#and people will hate on celebrities simply because they have red hair

[lylahammar]

why the fuck is it so socially acceptable to say hateful stuff about people with red hair

[spectorgram]

FAN BEHAVIOR

characters: dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake summary: batboys with a celebrity! reader content/warnings: fem! reader, fluff

DICK GRAYSON

You’re an actress who has had a meteoric rise, moving from doing small, one-off parts in TV shows to becoming a breakout star on a particularly popular series to being cast in major movie productions

Your stardom is still a little surreal to you and when you’re invited to a wayne enterprise charity gala, you contemplate not going — what business do you have being somewhere with people far more famous than you? But when you tell your agent this, she gives you a look that says you’re insane for even considering declining

You’ll forever be grateful that she urged you to do so because that’s where you meet Dick

He’s standing with Bruce Wayne, chatting with some frequent donors, dressed in a perfectly-tailored navy blue suit when he sees you out of the corner of his eye and he lights up. He approaches you first with that megawatt smile and introduces himself with an extended hand and says, “I’m a huge fan! I’ve been watching your stuff since you were in Legends of the Kingdom!” And the rest is history

Dick goes to every red carpet event you invite him to and he makes it a point to attend every private premiere screening and public opening night

He definitely shushes anyone who talks during your movies or TV shows and does not care if people think he’s obnoxious.

You’re definitely the ‘it couple’ and your faces are plastered constantly on magazine covers and two-page spreads

There are people who try to sow discord in your relationship and their go-to is either pointing out how different you are to Dick’s former girlfriends; that you’re not his type, that this isn’t going to last, etc., or that you’re not talented enough for the fame you have or to be dating Dick Grayson

It definitely gets to you and does nothing to whatever lingering imposter syndrome you harbor but Dick is such a grounding force, reminding you that it’s all just noise and that he loves you completely and unconditionally

At home, he likes to rewind your scenes in shows and movies, and it flatters you as much as it flusters you

He also likes to read through scripts with you when he can and his voices for the various other characters bring you to tears from laughter 

So many intentional and unintentional thirst trap couples pics. Like, a selfie you post one morning — Dick is shirtless and you’re in one of his old t-shirts and its sliding down your shoulder and showing your collarbone and you’re both laying on your stomachs in your shared bed, hair sleep (and sex) tousled with the morning sun making both of you look like you’re golden and glowing 

JASON TODD

You meet Jason as Red Hood first when you’re running from the paparazzi but you don’t know it’s him

They chase you down a couple of blocks before someone tugs you into an alleyway and you’re about to scream for help when you see who it is. Red Hood shields you as the paparazzi pass and when you ask him why he helped you, he simply says, “I hate the paps and you looked like you needed a hand.”

Once he’s sure the coast is clear, he walks you back to your hotel using the back alleys of Gotham. You make several attempts to strike a conversation up with him in the first few minutes of your walk but what seems to catch his interest is when you start rambling on about just finishing Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. 

You’re disappointed when you arrive at your hotel and you’re rush inside to find a pad to scribble your number on but he’s gone when you return, disappearing into the night

It’s by chance that you meet him again (unbeknownst to you), this time in his civilian identity as Jason Todd. You’re in disguise at a bookstore in Gotham when you bump into him and spill his iced coffee all over both of you, apologizing profusely and offering to buy him another drink, which he accepts. (His voice is oddly familiar to you but you can’t put your finger on why) 

You two keep in touch and start dating privately. The long-distance is difficult at times given your very different and busy schedules and Jason is pretty cagey about what he does but you both make time for each other as much as possible

He tells you that he listens to your music during his workouts and in the background while he’s doing stuff around his apartment. He hums along too.

He recommends your songs to anyone who listens, which raises suspicions in the Batfam, and it obviously doesn’t take long for them to figure out that he’s dating you but he makes them promise to keep it to themselves. 

Whenever you have a concert in Gotham, which you make a point to do frequently, Jason is in the VIP box, bobbing his head and mouthing along to your songs. When it ends, he’s right there backstage with flowers and a thermos of tea for your throat

Your relationship goes public when fans capture of video of you two leaving one of your concerts together, Jason’s leather jacket draped over your shoulders

You eventually move to Gotham to be closer to him and the two of you spend every free moment either of you have together, making up for lost time. 

You still try to keep your relationship as private as possible but fans eat up any crumbs they get, including the occasional selfie of you both 

He is your biggest inspiration for songs and also your biggest help. You love bouncing ideas off of him and he likes sitting with you when you pick at your guitar strings and mumble a half-formed melody

(You eventually do find out that he’s Red Hood when he tumbles through the window of your bedroom, bleeding profusely, and you have to take his helmet off to assess the damage)

TIM DRAKE

You’ve known Tim since you were kids given that your parents ran in the same social circles

You started out as a child model in department store clothing catalogs. Tim did some shoots with you too but while his parents eventually stopped auditioning him for such jobs, you continued until the present day, and you’re now a well-known supermodel 

You two have been friends forever and the internet laps up your interactions together. There are compilations of videos and photos of the two of you at banquets and red carpet events and memes with text like “when will someone look at me like that?”

Before you two even started dating, there were articles about a supposed romance and sexual tension between you two. In interviews, you would vehemently deny anything asked about it and reiterate that you two are just good friends

At some point, however, you start seeing your childhood friend in a different light. He’s kind, brilliant, funny, attentive, and very handsome. It’s not that you didn’t know that before but it’s different now. You find yourself shying away his casual touches and suddenly conscious of your actions around him — did you laugh too loud? Is your hair in your face? Does he know how you feel? Can he tell?

You don’t want to ruin your friendship, as cliche as it sounds, so you did your best to keep your feelings under wraps, which resulted in you distancing yourself. When Tim would text to congratulate you on your latest Vogue cover or runway show, you would simply shoot a simple ‘thanks!’ text back instead of the usual ‘THANK U’ followed by five heart emojis. 

He confronts you about it one day and you’ve never really been a good liar in front of him so you tell him, bracing for a gentle rejection but instead receiving a kiss. 

You made a hard launch post with him on Instagram and received hundreds of DMs of people saying they were vindicated in believing that “friends don’t look at each other like that”

Tim is in the front row at every single runway show you have, dressed impeccably in an expensive suit. He takes pictures of you and visits you backstage with your favorite sweet treat.

After fashion shows and other events, you return to his apartment to let your hair down and put your feet up. You do your skincare routines together, sheet face mask and all, and snuggle on the couch for some TV or just to hang out and talk endlessly

You’re very active on social media with him and you two have a lot of couples posts together. When you both have time, you do Instagram lives where people watch you two make dinner together or answer some questions from viewers. A fan favorite is when you choose outfits for each other.

During a runway, you blow a kiss at Tim in the audience and the camera zooms in on his face, where he just watches you with a lovestruck expression and bright red ears — it’s in almost every video compilation that’s titled something like ‘15 minutes of Tim Drake being a simp’

[dreamcubed]

back to black | regulus black x reader

song; back to black [amy winehouse] pairing; regulus black x fem!gryffindor!half-blood!reader genre; s2l, angst, hurt comfort word count; 6,3k timeline; marauders' era warnings; swearing, implied child abuse, discrimination (of muggles and muggle-borns), references to war, references to death(s) summary; autumn was your favourite season of all time, and not even your lack of mother or friendships could ruin it for you. but, maybe a brooding boy in your year could

this took me fucking forever but here it is!! and a merry christmas to all who celebrate <33

masterlist

"you went back to what you knew."

————————————

Back to black.

Well, technically, as the first time you had only had black hair for a matter of hours before your mother scolded you for dyeing it and made you change it back. But, she was dead now, and you were about to enter the year of OWL exams at Hogwarts, so a change was well overdue.

You gazed down at your black-stained hands: the muggle way of hair dyeing had been the most spiteful way to do it. After all, your mother hated anything muggle, even though she was merely half-blood herself. Part of you suspected it was because your father was a muggle and broke her heart, but you would never be able to confirm that, since you knew nothing about the man.

With a sigh, you glanced into the mirror and observed the wet black mess on your head. It was certainly going to stain your forehead and neck.

"Fuckin' Azkaban," you murmured, noticing the stains all over the sink and floor. Maybe you should have just done it the magic way.

Well, the stains were nothing a little magic couldn't fix: you didn't care that you weren't seventeen yet, after all.

***

Quite honestly, you adored the fact that school started in Autumn, your absolute favourite season. Nothing hit the spot like a Jack O'Lantern spice latte, fresh from the kitchens of Hogwarts. You had discovered the secret entrance to it a few years back, and come by to make requests frequently.

You tightly held the warm drink as you hurried back to the Gryffindor common room before curfew hit, where no friends were waiting for you. You had always felt out of place in the red house, and had never successfully made a friend in it, let alone the other houses. They all had their distinctive groups, while you were simply an outcast. Nonetheless, you did love how Autumnal the Gryffindor colour scheme was.

Ignoring everyone who was still downstairs, you headed up to the dormitories, where you sat down on your bed and chewed on your lip for a few moments. You weren't sure what to do with yourself.

***

Regulus Black was the quiet and brooding boy in your potions, defence against the dark arts, transfiguration - and actually every class apart from divination. That didn't surprise you, as even though you had never spoken to him, he didn't strike you as a particularly spiritual man. All you really knew about him was that his older brother, the renowned Sirius Black, was in your house - and they did not get along.

He was the only person who you shared so many classes with, and that was the solitary reason that you had noticed him. Well, that and his strikingly powerful presence.

You wondered if he realised you shared so many classes together.

Probably not, though. To make up for your lack of friendships, you intensely observed the people around you, trying to pretend as if you knew them and could predict how a conversation would go with them. It was a fun game for someone so deprived as yourself, even more so when you somehow ended up in conversation with someone and got to find out how accurate in your predictions you were.

But you also loved when you were completely wrong about a person.

"A new hair colour, I see, Miss L/N," Professor McGonagall said to you as you entered the first transfiguration lesson of the year.

You nodded, "Felt I needed a change."

The witch gave you a pitiful look that made you sick to your stomach: you hated the fact that people felt the need to tread on egg shells around you because of your mother's death. You weren't upset about it - you hated the woman.

"Black suits you," she said simply, the very same second Regulus Black entered the room.

He looked up, clearly thinking his name had been called.

"Not you, Mr Black," McGonagall waved her hand dismissively, "I was referring to Miss L/N's new hair colour."

For the first time ever, you were pretty sure, Regulus Black looked in your direction and made eye contact with you. His cold grey eyes pierced through you, as if he suddenly knew every secret about you - which he didn't, you had read about legilimency and it didn't feel like that. Just as quickly as he looked at you, he looked away again, and took a seat at the back of the classroom.

You felt a shiver run up your spine - an itching, chilly sensation, that made you feel positively thrilled.

"Everyone, please take your seats," McGonagall said as the class filled up.

You looked around, noticing a few empty spots, but most prominently the space next to Regulus Black at the back of the room. Your feet were taking you towards it before your mind could kick into action, and even though you were convinced that he was glaring at you, you kept your eyes trained on to the professor as you sat down.

"This year in transfiguration, we will cover..."

McGonagall's voice faded into background noise as you became hyper aware of the boy's presence next you, whilst simultaneously doing everything in your power to make it seem like your attention was not on him but instead the lesson.

What had become of you?

***

Smudged eyeliner and a maroon knitted jumper, cold peppermint tea and torn parchment; your mind felt frantic yet empty, gazing out the window of the Gryffindor common room. Starless nights and rain against glass, blazing fire and crackling flames; you couldn't see anything outside, so you couldn't quite piece together why your eyes remained fixed on the blackness.

A sigh pushed through your lips, picking up the tea to take a sip - only for it to go down reluctantly, due to its chilly temperature. Had it really been that long since you zoned out?

Another sigh escaped you as you rose to your feet. You were the only person who remained in the Gryffindor common room, so you estimated that it was at least midnight. Definitely way too late to venture into the rest of the castle: if you cared about punishment, that was.

Pulling out your wand from your dark-washed jeans, you pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady and muttered a soft, "Lumos," into the corridor. You anticipated the scream of the painted woman asking where you were headed at such an hour, but at the lack of you turned around and saw that she was presently vacated from her usual spot. Hopefully she would have returned by the time you got back.

You knew the way to the kitchens like the back of your hand, but you rarely took it so late, way past curfew. You were, of course, cautious. It would be insane not to be in an enchanted castle such as Hogwarts, which also happened to be haunted.

Your gut sensed another presence before any of your typical five senses did: lurching as it indicated that you were not alone. You quickly whispered, "Nox," and ducked into an alcove, focusing all your energy into your sense of hearing. Delicate - very delicate - footsteps. So faint you almost thought that you were hallucinating.

They stopped right by you, and you heard a soft breath.

Why did it sound so achingly familiar, yet not like any professor's?

"Who's there?"

Regulus Black.

You stepped out from the alcove and into the light of his wand, crossing your arms in the process. Regulus took one look at you and sighed.

"What do you want, Gryffindor?"

"I have a name," you muttered, "And I would like to think you know it."

He raised an eyebrow at you, and you scowled.

"I want nothing from you, Black, I merely thought you were a teacher."

He seemed to mull over your words for a few seconds, ultimately deciding that there was no way it was anything but the truth before saying, "Very well."

The question itched on your tongue. "What are you doing?"

In the dimmed light, you could only just make out the way he pressed his tongue into his cheek, a bit more aggressively than you would hope for.

"That's none of your concern."

You narrowed your eyes, "I'm pretty sure the last time someone said that, a girl ended up dead in the toilets."

"You-" Regulus cut himself off at the sound of loud, purposeful footsteps echoing down the hallway. He muttered, "Shit," before dimming his wand light and pulling you back into the alcove with him.

You held your breath as the footsteps increased in volume, almost unaware of your hand pressed against Regulus' abdomen, and his arm wrapped around your waist.

"Are you sure he was headed this way, Mrs Norris?" the unfortunate voice of Filch asked, followed by a scratchy meow.

You pursed your lips as the footsteps got quieter, only letting yourself breathe once there was complete silence again. Still, you and Regulus remained in position for a few more seconds.

"I think the coast is clear," you murmured.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," Regulus replied distractedly, slipping out of the alcove and letting his arm drop from your waist. You hadn't noticed the warmth that much, but you definitely noticed the lack of it.

"Guess Filch is on to you," you said, to fill the silence more than anything else - which was weird, as you had never been bothered by lack of conversation before.

"Bastard," Regulus replied. Maybe it wasn't a reply, but an unrelated yet relevant comment.

You lit your wand again, and turned to continue on your journey, "I'm going to the kitchens, in case you were wondering," you had hoped it would prompt him to admit to his activities, but he simply remained silent, "You can come if you want."

You had no explanation for adding that last part.

It was obvious that Regulus' first instinct had been to say no, but he must have come to the conclusion that there was really nowhere else to go while Filch was headed off on a rampage towards his original destination. So, he sighed instead, and began trailing behind you towards the fruit bowl portrait.

"Peppermint tea, Miss L/N?" the house elf nearest to you asked after you entered the magnificent kitchens, which were remarkably similar to the Great Hall.

"Actually, I think I'll take a hot chocolate, thank you," you replied, sitting down at the end of one of the four long tables. It was too late for your preferred latte, after all.

"And you, Mr Black?" another house elf asked.

It was evident that Regulus was startled that the creature knew his name, "Americano. Black, no sugar."

You weren't surprised at his request.

"Do you have a house elf?" you asked, as you knew that the Black family was pure-blooded and wealthy.

He gave a curt nod, which you took as a hint that he wasn't interested in conversation. Luckily, the house elves quickly whipped up the hot drinks and placed them in two forest green mugs in front of you.

To your surprise, he asked a question.

"How do you know about this place?"

You shrugged, "I followed the Marauders here one night."

Regulus drew back, and you realised then what a mistake mentioning the infamous quartet was: Sirius Black was clearly a sour topic.

Regardless, you still mumbled, "I think they knew I was there."

He chuckled dryly, "Probably."

"How are you gonna sleep?" you changed the subject, gesturing towards his steaming coffee.

"I won't."

You didn't press that matter further, either. But it was then that you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, sallow and zombie-like. Yet they suited him, enhanced his eery yet attractive looks, which was probably why you hadn't registered them before. They didn't appear out of place.

"Why don't you have a red mug?" Regulus asked, taking you by surprise. He was gazing at the wall display of mugs, sorted into the four house colours.

"Miss L/N doesn't like the red mugs," a house elf piped up, placing a tray of cookies in between the two of you.

"But it's your house colour."

You sipped slowly on your hot chocolate, stewing over the words you could potentially say. "I... don't like being a Gryffindor. I've never felt like I belonged."

"I don't like Gryffindors."

You scoffed, "Never would've guessed."

He raised an eyebrow.

"All Slytherins hate us."

"Yeah, because you're Dumbledore's favourite."

You shrugged.

"That and you allow mudbloods."

You paused in your movements, "So do Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, yet you don't go on a rampage against them."

"Point taken."

The school hot chocolate was delicious, you decided, and you should really have it more.

"What's your blood status?"

You shrugged, "Half-blood."

"I'm-"

"Pure-blood, I know," you sighed, "Even if the Black family weren't a so-called noble house, I would've guessed from your comments earlier."

He stared at you: a piercing, icy glare that almost made a shiver run up your spine. Almost.

"Do you really enjoy leading such a hateful life?"

His mouth parted, before he carefully swallowed and avoided eye contact, "It's not about hatred, it's about what's right."

"And what's right is abusing muggle-borns, even though they were born wizards and witches just like us?"

Regulus said nothing.

"I think that you need to stop taking Mummy and Daddy's word for what it is," you said mockingly, "You have your own brain, form your own opinions with it."

You watched his jaw clench.

"With that, I will bid you adieu," you said, picking up your hot chocolate and a few cookies, "See you tomorrow."

He didn't say goodbye to you as you left, and you didn't wait for him to.

***

Regulus watched you as you entered transfiguration the next day: you felt it before you saw his eyes glued on to you. You ignored his attentions, still sitting next to him but making no effort to engage in conversation. He made no effort either, eventually peeling his eyes away from you when McGonagall arrived to begin the lesson.

In fact, no words were exchanged between the two of you until the very end of the hour.

"I think you're wrong," he muttered.

You looked down at your parchment, furrowing your eyebrows at the answer that you were pretty sure was correct. "It's not animagi?"

"Not about that," he clarified, "About mudbloods."

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

"They aren't worthy."

"You're insufferable," you said quietly, "The existence of muggle-borns doesn't affect you, leave them alone."

"It affects the culture of wizards and witches, which affects me."

"Maybe the culture needs changing," you spat back, "Godric knows you do."

Regulus didn't reply, and you made no further attempt to talk to him.

Not for the rest of your time at Hogwarts.

***

APPROXIMATELY THREE YEARS LATER: 1979.

***

"I can't seem to face up to the facts..." you sung quietly along to the song as you gazed into the mirror of your bathroom.

"I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax..." it was playing from your record player in your bedroom, just through the open door to your right. Your graduation gift (to yourself) had been a record player, a very pleasant addition to the house that you had inherited from your mother. Especially as she hated all muggle items.

"I can't sleep 'cause my bed's on fire..." It was only three bedrooms, the third being so small it could hardly fit a twin bed in, but the master bedroom was decently sized and had an en suite. And, officially being the master of the house, that bedroom was now yours.

"Don't touch me, I'm a real live wire..." You were dyeing your hair black for the third time in your life.

After dyeing it before fifth year, you had maintained the roots up until Christmas before you went back to your natural colour, and had remained that way up until now. But, you decided that you wanted your raven locks back, and so had stopped by a muggle pharmacy for some black hair dye. There was something therapeutic in doing it manually.

"Psycho killer, qu'est-ce que c'est?" you continued to mumble, finishing up the touches of your hair, just when you heard a heavy knock on your door.

You stilled: nobody came knocking on your door. Your solitary existence remained very solitary.

Grabbing your wand off the counter, you moved into your bedroom and delicately removed the needle from the vinyl, before silently padding downstairs. You crept up to the maroon door and peered through the peephole, fully prepared to yell "stupefy" should you require.

It was the last person you expected - and considering you expected no one, that really said something.

Despite recognising the individual, you were hesitant to open the door, as you knew that said person was a renowned death eater: one of the Dark Lord's loyal followers.

"L/N, please, I know you're there," he croaked, his voice ragged and scratched.

Against your better judgement, you opened the door, only to catch sight of his ripped clothes and dripping wounds. There were bags under his eyes and his hair was longer and messy, and you had absolutely no idea what to do.

"Please, I didn't know where else to go."

You sighed, lowering your wand and stepping back to open the door wide. Godric knows that you would go to hell for helping a death eater like this.

"What happened to you?" you murmured, leading him through to your small galley kitchen. You dug through your cupboards until you found your first aid kit, and then grabbed a flannel and ran it under the hot tap.

Regulus watched you silently.

"Take off your clothes," you muttered, then added, "Except your underwear."

He obliged, and your breath hitched at the gory visuals in front of you.

"Fuckin' Azkaban."

You began cleaning him up, applying a healing potion as you went.

"I should've listened to you."

"Hm?"

"What you said about mud- muggle-borns," his eyes crinkled together, "You-Know-Who- he's... he's..."

"Batshit?" you raised an eyebrow, noting how Regulus avoided his name.

A scratched chuckle came out his throat, "Yeah."

"Did you challenge him to a duel or something?" you asked as you paused your care of him to fetch a glass of water for his throat.

"I'd be dead if I'd done that - no, I've been trying to find his Horcruxes."

"His what?"

Regulus gulped down all of the water before he replied. "There's a reason he's so fearless."

And then came his explanation and story, of how he found out about Voldemort's secret of immortality after realising that he was in the wrong, and had begun hunting down the pieces of his soul in order to destroy him for good. That led on to his explanation of how he ended up in the state he was currently in.

"The locket," he explained, "I went with Kreacher - my house elf - to this cave. I had to drink water that dehydrates you to get to the locket, and the only other water around was in this lake kind of thing. But, of course, it wasn't a normal lake. It was full of inferni."

You mindlessly continued tending to his wounds as you took all of this in.

"They started clawing at me and dragging me in - so I ordered Kreacher to leave with the locket, thinking I wouldn't survive," his voice faltered as he relived the memory, "I don't even know how I did - it's all a blur. But I couldn't go back home, or anywhere I normally go. You-Know-Who knows by now."

"So you came here?" you finally spoke.

"I- yes."

"Even though we hardly know each other."

He stared at you with darkened sorrow in his eyes, and you realised that this was far from the Regulus you knew in Hogwarts.

You sighed, pulling away from him as you finished up with the last of the injuries.

"You're the first person that came to mind," he murmured.

Your eyes flicked to the snake twisting on Regulus' wrist, the permanent sign of devotion to the Dark Lord.

"He's trying to reach me," he muttered, "Is your house well protected?"

You shook your head, "There's no reason they'd come here."

Regulus cursed under his breath, "I'm really sorry to put you in danger, please let me put some protective charms around the place."

You gestured for him to be your guest.

"Am I-"

"Yes, you can stay," you replied. You wouldn't have let him through your door if you hadn't seen the difference in his once cold eyes.

He said nothing, but gave you a look that screamed his thanks as he left through your kitchen door.

***

"He might think you're dead, you know," you said as he came back inside, while you were in the process of laying the table. He had been outside for so long that you had washed out the hair dye from your hair, which was now wet and a bit of a mess.

He didn't reply, so you looked up at his skinny and fatigued figure.

"He probably doesn't think anyone can escape his protective measures."

"Can't take any chances," he eventually murmured, taking a seat, "Thank you for the food."

You gave a small smile, sitting down opposite him. The two of you ate in a companionable silence until Regulus finally said something.

"I won't be here long. I have to continue my search."

You scowled, "No."

He paused, arching an eyebrow, "No?"

"You're in no state to do anything, Black," you said simply, "You'd be fucking useless out there right now."

You watched as Regulus digested your words, "But I can't do nothing."

You shrugged, "You haven't done nothing. I have."

"Yes, but you don't have mistakes to make up for."

The conversation once again flattened to nothing, the odd hint of tension in the air weighing down ever so slightly.

"Why did you do it the muggle way?"

"Hm?"

"Your hair."

"Oh," your eyes widened as you thought carefully, "Mainly to spite my mother."

He tilted his head in confusion.

"She wasn't a very nice woman," you explained, "Shit mother, and she also hated anything muggle. She's dead now, but I do a lot of muggle things to remind myself I'm nothing like her."

"Did she hate muggle-borns?"

You pursed your lips, "Not really, I don't think. Depends how muggle they acted. I've always theorised that my dad was a muggle and broke her heart."

"My parents were awful," Regulus murmured, "When Sirius got sorted into Gryffindor, they gave up on him. But in a way that also made things worse for me, because I was their last chance at the perfect Black heir."

You nodded.

"That's why I resent him so much."

"Maybe one day you two can get along."

He chuckled dryly, "When muggles can do magic."

***

The once sallowed dark aura around Regulus Black had morphed since Hogwarts. It wasn't brighter, that was for sure, you would describe it as a cloudy navy blue - rainy, but not thunderous. Something about him had been replaced and changed, something hard and uncaring, now softer and sympathetic. It wasn't until you were laying in your bed that night with the wind blowing against your window did you realise exactly what it was - he had been traumatised, and thus matured.

Guilt also crept into you from your darkest corners: you had stayed out of the brewing conflict from the death eaters, even though you disagreed with their values. Your cowardice had led you to self-isolate and refuse to fight, bathing in the safety of your half-blood status. Regulus Black showing up on your doorstep was karma if nothing else.

You pulled your maroon quilt further over you and nestled your head into your pillows, trying to crush the lingering sense that your life was only just beginning.

***

The whistle from your kettle blew, filling the kitchen with steam. You let out a yawn as you entered through the archway, and almost jumped when you saw Regulus stood there with two mugs before him. Living alone had been your situation for far too long.

"Good morning," he spoke, but by the strangled way he said it, it was clear that those two words had never left his mouth before, at least not as a pair.

"Morning," you raised an eyebrow, watching as he wandlessly guided the kettle through the air to pour water.

"Milk? Sugar?" he said in question.

"Milk, two sugars."

He hummed in reply, the black shirt that you had lent him clinging to his lean figure. He was skinnier than he should be, that much was obvious, but there was still muscle definition that made your stomach swarm with butterflies. You knew that you had fancied him briefly back in Hogwarts, but you had squandered those feelings when you learned of his political views.

Now he was a changed man, and he was even more attractive than he used to be, and it felt like every butterfly you had crushed had been resurrected all at once. It was overwhelming, and yet the most satisfying experience you had been a part of since the beginning of your dull adulthood.

"Here," he handed you a golden-yellow mug, "I hope it's to your satisfaction."

"Only time will tell," you replied, moving through to the living room.

You sat in a companionable quiet for a while, sipping on your tea and soaking in the ambiance of the morning.

It was when there was almost no liquid left in your mug, and your limbs were growing fidgety, that you felt words race out your mouth before you could think about them. A rushed, perhaps crossing-the-line, statement of, "Stay for a while."

You didn't know whether you meant hours or months.

***

Regulus took a turn for the worse the next day, overcome with vicious fever-like symptoms and ugly coughing fits. The mid-war conditions that you were in made it way too risky to seek professional help, especially as Regulus was a wanted death eater. So, you had no choice but to take care of him to the best of your ability: between herbal teas, homemade soups, leftover cough medicines and cold cloths pressed to his forehead, he seemed to be slowly improving. At least, he wasn't getting worse. But his body was already weakened, so his chances were worse than an average person dealing with whatever he was.

With your hair tied and sleeves pulled up, you ran the white flannel you had been using for Regulus under the cold tap, letting out an exhausted exhale. It had been approximately sixty hours since your guest was bedridden, and you had hardly slept in that time. It was quite difficult to when he would start screaming in the middle of the night during his fever dream episodes.

The pale moonlight slipped through the gaps in your vertical slit blinds, gently illuminating the white china of your bathroom sink, and probably the bags under your eyes as well. Just as you turned off the tap, you heard more screaming from your guest bedroom, so you quickly wrung out the flannel and ran back to Regulus.

"You're okay, you're okay," you murmured, pressing the cloth to his forehead, "You're safe."

His screaming stopped, and you could've sworn his eyes were slightly opened and staring at you through the darkness. "Y/N," he mumbled.

"Yes, Regulus, it's me, Y/N."

You felt his hand grip around the wrist of your hand that held the flannel in place.

"Don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere," you spoke gently.

"In sickness and in health..." he muttered, making you chuckle slightly.

Not forgetting the butterflies, of course.

"Yes, Regulus, in sickness and in health."

"You're... amazing..." he sighed, drifting off again into a lax slumber, his hand falling from your wrist.

You softly stroked his cheek, "Get well soon."

***

You had lost track of the days, but you knew that many suns had set and risen by the time Regulus stumbled downstairs one morning, shirtless and still evidently delirious.

"Good morning," you said, observing the man fumbling to sit down in a chair, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

He grunted.

"Feeling better then?" you asked, moving through the archway into the kitchen and setting out two mugs on the counter.

Regulus raked his hands through his hair, grunting again.

"At least you're conscious," you said half to yourself, half to him.

"Date," he said in a scratchy voice, locking his shiny eyes on to yours.

"What's the date?"

He nodded.

You gazed over at the calendar on your wall, only to realise you hadn't been crossing off the days like you typically did ever since Regulus had fallen ill. Sheepishly, you shrugged, "I don't know."

Regulus sighed.

"Sorry, I've hardly slept."

He shook his head, "Don't apologise, it's not your fault."

You didn't bother refuting that. "On the bright side, I know it's been a good few days. I think You-Know-Who would've found you by now if he was looking for you," you said, adding a, "Touch wood," and touching one of your wooden cabinets afterward.

Regulus seemed to ponder that for a moment, "I guess. Thank you for taking care of me."

"I didn't really have a choice," you replied, placing a mug of steamy tea in front of him, "But I'd do it again."

He smiled at you - a tired, but genuine, smile.

"I need to take a long shower, if you don't mind," you sighed, holding your own warm mug, "I feel gross."

"Yeah, you kinda look it."

You went to whack him, "You're one to talk."

He started laughing, which quickly turned into a coughing fit.

"Whoa, whoa, be careful," you said through laughter, "Your lungs can't take much right now."

"I'm fine," he said through splutters, "I swear."

"You should shower after me," you said when he had calmed down, "In the nicest possible way, you need it."

He didn't argue.

***

Rain pounding against the window seemed almost symbolic of the state of the wizarding world as it was: pathetic fallacy, if you will. But, you must admit, your cowardly approach to the war had led you to lead quite a cosy lifestyle in your little cottage, tucked up by fires with hot cups of tea.

At times, you considered joining the resistance, and fighting for what was right. Realistically, though, you couldn't contribute much. Your duelling skills had always been subpar and despite your alleged Gryffindor identity, you lacked courage. Surely the Sorting Hat had made a mistake all those years ago, back when you were a nervous eleven-year-old stood in front of an audience full of older kids.

Never the matter - the past was the past, and as you didn't possess a timeturner, it would have to remain the way it was.

"Something doesn't feel right," Regulus' voice made you jump out of your skin.

Ignoring your surprise, he sat next to you on the sofa.

"You don't think?"

"No," he shook his head. It had been a couple months since he showed up at your door, and these days he came and went from your home. He was currently in search of his brother, Sirius, who he knew to be a part of the resistance. Regulus had explained to you how even though they had never gotten along, he would be more likely to listen to anything he had to say than other resistance members, who would probably arrest him on the spot.

You had crafted a port key for him - something that you were in fact good at - to access your house without revealing your location. This had led to him frequently jump scaring you by appearing in your living room out of nowhere, especially since he never showed up at the same time.

"Any news on Sirius?"

Regulus shook his head, leaning back into the plush pillows, "He's as good at hiding as I am."

"At least you have something in common."

He chuckled dryly, "I just can't escape the feeling that something is brewing tonight."

"Bad or good?" you furrowed your eyebrows, but secretly you knew what he meant. A new paranoia had been itching at you all day.

Regulus shrugged, "Both. Neither. Who knows?"

You followed his gaze to the thundering sky through the window.

"What day is it?" he asked.

You thought for a moment, "Halloween."

A thunderous boom echoed outside.

Regulus grimaced, "I'll source a newspaper tomorrow. Need to find out if I'm just being paranoid."

It was right then at that moment, as lightning flashed in the sky and lit up the whole room, that you knew he wasn't just being paranoid. A historical moment was taking place as you spoke: tragic, yet hopeful.

You felt a head drop on to your shoulder, and looked down in surprise to see that Regulus had drifted off quite peacefully next to you. Smiling to yourself, you adjusted your position so he could lie on you, unable to stop yourself from indulging in affection that filled your starving appetite for touch. He nuzzled his head into you, making a light and happy sound.

Sighing softly, you let your eyes drift shut.

***

He was gone when you woke up, as often was the case. While he slept at yours almost every night, he was prone to getting back late and leaving early, desperately searching for his elder brother.

Therefore, it was quite a surprise to see him burst through the dining room door at eleven o'clock in the morning, while you were frying eggs.

"Y/N," he said breathlessly as he approached the kitchen archway, a rolled newspaper crushed in one of his hands.

"What?"

"He's gone," he said, and if it wasn't for the smile on his face, you would have thought he was talking about his brother.

You barely had time to put the frying pan down before he continued.

"You-Know-Who," he said, throwing the paper on your kitchen counter, "They're saying he's dead - but I don't believe that - either way he's gone."

You moved to look at the newspaper of moving images and writing.

"He killed James and Lily Potter," he explained, "They were friends of my brother, but apparently he couldn't kill their son. Their one-year-old son."

Eyebrows furrowed, you ran your finger over the front page.

"I hope to Merlin that he never returns, wherever he is."

You chuckled.

"Salazar, I'm so happy I could kiss you," he said quite suddenly, making your head snap up.

Silence lingered between the two of you as you stared at each other with widened eyes, becoming hyper aware of your breathing. Then, his lips were on yours, and while it was a chaste kiss, it was passionate and intimate.

When you parted, Regulus rested his forehead against yours and wrapped his arms around your figure, pulling you flush against him.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," he panted.

"Me too."

***

The second time you were gathered around a newspaper together was not too long later, after the arrest of Sirius Black for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and being a suspected death eater.

"At least you managed to find and talk to him before this."

Regulus sighed, "Yeah. I guess."

You said nothing.

"He was the only one who could vouch for me. I can never earn people's trust now."

"I think you'll just need to stay on the down-low."

Regulus sighed again, taking your hand into his, "Can I stay here for that long?"

You chuckled, pulling him into your embrace, "You can stay here forever."

He smiled, kissing your head.

***

APPROXIMATELY SEVENTEEN YEARS LATER: 1998.

***

"The verdict of the state versus Regulus Black is as follows..." the judge sat in the courtroom at the Ministry of Magic announced, making your breath hitch as you crossed your fingers behind your back.

You locked eyes with your long-time fiancé who was stood in the centre of the room within a mini-cell, and saw the way his Adam's apple moved in a gulp.

"Regulus Black is found guilty of serving You-Know-Who and the anti-muggle-born terrorist movement..."

You threw your hand over your mouth, tears pricking at your eyes.

"...but is hereby pardoned from punishment due to his immense aid in defeating You-Know-Who thereafter."

Never had such a large amount of air rushed out of your lungs, as your son hugged you from the side, likely not understanding the words the judge used, but understanding the look of elation on his father's face.

You didn't stop Sirius from detaching from your side and running down to the cell as they unlocked it: in fact, you ran after him, eager to hold your fiancé in your arms. You watched as Regulus picked up his son and hugged him tightly, before dropping him to take you into his arms.

Pecking his lips, you beamed up at him with joyful tears streaming down your cheeks.

"We can finally get married," he said, kissing you again.

You giggled, "Hopefully before my bump gets too big."

Regulus' eyes widened as he moved his hand to your abdomen, his smile somehow growing even wider than it was before.

"I love you," he said breathlessly.

——————————————

masterlist

written; 02/10/2023 —> 20/12/2023 published; 21/12/2023 edited; —/—/——

[stararch4ngelqueen]

Hi! I have been obsessed with your Jason fics for a couple of days. They are just so sweet and incredible. I simply love them and I think that thanks to you I have a new comfort character 😊

I kind of had a little 🤏 anxiety attack in a situation similar to the one I am going to request yesterday. But, somehow imagining Jason recomforting me and thinking about your stories helped me to ease my mind for a while. So thank you so much 🫶🏼

If you have time and like the idea, could you make a fic in which Jason and fem!reader at a Gala in the Wayne Manor and the reader kinds of stress out because people keep asking her questions and looking at her (maybe because that it's their first event as an official couple 🤔) and Jason helps her and assures her that everything will be fine

Hope you have a good day!

Aww I’m sorry to hear that. I get those a lot with my job. Sorry it’s so short, but I hope this helps!

—

“I’ll say it as much as I have to,” Jason’s voice rumbles comfort in your ear, his hand settling snug along your back.

“You look stunning, babe. Don’t worry.”

His words became a temporary balm to your rising concerns, causing a nearly endless bubbling in your tummy.

You weren’t like this when you arrived, fiddling with the skirt of your dress in the back of the limousine. It began when you caught various flashes of photographers along the manor gates, attempting to catch evidence of tonight’s Gala attendees.

Of course, Jason’s commentary from how you’ve done your makeup, to this gorgeous… gorgeous silk dress you picked out for the event, was ever such an ego boost.

A rich, merlot color, complimenting the collar of his button up under his tux jacket. All of Gotham knew just how extravagant Bruce Wayne’s galas were, ranging from charity events to holiday celebrations.

Part of you was excited to attend, despite it being out of your comfort zone. Lots of important people, plenty of snobs looking to get on Wayne’s good side. You imagined that one scene from The Devil Wears Prada; the main character himself strolling along with an aura of charming confidence as he greeted his guests, while his sons lounge around the stairs in absolute boredom, adorned in their secretly signature colors.

Jason usually avoided these events, but just for tonight, he wouldn’t mind attending as long as had his lovely girl by his side.

The dress made you look like complete eye candy. He wasn’t afraid to say that. His girl deserved to look her best, as long as people knew who you arrived and were leaving with at the end of the night.

“What if they ask a bunch of personal stuff?”

“Tell ‘em a bunch of personal lies,” Jason shrugs. “S’what I do all the time.”

Lying seems the most reasonable. Rich, important people do it all the time. What’re they gonna do, fact check you on the spot?

“Ah ah,” he holds up a finger the second he sees your lips open, shaking his head after another sip of champagne. “Look, if they were that desperate to look for truth here, then what’s the point of secret identities?”

After nearly an hour of gentle symphonies accompanying a handful of introductions at a time, your polite smile grew a little more strained. Shaking hands of many faces you didn’t care about, politely nodding your head towards patrons you accidentally made eye contact with and so on, had you clutching Jason’s forearm just a little tighter.

He remained by your side, offering you some soda water or champagne to settle your nerves after finding you both a semi-quiet retreat in a slightly vacant corner.

You weren’t sure why your mind began focusing on the outer talk of guests around you, but you begin to hate yourself for it.

Questions varying from who you were, hushed mutters of if you were simply bribed by lavish gifts to attend. Was another son of Bruce Wayne following in his playboy footsteps, going from girl to girl?

Such comments even went as far as to compliment your hair and makeup. You even heard a woman say this shade of red didn’t suit your skin tone. What does that even mean??

Soon enough, the music grew as loud as the chatter, making your chest swell and burn with irritation for the mental overstimulation.

Jason takes a fresh drink from a tray before leading you out from the stuffy crowds, striving into the courtyard patio. A warm, natural floral breeze helps wipe your senses clean after breathing in a cloying concoction of expensive fragrances all in one room.

A few well dressed patrons were scattered about, smoking cigarettes neatly tucked in slick metal cases. Jason didn’t stop there, leading you down a short set of curved stairs leading into the gardens.

“Breathe, babe. I gotcha.” He holds your hand at first before reaching for his jacket buttons. “All this liquor didn’t get to your head, did it?”

His teasing nearly fell on deaf ears as he draped his coat over your bare shoulders, making his smile slowly fade from your silence.

“You sure you don’t just wanna dip? We can stop at a diner and tell the waiters Batman crashed our expensive, high school prom.”

“Bruce won’t get mad?” You question after a short smile, watching Jason’s lips purse with a firm head shake.

“I mean, we showed up,” Jason clarifies while balancing his empty glass along a nearby stone bench. “No one’s really telling us to stay here.”

A faint air of defeat floods your shoulders, even when your favorite person offered the solution to your anxieties. You thought you’d be more confident, holding the aura of poise and elegance so many women held at these events.

Overall, it was too much. The music, the people, the cologne.

Somehow, a late night diner sounded a whole lot better the more you thought about it. Bustling bells ringing for hot plates, palate cleansing coffee flooding your nose, greasy bacon, and orange juice lacking any expensive champagne.

“Keep that pretty head high, princess.” Jason gently gives the bottom of your chin a gentle nudge with his thumb, gifting you a handsome smile.

“You showed up, that’s all that matters. I’m proud of you.”

[deblklesb]

[Happy Christmas Eve! — Abby × Reader]

[fem!reader, christmas theme, fluff/soft with some sexual content (not enough to be a smut), established relationship]

Summary: Reader makes Abby a stocking and gives her a gift

a/n: don't mind me, I'm just making something to feed my soul with Abby fluff and fulfill Abby's wish of someone making her a stocking

cw: little sexual content by the end

! Reblogs are extremely appreciated !

"Can I open it now?" Abby asked from the living room, her voice reaching you through the apartment.

"No! Just one second!"

"Come on!" Her voice had a grumble tone, you almost could see her pouting. "That's not good girl behavior"

"You'd know", you snorted, finally finishing the adjustment on your garments. You hid the things behind your back, walking back in the living room patiently. "If you were Santa, where in this house you'd find good to see a stocking?"

"What?"

"We don't have a fireplace", standing in front of the blonde woman, you saw her frowning her eyebrows, absolutely lost on the subject. "You can open now"

Abby did it, and took her some seconds to absorb the view. You had a Christmas cap and a green big shirt covering your body until the middle of your thighs, underneath just a red lacey panties that she couldn't see yet. A grin on your lips denounced how you're up to no good, but she decided to focus on how cuddly that day was slowly becoming with you.

Christmas were always a weird holiday after her father's death. As much as the people on WFL away made get-togethers on that period too, it wasn't the same. She would usually hang out with her friends and sometimes even play with the dogs on the snow, but apart from that there wasn't some type of Christmas spirit.

You too didn't had the habit of celebrating that holiday, simply because it never seemed attractive. The world was chaotic and a bunch of people died, and during the most part of your childhood you and your parents spent too much time running and surviving. It wasn't exactly fun. Then you found the WFL quarter and decided to settle. That was somewhere four years ago, and after two Christmas you started to anticipate de holiday with excitement. On the third year you were already planning you own traditions. This year you had Abby, and as much as she didn't had the same anticipation she also didn't said otherwise.

So there you were all smiles, a bubble of happiness coming from the single thought of watching the movies and eating the Christmas food the cafeteria had that time of the year.

"This is cute", her grin got bigger as she pulled you from your legs to stand between hers, and then you finally revealed what was hidden. "What..."

Abby analyzed the two stockings in front of her now, red and white fabric, her initial letter in one and yours on the other, in yellow. Small stars, mistletoe and snow flakes around. "What is this?"

"Stockings!" She grabbed hers, fingers tracing the details while she sit in silence. The difference on her demeanor made you stand still, waiting. What if she didn't like it? "I... I didn't knew where to hang them, so I decided to wait to surprise you..." Still not a word from her. That sunk a weird feeling in your chest, the doubt of making something that could upset her creeping you mind. "Is there something wrong? I mean, I know the sewing isn't perfect, but my mom taught me me just last week in a rush, and I also had a run, so it can be a little bit hurried..."

Abby finally looked up at you and her blue eyes were watering a little. She sniffed briefly, looking away and then to you again. "Yeah, the sewing is pretty shitty to be honest"

You stopped deadpaned, watching as a small grin came on her beautiful lips and she pushed away the tears. Then she startled as you punched her arm. "You idiot!"

Abby laughed pulling you on her lap and hugging your waist, feeling your arms wrapping around her broad shoulders as she kissed your neck over and over.

"I thought you hated it"

"I love it, baby", the few honey-blonde hair strands falling around her face made her even prettier, cute freckles and small scars adorning her features too. "Thank you", she bumped her lips on yours, accepting your pecks.

"I have other present for you."

"I'm starting to feel really bad because i just got one thing for you", the woman countered.

"You got me something?!"

"Of course! What kind of girlfriend do you think I am?!"

"The type to sexually torture me in bed", you said, leaning over the arm of the couch to grab a package hidden behind the corner table. The shirt went up a little with your movement added to Abby's hold, and that made her see the tip of your lacey panties covering the upper thigh.

"Dressing up all cute for me I might as well do it again", she smirked while pulling the green fabric up to better see the piece of clothing underneath.

"I thought good girls were well rewarded", you pouted, giving her the package even tho that meant having her warm hands away from your skin. "Maybe this can help you decide what to do."

Abby looked at you all suspicious, tearing up the wrappings just to see a box with the product image in the front. That immediately made her blush, glancing your grin. "How did you find this?"

"That last minute run I went last week with Nora... We kinda found a sex shop some weeks ago and decided to keep it to ourselves to explore and get some things before reporting"

"You call that good girl behavior?", you caressed her shoulders while she opened the box, seeing the dildo and the small textured gadget next to it. "What's this?"

"You put it on the inside part of the strap", she gulped, imagining what would happen. You lean on her to whisper in her ear "It's for you to use while fucking me senseless"

The woman threw the box away before grabbing you by the waist again, crashing her lips on yours in a heated kiss. You smiled between it, heart fluttering as the thought of a destabilized Abby on top of you flooded your mind. She would look so fucking hot moaning and trembling while railing you; your pussy throbbed just with the anticipation.

"Wanna try it before the party tonight?" She muttered as kissing your neck, hands gripping your thighs and ass and getting another smile from you, her voice was so fucking sexy.

"Please be gentle, I don't wanna look like I just had sex when seeing my parents tonight", you both chuckled.

"So why did you dress this, uh?"

"Y'know... Christmas tradition?"

"Oh, yeah, right", she grabbed the box again and handed it to you, getting up from the couch carrying your weight like it was nothing as you wrapped your legs around her torso.

"Showing off like that it'll be hard not to beg you to fuck me untill I can't stand." Abby making use of her muscles were always an arousing thing and on top of that you were the biggest simp.

"Well, you discovered my trick", she smirked, walking towards the bedroom. "Now let's get this to a test drive and after the party you can show me how much a good girl you are."

[dividers by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more]

[sabo-has-my-heart]

This is two part again. Thanks for listening and replying to my message, that means a lots to me. Though, I'd say I prefer a certain red head karma to bite me instead of my coworkers :^) just kidding.

This is not really an emergency request but also a bit like it? I guess? It's just I've been dying of thirst for some romance due to my situation so I'm up here to request something (only if you want to write, that is)

Office workers couple of Sabo and fem!Reader. I just wanna read some fluffy moments between them. Like when y/n is working over time and he quietly put an iced coffee cup he just bought for y/n on her cheek, making her jump as he smiles warmly and sits next to her to help her with the work. Or when y/n knocks on his office door and says "I'm here to pick up Mr. *insert married last name*" and Sabo chuckles and walks to her to say "Let's go home Mrs *insert married last name*"

I don't know if this is how it works but that's my request. Feel free to skip it if you don't like the idea. Love your writing as always, have a great day!

Hi two part anon! no need to thank me for listening, and replying, I care about you 🥰. So here's some fluff, I'm sorry these things have been taking so long. It's super stressful here lately. Hoping to get some more writing done soon. It's funny because writing for you and my other beloved anons reduces my stress but I need to be less stressed to write sometimes, lol 😆.

Warnings: office romance? fluff

Word Count: 1580

     People say office romances never turn out well. Especially if you’re dating your boss. After all, your boss might give you special treatment or promotions. That being said, you and Sabo were an exception, an outlier to the statistic. The two of you had been working at the same office for years, you’d watched his promotion from working beside you to being your new boss, watched him deal with the worst of the department’s problems, and helped him celebrate some of the department’s greatest achievements. 

     Likewise, he’d been there for you as well. The year that nobody seemed to care about your birthday, the raise for finishing that ‘impossible’ project, and the one time when you snuck a kitten into the office because it was just outside the building and you didn’t have time to take it to a shelter until after work. It seemed that whenever there was something big that happened to one of you, the other was there to share in it. Of course, nobody knew about your little office romance. Neither of you wanted to risk the rumors, the scandal, or the accusations that would be sent your way. To say nothing of HR getting involved or needing to transfer departments simply due to the fact that the two of you were together. 

     It wasn’t like Sabo actually gave you special treatment at work. Quite the opposite, he treated you like every other employee, expecting nothing but your best and you were quite happy to give it your all. There’d even been a few times where he’d been forced to call you into his office because you’d messed up. Granted, when you messed up, he wasn’t nearly as hard on you as others, but it wasn’t due to giving you special treatment. Only that he could have a calm, serious conversation about what you’d messed up. Most of your coworkers had to be handled in a different manner, he wasn’t dating them, he couldn’t just say “angel, you messed up, if you needed more time, we could have canceled our date.” or “I know I tell the others to come to me if you need help, but I’m literally in the other room. You don’t exactly have an excuse not to come to me.” 

     Sabo sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. There was another big project due at the end of the month, another ‘world will end if we don’t finish this on time’ project. He hated these projects so much, hated his bosses so much for projects like this. Acting like they had sticks up their asses and not giving a damn about who suffered from the long hours forced on their employees. Always giving deadlines that were far too short for his liking. It was as if they purposefully gave a shorter than necessary deadline. He’d change that one day, he’d climb in the ranks and become high enough to change things. He’d never accept projects unless he knew they could be finished without working his employees to death and he’d fire anyone who treated their employees like shit!

     A knock on his door drew him out of his thoughts, looking up to see your head peeking in through the cracked open door.

     “Hey, You got time for a short break? I got your favorite for dinner.” you called softly, holding up a bag of food and gently shaking it. Sabo smiled and sat up in his chair, beckoning you in.

     “What are you still doing here, Dove? Shouldn’t you be at home?” he asked as you set the food on the desk.

     “How can I go home and sit around when I know you’re pushing yourself so hard to get this project done in time? You know I hate going home to an empty apartment.” you said, giving him a sympathetic smile.

     “I know, but I don’t want you to overwork yourself. You need sleep and time to relax, not spend time in an empty office, alone.” he said, reaching over his desk and caressing your cheek.

     “What, you mean like you’re always doing? Sabo, love, you’ve fallen asleep in your office 5 times in the last 2 weeks trying to get this done. You’ve missed 3 meals and eaten in your office 8 times. The sooner I help you finish this, the sooner you can relax.” you said with a small chuckle, leaning into his hand.

     “Have I really? I’m sorry, Angel. I don’t mean to be for so long. You know I prefer the comfort of our bed.” he said, running his hand through his hair again as you pulled the food out.

     “I know, that’s why I’m still here. So we can finish this sooner. Let me help, we’ll get it wrapped up faster this way. You know I’m capable of taking care of things.” you offered, handing him some food and utensils. 

     “I know, I know things would go faster if we did them together, but I don’t want your health to suffer because of this. I hate seeing you look so tired and worn out.” it was true, he’d never felt so bad as when you overworked yourself helping him with these stupid deadlines. The times you had fallen asleep on his desk late at night trying to help him. The dark circles and bags under your eyes when you’d stayed up 3 nights in a row to finish a ‘our company will go out of business if we don’t finish this’ project. And he’d never forgive himself for the time he’d passed out from overworking and given you the scare of your life. He’d woken up to the paramedics in his office as you hovered around him with tears brimming in your eyes. He’d had a talk with his bosses and HR after that one. They hadn’t given him another one of those after that. He was one of their better employees and did great work, they didn’t want to lose him. 

     “And what about your health? You know I hate seeing your health suffer too. This way we can split the work this way, that way neither of us is too overworked.” you offered, making him sigh. You were right. He knew you were right.

     “Alright, alright. Let's finish this part up then we’ll go home; and once we finish this project, we’ll take a weekend trip to get away and relax.” he offered. You nodded in agreement as the two of you started to eat. 

     It was a few weeks later that the project was finished, Sabo taking a moment to lean back in his chair and relax. The blond hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep in his chair until you were gently shaking him awake, a soft, sweet smile on your lips.

     “Dove? Did… did I fall asleep in my chair again?” Sabo asked groggily, sitting up straight and rubbing his eyes.

     “Yeah, don’t worry though, nobody really noticed. We all just thought you were working on the next thing you were given. I wanted to let you sleep, but it’s not good for you to fall asleep in your chair like this. Besides, if you fall asleep here, you’ll have a hard time falling asleep at home and I have the perfect evening all planned out for us so you can relax and enjoy yourself.” you said with a grin. Sabo looked at you and chuckled, shaking his head.

     “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? I’m supposed to be doing nice things for you so you can relax?” he asked, his eyes closing as he yawned.

     “I’m not the one carrying the weight of the world at work. Besides, no one ever said I can’t do things for you as well.” 

     “You spoil me, Dove.” he said softly, pulling you close, sitting you in his lap and nuzzling his face into your neck.

     “I spoil you? Sabo, you’re always doing so much for me. This is the least I can do for you.” you said with a laugh, enjoying the way he held you so lovingly.

     “Mmm, no, pretty sure you spoil me more. Always staying late with me, getting me my favorites and making sure I don’t overwork myself. I’m just repaying the favor.” he ‘argued’, grinning mischievously. He loved playing this little ‘game’ with you. Who’s actually spoiling who and why. How you deserve everything he’s done for you and how you think he deserves the world. Always ending in sweet, loving kisses and endless ‘I love you’s. 

     “As much as you know I’d love to continue this, I promised the others I was just asking about our next project and they’ll get suspicious if I take too long.” you whispered, pouting at the idea of your sweet moment being interrupted. Sabo sighed and nodded as well, letting you go.

     “Alright, alright, but don’t work too hard. I heard from a very reliable source that you’ve got a date at a nice restaurant tonight and you don’t want to be late for that, do you?” Sabo asked teasingly.

     “You’re right, my darling husband is spoiling me again and I can’t let all of his hard work go to waste.” the both of you laughed as you reluctantly headed for the door, giving him one last longing look before returning to work. You had to admit, you really loved working with him, loved how the two of you had somehow managed to make an office romance work.

[beatingdrumspouringwine]

hello hello beautiful people of the internet, i’m feeling Some Sort of Way tonight and would like to wax poetic about my views on Dionysos’ appearance:

i think of Him only as a Him because it subverts the image of the god i used to worship. gone is the He/Him who thinks of me as a disgrace, as something to be changed, as something to be hated. in its stead is the He/Him who takes my hands and truly claims me as His own, just as i am.

also He’s a He/Him as in He has top surgery and phalloplasty scars in gold, and a He/Him like a butch lesbian in the 1950s using those pronouns so His femme wife Ariadne can have a semblance of a “normal” life, and a He/Him like some super feminine gay guy, and a He/Him like you’d call a particularly friendly cow/cat/snake/other wild creature.

He’s got long, dark hair that falls down His back, and always seems to have just come undone. His skin is dark, and seems to change colors as though He were perpetually sitting under a sunlit tree - lighter to darker, darker to lighter. He smells of frankincense, but somehow it’s not the kind you get in churches. His body is soft, and seems to pose no threat - appearances are nothing when you have power. He is painted with red paints depicting fearsome animals, but also vineyard scenes.

Dionysos is constantly wearing crowns of something. He’s wearing crowns of ivy, or of vibrant flowers and foliage that Ariadne makes for Him. two bull horns sprout from His head; they are decked out in brilliant golden rings and chains - there is irony in this, and He knows it.

He wears clothing (sometimes), but what that clothing is is never certain. it is soft and warm, but smooth and cool at the same time. it is something that is fitting of a King, but can be worn to run wild in the woods. usually it’s a dress, sometimes it’s simply a fawnskin draped over His shoulders.

His voice is something loud and chaotic, but only a few are blessed enough to ever truly hear it. it strikes fear into the heart, but is followed by intense peace. He never speaks alone - the retinue that follows Him does plenty of speaking as well.

And, finally, He brings with Him a beautiful joy. it’s a joy that is felt in a gently weighted hand while praying, it’s that joy that comes from fruits given by strangers, it’s that first rush of tipsiness in a bottle of wine, it’s the feeling of wildflowers and grasses brushing against your ankles, it’s the first breath of warm air in the spring and the first breath of cool air in the fall. sunny days and starry nights are celebrated equally joyfully under Him, and He holds His followers through every day.

[queeryouthassemble]

Join QYA's Let Trans Athletes Play Movement!

Send us an ask or see our website for more information :)

[ID: Six illustrated people stand over a beige box. Blue and pink words in large all-caps text inside thee box read "Let Trans Athletes Play" with smaller white all-caps text reading "Visit queeryouthassemble.org to learn more." People are of diverse heights, races, and clothing. One is using a wheelchair, and one holds a progress pride flag, others hold sports equipment. The background has various sports balls and pucks. End ID.]

[ID: Four illustrated people stand facing one another at the bottom-center of the page. They are of diverse heights, races, and clothing, and some hold different sports equipment. Three people are standing, and one is using a wheelchair. Three lines of all-caps text above the people read "This is a nationwide movement to end transgender sports bans by playing sports." End ID.]

[ID: Black text fills the page, reading "As transgender athletes, we have been forced into silence over an issue that affects us personally: our participation in sports. There are some who believe that simply being transgender creates an unfair advantage, others who say that is not the case, and many who do not know what to think. While opinions are divided, what is a fact is that transgender athletes are being unfairly discriminated against through these bills. That is why throughout the summer, we are inviting everyone, regardless of your identity, to play sports with us at Let Trans Athletes Play events across the country." In the bottom right corner, a small illustrated femme person sits with a skateboard in their lap. End ID.]

[ID: Black all-caps text covers the top half of the page. It is a quote from QYA volunteer and athlete Xander Grey, who uses he/him pronouns. Text reads "I've been told I can't compete because I refuse to wear a female swimsuit. It would be amazing to be a part of a community that celebrates and uplifts me rather than refuses to let me compete. I've been so many firsts in my community and I hate having all that pressure put on me. For once, I'd like to be a part of a bigger first." In the bottom left corner, three people of varying heights, races, and clothing face each other. One is using a wheelchair, while the other two stand. Two people hold sports equipment. End ID.]

[ID: Large white all-caps text at the top of the page reads "LTAP Overview." Below, there are four quadrants, each with an illustration. In the top-left, three people of varying heights, races, and clothing face each other. One is using a wheelchair, while the other two stand. Two people hold sports equipment. Below them is the word "sports." In the bottom-left there is a person with blue hair holding a sign that says "I love being trans." Below them is the word "protests." In the top-right, a person with purple hair holds some toys. Below them says "games." In the bottom-right, a person with red hair holds a pamphlet that has a trans flag and binder drawing on it. Below them says "learning." End ID.]

[ID: Large all-caps white text at top of page reads "get involved." Two smaller white all-caps subtitled read "host an event" and "attend an event." Smaller black text below "host an event" reads "We're looking for organizers and organizations to host Let Trans Athletes Play events across the country this summer! Visit our website (queeryouthassemble.org) to learn how," and text below "attend an event" reads "Regardless of if you're an athlete, non-athlete, transgender, or cisgender, we encourage you to attend an event near you. There's something for everyone, regardless of athletic ability!" End ID.]

[ID: Black all-caps text covers the top half of the page. It is a quote from QYA art consultant and former athlete Jesse Young-Paulson, who uses they/he pronouns. Text reads "Even considering the competitive nature of the games, being able to see other people like me on the field was a moment of radical inclusion and visibility—the type of visibility where you don’t feel hypervisible, but seen for yourself and part of a queer sports community." At the bottom of the page are five people, of diverse heights, races, and clothing. One person has visible top surgery scars, and holds a ball. Another person holds a progress pride flag. End ID.]

[bohnsky]

I am not happy at all. No I am but also I'm not. I did not wake up at 6:30 in the morning on a sunday just to watch my favorites dnf and listen to Ralf Schumacher rant about my love Checo (at least he knows that Checo fans dislike him). Only the McLaren double podium makes this race okay (not really but I'm happy for them) and Ferrari didn't fuck up which is good.

So anyway here are my favorite drivers 4,5 months into liking f1:

Because he was in the paddock this weekend, I have to include Seb again. My one and only. I love him, he deserves the world, protect him at all cost. When he said it hurts to watch instead of driving himself because Suzuka is his favorite track. Emotional damage.

But he seemed so happy to be back in the paddock and to teach the grid about bees. He's so passionate, it's beautiful. And we got Sewis content.

1. Alex Albon

This (hopefully) won't change as long as I put Seb in a different category (the Seb category).

Just today I saw a comment saying that you simply can't hate Alex and that he is the least disliked driver and I love that. He deserves all the love.

My heart broke when he retired. I am not okay with how things turned out here. Everyone said they love Suzuka, why is it so mean to me?

2. Sergio Perez

I hate to admit that I almost put him on third this week because I wasn't as obsessed with him as I was during the last few weeks, but omg did I get mad when Ralf Schumacher started ranting about him, which made me rethink that decision. I love Checo my precious. This whole race was a disaster for him (and me) and yes some of it was his fault, I realize that, but I refuse to think about it. Just as I refuse to think about his seat. And I refuse to talk about it with anyone who doesn't agree with me. (I don't mind people who don't agree with me, I just don't want to hear it, not when it comes to Checo my love)

I just hope he is okay mentally and can enjoy the celebrations with the team.

Also I usually drink a red bull for every race but I didn't want one at 7 in the morning, so that race must have been the punishment for me not drinking my racely red bull.

3. Charles Leclerc

My man, again on 4th must suck. So close to the podium. But honestly I'm just happy that Ferrari didn't actively try to fuck up his race again.

4. Lewis Hamilton

Sewis content yay :D

Lewis always seems so happy when he's with Seb and that makes me happy. These two are my f1 comfort ship, they never fail to make me smile.

But also unecessary Merc bitch fight, I hope they are civil about it off track.

5. Lance Stroll

This time I had to put Lance here. I just adore him and it literally breaks my heart that he has such a bad season. To me he seems like he always stays true to himself even with all the bullshit he constantly gets and I love that for him. And even if I want more Lance content I love that he stays away from media as much as he does.

He was doing really well this race and I thought this could be a good one for once, for my little Lancy shaped heart, but no. Everything went wrong today just kill me already.

Honerable mentions:

Lando. I'm so happy about the McLaren double podium and that Lando has so many podiums lately. Also I've been watching a lot of Quadrant lately and I'm totally digging it.

Oscar. Obviously, I'm so happy for him. He is an amazing driver and a precious little baby. Go McLaren!

Valtteri. He's really gone through it today. I like him a lot, he might even be in the top 10 and I just want him to be happy. This race was not it. Also it took me ages to learn how to spell Valtteri. I always wrote Vallteri or Valterri. But now I know.

Max. Congrats my guy. I was thinking, I'm a little sad that I joined f1 during his peak. I wish I could've watched him grow and become the driver he is now. Also his fucking hair. Please I just want to touch it.

Hulknussen. I just want to talk about them because it seems like no one else does. To me they are peak enemies to friends (to lovers). But I don't like Haas the team. The drivers are great.

The Alpha Tauris. Listen, I am not okay with the whole seat situation in Alpha Tauri or even all of Red Bull. I love that Yuki and Danny get to drive next season, but what about Liam? He is literally outperforming Yuki. He should get a permanent seat. Why aren't they giving it to Liam? What are they planning? Please don't scare me and my Checo heart. Why can't everyone get a seat? Why did I get into a sport where there are only 20 fucking seats? Why does everyone have to be so lovable?

George. I was thinking about George getting Alex this his seat and I am thankful. That's why George is here on this list today.

The 2nd William seat. Is not a driver but it stresses me out. I don't think that Logan will get it again. I want Mick to get it. Please give me your opinions. Who will get the 2nd Williams seat next season?

[seannesruins]

I'm so used to being on my own that compromises feel suffocating. I'm not sure if OA lang ako or what but I while I miss my girlfriend, I also miss being alone.

I miss eating out without having to order white rice. I miss splurging on fancy restaurants, eating overpriced pasta paired with an overpriced cup of coffee in Makati CBD, the extra greasy Pizza in Poblacion that my friends and I eat on the streets after downing 3k on cocktails and a mix of booze. I miss getting wasted that I tripped on my 3 inch heels and sprained my ankle for a week.

I'm so tired of spending 1k on Filipino food. (No hate but my dad cooks Filipino food everyday. I want to spend money on something I don't get to try everyday.)

I miss watching movies in the cinemas. Granted, I have 5 active streaming subscriptions (Netflix, Disney+, Prime Video, HBO Go, and JuanFlix) but there's still something special with the old SM Cinema's busted seats, and Ayala Cinema's busted speakers. I miss the crowd's gasps in between scenes. I miss seeing couples on a date, holding each other tight in the dark, those two senior citizens who finally had their schedules match after decades and decided to watch Poor Things. I miss catching glimpses of celebrities when the lights turn on after the credits roll, like how I fangirl over Erik Matti after catching the screening of Buybust. I miss the big screen, seeing Cillian Murphy's piercing eyes on IMAX.

There's something special about the cinema experience that home streaming just can't suffice. I love cuddling with my girl but I'm so tired of it being over a Filipino mainstream film. I want our popcorn filled hands to hold over shitty seats that won't recline over a European black comedy.

I miss having my nails longer, painted in gray or tan or even red at times.

I miss wearing lipstick.

I miss having my hair side shaved.

I miss listening to weird underground music, or heartbreaking songs without it being translated as me being unhappy but simply because I just liked the song.

I miss talking to other people, without being doubted.

I miss going to events, even though I'll be there alone and I'll mostly lurk in the background. I just love being immersed somewhere, anywhere.

I miss not having to defend myself over the smallest things, as if I'm always on trial.

I miss the time when I didn't feel like I have to lose a part of myself just to be loved. I miss not having to compromise the things that I want to fit someone's definition of love.

I miss the time when this is just a post of my own personal thoughts. Because now, when she sees this, she would translate this as me being unhappy with our relationship.

I just miss breathing, and it feels like I haven't been doing that for a while now.

I just miss being treated like the princess for once. I miss being told to dress up. I miss the fancy meals, the flowers, the movies.

Am I asking for too much?

But I am in love so I could never ask for any of this.

So I'll wait for her to be home. We'll order another rice meal, watch Netflix and chill.

And hope that eventually I stop asking myself for the life I used to have.

[super-unpredictable98]

I Put a Spell on You (Misfits x Hocus Pocus Crossover)

Word Count: 2k Warning: Strong language, mention of death a/n: Here's my first contribution to @sheehalloween 2022. I hope you all understand I grew up watching this movie in Portuguese and only just recently watched the original, so I have no idea how to write the 1600s English the Sanderson sisters speak lol

(Masterlist)

"I don't see how this is any different from the Community Centre party," Nathan grumbled, hating that unfamiliar feeling from being so far away from home.

"What do you mean? You don't see a difference between a party at the Wertham Community Centre and a party in Salem? The city of witch trials?" Lydia laughed.

That year, she had the idea to take the gang to America so they could celebrate Halloween in style. As fun as the parties were back home, there's nowhere else in the world that takes the holiday as seriously as the USA. 

Kelly, Nikki, and Curtis didn't really adhere to the dress code, simply wearing dark makeup and clothes instead of a proper costume. 

On the other hand, Simon and Alisha were dressed as Lloyd and Yor Forger, his idea mostly because he wanted to see his wife in that black dress. 

Lydia and Nathan were dressed as Fran Bow and Itward from the game he had never played, but more often than not, he would accept whatever costume his wife wanted him to wear.

"Well, I suppose you'd rather do something else then?" Lydia asked. "We could hit a double feature of some old horror films, if you really want to we can try trick or treating..."

"No! We do this every year. Let's find a haunted house, not one with scare actors and shit, a real one! We're in Salem, there must be a real haunted house somewhere!"

"No way, you'll get there and you'll totally shit yourself," Curtis laughed. 

"You're the biggest chicken here, you'll just run away and leave us there," Kelly agreed. 

"Me?" Nathan screamed, extremely offended. "I ain't scared! I wanna see a real ghost!"

"Don't you see real ghosts all the time?" Simon asked. 

"Fine, y'twat! Then I wanna see a real werewolf! A real vampire! A real witch!" 

Right then, a pair of teenagers rushed into the venue. They all looked a mess and were absolutely terrified.

"Everyone! Everyone! Cut the music, it's an emergency!" The girl jumped on stage and grabbed the microphone from the vocalist of the band that had been playing. "We have a serious warning! You are all in danger!" 

"Fire! Is there a fire?" Alisha looked around. 

"Three hundred years ago, the Sanderson Sisters used to bewitch people, now they're back from the grave! The legend isn't a legend, it's real! This boy lit up the black flame candle at the house in the forest, and he's a virgin! I know it sounds dumb, but it's true!"

"He's a virgin? What a loser, am I right?" Nathan snorted.

Nobody was taking the group seriously, but to be fair it all seemed like a bit they planned, like some sort of skit. 

"What are they talking about?" Curtis asked. 

"The legend of the Sanderson sisters, they say three witches were killed centuries ago during the witch trials for eating the souls of children to stay young. They cursed the town with a prediction that said they would come back to life for one night if a virgin lit up the black flame candle," Lydia explained. "I read about it in the brochure, did nobody read the brochure?"

"You have to listen to us!" The boy, allegedly the virgin who lit the candle, took the microphone. "They're coming for your kids, no one is safe. They are brewing a potion to steal their souls! They're right there!"

"These kids are hilarious," Nate chuckled.

To corroborate the idea that it was all an act, the lights flickered and everyone cheered as three middle-aged women parted their way through the crowd. They wore elaborate dresses and makeup, the youngest was a beautiful blonde, the middle one was a clumsy brunette, and the oldest had red hair and huge teeth like a rabbit. 

"Nate was wrong, this party is way better than the ones back home," Nikki clapped, entertained by the act.

"Thank you for the marvelous introduction," the red-headed one said before she started to sing the song that was playing before they arrived, I Put a Spell on You. 

Everyone was laughing and having a great time, except for the poor teenagers and Lydia, who somehow felt like something was wrong. Nobody was that good of an actor, the kids were actually desperate.

"Don't listen to them! They're trying to bewitch you!" The boy pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears.

"Hello, Salem! My name is Winifred, what's yours?" The oldest witch climbed on stage, followed by her sisters.

"Nathan, do you smell something rotten?" Lydia asked.

"It wasn't me!" He held his hands up defensively. 

"No, you wanker, like a dead body! We all know that smell quite well, ain't it?" She looked around and her stomach twisted when she spotted a real zombie chasing the teens around the party while everybody danced. "Oh shit, oh shit, they might be telling the truth, we gotta get out of here!"

"What? No, you're bein' paranoid, this is fun!" He insisted. "Tell me you're not believin' this hocus pocus... Aren't you a little too old to believe in witches?"

"We're superheroes! Everyone is chanting what this old lady is singing, don't you think this is a little weird?" 

"Let loose, Lyds!" Simon giggled, looking like he was actually under some kind of spell. He was never that relaxed, ever, it just wasn't in the Bellamy nature. "Just dance with us!"

Meanwhile, on stage, the three witches were talking among themselves, planning their next move when Mary, the middle one, turned towards the audience with an evil lopsided grin as she sniffed something.

"Winnie! Winnie, I smell-"

"Children? Yes, you moron, there is a child right there! Now how do we snatch her?" Winifred elbowed her on the stomach.

"No! I smell... Immortality."

"Immortality?" Sarah, the youngest and prettiest one, gasped. "How come?"

"Oh fuck!" Lydia grabbed her husband's hand and made a run for the door, leaving the others wondering what had gotten into her. 

Seeing the young couple running away left it pretty clear to Winifred who was the immortal one they were smelling.

"Come on, sisters! After them!"

"Where are we even goin'? We don't know the town, we'll get lost," Nathan protested.

"Better to get lost than be eaten by witches! I refuse to have your pretty face fuel those old hags' youth potion." 

"What are you saying about us?" Winifred drawled, riding just above them on her broomstick. 

"Run!" Lydia cried, but it was hopeless. The witches were way faster flying than they were running.

When they reached a dead end, she started to think of a plan. She didn't have to outpower them, just outwit them. How hard could it be to bamboozle three women who died in the late 1600s? 

"What happened to you? What made you cry blood?" Mary asked, taking Lydia's face and squishing it between her hands. 

"Seeing your ugly faces!" She spat.

"Oh, how rude..."

The Fran Bow costume consisted of a yellow dress with a blue bow, a messy brown bob, a jar of red pills (which was actually her purse), and tears of blood staining her face aside from the fake blood covering her hands.

"Is the girl the immortal one?" Winifred asked.

"No, it's the gentleman, the nice gentleman behind this skeleton glamour," Mary said, referring to the makeup for the Itward costume.

"Can I play with him, Winnie?" Sarah giggled, jumping at the opportunity, her hands snaking under his blazer as she drew his gaze to her cleavage. "I love men with curly hair."

"So does my wife!" Nate yelped, not knowing how to react. "Look, you're cute, wouldn't push you off the bed, but I'm married," he flashed his wedding ring.

"That is not a problem, your wife doesn't need to know," she brought his hand to her chest and he quickly pulled it away, turning to check how angry Lyddie was.

"She already knows, I'm right here!" Lydia yelled.

"Is the immortal gentleman married to a child?" Sarah grimaced.

"I'm not a child, halfwit! I'm dressed as a child! I'm a grown woman!"

"They speak with interesting accents, Winnie," Mary pointed out. "Could they be travelers?" 

"Actually we are! We are from England, from a dark horrible place called Wertham. The three of you don't scare me!" Lydia crossed her arms defiantly. 

"Technically I'm from Ireland, but the point still stands," Nathan added quietly.

"Quit the chatter! You look thirsty, boy," Winifred held up a bottle with a smoking green liquid and tried to force it down Nathan's throat. "Just drink it, it'll be so much easier if you cooperate."

"He won't fucking cooperate! You're not gonna eat my husband!" Lyddie demanded. "You stupid old bitch!"

"Oh, quiet! Boooook!" The oldest witch called and a book with a leather cover and one eye flew into her hand. "Did you hear it, sisters? This foolish girl has no manners at all, I think we ought to correct her."

"How, Winnie? How?" Marry rubbed her hands together. "Can I kill her? She looks so plump, she must be tasty too..."

"And then I get to play with her widower!" Sarah added, bouncing in excitement.

"You bumbling idiots!" Winifred pushed the book against her sister's chest, nearly knocking her down. "Let us do to her what we did to the Binx boy, it worked so well the first time."

"You wanna turn me into an immortal cat?" Lydia winced. "Well, good fucking luck!"

"Twist the bones and break the back," she started.

"Itchita kupita melaka mystika..." the other two witches chanted.

Before Winifred could try to get the second part of the incantation out, Lydia punched her square in the jaw and Nathan simply watched it, marveled. It wasn't their first time dealing with supervillains and the solution was more often than not violent and simple.

The older witch fell with a screech and her sisters quickly rushed to help her up, muttering questions to make sure she was okay.

"You pest! Dirty harlot, how dare you?" 

Winifred pointed her veiny hand at the girl and a flash of green lightning left the tips of her long, bony fingers, but before her spell could have any effect Lydia covered herself and Nathan in a force field. The magic bounced back and hit the caster like a gunshot.

"How d'you like that?" Nate taunted. 

"The overgrown child is a witch too!" Sarah's eyes grew horrified.

"Yes! And the immortal warlock is already mine! Fuck off, you cunts!" 

"Warlock?" She gasped.

"I- I'm a man witch, yeah, I totally am!" Nathan nodded, producing a bottle of water out of thin air and proceeding to drink it. "I'm like Harry Potter!"

"Harry Potter? I think we knew him, wasn't he the one who died in that barn fire when he tried to roast a little girl like a pig?" Mary whispered.

"The point is, sisters, he is one of ours. You can't hurt your own, it's... Unethical."

"Unethical? Unethical... What does unethical mean, Winnie?" She asked.

"Clearly it is some sort of word from their corner of the world, how am I supposed to know?" Winifred hissed. 

"Unethical means it is morally wrong, you can't steal from another coven. We are already so few and rare to find, if you kill him for your potion, you are no better than the people who burned you at the stake!" Lydia proclaimed, still covering them with her thin blue field, scared of what they might do otherwise. 

The three sisters looked at each other completely confused. Was she... Right? Besides, wouldn't it be easier to just collect a bigger number of children, who are defenseless and wouldn't fight back? It wasn't immortality, but-

"We were hung actually... That isn't important. How did you become immortal, boy?" Winifred asked finally.

"Oh, that was easy! I was struck by lightning," Nathan explained.

"Struck by lightning, I think we can do that. Book, show me a spell to conjure rain!" 

While they were distracted by the idea to become immortal by other means, Nathan and Lydia ran the other way, escaping the dead end street and finding their friends waiting by the entrance where the Halloween party was.

"Where were you? We've been lookin' everywhere!" Kelly scolded.

"Sorry, we were nearly killed by witches, one of them wanted to turn me into a black cat and eat Nathan's soul!" Lyddie sighed, finally lifting their protection.

"Oh, I guess we've been in worse situations before," Simon shrugged. 

"Definitely, this was nothing compared to the Virtue virgins," Alisha agreed.

"Or the crazy guy from the video game," Nikki held her fiancé's arm.

"Yeah, they were pretty stupid... Does anyone fancy a drink? Just nothing green please," Lydia groaned, followed by the others as she headed to a nearby pub, hoping the black flame candle would go out soon.

Tag List: @seanfalco @firstpersonnarrator @elliethesuperfruitlover

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

Heyy, sooo, ummm, are you gonna talk about your mcu rewrite? Cuz I would love to hear about it

Ahhhh

Yes

Okay,

So.

There’s a lot I won’t be able to talk about because of the sheer vastness of the mcu atm but like if you’ve got any characters/films you want to know about in more detail, I’m here for you.

First off, Wanda things because I’m brainrotting on her specifically atm:

Wanda is an actual young ‘child’ (19), and is a Jewish Roma girl from Transia (a fictional country from the comics, which was both her place of birth and the location of Wundagore). Her powers are a little more specific as of what I’ve brainrotted on, and unlike what MOM did with it, she can’t just do anything from the get go. It’s mostly those magical blast pew pew things she does, as she has increased control over them due to simply having to choose how much energy to put into it and where it’s getting tossed, but she also sometimes dabbles in magnetic manipulation (a nod to who remains as her father in my rewrite), telekinesis (though she isn’t fond of seeing inside of people’s heads), the weird walking thing she does that I love, and she accidentally does some probability and reality manipulation whenever something is really stressing her or she’s not paying full attention to something. She’s really into things like protecting the environment and pacifism, which often leads to her almost starting arguments with Tony, the embodiment of the kind of people that environmental protection and pacifism hate. She also keeps her emo look, and dark hair, she just gets red or ginger highlights occasionally.

Also, Vision, because they’re a pair, he chooses how he looks, which can be very useful for the avengers occasionally. Only issue is that he can’t change his eyes, which are permanently all robot-y. He was tasked with keeping Wanda company when she first moved to the compound because Bruce worried she would isolate herself and that would make her worse. They chose Vision because he couldn’t be manipulated and he could answer pretty much any question she had, and adapt to make her comfortable. But he seemed to be the one to get comfortable, and soon found himself enjoying her company significantly more than the others, mostly because she showed interest in the philosophical questions and such that he found himself unable to answer due to his lack of true human experience, and she would try and held despite not having a true human experience herself. As a quote I used in my Wanda drawing said, they’re both just trying to be people together at the same time, despite their lack of real humanity. Oh also Wanda pierces his face a whole bunch, which of course isn’t permanent, but he tends to keep the bridge and eyebrow piercing, because she likes them on him, and he likes to make her happy. He’s also got some thunder thighs on him which makes him a prime cuddle companion.

Uhh

Now

Uh

Captain Marvel, Carol Danvers, Universe’s biggest lesbian (put that on a t-shirt and she’d wear it). The physical embodiment of a millennial woman but she’s not a millennial woman. I don’t have much to say except she’s gay and that she picks on Fury for aging. Also, Mar-Vell, her mentor, a dude and it’s ‘ambiguous’ whether or not he died (he lived), because I need my gays and he’s gotta be a dude and living for me to get more gays. I can’t explain now. But it’s needed.

Bucky keeps his long hair. Also, gay, and dating Sam. Because I need me some homosexuals. He doesn’t know he’s dating Sam, Sam doesn’t know he’s dating Bucky, but they’re dating. Work husbands at the least. He’s also Jewish, and whilst he lost a little bit of faith (not in the not believing in god way, in the ‘done so much bad god doesn’t care for me anymore’ way) he made sure to celebrate Chanukkah and still follow his religion whenever Wanda was around because he didn’t want to accidentally cause her to lose faith too.

Tony doesn’t make those weird misogynistic and transphobic comments that he does, or any of the other dodgy ones. Because ew.

Bruce’s DID is acknowledged, and that the hulk was not caused by the radiation but the radiation simply caused the hulk to take a physical form. Because that’s just… what it is in canon they just don’t talk about it in the mcu. Therapy sessions are common for him because he struggles a lot with his trauma growing up/continuing on and his general mental health. Smart hulk doesn’t happen because I don’t like it. Also his romance with Nat isn’t really a thing. They’re close friends, he lends her hoodies and such, she helps him out when he’s all green, but they’re only friends.

On the subject of Nat, the whole ‘a monster because she doesn’t have the ability to reproduce’ thing is dumb as shit. She thinks she’s a monster because she killed people and even now has a hard time feeling bad about it because of her conditioning, but Bruce is there to comfort her because he’s on the opposite end of the spectrum. He himself has never killed but he feels the weight of everyone the Hulk has and it’s a huge issue. She would also foster young girls if she wasn’t too busy saving the world all the time because it would make her feel better to know she’s potentially keeping girls out of the red room.

Thor is always fat Thor. The man drinks and eats obscene amounts, because as a god that is his right, and so it shows. And it’s not a joke about anything, because the mcu rewriters in my brain arent insensitive pricks. Also because I’m kinda into that but.. shhh. He keeps his mismatched eyes for TLAT, which has a completely different vibe in my mind. He’s also still a major player in the later phases and remains around for long enough to do one real cool scene from Empyre (The sword and the hammer scene I call it, because it shows off the magical capabilities of Excelsior by using it to hold up Mjölnir)

And there’s more but I’m tired so I’m gonna stop here. Lmk if there’s anyone/anything you want to know more about.

[dam-peace]

Ok Had To Take A Picture Of My Ask Before I Forgot.

I Almost Fucked The Picture Up Because I Nearly Refreshed The Page.

Tobias

Tobias has zero interest in Halloween, he's never celebrated the holiday before and refuses to start now. Especially since the holiday itself is an embodiment of everything he hates. Dressing up in ridiculous clothing, partying, people behaving like animals in heat, ignoring reality to live in some fantasy land for one night.

People knocking at his door multiple times in one night, for candy of all things. Teaching children to talk to and accept gifts from strangers etc. And the mere fact that the Detective invited him out with ulterior motives, would push him even further not to attend lol.

Costume: None 🚫🙅🏾‍♂️❌

Elias

Elias actually enjoys the holiday, especially with the nature of his abilities the holiday itself is personal to him for more reasons than one. Which is why he actively celebrates Halloween every year, though much different than most.

Which is why, as much as Elias would like to attend the Halloween party with you, especially if there's sexual rewards to be had. He'll unfortunately have to turn you down, as this time of year he has somewhere much more important to be. with a very special person waiting for him.....

Costume:

For his own personal Halloween celebration, Elias dresses in all black as usual. Though with the added effect of turning his face into a human skull. Painted to perfection, hair slicked back with some added flairs to his devilish, pitch-black designer suit. As well as a beautiful bouquet of black and red roses in hand.

Nicholas

Well Nick's a tricky one, because if you'd just kept your cool and casually asked him to go, he might feel inclined to do so for fun. Depending on his workload, though if you made it obvious that you were flirting with him, he'd politely though firmly refuse the invitation.

Stating that he has other prior engagements, which in all fairness he most likely does. Though, the main reason for his refusal to attend the party, is because he simply wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea. And neither will he entertain such silly notions of being either romantically or sexually entangled with you.

Costume: James Bond

Though is he were to attend the party, he'd keep his costume choice painfully simple though tasteful. Expect him to be dropping movie quotes the entire night, and being quite debonair.

Kacey

Oh Kacey is DOWN to party, she'll jump up at your invite, excited to pick out a kickass costume. Even matching with you if you like, though no matter what she chooses to wear, she'll quickly become the life of the party. By the end of the night, she'll be leaving with multiple phone numbers. Without taking any notice that the other party goers were trying to hit on her, the Detective included lol.

Costume: Toph from The Avatar

Fun fact: Kacey's a big fan of 'the Avatar,' her favourite being the 'legend of Aang' series. And low and behold, Toph is the badass who's had her in an absolute chokehold the very first day she turned up on the big screen. So naturally she had to pay homage to the great Toph Bei Fong, I mean come on!

Bonus Section: When you arrive at Team 1's door dressed up as Perry the Platypus.

Tobias: Slams the door right in your face without so much as a word.

Nicholas: *Trying his best not to cringe* "Oh....hello Detective, that's....an interesting choice of costume."

Kacey: "Awesome! does it come with the hat too?! OMG do the thing, do Perry's growl! Can you do his growl?! You gotta do his growl!"

Elias: *Slowly raises a brow*, looking you up and down in silent observation. Then utters a deep, nonchalant "Nice", whilst nodding over to you.

[vannahfanfics]

Recalcitrance

Word Count: 3460

Fluff, Light Angst, Romance, Humor, Idol AU, Quirkless AU

Summary: Kiruka loves her job. She loves her client, too—and that's a problem.

Hello, everyone! Here is my story for Troublemakers: A BNHA Villains Bang! Another opportunity to write a rarepair, hehehe~ Please be sure to check out my partner StacyWalters’ art! 

Kiruka loved her job. 

Of course, a lot of people said that. A fair number of them probably meant it, too. But Kiruka doubted that most of them meant it with the sheer, unequivocal conviction that she did—she loved her job. She loved it down to the very fibers of her being; she couldn’t imagine waking up a single day wanting to do something else. Because, quite simply, Kiruka Hasaki was born to be a beautician. 

Kiruka had always possessed a keen interest in cosmetology, beginning from the moment she sat in her mother’s lap at the pediatrician’s office while she idly read a fashion magazine. While her mother had been preoccupied with the stylish clothes, Kiruka had zeroed in on the elegant up-dos, the bold cuts, the striking splashes of make-up on the models’ faces. As soon as they got home, Kiruka was rummaging through her mother’s beauty products, eager to recreate the works of art she’d seen in those hundred-some-odd pages. And once Kiruka had started, she’d never stopped, blazing her way through stylist competitions and cosmetology school and lucrative jobs. Until, finally, she had reached the pinnacle of a beautician’s career—being the personal stylist for a celebrity.

Kiruka loved her job. But ohhhhh, did she hate her client!

Touya Todoroki—stage name Dabi—was the most insufferable, incorrigible, intolerable man Kiruka had ever met! He was the rising star in the heady world of rock and roll, and ugh, did he know it. Kiruka could smell the pompousness on him the moment she’d walked into his personal dressing room for the first time; he was reclined lazily in the chair with his legs spread and his arm slung over the back, wearing a smirk like it was all he needed. Quite literally, the man was naked in her salon chair, nothing but a towel around his waist—and hanging too low, at that. Kiruka had screeched and pitched a fit at his utter gall, and he’d just silently watched her through it all, cyan eyes gleaming like will-o’-the-wisps all the while. 

When she was finished, flushed and chest heaving, he’d cleared his throat and pointed at her chest. 

“Your bra’s poppin’ out of your shirt, love. Might wanna calm your tits.” 

If it hadn’t been for the substantial pay raise Touya’s manager had offered her (while on her hands and knees begging Kiruka to stay), Kiruka would have left then and there. But more than that, she had her pride as a stylist; no matter how brutish the client, they deserved to look good. Of course, once Kiruka had gotten a closer look at Touya, she’d realized that he didn’t really need it. Par for the course, the sneering asshole was devilishly handsome. 

That didn’t stop Kiruka from tugging a little too hard on his hair when she combed it for the first time, of course. Revenge was all the sweeter when swift. She’d relished the hiss that pushed past his clenched teeth and the angry roll of his eyes into the back of his skull to glare at her. 

“Aw, did I hurt you?” she had cooed and patted his cheek. “Sorry, love. I’ll be more gentle.” 

And in one year, their relationship hadn’t grown much past that. Touya was still impossible, and Kiruka still dished out as much as she got. They bickered so often that everyone in Touya’s crew—including his bandmates—frequently asked her why she stayed. And every time, Kiruka would flip her red hair over her shoulder and scoff that the pay was good enough to put up with his sorry ass. In reality, though… It had never been about the pay. Kiruka loved what she did, and being a personal stylist to a rockstar meant that she was constantly steeped in fashion and make-up; she’d learned more in the last year than her entirety of beauty school. 

But more than that… Despite his juvenile wickedness, Touya treated her far better than any client she’d ever had, even the few other celebrities she’d serviced. Kiruka wanted for nothing. If she so much as mentioned to one of the other stylists a new piece of equipment she’d been eyeing, lo and behold, it would appear amidst her supplies within a few hours. After every performance, even if he’d sweated off all his make-up and ruined his hair, he treated her to extravagant dinners. Kiruka didn’t travel on commercial flights like the other stylists; no, she flew in the band’s private jet to be waited on hand and foot. Nor did she stay anywhere but in a penthouse suite adjacent to the band’s. The other stylists joked that Touya treated her more like his lover than a stylist sometimes, and if Kiruka really thought about it, it wasn’t far from the truth. 

Because the reason she still loathed Touya, despite all their time together and everything he did for her, was that he was an incessant flirt. 

Her hope that his little stunt the first time they met had been the childish prank of a twenty-something dazzled by the limelight, but no. Touya was just like that, and exclusively with her. It would be one thing if he attempted to court all the women in his vicinity; instead, Touya singled her out, made her and her alone the victim of his silver tongue and smoldering gazes and barely-there touches. God, if she had a nickel for every shitty pick-up line that had rolled off his pierced tongue, she could quit this job and live in luxury until she died a shriveled old lady. 

Yet, even if she did have all those nickels, Kiruka probably still couldn’t find it within herself to leave. Because if she was honest with herself, she didn’t loathe Touya at all. She loathed herself for breaking the one unbreakable rule she’d set for herself years ago when she’d first clutched her cosmetology school diploma in her hand: 

Don’t fall in love with her clients.

Not only had she broken her singular statute, but she had also broken it with somebody who wouldn’t reciprocate. Kiruka wasn’t a fool. Touya’s games were just that—games. He flirted simply to get a rise out of her—the one person who would entertain his childish flirtations—and that was that. Though he toed the line of professionalism, he still adhered; he had no intentions of actually getting involved with Kiruka. Kiruka catching feelings, as with any client, would undoubtedly end in heartbreak. 

That’s why she’d given herself that rule in the first place. But she’d gone and done it anyway. She’d loved all those fleeting caresses and honeyed words from the very beginning and refused to nip them in the bud. Now, for the first time in her life, Kiruka hated going to work every day. That was a fast track to hating what one did for a living—and Kiruka couldn’t have that. She had to figure out something to break this year-long standoff of theirs… but what? 

This is ridiculous, Kiruka thought with a terse pout, then angrily crossed her arms. She’d been standing at the door to Touya’s trailer for three minutes already, trying to psych herself up enough to go inside. What are you afraid of? It’s not like Touya’s gonna act any differently than he has been for the last year.

But that was precisely the problem. Last night, as Kiruka lay awake in bed ruminating on her and Touya’s tumultuous relationship, she’d come to the startling realization that she was crushing on him, hard. Now, it was like Kiruka’s entire world had flipped upside-down. The notion of walking into the trailer to immediately be met with Touya’s silver-tongued philandering had her simultaneously titillated and terrified. To Kiruka’s dismay, a part of her had come to enjoy the rock star’s seductive charms. She tried not to beat herself up too much about it; what girl wouldn’t come to enjoy constantly being doted upon, in more ways than one? Oh, but that was just it—Kiruka already stood upon the edge of the precipice; just one misstep, and she’d find herself plunging into the waiting pit of humiliation and despair. 

In the best-case scenario, she cracked under the pressure and quit the most rewarding job she’d ever had. In the slightly worse scenario, she caved to Touya’s advances and ended up a heartbroken mess. In the absolute worst-case scenario, she snapped, pitched a hellacious fit, and found herself a pariah among her peers and likely unable to find decent work ever again. Honestly, she should really only be scared of the latter outcome. Thanks to her lovesick, screwy little brain, however, Kiruka found them all equally terrifying… because in all three, she parted ways with Touya. 

Kiruka planked against the trailer door with a groan. How pathetic was she, brooding over a man like this? Oh, the humanity. 

Come on, Kiruka. Get it together, she sighed to herself, still leaning against the door. Let’s put on your big girl pants and—

Click.

Before Kiruka could even register the turning of the knob, the door was swinging open. Without it to support her, Kiruka’s body plunged forward, falling like a massive oak in a forest. She found herself thinking of that old proverb—if a tree falls in a forest with no one around, does it make a sound at all? Well, Kiruka was not a tree, this was not a forest, and there was somebody around; so, her body collided with the carpeted floor of the trailer with a resounding thwomp. 

Touya’s only response to Kiruka splaying out on her belly in the entryway was a curious quirk of his eyebrow. 

“That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance.” 

Kiruka pushed her upper body up with her elbows and blew a thick swathe of her red hair out of her eyes so she could glare up at him. 

“Bite me.” 

“Oooh, getting straight to the fun stuff, are we?” Touya teased, and Kiruka rolled her eyes. She should have known better than to say something like that, knowing Touya’s quick wit and love of innuendos. Yet, there was that shameless part of her that—

Nope. Don’t you dare finish that thought, Kiruka hastily scolded her runaway train of thought. She sighed again, her head drooping and sending her long hair falling back across her face. At least it shielded the blush starting to make a home in the apples of her cheeks. Damn realizations and late-night epiphanies; she should have just stayed blissfully ignorant—

“Oi. Are you gonna lay there all day?” 

Kiruka’s head reared up, a scathing retort already burning on her tongue—but the sizzling reply fizzled out when she realized that Touya was holding his hand out for her. Her blush intensified to a bright, hot blaze of pink-red across her entire face, and she pressed her lips together into a thin line. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed! Common decency dictated that one help up someone who’s fallen down! And she didn’t even need help; she was perfectly capable of getting up on her own. 

Yet she couldn’t help but play along, slip her hand into Touya’s and marvel at how naturally it felt for his ring-clad fingers to wrap around her own—how easily he whisked her to her feet. It was easy to forget that his slender build and baggy clothes disguised the wiry, athletic frame that came with the physical demands of bouncing and strutting all over a stage—plus, he worked out. She’d walked in on him using his home weight set on multiple occasions; he always claimed that he lost track of time or forgot about the appointment altogether, but it was mighty funny that he always seemed more triumphant than nonchalant in those situations. And shirtless. Always shirtless. 

Oh, great. Now Kiruka was thinking about it—bare-chested Touya pumping those stupid dumbbells and looking at her like he’d won the lottery. Back to reality, please. 

“Thank you,” she said curtly and swiftly removed her hand from his so she could smooth out the creases in her dress—or at least, pretend to so she had an excuse for him to stop holding it. She swept her hair out of her face again, and with a deep breath in and out, she tried to finally force herself into professional mode. It worked, for the most part. “Sorry I’m a little late.” 

“It’s only fair. I called you on short notice,” Touya shrugged, then swung the door shut. 

Kiruka pursed her lips. Right, she’d been so out of her mind that she’d forgotten—Touya had called her up all of a sudden this morning—on her day off—claiming to have procured some last-minute local gig and that she needed to come right away. Frazzled as Kiruka was, she found this mighty curious, given that Touya tended to find scrambling to prepare for spontaneous performances more trouble than they were worth. She found it especially curious upon arriving at their “base camp” to find most of the staff idling about. It certainly didn’t seem like anyone was preparing for an impromptu gig, and that made this meeting all the more suspect. 

When Touya plopped down on his sofa instead of in the salon chair and regarded Kiruka with a serious look, she determined that there was, in fact, no performance at all. She’d been had. And there was only one reason that Touya would feel the need to trick her into coming here: he knew.

“Touya…” she said reluctantly, taking a slight back-step toward the door. She wasn’t afraid of him, of course; rough and tough as he seemed, Touya would never harm a hair on her head. But she was very much afraid of what he might say—because Touya was nothing if not unpredictable. She had no idea what was going through his mind right now, let alone what was about to come out of his mouth. 

Really, she ought to just spare herself all the anguish by resigning right then and there and hauling ass out of there. But she didn’t leave. She couldn’t bring herself to, not when he looked so sad. Instead, she took his silent invitation to sit beside him, then steeled herself for what was to come… whatever it was. 

“Kiruka…” he sighed. He apparently couldn’t bring himself to look at her; instead, he stared uncomfortably at the opposite wall. When his words seemed to fail him, he huffed aggravatedly and pushed his hand through his spiky mess of hair. “Shit. This should not be this fuckin’ hard.” 

Touya flopped back against the couch with a frustrated growl and pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Kiruka just watched him with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity; Touya had never failed to be as cool as a cucumber even in relatively dire situations, so seeing him so distraught unnerved her even more. Perhaps—though she really didn’t want to—she should lead the conversation. 

“Touya, it’s okay. I’ll do the talking,” she started. Touya lowered his hands from his face to grimace at her, though still only looking at her from his peripheral vision. Kiruka chewed on her lip, trying to find the best way to ease into the issue. It wasn’t really working, so she opted for the tried-and-true method: ripping off the proverbial bandage. 

“I… I think it’s best if we go our separate ways.” 

“Hah,” Touya sighed, running his hands over his face again. “I figured as much.” The level of regret in his tone made Kiruka’s heart twist in her chest. Despite how rocky their relationship seemed, Kiruka knew that Touya cared about her. He was probably blaming himself for this, the poor thing. 

“Touya, this isn’t your fault,” Kiruka tried. He finally looked at her, and his expression was one of wry self-loathing. 

“But isn’t it?” he objected ruefully. “If I hadn’t acted like a kindergartener teasing his crush on the playground, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” 

Kiruka opened her mouth to argue, but the reply stopped short in her throat when her brain processed what he’d actually said. 

Wait. What?

“God! I’m so stupid!” Touya growled, too busy slapping his hand over his eyes as he flopped his head back to notice that Kiruka’s was effectively short-circuiting. “I didn’t mean for it to end up this fucked! It was just playing around, at first—and you played along, so I just, you know, kept it up. But somewhere along the way, I—I began to look at you differently, you know?” With another exasperated growl, he flopped forward to press his head against his knees.

“Touya,” Kiruka tried to say, but it was lost amidst his rambling. 

“And then next thing I knew, my dumb ass had caught feelings. Fuck, I was so busy being infatuated that I had no idea I was making you uncomfortable. I must have been, right? ‘Cuz why else would you be so dodgy around me like you’ve been lately?” 

“Touya,” Kiruka tried again, biting down hard on her lip to try and suppress the stupid grin trying to worm its way onto her face. 

“Gah!” Touya snarled, tugging at his hair angrily. “Kiruka, I’m so fucking sorry. I’m such an ass. You have every right to leave, and—” 

It was obvious that Touya wasn’t going to be shutting up anytime soon, so Kiruka resorted to shutting him up herself. She took his face and swiftly pulled it to hers, pressing their open mouths together in a fiery kiss before Touya could even realize what was happening. It sure got the job done, and damn, did it feel good. When Kiruka pulled back to smirk at him, Touya just blinked dumbly at her, Kiruka’s hot pink lipstick smeared messily across his top lip. 

“... Wait… You don’t hate me? Even though I make you want to tear your hair out every day?” 

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Your antics have been a constant source of frustration for me and are probably the reason I found a gray hair the other day,” Kiruka said sternly, but her firm expression melted into a sweet smile. “... But, somehow, it makes me like you instead. Even if it’s not good for my blood pressure.” 

“Why do you make crushing on me sound like such an insult?” Touya smirked while looping his arms loosely around her middle. However, he waited for her to give a silent nod of affirmation before he scooched closer to her. “I’m a real catch, you know. Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?” 

“Ah, there’s your ego. I was wondering where it went.” 

“Hey, knowing such a sexy lady has her eyes on me is doing wonders for it,” he teased, cocking his head to the side as he regarded Kiruka with a passionate gaze. When Kiruka blushed instead of retorting, his grin widened. “Oh? No smart comeback? I make you mine, and that’s all it takes to tame that sharp tongue of yours? Shoulda spared myself the grief and done so sooner.” 

“Wow. It’s almost hard to believe you were a groveling mess less than a minute ago,” Kiruka frowned, though her bright red face didn’t make her attempt at aloofness very convincing. “And if anything, I made you mine. I’m the one who did the kissing.” 

“Good point. Allow me to amend that, then,” Touya purred, bringing his face close enough to gently nudge their noses together. But he went no further, instead patiently waiting for Kiruka to obviously consent. How could she not, with his cyan eyes burning with desire right in front of hers? She tipped her head slightly and brushed her lips over his, and that’s all it took for Touya to sweep her up in a hungry, passionate kiss. 

Yes, without a doubt, Kiruka loved her job. Cosmetology was her calling in life, there was no doubt about that—but that wasn’t the only reason. No, Kiruka had the rare joy of spending every day with her devoted boyfriend. Don’t get her wrong—as two spitfires with quick wit and barbed tongues, they still clashed in ways that would make strangers wonder how the hell they could call themselves a couple. But people who knew Kiruka and Touya could see the smiles barely disguised as frowns, the joy in their eyes as they traded sarcastic barbs and witty remarks, and the tender words and sweet caresses between the banter. 

Kiruka loved her job more than ever now—because, undeniably, she loved Touya with all her heart. It was a good thing that she was a rebel at heart. Some rules were just inevitably meant to be broken!

[gukyi]

love me or we both go down | kth

summary: after going through with an arranged marriage to please his parents and secure his inheritance of the family business, kim taehyung thinks he’s got it all figured out. he doesn’t. apparently just being married to you isn’t enough, not when everybody and their mother can pick up on the fact that the two of you absolutely loathe each other. but taehyung wants his inheritance one way or another, so he decides that desperate times call for desperate measures: the two of you need to fall in love, and you need to fall in love fast.

{enemies to lovers!au, arranged marriage!au, rich kids!au}

pairing: kim taehyung x female reader genre: fluff, angst, smut (i know, crazy right?) word count: 32k warnings: oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, multiple unprotected sex scenes (they’re married y’all), fat cock tae, tae has a wife kink, lots of praise, alcohol consumption (but they’re safe), minor character death (not explicit), mentions of heart attack, slow burn like there is no tomorrow a/n: hello and welcome to the fic everyone, literally everyone, has been waiting for! i am so, so, so excited to share this with you all, especially because none other than rose @kinktae​ helped me write the smut, and i am literally forever indebted to her. you all better go spam rose with all the love and support you can because this fic would not be here without her and i love her so much. 

also, to all my readers who aren’t comfortable reading smut, please know that the smut in this fic is not imperative to the storyline, and you skipping past it will not affect your reading experience., enjoy!

Never in your life have wedding bells felt so ominous.

The sound of them is akin to the sound of strings, of a single piano note in a horror movie, right when the film opens and someone random is about to die on screen for the sake of proving to the audience that this is, in fact, a horror movie. Make no mistake about it; these wedding bells spell doom for you, too. And the most horrific part about them is that just like that poor, helpless soul in the movie, there is no way for you to escape your fate either. 

With only seconds left to go before you have no choice but to promise yourself to the man waiting at the other end of the aisle, you desperately try to think of any last-ditch efforts to get out of this. Many, if not all of them, are utterly useless. 

Feigning sudden illness won’t work, because then your parents will just reschedule the wedding to a later date. Running away is fruitless. Where will you go? The parking lot?

If only you had a lover out there in the audience somewhere that could object to the marriage when the officiant says, “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.” A knight in shining armor that could whisk you out of the venue and off to a new life, far away from here. Too bad all of the people you’ve dated before hate you now. 

Maybe getting married isn’t such a bad thing after all. Instead of having relationships with multiple people who will eventually despise your existence, you only have to have a relationship with one. And the feeling, as has always been, is mutual. 

You bristle as your assistants do some last-minute prepping, fixing your sleeve and adjusting your necklace and making sure you don’t trip on your enormous train. They flutter around you like a swarm of well-meaning but ignorant butterflies complicit in the agenda of your family. None of them have said a word to you about the wedding ever since you arrived at the venue, choosing to talk more about things like the weather. Not that you were ever under the impression they had been hired to entertain you. Maybe they were told to not engage you, just in case you try to conspire with them.

As if they could be of any use in your wildly unrealistic escape plans. 

The truth is that, unless you were to drop dead on this marble flooring right now, you’re getting married. Whether you like it or not.

The doors open. 

You’ve attended red carpets, galas, award shows, and balls. You’ve had hundreds of cameras flashing in your face, the bright light capturing each and every centimeter of you. You’ve had paparazzi waiting outside the restaurants you eat at, the stores you shop at, desperate to catch a picture of you in sweatpants without a drop of makeup on. You’ve been on dates with ex-lovers that looked at you like you were a piece of meat with a credit card. And yet, for some goddamn reason, walking down the aisle in a white dress the size of Pluto, with the rest of your life waiting for you at the other end, makes you feel fucking transparent. 

Face resolute, you clutch onto your bouquet so tightly the flowers feel like they’re about to pop right out of your grasp. Determined not to look at anybody in the audience, you stare straight ahead, right into the eyes of your future husband.

Kim Taehyung, for someone you have seen multiple times drunk off his ass with hickies dotting his neck and jawline, cleans up pretty well. For someone getting married, at least. He dons a simple black tuxedo that still probably costs more than the average car, his caramel brown hair is pushed back off his forehead, and his expression is firm and still. He most certainly has had an equally expensive team prepping him, but they haven’t done too bad a job. The silver lining is that he doesn’t look any more thrilled than you are to be doing this, right here, right now. But to his credit, this is definitely the best he’s ever looked, as far as you’re concerned. 

When you reach him, he offers his hand out to you, a hand that you only accept for the sake of professionalism. The bouquet in your hands is handed off to one of your bridesmaids, and the two of you take your position at the front. Your train drags along the aisle, draping over the few stairs you had to climb to reach the altar, this satin trail behind you that cements you to the floor. It may as well be a ball-and-chain. It’s about as heavy as one, anyway. 

This is the longest you and Taehyung have ever held eye contact. Not that you’re really keeping track of how long the two of you have met each other’s gazes, but if you had to make an educated guess, this would definitely be the victor. Most of the time you end up sneering at each other ten seconds in, but to be fair, those other times you were also not getting married. To one another. In a ceremony attended by hundreds of people. And cameras.

There can be no sneering here. 

“Don’t you look nice?” Taehyung whispers, loud enough so only the two of you can hear. He has that drawling, sickly sweet tone to his voice, the one that you hate because it makes him sound like he thinks he’s so much better than everyone else. “Surprised they were able to makeup that scowl off your face.”

This, of course, brings on a hearty scowl only he can see, your backs both facing the rows of attendees. “How much concealer are you wearing to cover up all of the hickies on your neck?” You quip back easily. It’s not like the two of you are going to pretend he doesn’t waltz around at every club or bar or private venue he can find, looking for his next treat. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Taehyung grins, and if you weren’t standing in front of hundreds of people about to get married, there’s no telling what next you would do.

The two of you would probably go on like that for another ten minutes if it’s not for the officiant, who coughs once he’s ready and opens the book in his hands. Next to you, Taehyung straightens, hands clasped together at his front, and lips pressed into a neat line. You do the same. There will be no giggles, no laughter nor smiles, nor any genuine emotion at this wedding. This is a wedding for the sake of politics, for economics, for security, and anyone in attendance would be a fool to think otherwise. Especially you. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, loved ones, and esteemed guests,” the officiant bellows, listing off as many groups of people as he possibly can in an effort to both include and compliment every person in the audience, “We are gathered here to celebrate the wedding, and future life, of Taehyung and Y/N…”

Taehyung turns to you, grinning in that god-awful way, the way he does when he feels like he’s got something over you. And sure, you can’t think of any punishment quite as bad as this, but what’s Taehyung got to smile about? He’s marrying himself off to a woman he hates, kissing goodbye his days as a free-spirited, heartbreaking bachelor, and promising what may very well be the rest of his life to loving you. That is not cause for celebration. 

But perhaps, to him, your suffering is enough to bring a smile to his face. 

Your vows are, to put it simply, total bullshit. Your family hired someone to write yours and there’s not a doubt in your mind that his family did the same thing. This nonsense talk, this complete and utter garbage that spews from your perfectly-glossed lips, shit about how you promise to love each other until the end of your days, how you promise to take care of each other when you’re sick and accompany each other at every event, every gala, every ball. Shit about how you promise to look only at each other, promise to uphold your family traditions and become a dependable spouse. 

The words don’t belong to you. But the thing is that this marriage was never yours anyway. 

When the kiss comes, there’s a part of you that thinks maybe you should have psyched yourself up a little more for this. When Taehyung pulls you in, placing a stiff hand on your lower back as he brings you towards his chest, your stomach turns and shivers run down your spine. The feeling of his hand on your body, the breath from his lips brushing against your own, are enough to keep you frozen in place. 

He smiles at you, almost as if to ask, “Are you ready?”

And you squeeze your eyes shut, almost as if to respond, “Let’s do this.”

When his lips meet yours, there is almost nothing. Nothing runs through you, nothing explodes, nothing strikes. But when he pulls away and cheers and applause rings out throughout the room, there is something. A little heat, a remnant of a flame, left on your lips. A little sting, just to remind you it happened. 

The entire hall is cheering but nothing about this is worth celebrating. The fact of the matter is that you and Taehyung will never love each other the way that you are supposed to. 

“Ugh, finally.”

The elevator doors haven’t even properly opened by the time Taehyung is loosening his tie, tugging it off over his head as he stretches his head back and runs a hand through his perfectly-styled hair. As he rakes his fingers through his caramel locks, the hairspray and gel loosens, strands falling down by the side of his face, framing his temple.

“Don’t sound so relieved,” you huff out, deciding now is as good a time as any to start getting undressed yourself. Reaching down to lift up the hem of your reception dress, you tug off your heels, already feeling lighter on your feet. Who cares if Taehyung is watching you pull off your stilettos like a defeated movie heroine? You don’t think you can walk another step in those shoes. “We still have to live together, you know.”

“Don’t remind me,” Taehyung says gruffly, brushing by you roughly as he stomps out of the elevator. “I’m just glad the fucking night is over. I swear, seeing that fake-ass smile on your face made me want to gouge my eyes out.”

You storm after him, refusing to be the helpless damsel in this situation. “Oh, like you didn’t also have that exact same fake-ass smile on your face. It almost made me think you were actually enjoying yourself tonight.”

“I was only enjoying the fact that I know you hate this just as much as I do.” It’s perhaps the only thing you will ever be able to empathize with him on. Mutually relishing in the other’s destruction. Taehyung fumbles with the keypad to the door to the penthouse for a moment before you hear the lock click, the door sliding open as the entrance lights flicker on. 

The reason Taehyung’s penthouse is so clean is because he’s never lived here before. Neither of you have—Taehyung’s parents bought it just for the two of you. And as much as you absolutely despise the idea of having to live with him, at least it was not you who paid for your place of residence. 

You can tell Taehyung’s never lived here before because it’s actually quite nicely decorated inside. The ceilings are high and the sleek velvet curtains are pulled open, revealing a shimmering skyline. The furniture is modern and functional, and the whole damn place smells brand new. You’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of entering the place Taehyung lived in before now, and it looked nothing like this. The furniture was worn and stained despite the live-in maid, the house reeked of five hundred different spices that wafted from the kitchen to the living room, and the bookshelves were covered with comics, graphic novels, and old textbooks. 

If it weren’t for the fact that you and Taehyung are rich kids in their twenties that hate each other, you might have actually thought the place looked… homey. 

You don’t have time to be impressed by the interior design and architecture skills of whoever designed this place. Right now, all you can think about is tugging yourself out of your airtight reception dress and passing out on the nearest bed. Which, hopefully, will be as far away as possible from Taehyung’s bed of choice. 

“How many bedrooms does this place have?” You ask, shimmying along the floor so you don’t trip over the hem of your dress. From the looks of it, you can see one giant hallway to your right and a massive, double-sided staircase leading up. 

“Enough,” Taehyung grumbles in response. The hazy stupor from all of the fancy champagne is starting to wear off for the both of you, leaving behind two grouchy, begrudgingly-married individuals who want absolutely nothing to do with each other and have no problems making that known. Whatever golden light of the evening that was making Taehyung at least a little bit more attractive than usual has faded, and now you see him for what he really is: an unceremoniously tired man in a suit. “You want upstairs or down?”

You gaze up at the marble staircase in front of you, then back down at your too-long dress. “Down.” The last thing you want is to trip in front of the man you have to see, every day, for the rest of your life. 

“Fine by me.” Taehyung’s halfway up the stairs by the time he turns back around to say something else. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”

“Yeah.” There’s no point in being hostile now. The both of you are too exhausted to mean anything by it. Besides, what else can you say? Everything to complain about has already been complained about. At least the two of you managed to wrestle out from your parents the stipulation that you would not be going on a honeymoon together. Now that would have been your worst nightmare. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It’s as good of a goodnight either of you are going to get. Taehyung heads up the stairs and disappears around a corner, and you start wandering down the hallway. All the bedrooms look the exact same other than different colors on the walls and bedsheets, but they all look serviceable to you. Clean. Empty. Far away from wherever Taehyung is. 

You pick the one at the very end of the hall just to be as much of a diva as possible, and don’t even bother drawing the curtains before tugging off your dress. It’s past one in the morning, and you’re so high up you don’t think anyone will be able to see you anyway. By the time you’ve stripped naked and are tugging up the too-tight sheets tucked into the mattress, your legs are about to give out beneath you. The bed could be made of rocks for all you care. Anything to lie down on is fine by you. 

Sleep comes fairly easily to you tonight. Once your head hits the pillow you can already feel yourself drifting off, eyelids fluttering shut, but you don’t sleep quite yet. Not before you can think about how this is your life now, sleeping in a foreign bed in a foreign place with a foreign husband upstairs. This is what you will be living in now. Now and forever. 

Living with Taehyung is, in both the best and worst ways possible, like living with a roommate that doesn’t give a shit about the fact that they live with another person. It’s good, because you and Taehyung hardly see each other and speak even less, which was pretty much the only thing you were asking for when it came to living with him. But it also sucks, because whenever you do happen to cross paths, Taehyung acts like you don’t exist, barely sparing you a hello or even that tight-lipped smile you send to drivers on the road when they let you cross the street. 

Not that the two of you ever engaged in energetic conversation before you got married. But at least the two of you would acknowledge each other, even if only to shoot a glare and a scowl the other’s way from opposite sides of a hotel ballroom. Maybe it’s just because it’s him, but you did always find yourself actually relishing in those little interactions with Taehyung. In this strange, twisted way, it seemed to provide some sort of continuity to your ever-changing life. Like no matter what happened, at least you would know that the two of you would always despise each other. 

To be frank, right now you’re not sure if Taehyung even remembers he got married at all.

Nights have been a lot more sleepless since your wedding day. After two weeks, the reality of it has finally started to settle in. This is your life now. And ever since you realized that, your bed has felt much less comfortable. 

“But the place is nice, right?”

You look around the living room from where you’re sat on the sleek, white suede leather couch, eyes glossing over the bookshelves, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the draping velvet curtains. From here, you can see the entire city skyline, flecks of gold from the windows of skyscrapers against a navy blue background. Slowly, as the moon creeps over the sky and the clock gets later and later, those lights will soon begin to flicker off, one by one. 

“Yeah, it’s not bad.” Nothing to write home about. That is, if home were a place other than here. 

“That’s good. At least you don’t live in, like, a total dump or anything,” Victoria says on the other end of the line. “How’s Taehyung?”

His name alone elicits this deeply-exhausted sigh from your lips, like it’s been ten years since you married and every day has felt worse than the last. “Fine.” You can’t really complain about anything yet, considering that you hardly ever see the man. 

“Just ‘fine’?” Victoria sounds skeptical. 

“Yeah,” you draw out the word, as if trying to convince yourself of its truth. “I mean, it’s like he doesn’t even live here. I barely see him. And when I do, we don’t even speak to each other.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it? You hate him.” Victoria says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And in a sense, it kind of is. 

“I mean…”

“I know that your life hasn’t exactly… gone the way you had planned, but isn’t this your best case scenario when considering everything?” She asks. “If Taehyung is as distant as you say he is, isn’t it almost like you never married him in the first place?”

As if on cue, you hear footsteps coming down the stairs, heels clicking on the marble as they make their way to the entrance. You whip your head around to find Taehyung, all dressed up in loose, flowy slacks and a flowery silk button-down, strolling down the staircase as he scrolls through his phone, paying you zero attention whatsoever. 

He notices you briefly when he reaches the bottom, meeting your eyes with his own. He offers this measly, unenthused half-smile your way before he grabs his wallet and some house keys from the table by the entrance, opens the door, and vanishes off into the night. 

If you hadn’t been in the living room, you probably wouldn’t have even realized he left. Not that you being present as he’s planning on leaving would have stopped him anyway. This is the sixth night he’s done this in the past two weeks. You could stand by the door and stare him down as he emerges from his bedroom, all dressed up for something you’re definitely not invited to, and he would offer you that same goddamn smile and walk out the door without even blinking. Who he was before you got married and who he is now are no different. Not even a ring could change that. 

“I guess,” you tell Victoria. At least Taehyung hasn’t turned into a helicopter husband. “I don’t know. Maybe I just wish that I didn’t have to deal with him at all.”

Wish you could turn back time. Wish you could worm your way out of an arranged marriage before it was too late. Wish you could go back to the way things used to be. 

You and Victoria talk for another couple of minutes before she regretfully has to end the call, citing both her beauty sleep and an 8AM meeting tomorrow morning as her reasons for hanging up. The moment you put the phone down, you sink back into the couch cushions, staring out the windows at the world below you.

Here’s the deal. What Taehyung does in his free time is none of your business. But also, it’s totally your business, because you are his spouse. A spouse who is an equal amount in the public eye as he is. What he does and does not do has a direct impact on what you do and do not do. 

It’s no secret that when you catch Taehyung sauntering down the stairs looking like a Gucci runway model, it’s not because he’s planning on catching a movie with a college friend and then playing video games for four hours on a couch in a basement. He is going out. To clubs, to parties, to exclusive events that he’s been invited to by his equally-rich friends, all of whom are acting like he’s the same bachelor he’s always been. 

And maybe that’s the real problem with your whole marriage—other than the glaringly obvious issue that it’s a marriage wholly unwanted by the two parties involved in it. Despite the ring on his finger, Taehyung is going out and pretending that nothing in his life has changed while you’re trapped at home, desperate to save you and your family’s reputation by keeping as low a profile as possible. You would give anything to march around the city all day, flashing middle fingers at paparazzi as you shop at your favorite high-end stores and frequent your favorite clubs. But you can’t, because your family’s fortune and influence is on the line. 

And apparently, Taehyung’s isn’t. 

It sort of makes you wonder why it was even Taehyung you ended up marrying anyway. His family isn’t any richer or more powerful than yours. Your spheres have always been sufficiently separate. What was it about him, and perhaps more importantly, his family that drew your parent’s eye? And what was it about marrying you that prevented him from saying no? Money? Prestige? Influence?

You suppose you’ll never know. But whatever mystical force that convinced Taehyung to agree to this must not be as important to him as your reasoning is to you, because it’s become exceedingly apparent that Taehyung does not care that he’s married. He doesn’t care about the ring on his finger, he doesn’t care about his public image, and he most certainly doesn’t care about you.

Perhaps you were naive for thinking this, but you actually believed marriage might tone him down a little. Might age him into a real adult with real world obligations. Instead, it’s only given you a firsthand look into who Kim Taehyung has been and always will be: a selfish rich kid.

You don’t bother waiting around in the living room until he gets back, but you are still awake by the time you hear the door creak open. Taehyung makes no efforts to hide his return. You can hear him chattering loudly on the phone as he stumbles up the stairs, can tell from his gait alone that he is most certainly wasted. You don’t want to know what he did tonight. You’ll probably be able to figure it out anyway when you wake up tomorrow morning and check your social media. 

What were you thinking, marrying him? That he would change? That he would suddenly become someone that you could rely on? You had no choice when you said, “I do,” but you were at least hoping that maybe one day, one day in a long, long time, the two of you would finally see eye to eye. Maybe there would even come a time when you would genuinely love him. How foolish. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine a world where you have married someone you love, someone who loves you back.

Not unlike the many nights preceding it, tonight is sleepless. 

Unlike your marital status and general disposition, one thing that hasn’t changed about you is your love for extravagant events. Call you conceited, but there is something so much fun about putting on a fancy, expensive dress that you love and getting your hair and makeup done before going to an exclusive gala and posing in front of five hundred cameras. 

Actually, now that you think about it, maybe your wedding could have actually been pretty good, considering it let you do all those things. It’s a real shame there happened to be a storm cloud in the form of Kim Taehyung there to ruin it. Otherwise, you think you would have rather enjoyed that day. 

Tonight is the first event since your marriage where you and Taehyung are both required to show up and act like a happy married couple. Which would probably be a lot easier if you and Taehyung had exchanged more than ten words over the past two weeks. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but there was a part of you that thought you could use your arranged marriage to actually cultivate some sort of meaningful relationship between the two of you. So events like these wouldn’t be such a drain on both of you. 

When Kim Taehyung comes down the stairs, he actually doesn’t look too bad. You don’t know why this sort of thing keeps catching you off guard—like you don’t expect him to look that good whenever you see him. The problem is that you can’t even chalk up the surprise to him wearing tailored clothes or having his hair done. He just looks… good. 

Well, you suppose you do have to look at him every day for the rest of your life. It’s a good thing he’s attractive. At least he’s not sore on the eyes. 

Taehyung and his unfortunate attractiveness aside, the two of you don’t say a word to each other as you join up at the entrance, grabbing any last-minute items like house keys, chapstick, and whatever dignity you have left to spare. You send forced smiles and tight nods each other’s way in the elevator, staring straight ahead in the lobby of your building as the car pulls up to the front door.

By the time the two of you sit down in the back of the limousine, the built-up tension between the two of you is so thick you’re almost positive that even the chauffeur can feel it through the closed partition. 

If you were any more idyllic, you’d probably spend the drive over to the gala staring out the window and imagining yourself in a different life, on a train to nowhere, flowers in your hair and a journal in your hands. Or perhaps you’d be the CEO of your family’s company instead of having that responsibility passed down to a husband you don’t even want, sitting in an office at the top of a skyscraper overlooking the city. Anything. Anything but this.

But the idyllic part of you died when you realized that fantasies like that are nothing but distractions and that daydreams are for romantics and optimists and losers. 

“What’s our plan for tonight?”

Taehyung scoffs. “What do you mean, ‘what’s our plan’?”

You frown. “Well, we’re married, so we at least have to act like it, don’t you think?”

“Isn’t standing there and smiling enough?” Taehyung asks, an unimpressed eyebrow raised. 

You bristle. Maybe that sufficed for your wedding, but there was so much going on it was easy to distract yourself from the gravity of it all. But this event is not about you. It’s not even about either of your families. It’s about someone the two of you are, at best, distantly connected to, through work, through fame, through power. Which means that though the focus will not be on you, there will still be eyes looking your way. Eyes watching your every move. 

“Do you think it will be?” You challenge. Doesn’t Taehyung realize that things are different now?

Taehyung’s lips curl downwards. “What do you expect us to do, shower each other in kisses? We don’t even sleep on the same fucking floor.”

“Maybe I just expected you to act less like a stranger and more like a husband!”

Taehyung sighs. “Don’t.” The word is clipped, short. “Don’t tell me you actually want to be married.”

“I don’t.” It’s a response that you hardly have to think twice about. “But we are, and nothing can change that.” Unfortunately. But it’s a fact that you and Taehyung have both had to grapple with over the past few weeks, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that you are more aware of it than he is. If Taehyung could have his way, he would ignore you for the rest of his life and keep partying with the rest of his bachelor friends until he keeled over and died. 

He huffs next to you, eyes staring straight ahead. You don’t think the two of you have met each other’s eyes in a week. Maybe more. They’re starting to feel as soulless as your marriage itself. “Whatever. What do you want me to do?”

“What do you think?” You cross your arms over your chest. “Just act like you don’t hate me. Can you do that?” The way Taehyung’s behaving right now, you expect that will be a challenge for the both of you.

“Only if you can. I’ll even hold your hand to prove that we love each other.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

The idea of holding Taehyung’s hand makes you want to implode. The mere thought sends shivers down your spine. But it’s better than nothing, and that’s good enough for you. At least you won’t have to kiss. 

The rest of the ride there is silent. You drive to this gorgeous mansion just outside the city, bathed in lights hidden amongst the bushes, illuminating both the architecture and the enormous fountain that sits in front of it. In a house this size, you imagine you could probably go your whole life without ever having to come across Taehyung. It actually makes you consider investing in a home that big. 

Taehyung helps you out of the back of the limousine, a cold hand clasping your own as you rest your palm against his. You can feel the way his fingers hesitate as yours make to intertwine with his as you walk towards the entrance, smiling at whatever camera flashes you encounter on your way. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were holding hands with a ghost. 

The moment you step inside and are ushered out of the door’s view, Taehyung’s grip relaxes on yours. For a moment, you think he’ll actually spend the rest of the night like this, a gentle hand wrapped around yours, but then he pulls it away entirely and shoves it back into his pocket. Oh. You frown quietly to yourself. So that’s how tonight’s going to go. 

You don’t make an effort to reach out towards him again. 

For an event concerning people you don’t know a damn thing about, everyone sure seems to know things about you. Other than greetings, you don’t think anyone’s said anything to you about anything other than your recent marriage to Taehyung. Every conversation is punctuated by a Congratulations! you do not feel that you have at all earned, considering you and Taehyung could barely look at each other on the way here.

Maybe Taehyung was right. All you really can do is stand there and smile.

“Oh, don’t tell me… Y/N, is that you?”

The champagne swirls around in the flute between your fingers as you turn towards the sound of your name, looking up to see a familiar face headed your way. 

Kim Seokjin is nice enough. He’s terribly handsome and got a flawless smile, but you know better than to trust those pearly whites of his. The sight of him alone is enough to make your body tense up. There was a reason you had explicitly told your parents not to invite him to your wedding. 

“Seokjin, what a surprise to see you here,” you say, forcing a smile. “I thought you were supposed to be in Switzerland right now.”

“Change of plans,” Seokjin grins back in that awful, awful way, the kind of grin that makes you feel like he’s looking right through you. “I came back early. It’s a shame, though, I missed your wedding.”

You shrug. “It was a humble affair.” It wasn’t. And you’re positive that Seokjin knows it wasn’t an accident that you didn’t extend an invitation to him or his family. 

“Ah, I see,” Seokjin says, nodding his head. He turns to Taehyung next to you, who is making no effort to hide how wholly uninterested in this conversation he is, and holds out a hand. “You must be Kim Taehyung, then. I’m Kim Seokjin. Congratulations on your wedding.”

Taehyung shakes his hand firmly, the air between the three of you growing unbearably palpable. 

“Seokjin’s father is the VP of News Daily,” You explain, eyebrows raised as you try to signal to Taehyung what exactly it means when Seokjin is speaking to the two of you. “And his mother is a popular journalist for the city’s post.”

Seokjin grew up in the world of media, and it seems he’s picked up his parent’s affinity for sticking their noses in places they don’t belong. You know he’s not talking to the both of you out of the goodness of his heart. 

Seokjin laughs, his hand waving away the mention of his parents. “Oh, please. That’s them. I’m just a bored socialite like the rest of you.”

You resist the urge to scoff. 

“Marriage treating the two of you well?” He changes the subject to what he really wants to talk about: you. 

“Of course,” you say quickly, preventing any hesitation on your end. Your empty hand reaches towards Taehyung’s, fingers searching for his between the two of you. But his refusal to join hands does not go unnoticed by you nor Seokjin, who is eyeing the space between your bodies with an eyebrow raised. “It’s just been—well, it’s just been difficult to adjust to a new life. That’s all.”

If you were to describe the face of a non-believer, it would be the exact expression on Seokjin’s face. “Perfectly understandable,” he says, that same toothy smile lacing his features. “But it must be nice, you know, to marry someone you love.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” you say, almost challenging Seokjin to say something even more inflammatory. He must know that all you’re trying to do at this point is save face. Love? Ha! As if. 

“And Taehyung?” Seokjin motions to your husband. 

You can feel the way Taehyung is stiffening beside you. “I suppose we are both lucky and unlucky in many ways when it comes to who we love.”

It’s enough of an answer to get Seokjin off your tail. For now. He bids the two of you a tense goodbye before sauntering off to go poke his nose in someone else’s business, fish for drama, a thread of a rumor he can pick apart with nimble fingers. You wonder if anybody actually likes him. 

The moment he disappears from earshot, you grab Taehyung’s wrist tightly and pull him close to you. “What the hell was that?” You hiss into his ear. 

“What?” You can’t tell if he’s playing dumb or if he really is that dense. 

“You!” You exclaim. “Kim Seokjin is the one person who could easily expose how fake this marriage is and you pull away from me? Right in front of him? You can’t even hold my hand for two seconds, that’s how much you hate me?”

“Who cares what he thinks?” Taehyung says. “He’s just another media rat. No one will even remember we were here tomorrow.”

“But if you keep acting like this, people will start to notice! Why can’t you just act like you don’t hate me, for one night? Is that so bad? Is it that torturous, to spend one night with me?”

“Do not turn this on me,” Taehyung orders harshly. “You’re making a scene. Come on.”

You don’t have time to shout at him for bossing you around like you’re a toddler throwing a tantrum before he drags you out of the venue, the two of you finding a back door to the building that leads outside. The cold air blows against your body, goosebumps popping up against your skin, but you find that the chilly night provides quite the respite after practically overheating indoors. Taehyung makes fire rush through your veins but at least the air can cool you back down. 

Nevertheless, your conversation is not over. It’s just been moved to a more private location.

“You do realize that our marriage isn’t going to suddenly go away, right? That we’re going to have to keep doing this for the rest of our lives?” You remind him, eyebrows raised. There’s a part of you that genuinely thinks he’s completely forgotten that your marriage is permanent.

“Oh, and not holding hands for five minutes for this one event is totally going to change the course of our lives, isn’t it?” Taehyung fights back.

“Don’t act like you did the right thing,” you spit out. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me. I know you don’t give a shit about our marriage.”

“What marriage is there to even give a shit about? Just because we had a wedding and signed some documents does not mean there is a real marriage between us. Look at us,” he motions between the two of you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “We hate each other. Is this what you would call marriage?”

“But at least I’m trying to get past that!” You exclaim. “You make it seem like being as miserable as possible is some sort of badge of honor. Do you actually want to spend the rest of your life hating the person you married? Or do you want to grow up and try and move on?”

Taehyung frowns. “What I want is for the person I married to stop acting like they’re doing me such a huge favor by pretending to care about us. Especially when all they really care about is their family’s goddamn reputation.”

“No,” you tell him sternly. You are doing him a favor. He just can’t admit that he actually needs help from you. “You are putting zero effort into this. What am I supposed to do?”

“Let it go!” Taehyung shouts. “Maybe one day we’ll actually start getting along, but right now it’s obvious that neither one of us can stand the other. I don’t need you to do favors for me. I can handle it myself.”

You look away, rolling your eyes. “Doesn’t look like it to me,” you mutter to yourself. 

Taehyung cracks. “Fine. You want me to pretend that I actually care about us? I will.” Thank God. Maybe now the two of you will finally start seeing eye-to-eye. “But make no mistake about how I feel about you,” he spits. “Getting married to you ruined my life.”

You stare straight at him and his eyes are swirling, so obscured in the darkness of the night that you might even think he doesn’t have a soul at all. His pupils bore into yours and for once, for once in your goddamn life, after so many years of staring each other down at debutante balls, so many years of witty refrains and snarky insults hurled each other’s way, it feels like the two of you might actually snap. 

Then, a camera flashes.

Trouble in Paradise! would be a suitable title for the front page of the city’s biggest tabloid… if anything about your life with Taehyung could be considered paradise. Unfortunately for the both of you, that is not the case. 

You don’t need to keep reading the rest of the trashy article on the front page of the daily tabloid to know how much trouble you’re in, nor do you even have time to scroll beneath the terrible photo of you and Taehyung literally shouting at each other before you hear your phone ring. 

You don’t even bother saying hello to whoever’s on the other end. You know it’ll go in one ear and out the other. 

“I assume you know why I’m calling,” your mother’s harsh tone spits from the other end of the phone. There’s no doubt in your mind that she’s standing in the middle of her office, snapping her fingers at her fifteen secretaries as they partake in the worst damage control your family’s had to deal with since your cousin two years ago was caught with a mistress outside a high-profile restaurant. 

“Can I take a wild guess?” You’re about to be scolded into the next century, so you might as well enjoy your last few moments. 

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” your mother warns. “Care to explain why you and your beloved husband made the front page of the Daily Post today?”

“I know,” you sigh, a hand coming up to rub at your temples. It’s eight in the morning, you’ve barely looked at your phone, and you haven’t even brushed your teeth yet. It feels like you’re still asleep, and most certainly lack the energy to deal with this right now. 

Your mother, on the other hand, thinks otherwise. “You know? You know, and you still go out and do this? For everyone to see?”

“We tried to take our argument outside,” you begin to explain, but your mother isn’t having a single word of it. 

“The fact that you thought it was even appropriate to have an argument in a public setting at all astounds me, Y/N. We raised you better than that.” There’s no need for you to even see her face. You’ve grown so used to that disappointed frown over the years that it’s burned into your brain. 

“Maybe you should have thought about that before marrying me off to a man I barely know so I could be someone else’s problem instead of yours,” you bite. 

“We did this for your own good,” she hisses back. “You are married because we love you, and we want you to succeed outside of this family.”

“Then why do you care what the tabloids print about me?”

“Because being married does not mean you are no longer a part of this family,” your mother informs you sternly, lips smacking together. “Your marriage reflects on all of us, and you know that. What will people think of us when they see how terribly behaved you are?”

“Everyone acts like that, and you know it.” How could your mother preach good behavior when everyone, everyone you know, is just as spoiled and entitled as you? There’s no such thing as being altruistic when it comes to people like you. Being genuine, and good, and pure—that will get you ruined. 

You can hear her breathing into the phone when your mother responds, “But not in public, and that is the point. We expect better from you.”

“If you were so worried about me behaving so badly, then why did you even marry me off anyway? You knew that I didn’t want to. What did you think would happen?” It’s a question you wouldn’t have dared ask three months ago. Hell, even a year ago, when it was first revealed you were to be engaged, you wouldn’t have dared open your lips. But things are different now. You’re married to a man that hates you just as much as you hate him. He is making no effort to improve your relationship and seems hellbent on despising you forever. There is no way to get out of it. And if your parents really foresaw all of that, then what was the point in the first place?

“Your grandmother.”

Your mouth shuts. 

“You know she wanted to see you married before she passed,” your mother says, words clipped and biting and harsh. “She cares about you. She wanted to make sure you’d be taken care of.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me,” you mutter to yourself like a petulant child. In a way, you sort of are.

“If you want to stay in her will, I suggest you change that mindset.”

You freeze in your tracks. The will?

“Is that a threat?” You ask, positively dumbfounded. Are you being coerced into staying in this marriage because of your grandmother’s will?

You can hear your mother laugh, that muted, knowing chuckle of hers. “It was the deal all along, remember?”

Vaguely, you do. You remember fighting your parents tooth and nail over getting married until your grandmother revealed it was her dream to see you wed. You remember the look on her old, wrinkled face, that soft, sad smile that said she knew she didn’t have much time left. You remember agreeing, because how could you deny her? You remember her promising to remember what you’re doing for her. 

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“But—”

“That’s the end of this conversation, Y/N. You fix things with your husband or you’re out of her will. She’s made that clear. I expect you’ll make the right choice.”

She hangs up. 

Well. 

There are a lot of ways to describe how you’re currently feeling, and you most certainly had an expensive education that would provide you with plenty of the vocabulary, but you think the most appropriate words for the current situation would be: you’re fucked. 

At least the feeling is mutual. 

Hardly two minutes after your mother’s brutal phone call, Taehyung comes storming down the stairs, hair still mussed from the night prior, his own phone clenched tightly between is fingers. Even from where you stand in the middle of the living room, you can see the way his eyes are glinting with anger, the veins popping out from his skin. 

“I just got off the phone with my parents,” Taehyung begins, not even bothering to spare a ‘good morning’ your way, “and they are fucking furious about last night.”

You shrug. “Join the club,” you mutter, arms crossed in front of you. What, does Taehyung really think you got off scot-free?

“Don’t act like this means nothing to you,” Taehyung says as he approaches you, footsteps calm despite his demeanor being anything but. “You’re the one who’s so obsessed with keeping up their family’s perfect reputation. You’re the reason we’re even in this mess in the first place.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m the reason’?” You ask, astounded. Like he’s totally absolved of all blame and just an innocent third party. “You are the reason we went outside. You are the reason we had that argument, because you refuse to accept the fact that we’re actually married and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Right, because holding hands is really gonna show all those people how in love we are. I bet your parents are so thrilled right now.” Taehyung drawls. 

“It’s a start!” You shriek. “God, you’re just so—so infuriating! You can’t accept that this was your fault, too. You just have to turn everything against me and you always, always have to get the last word. It’s like you think you’ll die if you don’t.”

“Like you’re any better,” Taehyung huffs back. “You think I’m the villain because I don’t want to pretend to be in love with someone I’m not in love with. You act like us not holding hands is going to ruin our lives. It was one event! One! It’s obvious we hate each other, so why even try?”

“What, do you expect me to just sit around and do nothing? To act like everything’s fine? Like I’m happy?” As if. This marriage is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. “While you prance around the city with your rich boy friends, going out to clubs and parties and pretending that I don’t exist? Is that what you expect from me?”

Taehyung laughs, this loud, disbelieving sort of noise, like he’s never heard such nonsense before. “Just because we’re married doesn’t mean the rest of my life has to change. Am I not allowed to enjoy myself with my friends? Or are you determined to keep me chained to your side for the rest of our lives?”

“What I want,” you punctuate every word, “is for you to stop acting like you haven’t got stakes in this, too. You think I don’t know how your family works? What being married to me means for you? Because I do. And I know that if we were to divorce, it would be you who would get the short end of the stick. Make no mistake.”

That’s enough to shut Taehyung up for a good few seconds. And it shuts him up, because he knows it’s true. Taehyung’s family may have a little more money, a little more power than yours, but you’ve got a family intimately more connected with the media. One phone call and Taehyung may have a rather messy, rather public breakup to deal with. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says, calling your bluff. 

“Are you sure about that?” You say, sticking your ground. You would never really divorce him, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I am,” Taehyung says firmly. “Don’t think I don’t know what being married to me is in it for you. What is it? Money? Power? Your father’s CEO position?”

“That’s none of your business,” you snap quickly. Maybe you’re more transparent than you thought. Bristling, you straighten your shoulders and turn back to meet his eyes. “Regardless, it seems we both have a reason to stay in this marriage.”

“It seems we do,” Taehyung agrees with a thin, contained smile. “Then I suppose we can reach some sort of agreement.”

“As in…?” Your interest in piqued. 

“I’ll stop going out with my friends if you stop picking fights with me all the time,” he says economically, like he’s killing two birds with one stone. 

“Only if you agree to also act more like my husband when we’re in public,” you tack on, because you just can’t settle for anything less. 

“Public only,” Taehyung specifies. 

You scoff. “Like I’d even want to pretend to be your wife when we’re in private.”

“Good. It seems we’ve come to a deal.”

“What’s in this for you, huh?” You prod, just to be annoying. Taehyung’s right. There’s a reason you’re not divorcing him the second you get the chance. But there must be a reason why he’s not doing the same thing. 

“Does it matter?” He challenges, a single eyebrow raised. “My life is just as awful as yours.”

Fair enough. 

“Do we have a deal?” Taehyung asks, holding out his hand, that sneaky, devilish grin lacing his features. 

Taking his hand in yours and grasping it firmly is the easiest decision in the world. His palm presses against your own, hot hand meeting your cold skin, and it feels like the two of you are finally finding some sort of balance. You look up into his eyes, burn your gaze into his pupils, watch them glint in the white ceiling light of the living room. 

“Deal.”

For two people raised on the values of reading the fine print and making educated choices when it comes to business deals, you and Taehyung sure haven’t worked out any of the intricacies of the deal the two of you agreed to. Unlike those business deals your parents constantly agreed to, however, knowing all of the stipulations and provisions of your strange, strange agreement with Taehyung may prove more harmful than helpful. 

Like right now. 

“Wait, we don’t have to be by each other’s side the whole night, do we?” Taehyung asks you, eyebrows furrowed in a knot, as you sit in the back of a big, black van on your way to a mutual friend’s twenty-first birthday bash. 

“There are going to be a lot of cameras there,” you respond. 

“Yeah, outside the entrance to the damn club. You know they won’t be allowed in, so who cares?” Taehyung rebukes. 

You huff out a little sigh, not wanting to get into an argument when you’re literally minutes away from your first public appearance since the whole tabloid debacle from three weeks ago. You and Taehyung could both do with being a bit more relaxed than you normally are when you’re around each other. 

“Hasn’t Clarissa invited hundreds of people? They’ll all notice if we aren’t together,” you remind pointedly. The girl whose birthday party you are attending is an heiress who grew up on the money of two people with a monopoly over the current artificial intelligence market and has millions of followers on social media. There will be notable people there. And people will know the two of you, as well. 

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “That’s the point, Y/N. There’ll be so many people, no one will even care. It’s her twenty-first birthday. Do you think people are going to be sober?”

You purse your lips together. He’s got a point. “How about when we are together, we hold hands. But if you see a friend or something then feel free to say hi.” Taehyung can be afforded that luxury. Especially because the chances of him not bumping into someone he knows is exceedingly low anyway. 

Taehyung nods in agreement. “You too. But I won’t leave you unless I know you’re with someone you’re close with.”

“You don’t have to stay, I’ll be fine,” you say with a small chuckle. What, is Taehyung suddenly worried, or something?

“Yeah, but it would be in bad taste if I left you with someone you didn’t know well. Or alone. Just wanna make sure you’re taken care of.” He shrugs nonchalantly, turning back to look out of the window on his side of the car. 

“Okay.” 

You don’t really have anything else to say to that. You’re sure you can handle yourself if you’re left alone for a few minutes while Taehyung says hi, but you actually find yourself rather appreciative of his resolve to look after you. Or, at least, make sure someone else is looking after you. It’s quite… chivalrous. Strikingly out of character for the Taehyung you’ve become well-acquainted with over the past couple of months. 

By the time you arrive, it’s obvious that Taehyung was right about there being so many people you two practically don’t even exist. Other than the herds of camera crews waiting outside the joint, photographing everyone that steps out of a black car to see what they’re wearing and who they’ve come with, no one seems to be paying you any attention. And in a way, that sort of nonexistence, that anonymity, it’s refreshing. Your entire life you’ve felt like all eyes were on you, like there was constantly a spotlight above your head, but here, the party centers around someone else. 

Despite that fact, Taehyung keeps his promise. He keeps himself pressed closely against you when there’s not enough space for you two to stand side by side, and he makes sure to have a hand gently intertwined with your own as you weave your way through the dozens of bodies in the room. He doesn’t say anything, of course, always looking up and forward instead of beside him, where you stand, but you find that you’re actually quite relaxed with his presence. He spots a bit of a clearing near the back of the first floor of the club, where a whole bunch of leather couches are pressed up against the brick walls, where the two of you can take a breather. 

“Damn, Clarissa knows a lot of people,” you say when you finally settle down, happily plucking a martini from a tray held by one of the many caterers wandering through the venue. 

“I doubt she’s even spoken to half of them,” Taehyung comments. “She and I have maybe spoken once… three years ago.”

“It was enough to get you invited, wasn’t it?” You point out with an eyebrow raised. 

Taehyung nods, chuckling a little. “Touché,” he says, clinking his own cocktail glass against yours. 

You take a swig of the drink, letting it wash down your throat. You’re not exactly sure how else you’re supposed to survive the night. “You must enjoy this, huh?” You muse, looking up at Taehyung from where you’re seated on the couch. He’s standing next to you, looking around the room with a distant gaze in his eye. 

“Enjoy what? The drink? It’s nice,” Taehyung says, having another sip. 

“No, I mean this,” you say, motioning toward the crowd. “The clubbing, the dancing, the drinking. I’ll bet that if you could do this every day for the rest of your life, you would.”

“I’m honored that you think so highly of me,” he deadpans. 

“Just making an observation,” you say, holding your hand up in surrender. “I mean, isn’t this what you used to do every weekend before we got married? Get wasted and party? Wake up in someone else’s bed the next morning? Muscle your way through the week just so you could do it all over again?”

Taehyung shakes his head, a knowing grin on his face. “Looks like someone keeps up with her tabloids. Let me guess, you would scroll through all of those trashy articles on your phone whenever you woke up so you could see what your future husband was doing?”

“I could have never even met you and I would know that that’s exactly what you do,” you say, even though you definitely did do those things before your engagement was announced to the public. “You’re a heartbreaker, Kim Taehyung. I don’t need to read a tabloid to know that.”

“Well, you must be quite the lucky girl, then,” Taehyung comments. “You seem to be taking up so much of my energy that I don’t have the time for that anymore.”

You place a sarcastic hand on your heart. “I didn’t know you were always thinking about me. I’m touched.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Taehyung huffs out, making the two of you both shake your heads as you chuckle to yourselves. First civil conversation you’ve had with each other in a long while, even if there may have been a few blows exchanged. 

The privacy doesn’t last long. Soon after, a huge crowd of people that could honestly still pass for teenagers herds towards the back of the club, all of them wanting to take pictures with each other. You and Taehyung do your best to stay out of the way, but one of the girls recognizes him from the Elle photoshoot he did about a year ago and begins to strike up a conversation with the both of you about your recent marriage. If she was paying attention to anything the tabloids leaked three weeks ago, she doesn’t mention it. Taehyung smiles and happily answers all of her questions, and even offers to take a picture of the group for them. The conversation ends before the two of you even catch her name. 

You’re standing by the line of buffet tables laid out against the staircase leading up to the second floor, no doubt as crowded as this one, when the opportunity for you to speak to someone other than Taehyung finally presents itself. 

“Y/N!”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. You turn around to see Victoria barreling towards the both of you, not even caring when she accidentally spills a bit of her piña colada on the floor as she does. 

“Hey!” You exclaim excitedly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Are you kidding? I’m pretty sure Clarissa invited everyone on her, her best friend’s, her best friend’s cousin, and her best friend’s cousin’s dog’s contact list,” Victoria says with a laugh. “It’s nice to see you. I feel like you’ve been holed up in that big ol’ penthouse for weeks.”

“Damage control,” you remind her succinctly. Victoria knows enough that that’s all the explanation she really needs. 

“I don’t know if the two of you have ever met formally,” you say, thinking back to your wedding, where Victoria spent most of her time schmoozing with your parents (who love her) and didn’t even engage with any of the people who Taehyung’s family had invited. “Taehyung, this is Victoria. Victoria, Taehyung.”

“Pleasure,” Victoria says in that loud, unabashedly forward way of hers, holding out a friendly hand. Taehyung smiles back curtly, taking her hand and shaking it gently, so as not to spill any more of her drink. 

“Mine as well. I remember you were at our wedding.” Oh? So he does know her?

“That I was. Oh, I miss that day. The food was excellent. Tonight’s isn’t too bad either. Hope you’re doing well, the two of you. It’s nice to see you getting along,” she says, always the observer. 

Taehyung’s eyes widen a little when he picks up what Victoria is not-so-subtly putting down, but you place a hand on his upper arm to calm him. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “She won’t say anything.”

“My lips are sealed,” Victoria adds. 

“If you wanna go spend time with some of your friends, you can,” you say, giving Taehyung a nudge. He looks positively helpless standing in between the two of you as Victoria out-extroverts him. 

“Alright,” he says hesitantly, even though you know he’s already spotted at least ten people you’re sure he’d want to spend time with over you. “I’ll come find you soon, okay? Don’t go too far.”

You nod, and Taehyung disappears off into the crowd. Not two seconds later, you hear someone else call his name in a familiar tone. 

“I thought you said you hated him,” Victoria points out as the two of you watch his caramel brown hair makes its way throughout the crowd. 

You take another sip of your drink. “I do,” you say. 

Victoria looks at you like you’ve just told her you’ve sworn off custard-filled doughnuts. 

“What?” You ask, feeling suddenly defensive. 

“Nothing,” Victoria singsongs. “It just doesn’t look like that to me.”

“We just need to keep up a good appearance in public, that’s all. You know how mad my parents got when the tabloids leaked all that shit a few weeks ago,” you explain. You’re not sure what all the fuss is about. Taehyung said he would do these things. And he did. That was him upholding his end of the deal. This is you upholding yours. 

“If you say so…” Victoria says, not looking at all convinced. “I guess I’m just surprised that—that you two seem to be getting along so well. Maybe you being married isn’t going to be the worst thing after all.”

You stare back out into the crowd, scanning the top of people’s heads for Taehyung’s familiar locks. In the dim light of the club, you have a difficult time finding his, squinting your eyes slightly as you look around, but eventually you spot him, dancing happily with some old friends of his you recognize. He looks like he’s having a good time. And that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this might end up alright. 

“Yeah,” you say, though with the pounding of the bass and the alcohol already rushing through your veins, it doesn’t really feel like your voice belongs to you. You look back at Taehyung, knowing exactly where he is now, and you smile. Just a little. “I guess he’s not so bad.”

You never do get a chance to meet Taehyung’s friends that night. By the time he joins back up with you and Victoria he’s by himself, a little more drunk than when he left, and ready to go home. And for once, instead of fighting him, instead of insisting you stay an hour more just to make sure you’ve done all of your rounds, you let him take you home. 

Taehyung has been spending a lot more time at the penthouse lately. Perhaps his family’s business happenings are slow, or perhaps he’s actually starting to get more comfortable with inhabiting the same space as you, but he has definitely found himself quite the rhythm in that house of yours. He even comes down to the first floor rather regularly. 

When he’s home, Taehyung is a lot quieter than you thought he would be. Granted, you don’t exactly know what you were expecting in the first place, but it certainly wasn’t him ruminating in one of the home offices while the Beatles play softly on the stereo, nor was it him reading a book in French in one of those big old grandfather chairs in the living room. If you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was still absent in that old way of his, ghostlike and silent, like he was occupying the space instead of truly living in it. 

But you do know better, and even though Taehyung is just as noiseless as he used to be, the house already feels a little bit fuller. 

Perhaps the reason you’ve become so keenly aware of his presence over the past few days is because of the notable fact that Taehyung has indeed held up his end of the deal, and no longer goes out with his friends in the evening. Or at all, for that matter. Which strikes you as rather odd, because he’s the epitome of a social butterfly, a thousand contacts in his phone and a whole group of friends he regularly spends time with. Maybe his parents told him to tone down the public appearances, too. And that’s understandable, but don’t they know Taehyung? Can’t they see how much he thrives on social interaction? It almost makes you feel… bad for him. 

To remedy this, you suggest he invite over his friends. Just for a few hours, you swear you won’t mind. 

“Seriously?” Taehyung looks positively shocked when you tell him he can, standing in the doorway of the office he seems to have designated as his own. 

“Yeah, why not?” You say with a carefree shrug. Besides, you’ve never met his friends anyway, and now seems as good a chance as any to introduce yourself. You are his wife, after all. “Unless your parents say you can’t. But it’s not a problem for me.”

“You… don’t mind if I have my friends over for a bit? Honest to God, we’re probably just going to play FIFA for three hours straight,” Taehyung says like it’s some sort of warning. Like the idea of him and his buddies from college are going to sit in the living room screaming at the television, leaving you alone to do literally anything else, is somehow bad. 

You laugh. “It’s fine, really. Call them. I’d actually quite like to meet them.”

Taehyung picks up his phone almost instantly, as if you’ll change your mind in the next five minutes so he better get them over soon, and already you can see the way his face is lighting up, the way his eyes crinkle as he chats to his friends and the way his lips curl upwards when they crack a joke back. Isn’t it obvious? He feeds off of the energy of others. Who are you to deny him such a simple pleasure?

As it turns out, Taehyung’s friends actually end up being quite nice anyway. 

He invites over three, because four people is apparently the perfect number for a hardcore game of FIFA on his Playstation, and they are all very handsome men you have never met before. You suppose like attracts like, after all. 

“You must be Y/N,” says the first one you see when you open the door to let them in. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-one—in fact, he could probably still pass as a college student—and has rather long dark hair that drapes over the sides of his face, covering the edges of his big doe eyes. “I’m Jungkook. This is Jimin and Hoseok.”

“Nice to meet you all,” you say, stepping aside so they can enter.

The shortest one, Jimin, grins in response, and Hoseok, behind him, gives you a wave. It’s refreshing enough as is, not having to exchange formal greetings and shake each other’s hands like you do with everyone else. Hoseok even gives you a bit of a nod, too.“You, too,” he says. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Oh, have they, now? Interesting. 

“All good things, I hope,” you say awkwardly, forcing a small smile as Taehyung comes bounding into the room, ears perked up at the sound of his friends’ voices. 

“Definitely. Thanks for having us over. We didn’t wanna intrude on the sanctity of your new place,” Jungkook says, gesturing vaguely to the house as a whole. He’s got this excellent, genuine grin on his face, the kind that people who are just happy to be alive always wear. 

Already he’s said enough to charm the shit out of you. Who knew Taehyung’s friends could be so… friendly? “Please, you’re welcome any time. I was just thinking Taehyung was getting a little lonely.”

“There he is!” Jimin shouts excitedly when he spots Taehyung behind the two of you, looking a lot more casual than he normally does when he’s alone with you, having abandoned his usual silky button-down and wide-leg slacks for a loose shirt and some sweatpants. You didn’t even know he had those things in his closet. 

“Hey, everyone’s here!” Taehyung exclaims, just as happy. He squeezes past you to give the three of them a big hug, and it almost makes you feel like you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be in. Even though this is literally your house. 

“Nice place you got here,” Hoseok comments, eyes drifting around the living room. “Very minimalist, I like it.”

“Sure hope you don’t spill anything on those nice leather couches of yours,” Jungkook says. 

“Yeah, unlike Kook, who has spilled tomato soup on every shirt he’s ever owned,” Jimin jokes, earning laughs from Taehyung and Hoseok and a punch from Jungkook. 

“Moved after we married,” Taehyung says simply, shrugging his shoulders. It’s an easy enough explanation for why it doesn’t look at all lived in. Here’s hoping none of them realize you sleep in different bedrooms. 

“Yeah, congratulations on that, man,” Hoseok says, giving Taehyung a celebratory nudge in the shoulder. “Who’d have thought, out of the four of us, Kim Taehyung would be the first one to settle down.”

The way Taehyung’s body tenses up at that comment does not go unnoticed by you. 

“Seriously, I would have never guessed,” Jimin adds on. “You’re showing us a new side of yourself, Tae. But I’m happy for you.”

Normally, you’d probably take offense at such blatant insinuations that your husband was a former playboy, especially from his equally noncommittal friends. But truthfully, it’s not like you were blind to Taehyung’s transgressions either. And what matters most is the fact that since it was announced publicly, you are the only woman he’s been seen with since your engagement. 

“Me too. You seem to really like her. I’m glad,” Jungkook pipes up, sending a smile your way. You definitely feel like you don’t belong in this conversation. “I think the two of you will be good for each other.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Taehyung says with a nervous chuckle. His eyes quickly shoot your way, the two of you meeting gazes, your hesitant expressions matching. At least the two of you are on the same page. “Alright, alright, enough,” Jungkook says. “Who’s ready to get their ass kicked in FIFA?”

“You’re on, Jeon. But when I win, you owe me a five-star dinner,” Hoseok challenges. 

“Deal.”

Hoseok, Jimin, and Jungkook immediately crowd towards the couch, and you take that as your cue to leave. But before you can disappear down the hallway, you and Taehyung look awkwardly at each other, hands tied. It’s not like you can say anything to them. 

The truth is that, sometimes, it’s easy to forget that not everyone else knows that your marriage is just for business. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that there are still people out there that believe you marry for love. 

Isn’t it crazy to think that you used to be one of those people, too?

“Hey,” Taehyung says when you meet up at the bottom of the stairs again. 

“Hey,” you respond. 

“You look nice.”

You scoff a little to yourself. What, are you exchanging compliments now? “Thanks,” you say, looking him up and down. “You’re not so bad yourself.” Like he ever is. 

“I knew you had taste,” Taehyung teases, and it’s the sort of comment that would have earned him a melon ball to the face back when the two of you were teenagers at a debutante ball, but today only earns him a roll of your eyes as you join hands. You don’t have anything big tonight—just a small dinner to celebrate some sort of business accomplishment for your family, which means that all you have to manage is not ending up in some sort of food fight by the end of the night. 

“I didn’t have a choice, did I?” You retort easily as you get into the car. 

You don’t normally speak a lot on the way to events. Not that you ever did, but even as your relationship has slowly faded from pure hatred to attempts at compromise, you both seem to relish in being able to stare out of your respective backseat windows and into the city that surrounds you. Just out of curiosity, about halfway through the ride you look towards Taehyung to see what he’s up to, and find yourself genuinely surprised to see him leaning against the window with his eyes closed. Is he sleeping? A couple more minutes of gazing at him tells you he is, because his body has gone lax and his breathing has evened out, soft snores leaving his mouth. This ride can’t be longer than twenty minutes. Has he not been sleeping well? Up in that enormous second-floor bedroom of his?

He’s awake by the time the car parks outside the restaurant, this fancy name brand steak place that was chosen solely because the biggest beneficiaries of your family’s new business deal are two sixty-year-old men whose entire diet consists of beef and beer. No cameras tonight, just a small family affair. You and Taehyung hold hands as you enter the restaurant and are led to the private room in the back anyway. 

You and him are seated on the far end of the long, rectangular table, alongside all of the other adult children dragged along to celebrate something that has no effect on their lives. But it’s nice, because the space alone prevents your parents from actively speaking with you, and you and Taehyung can stay in your own little bubble, only chiming in for a toast when necessary. 

“What are you going to get?” He asks you, the two of you gazing at the menu. No matter how fancy this place is, all the options seem to boil down to steak, steak, steak, steak, and caesar salad. Classic. 

“Oh, so you actually care now?” You counter, an eyebrow raised in amusement. 

Taehyung laughs. “Aren’t I supposed to?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, wise to his usual shenanigans. It’s hard to tell if Taehyung really means what he says, or if it’s all for show. But perhaps he’s asking because he’s genuinely curious, since no one else seems to be paying you any attention. 

“The choices on this menu are simply overwhelming,” you say, motioning to the six options in front of you. 

“I know, I’m so torn,” Taehyung jokes, making you huff out a little giggle. At least he’s still got that same sense of humor. 

You both end up going for a pretty classic steak dinner, which neither of the two of you finish because the damn portions are the size of your head. Dinner is, in and of itself, absolutely mindless, all of your parents talking about things that don’t concern you whatsoever, leaving you and Taehyung to your own devices as you desperately try to make the night go by faster. 

At one point, you notice Taehyung’s foot brushing up against yours, the leather of his loafers brushing against the toe of your patent heel. Thinking someone of it, you push back, foot nudging his back to his own chair. It’s not a second later that Taehyung retaliates, the two of you dancing around each other underneath the table. 

If the two of you were any younger, or perhaps any less resigned to your fate, there’s no doubt in your mind you would be attempting to get Taehyung to fall off his chair in an effort to do the same to you. Footsie means war. But when the both of you know that, at the end of the day, you’ll still be going home to the same place, and waking up the next morning in the same house, it doesn’t feel like this is a battle.

It’s just life. 

Eventually, you meet Taehyung’s eyes with a hesitant smile, shoe pressed against his, stuck in ceasefire. And for once, he doesn’t have that devilish look in his eye, that smug little grin on his face that tells you that he’s going to make you regret whatever it is you just did. He’s just smiling back at you, all pink lips, having found real fun in the little things. 

And that makes you happy. 

The rest of the dinner is uneventful, which, in your book, is about as good as a dinner can go. You cheers to the future of your parents’ relationship with their newfound partners and say a quick goodbye to them both, hurrying out of there before they can ask you any questions on your relationship with your husband. But you don’t spend the car ride in silence on the way back. 

Instead, you say, “Have you been sleeping well?”

The question seems to catch Taehyung off guard. He was already getting in position to take a power nap on the ride home, head pressed up against the window of the car. 

“What?”

“Have you been sleeping well?” You repeat. “I noticed you fell asleep on the way here.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess,” he says, a hand scratching the nape of his neck. “I mean, it’s been hard adjusting, I suppose. But I’ll get over it.”

Hard adjusting? You’ve been together for nearly three months now. Three months worth of sleeping in the same penthouse bedroom, on the same soft-as-a-cloud mattress, underneath the same weighted blanket. And he’s still having trouble? 

“Oh. I mean, I just wanted to ask because you seem really tired lately.”

“I got a lot on my plate, what can I say,” Taehyung says with an empty smile, forcing a chuckle. “I’ll be fine, seriously. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Isn’t that my job?” You remind him. “I am your wife.”

Taehyung doesn’t say anything to that. He just lets out an audible breath, the kind you let out when you’re amused and have something snarky to say, but don’t have the energy to get the words off your tongue. 

The rest of the ride is pretty quiet. 

When you get home, you place your house keys in the bowl by the entrance and take off your shoes, just about ready to take a hot shower and collapse in bed, when Taehyung’s voice stops you. 

“Hey,” he begins, almost hesitantly. You look back at him inquisitively. “I was thinking, maybe, if you wanted, we could start sleeping in the same bed?”

You scrunch your nose up. Not in disgust, but in surprise. In bewilderment. What brought this on, all of a sudden?

“Really?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself. “I thought we liked the separate bed thing. Gives us privacy.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says with a shrug, “but—I don’t know, it’s stupid. I just thought, you know, since we’re married and all. And it’s been three months.” He looks about two seconds away from backtracking, from shaking his head and going upstairs before you can say anything else. 

“Alright,” you say quickly, nodding your assent. Taehyung’s eyes widen when he hears the word, like he had completely expected you to shut him down the moment he made the suggestion. “If that’s what you want. We can try it.”

“You sure?” He asks, that same hesitant smile from earlier lacing his features. It’s strange. He almost looks… sweet. Nervous. 

You grin back at him. “Yeah, I am.”

Taehyung lets you grab some of your toiletries and your pajamas from your designated bedroom before you head up the stairs together, towards the bedroom he’s claimed for himself. Funnily enough, this is the first time you’ve been in his room. Three months of living together and you haven’t dared step foot on the second floor. 

You don’t know what you were expecting when he opens the door to let you inside. Maybe a room that screamed ‘Taehyung’ a little more than this one does. One that looks like an actual human has been living here. But other than one of his classic silk button-downs draped over a chair, there’s not a shred of evidence someone has actually been sleeping here. You could honestly be fooled rather easily that the shirt, too, is just decoration. 

“You can pick a side,” Taehyung says casually. He grabs his own sleepwear—an old t-shirt and some sweats—and heads into the bathroom to change. 

You wonder why Taehyung has had such a difficult time adjusting. This room is about as lavish as a bedroom can get. And yet. 

Sitting down on the left side of the bed, you begin to remove your own clothes, unzipping tonight’s dress and stepping quickly into your pajamas, hurrying to make sure Taehyung doesn’t catch you half-naked. How funny is that, you think to yourself. You’ve been married for three months and you still can’t bear the thought of Taehyung seeing you without a shirt on. 

When Taehyung comes out of the bathroom, hair all messy and clothes all casual, he grins lazily to himself. “I sleep on the right anyway,” he comments mindlessly. 

Within twenty minutes the both of you are about as ready to pass out as you have ever been, the only lights still on the ones on your respective nightstands. 

“Goodnight,” Taehyung says, reaching an arm over to switch his off. 

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning off yours as well. And all of a sudden, the room is shrouded in darkness. 

You fall asleep instantly. 

When Taehyung wakes up the next morning, the first thing he says to you is that he hasn’t slept that well in ages. 

“You slept together?” Victoria shrieks, so loud you actually have to move your phone away from your ear as you punch in the code inside the elevator for access to your floor. 

“We did not sleep together,” you emphasize. “Okay, well, we sleep together, as in, in the same bed. But we are fully clothed. And not the slightest bit interested in doing anything other than sleeping.”

“I thought you said you liked having your own space,” Victoria points out. “When was the first time you—uh…” she pauses to find the right words, “shared a bed?”

“A couple weeks ago. It’s really not so bad, I don’t know why you’re so hung up over it,” you say, lips pursed. You squeeze the phone between the side of your head and your shoulder, hands full of shopping bags, the string of the handles burning your skin. Maybe you should look into getting a personal shopper. 

“I’m hung up over it because, for the longest time, you have sworn off Kim Taehyung. Called him dead to you. Insulted him every chance you get.” 

You scoff. You don’t need reminding of how much you hated him, how much you can’t believe you have to spend the rest of your life with him. “It’s different now. We’re married. And he said he wasn’t sleeping well. I felt bad.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Enough about him,” you say, shutting her up. You don’t feel like talking about him with Victoria anymore. “Word through the grapevine says that your parents are actually thinking of letting you start your own company?”

It’s enough to distract Victoria. For the rest of the ride in the elevator, she talks animatedly about a new streaming service her parents are considering letting her launch, under their parent business, of course, but it’s her own company nonetheless. And you’re proud of her. Proud she could do something your parents would never dream of letting you do. Proud she could make that happen. 

You push open the front door with the side of your hip after entering in the security code, phone still snug between your ear and your shoulder, when you hear Taehyung call out your name. 

He comes into view from the kitchen, which surprises you because you have, on multiple occasions, made fun of how much of a disaster chef he is, especially because he’s admitted to you he’s not a very good cook. 

“I made brownies,” he says, holding out a plate of the chocolate treats in front of you. Instinct has you dropping your bags on the floor by your feet and reaching out, but you eye him first, suspicious. 

“I have to go,” you tell Victoria, hanging up before she even gets a chance to object to your sudden departure. “You made these?”

“Yes, I did,” Taehyung says, rather proud. 

“And the kitchen is… still standing?” You ask, skeptical. 

Taehyung frowns at you, clearly unimpressed. “How bad of a chef do you think I am?”

“Pretty bad,” you admit with a shrug. 

Taehyung pouts sadly to himself for a moment. “These are good, I swear. Nothing weird in them like vegetables or anything either. I used a box mix.”

“No wonder they look so nice,” you comment snidely, hesitant hand reaching out to grab one. They feel like brownies. So that’s good. 

“Hey, I was the one who had to crack the eggs and shit. Three eggs! And not one eggshell in the bowl!” Taehyung says, clearly very pleased with himself. 

You laugh at his enthusiasm, taking a bite. It’s good. And exactly what you needed after a long day of shopping. “I’m proud of you. They taste good.”

“I knew you wouldn’t doubt me.” Taehyung grins.

“They’re really good, actually,” You amend, genuinely surprised. And the best part is that you can count at least ten brownies left on that plate, which means that you get at least five more. Which, if you had any less self-restraint, you would probably eat all at once within the day. 

“I’m glad you like them. They’re all for us, you know. No one else to share them with,” he says.

“Honestly, I’m probably going to finish them by tonight. You’ll have to make more tomorrow,” you say sheepishly. 

“We can make some together,” Taehyung suggests. 

“I’m looking forward to it,” you respond. The words come off your mouth easily, tumbling from your lips without you having to think about it. You aren’t saying them because you have to. You’re saying them because you want to. Because baking with Taehyung doesn’t actually sound too bad. Especially if it means more brownies. 

“You’ve, uh, you’ve got something,” Taehyung says, gesturing vaguely to the side of his lip. 

“Oh, I do? Yikes,” you say, a little embarrassed. Your hand comes up to wipe at the left side of your mouth. “Is it gone?”

“Wait, here, let me do it,” Taehyung says, reaching out towards you. He presses his palm against the side of your face, cradling your cheek and jaw in his enormous hands, and all at once it feels like your skin is on fire. 

Your body freezes up at the touch, at the way his thumb swipes at the corner of your mouth, right against your lips, wiping away nothing but a goddamn brownie crumb. You look at him, look right at him, how can you look anywhere else when he’s right in front of you like this, and it feels like you are caught in his gaze, a rain droplet trapped on a web, a bee stuck in its own honey. His big, brown eyes sparkle from the ceiling lights, a chocolate sky that mirrors the food he just made for you. He looks at you and his eyes are so soft, so open, so happy to be looking right back at you. God. 

“There,” he says, a moment too late. 

“Thanks,” you stammer out, speechless otherwise. 

You both stand there, looking at each other, wordless expressions drawn all over your faces, no idea what to do next. 

After a while, Taehyung breaks the silence. “Do you wanna order takeout tonight?”

“Okay,” you nod, still a little breathless. Taehyung smiles before retreating back to the kitchen, leaving you standing in the entranceway, shopping bags abandoned by your side. 

You look over to where he’s vanished. There’s a part of you that wishes he hadn’t left. A part of you that makes you want to see him again. 

Phone calls from your mother are never good. The last time she called… well, you know how that went. So when you see her contact information light up your home screen, it’s only instinct that you feel your heart rate spike. 

“Hello?” The voice that comes out doesn’t even sound like yours. 

There’s no good way to put what comes next. Your grandmother has died. Heart attack. The paramedics got there too late. It was over before it even started. 

For a moment, for a split second, it feels like everything is frozen. Like the world has come to standstill. Your mother’s voice echoes in your ears, suspended in time, the words turning into stone as they crash onto the floor. And when they do, it is as if everything comes back to life. 

Truth be told, you don’t know how long you stay there, sitting on the edge of the left side of the bed, your phone resting lifelessly in the palm of your hand. It feels at once like an eternity and only a second in time. You spoke to your grandmother two days ago. You had promised that you and Taehyung would visit her soon. How can this be happening?

Your phone buzzes relentlessly in your hands, condolences pouring in from every person in your contacts, sorry’s and heart emoticons and If you need anything, I’m always here’s filling up your screen. There’s a part of you that vaguely registers your mother, alongside some of the other members of your family, trying to call you. But nothing can seem to shake you. 

Until—

“Y/N? You still up here?”

You hear Taehyung before you see him. Hear his voice, hear his footsteps, hear the door creak open as he enters your bedroom. Slowly, almost sluggishly, you twist around to look at him, the mere act knocking the wind out of you. Or maybe you were already breathless. 

“Hey, you alright?” Taehyung knows instantly that something is wrong. 

“My grandmother died.” The words sit heavy on your tongue. There’s no point in not telling him. He’ll find out soon enough. He’s… he’s family, isn’t he?

“What?” Taehyung freezes in place. “I—I’m so sorry to hear that, Y/N. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, voice weak but steady. You blink up at him, once, twice, three times, and then suddenly you feel tears running down your cheeks. 

Taehyung doesn’t say anything else. He rushes to your side and sits himself down on the bed next to you, arms wrapping around your body. And you don’t think about the fact that it’s him, about the fact that this is the closest the two of you have ever been. You just let yourself be engulfed in his frame, let yourself be enveloped in his hold as the tears stream down your skin, little hiccups jolting your throat. You close your eyes and press yourself into his arms, head resting against his chest, and wish so desperately that so many things about your life were just a little bit different. 

It must be at least five minutes before either one of you dares to move. Your phone begins to rattle incessantly, that familiar and insistent buzz that the both of you are hard-pressed to ignore. 

“I think you should answer that,” Taehyung whispers into your skin, lips right by your forehead. 

“Yeah,” you sniffle, sitting up next to him and wiping the remnants of wetness by your eyes. Well, Taehyung’s seen you cry. There’s no going back now. “You’re probably right.” You look down at the phone. It’s your father. 

“I’ll be downstairs, okay? Unless you want me to stay,” he offers, looking hesitant. 

You shake your head. “No, it’s—it’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

“Call me if you need me,” he makes you give him a nod of understanding before he finally gets up, hands slowly removing themselves from your skin, leaving little sparks in their wake. Remnants of warmth. Suddenly, you feel much colder. Hardly a minute later he’s out of the room, and you can hear his distant footsteps as they make their way down the stairs. 

Sighing, blinking, and swallowing all at once, you pick up. 

The call passes by in a blur. Your father says the will will take at least half a year to be executed, but that the funeral is already being planned. Your grandmother had hoped you would eulogize her. You agree, but you have no idea what you will say. He says Taehyung is invited but does not need to come if he cannot make it. He says a lot of other things too, about your mother, about your cousins, about your aunts and uncles and your poor grandfather, who passed five years ago, but you can’t even remember them moments after he’s said them. 

When he hangs up, the tears on your cheeks have dried, patches of them left along your skin. You head to the bathroom, getting off your bed for the first time that day, and try to wash away everything that has stained the morning. A part of you doesn’t even want to bother, just wants to slug downstairs and eat as much sugary cereal as you can get your hands on, but you can’t go down there looking like this. Looking so helpless. 

By the time you reach the kitchen, Taehyung is already standing there, on the opposite side of the counter island, a big stack of pancakes in front of him. They look mouth-watering. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “Thought you might want something to cheer you up.”

“Did you make these?” You ask, a little endeared. That was thoughtful of him. 

“Yeah. They’re still warm,” Taehyung says. He holds out a fork. 

You grin. 

The funeral is a week later. It sucks in every way that something can suck. But not in the same way your wedding sucked, or even the announcement of your engagement. It sucks because it’s a funeral, because you have to stare down your grandmother’s casket when a part of you still doesn’t even believe that she’s gone. Because everyone there is so sad, so melancholy, dressed in all black and looking down at their feet. Because everyone is so sorry for you, so sorry for your loss, everyone has nothing but condolences to offer you. What will those do? They won’t bring her back. They won’t change things. They won’t make you feel even the slightest bit better. 

Taehyung comes. He comes because he offers, and because you want him to. You want someone whose hand to hold. Want someone to smile at you when you’re speaking in front of your entire extended family and trying not to cry. You want someone who is familiar, and warm, and there for you. 

And most of all, you want someone who won’t keep the conversation going when you get home. 

“Do you wanna order Chinese?” He asks, coming into the living room, where you have been sulking on the couch ever since you stepped foot inside the door. 

“That sounds nice,” you force out. 

“Okay. Your usual?”

“Yes, please.” You don’t bother asking how Taehyung already remembers what you like to order when you’ve only gotten Chinese twice in the last three months. 

“I’ll call them.” He disappears off into the kitchen. 

What you do appreciate about Taehyung is how he has defaulted to food as a comfort measure, and how the thought alone genuinely brightens you up a little bit. You don’t know each other very well—still, after three months, you couldn’t even say his favorite color—but he is doing his best, and he is trying his hardest. In some ways, you were unlucky to marry him. To marry someone you didn’t love. To be forced into a union you had no say in, with someone you had so much antagonistic history with. 

But in some ways, your luck has changed. In some ways, marrying him was perhaps the best thing that could happen to you. Taehyung is snarky, a little devilish, and absolutely full of himself, but he is not thoughtless. He is not heartless. He has proven that he is willing to put in the work. That he can grow to care. To change. To compromise. And isn’t that the luckiest thing you could have gotten?

“I’m sure you’re probably sick of hearing people tell you they’re sorry for your loss.”

His voice breaks your reverie, carrying throughout the wide open space of your living room. He’s grinning honestly where he stands, slowly making his way over to you. 

“Kind of, yeah,” you admit. “It’s not going to bring her back. Most of those people probably don’t even mean it.”

“Don’t say that,” Taehyung says, sitting down next to you. “I’m sure they do.”

You look at him skeptically. 

“I mean, they’re sorry for your loss because that loss is causing you pain. And that sucks,” Taehyung explains, albeit a little less eloquently than you thought he would. “I know it sucks for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like seeing you sad,” Taehyung says honestly, shrugging to himself. 

You scoff a little to yourself. “I would have thought my downfall would be the exact thing the great Kim Taehyung would wish for himself.”

“Maybe a couple of years ago.”

You narrow your eyes. 

“Okay, maybe even a few months ago,” Taehyung admits with a laugh, making you smile, ever so slightly. “But it’s different now. I like it when you’re happy. When you’re snarky and funny and a little evil. Seeing you like this… I don’t like the way it makes me feel.”

“That’s called empathy,” you point out. 

“I’m trying to tell you that seeing you sad makes me sad, stop being a smartass,” Taehyung chides, and that really makes you grin. “There. There’s that smile I was looking for.”

“You’re so annoying,” you say, even though there’s no malice behind it. You give him a little push, palms of your hand pressing lightly against his shoulder as you roll your eyes. 

“Only for you,” he promises. He manages to grab a hold of your wrist as your hand meets his torso, pulling you into him as he wraps an arm around your torso. You gasp a little at the sensation, head falling against his body, fitting snugly in the crook of his neck. He gives your side a comforting rub. “I’m sorry today was so shitty.”

“It was,” you agree. “But Chinese food will make it a little bit better.”

Taehyung looks positively scandalized. “What? ‘Chinese food will make it better’? But not your loving, doting husband?” 

You pretend to think for a little bit, tilting your head up to the sky as you tap your chin with your finger. “Okay. Maybe that, too,” you cave after a bit of waiting, just to be extra bothersome. 

“That’s what I thought,” Taehyung says proudly, looking down at you, eyes sparkling. You can feel his grip tighten as he presses you against his body, letting you rest your head on his side. It feels like the longest hug ever, like you’re wrapped up in a weighted blanket. Only it’s not a blanket. It’s Taehyung. It’s your husband. 

He’s your husband.

“Tomorrow will be better,” he says, and it sounds a lot like a promise. 

You nod against him, letting your eyes drift shut. Things are pretty awful right now. Your grandmother’s dead. The funeral was the saddest family event you have ever attended. You have no idea what’s supposed to happen next. 

But he’s right. He seems to be right a lot these days, actually. 

Tomorrow will be better.

Taehyung lets you sleep in for the next few days. Next several days, actually. Every time you wake up it’s close to noon and your husband is nowhere to be seen, the right side of the bed cold to the touch. It’s nothing to be worried about, though, because you can still see the noticeable dip in the bed from where he lies upon it, sinking his weight into the mattress. Taehyung’s an early bird and you’ve been having fitful nights ever since your grandmother passed. 

Today, you pull yourself out from underneath the covers around noon, sluggish and still tired, squinting as the near-afternoon light streams through the enormous windows of the bedroom. Taehyung must have thought to keep the curtains open today. 

You pull on the first casual clothes you see in your shared closet, some wide-leg sweatpants and a drapey t-shirt, and trudge downstairs like a raccoon to a trash can, hoping to fish through the kitchen cabinets to find something to eat. 

Taehyung is, as far as you can tell, nowhere to be seen. You can’t seem to hear him anywhere, and a part of you wonders where he’s at when you stumble upon the note left on the granite counter. 

Had a meeting downtown, be back around 1! There should be smoked salmon and some cream cheese and bagels in the fridge. 

Taehyung.

You chuckle to yourself as you read his flowy handwriting, amused that he thought to let you know of, of all things, the available breakfast foods in the kitchen. You check the clock. It’s nearly noon. Which means you have just over an hour of the house all to yourself. 

Having the house to yourself for five minutes is infrequent enough as it is, let alone for a whole hour. So often is Taehyung around, somewhere, holing himself up in one of the dozens of rooms or mindlessly wandering down the hallways. And for how much Taehyung is present, the funny part is that you still have no idea what he gets up to most of the time. Despite your voluntary abandoning of the separate bedroom rule, the two of you are still firm proponents of the sanctity of your personal spaces. There are rooms in the penthouse Taehyung has never been in, rooms filled with your clothes and makeup and accessories for when stylists come over before an event. A sewing room that you had specifically asked your parents for, because a part of you never let go of that childhood dream of being a fashion designer. 

And there are rooms in the penthouse that you have never been in. Rooms with dark wooden doors that have always been kept closed, that you have never stepped foot in. It’s not that you aren’t curious as to what Taehyung gets up to. He could have a goddamn evil lair in one of those rooms and you would be none the wiser. But you don’t go, because he doesn’t go into your rooms. Because you two, despite all the vows you have broken, promised each other you wouldn’t.

An hour to yourself is almost a good enough excuse for you to head back up to the bedroom and take a nap. Not that you don’t get enough sleep on a regular basis, or that you even had a fitful night last night—hell, you woke up near noon today and already you want to go back to sleep—but what else is there to do when he’s not around? What new freedoms have suddenly been given to you?

You head back upstairs, much less groggy after that delicious bagel of yours, when you catch a whiff of what smells like wet paint coming from down the hallway. It’s potent and immediately invades your senses, prompting you to wonder if that has always been there, or just magically appeared. Maybe you were so sleepy earlier, you didn’t notice it. 

Well, you notice it now. Unable to help yourself, you start to wander down the hallway, towards the source of the smell. God, it stinks. It takes you back to those days in middle school, when you would spray paint projects inside a tiny little classroom, have to step outside for fifteen minutes while you cracked the windows and aired it out. It gets stronger the further down the corridor you go, like a thick, smelly cloud stationed firmly within the walls of the penthouse. And then you realize where it’s coming from. 

It’s an art studio. 

A very messy art studio, you amend to yourself, as you peek inside. The door is wide open, and all of the windows are popped too, but the extra air circulation doesn’t seem to have made a dent in the scent. And all over the floor, the walls, and the tables are canvases covered in paint, denim jackets and pants and shirts with these wide, unafraid brushstrokes. Open cans of spray paint lie discarded on the hardwood floor stained with splotches of red, yellow, and green. 

Is this what Taehyung does in his free time? Is this where he goes, this bright, sunny room at the end of the second floor hallway? Is this what he is making?

You look down in awe at the clothes resting on the floor, splayed out to maximize dry time. Abstract faces, landscapes, and words are painted onto the backs of jackets, the fronts of old white t-shirts. What hasn’t made it onto the clothes has been put on canvases instead, blurs of color mixed together in this purposeful pattern, confidence emanating from every stroke, every dot. It’s not art in the way that the gorgeous landscapes of Monet, the picture-perfect portraits of Kahlo, the messy, unplanned splatters of Pollock are. It’s art in a different way. In a Taehyung way. 

Who knew he loved it so much? 

You almost feel like an invader encroaching on his territory when you lean down to start cleaning up some of the mess, throwing out empty spray-paint cans and tossing out grey paint water. You don’t dare touch any of the work, don’t dare try to move it. You do what you can, washing out the brushes resting in the water and cleaning up the wet splotches of paint on the hardwood. Over time, the thick scent of still-wet paint slowly fades, disappearing out the window as the fresh afternoon air seeps in. And you stand there, in a room full of art, in a room full of pieces that Taehyung has undoubtedly poured his heart into creating, and you smile to yourself. 

That’s how Taehyung finds you ten minutes later, peering into the room after declaring that his meeting had ended early. 

“Thought I’d find you in here,” Taehyung says with a grin as you jump at the sound of his voice, eyes widen when you turn around to see him standing by the door. 

“Oh, hey,” you say sheepishly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Maybe because this is the farthest room in the house from the front door,” Taehyung teases lightly, coming up behind you. “I see you found my studio.”

“I know I’m not allowed in here,” you admit. 

Taehyung scoffs. “Who says?”

“Didn’t we both agree on that?”

He shrugs. “Sort of. I think we just reached an unspoken understanding we wouldn’t invade each other’s personal space. But it was not in the fine print, no.”

“The fine print of what?”

“That deal we made.”

Right. That deal you made, four months ago, That deal, where the two of you agreed to pretend to be in love with each other during public appearances so you wouldn’t get burned at the stake by your families. Where the two of you agreed not to interact with each other otherwise because you hated each other so much. 

“Oh, yeah,” you say distantly, feeling naive for already forgetting about it. It doesn’t seem to have slipped Taehyung’s mind whatsoever. 

“It’s okay, I don’t mind that you’re up here,” Taehyung says, interrupting that piercing little voice in the back of your head that is asking you why on earth you forgot about that deal in the first place.

“Yeah, I—” You scratch at the nape of your neck, trying to find the words to say. “It just smelled like paint, so I wanted to see what you get up too. And it’s this, apparently.” You motion vaguely to the entire room.

“You sound… surprised,” Taehyung muses correctly. 

“I guess I am,” you surmise. “I’m rather impressed, too, actually.”

“Really?” It’s Taehyung’s turn to sound surprised. 

“Yeah,” you tell him honestly, looking into his eyes. “I—you know, I just came in here because the entire hallway smelled like wet paint and I wanted to know why. But I didn’t know you loved art so much.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Taehyung points out. 

You suppose that’s true. You don’t know his favorite color. His favorite song. His favorite book. For a long time, you didn’t know what he got up to on his side of the penthouse. You don’t know how he met his friends. What he studied in university. Who he has loved in the past. Who he loves now. You don’t know why he does the things he does, and why he doesn’t do the things he doesn’t do. 

But you do know his Chinese takeout order. 

And you do know his hobbies. Well, one of them, at least. 

Who’s to say you can’t learn more?

“Well,” you start with a smile. “I’m your wife, aren’t I? Shouldn’t I begin to learn?”

Taehyung picks up what you’re putting down instantly, grinning in response. “Only if you’ll tell me things about you, too,” he requisitions. 

“I will,” you promise. It’s the easiest one you’ve ever had to make. 

His face is light, bright, bathed in the rays of the afternoon sun. His eyes shimmer as they meet yours, golden flecks more pronounced like this, in this gorgeous, open space, daylight streaming through the windows. Looking at him makes you feel like you are surrounded by warmth, makes you feel like the sun is opening its arms out to you. He has always been gorgeous. Beautiful. But looking at him like this, standing in the middle of a room filled with all the things he loves, a yellow halo surrounding him—he is ethereal. 

Taehyung smiles. “Then I will, too.”

The hand-holding comes naturally tonight.

The funny thing is, actually, you don’t need to hold hands at this gathering. It’s not an event. Or a public appearance. It’s not even a business dinner. It’s your aunt’s sixtieth birthday party, reserved exclusively for family. Isn’t that strange? That Taehyung is, technically, family now?

For so long you had vowed to stay as far away from him as possible. Vowed to stick it to him whenever and wherever you could, do anything you could to get on his nerves, rile him up. Vowed that when you, one day, took over your family affairs, you would never, ever invite him. Make it known that he wasn’t to be a part of your life. And yet, here you are. Clinging to him despite being well-acquainted with—loved by, even—every other person in the room. Holding his hand like a goddamn lifeline. 

To be fair, Taehyung doesn’t look a hair out of place here. Dressed relatively casually, a smart sweater with a collared shirt underneath it, he smiles warmly at all of your relatives and presents your aunt with a beautiful and very expensive scarf the two of you had commissioned from a designer in Italy, which she absolutely loves. She pinches his cheek and proceeds to wear it for the rest of the night. 

“Damn,” you murmur to yourself as you wander around your aunt’s house, hand wrapped around his arm. “This place hasn’t changed a bit.”

“When was the last time you were here?” Taehyung asks. 

The question actually makes you think for a moment. “I don’t know, maybe five years ago? Last couple of birthdays I was overseas or in school. Had to send her a card.”

“Bet your parents were real pleased with that,” he jokes, making you both laugh. At least you two will always be able to share your experiences of domineering and influential parents with each other. 

“Oh, I’m sure. Just as pleased as they were when they realized how much we hated each other.” You expect that little jest to elicit a laugh out of Taehyung as well, but he just smiles tightly, huffing out a breath of acknowledgement. 

“Eh, it’s not like that now, is it?” He offers up. 

“I suppose not,” you muse, sitting down together on her ancient grandma couch in the living room. No matter how rich your family gets, she’ll never get rid of this thing, that’s for sure. 

One thing you’ve picked up over time is that, for every second Taehyung spends basking in the spotlight, he spends an equal amount of time lingering by the wall, watching the rest of the world turn without him. He’s an observer. He is one by nature, feeling an irresistible pull to understand humans in a way only artists could ever do. He sits down next to you and watches your family in an environment where they can relax, where they can feel comfortable and be casual with one another. 

Very seldom have you ever brought friends to events like these. Small family affairs. But Taehyung isn’t a friend, is he? No, he’s your husband. He belongs here just as much as you do. 

“My family seems to really like you,” you point out. Not that anybody has ever harbored as much disdain for him as you. Your parents called him respectable and polite when they told you you were to be wed. Your grandmother had said he was a dashing young man. He doesn’t exactly have to reach far to be loved around here. 

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” He replies snidely. 

“Oh, just take the compliment,” you say with a roll of your eyes. Taehyung always has to be so difficult. “I’m surprised you aren’t nervous as hell. Last boyfriend I brought to meet my parents was shaking in his Louis Vuitton shoes.”

“Last boyfriend, huh?” Taehyung’s interest has been sufficiently piqued. “And, uh, how many of those have you had?”

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, smile twitching on your lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Heartbreaker.” Pretty rich of Taehyung to be asking you such a question when he’s probably had more girlfriends than you can count on both hands. “Not as many as you’ve had girlfriends, that’s for sure.”

“Guess I’m a lot different than all those trashy guys you’ve dated, aren’t I?” He asks, an eyebrow raised as he looks at you. 

“You are?”

Taehyung nods assertively. “Well, yeah. First of all, I’m your husband. Second of all, your parents love me. Third of all, you love me, too.”

You scoff. “Don’t humble yourself. You don’t know me that well.”

“Speaking of which,” Taehyung says, eyes wide as he points to you knowingly, “how about you tell me a little fact about yourself? It’s my job to learn about you, isn’t it?”

“That is my line, watch it,” you sneer, pointing back at him. You wrack your brain for a fact that you can tell him, something more exciting than your favorite color but less weird than one of those terrible icebreaker exercises you had to do in college seminars. Something that has pertinence to who you are. Who you’ve become. “Alright. I used to want to be a fashion designer when I was little.”

Now that catches Taehyung off guard. “Really?” He says, genuinely intrigued. 

You shrug. “Yeah. I learned to sew when I was really little. Been tailoring and hemming clothes all my life. But I always wanted to design my own stuff.”

“Is that what’s in your room?” Taehyung asks. “A sewing machine?”

“Bingo.”

“Wow,” Taehyung says. “I didn’t know that.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of this exercise?” You say, just to be smart. 

Taehyung shakes his head, eyes rolling. 

“What about you?” You ask. You can’t imagine what he’ll say. Astronaut. Veterinarian. Or, if he really wants to surprise you, a business executive. 

“A museum curator.”

It is an answer that simultaneously surprises and doesn’t surprise you at all. 

“Fitting,” you muse. “You could have put your own art on display.”

“Pretty sure that’s, like, super unethical,” Taehyung reminds you. 

“So? You’re rich. Start your own museum. Put your own art on display. Live your dream,” you amend. “It shouldn’t be holed up in that studio of yours forever. It deserves to be seen.”

Taehyung smiles at you. “You think so?”

You nod. “Of course. You create beautiful things, Tae.” It’s the first time you’ve ever called him that. And that is not lost on Taehyung, either.

“Thank you,” he says softly, blinking as he looks at you. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.

Later that night, when everyone’s gotten a few drinks into their systems and Bruce Springsteen is playing low on the stereo, Taehyung disappears off towards the bathroom, no doubt because of the excellent soup that was served that night. All by your lonesome, you feel a little stranded, surrounded by your old relatives dancing on the hardwood floor of the dining room, your other cousins too young to actually spend time with. 

In the commotion, your mother comes up to you, swirling a rather large glass of red wine in her hand. 

“Where’s Taehyung?” She asks. 

“Bathroom.”

“No wonder you were alone,” she says with a hearty laugh. “The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides all evening.”

“He’s my husband,” you offer as an explanation. 

“I know, I know,” she says, shaking you off with a smile. Your mother is a lot more casual once she’s had her fill of wine, no doubt her favorite, Bordeaux. A lot more loving, too. “You really made your grandmother proud, you know? She loved you so much.”

“I know,” you say, trying not to get choked up at the mere mention of your grandmother. 

“She was so happy to see you with Taehyung. It made her feel safe that you would be taken care of,” she continues on, barely paying you and your swimming eyes any attention. “She would be so happy to see you with him now, too. How much you love her.”

“I miss her,” you hiccup out, trying to compose yourself. Nothing kills a birthday party like some sad sack crying over her deceased grandmother. 

“I know, darling,” your mother says, calling you by a nickname she has hardly used ever since you turned eighteen. She squeezes you tightly, a small hug of comfort. “I miss her, too.”

Someone calls your mother’s name, distracting her as she wanders off to your uncle, who is asking what the best way to cut the three-tiered cake on the dining room table is. She bids you a goodbye before disappearing towards the kitchen, no doubt ready to make the cutting of the cake an affair all on its own. 

Taehyung comes back soon after, spotting you instantly as you stand around in the living room. 

“Hey,” he says, noticing the wet shimmer of your eyes. “You alright?”

You nod, feeling better already now that he has returned. Now that he is by your side. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I hope those tears aren’t because you missed me,” he says, wiping away a stray one that has escaped from your eyes. You close them as his thumb brushes against your upper cheek, your eyelashes, opening them only when you’ve felt his touch vanish from your skin, leaving little sparks in their wake. 

“No,” you say. But the night makes you honest, and a couple of drinks, even more so. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

Taehyung smiles. “Me, too.”

For all those days you have spent together, never have you and Taehyung had a night in. Which isn’t necessarily completely surprising, considering how many evening events the two of you have had obligations to attend, considering your differing work schedules and meeting times. Considering that, for a very long time, the two of you had no desire to spend any time with each other at all. 

But tonight, there is nothing on your calendar. No galas, no dinners, no meetings, no schedules. There is only Taehyung, who has spent the entire afternoon up in his studio, inhaling spray paint fumes and doing what he loves. And there is only you, who has spent the entire afternoon wondering what the hell you’re going to do tonight when there is nothing else planned. 

You knock on the door to his studio, catching him right as he’s finishing up another piece. This one is a single flower, painted in broad, confident strokes, bright green and red and sunflower yellow decorating the canvas. 

“Hey, what’s up?” He asks, turning around to face you. 

“Wanna order takeout tonight?” You suggest. 

Taehyung grins. 

Thirty minutes and your favorite Chinese food later, you and Taehyung have settled onto the couch, trays of dumplings and noodles and rice in front of you, an unfunny movie playing in the background. 

You can’t remember the last time the two of you sat on this couch together. Maybe that night you had made the deal? Perhaps not even then. It wouldn’t at all surprise you if you found out that this was the very first time you and Taehyung have sat together on your couch, in your living room, in your house. So often is it occupied by others—Victoria, who sometimes comes over to ooh and ahh at your closet, Jimin, Jungkook, and Hoseok, who sit on this couch and play FIFA like it’s their job, your mother, when she wants to make herself at home in a place that doesn’t belong to her—but never you. Never you and him. 

“This is kinda nice, isn’t it?” You ask, swallowing a bite of dumpling. 

“Chinese food is always nice,” Taehyung responds over a mouthful of cold noodles. 

“Not that,” you say with a sigh, “this. Sitting together. Watching this shitty movie.”

“It’s not that shitty,” Taehyung tries to reason. On screen, the main character is getting pied in the face during some weird college fundraiser. “Okay, it’s a little shitty. But it’s good background noise, right?”

You nod halfheartedly. “I guess.” Silence. You take another bite of your dumpling, not really sure how to continue the conversation. “We don’t really get to do this a lot, you know? Sit and eat dinner and watch a movie together. Like a date.”

“We’re on a date now, are we?” Taehyung muses, eyeing you snarkily. 

“Isn’t that what this is?” You retort. 

He shrugs. “I suppose it is.”

“Tell me another fact about you,” you request, looking over to him where he sits on the opposite side of the couch. 

“About what?”

“Anything.”

Taehyung pauses, ponders for a moment. But he could never say anything wrong. Not when there is still so much you don’t know about him. Still so much you want to learn, so much you want to commit to memory. For so long you have stared at the planes of his face, the curve of his nose, the twinkle in those dark brown eyes. Those you will always remember. But what about who he is? What he loves? Those are things you still don’t know. 

“The very first time I met you,” Taehyung begins, “I asked Jimin what your name was.”

“When was that?” You ask. Despite you being someone who has spent the better part of the last several years vowing never to give Taehyung the time of day, you sure don’t remember when it all started. 

“That debutante ball,” Taehyung remembers fondly, “when we were fifteen. I asked Jimin what your name was because I wanted to ask you to dance.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t,” you say with a scoff. 

“It’s true. You were standing there in that poofy white dress and I wanted to ask you to dance,” Taehyung points out. The fact that he even remembers what you were wearing is shocking. 

Who knew. Who knew, back then, that you would one day grow up to marry him. 

“And what did I say?” You demand more. 

Taehyung laughs at the memory. “I came up to you, and I asked you if you wanted to dance, and you said, and I quote, ‘Who are you?’”

“No,” you say, aghast at your own behavior. Were those really the first words you ever said to KIm Taehyung?

“You did. Don’t you remember?”

You think back. Think back to every year you have ever known Taehyung, every year you have spent scowling at him from across ballroom floors, making some snide remark as you pass by each other in the hallway. Every year you have spent cursing his existence, willing him away from you so he could bother someone else. Every year you have listened to rumor after rumor of girlfriend after girlfriend. You think back and somewhere, somewhere in there, in those dusty corners of your brain and cobwebbed boxes of your heart, is that first memory of Taehyung, too. 

Of him standing there in some generic black suit, black hair swept over his forehead, shoes too big. Of him coming up to you, trying to be as suave as a fifteen year old could be. Of you saying to him, instead of a hello, or even a what’s your name, “who are you?” 

Of him saying—

“And you said, ‘your dream come true’.” Like a dam bursting open, the memories flood back to you all at once. “I remember that.”

Taehyung laughs out loud at the thought of him saying something so cheesy. “Unsurprisingly, you didn’t want to dance with me.”

“You were so—” you begin, but you don’t have the words. Don’t have the words to express how you felt about him that night. Don’t have the words to express how you feel about him now. Thinking about this, talking about it, it is a bridge. A bridge between what was then and what is now. A bridge between who Taehyung was and who you were and who Taehyung is and who you are. “—so unthinkable. I couldn’t believe you had come up to me and said that. I couldn’t believe you had the audacity. But something about that night made me remember you. Made me remember your name.”

“You thought about me after that?” Taehyung asks. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“There is something about you that is unforgettable,” you say, honest and real and true. What else can you tell him? The truth is that you have always thought about him. Whether you liked him or not. 

You finish your dinner and place your trays on the end tables next to you, stacking your empty bowls and plates on top of one another as the movie rumbles on in the background. 

“It is kind of a shitty movie,” Taehyung admits after a while of being wholly unenthused. 

“Yeah,” you agree. “But it’s good background noise.”

Taehyung laughs at your little mockery, warm and deep and from his belly. You look at him. He feels so far away, on the other side of the couch. Feels like he’s miles apart from you. You have spent countless nights clinging to his harm, hand gripped tight in his. And sitting like this, a full couch cushion of space between the two of you—it isn’t enough anymore. So you inch closer. 

And closer. 

And a little closer. 

Until you’re pressed up against his side, legs touching as they rest neatly in front of you, backs stick straight as you stare at the television. 

Taehyung holds his arm up. An open invitation. 

Without asking, you lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder, in the space right underneath his jaw. You pull your feet up onto the couch and curl into his frame, pressing yourself against him. He is warm and firm and inescapable. He smells of coffee and paint and Chinese spices. He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in, as if there were any other place you’d rather be. 

You sit like that for a while. Wrapped up in each other. Lazing around on the couch as the stars twinkle above your head. The movie ends and the two of you don’t even bother skipping the credits, letting them and the cheesy 80’s pop song play on, a distant soundtrack. 

“I never thought any of this would happen,” you breathe out. 

Taehyung looks down at you curiously. “What? This?”

“All of it,” you admit. “Us. Getting married. That stupid tabloid picture. My grandmother. This. It’s all so new.”

“New things will happen all the time,” Taehyung muses aloud. “We can’t help when things change.”

“You don’t have any regrets?” You have plenty. Regrets that you’ll never become the CEO you wanted to be in college. Regrets that you’ll never become the fashion designer you wanted to be as a little girl. Regrets that you will come to resent this marriage, resent Taehyung more than you have in years past, all because you had no choice. Regrets that your grandmother couldn’t see you now. Regrets that there were so many things in your life you could have changed, but didn’t.

“I thought I did,” Taehyung tells you. “I wanted to spend more time with my friends. I wanted to major in art in college. I didn’t want to marry you. I know you didn’t want to marry me.” He looks down and you look up at the same time, eyes locking, inches apart. “But looking back on it, I’m happy where I am. With what I have.”

“I never thought it could ever be like this,” you say, words falling off your tongue before you even ask them to.

“What?”

“Us.”

There’s no need to elaborate. Taehyung understands. He understands that, half a year ago, you both would have thrown yourselves into a volcano before holding hands with each other. He understands that getting over your hatred for each other seemed like an absolutely insurmountable task. He understands that you had never wanted to marry each other, that you couldn’t believe you would have to spend the rest of your lives with each other. 

And he understands that now, things are different. 

“I’m glad things happened the way they did,” Taehyung begins. “I’m grateful for us.”

You press yourself impossibly closer to him, feel his grip tighten around you. Like this, you can hear his heartbeat. Hear it thump like a drum, steady and firm and unwavering. His heart beats against his chest and you wonder. 

You wonder if he can hear the way yours beats for him, too.

There were lots of things that made your night in together special. But one of them is the glaring fact that you don’t get them very often. That their infrequency makes them all the more valuable. 

This has become blatantly obvious to you, because right now you are not spending a night in together. Right now you are stuck at a gala that you have to attend for the sake of business, drinking thin flutes of champagne and mingling with people you barely speak to. 

The one good thing about nights like these is that Taehyung looks positively gorgeous in suits. He sort of always has, but you’d never admit that to his face. At least not until now. And as his wife, you are lucky enough to have a front-row seat. 

“I can feel you staring at me all the way from over here,” Taehyung deadpans as he helps himself to a chocolate-covered strawberry from the buffet table. 

You’re too obvious to have any shame about it. “What can I say, I like the view.”

“Hard to believe I was the once the one being shouted at for being inappropriate in public,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. He bites into the strawberry and eats it all in a single go, tossing the stems into a bin nearby as you join back up in the heart of the crowd. 

“It’s only inappropriate if other people hear,” you tease, letting him guide you, hand intertwined with yours, towards an empty corner where the two of you can snuggle up to one another in (relative) peace. 

“I don’t think the champagne was very good for your filter, Miss Y/N,” Taehyung hisses into your ear, warm breath tickling your skin. 

“Don’t you mean Mrs. Kim?” You pose, an eyebrow raised. 

That seems to do something to Taehyung. It’s not very bright in here, with it being nighttime and all, but even still you can see the way his eyes darken. See the way his lips curl upwards, feel the way his grip on you tightens. It sparks something within you. Something deep in the pit of your belly. 

Something that makes you want more. 

You test the waters. “Mrs. Kim has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, Tae?”

Taehyung looks about a moment away from losing control. But instead of slamming you against the wall in front of all of these people and giving you what you really want, he growls out, low and powerful, “Home. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. 

You hail your car outside of the venue and it’s all the both of you can do to not jump on each other right then and there, in the backseat of this giant black van, overcome with want, with need, with everything in between. Taehyung’s leg bounces impatiently the entire ride back, and the feeling of your hand pressed against his doesn’t seem to be calming him down. He pulls you close to him in the backseat of the car, a hand resting on your thigh. You eye him carefully, as if challenging him to be any more daring. He grins. 

Home cannot come soon enough. The two of you tumble out of the backseat and into the elevators, where you mash the top floor button after entering in the security access code, desperate and shameless. The ride seems to take hours, and the heat that surrounds you practically smothers you, covers you, fills up your lungs and chokes you. 

There is nothing left by the time you reach your door. The moment it slams shut behind you Taehyung presses you up against the back of it, pins you against the wood as he hovers over you, eyes tracing your lips. 

“Tell me something,” he demands. 

“What?” 

“A fact. Something I don’t know.”

It doesn’t take much thinking. “I want you,” you breathe out, watch it hit his skin, watch the way his eyes glint in the light of the entranceway. “Please, Tae. I want you.”

It’s enough for him. 

This is not the first time you and Taehyung have kissed. The first time was nearly five months ago, in a chapel, at an altar, surrounded by hundreds of people. It was so unfun that you seem to have eradicated the mere thought from your memory. But you remember that feeling from that day. That feeling you got when you pressed your lips against his, cemented your marriage with a kiss. That heat. That sting. 

Kissing him now—that feeling has returned tenfold. When his lips meet yours, it feels like fire is rushing through your veins, setting alight every nerve it passes, unforgiving and relentless. His enormous hands come up to cup your jaw, fingers pressing against the skin of your cheeks as they pull you close to him, keep you trapped in his hold. This is not the first time you and Taehyung have kissed but it feels like it is—it feels like there is a lotus blooming on a lilypad in your heart, it feels like you have been struck by lightning, it feels like nothing else you have ever felt before. It feels brand new. 

Pressing back against him, he slowly releases you from the cage he has created against the door, spinning around so the two of you can tumble up the stairs and into your bedroom, unable to resist sneaking in pecks here and there as you make your way upstairs. Every step you take you stop, giggle as he presses you against the railing just so he can steal another kiss from you, put his hands all over your body. It’s a wonder the two of you even make it into your bedroom at all. 

When you do, however, all bets are off. Taehyung presses you against the still-made bedsheets with a glint in his eye and a growl on his lips, pupils blown wide as he stares down at you, at your body.

"Aren't you a sight? Laid out so pretty for me," he purrs, robbing a breath from you.

It's a tone you have yet to hear from him. You find yourself growing impossibly hot under his stare, burning with an uncharted desire.

You can hardly wrap your brain around it. Here you are, craving the man you had spent the better half of your young adult life loathing. Maybe it’s the champagne; maybe it’s the way his fingers are running slowly up the length of your clothed torso. Whatever it is, your stomach does flips, unfamiliar to the way your body preens under his touch.

"Don't let it go to your head," you tease, simply because you could.

Taehyung hums disapprovingly, pressing kisses into your neck as he grabs one of your thighs and wraps it around his waist, riding your dress up in the process.

You sigh, exposing your neck further for him as he paints bruises into your neck. It feels like just yesterday you had called him out at the altar for his habit of sporting the very same marks you were soon to wear.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting the man you had married purely under business pretenses press his hips against your clothed center, but as he rolls his into yours, your mind falls blank, silencing any and all reservations you should have.

Whimpering, you beckon his mouth back onto yours, tongue meeting his wantonly. 

You feel his fingers creep up the outside of your bare thigh, thrilling you in the most primal way. Reaching the band of your underwear after what felt like entirely too long, he runs the pad of his thumb against the lacy fabric.

 You could scream. He is doing this on purpose. He must be. Surely he knows how badly you were aching for him? For him to fill you– whatever the manner may be.

You let out a whine before you can help yourself, frowning as Taehyung looks pleased with himself, confirming his knowledge of your prolonged pleasure.

"What's that? Did you say something?" he mocks, looking cruel and yet strikingly gorgeous as he smirks above you.

"God, you're irritating,” you huff, hips jerking up against his as he pulls at the band of your underwear, the elastic snapping back into the flesh of your hip. "Just fuck me already."

He tuts, clearly unimpressed by your impatience, "Now, where is the fun in that?"

Your eyes flutter shut as his fingers suddenly snake their way between your thighs. Mouth falling ajar, you grip his shoulders as he runs his middle finger against your clothed slit, trailing up and down your warmth. To think he was still dressed while he was touching you like this...

"No... I think I'll take my time with you," he says.

You mew against his hand, arousal forming against his long digits' ministrations. You have to hand it to him. Taehyung knows what he’s doing. The life of a bachelor has seemingly served him well.

You aren’t usually vocal in bed, but the way he’s purring words of filth to you, breath hot against the shell of your ear as he tells you how hot and slick your pretty pussy felt against his hand, has you gasping and sputtering, your own fingers wrapping around his wrist.

The fabric of your panties provides a friction that toys the line of pleasure and pain, making you thrust up to meet his motions, your humility slipping from you.

Taehyung watches you intently, cock growing hard under the constraints of his dress pants. You look better than he could've imagined, eyes watering and body shivering under his touch, his fingers soaking with your arousal. He can only imagine what you'd feel like with his fingers fully buried into you, rocking them against your velvety walls.

He lets out a groan of his own, turned on by the idea of you fucking yourself onto his fingers, whimpering out his name in ecstasy.

There’s this part of you that faintly recognizes that Taehyung has done this plenty of times before. Plenty of times with plenty of other lovers. But there is a different part of you, that part that bursts with light and hope, that reminds you that he was never married to those other ones. That his allegiance lies with you. And that thought, knowing that deep within you, he is yours, makes your jaw fall slack, pretty noises tumbling from your lips and your thighs clamping around him.

You were close, closer than you care to admit. Every touch against you is careful yet deliberate as he reads the signs of your body, the way it keens and arches into him, offering you words of encouragement as your climax finally hits.

"That's right. Good girl. Let go for me," Taehyung coos, eyes dark and focused on your writhing form.

You cry out into the familiar space of your shared room, head thrown back as you ride out the high, letting it wrack your body, send jolts throughout your veins.

You barely have time to catch your breath when he presses his mouth back onto yours, kiss still as eager as it was when you both first entered your home. You are alight with satisfaction as he pulls away to press a trail of kisses against your jaw.

"I want—f-fuck," you stutter as he finds your already hypersensitive clit once more, rolling his thumb over your now soaked panties in tantalizing circles, "want to make you feel good, too."

Admittedly, this fantasy had crossed your mind once or twice, brought on by the way he carried himself in a suit and the way his large fingers wrapped around the champagne glass; confident, collected, and entirely charming. Who are you to shy away from a man like him? He certainly has always been rather good-looking. 

He pauses his motions, pulling his hand back to sit on your waist. Your dress is of the finest, most delicate satin, and after tonight's activities, completely wrinkled. You can almost hear your stylist's cries of dismay. Whatever. You have a steamer. And why focus on the dress when it’s obvious the two of you are focused on what lies underneath it?

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod, skin still burning from your past climax.

Helping you back up, Taehyung stands. You lick your lips as you sit back up on the edge of the bed, watching intently as he unbuckles his belt, audibly hissing as his pants fall to his ankles, cock visibly straining against the fabric of his underwear. Thank God you don’t have to stand. With the way your thighs still felt weak and how your husband looks like a goddamn Adonis towering above you? Your legs surely would give out underneath you if you rose.

Brows furrowed, Taehyung palms over himself briefly before pulling down the waistband of his underwear, his painfully hard member slapping against his torso.

Your eyes widened on instinct. While the last thing you wanted to do was help inflate Taehyung's already large ego, you were certainly impressed at his size; thick and girthy, his tip red and shining with precum.

He couldn't help but smirk, thoroughly pleased by the way you stared at him unabashedly, chest rising and falling heavily.

"Open up for me," he orders.

And who are you to deny a request from your dear husband?

Your pretty lips wrap themselves around his engorged tip, all remnants of lipstick long gone by now. Taehyung hisses, a hand finding the side of your jaw as you run your tongue against the underside of his cock.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," he grunts, fighting off the urge to grip the back of your head and fuck your throat. As much as he'd love your have you choking and drooling all over his cock – and boy would he – he lets you set your own pace, not wanting to overwhelm you.

It doesn't take long for you to sink your mouth further down, however, clearly set on making Taehyung feel as good as you could.

A low moan erupts from his throat, digits pressing into your jaw in request to take more of him in, which you happily oblige.

You had your eyes trained on him, completely obsessed with the way he panted through pink lips, hissing slightly every time your tongue rolled over his sensitive tip.

Lolling his head to a side, his eyes meet yours, gaze primal and wolfish as he watches the way you worked his cock.

"Doing so good, love. Doing so fucking good for me,” he murmurs.

You hum against his skin at the sound of the sudden pet name, an unfamiliar feeling fluttering in your belly. You push aside the feeling, focusing instead on the way he grunts at the new sensation you had just given him.

Giggling, you pull off his cock, opting instead to press a kiss against his leaking tip, making sure to hold his eyes as you run kitten licks against it.

"God, you're such a tease." He shakes his head in disbelief. 

He looks so good above you, shivering and cursing out praises on how good your mouth feels, how well you take his cock. Running your tongue along the length of his shaft, you become certain that this is a display you can’t imagine yourself ever getting tired of. But you have all the time in the world, right?

"Y/N,” he gasps suddenly, hips jerking towards your face. "Love, I'm gonna-- gonna cum."

"Cum in my mouth, please." Your voice was pleading and desperate. Taehyung had never heard such words spoken more sweetly. 

"Fuck's sake."

You let out a yelp in surprise as his fingers work their way through your hair, bringing your head back down onto his cock. You relax, though, when you feel the hot ropes of his cum hit the back of your throat, your hands finding purchase on his thighs as you do your best to swallow it all down.

Pulling yourself off him, you let out a small cough, eyes watering slightly as you hadn’t managed to prepare yourself with a breath before his release. His large palm runs across the top of your head as you caught your breath, expression flickering with something unfamiliar. Could it be... fondness? 

Your heart stammers at the thought as you stand, slowly stepping out of your dress, letting it drape off of your figure. Taehyung looks absolutely gobsmacked, pupils dark as he gazes at you, eyes unabashedly raking your body. He’s shameless. 

You both are. 

Slowly, you step towards him, fingers reaching out towards his shirt, carefully undoing the buttons as you gaze at each other, expressions unreadable. 

"Tae?” You ask innocently, blinking up at him. “Fuck me?" 

Your polite request makes Taehyung chuckle. 

"Please?" You bring your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes blinking up at him adoringly for good measure. You reach the last button, let his dress shirt drape open. He brushes it off himself, stands there for a few seconds just to let the way you’re ogling his toned chest go to his head. At least he’s good-looking. 

He sighs, probably contemplating some clever rebuttal, but eventually decides against it as his cock is already twitching back to life.

"Alright, love. Turn around. On your knees for me," He orders, making your stomach flip.

To your surprise, you are hardly in place when the warmth of his large hands finds the soft of your tummy, pressing you back into his chest as he pressed a peck to the back of your neck.

You squirm in his hold, whining as that same hand of his grabs hold of your breast, long digit rolling your nipple between their tips. You can’t help but press your ass back into him. His cock feels hot and heavy, pressing against the back of your thigh, making your pussy clench in anticipation. 

You want him.

You want him so bad that you don't know what to do with yourself, shuddering as his free hand runs along the side of your ass, leaving scorching hot trails on your skin wherever he kneads into your flesh. He's touching you everywhere – everywhere but where you need him the most, and the arousal that drips down your thigh mocks you.

"Dammit, please!" You exclaim, running out of patience.

"Please what?" He says, an eyebrow arched.

You shiver, committing the way his middle finger traced your pelvic bone to memory forever.

You puff out a frustrated breath, nearly at your wit's end. "Please fuck me, Tae."

Taehyung pauses, grip on your breast and hip tightening as he lets out a moan. You let one out yourself as you feel him readjust, cock pressing against your slick entrance.

"Fuck, you sound so pretty when you say my name," He grunts. "Okay, baby. I'll fuck you. Begging so nicely for my cock."

You let out a squeak as you're suddenly pushed down onto your hands, back arching as he pushes his fat cock inside your heavenly cunt. He's thick, so thick, that you instinctively grip the sheet underneath you, fingers curled around them tightly as if it means to hold onto your sanity.

Taehyung lets out a shaky breath, angling your hips up so that you could take more of him.

"You feel—feel so good," he admits above you, and suddenly you wish you could see him. See the way his bangs stick to his damp forehead—see the way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip wickedly.

You let that thought go, however, as he thrust into you, making your jaw fall slack and eyes flutter shut. Profanities roll off your tongue unabashedly, helpless under the way his thick member pulls out of you, only to slam back into you.

You weren't expecting this. The way he stretches you out further than anyone had before. Your pussy clenches around him, reveling in the sweet, sweet burn.

He digs into the flesh of your hips, holding you steady as you mew and cry out, pushing your hips back in time to his, trying your best to meet his movements.

"Tae... fuck, fuck, fuck—"

He was filling you to the brim. Filling you tight and deep.

God, the way he was panting behind you was music to your ears. His cock pulses every time you call out his name, voice muffled and buried as you had your head pressed into the mattress, hair messy and bouncing with every hard thrust.

"S'good! Fuck... so, ah, big..." you cry out.

You feel drunk. Intoxicated off this beautiful man and the way he makes you feel a way only he can.

You nearly let out a sob as the rough pads of Taehyung's fingertips suddenly reach around you and find your neglected clit, rolling light circles on the soft and swollen bundle of nerves skillfully.

You are a mess, whimpering and drooling into your expensive sheets, and he filled every inch of you, leaving no place undiscovered. Your high nears, stewing on low heat somewhere near the pit of your belly, waiting for a chance to erupt and wash all over you. Taehyung must be close to, you realize, as his thrusts began to slow down, slamming into you roughly as if chasing after his high.

"Gonna take this load? Huh? Gonna let me cum inside your pretty little pussy?" His voice is straining, as if trying to breathe evenly but merely moments from falling apart.

If only you could formulate an intelligent response, but instead, you are a blubbering wreck, thighs shaking as they threatened to give out underneath you. But somehow, Taehyung knew. He had you. Quicking his motions against your delicate pearl, he could tell you were close too, and he was going to make sure you got there.

Suddenly, you're crying out and convulsing, tears brimming at the ends of your eyes as you feel Taehyung empty into you, collapsing onto his hands as well.

You feel his hot breath against the back of your neck as he pants, breath growing more and more even as the two of you regain control of your bodies and minds.

Pulling out of you, he plops down beside you, and for a moment, the two of you hold each other's gazes, eyes speaking in ways words never could.

Finally, after what feels both like an eternity and just a moment, you work up the courage to say something, moving closer to him as you place a hand on his chest, cushioning your chin as you rested on top of it.  

"Psst," you beckon, voice hushed.

"Yeah?" His voice is husky and tired.

"I’m grateful, too."

"Huh?"

"I’m grateful for us, too."

Taehyung's gaze is soft, and it lingers on you for a second before the sides of his mouth curl up tenderly. He grins down at you, eyes drifting shut. You feel him squeeze you closer, pressing you against his skin. And then, you hear his breathing steady, see his lips part slightly. 

You lean into his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Thank you, Tae.”

Not unlike the many other mornings you have awoken in this bed, when you open your eyes as the morning sunlight streams through the windows, Taehyung is nowhere to be found. The sheets on his side of the bed are flipped aside, revealing that soft outline of his body from the night before left imprinted into the sheets, a dip in the mattress where he slept. You had fallen asleep all wrapped up in each other, tangled up like vines, but must have separated sometime during the night. Distantly, you register Taehyung’s voice outside, notice his phone missing from his bedside table. He must be on an early morning call. 

You check your phone for the time. Ten o’clock. 

A late morning call, then. 

Still basking in the afterglow of the night prior, you slowly inch your way out of bed, shivering as you pull the covers off you and scoot your legs around so they hang over the edge of the bed. You rub at your eyes until you faintly remember you did not take your makeup off last night, and when your hand comes away covered with black streaks and flecks of mascara, you wince to yourself. There goes five hundred dollars worth of a skincare routine. 

After washing yourself up and applying as many serums as you can to your skin, you wrap yourself up in one of his button-up shirts, the torso so wide that it drapes over you. The tips of your fingers peek out from the ends of the sleeves, and you cross your arms lightly over your chest as you make your way to the door, ready to entice your husband back to bed for round two. What? It’s Saturday. 

You peer around the door to find Taehyung standing a few feet away, facing away from you. He’s shirtless, and as his wife you have absolutely no problems ogling him, the toned curves of his back, the muscles in his arms. He’s always been a looker. You just finally have an excuse to look for yourself. 

You approach him quietly, not wanting to interrupt nor broadcast your sex life to anybody on the other side who may be listening. Already, the idea of crawling back in bed together sends goosebumps along your skin, makes you giddy with anticipation. You’re just about to tap him on the shoulder, lips curled upwards in suggestion, when he says—

“And my inheritance? That’s secured now, right? Because I said I would pretend to be in love with her in public—?”

And it is as if Medusa herself appeared in this room, turning you to stone as your heart thuds to the floor, a hollow, empty noise. 

You don’t hear the rest of Taehyung’s conversation. You don’t even hear the sound of your own heartbeat. This terrible, aching sound rings in your ears, silencing everything in its wake, drowning out even the sighs of your own breath. It is as if you have been frozen solid. As if you have been shot in the stomach. You stand there, feeling absolutely nothing, and all you can do is brace yourself for what is to come. Taehyung’s words were the knife but his next actions will be its removal, leaving in its wake an irreparable wound. 

He turns around, casual and cool, voice still hushed. As if you were still asleep. As if you hadn’t heard anything at all. But when he twists his body and sees you standing there, staring back up at him, lips parted in shock. 

“I’ll call you back,” he tells whoever was on the other side of the line, looking more panicked by the second. He opens his mouth so he can explain himself, but you don’t need him to. You’ve heard everything already. 

“I should have known,” you say, feeling angry and betrayed and sad all at once. “I should have known it was all an act.”

“Y/N, wait, let me explain—”

“What is there to tell me, Taehyung? What are you going to say? That you didn’t mean it? That you thought I wouldn’t find out? That last night was just a one-off?” You demand. The heat from your veins hasn’t left. Still, it simmers through your blood, burning you up from the inside out. “That you didn’t want to lie to me?”

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Taehyung says defensively, brows furrowed. “Just give me a chance to explain myself.”

“Explain yourself? How you pretended, every day and every night, just so you could get some more money in your bank account? So you could make sure you would get your father’s business when he died?”

Taehyung bites back easily. “Don’t act like you weren’t also faking it at some point. I know you were almost removed from your grandmother’s will.”

Your tongue is bitter at the mention of your grandmother. As if Taehyung ever even knew her. “My grandmother has nothing to do with this.”

“Really?” Taehyung challenges. “So you wanting to stay in her will was just a little bonus, right?”

“Don’t,” you say sharply. “It’s different.”

“Different how?” Taehyung spits. “Because right now, to me, it looks pretty similar to what I’ve done.”

“My grandmother died months ago,” you remind him. Her will is no longer the question. It has been written, settled, and executed. There was no reason for you to continue playing along once she took her last breath. No reason—unless you wanted to. “Meanwhile you’ve been keeping your inheritance a secret from me this entire time.”

“We made a deal,” Taehyung says. “A deal that said we would both act happy and pretend to be in love because we both had things we needed to worry about. Family things. Money things. You were a part of this, just like I was. You pretended, too.”

“Well, maybe I stopped pretending!” 

You can’t take it anymore. All this anger, all this emptiness, it’s been bubbling up inside you ever since you heard those first words come out of his mouth. It spills out of you all at once, an eruption from your lips, your heart’s doors bursting open. You have held his hand tightly in your own. You have pressed your lips to his. You have laid yourself bare in front of him. What is there left to protect? What part of you has not already been stained by him, by his touch, by the feeling of his fingers against your skin?

The hallway is silent, but you can hear your cry echo down the corridor. Hear the way it bounces along the walls before fading away. 

“Maybe I stopped pretending,” you repeat, softer this time. You blink and already can feel the streaks along your skin, the tears falling from your eyes. “Did you ever think about that?”

“Y/N, what are you talking about?” Taehyung looks like he’s in disbelief. Like he cannot believe the words you are saying to him. 

Well, that makes two of you. 

“Can’t you see, Tae? Can’t you tell?” You ask, the nickname falling from your lips before you can even help it. You must remind yourself to change that, later. “I’m in love with you.”

They are words you have never said to someone before. Not even your old boyfriends. Words that you always knew you would reserve for someone special. Someone who would touch your heart and make it their own, someone who would leave imprints of their fingers against your chest. Someone who would brighten you up from the inside out, leave you bursting with light. 

Ironic, that Taehyung has become that someone. When he is the one person you never thought could. 

When he has proven, time and time again, that you two just cannot mix. Oil and water. Pastel and acrylic. Satin and silk. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” you spit out quickly, before Taehyung has a chance to respond. “I know it doesn’t matter to you.”

“Y/N, yes it does,” Taehyung begins, desperate and pleading. “I know you heard what I said, but I swear, it stopped being an act for me, too. Things are different now, just like you said.”

“Don’t. Please.” You pull away as he reaches out towards you. Faintly, you remember that it is his shirt you are wearing. Remember that no matter what you do, he will always surround you. “Please, Tae.” You have nothing left. You can’t bear to look at him, but where else will you go? You cannot believe the things he’s said, the things he’s done, but where else would you go?

“I love you, too,” Taehyung says, and a part of you wants so badly to believe him. 

A part of you wants so badly to ingrain those words into your head, carve them into your heart, let him wrap his arms around you and promise that everything will be alright. But things are different now. Just like you said. You and Taehyung are not the same people you were six months ago. Or six weeks ago. Or even six minutes ago. You are helpless and he has proven that he does not care. 

“I have to go,” you say, looking away. You don’t think you could handle turning back to him again. “Please, Tae.”

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung says, and he reaches out once more but you are not there to meet him halfway. Were you ever?

“I know,” you whisper back.

You duck into your bedroom and pack a suitcase of everything you need. Being here is suffocating. Being with him is like setting yourself alight. 

Victoria has no questions when you show up at her door later that day, suitcase by your side and this ridiculous bottle of Merlot in your hands. You had picked it up on the way over. You sort of figured you might need it. 

“You don’t wanna talk about it, do you?” Victoria asks. 

“Tell me about your streaming service,” you hiccup in response.

Victoria is happy to oblige. She even tells you that she still hasn’t picked a CFO, and that the position would be open for you if you ever wished to take it. 

Funnily enough, what will become of you once your father retires and passes along the company is the furthest away from your thoughts. 

You remember being so worried about that. Being so worried that, once they married you off like every good daughter should be, you would be absorbed into your husband’s life, cut out of your family’s. Your father would choose a cousin, an uncle, or even a friend to take after the business, bestowing upon you a thoughtful inheritance but nothing more than that. All of those years of schooling, finance in college, your MBA soon after, would be wasted, just so you could hang on the arm of your husband for the rest of your life. 

It’s thoughtful of Victoria to think of you for the position. She knows just as well as anyone else that you would be an excellent fit. And if things were just a little bit different, you would be jumping at the offer. 

But your future career plans are on the backburner, along with the rest of your life. 

All you can really do, right now, at this very moment, is wait for things to change. As they always do. 

“Don’t you have an event tonight?” Victoria asks about three days into your stay. She’s given you her favorite (her words, not yours) guest bedroom and an enormous closet to match, despite you only coming over with a carry-on’s worth of clothes. 

You scoff to yourself. “Like I’d want to go to anything with him.”

“Have you even called your parents?” 

“No,” you say, not even caring about the repercussions. There’s no doubt in your mind that they’ll be ringing you soon. And when they do, maybe then you’ll finally work up the courage to tell them what really happened. Tell them that you can’t go back there. Not yet, at least. 

“I’m sorry that this happened to you,” Victoria says as she hands you a bowl of vegetable soup, homemade from a couple of days ago. You nod to yourself, sniffling as you curl into the couch cushions and wish they would absorb you whole. 

There’s no need to ask her what she means by ‘this’. Everything. From your engagement to the marriage, from those tabloids to the deal, from your grandmother’s death to now. It has all been unfair. Life is unfair. And while you’ve always known that, it has been particularly cruel to you as of late. 

Still, when you wake up sometimes, you can still feel him tracing over your skin. Feel his lips hovering over yours, breath fanning out over your cheeks. You turn over and expect to see him lying there, on the right side of the bed, sheets mussed as they cover his figure. You wake up and for a brief moment, for that split, split second, there is peace. And happiness. And love. 

And then there is nothing. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me, too.”

Maybe he really does love you. Maybe things really did change. But you have always been a pragmatic person, always let your head guide you rather than your heart. The secret’s out. Taehyung had an inheritance he needed to secure. You were his path to doing so. Those things haven’t changed. No matter if his feelings did. 

“Hey, look at this,” Victoria says, brows furrowed as she holds out her phone in front of you, revealing a livestreamed interview from the event tonight. 

You peer over. 

It’s Taehyung. 

Of course it’s Taehyung. Who else would she be showing you?

He stands in a clean-cut gray coat, draping over his figure, black dress shirt and slacks underneath, belt wrapped neatly around his hips. He holds his hand up in a wave and smiles politely to the cameras, to the reporters, letting the flashes wash over him like waves in the ocean. 

“Mr. Kim! Mr. Kim!” Someone calls. “Where’s your wife?”

Oh, God.

Taehyung grimaces a little, pursing his lips. “My wife won’t be joining me tonight.”

“Can you tell us why?” They shout. 

“Sorry, no more questions. Thank you for asking though. She’s well,” he says, quickly ushering himself along, entering the venue so no more reporters can bombard him. When he disappears, the livestream immediately moves on to the next guest, but you hardly pay them any attention. 

“Huh,” Victoria says aloud. 

Indeed. Taehyung’s response strikes you as rather odd. Why would he tell the public that? Why not make up a lie, say you’re sick, or you’re overseas, or you’re just late? Why simply tell them that you won’t be there? Surely, Taehyung is just as aware of the consequences of arriving at an event without you as you are. There’s no doubt that his parents will be in contact with him soon, too. No doubt that this will leave a stain on his family. His image. It might even threaten his inheritance after all.

So why not lie?

You frown to yourself, nose scrunching up in confusion. You don’t like where this train of thought leads.

“You okay?” Victoria asks when she sees the bewildered expression on your face.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you say. Just completely befuddled. It escapes you, why Taehyung wouldn’t just make up some sort of excuse as to reasoning behind your absence. Why he would even show up at the event at all. Certainly, going to the event without you is worse than not going at all. It prompts questions. It spreads rumors. 

Later that night, you get a call from your parents, demanding to know why you weren’t there with him. You say you got sick. You plead with them not to question anything. 

You wonder what happens next. You and Taehyung still have two more events this week. A dinner and a ball. What will you do then?

Taehyung goes solo for the dinner. You suppose you could have predicted that, considering his apparent willingness to arrive alone for the first event, too. He hasn’t made any efforts to contact you and for once, you’re glad for his silence. Not that you even know what he would say to you, anyway, but at least he isn’t begging you to come back to him. 

The sad truth is that if he did, if he got down on his knees right in front of you and willed you to come back home, you probably would. He has always been impossible to resist. Even when you first met him, when he sauntered up towards you and told you he was your dream come true. You didn’t know it then. But he was. He was everything you would ever want. 

Why would he lie? 

Why would he do that?

You can’t wrap your head around it. What is he getting out of it by telling the truth? By admitting to the paparazzi, to the reporters and the cameramen, that you won’t be there with him. That you will not be joining him. Nothing, certainly. His parents must be furious. His inheritance may be on the rocks. His image might tank. 

So then, why do it at all?

Could it… could it be?

Is it true?

You have loved Taehyung for a long time. Longer than you probably even care to admit. You have always held your head high at events, spoken loudly and without fear, but being with him made you feel safe. Secure. You would hold his hand and know, know that he was holding yours, too. It grounded you. It soothed your worries. 

Does he really love you back?

Taehyung smiles politely and laughs when he needs to at these events, but he doesn’t look the same. Even through the screen you can see those bags under his eyes, that spark that has faded. You hardly recognize him. He looks so lonely, without someone by his side. So distant. 

When you know the dinner has ended, you almost pick up the phone and call him. 

Almost. 

Instead, when the ball rolls around, you ask Victoria if she’s got a spare dress she can lend you.

 Kim Taehyung, for someone you have seen covered in paint splotches, wearing old college hoodies, and fresh out of a restless night’s sleep, cleans up pretty well. For a married man, at least. 

You wonder what the past few days must have been like for him. If they have been as empty as your own. Wonder what it was like, riding alone in a big black van to this hotel ballroom, no one to tease, no one to laugh with, no one to hold. No one to poke him awake if he accidentally fell asleep. No one to make sure he’s okay. 

Taehyung stands right outside of the entrance, waving politely to all of the paparazzi, smiling as the cameras flash, giving them the time of day for a moment before he heads inside and muscles his way through another event without you. 

Or so he thinks. 

You spot him just as he opens his mouth, ready to repeat those same lines all over again.

My wife won’t be joining me tonight. She’s well, though.

And maybe it’s just because you haven’t seen him in nearly a week. Maybe it’s just because he is about to lie to those reporters once more, ready to face whatever consequences come his way. 

Or maybe it’s just because you miss him. Miss him terribly, have been missing him terribly. Being away from him was necessary, but that didn’t make it any less unbearable. Not getting to hold his hand, see his smile, meet his eyes. You and Taehyung may not have always liked each other, but you saw him every day regardless. He became a constant in your life. Not an if, but a when. If everything went to shit, you always knew he would still be there. 

And there he is. 

“Wait! Taehyung!”

Taehyung’s eyes widen as he hears your voice, gaze darting around wildly, mouth parted in surprise. He looks around desperately, scanning the crowd, meeting the eyes of every single person in front of him until he finally looks to the left, sees you rushing up towards him, hiking up the skirt of your dress as your heels tap against the sidewalk. 

And when he spots you, sees you running up to him, his body relaxes, a weight lifted from his shoulders as he beams back at you, relieved and thankful and filled with joy, all at once. And you know, then. 

You know that everything will be okay. 

“Sorry I’m late,” you say sheepishly, cheeks burning as he looks at you, takes in every inch of you, breathes you in and lets you fill him up. 

Taehyung doesn’t respond. You reach out to hold his hand but he grabs your wrist and pulls you in, presses you against his body as he presses his hands against your cheeks, palms burning as they meet your skin, and he kisses you. In front of all these people, he kisses you. 

And goddamnit, you will kiss him back. 

It feels like lightning, like a thunderstorm, like the waves of the ocean are crashing against your heart. It feels like fire, like flames are licking at your veins, sending sparks through your blood. It feels like home. 

You and Taehyung ignore the shouts of reporters, the flashes of cameras, the honks of the cars on the other side of the road. When you part, he presses his forehead against yours and lets the tip of your nose meet his. And you smile. 

“Don’t be alone any longer, Mr. Kim,” you whisper, loud enough so only he can hear. 

“When I’m with you, I never am, Mrs. Kim,” he murmurs back. 

You wonder what those tabloids will be saying about you tomorrow. 

The rest of the night finds the two of you pretty much inseparable. You wrap yourself around his arm and for the first time in a long time, he presses his hand against the small of your back, keeping you close. Like he’d ever lose you again. 

One of your least favorite parts about attending balls used to be the dancing. As a young and eligible bachelorette, you would always have to lock hands with another, let him awkwardly guide you along to the music as you made the worst small talk imaginable, forcing laughter and smiles whenever he said something he thought was particularly funny. 

But, like so many others, things have changed. Things are different now. 

The waltz comes on and you and Taehyung are the first to reach the center of the ballroom floor, letting him rest his hand on your waist as you press yours on top of his shoulder. Let him twirl you around the room as the orchestra plays in the background, a soft, sweet, light little melody that carries you along. 

“I missed this,” you say softly. 

“I missed us,” Taehyung corrects. He pauses for a moment, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry for not telling you about my inheritance.”

“I’m sorry for storming out. I should have listened to you.” you respond easily. You both have plenty to apologize for. But night is darkest right before dawn. 

“I should have said something,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. “But I was just so—so worried that something would go wrong. And I didn’t know how to explain how I felt about you. I acted in the beginning, too, but then things changed.”

“They always do,” you muse with a grin. 

“I couldn’t believe I had you,” Taehyung admits. “I mean, look at you. You’re gorgeous. And funny. And true.”

“Go on,” you tease, even though you do nothing to hide the smile inching its way across your face, the heating of your cheeks, the simmering of your skin. 

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I just—I felt something for you I couldn’t explain. I still can’t.”

You don’t have to prod any further. You know. Deep within your heart, you know. There is love blossoming in his to match the garden that has bloomed in your own. The flowers that have sprouted in the ashes. He has them, too. And when those petals open and the light streams in, he will know. He will know, too. 

“You make me crazy,” you tell him, whispering gently into his skin. “But I’m a better person when I’m with you. I know I am.”

“I meant what I said, that night,” Taehyung says. Makes you wonder which night he’s actually talking about. “That I’m happy that things have changed. That things happened the way they did. I’m grateful for us.”

“I am, too,” you say. And you are. 

You rest your head against his chest as you dance together, swaying back and forth to the beat of the drums, to the strums of the violins, all wrapped up together like ivy, like vines. Those, too, sit in that garden of yours. Keep you tethered to his side, keep him close to yours. He holds you in his arms and he smiles, because he knows, too. Knows that that garden in your heart will soon have a matching one in his. A mirror image of who you are. Who you’ve become. 

Things change. They always will. But so long as he is by your side, and so long as you are by his, you know. Everything will be okay. 

It's different, this time, when Taehyung presses you into the mattress. 

There is no rush. Because now you know for certain that all the time in the world is yours. He is yours forever. You are his.

The two of you are a mixture of tangled limbs and shared breaths, the feverish, irrepressible need to give yourself to each other nearly tangible. He breaks the kiss suddenly, and you’re about to break out in protest. That is, until you see him unbuttoning his shirt.

Inspired, you wiggle out of your own clothes, eyes locked on Taehyung's soft torso and the idea that you had married such a beautiful man, inside and out.

Looking back, you wonder if that was always inevitable. If you and Taehyung falling into each other had been written in the stars from day one, sealed as your fate from the moment he came up to you at that ball when you were teenagers. He was going to be a part of your life no matter what. Whether or not you ended up marrying him. But having him like this?

It makes it all worth it.

"Do you like what you see?" That old cocky smirk of his makes an appearance.

You raise a brow, choosing to omit a response as you unclasp your bra, letting it fall from your chest.

Taehyung swallows.

"Do you?" You tease.

His response comes in the form of bites down your necks and licks down your chest, stealing your breath from you. 

Your clothes are somewhere dispelled beside your passionate bodies, growing cold beside the way your two hot bodies warmed one another.

"You are so beautiful," Taehyung praises, fingers coming up to cup your breast, bringing it up to his mouth.

You mewl, wrapping an arm around his shoulders as his tongue toys with your pert bud, teeth grazing it ever so often just to hear the broken gasp that'd always follow. 

"And so sensitive too," he giggles, making you pout. His hands are gentle as if every touch means something. As if you mean something—no, everything—to him. And the most wonderful part is that he means everything to you, too. 

"Shut up." You roll your eyes playfully, gasping as his palm comes down the side of your thigh suddenly in warning. You bite down your swollen bottom lip at the gush of arousal that dampened your underwear in response.

"Watch your tone, love. Of both our positions, you are in the most compromising one." He reminds you. It isn't a threat, and while usually, that kind of tone would thrill you, you couldn't help but want his mouth back on yours already.

"You talk too much." You flop back onto the bed with a sigh. Taehyung watches with interest as your pretty tits bounce in consequence. Extending your hands out towards him, you give him a pouty look. "Just wanna kiss you."

"Is that all I am to you? Just a pair of lips for you to mack on? I've got news for you, sweetheart, there's a brain behind these ravishing good looks." He scoffs in feigned offense, sitting back on his heels.

You giggle.

It seems as though even during the most intimate of moments, Taehyung still found a way to be, well, Taehyung. At least that hasn’t changed. 

"Whatever, pretty boy. Why don't you come over here and put that mouth of yours to good use?" You purr, making his eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Oh? I don't remember you being this assertive when I was pounding you into the mattress last time."

“What, I can’t have a little fun as well?” You tease, grinning as you look up at him, raking your eyes over his figure. 

"Wanna have fun, love?," He murmurs into your ears, hands gripping either of your plush thighs. "Then spread those pretty legs for me, and I'll show you exactly how much fun you can have."

God, you love this man.

You oblige eagerly, breath quickening as he helped you press your knees by your chest, leaving the wet patch in your underwear on full display. 

"My pretty little wife." He sighs dreamily, making heat rush to your core.

Taehyung's cock stood loud and proud, a hot reminder of where the night would eventually lead to. Seriously, how did you get so lucky? You must've been a saint in a previous life, you decide right then. Or at least, the stars have chosen to be rather kind to you in this one.

"Gonna take these off," he mutters, mostly to himself, tugging the ruined fabric over your ass and down your legs, with your help, of course.

Despite your usual display of confidence, lying beneath your husband, spread out like this, has you feeling vulnerable and slightly insecure. But that insecurity vanishes, however, as he lets out a soft moan, fingers moving to spread your glossed lips apart.

"So fucking pretty, baby. Gonna make you feel so fucking good," he groans, leaning down to press his face near your most intimate part.

Pressing a tentatively lick against, his eyes flicker up to yourself, curious to see if you’re okay with him proceeding. And, well, it’s not like you’re going to say no, are you?

Embarrassingly, you rut against him, making him laugh as you drown in your own mortification.

"Need it that bad, huh?" He coos.

"Yes, please."

The rest of your plea is lost in a moan as Taehyung finds your clit, wrapping his pink lips around the sensitive muscle and giving it a generous suck. Your hands are in his hair before you can think to stop yourself, tugging at his scalp deliciously as his mouth makes its way with you.

Thank goodness for this apartment belonging to just the two of you as the noises that tumbled from your lips surely would've left a roommate blushing.

You're panting, begging for more even though you aren't sure how you'd even handle more. It comes as a delight and slight surprise as fingers suddenly slip inside, wasting no time to rub against your velvety smooth walls, curling themselves inside you.

"Fuck, Tae!" you cry out, eyes squeezing shut.

It was pure reflex. Up until now, you had been watching Taehyung intently, completely consumed by the way his mouth moves against you. How his tongue flicks against your needy clit cruelly. It just felt too fucking good.

You're so wet, positively dripping down his chin as he runs his hot muscle up and down the length of your pussy, devouring you like he hadn't eaten in months, and you were his first meal.

Taehyung’s nothing short of addicting, completely and utterly intoxicating, and you slip further and further to your demise with every lick he takes, every press of his tongue against your clit.

He has a hand pressed against the lower half of your torso, feeling the way you jerk and squirm as he makes a mess of you. You’re close and you know it, too, if not by the way you’re calling his name over and over again, then by the way your thighs tremble, hardly even strong enough to stay up.

"Let go for me, love. I've got you." He sounds so sweet, so angelic, despite how filthy what he was doing to you was.

His words are the push you need, and, like a rubber band that has been stretched past its limit, you finally snap, back arching off the bed as you come with a cry. White fills your vision, and your mind goes blank, only sounds of blissful static filling your ears.

His fingers hold up your quivering legs, mouth pressing kisses onto your pussy encouragingly until you simply can't bear it any longer, pushing his mouth away as you stutter out words of sensitivity and overstimulation.

“I’m going to have to request more of that throughout this marriage.” You manage to say once your vision and breath come back to you.

Grabbing one of your hands, Taehyung brings it to his mouth.

“All you need do is ask,” he replies, making you laugh as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, always a gentleman

Not long after, you find yourself pressed against Taehyung, tongue running against his as he presses his hips into yours. He isn’t coy about his want for you, rolling his cock against your already sensitive center. Warm precum leaks onto your lower abdomen, and suddenly, all you can think about is having him inside you again.

“Taehyung?”

You don’t even need to ask. Hitching your leg around his thigh, he knows exactly what you’re seeking, lining up his leaking cock with your swollen entrance.

Pressing into you, he buries himself to the hilt, groaning out as your warmth envelopes him. You moan out so prettily for him, feeling tight and full with your first orgasm only minutes ago.

“You okay?” he hums, kissing your cheek.

You nod, ears warm at the intimacy of the moment. In many ways, this is nothing like your first time together. You are face to face, eye to eye, heart to heart. Between your bodies could be found more than just desire, but commitment. Devotion. Love. 

“I love you, Tae.” You gush, sighing out as he begins to rock into you.

He falters slightly at your confession but recovers quickly, intertwining his hand with yours and pressing it by your head.

Faintly, you realize. 

That was the first time you had ever told him that.

You look up at him, expecting some wide eyes or even a bit of a nervous tilt to his lips, but all you are met with is a glow. He beams down at you, and your heart swells. 

“I love you, too, Y/N,” he whispers, but you hear the words in your ears loud and clear.

Soft noises fill the room as the two of you become one—hearts synchronizing with one another in silent promise.

It was a promise unlike the one you had made to each other that day at the altar, for this one was real. This one was true.

You shutter with every thrust of his hips, your abused clit finding itself in the crossfire of Taehyung’s passionate motions.

Whimpering, you cling to him, overwhelmed and emotional, like your heart was about to burst. Taehyung lights a fire in you, sends lightning straight through your core. Every word, every smile, every kiss, every touch, they send shivers down your spine, tingles throughout your skin. It’s like you’re falling in love with him all over whenever you see him, whenever his deep brown eyes meet your own.

You remember being so afraid of love that you broke up with all your old boyfriends because of it. Because you couldn’t commit, because you were worried about your career, because they just didn’t give you that spark. But lying here pressed against him, against your husband, you aren’t afraid. Wrapped up around him, tangled up in him, you know. 

Between messy kisses and words of adoration, you find yourself growing closer and closer to your release. Brows furrowed and neck flushed, you come with a soft whimper of his name, coaxing his own orgasm out of him. He lets go inside you, painting you with his seed in a way that pleases you to no end.

Hand still in yours, he gives it a squeeze, pressing a kiss onto your damp chest, right over where your heart beats for him.

“I love you,” Taehyung says again when you meet his eyes, firmer this time, louder. Like he’s worried you didn’t believe him the first time. 

“I know,” you say with a giggle, the words going straight to your head—and your heart. 

Taehyung scowls. “What, no ‘I love you’ back? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Well, only because you want one so badly,” you tease, pressing a quick kiss to his round button nose. “I love you, too, Tae. Always will.”

“I think I knew, then,” Taehyung says with a fond sigh, nostalgia overcoming his expression. “That first time we met. I knew you would be mine, one day.”

“You got lucky,” you scoff slightly. “But I’m glad things happened the way they did.”

“You’re my dream come true, Y/N,” he says. 

“And you are mine,” you murmur.

As the two of you drift off, all twisted up in each other, so mixed up you can’t figure out where you end and he begins, you think back to that night. That ball. 

“Who are you?” You ask, nose scrunched up in distaste. Before you stood a boy you had never met before, wearing shoes that were too big for him and a suit that was a touch too small. 

He grins at you, running a hand through his perfectly-styled hair fringe swiped neatly over his forehead, and he says, “your dream come true.”

And so it was. 

don’t forget to message me! ~ and don’t forget to message rose!

[doodle-pops]

Glorfindel's Confession to Reader

He’s literally the most obvious person around his crush. There’s not a single person in Middle Earth who doesn’t believe that the two of you are together. Sadly, you’re not.

When Glorfindel breaks the truth to people when they ask, most of them would ask him if he was crazy. Like what are you waiting on?

He spends every second, millisecond, a microsecond of the day with you and hates when you have to part. If he could follow you, he would.

You’re lucky he can’t shrink and fit in your pockets, cause if he could, good luck with that thing they call privacy.

But when it comes to wooing you, he knows every trick in the book. He’s a charmer, and smooth with it.

The best smooth talker. You’ll never get tired of hearing him sweet talk you.

Every day you’ll be sent fresh flowers to your chambers. He’d start off with the flowers of his house and then start using other flowers for hidden symbolic meaning.

The both of you would go for rides frequently in the fields, racing one another.

Sometimes having picnics in the late evenings, stargazing.

At this point, you’re convinced that he was going to confess but every date you two went on resulted in no confession

This is so because in his mind he believed the both of you were already together since you spent most of your time with him.

It was bugging you that he didn’t ask the big question, so this led to you giving yourself a prep-talk, saying that if he didn’t say anything by the mid-summer celebration – which was two weeks away – you’d be the one to ask.

Unfortunately, you did have to be the one to do the asking because once again Glorfindel really had it in his mind that you two were together since he didn’t even bother asking you to the dance. He simply sent a letter stating that he hoped to see you.

Was the golden-haired oaf so dense? So now you stood before him at the celebration after you had stepped outside for air dragging him along with you.

And so, you opened your mouth to ask the first question, “Glorfindel, what are we?”

The question had him dazzled, because to him what the hell kind of question was that? “I don’t understand you very well…”

You wanted to punch him.

“Glorfindel, are we friends or more than friends?” this had his brows raised to his hairline.

“Oh, that’s what you meant,” he laughed at the question, “we’re more than friends. We’ve been together for three months.” He stated in the most obvious tone. “Why would you ask that?”

You didn’t know if you wanted to facepalm yourself or him. “Why wouldn’t I ask? You’ve never confessed to me!” throwing your hands in the air.

“Yes, I did.”

“No”

“Yes”

“When?”

“I sent you red tulips and you accepted them.” Again, with the obvious tone.

You could have flung yourself of the balcony right then and there. Red tulips. Declaration of love.

“You’re supposed to tell me with your words, Glorf.” You laughed. A sweet-talker who doesn’t know how to confess. “I mean, I know you like me, and I feel the same, but neither of us said anything. How was I supposed to know?”

“I tell you every day, don’t I? How much you mean to me.”

“Glorf!” the entire situation was humorous. Who would have thought the famous elf lord would have slipped the traditional confession and jumped straight into the relationship?

“Ok, ok. I love you and you love me too, so do me the honour of continuing this courtship that already existed ” Why on earth did you have to fall for this oaf?

Masterlist