#and smartly plan outfits!!!!

[eddiediaaz]

just realizing now there are only eleven days left before i leave for my trip holy shit??? first solo trip that is more than a couple days (i'm leaving for 15 days), first time in europe/outside of north america, first time without my cats for so long, it's gonna be fdslksdfjbdklfsjdfskjbd. i'm very excited and nervous and antsy!! i need to finalize all the planning omg.

[gatorbites-imagines]

Knock knock, whos there?

A reader who's very sad at how empty the Ftm Reader X Jason Todd tag is.

Can we get something sweet between the two of em? Maybe just something depicting a slow morning? Thank you if so, <3 Im longing for more food.

-🐊🪶

Jason Todd x FTM reader

Headcanons

Im basing the readers experiences off of myself, so it may not fit all trans readers and what they’ve gone through. I also gave them pet cats, because I love cats. The reader being trans doesn’t fill much of this, since it doesn’t effect their relationship a lot, but I hope you still like it.

On days where there we no plans, no druglord word, no Red Hood or batfam work, and you had time off from your job or classes, Jason and you liked to take it slow.

The two cats Jason had found on patrol one night laying splayed out on the bed like they owned the place. One was a very large tomcat with big puffy cheeks, even after being neutered, the second cat was smaller, scrawnier but so very long. They had smartly been named Tomcat and Longcat by Jason.

On days where you two liked to sleep in, you could find yourselves being awoken by the beautiful sound of Longcat yowling like was dying, because neither of you had filled their bowls on time. Tomcat was a big baby, but liked you more than Jason, so the moment Jason gets up to feed Longcat his spot is stolen.

Since he’s already up and his spot had been stolen by a cat the size of a medium sized dog, Jason just decides to start going about his day. He ends up finding outfits for you two for the day, and if you wear a binder hell ask if you want to wear one today or not.

Your handsome partner always gives you a kiss before leaving the bedroom, Tomcat tries to get in the way though. It just results in Jason giving Tomcat a bit smooch too, which the cat just wags his tail at.

You’ll keep lying in bed for maybe another 15 minutes, just snuggling with Tomcat and listening to the sound of Jason taking his shower and brushing his teeth, sometimes at the same time. Longcat is meowing the entire time of course, thinking that Jason is drowning.

You let Jason finish up before getting up, tucking Tomcat in after getting up as you should, before going about your own routine. After your shower you stand and airdry for a while if you have to put on a binder, since you can’t pull those on with damp skin.

This is where youll stand half asleep and brush your teeth, Tomcat and Longcat both watching you, one from the tub and one from on top of the toilet. Its also where Jason likes to come up behind you and just hug you as he buries his face into your neck for a bit.

The morning hug and kiss is needed for his day to go well, that’s what Jason says anyways. If he doesn’t get a kiss from you then his whole day is doomed to go badly in one way or another.

He makes sure to hug you before you apply your T gel if you use that, since he knows he isn’t allowed to touch you after applying it. Hes also an expert at helping you inject T if you need it, and you do it from home. Or if your injection point is still aching from your last injection, then Jason is your guy in making it feel better.

If you’re a breakfast person you two will go into the kitchen to make something. On days like this, Jason can be tempted to make a bigger for complicated breakfast. Most days breakfast is an easy and quick affair though.

Longcat is of course still meowing for treats, acting like he hasn’t been fed and like hes still a streetcat living on scraps. Tomcat is just your big hovering shadow, watching from the doorway into the kitchen with his tail neatly curled around his front paws.

You two end up just eating breakfast on the couch as you watch whatever you two can find, though its most likely a comfort show or movie, something you two have watched many times before.

Jason takes the empty bowls or plates into the kitchen before coming back, so you two can cuddle some more as you’re both still quite tired after Longcats very loud awakening.

Jason never minds what you wear or how you wear it, as long as youre comfortable, so you being trans doesn’t really make any difference in your guy’s mornings together. Just what Jason finds for you to wear, and if your hormone treatment makes any differences.

It’s very hard not to fall back asleep on the couch, especially as Jason pulls you to his chest and wraps a blanket around you both.

Tomcat and Longcat obviously quickly join you, both of the cats curling up in whatever nook and cranny they can find and purring up a storm, making both you and Jason more and more sleepy.

You both don’t mind that you fall back asleep on the couch together, since there’s nothing planned for the day, and what’s playing on the tv is something you both know front to back. It just feels nice to be able to let go and drift off again together, even if it’s not in bed.

[hwajin]

✞ 「 .✶۪ .° ✞ : 𝐇 𝐈 — 𝐋 𝐈 𝐓 𝐄 !! : a series

☆ — chapter two ; Cold Metal

✞ 「 .✶۪ : see series masterlist and warnings here

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter word count: 18.1k

✞ 「 .✶۪ : chapter warnings: suggestive tension, lotsss of angst, mentions of cheating!!!!

author's note: one of my weaker chapters tbh but i hope you still enjoy!!! i'm sooo so excited to post ch3 already ngl 🤭🤭🤭

The number of times your hand carded through your dyed black hair this class was abnormal, five times too much than it would seem natural, but you couldn’t quite care about it. It was soothing, your long nails massaging your scalp in the process calmed your nerves. You looked at Mr. Bahng, you looked at Mr. Bahng looking at you – and your hands were in your hair again, fixing it, or making it worse, you weren’t quite sure. You wore dark lipstick – the shade of red was close enough to be black though it wasn’t upon further inspection – which matched the colour around your eyes, dark and smoky, long, fake lashes making your irises pop. Your outfit was just appropriate enough for college, though you were almost uncomfortable about how revealing it was – lowcut dark tank top with a bedazzled star right on your chest, low-rise jeans which teasingly sat on the curve of your hips, revealing the subtle waistband of the dark red tanga you had decided to wear, with the only purpose for Mr. Bahng to see it. Your black boots made you taller by an inch, which made you carry yourself with the confidence you deemed to need today.

For the past week you had slept over your plan to seduce your teacher; now, a week later, the affair sounded far sillier than when you had first come up with it, when you had gotten over the initial shock of seeing the man, who, seemingly had rocked your pre-graduate mind. Though, now, a whole week later and after a lot of plotting and thinking, it felt far more realistic, too, something you could achieve if you acted smartly. Sure, it was still dumb and immature, and yes, you could get in trouble for it – you had thoroughly thought of Han’s words, and gathered that he, in fact, hadn’t been as wrong as you had thought – though trouble and problems would occur only if someone caught you, and only if you let the whole thing go on for too long, or got too involved in the process. You were simply supposed to keep your plan on the down-low, telling not a soul about it – that Han knew you didn’t deem as a risk; he was your second half, his secret was as much yours as yours was his – and you ought to end the instigation the moment Mr. Bahng left to let Professor Hwang teach again. That was, if Mr. Bahng would fall for you, in the first place. This factor wasn’t at all yet carved in stone, and it was the most important rule in the game you created; so, you’d decided to view your chances realistically. Surely, you had it all planned out, you had read through the entirety of the package insert and the risks that came with the plan – you were prepared, and said plan was nothing but manageable, if you only let the charm spark you believed you had. Everything after would be history.

Mr. Bahng had eyed you when you had entered the classroom this morning, for only a short moment, barely a second even, though you couldn’t have not noticed. His eyes had scanned you up and down before he had converted them to his pencils and notebooks on his desk, and his ears had painted red; you remembered having seen him flustered a week back, and the blush around his face was far more adorable now that it had been due to you, seemingly. He didn’t much pay you attention throughout the rest of the lesson; in contrary, Mr. Bahng seemed to be avoiding your piercing eyes altogether, seemed to only skim over you and your figure – your chest, too, which you put on display on full purpose – while holding the gazes of other students. Were you already crawling under his skin? Was one outfit and flirty eyes enough to weaken the teacher? You doubted it to be so very easy; though then his eyes scanned over you again for only a second, and his ears painted pink. Maybe it could be easy.

A cold can of Coca Cola stood before you, the freezing condensation of it having left a wet spot on the rough, old wood of the desk you were sitting at; you and Han had grabbed a drink before classes, though you’d lie saying it had felt like always. Ever since you had fought a week ago, Han had been acting strange, tense. You had realised that he was pretending to act normal, that he was trying to joke around as always and not let his eyes linger on you for too long, or tell you about his songwriting without growing flustered, or grab a drink with you without forcefully searching for possible subjects to talk about. He really was trying to be his usual self; but the endless years of friendship made you look right through him. There hadn’t been a day the past seven days when you hadn’t not noticed his clamminess around you, or how he suddenly started stuttering after every other sentence when talking to the others the moment you entered the studio, or his staring during practice or brainstorming or simply hanging, when he thought you weren’t looking. You never not noticed – and that was the worst of them all – Han’s inability to look into your eyes properly when you were talking to him, about anything. You hated the tension he created, you hated that the usual light-heartedness you felt in his presence, the utter and numbing familiarity usually around him had been so hard to achieve in the past week.

Above all, it angered you that you couldn’t understand the reason for his behaviour, nor were mature enough, apparently – or maybe too stubborn, simply – to talk of it, to try and resolve it. In retrospect, looking back at this very weekend years later, when you’d fondly remember your college years and your undeniable silliness, you would understand that you’d been scared, and therefore stayed quiet. You didn’t know why you were scared, exactly; but you knew Han’s reason of clamminess and seeming jealousy wouldn’t be an explanation you could possibly handle, nor wanted to hear, so as to not accept the reality of it. You hadn’t mentioned Mr. Bahng anymore to him, not after your fight. You had mustered up a plan all by yourself – you had, one fateful night, remembered that the teacher had been giving vocal lessons to students back when you went to high school, and you knew it was the perfect opportunity to get closer to him – but you hadn’t told your best friend anything of your excitement. Which was strange, keeping a secret from him, but you figured the tension didn’t need any more sensitivity, and you continued playing along with Han’s game of pretending, wordless and silent. Though you were doing a far better job at it, surely.

You had never apologized, either. Maybe that was part of the reason things were strange between the two of you. Though, if Han wanted an apology in the first place, then he wasn’t acting like it. He didn’t sulk around you, he didn’t give you the cold shoulder – he was strange, yes, but he didn’t seem to be upset, not anymore. Neither you nor he were people to hide anger, even if it was directed at the other; you could talk, had always been able to. Uncomfortable talks, sometimes, talks which bordered on fights, talks after fights; you weren’t afraid of any of them, and yet now, Han simply tried to sweep the entire thing under the rug. Sometimes this past week, though you didn’t know if your eyes fooled you – and you hoped they did – he seemed scared when looking at you, when talking to you. Not scared of you, you didn’t believe so, at least. He seemed scared of himself, almost; of the next words he’d speak to you, of his own clamminess, of his own stuttering.

Han also didn’t make a scene to apologize about the fight – now that a week had passed, you weren’t at all sure anymore if he was in the position to apologize, even; by now, you believed he wasn’t as much in the wrong as you had initially believed him to be – so you swept it under the rug with him, pretended as though the feisty conversation had never occurred in the first place. Not healthy, nor was it mature, and the sight effects were tangible, infuriating; though you forgot all about it when the class you were sitting in was nearing to an end, and Mr. Bahng was dismissing the students. He wore the same white button-down today, sleeves rolled up, though his pants were a dark navy this time around, and a loose tie adorned the thickness of his neck – it was far more attractive than last week’s outfit, you thought, and it got you giddy to go up and talk to him. You were nervous, though – you were painfully aware that your little plan resembled the plot of a bad romance movie, so you knew that the chances of your teacher falling for you were close to null. Mr. Bahng was a responsible adult, one who wore a gold band around his left ring finger, one who was a teacher – it didn’t get more responsible than that, and you knew your dark red tanga you wore specifically for him would probably be of little help when it came to seducing him. For all you knew, you were a mere student in his head, barely eighteen as he remembered you. Maybe you should fetch your best friend, and apologize to him, after all; it was obvious your stupidity and hormones had gotten the better of you.

With these thoughts on your mind, you waited for student after student to disappear while keeping the teacher pinned down with your gaze, despite your doubts; a plan was a plan, and you wanted your fun, you wanted to get laid; you would do what you needed to achieve it. This time around, different than a week ago, you were not pretending to be taking your time, nor were you making a scene of looking for something in your bag while waiting to be in lonesome with the teacher – you sat confidently, legs crossed beneath the table and arms beneath your chest, eye-fucking Mr. Bahng until the last, far too slow-paced person had finally abandoned the hot classroom, until you and him were the only two people left in it. He looked at you, shortly, his face unreadable – he did gift you a subtle smile, though, and only after he turned his attention back to his desk you started moving. Nervous, a tiny storm brewing in the pit of your stomach. The legs of your chair scratched uncomfortably against the linoleum floor as you pushed yourself off it, shooting goosebumps up your back, and your bag – a dark red handbag matching your nails and make-up, and a big contrast to your usual black, worn-out rucksack – rattling as you threw it over your shoulder, and made your way to your teachers’ desk.

You started walking, trying to appear as calm as humanly possible. You didn’t allow your hand to reach for your hair, or to your top to fix it, or to the hem of your jean to fiddle with it. You simply walked, slow, making use of your hips; and with every step you took, Han’s voice from a week ago increased in volume in your head, his words materializing as a cloud of uncertainty; ‘Are you insane? He’s your teacher. What’s in there for him, except the loss of his job?’. You shivered at that, despite the hot weather, despite the sweat that was forming in the back of your neck, beneath your waving hair. Were you so nervous because you knew Han was right, and the whole thing utterly wrong? Or was it Mr. Bahng who wouldn’t allow you to think straight, who got to you more than it was comfortable to admit? You walked, your thoughts and mind a mess, until you reached Mr. Bahng’s desk, until you stood hovering over him, until his eyes met you from below, until your knees grew wobbly, and your panties wet. Embarrassing.

“Hey.”

Your voice cool, airy. You were nervous, though you wouldn’t let it ruin your plan for you. You put on your best face, calm and collected, eyes hooded and lazy – the entire opposite from when you had first talked to him, or from the storm raging within you, your chest, the pit of your stomach, your core between your legs.

And Mr. Bahng looked like he’d noticed it, too. The change in demeanour within you; the change in attire. You saw how his eyes flinched to your chest, for only a second, how his head fell to his side barely noticeably, in curiosity. How his ears turned pink again; you loved seeing his ears turn pink, loved seeing him shy and flustered because of you.

“Y/N, hey. Do you… need help with something this week? Or… do you just- wanna talk again?”, he chuckled, softly, and it was your turn to blush now, to grow bashful. The sound of his giggles sent shivers down your back, and you granted him a smile. Nonchalant.

Han’s voice in your head again, louder than before; ‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’ You inhaled once, deeply, exhaled in one blow, quickly.

“I do have a question, sort of… it’s probably stupid, though.” Blinking twice as much as usual, and you looked at him from beneath your lashes, upper arms pushing out your breasts subtly – you were twenty-two years old, and you were embarrassing yourself. And you were less shameful about it as you thought you would be. It’s been ages since someone has gotten you this wet, and you were merely allowed to look at him, yet; you couldn’t imagine your own bodily reactions when you would fuck him, eventually.

Mr. Bahng coughed at your words, adjusted in his seat; was he getting nervous? Maybe he would be easier to crack as you thought, initially. Maybe he was as attracted to you as you were to him. Or maybe he was highly uncomfortable. In that case you would simply and frankly skip music class, until Professor Hwang returned again.

“Oh, no, ask ahead. There’s no such a thing as a stupid question.” Such a teacher thing to say, and you would have chuckled if you didn’t commit so much to your act. So, you only smiled, eyes losing his, looking down where his hands lay on his desk, folded together professionally, before you looked up at him again, seductively, you hoped. Was it too much? Was he looking through you? He didn’t look like it; his eyes were curious, and his cheeks red. He didn’t look uncomfortable, either. Maybe it was working.

You hummed as though in thought before answering, took your time with it, let his words melt into your brain; letting two seconds pass, then another two, until Mr. Bahng furrowed his brows in most subtle manner, and his head cocked further to the side. You quirked his interest, and you shot your question. Your chance. Han’s words were playing in your head.

“I was thinking about you the past week…”, leaving a deliberate pause, not breaking the contact with his deep eyes you trembled under, watching him redden further upon your words, “and I remembered that you were giving vocal lessons, back when I was still in school.” Another pause in which you looked at him, expectantly, as though he was supposed to understand where your question was going. The pause stretched itself, and Mr. Bahng’s blush had travelled to his neck at this point; he leaned forward, white dress-shirt stretching over his muscles, hugging his body tightly. He cleared his throat with a low rasp, inhaled slowly. You needed him. So very badly.

“Uh, yeah, I was. I- I am. I’m still giving vocal lessons.” His voice wasn’t nervous, per se. It was professional, too much almost, for your liking; though it sounded forced, and you heard a shake in it, barely noticeable, but you were hyper-aware when it came to him. “Why do you ask?” Almost trembling, and you would have smiled to yourself under different circumstances. Han occupied your thoughts again.

‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’

“You see…”, deliberate pause, and you wondered if he was getting sick of you, or if he was a fish caught on your hook by now, “the band I told you about… you remember, right?” You bashed your lashes at him, waited until he gave you an affirmative hum before you continued. The hum was followed by the clearing of his voice. You couldn’t read him. You couldn’t tell if it was nervousness, you didn’t know if the next words would be your downfall. “I’m the vocalist in that band, and… I could use some professional classes. I’m self-taught, you know… so I’m not really confident in my skills yet.” You dragged out your words, and you almost pouted at the man if you hadn’t found your senses early enough; you might be a little too deep into your own bit.

One moment passed, and another, without an answer from the teacher.

‘He’s not gonna fuck you. You’re just a student.’

He would say no, Han was right. He had no reason to agree to you, after all, had no reason to give you private lessons, no less because he would be gone in a matter of weeks. There was not one thing in the situation working to his advantage, so he would decline –

“Oh, you’re asking me for lessons?”, he looked at you, though not questioningly. He looked at you with certainty. Too much certainty; he would decline, and you would simply die of embarrassment, on the spot. What the hell were you doing, standing in front of him? What the hell were you doing not apologizing to your best friend of years, not having seen your own stupidity far earlier?  

“Sure, why not.”

Your heart sank a million oceans deep. A sentence only, merely three words, and your entire world seemed to have flipped upside down. Han had been wrong, and whether or not he wanted to speak about the entire subject, disregarding his – in your eyes, inappropriate discomfort – you would brag about this later. You didn’t care, you were selfish, and you were right. And you were one step closer to having the teacher the way you wanted him. You were sure Mr. Bahng could read your victory on your face, so you tried to keep composure, did your best in pretending to be entirely calm – though you were the opposite, the storms of doubts from before having cleared, instead allowing space for deafening and bright fireworks.

“Oh, yeah? I wouldn’t have expected you to agree… I thought you were really busy, you know, with your family.” Compassion; check. A path to trust; check. Showing clear interest; check. You were multiple steps further in your plan, and you were sure Han would be sensitive later, though you would gush about it all the same. There was no way you would keep this a secret. And maybe you wanted to rub it into his face.

Your teacher huffed out in feigned amusement, though his eyes stayed cold, humourless, the laugh not reaching that far. “Yeah, well… I’ll do anything to get out of the house for a bit, if I can be so honest.”

Your heart leaped, jumped left and right and down and up against its’ confines at the almost guilty confession he confronted you with. You were a sadist, after all. Or maybe heartless. Or maybe your underwear was so wet by now at the sheer sight of your teacher that any other coherent thought except his dick inside of you vanished entirely, forever. Whatever the reason was, you didn’t care. You needed him, and the stars stood in your luck. The chances weren’t only good; they were perfect, basically. You wouldn’t be shocked if by the same time next week you would stand pressed against this very desk, with Mr. Bahng’s hands groping at your body to his liking, with his face nuzzled in your neck and nibbling marks onto it for the others to tease about later.

“Oh… is it that bad? I’m sorry.” Puppy eyes, a bit more blinking; his ears were burning, his eyes searching for something other than you to look at. He cleared his throat for the third time today, before he stood suddenly, exhaling in an awkward chuckle, readjusting his shoulder, fixing his tie. You could jump at him now, eat him whole.

“Nah, don’t worry. I just… need distraction.”, his eyes flashed to your chest again before he locked eyes with you, bashfully; he would fuck you next week, guaranteed. You probably wouldn’t even need to work too hard for it.

“I’m ending class earlier next week anyways, actually – you can just stay right after, say for… half an hour? One hour? If you have some time.”

‘If you have some time.’ – what a silly thing to say. As if you wouldn’t make time, specifically for him, even if you were busy. Mr. Bahng looked at you expectantly, throwing his briefcase over his shoulder. You took your time with the answer; you hummed, as though trying to remember your non-existent schedule, thinking exaggeratedly. It was only seconds later before you answered.

“No, yeah, one hour should work. I’ll see you next week then, Mr. Bahng.”

At the sound of his own name the man tensed, the fist around the band of his briefcase tightening. He was easy prey, after all. It was almost adorable. Almost too easy.

“Yeah. See you next week.”

☆.☆.☆

15:09     meet me at the vending machine?

15:10     after class

You read Han’s text after you exited Mr. Bahng’s classroom – you leaned against the wall after having watched the teacher walk to his next lesson, and the cold of the tiles felt relaxing against your back; your skin was flushed, your cheeks burning, your entire body aflame. A smile has engraved itself onto your lips, one you couldn’t seem to get rid of, as stupid as you looked and as much as your jaw pained from it; you’d gotten so many steps further, far more than you had initially even dared to aspire, and you didn’t think you would survive the wait all until next week – you would cease to exist quite frankly, from excitement and anticipation and sheer impatience. You weren’t sure if your happiness was out of place, inappropriate; you remembered just what you were excited about, remembered Mr. Bahng’s wife, remembered Han’s negative stance towards the entirety of the affair – you didn’t ought to be so giddy. But then you remembered Mr. Bahng, in the classroom just ten minutes ago; the way he had looked at you, the way he had blushed. You remembered his tight dress-shirt, his dark blue tie, his strong arms laying exposed and heavy on his desk. You imagined those very hands on you, all over your, all over your body, discarding your clothes in the very classroom you’d just left one by one. You imagined to have him the way you had craved to for so long, to have his lips explore the entirety of your skin or devour your mouth in starving hunger, to card your fingers through his dark hair and let him push you against the upfront desk, to have him whisper sweet nothings into your ear before he’d bite down on –

Your phone buzzed again in your hand, and you jerked, having forgotten Han’s previous text entirely. You checked the new message while you tried to calm down; Han had sent you an image of two beverages – your Coke and his Root Beer – which he held in his hands, the old bench and the older weeping willow grazing the picture in the background. He had attached a short ‘my treat’ to it. You put a cool hand to your burning cheek, took three deep breaths before reacting to his message with a heart and made your way to the vending machine with knees wobblier than you would have liked to admit.

Han really did try. You almost felt bad about having to break whatever bubble the two of you found yourself in – one, that much was clear, that felt far too fragile, daring to burst if you as much as grazed it with a finger. The feeling was still strange; you couldn’t remember a single time where awkwardness like the current one has ebbed itself so deeply into your friendship. And to think it was because of a single, stupid argument – it hurt you, made you question just how strong your bond really was. It made you question, too, if there was an ulterior motive behind it; in fact, you were almost entirely sure that it could never be only the disagreement which had torn the crack in between you. Han had been acting far too strange for there to not be a buried reason, and you almost didn’t want to tell him any of the news about your teacher, the process you had made; almost didn’t want to rub your success under his nose after all, even though you’ve been so excited to before, especially after his words from a week ago, his accusations and doubts. Worries, even.

It did sound like he had been worried about you last week. Worried, and jealous, and almost unreasonably emotional. You didn’t want to hurt him. A big part of you didn’t want to hurt him. You would if you told him all about what happened just moments ago, remembering the feeling of his discomfort, his clamminess, and his giddiness around you, and it burned like poison in your veins. You despised it. You despised the fact that a smaller part of you, far smaller though it was there, did want to convince him of your victory; did want to hurt him, after all. You despised that you couldn’t despise yourself for not wanting to solve the argument, to resign after the fight, to get over the peril you had suddenly found yourself in – out of fear, you thought. You couldn’t know the reason for his jealousy. You knew there had to be one, a reason, why the small bickering had turned into something way too big. And maybe – and it scared you immensely – you knew all about it already; maybe you wouldn’t be able to bare the confirmation, simply. Han’s reason for his strange behaviour over the past week would maybe be the last poke against the bubble which your friendship still kept concealed before it burst open to let the both of you fall onto the ground of reality.

You made your way over to the vending machine; whatever it was, the reason for the sudden cleft between you, and no matter how long it would take to sew it back together, you decided to keep your mouth shut about Mr. Bahng, after all. It would be like gasoline to the fire the two of you had set, only a small flame now, but waiting to be ignited. You hadn’t found any water yet to put it out fully; so you’d be a fool if you didn’t choose silence.

The afternoon sun was scorching onto your skin, making it hotter than it was already, and little beads of sweat collected in the back of your neck. You should have taken a hair tie with you – your hair against your nape and down your shoulders drove you near crazy in the heat. The distance between the music building and the vending machine wasn’t all too big, so you could catch a glimpse of Han the moment you turned the corner and were walking right towards his seated figure beneath the big tree. His eyes were busy with his phone, mindlessly scrolling, as it seemed. His teeth constantly picked at his piercing – it wasn’t new, though he had never grown out of the habit, and you wondered how much longer he could keep it up before his teeth took serious damage. One of his legs moved in rhythm to the music that you imagined to be blasting in the earphones you saw dangling from his phone to somewhere behind his ashy hair – he needed a retouch, you just noticed. His roots had grown out quite a lot. You wondered when he’d ask you to help dye it – he never trusted himself with his hair.

When you were close enough Han’s body jerked, and his eyes found your figure; whether he heard you or saw your shadow hovering above him you weren’t sure, but you greeted him all the same.

“Oh, hey. You’re later than I thought.”

You sat down opposite from him, discarding your bag next to you. The rough wood of the bench beneath you was hot under your figure, though you basked in the shadow the weeping willow gifted. You couldn’t help catching the tone in Han’s voice as you looked at him with a greeting smile – cautious, though feigning carelessness. For some reason, you couldn’t stand him this moment. Couldn’t he just be calm around you? The way he’s always been; your best friend?

“Yeah, someone kept me. Notes… and stuff.”

You took the Coke Han slid over to you as silence fawned over you both, and you opened the can momentarily, mostly to be doing something, partially because you were dying of thirst – you had finished your first drink earlier, in Mr. Bahng’s class, though it was impossible to stay constantly refreshed in the heat – maybe you should simply switch to water. The sizzling of the fuzzy drink spilled over as it opened with a loud hiss, and it was satisfaction to your ears, anticipation to your dry mouth. You looked at Han, didn’t say a word anymore. You put the tinned can to your mouth, sipped away the spill before making your first gulp; refreshing as you had expected it, though you weren’t truly satisfied – for some reason, you couldn’t stand yourself this moment. You couldn’t stand not being able to talk to your friend; couldn’t stand that you were unable, even, to thank him for the drink – you couldn’t stand not knowing the reason behind your anger for his recent behaviour, and your cowardness of speaking about it. But you only continued drinking, nonchalantly, as though you bore no ill thought altogether. As though you and Han had always behaved this way around the other; sitting in uncomfortable silence, grasping at topics of conversation just to end the nerve wreck.

Han hummed at your words, far too late, but he did. As though he had expected further explanation; you could tell he didn’t believe you, but you didn’t care. You wouldn’t tell him anything. You couldn’t tell him about Mr. Bahng if you wanted this awkwardness to dissipate. And you were too stubborn, too scared to try and dissolve the weirdness; so you let it be, altogether. And it was torture – Han was the only person who knew you inside out, who was aware of all the thoughts you bore. Silence was equal to a dagger to the heart when it was with him.

You clicked your tongue, took another big gulp of your Coke. You would win the game of pretending. You could fake it, get over the feeling of utter coldishness until everything between you was back to normal. It had to work, you thought – if you pretended for long enough, if you kept shut about Mr. Bahng and anything regarding him, the argument from a week ago and Han’s strange motive of worry – and potential jealousy – would drive into the back of your minds, would dissipate itself… right? And it’s not like it was all bad; the problem occurred simply when you were in lonesome, anywhere else but the studio with the others. Only then it seemed like you two barely knew each other, only then uneasiness occupied your body almost to paralysis, sheer because it was so very unknown with him. You wouldn’t let it go as far as to rot away your friendship; that would be stupid. One fight against years of friendship; things just didn’t end like that.  

“So… did you finish the song?”

You leaned back against the backrest of the bench, legs crossed, relaxed; you could never go wrong talking about music, and you were relieved when you saw Han’s face light up at your question. Ever since Han had first told you about the new song he had planned to write for the band a week ago – the one he still claimed to be suited especially for you, the one he grew so shy about when he had first brought it up – he hadn’t stopped gushing over it. He had asked you to try singing melodies he experimented with, had asked your opinion on lyrics or the instrumental, had wanted your help in naming the song; Cold Metal is what you had settled on after you heard the finished text, and saying both of you were excited to practice the song with the band was an understatement. You’d argue it to be Han’s best work as of now, and you knew the others would love it.

You had been grateful for the song for the past week. It had worked as the only subject Han had talked to you about with no hesitation, no remorse; it was purified passion whenever he had proposed a name or decided to change up the chords or asked you to sing for him. You had been grateful that one thing had stayed the same, and bore hope that it always would – that with him, no matter the situation, music would stay unchanged, would always be the connector between your hearts, the invisible red string between you.

“I am done, actually, I was just finishing up last stuff before – we could show the others today, and start practicing it like, instantly. …if they like it, even.”

You snapped your eyes open – you had been sunbathing while you listened to him talk, had enjoyed the warmth on your skin, the faint sun on your face, hidden slightly behind the long, crying branches of the tree. Han had always been talented, and was never one to grow insecure about his work. Though he had been over this particular song, and you disliked it, immensely – it baffled you that he couldn’t agree with you on having written his best work as far as you were concerned, and you had made it your goal to convince him of it.

“They will like it – it’s your best song so far, I’m serious.”, you replied in a stern voice, making Han flush in his place. His eyes lost yours, and after a couple of seeming unsure moments, he grabbed his drink and took three big sips from it. When would it end? When would you understand why a simple fight – not even quite, a mere heated discussion, really – changed him so much, so drastically? When would he stop shying away from your gaze and be your best friend again, the one he’d always been?

You sighed, and Han gave you a hum after he placed his Root Beer back on the bench. It was a questioning hum almost, as though words hidden behind it, as though he was preparing to speak though wasn’t sure of what. You gave him time, sipped at your Coke. Han fiddled with his own drink, furrowed his brows; then he looked at you, suddenly, and hesitation was written all over his body. Yet he asked away.

“So… how was it with Mr. Bahng today? Did you talk to him?”

He brought it up. He asked himself – not confidently, and if you were honest the tone in his voice made you shiver. It wasn’t a genuine question, it was forced. He forced himself to be a good friend and ask, though it was obvious he didn’t want to hear the answer. Why didn’t he? And why did he, after all, yet force himself to ask? Because he wouldn’t hurt, you thought. Because he got over the whole thing, surely; he was still strange, though then again, you were still strange, too. None of you were known for your maturity; the awkwardness of the fight, the sudden heat over it a week ago simply hadn’t settled yet. You were people, and you bore emotions like any other, even if you were friends of years. Sometimes arguments simply took time to dissipate – yes, you were convinced. Han was over it. So you were, too. He couldn’t be hurt about news of your true happiness; he was your best friend. He was the closest person you had, he wouldn’t grow jealous anymore – for whatever reason he did in the first place. And maybe, you had misread him entirely. Maybe he was merely worried of the consequences; you couldn’t claim your little scheme of seducing your music teacher to be perfectly safe and without risk, and Han was simply too good of a friend to not be worried. His strangeness over the past week had been guilt, for having started a fight, for not having apologized after; similar to you, so you understood. It wasn’t jealousy, after all. He was worried. He would be excited, now, if you told him about the progress. He had to be excited. You needed him to be excited.

You had promised yourself not to talk about it, but if there was one thing you were worse at than keeping a secret from him, it was lying to Han. You couldn’t possibly; though you deemed him to be ready for your answer – otherwise he wouldn’t have brought it up. He wouldn’t have asked himself.

“He might…”, you started, though you needed to clear your throat before you could continue. You looked at him, and he reciprocated your gaze. His eyes were unreadable, and it made you shiver despite the scorching sun on your skin. You cleared your throat a second time, forced yourself to a grin; play along, play pretend, act as natural as always. “You might not like the news, but you were wrong last week – Mr. Bahng agreed to give me private lessons from next week on.”

You looked at him, and he reciprocated your gaze. His eyes sunk, his brows furrowed in the most subtle way though you couldn’t not have noticed at the way you were staring him down, and his beaten expression was far worse than the unreadable one before – it made your heart beat faster, it started scorching you from within, the sun cold now on your skin. Why did he look so… sad, so hopeless?

“So I made progress. He was eyeing me, too – I guarantee you he wanted to fuck me back there… I bet he will next week.”

You didn’t know why you said that. It wasn’t intended to hurt him, or maybe it was, and Han choked on the drink he had just placed on his lips – his coughs were daggers to your heart, and every further one made you regret your words. What the hell was wrong with you? You hadn’t wanted to tell him altogether, and now you told him too much for his own good – did you want to hurt him, after all? You thought back on the excitement that had found a home within you when Mr. Bahng had mentioned the rough patches with his wife, how utterly happy you were. Cold and heartless, sadistic. This moment, you couldn’t find any more fitting words for yourself.   

You looked at him as he calmed down from the swallowing up. He cleared his throat a couple of times, getting rid of the remaining sting his drink had caused before he looked at you. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes big, glassy; dark. It was his turn to speak, his turn to show enthusiasm, to be happy for you – you knew you were lying to yourself, were holding onto the last straw of meagre hope for the last couple of seconds it was possible before Han would cut it in half altogether. Though he looked clueless. His words were as though stuck in his throat – he was opening and closing his mouth like a fish without water, and no sound came out. The seconds of silence passed in torture; why wasn’t he excited for you? Why did you continue lying to yourself?

“I would have expected that you let go of the whole thing.”

Finally, after he had been quiet for far too long, Han spoke, and your heart sank in the process. It wasn’t his words that hurt you; it was the tone he used, the melody of his voice as he converted his eyes to his fiddling hands again, refusing to look at you, forbidding you to look through him. He was hiding from you. Why was he hiding from you? He had been building a wall the past week, you just realized; a wall intended just for you, a wall around his heart which was just high enough to keep you out of it. The realization was a sip of the strongest venom.

If someone asked you, you weren’t all too sure if you could have described what you’d heard in his timbre, what exactly sent the shiver down your spine in the sound of his voice. Was it the regret you heard, or the despair? It might have been the hopelessness – it could have been the sound of his heart breaking in half.

You wouldn’t provoke him any further. You’d stay silent about Mr. Bahng, until the moment the teacher left, just like you had promised it to yourself – whether you’d make any progress or not. You’d apologize to Han, you’d concentrate on the band, you’d go back to a week ago, before this strange awkwardness had created a gashing crevice between you; you would fix it.

“Why should I let go of the whole thing? Can’t I have some fun without you judging me for it?”

Stupid. How could you be so thoughtless, so immature? You despised yourself; you disgusted yourself. And then Han looked at you, and you could tell he was hurt – and you hated yourself even more.

“I’m not judging you. But you can have fun like, literally anywhere else… I just still don’t think fucking your teacher is the best idea you’ve had.”

He was right, and you hated that you knew that he was. You couldn’t be angry at him, you couldn’t be mad; you weren’t in the position to. The sooner you got over your pride the sooner you could be back to normal. You looked at him; you would simply apologize. You would forget Mr. Bahng, would tell him you couldn’t take private lessons after all, that your schedule was too busy and your band too important; you would fix it.

“Why the fuck are you so sensitive? It’s not like you’re in love with me, so get over it.”

Your words took form in the dampness outside before you realized, settled uncomfortably between your bodies, and the only thing you could do was look at each other. You, fearfully expectant; him, far too nervous for your own liking. Han’s cheeks were suddenly three shades darker, his blinking rapid, his eyes searching for something to focus on; something other than your scrutinizing gaze. His teeth bit into his silver piercing – the sound was uncomfortable, and you almost told him to stop; yet you didn’t tell him anything. You stayed silent, because though you had never despised yourself more than this very moment, when those words had left your mouth, you were far more cautious of his reaction. He wasn’t in love with you, so there was no reason for his sudden nervousness, his clamminess. Why wasn’t he laughing – why wasn’t he denying it? You wished he would deny it; you needed him to deny it.

Your brows furrowed with every passing second. He wasn’t denying it; he wasn’t doing anything, quite frankly. He wasn’t even looking at you, almost as though you hadn’t spoken to him at all. He was back to fiddle with his can of Root Beer, half empty already yet daring to spill with his movements. He placed it on his lips rapidly, the sun throwing golden rays and darker shadows against his face as he threw his head back and took a gulp, only to do something. He continued nibbling on his piercing; the clinking sound was still uncomfortable, cut through the excruciating silence like nails on a wall. The awkwardness was tangible, and it was impossible to bare; you hated it.

“Ji… what the fuck. Get over yourself. It was a joke – you’re not in love with me.”

You spoke, but your voice was trembling. He looked at you; wrong. He forced himself to look at you. There was fear in his eyes, one he tried to overplay with a sudden nervous chuckle. He cleared his throat, grabbed his Root Beer – a little too hard, deforming the tinned can in the process – to finish the drink, throwing back his head again as he let the last droplets run down his throat, and you watched the sun dance on his face again. You saw beats of sweat glistening in the light – you hoped it was due to the heat. You held your breath as you kept looking at him, continued to hold it while he stood, while he threw his rucksack over his shoulder. He was clumsy with it, tripping over his feet somewhat, though he didn’t let it seem as though it was bothering him.

“Hah, of course I’m not, just… I’m just worried about you… whatever. Let’s just go to practice.” You looked at him; you looked right past his feigned carelessness. He was giddy, too smiley all of a sudden. Was he believing his own words? It almost seemed as though his goal wasn’t convincing you, but himself. He looked at you; he tried his best to keep his composure. “The others are probably waiting already.” His voice was thin, though this too, he didn’t seem to let get to him. He was back to pretending, to playing a game that was so obviously gnawing at him; you weren’t all too sure anymore if you wanted to play along, or if you wanted to lay the cards on the table, open and honest.

Though he didn’t give you a chance. Han started to make his way to the studio, not waiting for your answer; not that you had one in mind. Was it possible? Was love the reason he behaved so strangely when it came to Mr. Bahng? The thought alone scared you, and you took hold of your bag quickly before following him; you didn’t want to think about it ever again. It wasn’t possible; it couldn’t be. Han was smarter than that, and your bond far too ancient. There hadn’t been a day in the past decade that you could point to where either you or he had felt more strongly about each other than regular friends did. There had to be a different reason for his strangeness – yet you weren’t sure why it still scared you to ask, to get behind said reason. However; love wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. You wouldn’t let it be.

When you and Han arrived at the studio – you always five steps behind, not feeling brave enough to walk up to him on one level – Lino and Jeongin just grinded their cigarettes with the heavy soles of their boots, the stoned pavement crunching beneath them; Changbin’s bass was audible in the back already, the sound of his tuning occupying your senses and distracting you from your deafening thoughts, if only for a moment. Jeongin disappeared inside, Lino stayed to pet a stray cat which had been snaking around his legs; when he went into the studio eventually it followed him, and he let it. Han went in before you – he tried to ignore your stare he very much felt on his skin, tried to play it cool. What was wrong with him? He had known beforehand that you wouldn’t have let go of the whole fucking-your-teacher thing; yet he had hoped, nevertheless. He had very much noticed the way you had avoided to talk to him about Mr. Bahng, though he had been prepared for your gushing after music class had ended; why had he still felt as though you had shot him right through his heart, had pulled the last cables that had kept him alive?

You closed the door behind you when you entered the studio last, discarded your bag onto the sofa with a dangle, mindlessly. The room was filled with people, and it was filling with vibrations and tunes, faint melodies; it was Han’s favourite part of the day. Settling in, getting ready; he enjoyed nothing more than preparing to practice new songs. The sound of your humming, the sound of reserved warm-up notes, the sound of chattering getting quieter, because music was getting louder. Han put down his rucksack next to your bag, mindlessly too, listened to the static sounds of everyone plugging in their instruments, the purring of the cat that had followed Lino; felines weren’t forbidden in the studio. Lino had persisted on it when you had first started practicing together.

Jeongin and Changbin were chatting while they were getting ready, not loud, but obnoxious, almost. It seemed like they were continuing a conversation they had started when Han and you had been at the vending machine, but the point of exchange wasn’t hard to guess.

“Wait, I thought her name was like… what was it – ah! Nabi, no?”

Jeongin shook his head at Changbin’s words, putting the aux cable into its’ designated spot on the backside of the piano, and turning it on after. It gave a pleasant sound of feedback, and quiet, experimental chords filled the studio after.

“No, Nabi was the girl from the club; I broke it off with her like, ages ago. I met the other girl in the store; she just came up to me and I thought she needed help, but she asked for my number.”

Jeongin had a history of taking his dating life rather easily; too easily, some might say, but he wasn’t one to care much. Whenever he gave his number to women – or men, for that matter – he never intended to spend too much time on that person; and he always made it fashion to clarify it beforehand, so there hadn’t been many instances where people left with a broken heart. Funny enough, and all of you teased him about it far too much for his liking, the small grocery store right outside his and Changbin’s place he kept a part-time job in was the place most people came up to him – it surely couldn’t be the unflattering uniform he had to wear, so all of you wondered what it was about that particular store that brought in so many of his admirers.

Another thing you teased about was how very graphic he was when he told Changbin about a new person he met. How very… detailed. Not to brag, not even to tickle a reaction out of any of you; sex and intimacy, as you’ve learned, were simply subjects he wasn’t shy to talk about, not in the slightest. It came to him like talking of the weather – much to your and everyone else’s dismay. You weren’t often in the mood to get intricate detail on how exactly a girl had sucked his dick right before he came in to practice.

“Bro, she was insane. I’m so glad you slept at Jae's yesterday; she was so loud, I though she…”

Han tuned out the rest of the conversation, momentarily. He didn’t want to know anything about the girl Jeongin had banged the night before, nor wanted he to hear more about Changbin’s girlfriend he spent the night at. Was he jealous of them? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that their talk of intimacy and relationships and one-night stands reminded him of his own loneliness; and that reminded him of you; he wasn’t certain why, but it did. And that, again, reminded him of your – in his humble opinion, unhealthy – obsession with Mr. Bahng, and his own unhealthy weirdness about it. Or was it healthy? Was it reasonable? He wasn’t at all sure anymore. What he was sure of was that he hated being so weird about it. He wanted to be happy for you… didn’t he? He believed himself that he wanted to be, convinced himself of it. Besides the worry of the consequences you might get yourself into there wasn’t a single factor why Han should be so very against the entire affair – and since he had already expressed his worry, there was nothing more he could do, really. He should start being excited for you, if he thought about. It wasn’t his business to be jealous, now, was it? He didn’t have the right to be.

He looked over at you, watching you watch Jeongin and Changbin, listening to their conversation and pretending to gag occasionally whenever something rather repugnant left their mouths. When your eyes swayed his direction, he converted him to his guitar, continuing to tune it. He feared that if you looked into his eyes for only a second, you would read him, inside and out. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want it, because he didn’t understand the words written on his heart himself, in the first place. You couldn’t be the one to read them first; he needed to untangle their conundrum before he let anyone else near it; it was exhausting, excruciatingly frustrating.

Lino was sitting behind his plexiglass, silently, not adding anything to the conversation besides the occasional hum; though all of you doubted it was regarded to Jeongin’s new girl-toy, but rather towards the black cat that has found a home on his lap by now and was purring in full contentment. None of you really knew anything about his love life; he didn’t always sleep over at the shared apartment you and Han owned with him, though he had never brought anyone over, not in the three years you’d known him. You didn’t even know if he preferred nights with strangers; for all any of you knew, he could be having a serious relationship that none of you knew about. You didn’t know, either, that the man had been eyeing you the moment you and Han had come back from the vending machine. Lino was quiet, but he was attentive; he had noticed that you and Han hadn’t been talking before entering the studio, that you still weren’t. That Han’s eyes only found themselves on you when you weren’t looking at him; otherwise, they would flee somewhere else, suddenly busy with his guitar, or overly interested in his music stand and the apparently wrong height of it. Interesting.

“Quit the nasty talk – I have a new song I wanted to show you.”

Han’s voice cut through the studio almost uncomfortably; his voice was sterner than he had expected it to be, killing the fun in the room in an instant. All of you had a silent agreement that practice would be always taken seriously, though that has never meant that enjoyment wasn’t allowed. All of you had always been able to joke around plenty before locking in to rehearse with full concentration; so the strictness in Han’s voice was out of place, almost, and everyone else caught onto it; Jeongin and Changbin looked at each other questioningly, you cleared your throat and converted your eyes to Han – of course he wasn’t looking, but you pretended it to leave you cold.

“Sorry, just – let’s start with practice, okay? I have a lot planned, kinda.” Voice thinner now by a lot, and you looked at each other; Changbin and Jeongin on the verge of giggles while Han returned to his backpack to get the song sheets he had printed for everyone.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry – we forgot sex is like, a sensitive topic for you… since you’re not having it, you know.” Changbin’s chuckling voice in the studio, and you almost punched him.

“Yeah, right. Our condolences, for real.”, Jeongin jumped in, just the comedic duo you knew them to be.

Under different circumstances, you would have laughed at the two; but you watched Han’s reaction closely, noticed how he halted in his movements at the sound of his friends’ bickering, how his face sunk into further despair. How his eyes flickered over yours for barely a second before he continued handing out the sheets. How he flinched barely noticeably when his hand brushed your own while he gave you your paper.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just start.”

There was a storm brewing within him. A storm when he locked eyes with you, a storm when he touched you; a storm when the two friends made a comment that was all but unusual for them, though for some reason, he was sensitive to it today. If he was honest, Han would have walked right out of the studio; he couldn’t bare the eyes on him, the attention, he couldn’t stand the stuffiness suddenly, he hated Jeongin’s giggles, Changbin’s snickering, Lino’s silence; your presence. He didn’t normally mind any of this – but ever since he had talked with you under the weeping willow his mind has been running marathon after marathon, and he struggled concentrating on anything else. He could barely speak when he started to explain the plans for his new song, the division, the harmonies, details about it. He was stuttering at every other word, losing his thought entirely when he as much as passed you with his eyes; why was he so very incapable of holding his emotions in control? Emotions, feelings he wasn’t even certain of, to make matters worse.

The rest of you eyed him, but you didn’t say a word. You could see that Changbin and Jeongin almost did; they looked at each other with a mischievous flicker in their eyes, with an all-saying grin plastered onto their faces – they weren’t evil, and they were well able to read the room, though both of them were unaware of the rough patch the both of you were going through. Rough patch; what a strange thing. You wouldn’t have ever imagined associating Han with a rough patch. You looked at the two friends again, and your thoughts swept back to them; they would tease the poor boy to death any second if you didn’t save him from his misery.

“Ji…”, you called out, interrupting Han in his all but confident semi-presentation. At the sound of your voice he flinched; though he finally, for the first time since you’d both entered the studio, looked at you, properly. His eyes were deep, dark; you felt as though looking right past him, right into his soul he’d been trying to hide from you for the past week.

“Let’s just play it. I’ll sing.”

Gratefulness in his eyes, and he breathed deeply before he nodded at you. You got ready, snaking your hands around your guitar after prepping your microphone, and you waited for Han to get his own instrument ready. You looked back at him; you shivered at the glint in his eyes. He gave you another nod, and you counted in softly, before the studio filled with the sound of your guitars.

Though, and he was so very embarrassed by it, so deeply ashamed, his fingers suddenly forgot how to play, lost its’ place on his guitar when you started singing. The song was made for your voice, truly; you had never sounded prettier. And Han had never played worse. He could see you looking back at him, though he pretended to not notice it, pretended that his bad playing was somehow part of the song. Pretended to keep his cool; though the sight in his peripheral vision of Changbin’s and Jeongin’s confusion and your eyes on him drove him into a spiral, and the more he tried to gloss over his mistakes, the more he seemed not to bare the power to.

The music stopped, your voice dying out after you heard the insecure sound of Han’s guitar disappearing. Ear-scratching feedback echoed through the room, before that, too, dyed into nothingness, and painful silence filled the room. All of you looked at the guitarist, while he eyed the red burgundy carpet beneath him in all firmness. He was flushed, his cheeks as red as the carpet.

“Uh, sorry. Let’s start again.”

His voice was but a whisper, and all five of you could sense that tension, and Han was trembling under it. He didn’t dare lock gazes with anyone in the studio; it was a death sentence, quite simply. He would cease to exist, merely vanish if he had to see the look in any of his band mates’ eyes. Confusion, amusement, maybe; suspicion or understanding, which would be the worst of them all.

Han heard Changbin huff out in what supposedly should have sounded like amusement, though it didn’t quite; Han jerked internally at it, and the storm that had started brewing prior was now coming down on him in thunder and lighting. They knew… was it possible for them to know something he wasn’t even sure of himself? How could they; it wasn’t possible. He wasn’t confident, even, in his own feelings; how could any of the others know anything about them?

“Damn… didn’t know you were this sensitive to the whole sex thing.” Changbin was tone deaf, and you wished you could punch him. Han was almost relieved; Changbin, at least, did not know anything about the storm within him. Because sex – or the lack thereof – surely wasn’t the reason for it. Yet he almost feared his next words. He suddenly felt humiliated; he wasn’t one to overthink a joke, but today, he couldn’t bare it. “You know…”, the bassist started again after moments of silence as Han nothing but stared holes into the ground. He was about to lose it. He was about to burst into tears, or implode – worst of all, for the first time in many years, he felt like he wasn’t able to search for comfort in you. “I told you already, we can like, set you up with someone if want, no need to be so weird about the whole – “

Changbin didn’t get to finish his sentence. The harsh feedback of Han’s guitar sounded through the room, stinging in your ears as he threw the fabric band over his neck and placed the guitar on his stand, mindlessly, not as much as plugging it off. He was clumsy, tripped over the thick, dusty carpet while scurrying to grab his rucksack, before he disappeared out of the studio so quickly barely any of you noticed, simply leaving the rest of you behind with no explanation.

You looked at the door he had let open for several moments after he left. You had been excited to practice the new song, though he hadn’t given the chance to. You had been ready to play pretend for a little while longer, had prepared to never speak of Mr. Bahng again, not after his reaction under the weeping willow; yet Han seemed to be the first to have grown sick of it. He hadn’t been good at his own game the previous week, and it must have gotten to him now – what you feared, now, was the truth. You still weren’t quite sure what that was, in the first place. But you knew it was enough to tear Han up, to toy with your friendship, to make him behave like an entirely different person, almost. And it made you despise yourself. It made you a different person, too; a worse one, and you hadn’t been a saint to begin with. Would he talk in all honesty to you, now? Would he sleep over today and seek out a conversation with you, like two mature friends would? You hoped he would; and simultaneously, you feared it. The truth about his antics and behaviour, you thought, had doomed on you a week ago already; you simply didn’t want to confess it to yourself, you thought. So, you had avoided it, had continued hurting him instead of hurting yourself.

You had decided to shoot Han a text before you and the others wrapped up the rehearsal – not that you had played anything in the first place, it wasn’t of much use if a member was missing. You weren’t talking, not about Han, nor otherwise. You were deep in thought, zoning out Changbin’s and Jeongin’s conversation, not noticing Lino’s eyes on you. You kept checking your phone; your own words – hey, everything good? let’s talk when i’m home? – staring back at you mockingly, without a reply beneath it. You would talk to him. You would listen to the truth, whatever he was hiding whenever he avoided your eyes – but you feared it, with every fibre of your body.

☆.☆.☆

Your steps the next day were not as light as you had hoped them to be. You were on the way to class, to Mr. Bahng’s – you ought to be excited, you ought to be flying more than walking, yet your feet weighted heavily on the ground beneath you, and you couldn’t help but sink into your own body. The faint feeling of frenzy when you remembered Mr. Bahng’s class after waking this morning was not enough to conceal the misery over the text Han had yet not answered, or the fact he had been asleep – or, had pretended to be – when you’d reached home. You had left the prior day linger on you without redemption, and now it was pressing down on you with all its’ strength; it had gnawed into your brain, words you said and words you didn’t say, Han’s frustration, Changbin’s teasing, Lino’s silence, your silence, Han’s final outburst, his silence. It was all that occupied your mind, your thoughts, your sleepless night. That, and Mr. Bahng. And not in a negative way, either; you had been excited ever since you had set the date for private lessons. Were you that bad of a friend? Or had Mr. Bahng enamoured you so much that you clearly struggled to think straight? It baffled you how you could possibly stay eager, giddy, even – though admittedly, surely not as much as you would have been if the events of the prior day had never occurred – about something your best friend was so adamantly against, that was so very obviously the reason for the current coldness settling between you?

Maybe it was your stubbornness. It has always been one of your greater weaknesses, one of many reasons of miscommunication with your parents, or friends, or Han. Your stubbornness, and your defiance, a mixture of characteristics prone to immaturities. What everyone else hated you loved out of spite, what everyone else advised you against you were more excited over only for the sake of it; it was but a curse, brewing within you and out of your control. As though the crush on Mr. Bahng increased in volume with every objecting word Han spoke, as though your body was physically powerless to rationalize, slave to be left doing the very opposite of the righteous. Was it to piss people off, to mess with them? Or laid the problem deeper, someplace locked within you? A fear, maybe, of rejection and disappointment so you induced it yourself before others could. Fear of judgement, so you acted purposefully irrational to feign carelessness; were you maybe deeper damaged than you cared to admit? Or did you know Han’s secret, after all, and so were adamant to do everything in your power to stop him from ever admitting it?

The more you thought about it the more your head felt as though bursting. It was hurting, and the scorching sun in your eyes wasn’t much help to get rid of the headache, despite the dark sunglasses you were wearing. You couldn’t wait for summer to pass, for it to make room for colder temperatures and a cozier atmosphere. Fall had always been your favourite season, though, as you made your way over the sizzling, black asphalt, it seemed so very far away still. You sighed at the thought of it, hummed, then, when you finally entered the main hall of the music department. An artificial chill welcomed you, granted by stone and concrete, engulfing you in a familiar scent and a silence so sacred you almost grew embarrassed of your own footwear echoing through the building. You took off your shades, placed them on the top of your head to imitate a hair band, creating a wanted mess of your bangs, some falling in frames around your face, some tucked behind by your sunglasses. You passed classrooms, few people who greeted you politely, professors who you were familiar with from previous semesters; before you stood before Mr. Bahng’s classrooms. Professor Hwang’s classroom, to be precise – though you haven’t given latter man a thought in the past weeks altogether. Now that you remembered him again, you hoped he was fine, and on his way to well-being; then again you hoped he’d stay absent for a little while longer, for Mr. Bahng would vanish if he didn’t. Cruel, sick, and you couldn’t decide between being disgusted or confused with yourself. You chose both, before you knocked on the heavy wood of the entrance door, and entered Mr. Bahng’s classroom without waiting for an answer.

The plan had initially been a different one. You were supposed to meet next week, right after a shortened music class. Just before yesterday’s rehearsal you had wondered how you could possibly wait a whole week for private classes with the teacher you so badly wanted to fuck, had wanted to for the past five years; until said teacher had shot you an E-Mail that night, when you had reached home after the unsuccessful practice, proposing to meet the next day if you could make time, due to a busy schedule the entirety of the next two weeks. You had tried to dismiss the fact that the Mail had rolled in a little past midnight, had tried to dismiss the causality of its’ tone. Yet you had grown giddy, and had answered the very moment; you hadn’t cared to play hard to get. Your time with Mr. Bahng was limited, and you would use every second that was granted to you. You had texted that you could squeeze in an hour between your Uni classes and afternoon rehearsals, and Mr. Bahng had answered – momentarily – that he looked forward to tomorrow. He had attached a smiley face at the end of the sentence, and you had been a lost cause.

Now you stood before him, a day later, an hour from rehearsal, an hour away from seeing Han again, from speaking to him, from hopefully finding back normalcy. You stood before Mr. Bahng, clammy hand fisted around the strap of your dark handbag, the other forced to casually hang by the side of your body. Your bejewelled wrist clanked against the chains you had added onto your dark jeans, matching the silver around your neck. Your top – short, little, exposing far too much skin though it didn’t necessarily raise a question in the hot weather – was dark and simple, as though you hadn’t much thought about your outfit altogether, and had thrown together the first thing in your closet. As though you weren’t trying too hard. No one needed to know you had spent over an hour getting ready in the morning, for this moment alone.

“Hi, Yn.”

Every coherent thought you had formed up until this very moment, up until his greeting had been wiped with as little as two words, with the singsong of his voice. You feared to flush, to turn a dark shade of red at the sight of your teacher, feared to sweat profusely – lose, white dress-shirt, black pants. A watch adorning his right wrist, silver, matching the dainty necklace dangling on his chest. His chest, that he wore exposed, only enough, with two buttons of his dress-shirt kept open; what was it about him that made you revert to a hormonal teenage girl, needy for a man’s attention, giddy when he granted it? What was it about Mr. Bahng that made you lose all sense of moral, everything you stood for – what was it about him that made you lose yourself, entirely?

“Hi, Mr. Bahng.”

Your voice was stronger, more secure than you had expected – you feigned confidence while your body ran hot and cold all at once, while your knees dared to give out if you as much as moved an inch. But Mr. Bahng bought it, didn’t sense your nervosity; he gave you a smile, kind, welcoming, while he waited patiently for you to set down your things and take a seat by a table right in front of his own. You felt his eyes on you with every move you made, while you bend down to drop off your bag under the table, while you sat down and ran a hand through your hair. You felt his eyes on you even when you pretended to fix your attire, picking at your top and jeans – was it normal to look that much? Was he staring? You were surely reading too much into it.

And then you saw his eyes on you, when you finally, after having let him wait for a while, reciprocated his gaze; maybe it was normal to look that much, but you could swear to have seen Mr. Bahng’s cheeks redden only a taint when you locked his gaze with your own, from beneath your lashes, dark make-up sure to accentuate your piercing eyes. You weren’t seductive, you’d argue, not yet – though you were teasing. On the brink of seduction, though not quite there yet; letting him quiver, making him wait and wonder if he was the one reading too much into it. Into you.

The teacher cleared his throat, gave you another kind smile. “Alright, should we start?” A nod from you, and Mr. Bahng stepped from behind his desk to lean on it before you. You looked up at him, barely two meters away from him, face levelled with his core, his crotch, and a quiver made its’ presence in the pit of your stomach. Your thighs squeezed a little, and you wondered anew what it was exactly about him that made you lose all control over yourself.

“Tell me about your singing first. When did you start, where did you learn and so on.”, his voice was serious, just the teacher. Kind, but disciplined. “Oh, and… just call me Chris. We’re both adults, and I’m not your official teacher anymore. No need for formalities.” A smile, a grin almost, if you read too much into it, and it was then your entire world seemed to start spinning.

Tell me about your singing first. When did you start. – you could not, for the life of you, remember. Anything. About your singing, about the band, about Han. All memories wiped away in Mr. Bahng’s – in Chris’s – presence. In how casually he treated you. In how easy, you suddenly realized, it would be to wrap him around your finger. He wasn’t the unattainable man from five years ago anymore. He was here and present, having suggested dropping formalities, showing interest in you, spending time with you solely by his own wish, uncoerced. He was far realer now – and the realization hit you like a truck.

It was about twenty minutes later when you and him stood before a music stand, warm-up sheets presented before you. Talking with Chris had been easy, fun. He was a good teacher, a good listener. A good explainer. A good talker. A terrible flirt, though. You couldn’t possibly be any bolder, you thought. The fleeting touches all upon him – never inappropriate, but always surprising, once seemingly coincidentally passing his arm, or purposefully swatting his shoulder in light manner at a stupid joke he told, or standing so near to him it wasn’t all that necessary, but also not enough for him to back away – seemed to make him nervous, but you weren’t sure if he picked up the signs. He was flushing, ears red and glowing, the coughs stuck in his throat never seeming to end. It was adoring, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t yet what you wanted, wasn’t yet close to meeting your goal – though that was given. A married man wouldn’t jump at the first opportunity presented to him, if he bore even the faintest presence of a moral compass. It would take you far longer than a simple one-hour lesson to get the teacher exactly where you wanted him.

“Hm… I’m not feeling it… is this right?”

Chris stood in front of you, inches away, watching your hand hovering on your throat. He had told you to sing and to feel what exactly your vocal cords were doing – you weren’t even much sure what you should be feeling, what your vocal cords really should be doing while you sang the practice melodies on the sheet in front of you. Not that you weren’t listening to your teacher – techniques, as sorry as you felt for Chris, were of secondary importance to you today, though. You bashed your eyes at him, fluttering lashes, brows furrowed as though genuinely confused, fingers caressing your neck – you hoped you looked somewhat seductive instead of making a fool of yourself.

What you didn’t know, what you were blissfully unaware of – Chris was running laps in his mind, was sweating profusely. His dress pants, normally perfectly fitted to his body, had started to feel far too tight over the span of the last forty-five minutes. The lesson was coming to an end – and the teacher was almost thankful for it. You were a good student, adapting anything he explained quite quickly; though you always asked for a second explanation, one that, not seldom, required physicality. A hand on your jaw, or your shoulders to put you in a proper posture, or on your chest, to check your breathing. Touches and brushes of skin against skin not necessarily unusual for vocal lessons – but with you they felt too intimate, too close. But maybe Chris was reading far too much into it. You had been his student once; if not for long, and half a decade ago, and though he only barely remembered you – you had been his student. Should he feel disgust towards himself, at the feeling of his tightening pants rubbing against his core, with every further touch you granted upon his body? He couldn’t really be blamed though, he thought – you had grown into a woman, and he couldn’t as much as recall you as a teenager. He had barely recognized you, when he had spotted you in the universities’ classroom a week ago – he had spotted you and his body had gone up in flames, his limbs running hot at the sight of you; and only then he had noticed you had looked familiar. Only then he had been able to attach your face to the name he first read five years ago. And only then, only after initial attraction, after followed revelation, only after both embarrassment and bashfulness, but also a wave of desire had filled his every fibre he had remembered his wife, his kids; he had felt a horrible husband, are far more horrible father.

And now it wasn’t any different. The thought of his wife, his family, flashed through his mind only shortly, and only after having worried about every other possible thing – about whether it was wrong or not to feel the attraction he felt towards you, about whether the half-boner in his pants was at all appropriate or not, about whether his nervousness was your doing, even, your goal, or if it was his very own hunger for intimacy, his thirst for physicality which blinded him, lead him wrongly. If your flirting wasn’t flirting at all, only your persona, your nature. If he was the problem. Only then he thought about his wife, when Chris’s hand lay on your throat, to check for proper technique, on your warm, sweat-laced throat, bobbing with each gulp you swallowed, with each word your spoke, your piercing eyes through his own, your slow blinking, your slower licking of your lips, your hand then on his own, why he couldn’t quite make out, that he thought about his marriage. When his face was inches from your own, when you had stopped singing already, when your voice, strong and sure and rich, wasn’t echoing in his mind anymore, when it needed only a wrong move for your lips to meet, with his fingers still wrapped around your throat – that’s when he thought about his family. Only when it was almost too late. He thought about his wife, not having seen her in over a week, to get space, to clear both your minds’, and he thought he couldn’t really be blamed for his attraction to you – he hadn’t seen his wife in over a week. You were attractive, you were flirting, profusely so; and he suddenly felt a horrible husband again.

So, he didn’t act on it. He thought about his wife, Chris felt your breath on his skin, on his face, he remembered how he hadn’t been this close to his own wife in ages, how he hadn’t seen her in over a week; and he took a step back. His hand fell to his side, left your throat cold and empty – left you cold and empty. Left you with your hopes up, left you falling against concrete made of bitter rejection. He had been so close to you, so near – you had felt his breath against you, his tightening grip around your throat; and with the blink of an eye, it had been gone. A memory, a thought flashing past him and there was distance between you again; which was given. He was a married man, one carrying a moral compass – it would need you longer than this. More effort than this.

Chris cleared his throat – you lost count how often he had done this throughout the hour of your lesson. The room was hot, the sun scorching the old, dark wood. You could see dust particles dancing in the rays of light as Chris stepped behind his desk again, heaving his bag on top of it. you weren’t sure if you imagined the bulge in his pants, or if it was really there, but either way you grinned at it, internally. It needed several moments before Chris granted you a look, after checking the time on his wrist-watch – the hour was over, though you had hoped he wouldn’t have noticed.

“So… that was good for the beginning. You’re a good singer…”, he packed his bag, scattered stuff all around the desk which he stuffed hurriedly, though feigning calmness. You did the same, though much calmer than him, no need to fake it – you had gotten him nervous, you had gotten his exposed chest to be flush, even now, minutes after he had created physical space between your bodies. “We just need to work on details, stylistic choices, techniques. It’s obvious you’re self-taught, we’re gonna work on that-“, his bag was packed, and you stood with your own thrown over your shoulder, in front of him, calm as can be, satisfied, smirking. He looked at you, questioningly, “…same time next week?”

When you had stepped outside the classroom, bidding Chris goodbye and watching him set off to the exit, granting you one look back, bashful when he’d noticed your staring and shy over his own antics, you checked your phone – Han had answered your text from last night. Finally. An hour ago, when your classes with Chris had begun, asking if you’d be up to grab a drink. He couldn’t know of your classes with Chris – he had been asleep, or, at least in his darkened bedroom – when you had come home, and he had been out the door before you’d been awake that morning; you had never gotten the chance to tell him, though you wouldn’t have done so anyways, under different circumstances. You would have kept quiet about Chris, because Han’s sensitivity towards the matter still got to your head; though now, looking at his text, at the followed question mark fifteen minutes after the first message, you didn’t want to lie to him. You didn’t want to lie, and you didn’t want to hurt him, or upset him, or do whatever he thought you were doing any time Chris was the object of your conversation; you didn’t want any of it, didn’t want him strange and quiet and unknown to you, almost. Didn’t want him different. So you went with a half-truth as you made your way to the studio, shooting back a text that you were busy with lessons – it wouldn’t work on him. Han knew your schedule, and you knew his. The half-lie was only uttered to save time, to not leave him waiting on an answer any longer, to not shoot yourself into a position deserving of his condemnation once again, in a matter of seconds. The distance between you was enough as it was; the lack of shared dinner last night was nagging on you, the absence of a sweet Coke on your tastebuds suddenly strange. It wasn’t like you, the silence, the distance. And not even the high from ten minutes ago was vibrant enough to lull out the worry.

☆.☆.☆

Han sat on the shabby, sheeling sofa in the stuffy studio, staring at his phone, staring at your message. He wasn’t sure if you thought him dumb, or if your respect for him was finally reduced to null.

16:44     sorry, was busy with lessons. let’s grab a drink after practice ^^

Han wasn’t stupid. He was aware your schedule was supposed to be free now – he was aware your lessons had been probably private, and probably in presence of Mr. Bahng. He hated the guy. He hated you for liking him, for having this teenage crush on him that didn’t seem to leave you alone. And he wasn’t sure why. Han wasn’t sure about the reason his body seemed to set aflame whenever Mr. Bahng’s name occupied your mouth, the sound of it so repulsive it shivered within the boy, despite the flames set inside him. He wasn’t sure just why now, in the silence of the room, in its’ loneliness, only instruments and the faint, static sound of electrics granting him company, he couldn’t be at ease with the thought of you spending time alone with a teacher he despised – for seemingly no good reason. Why now, as he watched dust particles dance in the heat of the room, illuminated by the sun only for seconds before they grew invisible to human eye, only shortly shining in golden rays before they vanished, why his heart bled, had started bleeding when you had first told him of Mr. Bahng. Why since then, it hadn’t stopped bleeding. Why since then, whenever he looked at you, whenever his eyes met yours, or only your face, your figure, he saw someone else now; still you, but changed. Not the girl he grew up with, not the girl he taught the guitar, the girl he had spent endless nights laughing with, about nothing, careful to not wake parents. Suddenly, he wasn’t seeing that girl anymore, not a girl – he was seeing a woman. A woman who desired a man he didn’t like; was it brotherly protection? Was that the reason his heart was beating faster whenever you entered the room, any room, whenever you laid your eyes on him, soft, known, familiar? He never felt like a brother to you, though; closer than a best friend, though never a brother, not quite. Something in between, something linguists haven’t found a name for, yet. Something linguists couldn’t name, maybe, because it only existed between the two of you. Or something only he believed existed, and you were entirely unaware about.

Maybe his heart bled not because you desired a man altogether, but because you desired him. Mr. Bahng, who he simply couldn’t stand. Must there be a reason for his hatred, he thought? No one can like everyone – his ill feelings towards the teacher could be entirely unsolicited, random at their core. It wouldn’t make it more right, but it was possible. Han wasn’t obligated to like him, nor did he need a reason – though it only felt like an excuse, nowhere near the answer he was looking for.

The answer he was looking for – what, exactly, was he looking for? He stood from the sofa, turning off his phone and throwing it onto the cushions where it bounced two, three times before coming to a halt, denting into the old, brown leather. The others would arrive soon – he made his way over to his guitar, busying himself with tuning it, warming up. He would use the time he had working, instead of thinking – he had enough of the insides of his head, the very depths of his brain. Seemingly, it was useless to think, altogether; it’s not like he was aware of the purpose behind all the thinking, anyways. He knew only three things, and none of them were of much help: he hated the teacher you so much adored; he didn’t know where this hatred came from, didn’t know why his heart yearned, suddenly, for something he couldn’t name; and that he saw you in a different light, though you had never changed. He saw you as someone who desired, who loved. Who wasn’t only a best friend to him, the singer of his band, his entire childhood. He was aware, now, that both you and him had changed. That you could, but did not, did never, desire him, desire Han; someone between a best friend and a brother, someone unnameable, something previously unknown to Han.

The door to the studio opened, and you tore Han from his spiralling thoughts. Thankfully so, or not, he wasn’t sure. But you stood in the little college studio now, skin glistening from the sweat the summer sun had drowned you in, eyes careful, searching. For him, for a sign in him – what sign neither of you quite knew, but you doubted you found it, now as you looked at your friend. Your friend you barely recognized – when had he turned so different? When had he turned away from you? Was it when you had first mentioned Chris? If so, it was stupid – it didn’t make sense.

Han’s eyes weren’t flickering in excitement as you stepped closer to him, his mouth was silent, no words gushing out to tell you of mundanity which always meant the world if it was the two of you. He stood and looked at you, for a moment too long, only looking, before he went back to his guitar. His teeth fiddled with the ring around his lip, the silver chains around his neck sounding against each other as ever, his grown-out roots dark in contrast to his bleached, dry hair. He looked as always; yet he didn’t look the same.

It was you who needed to break the silence – you were scared that otherwise, if no one uttered a word, it would stay silent forever. That silence would swallow you forever. And you weren’t sure why. You didn’t know why this moment felt so fatal, so deadly if you as much as breathed the wrong way. That if you did, everything around you would crumble – you didn’t know why, within the four walls of the small studio, time seemed to be frozen, waiting for either the right or the wrong, before everything would shatter, or go back to normal.

“Hi.”

Your voice was hopeful, almost. Desperate, one might say. Desperate for normality, for Han to look at you, to return to himself. He halted in his movements of tuning his guitar at the sound of your voice. He did look at you, granted you a smile, not quite awkward, but something close to it. A smile you would greet a good friend with, or a class acquaintance you met outside of class for the first time – not a friend of decades. And all desperateness was gone, all hope. Every bad feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach vanished to give room for sudden anger. You looked at him, ever tuning his guitar, the sun only inches away from blinding him but instead choosing to illuminate his hands, to find home there, to make the red on his instrument shimmer, and he looked so peaceful in his uneasiness. Who was he to feel peaceful? While you were worrying about him, choosing the right words say and the right actions to do – lost for, of course, the wish to sleep with Mr. Bahng –, actually trying? Who was he to smile at you, almost awkwardly, without a word before going back to his fucking guitar? Anger in every fibre of your body, behind your lids, flames in the tips of your fingers.

“Why are you being weird.”

 The question wasn’t asked as a question at all, said like a statement instead. With a voice so stern it made Han face you momentarily. You hated your temper, you hated your stubbornness. You hated him. You hated yourself. He blinked, once, twice. He played a couple chords on his guitar, as though he hadn’t heard you at all – you hated his fucking guitar.

“I’m not being weird.” The tone in his voice undetectable, unsure what it meant.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m no-“

“You are. Why aren’t you talking to me.”

Han looked at you again. You haven’t moved from your spot beside the door ever since you walked in, bag still thrown over your shoulder, your chest heaving in heavy breaths. Han trembled under your gaze. He trembled, and every thought he had been gnawing on before you had entered was suddenly forgotten about. He only saw you, your questioning eyes, awaiting eyes, as though desperate, clinging onto something he wasn’t aware of. He saw you, your frustration – and if it hadn’t been directed at him, this frustration, this anger, he would have found you beautiful. The revelation came like a tidal wave and almost drowned him entirely. You stood before him, and he felt as though unable to breath, looking at you. Actually, truly looking at you – he wasn’t sure if he ever has before. He had never believed you to be beautiful – he had never believed you to be ugly, but he had never paid enough attention to your exterior to have believed you to be either. The thought scared him, intimated him; you intimidated him, the way you were standing there, looking at him, expectantly, having taken only one step towards him. And he was quick to free himself from the waters that were you – was quick to join your anger, because it seemed to be the only thing holding the both of you afloat.

“You’re the one who was too busy fucking your teacher to answer my text, so…”

You knew he regretted his words the moment he uttered them. You weren’t sure why you knew, but you did – be it the years of friendship, be it intuition, be it whatever you wanted to call it. You looked at him, his eyes feigning steadiness yet laced with regret, and you fumed. Though not at him; at yourself. Because he was right, because you couldn’t blame him, not really.

You sighed, making your way to the guitar stand. You dropped your bag off along the way, it joined Han’s phone on the dirty sofa. The instrument felt heavy in your hands; heavier, for some reason, than you remembered, even after years of playing. Strange. Maybe it was your spirit that was weighing it down, the lack of motivation you usually only seldom felt before rehearsals.

“Don’t start with that again. Please.”

You threw the leather strap of your guitar over your shoulder, plugged in the aux, started tuning. Without a gaze to Han, but you heard the lack of notes from his own guitar. Maybe he was looking at you, maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was about to apologize. You didn’t really care; and yet you couldn’t possibly care more.

“Why?” His voice provoking, almost, and you weren’t in the mood to fight – but you would, if he wanted to. If his version of not being weird meant offence, you wouldn’t back away.

“How was it? Did you get Mr. Bahng…”, he spat the name, “…to cheat yet? Or is that still-“

“Shut up.” Your voice interrupted his, and it hadn’t needed much volume to. Despite his words, almost hateful, too hateful, unknown coming from him, there wasn’t much weight beneath them, no support. He didn’t mean what he was saying. Not a word of it. As though his mouth wasn’t part of him, saying the exact opposite of what he meant, only to bask in regret right after. He wasn’t able to control it, his mouth. He didn’t want to hurt you, not with a single word he uttered, but he did. Because maybe it was, after all, the only way to stop the tidal wave flooding him whole. Maybe it was the only way to forget that suddenly, he believed you to be beautiful. Why were you beautiful, so out of the blue? Had you always been?

“I don’t wanna talk about this. I fucking hate talking about Chris, it always leads to a fight.”

It was the use of Mr. Bahng’s first name which set Han off, which made his head cock in subtle disbelief. You called him by his first name – what had happened during your private lesson? And why did he care so much? You were grown, you could do whatever you desired to do – why was it bothering him so very much?

“Ohh, so it’s Chris already, huh.” Chris. The name tasted even sourer than the man’s surname. Han saw you roll your eyes at him, his words – he understood why. The comment was bitter, petty. It didn’t carry any meaning, anything. He would have rolled his eyes as well. He did, internally, at himself. But he couldn’t stop the pettiness. The fabric around his neck pulled on his skin, marring it red, and he saw that little strands of your hair tangled in your own leather band, the one around your neck. It was red, too, your skin, as you were tuning your instrument. It was pretty, your neck. The little hairs were, your eyes, though angry still, were too. You were pretty. Notes and unfinished melodies sounded against hurtful words, words not meant. Words not real.

“God, I’m fucking tired of you. What the fuck is this? You bash out yesterday fucking leaving me to worry about you, and you bash out now out of fucking nowhere? I haven’t even fucking mentioned Chris before you brought him up, because, guess what! I fucking notice how you become a fucking pussy every time I mention him, as if you’re fucking jealous.” Your voice loud, too loud. Your words real though now, so real you’re scared of them yourself.

“You’re not my fucking dad.”

A beat, a silence in which Han looked at you, disbelief crossing his features, shock, maybe. You had never screamed at him like this. Meaning everything you said. And being right, with every word, every letter spilling past your mouth in spit and wetness. Why did he think you to be beautiful, even now?

“Or my fucking boyfriend.”

Before Han could further dwell on those words, trying to make sense of the feeling they left within him, Changbin burst open the door, making his entrance known loud and clear. The other’s followed right behind him, Lino closing behind him with a heavy click. You and Han stayed silent, while the others greeted you, not yet picking up on the coldness icing the room, the storm brewing in the space between you and Han. Only Lino was curious, careful. He watched you both as he made his way behind his drum set, discarding his bag next to him – it was covered in small bits of cat fur. He watched you intently as both of you continued playing chords to warm up, not speaking a word – not even looking the same direction.

The small studio erupted in sounds of various instruments. The room smelled of heavy smoke, of leather, of sun. It was stuffy and sweaty bodies only made it stuffier, meaningless conversations made it smaller, tighter. Changbin and Jeongin, talking about classes they missed, notes they needed to borrow for an upcoming exam. Chatting with Lino, who was still more concerned about the pair of you, not about whatever Changbin was nagging him about – and then the bassists’ eyes found you and Han. You could see the wheels in his head rear and turn, work their way to a coherent thought, to make sense of the silence he wasn’t used to. He squinted his eyes, furrowed his brows, lay a finger upon his chin – a caricature of a man thinking.

“Yo, what’s up with you two lovebirds. You hadn’t said a word since we came here.”

Both of you shot him a look, both glistening with impatience, with frustration and regret and worry. Both of your gazes made the bassist take a step back. Rehearsals had never felt so dreadful, and the hour has barely even started.

“We’re fine.”

We. Even in times of distance, when you couldn’t seem to stand each other, it was you against the others. A united front, against all odds – against, even, yourselves. The thought made you melancholic.

Changbin glanced over at Lino, who wasn’t paying any attention to him – his gaze was fixated on you, questioning, brows furrowed. Though not in innocent curiosity, like Changbin; the older man was worried. After the few years he grew to know yours and Han’s friendship, neither of you had ever acted like this, not towards each other, especially. There would always be giggling and laughter, bickering conversation and banter in your corner of the studio. Always exchanging looks, always aware of something none other picked up. A secret language, a secret code. You barely fought, and if you did it never carried weight, and was forgotten within the hour. Lino lived with the two of you sometimes, too – the two of you were a synergy. He was never able to explain the relationship you seemed to carry; it has always felt deeper than the one you would describe best friends to have, though you always denied of being together, of being in love. Lino wasn’t so sure about that. He wasn’t so sure love and feelings had never been object in any of your hearts – but he wasn’t one to push, or to dip his toes into business not meant for him.

But the two of you were different now, that everyone noticed. Why, no one knew – but Jeongin, being him, applied the same theory to everything he crossed. “They probably fucked.”

Two sets of eyes met him, angry, fuming. Though wordless. You and Han looked at the youngest, unsure if to throw him out of the band or kill him altogether. He looked at you both, questioning, as though analysing. “And it was probably bad, so now they’re awkward.”

It was said with a chuckle; he wasn’t at all serious, teasing, as always. Though neither of you caught the tone – both of you took the words as personal offence, not less after your previous fight hadn’t yet cooled off your nerves. Both of you agitated, both of you ready to jump at the next thing which flashed before your eyes, which made a wrong move – and both of you not looking at the other, because that would be the worst of all. You denied Jeongin’s accusations in a choir, a simultaneous ‘No, we didn’t’ sounding through the room – against your words instruments, tapping of feet, the sun, suddenly, loud too. Too loud. Everything was making noise, and it was too loud. You even heard the damn dust particles dancing before you, tickling in your nose.

“Well, then maybe you should. Wouldn’t be so worked up all the time.”

It had only been a murmur. Jeongin might have not even meant the words, just said them to say them. To wash over the uncomfortable atmosphere you and Han had created. But Han heard every of his word, and with each further one his blood dared to boil. The temperature almost hot enough to make it run out and over, and his face reddened as he tried his best to shut his mouth, to stay silent against the speech which wanted to spill. He looked at you as you pretended to not have heard Jeongin, adjusting your microphone stand, getting comfortable behind it; not looking his direction. Pretending like he didn’t exist. And he couldn’t even blame you – he had been an asshole today. And, as it seemed, he would continue being one – because before he could restrain from it, words were bashing past his lips and into the hot, stuffy room, tight and small and clammy with hate and regret and judgement already, and he made matters worse. He filled the room further though there was no room, filled it with more dust and anger, ignited it to burn.

“Well, that’s gonna be hard for me to arrange. Yn likes to fuck older men who happen to be her professor.”

The room, having erupted in a variation of sounds before, fell silent now – entirely silent. You don’t think you’ve ever heard this studio so very quiet; but then again, within you, within your head, thoughts were screaming and roaring so you took into account only little of said silence. You looked at Han, and it was the only thing you noticed. Him, his eyes of regret. He didn’t mean it, you knew. Though it didn’t make it better. It didn’t mend the fact he had broken your trust; you were aware he wasn’t in peace with your crush on Chris, but you would have never believed him to blurt it out to the others. It had been a secret, never told as one and yet known to be a secret. No matter how angry he was, no matter if he meant it or not, the sight of him now, already begging for forgiveness, silently, only with his eyes, repulsed you. You didn’t know him. You didn’t know the man that stood before you. It surely wasn’t Han, not the best friend you knew and held so dearly.

Only out of your peripheral did you see the others faces – shock lacing it, and a fear of moving, of speaking. Everyone stayed silent; no one said a word. Changbin and Jeongin exchanged gazes, Lino’s was ever fixated on you and Han; trying to understand, trying to make sense of a situation so absurd it didn’t feel quite real.

And then the situation dissolved itself. As though unreal, after all. After moments of stagnation in which you held Han’s eyes with your own, hurt, laced with disbelief and drowned in betrayal, you took a step back, and when you looked away Han felt everything he was crumble. You got rid of the guitar around your neck, placed it onto the standee, fled to grab your bag.

“I’m not in the mood for practice today.”

Your voice quiet, but a whisper, though everyone heard you in the silence of the room.

Han, in his confusion, in his frustration, in his chaos of thoughts, knew only two things: he had hurt you deeply. So deep, he wasn’t sure he could repair it. Your friendship had survived worse, deeper bruises – but this one he had claffed open again and again, not having let it rest. And he wasn’t sure either of you were capable of mending the wound, deep and bloody and tearing you apart.

He only knew he hurt you; and he knew, now, that you were beautiful. Still, after storming out the studio, having left open the door – a stray cat found its’ way inside, and Lino pet it absentmindedly. The revelation yet felt surreal; you were beautiful, enticing, and he had written a song for you – a song he feared to never hear now. Because he had hurt you.

taglist: @es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @yvniek4ng @ppiri-bahng @bintificreads @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @minniesvenus @junebug032 @noellllslut @wolfennracha @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife @binniesbang @astraystayyh @chrizzztopherbang @qtieskz @rylea08 @miss-fallon @sikebishes @h0n3yj4y @lashaemorow

[necropathys]

question…… if apple poly were to go on a little date…. would they dress up for it? (and perhaps how) :3c

It really depends on who’s planning the date—and, of course, the occasion.

That said, Swad always has to be so over-the-top. He can’t help himself. His garish design choices might partly stem from his bad eyesight, though that’s difficult to articulate properly. Regardless, he’s a walking fashion disaster who’s also completely obsessed with appearances. Swad would absolutely insist that everyone wear clothing of his choosing, wanting to show them off in the most extravagant way possible.

Most of the time, the others would refuse. Maybe once in a blue moon, they’d indulge him—if only to humor him or for a special occasion.

I also think, hmm, Swad’s insistence on extravagance isn’t just about fashion—it’s his way of projecting his divinity and importance. He genuinely believes that his partners deserve to be adorned and celebrated as reflections of himself. It’s not just about claiming them; it’s about creating a spectacle to match his vision of who they all are together. A reflection of his personhood. Something something narcissism.

Dream, on the other hand, would try his best to dress up and look smart, but… well, he grew up as a forest boy in the middle ages, so his sense of style is questionable at best. He puts in genuine effort, but his outfits tend to clash horribly, with some truly bizarre usage of certain elements. He’s a bit of a fashion disaster in his own way, though he can (barely) get away with it thanks to his positivity aura making people overlook the chaos.

Shattered and Swad, however, don’t let him off that easily. They’d try to guide him with recommendations or straight-up tell him that whatever he's doing is not the look. They're very blunt and enjoy teasing him.

I think Shattered would dress quite smartly—maybe even wearing a dress shirt and slacks. He's already dressed pretty well. I think his ability to pull off this understated elegance feels like a stark contrast to Dream’s chaotic charm and Swad’s excessive flamboyance.

But also, how is this guy the most fashion-forward out of the lot? Is it because he's bound to a black color palette? Are all Dreams destined to have bad fashion sense? (Yes.)

Also, I think they would probably wear outfits with matching elements because they're dorks—and terribly enamored.

But also really okay consider, to them, matching outfits are more than just a fashion choice—they’re a statement. They represent a bond that transcends their individual quirks and differences. For Swad, it’s a way to claim his partners proudly. For Shattered, it’s a quiet reminder that he belongs to something greater than himself. And for Dream, it’s a small but significant way to feel connected to the people he loves most.

[emargoo]

Missed Connections ~ Snowbaz

Pairing: Simon Snow/Baz Pitch

Warnings: | Mentions of alchohol | Baz being a bitch |

Author's Note: Modern-ish AU, Watford School/magic non-existent, This was just a quick thing so nothing special. Enjoy :)

"Fuck," Simon swore angrily. He stood dejectedly at the train platform, clutching his ragged briefcase and watching as his only hope to reach Lancashire in good time slipped away. Steam and smoke blew in his face almost like an insult as the train rushed away from him, chugging down the tracks blissfully unaware that the locomotive's departure had just ruined his day.

He hadn't meant to be late, of course. But he'd reached the station early--due to Penny's nagging--and thought he would have plenty of time to wander the large building. Simon had stumbled across a vendor selling cherry scones, so of course he had to try one. And then try everything else the bakery sold. When it was time to find his platform, he needed to use the loo, which regretably took longer than he had planned. And as Simon was not one particularly blessed with directional capabilities, he had immense trouble when looking for his connection.

Not only had he boarded the wrong train entirely, SImon had needed to jump out of the moving train upon realising he had screwed up. Which leads him here, cursing and disheveled as he watches what would have most certainly been a comfortable ride to his home town chug away.

Simon sighed audibly, running a hand through his messy hair, making it all stand up. He plopped down on the bench behind him, letting his case fall heavily onto the tiled floor. He would need to find out when the next train to Lancashire left, which could very well be the next day. Simon turned his head slightly and almost jumped out of his seat when he caught a glimpse of a man sitting at the other end of the bench.

He was draped languidly across the metal, one long trousered leg sprawled out to his left, the other resting against the bench. He was dressed smartly, brown dress pants and a multicoloured sweater vest unbuttoned over a half-open collared shirt. His outfit felt almost scandalous. The man sported dark black sunglasses over his eyes and an almost ridiculous pink checkered scarf was tied around his head, casting his pale skin in shadow. If Simon had to wager a guess, he would say the man was some sort of exotic dancer or outlandish model.

He certainly had the face of one, thought Simon. Inwardly praising the man's high cheekbones and greecian nose. He was lengthy and elegant, and somehow managed to pull off his odd wardrobe choices. Simon's eyes traveled to the man's shoes, and had to stiffle a laugh. The man wore green spats over chunky black boots, a style that had long gone out of fashion. Not that Simon was particularly well-versed in the fashion world. But in his entire 20 years, he had never seen a man--or anyone, as a matter of fact--with spats.

"It's rude to stare, you know."

Simon's head snapped up. The man's dark eyes glared at him over his sunglasses, his eyebrows arched.

"Sorry." Simon shook his hair out of his eyes. He had forgotten himself after such a frustrating day. "It's been a weird day." His cheeks flushed in embarassment. God, he must sound so stupid to this elegant stranger. He extended a rough callused hand, "Er, the name's Simon. Simon Snow."

The man meerly continued to peer at him, his eyes travelling to Simon's outsretched hand. Simon repressed a shiver, feeling almost judged by this odd man.

"I'm Baz." Said the man shortly, briefly shaking Simon's hand. His hand was soft, but blisteringly cold.

Simon looked awkwardly down at the black-and-white tiled floor, feeling insanely uncomfortable. He had never been one for friendly conversations. Or making friends, for that matter. Most of the time people just befriended him, like Penny.

"I just, uhm, missed my train," said Simon, nodding stupidly. "The one that just left."

Baz didn't look at him. "I saw," he said. After a long silence, in which Simon moved restlessly, tapping his feet and playing with the buttons on his coat, Baz gestured towards Simon's jacket. "That coat, it's Ralph Lauren."

"Huh?" Simon looked down at his coat, not knowing what the man was talking about.

Baz sighed, "It's a brand. You have good taste."

Did he just roll his eyes at me? Simon wondered. "Uhm, I guess. It's my dad's."

"And your dad doesn't mind you borrowing it?" Baz eyed him skeptically, "That design is worth over 600 dollars."

"My dad's dead."

Baz's face softened slightly. His sunglasses drooped on the bridge of his nose, and Simon caught a glimpse of his gray-ish eyes, staring at him. "Oh," he said. "Sorry."

"It's alright, never knew 'em." Simon's voice felt gruff and forced.

"My dad couldn't give a shit about me." Said Baz suddenly. "I know its not the same but-" He stopped himself shaking his head. "Fuck, why am I telling this to a random? Sorry."

"All good, mate." Said Simon, scratching his neck. Truthfully, he did not know what to say to this man. All he needed right now was a train schedule and preferably another cherry scone.

"Would you know when the next train leaves?" Simon asked, looking over at Baz.

Baz stared at him blankly, "To where..?"

Simon cursed inwardly. "Lancashire."

"One moment." Baz pulled a dark purple leather bag from the floor and rumaging around in it. He pulled out a small silver flask, setting it tenderly next to him on the metal bench. Then he took out a crumpled paper, a train schedule, it seemed. "The next one leaves at 8:30 AM, tomorrow."

Simon slumped in his seat, rubbing him forehead lightly. "Fuck me."

Baz held out the silver flask to him, "You know, you shouldn't say that to a stranger. They might take you up on it."

Simon's neck grew hot, taking the open flask from Baz. He sniffed the contents of the vile slightly. It smelled strong. He felt Baz's gaze on him and lifted the flask to his lips, feeling the sharp liquid enter his mouth.

"Your ears are red." Said Baz cooly.

Simon choked on his drink. He handed the flask back to Baz quickly, his nose burning. Baz made a sound that sounded almost like a laugh.

"Jesus. I could have died." Simon said, wipping the drink from his chin.

"Don't be dramatic." Said Baz, "You're ballzy though, taking a drink from someone you just met."

Simon considered this, "Didn't even think of that, to be honest."

"Checks out." Baz regarded him over his hooked nose.

It was Simon's turn to roll his eyes, "At least I don't dress like a swinger."

Baz made a noise that sounded like a mix between a cough and a choke. Simon realised that must be his version of a laugh. "Do you even know what that means, Snow?"

"Well, no." Admitted Simon, "But I feel like you would be one."

Baz shook his head, eyeing Simon's ragged briefcase, his ripped pants, and messy hair. "Okay then. I'll take it as a compliment from you."

Simon felt his neck grow hot, "Go ahead." He looked up at the tall arched ceiling. Anywhere but at the confusing man he was sitting next to.

He heard the train before he saw it. And as if from a distance, he watched it push forward to make a stop at his platform. Baz stood up, clutching his leather bag in one hand. He walked towards the train and then stopped, turning towards Simon.

"I hope we meet again, maybe I can fix that floppy hair of yours."

Simon gaped at him, "Oh yeah, c'ya."

And then he was gone.

[lifeontoast]

A Christmas Carol

9th Doctor x reader

SUMMARY: For day 1 of Advent, here’s something for my Whovians… hope you enjoy. 9 and the reader travel back in time for a very Dickensian Christmas…

Trigger warnings: none, I don’t think.

…

That oh-so-familiar thworp of the TARDIS told you that you had arrived. Christmas 1843. The Doctor had chosen it after your previous adventure in the year 5487 - you wouldn’t be going back there in a hurry. He wanted something a bit… calmer for once. Not that he didn't love adventure, of course.

‘Okay, Y/N. It’s the 20th December 1843. Now tell me, what is special about this day?’ he quizzed you.

‘It’s… the day after A Christmas Carol was published!’ you loved that book a lot, and you knew that the Doctor did too. Where he was planning to take you, you couldn’t guess, but you were glad he’d chosen this date for your next little adventure.

‘And change out of those clothes please, you’ll show me up.’ he added with a sarky look in your direction. You rolled your eyes, but made your way to the huge wardrobe in the TARDIS to oblige. He held back a laugh as you left, and hearing this, you couldn’t help but smile. You never knew what you might find in there, it truly was an amalgamation of every type of clothing you could possibly imagine… mini-dresses, togas, suits and ties, and that one really weird fashion trend from the 7140s where everyone wore Scooby Doo onesies. However, you looked past all this to unearth exactly what you needed to find. You see, that was the thing about the TARDIS. She always knew just what you needed. You changed out of the clothes that had offended the Doctor so, and into these new ones. Looking in the mirror, you were pleasantly surprised. Never before had you thought it possible to look so good whilst wearing Victorian clothes. Still, everyday is a school day.

Making your way back to the main console, you found the Doctor wearing exactly the same outfit, except he had changed his jumper. You rolled your eyes, this was so typical of him! Oh well. It was always fun to play dress up with the Doctor, even if he always declined to participate. You’d get him out of that leather jacket one day if it killed you.

You’d brought yourself a scarf from the wardrobe, but decided that he was clearly more in need of it than you were. You walked up to him and carefully put the soft wool around his neck. He feigned annoyance but you could tell he was pleased that you’d been thinking about him again, something he was convinced you did far too much of. He gave you a genuine smile, which you reciprocated gladly.

On the cobbled streets of Victorian London, the snow was falling. Already there was a carpet of white on the stones, and it glowed under the light of the street lamps which lit your way. The sky was steel grey, polluted with the industrial smog of hellish factories lining the roads not far from here. Trying desperately to ignore the lingering, acrid smell of the blacksmiths next to where you had landed, you and the Doctor stepped out smartly, marvelling at every person who walked past. How little they knew of the future, that those factories that were the very lifeblood of the city would soon be nothing but a whisper sometimes talked about in history lessons.

You were confused about your destination, but the Doctor seemed to know where he was going. There was little decoration around the streets or in shop windows, but you remembered that people only started celebrating Christmas again because of A Christmas Carol, and that had only been published the day before. One shop stood out to you though; you saw it on the corner just ahead. It was decked out, even by modern standards. Golden and scarlet ribbons hung on every surface, and there was even a tree outside. Candles lit up the windows, revealing the large number of customers inside. The Doctor gave you a knowing look, and then you realised. That was your destination.

Inside the shop, there were what felt like thousands of people milling about everywhere, books in hand. Even though the shop was actually quite large, there was hardly room to breathe. However, no history lesson could have prepared you for what, or rather who, you were about to see. Coming into the main area of the shop, you saw Charles Dickens, sat at a table, talking to a lady in the most fabulous hat you’d ever seen. You felt your jaw drop in shock, whilst the Doctor just looked at you, laughing to himself. You turned to him and smiled. He was so clever, and he very well knew it.

He made his way to the front of the queue, much to the chagrin of everyone else, and proudly introduced you to Dickens. Apparently, Dickens and the Doctor were “very dear friends”! Well, trust him to hide a secret like that from you. A book had somehow found its way into your hands, and you gave it to Dickens to sign. He wrote this message inside it:

Dear Y/N,

Any friend of the Doctor is a friend of mine! I do hope you enjoy my little book.

Charles Dickens, Christmas 1843

You couldn’t believe it. A first edition of A Christmas Carol, signed by Charles Dickens? Now that was something you’d treasure forever.

Outside the bookshop, it has just started to snow. As the delicate flakes flew down from the sky, the Doctor offered you his arm, and you slowly wound your way down the cobbled street, amazed at all that was happening around you. You had a tremendous sense of foreboding, feeling satisfied that these people would very soon be rediscovering the joy of Christmas, and you were so glad to be able to share it with the Doctor.

This would be an adventure you wouldn’t forget any time soon.

…

Hope you enjoyed :)

[specialagentlokitty]

Sherlock x reader - not just myths

Ahh! Just saw the post, please could you do a sherlock crew x vampire fic?!?!!? The reader shows them their powers and fangs etc!!! - @casserole-from-dads-asserole 💜

You looked at the little flat, hand on your hip as you scanned around the dingy place.

“It’s the only flat I have available.”

You turned to the elderly woman and smiled at her softly.

“I’ll take it, I can turn it around no issue. Thank you so much for helping me.”

You got into moving your few belongings into the flat and you went straight out to get everything you needed before the stores closed.

It was how you then met John and Sherlock, they had come in rather late while you were getting ready to go meet a few friends after hours of decorating.

Then you found yourself joining them on cases and such, and you met Lestrade, Mycroft and Molly.

Sitting in Sherlock and John’s flat, you smirked as you looked at Sherlock who was intensely staring at you.

“I know I’ve seen you before.”

“We’ve been friends for nearly a year Sherlock of course you’ve seen me before.”

He rolled his eyes and sat back down in his chair.

“No. Before then. But where…” he mumbled.

He narrowed his eyes at you and watched as you stood up to go help John bring some stuff into the flat and walked back over.

“He’s still on that?” John asked.

“He’s been on it for months now, he still won’t drop it.” You laughed.

Sherlock just walked away and you rolled your eyes.

Feeling your phone vibrate, you pulled it from your pocket and read the rest and smiled to yourself as you stuffed it back into your pocket.

“See you later John! Sherlocks smoking in the bathroom by the way.”

You jogged down to your flat, heading straight to your wardrobe, you looked for an outfit you wanted to wear.

It took a while of searching, but you settle for ripped jeans, a sleeveless tank and a leather jacket and some white shoes and made your way back towards the door.

“Got a case, coming?” John asked.

“Nah, I’ve got plans.”

Sherlock looked at you.

“They’re going to a party.”

“Yup, so I’ll catch you two around.”

With that you ran ahead of them and jogged down the street to where a couple of your friends were waiting and you walked to the party with them.

It was an abandoned building near the water, and sunset beamed through the broken windows and you smirked as you leant against the wall, sipping from the glass in your hands.

“So, what’s the occasion Lucien?”

The smartly dressed man next to you flicked his gaze to you and smirked, shrugging his shoulders a little.

“Can’t a man host a party for no reason?”

“Not if it’s you Lucien, remember you don’t own run this place.”

He set his glass down and raised his hands a little.

“Eclipse, total one. You remember the last one?” He asked.

You thought back to the last total lunar eclipse and you laughed as you remembered what had balls es and nodded your head.

“That was a good day. Can’t believe I nearly missed this one, but no funny business got it?”

“You’re no fun now you hang out with them.” He huffed.

“They’ll easily track it down to you, trust me. Especially Sherlock Holmes, he may not be one of us but he’s just as smart.”

Lucien hummed and nodded his head, following you to the far end of the building where you downed the rest of the drink in your glass.

Tossing it behind you, it shattered on the floor and you jumped up, swinging yourself to the next floor up, you walked to the middle and sat on the railing.

“So why them?” Lucien asked.

“It’s a quiet place, I just wanted to live stress free. Why do you think I left you in charge of everyone moron?”

“Because I’m your trusted second hand?” He chuckled.

“Eh, and that.”

The party was the best thing you had been to in a long while, you loved hanging out with Sherlock and everyone, but these people were your kind.

Vampires.

Just like you.

You didn’t have to hide who you were here.

The whole night was spent drinking, dancing, talking and eventually getting involved in more and more risky dares.

It was amazing until your other friends showed up outside the building, but no one seemed to notice or care, they carried on what they were doing.

Music blasted through the building, and you were crouched on the railing as you looked at the small group below you looking up.

“Come on, what can go wrong?!” Someone yelled up.

“You Miss and break something?” You smirked.

“Oh it’s on. You’re getting knocked down!” Someone yelled.

Lestrade had received a tip that his killer was at this party, but he was finding it hard to get a good look at everyone in the dark room, but they needed to get in unseen.

John was nervously looked around, trying not to bump into anyone, he was comparing people to the picture on his phone and as he looked around he saw a group looking up so he did the same.

He saw you stood on the railing, dodging bits of metal and other things that were being throwing at you, a wild grin on your face.

“Bloody hell…” he whispered.

It wasn’t your balance that impressed him, it was the pure red of your glowing eyes.

You were dodging everything easily, and when you were hit in the head you fell back, landing on your back you jumped up and bowed a little.

“Half an hour, not bad.” You mused.

“There’s people here…” Lucien whispered.

“What?”

He pointed and you followed his gaze to Sherlock who was apparently locked in a staring contest with someone and you cursed under your breath walking over.

Sherlock was rambling on and the man in front of him raised his hand only to stop when you stepped in front of him.

“Sherlock what the hell are you doing here?”

“Catching a murderer.”

You looked at the photo he showed you and you looked to the man in front of you who held a guilty look.

He was blocked in by others, no way to go.

“You broke the laws?”

“It was an accident I swear!”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you told him to go in without a fight and you’d get it sorted and he was escorted away by Lestrade and you turned to a Sherlock and John.

“Uhm… what kind of party is this?” John asked nervously.

Gesturing for them to follow you outside, you sat on the hood of your friends car as you looked at them.

“A painting! Yes! Of course that’s where I saw you, a painting from the 1800s.”

“Sherlock that’s just stupid!”

“Is it John?”

You looked at him, giving him a little grin, showing the glint of your fangs and he quickly shuffled behind Sherlock.

“Oh how interesting..”

Sherlock walked over, taking your face in his hands.

“You’re coming back to the flat.”

You didn’t have a choice, Sherlock dragged you away while John settled for getting a different taxi.

The moment Sherlock dragged you into his flat he grabbed a torch and stood you still, carefully examining your face and you just stood there.

John walked in and shuffled around you, standing on the opposite side of the room and watched.

“Sherlock.. I Uhm… I don’t think that’s safe…”

Sherlock grabbed your jaw, forcing your mouth open and you just looked at John.

“Help…” you mumbled out.

John walked over pulling Sherlock away by his jacket and you rubbed your sore jaw, flexing it a little as you frowned.

“You can’t just grab people’s jaws Sherlock that crap hurts.”

“Well, if we’re to go by mythology you shouldn’t be able to feel pain.”

“I shouldn’t be able to walk in sunlight either or eat your crappy cooking Sherlock, yet here I am.”

You walked over and dropped onto the sofa, eyes peering at him.

“That isn’t possible.. this isn’t possible!” John protested.

“I mean I don’t know how else to prove this you John.”

John picked up a pillow, and threw it at you and you slapped it away.

“Seriously?”

He picked up a book and threw it and you again slapped it away.

While John was apparently testing your reflexes, Sherlock was just watched and Lestrade came in only to stop in his tracks.

“We’re throwing things at (Y/N) now?” He asked.

“Johns trying to disprove that (Y/N) is a vampire.”

“Sherlock there’s no such thing.”

“Look at them seriously, it’s pretty obvious.”

Lestrade looked at you, walking over he crouched down and stared into your red eyes, then he picked your cheek and you grinned and he jumped back with a small Yelp.

In a panic he picked up a book John had throw and threw it at you and you grabbed it.

“Stop throwing stuff bloody hell!”

“So you just weren’t going to tell us?” Lestrade asked.

“Ah yes because that would go down great Greg. By the way in a vampire but don’t worry I won’t hurt you. I only bite if you ask.”

You rolled your eyes.

“That party…?” Lestrade asked.

“Vampires. Including the one you arrested don’t worry he won’t be an issue.”

Lestrade said nothing as he slowly sat down and the rest of the night was Sherlock asked you questions while Lestrade and John just stared at you.

Night turned into Morning, and Sherlock was still asking you questions while you laid on the sofa.

“Mycrofts here.” You said.

The door opened and Mycroft looked at you.

“You told them?”

“They found out.”

Mycroft looked around the room, John and Lestrade sleeping, Sherlock staring at you.

“They’ve been throwing things at you.”

“I mean it’s better then trying to kill me I suppose.”

“Mycroft knows?” John yawned.

You nodded.

“Yeah, his team was doing some undercover work, happened to walk into a church my lot were camping at. A messy ordeal really, asked me to work with him he’d leave us all alone.”

You sat up to let the older Holmes sit down and you stood up and stretched, only to double over when a cook collided with your stomach.

“Jesus Lestrade what the hell?” You mumbled.

“Sorry! I panicked!”

Looked at him, you stepped over the table and leant over making him lean back.

Reaching out, you pat his cheek.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t hurt you.”

With that you walked to the kitchen to look for something to eat while they spoke about the new information they had found out.

“Do you kill people?!” Sherlock yelled.

“No!”

“Well how do you live then?” John asked.

“Food like you do? Water? Sometimes Mycroft sends me care packages but only if I’m really hurt.”

You walked back in eating some chocolate and leant against the door.

“You get hurt?” Lestrade asked shocked.

“Well yeah. I mean I heal faster yes. But I can still get hurt, but only three things can actually kill me.”

“Stab in the heart, remove the head…” Sherlock mumbled.

You all turned to Sherlock and he stood up, slowly walking over with his hand behind his back and he stood in front of you.

Showing his hand, he showed a small bit of paper on fire and you yelped, ducking under his arm you jumped over John and pulled Lestrade up in front of you.

“I’m not a shield!”

“Hey you’ll survive a little burn, I might not.”

Lestrade reached behind him, lightly patting your arm.

“Sherlock.” He warned.

Sherlock walked over and Lestrade slapped the paper out of his hand, stomping it out and you sighed, slinging your arm around his shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“Big bad vampire scared by some fire.” John chuckled.

You rolled your eyes and walked over, sitting on the arm of his chair as you placed your hand on his head.

“Big bad vampire will still hang you upside down by your legs.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah you’re right.”

Sherlock walked back over and sat on his chair and you just beamed brightly at him.

At least they knew who you really were now, and you knew that they were going to keep testing your limits to see what you could really do

[slightlyunconventional]

HELLO oh my god this took so long it's currently 3am um. LOL 💕💕💕 anyway here's a k/az fic for you it's kinda long like longer than my usual ones anyway soooo yes hi ALSO partly inspired by this ask i got!! but i forgot to actually answer it. @artemisia-darkstar !! 🤭

the heist one ✨ (3.9k words of k/az b/rekker allergies. obviously.)

The Crows had been hired by a wealthy merch of central Ketterdam to pilfer one extremely valuable diamond brooch from… another wealthy merch. (“Rich people do have their petty quarrels, don’t they?” Jesper had said. First world problems.) Kaz had sent Inej out to scout the mansion, to pick up intel about guards’ schedules, locate the target brooch, and note any and all potential escape routes if things happened to go sour. She’d returned to his desk to report just one tiny snag in their plan - the merch was hosting a large formal event at his estate on the exact night they’d planned to seize the diamond brooch.

The five of them stood in the shadows of an alley, two blocks from the merch’s mansion, Nina busy tracking a group of partygoers as they approached, ready to take them swiftly down with her Heartrender power. 

“Just why did that rich prick have to have his party tonight?” Jesper hissed in annoyance, “He has to know we’re coming. There’s no way he doesn’t know.”

Kaz sighed. “He doesn’t know, Jes. Why would he know?”

“Maybe one of his guards saw Inej, I don’t know,” replied the sharpshooter, exasperated.

“Don’t be stupid. No one sees Inej.”

“Not even you, Jes, and I’m standing right next to you,” said a quiet voice behind Kaz. He felt his lips twitch at the corners. 

Jesper started, nearly leaving the ground. “Saints, Inej! How do you keep doing that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Inej replied. She was hardly visible in the dark of the alley, but it was clear she was smirking by the amused tilt of her voice. Suddenly, five dull, consecutive thumps sounded from up ahead as five smartly-dressed passers-by collapsed to the cobbled ground. Jesper winced.

“You’re positive we couldn’t have left this until another day?” he asked. They hadn’t even got inside yet and people were already toppling like dominoes. It could only get worse from here.

“I was about to ask the same thing, actually,” added Wylan. Kaz shook his head.

“The guards’ schedules change daily. I have our window planned out to the minute, and I’m leaving no room for risk,” he said, “Now get those bodies hidden before we fall at the first hurdle.”

Jesper, Wylan, and Nina set to work dragging the unconscious party guests down into the alley while Kaz reached behind a stack of crates and picked up a large hessian sack. From it he produced a bundle of clothes.

“Still no idea where you get all these outfits from,” Jesper panted as Kaz tossed him a grey three-piece suit. He gave it a look of supreme repulsion. “I’m not sure if you knew, but grey really isn’t my colour.”

“It is tonight,” replied Kaz dismissively, throwing a second suit to Wylan and two dresses each to Nina and Inej. He crouched to inspect one of the unconscious bodies, then slipped a hand into the man’s blazer to retrieve his invitation to tonight’s event. Nina was holding up the pale blue gown Kaz had given her and staring at it in scepticism. 

“I don’t know if this is going to fit me,” she said with an eyebrow raised. Kaz sighed in annoyance.

“Well, it’s going to have to.” He held up the invitation letter he’d retrieved. “These are our tickets in there - get yours then get dressed. Make it snappy.”

“Get dressed,” echoed Nina incredulously, casting a wary glance around the dingy backstreet, “here?” The look she received from Kaz was almost pitying.

“Nina, love, we’re in Ketterdam. It doesn’t get much more private than this.”

She grimaced and backed into a slightly more shadowed corner of the alleyway. 

Some five minutes later, the five of them were kitted out in most uncharacteristic formal wear - Wylan and Jesper suited in complementary greys, Nina in her rather tight blue gown and Inej in her red one. Kaz looked, well, hardly different, in all honesty - the black suit was almost identical to his usual get-up, save for his black tie swapped for a deep red one, and the obnoxiously floral boutonniere pinned to his lapel. And, of course, the distinct lack of gloves on his hands, though they were folded carefully inside his jacket pocket in case of emergencies.

“Ready?” he asked. 

“No offence, Kaz,” Inej began. Kaz turned to her with a single eyebrow arched. “But how are we supposed to, y’know, do a heist dressed like this?” She gestured up and down her dress with her hands.

“It’s about fitting in. I didn’t anticipate there being a party tonight - be grateful I’m not making you scale any walls,” Kaz replied sourly. Inej shot him a look before shaking her head. He huffed out a sigh.

“Fine. You can have your weapons on you, all of you,” he compromised, albeit reluctantly, “But if I see so much as the glint of a blade’s edge, I’ll crack your skull with that merch’s diamond brooch. Keep them hidden.” His words were nothing short of a snarl, the threatening promise dripping from his tone - it was clear Kaz would accept no mistakes on this job. He wanted them in and out as fast as possible, with as little trouble as possible. 

Jesper picked up his pearl-handled revolvers, spun them in his hands, and slid them beneath his suit trousers - impractical, but at least they were hidden from view. 

“Still think this suit needs more colour,” said Jesper with an exaggerated sigh.

“You’ll live,” Kaz spat as he strode past him out of the alley. “Let’s move,” he said, “We don’t have all night.”

.

They’d made it inside without a hitch, much to Kaz’s relief. So far, so good, he thought, wonder how long that’ll last. The five stood at the entrance of the mansion’s huge ballroom, staring at the lavish decorations and masses of guests that filled the space. The tightly packed crowd sowed the beginnings of a cold weight in Kaz’s chest that he forced himself to ignore.

“You all know what you have to do,” Kaz said, “We reconvene at eleven bells.” Then, he noticed Nina and Jesper eyeing the bar at the far side of the hall, and sighed. “We reconvene at eleven bells, sober.” He allowed himself the subtlest of smirks as the two Grisha let out a simultaneous, hearty groan. 

So, with Wylan and Jesper instructed to keep an eye on the target merch, and Nina off taking the guards down outside his office, Kaz and Inej were left to, just, mingle. Easier said than done, especially for two of perhaps the least sociable people in the entire Barrel, but, alas, they had nothing else to do until the dinner started. The pair weaved their way through the crowd over to the side of the hall, where they attempted a casual leaning-against-the-wall conversation while also trying to look like they were having fun.

“I don’t have much experience with social events,” Inej admitted, casting a wary glance around the room.

“You say that like you think I have any,” Kaz said with a breathy almost-laugh. Inej smiled sympathetically. 

Despite the sheer size of the ballroom, it was truly stifling. Each and every surface was laden with bouquets of brightly coloured blossoms which gave off a heady sweetness that was impossible to ignore, and the air was thick with the stinging scent of various expensive perfumes and colognes. Kaz wondered how the guests could keep chatting and laughing and dancing while he longed for the soft comfort of his overcoat’s high collar to bury his nose into. The heavy, potent aromas that hung so incessantly upon the air didn’t take long to infiltrate his nostrils. At first, it took up residence as a subtle buzz somewhere deep, far back in his sinuses -  faint, but noticeable enough, though it quickly rose in intensity, steadily becoming worse and worse and spreading throughout his nose until it became an ever-present prickling burn that pushed Kaz closer and closer to the brink. He sniffed determinedly against the sensation, not eager to humiliate himself amongst such a huge crowd.

“What time’s the dinner, do you know?” Inej asked. Kaz had to pause for the briefest moment to regain control over his sinuses, which were still tickling with ferocious intensity.

“Any minute now, I think,” he replied. Mere seconds after he spoke, his breath caught in his throat, and the burn he thought couldn’t get any worse spiked like flames licking against the inside of his nose.

Inej’s gaze briefly flickered over his face before she replied. “...Alright. I’ll keep an eye out for Jesper’s signal.”

“-hhHDtt–!” Kaz’s breath hitched sharply, and before he knew it, he was pressing a gloveless fist firmly to his septum to stifle a rather harsh sneeze. “hhk’NGTt!-huh..”

“Bless you,” Inej said, eyes still tracking Jesper across the room.

“Thahhnk, y-youuUHh–?! ehH’GNKT! Oh, Saints– ‘kKGTtch! h-huh’GNKksh!” The fact that his sneezing was already becoming difficult to contain filled Kaz with a sense of dread - it wouldn’t be long before he’d be unable to stifle at all. 

“Uh, bless you. Again.” Inej was looking at him now, her gaze skipping between his eyes and his nose, which was undoubtedly still twitching and flaring in irritation. “Are you alright?” she dared to ask.

Kaz nodded, averting his eyes. At least it was only Inej and not someone who’d mortify him even more. “Fine. I’m fi-hhehH! Oh, you’ve got to be jokiihh’KNTt! hhih’gGKTtsch!”

Inej lifted her eyebrows at him. “Keep that up, and you just might burst a blood vessel,” she teased. He managed a hazy eye roll before having to duck back down into his tight fist.

“-heh’hehh’kKGTtshh! hhhk’NGTtch! Oh, oh, saints, I- ‘kKNGTts! ‘GNTTtchh-huh!” The tail end of each sneeze kept managing to escape his valiant attempts at stifling, resulting in a quick, itchy expulsion at the back of each stifle. Worse than that, though, was that the more he suppressed them, the more sneezes kept coming - the itch in his nose was truly unrelenting.

“‘GNKTtsh! Ghezen…hh-huh’kKNTtsh’uh!–”

“Kaz–” he heard Inej say. There was a hint of urgency in her voice, but he was too deep in the throes of this horribly itchy fit to be able to even think about responding.

“hhk’KNGT’sshhuh! h-huhh’KXNTtsh! ‘GKKTtschh’hhuh!”

“Kaz,” Inej spoke again, “It’s time, Jesper’s–”

“hhih’KKTTt’shh!” Kaz’s nose simply refused to let up and the fit was inescapable. He was powerless to do anything but repeatedly press his dreadfully tickly nose into his fist and stifle sneeze after demanding sneeze. By now, his head was pounding from stifling so much - but he decided he’d much rather that than watch his dignity fall to pieces in a hall full of strangers.

Suddenly, amidst his fit, Kaz felt an urgent tugging on his sleeve. He just about managed to fight back any more sneezes to finally listen to Inej, though he could hardly see her through his watery eyes, and his head kept tipping forward ever so slightly, reflexively for the sneezes he was just barely holding back.

“Kaz,” Inej said, firmly this time, “Jesper’s signal. It’s time to move.” 

Kaz nodded blearily. He knew he had to get to the merch’s office where Nina was waiting for him, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk in a straight line.

As if reading his mind, Inej said, “You need to get yourself together, Kaz. We have a job to do.” Then she disappeared into the crowd, off to swap positions with Jesper.

.

Kaz had staggered, still stifling sneezes haphazardly into his tight fist, to the merch’s private office suite with Jesper close on his heels, sparing him overly concerned glances. He hoped, now, that he’d get a break from that infernal tickle since he was out of the thickly perfumed air of the ballroom. 

“-hhH’GKKTtsh’uh! Saints…” That sneeze felt fairly final - he just hoped it actually was.

“Uhh. So are you done blowing our cover?” Jesper asked, smirking. 

“Shut up,” replied Kaz, the bitterness in his voice hidden by its rather congested quality, “...yes, I am. Just that hall, Saints, why does everyone insist on making themselves smell like a walking flowershop?”

Jesper laughed at that. “You’d rather they smelled like… what, exactly?”

“Anything else,” Kaz said, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, there you are,” came Nina’s voice from the office door, “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve had to keep these wretches unconscious.”

“Don’t be dramatic, we’ve hardly been here an hour,” snapped Kaz.

“Ghezen, Brekker, if I weren’t using both hands for my power, I swear I’d–”

Jesper raised his hands up. “Alright, alright, let’s play nice, yeah? Nina, you keep doing what you’re doing, love, and Kaz, get to that lock - we’ve stalled enough as it is,” he said, “And I’ll stand guard.”

Kaz huffed, slipped his lockpicks from the inner pocket of his jacket, and crouched in front of the door. Though he was without his gloves, the cool metal of the picks brought him a slight comfort, and he allowed his dexterous fingers to begin their work on the lock. However, before his picks even touched the keyhole, his chest was stuttering with the need to sneeze yet again.

“-hh’hehH–”

Jesper whirled around from where he was standing guard to look at Kaz. “Seriously?” he asked, incredulous.

Nina looked up, too.“What?” she said, eyes flicking between Kaz and Jesper in confusion. 

“Saints, Nina, you don’t want to know. He’s been sneezing non stop all evening - I had to watch the whole fiasco in the hall - and we definitely could be done with this so much faster if he’d just pulled himself together-!” complained Jesper. He didn’t sound much unlike a whining child, come to think of it.

“You’re talking about me as if I’m not right here– shit, hhehH! hhk’NGTt! ‘GKKTtsh!” Kaz only just finished his sentence; it was punctuated by a harshly stifled pair of sneezes, after which he sniffled thickly and swiped a hand under his nose.

“Bless you, boss. Now get on with it,” Jesper said, shaking his head. Kaz shot him a murderous glare before returning to the lock. It was an easy lock, and any other day he’d have it open in less than five seconds, but now, he just couldn’t shake the distracting tickle building in his sinuses, and of course, with that building tickle, his hands began to shake slightly. He was managing it, though, or so he thought.

“-hhaAH’ESCHHh’uhh!” Kaz sneezed, a violent explosion that came on so fast that he didn’t have time to even consider trying to stifle it. He was beginning to get a little frustrated now - he was well out of the ballroom, so why was he still sneezing?

“Lovely,” Nina said with a grimace. Kaz couldn’t find a retort for he was still recovering from the tearing sneeze that had caught him off guard.

“Kaz-” Jesper started warningly, casting a worried glance at the ballroom doors. 

“I’m fine,” Kaz cut in. One of his hands was working swiftly at the office’s lock, while the other scrubbed roughly at the underside of his now red-rimmed nose. He didn’t need any Grisha powers to feel his heart pounding in his chest - Kaz knew they were behind schedule now, and by no means had he planned for this to happen. He tried to focus on the movement of his picks inside the lock, though it was second nature to him by now, so much so that he’d pick locks without even thinking. One minute a door would be closed, the next wide open. He’d never spared it a second thought. However, in this moment, his focus was wavering, as was his breath, and his hands were shaking once again. The itch in his sinuses had rekindled and was twice as vicious as it fought for control over him. Just get the lock open, he willed himself, just five more seconds, hold on.

Against all odds, Kaz finally cracked the lock. He immediately pushed the door open and stepped back from it, right as his nostrils flared widely. He drew in a great breath and lifted his jacket by the lapel with one trembling hand.

“haHH’ehHRSCHHh’huh! hehH’kKXSCHHhuh! Oh, Sai-saints–” Two sneezes, violent and forceful, exploded from him, shielded behind his lifted blazer. Jesper and Nina exchanged glances before entering the office to break into the merch’s safe. Kaz wasn’t far behind them, though his nose was most certainly not done sneezing. In fact, he felt as though he needed to sneeze even more than before. He didn’t see Nina and Jesper break open the safe using one of Wylan’s corrosive chemicals, because, well, he was a little preoccupied snapping forward at the mercy of his own nose.

“hhah-haAH’ehHKZZSCHH’huh! H-hahh… huh-! Oh,” Kaz sniffled as the second sneeze eluded him, “Fuck, when will this end?”

His sneezes were gradually getting stronger and thus much harder to contain, and no matter how he tried to cover them, they still managed to leave a fine mist upon the air, much to his disgust. Although, he had to admit that it was deeply relieving, and almost dizzying, to finally let out his sneezes, despite the sheer embarrassment of it all. 

“Got it,” Nina said, holding up the diamond brooch. She tossed it over to Kaz, who caught it, pocketed it, and–

“h-heHRZZSCHHh’uh!” -sneezed. Kaz rolled his eyes at himself and sniffled.

“What’s gotten into you?” teased Jesper, nudging Kaz in the side playfully with his elbow. Kaz simply glared back. After a forceful knuckling at his nose, the itch seemed to have calmed down a bit.

“It’s nearly eleven bells,” he said, voice slightly dulled by congestion, “Inej and Wylan will be waiting for us.”

.

They headed back to the agreed meeting spot - the alleyway where Nina downed the group of partygoers and where their original clothes were left. As Kaz had said, Inej and Wylan were already there, seated upon old crates making quiet conversation. 

“How long have you been here?” asked Kaz.

“Just got here,” Inej replied, lifting an eyebrow at the pink hue of his nose, “Did you get what we came for?”

Kaz fought not to pull a face at her. “Obviously,” he said shortly. Jesper cast a dramatic look around.

“So we’re not going to address the elephant in the room?” he asked. Everyone except Kaz looked at him sceptically.

“Our sneezy over here, obviously,” said Jesper with a smirk.

Nina snorted. “Yeah, good point,” she laughed, “What was ruffling your feathers back there, Brekker?” 

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Inej turned to him, annoyance rising in her stare. “If you’ve come on this job with a cold, Saints–”

“No, I–” Kaz began.

“We would have been in and out a lot faster if you hadn’t been–”

“I got what we needed, didn't I?” Kaz shot, annoyed now, too.

Jesper and Nina looked at each other. “Well, we did…” he whispered to her. She giggled.

“Sooo… what was it then?” Nina asked playfully.

“I don’t know,” snapped Kaz, “so drop it, okay?”

Nina raised her hands in mock surrender and stepped back. Kaz looked around the shadowed alley.

“Where’s my coat,” he demanded. Jesper reached back to the messy pile of their clothes and tugged out Kaz’s thick, heavy coat to hand to him.

“Yeah, you’d best get that jacket covered up. I think it’d make headlines if Kaz Brekker was seen with a flower on his lapel,” said Nina with a laugh, leaning forward to flick Kaz’s boutonniere playfully. The faintest cloud of pollen floated up from the flower, hardly visible to the naked eye, but Kaz’s nose notices alright. His breath hitched deeply almost immediately, and before he knew it, he was leaning heavily on his cane as three itchy, near-explosive sneezes escaped him.

“-ehH’rRZZSCHHheh! huh-huHH’KXZZSHHh’uh! haAHh’ihHRZZSCHHhuuh! What the f-fuck?”

Despite him having braced himself against his cane, the triple still managed to bend him nearly double. He straightened himself, panting and swearing, and sniffed sharply. The rest of the group was rendered speechless. It was a rather unusual scene, especially with Jesper standing holding out Kaz’s coat awkwardly. The dark-haired man stepped forward swiftly and all but ripped his coat from Jesper’s hands, however he paused before putting it on, pitching forward with two more heavy sneezes.

“Fuck offhhuh-hehH’IZSCHHuhh! heh’hRZZSCHH’uh!” Kaz’s lips curled slightly, a crude grimace, and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

Inej stepped forward with a muttered, “Oh, for Saints’ sake,” unpinned the red flower from his lapel, and tossed it back down the alley. He gives her a funny look. “You’ve been sneezing all evening and you didn’t even consider the flower literally pinned to your chest?”

Kaz said nothing. He was too busy both internally marvelling at his own stupidity and fighting the urge to throw himself in the canal out of humiliation. 

Inej shook her head. “For all your wit and cunning you sure lack common sense sometimes,” she said.

Before Kaz could retort, Nina scoffed. “Seriously?” she said incredulously, “All that because of one little flower? Saints, Brekker. I never thought the great Dirtyhands would be felled by a bit of pollen.”

The glare she got from Kaz could probably have killed someone had it not been for his glassy, red-rimmed eyes.

 “It wasn’t just the– ehH’KZZSHHhue!” Kaz began to protest, but cut himself off with a harsh sneeze, seemingly one that crept up on him with no warning, for he only managed to throw his arm in front of his face in the last split second before the sneeze erupted from him. Jesper laughed and Kaz saw Wylan shoot him a look.

“How about we – instead of bullying Kaz –” Wylan said with a pointed glance at Nina, “start heading back to the Slat. Because I’m cold.” Inej smiled in amusement.

“Thank you,” agreed Kaz with a thick sniffle, “At least there’s one other person with some sense in this group.” Wylan flushed a little, maybe with embarrassment, maybe with pride – Kaz was too annoyed to care which it was. He was already picking up his original clothes from where he left them, then he stalked out of the alley. It wasn’t long before Inej caught him up, and he saw that she’d already discarded her heels and replaced them with her own familiar leather boots. He cast her a sidelong glance over his shoulder, still walking. She matched his pace with ease.

“I shouldn’t have been so hard on you earlier,” she admitted, “You were right. You did get what we needed, and the plan went off without a hitch.”

Kaz stopped walking and turned to face her; she did the same. “But…?” he said, prompting her to continue. She sighed.

“But,” Inej replied, “you’d better not let this affliction of yours compromise any of our future jobs.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why would that happen,” he said flatly, hardly a question.

“I’m just saying you need to be able to keep quiet if and when things get messy.”

“Yet you chastise me like I’m a schoolboy every time I stifle,” Kaz replied, slightly amused. Inej’s lips twitched.

“You know that doesn’t apply on a job. You’re allowed when we need to keep a low profile,” she said, “And your sneezes aren’t exactly low profile.”

Before Kaz could reply, Inej was reaching up to where his lapel was visible beneath his coat. 

“Oh, you’ve got a bit of–” She swiped her hand across the fabric, brushing off a scattering of pollen from the flower that was previously pinned there. Kaz’s breath caught quietly. 

“Gonna sneeze?” Inej said with a smirk.

He replied, “No,” and then, of course, sneezed. “hehH’GNKTt!”

It was contained perfectly against his now-gloved fist, and he ducked down slightly with it – a near-silent affair.

“We’re not on a job anymore, so I’m allowed to tell you off for that,” Inej said, “Bless you.”

“...Thank you.”

[multiplicationdivision]

Pairing Up

Chapter 1: The Beginning

A drunk college kid fumbled with his key in the darkness, struggling to get into his old countryside rental.

He could hear his friend’s truck rush away, headlights already distant, leaving no light to give him any clues of where his front door exactly was. A stray thread of logic fought through the mixture of alcohol and weed filling his brain, suggesting his phone.

It was a thought immediately pushed aside. Both of his hands were full, some heavy mass in plastic in one whilst the other wilding jabbed at the door, hoping dumb luck would eventually strike.

His brain was already struggling to comprehend his current position in time and space, memory stuttering to place his timeline up to this point. The door denied him, the key making a tearing sound as he scrapped it against the cheap paint, searching mindlessly for the keyhole.

He stunk, but not like he should’ve. It was there under the nausea inducing reek, the familiar scent of vodka and marijuana ghosting his long night. The disgusting scent was new, like pond scum or seaweed muck. He couldn’t remember its origin, probably a wild story he’d hear later about his own antics. Maybe he jumped in a sewer or something else impulsive or stupid.

He’d done worse under less.

Finally, the key jammed into place, the door creaking open with some effort. It gave way to Cole’s home, worn and dimly lit. A stray lamp in the back giving off its dim flickering light, something drunk Cole was ever thankful for sober Cole for forgetting to turn off. Allowed him to skip the attempts at finding the light switch in the absolute darkness, the blasted thing being awkwardly placed somewhere on a distant wall, mis-planned like most things in the house.

It was deeply worn down, outside and in. But these nights he was thankful he’d found it, avoiding being a nuisance to some poor roommate as he barged in at 3:00 AM every other weekend, shitfaced and loudly confused. The heavy scars left by this trend on the front door also left him thankful that there was barely a safety deposit to lose on the rundown house. The gashes left by the frantic drunken jabbing of the key were barely indistinguishable from the warped wood.

He stumbled into his humble abode, his shoes slick on the linoleum. His red vans having become grey with miscellaneous that also climbed up his joggers, staining their brown into a sickly green. Even his black shirt seemed irreparably caked in it, the ooze bleeding over the black with a rainbow of moldy colors.

He’d liked this outfit, but he could cry about that later. At the moment though, the shower beaconed him. He dropped the mass he’d been holding, hearing it softly plop by the door as he kicked off his shoes and smartly stripped before getting anywhere near his carpet. The collection of soiled clothes wetly dropped on the tiles, far from anything they could corrupt.

Everything was thankfully compact in this house, and the shower was a merciful couple steps away. It turned on with a groan, the water quickly sobering him up with inconsistent pressure and wildly varying temperatures. It was familiarly shitty, functional enough. The rest of the house was the same, everything patched together with cheap Youtube guided repairs. A fixer upper left to one busy twenty something, whose weekends were mostly dedicated to going out on Saturday and having a hangover on Sunday.

Didn’t leave much time to mess with plumbing, alongside work and school.

He tiredly toweled off as the shower head sputtered whatever water was left in its system. Sober Cole could deal with that tomorrow.

He probably wouldn’t though.

It was his fatal flaw, putting things off for later and never doing them. A classic move, one he deeply despised in this moment, realizing his last clean outfit had been the one that was probably dissolving on the floor by the door, possibly melting some of the tile along with it.

He crouched up next to it after quickly brushing his teeth, his wet curls dripping more water in the puddle of scum on the floor. Its smell seemed to worsen as time went on, curdling in on itself. Made Cole feel sympathy for poor Mason who’d been the designated driver for their sorry crew. Probably left another permanent mark on the rusty truck’s seats.

He would’ve felt actual guilt for not just walking home in his filth, but Mason was convincing in his attractiveness and amazing hair. Also judging from the guy’s constant apologies during the drive, he was probably the cause of this shit getting all over him.

Cole grieved for the outfit, debating on whether he could risk going outside stark naked just to throw this biohazard in the can. He’d liked those shoes, something he remembered drunkenly complaining to Mason as the guy tried to placate him.

Cole remembered them stopping for something shortly after that, the stuffed plastic bag drawing his attention away from the pile that he’d started to prod with a pencil.

The logo returned some of his memories, him lazily walking into a dim store behind a guilty Mason, the man promising things that Cole had just nodded to in response, trying to give the impression of him understanding the guy’s ramblings.

Studying it now, it was absolutely stuffed with clothes, more than a single outfit in mass. Fabric and packages pushed until the plastic was fit to burst apart, especially with the outline of shoes stretching out the bottom.

Sober-Cole would definitely bring this up with Mason later, another conversation among many of his habit for overcompensating. Right now, he didn’t care, and just smiled to himself as he dug out the clothes that Mason had picked out between babying his drunk ass.

God that guy was cute.

The bag exploded safely away from the puddled mess, clothes falling out as the bag indeed burst, leaving Cole with a mess of clothes that seemed to be entirely suited towards the clothes Mason kept bugging him to buy for work. Whilst he would typically roll his eyes at the shit the guy loved, his drug ridden brain instead was happy to wear a Mason recommended pair of brown overalls with a new simple black long sleeve shirt, over the underwear that the man had also interestingly added. The guy really accounted for everything.

Or just knew Cole too well. Again, his laundry pile a room away seemed to mock him, holding literally all his clothes in its large domain.

A package of socks lay down beneath the explosion, resting atop the new pair of black high-top converse that were the first shoes Cole didn’t almost throw up on. A fuzzy memory of the store came back to him, Mason standing in front of the clearance section holding the socks as if studying it. He’d seemed confused by the packaging, shrugging before handing it to Cole as he tried to ask his opinion. Cole had just nodded as he was distracted by the man’s amazing eyebrows and Mason had moved on.

Now he sort of understood the sentiment, the package chaotic and colorful for what seemed to be a normal variety pack of socks. It was covered in a mess of indistinct writing, half faded or smudged, stray rainbows of color bleeding into each other with graphics that seemed to attempt to demonstrate the action of putting a sock on one’s foot.

Strangest was the art on the front, two identically drawn figures held close together. The colors all seemed to converge on their monochromatic bodies, traveling down towards their feet where they differed in their separate footwear, each having a single identical sock and a single shoe on opposite feet, a sneaker on one and boot on another. It was all tied together with the only legible writing, written in 90’s graphical font screaming the “DOUBLE VALUE” of it.

Weird.

But probably just some shit that had been stuck in clearance for far far too long.

The cardboard was easily torn apart, its pieces falling flat on the floor as Cole pulled out a pair of white crew socks, their color almost luminescent despite their assumed age. At their top, two red stripes shone somehow brighter in cleanness than even the white, making his eyes reflexively squint when it caught the light.

To the touch the fabric seemed almost impossibly soft and warm, a siren call for his very cold post-shower feet. Slipping them on felt right, comfortable fabric like a second skin, fitting with a perfect tightness.

Getting up he glanced at the mirror sat leaning against the tiny hallway, looking at the image of him, damp hair and a pretty nice outfit, a stinking pile of waterborne disease leaking next to him. The image of the sock packaging still visible below him, next to his still unworn converse.

A very unsober thought traveled like molasses through his head, the packaging’s art in his mind’s eye as he looked at himself.

Wouldn’t it be funny if he tried to mimic the art, then send that to Mason. He had his number and it would be like an inside joke. Mason had seemed intrigued by the packaging. Cole’s high brain said he looked attractive right now and Mason could stand to see that.

As like thanks or something…

Logically speaking that was strange and impossible. The art was of two people, wearing separate shit, but Cole’s brain opposite logic-ed that he could just wear two different shoes. It would make no sense to a normal fucking person but Cole wasn’t thinking that right now. In his head this would look hilarious and attractive and maybe he could kiss that hot face by sending the guy cute pictures at 4 am.

Something in the back of his mind demanded he do it, gently fitting a compulsion through his empty alcohol laced brain.

It was a fantastic and well-reasoned plan.

He stole the left of the pair of converses before snatching up one of his steel toed work boots from hall, his body on autopilot as shoved his feet in the two, robotically tying them both up. He felt a twinge of off-ness in the action, his motions unusually fluid despite his still lingering cross-fadedness. It was ignored in the face of the building sense of satisfaction at the sight of his reflection, a feeling of perfect anticipation, like the moment before you finally push the first domino over or the second before the rollercoaster falls.

He stood there, looking at the mirror at his sort of off-balance stance, his worn boots with a slightly higher sole than the flat converse. It added to the feeling of him on the precipice, staring off as if expecting something to happen before his small list of things to do once more fought their way back into focus.

He grinned as he swiftly snapped a picture of his reflection and sent it to Mason, before shifting his fuzzy mind back to the garbage. His cleaning supplies were haphazardly scattered on his kitchen counter, a place that he felt made them easiest to find. He was absolutely right, clumsily picking out some gloves and a trash bag to contain the festering rags, sloppily wiping up the leftover liquid with a towel that he chose to throw in with the rest of it.

The clean up was done on autopilot though. The strange feeling remained, distracting as it steadily rose more and more.

It felt tensely uncomfortable, winding up in a way that pressed on his brain. Like he was stretching a rubber band more and more, waiting till it would randomly snap.

As he lugged the tightly tied trash bag to his garbage can, it continued to rise. It was almost indescribable, whispering a promise of perfect release through his skull at every movement. A tingling in his arms and legs like the kind you’d get after a good workout, aching yet somehow pleasant.

He’d had to take a short rest leaning on the trashcan as the sensation grew. It filled him, his body feeling heavy and clumsy, thoughts difficult to form as his nerves raced.

Was this his high? He’d never had something like this, even with his quite heavy “experimentation”. It all felt too potent of an effect, especially for what he knew his friends could get. It felt solid and real, far removed from the distant trips that his most illegal shit would give.

If this was from the weed he’d taken hours ago, it was a strain he needed again. The euphoria of it drowning any nastiness he’d felt minutes ago, stripping away the nausea born of the alcohol and scummy clothing.

He stumbled back inside, barely managing to tear off gloves that felt far too small and awkward now, resisting him as their rubber stretched unnaturally. They tumbled to the floor in his hallway, lit up in a way that was definitely impossible. It seemed to emanate from somewhere near him, but it definitely could not be from the shattered hall light.

He couldn’t find it in himself to question it when he could barely stand, working his way to his bedroom as his thoughts repeated and echoed in his head.

Taking off his shoes was forgotten as he collapsed on his covers, the feeling of stretching overpoweringly good as he squirmed to relieve or increase it. He couldn’t tell which one he wanted more.

The sensation peaked, his brain overloading with loud thoughts, straying and merging and parting in ways he’d never felt, rising tension that felt better than sex ever had. It was the feeling of anticipation that had risen before but now promised to finally finally drop, sending the dominos to topple and the roller-coaster speeding down in a moment of true catharsis.

It came like a crashing wave over his body, a feeling of relief that beat any orgasm he’d ever had, combining the feeling of release with another of closeness. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d come during it, his boxer slightly wet under his overalls.

Cole closed his eyes and relaxed better than he had in years, his mind quickly plummeting into unconsciousness as he cuddled, his arm wrapped securely over something. Comfortable and perfect, like matching puzzle pieces.

Two identical bodies, tangled around each other, differing only in their mismatched shoes.

[ya-bug-boy]

Hihi can I request a Giovanni x Reader smut where Gio just praises them the whole time?

GIOVANNI X MALE READER NSFW 🔞

If it isn't already obvious, Giovanni likes to have control. Control over his team, money, and plans; he doesn't tolerate misdirection or mistakes.

You weren't a member of Team Rocket, but instead a site coordinator for one of his cover-up businesses. He keeps his villainous ways a secret from you, so he can continue having your interest in him. To you, he was just a very successful businessman who seemed to have liked you. A lot. You've flirted back and forth on some occasion, never going too far until one day you accidentally sent forward a text to him of your nudes.

He calls you in for a meeting at a restaurant. You note that it's of a higher than usual quality than what you're used to so you dress smartly, donning a suit. You feel yourself dreading it entirely. But he is your boss and you really don't want to go back to working in restaurants as host again.

You meet up at the restaurant entrance after a taxi ride there. You shake hands and you note how...casual this encounter seems so far. Giovanni himself doesn't look displeased at all. The two of you take your seats and you can't help but to feel nervous.

"You know why you're here, don't you?" Giovanni asks, giving you his cat-like smile.

"It's about the nudes I accidentally sent you-" you say miserably, cringing at your words.

"Accidentally?" his eyes widen and before he could speak, a waitress comes by to ask for what you two would like to drink. He quickly orders two glasses of red wine for both of you before the miss leaves. "Ah. So it was an accident. Shame, I was rather hoping you were finally taking note of me."

Your cheeks burn red as you shakily confess, "Weeeell..." and you admit your feelings for your boss. He listens to your hesitant response and reaches out to hold your hand, reassuring you that he felt the same way.

The dinner goes incredibly well after that! You two share a bottle of wine, enjoy delicious food and find yourself so much at ease after you've had a glass or two. He then offers you if you'd like to come back to his place, you don't object.

Giovanni lives a luxurious life that you vaguely knew about but never witnessed. You take note of his car then his absurd beautiful mansion and you can't help but to be in awe. He takes you to the living room, where you two planned to drink some more, but eventually you found yourself grinding on his lap as you make out with him.

He tastes like the divine wine you just shared, a taste so rich and addicting that you can't help but want more of. You grind your clothed cocks together as he firmly grips your ass with his big hands. You lean back to breath and he can't help but to talk, "What a pretty little thing you are and you're all just for me. Are you going to be good for me?" You whine and nod dumbly, practically purring at your answer, he rubs your crotch with his palm. "So needy. You're practically melting, aren't you? Do you want me to help you?" You nod repeatedly as his strong hands quickly undo your outfit and you undo his, your suits splayed out on the floor behind you.

Giovanni loves what he sees, your sharp shoulders and pretty cock just waiting for him. You lean back into the sofa and whimper a sharp cry when he finally touches you, his hand rubbing you. You involuntarily cover your mouth and face with your hands but he pulls them back gently. "No, I want to see what my angel looks like," he says smoothly before pressing his cock against yours and rubbing them together with his hand. His is so much larger than yours and its heat was affecting you, his hands massaging you in all the right ways. "There you go, just relaaax for me," he purrs as he watches you become undone by his hand alone. "Such pretty noises coming from you, you sound so nice. Why would you hide your face from me when I love the way you look?" His praise was swimming in your head, your body melting into his hands when he suddenly stops.

You open your eyes to see him lubing his fingers with some lubricant before he delicately presses his index finger inside of you, doing it gingerly as he goes from knuckle to knuckle. You moan, giving out suffocated gasps as you try to ease into the pressure inside of you as he prepares you. You needed preparation for what was going to happen next.

He praises you the entire time, cooing at your whimpers; taking in delight with how you sounded. Finally deeming you ready, he puts on a condom, putting a smidge of lube inside before putting it on. He then lines up the head of his cock to your hole before pressing it inside. You give out screams of pleasure when he finally bottoms out in side of you, you taking him all the way to his base.

"Fuck, god. I missed this," he sighs when he was fully pressed inside. He gives you a moment to adjust to his girth before pistoning his cock inside of you. He goes at a gentle pace at first, holding your hand and pressing kisses to your lips. "You feel so good, Angel. Do you want me to go harder?" You repeatedly nod your head, cupping his face into your hands as he leaned forward, before going rougher, at a faster pace, his balls slapping against you ass.

With rough hands gripping you by the hips, you couldn't take it anymore and come undone when Giovanni decides to jerk you off while he fucks you. You weep as your cum shoots into his hand but he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. He wasn't done with you yet. The night was still young and he planned to make sure you'd remember tonight.

[akehoshimystar]

Riku SR

Nadeshiko Break

Part 1

Ito: (I'll match this bouquet with this frame...)

I moved to the center of the floor and looked at the frames I had just put up on the wall at the back of the venue.

Ito: (It doesn't seem to be tilted. The balance from all angles is... Yeah, perfect.)

(As for the rest….)

Comparing the interior blueprint with the current decoration, I checked again and again to see if everything is going as planned and if there's anything missing.

???: Working hard, huh?

Ito: Eh? Ah... Hello!

I turned to that voice and saw Riku-san newly dressed in the outfit for this event.

Ito: I see that you’ve changed.

Riku: Yup. Not too shabby, aren’t I? ……Well, let's put that aside for now.

Here you go. This is from the customer over there.

And with that, he handed me a small tray with some hot tea and individually wrapped cookies on it. Following Riku-san’s gaze, there was Mao-san who’s also wearing the outfit for the event.

Mao: It was, in fact, Riku-san himself who prepared it.

Riku: Wasn’t it Mao who suggested bringing something to Ito at the convenience store?

Mao: “If we don't make her take a break, she'll forget to catch a break and keep on exhausting herself”. I recall it was you who said that line.

Ito: (I see... What's on this tray is their kindness.)

Just noticing that warmed my heart.

Ito: Thank you.

Even so…... I must have looked so desperate that it worried you...

Riku: What are you talking about? It's great to be passionate about something.

Mao: Did the pressure of your first event get to you?

Ito: Well... I don’t think I can deny that.

(There is no doubt that I have been nervous ever since the project was launched.)

Riku: Everything is a trial and error process at the beginning. It's inevitable to get nervous.

But if you don't take a break from time to time, you might run out of energy before the real thing.

Ito: If that happens, it'll be all for nothing.

Let me express my gratitude for your kindness.

Riku: It’s nice that you’re honest.

Part 2

Ito: (Yup, my energy is all charged now.)

As I stretched, the energy I replenished spread to every corner of my body. After enjoying the break that Riku-san and Mao-san had given me, I continued to check the venue.

Ito: (I think I've already finished most of what I can do today)

I was momentarily relieved that things were going well, but I stopped when I noticed a small anomaly in the flower decoration in one corner.

Ito: (This one... It’s missing a petal)

Mao: Oh, I knew you would notice that.

Ito: Eh?

Mao-san, who somehow ended up next to me, did a small shrug and smiled.

Mao: I'm impressed that you spotted it.

Ito: It may be hard to tell, but I still want to do something about it...

Mao: Yeah. I thought you'd say that.

Ito: Maybe there's a spare, I'll go check.

Mao: Oh, wait a sec.

Ito: Yes?

Mao: From that customer over there.

With his neatly aligned fingers, Mao-san respectfully pointed in the direction where Riku-san came carrying a single flower.

Ito: Could that be...?

Riku: I found the missing flower when I was walking around the venue earlier. I already prepared a replacement.

As Riku-san explained, he quickly replaced the missing flower with a new one.

Ito: Wow... Simply perfect.

Mao: I expect nothing less from Riku-san. 

Riku: Wasn’t it Mao who told me where to prepare that?

Hmm? What is it, Ito? I'll get the wrong idea if you keep staring at me like that. 

Ito: Well, how should I put it...

The way you two behaved was so smart and cool that I couldn't take my eyes off you.

This is a perfect example of how to work.

Riku: Is it just me or does it feel like you’re emphasizing the fact that it's work-related?

Mao: Don't worry, Riku-san. it’s not just your imagination.

Ito: Ahaha. I need to work harder to be able to ease up and work smartly like both of you.

Oh, it may be a bit late to say this, but Riku-san, Mao-san….

You two look so good in that getup.

Mao: Thank you.

Riku: If Ito butters me up like that, maybe I’ll wear it outside of the event as well.

Mao: Sure, sure.

Riku: Now then, let's push ourselves a little more to make Ito's first event a success.

Ito: Yes! Thank you very much.

Surrounded by the smiles and encouragement of Riku-san’s and Mao-san’s…. I felt that the stiffness from my shoulders had been lifted.

[asmitasinghseo]

From Dinner Dates to Night Outs: Versatile Dresses for Every Celebration

Finding the perfect dress that transitions effortlessly from a romantic dinner date to an energetic night out can be challenging. The right outfit should be stylish, versatile, and comfortable, making you feel confident no matter the occasion.

Whether you lean toward timeless designs or bold statement pieces, a world of fashion caters to your every need.

Here's a guide to nail your look for any celebration with ease and flair.

White Mesh Corset Bodycon Dress: A Timeless Classic?

Are you looking for something elegant yet sultry?

The "On Your Mind" white mesh corset bodycon midi dress is your go-to choice.

Crafted with double-layered soft mesh and stunning corsetry boning, it flatters all body types while keeping you comfortable.

This dress is perfect for dinner dates or glamorous birthday parties. Pair it with strappy heels & dainty jewellery for a polished look.

If you're planning to buy party wear dresses online, this piece deserves a spot in your cart for its unmatched versatility and luxe appeal.

Satin Shirt Dress: For Effortless Glam

The "Made You Look" blue satin shirt dress is a must-have for those who prefer a more relaxed yet head-turning outfit. This dress strikes the best balance between sophisticated and playful with its premium satin fabric, classic collar, and long sleeves. The zip and button details add a modern twist, making it ideal for nights or a fancy dinner with the girls. Pair it with bouncy curls and statement earrings for a show-stopping ensemble.

Tips for Styling Your Party Wear

Accessorize Smartly: Keep it minimal with corset dresses to let the intricate details shine. For satin dresses, opt for bold jewellery to complement the sleek fabric.

Choose Versatile Shoes: Neutral-toned heels or boots work wonders for casual and formal settings.

Layer It Right: Add a chic blazer for an elegant dinner date or a cropped jacket for a night out.

Why Buy Party Wear Dresses Online?

Shopping online lets you explore various styles, sizes, and budgets from the comfort of your home. With brands, you get high-quality, trendy options at affordable prices. Whether you're gearing up for a special occasion or want to refresh your wardrobe, the convenience and variety make it an easy choice.

Don't wait to update your party wardrobe!

Buy party-wear dresses online today and enter every celebration looking your absolute best.

[topbridaljewelleryset1]

Gold Bridal Jewellery Sets: A Guide to Timeless Elegance

Gold bridal jewellery sets are a quintessential part of every bride's trousseau, symbolizing tradition, beauty, and prosperity. Whether you are looking for timeless classics or modern designs, gold jewellery continues to captivate hearts across cultures. If you're preparing for your big day or simply exploring the market, this comprehensive guide will help you understand everything you need to know about gold bridal jewellery sets. Plus, we’ll guide you on how to buy gold jewellery smartly.

The Significance of Gold in Bridal Jewellery

Gold holds a special place in wedding traditions worldwide, especially in India and other Asian cultures. Here’s why it’s so cherished:

Symbol of Prosperity: Gold is often associated with wealth and good fortune, making it an auspicious choice for bridal jewellery.

Cultural Tradition: In many cultures, gifting gold to a bride is considered a blessing for a prosperous married life.

Everlasting Value: Gold retains its value over time, making it both a sentimental and financial investment.

Types of Gold Bridal Jewellery Sets

A gold bridal jewellery set typically includes a necklace, earrings, bangles, rings, and occasionally a maang tikka or a waist belt. Here’s a closer look at each component:

1. Gold Necklaces

Choker Necklaces: Perfect for brides who love a snug fit around their neck, chokers are ideal for traditional and contemporary outfits.

Long Haram Sets: These necklaces, often adorned with intricate designs, lend a regal look to any bride.

Layered Necklaces: Combining chokers and long harams in a layered look is trendy yet classic.

2. Earrings

Jhumkas: Timeless and elegant, jhumkas complement both traditional and fusion bridal looks.

Stud Earrings: Perfect for understated elegance, studs work well with heavier necklaces.

Chandelier Earrings: A great choice for brides who want a glamorous touch.

3. Bangles

Bangles symbolize marital bliss and are often worn in sets to match the bridal outfit.

Designs range from simple gold bangles to intricately designed kadas adorned with gemstones.

4. Rings

Gold rings often feature intricate carvings or gemstone embellishments, adding a personal touch to bridal attire.

5. Maang Tikka and Matha Patti

These forehead ornaments complete the bridal look, adding a regal touch to traditional attire.

Popular Gold Bridal Jewellery Designs

1. Temple Jewellery

Features intricate designs inspired by deities, temples, and traditional motifs.

Popular in South Indian weddings for their divine and cultural significance.

2. Filigree Jewellery

Known for its delicate craftsmanship, filigree work is perfect for brides who prefer light yet detailed jewellery.

3. Kundan Jewellery

A combination of gold and uncut gemstones, Kundan work is a favorite for its luxurious appeal.

4. Polki Jewellery

Polki designs use uncut diamonds set in gold, offering a vintage charm to bridal sets.

5. Meenakari Jewellery

Features vibrant enamel work on gold, making it ideal for brides who love colorful accents.

How to Choose the Perfect Gold Bridal Jewellery Set

Selecting the right bridal jewellery is an art. Here are some tips to ensure you make the right choice:

1. Match with Your Outfit

Ensure the design, color, and style of the jewellery complement your bridal attire.

2. Consider Your Personal Style

Opt for jewellery that resonates with your personality. Whether you prefer minimal designs or elaborate sets, stay true to your taste.

3. Budget Wisely

Set a budget before shopping and stick to it. Gold jewellery can be expensive, so prioritize essential pieces.

4. Check for Purity

Always buy hallmarked jewellery to ensure its authenticity and purity.

5. Look for Versatility

Choose pieces that you can wear even after your wedding. Versatile designs are a practical investment.

Tips to Buy Gold Jewellery Smartly

When planning to buy gold jewellery, keep the following tips in mind:

1. Research Before Buying

Familiarize yourself with current gold prices and trends to make an informed decision.

2. Choose a Reputable Jeweller

Always purchase from trusted jewellers with good reviews and certifications.

3. Check the Hallmark

Hallmarked jewellery ensures purity and adheres to international standards.

4. Understand Making Charges

Making charges vary across designs. Simple designs cost less, while intricate pieces might have higher charges.

5. Ask About Buyback Policies

Many jewellers offer buyback policies, allowing you to exchange or sell your jewellery in the future.

Trends in Gold Bridal Jewellery

Gold bridal jewellery is evolving with modern tastes while preserving its traditional roots. Here are some trends to look out for:

Minimalist Jewellery: Brides are opting for lighter, more practical designs.

Mix of Metals: Combining gold with platinum or rose gold adds a unique touch.

Custom Designs: Personalized jewellery featuring names, dates, or custom motifs is gaining popularity.

Where to Buy Gold Bridal Jewellery Sets

If you're wondering where to buy gold jewellery, here are your options:

1. Local Jewellers

Local stores offer a range of traditional designs and often allow customization.

2. Branded Showrooms

Trusted brands like Tanishq, Kalyan Jewellers, and Malabar Gold provide certified and high-quality designs.

3. Online Stores

Many jewellers now have online platforms where you can browse and purchase bridal sets. Ensure the site is reputable and offers certifications.

Caring for Your Gold Jewellery

Proper care ensures your gold jewellery remains beautiful for years. Here are some tips:

Store Properly: Keep pieces in separate pouches to avoid scratches.

Clean Regularly: Use a soft cloth and mild soap solution for cleaning.

Avoid Harsh Chemicals: Remove jewellery before using cleaning agents or applying cosmetics.

Conclusion

Gold bridal jewellery sets are more than just accessories; they are timeless treasures that carry sentimental and cultural significance. From traditional temple jewellery to contemporary minimalist designs, the options are endless. When you buy gold jewellery, remember to prioritize quality, authenticity, and personal style.

Investing in the perfect bridal set ensures you shine with elegance on your special day while creating memories to cherish for a lifetime. Whether you prefer classic designs or modern twists, your gold jewellery will always symbolize love, prosperity, and timeless beauty.

[ballgownhire]

Guide to Ball Gown Hire on the Gold Coast: Elegance Without the Price Tag

Whether it’s a glamorous gala, school formal, wedding, or an elegant cocktail event, a stunning ball gown can make you the star of the evening. But purchasing a high-end gown often comes with a hefty price tag, and the chances of wearing it again are slim. That’s where ball gown hire services come in! On the Gold Coast, an array of businesses cater to those seeking high-quality gowns without breaking the bank. Here's your ultimate guide to ball gown hire on the Gold Coast.

Why Hire Instead of Buy?

Affordability: Renting a gown typically costs a fraction of the price of buying one.

Sustainability: Reduce waste by reusing existing fashion instead of purchasing new outfits.

Variety: Access an extensive range of styles and designers for every occasion.

Convenience: No need to worry about storage or maintaining expensive garments.

Popular Ball Gown Hire Services on the Gold Coast

Here are some reputable gown hire businesses worth exploring:

1. GlamCorner

What They Offer: A vast collection of designer gowns, including options for formal and black-tie events.

Extras: Easy online booking, delivery, and return services.

Why Choose Them: Perfect for those who value convenience and a broad selection of styles.

2. Miss Runway Boutique

What They Offer: A wide range of formal wear, including trendy and classic ball gowns.

Location: Broadbeach, Gold Coast.

Why Choose Them: Their collection focuses on modern, eye-catching designs ideal for formals and galas.

3. GC Bridal & Formal Hire

What They Offer: Gowns for weddings, proms, and formal events, catering to various styles and budgets.

Why Choose Them: Known for personalized service and expertise in fitting.

4. Luxe Gown Hire

What They Offer: High-end designer dresses, with rental options for both short and long periods.

Location: Available for local pick-up and delivery.

Why Choose Them: Perfect for those who want to make a luxury statement.

Tips for Choosing the Perfect Gown

Know the Dress Code: Ensure the style aligns with the event’s requirements.

Consider Fit: Many rental services offer fittings; take advantage of this to ensure the gown complements your body shape.

Plan Ahead: Book your gown well in advance to secure the best options.

Accessorize Smartly: Keep accessories minimal if the gown is elaborate, or add sparkle to simpler styles.

How Ball Gown Hire Works

Browse Collections: Online or in-store, explore the available styles.

Reserve Your Gown: Confirm your choice and book it for your event date.

Pick-Up or Delivery: Some services offer home delivery, while others require in-store pick-up.

Wear and Shine: Enjoy your event and take plenty of photos!

Return: Follow the rental service's return guidelines, usually within 1–3 days after the event.

[shosiblog]

What is a Co-Ord Dress?

In the ever-evolving world of fashion, co-ord dresses are gaining popularity for their effortless style and versatility. But what exactly is a co-ord dress, and why is it becoming a wardrobe staple? Let’s dive into the world of co-ord dresses to uncover what makes them so special.

Understanding Co-Ord Dresses

A co-ord dress, short for coordinating dress, is essentially a set of matching pieces designed to be worn together, creating a cohesive and polished look. Typically, these pieces are a top and a skirt or pants, which are crafted from the same fabric, pattern, or color. Unlike traditional dresses, which are a single piece, co-ord dresses offer the same seamless style while providing the flexibility of separates.

The Appeal of Co-Ord Dresses

Effortless Style Co-ord dresses are perfect for those days when you want to look chic without putting in too much effort. Since the pieces are designed to complement each other, you don’t have to spend time figuring out which top goes with which bottom. Simply grab your co-ord dress, and you’re ready to go!

Versatile Options The beauty of a co-ord dress lies in its versatility. You can wear the pieces together for a cohesive look or mix and match them with other items in your wardrobe. For instance, pair the top with jeans for a casual vibe, or match the skirt with a different blouse for a fresh twist.

Perfect for Any Occasion Whether you're heading to brunch, the beach, or even a night out, there’s a co-ord dress for every occasion. You’ll find co-ord sets in various styles, from casual and comfortable to elegant and sophisticated. Choose a breezy cotton co-ord dress for daytime wear or a luxe silk set for an evening event.

Great for Travel If you’re planning a trip, co-ord dresses are a fantastic option for travel outfits. They take up minimal space in your luggage, and you can create multiple looks from just one set. This makes packing a breeze and gives you more outfit options while you’re away.

Flattering for All Body Types Co-ord dresses come in all shapes and sizes, making them a flattering option for various body types. Whether you prefer a high-waisted skirt, wide-leg pants, or a crop top, you can find a co-ord dress that suits your style and complements your figure.

Tips for Styling Co-Ord Dresses

Accessorize Smartly: Since co-ord dresses are already matching, keep your accessories minimal and let the outfit take center stage. A simple necklace or a pair of statement earrings can enhance your look without overwhelming it.

Layer It Up: In cooler weather, layer your co-ord dress with a chic jacket or a cozy cardigan. This not only adds warmth but also gives your outfit a stylish twist.

Play with Shoes: Co-ord dresses can be dressed up or down depending on your choice of footwear. Pair them with sneakers for a casual day look or strappy heels for a more polished vibe.

What is a Co-Ord Set?

Ready to explore the broader world of co-ord fashion? Check out our guide on What is a Co-Ord Set? to discover different types of co-ord outfits and how to style them for any occasion!

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How to Efficiently Pack for the Business Trip

Traveling for business can be both exciting and stressful, particularly when it comes to packing. With the luxury of private jet charter services, your travel experience is streamlined and stress-free. However, packing efficiently remains crucial to make the most of your trip. Here’s a guide to help you pack smartly and stay organized, ensuring you arrive at your destination prepared and ready for business.

1. Plan Your Itinerary

Before you start packing, review your business trip itinerary thoroughly. Knowing your schedule helps determine what you need. Identify key meetings, events, or dinners and tailor your packing list accordingly. Private jet charter services often offer more flexibility in luggage allowances, but keeping your bag compact and organized will still be beneficial.

2. Choose the Right Luggage

Select a high-quality, durable suitcase or business bag that fits the needs of your trip. For shorter trips, a carry-on might suffice, but for longer stays, opt for a medium-sized suitcase. If you’re flying with private jet charter services, consider using a stylish, professional-looking bag that aligns with your business image. A well-organized bag with compartments can make packing and unpacking easier.

3. Pack Smart, Not Heavy

Efficient packing involves prioritizing items that serve multiple purposes. Choose versatile clothing stuffs that can be able to mixed and matched. Stay to the color scheme that will maximize the outfit combinations. Lightweight, wrinkle-resistant fabrics are ideal for business travel. For formal meetings, a classic suit or blazer should be included.

4. Organize Your Documents

Keep all your important documents organized and easily accessible. Use a travel organizer or a dedicated compartment in your bag for passports, tickets, itineraries, and business cards. For added security, consider a document wallet that is easy to reach but safe from potential loss or theft. Private jet charter services often have minimal check-in procedures, so having your documents readily available will speed up the process.

5. Prepare Your Tech Gear

In today’s digital age, tech gear is essential for business trips. Pack your laptop, tablet, and any necessary chargers or adapters. Invest in a portable power bank to ensure your devices remain charged throughout your journey. Private jet charter services typically offer onboard Wi-Fi, but it’s wise to have all your work materials prepared in advance.

6. Prioritize Personal Comfort

Pack items that help you stay relaxed and refreshed, such as a neck pillow, a water bottle, and personal hygiene products. With private jet charter services, you can often enjoy amenities like comfortable seating and a more relaxed travel environment, but having personal comfort items on hand will enhance your experience.

7. Plan for Security and Customs

Even though private jet charter services offer a more streamlined travel experience, you still need to be prepared for security and customs if applicable. Pack any liquids and gels according to the regulations, and ensure that all your belongings comply with the required standards.

8. Review and Repack

Before finalizing your packing, review your list and ensure you have everything you need. Check for any last-minute additions or adjustments based on changes to your itinerary. If possible, do a final repack to ensure your bag is well-organized and nothing is missing.

By understanding your itinerary, selecting the right luggage, packing smartly, and prioritizing comfort and convenience, you can ensure a smooth and successful trip.

Check out more contents:

Private Jet Charter: Making Travel a Personal Experience