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violentdelightsandviolentends · 1 year ago

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Honey Girl. Chapter Three.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Four. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Nine. Chapter Ten. Series Masterlist. The Playlist.

Chapter Synopsis - You and Bucky get closer. Your choice only gets harder.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au.

Word Count - 6.4k

Age Rating - 18+

Warnings - smut. cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.

Author's Note - angels, i can only apologise for the wait!! i've had some stuff going on, and i was on vacation, so this has taken a while. thank you so much for your patience, kindness and support on Honey Girl - it means everything.

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3 please, send me your thoughts, predictions, desires!! i will get excited with you!!

Masterlist. Inbox.

The sunlight seeps through the stained glass windows, murmured chatter echoing off the stone walls around you.

You smooth down your dress and adjust your bracelet, smiling at the rare sight of your family and friends all gathered together in one place. Your parents are sat on either side of you, all of you eagerly awaiting the beginning of this exciting occasion.

Man, you love weddings. You always have. So much happiness and joy in one short day, everyone excited about the possibility of eternal love.

You're still sat waiting when you realise, with quiet uncertainty, that you're not sure whose wedding this is. All of your family is here, as well as many of your friends. So why do you feel so confused all of a sudden?

The Priest gestures for all of the guests to stand just as the first notes of the Wedding March begin to reverberate around the room. You turn around, craning your neck to try and get a glimpse of the bride.

You don't know her, but she's... beautiful. Long, dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders, white silk dress hugging her frame perfectly, accentuating every dip and curve. She has kind eyes, warm and brown, and a blinding smile that's infectious and dazzling. Her skin glows in the stained glass sunlight, illuminating her in an ethereal radiance. She has a beauty that belongs on the cover of a magazine, or on the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel.

You eagerly turn back towards the altar to find out who her lucky groom is. He has his back to you, dark suit stretched across his broad shoulders. He turns, and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips.

It's Bucky.

You're panicking, suddenly. You want to scream, shout, run over to them and object in any way possible. Your Mom grabs your hand tightly from one side, as your Dad does the same on the other.

"Mama, I have to-"

"You can't, sweetheart. It's not fair."

"You made your choice," your Dad says kindly, not an ounce of malice in his voice. "Now you have to let him make his."

White hot tears drip down your cheeks as your chest rises and falls with frantic frustration. This isn't how you wanted things to go. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The lights in the church are suddenly too bright, the wooden pews too hard. There's an incessant knocking noise coming from somewhere in front of you, loud and overwhelming. You swear someone's shouting your name in the distance, among all of the chaos.

"Honey? It's Bucky. Are you okay?"

Why is he asking if you're okay? Of course you're not okay, you're in this living nightmare.

Nightmare.

You're having a nightmare.

You wake with a startled gasp, cheeks wet and warm, sweat dripping down your back. The knocking hasn't stopped, in fact, now it's even louder.

"Sugar? Are you in there? Can you let me in?"

It's Bucky. Bucky's here.

You throw yourself out of bed and race through your apartment, swinging open the door. Bucky is stood on the other side, still in his navy plaid pyjama pants, sweater thrown over himself haphazardly. You look down at yourself and see that you're only wearing an old t shirt, legs bare and feet cold on the wooden floor.

"Are you okay?" he asks gently, stepping forward into your space. "I had this horrible feeling. It was like... like I was panicking. I knew it wasn't me so I figured it must have been you. What's wrong, sweets?"

He snakes his fingers around your wrist and pulls you into him gently, wrapping his arms around you completely. You relax into his embrace, inhaling the warm, cosy scent of him. All the fear leaves your body, and you cling to him tighter, worried that he'll disappear any minute.

"I had a nightmare," you whisper into the soft cotton of his chest.

He pulls back to look at you, large, calloused hands cradling your tear stained cheeks.

"You wanna talk about it?"

You deliberate for a second before shaking your head softly.

"If you change your mind, you know I'll always listen to you. Any time. I mean it."

"I know," you say quietly. "Thank you."

You step away from him and towards the couch, where you curl up with your legs tucked underneath you. Bucky walks over to the kitchen, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove. He makes two mugs of tea, handing one into your outstretched hands carefully. He shuffles to sit next to you, pressed into your side, arm slung around your shoulders. You relax into the broadness of him, the comfort he brings, the safety. The two of you fall asleep intertwined, warm and content, wrapped completely in each other and the blanket of your love.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You're both startled awake by a phone ringing. The unwelcome melody is coming from somewhere between where you're nestled together, limbs intertwined and bodies connected.

"It's-fuck- is that mine or yours?" Bucky's mumbling as he scrambles amongst the couch cushions.

"Yours, I think," you reply, finding your phone on the floor where you've kicked it in your sleep.

Bucky finally finds the source of the noise, trapped in the arm of the couch. He presses the green button reluctantly, still disorientated from being woken so suddenly.

"Hello?"

That deep, raspy grumble of his morning voice is enough to make you melt back into your original position, the tone golden and honeyed. You slide back towards him and tuck yourself into his side, the two of you fitting together perfectly.

You can hear muffled talking on the other end, which takes Bucky a minute to comprehend. When he does, his eyes widen, and he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.

It's your Dad, he mouths silently, muscles in his body going rigid.

Fuck, you mouth back, praying that he can't hear the two sets of heaving lungs on your side of the line.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be there. Sounds good, man. See you then."

Bucky's about to hang up the phone, when your Dad makes a noise of complaint. You can hear your Mom yelling something at him in the background.

"They're coming here," he whispers to you as quietly as possible, covering the phone speaker. "Fuck, what do we do?"

"Tell them you're already here... borrowing something. Or giving something back."

You shoot him a look that says trust me. Trust you, he does.

"I'm with her right now. I can ask, if you want? Yeah, just dropping off a couple of tools - last time I saw her, she mentioned a few loose screws in one of the kitchen cabinets. Easy fix."

You can hear your Dad singing his praises and expressing his gratitude, and your Mom asking Bucky to put you on the phone. He passes it to you carefully, as if it's a bomb, bound to explode at any given second.

"Hi, Mama."

"Hey, sweetheart. Bucky get everything sorted for you?"

"Oh, yeah. He's been great. Fixed it in two minutes flat. I just didn't have the right kind of screwdriver."

"He's one of the good ones, huh?" she chuckles. "We called to tell you that you have to come to our get together later. I know it's a little impromptu, but we have so much produce from the garden, too much for just us. We'll have dinner in the backyard, and drinks, and play some games. And we'll tell you all about the wedding!"

Your Mother has a gift for hosting. She's a people person through and through, warm hearted and kind spirited in nature. She loves having people over at the house, loves cooking for them, loves choosing wine pairings for her dishes and explaining each one carefully. It's a gift. She's a gift.

"I'd love to come, Mama. Do you want me to bring anything? I can make desserts?"

"Oh, darling, would you? I'm making a strawberry and cream tart, but you know it's nothing compared to your talent."

"Oh hush," you chide playfully. "I'll see what I can conjure up. Maybe I'll even rope Bucky in to help."

You wink at him cheekily and he laughs, the sound settling gently in your ribs like a caged bird singing it's morning song.

"Glad to be of service!" he yells into the phone, his right hand moving to rest at the nape of your neck. He massages the muscle there gently, and the tension leaves your body just as quick as it arrived.

"What time, Mama?"

"Everyone's arriving at seven o'clock, but you and Bucky feel free to come any time. Did you hear that, Bucky? Any time!"

"Loud and clear," he chuckles. "See you soon, Lori."

"Bye, you two. Call if you need anything. Love you, sweetheart."

"Love you too."

She hangs up the phone and you're plunged into silence, the two of you panting like you've just ran a marathon.

"Fuck," Bucky breathes.

"Yeah, fuck," you exhale. "Now my parents think I'm not capable of fixing a loose screw."

"It was the first thing I thought of! Sorry, honey. Didn't mean to undermine your DIY skills."

You fake angry, but you can't keep it up while he's looking at you like you hung the moon just for him. The corners of your lips twitch, and before you know it, you're grinning at each other like idiots.

"Now I have to make dessert," you laugh. "There go my plans for the day."

"You offered."

"I panicked!"

"I'll give you a hand, if you need it. I don't have to be at work for another hour and a half."

"It's okay," you reassure, reaching out to link your fingers with his. He's still absentmindedly tracing patterns across the back of your neck, the sensation almost soothing you back to sleep.

You relax into Bucky, and he pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you. He's so warm, and soft, and broad. You realise that there's been two occasions recently where you've slept like the dead. Both were in Bucky's arms.

"You wanna help me make breakfast?" you whisper, careful not to disrupt the golden glow of the morning sunlight. The orange hue of the room feels fragile, sacred even. You don't want to ruin it.

"Of course. I can't bake, but I can cook. I have my uses."

"That, you do," you tease, leaning back into him as he places a tender kiss on top of your head. If you could bottle up this feeling of complete tranquility, you would. For a moment, everything else disappears. It's just you and your soulmate. Nothing else matters.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Bucky, as it turns out, is a decent chef.

Sure, he's not Michelin star level, but neither are you.

You're sat on the counter, bare legs dangling over the side as you watch him move around your kitchen with ease, as if it's his own. You can't help but notice the way he belongs here. Like he's been here all along.

Bucky leaves everything cooking on the stove to come to stand in between your legs, warm hands splayed across your thighs. He rubs comforting circles into your skin while his steely blue eyes look at you intently.

"You okay?"

You smile at him softly, draping your arms around his neck to play with his hair.

"I'm fine."

You're not fine. The words California and Bakery and Dream Job and Bucky keep circling around your mind like horses on a fairground carousel. The more time you spend with Bucky, the more your Tethering makes sense. The two of you work. This connection you have is made of threads of gold, braided into both of your souls.

"You've been quiet all morning. And... I can feel it, you know. This anxious, sinking feeling, deep in my chest. There's something really bothering you, honey."

You take a deep breath and grasp onto his shoulders tightly, grounding yourself back down to Earth.

"I'm okay. There's just a couple of things I need to work out, and I think they're giving me some anxiety. I'm just stressed, I think."

"Are you trying to convince yourself, or me? Because you're not doing a very good job of either."

He's only teasing, but the way he's looking at you makes your breath hitch. It's as if everytime he looks into your eyes, he's also looking into your soul. It's like he can read your mind. Your heart is covered in braille and he's running his fingertips over it gently. You suddenly feel very exposed, shrinking down into yourself on the counter.

"Hey, pretty girl. Look at me. Please."

He uses his finger and thumb to tilt your face towards him, holding onto your chin gently.

"I'm sorry. I'm not trying to push you, or anything. I'm just worried. It's weird, being able to feel what you feel. I think I'm still getting used to it."

You smile at him carefully, running your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks.

"I appreciate you looking out for me, Buck. It's just... overwhelming, I guess. Nothing's a secret between me and you anymore."

You both know that's not true.

"You know, if there's anyone who understands how you feel... it's me."

"You're right," you laugh, "on account of the whole half-of-my-soul thing, I guess."

"Exactly. It's scary, but you're not alone in this. The two of us will figure it out. I know we will."

He has so much faith in you it makes you want to cry.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. He leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, firm and reassuring. It's like he's reminding you that he's right here, in front of you. He's not going anywhere.

You might be, though.

"We've got all the time in the world, remember?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"All the time in the world," you echo, tucking your head into his chest.

He holds you close until your breakfast starts to burn. The impending fire on the stove is nothing compared to the impending fire that feels like your future.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The two of you eat on your balcony, tangled together on the love seat chair. The sun is beating down, beams of light illuminating Bucky, setting him aglow. He looks like an angel, the golden hue creating a halo around him. You wonder for a second if he is. An angel sent just for you.

"Oh hey, did I tell you?" he asks, turning as much as he can in his spot to face you.

"Tell me what?"

"Leonie and Eli are having a baby."

"No way!" you exclaim, grabbing a hold of his hands in excitement. "I'm so happy for them. Man, it feels like yesterday that they found each other."

"Right? Hell of a story, too."

"Rough one, though. I mean, imagine it. You introduce your brother to your new girlfriend, and turns out they're soulmates."

Bucky's laughing so hard that he's clutching at his stomach, shaking the chair and you along with it.

"That's fucked," he wheezes. "It's so fucked."

You can't contain your own laughter, not when his is so contagious.

"It's not funny," you breathe, but you're giggling so hard your sides hurt.

"Not funny at all," he chuckles, pinching your thigh.

"If you think about it, our Tethering is a little fucked up too. I mean, you're my Dad's best friend."

"Yeah... not ideal, huh?" he teases, still laughing.

"Not ideal at all, really," you agree playfully.

You sit in the quiet for a moment before you speak again.

"What do you think they'll say? When we tell them, eventually?"

Bucky thinks for a moment, cogs turning in his brain. He considers carefully before he answers you.

"...I think they'll be happy for us. Your Mom'll be excited. It might be a little harder for your Dad to navigate, I guess, but... he'll be okay."

"Yeah. You're probably right."

The rational part of your brain is telling you that he is. They'll be ecstatic that the two of you have found your person. The celebrations will be endless.

But there's a tiny, nagging piece of your mind that won't let you rest. It's taunting you, telling you that they're going to be confused, shocked, upset. That they won't accept the two of you. You can't lose them over a soulmate. You won't.

You clear your throat and stand from your spot, picking up your empty plates.

"Don't you have to be at work soon? I doubt you can show up in pajamas."

"I'm the boss, pretty girl. I can wear whatever the hell I want."

You raise an eyebrow at him, and he relents.

"Fine. I need to change. But I'll see you later? At your Mom's?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll see you there."

You walk Bucky to the door, opening it expectantly. He looks at you for a moment too long, still unconvinced by your reassurances from earlier.

"If you need anything, just call me. You know you can talk to me anytime, yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his t shirt. "I know, Buck. Thanks."

He leans in to kiss your forehead before leaving you in the doorway, more confused than ever.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You commit your day to baking your feelings away.

As soon as Bucky left your apartment, the space felt empty, incomplete. Much like you do. As much as you hate to admit it, you feel better when Bucky is around. You know it's the whole Tethering thing, but still. Your heart feels fuller, the world seems brighter, the sun on your skin is warmer. Everything's easier when your soulmate is next to you.

You click on the radio, a soft, jazzy melody filling your kitchen. You begin to measure your ingredients, picking up bowls, utensils and your piping bags as you go.

This is the only thing you've ever felt like you were made to do. Sure, you've had hobbies as you've grown up. You're a good swimmer, you enjoyed soccer, you weren't too bad at dance. But nothing compared to baking.

Which at first, sounded ridiculous. Grown ups would ask you what you wanted to be when you were older, and when you said Baker, they'd laugh in that patronising way that adults do. It didn't stop you, though.

Your Grandma bought you a half empty recipe book for your tenth birthday. You can create your own and add them, she'd said. You'll be publishing a book with your name on in no time.

Your parents took you on a European vacation when you were sixteen. In Amsterdam, you passed this tiny little bakery, tucked away down a back street. It was red brick with a big window in the front, showcasing the cakes and endless sweet treats they had to offer. When you peered through the glass, you watched as the woman who you assumed was the owner went about her day. She looked so happy to be serving her customers. You decided then and there that was going to be you one day. A Bakery of your own. A happy life.

Which is why you're having such a hard time. You haven't talked to Stella since she called you, and you're worried she's going to change her mind if she doesn't hear from you soon. You haven't talked to Bucky about it either, even though he presented you with opportunity after opportunity this morning. It's starting to feel like the walls are caving in.

So, you do what you do best. Bake.

The day passes by quicker than anticipated, lost in a cloud of cinnamon and powdered sugar. You're wiping down your counters when your phone rings, Bucky's name lighting up your screen.

"Hi, Buck."

"Hey, pretty baby. You want me to pick you up later? I'm passing your place anyway."

He's always thinking of you so selflessly. The thought makes your heart stutter for a moment.

"You sure you don't mind?"

"Course not. I can drop by at six? Gives us enough time to help your Mom set up."

"Sounds perfect. Thanks, Buck."

"See you then, honey."

You hang up the phone and realise the hours have completely escaped you. You jump in the shower and do your hair and makeup in record time, miraculously. You're stood in a towel in front of your closet when you feel Bucky pull up outside. The tension in your chest eases a little, and you take a deep, full breath. He knocks on the door, and you completely relax.

"Hey, you," he greets, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek.

You take a step back to look at him, and almost lose your balance. He looks ridiculously handsome. He's wearing a dark short sleeve button up that hugs his biceps so tightly, you're worried it might burst open. His jeans cling to his thighs deliciously, and the leather jacket slung over his shoulder adds a ruggedness that most men couldn't pull off. Your eyes rake over him slowly, taking him in from top to bottom. He lets you devour him, smirk never leaving his lips. Eventually, you meet his gaze.

"You see something you like?"

"You clean up real nice, Barnes," you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips.

You untangle yourself from him before you jump his bones, and walk back to your closet. He follows you and sits on the edge of your bed, watching your every move like a hawk.

You pick out a sage green sundress that skims your thighs and hugs you in all the right places. It's a warm night, and your Mom loves to start a bonfire when it's cold.

"Close your eyes, playboy," you scold jokingly, laughing when he flops backwards to stare at your ceiling.

You slip the dress on, and realise it has a zipper at the back that you can't reach.

"Buck? Can you zip me up, please?"

He rises from his spot on the bed and strides over to you, standing a little closer than necessary. He pulls the zip upwards ever so slowly, fingertips brushing your spine as he goes. He's so warm and so broad behind you that it sends a shiver through your body.

Bucky brushes your hair to one side and leans down to press a featherlight kiss the place where your neck meets your shoulder. You hum in contentment, which only spurs him on. He begins to leave kisses wherever he pleases - your shoulder, your neck, behind your ear. You practically melt into him, and he wraps his arms around you to keep you steady.

"You look so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin. "Prettiest girl I've ever seen."

You smile at his words, leaning your head back to rest on his shoulder.

"Says the man that looks like a goddamn supermodel."

"Oh, angel. Now you're just lying to me."

His chuckle rumbles through the both of you, the sound lighting up your nerve endings.

Your eyes flick across the room, where you notice the clock on the wall.

"Baby," you whisper. "You gotta stop. We're gonna be late."

He groans lowly and lets his head loll into the crease of your shoulder.

"I was fine until you called me baby," he murmurs. "Now that's all I'm gonna be thinking about for the rest of the night."

"Sorry."

"You're not."

"I'm not."

You both laugh and untangle yourselves, you moving to put on your shoes while Bucky straightens himself out.

"You gonna be able to keep your hands to yourself, lover boy?"

"I'm gonna have to," he grumbles, trying to hide the smile that's fighting to take over his face.

You lean against him as you do up the straps of your shoes, dancing your fingers down his arm to interlink your hands.

"Ready?" you ask, looking up at him with big doe eyes.

"Ready," he confirms, leaning down to kiss you chastely.

"A night of pretending that we're not soulmates. How hard can that be?"

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Pretending that Bucky isn't your soulmate is one of the hardest things you've ever done.

You haven't even made it inside yet.

Buck parks his truck in your parents driveway and turns to look at you. You've been silent the entire ride over, and it's making him anxious. He reaches over and places a warm palm on your bare thigh, thumb rubbing patterns back and forth.

"You okay?"

You take a deep breath, which is all the answer he needs.

"It's alright, baby. I'm nervous too. We've got this. We're alright."

You look into his eyes for the first time since you were in your apartment, and have to fight to stop yourself from crying. You nod and bite your lip, inhaling and exhaling carefully.

"You're okay. I promise. It's me and you, honey girl. It's me and you."

You want to crawl over into Bucky's lap and bury your face in his chest. You want to curl up in his strong arms and let his scent envelope you. You want to tangle your fingers into his hair and smash his lips to yours, until you don't know where you end and Bucky begins.

Instead, you bring his hand from your thigh to your lips, and kiss each of his knuckles tenderly. The gesture makes his heart beat so fast, he's a little worried he's about to pass out.

"Come and talk to me anytime tonight, okay? I've got you. I've always got you."

You nod again, and take another deep breath.

"I know, Buck. It's the only thing I'm sure of."

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

"My baby!"

Your Mom smothers you in a hug the minute you knock on the door, almost tipping you over in the process.

"Oh, you look so beautiful. This colour is gorgeous on you, sweetheart."

The heaviness of your heart gets a little lighter at the sight of your Mother. She's magic like that.

"Thanks Mama. Is your skirt new? It's pretty."

She gives you a twirl, the skirt billowing around her like a princess. Both you and Bucky smile when you catch each others eyes briefly.

"I got it on our trip! Your Dad got a new shirt too - he looks so handsome."

She's grinning from ear to ear talking about him. Your smile only gets wider.

Bucky gives your Mom a one armed hug, and hands her a white box with a bow on.

"I wish I could say this is from me, but I don't have nearly enough talent for that."

"You're plenty good at other things, Buck," she laughs. "What's in here, sweetheart?"

"Apple, carrot and cinnamon cake with cream cheese frosting. I piped little bunny rabbits on top, too."

Before she can say anything else, you take the box from her hands and walk into the house.

"We better put this in the refrigerator before the frosting melts!" you call as you leave.

"Come on Buck, let's get you a drink. Jack bought your favourite."

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Your parents backyard looks incredible.

Golden fairylights adorn the deck, illuminating the dining area that your Mom has set up. The table is covered with a white lace tablecloth, and littered with tea lights and candlesticks. Each place setting has a wine and a water glass ready, fringed cushions perched on each wooden chair. There's a beautiful bouquet of flowers in a stained glass vase as the centerpiece, more flowers scattered across the entirety of the table.

The sun hasn't set yet, and the entire garden is dripping with the glowing orange hue of the evening. The air is warm and calm, salty ocean breeze only disrupting the peace occasionally. If summer were to be summed up in a night, it'd be this one.

Your Dad is pouring water into all of the glasses from an ornate painted jug when you walk into the yard.

"Hi, Papa."

"Oh, sweetheart!" he smiles in surprise, abandoning his task to come and give you a hug. "You look amazing. I like your dress."

"Thank you - hey, is this your new shirt? It suits you!"

"It's nice, right? Your Mom picked it out. She said the colour brings out my eyes."

You look him up and down comically, crossing your arms over your chest like a cartoon detective.

"Hmm... she's right. It definitely does."

You're both laughing when your Mom and Bucky join you, the two men immediately smacking each other on the back affectionately.

"Where you been, Buck? Work keeping you busy?"

"Stupidly busy - you wouldn't even believe."

"Well, it's your night off, so no shop talk!" your Mom encourages, handing Bucky a beer.

"Easier said than done," he winks, and your breathing picks up just a little.

"Mama, do you need help with anything in the kitchen?"

"Oh, yes please, sweetheart. Come, let me show you what needs doing."

The two of you leave the men to catch up, walking inside to prep the appetisers.

You're slicing tomatoes carefully when you turn to watch your Mom for a minute. She's chopping up basil, completely engrossed. The evening sun beams in, illuminating her as she stands by the window. You love her so much it makes you unsteady on your feet.

"Hey, Mama? Can I talk to you about something?"

She turns and immediately stops what she's doing, giving her full attention to you.

"Of course you can, baby. Anything at all."

You take a deep breath, and carry on slicing while you talk.

"So, you remember Stella, right?

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The night goes off without a hitch.

There's good food, gorgeous wine and even better company. Your parents invited many of their friends, meaning twelve of you are sat around the meticulously prepared table. In between courses, there's conversation, laughter and games, everyone letting go of the stress of the week.

You're doing everything you can to avoid looking at Bucky. You're worried that if someone catches the two of you, they'll know everything. You're surprised you haven't confessed already, the weight of the secret too heavy to bear.

Your Mom is cutting your cake on the table when there's a sudden commotion.

"Oh, fuck!"

"Shit! Shit, I'm sorry. Shit."

"Is everyone okay?" your Mom asks, flitting to the other end of the table.

"I'm so fucking clumsy, my God. Dropped my wine straight onto Bucky," Jesse, one of your Dad's oldest friends, explains.

"As long as it doesn't stain my white tablecloth, we're fine," your Mom laughs. "What do you need, Buck?"

"It's only white wine, luckily, so no stain. I'm just wet. I'm gonna go dry off."

"I have a hairdryer?" you offer without thinking.

"Good idea, honey. Go help Bucky upstairs while I get some paper towels."

You rise from your chair and make your way inside, heart racing as Bucky follows you. You rummage around the drawers of your childhood bedroom, certain you used to keep all of your hair tools here somewhere.

"You got it?" a warm, whiskey smooth voice asks from behind you.

"Got it," you reply, standing up with the hairdryer in your hand.

Bucky kicks the door closed behind him, and takes a step into you.

"I can't focus on anything when you're sat there in that dress," he murmurs. "Look like a fuckin' angel, all pretty under the lights."

Heat blooms over your chest, and you pray he doesn't notice. Your breathing quickens, and you step forward too, now chest to chest with him.

"I'm so worried that I'm going to accidentally blurt it out," you confess. "You're the only thing that's on my mind."

Bucky leans down to press his lips to yours, smiling into the kiss. You fist your hands into his shirt and pull him closer, snaking your tongue into his mouth. He tastes like mint and sugar and every kiss for the rest of your life.

He groans when you bite his lip, nipping yours back in retaliation.

"Easy, baby," he warns teasingly. "I can't go back down there black and blue."

You roll your eyes and kiss him harder, practically melting when he grabs at your ass roughly.

"What do you need, pretty girl?" he questions against your mouth. "I'll give you anything."

You're panting against him, vibrating with need.

"Need you to take the edge off," you whisper, hands shaking as you unbutton his wet shirt. "Can't carry on like this. Please, baby. Please."

"We've gotta be quick," he reminds, sneaking his hand under your dress to tease you over your underwear.

You grab at his shoulders for leverage, almost certain your knees aren't going to hold out long enough. Bucky doesn't even take your panties off, just slips his hand down the front. It feels filthier this way.

"Fuck," he groans. "This all for me, honey? You been thinking about this?"

"Yes," you whine. "All I've thought about."

Bucky wastes no time, slipping a finger into you easily. After a minute, he adds another, setting a steady rhythm immediately.

"Shit," you breathe, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his chest. "We're supposed to be taking it slow."

"You want me to go slow?"

"No, fuck," you say immediately. "Don't stop. Please."

He chuckles lowly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

"I won't, baby. Almost there."

It should be embarrassing, how quickly he can take you to the edge, but you don't care. This is what having a soulmate is. They know you better than anyone - inside and out.

"So close," you whisper.

"I know, pretty baby. I can feel it. Stay quiet and come for me. That's it."

You can't hold out when he uses that tone with you. You're thrown over the edge, your climax running through you like molten honey, hot and delicious. Your knees buckle, and Bucky uses a strong arm around your middle to hold you up.

"There we go," he's murmuring. "Atta girl. That's my girl."

You wrap your arms around his waist and breathe him in, finally coming back to your senses.

"My parents are gonna wonder where we are," you realise. "Grab your shirt and the hairdryer. You're gonna have to do it while I recover."

Bucky smiles at you with so much affection, the world stops spinning for a second. This is a moment of bliss. The two of you revel in it.

Bucky dries his shirt while you go back outside, trying to keep suspicion to a minimum.

"Fixed, sweetheart?" your Mom asks, holding out a piece of cake to you. You take it gratefully and sit back down, relaxing into your chair.

"Yeah, it's basically dry. That hairdryer is old, so it's taking a while."

"Well you didn't miss much, other than Jesse telling the Joshua Tree story for the fortieth time this month," your Dad laughs.

"You love that story, asshole!" Jesse yells, just as Bucky re-enters the garden. He throws you a mischievous smile, which you reciprocate with ease.

Everyone is a little more careful with their wine as the night goes on, keeping all the glasses planted firmly on the table.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

"So then I said, well, if you don't like it, leave!"

You're pretty sure you've heard your Mom's friend Cora tell this story before, but you're all laughing like it's the first time. She has such an animated voice, you're convinced you could listen to her read the phone book.

"Which, I mean, I didn't think he would. Imagine breaking up over a chinchilla! A fucking chinchilla!"

You're laughing so hard your sides hurt. You look over to Bucky, and see that he's grinning like a Cheshire cat. You could get used to this.

"So I watched him pack his shit, box by box. Which took fucking ages, by the way. He was using those big plastic boxes, you know the black ones? And he was filling them so carefully and so slowly, that I started helping him!"

You wipe a tear from your face, still doubled over in amusement. You're gonna be sore tomorrow, the way your abs hurt now.

"But I didn't want him taking those boxes, because they're nice, right? They're expensive, and they're mine! So I helped him move out, and then unpacked all of his shit so I could have my boxes back."

Your Mom, despite hearing this story before, hasn't taken her eyes off Cora the entire time. She's such a careful listener. It's one of the things you love most about her.

"Oh, I'll drop them off for you, if you like!" Cora yells, staring directly at you. Everyone turns to look at you in confusion.

"Why would she need all your boxes?" Jesse laughs.

"For the big move!"

Time stands still. The world goes silent. Your heart stops beating.

"...What move?" Bucky asks, never taking his eyes off you.

"To California! Her dream job, falling in her lap. We're so proud of you, babygirl. You've worked so hard for this."

Cora's tearing up now, the alcohol catching up to her. She raises her glass high in the air.

"To our little superstar. The best baker the world has ever seen! Cheers!"

Everyone clinks their glasses together in the middle of the table, except for you and Bucky. You haven't taken your eyes off each other. The world carries on, but you stay still.

You suddenly feel a cacophony of emotions - sadness, anger, betrayal, hurt and confusion settling like ten tonne weights onto your chest. Then it hits you - you're feeling what Bucky feels.

You feel a heart break.

You're not sure if it's yours or his.

tag list part one -

@lillytracy6996 @securegorgon @roostersforevergirl @povlvr @val-writesstuff @dreadfulxives18 @1deadpool26 @abbygraceasd @nyutasgirl @mavrellover91 @winterslove1917 @f-this42 @skewedcherries @noisesinthedark @kandis-mom @black-cat-2 @harrystylesandthegoobs @vladsgirlxx @h0nestly-though @arienotari @nash-dara @wandaneedstherapy @galaxy-dusk @justherefortheficandsmut @cremebruleequeen @cjand10 @buggy14 @avengers-fixation @blueberrybambi @beautiful-loserr @sarah1barnes @miss-rebel-without-applause @ragingrainbowshipl @shamrockqueen @savemeroman @jenn-f @8crazy-freak8 @daddyjackfrost @openup-yourmind @adangerousbalance @mandijo17 @daddylorianisastateofmind @rcarbo1 @casa-boiardi @spideegwen @navs-bhat @mssbridgerton @asuni921 @middle-of-the-earth @mfrnchsk

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noxi3xe · 5 months ago

Text

Current complete works:

Do NOT repost my works without my consent.

These works have all been posted on my AO3 and I've decided to post links to each and every post here. Read my tags and INFO HERE for more information.

I do take requests for oneshots!

╰➛ SERIES

All of my finished Series with Plot; Please read the tags on each work!

My AO3 <- here!

GENSHIN IMPACT:

𐙚 Dangerous Entanglement - Info Here You were just eight when you found out you were special yet cursed. not one, not two but three? From Snezhnaya? You must be a joke! SOULMATES AU ( Reader x Pantalone, Capitano, Dottore) 𐙚 Forgive But Not Forget Reader accidentally betrays Celestia, gets thrown out and gets found by Dottore who is obviously intrigued by the fact that the reader is definitely not human. (Reader x Pantalone, Dottore) 𐙚 A Foolish Fatuus in the opera's grip Your shaking form kneels before the Chief of Justice, begging to be let go. declared an enemy of the region and now the warden locks any door behind you, ready to break your shield of stone, revealing a perfect gem. And now Perhaps your new mentioned dirty injuries gave the warden a new idea. ( Reader x Neuvillette, Wriothesley) 𐙚 Up to the test Aka reader gets isekai'd into genshin impact, works for the tenryou commission for a little bit and climbs the ranks then gets moved to snezhnaya to work with the fatui ( Reader x Childe, Dottore, Pantalone, Capitano) 𐙚 To try my hardest Continuation of UP TO THE TEST (Reader x Capitano, Dottore) 𐙚 Echoes of Deception - Info here Your escape plan didn't work as it was supposed to, now your curiosity cost you your position and the trust of the one and only Il Capitano. Perhaps the contract you signed will not only serve as a new beginning but also as the road to regaining his trust. (Capitano x AFAB! Reader)

HONKAI STAR RAIL

𐙚 Finding Yourself: Perhaps you had never thought you'd be ending up just where you promised yourself you'd be running away from, and with a bit of help you remembered who you used to be and the major role you held. And perhaps the relationships you had lost could be regained, somehow at least. AFTER the Xianzhou Luofu Trailblazer mission ( Dan Heng, Jing Yuan, Blade x Reader)

___________________________________________________

╰➛ ONESHOTS

All of my oneshots and so on some with plot some not, Read tags!

NSFW & SFW!

GENSHIN IMPACT:

𐙚 Genshin Impact men x Reader: Various character x reader + thirsts. some have smut some have mentions of explicit content some are just fluff 𐙚 Behind the prison's office doors: Fluff! Nothing's like having to waddle through the pouring rain to work just to be greeted by your lover, unaware of the conditions outside due to being locked inside his office. (Wriothesley x Reader) 𐙚 Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, Don't cry! Fluff! After a while it had all clicked, the rain was pouring, thunder crackling through the air. Rushing back inside, behind his desk sat the hydro dragon, sobbing loudly. AU! Reader travels alongside Lumine & Paimon (Neuvillette x Reader) 𐙚 Fontaline Dragon Meeting: childe forms a plan to get to the gnosis, fails, has to go thru a trial, his fontaine arrival reaches zhongli, he appears, then childe (again) sleeps his way to the gnosis. (Zhongli, Neuvillette x Childe) 𐙚 Genshin & Honkai drabbles: Various character x Reader Fics and ideas I produce along the way and have no idea what to do with, Short & simple. 𐙚 Knowing when to stop: Fluff! Pierro overworks himself again so you take his place for a day, doing the exact same thing as him in the end. (Pierro x Reader)

HONKAI STAR RAIL:

𐙚 Bound for eternity: You get off of work, tired, spot march on the street want to return her hairclip but get dragged along to a pub you meet your soulmate after years of waiting you decide to drag him to your home after meeting him (Boothill x Reader) 𐙚 Genshin & Honkai drabbles: Various character x Reader Fics and ideas I produce along the way and have no idea what to do with, Short & simple. 𐙚 Pretty reunion, Ugly past: Reader has some unsolved problems w blade while working for the Cloud Knights, finds it all too much, leaves everything behind and runs away with the Astral express then returns a decade later and is greeted with a pissy Blade and a warmly (not really) welcoming Jing Yuan (Reader x Blade, Jing Yuan)

OTHER FANDOMS/MULTI FANDOM:

Multi fandom x Reader: Various character x reader oneshots from the next few games/shows: - Demon slayer: (Tengen, Rengoku x Reader) - Jujutsu Kaisen: (Geto, Sukuna, Nanami, Toji x Reader) - Seraph of the end: (Crowley, Ferid, Guren, Higari x Reader) - Honkai Star Rail: (Blade, Jing Yuan, Luocha x Reader) - Gangsta: (Worick, Nicolas x Reader) - Genshin Impact: (Dottore, Capitano, Pantalone, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, Alhaitham x Reader) - Bungo Stray Dogs: (Dazai, Fyodor, Nikolai, Sigma, Atsushi, Akutagawa, Chuuya, Odasaku x Reader) - Spider-Man: Spider-Verse: (Miguel O'Hara x Reader) - Call of Duty: (König, Simon ghost Riley x Reader)

____________________________________________________

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ladcedes · 1 year ago

Text

melodrama

charles leclerc x musical theatre actress!reader, social media!au

summary a melodrama is defined as a dramatic piece with exaggerated characters and plot-lines that play to the audience’s emotions. when charles leclerc dates a queen of drama, there is bound to be some that seeps into his life.

notes yes, the title was from the lorde album. warning, google translated french

the anniversary posts

yourusername

Liked by lilymhe and 582.382 others

yourusername mon amour ❤️ i never could’ve imagined that i would spend 5 years with you… and i never imagined that i could find someone so amazing, who could make me feel like the most spectacular person in the world, the most special girl, yet also remind me of how human i am and how i’m allowed to be only human. you always manage to whisk me away from the pressures of life, push everything away, and make it feel like it’s just us in this world. you, my darling, are the comfort and calm of my soul. with you forever by my side, i can face anything

view 366 replies

12 March 2023

arthur_leclerc i can't believe it's been 5 years since you two started being publicly insufferable

⤷ charles_leclerc nous t'aimons aussi, arthur 🙄🙄🙄 (we love you, too, arthur)

carmenmmundt congrats on 5 years and cheers to many more!!

⤷ yourusername thank you love! ❤️

f1wagsite the caption is too sweet im jealous

⤷ ynfans2023 literally their relationship makes me wanna go in the bathtub with my hairdryer

charles_leclerc

Liked by alex_albon and 906.438 others

charles_leclerc always the light on my darkest days, my sunshine when it rains, melting away all my worries and doubts, always bringing me up from the lowest of low points. you are my courage and strength. you shine so brightly that you light up everything around you, including myself. you bring out the best in me and love even the worst. you give warmth to the deepest corners of my soul. with you, i’m the best and most natural version of myself. these 5 years together have been the best years of my life, i wish i had met you sooner. even eternity isn’t enough to be with you, mon étoile ❤️

view 523 replies

12 March 2023

lewishamilton congratulations guys ❤️

pierregasly congrats on 5! so where's the ring mate? 😂😂

⤷ alexalbon seconding this 😂😂

⤷ hamilfans pierre?? ALEX?? do they know something we don't or are they playing??

valenciacia the caption??? ME WHENNN 😭😭😭😭😭

⤷ f1girliee RIGHTT like "even eternity isn't enough to be with you"???? i'm going crazy.

⤷ leclercwdc i'm about to go take a bath with my toaster rn

charles_leclerc posted • 8/2/2023 | yourusername posted • 2/3/2023

charles_leclerc

Liked by pierregasly and 867.338 others

charles_leclerc my favourite actress ❤️ unbelievably proud of you, mon cherie @yourusername.

to be blessed with the love of such a hard-working, talented actress is an honour. you performed amazingly tonight and every other night before.

11 February 2023

view 406 comments

yourusername charlie you are such a sap (i love you so much)

⤷ charles_leclerc only for you darling (i love you more)

itsnessa they make me believe in love

⤷ loveleclerc real i don't know what i would do if they broke up

⤷ wdcleclerc i think i would lose hope in love

44britcedes my fav couple 🫶🫶🫶

yourusername

Liked by charles_leclerc and 724.198 others

yourusername all's well that ends well

3 May 2023

view 698 comments

myagramm is the ring on yn's finger a new addition orrrr

⤷ pierregasly i guess we found where the ring is

⤷ leclercism beating the breakup allegations with marriage allegations. only them.

⤷ myagramm PIERRE?? HELLO???

httpsainz is that ring what i think it is

solarpiastri im actually crying they rlly said fuck the break up rumours and decided to start up engagement rumours instead

a/n: might make a part 2 if i feel like it in like 5 months

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 1 year ago

Text

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 45

Part 1 Part 44

Steve stays seated on the coffee table, long after Jonathan and Will have left. The entirety of his old life is bagged up next to him. Three small bags. That’s the total sum of Steve Harrington’s life.

He sits in the Munson’s trailer, unmoored.

But then there’s Eddie. Always, eternally Eddie who picks up Steve’s filled duffel bag and marches into his room. A man on a mission. Just like he always will, Steve follows him.

Eddie’s dresser is open, shirts haphazardly thrown on the ground in a mound.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, hand trailing along the molding of the doorway. The grooves are rough, catching on his calluses.

“Putting your stuff away.”

Eddie folds Steve’s shirts nicely, almost tenderly placing them in a neat pile beside his own. A riot of colors joining the faded blacks and reds and whites of Eddie’s own clothes. Something about the sight makes Steve feel unendingly tender. It almost hurts, the way his heart pulses.

“You don’t have to–”

“Steve?” Eddie interrupts, not turning away from his chosen task.

“Shut up, and go get the rest of your stuff.”

Steve clenches his hand, feels a sliver embed itself into his pointer finger. He pulls it out with the fingernails of his opposite hand, staring at Eddie’s back like he’ll be able to peer through his skins into the machinations underneath. Maybe the breadth of the spaces between each rib will tell him how he got this lucky. Steve goes.

The teddy bear looks sad, abandoned on the coffee table. It’s comfortable in his arms. He picks his heavy backpack up and goes back in the room. Eddie’s in the process of kicking his abandoned shirts into the corner of the room. He smiles sheepishly when Steve walks in.

“I can go home,” Steve says, clutching the teddy bear to his chest.

Eddie rolls his eyes. He stops trying to neaten his shirts without bending over to stalk over to Steve and wrench his backpack (carefully) off his shoulder. “You’re literally impossible,” he says, placing the backpack down on the ground next to his own.

“I’m just saying,” Steve says, rolling his own eyes in return, putting on a little show to match Eddie’s own. “I’m not sure your room’s big enough.”

Eddie goes back over to Steve, clasps his hand gently in his own, and brings it up to his lips like the don from a mafia movie. He looks into Steve’s eyes, and up close, he can see little flecks of gold. “I’m going to kill you.” Eddie says. Softly, gently. Steve would let him.

Instead, he leads Steve by hand over to the bed, and pushes him down, teddy bear and all. “I’m just saying–” Steve says halfheartedly, shuffling backward to settle his back against the wall, Eddie’s pillows wedged between the mattress and the wall.

“Well stop,” Eddie says, sitting down beside him. “Do you want to go home?” He asks it like he knows the answer – less question and more leading Steve to the answer they both already know.

Eddie leans his head on Steve’s good shoulder, petting Teddy’s soft fur. Steve lets him, clutches the bear tightly as he says a quiet, “no.”

“Great!” Eddie says brightly, swaying his weight further into Steve’s space, “Because there’s no way in hell I can sleep on my own right now, dude. I’d be crawling through your window at two a.m. either way.”

Steve chuckles, unsurprised when it comes out a little wet. Luckily, no tears fall. That might be a step too far. “I’m making dinner.”

“Oooooh!” Eddie says, bouncing up from the bed and dancing around the room. “What’re we having?”

Steve watches him fondly before standing up. He puts Teddy down gently at the top of Eddie’s bed. He looks cozy on Eddie’s worn bedding. At home. Steve trails his fingers over the top of his head, just once, before wandering back into the matchbox living room and into the kitchen. He opens cupboards at random, perusing the ingredients with prejudice.

“Spaghetti,” he declares, fishing noodles, sauce, and meat out of their respective cubbies. “Will Uncle Wayne be here?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, so Steve turns, eyebrows raised. Eddie’s smiling at him, strange and fond, like Steve’s his favorite pet and he just did a really neat trick. “Yeah, Uncle Wayne should be back soon,” he says, emphasizing the word uncle strangely.

Steve squints at him before deciding it’s none of his business and getting back to work. It’s a trial working in such a small, unfamiliar kitchen, mostly after Eddie jumps up to sit on the counter, taking up a large portion of the available space to work with.

Instead of shoving Eddie off the counter so he’d have the space to shape the meatballs, Steve roughly browns the hamburger in a frying pan, adding the canned marinara sauce while the noodles boil.

“Can you make some toast?” Steve asks, using a spatula to keep the hamburger from settling and sticking to the bottom.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” Eddie asks playfully. The kitchen is so small, he doesn’t even bother getting up, just reaches behind him, leaning to one side to give the cupboard he’s blocking enough room to open. He grabs the slightly-squashed wonder bread, slides it out of its plastic wrap, and leans the other direction to slide three slices into the toaster.

“What’re you gonna do for the butter, wise-ass?” Steve asks, unfortunately charmed.

“Well,” Eddie says, drawing out the vowels in a long drawl, “isn’t there a big strong man who could get it for me?”

When Steve looks away from the simmering sauce to look over at him,, Eddie’s fluttering his eyelashes cartoonishly. Unfortunately for Steve, it makes his fucking heart flutter weirdly. He sighs, a put-upon sense of put-uponness on show, but still goes to retrieve the margarine and a butter knife and a plate for Eddie to put the toast on.

“My hero!” Eddie says.

They finish preparations in silence. Steve tells himself that it’s the heat from the stovetop that makes his cheeks flush.

Uncle Wayne walks through the door just as Eddie’s putting the last plate on the small table. “Dinner!”Eddie singsongs.

After grunting in affirmation, Uncle Wayne shambles over to the couch, and plops down with a groan to untie his laces. “Smells good, boys,” he says gruffly.

Eddie preens under the attention. It’s a trial for Steve to keep his own mouth from curling up, but he thinks he manages. They all sit around the table, plates full. Forks scrape appreciatively across plastic plates. The spaghetti sauce tastes of canned metal, Eddie had managed to burn the toast. It’s still one of the best meals Steve’s ever partaken in.

“How was school?” Uncle Wayne asks, eyes shifting between the pair of them, implicitly including Steve in the question.

“Stevie sat with me at lunch,” Eddie says enthusiastically, like an enthusiastic child with a new toy.

“Your funeral,” Uncle Wayne says, not looking up from his meal, even as Eddie interjects with a heated, “hey!” “What about you?”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s asking him until he looks up from his toast and meets Uncle Wayne’s eyes. “Oh!” he says, startled. “Uh, it was fine.”

Uncle Wayne grunts, squinting at him the same way Eddie does – like he wants to peel back his skin and look inside. But he doesn’t push.

Dinner is a quiet affair after that, with only a little kerfuffle over who would wash the dishes. Uncle Wayne won, victory assured when Eddie took his side. Apparently the cook doesn’t do the dishes.

In Steve’s experience, he does both. But this is different. There are three people to lighten the load.

When Steve and Eddie crawl into bed that night, backs pressed together in the small space of Eddie’s mattress, Steve can’t help but ask, “do you really think it could be something good?”

Neither of them have to ask what he’s referring to. They can both feel it, tying them together and reaching across miles to where Will Byers is asleep in a bed of his own.

Steve can feel the depth of the breath Eddie takes in the way his ribs move against his back. His answer is even quieter than the question Steve asked. “No.”

His own breath shutters out of him, shaky. Eddie presses back into him, harder. “We can figure it out,” Steve says, not sure if he means it.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “Together.”

Even still, as Steve drifts off that night, Eddie’s back a warm line against his own, he wonders if this is what having a family is like.

Part 46

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #my fic

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cal-daisies-and-briars · 10 days ago

Text

2024 Fic Roundup :)

I was tagged by @exhuastedpigeon to do a 2024 fic roundup!

This year, I have posted 47 new fics, finished 1 2023 fic, and still have one from 2023 ongoing. Which is roughly 1,019,891 words. Excluding things I have written but not posted yet! (a lot of Eddie as a Swedish forest monster, for example).

I am just going to copy/paste the list directly from my masterlist doc:

January

Eddie Diaz is NOT a Birthday Person(4,704 words)

Summary: Eddie doesn't put much stock into celebrating his birthday, as an adult. But for the first time since moving to Los Angeles, it happens to fall right in the middle of a four-off. Buck schemes. Romance ensues rather accidentally.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨

Winter Prayer (18,229 words)

Summary: When a work conflict prevents Athena from accompanying Bobby to Minnesota for the ten year anniversary of his family dying, Buck and May offer to go instead. Over the course of the trip, they all learn more about each other, and Bobby faces his grief.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

You Can’t Surprise Evan Buckley(4,971 words)

Summary: Ten months into their relationship, Eddie has not been able to execute a romantic surprise for Buck. But on Buck's birthday, things are about to change.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨

February

Spinning Out (2,326 words)

Summary: The sun always rises in the east and sets in the west. What goes up must always come down. And if Eddie Diaz is in a helicopter with his team, it must fall from the sky.

AKA: Speculation into Eddie's reaction to flying on a chopper with his team into a storm, as per the trailer dropped on February 17th.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

Precious and Fragile Things (46,918 words)

Summary: Buck is the Fallen Angel of Petty Temptation, who has been tasked with tempting human Eddie Diaz to sin and enjoy life, but just a little. He thinks the job will be easy - get in, get out, go back to Peru to continue messing around with eternity. But when Buck arrives in Los Angeles, he finds Eddie is harder to tempt than expected, and more compelling than Buck had hoped.

AKA the Small Miracles by Olivia Atwater AU that you don’t need to have read Small Miracles to enjoy.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

March

Loose Threads (3,745 words)

Summary: New to dating and keeping it quiet, Buck and Eddie get a little carried away on a slower shift at the firehouse. But when the alarm eventually sounds, a spur of the moment mistake leaves them a little mixed up.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨

a mouth full of teeth with nothing to sing (7,060 words)

Summary: Post 07x03, Hen struggles to process the cruise ship rescue and drunk driver call in the midst of ongoing tension with her friends.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

April

Pennsylvania Under Me (22,391 words)

Summary: When unexpected circumstances require Buck to travel back to Hershey for the first time in over a decade, Eddie and Chris are right by his side.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

May

Cowboy With A One Track Mind (22,439 words)

Summary: Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 7 (Land):

Grieving and tortured, Evan Buckley has been living alone in Montana in a remote cabin for nearly a decade. After an incident that leaves him missing six months of his life, and suddenly in connection with a group of strangers from Los Angeles, Evan must decide whether to remain in his self-imposed exile, or take a chance at life again.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

change the prophecy (30,150 words)

Summary: Buck has never felt secure in any of his relationships; he’s been searching for someone to see him the way he feels he’s meant to be seen, but after things start going downhill with Tommy, he thinks that person might just not exist. Eddie cannot figure out what’s wrong with him when it becomes clear things with Marisol aren’t going to work out. But what if they’re both forgetting something?

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

A Lot Like You (14,236 words)

Summary: The dynamics between everyone change when Buck and Eddie have another child and Bobby moves on from the 118.

Affectionately referred to as the "Grandpa Bobby fic"

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

June

i told my future by reading your lips (7,295 words)

Summary: In 2018, on their way to a call at a child beauty pageant, and feeling a little strange, Buck and Eddie are suddenly thrown into a fast-paced look at some key moments from their future. And, what they see? Well it can only lead to one logical conclusion.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose (21,661 words)

Summary:If you’d asked Eddie back in May what rock bottom looked like, it was his son leaving him. That felt like it; everything ruined so entirely that there was no way to ruin it further.

There’s always more to lose.

---

Eddie Diaz breakdown, Season 7 finale fix it fic

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

Slow Broil (2,975 words)

Summary: Five times Bobby helped Eddie cook a meal for Buck over the course of their relationship, plus one time Eddie did it all by himself.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨

you could make light (4,171 words)

Summary: When a sudden blackout leaves May and Buck trapped for hours, the two find themselves getting a lot off their chests, and bonding over several important parts of their lives.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨

are you not the lost and found? (15,764 words)

Summary: In which Bobby has the opportunity to meet an alternate universe version of his daughter, who has lived to adulthood, but her life has not been without its own complications - including their relationship.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

i’ve seen a couple suns that set forever (7,041 words)

Summary: Freshly home from Texas and faced with the prospect of his dad's feelings for Buck, Christopher's abandonment issues surface. A conversation with Bobby, and realizing the parallels between Buck's relationship with Bobby, and his relationship with Buck, gives Chris the perspective he needs.

Rating: General Audiences

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

July

Jumper Cables (2,396 words)

Summary: Right around the time they're both wrapping up their time at Dispatch, May calls on Eddie for help when her car battery dies and she doesn't have jumper cables. He ends up giving her a boost and talking her through some stress.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨

this postcard tells you where we’ve been (3,452 words)

Summary:.Eddie finds a collection of postcards Buck sent to Chris over his summer in El Paso.

Rating: General

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

I Hold It Like a Grudge (11,665 words)

Summary: Buck and Maddie come into unexpected and unwanted conflict when their parents meet Buck's son for the first time, by surprise, when he is under Maddie's care.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

Steal My Sunshine (30,473 words)

Summary: Memories hazy and unreliable, Eddie Diaz wakes up every morning in a house at the end of a cul de sac, goes to his office job at a petroleum engineering company, and comes home to his wife and son. But something is missing, and the more Eddie begins to put the pieces together, the stranger the predicament he finds himself in.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

no one can be born too many times (10,114 words)

Summary: When Ravi's younger brother shows up at the station unexpected, the 118 gets a better glimpse into his life, and Ravi gets a better perspective on both his families.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

If You Can Make the Music (14,878 words)

Summary: Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 5 (Seaside): A year after a whirlwind two week love affair with bartender Buck in Galveston, Texas, Eddie Diaz finds himself coincidentally relocating to the area. But when he attempts to reconnect with Buck, he's in for an unfortunate surprise.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

treat an opportunity like it’s treating you (12,771 words)

Summary: After losing his leg as a result of the fire engine bombing, Buck is presented with the opportunity to have a service dog donated to him.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

I Always Wanted My Own Spark (5,752 words)

Summary: In 2040, during the midst of a family crisis, Christopher Diaz and his younger brother butt heads.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

August

Jeep Talking (2,252 words)

Summary: A ride in the backseat of Buck's Jeep with Buck and Eddie in the front gives Chim new perspective on his brother-in-law's strange dynamic with his so-called "best friend.' And Chim is sick of them being so oblivious.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨

this could be the year for the real thing (8,780 words)

Summary: It's December, 2016 and Chimney is a bit down on his luck. But a chance meeting with Beverly Hills heiress Maddie Buckley, right before her parents' big annual New Year's party, might be just what he's looking for. OR a Madney Cinderella AU.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨

april love is for the very young (6,269 words)

Summary: May is deeply frustrated with her college roommate. Everything about her. Until a conversation with Hen and Buck makes her rethink what her problem is. (Lesbian!May Grant college rivals to lovers).

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨

the best endeavor waiting (12,477 words)

Summary: When quarantine puts the 118 on the front lines of the pandemic, Eddie asks Buck and his service dog, Cranberry, to stay with Christopher.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Weary Memory (11,872 words)

Summary: After an argument about the circumstances of Bobby's sudden retirement, Buck and Bobby each find themselves inexplicably experiencing one of the other's difficult childhood memories.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

September

Long Death (79,506 words)

Summary: In the summer of 2024, a never before seen form of vampirism breaks out in Los Angeles. Just as Eddie is about to get his son back.

Six months later, Buck's life is permanently changed.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨😨

Clammed Up (11,868 words)

Summary: Captain Gerrard dies suspiciously at a murder mystery party held at Tommy Kinard's condo, with most of the 118 present. As the case unfolds, Athena finds she no longer knows who among her friends she can trust.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Sweet Talk (6,563 words)

Summary: Eddie asks to crash at the loft while Christopher is gone, struggling to be on his own. Only problem? There's only one bed, and no couch.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨.5?

time likes pulling my teeth (24,349 words)

Summary: Buck is enjoying the last day of a family vacation with Eddie and Christopher. Over and over and over again. And Eddie seems determined to keep it that way. (Buddie Time Loop Fic)

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

A Little Wisdom (8,623 words)

Summary: Christopher comes home from Texas and needs his wisdom teeth removed, which leads to a larger discussion on hurt and comfort and needs that Eddie doesn't see coming.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

watch out, you might get what you’re after (2,272 words)

Summary: Buck unintentionally woos Eddie. And then has a hell of a time processing the way he feels about that.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨

October

Late Fines (12,750 words)

Summary: Buck is a children's librarian at the branch closest to Eddie's house. When he gets himself involved in the lives of a cute kid and his handsome single dad, he gets a glimpse of what he wants in life. It might just take a few years to get it.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Any Other Way (102,659 words)

Summary: In a switcheroo alternate universe, Buck spends young adulthood in the military, while Eddie, who has no idea Christopher exists, spends his twenties messing around, finally enjoying freedom away from his family’s expectations. When they both end up in Los Angeles, at the 118, some things are different, and others will be the same in any universe.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

Advice For the Young At Heart (3,630 words)

Summary: Buck and Bobby overhear big news about Eddie. Buck spirals. Bobby talks him through it.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨

a cold world for such a long life (12,977 words)

Summary: Eddie befriends Bobby's estranged older brother in a virtual support group for queer adults struggling to come out. The only problem? He has no idea that's who Charlie is.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

all our bruises beg for a chance (10, 257 words)

Summary: Buck is adjusting to life living with Eddie, Chris, and his service dog Cranberry, when his parents visit for the first time since he lost his leg.

OR:

A Cranberry-verse take on the events of Buck Begins.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

i just might turn to smoke, but i feel fine (2,957 words)

Summary: A few days before his first date with Buck, Eddie comes to the fire station early to work out and blow off some pent up steam. Only problem? Buck's already there.

Rating: Explicit

Angst Meter: 😨

we won’t look back, we won’t be lost (37,526 words)

Summary: Over six years after the 118 rescued a baby from a pipe, Buck meets that same child again on a different call. And in all that time, she never found a home.

OR:

Buck adopts Pipe Baby while Eddie waits for Christopher to come home.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

November

we all assume the worst the best we can (6,059 words)

Summary: When a rescue goes wrong, Buck and Bobby are trapped, while Eddie and Chim scramble to save them.

Rating: Teen

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

December

go and kill, go and die (59,935 words)

Summary: The 118 are a group of survivors in a small California town in the wake of a zombie apocalypse. For months they've been isolated and safe. But the arrival of some new players, the search for some missing loved ones, will shake everything up and put their little team in jeopardy.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨😨

take what the water gave me (20,701words)

Summary: New transfer to the 118, Eddie Diaz, has a secret. And upon getting to know his coworker, Buck, who is also hiding something, he begins to suspect their secret is the same. He's wrong.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

Promising Light (20,145 words)

Summary: Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

Rating: Mature

Angst Meter: 😨😨😨

No pressure tagging @pantsaretherealheroes @goldenbcnes @aroeddiediaz

@theotherbuckley @tizniz @steadfastsaturnsrings @diazsdimples

@mangacat201 @wellcollapse @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @kultiras

@wildlife4life @adarkermiserablecrow @epicbuddieficrecs @diazheartsbuckley @kwills91

@watchyourbuck @buddieswhvre @your-catfish-friend @l0v3t0hat3y0u @lyricfulloflight

@theautumnbard @lightningmcqueer8 @nibblyssacrifice @swiftiefirefighters

#daisies and briars writes

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meiguicha · 1 month ago

Text

Magazine Love

Sunday x Reader - Idol AU

Do you think me making him a boyfailure will make him come home to prove me wrong

Love's Song

Sunday, or perhaps more known to the rest of your many fans as Restdaysfordarling, definitely had a problem.

Yes, a definite problem.

A few days ago, your official social media account had been filled to the brim with photos of behind-the-screen captures from what seemed to be an upcoming promo. Hints of artisanal direction and of course, your form draped in flowing silks and chiffon were all that occupied that account's screen.

It was only recently that both your announcement of your collaboration with a famous magazine as well as the release of said issue came out. There was even a bonus poster that came with the first hundred copies, and though you had been awfully secretive about it (a wonder considering your loose lips), your many, many emojis that decorated the announcement had been indicative enough.

Of course, who was he to not get an issue? Or two. Just in case.

He did think about getting three, but he's not that cruel to deny others of your beauty.

At the moment, there were only seven issues left of these coveted limited edition copies, and if there was any moment that Sunday would curse his status, it would be now.

He'd been mentally lamenting his position ever since the release, and even going out now felt like he was committing some illicit crime in broad daylight. A mask covering the bottom half of his face, a pair of sunglasses for the top half, his wings tucked tightly to the side of his head, and a matching 'inconspicuous' outfit to go along. The more he thinks about it, the more ridiculous he feels.

A more rational, or foolish, person would remark that he could just send someone else to get it for him. But that would mean involving a third party in his... fascination with you. No, he had to do this on his own, for both his dignity and yours.

Standing outside of an unassuming convenience store, Sunday pointedly ignores any of the stares coming his way in favour of marching right in. Beneath the fluorescent lights, his eyes dart between the many aisles in a desperate attempt to quickly locate the magazines.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he spots the traces of your features and immediately hones in onto the volume. Hidden behind other copies that don't quite catch his attention, he gingerly brushes them aside to bring your issue into his arms.

A gloved hand traces over the 'LIMITED EDITION' sticker atop the plastic wrapping and his left wing twitches against his hair, vaguely mussing up the soft locks as he all but bounds towards the cashier. He keeps his head low and merely hands the exact amount.

Still, the person behind the till still takes the time to count out the credits, taking their sweet time as they fold each bill as if questioning their authenticity. In his head, he had been desperately willing the aeons that this already awkward interaction would go faster, yet no one answers his prayers and it feels as if an eternity has passed when he finally, finally gets his receipt.

Without wasting another moment, Sunday absolutely makes haste back to his abode.

By the time he's ready to open the magazine, he's already changed out of his incriminating outfit and put on a new set of cotton gloves. With careful hands, he slices open the plastic and allows himself to gawk at the cover page.

The teasers had been torturing him, but seeing you like this? Your form in soft chiffons elegantly draped along your natural curves amidst pillars of ivory and sheer veils, there could be nothing more heavenly than the very sight before him. His eyes follow along the valleys and hills of emerald and sapphire, yet still his gaze always returns to your face. Lips ajar in thought as those eyes so usually filled with sentiment spill with phantasy, a soft flush had been dusted onto your features, and Sunday muses to himself on your almost paradisical nature.

Interspersed amongst the many depictions of your sublime allure were your thoughts on the various inquiries the people of your occupation were bound to answer. Even so, your words almost rang clear in his head, your lilt and diction, the very choice of expression so eloquent that just by reading it, he could imagine giving up his everything for you.

Then, though obscured with a barrier of pristine cotton, he feels the thicker material and instantly knows what awaits him.

Though his hands still shake and his wings flutter so hard he might be ascending, he still flips the page to the poster.

And oh you were going to be the death of him, there was not doubt about it.

Someone will find his body and you will be there at the crime scene, in your ethereal beauty and bewitching eyes and coaxing arms. Maybe you'll attend his funeral, as a kind of last pity, and maybe you'll apologise to his unmoving corpse before he rises from the dead at the slightest utterance of his name from your mouth.

Ah, he really was a fool for you.

#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr sunday #sunday x reader #x reader

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lets-try-some-writing · 11 months ago

Note

Got Angst for Prime.

AU: Whatever AU you want to use.

Concept: Ratchet's Optics never really recovered from his Synth-En incident. He sees everything in a tint of green. And his optics show it. So, every time OP looks Ratchet in the optics, he sees the blue with a tinge of green surrounding it, and he gets hit with how bad he failed Ratchet.

(I've pretty much always HC that Ratchet had some lasting aftereffects of his tests. This one's my favorite though.)

I can't help it.

I am going to make this shippy.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Optimus had always loved Ratchet's optics. If you asked him, he would deny the way he often found himself staring wistfully off in the doctor's direction. It was all professional concern for a mech who simply didn't know when he needed to rest and recover. If he shared a glance with Ratchet for a little longer than normal, it was simply because he cared. That was what he told others. Whether or not they believe him was up for debate.

But beneath that veil of half truths created for both his and Ratchet's safety, Optimus's affections ran deep.

Even before the war, he'd loved those optics. Ratchet's optics were aged even when Orion was young. And yet they held a life to them that was undeniable. Passion incapable of being smothered by the harsh words of others and the seemingly impossible trial that was going up a caste. Ratchet bore every burden and political scheme with blunt determination, his optics always shining brightly as a hint of a smirk played on his features. Optimus loved that mischievous grin and the telltale glint that Ratchet got in his optics when he had some wild plan cooked up. Even though he was unable to bring himself to utter the compliments that formed in the back of his mind, he loved the Doctor's optics more than he cared to admit. So much energy contained within a compact frame. It was beautiful in its own unique way.

Once the war began and Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, he did not think about Ratchet's optics as much. At least until they began to lose the shine that he had been so familiar with in his youth.

War was uncaring and it held no love for those trapped within its web. Optimus endured it with the patience of the old gods of Cybertron long since left to rot. Whispers of ancient beings far beyond his comprehension clouded his sense of time. Tears he wept for the fallen turned his gaze away from those around him and instead to the rivers of energon that flowed around his pedes. He endured it as the last of a long line of divines given frame. But Ratchet was mortal, and as the war dragged on, those optics that Optimus adored grew darker. Passion changed to red hot fury so bright and dangerous that Ratchet's gaze felt almost like venom at times.

Stokes of fire leapt through Ratchet's blazing optics, and more than once Optimus feared he'd be scorched by that boiling inferno of loss and grief. And yet despite being the one to lead their war ever onward, Optimus never felt Ratchet's anger directed at him. When those optics gazed up at him, Optimus felt only age old affection and care. Fire was tamed and turned to comforting warmth. Steady servos ran along his arms and a soothing voice lulled Optimus into temporary serenity on long cycles where he simply had no more tears to shed or reason to give to their Primus forsaken war. All the while those optics met his own and Optimus was at peace.

Vorns passed by. Optimus continued in his eternal march toward victory and Ratchet continued to change. Rage turned into bitterness, the molten hot wrath of war transforming into a deep set sorrow that left creases in the living metal that surrounded Ratchet's optics. Grim darkness pooled in that once passionate gaze. Those optics flickered in wrath long fostered each time Megatron made himself known. Those optics flared with every injury that the team brought with them back to base once they arrived on Earth. Those optics that Optimus loved so dearly dimmed and quieted, their light softening in the dark of the medical bay on long nights when Ratchet thought no one would hear his quiet sobs.

Optimus always loved Ratchet's optics.

He should have treated him better.

"Does it still hurt?" Optimus asked as he ran his digits over the weld on Ratchet's side.

"Of course it does. The weld has only been in place for a month and the wound ran deep." Ratchet replied clinically, not looking up from his work even as Optimus risked wrapped his arms around the doctor's waist. Others could see, but in the moment, he didn't care.

"I'm sorry." He murmured into the crook of Ratchet's neck as he leaned down, desperate to feel the comforting warmth of Ratchet's frame against his. The Doctor stilled, his field extending and wrapping around Optimus is concern.

"Optimus, please, we've talked about this. I was out of line in saying that. You are not at fault." Ratchet broke from Optimus's embrace and turned around. Optimus wanted to look away in shame as those optics looked up at him, still as lovely as ever, but tinted a haunting green.

A sign of Optimus's greatest failure.

"I am at fault, and you know that as well as I do. Let us not delude ourselves." Optimus reached out to cup Ratchet's face. The Doctor leaned into his touch obligingly. Any open affection was a risk, but there was something unspoken that needed to be addressed before time ran out and the world drew them apart yet again.

"You have always done what you think is right. I can't blame you for hoping and trying to save a mech who was once a friend." Ratchet's optics cycled and the green became more prominent within them in response to his emotions. Optimus frowned and shifted so caress the metal around the Doctors optics. His scarred digits traced creases and small scuffs, lingering around the corners of Ratchet's optics as Optimus observed the green hue in sorrow.

"You shouldn't have felt pressured to do this to yourself. The risks were too great. If I had only-" A digit pressed to Optimus's derma before he could continue, silencing his attempts at being self deprecating before they could truly begin.

"I made my choice. It is not your fault. Besides, the world is just a little more green for me now. That is all." Ratchet forced a smile, but Optimus could not bring himself to do the same. Ratchet's words while he was on synthetic energon were cruel... but undeniably true. How many times had Optimus had the chance to bring down Megatron only to let the warlord go? How many lives could he have saved if he had only put aside his feelings on the matter and acted?

"I can tell you are beating yourself up over it. Stop. It's over now and I'm fine." Ratchet pulled away and Optimus's servos fell. They stood quietly together for a nanoklik before Ratchet moved forward, his smaller frame pressing against Optimus's in a gentle embrace. Strong arms hooked themselves around the crooks of Optimus's torso, unwavering but gentle enough that if he wished, the Prime could pull away.

"Forgive me." Optimus murmured in the quiet of the medical bay. A gentle hum met his plea. Neither said another word as they stood in the relative dark, comforted in the presence of one another. Only the light of the nearby console lit up the area, but it was more than enough for the Prime to work with.

Green tinted optics glowed in the gloom, illuminating Optimus's face as he leaned down. Ratchet's optics closed, most likely expecting a gentle touch to the crest of his helm. Instead, Optimus leaned as close as he was able, even going so far as to angle his helm so that he could get near enough to place a ghost of a kiss over Ratchet's optics. Each closed optic received the lightest of touches, so soft that it may as well have been a gust of wind. But as Optimus pulled back and settled into the helm touch that Ratchet had likely been prepared for, the Prime finally smiled.

"Thank you for standing by my side." Ratchet stared in shock as the Prime's digits again found their place tracing around the Doctor's optics. Ratchet stood still, uncertain of how to respond until Optimus spoke again.

"I've always loved your optics, regardless of their hue." Optimus assured, earning a gentle huff from his companion.

"You sap." Ratchet whispered even as his optics glowed in all too rare joy at the show of affection. The green was still present, a permanent reminder of the costs of war. However Optimus continued to smile all the same, simply pleased to have those optics locked on him.

Yes, Optimus would admit it aloud if times permitted.

He had always loved Ratchet's optics.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #ratchet #optiratch #transformers fanfiction #fanfiction #slight angst #finally a chance to write something angsty fluffy #I do love me these two old bots

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ragdolls-and-such · 5 months ago

Text

MP100 WONDERLAND AU!!!

I will probably never write a real fic for this, so I'm gonna explain the general plot and ideas and lore and stuff as a way to introduce each character. Or you can just not read and look at the designs instead

Ritsu is our Alice,

and Sho is the rabbit he chases after. Unlike the white rabbit, Sho isn't anxious - he's mischievous more than anything. While he IS trying to be on time to the Queen's croquet game at first, teasing Ritsu as he fails to catch up with him becomes his main priority.

Tome and Goda (do people in this fandom call him musashi or goda?? i have never seen anyone talk about him) are the first characters Ritsu meets. They play the roles of the mouse and the dodo from the book. After the whole pool of tears thing - I'm assuming you know the general story of Alice in Wonderland - Tome infodumps at everyone, much like the mouse does in the book. Goda is basically like "that's BORING we should EXERCISE the water off of us" and then the caucus race happens!!

The scene where Alice gets stuck in the Rabbit's house does happen but I have no character assigned to Bill so I didn't draw anyone for this.

Next stop is the caterpillar!! Played by Dimple. He's the ghost of a caterpillar that looked forward to becoming a butterfly, but died before reaching the chrysalis stage, and has since become a little crazed about the butterfly idea. He finds Ritsu kind of annoying but keeps talking to him because he enjoys the attention.

Mezato is the Cheshire cat! Psycho Helmet is not a thing in Wonderland so her time is more devoted to being mysterious and cryptic and taking photos of people and things. Plays the cheshire cat role pretty straight.

And now! The moment everyone's been waiting for! The three characters that people usually care the most about in aiw AND mp100.

Reigen started the hat business with his good pals Serizawa and Mob and then went a little bonkers. The Queen sentenced him and his coworkers/friends to eternal teatime for being annoying basically. (There IS lore there, but aiw is my special interest and i could talk about that forever.) He's still very Reigen-y but always a little on edge. Basically, think about Reigen's most high-energy yet pathetic little meow meow moments, it's just that.

Serizawa is just like - imagine you teleported Serizawa into the March Hare's place without warning and he just had to figure out what to do about it. That's not what happened, but that's basically how he behaves.

Mob is the dormouse, but like the book version of the dormouse, he gets his time in the spotlight. (anyone out there know about the three girls in the well?? no? just me?) Because this is Ritsu's dream, nobody needs to wonder whether mousemob is humanritsu's brother. Just don't worry about it

Finally, we have Teru as the Queen of Hearts. His personality definitely matches his pre/during-that-fight-with-mob self. Violent, self-absorbed fashion disaster. Sho, being his messenger, has a very "siblings who kind of hate each other" dynamic with this Teru, in my eyes.

That's it!! If anyone wants to write or draw a wonderland au based on this casting, that's totally fine because I in no way own the idea of a wonderland au. That's like, the most basic "what if this media was actually this other story?" au concept.

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yeyinde · 2 years ago

Text

infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops. This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤

In Greek, there are two words for time:

Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March.

And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness.

It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters.

You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you.

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university.

Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles.

There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is.

And then—

There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—

A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle.

Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—

It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.

It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't.

The most you've lost was a pet.

And yet—

You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated.

But it doesn't stop it.

They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting.

And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive.

They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time.

Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre.

They tell you it's Thursday, now.

Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest.

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it?

Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel.

The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to.

Things—

Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it?

And then you dream.

They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort.

It makes you ache.

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss.

—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—

You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something.

Something, something—

You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—

Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again.

It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now.

It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice.

(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)

—excuse me? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street.

It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick.

And yet—

Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip.

It's strange. Odd.

It's just a building. Just a tavern.

—got some of the best brews in town—

But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life.

There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant.

How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets?

Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable.

Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—

On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money.

(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)

It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now.

Now:

You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many.

Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away.

It doesn't.

It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday.

—i like when you wear that dress—

You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway.

—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—

The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—

No. No.

You've never been here before.

You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red.

A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused.

It's silly.

Stupid.

The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be.

You can't be here. Can't—

Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar.

Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it.

Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line.

Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat.

—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—

No. No.

It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—

Heat sears your cheeks.

His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence.

You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt.

This isn't that man.

He just—

"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow.

—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—

"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea.

You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige.

He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust.

His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town.

"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"

"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it.

"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—

"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?"

It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"

Spiralling.

You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark.

The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach.

You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate.

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings.

You scoff. "I hate it."

You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years.

"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."

Pretty.

"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want."

It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that.

The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.

"Sorry—"

"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie.

"What—what did you call me—?"

He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock.

"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."

A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox.

"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."

"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—

That is familiar.

You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head.

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"

You can't. You can't—

There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand.

Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit.

The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection.

And then—

Then:

Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom.

A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him.

It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream.

It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest.

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you.

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do.

(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)

—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—

It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air.

It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.

You don't expect to see him again.

And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really.

So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along.

It starts three days later.

You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building.

Safe, you think.

And then—

Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber.

He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes.

He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other.

In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout.

You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same.

You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul.

He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station.

A living phantom.

It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery.

Each time, you run. And keep running.

And then once, you catch him.

He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge.

Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air.

No one joins him. He doesn't look back.

His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm.

It's mesmerising.

Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—

Longing.

Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache.

His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist.

You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost.

And then you turn. Run.

(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)

It is almost clockwork.

The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse.

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out.

(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)

It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really.

You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle.

There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle.

(No victor in the carnage.)

You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:

Frozen. Paralysed.

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—

His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't.

He isn't waiting for you—

His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth.

—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—

You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—

"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."

You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?"

His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran.

"Aye, it does."

You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.

Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout.

If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two.

But it shouldn't. Can't.

You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling.

And yet—

You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement.

It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete.

If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.

But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again.

It's too much. Intense. Hazel.

Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum.

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?"

His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern.

"No."

It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near.

A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend.

"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?"

It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.

Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes.

And fuck—

Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no.

"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"

"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you.

His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh.

He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole.

You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone.

"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie."

You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea.

His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away.

"I'll see you around."

It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away.

"Are you ready to order?"

The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun.

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds.

You order tea instead.

(It tastes like defeat.)

You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give.

You stop, letting him finally catch up.

(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)

His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt.

Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it.

(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)

Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads.

It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home.

Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands.

There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe.

It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away.

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead.

Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world.

(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)

You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel.

You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself.

Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue.

People don't just—

Know each other.

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap."

Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way.

He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone.

You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops.

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?"

His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that.

"I—"

Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.

"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere."

It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you.

He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go.

"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"

When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them.

"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."

The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin.

A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile.

"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"

It's a threat. A warning.

You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid.

(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)

"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance.

Kismet.

Horror.

Some cosmic merging of the two.

It's all—

Absurd.

And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend.

(Kismet, indeed.)

He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time.

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth.

He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun.

Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down.

The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land.

So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time.

"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady.

It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark.

You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot.

"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?"

It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.

You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll.

Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."

And you mean it, too.

(Damn you. Damn you—)

Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit.

Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette.

It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers.

But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed.

Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity.

It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his.

A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star.

Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop.

You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness.

This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough.

Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself.

He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another.

But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for.

He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know.

He's kind. Charming.

A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself.

But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him.

Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.

The dance continues.

Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met.

Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth.

An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh.

It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism.

(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)

Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone.

You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you.

He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know.

He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest.

(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)

Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him.

His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—

Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above.

Is it happiness, you wonder.

(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)

It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth.

You see the past, the present.

And your future.

Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.

Future. There's no future.

Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current.

You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails.

You pull away. He lets you go.

"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise.

"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse.

A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue.

The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon.

It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below.

The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus.

"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again.

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony.

Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm.

A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs.

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate.

The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down.

The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone.

What can you say? What could you say?

Instead, you say nothing at all.

Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away.

(You don't pick it up.)

Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead.

"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead.

The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze.

All black, black, black.

No sounds escape.

"Sure, bonnie."

You dream, and when you dream, it's of him.

He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun.

In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.

He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever.

There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space.

You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air.

Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs.

Belongs, but doesn't want to be.

You think of Johnny.

And you weep.

He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him.

Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back.

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands.

You don't dance, and you don't dream.

You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost.

Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—

"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"

Can't. Can't.

"Johnny—"

"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for.

Why?

And what?

And—

It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—

Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—

Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.

For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick.

For once—

The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet.

And—

All at once, it shatters.

—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—

(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish.

Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises.

So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says:

Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.

You believe him.

But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss.

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner.

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe.

"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces.

But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight.

You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you."

His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged.

It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone.

"Johnny—"

"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie."

The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him.

It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain.

"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"

John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses.

Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite.

It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone.

Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are.

Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea.

(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)

It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache.

You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal.

Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.

He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you.

Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull.

He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won.

"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."

What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.

You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty.

He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood.

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—

—break.

But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound.

Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse.

Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real.

But it is.

And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty.

No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—

A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage.

You chase the sound.

Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes.

Running, running—

Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles.

You don't scream when you sink.

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:

Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him.

A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.

It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret.

You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him.

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle.

You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind.

His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go.

Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours.

His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings.

It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once.

Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval.

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented.

An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun.

"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep.

Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth.

"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."

"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me."

You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew.

"I love you, Johnny."

His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks.

"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—

—THEN

"Excuse me? You dropped this."

It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out.

But it catches. Clear. Low.

You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket.

"Sorry?"

A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—

Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk.

"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—

The leather peels back. Mush.

You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills.

"Alright?"

"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—

And—

Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine.

Your breath catches.

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one.

And then—

Oh, God.

"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"

"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."

You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn.

Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—

"I'll pay you back, I promise."

His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile.

"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."

(And so, it begins.)

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #Johnny MacTavish x reader #og soap x reader #og soap #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #cod fanfic #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #this took me forever #idk why #i just?? expected more fluff but instead we get horror and grief and eventually fluff #kinda #like #sorta #idk #enjoy

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brassandblue · 2 years ago

Note

"Allow me a moment to explain! l am a doctor! I can help!" (For Dr. Reid, for Goodsir?)

Harry, startled, hadn't expected to come across anyone that night and stopped short under the amber glow of a gas street lamp. It illuminated his dark curls and cast long shadows, causing his naturally weary-looking eyes to look even more fatigued. He'd tried to ignore the stranger--it was late, and Harry was heading back home from his practice (he'd operate out of his own flat but there just wasn't enough space, so he was sharing a premises with a midwife and her husband until he could afford something better)--but clearly, the blood spattering his collar and waistcoat had not gone unnoticed.

He'd only stopped when the man said, "I am a doctor" and now he stood awash in the pool of light, blinking curiously. He carried a small bag tucked under one arm and a cautious hand went to his coat pocket where he kept a knife, but he did not draw it out--such was an unfortunate necessity.

"As-- As am I, sir," Harry offered to the other man. "The blood is not mine, I left my practice having forgotten to change my clothes. I am Dr. Goodsir, of Goodsir and Goody's just a street over--" from the same pocket as the knife, he drew a bit of ephemera, a printed calling card on white paper with the establishment's logo and information, and held it out in the light so that it was legible enough.

#.// au: an eternal march #ohohohoho two immortal surgeons y/n????#except Harry isn't a vampire he's just Cursed by the Arctic #errantwish: dr. reid #I'm so excited #.// (ic: goodsir)

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melancholy-of-nadia · 10 months ago

Text

love u lately (m) #8 | myg/knj/pjm

title: love u lately chapter title: #8 - split pairing: yoongi x f. reader, namjoon x f. reader, jimin x f. reader (yoonminjoon x f. reader) rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; college/university au , pseudo frat! bts; best friends! yoonminjoon friends to lovers; summary: Your dilemma of trying to decide between Yoongi and Jimin was already stressful enough, but to add Namjoon to the mix, has you slowly falling apart emotionally, mentally and academically. When your university's Annual Valentine's Day Night Market event opens up the opportunity to spend time out with Yoongi and Jimin, will you finally be able to tell them how you feel? Or will your own indecisiveness lead you all to a falling out? warnings: LONGEST CHAPTER SO FAR, reader is anxious and stressed throughout this whole chapter, breakdown from stress, fluffy lowkey date stuff, MORE CONFESSIONS, kissing, THE LONG AWAITED THREESOME, MLM kiss, bro helps put on lube on other bro, vaginal fingering, breastplay, ball fondling, eating out, blow job, dick slapping, possessiveness, double vaginal penetration, reader on BC, Yoongi and Jimin reassurance through it, pet names, clit stimulation, double creampie, uh i think that's it a lot happens, oh yeah...eventual angst, alcohol consumption, arguing, pettiness, secrets revealed, namjoon? note: everyone, please say thank you to @daegudrama for editing this chapter and fixing the smut because i can barely write smut! total word count: 14.8k drop date: March 2nd, 2024, 1:30PM PST cross posted on AO3 here ← #7 | Series Masterlist | #9

February 12 [Tuesday]

The atmosphere in your business communications class is tense, and you can feel the pressure of your stressed thoughts hanging over you. You’re supposed to be presenting a case study on a local cafe from your hometown where you used to work at in high school. The topic revolves around marketing and finance initiatives to enhance the cafe's traffic and sales. This includes a presentation and paper deliverable.

You stand at the front of the room, a faint sheen of nervousness glistening on your forehead. The slides projected on the screen behind you outline various strategies to revamp the cafe's image and attract more customers. Yet, your words stumble, and your sentences lack the usual confidence you had the semester prior. Professor Michaelson, a stern figure in the business world who now teaches as a side hobby, observes with a critical eye.

As you fumble through the presentation, you catch the gaze of JB watching you with an expressionless demeanor. Great. Nice to see your ex-crush is silently judging you. He adds to the pressure, making you acutely aware of the less-than-impressive performance you’re delivering. The weight of recent decisions, or lack thereof, regarding Yoongi and Jimin looms over you, clouding your ability to focus on any of your school work these days.

Professor Michaelson raises an eyebrow, signaling his dissatisfaction with your lackluster presentation. "Is there a reason you're not fully engaged today, Y/N?" he questions, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

"I, uh, apologize, Professor," You stammer, attempting to regain composure. "It's just been a bit hectic lately."

"Life happens, but it's crucial to maintain professionalism, especially in a business setting." he admonishes. "Proceed with your presentation. We'll discuss your performance afterwards."

The classroom clock ticks away, each second stretching into an eternity. As you continue stumbling through the slides, your mind involuntarily keeps drifting. Fuck, why is it so hard to come up with the right words to say? At some point, you feel like you’re rushing to reach the end without even trying.

“Thank you Y/N, that was enough. Good work.” Prof. Michaelson interrupts right as you’re on your final slide.

Oh no, it was bad bad.

The ordeal finally comes to an end, and you step back to your seat. You always told yourself you wouldn’t let your relationships get in the way of your academics, but now, it finally has. And you are so fucked.

As the class progresses, you try to shake off the lingering embarrassment. Each step feels heavier as you leave the classroom, disappointment with yourself settling like a stone in your chest. Once the class ends, Prof. Michaelson hands you a graded rubric with additional comments. You don’t bother reading them and just rush out of the classroom, feeling tear threatening to roll down your cheeks.

And once you’re out of the building, they do.

Your own letdown sits heavily on your shoulders. In that moment, you wish you could rewind time, erase the awkwardness, and salvage whatever dignity remains. But could you have done any better? As you wipe away a frustrated tear, you can't help but wonder how you let things spiral out of control.

++++++

“Maria! I don’t know what to do!” you exclaim, your voice laced with exaggeration. Amidst the bustling environment of the dining commons, you feel anxious, playfully pushing Hwasa back and forth as the two of you navigate the lunch line. It’s usually not that busy on Tuesdays, but today it is.

Hwasa, undeterred by the apparent crisis, responds with humor, “Switching to my Catholic name?! Oh, girl, you really do need some salvation.” She laughs, effortlessly maneuvering through the crowded space as she fills her tray with an array of buffet options.

“I’m being serious here! I honestly can’t pick either of them and I also can’t give Namjoon an answer. And this whole thing has been bothering me to the point I just failed one of my big projects for business comm!” Frustration bubbles in your tone as you slam your tray down, earning curious glances from other students in line.

“Oh God, okay.” You two walk over to an open table and sit down on opposite sides of each other. “Maybe reject them all? That’s the safer option right? No one will be truly hurt especially because you’re emphasizing not ruining your friendship. And you all move on, date other people and still maintain that friendship! The end.”

“Yeah…” You pick at your food with your fork aimlessly, not making any effort to eat it. “I don’t even know if we could ever be the same as we were before this…deal.” “But were things even the same before you decided to fuck Yoongi?” Your eyes widen, darting around to ensure no familiar faces are within earshot. “Hey, hey we’re in public! Someone we know could hear us.”

Hwasa sighs, lowering her voice. “You were already uncomfortable when Namjoon and Jimin were seeing people and wanted to get more serious with those girls. Yoongi clearly liked you before that party too. I wouldn’t doubt the other two also had those feelings before that, but were just better at hiding it. I don’t think there’s any ‘normal life’ to return to before you all started to address the elephant in the room.”

She’s right.

There was already something there whether you noticed it or not. At some point in time, the idea of liking you was planted in their heads, and eventually growing into love. You just don’t know when and while you hold a lot of love for them, you’ve always pushed the idea of romantic love for them aside as it didn’t seem realistic, or even good to think about. Keeping it platonic was easier anyways.

Up until recently, though, when whatever pent up sexual frustration and desires took charge on your relationships with two of your best friends.

“You’re right. I’m just going to have to acknowledge the risks and deal with the consequences of my horniess and feelings.”

Hwasa chews her food before responding matter-of-factly, “And whatever happens, I will be there to comfort you! You can use my boobs as a pillow and spill your tears onto me.”

You laugh loudly. “Always appreciate knowing you will be there during my lowest lows with your chest as comfort.”

You both finish lunch and head over to her dorm to rest before your next class in an hour.

“So…is your decision coming before or after the Valentine’s Night Market?”

The Valentine’s Night Market. You had totally forgotten that Hwasa invited you and the boys to come by for one of ASU’s – the student org she’s in – annual night market event. It was mixed celebration for Lunar New Years and Valentine’s Day here.

"Oh, Valentine’s Night Market. Totally slipped my mind," you admit, realizing the distraction of your personal matters overshadowed the upcoming event.

Hwasa grins, "Well, I’m tabling and selling kimchi fried rice and hotteok. Do you still have some time to help out a little? Just for the first hour! Jieun will take over after!"

You don’t have any set plans to hang out with Yoongi and Jimin besides saying that Valentine’s Day is the day, so you might as well tell them to come to the event and hang out with you there. It could make things less suspicious to others. You also wonder what Namjoon’s plans are so you can avoid any distractions that day too.

"Yeah, sure, I can help out for a bit. But, let me check with the guys about it." you say, pulling out your phone to send a quick message in the Sanctuary group chat.

You [1:15 PM]: Hey, what plans did you guys have in mind for Valentine’s Day evening? There’s the night market event on campus, and I’m helping Hwasa table for the first hour. You guys should come and we can hang after?

While waiting for their responses, Hwasa continues, "Please! I hope they say yes. Plus, it'll give you time to think about your decision more. Trust me; selling hotteok is like therapy." Your laughter punctuates her words, easing the tension.

Not long after, your two best friends respond back.

Yoongi [1:21 PM]: We wanted to wait to hear what you had in mind and do that, but this sounds good. We’ll be there.

Jimin [1:22 PM]: Yeah, let’s do that. Beats sitting around and overthinking.

With your plans in place, you turn back to Hwasa.

"Looks like I can work the shift!"

“Fuck yeah! I appreciate you helping out, let’s try to get everything sold.”

The anticipation for the event in two days starts building, and you both dive into more detailed planning and strategizing. Hwasa's vibrant personality coupled with her contagious excitement feels motivating, and you find yourself getting into the spirit and readiness to confront your feelings.

++++++++++++

February 14 [Thursday]

If only your anxiety would be weaker than your drive for motivation.

The soft rays of the setting sun filter through your bedroom window, casting a warm glow on the floral print ruched spring short dress you twirl in front of the mirror. It was a gift from Yoongi for Christmas, paired with the long star earrings Jimin gifted you. The whole ensemble makes you feel delicate and coquette. You feel a little embarrassed to find yourself dressing up for this, but you figured if you might as well go all out for what could be the last day you do something like this.

You’re on a mission tonight.

After doing a soft makeup look, you grab your small black flap bag walking downstairs.

You texted the house gc earlier letting them know you'd be out helping at the night market. Hoseok responded saying he'd be there too because his dance club group was doing a cover performance. Seokjin mentioned he’s also going to be there tabling for Kappa Psi Pi. Jungkook and Taehyung were going out bar hopping with a few other guys hoping to get lucky for the night. Jimin and Yoongi said they would be in the library studying for a midterm, which didn’t raise any suspicions, surprisingly.

As for Namjoon…

“Tiny, where are you going all dolled up?”

You are caught off guard by Namjoon's call from the kitchen where he is eating a bowl of cut fruit. He stands leaning against the doorway, looking at you from head to toe, licking his lips after each juicy bite of fruit. Is that melon? When your eyes leave his lips to look into his gaze, you become frozen. Huh? This never happened to you before. What an interesting thing to see how his actions leave you feeling a little nervous now, especially after what he confessed to you not that long ago.

“I’m helping table for V-day night market with Hwasa at 7:00, then I’m going to enjoy the event after my shift.”

Namjoon nods, his gaze holding a mix of understanding and something else. “That…sounds pretty fun.”

“What about you?” Namjoon forgot to respond to the group chat, so you’re curious to hear of his Valentine’s Day plans. You don’t think it will involve him on a date after his confession, so you wonder what else he has in store.

He sets his bowl down and steps closer, whispering near your ear and causing a shiver down your spine. You’re suddenly more alert than you were previously.

“I wanted to spend time with my Honey, but that will have to wait.”

You’ve heard his low raspy voice many times before, but for some reason, it feels very erotic in this moment. If he commanded you with this voice all the time, you would do whatever he pleases. Your breath catches, and questions swirl in your mind. Hold on, what does he mean that will have to wait? For what?

Before you can seek clarification, he adds, “I’m going with Soyoon, John and San to a live art gallery event up in the big city. John’s band friends are going to play.”

“A-Ah, I see.”

He gets up from his leaned position and looks at you softly. Has it been a long time since Namjoon looked at you with that much love and care in his eyes? You feel like he’s become much more serious with you since you started college. This act feels nostalgic.

He pushes a few loose strands behind your ear, “Don’t get jealous okay?” He chuckles, his signature dimples coming into sight.

“Huh?! I wasn’t even thinking that!” you stammer, attempting to brush off the implication despite failing as your face blushes.

In this moment, he pulls you into a tight hug. Your cheek presses against the fabric of his gray shirt, and you soak in the comfort he provides. It feels so nice. So safe. After a long time, in his arms, you feel at home.

“Well whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there no matter what.”

You assume he’s talking about you answering his confession from the trip.

Whenever you’re ready, he says.

“Thank you Joonie.” You sigh deeply into his chest, words sounding a little muffled.

Could it be that Namjoon’s the true answer to all your problems, not Yoongi or Jimin? But it still doesn’t feel right. No matter who you end up ultimately picking, you still feel like you won’t be happy. Even if the other two guys say they will be happy, will they actually be okay with seeing their two best friends happily in love?

And if you end up with one of them, what’s to say the relationship will last? What if you two fall out of love for each other and ultimately break up? Will you be all alone at the end this time, no best friends to lean back on to help you rise up once again? You hate to admit how much Yeonjun’s after image lingers in your mind whenever you think about the future of a relationship. Despite how he was just a brief happening in the summer breeze, the lasting impact of his final words remain.

You bid goodbye to Namjoon, who leaves first as John’s ‘96 Toyota Corolla stops in front of the house to pick him up. Soyoon waves to you excitedly from the back seat as she sits next to San.

As the car fades in the distance, you walk in the opposite direction to campus.

After walking for about 8 minutes, the quad comes alive as you step onto its paved pathways, filled with the vibrant tapestry of the Valentine's Night Market. Strings of twinkling lights drape across the trees, casting a warm glow. Stalls adorned with heart-shaped decorations and bursts of red and pink hues line the paths, creating a whimsical atmosphere.

As you immerse yourself in this enchanting setting, a mixture of emotions washes over you. The sweet aroma of various treats wafts through the air, enticing passersby. Stalls offer an array of delectable delights, from cotton candy in shades of pastel to heart-shaped cookies intricately decorated with icing. The scent of hotteok wafts from Hwasa and Jieun's stall, where they expertly flip the sweet korean treat on a sizzling griddle.

“Oh! Honey! You’re here–” Hwasa pauses, checking you out from head to toe. “Looking cute as fuck, bestie!”

“Thank you.” You reply sheepishly, using your arms to flatten your dress from any wrinkles. “The whole setup for the night market looks so cool this year!”

You look up and all around, colorful lanterns sway gently overhead with wishes and messages from students written on small notes. The gentle breeze causes them to dance in the night, adding to the ambience of the market. The gentle hum of laughter and conversation blends with the cheerful melodies of the band playing at the very center of the quad.

A few Carnival rides spin and twirl at the far end of the quad, their lights tracing intricate patterns against the night sky. The Ferris wheel, glimmering in pink and red, stands tall, offering couples a romantic view of the campus from above. Nearby, a carousel with whimsical creatures invites laughter from those enjoying a nostalgic ride.

Various booths offer interactive experiences, adding an extra layer of fun to the festivities. A photobooth machine captures candid moments against a backdrop of sparkling hearts, while a fortune-teller booth held by the Harry Potter club promises glimpses into the future. Students crowd around games of skill and chance, trying their hand at winning prizes that range from plush toys to heart-shaped trinkets.

“There’s carnival rides too?” You gasp seeing them in a section beside the built stage at the center of the quad.

“Yeah, we got a few international students who joined this year willing to fund for better stuff.” She leans in close to your ear and points carefully at two people named Giselle and Ten standing around another booth. “So you better go enjoy it after! We also have a few bands playing, so even more reason to stick around.”

“That’s so cool! I’ll keep that in mind!”

Hwasa hands you a cute apron with hearts and stars from a box below the table. "Okay. Time to make those hotteoks, bestie! I have Peniel and Junny handling the kimchi fried rice, so don’t worry about that."

You walk around to enter the tent then tie the apron around your waist. You stand next to the griddle gradually heating up. Hwasa takes charge of coordinating orders and managing the flow of customers. The scent of sizzling batter and sweet fillings fills the air as you expertly flip the hotteoks, ensuring they are cooking to perfection.

Peniel stands in the next table over, clad in a stylish apron with the words "Best Chef in the World" emblazoned on it, working diligently at the adjacent stall, skillfully frying up batches of savory kimchi fried rice. Junny sits while on his phone as he waits for people to come by and order. The enticing aroma of Korean spices wafts through the air, drawing in hungry students with each tantalizing whiff.

After a while of a couple of orders coming in, Hwasa glances at her watch and nudges you. "I need to run to another booth to get more change. Can you handle this for a bit?"

"Uh, sure!" you respond, taking the cash box and flashing a reassuring smile. As Hwasa disappears into the bustling crowd, you focus on the task at hand, jotting down the few orders you get and going back to the grill. Dammit, why did she have to leave you like this until God knows when?

Suddenly, two familiar figures approach the stall, dressed in outfits that catch your eye.

"Angel isn’t getting any orders." Yoongi speaks first with a grin, his eyes lighting up with surprise and amusement.

Jimin chuckles, “I guess it’s a slow night for our darling."

“H-Hey–” You pause as you check them out.

Yoongi sports a black bomber jacket that complements his laid-back aura. Underneath, he wears a simple white tee, creating a clean and modern look. Paired with dark jeans and sleek Airforces, his overall ensemble has your eyes glued to him. His hair is also in a bun, which you hadn’t seen him do before. Has his hair grown that much?

When you turn to glance at Jimin you see he’s opted for a varsity jacket that injects a dose of sporty charm into his outfit. Jimin’s black hair is slowly catching up to the same length as Yoongi’s. The jacket, with embroidered details and a slightly worn appearance adds character to his look. Beneath the jacket, Jimin wears a snug-fitting black shirt, with distressed jeans and comfortable converse sneakers to complete the look.

They look so fucking good. The urge to pounce on them is high, and you wonder if it’s your hormones talking. They’ve been yapping all day keeping you at your wits ends. You wish you were done with your shift so you can go run off with them, but you still have another 25 minutes to go. Lost in thought, you don’t realize that your gaze lingers on them for more than a mere moment. It isn’t until Yoongi notices and chuckles. Shit, they’re going to tease

"Cat got your tongue?" he teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

You roll your eyes, trying to mask the blush creeping up on your cheeks. "Uh, I'm just appreciating the fashion show you two decided to put on tonight."

Jimin grins, nudging Yoongi. "Well, you know we always dress to impress.” Jimin jolts slightly as he remembers something “Oh right! Here, we got you something.”

Jimin holds out a small bouquet of pink roses, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air. "These are for you,"

Yoongi follows suit, "And these are from me. We thought they might brighten up your evening."

The corners of Yoongi's lips lift into a warm smile as he reaches behind him, handing you a small vibrant bouquet of sunflowers – a burst of yellow that seems to carry the sunshine itself.

Your heart swells with gratitude as you accept the flowers. "Thank you both," you express genuinely, fingers gently tracing the petals of the sunflowers. "They're beautiful, just like the two of you."

Jimin’s cheeks tint with a subtle blush, and Jimin chuckles, playfully nudging him. "Looks like our darling is smooth with words too. Must be how you’re getting customers tonight"

As you place the bouquets in the back table, you're drawn back to the present, realizing you're still on your shift. "Oh! No, actually, tabling has been pretty slow overall!" you exclaim, eager to change the subject to calm your heart down. "Hwasa's off getting change. But is there anything I can get you guys while you're here?"

"Can we get you now?" Yoongi bluntly asks.

Yet again, you find yourself caught off guard by his boldness. He never used to be like this, but ever since you two started this deal, you feel like you awakened another side of him.

“Sorry boys,” You shut down the flirting efforts, instead playing hard to get. “Unless you wanna help me sell these hot…buns? Then maybe I could finish faster and go?”

"You know what, Honey? We'll help you out," Yoongi declares, rolling up his sleeves with a mischievous grin.

Jimin joins in, "Yeah, we can't let you work too hard on Valentine's Day."

You chuckle, appreciating their willingness to lend a hand. “Come around back and get to work then!”

This actually proves to be a good idea for you. Once they start working, they start to bring in a crowd of people. The two men take turns flipping hotteoks, playfully teasing each other and engaging customers with their charisma. Jimin, with his infectious smile, handles customers with so much ease, while Yoongi adopts an exaggerated seriousness as he grills, drawing amused glances from onlookers. You’re left in awe at the efforts of your best friends and how reliable they are.

When Hwasa comes back, she’s amused at the sight bringing in so much traction.

As you all finish with a good chunk of the orders, she finally steps inside the tent and you hand her the stack of orders you all took. “Thanks to these two, we've made an impressive number of sales. I think this is my cue to go?” You look at her with stars in your eyes, hoping that this will be enough t satisfy the greedy tiger that is the treasurer of ASU, Ahn Hyejin

“I guess you have done your part, Y/N.” She turns to face Yoongi and Jimin. “Now, go enjoy the night with her! I have some people coming in at 8 to handle things from here."

You and your three best friends nod at each other and leave the stall to go explore the rest of the night market, which is now filled with more people. Couples stroll hand in hand, sharing stolen glances beneath the glow of the market lights. You wonder if you’ll ever get to experience something like that. Laughter erupts from other corners filled with various groups of friends exploring diverse offerings. Everyone’s creating memories that will linger long after the night has passed. Will this night be a good memory for you three as well?

In that moment of many thoughts, you feel Yoongi and Jimin’s fingers gently interlace with yours. Oh? Not “Oh” in a confused way, but “Oh” as a casual remark of an action that’s filled with normalcy. It’s something that feels just so natural for you three for as long as you’ve known each other. Your hands in theirs as you weave through the lively crowd of the night market embraced with its infectious energy leaves you feeling at ease.

"You look adorable in that dress, Y/N. We didn't even notice what you were wearing under the apron earlier," Jimin remarks, flashing his signature eye smile as he stops walking. Yoongi chimes in, "Yeah, the gifts we got you suit you well."

Blushing at their compliments, you glance down at your outfit, feeling grateful for their attention to detail. “O-Oh, thank you. I just felt like it was the right day to wear it.”

See? There’s times where comments, no matter how normal they may seem for long time friends, will actually get you flustered. Damn their words of affirmation hitting you right where you feel it.

As you wander through the stalls, Jimin spots a photobooth and suggests capturing a few memories together. His eyes gleam mischievously as he proposes, "Hey, why don't we take some photos? You know, like old times."

“Like the times we would take photos in the photobooth after we saw a movie at that run down theater in middle school?” You giggle.

“Exactly like that. You would always make us take those!” Yoongi reminisces.

In the spirit of spontaneity and nostalgia, you agree, and soon, you three find the empty photobooth with a charming backdrop, pay the small fee and enter it.

The first photo captures all three of you in silly poses. Yoongi throws a peace sign, Jimin puckers his lips in an exaggerated kissy face, and you make bunny ears behind Yoongi's head. Laughter erupts as Jimin clicks the photo, freezing that moment of carefree camaraderie.

For the second shot, you find yourself sandwiched between Jimin and Yoongi, each of them throwing a peace sign while you sport an exaggerated surprised expression.

For the final shot, Jimin eyes Yoongi, seemingly having a pose idea that you’re unsure of. Yoongi nods curiously. Jimin positions himself on one side of you, and Yoongi on the other. Milliseconds before the camera clicks, Jimin and Yoongi simultaneously plant soft kisses on your cheeks. After the shutter goes off, the moment is frozen in time on the strip as it comes out of the photo booth machine. For a split second, you're caught off guard, the warmth of their lips leaving a lingering sensation on your skin. The shock registers on your face, captured perfectly in the photograph.

"Wait, what!" you exclaim, your eyes widening in shock.

"Surprise!" Jimin grins, stepping out to grab the photo.

"Yeah, gotcha." Yoongi adds, a playful glint in his eyes.

Your initial shock turns into shy laughter as you realize the mischief they've just orchestrated. "Hey! That was so uncalled for…"

Jimin chuckles, "Gotta keep things interesting, right?"

Yoongi smirks, "Consider it payback for all those times you surprised us being a minx."

You burst out laughing, which leads to them into a laughing fit seeing you feeling happy. Agh, they always gotta tease and expose you like this! You playfully swat at them, still processing their unexpected actions.

After leaving the photo booth, the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bungeo ppang fish bread catches your attention. The scent triggers a childhood memory, and you excitedly share, "Hey, let's stop by this stall! I haven’t had a bungeo ppang since I was in elementary school."

Yoongi and Jimin exchange amused glances, remembering your tales of childhood cravings. You ate so many when you would go over to Yoongi’s house because his mom would make dozens of them for their church fundraisers. You even got the nickname “little bungeoppang” from Yoongi’s mom because of this.

The club's fish bread stall boasts an array of flavors, from traditional red bean to modern twists like chocolate and custard. They order a variety, hoping to recreate a bit of nostalgia for you.

While enjoying the warm, sweet taiyaki, you notice a towering structure at the far end of the quad—the Ferris wheel. Your eyes light up with curiosity, and you turn to Yoongi and Jimin, "What do you guys think about riding the Ferris wheel? I've always been a bit nervous about heights, but with you two, it might be fun."

Jimin grins, "That sounds like a great idea! We can keep you company and make sure you feel comfortable."

Yoongi adds, "Don't worry, we'll be right there with you. It'll be a fun experience."

Encouraged by their reassurance, you join the line for the Ferris wheel. It’s not a gigantic ferris wheel that you’ve seen at amusement parks, but it’s fairly midsize that would let you see a large portion of campus up at the highest point. The anticipation builds as the line inches forward, and soon, it's your turn to board one of the colorful gondolas. The Ferris wheel slowly ascends, offering breathtaking views of the night market below.

Is it the worst moment to admit that you’re a little scared of heights? Probably. You know you wanted to ride this, but now that you’re on it. You’re a little anxious. It’s not even that high! Get it together, Y/N.

Your fear must be easily sensed, because Jimin decides to wrap an arm around you, offering support, while Yoongi holds your hand on the other side. You wait for them to make fun of you for wanting to ride the ferris wheel despite being scared of heights, but those words don’t come.

As the gondola reaches its peak, you glance at your university campus and down at the bustling market, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. Yoongi whispers, "Look at that view, Angel. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

With their comforting presence, the nervousness begins to fade, replaced by a sense of joy and exhilaration. You’re okay. You’re safe with them. The Ferris wheel ride becomes a shared adventure, a moment suspended in time between the colorful lights and the starry sky.

As the Ferris wheel descends, you all step off and exit the area. It’s a relief to be touching the ground once again. You tag along behind Yoongi and Jimin and become the person to recommence the hand holding once again.

In the distance, the rhythmic beat of a live band permeates the air. The music carries a unique blend of energy and emotion, drawing you all toward the center of the quad where the performance unfolds.

Yoongi tilts his head, recognizing the sound. "That sounds like Sammy's band," he remarks, his ears attuned to the familiar tunes. With curiosity guiding your steps, the three of you make your way to the source of the music.

As you three approach the middle of the crowd watching the performance, the silhouette of the keyboardist catches your eye, and you're taken aback. It's Yijeong, playing alongside Sammy's band. You shoot a puzzled look at Yoongi, who smirks, "Sammy asked for Yijeong's number this morning. Dojoon got food poisoning, and they needed someone to cover for him."

The stage is bathed in a warm, golden glow, and the crowd buzzes with anticipation as the band gets ready for their next song.

“We are ‘The Rose’! Or ‘Windfall’...we haven’t decided on our official name yet. My keys guy got food poisoning so a good friend came to cover. We have two songs coming up next. One is a cover of one of my favorite songs and the other is an original song written by us, so enjoy!”

The first chords of the cover song, "Pristine" by Snail Mail, resonate through the speakers. Sammy’s, the lead guitarist, fingers dance effortlessly across the strings, conjuring a haunting melody that seems to linger in the night air. The drummer – which Yoongi comments is Hajoon – sets a steady beat, creating a rhythmic foundation that anchors the ethereal atmosphere.

As Sammy begins singing, his voice filled with both vulnerability and strength wraps around the lyrics. Each word is like a brushstroke on a canvas, painting a picture of longing and introspection. The crowd, drawn into the magnetic pull of the music, sways in unison, a collective dance to the emotional cadence.

Internally, you're caught in the vortex of emotions. The lyrics of the song, like a mirror reflecting your own inner turmoil, resonate with the complexities of your relationships. The notion of wanting to be one with someone echoes the silent desires you've been grappling with, a yearning for unity in the midst of uncertainty. You can’t be with just someone. You realize you have to be with them. But why is the answer so obvious, yet feels impossible?

When the song finishes, The Rose transitions seamlessly to their original song, "I Don't Know You.” Sammy’s voice takes center stage, followed by bassist Jaehyeong pouring raw emotion into every note. The melody weaves through the air, intertwining with the radiance of the lights above. The keyboardist, Yijeong, adds a layer of depth, his fingers dancing across the keys like a silent storyteller.

With each lyric, you find yourself pulled deeper into a contemplative state. The longing expressed in the music mirrors your own inner conflicts. I want to know you. It's a phrase that reverberates within you, a sentiment that resonates with the intricate dance between friendship and something more.

In the midst of the performance, you glance at Yoongi and Jimin, their eyes reflecting a shared understanding. You wonder if the song is hitting them as much as it’s hitting you right now. The energy from the stage lets your surroundings become a realm where emotions are laid bare. Yoongi and Jimin both hold internal diaries with thousands of words that have not been said aloud.

The chorus swells, and you're compelled to reach out, gently tugging at their arms. The gesture, a silent acknowledgment, weaves seamlessly into the fabric of the music. The lyrics, "Do you want me? Your lover who will never change. Even your bitterness, makes me obsessed," echo in your mind, prompting introspection and a deepening realization.

Suddenly, against the backdrop of the music, Yoongi and Jimin exchange glances, and a shared realization flickers in their eyes. The intensity of the performance and the emotions it evokes push them to reveal what's been lingering in the air.

“Y/N, I’m in love with you.”

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Y/N.”

Jimin and Yoongi speak simultaneously, though Yoongi says a slightly different declaration. You’re speechless. You had anticipated hearing these words after being able to connect the dots, but to actually hear them. At this moment, it’s surreal. This feels like a dream. You don’t want it to end. Because when it ends, things might not ever be the same. And that scares you.

While their words of confession are simple, their love conveyed more in the language of shared gazes and repressed emotions that leave you with a myriad of questions. Even though you had a feeling, you are still left awestruck. The melody, the lights, and the atmosphere seem to crystallize in that moment, etching the beginning of a new chapter.

I love you. Despite such a simple three word phrase, you can’t sayt it right now, You can’t even gather all the words you want to say right now. Maybe because you feel nervous right now, but you will save it for when you go home. And that’s now. You all need to go back now. You need to be somewhere where you can throw all your love and make it known how much you care for them. You just can’t do that here.

The urge to go to the sanctuary that will let you liberate your feelings before it feels like it’s too late.

Without any other words, you respond with a smile, bright and with hidden intentions. “Let’s go home?”

With no questions asked, they seem to understand your intentions and take you away.

+++++++++++

The atmosphere in your room is heavy with unspoken emotions as you all made your way back home from the night market. The walk is quiet, with occasional flustered glances exchanged between you, Jimin, and Yoongi. The air is tense with anticipation and uncertainty.

Upon entering your room, the tension lingers. You go sit in the center of your bed and gesture your two friends to join you on it. It takes a moment to collect your thoughts, wanting your own words to sound heartfelt before breaking the silence.

"Yoongi…Jimin…." That sounds too serious, but there is no way to just confess something that has probably been 10 years in the making without you really realizing it.

Jimin looks at you with a mixture of hope and anxiety, while Yoongi maintains a calm demeanor, his eyes reflecting understanding. You take a deep breath, grappling with the weight of your decision.

"I don’t even know what to say, but I appreciate both of your confessions.” You pause for a moment, letting out a sigh, before continuing, “I want to say I love you both too. A lot. More than I ever thought I did before, and this whole deal really opened my eyes to those feelings.” You glance at both of them, trying to gauge their own reactions to your words. In a way, it’s like reassurance to convince yourself to keep going. You’d probably crawl into a hole and die if maybe you heard wrong earlier and now they’re incredibly confused as to why you’re saying this.

But it’s not like that at all. Yoongi’s cat-like smile right now is one of those things that has always reassured you when you were uncertain in the past. His eyes turn glossy, while trying to put up a composed exterior, as he patiently waits to hear you say more. Jimin, on the other hand, becomes flustered from hearing your confession. You notice him fidgeting with his fingers and biting his lips, which is something he only does when he’s feeling shy. If only you were aware that every beat of their hearts echo in silence and anticipation.

“I never imagined myself in this situation,” you admit, “But it’s clear that my feelings have evolved so much after realizing the small things that you’ve done for me, not just recently, but ever since I met you two. And eventually I realized that I love you two in different ways as well.” You take a deep breath, attempting to articulate the intricate dance of emotions within your heart.

“Yoongi, you’ve always felt like my other half.” You confess further, “It’s like we’re always in tune with each other’s thoughts and feelings. I feel like you complete parts of me that I couldn’t find on my own.”

"Especially during those times when my relationships soured and I struggled trying to socialize with new people," You admit, your voice taking on a more reflective tone. "You were there for me, Yoongi. Your understanding and steadiness became my anchor in those turbulent moments. When I felt lost, your presence brought a sense of calm and assurance. You've seen me at my lowest, yet you never wavered."

You reach out towards Yoongi’s hand, thumb tracing the back of it. "Jimin, you're someone who makes me feel so free," you confess, a genuine smile playing on your lips. "You've always managed to coax me out of my shell, and without you, I don't think I'd be the person I am today."

Jimin's eyes light up with a mix of gratitude and happiness.

“And," you add, a hint of playfulness coloring your tone, "I can't forget that you were my first kiss. It was a moment filled with happiness and warmth, a memory I cherish deeply. You made me feel safe, and I truly always look back to that time when we were young and innocent."

You lift up your hand to caress Jimin's cheeks, which flush with a rosy hue. A mix of surprise and joy twinkle in his eyes.

"Thank you for sharing your feelings with us," Yoongi speaks first, his voice a gentle melody that resonates in the room. "It means a lot to know that I mean so much to you in that way. We've been through so much together, and knowing that feeling is mutual is the greatest feeling ever."

Jimin shares his gratitude as well and adds, "I never expected to hear such beautiful words from you. It's like a dream come true knowing that you love me and think about those things too.”

They’re so sweet, you think. A part of you internally questions if you’re really deserving of their love, but you push it away. You can’t let anything stop you right now. “There’s a lot more I want to know from you, but for now, I wanted to ask if we could do something before…this all ends.”

Curiosity sparkles in their eyes as they turn their attention to you. "What is it?" Yoongi inquires, his voice filled with a blend of interest and anticipation.

Jimin, on the verge of voicing his thoughts, begins, "Is it..."

“Could we…try a threesome?”

The suggestion hangs in the air, catching them off guard. Jimin's eyes widen, surprised by the proposal, while Yoongi raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

"W-Wow…holy shit…" Jimin stammers, his cheeks turning a subtle shade of pink. “Say no more, I’m fucking down.”

You chuckle nervously, "Really? It’s just for tonight. A final hurrah before…whatever happens."

Yoongi smirks, "Well, that's unexpected. Are you sure you're up for it? I mean, I’m willing to do it."

You nod nervously, determined to bring a sense of ease to the situation. "It's our last night under this deal we have. I’m also on birth control so we could try anything and everything. So whenever you’re ready—"

You stop speaking as you notice their eyes darken slowly, lust hidden behind them. Without a word, their actions become synchronized, and the atmosphere shifts subtly.

Jimin, always the bolder one, is the first to make a move. His lips press against the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You inhale sharply, the unexpected warmth of his kiss catching you off guard. Meanwhile, Yoongi's gaze remains fixed on you, a mixture of desire and uncertainty in his eyes.

As Jimin's kisses trail up toward your jawline, Yoongi gets closer, his fingers lightly tracing patterns on your waist. The room is filled with a soft, anticipatory hum as their actions synchronize, creating a symphony of sensations.

Their lips meet at the curve of your jaw, and for a moment, there's a gentle collision of their lips. It catches you off guard, though Jimin doesn’t seem too shocked and Yoongi remains neutrally curious. You find yourself gradually immersed in the experience and wanting to see how things could go.

Before things can get more interesting for you to see, their lips soon meet yours in a shared kiss that starts tentatively. An initial awkwardness you felt asking for this melts away, replaced by a growing sense of connection. The taste of both Yoongi and Jimin on your lips creates a unique and intoxicating blend. Sweet, intoxicating and sinful.

Yoongi unzips your dress from the left side and both men begin removing your dress, their hands move with a synchronized urgency. As your dress falls away, you sit there before them in nothing but your lingerie, vulnerable yet empowered by the raw desire written across their faces. You feel a rush of heat flood your cheeks as their gazes linger on your exposed form, their desire palpable in the air.

They immediately begin undressing themselves, losing to their own lust, throwing their clothes on the floor and pushing you down on the bed. Yoongi begins fondling your breasts, fingers inching toward your core. Jimin on the other hand, frees your right breast from your bra cup and attaches his lips to your nipple.

"Mmph," your moan escapes your lips as you arch your back, feeling the heated, sloppy kiss of Jimin's mouth all around on your tit. He's unrelenting with his hold and you are helpless under his touch. Your breasts have always been so sensitive that it makes you nearly lose it already. The idea of you so weak for him and nobody else that you can’t even stand. The sensation continues to shoot through your body like an electrical current, making your core clench and your hips buck slightly.

Yoongi inches closer, his gaze never leaving your face as he keeps one hand gently kneading your breast while he uses the other to slowly begin tracing circular patterns over the lacy fabric covering your clit. The anticipation is almost unbearable, building a crescendo of desire that threatens to consume you. You need more of them.

With a sudden urgency, you pull them down onto the bed, your eagerness surprising both of them. Their soft laughter only fuels the fire as you straddle Jimin to kiss him more, your hands grabbing his hardening cock under you and giving it several strokes. He deepens the kiss almost immediately and as soon as your mouth opens for him, your tongues brush against each other in fervor. It's so sloppy and carnal and just simply pornographic, but it's also filled with enough emotion and intimacy to make your knees buckle. You move your hand to massage his balls in time, and he nearly keels over, mouth falling open. He lets out a gasp when your thumb circles his throbbing tip.

On the opposite end, Yoongi kneels down, his free hand lifting your hips upwards before his mouth leans in and meets your swollen clit.

You hear smacking sounds immediately, and combined with how this feels, his skillful lips and hands have you crying out, squirming, and grasping onto Jimin for dear life. Yoongi called this ‘taking you to Hong Kong”. You still don’t know why, but fuck, does he do it so well. It’s literally your favorite thing in the world since this deal started.

With his tongue licking and circling your clit, you know you aren't going to hold on much longer. He moans against your hard bud, enjoying this just as much as you are. His fingers dig into the soft skin of your ass spreading them apart adding yet another sensation. You try to not let the coil in your stomach release wanting to hold onto this feeling for as long as possible. It feels somewhat embarrassing if you’re the one cumming so much so soon.

Though, it’s inevitable that you’ll go insane from all these different sensations.

The intensity of the moment is palpable. You continue devouring Jimin’s lips, feeling his body heat and sweat against yours. Yoongi removes himself from you, denying the orgasm from coming. But you’re too focused on Jimin to worry about it, which makes Yoongi irritated.

This leads to him slowly sliding up beside you and gently running a hand along your ass, his fingers grazing the lace of your panties. The sensation is electrifying, and you can't help but moan softly into Jimin's lips.

"You want more, don't you?" Yoongi whispers seductively into your ear. His voice is low and rumbling, sending shivers down your spine. You nod eagerly, unable to find the words to respond.

“Hehe…Darling’s so needy,” Jimin pulls away from the kiss, giving you a knowing smile. In perfect harmony, the two men begin to undress the remaining lingerie, their hands moving with a fluid movement, their eyes never leaving yours. You feel vulnerable and exposed, yet simultaneously aroused and empowered by their desire for you.

Their fingers gently caressing your skin, you feel an electric current running through your body. They lay you down on the bed, positioning you on your hands and knees, facing the large mirror on the wall. That cursed mirror that you had once faced previously, though just with Yoongi.

You take a deep breath as you see your reflection, your arousal evident in the flushed skin and dilated pupils. Yoongi moves in behind you, his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to him. You feel his erection against your ass, a silent reminder of what is to come.

Jimin kneels in front of you, grabbing his cock and slapping it across your cheek, bringing your attention back to him. And he says you’re the needy one. Ha. You aim your head towards his waiting length and open your mouth. He thrusts in slowly, filling your mouth without trying to make you gag on it. Not today!

As you begin to suck on Jimin's cock, you feel Yoongi's middle finger slide into your pussy, mimicking the motion of your mouth. He pumps his finger in and out, with each second making you go into a trance. The tiny moans you let out at just one finger pushes him to add another right next to it. The way your walls contract as if fighting back against him pushing and pulling and spreading you open is driving him insane. He wants to feel it for himself, squeezing and milking him for all he’s worth. Your sounds of pleasure fill the room when you pull your mouth away from Jimin to control your breathing.

“Make those pretty sounds louder. You already know how much I love to hear them.” Jimin coaxes you further. You’ve known he gets off on your moans since the first day you fucked him.

Yoongi watches your reflection in the mirror, a mix of lust and satisfaction playing across his face. He's always been fascinated by the way your body responds to him, the way it seems to crave his touch. He feels euphoric whenever he gets to fuck you like this, but even more right now.

Jimin’s aware of Yoongi’s possessiveness as he watches this exchange, his heart pounding in his chest. He wants nothing more than to fuck you and even him if the opportunity presented itself. Though the latter is not for today. It would be a dream to just do this in the future and give his best friends the pleasure they so desperately crave.

As you continue to suck Jimin's cock, Yoongi increases the pace of his fingers thrusting inside you. You feel like you're on the edge of something incredible, a pleasure so intense that you can barely breathe. He's unrelenting with his grip and you are helpless under his touch–his fingers are pumping faster and faster until you’re a trembling mess. Yoongi holds your hips up with one arm to keep you stable.

After your quivering stops, he pulls out his fingers.

“Mmh.” You groan around Jimin’s dick, which entices him to go faster.

“Hold on. You’ll get what you want. Be patient.” Yoongi chuckles in response as you whine from the loss of feeling him. After, he positions himself behind you, his cock throbbing against your entrance. He pushes himself inside you, filling you completely. You moan around Jimin's cock, the sensation of being filled by both of them in different places is overwhelming. Yoongi grips your hips, setting a leisurely pace as he watches the mirror. You glance upwards at Jimin, whose head is thrown back in his pleasure. Your fingers dance across the toned muscles of his stomach before gripping his hip urging him to push further.

Jimin pulls out of your mouth when he feels himself getting close. He doesn’t want to finish in your mouth. He’s done that many times before, and wants to change things up. There’s something that he has in mind that he wants to try.

He moves towards Yoongi and tells him that he wants to trade positions, telling him to lay under you instead. Yoongi immediately gets what the younger man is plotting and moves to position himself under you, his cock glistening with your juices. He lines himself up with your entrance, slowly pushing into you. A soft moan falls from your lips. This new angle hits new spots inside you. When Yoongi doesn’t immediately thrust, you rock your hips watching carefully for a reaction on his face. He grabs your hips holding you in place as Jimin situates himself behind you. “Darling, is it okay if we try double penetration?” Jimin asks, very shyly.

Your eyes widen a bit. You haven’t tried this with either of them before simply because the thought of it scared you and you also thought it was unsanitary. So you haven’t done this with anyone. You don’t know if you’re ready for that tonight. You’re honestly more open to doing it in one hole for now…Wait could you even do it? Could they both fit… Well it’s worth the shot.

“Could you guys do it in the same… hole?” You try to word out. This feels embarrassing. Your horniess is going to jump out the window trying to have this conversation. Please just agree to it, guys.

The two men sense your timidness and nod.

“Yeah, that sounds more exciting.” Jimin smirks.

“We’ll try it.” Yoongi moves some strands of hair behind your ear to have a better view of your face. God, you’re glad they can’t see you blushing so hard in the darkness of this room with only the moonlight coming in.

“There’s lube in my bedside table.” You mumble not wanting to believe you are saying that out loud.

Both men raise an eyebrow and you playfully hit Yoongi’s chest. Behind you Jimin opens the drawer to retrieve the lube without a comment.

“Damn, Y/N, were you planning this?” Yoongi smirks and you lean forward to kiss him so he won’t be able to say another word.

He takes his opportunity to hold the back of your neck and thrust into you until you have to pull away. Your moans fill the air only fueling the fire inside of Yoongi and Jimin. After a few more seconds Yoongi pulls you off his cock and against his chest stroking your hair. Behind you Jimin opens the lube bottle squirting a generous amount onto his hand. You hear the bottle click shut and he tosses it to the side.

Your head lifts enough to see Jimin stroking his cock in the mirror. Yoongi’s grip on you tightens momentarily as a shocked gasp is pulled from his plump lips. With a look over your shoulder you see Jimin coating Yoongi’s cock with lube. His small fingers wrap expertly around his best friend’s length.

There’s definitely something here you need to uncover in the future, but for now, you enjoy their acts.

When both men are properly lubricated you guide Yoongi back inside of you. He slips in easily and Jimin carefully lines himself at your entrance, and very, very slowly pushes his way in. Oh no, there’s a sting already. You feel a few tears pooling as you try to accept more of him. Fuck. You don’t think you can do this.

“Angel, it’s okay. Just take a deep breath and relax your body. Take as long as you need.” Yoongi reassures you and you nod. Things like this remind you why you love this man so much.

You take his advice, taking short breaks in between to get comfortable as Jimin keeps going. You feel both of them filling you, their cocks stretching you wide. Once they’re fully in, you wait a bit to adjust to the sensation, taking deep breaths to relax yourself. It feels so weird, but so comforting. It’s something you can’t explain unless you experience it.

Yoongi starts to thrust, his cock slamming into your pussy with quick force. Meanwhile, Jimin starts to match his pace, his cock sliding in and out of you in perfect sync with Yoongi's thrusts.

You cry out in pleasure, the sensation of being completely taken overcoming you.

You can't help but scream as the ecstasy builds inside you. Your body starts to shake, and you know you're close. Yoongi and Jimin are not far behind you being much more vocal than any other time you’ve been with either of them. This must feel just as earth shatteringly pleasurable for them as it does for you.

"Fuck, yes!" Jimin growls as he slams into you, his eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror. "That's it, take it all! You’re so good!" His voice is deep, hoarse with desire as he watches your arousal grow with each thrust.

Yoongi’s eyes never leave yours, his expression a mix of pleasure and anticipation. He thrusts deeper, harder, feeling your muscles clench around him as you near your release.

"Fuck, angel, you feel so amazing," he whispers, kissing your sweat-slicked forehead.

Suddenly, the three of you are lost in the throes of passion, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh fill the room, mixed with your gasps and moans of pleasure.

Just as you think you can't take any more, Yoongi and Jimin both pick up the pace, their bodies moving with a rhythm that's both primal and beautiful. You can feel their erections throbbing inside you. Yoongi takes this opportunity to start kissing your breasts and sucking your nipples. Jimin moves his hand under you to flick at your clit, adding an extra layer of stimulation that sends you over the edge.

Your body tightens around them, signaling that you're about to cum. Yoongi and Jimin feel your muscles contracting around their cocks, and they know that you're about to explode. They both thrust harder, trying to push you over the edge.

"Fuck, I'm going to cum!" Jimin growls, his hips bucking wildly. "Finally going to fill you up!"

"I'm close, too," Yoongi gasps, his eyes locked on yours. "You feel so fucking good, angel."

Your body trembles uncontrollably as they continue to fuck you, their cocks hitting your sweet spots over and over. The pleasure builds and builds, until finally, you can't take it anymore.

“F-Fuck! Mmh!” Your orgasm explodes once again through you like a lightning bolt, your body shuddering and quivering. Almost simultaneously Jimin and Yoongi finish inside you. The sensation of their cum fillig you to the brim feels so odd, but equally satisfying. Jimin collapses onto your back panting in his euphoric post orgasm haze.

Jimin pulls out first watching as the mixture of his and Yoongi’s cum drips down the length still inside you. Yoongi pulls you off his length watching as your legs quiver their cum trailing down your leg as he lays you beside him. Jimin goes into your bathroom to grab a towel, dampens it in water, and dabs it gently on your lower regions to clean. Feels as if the evidence of what transpired earlier is being erased. Just like when the clock struck midnight and Cinderella’s transformation became undone. Though, it’s not even midnight right now.

With a soft sigh, you lay down beside Yoongi after Jimin finished cleaning you, your body trying to get comfortable on the bed. The sheets beneath you are a soothing touch against your skin and surprisingly, not really wet at all from the orgasms. You can even feel the residual warmth from the shared moments with Yoongi and Jimin.

Jimin, attuned to the unspoken rhythm of the moment, gracefully positions himself on your other side. He mirrors your movements, creating a seamless transition as he settles beside you. The bed becomes a canvas for this intimate tableau, the three of you forming a gentle embrace.

Now, you find yourself sandwiched between the two men who have become such integral parts of your life. Imagining the scene right now in third person feels weird to think about. The afterglow of shared experiences paints a soft glow on each face, and a sense of tranquility permeates the room. The warmth of their bodies on either side of you creates a space of comfort, a sanctuary.

With a synchronized movement, both Yoongi and Jimin turn onto their sides, facing you. Their arms encircle you in a tender embrace. You really do feel so safe here in their arms. Their fingers trace soothing patterns on your skin, and their touch becomes a delicate dance, a silent expression of their feelings for you.

As you bask in the post-intimacy tranquility, Jimin breaks the serene silence. His voice is a gentle murmur, "So, about what we talked about earlier... any thoughts on who you're leaning towards?" His eyes, a mix of hope and excitement, search yours for an answer.

Many thoughts flood your mind about what to say, and you take a deep breath before responding, "I…still need another day, Jimin. It's not an easy choice. I think this whole thing made it harder for me to decide…" Once you finish speaking, you can sense the disappointment that flickers across both of their expressions, but it's Jimin's reaction that stands out. The excitement that had danced in his eyes begins to fade, replaced by a subtle irritation.

Yoongi nods in understanding, his expression stoic. "Take the time you need, Y/N. We want you to be sure."

Jimin, however, turns his back to you, a silent gesture of frustration. Despite staying in the bed, the shift in his demeanor is noticeable. He remains present physically but seems to withdraw emotionally. Unable to ignore the tension, you decide to address the unspoken. "Jimin, are you okay?" you inquire gently, your voice barely above a whisper. His back remains turned to you, a subtle resistance in his posture.

A sigh escapes him, and he shifts slightly. "Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbles against your pillow, his voice a delicate blend of resignation and disappointment. It's too obvious that he’s not okay with this.

Yoongi, sensing the undercurrents, tightens his hold around you, offering silent reassurance. He understands the complexity of the situation, respecting the need for time and clarity.

In the quiet moments that follow, Jimin speaks up again, his voice softer this time, "I just thought... I don't know. It's frustrating, that's all."

His vulnerability becomes more apparent as he wrestles with the emotions stirred by the unfolding events.

You reach out, your hand gently finding its way to Jimin's shoulder. The touch is a tender acknowledgment, a silent assurance that the complexities of your emotions are not lost on you. "Jimin, I promise to give you guys an answer soon. I just need a little more time…” You think you should tell them about Namjoon telling you he’s in love with you. Transparency rule, right? They would understand you want to think this through more knowing how this is a tough decision. “Namjoon told me he likes me awhile back. He told me I didn’t have to give him my answer right then and there, but now that’s also been stressing me lately.”

Jimin, still facing away from you, visibly tenses at the revelation. It's as if the room, already steeped in complexity, has become even more intricate. Yoongi's grip around you remains steady, but you can feel him tense up a bit from the mention.

"Namjoon?" Yoongi's voice carries a mix of surprise and, perhaps, a hint of insecurity.

"Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Jimin, still facing away, speaks, his voice edged with a touch of frustration. "I... I wanted to figure things out on my own first before bringing it up," you admit, your gaze shifting between Yoongi and Jimin. "It's not like I kept that from you intentionally. I just needed some time to process and evaluate everything."

Jimin remains silent for a moment before speaking, his words measured, "Evaluate things now that you're considering him too?"

Yoongi nods, his expression unreadable. "This doesn't make things any easier for us." he remarks, a hint of weariness in his voice.

He's right, and you know it. Maybe you shouldn’t have opened your big fat mouth. But you had to be honest with them about what’s been going on. Taking a deep breath, you continue, "Namjoon is our best friend too, and I don't want to ignore his feelings. I need to figure out what’s the best thing to do and how it might affect all of us."

Your words hang in the air as you all settle into an uneasy silence. There’s just too much right now leaving you grappling with uncertainty. With a shared understanding that words might not provide the resolution needed at the moment, you decide to let the night take its course.

Yoongi, sensing the need for a change in the atmosphere, suggests, "Let's get some rest. We can talk more tomorrow." He turns to face away from you and wraps himself up more with the blankets and sheets on your bed.

Jimin, still facing away from you, doesn’t say anything.

As you lay there, staring at the ceiling, you can't help but wonder if there’s even a good ending in store for you. You think through hundreds of different scenarios, but can only imagine hurt at the end of them. Sleep eludes you for a while, the pressure of your decision stressing your mind.

The room gradually quiets down, and the soft sounds of nighttime take over.

+++++++++++

February 15 [Friday] You wake up the next morning, entangled in limbs and surrounded by the body warmth from the men who made love to you the night before. You are still half-asleep when you hear a voice calling out your name.

“Y/N…”

When you get up, your eyes bulge out from the immediate sight of Jungkook at the foot of your bed.

“Jungkook? What the fuck.”

You’re so close to yelling, but quickly remind yourself where you are and what day it is. It’s your room at the Beta Tau house and it’s Friday. Wait fuck! Why are Jimin and Yoongi still in your bed? The jolt you did in reaction to Jungkook causes the two men beside you to wake up. Yoongi looks grumpy as he slowly gets up, while Jimin cutely rubs his eyes. Once they make eye to eye contact with Jungkook, they’re wide awake.

“Y/N… Jimin…Hyung… you all need to be more careful.”

“Jungkook, how the fuck did you get in here?” Jimin groans.

“Through the door like a normal fucking person.” Jungkook looks at each of you and sighs. “I knew about Honey and Yoongi that one time, but when the hell did this all happen?”

“Long story.” Yoongi takes this time to respond, rather shortly as he puts his hands through his hair. “I’m not even going to ask right now. It’s 7am in the morning. I was about to go to the gym before class, but saw Jimin didn’t even come back last night and his location was off. I was worried so I came in to ask you and then I see this…” You’re not going to lie, you feel embarrassed that you got caught like this. “Anyways, get back to your rooms before anyone else notices.”

“Jungkook…” You look at him with sincerity in your eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to blabber about this. I wouldn’t want to cause anything bad in the house.” He reassures you and leaves the room. Yoongi and Jimin get off the bed, get dressed and exit the room. They don’t address you as they leave, which leaves you feeling a bit hurt. But you can’t blame them. They were definitely expecting you to pick one of them. Now you told them Joon’s in this …”competition for your affections”. And you said you’d need one more day to give them a response. You wouldn’t be too surprised if they’re mad, even if they’re not explicitly showing it. But you’ll do it today. Nothing will stop you today!

++++++++++++++++++++++

Anxiety gnaws at you more with time.

As the day progresses, you find yourself immersed in thinking about your school work, while the unresolved situation with Yoongi and Jimin lingers in the background. Despite the attempts of your friends to engage you in conversation during lunch, you can't shake off the cloud of unease that shadows your thoughts.

After your only noon Friday class, you join Taehyung, Namjoon, and Jin for lunch on the lawn behind the Redwood Literature Hall. The atmosphere is somewhat warm as the sun shines brightly. The laughter and casual banter between the guys fills the air. However, your mind remains preoccupied, distant even as you nod and smile along with the conversation.

Namjoon, perceptive as ever, seems to catch on that something is bothering you. Instead of directly addressing it, he smoothly transitions the conversation, attempting to involve you more.

"So what game are we playing for Friday Night Game Night?" he asks, a twinkle of excitement in his eyes.

"Huh?" You're momentarily caught off guard, the shift from your internal thoughts to external conversation a bit disorienting.

"What? Did you forget we scheduled game night this week, Tiny? We've been trying not to miss doing this at least once a month with everyone," Namjoon chuckles as he reminds you.

"I'm sorry. I've been busy thinking about school work."

"You don't have anything tonight, do you?" Namjoon inquires.

"I..." The truth is: you don't want to have game night tonight. It's ironic how, just a few months ago, you were in Namjoon's shoes—eagerly asking if people would join game night and witnessing the waning interest in one of your favorite pastimes with the Beta Tau boys. Skipping out now might raise suspicions, especially since you assume Yoongi and Jimin will be there. Running away from the situation is not an option.

"No, I don’t. Maybe we could play drunk Jenga with the rules on the blocks? I think it's in Hoseok’s room. I'll ask him for it later." you suggest.

"Ooh, we haven't played that since last year!" Taehyung chimes in, with food in his mouth before swallowing.

"Sounds chill then." Namjoon continues eating some of the salad in his bowl before adding, "Wait, I'm going to have to leave game night a little early because I have to finish helping San and John with a film project in the library. Gonna pull an all-nighter. You guys won't mind?"

"No, we don't mind!" You and Jin say in unison, reassuring him.

"Yeah, go help them. You won't miss too much, well maybe Jimin getting naked or something." Taehyung's playful remark elicits laughter from the group, momentarily lightening the atmosphere. You join in the laughter, appreciating the effort to inject some levity into the conversation. As you all finish your lunch and head separate ways, you continue to prep yourself internally to confront them with a final answer. But when?!

+++++++++++++++++

Before you know it, you’re there.

Night falls, and all the boys gather around the expansive U-shaped couch in the living room of the Beta Tau house. The room is bathed in lighting of string lights hung haphazardly across the walls. Jin hung them months ago after he found out how much nicer the house looked with ambient lighting on at night. The music resonates from the Samsung TV, streaming from someone's Spotify account—most likely Jungkook's, given how similar the songs are to your music tastes.

On the coffee table sits an array of American and Korean snacks, creating a tempting spread that the guys start to grab. The assortment includes chips, popcorn, and desserts, complemented by an enticing mix of beer and soju. You grab one of the Strawberry flavored sojus and take a sip out of it. Mmm. Still gives you trauma from your first college hangover, but you need it to get through this night. Your eyes shift to Yoongi and Jimin, who sit to your right, conversing with Namjoon and Jungkook. You haven’t talked to them all day and you’re wondering if something is actually up beyond what they say.

Sudden anticipation rises as Hoseok makes a grand entrance, unveiling his stash of hard liquors from the top kitchen cabinet, eliciting cheers and excitement from everyone in the room. Hoseok, holding up a bottle of whiskey, interrupts the banter, "Enough chit-chat. Who's up for some real fun?"

Taehyung, his eyes gleaming with excitement, exclaims, "Count me in for anything that involves these bottles." He starts looking through all the bottles..

“You really went all out tonight! Some of these are expensive as fuck.” Jungkook, clearly impressed, examines a bottle labeled "The Yamazaki" and asks, "Hyung, how did you manage to snag this one?”

“My sister’s boyfriend gifted this one to me.” He giggles, grabbing shot glasses to place on the table for everyone. "Enough about that, we're doing shots out of this whiskey.” He gestures for everyone to grab a glass as he pours everyone up. Raising their glasses in the air, Jin proposes a toast, "To being single, wild, and free!"

That’s…for fucks sake.

The room falls into an awkward silence as everyone stares at Jin, confused by the unexpected toast. “What? Are we not single, wild, and free?”

“Hyung, it’s...that was just weird.” Jimin narrows his eyes, clearly puzzled by the sentiment.

“Just take the shot already, guys!” Jin chuckles, his ears reddening from embarrassment in the face of the disapproval of his toast. The room erupts into laughter, breaking the brief awkwardness, and everyone throws back their shots, the smooth whiskey burning down your throat. The hints of fruit to the wood-like taste made it somewhat bearable. You’re definitely a soju and wine girl. You don’t know how the guys love hard liquor.

As the whiskey warms everyone up, the group gathers on the floor around the coffee table, where the Drunk Jenga tower awaits its fate. The wooden blocks contain a unique challenge or rule at the bottom of it that you must do when you decide to move it.

Namjoon, already showing signs of tipsiness, gives the tower a skeptical look. "This better be worth the trouble."

Jimin, on the other hand, seems more excited, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Come on, Kim Namjoon, where's your sense of adventure?"

The first few turns are light and easy, with challenges like “Arm Wrestle", “Make an animal noise” and "clothes swap". The atmosphere is lively, and the guys are getting into the spirit of the game.

As the rounds progress, you all reach for your drinks more frequently, the clinking of glasses punctuating the room's growing merriment. The initial caution around the game transitions into a more carefree atmosphere as bottles are passed around and everyone takes hearty swigs between turns.

Namjoon, always one to embrace a challenge, starts pouring stronger drinks for himself, Yoongi, and Jimin. "Let's spice things up, boys!"

The room resonates with laughter and cheers as the alcohol takes its toll. Yoongi, normally reserved, finds himself loosening up, his witty remarks becoming bolder. Jimin, with his playful nature, encourages everyone to take bigger sips, and everyone starts getting more suggestive blocks.

The tower, now a precarious construction of wooden blocks, becomes the focal point of the party. Namjoon, fueled by liquid courage, seizes a block that reads, "Twerk on a table."

A hush falls over the room as Namjoon considers the challenge. Without a second thought, he positions himself on a sturdy table, sending the tower into a swaying frenzy. The guys watch in a mix of shock and amusement as Namjoon begins a twerking performance, his moves dangerously close to toppling both the tower and the table.

Jin, caught between laughter and concern, yells, "Namjoon, be careful! We can't afford to lose the Jenga tower yet!"

Namjoon, lost in the moment, twerks with unbridled enthusiasm, nearly bringing chaos to the game. The room erupts in cheers and applause as he completes the challenge, stumbling off the table with a triumphant grin.

As he gets off the table, he seems to be out of it, but then sobers up suddenly to say, “Fuck, I gotta go meet up with the other guys. I’m gonna call it a night for me!”

Everyone bids him goodnight as he probably won’t be back until the next morning. He grabs a jacket, a hangover drink from the fridge and water before you watch him head out the door. You hope he’ll be fine.

You all continue playing, the tower becomes less stable. It was Yoongi’s turn next. He pulls a block with finesse, reading it aloud, "Kiss, Marry Kill? You mean Fuck, marry, kill?"

Taehyung grins, rubbing his hands together, clearly enjoying the chance to make Yoongi spill. "Alright, pick 3 of Honey’s girl friends."

Uh what. Did he just seriously just ask that? You immediately raise an eyebrow at Taehyung for saying such a thing, but he doesn’t notice. Wait, is it bad that you're reacting like this? But that’s so weird to ask in general.

"I don't think I can answer that." Yoongi responds directly with a cold tone. He grabs one of the bottles of soju from the variety pack next to the table in preparation to pour in his shot glass as he chooses to take a drink instead of answering. It makes sense to you why he wouldn’t answer, given what he confessed the night before.

Though, the tension in the room becomes palpable as Taehyung's question hangs in the air, seeming to try to think of a way to convince him to respond. The playful atmosphere takes a sharp turn, and you can sense Yoongi's discomfort with the unexpected question.

A tense silence lingers for a moment before Jimin, unable to resist the opportunity to stir the pot, chimes in, "Why not, Yoongi? It's just a game. Scared your choices will upset someone?"

What’s he up to? You don’t get what he’s talking about. He must be drunk. You see Jungkook and Hoseok rush to get water to sober him up, sensing trouble. Taehyung and Jin sit there watching, unable to move as they’re also confused as to why Jimin is trying to incite something.

You shoot Jimin a sharp look, your patience wearing thin. "Jimin, he can answer it if he wants. It's just a game."

He smirks, an edge of bitterness in his tone, "Yeah, just a game. Just like this whole situation we’re in, right?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Your eyes narrow, the playful atmosphere taking a sour turn.

Yoongi, sensing the escalating tension, intervenes, "Alright, enough. Let's not ruin the night with unnecessary bullshit. I’ll take the shot and we move on."

The other guys are very confused at the sudden argument happening. Oh god, if Jimin doesn’t shut up right now, everyone’s going to find out.

You roll your eyes, growing weary of the veiled remarks. "Jimin, seriously, just drop it. This is not the time or place. It’s Friday Night Game Night."

He smirks again, a calculated move to get under your skin, "Oh, but when you’re the one deciding the time and place for stuff and never going through with things, that’s fine?"

"Hey, we talked about this already. Why are you acting like this?” Yoongi becomes growingly frustrated. Okay? What did they talk about that you’re missing out on exactly? This is getting ridiculous. You’re clearly missing a big piece of a puzzle that you didn’t know existed.

Jimin ignores his efforts of mediation, unwilling to let it go. "Maybe if someone could actually make a decision, we wouldn't have to keep playing these games."

Your patience snaps, and you retort, "Maybe if someone wasn’t acting like a child, we could go outside and have a mature conversation about whatever you’re fucking on about!"

“Maybe if I fucking told you earlier about the pact me, Yoongi, and Namjoon made in high school. We wouldn’t have ever gotten in this dumb ass de—” Jimin’s words are immediately cut off by Yoongi’s attempt to shut him up by covering his mouth. A struggle ensues as Jimin fights to break free.

Your eyes widen, a mix of shock and seething anger crossing your face. "Hold on. What? What pact? This is all news to me."

Your mind races, trying to comprehend the revelation. A pact made in high school? Over what? Don’t fucking say it’s a pact so they wouldn’t sleep with you. What the fuck. The realization hits like a sucker punch, leaving you feeling betrayed and blindsided. How could they have gotten into this fuck buddies deal and have clearly broken the honesty rule since day 0? Even though you were feeling bad only a few months ago when you had slept with Jimin. But at least you came clean to Yoongi as soon as you could.

But what the hell is this?! Who in this damn world would be okay with hearing their own best friends making some fucking bro code deal under the table?

Yoongi groans, speaking calmly, "It was supposed to be a stupid thing, just a way to avoid drama between us. I didn’t think it mattered anymore. We didn't think it would become a big deal anyways."

Your voice trembles with a mix of anger and hurt, "A big deal? You guys are my best friends and hid some fucking pact that you made a few years ago? How is that not a big deal?"

Jimin uses whatever strength he has while drunk to free himself from Yoongi's clutches. Though, his expression remains unapologetic, he shrugs, "It was for the best…at the time. We didn't want to ruin our friendship over a girl. Didn’t think it would affect us as much as it did. "

You scoff, disbelief coloring your tone, "A girl? I’m literally your fucking best friend, Park. So, what, you guys broke it how? Deciding to fuck me and forget your bro code!?”

Fuck.

As if the universe was suddenly signaling the end of this ordeal, the sudden jolt you made as you yelled at him causes the jenga tower to fall. The wooden blocks scatter across the table and on the floor, making the impact of the argument land even harder.

The bomb was dropped.

The room is engulfed in a heavy silence, the weight of the revelations settling in like a thick fog. The other guys exchange uncomfortable glances, sensing the gravity of the situation. Taehyung’s jaw is on the floor as he glances around, but cannot say anything. You hope to God he just doesn’t either. Knowing him, he’s going to make things worse without trying. Jin rubs his temples, while looking stressed, but somehow not that surprised. Jungkook and Hoseok return with water bottles, trying to diffuse the tension by offering it to Jimin. They also heard everything as they were in the kitchen, but do not comment on it. Jungkook was the only one who knew, but even then, the deal and pact is definitely news to everyone else.

This doesn’t stop the emotions swirling within you. Unlocking Pandora’s box that revealed the pact feels like a betrayal. You just can’t believe a secret pact between your best friends was kept hidden for years. How long? Was this when you were dating Yeonjun or even before those events? What about during the virginity race? Jimin's nonchalant attitude adds fuel to the fire, leaving you feeling beyond upset, hurt, and confused. He’s choosing not to answer your question.

It has to be because you hit the nail.

Yoongi, attempting to diffuse the tension, steps forward, "Look, we didn't plan for this to happen. We didn't think it through, and it got out of hand. We're sorry for not telling you earlier."

His apology hangs in the air, and you struggle to find the right words. You’re livid and they don’t even get it. Anxiety builds within you and now, the air starts to feel thick in this room, and everything seems to close in on you. You think you’re going to throw up if you continue staying in this room around them.

“Um, guys…maybe we should take a step back, cool off a bit. I have a lot of questions, but we can talk about this more calmly later." Jin, always the peacemaker, breaks the silence cautiously.

“Yeah, let’s take a break for now to sober up.” Hoseok adds.

Yoongi nods, a mixture of frustration and resignation settling in. "Yeah, maybe we should."

It would be good to step back right now and get your head wrapped around all of this, but you need to leave the house to do that. You can’t be around them right now. You need to go see Hwasa. Jieun. Soohyun. Soyoon. Fuck if you know who else, but you just can’t be here any longer.

"I'm leaving." Standing abruptly, you snatch your phone from the couch and grab your hoodie hanging by a chair. The room falls silent as you declare your departure, the heaviness of betrayal settling in your chest. Fueled by anxiety – the urge to throw up and the sting of unshed tears. You never envisioned yourself in this situation, feeling deceived and in a way, taken advantage of.

"What?" The question from Yoongi hangs in the air, a desperate plea for an explanation. You move towards the door in a hurried rush, a whirlwind of emotions overwhelming you.

As you make your way to the exit, Yoongi, Hoseok and Jungkook rush towards you, concern etched on their faces. They don’t want to let you out while you’re drunk and vulnerable, but you’re too out of it to consider that. Jimin remains seated on the floor next to Taehyung and Jin, waiting for the inevitable. Yoongi attempts to grab your hand, a gesture of known comfort, but you vehemently shoo it away.

"Don't touch me!" The words escape you, laden with hurt. You’re caught offguard by your own voice coming out. You come to a sudden halt, attempting to regain control over your breathing, needing to calm the storm within before you say things you don’t mean. The truth hangs heavy in the air, and you feel compelled to address the turmoil.

"I...I genuinely love you guys a lot." The confession spills out, a raw and explicit expression of the emotions coursing through you. "I struggled so much, agonizing over who to choose because I can't imagine a world without either of you by my side. The same goes for Joon. I enjoyed the times we had during this deal, but I wasn't going to pick any of you.” You turn to look at Jimin’s direction, who refuses to face you. “I wanted to put our friendship first and minimize any damage out of love and respect for you guys. But it seems like you guys weren't even considering that when breaking your little fucking pact!" The words linger, a bitter truth exposed in the wake of shattered expectations.

Yoongi stands there unable to respond, frustrated. Your eyes lock with his. Tears glisten on the brink of falling, reflecting a different kind of hurt behind his eyes – a hurt you can't bring yourself to delve into at this moment. Not in your current state.

Choosing to break the eye contact first, you turn away and head out the door, leaving the Beta Tau house behind. You don’t know when you’ll be back. You don’t want to be back anytime soon.

You headed to Hwasa's dorm, hoping to God that she's in that dorm on this Friday night. Because you're going to fall apart at any second as you trudge through the streets and onto campus.

As you make your way through the campus, you find your gaze involuntarily drawn towards the library. The familiar sight triggers the reflex to seek solace in Namjoon's company. Under normal circumstances, he would be your go-to person when something immediately troubled you or when things went awry with Yoongi and Jimin. However, this time feels different.

You shouldn’t go see him for now.

You carry on going onto the path toward Hwasa's dorm, hoping she's there to provide you support and understanding you desperately need in this moment of vulnerability. The anticipation and anxiety mount as you reach the building, your hands trembling as you dial Hwasa's number, yearning for a comforting voice in the chaos that has engulfed you.

“Y/N? Hey? What’s up—” “Please come to the front of your dorm building.” You interrupt her before she kept on speaking.

“Wait, Y/N what’s wrong—”

It’s this simple question that becomes the tipping point to you finally bursting out in sobs. No guys to hold you back, no deal to keep thinking about anymore.

“I-It’s over.”

–

tbc ?!!??! :O a/n: welp. the bomb was dropped. um. yes, that really just happened. the next chapter will be ... insane as well. I'm already writing it and I want you all to prepare yourselves! Anyone have any thoughts or theories on what will happen to our favorite quad and the rest of the house? i'd love to hear about them so lmk hehehe thank you all for reading!

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