I can't wait."

"Who knew you'd be so needy? So quick to beg for my tongue?" That usual lazy smirk is back on his face as he looks at you, hands hooking around your thighs and pulling them over his shoulders. His tongue flattens against your sex before you can respond, a choked moan drowning out your words. Jesus, he's good with his tongue. It moves slowly, languidly against your dripping pussy. Rhythmically. Diving into your folds only to swirl up around your clit, sucking lightly and releasing with a soft pop before going back down all over again. It's when his tongue dips even lower, swirling around your puckered rim that you can feel your eyes roll back and breathing cut off. Two fingers slip into your dripping cunt with ease, scissoring to stretch you. The dual sensation of his tongue on your ass and fingers filling you up has you clenching. Spiraling. Bright white flashing behind your eyes as a silent scream tries to leave your throat. Toes curling, his name finally rolling off your tongue as you chase the sensation, your orgasm consuming your senses. It leaves you dizzy. Panting. A mewling, drenched mess under him.

Through fuzzy ears you can hear his low voice, "God how do you taste so good? Fuck, I could watch you all day baby girl."

His fingers move slowly as he watches you return to earth, twitching underneath him at the oversensitivity. You feel so sated, but at the same time, you want so much more. The look in his eyes makes you hungry all over again. You want him to feel just as good as you. You look up with hooded eyes, hand wrapping around his drooling cock as you speak. "I wanna taste you too Yoongi."

His adam's apple bobs, hands leaving your thighs as he pulls you into another messy kiss. It's almost all teeth and tongue this time, a thin line of saliva breaks apart when you separate. You shuffle off the bed slowly, knees gingerly falling to the floor before looking back up as your tongue swirls around his head before pulling back to lick a long stripe along his prominent vein. You pepper tiny kisses along his base, one hand cupping his balls gently as the other one twists around his base. You envelop his velvety length in your mouth, working slowly into a steady rhythm. Each sigh from him, soft moans of pleasure spurs you deeper. Jaw aching slightly as you try to take him deeper, using your hand to help stimulate the places you can't reach. His hands grip your hair tightly as he reaches past your molars, pulling you off of him with a loud pop. "Sorry love, I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that and I really want to fuck you."

You gulp at the way he's watching you. As if he's a predator and you're his prey. A feast for the night. You wouldn't have it any other way. He helps guide you back onto the bed, twisting you onto all fours as his hands glide over your ass. "Best ass I've ever seen. God, I've had so many wet dreams over this ass." His hand comes down sharply, the sting bringing a wave of pleasure to ripple through you as it soothingly rubs over. Your thoughts are quickly brought back to the throbbing between your thighs as his cock rubs against your swollen clit. "Please, fuck. God." You're incoherent, words stringing together slowly.

"What's my name doll?"

"Yoongi, come on. Fuck me before I bite your head off!"

"Yeah yeah, we'll see how much sass you have left in you when I'm done." You wiggle your hips impatiently as you hear him spit into his palm, adding lubrication before he glides into you. "Holy shit." He stays still for a moment as you spasm around the intrusion. He's just thick enough to have you crying out in pleasure, just long enough to have you seeing stars as he sinks deeper.

"Oh, fuck. Move, please move." You push back, sinker further onto him as he stays still before his hands snake around your throat.

"God, you are so mouthy. And as much as I normally love hearing you talk back right now I really just wanna fuck you." He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in, balls slapping into your clit in a way that has you seeing stars. Each movement is harsh, quick, with stamina and vigor you didn't foresee him having. The feeling of his hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off just enough circulation to stutter your breathing, has you gasping and rutting underneath him. Fuck, was sex supposed to feel this good? In your fucked out state, you can barely make out the sound of him chuckling darkly behind you. "Look at you baby, already fucked out and I've barely started. Do you wanna cum again baby? Already?"

"Fuck, please. Don't stop!" Your high pitched begging has him drilling in deeper, his free hand moving off your ass and onto your clit in quick circular motions that has you clenching around him. This time your orgasm is earth-shattering. Loud. Wet. When his hand finally lets go of your throat you face plant into the pillow, legs shaking around him as he keeps moving.

"You're so beautiful when you cum, did you know that? My pretty baby girl, all fucked out on my cock. Now that's a sight I never want to stop seeing." Another loud smack to your ass has you sobbing into the pillow, moans spilling out as your release gushes around him. "Jesus, how is your pussy so fucking wet? Are you always this wet?"

"No. It's just for you Yoongi."

"That's right. This pussy is mine, isn't it? Say it, doll."

"This pussy is yours Yoongi, fuck. Hold on, I wanna ride you." He stutters, pausing before pulling out so the two of you can shuffle around. You smirk as you crawl over his lap, one hand holding onto his cock as the other grabs his arm while you sink down. You're sure you look a fucked out mess, but so does he. Sweat is making his fringe cling to his forehead, kiss-swollen lips, hickies covering his neck visible even over his tattoos.

You neck snaps back as you sink down completely, the new angle bringing him right to your g-spot and making your legs shake in overstimulation. You fall forward onto his chest, pulling him into another kiss as you circle your hips in small figure eights. You bite down on his lower lip, pulling it between your teeth as you reach behind you and gently roll his balls in your hand. You delight in the way he groans, eyes rolling back at the sensation. "Keep doing that and I'm not going to last (y/n)."

"That's the point. Come on, cum with me Yoongi." It doesn't take much in your overstimulated state to get right back to the point again. Hanging over the edge as you dip your hand down to circle your clit, relishing in the dulcet moans from him as the two of you climax together. His nose scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing as he grips at your hips as you ride him into his own orgasm right after your third. It doesn't take long before he twitches inside you, painting your insides white as you slow down. At the feeling of him coming to his own completion you slump forward, your head falling into the crook of his neck as his hands circle your waist.

"Wow. That might easily have been the best sex of my life."

"Yeah, that was, wow." Your breathing is still unsteady, legs shaking as you feel him soften inside you.

"Did you realize you squirted?"

"Ah, yeah. Sorry to break your heart but that's actually somewhat normal for me."

"God that is so fucking hot." You laugh into his neck, exhaustion taking over as you sigh. "You know, the first time I ever saw you I knew. I just knew. You were all sass and fire, and I just knew that you were it. You were the one."

You wish you could reciprocate and say you thought the same thing when you first saw Yoongi, but you suppose it's better late than never. "I never would've guessed when I first met you that you liked cuddling, or saying such cheesy lines, or absolutely hated scary movies."

"Yeah, but you love that about me."

"Yeah. But I'm pretty sure I just love everything about you Min Yoongi."

"You know, when you say my full name like that I get oddly turned on. Do you think you're up for a round two in like, half an hour?"

You really should say no, you really just want to sleep. But just the thought has your mind spinning. Lord give you strength because you're going to need it, or at least better stamina, to last in survive this man.

You never would've guessed that love could feel so right. So natural. So normal. It isn't always a crazy spark. It isn't all fire and passion, even though it certainly has its moments. No, it's softer. Gentler. It grows and evolves with you. It changes. It takes work. And the two of you do somehow make it work. Even after moving in and trying to learn how to love someone when there's only one bathroom. Even after you get married and fall into a routine. Even after you get pregnant and go a smidge hormonally insane both times. Even on days when both of the kids drive you batty. Even when they leave home and leave you with an empty nest all over again. Because love is something beautiful. It's something innate within us all, it's just a matter of both parties wanting it enough. Working at it enough. And whenever anyone asks you what love means to you it was simple from that day forward. Min Yoongi.

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