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nausicaaandhermouth · 3 months ago

Text

Quandary & Retribution in F#

masterlist

professor!viktor x violinist!reader [6k] [AO3]

mdni

cw: nsfw, blow-job, piano witnessing oral sex i'm so sorry

summary: being neighbours mean being mindful of the noise you make - though, you'd been set on being a nuisance through violin solos, bringing Viktor to your doorstep to plead for silence. You decide to apologise.

tags: modern au, physics professor viktor, gn!reader, neighbours, nsfw, sexual tension, suggestive physics & music talk, blow job, fat set up beforehand, not betad

a/n never written comedy nor smut but at some point a girl's gotta try (why are both almost equally difficult) - but here ya go (plops down this mess). also, i'm more familiar w music than physics, i 3rd page googled the latter so there's def smth not quite right. if u know physics, no u dont.

and ty to an anon ask for pointing out a mistake in the pronouns. i intend one shots to be gn but i write back and forth from an f!oc fic, resulting in she/her ending up in one shots and they/them on the other :')) entirely on me for not catching those before posting though - but thank you for notifying me, i appreciate you!!

btw requests & taglist are open!

Viktor had repeated it ad nauseam—keep the overtures to a minimum.

His days are a gruelling marathon of lectures and lab work, stretching from the crack of dawn at 6 AM to the academy's closing bell at 10 PM. This self-imposed siege isn't mandated by the university—no, they frown upon such academic masochism.

Rather, it’s Viktor's desperate attempt to squeeze productivity from the fleeting moments of silence. The irony? The moment he shuffles home, key turning in the lock, his apartment transforms into an impromptu concert hall.

Attempting to grade papers? Constructing intricate lesson plans on quantum mechanics? Preparing for the department's annual "Explain Your Research to a Five-Year-Old" challenge? Hah. Another pipe dream of this beleaguered professor.

No, instead, he’s treated to a violin solo that would make Paganini nod approvingly in his grave, some overture to madness waiting to ambush Viktor the instant he dares to sit down and tackle his workload. And the cherry on top? The virtuoso had chosen the room directly behind his study as their personal rehearsal space.

Tonight, Viktor's reaching his breaking point.

One more pluck of that violin string, and he might just snap (hopefully with more panache than his freshman physics students' failed bridge-building projects).

He's hunched over his laptop, a harsh '02:24' glowing on his wall—a neon reminder of how little he's accomplished in far too many hours. And there it is again, that infernal violin leaping across frets, notes ping-ponging between octaves with reckless abandon.

This time, it feels personal. A taunt aimed squarely at his last shred of sanity.

Viktor's fingers rake through his dishevelled hair, tugging in sheer frustration. His other hand thunders against the wall—once, twice, thrice. Stop. Stop. Stop.

For a blissful moment, the last note wavers, then fades.

Silence descends. Relief washes over him.

But his reprieve is short-lived. The melody resumes with a vengeance—louder, closer, more petulant and frenetic. It's as if the laws of acoustics themselves have conspired against him.

God, if you’re there…

Viktor can feel his grip on rationality slipping. Perhaps it's time to conduct an experiment on the effects of sleep deprivation on a physicist's patience. For science.

Your paths had crossed in the hallways, a silent slide of avoidance. You’d exchanged fleeting glances, loaded with unspoken frustration, before hurrying on your separate ways.

Viktor had made the pilgrimage to your door three times, his voice dripping with forced politeness as he implored (bordering begging, not his finest moment) you to relocate your impromptu concerts or, at the very least, reschedule your sonic assaults to more reasonable hours.

You’d exchanged names, plastered on smiles that never reached their eyes—and yet, your solos persist.

In moments of weakness, Viktor's traitorous mind can't help but wonder what camaraderie you might have shared in an alternate universe where you weren’t the bane of his existence.

He finds himself muttering a desperate prayer to the gods of acoustics: "Grant me the strength not to bash my head against this wall." He pauses, another side of his brain kicking in. "Although, the resulting concussion might make for an interesting case study."

A groan escapes him as his forehead meets the desk with a dull thump. (Might you want percussions, he could supply his head banging against his desk)

His mind, addled by sleep deprivation and the constant assault, contemplates the unthinkable—actually standing up for himself. God forbid.

He envisions marching to your door, pride in tatters, ready to beg, plead, perhaps even grovel for a moment's peace.

The image of his students receiving paper feedback that reads like the ravings of a madman flashes before his eyes. No. Nope. This cannot stand. Something must be done.

Then another image invades his mind: your door opens and there you are face to face once again.

He grudgingly admits you’re… aesthetically agreeable. He supposes. Mathematically pleasing. Something about proportion, bone structure, genes, something, something, and—no, there is an undeniable artistry in your relentless dedication. Which he respects.

Even through the wall, he can discern the masterful control of your bow, a testament to hours of practice that simultaneously impresses and infuriates him.

If he could be granted such hours to achieve his own goals, he'd surely rule the world (or at least figure out how to soundproof his apartment).

There'd been one night—one treacherous, sleep-deprived night—when his exhausted mind careened off the rails of rationality into dangerously uncharted territory.

He envisioned himself barging into your apartment, a perfect storm of righteous fury and academic gravity. In this fever dream, he demanded silence with an authority cobbled together from an unlikely triumvirate: his stern Professor alter-ego (complete with imaginary tweed jacket), the ego-inflating gravitas of his hard-earned Ph.D., and the bizarrely suave confidence that only exists in the realm of 3 AM delusions.

But in this warped fantasy, instead of blessed quiet, he encountered something far, far worse—a scenario that defied even the uncertainty principle in its improbability.

Sharp gasps cut through the air. Delicate moans rolling against the nape of his neck that it sent shivers down his spine. And then—oh, sweet laws of thermodynamics—his name. His name in repetition, wearing the throes of... No. Stop. Abort mission.

Viktor's eyes snap open. Heavy breaths. His heart rate approaches escape velocity, threatening to launch his ribcage into orbit.

He shakes his head violently as if the motion could dislodge the inappropriate thoughts from his brain.

"Fuck off," he mutters to the empty room, to his unfaithful imagination, to the persistent violin notes that seem to mock his predicament. Fuck it all. And fuck you. Well… No—(he means yes (no)).

A few times since your initial encounter, Viktor had been subjected to a different kind of midnight sound through the walls. These weren't the familiar strains of a violin, but rather... a more primal composition. Something more akin to pleasure than anything Stradivarius could have conceived.

The truth was, these… vocalisations had rearranged his synapses, had opened up an entirely new neural pathway in his brain, one he had staunchly refused to acknowledge before. It was a new theorem of attra—intrigue he wasn't quite ready to solve.

Each breath, groan muffled, was a data point on his imaginary graph. To study the patterns, the crescendos, the duration. The other man in him... well, that was a variable he dared not allow to factor into the equation.

He found himself both dreading and anticipating these unintentional (at least he surmised so) performances. He'd catch himself straining to hear, then immediately feel a rush of guilt and self-loathing.

He reaches for his coffee mug, grimacing as he swallows the cold, bitter dregs. Clearly, this is what happens when a brilliant mind is deprived of its required REM cycles. Yes, that's it. Just the cruel tricks of an overworked, under-rested brain. Exactly.

His mind kicks into overdrive, frantically scribbling a mental grant proposal: "The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on Auditory Hallucinations and Improbable Fantasies: A Case Study." Purely for academic purposes, of course. (his mind lingers on improbable)

It's not like he's terrified these forbidden thoughts might return, more vivid and enticing than a perfectly aligned experiment. And it's certainly not because he's afraid he might enjoy—no, no, no. He minds. He minds with the intensity of a supernova. 100%. No, make that 100.1%, just to be safe. Exactly. Precisely. Quantum-mechanically determined.

Now, if only he could convince his subconscious of that irrefutable fact…

His eyes dart to the wall—that infuriating barrier of plaster and wood—separating him from the object of his des... deliberation. No, that's not right. The source of his frustration. Yes, frustration. A frustration so profound it could light up a small city.

He groans, burying his face in his hands.

The things sleep deprivation does to a man. It's enough to make even a rational physicist question the very fabric of reality.

But admiration be fucking damned—his frustration reigns supreme.

Viktor straightens up, a manic glint in his eye. Perhaps it's time for a little experiment in human behaviour. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction, right? Let's see how you’d like a taste of your own medicine—played back at 3 AM through a wall of subwoofers tuned to the resonant frequency of your floorboards.

No, no—Viktor, don't stoop. Just knock on their door.

A grin spreads across your face when a comically polite knock interrupts your crescendo. Ah, the sweet sound of success—or is it the dulcet tones of a professor’s patience snapping?

Oh, he's ever so gentle, even when he's one decibel away from a meltdown. You can practically hear his teeth grinding in perfect harmony with your last note.

You settle your violin and bow on the couch like a general laying down arms after a victorious battle. One palm reaches to massage your jaw, soothing the tender spot where your instrument has been resting. Who knew revenge could leave such visible marks?

Note to self: next time, consider a less physically demanding form of payback. Maybe take up the theremin? Start haunting him.

Though you're getting the creeping suspicion he doesn't know what he did—and it's entirely plausible that you just look like a nocturnal nuisance with perfect pitch and an impressive bruise. But hey, what's a little psychological warfare between neighbours?

Besides, it's fun crossing him in the halls, eyes following each other like two notes slowly coming in accordance, like a particularly flirtatious harmony. You're both knowing, sharing a secret thing. Well, as secret as a loud violin solo at 2 AM.

You reach the front door and turn the lock, swinging it open with a dramatic flair.

Leaning on the frame, you plaster on a grin that could outshine the brightest spotlight—and is sure to make the dear professor's blood pressure skyrocket. "Viktor," you greet, your voice a perfect pizzicato of feigned innocence.

As expected, he's the very picture of academic despair: dark under-eyes that could rival a raccoon's, hair ruffled in a way that screams ‘Sleep? What sleep?' (who knew sleep deprivation could be so becoming?), and a brow so furrowed it could host its own mountain range.

Huh. Interesting. Seems like the composed professor facade has taken an unexpected intermission.

You force yourself to keep your eyes on Viktor's face, resisting the urge to conduct a full-body visual scan. Tonight, you're oppositions. Stubborn ostinato. O-ppo-si-tions.

Oppositions don't ogle each other's physiques or linger on sartorial choices. That would be absurd, a complete discord in your carefully orchestrated revenge. Which is why you don’t see that he’s wearing a thin tank top, and why your eyes don’t hopscotch across the vague outlines of his chest.

Viktor grumbles your name with a frown, his accent turning the syllables into something between a growl and a plea. It's music to your ears, really—a different kind of melody, but no less satisfying than your midnight sonatas.

You wonder what else he could do with that voice. No—you don’t wonder. O-ppo-si-tions don’t wonder.

Rather, you flatten your lips, desperately trying to hold back a laugh that threatens to escape.

"Please," he breathes, the word carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights.

You cock a brow. "Please?"

He glares, his eyes boring into you with the intensity of a conductor silencing a wayward orchestra. Not finding me funny, you note mentally.

Well, tough crowd. But then again, you didn't take up the violin for the standing ovations, did you?

"How can I help you, Professor?" You smile sweetly, crossing your legs. "You're looking positively... nocturnal," Your eyes dance over his dishevelled appearance, drinking in every delicious detail.

You know that he knows that you know what you're doing. It's a duet of mutual awareness—simple, really—and satisfying.

He squeezes his amber eyes shut, his mouth a taut line of frustration. You half expect his hair to stand on end. Orchestra on their heels after a baton’s click-click-click.

That little mole above his mouth twitches, and you imagine it as a staccato note. There's a twin on his right cheek. You wonder, idly, if they'd dance a jig if you played just the right jaunty tune.

"Why," he begins, his voice a crescendo of exhaustion, "Are you doing this? I can't keep my head in tune with you behind that wall, turning my brain into jelly with your... your..." he gestures wildly at your apartment, as if trying to conduct your imaginary orchestra into silence.

"Oh? And what's wrong with exploring some alternative fingerings now and then?"

His eyes lock onto yours, widening slightly. He blinks, frozen—a maestro who's just realised he's forgotten his baton.

Ah. Are there actual discordant thoughts lurking in that brilliant mind of his?

What's a little push? You lean forward. "Care to demonstrate these unconventional techniques of yours?"

A gulp rides down Viktor's throat. A nervous glissando. A viola quivering. His eyes suddenly find your front door fascinating. "Look, I just want to be able to do my work, finish what needs to be finished, and get some actual sleep. Aren't you tired of this too?"

Your mouth pitches downwards in mock contemplation. "Mm... I get plenty of sleep in the day. Unemployment generally gives you a lot of time. Besides, payback is payback. This is simply the retribu—"

"Payback?" His face contorts into a mask of confusion that would make Picasso proud. Ah. So the maestro doesn't know his own composition. Tsk.

You straighten yourself, arms still crossed sternly. "You—" you sigh, brows pulling together.

"What," he huffs, clearly lost. His mouth slightly gapes open, eyes glancing to the side as if somehow the answer will appear.

lLast month. Seven PM. You're home with what I assume were your students," you gesture at his door. "Don't know what you were doing, none of my business. However, it does become my business when they stay over until four," you hold up four fingers at his face like a metronome gone mad, and he backs away. “In. The. Morning. You try sleeping with rowdy, hormonal young-adults screeching about the universe and quantum-this, quantum-that,"

He brings his hand up and rubs at his neck, looking everywhere but you.

"And I, not having slept in god knows how long at that point, had an audition for an orchestra later that morning," at this point his expression is completely soured, realising where this is leading. "And guess who bombed that and missed a potential orchestral debut?" you point at yourself with both thumbs, "First chair of the Insomniacs Anonymous Symphony,"

He brings his thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, worrying at his bottom lip.

You can recall a few times you’d burrowed your teeth in such a manner. Recitals. A particularly tricky passage in a Paganini caprice. On your couch with hand at the crux of your thighs rubbing gently to some fantasy. Nothing specific.

You stare for a moment, mentally composing a scream for the cosmos. How dare he look like a dishevelled maestro when you're trying to channel your inner fury? Not the time, brain. Not. The. Time. File that image away for later...

“I..." he begins, but the words seem to have gone on strike, leaving his mouth hanging open. Forgotten fermata.

A furrow grows on your brow, deep enough to nest a whole string section. His guilt-ridden silence gives you ample time to become distracted. Truly not the fucking time. But your eyes—oh, what rebellious instruments.

But fret not (hah), as you don’t discern much of his arms—not lean, nor precise. Not those fingers either, no. They’re not that long. You didn’t even notice. And not the slow rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic as a metronome in a world where time has suddenly become very, very interesting.

He says your name—it’s a baton raising in the air—and it wrangles your attention. “I truly... I apologise. I do admit... that night was foolish. I'd lost control of my class. I'd invited a few over since they wanted a discussion on quantum entanglement,"

Yeah, I know entanglements. What.

Your brain performs an emergency shutdown and reboot. “Uh-huh," you manage, trying to sound like you absolutely know what that means and aren't at all imagining him demonstrating the finer points of entanglement. Because you aren’t. O-ppo-si-tions.

You shake your head, imagining your thoughts like shaking a tambourine. Focus. Revenge. Missed opportunity. Right. But why does righteous indignation have to be so hard when he's standing there looking like Einstein's hotter, sleep-deprived cousin?

“And the discussion just… I wasn’t careful with the time,” he leans forward, mouth downwards in apology. His fingers tap on his cane, mouth sucking on one side of his bottom lip.

He looks miserable. And worse, genuine. Two things that never sit right with you when they happen at the same time. A string just slightly off tune that it settles as unease in your stomach. It gives you the itch to fine-tune it, put it back how it should be.

You give Viktor a resolute nod, blinking away. “I accept your apology,” you say shortly, gaze lounging on the hallway and making sure they don’t linger on his misery.

But he searches for you eyes first, and by obligation you look back. “And have you, has there been any opportunities after then?” he asks, leaning forward, brows tilted in genuine, apologetic curiosity (your heart decides it’s now a great time to perform an accelerando. 95 bpm, if you’re counting). “Auditions and… orchestral… things? Sorry, I’m not too knowledgeable on these,”

What’s good: he’s genuinely apologetic, which may herald the end of your musical tyranny.

You lean your head backwards, aware of the distance (What’s not good: he seems unaware of the distance he’d taken up). “Uh, no. Well,” you shrug, shoulders bobbing in reminder. “Not since then. But there’s one next week. Piltover Grande Hall,”

His brows raise, seemingly in recognition. “Oh? Highly-esteemed,”

“I know. I’ll probably need a good sleep before then,” you grin, watching his face go from confusion, to apologetic, to relief in mere seconds.

“I also… I assigned some heavy research work last week to my class, which’ll be submitted tomorrow, so I’ll be grading those next week,” he added, now fully leaning on your door frame as if his upper body were trying to slink inside slowly. “We’ll both need much rest before then,”

Your eyes meet his. Face fully facing face. “Mhm,”

Prelude: “An observation of observation of observation”. String section, sweet, curious, and swelling with playful remarks. Interrupted by staccato heartbeats, conflicted by seductive cello whines.

You don’t move. Not an increment. You stay as still as your body allows, suspended in time. So does he. His eyes flicker between your left and right, expressing nothing but obvious observation of you. Your stomach breeds a butterfly when you catch his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

Interesting.

100 bpm.

No. I, “Where The Gaze Lands Will Determine The Night’s Fate”. A languid 4/4. A lone marimba begins—blithe. The chirp of a güiro.

“And what do you propose?” you tilt your head up. Are you challenging him? Depends, you suppose. Depends if he tilts his face down.

But he stays in position. Instead, brings a hand out, palm open. “A truce,” his breath brushes against your chin. Hot. Temperaturally. Temperamentally.

Does he know what he’s doing to you? There are desperate sax whines in your head. Supposedly they sound similar to the human voice.

You take his hand and shake firmly. But you don’t let go. “What are the terms?”

A soft huff of a laugh escapes him, eyes slightly narrowing. “But you’ve already agreed,” his fingers tighten slightly around your hand. Warm. Long.

“Confident in the final piece,” you assert, letting your eyes drape with leisure between his eyes and to the bone of his cheek, the mole, the mouth. And you hope he notices.

The sax is breathy. It’s now a smoky jazz riff, painting dimly lit rooms, whisperings of sweet-nothings, a daring foot hiking up another’s thigh.

Your travelling eyes seem to catch his breath.

No. II: “Where Silence Is Relative”. Strutting 2/4, beginning with a sultry glide of an accordion. A conversation between the cellos and violins.

“Does that mean you’ll rest your little concertos?” his head tilts. “Giving me peace, finally?”

You play up a pout. “Shame, I thought you were a fan,”

“As I am of quantum tunnelling through a brick wall,” he responds, the brief questioning curve of his brow indicating this was not a good thing.

“Surely my playing isn’t that bad?” a smirk.

“Not the quality, no,” he gives a small shake. His thumb softly brushes your hand. “It’s the quantity. And the timing,”

You soften your fingers, letting the tips of them brush at his wrist. “I was trying to be helpful. Heard scientists appreciated background music while working,”

A glint of something playful in his eyes. “We do. Just not at 3AM when we’re trying to grade important papers,”

“Grading?” you quirk your brow and smile. At this point, it’s far from grating to him—he’s even looking at it. “I thought silence was overrated in the pursuit of knowledge,”

“Silence is relative when you’re next door,” he gives back. His hand is now shameless, inching your closer and closer to your wrist.

You wet your lips and hum. “Relative, right. Like, whose is that—like Einstein’s?”

“Like the relative pitch of a jackhammer compared to your violin,” his expression flattens sardonically, still maintaining that disarming smile.

“I’m touched,” you lean your head on the door frame. “You think I’m as powerful?”

“Enough to redefine my understanding of ‘noise cancellation’,” he retorts, eyes rolling. What a pretty expression that is. You wonder how else you can evoke that same reaction in other contexts.

“If you ever want a demonstration…”

He laughs. “I think I’ll stick to my textbooks. Much quieter,”

You feign a mask of disappointment, gaze sharpening and hooking his eyes in for your next few words. “Pity. I was hoping to show you how good I am with my fingers,”

His mouth parts. Surprise? Temptation? But he’s hooked in and it’s all you care for. “I… uh,” he blinks, hand still around your wrist. “That’s…”

His face fills with a slight impassive contemplation, thoughts seeming to run amuck in his head as he looks down at your growing, teasing smile.

“You’ve been hearing me practise, no?” you smirk. And you can tell he knows that you know that he knows what you mean. “The violin’s not an easy instrument. Unless you’re thinking of something e—”

He diminishes the space between you with his lips on yours.

No. III, “A Swing in A#”. 113 bpm. A confident, gritty trumpet reels you in.

The door shuts and is immediately faced by Viktor’s back. His neck bends to accommodate the difference in height, his free hand at the back of your neck to press you closer to himself. Your hands find purchase around his shirt, curling around the fabric, pulling and pulling—but as he’s leaning, only his hips jut forward. Good enough.

Your mouths move in tandem. He’s occupied with your bottom lip in a sort of desperation that speaks of practise—or at least imagined practise.

You nudge upwards, hip bone meeting his in soft collision, which coaxes a filthy, back-of-the-throat grunt from him. You smile. And as you feel his other hand snake around your waist, you hear the metallic thnk of his cane against the floor.

You jerk away to look down at it. Briefly, you assess its importance and his dependence on it. “Your leg,” you breathe, breath barely allowing your real voice to pierce through.

He’s nuzzling at the side of your face, gaping mouth at your cheek as he catches some air. “I’ll manage,”

When you turn to him, your heart jumps at the sight of him. Dishevelment caused by your hands, a slight flush from arousal, eyes rounded and trained on your mouth. You don’t look but can’t help noticing the hardness pressed against your lower belly.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you ask.

He shakes his head and finally draws his eyes back to yours. “A… discomfort. But not pain,” he dips in for a kiss, hand sliding up to tilt your jaw towards him.

A smirk becomes of you. “Mm… about the, uh… retribution. I do admit, I took it too far,”

His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Did you? All those unproductive nights, I truly didn’t notice,”

You roll your eyes at his quip. “But I was thinking of how to properly apologise,”

He quirks a brow, thumb tracing at the border of your lip and chin. “And how will you show your remorse?”

“Ah, well, I’m just like you,” a soft laugh escapes you, and you lean towards him to hide the slight embarrassment rushing to blush your cheeks. “Thinking all about… entanglements,”

“Do, please, demonstrate your version,” his accent noticeably makes ‘demonstrate’ even sharper and more pronounced.

“Only if you talk about yours,”

With a swift kiss, you silence him, lips capturing his words. Your hands grip his body, gently guiding him away from the door. Viktor's eyes, intense and unwavering, remain locked on you as you lead him a few feet to the side to the upright piano.

In one smooth motion, your foot hooks around the piano bench, sliding it out. Your hands, warm and certain, travel up to Viktor's shoulders, guiding him down onto the seat with a gentle and firm pressure. His gaze never falters.

For a breathless moment, you tower over him, drinking in the sight of him. He's even more deliciously undone—hair tousled, shirt askew, lips slightly parted.

The room seems to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of you. You're minutely aware of every shallow breath, every subtle shift of his body, each time the muscles in his neck form a 'v'.

Something all-consuming takes root in your core, to hear his voice wearing your name—not just spoken, but gasped, moaned, worshipped.

“So?” you prompt. “Begin,”

No. IV, “Viktor’s Recitative”. An accented voice searching for focus. Punctuated by gasps.

“It’s, ehm, quantum entanglement. Imagine two dancers, perfectly in sync no matter how far apart they are. When particles become entangled, they share a quantum state. If you measu—”

With your leg you push his knees apart.

“Uh, if you measure one, you instantly know about the other. As if… as if connected by an invisible thread of… mm, cosmic intimacy,”

You kneel slowly, gaze locked onto his as he searches for his next words. “Rather romantic,” you add.

He swallows. And you take it as a suggestion.

“I think so, too. Two particles, forever intertwined,” his eyes fall to your hand as you palmed one knee, your head resting on his other leg. “Fates… linked across the, the vast…ness of space and t—time,” he jerks forward as your hand pressed a little too near his centre.

The sound makes your breath hitch. More. Your cheek’s brushing against the cotton of his pants, your other hand cradling around his calf. The hand on his knee roams further upwards, thumb applying more pressure on the ins of his thigh.

“Regardless of distance, still they influence each other in ways we can’t f—” he breaks off with a whine as your palm grazes the growing swell beneath his pants. It takes every ounce of self-control not to grasp him fully, to feel the entirety of him at once. “Fully…” his eyes follow where you press harder, your mouth curving into a smile. “Comprehend,” the word falls with more breath.

He leans back against the piano, elbows weighing down keys and sending a jarring, discordant chord alongside his sighs.

You straighten, bringing your other hand to the knot of his waistband. Your finger hooks onto it, thumb caressing the single button. Your gaze travels upward, admiring the sight of him leaning back, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalising glimpse of hair trailing downward.

His breathing slows, becoming deep and measured as your finger grazes the skin of his stomach, the fine hairs tickling knuckles. For a moment, you imagine yourself above him, watching him squirm as his eyes fixate on the point where your bodies would join. Another day.

With a deft movement, you pop the button free. Leaning in, you catch your lower lip between your teeth as your hands gently guide him from the confines of his boxers.

His form arches slightly to one side, living sculpture of desire. Delicate ridges trace his length, and at the apex, his glans gleams like a ripe cherry. Tempting fruit begging to be tasted.

Deep, methodical breaths, you remind yourself. Deep and methodical. And oh so deep. You wrench your thoughts from this enticing path, lifting gaze to meet his. Your eyes seek permission, finding his half-lidded stare heavy with want.

Your palm, warm and inviting, glides along his length with exquisite slowness. The motion elicits a shudder that ripples through his hips, a breath catching in his throat like a trapped butterfly. His head falls back, unveiling the elegant lines of his neck.

Emboldened, you repeat the caress, this time allowing your grip to ascend until it reaches the pinnacle. There, with deliberate tenderness, you gather the pre-cum with a slight swipe. The touch brings a cluster of stuttered gasps and half-formed words. His body, as if magnetised, curls towards you, hands grasping the edges of the bench, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.

Your name escapes his lips in a plaintive groan, lust renewing his voice with a gravelly quality.

Responding to his unspoken plea, you stretch upward, capturing his mouth with yours. A reward. A prelude. Your lips, soft yet insistent, trail a path down to his chin, then along the sharp line of his jaw. He tilts his head back, an offering, granting you unimpeded access to the column of his neck. You accept the invitation eagerly, pressing a kiss to his bobbing Adam's apple, and leaving a trail of lilac.

Your hand torments him with a slow ride down, grip tightening incrementally with each kiss. But there's a yearning for more, craving something more substantial. Not that this isn't intoxicating—the pulsing in your core is evidence enough.

The moment a more desperate whine unfurls from his lips, a ribbon of pure need, drawing you in. It's the tipping point. As if thanking him for the sinful sound, your lips abandon the canvas of his neck, attention now wholly focused on his full, flushed hardness.

You level with the sight of his arousal, standing eager, tip glistening. Your breath ghosts over his sensitive skin, eliciting a shudder that courses through his entire body. You hear the complaint of squeezed leather beneath his grip.

“Show me how you like it,” you breathe, letting the little puffs of air tickle at his reddened shaft.

Seemingly overwhelmed, he remains answerless, eyes resting on your blushed mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, as if reciting an undeniable truth, akin to the blue of the sky or the firmness of his length. His thumb traces the contours of your mouth with gossamer lightness. “Indulge as you please,”

At that, you smile, gently guiding his hand away and pressing a kiss tender on his knuckles. And with a final, heated glance up at his face—flushed with want, eyes dark with need—you lower your head, lips parting.

With a delicate grace, you envelop him, your lips forming a perfect crescent around his crown. Slowly, deliberately, you welcome him into the warmth of your mouth, one hand gliding to his base with tender precision. The other, seeking purchase, finds his chest, gently urging him backward to grant you greater freedom of movement.

He yields without resistance, acquiescence punctuated by a cascade of desperate, breathy whimpers as he reclines against the piano. The instrument protests beneath his bones, dissonant notes plunking out objections at the sin unfolding before it.

You savour him—heady salt and warmth. His velvet glides across your palette, your lips tightening in counterpoint. Your tongue laps and flattens against him in a rhythm that plucks a brief grunt from him. Curiosity compelling you, you lift your gaze to meet his. In that fleeting moment, his eyebrows arch—whether at the feeling or the sight, you prefer the idea of the latter—a wordless expression of awe at the vision before him.

This silent exchange ignites a fervour in you. You increase your tempo, sound of saliva blending seamlessly with his escalating pants. His voice, once controlled, now tumbles in a torrent of incoherent, keening pleas. His fingers now tangle gently in your hair, curling and uncurling in unconscious rhythm. When you dare to take him deeper, his grip tightens ever so slightly.

A deep groan reverberates from the depths of your throat, setting off a cascade of reactions that ripple through both your bodies. The raw sound triggers an involuntary response in him; his hips stutter and twitch forward with barely restrained urgency, cock brushing dangerously far back in your throat.

This sudden intrusion causes your body to react instinctively. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his thighs, pliant tongue pressing fully against him, cheeks hollowing with increased suction.

The sensation brings tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. Yet, you hold them back, your focus entirely consumed by the incoherent, mangled words tumbling from Viktor's lips. His loss of composure only serves to fuel you, ushering more strangled moans from you.

With a deliberate leisure, you pull him out of your mouth, slight, wet ‘pop' punctuating the action. A grin plays across your lips as you lick them slowly, savouring his taste and the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue.

Leaning back in with renewed purpose, you flatten your tongue against the sensitive underside of his length. You drag it upwards, feeling every ridge and vein. As you reach the tip, you linger at the frenulum, that exquisitely sensitive spot just beneath the head. Your tongue dances there, teasing and tantalising, while your hand presses firmly against his abdomen, pushing him back slightly, maintaining control.

This calculated move elicits a pleased hum from him, a sound that vibrates through his body and into yours. Encouraged by his response, you repeat the movement, each pass of your tongue a perfect mirror of the last, building a rhythm that teeters on the edge between pleasure and sweet torment.

You revel—the choked desperation emanating from the back of his throat, the frantic rise and fall of his chest—tempestuous sea. His jaw, slack, burns into your imagination, conjuring tantalising visions of how it might feel nestled between your trembling thighs. Pure masterpiece before you.

A thought dances through your mind: how differently might he approach his little entanglements if it were you sprawled across his desk instead of the mundane paperwork? The notion trails a delicious shiver down you.

The tip of your tongue traces feather-light around his sensitive crown. Slowly, teasingly, you envelop his tip between your lips. Tongue, emboldened, finds its way back to the frenulum and lingers there. Your hands continue to glide in smooth, quickened motions, descending and rising fluidly. His breaths grow increasingly laboured as you continue, his hips jutting and twitching. You apply gentle pressure, guiding him downward.

With a filthy cry that escapes him, you feel the hot release at the roof of your mouth. Encouraging him further, you draw him deeper, welcoming the spill into your throat with a rough hum. His voice breaks as he calls out your name between ragged gasps. It sounds almost like prayer.

Further sinful whines fall out of him as you continue to swallow and lap him from inside.

As you feel his tension finally easing, you slowly withdraw, your tongue tracing the pearlescent spill. His sharp, staccato breaths punctuate the silence, and he brings his hand to your chin, lifting your attention to him.

You smile, swallowing, though proving futile, his release unrelentingly coating the back of your throat.

“Will I get to demonstrate?” he breathes, voice hoarse.

He smirks. The fucker.

You shake your head. “Not tonight. Tonight’s my repentance,”

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane viktor fanfic #viktor fanfic #physics professor viktor #viktor x gn!reader #violinist reader #neighbours trope #viktor smut #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x you #arcane smut #arcane viktor smut #nausicaas fics

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bloomzone · 8 months ago

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𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦 !

“Team work makes the dream work”

- bts

Summer is here finally and it's time to make the most of every sunny day! Whether you want to stay fit, work on a passion project or just have fun with friends travel camping ... here a good routine can help you balance everything :

by: 𖧷´ bloomzone 𝅄 ׂׅ

Morning

Wake up early: Aim to wake up around 9-10 AM (not everyday is perfect sometimes I can wake up until midday)

Exercise: Start your day with some physical activity, like running, yoga, or a workout.

Healthy Breakfast: Have a nutritious breakfast to fuel your day like oatmeal or simply a smoothie and a fruit salad

Me time : Dedicate some time to a hobby or project you're passionate about like writing, painting, or learning a new skill (learning a new languages...)

Midday

Study/Work: Spend a few hours focusing on academics or other productive tasks. This could include preparing for next school year. (personally I'm not that type of person)

Lunch: Take a break and enjoy a lunch

Relaxation: Spend some time relaxing, whether it’s reading a book, watching a show, or simply take a nap

Afternoon

Social Time: Hang out with friends or family somewhere like parks forest...

Outdoor Activities: If possible, enjoy outdoor activities like swimming or playing sports (volleyball is the best sport for the beach)

Evening

Dinner: Have a light and healthy dinner (it's your choice)

Unwind: Wind down your day with relaxing activities like listening to music, meditating, or journaling

Preparation for Next Day: Spend a few minutes planning for the next day, setting goals or making a to-do list to make every day different

Night

Personal Time: Spend some time on activities you enjoy, like reading or watch ur favorite show series..

Sleep : do your skincare and go to bed around 11-12 PM to ensure you get enough rest. (Ikr it's not a anough but u know.. it's summer haha)

#becoming that girl #wonyoungism #glow up #wonyoung #dream life #it girl #creator of my reality #divine feminine #it girl affirmations #love affirmations #summer #confidence #clean girl #self care #self confidence #dream girl tips

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puttersmile · 1 month ago

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Smiling Critters OC: Ruby Rivers

Ruby Rivers is technically the main character of the Critter Crossing AU. An animator who worked within the in house animation studio of PlayCo. Also worked on commercials and box art. She was a pretty down to earth person but some of her co-workers believed in some weird things.

Here is some story stuff written like emails. To give some backstory. Enjoy!

From: Ruby Rivers

To: Peter Klein

Date: April 12, 1991

Time: 10:23 AM

Hey Pete,

Got your notes from yesterday’s meeting. Thanks for following up. I noticed you didn’t mention anything about your “poppy ink theory.” Maybe you realized it sounds a bit, well, out there?

You know I’m all for creative energy and inspiration—who wouldn’t be in this line of work? But this idea that our work is alive? Or that ink mixed with poppy seeds could somehow “bridge worlds”? Come on. Feels like you’ve been spending too much time watching the Twilight Zone.

Let’s not forget the real world here: poppy seeds contain weird compounds that can mess with your head. I’m pretty sure you’re not summoning spirits; you’re just getting secondhand microdosed. If anything, it’s probably giving folks mild hallucinations, not creating sentient cartoons.

Ruby

PS: Good idea switching to personal emails. I think our boss wasn't enjoying your crazy talk! No offense.

Subject: Re: Meeting Follow-Up

From: Peter Klein

To: Ruby Rivers

Date: April 12, 1991

Time: 11:09 AM

Ruby,

You’re missing the point! Sure, poppy seeds have… side effects, but this isn’t just about the ink. Have you ever thought about why characters like Dogday and Catnap feel so real? Why their stories seem to write themselves? Or why we all end up saying, “That’s exactly what Dogday would do” as if he’s deciding, not us?

I’m telling you, the ink might just be the catalyst. Look at the anomalies: the way sketches sometimes seem to shift slightly after we leave the room, or how animation frames appear more fluid than the tech should allow. Did you know Jill said she dreamed of Dogday last week, warning her not to approve a particular scene? She swears she woke up to find her storyboard reworked—better than before!

Something’s happening here, Ruby. Whether you believe it or not, you can’t deny the connection we feel with these characters.

Pete

Subject: Re: Meeting Follow-Up

From: Ruby Rivers

To: Peter Klein

Date: April 12, 1991

Time: 11:37 AM

Pete,

“Sketches shifting”? “Dream warnings”? That’s not supernatural, that’s sleep deprivation and caffeine overload. I don’t know why Jill redid her storyboard, but it wasn’t Dogday whispering in her ear. Maybe she was inspired and forgot about it—our brains are weird like that.

And yeah, we connect with the characters. We created them, after all. But they’re not real. They’re reflections of us, our ideas, and our teamwork. And a unhelpfully healthy dose of instructions from the higher ups. But anyway, That’s why they seem alive—it’s projection, not some alternate dimension leaking into the studio. Come on, Pete.

As for the ink, I’ll humor you for a second. Let’s say it does something weird. You think PlayCo would let us use it if they knew it could, I don’t know, break reality? They’d sell it as a toy themselves if it were that special.

Ruby

Subject: Re: Meeting Follow-Up

From: Peter Klein

To: Ruby Rivers

Date: April 12, 1991

Time: 12:15 PM

Ruby,

Have you looked at the new toy prototypes yet? You might be more right than you think, Ruby.

You don’t have to believe me, but don’t dismiss it entirely. You said it yourself—our characters are reflections of us. What if those reflections are more than just ideas? What if they’re connected to something bigger?

Remember the early versions of Dogday and Catnap? You told me once that you used to imagine Hot Clawffee and Snoozle Dreamhound sitting on your shoulders, like little muses. Maybe that’s closer to the truth than you think. Maybe they’re still there, influencing what you create.

I’ll leave you with this: if these characters weren’t real in some way, why would they mean so much to us?

Pete

Subject: Re: Meeting Follow-Up

From: Ruby Rivers

To: Peter Klein

Date: April 12, 1991

Time: 1:08 PM

Pete,

Hot Clawffee and Snoozle Dreamhound were my creations, and yeah, I still think about them. Sometimes when I’m stuck on a scene, I picture them sitting on my shoulders, one whispering something clever, the other reminding me to take a nap. It’s silly, but it helps. Kind of soothes my wounded pride that PlayCo wanted so many changes.

Eh Dogday is fine. But Catnap. When I see the big one walking around in that orphan city, it creeps me out like crazy. I can barely stand to look at it directly. But this is getting off topic!

All of that is just my imagination, not proof of anything supernatural. Characters are important because we pour ourselves into them, not because they’re alive. And I won’t deny that Dogday and Catnap feel like they’ve taken on lives of their own in some ways. We are working near unethical work hours in this place. Probably why we are hearing and seeing strange shit.

So no, I don’t think we’re breaking any laws of nature here. But I’ll admit this much: these characters matter. To us at least. And the kids. Not because they’re "real", but because they remind us of the best parts of ourselves. That's just how I see it.

But anyway, I've got to go turn in some animatics. See you later.

Ruby

#smiling critters #myart #fanart #poppy playtime #putterpenart #smiling critters au #poppy playtime au #dogday #catnap #oc #ruby rivers #critter cross au #critter crossing au #artists on tumblr #picky piggy

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thoughtsfromlayla · 10 months ago

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Dreamweaver's Heart

Summary: The Dream Lord takes fascination to a new lucid dreamer in his realm, his Dreamweaver. The waking world is less than kind and he will travel dimensions to make sure you are safe.

Notes: ~8.6k, this was a request sent in by Anon based on this post! Otherwise, I'm sorry for having this fic take such a dark turn? It was supposed to be sweet but then in my search for more Tom Sturridge films, I came across Like Minds and it fucked with me. So now it fucks with my writing until further notice.

Warnings: Don't ever get attached to the characters I make for the plot, graphic descriptions of gore, death, murder, and drowning, betrayal of a friend, nonconsensual kissing (not from Dream), graphic serial killer activities, run in with a serial killer. Dream's a dream tho, a knight in black armor <3 Happy ending :D

I'm not going to say it's 18+, because it's not NSFW, but some of these themes can be disturbing. Please read the tags carefully.

Masterlist

“One, two, three, four, five, okay,” You count your right-hand fingers to yourself. Then cast your eyes on the watch you always carried on your wrist.

“8:13,” You take another look at your surroundings and take in the fresh air and kind sun. “AM,” you concluded.

You look back to your fingers and count again. “One, two, three, four, five,” You listed off in your head. Then one more time look at your watch. This time it read 5:15 PM, but the sun hadn’t moved. A grin crawls up to your face as you realize that you were dreaming. Lucid dreaming to be more specific.

When you first heard about lucid dreaming in some off-handed news article you rolled your eyes and went on with your morning. There wasn’t much time in your life to worry about those things, not when another project was due, you had another meeting to attend, or another email to look at. But then life got unbearably hard to live with, stress kept piling up, and your vacation hours kept being declined.

Your dreams turned from weird but forgettable dreams to nightmares of being chased, drowned, or murdered, only for you to both feel and witness again and again. When you wake up in a sweat at the ungodly midnight hours, you open your phone to find the news article again. It took you well over a month to get the hang of lucid dreaming but it was all worth the cognitive effort. Each time you go to sleep you count your fingers, then your clock, then your fingers, and then your clock again. There are always telltale signs that you were dreaming, dreams tend to never make sense so you look for those things.

You intake another fresh breath of air and smile, head tilted towards the sun. The city air was polluted with car fumes and sewage smells, and while you loved the city, you do miss the easier days back in the countryside. You imagine the lush meadows, old trees, and the house that your grandfather hand-built for him and his wife. Before you the scenery changes and you’re sitting on a hand-carved rocking chair in a thin shirt and shorts.

“This is the life,” You groan out to yourself as you begin the rock back and forth, thighs and arms trembling from a stretch. You stay like that for god knows how long, the waking world not a priority of your thoughts as you had the next day off.

You only get up when sweat begins to collect along your hairline and the sunhat you are wearing begins to become itchy. A farm dog comes up to you and pants at your side urging you to go inside the house, maybe for a cup of lemonade, which sounded delicious the more you thought about it.

When you look into the house from the windowed front door, a black figure briefly catches your eyes. It walks within the kitchen, running a finger across the worn wooden table and tracing lines of chipped paint over the tops of chairs. Confusion eclipses your face as his figure distorts on the thick glass and you open the door quickly.

Much to your surprise, there was no such figure when the door opened. Your heart beats inside your chest and you look down at your fingers again. One, two, three, four, five… six. Six fingers, which is odd. You exhale slowly, it’s just a dream you say to yourself and carry on.

While sitting at the kitchen table you pinch your index and thumb together then bring both hands until they meet the other’s fingers. You pull them apart and a delicate golden string connects the fingers together. With a calming inhale of breath you move your fingers purposefully, drawing a picture of lemonade with a glass cup. If only it were this easy in the waking world.

Lemonade appears on the kitchen table in a glass pitcher and you pour yourself a cup, chugging down the citrusy-sweet drink with a smile. You sit for a while, not particularly thinking of anything, your job had you doing enough of that. The kitchen window was open and you could feel the summer wind and hear the leaves rustling and mourning doves cooing. It was a scene straight out of your childhood, and if you concentrated enough you could hear the lawn mower going in the distance, the smell of freshly cut grass invading the house.

A bark interrupts your serenity and you look over to the farm dog. He’s patiently sitting by his food bowl with a wagging tail. A small box of dog food appears on a nearby shelf and you go to him with a smile.

“Are you hungry, boy?” You ask and reach for the kibble. He barks back in return and watches you intently as you pour a small serving. You then thought to yourself that, well, this is a dream and can dogs get diabetes in dreams? Probably not, so you dump the rest of the kibble into his bowl. It piled higher and higher and you can see a satisfied glint in the dog’s eyes as it begins to chow down on its food.

You wipe your hands off on your shorts and toss the empty box into some unknown void in the hallway and go back to the kitchen. This time, however, two glasses were accompanying the pitcher. One, the glass you just drank out of, and the other, a half-drunk glass of lemonade. The condensation of the cool drink was still on the glass and you could see a clear handprint of where someone had grabbed it.

You look back at the dog and notice that he is missing and panic sets in again. You look outside the window and the sun disappears, clouds rolling in with a sheet of rain. The ground around you starts to become wet despite the intact roof and it floods over your feet. The water fills up the space quickly.

You try to calm your breathing and will the water to go away, for the sun to come back, anything to have your hours of peace before you have to wake up. But, nothing worked and the water came over your hips, and you’re hyperventilating now. The rain comes in through the windows in large gushes of water and you find yourself stuck in place, unable to move.

“Wake up, wake up!” You chant to yourself, tears beading along your lower lash line. You pinch at yourself and are exasperated when you still don’t wake. The water felt too real, it was cold and piercing and you could feel the twigs and leaves of debris that brushed against your legs now and then. “This isn’t funny, wake up!” You cry to yourself again as the water rises higher.

Behind you, in the shadows, the Dream Lord watches with intent. He always had a fascination with lucid dreamers, after all, they were able to minorly manipulate dreams to their whim. Something that the Dream King wouldn’t admit hurt his ego a little bit… just a smudge. But he had been watching your dreams lately and found it fascinating that you never dreamed of anything grand. No mystical adventure, no aspirations, and certainly no dreams of a more… sexual nature. Which, if he was allowed to comment, may be the reason why you were so stressed in the waking world and needed to find peace in his instead.

“This dream is over,” He commands and waves his hand over the scene.

You wake with a start, the sweat you produced while sleeping made your shirt stick to you uncomfortably and reminded you of your dream. You’re quick to get rid of it and throw it into your laundry hamper, now topless and rushing to the bathroom for a cold shower to calm you down. When you were done, your weekend alarm still hadn’t gone off and you were tempted to go back to sleep again.

Eventually, you decided against it, unless you wanted to repeat what just happened. Purposeful, dreamless sleep hasn’t found you in a long time and you doubt it would come back just on a whim. You watch the sunrise in your apartment, sighing as sleep tugs at your body still. The cup of hot coffee in your hands felt more like decoration than anything useful as it didn’t give you the energy you craved.

Thankfully you had nothing to do on your day off and you pat your past self on the back for going grocery shopping last night instead of making you do it today. You spend the rest of the day in bed, reading books on your Kindle and taking breaks by mindlessly scrolling through different forms of social media. Sleep tugs on your eyes but no matter how much you try to sleep, even a nap escapes you.

The day goes by at a molasses-like pace, you don’t even remember eating. But once the sun has set and the stars made their debut, you happily resign as sleep overcomes you. The Kindle falls somewhere off your bed as you lose consciousness. When you come to your dreams, you’re greeted by a whale… in a tutu.

Your laughter is hard to contain at the sight as you watched it dance on its fins to Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, part of your favorite ballet to watch when you were younger. It splashes some water on you and you use your hands to cover your face. It’s then that you remember to count your fingers.

“One, two, three, four, five,” All five fingers. What time was it? You repeat the ritual that has been so ingrained in your head and when you notice that you only have four fingers on your second count, you know then that you have control over the dream.

“Thank you for your entertainment tonight, my friend,” You wave goodbye to it as the scenery changes around you.

You’re back out in nature. A low-hanging tree greets you instead and a white and red checkered blanket is laid before it. The blanket had a mighty spread of slices of bread, jams, cheeses, meats, and tea. You make your way over and sit on the soft blanket, slowly picking the foods to taste. The atmosphere was perfect and the wind blew the smell of fresh water into your nose from the nearby pond. Ducks and geese honk at each other in greeting as they swim by.

Deeper in the picnic basket was more food, but you found them in pairs. Two sandwiches, two teacups, and two dessert cakes. You quizzically stare at them as you hold the two sandwiches, one in each hand. You didn’t eat that much, did you?

“I see that you have started without me,” A voice comments.

You jump in your skin at the sudden intrusion and look up. You see a man, dressed in casual black with an impressive coat.

“Isn’t it a bit too warm to wear such a long coat?” You ask instead.

You don’t protest when he sits next to you and hand him a sandwich instead. He places the wrapped food gently on the ground before taking off his jacket.

“Better?” He asks as he goes to grab his sandwich again.

“Hmm,” You only hum in agreement and start to unwrap your own. It’s a few minutes of silent chewing before you realize how weird this is. “Wait, who are you?”

“No one you haven’t met before,” He answers vaguely. His sandwich was left untouched except for the bread which he threw at the ducks near the pond.

You chew slowly as you try to digest his answer. He pours you a cup of tea which you drink freely from, murmuring a thanks as he hands you the fine china. The smell of vanilla and peaches invades your senses as you sip on the sweet tea. The favor takes you by surprise at how wonderfully it paired with the sandwich. By the end of the picnic, you have learned two things, your mystery man was great company, and that carbs made you comatose.

“Oh, my god. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten that much food in one sitting,” You sigh happily as you lay down on the blanket. Your head hits the hard ground and an idea sparks in you.

Once again you pinch your fingers together and then bring your hands together. You intertwine and loop the golden strings that emit from your movements, much like an old childhood game of yours, Cat’s Cradle, and produce a small pillow.

You place the pillow down and give it a good smack before laying down again. The sun envelopes you in a kind warmth that makes you smile. You see dancing shadows behind your eyelids when you close them to enjoy the moment.

You hear rustling beside you and turn your head towards the man lying down beside you. He really was quite beautiful, something more than a man, perhaps a deity. He is lost in thought, almost, as he thinks about your abilities, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“You have a great side profile, you know?” You don’t know why you said that, but rarely in dreams do you know why anything happens.

Your comment makes him chuckle, a sound that you wish to hear again. It was light-hearted and pure, something that you wouldn’t expect to hear from someone who looked like him. You couldn’t help but laugh along, finding his happiness contagious.

“Thank you,” He says when he is done laughing.

When the giggles leave your body, you go back to relaxing and soon you doze off. The rest of the dream is peaceful and pure, no more nightmares to haunt you tonight. The Dream Lord looks at you fondly as the wind blows some of your hair astray, happy to assist you for once in his realm. As long as he is here, you won’t have to fight your demons on your own again.

The next morning was the first time in a long time that you felt energized. The old coffee pot is nearly forgotten as you get ready to go on a morning walk, something you have done in a long while. Afterward, a shower, and then lunch with an old friend you haven’t seen in months. He had decided to drop by after his work allowed him to come into the city.

You meet with Oliver at a local cafe and you order tea this time around, along with some soup and a side salad. The AC is on full blast as more and more people come into the small building. You were lucky to find Oliver already waiting for you at a small table by the large windows. He waves at you when you come close enough and then pushes his glasses back into place.

“How have you been, Poppet?” He starts right off the bat with a smile, using the same nickname he’s been using since grade 3. That smile brings you back all the way to your younger days when you first met him as your new neighbor.

You think briefly about possibly mentioning your horrid dreams to him but decide to skip it, seeing as you didn’t want to ruin the mood for today, not to mention the peaceful dream you had last night all but almost made you forget it in its entirety.

“Oh, you know me, running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” You joke with a self-deprecating laugh. Your comment makes you realize that you have to go to work the next day and deal with annoying clients all over again. “Same shit, different day,” You mutter in conclusion.

Both of your foods arrive just in time for you to ignore the glare he sent your way. Instead, you find fascination in the soup you choose, the same soup you had for the past three years of your life.

“What brings you into town?” You ask as you pick apart the complimentary bread.

“Work, of course. Though I never thought it would bring me to this place.” He gestures to the city around him.

Oliver works as a farm veterinarian so, rarely, does he come into a large city where each piece of green is covered in concrete or chewed gum. And, of course, there are no farm animals around. He goes on to talk about a conference that he was invited to, something to do with the fight on farm animal antibiotics. You only nod along as you ate your lunch, your talents lie elsewhere but don't want to seem rude.

Only scraps of your meal are left when the two decide that it is time to depart ways.

“How long are you staying in the city?” You ask outside the cafe. The weather was almost perfect today, save for the slightly chilling wind that came every now and then.

“About a week.” Oliver puts on his jacket and then pushes his round glasses back in place.

“A week, huh?” You thought out loud before a smile came to your face. “You should come by the exhibit later this week. My client is showcasing their art, and going together would be fun.”

“I’ll be there.” Oliver takes the business card you hand him, the heavy paper turns from warm white to gray as the sun disappears behind some clouds.

Rain begins to drizzle and splatter on the card.

“Aw, man. What?” You complain and put your jacket over your head as the rain continues to fall. “There wasn’t a rain forecast today,” You grumble to yourself.

The two of you step under the cafe awning, the thin fabric providing little protection.

“Do you want to stay at my place until the rain lets up? It’s just a few blocks from here.” You offer.

“Lead the way, Poppet,” Oliver says with a smile.

You smile back as you hype yourself to run through the rain. Thank god you wore sensible shoes today. With a squeal, you run in the direction of your apartment. You hear Oliver laughing behind you as he follows closely behind. Your laughter and giggles continue when you two find the comfort of your apartment and quickly turn up the thermostat when you get inside.

“Wow, you’ve decorated the place nicely,” Oliver whistles his approval.

He kindly sets his dripping jacket on the coat rack before you do the same and thank him. He shakes his head, much like a dog, you mused, to get rid of the water as his hair splays out from his actions. You, the more sensible one, simply wrung it out over the kitchen sink.

“Yeah, if work can’t destress me why should my own home be?” You nodded along.

The storm had raged harder ever since you got inside, the rain pelting on the window. If you didn’t have company over, you would’ve tossed all chores to the side and huddled up for a nap. Sleeping has been wonderful ever since you figured out lucid dreaming.

“Poppet, you got a remote for this giant T.V, or what?” Oliver says as he pokes his hands between couch cushions.

“Erm, yeah, somewhere on the T.V. stand.” Your comment was absent minded as you poke around in your small pantry for some snacks.

Your eyes lock on packets of hot chocolate you didn’t know you had and what could be more perfect than a rainy day and hot chocolate with a friend? You squint at the box, looking for the expiration date. When you find it, and see that it’s been expired since last christmas, you pretend you don’t.

There’s probably enough preservative to make the powdered drink last until the end of days, right? Plus who is throwing out food like this? In this economy? You scoff to yourself.

“Want hot chocolate?” You ask, peeking at Oliver’s form in the living room.

He stands in front of the T.V., hip slightly popped out to support himself with a hand on his hip and the other on the remote. The news comes on instead of your usual menu of different streaming services and a confused look takes over Oliver’s face when he turns around.

“No, not that remote, the other one,” You laughed and went ahead to the fridge to warm up some milk anyway.

“Which remote, you have, like, 13 for no reason!” He cries out exasperated but goes to the stand to find the correct remote.

The news continues to play and with nothing better to do, you listen in while you wait for your milk to warm up.

“There has been a recent murder here in our lovely city and we encourage citizens to remain vigilant. The killer has not yet been caught and there is no pattern as to what kind of victims they take.” The news anchor speaks.

“Oh, shit.” Oliver stops his search as he, too, starts listening in to the news.

“Welcome to the city, I guess,” You shrug with a defeated sigh. The milk starts to shimmer before you turn off the stove.

“Still, you should stay safe,” Oliver comments as he finally finds the correct remote, turning in to a streaming service and picking a light hearted movie. You’re mixing the chocolate powder, spoon clinking against the non-matching mugs, and when you don’t answer right away, Oliver presses again. “You will be safe, right?”

“Yes, mom,” You sarcastically groan. “I’ll be safe.”

“That’s my Poppet,” He chides, some of his accent slipping through, and sits down. He opens an arm for you to sit next to him before you hand him the hot chocolate that you made.

“Careful, it’s ho-”

“JESUS!” Oliver exclaims as his face flies away from the mug. His shocked face makes your own burst out into laughter, so much so that you have to set down your mug so that you don’t spill it all over yourself.

“Are you laughing at my pain?” Oliver jokes and pokes your sides.

The ticklish action only makes you laugh harder, if that was at all possible. Seeing your reaction, Oliver goes to poke you again, and you defend weakly as your laughing makes you all but weak.

“Sto-stop, you’re going to make me pee,” You choke out between fits of giggles. Your hands were clenched to your sides as a last ditch effort to conceal your weak points. Your cheeks were starting to hurt and your smile was so wide that you couldn’t even open your eyes anymore. You were simply at the mercy of feeling true happiness.

Oliver eventually stops and the T.V. goes into a mandatory ad break (I mean, you’re not going to pay for no ads after already paying for the streaming service, let’s be real). Your energy is sapped out of you and you deflate into the couch with a satisfied sigh.

“That was the first time tonight I heard you laugh that hard. Has the city been that mean to you?” Oliver asks, now cautiously sipping his drink.

“The city is not mean, it’s just different than home,” You reply with a roll of your eyes. “I wouldn’t change it for anything though.”

Oliver hums in response, whipped cream stuck on his upper lips. You could tell he wanted to say more but decided to keep quiet instead. Eventually, the two of you fell into a comfortable and familiar silence as you watched the rest of the movie.

You ended up crying at a particular scene and Oliver, same old Oliver, poked at you again to try and get you laughing. The rain still hasn't stopped and you’re glad to live on a higher floor of the apartment complex or else you would’ve had to worry about potential flooding.

At the end of the day, you ended up cooking dinner for the two of you as well, convincing Oliver to stay and have a warm meal before going home alone. Especially considering the news about the killer on the loose. You’re on your third movie when the two of you finally finish your late dinner and you fall asleep on the couch against Oliver’s much warmer body.

The body underneath you shifts and your eyes snap open.

“Sorry, Oliver, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you,” You apologize before you’re completely awake.

“It is nothing of note,” Someone else’s voice responds instead.

You rub your eyes and take a closer look at him and are surprisingly greeted by your mystery man. He wears the same clothes as the last time you met, only this time it’s warranted as you feel the chilling wind brush against your prickling skin. Unconsciously you crawl closer to him again and he wraps a protective arm around your body.

Looking around at your surroundings you notice that the two of you were huddled amongst the clouds. Stars and nebulas dance around the two of you in sparkling wonder. When you reach out your hand to touch a star and find it surprising when you are greeted with a cold feeling. Your hand snaps back quickly and you tuck it under your arms to quickly warm up.

“Guess I’m dreaming again,” You comment nonchalantly and lean back. The clouds seem to know where to stop and you’re lying comfortably by the man’s side again.

“Ever the perceptive one,” He responds back.

“I didn’t know I could dream of something this… spectacular,” You think to yourself, taking the risk to rest your head on his shoulders. Besides momentarily stiffening under your touch, he doesn’t move away, something you took as a good sign.

“You did not, I did,” He says slowly.

“Hmm, it’s nice, thank you.” You close your eyes and enjoy his warmth.

Besides you, the Endless smiles to himself at your compliment. To him, it was nothing more than the wave of his hand to gift you this dream. He would be lying to himself if he were to say he hasn’t been waiting for you to cross over to the Dreaming since your last dream. His fascination for your abilities grows stronger yet.

Yet, he has created a beautiful enough dream that you didn’t find the need to change anything, something he takes pride in. Your waking world has left you tired and weary, and he is here to provide. A tugging sensation pulls at him and he remembers why he is here.

“My Dreamweaver, I have something to tell you. You must listen carefully.” His words were calculated when he spoke. “You are in danger, be cautious.”

“What?”

“This dream is over.”

You wake up in your bed with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. When you roll over to look at the glowing digital clock, it reads 3:00 AM. With a groan, you leave your warm bed to tread the treacherous cold apartment for a glass of water.

You fill up a small cup with some water and notice that by your sink is a small note, scribbled in red crayon. Your tired eyebrows shoot up at the note and grimace at the atrocious handwriting that was undoubtedly Oliver’s.

“Poppet, I can’t find your pens but I found this crayon by the TV remotes Don’t worry I called a cab I won’t get murdered tonight cause I’m vigilant unlike some people Mwah, Oliver”

That night, your mystery man didn’t visit you again. He only leaves his vague message that echoes in the empty chambers of your heads. You’re plagued with dreams of drowning and despite all you can do to take control of the nightmare, there is nothing you can do but subject yourself to the violent, crashing waves. To constantly inhale gallons of gallons of salty water, to feel your muscles tired out, to feel yourself lose control.

Your only salvation throughout the week was seeing Oliver again at the art exhibit. The murders haven’t stopped and it’s gotten enough traction for everyone in the office to talk about it, too. Yet, you could turn to your dreams instead to find relief.

The man clad in black follows you still into your dreams, any mention of his message is quickly shut down or ignored completely. At the end of the day, you don’t mind, his company is more than enough to make your dreams sweet. He accompanies you through wildflower fields and stardust skies, he brushes your hair by the seashore and tells you the myths of old. Each day is a new dream and brings forth a reason to keep going.

“A few nights ago,” He starts as he watches you gently touch the petals of a flower made of snow and glass. You turn to him expectantly and urge him to continue silently. “You did not call for me when you were having that nightmare.”

It takes a few moments for you to realize he was talking about your drowning nightmare. The one you so “wonderfully” had after an amazing time in the swirling cosmos. You begin to walk again, your shoes making no noise against the cold snow. The man follows beside you, face tilted towards yours in anticipation. His question had been burning at the back of his mind since it happened and he held on, barely, for the answer.

“You can’t really scream when you’re drowning.” Your lousy excuse comes out and even you flinch at the words.

You don’t dare to look at him, knowing the disappointed look he was surely giving you. Everyone knows that anything is possible when you dream, even more when you can lucid dream. After a very pregnant pause you give you real reason.

“I don’t know your name, how would I call out for you, my sweet mystery man.”

It’s now that he stops walking and after a few steps, you too pause and turn to look at him. In the cold mountains of your dream, the snow is stark in contrast to his ebony form. It is here that you recognize how different he was, like the snow pulls away from any distractions and you look at him, really look at him. The facade of just a man falls away, and within, you see a being beyond your comprehension, held together by sheer will. You were right, he was more than mortal, more than a god, something more in every sense.

“I am Dream of the Endless,” He says, voice slow, calculated and raspy as he closes the gap between the two of you. “I am the very dream you are in, the voice inside your head, the person you think you’ve met before while walking the street.”

You’re very aware of how close he was to you now, to see the precipitation of his breath, and the way his eyes are never truly one color. His form keeps the winter chill away from your body, warming the very spot you stood in where snow turns into sunlight and the ground beneath you turns to soft valley grass and wildflowers made of toffee candy and sour rope candy.

“Would you really have come if I called for you?” You ask timidly, head turned down and away from his gaze.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You say with a smile, cheeks crinkling your eyes as you look at him again. All Dream could think about was making a sun that shines as brightly as you.

Your dreams seem to start leaping out into your waking life as the words of the Endless follow you. Every now and then you would notice a flurry of black and alabaster skin in the peripheral of your vision, but when you go to look it’s nothing but a chair, or a stack of books. His familiar face haunts you when you space out on the bus ride home, or when you’re simply walking down the street and someone bumps into you that just barely looks like him.

Each time you shake your head no, it was impossible, he was only a dream.

The night before the exhibit, Oliver gives you a text message that explains that he would need to be picked up from another location. A client had called him for an at-home euthanasia early in the morning right before the exhibit. You agreed and were sent an address. You brush your teeth and wash your face before turning into bed, sleep coming easily.

Your dream starts, as always, with you counting your fingers. Then you look at your watch, and then you count your fingers again. Your clock had 5 hands instead of two and with control over the dream, you find yourself standing in an Asian inspired pergola surrounded by water for miles around. The only sounds that accompany you are the sound of the sloshing water and the wind’s percussion between the mountain cracks.

You sit on the wooden flooring, cooled by the water, and inhale the scent of fresh water. You bring your fingers together, just like always, and watch as the golden strings move with your movement, producing a pouch of fish food. Large koi fish swim beneath you and you run a finger across the water’s surface and watch with a small smile as they chase your fingers as you sprinkle some of the golden kibble along the water's surface. A koi leaps up and bites your finger and the sharp pain flings your arm away from the water.

“Ow, what the hell?” You frown and look at your finger, the pouch dispersing into gold dust. Pressing into the digit allows blood to leak from the wound. You don’t have time to think about it when your alarm blares at you and you wake.

Your day starts in a rush, slamming your hand over the off button of the alarm clock. You skiddy your way into your bathroom, brushing your teeth, combing your hair and doing your makeup. Your outfit was ready on the door of your bedroom. The casual formal wear was perfect for the day ahead. Comfortable but respectable and easily spotted if someone were to come looking for you.

You look at your watch before briskly walking out the door, a few minutes ahead of schedule and traffic. When you arrive at the house Oliver had told you to, you stand outside the door as you hear murmuring from inside the door. You remember why Oliver was here in the first place and slowly lean against the wall to wait for him.

“He was the most perfect dog, he was loved, he was cared for. And it gives me great honor that you allow me to ease his suffering so he may continue to run in the never ending fields of the afterlife.” Oliver’s voice carries through the thin wall.

Sobbing follows after and hushes of comfort as the dog passes in the arms of the owner. Uncomfortable that you were involuntarily eavesdropping in such a private conversation you start to play with your hands, picking at the nails and the cuticles around them. It’s now that you see, with a quickening heartbeat, a closed over wound on your finger. When you run your thumb over it, the pain long since subdued, you are reminded of a feisty koi bite from a certain dream.

Was it real then? The dream, or merely the pain?

“Ah, Poppet, you’re here already,” Oliver’s whisper pulls you out of your thoughts slowly. “Is your finger hurt?” He notices and reaches for your hand.

“No,” You say quickly, perhaps too quickly, and move your hands away. “It’s just a scratch. Shall we go?” You turn before you give him a chance to answer.

The exhibit, while productive, was blanketed over by a feeling of grief and melancholy. Your artist was soaking in the praises of success, but you find yourself sticking by Oliver’s side, drinking mimosas hoping the little alcohol could erase the uneasiness in your throat. Your finger gives phantom pains now and then, reminding you of the breaking cracks between dreams and real life.

It’s only noon and you’re exhausted, giving the keys to Oliver to drive you back to your place. As if to taunt you even more, the elevator was down for repairs and so arm in arm, you and Oliver make your way up the seven sets of stairs until you reach your own apartment.

“Oh my God, I can taste blood,” You whine, leaning all of your weight onto Oliver by the fifth floor. He, on the other hand, could not have looked more pristine.

“When was the last time you exercised?” He chuckles as he lets you rest for a moment.

You groan as your hand grasps onto the worn metal railing. “I briskly walked to my car this morning,” Your voice is gravelly and hoarse as you use your arm to continue upwards. “After the elevator ride down to the main floor.”

“Good grief, woman,” He jests. “We need to get you to the gym.”

“Over my dead body,” You huff as you make your way again, steps heavy and stomping, the sound echoing in the empty chamber.

The barren of your door gave you the last bit of energy to finish. The sight of your couch was enough for you to flop onto it and simply wish to perish. You’re breathing heavily out of your mouth, face to the ceiling and bounce when Oliver sits down next to you with exaggeration.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Oliver teases, barely winded by the seven flights of stairs. You on the other hand felt like you had just come from a week at sea with nothing but a row boat and canned crackers.

“I’m going to go shower, do you want to stay for lunch?” You ask, already halfway to your room after you caught your breath.

“No, I’ve got my own thing to do, packing mostly.” You hear Oliver’s voice from the bathroom. You turn on the water to let it warm up and peek out of your bedroom. “Alright, I’ll see you off in a few days, yeah?”

Oliver’s outside your door and the sudden proximity makes you jump in your skin.

“Geez, you scared me. I thought you were still in the kitchen,” You say behind a small laugh.

“I’m going to head out, alright? But yeah, let’s meet one more time before I leave later this week.” Oliver smiles and pokes your forehead.

“Sounds good,” You agree, staring at the finger.

“Stay safe out there, Poppet.” He waves and goes for the door. “I’ve got a cab waiting for me downstairs.”

You use the shower to cleanse yourself of not only the physical properties of today, and more importantly the sweat you accumulated walking up the steps, but also the more emotional toil. The warm water seemingly soaking up all of your depressive thoughts. It runs down the water and out the drain, and you feel lighter when you step out.

You’re drying your hair with your towel when you see the brown square that is Oliver’s wallet sitting on your couch - opening it and seeing his ID card clarifies it. You groan as you know that he can’t get anywhere without his wallet, especially if he wants to leave.

An internal debate was settled with going to his place before you pick something up for dinner. You place the wallet by your keys near the front door and make yourself some lunch, and put some much needed laundry into the washer while it cooks. You watch a small episode while you eat before returning to your work laptop and answering emails.

The day goes by quickly and the rumbling of your stomach tells you that it’s time for dinner and more importantly, returning Oliver’s wallet. You redress in the same clothes you wore earlier that day, deciding to just deal with the high heels as any other shoe wouldn’t tie in well with your outfit, and you were not going to go out looking anything less than put together.

How lucky you were when you walked down the hall to find the elevator back in operation. Down, down you went, seven flights of stairs to the parking garage. The echoing beep of your car tells you where Oliver had parked for you and you climb in.

Traffic was a pain in the ass and you couldn't take another slow minute during dinner rush. Beeps and honks accompany you all the way to Oliver’s home and it takes a solid 45 minutes to travel 10 miles. You knock on Oliver’s door and you don’t know why but you’re nervous. There wasn’t an answer and you knocked again. Nothing. The door is unlocked and with a shrug to yourself you enter.

All of the lights were turned off when you entered, fumbling about to turn on the lobby light near the door. The rented home was much bigger than your medium apartment and you seriously start to regret your career choice.

“Oliver?” You call out, taking off your shoes and putting them aside.

No answer.

“Ollieeee…” You sing out as you make your way further into the house. You drop the wallet on the dining room table and still nothing. You knew he was here, somewhere, the rental car he had was still in the driveway when you pulled up.

You bring out your phone, about to call him, when a small noise directs you to a staircase that leads downstairs and you make your way into the finished basement. When you open the door, something you never thought you would see greets you instead. Yes, Oliver was there but so was another woman. She’s tied down to a wooden table and you think you’re interrupting something if it wasn’t for the way her teary eyes snap towards you. Despair is washed out with a small glint of hope as her trembling hand reaches for you.

“Help me,” She pleads.

Oliver calls your name, almost breathlessly, and walks closer to you. In his hand holds a small knife, blood already smeared on the glinting metal. He greets you with a smile, but your attention is on the woman on the table.

“Please.” She sobs again.

You’re numb, on the brink of hyperventilation, and you’re sure that if you had gotten dinner before coming here you would’ve thrown up all over the vinyl flooring.

“Oliver,” You gulp down as you take a step back.

He advances with another step, knife still in hand as the blood drips down onto the floor. He approaches you like a predator to scared prey, and he wouldn’t be wrong. His weaponless hand wraps around your wrist, warm and alive just like all of the other times he has done since you became friends all those years ago.

“Come here.” He guides you closer. “This is our guest, Poppet.” He introduces.

The woman squirms against her restraints and cusses. “Stop calling me Poppet, my name is fucking Alora, let me go!”

Oliver guides you closer and then slinks behind you, using his body to trap you from the exit. From this distance you can see the cuts and bruises Alora endured and you lean away in denial. Bile crawls up from the bottom of your throat begging to be released, it’s acidity painful to swallow. Alora’s tear stains seem permanent as another one follows its path as she watches the two of you lean over her.

“Let.. let her go,” You say with a shaky breath. It’s the opposite of assertive, the opposite of a demand.

Oliver sighs behind you and slams the blade down on the table and both you and Alora flinch at the sudden noise. He laughs behind you, the breath tickling the nape of your neck.

“I thought we could… share her,” He responds. You feel his lips on the junction of your neck and your body trembles again.

“Share… her,” You echo.

This wasn’t real, there was no way this was real. No, you were definitely dreaming, Oliver took you home and then after your shower you fell asleep. He never left his wallet at your place. Oliver heals, he would never…

You look down at your fingers, they’re shaking but still countable. One, two, three, four, five. You look at your watch, and with dread you notice that everything is in its place. One, two, three, four, five. It’s still the right time. One, two, three, four, five.

“A dream, this has to be a dream. A nightmare.” You lie to yourself. Your thumb presses into each of your fingers and to your dismay, there are still five.

You look down at Alora again, her eyes wide and begging and her fingers go to grab at you.

“Ah, ah, none of that.” Oliver notices and pushes her fingers away from the two of you.

His attention turns back to you again. “What do you think of it?” He asks, his hands resting on your hips and to your further disgust inhales your scent.

“What do I think of it?” You echo again except this time it was more harsh, judgemental as it should be.

Oliver scoffs and leaves your side. He walks to the other side of the table, knife back in hand as he points it to Alora’s face.

“Look at Poppet here, notice anything?”

That’s when you look at her, really look at her. At first you didn’t see it, or maybe your mind was simply trying to prevent you from seeing it, but under Oliver’s scrutinizing gaze you notice with teary eyes. Her hair was the same color as yours, so were her eyes, they even mimicked the way yours were shaped. Her lips curled just like yours as they’re upturned in agony.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” You gag, your hand flies to cover your mouth as you dry heave.

“No, don’t be, my sweet Poppet,” Oliver comes to you again and holds your face steady. His eyes have always been like they are now, caring, soft, non-dangerous, but seeing his actions made you doubt everything. “Here, you can watch for the first time instead, how about that?”

“Wh-what?” You gape and he pulls away from you. He places the knife over Alora’s throat and her sobbing and pleas grow louder.

“NO!” You scream and go to reach for the knife, unsure where the sudden bravery comes from. But, it’s too late, he slices, you feel the way his muscle moves under your palm, how it grips the blade, how it ticks when it kills.

The blood sprays and decorates you in its red and sticky liquid and you’re left stunned. Beneath you, you hear as Alora chokes on her own blood as her body trashes as a last ditch effort of escape. Oliver looks at you with a smile, his white shirt decorated just like yours. He looks at you with adoration and something like pride as he places the knife down and comes to you again.

“You look even more beautiful in red, Poppet,” He compliments, but it falls on deaf ears. His lips press to yours in a one sided kiss and you weakly push back. “Let me clean everything up and then I’ll take care of you, okay?”

You stand still as you watch him, rag in hand as he begins to clean.

“You were the most perfect person, you were loved, you were cared for. And it gives me great honor that you allow me to ease your suffering so you may continue to live free in the never ending fields of the afterlife.” Oliver’s familiar eulogy snaps you out of your shock, if not for a brief moment.

It’s enough for you to run out the door, adrenaline blazes down your spine and pumps to all of your limbs. The door almost flies off its hinges as you open it into the dark night. You don’t know where you’re going to go, but anywhere is better than here.

“Poppet! Wait!” Oliver screams behind you and he’s fast to catch you.

Your bare feet scrap across the concrete sidewalk as your vision blurs with salty tears. You trip into an alleyway and sob, your pristine clothes now covered in dirt and blood, and you hear the crack of your watch as it breaks under the fall. At the edges of your mind, a small girl with wild and colorful hair peeks at you in fishnets, the world warps, distorting the difference between reality and delirium.

A moment of clarity comes to you as you remember something. It tries to fall between the crevices of your mind but you grab onto it and hold it close.

“Would you really have come if I called for you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Dream,” You cry out into the darkness. Oliver finds you on the ground and his arms pick you up. “No, no, let go of me!”

The man clad in black doesn’t show his face and you beat yourself over it, because of course he doesn’t. It was just a dream. This is reality. Despite it all, you try one more time. A name falls on your tongue, one you didn’t previously know.

“Morpheus!” You scream and the calling echoes in the suburban neighborhood.

Oliver pays you no mind and hoists you onto his shoulders. You’re pounding at his back but his muscles never falter. He walks back with heaving breaths to his house when he is suddenly stopped and drops you. You unceremoniously roll and then sit quickly to run away again. You’re stopped short at the sight.

In front of Oliver stands a man, his form fuzzy at the sides and blends in to the night around them. He wears a helm made of bones, accompanied by a bright ruby necklace, and a leather pouch of sand.

“Dream?” You question and his gaze turns to you. You can’t see his eyes past the large bug-like design of the helm, but you know he sees you.

“Who the hell are you?” Oliver sneers at him.

Dream doesn’t reply and instead he shrinks back into the shadows and wisps around until he stands in front of you. You hide behind his back as he protects you from Oliver.

“Hey, get away from my Poppet.” Oliver takes a step forward but is stopped by Dream’s words.

“Be quiet,” He commands. It’s two words, but it renders him speechless. “I turn you into prey. Your judgment upon you is to be hunted. Even after you wish for death, you will form into another and be hunted again. This is my gift to you, Oliver Barlowe, make good use of it.”

The curse is etched in stone as he speaks. He pours from his leather pouch and sand falls between his fingers. He curls then unfurls them before blowing the particles into Oliver’s face. You watch with horror as his form shrinks under the swirling sand and he turns into a shrew. He runs into the grass, his brown fur lost amongst the foliage.

“Hello, my Dreamweaver,” He whispers and crouches to your height on the cold concrete. He extends a patient hand and you grab hold. “Come, nightmares shall hunt you no further.”

“You came,” You say, still in disbelief as he helps you stand.

“I kept my promise. I do not break such vows, ever.” His fingers gently wipe away the tears from your face.

"You're real," You whisper, still not believing that he stands before you.

His fingers trace across your bottom lip as he comes closer to you still. Dream doesn't say anything, he simply soaks in your presence, drawn to you in a way neither of you could comprehend. His fingers still trace your face, running over your nose and the apple of your cheekbones.

You feel the swirling of sand around your feet and the world changes around you. You’re in the meadows again, surrounded by flowers made of snow and glass, and you see the cabin your grandfather built. Dream sits you down on a white and red checkered picnic blanket with two glasses of lemonade.

“Will you stay?” You ask as you grab the cool glass cup of lemonade. Your gaze turns to the sweet yellow drink and you rub the smooth glass as a way of calming yourself.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” You smile.

Alsooooo, very inappropriate use of being a veterinarian, we don't kill people and we don't make that much money, sigh

My Sandman comics came and they're so heavy... Second also, Comic Dream is such a mood

Maybe a more lighthearted fic for next time, hmm?

♡ Yours, Layla

#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #the sandman fanfic #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman x reader #sandman x reader

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minkieater · 3 months ago

Text

one dream, one city, two boys, endless possibilities ✮

ONE ➺ the city masterlist | next as a junior at NYU, you just landed your dream internship. you didn't think a shot at your career would come with secrets, mistakes, and drama... at what age do you really start to grow up?

it's that time - my series is here!! my babies!! my friends!! hope everyone enjoys, all of our friends from luck, carousel, and three fates are here!

w. alcohol consumption, relationship issues, a bunch of fucked up college kids doing fucked up college kid shit MDNI 18+ wc. ~12k

♩— the city, the 1975 “yeah, you wanna find love then you know where the city is.”

after five long hours of drowning in some sort of painful claustrophobia you finally peeled your headphones off your ears, immediately taking a hand up to your ear to soothe your cartilage piercings that still haven’t healed after years of having them.

past eleven, it was far later than when you should’ve left. you told yourself you’d only spend an hour in the studio tonight, but that thought was long gone after the first hour of being in the leather chair, especially after the first frustrating ten listens of your most recent project. with a tch you rip your hard drive out of the system and pack up, with all intentions of heading out to catch the train back to your apartment across manhattan.

11:21 pm wooyo: come out of your cave and come to prince wooyo: its friday

you yawn, rubbing your eyes vigorously — you need to invest in a pair of blue light glasses. pulling your bag over your shoulder, you respond with a quick ‘be there in 20’.

as you turn to pull the door open, someone else opens it from the other side, “oh shit, my bad.”

a small sound of shock left your lips, feet nearly leaving the ground in panic. your eyes cross the possible perpetrator, the man is massive and his voice is deep. you froze for a moment, arm still held out in front of you to open the door, stuck somewhere between fight or flight. you snap it back to join your other hand in holding the strap that hugged your shoulder.

“i didn’t mean to scare you,” he chuckles, ring-clad fingers jutting out in apology, “i didn’t think anyone else would be here this late.” you almost shudder at the deep rasp to his voice, eyes shifting to his oversized hoodie, baseball cap tucked under the hood, paired with baggy jeans that overflowed his seemingly new sneakers.

“i was just leaving anyway,” you try to sound nonchalant but your voice gives you away, sounding quiet, small and embarrassed. your whole face feels hot as you maneuver around him and out the door, basically running down the dimly lit hallway.

as you stepped out of the double doors of your school’s recording studios, you gave yourself a moment, head dropping backward. staring into the starless sky, you take a deep, controlled breath. you let the air fill your lungs, let it slow your heart rate, panic gradually leaving you with every exhale. when you needed an escape, a moment to yourself, something to ground you when your mind felt too much to handle, you could always count on staring up at new york city’s perpetually void sky.

you shouldn’t find comfort in decades of pollution masking the stars, something you missed so much from home, maybe the thing you missed most. but that could be the comfort in it, something so different, still feeling so new after living in the city for two years. change is what you craved, what you needed, it’s why you chose to go to NYU in the first place. coming from a small town in the midwest, you knew early that your dream of being a music producer couldn’t happen there. you’ve known that since you were fifteen, when you made the plan to move to the city of dreams in the first place.

but yet in times like these, when you need a moment of staring up at the sky, you miss the stars staring back down at you.

you shake your head and get to walking — the walk would be more like 25 rather than 20, but knowing wooyoung, he wouldn’t see your text for another 15 anyhow. you pulled your bag a bit tighter on your shoulders and kept the headphones off for your walk, giving your ears a much needed break.

“there she is!” wooyoung’s voice is booming, louder than the heavy music the bar is playing, and yunho waves over to you from beside him. he hands you a beer as you sit with the two, hoping to take the edge off the last five hours, but all you can think of is the project you left unfinished.

“…you’re working on your senior thesis already?” wooyoung’s eyebrows are raised, gaping at yunho, “the semester’s barely started!”

“do you know how long it’ll take me to research?” yunho responds, bringing his bottle up to his lips, “i’m studying how the internet has changed the music industry, i need to start now.”

“you both are so dedicated,” wooyoung’s words spill out in a whine as his hands cover his face, “i still don’t even know if i really want to major in film.”

“you have plenty of time to figure your shit out, woo,” you smile, patting his shoulder. you swear wooyoung has been the same carefree, partying college boy since he walked into his dorm on the first day. like yunho, he’s been dragging you out of your books and your projects to live a little since you met freshman year.

“what had you trapped all night?” yunho turns his attention to you. the bar stool is uncomfortable under you, making you shift your legs up to the higher bar, “another project?”

you huff out a sigh, “for my EMP class.”

“ah, EMP,” yunho nods and flips his phone face up, checking his notifications, “oh shit, joong and mingi are stopping by.”

you raise an eyebrow and wooyoung smiles, “damn, i haven’t seen them since that one night at jeongin’s!”

“who are these people again?” you question, fingers mindlessly peeling at the label on your beer bottle, watching the tattoos littering your fingers stretch under the movement.

“they’ve only been on the roof a few times i think, they know chan,” wooyoung nods like you should know this already. you typically did know almost everyone who came to your boyfriend’s infamous rooftop parties, but it makes sense for one or two people to slip past you every now and then. they usually end up being friends of your boyfriend’s three roommates, chan, felix, and seungmin.

“they’re both in the same major as you. i would’ve thought that you’ve had classes together, but they’re older than you, i guess,” yunho shrugs.

“you’re older than me,” you counter with a look to prove it, bringing your beer to your lips.

the three of you met in your freshman year, taking the same film scoring sound design class, where somehow your degrees overlapped. where you went to study music technology, wooyoung, a junior like you, studied film production, and yunho, a senior, studied music history.

minutes later wooyoung is waving over two guys you’ve never seen before, a tall one and another shorter one. your eyes squint in focus before they nearly burst out of your head in shock. realization hits you and your body burns in embarrassment, your heart becoming alarmingly loud in your chest.

they stop at the bar and you quickly explain your situation with the tall one to your friends. wooyoung’s head leans back as a fit of laughter consumes him and yunho’s signature smile that only appears at someone else’s expense comes into view.

“that’s right,” yunho nods in remembrance, “you both are always cooped up in that damn studio, you sure you’ve never met him before?”

you quickly shake your head as you notice them approaching, pushing your discomfort to the back of your head, trying to seem like you haven’t noticed their arrival.

“god, this place never changes,” the smaller one is shaking his head as the two of them stand around the table, setting his drink down on the stained wood.

“that’s it’s charm,” yunho responds as he raises his hand, “how you been joong?”

they all take turns dapping each other up as you sit quietly, observing, until the two pairs of eyes turn to you. the taller one introduces himself as mingi, the smaller one hongjoong.

“hey, didn’t i just see you?” mingi’s eyebrows furrow as if his eyes were tricking him, “you go to NYU right?” his finger points to you, one of his eyebrows lifting in question. wooyoung and yunho immediately turn to you, amusement written all over their faces.

you could feel the heat from the tips of your ears as you nod, “ki, i’m a junior, music tech major.”

“no way! we’re tech majors too,” he smiles, pulling his beer to his lips and turning back to yunho, “yun, how’s the thesis been?”

the rest of the night was spent with you mainly being quiet, observing and listening to them converse. you’d only asked a few questions, added input when you felt necessary, and laughed when the situation called for it. your discomfort from earlier eased to some degree by the end of the night, but you felt like the majority of your time at prince was spent on auto-pilot.

mingi and hongjoong shared little about themselves, but you picked up on a few things throughout the night. they’re both seniors at NYU, studying music technology like you. they’ve also been interning for the same record label since the end of their junior year, both hoping to land a permanent position at the label before the end of their senior year.

yunho and mingi have been friends since they were young, both attending the same high school and moving to new york city just after they graduated. hongjoong is born and raised in new york, you could tell as much from his accent, but met mingi his freshman year in one of their classes and they’ve been close since.

where mingi was more quiet and reserved, hongjoong was talkative, easily dominating the conversation. he was loud about it, too. with eyeliner, a shaggy mullet and multiple ear piercings, hongjoong seemed anything but sweet off first glance. but the second he smiled paired with the sweet, melodious laugh that left his lips, you knew his appearance had nothing to do with his personality. something you should know by now in the creative department of NYU.

by the end of the night your social battery was below zero. your goodbyes to your new and old friends were quick, exhausted from your hours spent in the studio and the beers did nothing but tire you more. by the time you were back in your apartment, another 20 minute walk from prince, you’d hoped and prayed your roommate was sound asleep. you couldn’t bear another word out of your mouth.

in the shower you were playing the night back in your head like a movie, and you swore the weight of uneasiness didn’t fully leave you until you were settled in bed. trying to distract yourself by turning on the tv, your mind drifts once more, but instead of your project it was your new acquaintances, your seniors, two people you could learn so much from… it didn’t take long for your brain to empty itself and sleep to consume you.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“are you coming this friday?” your boyfriend asks, and you can hear the impatience in his voice, no doubt he’s feeling neglected after your busy week.

“i don’t think so, i still have so much to do on this fucking song. it’s missing something still and i can’t figure it out,” you huff, running a hand through your hair.

“that’s okay, i understand, what about tonight? you gonna be there late?”

“i think so, i’m sorry, i’m so stressed i think i’m just gonna go home and crash.”

“please, baby? every night this week you’ve been there and you’re always too tired to come over after,” he’s whining over the phone now, and your eye literally twitches as he speaks.

“jeongin, i need to get this done, i don’t know what else to tell you,” you snap as your fingers come up to the bridge of your nose, placing your elbow on the desk, “you have a key to my place, use it.”

“is riley home? i don’t want to just show up unannounced, what if san’s there?”

you sigh, “we’ve been together for two years innie, and she’s known you longer than i have. i’m sure she’ll be happy to see you even if san is there. i’m almost done, i’ll be home soon, okay?” you lean back in the chair, eyes closing, bringing your free hand to rub at your mascara-less eyes.

“okay! i’ll pick us up something to eat, what do you want?” your eyebrows furrow in frustration and you open your eyes to look down at the monitor again. all you can see is unfinished work, and your stress level goes through the roof.

you take the phone off your ear and let a breath of frustration out before answering, “whatever you want. i’ll see you soon, love you,” you waited for him to say it back before you hung up the phone. you set it face down on the desk, bringing your headphones back over your ears, planning to finish up some last tweaks before you went back home for the night.

the first day of your freshman year you walked into your cramped dorm room and were met with the human embodiment of new york. she was the perfect introduction to the city, the smallest yet loudest bundle of sunshine you’d ever encountered, a born and raised city girl. riley was a few inches over five feet, kind pale eyes and long dark waves framing her pretty face. lucky for you, she came with a built in friend group.

jeongin, felix, chan, and seungmin, four guys who had moved to the city right after they graduated high school. the four of them had met riley randomly at a rock concert over the summer, enamored by the fact that she’s a local and also majoring in theatre at NYU in the fall. they were quick to friendship, riley and the four boys, until you were introduced.

from the first conversation you had with the four, your friendship fell right into place. it felt like you had known them your whole life. all four of them were funny, kind, accepting, and the best of all, gorgeous. the first time you saw jeongin you could attest that love at first sight is a real phenomenon. it didn’t take long after you guys had met for you to start dating, he was something out of your dreams. kind, respectful, funny, doting, he checked off every box on your 18 year old list.

for being together nearly two years, at this point he is a true extension of you. you lived at his place half the time, you were always out in the city together, in the middle of washington square park on picnic dates, your relationship was movie-esque. everyone who knew you, knew jeongin, and vice versa.

you didn’t hear anyone come in, and you sure as hell didn’t expect anyone to interrupt your focus as you felt a small tap on your shoulder. ripping your headphones off isn’t an understatement as you shriek, terror and surprise rushing through you like electricity.

he can’t help but engulf himself in a fit of laughter while your eyebrows disappear into your hairline, your mouth agape as you clutch your thrashing heart over your hoodie.

“mingi! jesus christ, are you gonna scare the shit out of me every time you’re here?” you bark out, breath heavy and unstable, irritation clear in your voice.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i knocked but you didn’t hear. didn’t know how else to interrupt,” he counters, still smiling, waving his hands in apology.

“did you not see the red light for in use outside the door?” you ignore the amused smile across his face, still clutching your heart as if it’d burst out of your chest if you didn’t.

“i did, i took a peek to see if you’d be in here again,” he shrugs, “it’s late and you’re in the same room as the other day, i was curious.”

your expression softens, and you ignore the sweat that was quick to form in your palms. “oh,” you mutter, so quiet it was almost inaudible, “well here i am.”

a small smile sits on his face as he moves closer, peering over your shoulder to look at the monitor, “what’s this?”

“a project for my EMP class, did you take it?” you shift your focus to your monitor again, joining him in overlooking your project.

he nods and turns to pull up another chair from beside the desk, “last year, what professor?”

you curse your cheeks as they heat up on their own, “lee.”

he makes a disappointed face, his lips thinning into a line, “that’s unfortunate.” he nods his chin to the monitor, “let me hear what you’ve got.”

“it’s not even close to being finished,” you argue, the familiar heat at the tips of your ears joining your cheeks in competition of which can expose your embarrassment first.

he shakes his head, “don’t care.” not even entertaining your argument, he reaches for the headphones that are placed around your neck.

you clutch onto them quickly and he halts his movement, looking up at you, startled at your reflex. “damn, give me a second,” you say with a quick laugh, pulling the headphones from around your neck and handing them to him.

you press play and his head nods to the beat as he listens, his eyebrows furrowed again, this time in focus. you take a moment to really take in his appearance — full lips, short, black and blonde ruffled up hair, a perfectly straight nose… you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.

he takes the headphones off as the song finishes, snapping you back to reality. “it still needs some tweaks but it’s good, you’re probably at a B minus right now.”

your jaw drops, “tweaks? a B minus?”

he laughs, “i thought you said it wasn’t even close to being done yet? here, let me help,” he places a headphone up to his ear opposite of the side you’re sitting on, pressing buttons on the keyboard. “i like the synths, very atmospheric, but you’re missing depth,” he sucks a breath in through his teeth, “a deeper bass line, it needs to be more intense.”

he plays with your song for some time, listening and nodding his head to the beat. you stare at him in his element with damn near stars in your eyes— your eyebrows are raised, mouth hung slightly open, you’re nothing short of in awe at this essentially random man, your senior who interns at a record label, helping you with your project.

he makes a finishing nod as he hands your headphones back to you, ushering you to listen. his small tweaks changed your song entirely, no shot you weren’t getting an A now.

“lee is big on emotion, layering and harmonies and all that,” he says as you pull the headphone off your ear.

you start, “mingi, i-“

he leans back, arms folded behind his head with a cocky smile, “i know, i know, you can’t thank me enough, i’m really good at what i do, thank you very much,” he’s joking when he cuts you off, but it’s so true it’s nauseating. he did in 20 minutes what would’ve taken you 2 days, the raw talent exuding off of him only makes you more curious.

you can appreciate the love he has for his craft, the craft you share. he seems to love it enough that he can pick apart your creation and put it back together better than you did in the first place. it makes you want to pick his brain, find out why he’s here, why he loves music, what he grew up listening to.

“i was actually going to say undo everything you just did because it sounds like dog shit,” you deadpan, wiping the cocky smile right off his face, making the corners of your mouth lift up in amusement.

“that hurt my feelings,” he pouts, crossing his arms over his chest instead.

you giggle, “can’t let you get too cocky.”

he chuckles, patting his thighs before he stands, “you still have to work on your use of effects, create more of a sense of urgency in the bridge. i’d say now you’re at an A minus though, couple more tweaks and you’re golden.”

you nod, sitting up a bit straighter, “thank you, that was actually a huge help. i’ve been at this for almost a week now.”

he heads toward the door and your brain is scrambling trying to figure out a way to get him to stay, or at least come back again soon.

“you coming to chan’s this friday?” he beats you to it as he opens the door, peeking at you over his shoulder.

you snap your head up at that, “uh, yeah, i’ll be there.”

the corners of his mouth turn up in a wide smile, “sweet, ill see you there then.”

“thanks again!” heat rises to your cheeks as soon as the door shuts — your palm slaps your forehead. at least jeongin will be happy that you’re coming friday.

shit, jeongin! you already forgot about dinner. you quickly stood and yanked your hard drive out, quickly packing up your backpack to run to the subway station. you felt lighter right now than you had in a week, a newfound optimism taking over.

you felt closer to finishing your project instead of being in the middle of it, you’re on more of a friendly basis with someone whom you share your craft, plus he’s more talented and experienced than you in it … it’s unknown territory for you since you didn’t have many friends in your major.

your leg bounced the entire train ride home with a silly smile on your face, high off the adrenaline rush from the breakthrough. the train was surprisingly not packed, only a couple of people sharing the same car as you. it’s not usual for any subway car to be somewhat unoccupied, let alone peaceful in new york city.

the adrenaline died down a fair amount in your walk from the station to your apartment, replaced with the comfort of your boyfriend and best friend waiting for you upstairs.

the scent of oregano and fresh bread met you in the staircase, meaning pizza was waiting for you in the kitchen. as you made your way inside your apartment you found riley, san and jeongin standing around the counter in the midst of conversation. you set your backpack down on the table to signal your arrival and the three turn their attention to you.

“you’re finally home! what’s got you cheesing so hard?” riley asks, handing you a plate as you turn the corner to grab a piece of pizza.

jeongin kisses your cheek twice as you open the box, “feeling better about the song?”

“yeah, i had a major breakthrough, actually,” that same silly smile is still plastered across your face as you pull a piece out onto your plate.

riley’s eyes thin, shooting you a questioning look as she takes a bite of her slice. she’s always been able to see through you, read between the lines, hear what you weren’t saying, see the mask you wore when you were hiding your feelings like it was physically there.

“then the pizza is celebratory, i just so happened to get your favorite kind from your favorite place,” jeongin smiles, bumping his hip with yours as you take a huge bite of the thankfully still hot pizza. pepperoni has always been your favorite, but the first time you had any pizza in new york your life changed for the better. everything in new york is better than it is at home.

you thank him the best you can with your mouth full, then give him a close lipped smile, hiding the food in your mouth.

“we were just talking about the roof on friday,” riley starts, leaning against san’s sturdy build that impressed you every time you saw it, “you feel like going?”

you pause for a moment remembering your promise to mingi, “i actually can now that i’m pretty much done with the song.”

“yes!” jeongin’s fists shoot for the sky, wide smile on his face, “it’s supposed to be a big one, chan got the whole soccer club to come.”

“just the club? not the violets?” san perked up, eyebrows raised in question.

“the violets are probably all busy, soccer season and football season already started,” riley waves her hand, “the clubs aren’t that serious.”

“i think they’d be offended if they heard you say their season isn’t serious, baby,” san’s gaze turned downward to riley, a sparkle in his eyes that was too bright for two people just sleeping with each other. you made a mental note to unpack that, just as you had to discuss the night you had.

“maybe if they didn’t get hammered on a random rooftop mid-season i'd be more likely to consider them serious,” riley’s hands lifted to her shoulders, eyebrows lifted in an oh well expression.

“touché,” san responded through a yawn, voice sounding breathy and relaxed. riley immediately yawned after him, a somnolent sound paired with stretching her arms.

riley and san shared a mirrored look, seeming to read each other’s minds without verbally saying a thing.

“we’re gonna head to bed, goodnight,” riley announces and turns for the hallway without a second glance, san bids you a small wave goodnight behind her.

you and jeongin both call goodnight after them and he turns to you, moving a stray hair off of your face, “i’ve missed you.”

“missed you too,” you sigh, “‘m sorry i snapped at you earlier,” you set your plate down and lean into his front, laying your head on his shoulder with your eyes closed. exhaustion hits you as soon as your eyelids shut, you could fall asleep on his shoulder if you needed to. his hands immediately find purchase on your hips, giving them a squeeze.

“don’t apologize baby, you’ve been so stressed and working so hard,” he kissed the side of your head, pulling up a hand to scratch at your scalp, “gonna be the best producer in all of new york.” you groan in appreciation. you should’ve had him here days ago. that’s always been his thing — the magic touch.

where riley could see through you, practically hear your thoughts and feelings exactly for what they were, jeongin could feel them. with a hand in your hair or kiss to the cheek, he could feel what you were feeling. it was your favorite thing about him, his ability to know what you needed and help you through it without you having to ask.

“you tired?” he asks, and you lift your head to look at him, then shook your head quickly. he smiles at your sleepy eyes, and like always, he knew what you wanted. he brought his hands to your hips again to twist your back against the counter, kissing you softly at first. he slipped his tongue into your mouth, exploring until you brought your hands to his hair and tugged, silently begging for more. he swiftly slid the pizza box across the counter and picked you up by the backs of your thighs, placing you on the countertop without breaking the kiss.

“mm, maybe i am tired, we should head to bed,” you say between kisses, arms placed around his neck.

he groans into his words, “yeah, lots of sleeping, we should do that,” you’re both smiling into the kiss, and you squeal as his hands scoop under your ass, picking you up to bring you to your room. sleep could come later, right now you just wanted him.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

friday comes faster than you thought it would. your classes breezed by, your song finally finished and turned in, and you were impatiently waiting for tonight. normally you aren’t as excited for the rooftop parties your boyfriend and his roommates threw, they were a dime a dozen, but the anticipation for tonight has been at the front of your mind all week.

“you dressed up? i thought we were dressing cozy like we always do!” riley stands at your doorway, hands at her sides with her eyebrows furrowed. she had on ripped jeans, an oversized hoodie, and a pair of white sneakers. her hair was tied up in a bun, glasses sitting on her nose.

you looked down at your bodysuit, jeans and sandals, and then looked back up to her, “this is somewhat cozy!”

“i’m putting on a different shirt and doing my hair,” she states and leaves your room in a hurry, and you look in the mirror at your side. you did your hair and makeup, something you only do once in a while for jeongin’s parties. you’d usually be in a different version of riley’s exact outfit.

“i guess i did dress up,” you mumble to yourself and shrug, your small smile returning on your lips. you were in a good mood, actually having enough energy to put effort into getting ready, so your appearance reflected that.

you made your way to the kitchen to pour a couple shots for you and your roommate, getting the pregame started. music blasted throughout your apartment, thanks to the surround sound stereo system you installed with the help of riley and jeongin.

more so you got frustrated trying to install them yourself and made jeongin do most of it while riley watched anxiously.

you took the first shot back quick, needing to start easing your nerves before heading out for the night. jeongin’s parties were famously never small, with the help of his three roommates they were friends with half of NYU’s campus. from the arts department to the finance bros, they knew everyone, and everyone knew them. even the wealthiest students that attended NYU knew at least one out of the four. living in a huge apartment in soho, thanks to seungmin’s father paying half their rent each month, they had the luxury of their own private rooftop.

some of your best memories of the past two years have been on that rooftop… huge parties, small get-togethers, nights between you and jeongin only. you would prefer that to a random frat party any day. even in the winter time, with tents and heaters, you’d still be on that rooftop until all hours of the night. but as you’ve grown older, classes have become harder, your workload more intense, nights on that rooftop have become less of a common occurrence. you think that’s why your stomach is bubbling up with tension, you don’t have the comfort of knowing you were there just the other day. it’s been long enough to where you feel like just someone showing up rather than the host’s girlfriend of two years walking around the rooftop like she owns it.

“okay, i’m ready now — oh no, you poured shots?” riley pouts, setting her hands down on the counter. now she wore a black bodysuit, her dark hair in soft curls around her face. you know by now that her resolve is weak despite her complaints, so you slide the two shot glasses toward her.

“to riley getting laid tonight!” you yell as you lift up your shot glass, and she lets out a quick laugh before clicking her glass with yours and shooting it back.

“why tonight? i’ve been fucking san for months,” she says, her face scrunching up in disgust from the taste of the vodka.

“by chan, ri,” you announce in a tone that this information was obvious, smiling like a maniac at your roommate. this makes her eyes roll, heat rising to her cheeks. “come on, it’s been years of mutual pining between the two of you, i don’t understand why it’s not happening when it’s clearly meant to!”

“please,” she waves a hand and picks up her phone, “he literally has a girlfriend, ki. we keep having the same conversation, it’ll happen when it’s meant to.”

you tap your second shot glass on the table to alert her to take her second shot as well. she grabs onto the top of the glass and pauses for a second, “maybe i really should stop sleeping with san.”

“to riley discontinuing her meaningless sex relationship and pursuing true love!” you raise your shot glass again and she clinks hers with yours, an emotion you can’t read in her eyes before she takes it back.

“meaningless sex is crazy,” she lets out a breath of air after the shot, “you know it’s more than that, we just talked about this.”

you grab your phone off the charger and slip it into your purse, “i also know you’re in love with chan, we just talked about that, too. no more meaningless sex, but instead sex with love behind it.”

she’s smiling as she lifts up her phone again, “and what about you, huh? you’re about to see your new boyfriend at your actual boyfriend’s party.”

your eyes snap up, jaw immediately dropping with a gasp. you filled her in on what happened in the studio the other night, she hasn't let you rest for a minute because of it. “don’t even joke like that, it’s not like that and you know it.”

“just like it’s not just meaningless sex with san and i,” she sings, “i’m kidding, but i can’t help but connect the dots and i do feel like maybe you’re a little excited to see him again,” she puts her fingers up in a pinch, squinting an eye.

you respond with your lips pursed, your eyes lowered to slits.

“in a completely platonic and innocent way!” her hands go up in defense instead.

“am i excited for the chance to talk to someone older than me with more experience in my major, who’s really talented and can hopefully give me tips to get me further in my career? yes, of course i am,” you run a hand through your hair with a huff of air, “it just so happens that he’s a man.”

“who’s six feet tall and probably sexy.”

“riley!”

“i’m sorry! let’s go, uber’s here.”

the rooftop is just how you left it. a mass of bodies standing, talking, drinking, maybe even dancing to the song playing through the speakers. fairy lights still hang over the roof, intertwined in a way that looks intentional, but you still aren’t sure if it is. the bar is in the same place, they got a dj, nothing has changed at all and it helps to put you at ease. along with the vodka you drank before you left.

“no way! riley and kiki!?” you hear him before you see him, a slightly taller sunshine maneuvering his way towards you and your smaller sunshine.

“lixie!” riley exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck in a hug as he approaches you, “i’ve missed you! how’s the foot?”

“honestly better now, just waiting on clearance from the doctor before i can start performing again,” he smiles as he sticks his leg out, lifting his pant leg and twisting his ankle around to show you it’s mobility. the smile on his face is infectious, it immediately makes you smile, too.

“there she is,” you feel hands around your waist and a pair of plump lips pressed to your cheek, “you look so fucking beautiful and i haven’t even seen your face yet.”

you turn around and press your lips to jeongin’s, smiling into it, “i felt like dressing up.”

“and i feel like taking it off of you,” he whispers into your ear, making a hand go over your mouth as you choke out a giggle. his messy curls lay wispy across his forehead, the familiar copper flips peeking out from the nape of his neck. he was in a big t-shirt, baggy jeans and sneakers, your favorite look on him after just plain sweats.

“at least get me a drink first,” you licked your lips, tasting the cheap beer from when you kissed him. it was usually like this between you two, flirting like you had just started dating yesterday, the off days where you were stressed and short tempered were few and far between.

“you’re coming with me, i want you to meet some people,” he grabs your hand and starts for the crowd of people. you give riley and felix a wave behind you, jeongin not giving you any time for small talk as he starts pulling you towards the bar.

you passed faces you recognized, giving small waves and ‘hey!’s as you followed behind him. you’ll get to socializing with everyone you know later.

at the back end of the rooftop was a stand up bar, one seungmin’s dad gifted to them without a doubt. everyone had the option to bring their own alcohol, which a lot of people did, but seungmin loved the classy feeling of having an almost full bar at his parties. it was mainly his name that was passed around for the legendary parties, so he had to live up to expectations.

“hey jinnie,” you smile as you approach the bar, completely ignoring the line that was formed in front of it. still hand in hand with jeongin, no one batted an eye. it’s one thing to have a bar at a college party, but to have a bartender comfortable serving alcohol without showing ID? impossible to find. hyunjin, on the other hand, has never minded for a moment — he actually offered. with compensation, of course.

“hey keeks! haven’t seen you in a hot minute, how’ve you been?” his smile is wide when he notices you, still shaking the drink he was currently making.

“busy as hell, what about you? how’s the portfolio?” you unlace your hand with jeongin’s and lean on the side of the bar, trying not to let his actions sway your easily distracted mind.

“i’ve been really good! super busy too, still working on it,” he hands the finished drink to the girl standing at the bar, and she hands him a 20 while batting her eyelashes. he winks back and then turns to you, “you want a beer or a cocktail?”

“cocktail please, something tequila. i’m in the mood to chat,” you smile and it makes him laugh, already pulling the casamigos from the rack.

“whatever you say, princess,” this has always been the relationship between you and hyunjin since before you and jeongin had started dating. the shameless flirting, the easy conversation, the nicknames, you’ve thanked god jeongin isn’t the jealous type plenty of times. your drink is handed to you in moments, jeongin passing his friend a bill you couldn’t see. you thanked hyunjin for the drink and jeongin for tipping him, and your boyfriend pulled you by the wrist once more.

“where are we going?” you ask, keeping your drink level as you make your way through the crowd. you try to manage a sip, your face scrunching up from the sour taste. tequila and sour mix was an odd one of your favorites, but the first sip is always the worst before it gets better.

“i just met a couple of chan’s friends, i was talking with them right before you got here, they’re cool. they’re in the same major as you,” he yells over the loud music now that you’re back in the crowd, and you nod despite him not being able to see you.

you make your way over to the smoking corner, one of the cozier areas that you friend group seemed to naturally go towards every time you were here. the music was still loud but it seemed somewhat quieter in the corner, maybe because it was next to the edge of the rooftop and there was nothing but the city around and beneath, you could hear traffic and the business of new york, making it seem less deafening. there were couches, cushioned chairs, tiki torches, it made the space the most inviting spot on the rooftop.

“hey keeks!” chan stood up to hug you, wrapping his huge arms around your back, “feels like i haven’t seen you in ages, you haven’t been by the loft. what’s up?”

“i know, i’ve been busy as shit,” you chuckle as he lets go, sitting back down, “how about you?”

“the same, really. but hey, nothing new is nothing bad, right?” his hands go up, his eyebrows raised in amusement. you glance down to the couch, han was sitting with one leg over minho’s, fully relaxed into the cushions. you gave them a smile in greeting, they were close friends of the four roommates, close friends of yours. you give chan a nod and the rest a wave before jeongin grabs your hand again.

“ki, this is who i wanted you to meet!” you turned away from chan, and before your boyfriend were two people you had definitely met before, “mingi and hongjoong.”

“oh shit, hey guys,” your cheeks immediately heat up as you give them a small wave, mouth twisting to a tight lipped smile.

“i thought your name sounded familiar!” hongjoong’s finger points, his eyebrows perked up in surprise. his mullet was messy, his piercings shining under the moonlight. he had on an oversized distressed sweater, a long pair of denim shorts, paired with some old boots. does he just permanently look like a rockstar?

“sick, you know each other already?” jeongin asks, a bright smile on his face.

“yeah, we met last week at prince when i was out with wooyo and yunho,” you nod, playing with the straw in your drink.

“how’d the song come out, ki? you add in what i told you to?” mingi asks, and you gave him a one over. he wore a tight black tee paired with white and black jeans, a black baseball cap and plenty of jewelry.

you nod, “got an A plus, thank you very much!” you sip your drink, pretending you didn’t feel the sweat forming in your palms, telling yourself it’s just the condensation from your glass.

jeongin looks at you with an eyebrow raised, clearly missing a key point from the conversation, “the night i had the breakthrough, mingi listened to my song and told me what i needed to fix. he’s why i finished it so quickly.”

“ah,” is all he said with a slow nod, and you couldn’t fight the uncomfortable feeling creeping up your spine.

“even if i didn’t, you still would’ve gotten a good grade, you didn’t need my help,” he shakes his hand at you, “i’ve actually been talking to joong about it, next time you’re in the studio you have to let us come by and listen to it.”

“seriously? i mean- yeah, but why?” your eyebrows furrow and you shift your weight to one leg.

“it’s been stuck in my head, i was thinking it’d be even better with vocals over it,” he shrugs, taking a swig of his beer.

“i catch him humming to it all the time. during class, at work, at the bar,” hongjoong laughs before he sniffs, running the back of his hand over his nostrils, “i feel like i need to hear it so i can get it out of my head.”

you laugh along with him, “you can definitely come by, i’ll probably be in there tomorrow working on my own stuff. same studio,” you tip your chin up at mingi and he nods back in understanding.

jeongin’s hand makes its way to your waist, “i’m gonna go find felix and ri, i’ll be back.” you nod and give him a quick kiss, and he goes right back into the crowd.

“i didn’t know you and jeongin were together,” mingi starts, his eyes that were following jeongin disappear into the crowd come back to meet yours.

“almost two years now,” you say with a smile, then take another sip of your drink. the words feel sour coming out of your mouth, like you didn’t want to tell him that.

“two yea- aren’t you a junior?” hongjoong interrupted, pointing your way again, looking nothing short of flabbergasted.

“we met our freshman year, been together since,” you confirmed with an uncomfortable chuckle, taking another sip of your drink. you hated that you selfishly wanted to change the subject.

“cute,” mingi mutters before his beer touches his lips again, eyes boring holes into yours.

“ki!” you hear over your shoulder, making you whip around to yunho approaching you from behind, his girlfriend close behind him. you’d never been more grateful for anything in your life.

“hey guys,” you smile and hug them both quickly, giving yunho a moment to greet everyone in the corner before he takes the spot next to you.

“what’d i miss? i just saw felix and riley back there,” his hands are in his pockets, a soft close-mouthed smile sitting on his face.

“nothing at all, we were waiting for you to get the party started,” you scrunch your nose at your own joke and yunho replies with a belly laugh, shaking his head.

“yun, can we get drinks?” ivy asked, tugging on yunho’s sleeve. blonde and blue eyed, small girl, she was always dressed so pretty. always in a dress or a skirt, you don’t know if you’ve ever seen her in a pair of pants, not even when you all went out for a night of bowling in brooklyn.

they’d been together for longer than yourself and jeongin, the four of you often went out on double dates when you first became friends with yunho. their relationships mirrored your own, a match made in heaven, two people born to be with each other.

“you guys are empty too?,” mingi asks, asking the three of you but keeping his gaze focused on your empty glass, gaining your attention. “let’s go get another.”

he starts for the crowd with you following close behind until it starts to get dense, people naturally clinging closer to one another the closer they got to the dj. changbin always insists he runs the music at these parties, there’s nothing he loves more than riling up a crowd with the remixes he and han make. he also couldn’t complain about the girls that hang around the booth. mingi turns his head around and notices you lagging behind, offering a hand so you don't get lost in the crowd.

you took it, and the first thing you noticed was how small your hand is in comparison to his. it fit so nicely in his palm, fingers wrapped around the top of his hand. you blame the tequila for the heat that spread into your chest.

as you neared the line for the bar you chose to not use your friendship with hyunjin to get you up to the front, opting to take your time at the back of the line instead. you noticed yunho and ivy didn’t make it to the line behind you and you couldn’t help but be happy about it.

“so,” he starts and a pause follows, making you both giggle, “i assume you’re at all of these parties, right?”

his question makes you tilt your head, “i’m 95% sure that question was a slightly different version of ‘you come here often?’”

he turns around in embarrassment, a hand covering his mouth, pretending he didn’t know who you were. he turns back around, a silly smile sitting on those pretty lips of his and you swear there’s a pink hue to his cheeks, “it might’ve been.”

“then to that, i’ll say i used to come a lot more, but with school getting so crazy i haven’t been as much,” you shrug and he nods, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

you make small talk as the line moves closer and you swear there’s tension between the two of you. it could be the buzz you’re nursing because the small talk flows, but it feels like there’s something that both of you want to say and neither of you are saying it.

“you’re cheating on me with someone else now too?” hyunjin pouts as you finally approach the bar.

“i’m sorry baby, i didn’t mean to break it to you like this,” you reach for his hand over the bar and he pulls it away, looking at you with disappointment.

“is it because he’s taller than me? i swear 2 or 3 inches isn’t that much,” he says with a fake sadness, already pulling the casamigos from the rack.

“jinnie baby, 2 or 3 inches is a lot where it counts,” you put your hand over your heart, “i hope you can forgive me.”

“i’ll think about it, princess,” he puts your drink on the bar, looking up to mingi who is confused yet amused, “miller right?”

mingi nods and hyunjin cracks a can, mingi slipping him a bill during the transaction. they both do that guy nod at each other in thanks and hyunjin looks at you with fake sadness again, making you giggle.

“what the hell?” is all mingi says as you walk back towards the crowd, both walking a lot slower.

“that’s hyunjin, one of my friends. we always play like that,” you shrug, “what, you thought he was serious?”

“at first, well for a second there yeah,” he admits, making you laugh, “i don’t know what to expect with you. here i thought i met a really pretty girl who shares the same interests as me, has the same humor as me, then i find out she’s been in a two year long relationship. i guess i don’t really know that much about you.”

you stop in your tracks and look up to him in surprise, eyes wide and lips parted. you blink a couple times, scrambling to find something to say.

“you think i’m pretty?” you ask, a serious look on your face before your lips twitch upward. he nudges your shoulder with a shut up making you giggle.

“what do you want to know?” you ask, and you’re both standing still, nursing your drinks.

“i want to know a lot of things, but unfortunately i think our time is up,” his eyes look past you and you turn around, jeongin approaching.

“hey guys,” he kisses your cheek and tilts his head up to nod at mingi, “i caught riley and chan flirting!”

you gasp, “no shot, san is here.”

he nods again, success written all over his face, “i think san was in our corner while they were talking.”

you dapped up your boyfriend, “i consider that a step forward, i’ll stay here if she takes him home tonight.”

“you’re staying here anyway,” he looks at you like you should know that already then leans closer to your ear, “i didn’t forget about what i said earlier.”

you shush him, your cheeks burning, from what he said or the fact that he said it with the other man standing behind you, you weren’t sure.

“i’m gonna head back over to where we were,” mingi says from behind you, and you turn around to give him a smile and a nod. jeongin gives him a cheesy thumbs up and you can’t help but want to pull his hand back down to his side, second-hand embarrassment forcing heat to rise to your cheeks again. you’d usually find that funny, maybe even a bit endearing.

“we should go too,” you murmur, this time you grabbed his wrist to follow mingi through the crowd.

when you get back, all the seats are taken except for the spots san and minho left open, they had gone to get more drinks just as you got there. mingi and hongjoong still choose to stand, deep in conversation with yunho. you and jeongin sit apart, opposite sides of the area, and you try your hardest to listen to the conversation everyone was already in the midst of. you kept replaying the past half hour in your head while everyone around you was engulfed in discussion, burning the conversation with mingi into your memory so your buzzed brain didn’t forget it. as curious as you were about him he seemed to be the same towards you, which only made you more restless about getting to know him better. you caught yourself staring at him a few times throughout the night until he inevitably caught you, shooting a sly smirk your way.

your eyes shoot to jeongin who was already looking at you, he’d noticed you’ve been lost in your thoughts for awhile now. he stood abruptly, straightening out his shirt.

“i’m tired,” he says nonchalantly, still looking to you. you couldn’t read him, did he catch that? the looks? is he actually tired? everyone looks up at him, surprised at his sudden revelation, “i’m gonna head to bed.”

“it’s only midnight, innie,” chan looks up from his lock screen, no doubt checking the time, “why so early?”

he shrugs, “i’m tired.”

he waves goodnight to everyone and you sit stuck in your chair, unsure of where his head is at. do you follow him? do you stay here with everyone and enjoy the rest of the party? you hadn’t even said hi to the soccer club yet.

as he starts to walk away, he doesn’t look back at you nor does he kiss you goodnight, and you have your answer. you stood up, swinging your purse over your shoulder and chug the rest of your drink. you needed the rest of the watered down tequila to ease your nerves, especially with not knowing where his head is. he may not be the jealous type, but he’s not stupid, either.

“you’re going in, too?” riley asks, eyebrows furrowed with a pout on her lips.

“following my boyfriend into an empty house? absolutely,” you say jokingly, trying to play it off as something you two had planned.

but as she always does, she lifts a brow, sensing your uneasiness despite your words. her eyes quickly darted to mingi and back to you so fast it was almost unnoticeable, and your lips tightened. she nods.

“we on for wednesday?” yunho asks as you turn away, giving you a quick hug goodbye.

“depends on my assignments for the week,” you say, scratching the back of your neck.

“wooyoung will be pissed if you don’t,” he sings teasingly and you roll your eyes, turning your attention to mingi and hongjoong.

“good to see you guys again,” you smile, waving to them both.

“we’ll see you tomorrow?” hongjoong asks, eyebrows raised.

“i think so,” you nod, purposefully not confirming, then turn on your heel to walk through the crowd once more.

you greet about twenty more people along the way, getting stuck in a few conversations before you finally stand before the door to the staircase. you take in a deep breath, not knowing what’s waiting for you on the other side.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

you nodded your head along to the beat, fingers tapping against the desk, mimicking every sound in the current project you had displayed across the monitor. you paused it, tweaking a harmony’s pitch, then pressed play again.

you sighed as you sat back, taking off your headphones in the middle of the song, and stared up at the ceiling of the studio. you hadn’t seen him since friday, and he’s been occupying half of your mind since. it’s so wrong, you shouldn’t wish he’d walk through the door behind you, but you do.

you couldn’t stop thinking about his necklaces, his rings, the hat he wore and the short waves peeking out of it, his nose, his lips… the list can go on and on. it’s so fucking wrong. your boyfriend was at his apartment, waiting for you to be done so you could join him. you spent the remainder of the weekend with him, half because you wanted to and half because you needed to. you needed mingi out of your head, and the only way to do that was to fill it with jeongin.

you stare back at the screen, and your eyes squint. you can’t help but wonder what he’d think of the song, what input he’d have to improve it. you rubbed your eyes and groaned.

a knock at the door has your eyes wide and a gasp leaving your throat, your neck snapping behind you to catch who’s entering your studio space. the man of the hour waltzes inside so casually, as if he didn’t owe you rent for living in your mind the past 96 hours.

“look who it is,” your smile is wide, bright eyes looking up at him as he makes his way in.

“at least i didn’t scare you this time,” he’s already smiling too, excitement leaking out of both of you, “i finally caught you, you didn’t show on saturday.”

you take your headphones off, placing them on the desk, “my bad, i didn’t feel good all weekend. this is the first time i’ve been here in a few days,” a lie.

“all better now i hope?” he stands with the back of his legs against the desk, staring down at you, so aloof you can't read him.

“for the most part,” you lean back in your chair, playing with your own rings, “i was hoping i’d see you, actually. i’m working on something else that i want your opinion on.”

“hoping you’d see me? that doesn’t sound good,” that smirk you couldn’t stop thinking about finds its way to his face again, “don’t get yourself in trouble now.”

you roll your eyes, “did your ears stop working or are you so narcissistic that that’s all you heard?”

he chuckles to himself, pulling the chair that he sat in last time back over to the desk, “go for it.”

you unplug your headphones this time, letting the song play out loud. you both nod your head, and you couldn’t help feeling vulnerable as your own personal project plays through the small studio. he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and you couldn’t read his expression. it seemed like focus, but you couldn’t pinpoint any pleasure or dislike.

he pauses the song, looking dead at you, and you feel two feet tall in the leather chair, “have you applied anywhere for an internship?”

you blink twice, not expecting the sudden question, “i was planning to look into it later this year.”

“you need to start looking, you’re good at this shit,” he takes a breath, pressing play to finish the song. your whole body is hot, there’s no way you could pay attention to the rest of the song now. despite the discomfort from the sudden compliment, a surge of confidence rushes through you, twisting the vulnerability into a feeling of pride.

you realized you haven't even heard anything he’s produced yet, and wonder why his opinion means so much to you. is it just because he’s older? more experienced? because he’s already working with a record label?

“i really fucking like this, ki. we need to get joong in here,” his voice rips you out of your thoughts, realizing he’s already looking at you, “do you mind if i text him to stop by?”

you quickly shook your head, “not at all, no, tell him to come by,” you tuck your hair behind your ears, “thank you, but there’s nothing you want to add? no constructive criticism?”

“well it’s not like this is for a class, right?” he asks and you quickly shake your head again, “the art you create is a reflection of you, it represents who you are. your talent, your passion, your personality. i can’t give criticism on something so personal.”

you both blink at each other before he cracks a small smile, “that was corny, wasn’t it?”

“no! it wasn’t corny at all, i just wasn’t expecting something so… poetic?” you untuck your hair, nervously fidgeting now, “i guess there’s a lot i don’t know about you either.”

“well what do you want to know?” he asks, mimicking your words from the last time you two spoke.

“everything,” you took a breath, “i want to know everything.”

the next few hours were spent with the two of you talking about every thought that popped into both of your brains. each story you told reminded him of a similar one he had, which reminded you of a similar story you had, and the cycle went on and on.

he told you about his childhood, moving to another country with yunho in tow and nothing else to his name. yunho’s version you’ve already heard, but hearing the second telling of the story left a different impact. mingi talked about yunho with stars in his eyes, he spoke of him so highly, yunho is someone he held close to his heart.

he talked about coming to new york, his dream of becoming a successful music producer, the dream you both shared. you reveled in your shared dream for a bit, how you wanted to succeed, what genres you preferred, tips and tricks of the trade. he showed you a couple songs on his phone, and you were right to hold your opinion of him so high, his style is unlike anything you’ve ever heard.

he grew up listening to a plethora of genres, his favorite being rock, he went to as many concerts as he could for as many different genres as he could, and spent plenty of nights by himself writing music. he’s a rapper as well as a producer, most of his music has his vocals and rap lines over it, all written by himself. his knowledge and experience shows through his music, his art, it’s motivating more than anything. it gives you a clearer goal, an objective for your own future.

“what the fuck is fix on?”

“my tag, like an ad-lib.”

“like karate kid? wax on, wax off.”

that made him laugh, and laugh loud, “it’s for like, determination, i guess. like to be fixed on a goal or a target.”

“i like it, mister miyagi.”

mingi and hongjoong got close when they met their freshman year, and became inseparable. they share the same values, have the same dream, and are both extremely talented individuals. when put together, they’re truly special. he showed you one or two tracks hongjoong had a hand in and it blew you away. their style was so unique, a mixture of genres that bled into one sound, but it worked. it worked so fucking well. you knew in your heart they were going to run the industry one day, and you’d be their number one competitor.

you got into your childhood, you shared the feeling of moving somewhere new with nothing to your name. his was a lot greater, you’d just hopped a couple states over. but the two of you could relate to one another, on a deeper level than either of you thought you would. there are too many things that the two of you shared… it scared you and excited you.

somewhere in those hours you moved from the leather chairs to the couch, you sat facing him with your knees bent up right beside his torso. your shoes had come off, his hoodie that smelled so deliciously like him had swallowed you over your jumpsuit. his arm stretched across the couch behind you, touching your shoulder every now and then, reminding you of that uncomfortable feeling which kept itself seated at the pit of your stomach.

“we have more in common than i initially thought, i think,” you leaned your head to the side, facing him still, the top of your head hitting the back of the couch.

“i had a feeling we would get along. you’re too bright eyed to be a local, too talented to be boring,” he answered, his arm stretched behind your head bent up to pat your head.

“did hongjoong ever answer you?” you asked, realizing he never showed up. you played with the sleeves of his hoodie mindlessly, looking up at him.

“can i be honest?” a rhetorical question, his eyes looking down at your sleeves, “i never texted him.”

both of you giggled like little kids, his chest rising and lowering with each laugh. this comfort, this ease you both clearly feel, you didn’t want it to stop. it was so easy to talk to him, your conversation had a constant flow from the time he walked into the room.

you let out a tsk, “you’re gatekeeping me, song mingi, and that’s no fun.”

“if anyone‘s gatekeeping you, it’s jeongin,” his snap is quick, like he was waiting to bring up jeongin. your jaw drops before a laugh erupts from your throat.

you sit up and smack his shoulder playfully, “you’re fucked up!”

he shrugs, “it’s true.” he isn’t laughing, there’s no smile on his face. he’s dead serious. you should get up, you should leave, you should at least tell him not to say things like that. but you don’t.

your laughter dies and you’re both staring at each other, a stillness overtaking the room. it’s deafening, the close proximity in which you’re sitting now feels incriminating. your sock covered foot touching his thigh feels like it’s on fire.

“mingi,” your voice is so low it’s almost a whisper, that pit feeling in your stomach you pushed down only growing.

“tell me there’s nothing between us, that there isn’t this thing that would’ve started last week if you didn’t have him,” his face is blank, you couldn’t read him. every feature is perfectly in place as he looks at you, no dishonesty in his eyes — just veracity.

“why?” is all you ask, voice small. you didn’t dare move an inch, you didn’t break contact, fear breaking out across your skin. fear for what, you couldn’t place.

“i want to kiss you, i know i shouldn’t, but i’m starting to not give a fuck anymore. i need you to tell me no,” his voice is also low, raspy but still laced with confidence. he sits forward a bit, head turning to face you more. your eyes drift from his own to his lips, those lips you’d been seeing in your dreams. bottom lip red from how often he pulls it between his teeth, both wet from how many times he’s licked them to soothe them over. they were inviting, you wondered what they tasted like, what they’d feel like pressed against your own.

“ki, if you don’t answer i’m going to assume it’s a yes. say no,” he repeats, whispering the last part, and you look back up to his eyes. every ounce of your body that was feeling fear a moment ago is replaced with need, a demand so great that it’s pulsing through you, a desperation you haven’t felt in a long time. there was no other thought in your brain other than what he felt like. you needed to know, fuck the consequences.

with a speed you’ve only experienced with one other person, his lips are pressed to yours. you couldn’t think, you couldn’t process, you couldn’t think of anything other than him and how much you wanted him.

his lips tasted so entirely like him, wet and messy and sweet. his hands confidently wrapped around your head like they were made for this purpose, his lips fitting so perfectly between your own you can’t imagine anyone else’s being there again. it was fascinating, one kiss changing everything you knew about yourself.

you had one boyfriend back at home. you started dating when you were seventeen, a junior in high school, he was your first everything. you were so wrapped around his finger you thought you’d be married by twenty. you could see it: the two of you living in new york city together, in a big penthouse, a fat diamond on your finger. he was lanky, a tall boy with pretty white teeth and shaggy brown hair, he was everything you thought you wanted in a partner. he was funny, quiet but he knew when to use his voice, he was insistent on what was best for you and your future.

then the time came for you to graduate, and around that time you were a fucking mess. as much as you needed to leave home to go to a big city with big opportunities, of course, leaving everyone you’ve ever known destroyed you. the day you graduated high school you broke it off with him. you told him it was because you were leaving and there was no way a long distance relationship would work, but you knew if you truly loved him you would've made it work. you knew when you came to the city of dreams you’d meet someone who swept you off your feet.

as mingi scooped you off your spot on the couch and onto his lap, you knew you were right. you’ve always been loyal to jeongin, you’d barely ever looked in anyone else’s direction. you were fully convinced jeongin was the one you’d be in that penthouse with, and he’d be the one to get on one knee and put that diamond around your finger.

jeongin has never once treated you this way, and god does it feel good. you’d never once felt this level of greed, this level of desperation. like you’re the last sip of water in a desert and mingi hasn’t had a drop in days. your thighs wrapped around mingi’s hips and his hands found your waist, tongues in a battle to see who wanted the other more. you were both out of breath, the kiss never once breaking, and your brain was on a carousel. all you could think was how good this feels, how good he feels and that you wanted more on repeat. until the one person’s face who should not be in your head right now popped in to remind you what the fuck you were doing.

you broke away, wide eyed, with a hushed fuck.

a muttered fuck fuck fuck left your lips as you got off his lap, quickly backing up two steps away from him.

“i’m sorry,” he blurts out, pulling his shirt over what you were just happily grinding yourself against, “ki, i’m so sorry.”

“shut up,” you snap, with your hands out in front of you, eyes shut, “let me think.”

this is okay, you can get away with this. no one needs to know what just happened. it was once, you needed to get it out of your system. you’ll never do it again. it’s okay. no one can know, though. not a single person in the world can find out what just happened, you and mingi both need to take it to the grave. as long as no one finds out, you’ll be safe. you and jeongin will be happy. it’ll work out. this is okay. it’s okay.

“you tell no one,” you say shakily, your voice low, “not yunho, not hongjoong, not any of your other friends. no one.”

he hurriedly nods, “i won’t tell a soul, please don’t freak out. i’m sorry ki.”

you gathered your backpack, throwing your headphones and all the other shit you had sprawled across the desk into it. you threw it over your shoulders, heading for the door.

“ki?” he calls from the couch, and you pause, turning your head to look at him.

“my hoodie.”

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